“In what manner auspicious, Robyns?” Henry interjected tensely, betraying the depth of his anxiety. But the astrologer, tone deep and throaty, long white academic beard swaying with practiced gravitas, was not to be deflected from his ponderous delivery by a mere monarch.
“Virgo is a mutable sign, Your Grace, and gives rise to individuals who are appliant, thrive on changeability, and who possess a highly developed sense of social order. Virgoans are rooted to the earth, and those born to its coordinates are refined and precise. They are observant, keenly intelligent and have a great love of knowledge. And, most important for the future King of England, your son …”
My heart leaped. So I was to have a son …! John Robyns, the most highly esteemed soothsayer in the Kingdom, was confidently predicting I would bear a BOY-child!
“… will be ingenious, easily able to make swift and accurate decisions concerning the most complex of issues. He will be a most learned – a most capable - king who shall, I predict, prove a ruler equaled by none other than, perhaps, the legendary King Arthur …”
Robyns interpreted the change in Henry’s expression and hurriedly supplemented, “… and, of course, your own Majesty - a matter of fact that goes without saying, Sire.”
The King cleared his throat, placated. The astrologer continued. “The signs foretell that his birth should occur in the earliest days of September, Your Highnesses …” Robyns began to rise stiffly while offering a sage nod, “His reign will certainly mark a golden age for England.”
I exhaled with immense relief as he, at a gracious expression of thanks from his Sovereign, concluded the audience. Despite the man’s venerable bones, he offered a sweeping bow, that fascinating beard near brushing the silken carpet.
“Thank you, Master Robyns, this is wonderful news indeed,” I heard myself call before feeling compelled to seek his further reassurance. “And this special Virgoan child … he will be a boy, you say?”
“Beyond any doubt, Madame.”
I smiled at him gratefully as he backed from the room.
Once Robyns had taken his leave I called Henry to me whence, placing his hand on my stomach, I delivered the marvellous report that his son was thriving and active. How I wished he, too, could feel the still flitting babe, but its movements were as yet too subtle, so I assured him that soon he would and we should both exult at the excellent signals we had received on this night. A healthy, kicking child - a male child - and with a birthright of such bright promise? How wonderful, and how grateful I was as I grasped Henry’s hand and implored him to send pages in search of our closest friends, bidding them share in our delight and celebrate with us.
I travelled the torch lit halls of the royal apartments to return to my chambers. The movement of the baby had settled, and as I walked, I thought about Master Robyns, his maps and globes and pronouncements. Although his news had been delivered with the assurance of a man who had spent many years in the study of his craft and many of his prophecies had proved accurate, I could not help feeling a sense of unease. Above us loomed God’s firmament: infinite and brooding. In truth, could any mortal man, no matter how wise, how gifted, possibly foretell Our Lord’s intentions? I hesitated, moved to seek Henry’s library instead of continuing on my way back to my chambers. I hoped to find some verification that Robyns’ prophecies were valid. Once within the panelled walls, surrounded by the many cases bearing books, I searched and paged through numerous works until I found the volume I desired. Written entirely in German, it was the Schürstab Codex, a beautifully illuminated text which guides the reader throughout the year, with instructive tables and charts designated for each month and day. I had perused this book before, and knew it to give sage advice concerning household requirements, medical problems, and divinations plotted by the heavenly constellations. I flipped through its leaves of smooth vellum, inspecting the miniatures which depicted the signs of the zodiac until I came to rest on the pages allocated to August and September. On my left was an illustration of a man with cattle tethered to a plow, scything the harvest. I looked to the right and sat stock-still. Symbolically representing the exact time predicted by Master Robyns for the birth of our child was a maiden - the Virgin Maiden. It was a maiden who characterized the sign of Virgo, the sign under which our child would be born.
After a few reflective minutes, I slowly and carefully closed the book and replaced it on its shelf. I remained motionless, standing between the looming stacks. After a few moments, I squared my shoulders, drew a deep breath, and set off to ready myself for a supper with Henry and our closest friends, at which we were to share joyfully our good news.
Greenwich
Holy Week
April 1533
Carefully, tentatively, I lowered my pregnant body until only my hands and knees bore contact with the cold tiled floor.
In the paling light, the ceremonial cloth stretched away and across the chequered, echoing reaches of the Chapel Royal. With my ladies around me, I began the slow process of creeping, measure by measure, toward the easternmost altar upon which lay the Holy Cross. From a bay window in the Queen’s closet, I had earlier watched the King and his nobles do the same on this Good Friday evening. Henry had mandated we must follow the reverential tradition of creeping to the Cross, ‘Signifying a humbling of ourselves to Christ before the Cross, and kissing it in memory of our redemption.’ He might be locked in a battle of wills with the Pope, but his piety remained unwavering, and he would so demonstrate for his subjects to see.
The babe in my womb stirred and became restless at the unaccustomed gait of its mother. After what seemed an eternity I reached the high altar and gratefully clambered forward to kneel upon the soft cushion placed before the crucifix. Stooping to kiss the roughhewn wood I raised my head to find that Henry had extended his strong hand to help me to my feet. I then stood with him while my ladies followed suit.
