by Fatal Throne- The Wives of Henry VIII Tell All (retail) (epub)
He does not make plain his ugly meaning, but he doesn’t need to. I understand it. I will be examined to confirm that I am still a virgin.
They watch for my reaction to their threat. They are enjoying this. The idea of me on my back, the King’s doctors poking and prodding. I am scalded by embarrassment and cannot speak.
Gardiner leans in close to Rich. “The King said she would be difficult,” he murmurs.
I understand those English words, for they are simple ones. I hear frustration in Gardiner’s voice—and something under it: fear. It puzzles me. Why would he be afraid? I watch him trade worried glances with the others, and in that moment, I know.
It took Henry nine long years to bring about a divorce from Katharine of Aragon so that he could marry Anne Boleyn. He wants his pretty Catherine Howard and he wants her now. He is old and failing and has but one son. He cannot wait. He cannot afford another rebellious woman.
Gardiner talks on. Rich translates in his bad German. Suffolk casts black looks at me. The dreary English rain drums against the windowpanes.
But I hear none of it. I am listening to another voice. One inside my head. Inside my heart. My mother’s voice.
Life deals the cards, but it is up to us how we play them.
I lift my chin. For the moment, I am still their Queen and they must heed me. “Go back to Henry,” I say, “and tell him…”
“Yes, Your Grace?” Rich says, hoping he has scared me into submission, hoping he has won.
But he has not, not yet. I hold some cards of value: resistance, defiance, courage. Will they be enough?
I take a deep breath. “Tell him I do not consent.”
* * *
—
A servant closes the door behind the men and I collapse into a chair, my bravery gone.
What have I done?
I imagine my head cut off and lying on the scaffold floor.
If it lands this way, I will see my own body. Slumped sideways like a sack of meal.
If it lands that way, I will see the crowd, or the sky, or the executioner’s shoes.
Some say the head lives for several seconds. The eyes blink. The lips move.
Still, it is a better death than hanging. It can take several long minutes to die from the rope, all the while swinging and kicking and shitting your skirts.
Henry is known to burn people, too. Or have them drawn and quartered, the executioner carving out their innards while kitchen girls gawp and picknose boys jeer.
These images fill my brain.
Henry hounded Katharine of Aragon to death. He murdered Anne Boleyn.
These things he did to women he loved.
What will he do to one he does not?
* * *
—
“The hardest thing about a bluff is not making it, but waiting it out. Wondering what cards your opponent holds,” Cromwell muses. He circles the chair in which I sit, his long robes rustling. “And wait you did, Anna. What will the court decide? What will Henry do? Riders could come at any moment, ordering you back to Cleves or to the Tower. You didn’t know which, did you?”
“You did,” I say. “You were in the Tower when the hearing was held. You gave a written account stating that Henry believed I was not his lawful wife. You wrote that it grieved him to think he would never give his realm more heirs.”
“Henry wanted support for his case. I thought by giving it I might save my life. And yours. I was half right,” he says wryly.
Fury flares in me now, as it did then. “Even my own ladies testified on Henry’s behalf,” I say hotly. “Lady Rochford stated that after I was married, they’d told me they hoped I’d soon be with child, and I’d replied that I was not. Lady Manners had wondered how this could be and had asked me if I was still a virgin. I’d said of course not, because the King kissed me good night and slept next to me in bed. ‘Madam, there must be more than this, or it will be long ere we have a Duke of York!’ she’d exclaimed. From this exchange the court concluded that I was innocent of how children were made, which proved that Henry had not consummated our marriage.”
Cromwell chuckles. “Lady Rochford was seen wearing a new ruby ring after the hearing. Norfolk paid her well for that story,” he observes.
“Story indeed,” I fume. “In the early days of my marriage I could hardly string together three words of English, much less describe my nightly relations with Henry. The hearing was a farce. Why was I not allowed to testify? To speak for myself?”
“These were delicate matters. I’m sure the King didn’t want to discomfort you,” Cromwell replies, his tongue firmly in his cheek.
I roll my eyes. “What Henry didn’t want was for me to tell the court that I’d shattered his illusions. That I made him feel broken and old.”
“Can you blame him, Anna?” Cromwell asks. “What is a king without illusion? The illusion of limitless wealth? Of absolute power? Illusion is all that keeps his people in check and his enemies at bay. Wives disappoint. Sons die. Allies become foes. Illusion is a king’s only true friend.”
“Ah, Thomas, I see why Henry wept for you,” I say, moved by his devotion. “You were the only one who understood him. You should have outlived him.”
Cromwell shakes his head. “I died at the right time,” he says. “Henry was in decline. His first Queens were dead. Many of his old friends, too. The great pageants, the masques and hunts, the jousts that went on for days, they were no more. The Henry who had once been—our handsome, laughing Prince—was gone. The man who’d taken his place was a limping old melancholic, and it broke my heart to look upon him. Henry was our sun. How cold our world grew as he faded.”
Voices carry from the hall, interrupting us.
“The vultures return,” I say, eyeing the doorway as Henry’s men walk through it.
