Actually, no: to tell the truth, this wasn’t what I felt. I’d love to say I did, but the truth is that I was impressed. Touched, almost. Worried and weary as I was, I needed to believe in that nervous bow from the ambassador. I imagined there might be an understanding between us, now that Catherine was dead.
But I still didn’t really like it; not really; of course I didn’t. I’d been momentarily bowled over by Chapuys’s unexpected, apparently gracious greeting. The rest of it, I didn’t trust: Tom’s being kind to Mary, being chummy with Chapuys. Tom, in short: it was him I didn’t trust. Because I didn’t know what he was up to. Repairing relations with Spain, yes; but where, in those plans, was I? Was I to be irrelevant? Friendship with Spain, if there had to be: I’d go along with that, I’d do my duty for England. But I wouldn’t let it happen at any price. Not at the price of Spain completely disregarding England’s queen.
Tom hadn’t been doing much to inspire my confidence. I discovered he’d swapped apartments at Greenwich with the Seymours, so that they could enjoy the benefits of the interconnecting door with Henry’s apartment.
I was incredulous. ‘What did you do that for?’
He shrugged, unconcerned. ‘Because Henry asked me.’
It dawned on me that all I’d been, for Tom, was something he could do for Henry. He’d made me queen for Henry, not because he was my supporter. I’d always known he didn’t really like my friends. They, in turn, didn’t really like him. Two different worlds, often in the same room, at the same table, but two different worlds. To him, they were good for nothing; to them, he was a bit of a bore. But we all needed each other. He socialized with us just enough to keep in with the in-crowd; and we welcomed him because he oiled the wheels.
But Tom didn’t like Mary’s lot any more than he liked us. Less, in fact. He was personally committed to reforming the Church and Mary’s lot would turn it all back. He’d lose everything he’d worked for. So, there he was, between a rock and a hard place. He didn’t seem a happy man, which could have cheered me but didn’t. Because Tom, unhappy, was dangerous. Cornered, he was, I knew, capable of anything.
Exactly a month ago, a month ago to this very day, Henry was shouting at Chapuys, insisting on one condition: a written apology from the emperor for how he’d treated me over the years. Insisting on official Spanish recognition of me. Not that I was there, to hear it. Because that wouldn’t have been dignified, would it. Anyway, I didn’t have to be there; I’d already said my bit, to Henry. For once, it hadn’t been hard to make him listen. I’d appealed to his pride. I’d asked him, How will it look? The emperor decides you’re wonderful, after all, with the exception of everything you’ve spent the past decade working for; everything you stand for. I had the usual response, from him: the non-response, the pursed lips. I was taking a chance. Did I have anything to lose, though? And, anyway, I’m at my best when I’m up against it. And I was good; oh, I was very good. I demanded, Is that what you want? Is that what you’ll settle for? And he went off, not having said a word. Nothing new in that.
I knew when the meeting with Chapuys was scheduled for: 18 April, the soonest day after Easter; Easter Tuesday. And I knew it wouldn’t be difficult to get it reported back to me. It was Franky Weston who obliged. He was there, witnessed it: Henry, apoplectic; Tom, ashen.
Tom, scuppered. Tom, daring to interrupt, desperate to salvage the negotiations. And getting shouted down, in turn, for his pains. Tom, leaving.
He didn’t return for a few days; claimed he was sick. I was thrilled by Franky’s account of that scene in the Presence Chamber. And of course I was. I’d won, hadn’t I. I’d proved what I needed to prove. All I could think was, Let people doubt it, now, then: Henry’s commitment to me.
My little victory: Henry, outraged on my behalf. Except that it was on his own behalf that he’d been outraged, wasn’t it. How did I lose sight of that? It was what I’d banked on. What I’d encouraged. Perhaps I was a touch dizzy on my apparent success. Or relieved, certainly. Guard down. Resting on my laurels.
