Judge The Best

by G Lawrence

  Chapter Sixty-Two

  Greenwich Palace

  April 1536

  The next day, Chancellor Audley gave authorisation for Cromwell and Norfolk to form a commission to investigate cases of treason in Middlesex and Kent. The commission would examine commoners, and in truth, although it was put forth as a means to investigate those who would stand against the supremacy, it was really a means to try suspects swiftly. A grand jury would examine the offence, approving a bill of indictment if there was sufficient evidence, and the case would then be taken to the oyer and terminer commission to try the offender.

  “Why is it needed, beloved?” I asked Henry. Commissions of oyer and terminer were not required by the Crown, nor were they commonplace. The King could authorize arrests and interrogations without one, as had been done in the case of Thomas More, who had been held for eight weeks before the oyer was issued, leading to his trial. Such commissions were only used for those of common blood. Nobles were tried by a high steward and a jury of their peers. Oyer and terminer commissions were also usually convened only after a person had been arrested, and no one had.

  “Cromwell and Audley insisted on it,” he replied. “I granted them leave to go ahead and sign the patents themselves. They tell me that with the commission already set up, trials of treason will move faster.”

  “Well, it will give Norfolk something useful to do,” I said. “It is better my uncle is occupied. When he is free about court, he only gets himself into trouble.”

  Henry chuckled. “From all reports, he will be kept busy. We will weed out the traitors in our realm as we cleanse the Church. With the commission in place, we can have justice served in as little as four days.” He paused, stroking his short beard. There were strands of silver amongst the golden-red fire now. “We will also call Parliament to sit again soon, to tie up the last strands of the rejection of the Pope’s authority. From this point onwards, those who speak for the Bishop of Rome will find themselves facing charges of praemunire.”

  “Good,” I said. “Let all men know and respect their true master.”

  I did not see. I did not see. The sands of time were moving against me. I was blinded by the dust rising in the skies.

  I thought this commission could have little to do with me. Foolishly, I thought it was a means to protect me and Elizabeth. I did not know this commission would be used against my friends.

  Canny Cromwell understood, where I did not, that swift speed would be required to take me down.

  *

  “Let Stokesley swallow that!” I crowed as I read a note from Henry. “And I hope he will choke on it!”

  The Bishop of London would not be pleased with me. Since I suspected him of involvement in the arrest of Tyndale, who we were still trying to have released, I was pleased to have done the Bishop some harm.

  Thomas Partmore, another former graduate of Gonville Hall, was a parson in Hadham, Hertfordshire. He had been accused of heresy by the Bishop of London almost six years ago, and held in the Lollards’ Tower without trial. Butts had heard of his imprisonment even though the Bishop had tried to keep it secret, and had come to me, pleading for his release.

  Henry had been most irritated to hear of yet another subject being held illegally, and had sent Cranmer, Hugh Latimer and Cromwell to investigate. Their findings were that there was not enough evidence to proceed to trial, and Henry had sent a note that morning to say Partmore was being released.

  I was sure Stokesley had worked with More to get Tyndale arrested. More was dead, but if certain men were set on keeping alive the unjust ways he had used, this was a sign that times had changed.

  *

  After the oyer and terminer commission was set up, Henry wrote to Gardiner in France and Richard Pate in Rome. He called me “our most dear and entirely beloved wife the Queen,” and spoke of his hope that I would soon provide him with a son.

  “Is there any sign of our boy, as yet?” he asked after showing me the letter.

  “I nurture hope,” was all I would say. In truth, our unions had been hampered by Henry’s leg for the past few weeks, and his stamina was waning.

  Our bed was tense. At times he could not coax his manhood into full strength, and would enter me in a manner that unpleasantly reminded me of someone trying to press a loose, raw sausage into a keyhole. We were awkward when this happened, which helped Henry not at all.

  “Do you think we should speak to a doctor?” I had hesitantly asked, my blushing cheeks concealed by the gloom of the bedchamber.

  “About what?” His tone should have warned me, but I tried again.

  “Beloved,” I cooed, putting a trembling hand to his shoulder. “Perhaps we should seek aid, in confidence.”

  He shook his shoulder and my hand dropped upon the covers. “There is nothing wrong with me,” he had said pointedly. “I am not the one whose womb destroys our children.”

  “Perhaps we should speak to a cunning person,” I said, trying again. “Such problems may be brought on by witchcraft, my lord. Mayhap Katherine has sought out someone to…”

  “You will talk to no one about this.” His tone was hard, twisted.

  I was left in no doubt that to raise the subject again would be dangerous.

  I had to pretend that everything was well, that I was satisfied. Until Henry was ready to accept there was a problem, there was nothing I could do.

  “Come to me tonight,” I said, touching his leg. “And we will set a prince in my belly.”