“At least Henry didn’t make you wait long,” Cromwell says, stepping back into the shadows. “The whole business was over and done in a matter of days.”
I rise from my chair. My heart is pounding. These ruthless men hold my life in their hands.
They greet me. Rich is again amongst them. He enters into a long-winded account of court proceedings. I listen impassively, all the while silently shouting at him to come to the point. After what seems like an eternity, he tells me that the court has carefully examined the agreement made on my behalf with Francis of Lorraine and found that it was, in fact, a marriage contract, not a mere betrothal promise.
My heart lurches. My legs turn to sand. What does this mean for me? Somehow, I manage to keep myself upright.
Rich finishes by telling me that in the eyes of the law, and God, I am Francis’s wife, and have been these many years. Henry has accepted the court’s ruling, he says, and wishes for a divorce.
I am the wife of a man I’ve never even met. I would laugh out loud at the absurdity of it if I weren’t so scared.
Rich and his companions wait for my reaction to Henry’s wish, but I will not give them one. Not yet. I am still playing my hand, and like all good players, I betray nothing.
After a moment, Rich speaks again. He tells me the King is prepared to make me a generous settlement—if I cooperate. He lays out Henry’s terms, and as he does, my head spins so violently, I must steady myself against a table.
Henry will not send me to the Tower or the scaffold. Instead, he will make me his sister.
I shall remain one of the highest-ranking ladies in the land. Only a new Queen, should there be one, and the King’s daughters will come before me.
Henry is giving me money, land, manor houses.
He is giving me Hever Castle.
Bletchingley Palace.
Richmond Palace.
Sweet God in Heaven, I am rich.
I can keep my servants. My clothing. My jewels.
I can stay in England. I don’t
have to go home and face Wilhelm’s wrath.
The future my brother chose for me fades like the morning mist. A new one emerges, one I could never have imagined.
My marriage is ended.
My life begins.
I am free.
I am free.
* * *
—
Cromwell smiles.
“You were a pawn, Anna of Cleves, but you played like a queen,” he says. “You survived us all. Who would have thought it?”
He is fading before my eyes. He is leaving.
“Take me with you, Thomas,” I beg. “Why must I stay here with ghosts and the hard memories they bring?”
“Memory is a high palace containing many rooms. Some of the doors we rush to open; others we lock forever,” he says. “Death dwells in this palace, Anna. Keep opening doors and you will find him.”
He kisses me, his cold lips like the winter wind against my cheek.
And then he is gone.
* * *
—
Determined to die, I open another door. My face falls as I see who is in the room.
“You are not Death,” I say reproachfully.
“Sorry to disappoint you,” Holbein says.
He glances up at me from his easel. His eyes linger on my face. “I wish I’d painted you after your divorce,” he says. “I could have made good money exhibiting such a painting. You were like an elephant—”
“I beg your pardon!”
“—or a zebra. A coconut. A pineapple. You were an oddity.”
“Are these your compliments? I would hate to hear your insults.”
“You were that rarest of creatures—a divorced woman. You were happy, and your happiness made you beautiful.”
“I was happy,” I say, remembering my first days of freedom. “Too happy. My God, how I spent money. On jewels. Books. Nutmegs. Vanilla beans. Pear trees.”
Holbein’s eyes glint with mischief. “Do you know what Marillac said about you?”
I shake my head.
He affects the French ambassador’s accent. “ ‘She is as joyous as ever, and wears new dresses every day; which argues either prudent dissimulation or stupid forgetfulness of what should so closely touch her heart.’ ”
We both laugh.
“Foolish Henry,” Holbein sighs. “You were a young, healthy woman, Anna. I’d wager a purse full of gold that you would have given him the fine, strapping sons he wanted had he kept you as his wife.”
“Perhaps,” I say.
But I doubt it. Henry always said it was my ugliness that made him incapable of fathering children with me, but no babies were made with the pretty Queens who followed me, either. I was tempted, many times, to remark upon this to Henry, but held my tongue. Beauty is blameless and so are kings.
“What are you painting now?” I ask, eager to change the subject. “Do not tell me you are still working on my betrothal portrait.”
“No. I am working on a new portrait for you,” he says.
“For me?” I echo, puzzled. “Do you mean of me?”
He shakes his head. “For you. To settle your debts. You must settle your debts, Anna. The bad done to us, we must forgive. The good, we owe to the next man.”
“Again you talk of debts?” I say, my good humour darkening. “What debts, Holbein? Speak plainly!” I am so frustrated with him, I am shouting. “My bills are paid! My will is complete! My best jewel will go to Queen Mary. My second-best to Elizabeth. My servants have all been found new positions…”
I stalk up to his easel as I harangue him, and peer at the canvas, and my words fall away.
The portrait is of a girl. She is wearing the plain clothing of a servant. Her hair is covered by a simple linen cap. There is a birthmark on her face.
“Time grows short, Anna. Settle your debts,” Holbein warns.
And then he is gone and I am back in my bedchamber and dawn is breaking.
Its pale light steals in through the windows, summoning me out of the darkness.
