It was nothing.
Nothing but a case of too much wine.
“That should do it,” he grunts as he picks up his cup again. “What bothers you about it?”
I fumble with the papers, hurrying to the place where I have turned down the corner of the page. “It is this part, where it says, ‘No man is bounden to perform an unlawful oath.’ It seems to me that this act could prove convenient to our enemies. Is there not a recently sworn oath that many would like to see undone? The Oath of Succession?”
“I see what you mean.” He takes the paper back again, his hand trembling slightly as he brings it close for examination.
“Do you think Gardiner works for us or against us, George? And why didn’t Cromwell notice this flaw?”
After a long moment George slumps back in his chair, tosses the papers on the table. “You must speak to the king. He must have overlooked the loophole. It must be altered, speak to Cromwell. You can trust him. I’d lay my life on it.”
October 1535 – Greenwich
“Henry!” I cannot wait; with the dogs at my heels I burst in whilst he is in council. The men look up from their business, scowling and grumbling in their beards, but Henry’s face is surprised and friendly.
“What is it, Sweetheart?”
I take hold of his hand and tug it, and he laughs indulgently as I drag him from his chair. He casts an apologetic eye toward the assembly and opens his mouth to speak, but I forestall him.
“I must have a word with you, now Henry, and in private.” He lumbers after me like a benign bear, thinking I am leading into one of our games, but my mind is not on a royal romp. The news I have is immense.
Once we are alone he tries to draw me into an embrace, but I grip both his hands hard and bid him listen. I lick my lips, mentally fumbling to frame the words. As emotion threatens to get the better of me, I swallow a sudden lump in my throat and my voice, when it comes, is hoarse with happy tears.
“I am with child, Henry.”
His face lights up like sunshine. “Anne, are you sure?”
I nod, place my hands lightly upon my womb. This time everything will be perfect. This time our boy will live, I am certain. With a great sigh of relief, he slides his arms around me, rests his chin upon my head and cradles me as if I am made of glass.
“You must take especial care this time,” he says. “For the whole while you must not fret or worry, or take exertion of any kind. You carry the hopes of England within you and this time … this time we must get it right.”
My friends are excited, pleased for me. My ladies ensure that I do not exert myself at all. My every wish is catered to, the king has decreed it, and of course, perversely, I suddenly have the desire to hunt, to take long walks, to turn out all the cupboards in the royal nursery. When they find me kneeling on the floor surrounded by linen, they take me gently by the elbow and insist I rise.
“We will do that for you, Your Grace, you just sit there and oversee our work.”
They bring me a footstool and a rug for my knees as if I am as old as Grandmother, and reluctantly I obey them. My son is more important that any whim of mine.
At first, Henry is attentive. He continues to come to my bed although, of course, we do not make love. He holds me, strokes me and we are both content with that, but soon rumours begin to reach me that he is paying court to another woman; of all people, the Seymour girl. It cannot be serious, of course, she is a pale, green-faced thing with not a scrap of spirit about her. Henry will be bored in an hour.
“He has given her a jewel,” my sister-in-law Jane whispers one evening as she helps me make ready for bed.
“A trinket, no doubt,” I reply tartly, still unable to believe that his affection is serious. Henry is always playing court to some wench or another—it is a game all men play, poetic wooing that has no substance. It is not real.
“A locket, so they say, bearing the king’s image.” Jane folds my linen, her nose pinched in disapproval, the gleam in her eye betraying her delight in my hurt. Refusing to let her know that jealousy is twisting my bowels, I shrug my shoulders, reach for my looking glass. It shows me a pale and aging face.
I am almost thirty-four. I lay my fingers on the tiny lines that mar the corners of my eyes, the creases that are developing beside my mouth. I am a poor shadow of the girl who stole King Henry’s heart all those years ago. Pregnancy saps not just my strength but my beauty too, or what little beauty I ever possessed. It was always my wit that attracted him, but I find I have little energy left to be clever.
