by G Lawrence
Henry moved off through the crowds and I turned to Norris and Tom. “Do not listen to the King,” I whispered. “If you want to know how to satisfy a woman, ask a woman.”
Not a man who thinks that the source of a woman’s pleasure lies in being lied to, I thought. Nor one who has to cover up his inadequacy by shaming his wife.
Chapter Forty-One
Greenwich Palace
Late October – November 1535
“At last, I have it for you, Majesty,” crowed Cranmer as he entered my chamber bearing a book. “The Coverdale Bible.”
Miles Coverdale was a scholar who had produced an English translation of the Bible, based largely on Tyndale’s work. There was hope amongst our faction that this rendering might prove more acceptable to Henry, since it was not penned by Tyndale, leading the way for an accepted English Bible.
George Constantine, he who had been suspected of working for Thomas More, had found this book for me. He had written to Brereton, his old school-friend, admitting that he had accepted freedom in return for promising to spy for More, but had not done so. Safe, now that More was dead, Constantine had recently returned to London, and Brereton had found him a position as Norris’ servant. Norris had spoken well of Constantine, and Brereton too, so whilst he had made suspect deals with papists in the past, I was certain he would not do so again.
All people deserve a second chance.
I held out eager hands, and smiled as I read the dedication. It was to Henry and his “dearest wife and most virtuous princess, Queen Anne.” The binding had my initials embossed on its dark leather cover. The frontispiece was designed by Holbein, and showed Henry as an Old Testament King, in the model of King David. He was enthroned above all lords, temporal and spiritual, holding a sword and a Bible to demonstrate his dual powers. Henry was handing the Bible down to three bishops. In the past, all such images had shown the Church as above the King, but here, Henry conferred spiritual authority on his clergy, not the other way around. It was a unique, revolutionary image.
“I shall place it in my chambers,” I said, “so all who visit may partake of its wisdom.”
“The King remains unconvinced about allowing it to be widely published,” Cranmer said. “But he has agreed, Majesty, to our notion about printing it in Southwark. He says it may be read by the nobility alone, as they will understand it better than the common man, but I think we are one step closer to having a vernacular Bible that all men may draw comfort from.”
I smiled. I was as enthused as he, even though I had had to ask Cranmer to take this petition to Henry on his own. Henry had remembered his anger at me for confronting him about Jane Seymour. Our relationship was strained, but I reasoned this was not my fault. Henry had made his bed, and I was not in it.
“This brings me hope, Eminence,” I said, running a finger over the vellum. “Hope for the future.”
*
In November, the childless Duke of Milan, who had been ailing for some time, died. This brought up fresh strife, as the duchy of Milan had been claimed by both François and Charles. And it was not only they who were troubled.
“The Pope is trying to convince them to join forces against England,” said George. “He thinks that this could be the best way to unite them, by promising they will each have a stake in Milan.”
“Surely they are more likely to fight each other than link arms as brothers and sail for England?”
“Which is perhaps why the Bishop of Rome is so keen to draw them swiftly into negotiations,” said my brother, taking a goblet of wine from his wife with little more than a second glance. He had grudgingly accepted Jane’s return to my chambers for the sake of appearances, but they met little and spoke less. “Paul thinks to call his dogs and set them on England.”
I watched Jane move away, and start talking to Jane Seymour. She hid it well, but her heart broke each time George treated her as though she were invisible. How could I not understand? Henry did the same to me.
If only I could be free of my love for Henry, I thought.
“Perhaps if Henry could be persuaded to support French interests in Milan, they might finally accept Elizabeth,” I said thoughtfully.
“If we can get him to think on anything but his poetry.” My brother pulled a weary face of distaste and I chuckled. Of late, Henry had become quite overcome with his own brilliance, as he alone saw it, in the hallowed realms of poetry.
“The King’s verse grows no better?” I asked. “I remain unsurprised. He has never learnt that words will not obey even a king and rhyme where they have no cause.”
“Neither has he learnt that that middle of poems are just as important as the first two, and last two, lines,” said my brother. “There are all sorts of rubbish thrown in between.”
I cackled like a merry witch. “Oftentimes, brother,” I said. “I think it may be my fault. When he wooed me, I was so lost in love that I praised his efforts more than they deserved. I should have told him straight when his poems were unpleasing, for now he lingers over a verse for the Seymour whore all day, and emerges with something that sounds like a tavern ditty sung by drunkards.”
“Not that she would say a thing,” said my brother, glancing at her. “She cannot read, can she? So she knows not what a good or bad poem is.”
“Perhaps that is why he likes her so. She is easily impressed.”
“As we see by her admiration of his clothes,” said my brother.
“They grow more tasteless by the day,” I agreed. “Sometimes I have to cover my eyes when he enters a room, for they are assaulted by the glare of garish hues.” I tittered. “He will never learn that tawdry show becomes not a king.”