* * *
—
“Hush, my lady, do not upset yourself,” a voice croons. “You have been dreaming. There is no Cromwell here. No Holbein. Just me.”
It is Alice. She is sitting on the edge of my bed, a worried expression on her face. She takes my hand in hers.
“It’s all right. I am here.”
“Yes,” I say. “You are here, Alice.”
And then I start to weep. For myself. For Henry. For his dead Queens. His doomed son. For Cromwell. For Greta. For apple cake and snow and horses. The Rhine and the Thames. For rain-soaked days and black-robed men. For the dark fairy tale that is life.
“More poppy,” says another voice. It belongs to Edmonds.
Alice rises to fetch it, and at that instant, as I watch this good, clever girl, I know.
I know why I have not yet died. Why the ghosts have come. Why Holbein made a portrait of her. I know the thing I’ve left undone.
“Alice!” I say. So loudly that both she and Edmonds jump. “Fetch some hot milk. I am chilly.”
I am not really, but I need her to leave the room.
“That is not a good idea. Milk taxes the digestion,” says Edmonds.
I wipe my eyes. Sit up in my bed. “What will it do?” I ask. “Kill me?”
Alice looks to him. “Sir?” she says uncertainly.
Edmonds sighs. “Fetch it, child, before she fetches it herself.”
I wait until the door closes behind her, then I pounce. “You must take her on. She must become your apprentice.”
“Take whom on?”
“Alice! Who do you think, the cat?”
Edmonds regards me closely. “You have had too much poppy, madam.”
“She is capable. A good worker.”
“She is also a girl.”
“You said yourself that your two apprentices were useless. Alice is clever. She would be a great help to you.”
Edmonds strokes his beard. “There is much truth in what you say. But her father is a gardener. He cannot afford the apprentice fee.”
“No, he cannot,” I say, hope leaping inside me. “But I can.”
“A girl apprenticed to a physician…”
“I will double the fee.”
“Why do you wish it? How would it benefit her?” Edmonds asks. “She will never become a physician. Medicine is for men.”
“How will it benefit her?” I echo, an edge to my voice. “By allowing her to use her gifts. By giving her pride in work well done. What is her alternative? Who will marry her? What shall she do? Dig furrows at her father’s side? A mind as sharp as hers, wasted on turnips. I cannot bear it.”
He gives me a long look. “This wish to do good deeds…it is a common deathbed urge. But one person cannot change the world, my lady.”
I groan with frustration. Fresh tears prick my eyes. Tears of anger.
I think of Henry. He was one man. A second son not meant to rule. The King of a small island only, yet he changed the world. I think of his daughter Mary, who proves every day that a woman can occupy a throne. I think of Cromwell and Luther, and how they stole God from Rome.
“Oh, Edmonds, you fool, can’t you see?” I say, with all the passion left in me. “By changing a life, just one life, you can change the world. It is the only way anyone ever has.”
15 JULY 1557
There is a vulture in my room.
He perches by my window.
I cannot see his face, but soon I will.
He will fold his dark wings over me.
He will carry me away.
I am almost ready to go.
Almost, but not quite.
* * *
—
Up in the high palace, my mother is weeping.
She storms and rages. Tears at her hair.
She died thus, driven insane by war and the loss of her ancestral lands.
Wilhelm fought Spain over Guelders. Spain won and took not only Guelders but the Duchy of Jülich, part of my mother’s dowry. She mourned the loss deeply and died soon after, heartbroken.
“Anna? My child, is that you?” she asks.
I embrace her. “Mother, why do you rage so?”
“The doings of men have driven me mad. Everyone told me I must accept what I cannot change. But I wished to change what I cannot accept, and that is where the trouble starts.”
“Do not grieve. I will join you soon. We will go back to Cleves and make a plum tart.”
But nothing I say can soothe her. She shakes me off. Marches back and forth. Weeps. Then shouts, “How could I have raised such a stupid, stupid son?”
“Mother, do not cry over Wilhelm,” I plead, taking her cold hands in mine. “He is not worth it.”
“Ah, Anna,” she says sorrowfully. “You think I’m crying because I had such a foolish son and everyone knew it. But I’m not. I’m crying because I had such a clever daughter and no one did.”
* * *
—
Morning has broken. The summer sun streams into my room.
By some miracle, the ravening cancer slumbers.
Edmonds has gone home. He has left me plenty of medicine, but I shall not be needing it.
“I wish to walk out this morning,” I announce as Alice enters my room.
“But Dr. Edmonds says—”
“Fie on him. Help me dress.”
Alice sighs unhappily. “Yes, my lady.”
Though it is July, she makes sure I am warmly attired. A woollen kirtle goes over my linen shift, and a gown over that. I am winded after these exertions but marshal my resources.
Alice puts a blanket and two pillows in a large basket. She tucks her sewing in, too. Then she offers me her arm. We make our way out of the manor, through the gardens, to my fields.
The beauty of midsummer takes my breath away. The sky, so blindingly blue. The lark singing her heart out. Roses of every hue tumbling over stone walls.