Climbing into bed I lie on cold white pillows, pull the covers to my chin and try not to notice the sinking of my heart. I keep it all inside; the fear, the sick, hollow despair that he is falling out of love with me.
Not now, I think, stroking my still flat belly, not now I am finally carrying our prince. Jane collects a bundle of soiled linen and approaches the door. As she opens it, I call her back.
“Where is George?”
“How should I know? He might be with the king.”
Ignoring her rude manner I close my eyes, turn my face way. “Can you send for him, ask him to come when the king is done with him? There is a matter I wish to discuss.”
She closes the door quietly and I am left alone, the flames flickering on the wall, the palace silent and cold around me. Where is George? I am beginning to fret, Jane’s words returning, echoing, mocking. A jewel, I wonder. What sort of jewel? How deeply is he attached to this woman? Surely it is but a fleeting thing.
When George finally peeks around the edge of the door, I am just dropping off to sleep. I wake with a jerk and pull myself upright. “George …”
I fight off the edges of slumber and beckon him forward to sit on my bed. He lounges on one elbow and begins to fiddle with the tassels on a cushion.
“What is the matter, Anne? Can’t you sleep?”
It is almost midnight, the candles are burnt low, outside an owl calls for his mate. In the outer chamber my ladies are slumbering; one of them stirs and mutters in her sleep. I lean closer to my brother and fumble for his hand.
“What do you know of the king … and Jane Seymour?”
He grimaces and waggles my hand reassuringly. “It is nothing, Anne. Don’t worry. Henry is ever one to wander when you are with child, you know that.”
“He gave her a jewel.”
“What if he did? He is always giving people jewels.”
“Not gems that bear his own likeness.”
To give a likeness of oneself is akin to giving them your soul. It is a pledge … a promise. A look of annoyance flashes across George’s face.
“Who has told you these things, Anne? Who would want to worry you like this?”
“Jane.” My voice is quiet.
George emits a loud breath. “Bitch.”
I have never heard such venom in his voice, and to hear it now makes me tremble all the more.
“Listen,” he shifts closer. I look down at our entwined fingers. “Don’t listen to gossip. It is true that Henry has been paying courtly service to the Seymour girl, but that is nothing new. He has done so before. It doesn’t mean anything. I will have a word with Madge and get her to dangle her assets before him. She has served us before and will happily do so again.”
I remember the agony of sharing him with Madge before, but it will be better than sharing him with Mistress Seymour. Her family are ambitious, her brothers edging ever closer to Henry’s favour. They will damage me if they can. They are against the reforms and have little love for me. I had rather Henry played his little games with someone I can trust.
George has given me little comfort. I had hoped he would deny Jane’s words, say it was all gossip, but his confirmation of my fears scores deep scratches into my heart. I can only trust that he knows what is best; he is the only one at court I can rely on … apart from Henry, and even he has betrayed me now.
“I don’t have the strength to fight any more, George. I am tired, worn out with conflict
, and I don’t know if I can put a brave face on things any longer. I am in no condition to combat rivals.”
I can no longer keep the misery hidden and my chin trembles, a sob rising in my throat. “Sweetheart, don’t.” George shuffles closer, clambering onto the pillows beside me, and I fall against him, weeping as if my heart will break. He croons deep in his throat, stroking my shoulder, kissing my hair.
And into this scene comes his wife. She enters without knocking, and after taking one look at us, turns on her heel and storms from the room, slamming the door behind her. Neither of us pays her any heed.
In the morning, boosted by George’s advice and restored by a good sleep, I rediscover some of my resilience. I am still Henry’s wife, his queen, and I am carrying his son. Nothing can change that. As if I am putting on armour, I call for my finest clothes. Nan combs my hair until it snaps and crackles, and then I pinch my cheeks and bite my lips to redden them. With my chin high, I pass through chamber after chamber on my way to the king’s apartments.
I find him with Cromwell, the two of them hunched over a table littered with papers, quills and sealing wax. They both stand when I enter. Henry’s kiss skims my cheek, Cromwell bows so low his head almost touches my knees.