A lull of nearly two weeks followed the Chapuys storm. A Calais trip, planned for the day after May Day, to look forward to. Life, back to normal, more or less, it seemed; which meant, for Henry and me, that we tended to keep out of each other’s way. Tom seemed to be keeping out of everyone’s way. I should have guessed he wasn’t licking his wounds, or not only licking his wounds. He was thinking. Planning. I should have known, because does he ever give up? Those few days in bed helped him; gave him the time to think. To stop, and start again. To stop thinking of me as queen. He couldn’t get at me, as queen; I’d done nothing wrong as queen. The trick was to think of me as a woman.
Stop thinking ‘queen’, it’s over-complicated. Think ‘woman’.
Think ‘woman surrounded by men’, and there you have it. The bonus was that they were men he didn’t like; men he’d love to see go.
The same, for Henry: stop thinking ‘king’. A king’s life is complicated by strategies, responsibilities, loyalties. Think ‘man’. ‘Cuckolded man’. There’s only one possible response to that, isn’t there.
Mark Smeaton was the first to be arrested. Mark: how pitiless is that? Such easy prey. None of us realized he was gone. Not least because he was often somewhere else: wandering minstrel Mark. Working in the chapel, or on one of his mysterious Mark-quests, visiting the gardeners or whatever else it was that he used to like to do. Tom probably even knew that; knew he could get a head start with Mark by taking him unnoticed and keeping him for twenty-four hours, extracting a ‘confession’ to start the ball rolling. He’d probably made it his business to know quite a bit about Mark.
But here’s something else: the truth about Mark and me. Just the day before his arrest, I spotted him standing at a window, looking miserable. Morale among the boys was low, I was well-aware. Despite Henry’s apparent turnaround, our little crowd was, understandably, still tense.
I asked him, ‘What’s up?’
He turned to me, hugging himself, gave me a rueful smile, and said, ‘Nothing that a mere look from you can’t cure.’ And that was all he said—turning back to the window—but it was enough. The way it was said, it was clearly meant to mean something.
There was something, here, to be dealt with. And at a time when I could barely deal with getting up in the mornings.
You do pick your timing, don’t you.
I touched his arm, but turned away. Burdened, now, with his vulnerability. Fighting an urge to fling it back at him: You’re not meant to mean it, you know.
But he didn’t know, did he, and probably no amount of being told would ever make it clear to him. Because that was Mark: serious-minded; heartfelt. Why had we ever taken him on, I wondered; taken him in, welcomed him into our little circle. Lovely though he was, he was also, it seemed to me, a liability.
I was unsettled, all day, after that. Angry, even. I wanted everything back to how it had been; I wanted everything to be fun again. Perhaps that’s why I said what I did to Harry Norris, that evening. It happened when I goaded, ‘When are you going to make on honest woman of Meg?’ and he looked suitably bashful.
‘Ah,’ I said, ‘I know what it is. You’re waiting for me, aren’t you. Waiting for something to happen to Henry.’
He looked aghast; I seemed to have overstepped the mark. True, it probably wasn’t the time for such jokes. Which is probably why I’d said it.
I was surprised at Harry’s humourlessness. ‘Oh, really, Harry.’
‘Anne—’ He held up his hands and I knew what was coming: If I’ve ever given you any such impression…
‘Harry!’ I was furious. ‘Don’t flatter yourself.’
And he sat there, tightlipped.
‘It was a joke.’ I gave up on him and glanced around at everyone else, at stoney faces. ‘A joke? Remember those?’
The funny thing is, none of us knew, then, just how serious it was about to get.
It was later that evening, at about eleven o’clock, when I’d
given up on company and was alone, thinking about getting ready for bed, that some lackey turned up at my door with a message from Henry. Calais was cancelled.
‘Why?’ I wanted to know.
He said he didn’t know.
His manner was, I felt, insolent.
He said that the message was that we weren’t going to Calais, the day after tomorrow; that was all he knew.
So, I decided to go to the person who would be able to tell me. But not alone.
I came to your rooms, first, Elizabeth. You were still with us, at Greenwich; you’d been with us for Easter. Margaret Bryan was still up, sewing. ‘But she’s asleep,’ she said of you, and I almost laughed in her face because it seemed to me that a little missed sleep, a surprise waking, was neither here nor there, now; not with what I was beginning to suspect was at stake.