We had kept our voices low, but as the two Janes turned to take a turn about the chamber, I saw the eyes of my sister-in-law light up. I swallowed, hoping that she would not dare repeat what she had just overheard. To laugh at Henry’s clothes or his poetry was to mock the King. If Henry heard, we might swiftly be on worse terms than ever before.
*
“Take also this,” I said, stepping from the dais and removing a golden chain from my waist. Lord Grey stepped forward, amazed at his good fortune. “It is worth one hundred marks,” I said, “and I would have you take this purse as well.”
Grey was going to Ireland on a mission for Henry. Ireland was proving troublesome. Rebels had risen there, and Henry feared they might be in league with Rome, or the Emperor. Grey had considerable forces, and gifts from Henry for undertaking this mission to bring unruly Ireland into line, but I wanted to show my support too. A personal gift from the Queen was a mark of favour. I wanted our representative in Ireland, the very country I might have been banished to had I married James Butler, to know I supported him.
“You are generous, my Queen,” Henry said, reluctance in his tone as he praised me.
“The Queen is uncommonly generous to all,” Latimer chimed in, his voice trilling with admiration. “She intercedes in matters high and low, and although she is too humble to promote her good works, I cannot help but sing of them.”
“My chaplain is too kind,” I said.
“No man could be kind enough about you, Your Majesty,” Latimer protested, turning to Henry. “The Queen has helped poor scholars, men whose families have deserted them, poor widows and orphaned children. She is a light in the darkness.”
“Your chaplain thinks you are a woman without fault,” said Henry once Grey and Latimer had been dismissed. His tone suggested he did not agree.
“There is no such creature,” I replied. “What good I do, I do not do for praise. I do it because it is right, husband.” I looked at him. “I know that you are angry with me, and I with you,” I said. “But will you hear me on a subject?”
“If it pleases you.”
“Cromwell’s investigations,” I said. “I worry his men have become too zealous. We spoke before, Henry, about the lesser monasteries. We agreed, did we not, that not all religious houses should be shut down, and those that would, would
be made into educational establishments? It seems to me the cause of reform has been lost to that of revenge. This will do no good. These houses and their abbots have erred, but they are not beyond redemption.”
Henry grunted, a faraway look in his eyes. “I have had words with Cromwell of late,” he said. “The man exceeds his authority, and sets members of my court against each other. I like it not.”
“Then you will look into what I have said?” I asked. “I know you are angry at me, but do not let that colour this request. I make it not for myself, but for our people.”
Henry nodded, although he would not look at me. “I will look into it,” he said.
Chapter Forty-Two
Greenwich Palace
Late November – December 1535
My chambers were a riot of colour and celebration. My pregnancy was known. Although it was usual to wait until the fourth month when the child quickened to make an announcement, news had slipped out. I called for musicians and dancing each night. Even if Henry and I were on bad terms, I would celebrate our child.
The news that Katherine was unwell had brought hope. Even those who had no cause to fear the Dowager believed her death might see England safe from the threat of invasion. Reformers celebrated, and even some conservatives quietly did the same. Her death would liberate us of the ire of the Emperor, and once she was gone, this reluctant nephew who had shown little interest in defending her, might well become an ally.
I gazed out over the sea of men and women. Bess Holland, Margaret Douglas and Mary Howard were together, as usual, as were the two Shelton sisters. Each had a gaggle of adoring men dancing attendance. Jane Seymour stood with her good friend Francis Bryan, and her brothers, Edward and Thomas, sipping wine and as usual, saying nothing. My sister-in-law hovered near George, eager to beg a scrap of his time. Also as usual, George ignored her.
Smeaton was singing as Weston, a most accomplished musician, played the lute. I listened with great appreciation, but another was less impressed. Nicholas Bourbon was standing on the edge of the company, his brow furrowed.
“I hope you are pleased with England, Master Bourbon,” I said. “Does my ward, Carey, do well at Syon?”
Bourbon bowed, deep and graceful. “He does indeed, Majesty,” he said, using the tone of reverence he kept for me alone. “He has a fine mind and a ready enthusiasm. I find him a most pleasing pupil.”
“It would seem you are less pleased by our songbird,” I said, nodding to Smeaton who had finished his song and was accepting praise, with a rather smug expression, from those near him.
Bourbon adopted a wry face. “He writes good songs,” he said. “But, Majesty, he overdoes them. Even the most beautiful song may be rendered tedious by exaggeration. Even honey, if taken too much, becomes bitter. Beauty, when it is at its best, is simple, pure…”
I smiled. “Like your poetry.”
“If you have read my poor verse, I am honoured.”
