We now turned our faces toward home but the weather was against us. The gales had started and each day when we expected to sail we were advised not to.
We were nothing loath. We were together and there was plenty to do in Calais. In the evenings we played cards and dice. Henry lost a great deal of money to me, which seemed to amuse him. He liked me to win— and I liked winning, so we were both satisfied.
We played Pope Julius, a game which was now very fashionable at home. It was topical because of the divorce; and the various points in the game were matrimony, intrigue and pope—so it was significant and caused a great deal of amusement.
They were very pleasant days which we spent at Calais waiting for the weather to improve; and although I had not yet the legal right to call myself Queen, I felt I was in every other way.
I had rarely seen Henry so happy.
It was not until 14th of November, about a fortnight after we had said goodbye to François, that we landed at Dover.
Christmas, which had been celebrated with the customary festivities, had passed and January had come. I had made a momentous discovery. I was pregnant.
I could scarcely wait to convey the news to Henry. He was overcome with joy. I sometimes wondered whether his desire for a son surpassed that for me. The two ran very close.
“I knew it must come,” he said. “When, sweetheart? When?”
“In September, I think.”
“It is a long time to wait.”
It was the usual period, I reminded him. “And in those months there is much to be done…unless you wish your son to be born a bastard.”
He was sober at once.
“A pox on Clement,” he said. “This matter would have been settled long ere but for him.”
I agreed.
His brow was furrowed. I understood our predicament as well as he did.
Warham had, most conveniently, died during the previous August, and Cranmer was to take his place, but until he was actually installed as Archbishop of Canterbury he could not declare Henry’s marriage to Katharine invalid; and until this was done we could not marry. If the Pope’s court decided that Henry was indeed married to Katharine, our marriage would be invalid.
But with the child on the way, something had to be done.
Henry was torn by different emotions. Immense joy at the prospect of the child was uppermost; but he knew what effect excommunication could have and he could visualize the country rising against him—men like Fisher and More who had no fear of consequences.
But the child was on the way.
It was early morning of a day I shall never forget—25 January in the year 1533. I was told I must be in the west turret with Nan Saville in attendance.
The King was there with William Norris and my father and brother.
As soon as I entered, I saw that the King was talking earnestly to one of his chaplains, Dr. Rowland Lee, who, Henry told me afterward, had come in the belief that he was to celebrate Mass. When he was told that he was to perform a marriage ceremony, he was overcome with fear. He had to obey the King but he was in terror of offending the Pope, which he would most certainly do if he officiated at this ceremony.
Henry was exasperated but managed to control his wrath for he needed the man’s help, and he was afraid he might be one of those martyrs who were ready to face any consequences rather than go against the Pope.
In order that the ceremony should go on, Henry was forced to tell him that the Pope had declared his marriage to Katharine invalid.
So, with great trepidation, and obvious uneasiness, Dr. Rowland Lee complied.
Henry and I stood hand in hand. Then he solemnly kissed me. I was Queen of England in very truth.
I was exultant. At last I had reached my goal. Once my son was born, I should be secure in my power, but for the time we must act cautiously. The wedding was a secret. Only those present knew of it. Even Cranmer was kept in the dark.
I wish I had been wiser. I wish I had been able to look ahead. I was surrounded by ill-wishers and I snapped my fingers at them. How the Queen and her daughter Mary must hate me! I had usurped Katharine’s place, and through me Mary had lost her birthright. What did that proud Princess feel to be branded illegitimate?
But I did not stop to think. I was overwhelmed by the power which was in my hands. I had seen the fall of the great Cardinal—once the most powerful man in the land—and his fall was in part due to me. I had toppled him from power—that “foolish girl” at whom he had sneered.
I saw no obstacles now to my progress. Henry was my slave; and all these important men must bow to my wishes.
At last Cranmer was installed as Archbishop of Canterbury. Before taking office he had made a declaration that the oath which he was about to take in obedience to the Pope, was a matter of form, and could not bind him to act against the King or prevent his reforming anything that was amiss in the Church of England.
The matter was now getting urgent. April had come. I was four months pregnant. We had to move fast, I reminded the King—not that he needed reminding—if our child was to be acknowledged as legitimate.
Cranmer was entirely the King’s man. He opened a court and gave sentence; the marriage to Katharine was invalid and the King was, in fact, married to me.
That was the signal. Now I could really come into my own. I arranged my household. I lived in the state of Queen—although to some extent I had done this before. Now all must recognize me as such.
Moreover, it was time for my coronation.
May was a beautiful month—a momentous month for me, as it was to be not so very long afterward.
I was to be crowned at Whitsun. The people loved these ceremonies even though this one was for someone of whom they could scarcely be said to approve. Still, they were determined to have their fun.