I came into your bedroom and you were indeed asleep. I stood for a while, similarly spellbound, beside your bed. Wondering at you, at the wonder of your sleep, at the abandon with which you were able to sleep. Had I ever slept like that? Would you ever sleep like that again? Well, if I had anything to do with it, you would; you’d always sleep like that. Princess.
And then I did what I had to do, what I’d come to do. I gathered you up. You came easily, too sleepy to protest, but I soothed you nonetheless: ‘It’s me, it’s Mummy.’ You’d been baking in your blankets: you were fragrant, sticky, endearingly criss-crossed where you’d been pressed onto rumpled bedlinen. You are such a big girl, now: a proper girl. I had no idea how I’d carry you. But I had to. So, I did.
We headed for your father’s rooms. Your eyes, when open, had a sheen, reflections of the flares bracketed along the walls. You were so good, so quiet, while I blundered down that passageway with the whop-whop-whop of blood inside my ears. Eventually, trailing the studied unresponsiveness of the yeomen, we made it to where I’d guessed your father would be. And suddenly there he was, facing us, stock-still, standing his ground. I don’t remember who else was there. People. The usuals. The Venetian ambassador.
Your father was sheer bulk, yet every feature was small and becoming smaller in retreat from us: lidded eyes, tightened lips, his blood rising to the tips of his ears.
I spoke first. ‘What’s going on?’ I asked. ‘I know something’s going on.’
He found his tongue. ‘Anne,’ he said, sharply, ‘why is she up with you at this hour?’
Indignant father. Chaotic mother.
I knew why I’d taken you there, but now I didn’t know how to put it into words. I made a start, though. ‘Your daughter.’ It sounded like an accusation. I unfolded you a little, and you obliged, lifting your head to look at him, sweetly sleep-blurred. ‘See? Your daughter.’ Then I said, ‘Something’s going on, I know it is. You’re up to something. But don’t you ever forget who else is involved in this. Whatever you think of me, don’t you take it out on her.’
‘She shouldn’t be up.’ For all his apparent concern for you, you weren’t the focus of his attention. It was splayed across the room. Other people: that’s who mattered to him. He was embarrassed.
I said it in a rush, like a curse: ‘Yes, that’s right, start behaving like a father. It’s a pity you can’t behave like a husband, too.’ And I asked him, ‘Why have you cancelled Calais?’
The reply, if you could call it that, was almost inaudible: ‘I don’t have to answer to you.’ Then, clearly: ‘Please go, Anne. Take Elizabeth back to her room.’
I’d get no further. I’d get no answer about Calais. I suppose I’d always known that. Certainly since turning up with you, like that, I’d known it. I’d made my point, though. I do think I had.
The May Day jousts, the following day, seemed to be going ahead as planned; no one had heard anything to the contrary. So, we all turned up at the Greenwich tiltyard like in the old days, determined to make the best of it. Even Fitz came along, bright-eyed, pleased to be out. Henry and I took up our places in our separate boxes: a tradition for which, on this occasion, I imagine we were both grateful. And you came along, briefly, Elizabeth; do you remember? To see the horses. To stay for the first joust, George and Harry. Just the one, so you didn’t become bored. Your father lifted you so you could pat your Uncle George’s horse’s nose. Do you remember? I remember your delighted squeal when it nudged your tiny hand.
Harry’s horse was nowhere near us spectators; Harry was having trouble with him. As your father gave you back to Lady Bryan, he was calling for one of his own horses to be fetched for Harry as a substitute. Your father doesn’t joust any more—he’s had one fall too many, and it’s a young man’s sport—but he hasn’t relinquished his best jousters.
‘Are you sure?’ Harry was asking. Because of course it’s personal: horses.
‘Yes! Take him!’
I laughed to see them back to how they’d always been with each other, Henry and Harry. Henry, expansive in the face of Harry’s reticence. I sparked with renewed affection for them: my boys. It seemed such a shame that they hadn’t been spending as much time together, lately, as usual.
Harry rose to the challenge of an unfamiliar horse, to win. George was the graceful loser. All goodnatured, as usual. This’ll go on and on, I felt, watching them: us, being the stars here. Me and the boys. It simply couldn’t be any other way. We’d made this court our own: we were the court, and it was us. This is a bad patch, I told myself, but we’ll weather it.