“Henry,” I smile as if nothing is amiss, as if I am not aware of his fluctuating affection. “Master Cromwell.”
The secretary offers me a chair and I sit down, my hands in my lap, balancing my head attractively with a gentle smile playing on my lips. “I expect you have come to tell us of your findings, Master Cromwell.”
I lean forward and pick up a sheet of parchment; Valor Ecclesiasticus is written large upon the top. The church values, all carefully calculated and costed by Cromwell’s commissioners over the summer. It makes eye-opening reading.
The value is huge, and as yet only the smaller monasteries have yet been assessed. The plan is to close them, disperse the monks to larger houses, and take the monies raised from the dissolved properties for the Crown. It is an unsubtle plan, and one I do not agree with. It will do reform no good at all if we allow ourselves to look greedy, or grasping. The monies we raise should be channelled back into the Church. We should use it for charity and open up the monastic buildings as seats of learning.
But Cromwell, my erstwhile ally and friend, is set against me. He knows that Henry covets the treasures, and he seeks only to please his king in all things, which although a noble sentiment, is not always wise.
My eye scans down the page. I look up at the two men, one larger than life and glittering with gold and colour, the other contained and monochrome. Two men so very different, both bound to the same cause—a cause that opposes mine. To fight them both, I will need to wield a weapon in either hand. But I am disarmed; usually to win Henry round I would take him to bed, make him greedier for me than for the ecclesiastical treasures, but I cannot do that now. He has foresworn my body for the sake of his unborn son. As for Cromwell, it will take a cleaver to make him change his mind now it is set.
The words blur on the page, the voices of the men drone around my head as my thoughts fly off in another direction. Jane, Jane, Jane. She will not leave me alone. Just as I had once been obsessed with Madge, now it is Jane Seymour I envision sitting on his knee, blushing beneath his kisses, his extravagant compliments, her coffers growing heavy with his expensive gifts. I must be rid of Jane, for the sake of my sanity, for the sake of Henry’s conscience.
Henry’s conscience. This, I suddenly realise, is the key to it all. He has ever been a slave to his conscience. I must make him guilty. I must tell him that God will be angry. He is putting his eternal soul in jeopardy. I turn my head sharply and Henry’s voice abruptly stops.
“Where you going to say something, Anne?”
I stammer, my face growing hot. “No, no.” I look down, fumble with my girdle chain, and Henry takes up his conversation again. I watch him argue a point with his secretary. To emphasise his words he prods the table with a stubby finger. Every so often he glances at me, his expression soft, his mouth quirking at the corner. He loves me still, that much is clear; why then should I share him?
A noise at the door heralds Cranmer’s arrival. He bows to the king, bends over my hand, and tosses a nod to Cromwell. “How are you faring, Your Grace?” he asks, concerned for my health. When I reply that I am very well, he looks pleased. Cranmer is a good man, a gentle soul who manoeuvres through the jagged maze of court intrigues with a vaguely troubled air.
He takes a proffered seat. “You must look after yourself, Your Grace. Our little prince is precious. A quiet Christmas is planned this year, I think?” He transfers his glance to the king for confirmation, and Henry leans back in his chair.
“We will save our celebrations for the summer, when our boy arrives.” Henry winks at me, sending a shimmer of fear through my body. Suppose I bear him another girl, I think, what will I do then? But I do not let the thought linger. I push it away and concentrate my mind upon masculine matters, afraid lest female fears allow a girl child to take root.
January1536 – Greenwich
Although we enjoy the traditional pageants and feasting, the festivities are quieter this year. Just as the New Year celebrations are about to begin, news comes that Catherine is very ill and likely to die.
She has been at Kimbolton Castle for some time now, constantly complaining of the cold and damp, and Henry’s neglect. Many times have I wished her dead, and my life would have been so very much easier without her, but now that she is about to breathe her last I find that, for the first time, I feel pity.
Guilty.