  Henry winced. I had not thought of his injury. His legs were monstrous. The bruises that his horse had inflicted were fading, but the risen veins had not fallen, and an ulcer had formed. It was a great, ugly hole in his leg, burrowing deep into the flesh. Weeping and bleeding, this ulcer was a fright to look upon and caused him pain, and discomfort. It itched fiercely, and the bandages had to be changed several times a day, for the substances that leeched from the open wound were putrid, rank and vile.

  Henry did not like me to see his leg. He would not allow me to tend to it, change his dressings or apply ointment. Any infirmity was a horror to him, and, were I to look upon it, he thought I might love him less.

  It was foolish to think that this would deter me from loving him. It was only when he betrayed me that I felt love slip from my hands. I would have nursed him and cared for him, had he let me. But he would not. Only trusted men would he allow to see his wound. Norris, Weston and Culpepper were three of them. He trusted few others.

  Just as with his issues with his manhood, Henry thought if he could hide this frailty from me, from his people, then it did not exist. He thought he could keep the image of the hale young man who had come to the throne riding a wave of hope and glory firmly imbedded in his people’s minds. He did not know that we all had eyes to see and ears to hear. That young man was no more, but there was no shame in that. Could a young buck, without experience of the world, have done all that Henry had for his country and his people?

  But Henry could not glory in his present state. He looked to the past, when he had been upheld as a paragon of youth and loveliness. He did not care to think that he was no longer the prince he had once been.

  I should have paid more attention. I respected Henry for the man he had become, and for all he had done. My love was not based on the way he looked. It was the inner light I worshipped. It was the soul and the heart of this man who had much potential for good within him.

  But there were others who did see this. There were others who took note.

  There were men who would push a woman at him who would flatter his self-image and speak of him as though he were still that strong, bold young prince.

  There were others less honest than me who would tell him lies. And their falsehoods did not only stretch over his physical being... Their lies would stretch over everything, raining destruction and chaos upon innocent souls.

  Chapter Sixty-Three

  Greenwich Palace

  April 1536

  “I am much sorrowed by
this news.”

  Henry’s voice was hard and cold, it made me shiver just to hear it. Despite his hope that I was miraculously with child despite our problems, my laundresses had imparted news I had hoped they would not; my courses had arrived. I was not with child.

  He sat upon his throne. My ladies and his men were but a whisker away, yet he did not trouble himself to drop his voice. The object of this lesson was to shame me for the inadequacies of my body; to humiliate me for not having caught his fragile seed, so sparely granted, to cultivate in my womb.

  “Do you think I do not grieve?” I asked in a low tone. “Long have I yearned to hold another child in my arms.” I looked up at him. “This is a shared sorrow, my lord. Allow me to bear it with you.”

  Henry grunted. His eyes, like gimlets, bored into the windowpanes. He would not look at me.

  I left for my chambers, barely holding on to the grief welling inside me. Did he think I could be happy to see blood come, knowing another chance was lost?

  But no. When Henry was mired in his own sorrows, he cared for those of no other. Not even mine.

  “I will see my daughter,” I said, suddenly veering from the path to my chambers and heading for Elizabeth’s. My ladies did not even break step as they followed. They knew I would go to Elizabeth when I was distraught.

  Sometimes I believed she was the only thing holding me to the world. She was my tether, my rock… the reason I woke with fire in my blood and courage in my soul. She was what I fought for, and what kept me sane.

  In the company of my gentle child, my heart started to warm. In Henry’s presence, with his cold cruelty pervading my heart, I had become chilled, but Elizabeth was warmer than any fire, lighter than any breaking dawn. She was the light of the world. The candle in my darkness.

  That afternoon, I called Matthew Parker to Elizabeth’s rooms. “I have a task for you,” I said to this quiet man. “Should anything happen to me, I would entrust you with the spiritual welfare of my daughter. Watch over her, Matthew, and keep her safe… for me.”

  He started in surprise and glanced at my daughter, playing on the floor with her silver rattle. Light from the windows glittered as the toy danced in her long fingers. The light spilled, shining on my face and his as we watched her.

  “Your Majesty,” he said, stammering. “I… am honoured, but I know not why you would have me appointed to this task.”

  I smiled sadly. In truth, I was not entirely sure why I had asked it of him. But something in Henry’s eyes had shaken my faith. Until Henry had called me to him, I had been sure and bold. But as Henry’s sun departed my skies, I was left unsure.

  If I was in danger, if Henry turned from me, Elizabeth had to be protected.

  “You are gentle and kind, by nature, Matthew. The other men who serve me as chaplains… some are made of fire and some of ice, but you are soft, warm embers. If anyone should watch over my daughter, and ensure that her spiritual awakening comes with realisation of the truth of the Word of God, as well as the kindness to guide others, it should be you.”

  “What do you fear, madam?” he asked softly. “You think you will not be here to do this yourself?”

  I watched my daughter play. The silver rattle passed through her long, straight fingers and her large black eyes never let it out of sight. She glanced up and beamed to see me watching. Elizabeth never smiled with anyone else as much as she did in my company.