That afternoon, Henry seemed to tire earlier than he should have: by chance, I spotted him leaving his box. George was sitting with me. I tapped his arm, nodded in Henry’s direction. ‘Where’s he going?’
George craned to see.
‘D’you think he’s all right?’
He shrugged. ‘Looks fine to me.’
By then, Henry’d gone.
That was the last time I ever saw him.
Not until George went to find Harry, later, to travel back with him, did he discover that Harry had left with Henry. Just the two of them, and a groom each, riding to Whitehall. A sudden departure, a very small party. Still, he didn’t think anything of it. Not enough, even, to remark on it to me. And if I thought about it all, which I’m not sure I did, Harry’s absence that evening was entirely understandable. After a day of high jinks, he’d probably decided on a quiet evening with Meg.
The truth came, a day later, from Harry’s groom, who’d heard some of the conversation of the two riders ahead of him. Henry had asked Harry about Mark Smeaton and me. The groom overheard Henry asking, ‘Did you know?’ And again, and again: ‘Did you know?’
And Harry’s denials, of course. Poor Harry, he didn’t even know there was nothing to know.
Henry was unplacated, disbelieving. According to the groom, he said to Harry, ‘Makes me wonder what else you keep from me.’
Harry protested, incredulous.
Henry said, ‘You’re very close to Anne, aren’t you,’ and Harry answered, ‘She’s an old friend; you know that.’
Then the groom heard no more, Henry and Harry descending into fierce whispering. That was when they spoke at all: there were lots of silences. I can see it, now: Henry brooding, like only Henry knows how; and Harry at a loss. I feel for Harry, having to hear it from Henry himself, yet also I envy him. I wish I could ask him: how did he seem, to you? Is he ill? Has he gone mad? Does he believe it, really, do you think? Who, exactly, really, is he angry with? When they arrived at the Whitehall stables, Henry swept down from his horse and stalked away. Harry hung around, chatting to the groom, seemingly unsure what else to do, where else to go.
None of this we knew, not until he’d already been taken to the Tower on the following morning. I didn’t know until I, myself, was called for questioning. My summons came at midday: Uncle Norfolk wanted to see me in the Council Chamber. Admittedly, it was an odd venue for a tête-à-tête; formal. I remember thinking, What’s the old goat up to? ‘I’ll be along,’ I said, ‘when I’ve eaten. Tell him.’
It was the messenger from two evenings ago,
the crier of the Calais cancellation. He treated me again to his absurd, clipped little bow.
When I went into the Council Chamber, I realized at once that this was to be no swapping of gossip. There certainly was something going on, and this was it: it was here. My uncle wasn’t alone; with him were William Paulet and William Fitzwilliam. The Williams were sitting; my uncle was standing, pacing, assuming authority. He had his official face on. I nodded to the Williams; they nodded back.
My uncle said, ‘Sit down,’ gesturing at a chair.
Startled, I did so.
‘Now,’ he said, and I suppose I was expecting some preamble but he simply said it: ‘Sir Henry Norris and a man called—’ he consulted some notes ‘—Mark Smeaton have been arrested on charges of having committed adultery with you.’
‘What?’ I sprang up.
‘Sit down, please, Anne.’ He said it as if bored.
My intake of breath came back as a bleat. ‘You are joking.’
‘Sit down,’ he said, now stern.
No. Oh no. No way. I walked up to him: that ridiculous, pinch-faced little man. ‘Tell me you’re joking,’ I said, like a threat.
‘I’m telling you what I’ve been told.’ He flapped a piece of paper.
I said, ‘But it’s not true, is it. Who told you?’
He lowered his voice: ‘They have been arrested, Anne, on those charges. Now, will you please sit down.’
‘I need to see Henry.’ This, I said to the Williams.
But it was my uncle who replied: ‘That wouldn’t do you any good.’
‘I’ll be the judge of that.’
‘No, I will.’
Suddenly, I couldn’t breathe.
‘Sit down.’ He placed a hand on my shoulder, pressed me down.
The Queen of Subtleties Page 26