Guilty that Catherine, who was born to greatness, now dies in ignominy because of me. Had she only gone quietly to a nunnery we would have treated her better, endowed her monies and allowed her to see her daughter. But she was stubborn, foolish, pig-headed. It is not my fault that she dies alone, and in misery.
It is not my fault, I tell myself, but deep down I know that it is.
As a green girl, I could never imagine how it felt to be dispossessed, passed over for a younger, prettier woman, but now that I myself fear losing Henry’s affection, I have a little more understanding. Had our roles been reversed, I would have acted no differently; I would have clung on to my husband and my position to the end. Perhaps Catherine and I are more alike than I thought.
So when I go to hear Mass, I spare a prayer for her. Not that she may live, but that her passing may be peaceful and her place in Heaven assured.
Henry, on the other hand, is remorseless. Excited by the prospect of peace with Spain, the relief of the imminent war, he swears she cannot die quickly enough. I cross myself, send up a prayer assuring God that he does not mean it. For all her faults, Catherine was once the woman he professed to love and, lawful or otherwise, she was his wife for many years. She bore his daughter and buried his sons … as I have done.
A letter arrives from Mary begging to be allowed to see her mother, just to say goodbye.
“Not unless she signs the act of succession,” Henry bellows, making Cromwell cringe away in fear of a cuffing. Yet we all know she will not sign, not even if it means she never sees her mother again.
If I were Mary, I would sign it. I am not as brave as she. Perhaps it is because I lack her Spanish blood, her royal breeding. If it were me, I would swear anything for a last glimpse of my mother, even my own death warrant. For the first time I realise I am, deep down, a coward; to me, life and liberty is everything, and worth much more than pride.
It is a week before we learn that Catherine has passed. On the eighth of January, I am already dressed and ready for the feast. I have a new gown of yellow silk, the colour of renewal and fertility. I have had it made to celebrate my fruitfulness and to remind the king, and all who look upon me, that I carry his heir within. If anything will prevent him straying to another woman’s bed, it is the lure of the prince I have promised. But when the news comes of Catherine’s passing, I slowly begin to untie the sleeves.
“What ar
e you doing?” George places his hand over mine, keeping my fingers from the knots.
“I must wear something more sombre; this shade would be an insult.”
My ladies have paused in their tasks and are watching us. Jane is close by, her hands hovering over the jewel casket, pretending not to look at us. George manoeuvres me out of her hearing.
“Don’t change. You must show the world that she was nothing. She was not queen; she was just the Dowager Princess of Wales, nothing more.”
“Oh … but.”
“Her death is a good thing, Anne. It frees us from Rome, frees us from war with Spain. Henry can now make peace with them. Catherine’s passing liberates the country from danger, therefore you must act as if nothing has happened. You must not appear tainted by fault.”
I look down at the yards of material in my skirts that are shimmering in the firelight. George’s fingers knead my arm, his head is close to mine, his breath warm on my cheek, his eyes glittering with intensity. “Listen to me, Anne, I would never misadvise you.”
“Some may see this gown as a mark of celebration; that would never do.” I am uncertain, hesitant, and sensing this, he pushes his point home.
“Let them think what they will, but be sure of this. If you show remorse in any way, or mark her passing with mourning, your enemies will whisper that she was the true queen and your position will always be questioned. And so will Elizabeth’s.”
Henry wears a matching doublet and a yellow hat with a big white plume. We parade Elizabeth, who has been brought to court for the seasonal celebrations, between us, holding her high for the courtiers to see. Elizabeth sits on Henry’s left shoulder, her plump hand clutching his right ear. She laughs at the crowd as they pay her the homage that is her due. No mention of Catherine is made; her passing only whispered of in corners. I try to be happy, to think only of the future. For the first time I am Henry’s undisputed queen, but I cannot help but be aware of those who think us callous. And before long my enemies are accusing me, whispering of poison, and prophesising that Mary will be my next victim.
The Kiss of the Concubine: A story of Anne Boleyn Page 23