  “I know not,” I murmured, and it was the truth. “But I think I must make sure she is safe.”

  “With you guarding her, madam, she will always be so.”

  “Yes,” I said. “Perhaps I am being foolish. Thoughts of dying in childbirth come to me now and then, but if such a fate should befall me, Matthew, promise me you will care for my daughter.”

  “I promise, my lady,” he said, watching little Elizabeth as she set down the rattle and deftly took up a bright ribbon. “I will protect your daughter and tend to her spiritual needs.”

  My daughter held out the ribbon and chuckled, as though it were the most amusing thing she had ever seen. “Pretty!” she exclaimed, holding it out to me. “Pretty ribbon.”

  “So it is,” I said. I put the ribbon in my palm and surreptitiously slipped it inside my sleeve. Holding out my hands, I asked her where the ribbon was. She giggled and slapped her hands on mine. I opened them to show her the ribbon had vanished.

  “How?” she asked, her pretty little mouth a perfect ‘o’.

  “Magic,” I whispered.

  Parker laughed and Elizabeth joined him. “Again!” my daughter commanded. “Again, Mama!”

  If only I could work magic, I thought as I performed for my daughter. If I could weave a spell to keep my husband constant, I would.

  Constancy is a much overlooked virtue. I do not know if I had ever known it whilst married to Henry. If I gave him a son, he would be true. But in this slipstream of waiting for an heir, he was as changeable as the temper of my infant child… as unpredictable as the winter seas, and perhaps, just as dangerous.

  *

  On the 27th of April, Parliament was recalled and Cranmer attended. On that same day, George came to Greenwich from Dover, with a grim look on his face.

  “I heard something disturbing from one of my men,” he said, throwing his cloak to Nan who caught it with a giggle. “That is why I came to court.”

  “What?” I led him to an alcove to one side of the chamber and we sat in it together.

  “Anne,” he said. “You must prepare yourself. This will not be easy to hear.”

  My heart stumbled. “What?” I whispered.

  “One of my men overheard Montague talking to Stokesley,” he said. “He said that the King had asked if there was any legal impediment to your union that might be preventing the birth of a son.”

  My heart seemed to have stopped beating. “But all sin of close acquaintance was removed by dispensation,” I protested. “And the sin was Henry’s, not mine!”

  “Keep your voice low,” he cautioned. “And smile, Anne. Pretend we talk of nothing serious.”

  I forced a smile onto my lips. It hurt to strain my mouth into such a position when all I felt was fear. If he set me aside, what would become of me, what would become of Elizabeth?

  “I thought you and the King were on good terms?” my brother asked. “He has been so loving and sweet to you of late.”

  “He found out two days ago that my monthly courses have arrived,” I said. “He was displeased. Although he has done little that might succeed in putting a child within me.”

  “Still he struggles in the bedchamber?” asked my brother. “Sometimes, with all you tell me I wonder how he managed to plant Elizabeth in you. Are you sure it was he?”

  My brother’s wife set a goblet of wine at his elbow and walked away again, joining Jane Seymour and Margery Horsman who were close by.

  “And when he fails, he blames me,” I said, my tone rising with anger as I ignored my brother’s dangerous jest. “Strange is it not, that we are told all fertility and life comes from the male seed. That women hold nothing but the soil that will grow the child, but as soon as anything goes wrong, it must be the fault of the woman. If I am indeed nothing but a vessel, then how is it my fault there is no child within me? Henry blames me for he cannot face the truth… that he has not virility or strength to imbed a child in me, or give satisfaction to a woman.”

  George guffawed, despite himself, but his face swiftly fell. “With Cromwell in retreat,” he said, “you must turn your attention to the King once more.”

  “Do you not think I know that?” I said. “But he does not send for me. Since he accosted me he has sent only for Jane Seymour. She makes him feel like a man. She plays to his sense of protectiveness, and pretends not to note that he is growing old and feeble.”

  “Then you must pretend too,” he said. “Flirt with his men, throw entertainments in your chambers. Lure him back to your bed.” My brother sighed. “Anne… if he continues to think this way, you kno
w what will happen. Once he gets an idea in his head, nothing may uproot it. The same thing happened with Katherine when he got the notion into his mind that their union was ungodly.”

  “It was!” I exclaimed.

  “That matters not,” he said. “Do you not see that? This is not about what is fact and fiction, this is about what Henry believes. If he believes your marriage is cursed in the eyes of God, he may abandon it. The only hope is to prove this is not so, by bearing a child, and for that to happen, he must come to your bed.”

  “When the bleeding ceases, I will invite him to my chamber.”

  “And if he cannot perform?”

  “I have learnt many tricks to entice him,” I said. “But one thing works better than anything else. When I support him politically, he is granted strength and courage. When Parliament sits, I will support him in all ways, on whatever comes up. Then he will know that he cannot do without me. Then he will know he cannot leave me.”