“Read, and greatly enjoyed,” I said. “But try to be kind to the lad. He wishes himself other than he is. He wants to be a nobleman, and never will he be so.”
“The greatest misery comes from an inability to accept what one is,” said Bourbon. “The young man should take pride in what he has accomplished, rather than dwelling on what he thinks he lacks.”
“True,” I said. “But all men strive, Master Bourbon, to become more than they are.”
“If you would pardon my impertinence,” he said. “I would say, Majesty, that to strive for one’s ambitions is a fine thing, but to wish to become something other than what we are is not. Why not accept who we are, and work to be the best version of that person?” He lifted his goblet to his lips. “If the young man cannot accept who he is, it will bring only misery and pain.”
Seeing my father watching me, I excused myself.
“I have been thinking,” said my father, drawing close, “that we should look again at George’s marriage. Jane has caused us mortification and shame, and there is no fruit to come from that woman’s barren womb. It puts our family line in peril.”
I frowned. “Many have said this of me, too, Father,” I told him. “Would you advise the King to set me aside?”
“You are with child,” he said. “You have borne a living child. You have proved your worth as a woman. Jane has brought nothing to our family but her money, and George has spent that.”
“If my brother shared her bed rather than dallying with his mistresses, perhaps she would have a chance to bear a son.”
“Then she should be more enticing,” said my father. “It is no one’s fault but the wife’s if a man strays.”
“Are men not responsible for their actions, then?” I asked lightly. “This is a strange thought to me, Father. If men truly have so little control over themselves, perhaps the laws of England are awry? If women control the actions of men, perhaps we should be in charge?”
He scowled and I smiled sweetly. Gone were the days when my father could shame me, or treat me like a child. Woman I might be, and therefore weak in his eyes as well as those of many other men, but I outranked him.
“God did not want the world in chaos, Majesty,” he said, “so He handed the reins to men.”
“Ah,” I said. “And note the vision of perfect peace, harmony and sweetness that our world is in after eons of the rule of men. You are right, Father, I quite forgot that poverty, hunger, greed, adultery and corruption had been vanquished long ago by the power of men.”
“Sarcasm is the refuge of the slow-witted,” he muttered.
“Sarcasm is the weapon of those who must fight against what is perceived as normal,” I retorted. “By showing people the laughable state of much they hold as normal, we alter perspective, do we not? And if the Lord Jesus Christ used sardonic wit to make a point, as my friend Archbishop Cranmer has told me on more than one occasion, why should I not emulate him?”
“Majesty.” My father bowed and moved away. He did not have a retort that was safe to use, and so he retreated. I cared not.
“You father wears a scowl as deep as a ploughman’s rivet,” said Tom’s voice near my ear.
“He finds his children no longer fear him.”
“The fear of every father.”
“No,” I said. “The fear of every man or woman who wants to dominate the world and everything in it. Fear lends control, does it not? But when those they seek to dominate rise up and defy them, they find their fantasies crumbling into dust.”
There are many kinds of power in this world. One, particularly common and always false, lies in comparison; women are weak, so men are strong.
But here’s the rub. For them to stay strong, we must be kept weak. Educations restricted, means and freedoms limited, minds and bodies degraded from worth or ownership by common opinion. For they fear what we may become, if we were granted the same freedoms. They fear we would become greater than they, making them the weaker sex, and we the stronger.
If a woman demonstrates strength, the illusion crumbles. That is why some men fear women, why they seek domination; our fragility is their strength. When we are weak no more, they have nothing.
The same is true of races that hate each other, of rapists who must master their own fear by inflicting it on others. It is true of men who beat their wives and women who abuse each other. It is true of those who would bully, those who would violate. They suppress others to mask their greatest and truest fear; that they are nothing, that they are worthless… empty…
But there is another kind of power; one which comes not from subjugating others but from upholding yourself. From knowing yourself, recognising and accepting the darkness and the light within you, and attempting to do the best you can with both elements, that you might leave the world with more than you took from it.
I grinned inwardly as I thought of Henry. His was the false power. He had tried to diminish me and I had stood against him. No more would men beat me to the ground, abusing me with my own emotions.
“Your fathe
r certainly does not seem to have the King’s trust, as once he did.” Tom sipped thoughtfully from his goblet.
“His Majesty has new men to advise him, like my brother.” I set back my shoulders. “The old is on the way out, Tom, and the new dawns in an unhurried, clear sky.”
*
Cromwell came to Henry and me with bad tidings. There was rebellious talk, he said, amongst the common people. “I have sent men to gather information,” he said. “But there is talk of your people misunderstanding the greatness of Your Majesty’s ascension to your rightful role as Head of the Church.”
Henry looked simultaneously full of anger and tiredness. “Understanding of the Act of Succession will see all these mutterings put to their rightful place,” I said.