Everyone who could find a craft seemed to be on the river that day. The city merchants were out in their decorated barges, and dressed in scarlet, their heavy gold chains about their necks, they made a fine sight. The Lord Mayor, splendid in his ceremonial robes, was followed by fifty barges filled with the leading men of the city… all rowing down to Greenwich. In the leading barge—the Lord Mayor’s—was a dragon which, to the amusement of the crowds on the bank, capered as the barge passed along and spat out fire—a most ingenious feat. The people laughed and cheered. The vessel I liked best was the one decorated with my device and in which were seated young girls singing sweetly of my beauty and virtues; in the midst of them sat a white falcon surrounded by red and white roses. At the foot of this was written my motto, “Me and Mine.” The white falcon was henceforth to be my device. It was taken from the Butler crest, and of course the roses indicated that my offspring would bind even closer the Houses of York and Lancaster.
I came out from Greenwich Palace at three in the afternoon, dressed in cloth of gold, and as I stepped into my barge, the trumpets sounded. This was indeed triumph.
We went up the river toward the Tower—my barge followed by members of the nobility, my father in the lead. As I approached the Tower, the guns began to sound. I alighted and was conducted to the postern gate, where Henry was waiting to greet me.
He kissed my hand, his eyes alight with pride. I was doubly dear to him because of the child I carried.
Nan Saville had wondered whether the ordeal of the coronation would be bad for me in my condition, but I told her no. I had waited years for this and I was determined to enjoy every moment.
I was to stay in the Tower for several days. There Henry knighted several people in honor of the occasion, and through those days the river was alive with craft; the sound of music was everywhere; there was singing and revelry and the streets were crowded. For these few days the people were ready to forget their animosity toward me. I might have been Nan Bullen, the King’s concubine yesterday, but today I was Anne, Queen of England, and this was my coronation. These were great days for them as well as for me: a holiday with feasting, sporting, dancing, singing and general rejoi
cing. So therefore just for today it was “God bless Queen Anne.”
There had never been a more splendid occasion. Henry was determined that it should be so. It was more than a coronation. It was an act of defiance against the Pope. No one should gainsay Henry. He was King in his country, and his will should be law.
I was to ride through the city from the Tower to Westminster Abbey. Rails had been set up in the streets to protect the people from the horses. The Lord Mayor, Sir Stephen Peacock, received me at the Tower gate. Then came the French ambassador, the judges, the nobility and the Arch-bishop of Canterbury with the bishops. Suffolk was there as Lord High Constable of England. I wondered what he would be feeling to see me here as Queen. He had tried to destroy me and had worked hard to try to prevent my reaching this position; his wife, my one-time mistress, had refused to accept me. Poor woman, there would be no question of that now, for I had heard that she was very ill—sick unto death, they said— and even if she had wished to leave her home at Westhorpe to come to my coronation, she could not have done so.
It was strange, thinking back over all those years—but such thoughts will come on these occasions—to those days when as a little girl I had accompanied the proud beauty to France. Now I was a Queen and she was a dying woman.
I stepped into my litter. My surcoat was of silver tissue and my cloak was of the same material lined with ermine. I wore my hair flowing about my shoulders, and on my head was a circlet of rubies. My litter was made of cloth of gold, and my two palfreys, which drew it, were in white damask. They were led by sumptuously clad footmen, and the company stretched out behind me.
There were wonderful pageants on the way; we stopped to marvel at their ingenuity and to listen to the speeches of praise. One of these represented Mount Parnassus, from which sprang jets of Rhenish wine. Of course, the white falcon figured in these scenes. One was particularly effective—the falcon uncrowned in the midst of red and white roses; as I approached, an angel appeared and placed a golden crown on the falcon’s head. In Cheapside the wine flowed freely—white in the conduit on one side, red on the other.
And so we progressed through the city to Westminister, where I was to spend the night with the King.
I went to bed that night exhausted, but deeply content. I reminded myself that I was not only the Queen but the idol of the people. Well… perhaps for a day or so. The joy was so exquisite that I must savor it to the full. This was no time for analyzing my thoughts and finding uneasy portents there. It was a time for absolute rejoicing, and I gave myself up to it.
The morning dawned… that day for which I had waited through the years. The first day of June. In four months’ time my joy would be complete. Then I would hold my son in my arms and I would have the King’s gratitude forever. People would no longer revile me. They would realize that I, Anne Boleyn, had won the love of the King so that he had discovered his first marriage had not found favor in the sight of God. So he had married me and I was giving them their new King, thereby saving the country from split loyalties and perhaps civil war. Henry was not yet old—forty-two years of age. He had time to bring up a son to be a good King to follow him. Had it not been for this marriage and my production of the heir, what would have happened on Henry’s death? The old wars of the roses might well have broken out. Any country which has endured civil war would go to any great lengths to prevent that happening again.
I was up early, ready for the great day. My ladies helped me to dress in surcoat and mantle of purple velvet lined with ermine. Then came the walk from Westminister Hall to the Abbey. The barons of the Cinque Ports held the canopy over me; the Bishops of London and Winchester walked beside me; and the ladies, led by the Duchess of Norfolk, carried my train.
I sat in a chair between the choir and the altar, and then I went to the high altar where Cranmar was waiting for me. Finally the crown of St. Edward was set on my head, and the Te Deum was sung.
The ceremony continued and afterward we left the Abbey for West-minster Hall where a banquet was being prepared. Then we sat at a table which had been decorated in a most splendid manner; we were served with twenty-seven dishes and ate to the accompaniment of music.
The King was not present. This was my occasion. He watched, he told me afterward, through a window, for he wanted to see the whole company do honor to me. I was to be the most important person at the table; and had he been there, of course, that honor would have fallen to him.
The meal went on until six o’clock, and when I had drunk from the golden cup which had been brought to me by the Mayor, I presented him with the cup as a reward for his services. I gave the canopy, with its golden bells, to the Barons of the Cinque Ports as payment for their services in accordance with custom. Then I thanked them all for what they had done for me.
Very tired, but deeply contented, I left the hall.
The great day had come to an end and I was Queen of England.
I HAD THOUGHT THAT when I reached the pinnacle of my ambition I should be completely happy. Here I was, Queen of England, soon to bear the heir. My tribulations were over. Whatever the Pope did could not harm me now. Cranmer was the King’s man and he had declared the King’s first marriage invalid; and if there was any difficulty from Rome, Cromwell had his solution. Oh, I knew it was a drastic one and that the King was nervous of putting it into practice; but we were married now. This was the culmination of all our efforts for seven years.
But it was not quite perfection. Perhaps there is a reaction after such a conclusion is reached. Perhaps the continual plans, the upheavals, even the setbacks gave a zest to the days. I wondered if the King felt as I did. The excitement of our encounters had waned a little. Perhaps it was because the excitement of doing what was forbidden was removed. There is a spiciness in sinning which acting virtuously lacks. It was now perfectly legitimate for us to share the same bed. We were almost like a long-married couple; and there was I, no longer alluring, for how could a woman heavy with child be that?
The King was very tender toward me, very solicitous that I should take great care. But I began to ask myself whether that was really for the sake of the child.
I was surrounded by all the ceremony which is a Queen’s natural right; I was the most talked-of person in the country. Soothsayers and astrologers were making prophecies about my child. They all declared it would be a boy. They would have received little thanks from Henry for a girl.
I was learning more about my husband. When I thought of all the warning signs I had had during the last years, I marveled at my lack of perception. I had been adored so long that I thought it would go on forever. I had come to believe that I was possessed of some special powers to draw men to me. I should have looked more closely at men’s motives— more than that, I should have looked to myself. I had been the most attractive woman at Court, and I had been convinced that this was due to some special quality I possessed. Now I perceived that, although I was not without attractions, it was the ardent desire of the King which had enhanced my allure. There must be something very exciting about a woman for whom a man would do so much. That was what they told themselves, and they promptly fell in love with me. I should have seen that Henry was tired of Katharine and that his mixture of piety and sensuality made it necessary for him to indulge his desires while placating his conscience. He had never taken mistresses to the extent that François had. He wanted a regular union because he thought that was pleasing in the eyes of God, and Henry sought favor in that direction—just as his courtiers did with him. Thus there had been a combination of events: boredom with Katharine and the need to remove her but in a manner which could be seen to be righteous; desire for me, who had stood out against anything but marriage; the obstinacy in his nature which could not bear to be balked; and above all the overriding need and desire for a son. That was what had motivated Henry, and I had deluded myself into believing that it was entirely due to his passion for me.
My brother George had been my main supporter through all my triumphs and
tribulations. He was closer to me than any other person. I loved him dearly and I knew he was the only one whom I could trust absolutely. My father, for whom I had some natural feeling of affection, was, first and foremost before he was a father, an ambitious man. He saw me not so much as a daughter but as the Queen of England, who had made the grandest marriage of all those obliging Boleyn ladies. I knew that he would always think first of the fortunes of the family. George would think first of my well-being.
I saw my stepmother from time to time, for, because of my father’s rising power, there were occasionally times when she must be beside him at Court functions. I knew she came most reluctantly from Hever and much preferred to be in her still-room or herb gardens. She was overawed to see me. I laughed at her and embracing her assured her that I was the same Anne in spite of my crown. She began to fuss about my condition and the baby, giving me all sorts of hints as to what I should do. It was a great pleasure always to see her.
George’s married life was far from happy. He was a very attractive man; he had good looks and was extremely witty and cultured. He had traveled widely, for the King had employed him on many missions abroad. He was a poet—not quite up to Wyatt’s standards, but Wyatt was reckoned—correctly I think—to be the greatest poet at Court.
It was because of George that I took his wife, Jane, into my house-hold. Perhaps that was another of my mistakes, for I did not like her in the least and she presumed on the relationship. I often thought what a pity it was that George had married her. So did he. He had been relieved when, in the course of his duties, he had had to spend much time abroad. It gave him some respite from Jane.
What was so difficult for him to endure was her jealousy. She was desperately in love with him. Perhaps she might have been a different person altogether if he had returned that love. How could he? Jane was a stupid woman, a blundering woman; she had a habit of making remarks showing clearly that she had not followed a discussion; yet instead of keeping quiet, she would insist on speaking; she would offer opinions that were trite; she could not match George’s intellect. She irritated me in the extreme; but at least I could see little of her. She was a foolish woman but if she had been meek and gentle I could have put up with her more easily.
Jean Plaidy - [Queens of England 04] Page 37