Now we were all assembled at the high altar, its golden crucifix hidden under a cloth of purple in observance of Good Friday. Master Cromwell, Keeper of the Jewel House, stepped forward with a silver basin containing the crampe-rings. These specially forged silver and gold rings, once blessed, were to be distributed amongst select subjects who were afflicted with the palsy every year on Good Friday. The Clerke of the Closet and the Chief Almoner stood beside Henry with a missal containing prayers for the hallowing of the crampe-rings. Henry led the invocation over them, asking that they may have the power to restore the painfully contracted limbs of those who suffer. The basin was held before me, and in the tradition of Queens, I rubbed the rings between my hands, asking God that our appeal be granted. Finally, holy water was poured into the basin, washing the rings and readying them for distribution to members of the nobility and common folk.
The Good Friday service concluded to my silent relief, and I processed with Henry from the Chapel into the chill, river-damp evening air. Despite its inclement bite, I felt elated. Though my coronation was as yet more than a month away, I had just fulfilled my first duty as Queen of England.
I was grateful to be seated on a cushioned chair near the warming fire, anticipating our meagre meal. We broke only rough, brown bread with butter and drank small ale on this solemn day of fasting. While I ate with unseemly enthusiasm – I was hungry and needed to feed myself and my child - Henry recounted to me the inconceivable conversation he had with the Spanish ambassador, Chapuys, on the previous afternoon. A sleek and catlike diplomat, Eustace Chapuys assiduously pursued his commitment as the representative of Charles I of Spain - Katherine’s nephew - to advocate on her behalf. As did Katherine herself, Chapuys refused to employ her new title appointed by the King: the Dowager Princess of Wales. He maintained a dogmatic view that she was Queen of England, contrary to the King’s command, and he was altogether dedicated to her defense. As I laboriously chewed the tough bread while listening to Henry’s account, I thought Chapuys ever so reckless in assailing the King with his contrary opin
ions. According to Henry, Chapuys had flagrantly challenged the extent of the King’s devotion to God. The brazen man had spoken heedlessly, disclosing that he could not believe Henry would be so careless in setting a pitiful example to the world by wanting to leave his wife of twenty-five years!
Henry had replied that he and his God were on very good terms indeed, and in fact, the marriage had not been one of twenty-five years, but less. Indignant, Henry retorted that if the world thought this divorce extraordinary, still more it must be considered exceedingly strange that the Pope should have dispensed with the case without having the rightful power to do so.
In disbelief, I listened as the narrative continued. Chapuys had perversely insisted upon detailing each and every name of those Sorbonne theologians not in agreement with Henry’s argument for a divorce. I was confounded as to how little this foolish consul must regard his well-being by provoking the King so! Henry, quite indulgently, I considered, explained that his wish was to leave a successor for his kingdom. In reply, Chapuys had the audacity to remind Henry that he already had a daughter endowed with all imaginable goodness and virtue, and of an age to bear children herself. At this juncture, I ceased chewing altogether, slack-jawed at what I was being told. Still the hapless Ambassador had forged on, admonishing Henry that he had received his title to the realm through Elizabeth of York, his lady mother; therefore, he should surely be obliged to restore the same privilege to his daughter, the Princess Mary.
And it seems that particular comment had finally marked an impertinence too far. Henry - by then furious and altogether done with the encounter - had rebuked Chapuys, shouting that it was his rightful choice to desire better than a daughter and that HE intended to have a son! I was staggered when Henry told me how the ambassador, apparently unaware of my condition, had hissed that the King could not be certain he would even father another child!
Enraged by this transgression – an unmistakable slur on his virility - Henry had spat at him, ‘Si nestoit point home comme les autres? Si NESTOIT’? ‘Am I not a man like other men? Am I NOT?’
And with that, Chapuys had been banished from Henry’s sight. I took another sip of ale while wondering if the witless fool knew how perilously close he had come to being murdered in cold blood!
On Saturday, the eve of Easter, my lodgings were a clamour of commotion as my ladies and I were being readied for a significant event: the first official ceremony at which I was to be known as ‘Anne the Queen’ and no longer the Marchioness. It was convention that the Queen and her court would attend Saturday evening Mass. For this special occasion, I was to be adorned in royal splendour, dressed in a flowing gown of purple overlaid by a robe of cloth of gold frieze. My ladies assisted me by fastening the jewels which embellished my attire from head to toe. The weight of such apparel was alarming and, ever more conscious of my condition, I was glad I would not have to stagger far while supporting it.
Once all was in place, we assembled in order – sixty of my ladies, with my cousin Mary Howard, now proudly betrothed to young Henry Fitzroy, as trainbearer. Solemnly we processed to the Chapel where, during Mass, I was referred to, for the very first time in a public utterance, as Her Royal Highness, the Queen. The congregants were asked to pray for me. All the while, Henry could barely draw his eyes from me, his beautiful face aglow with pride and attainment.
It was late in the afternoon on Easter Sunday. Following the conclusion of an enormous dinner for the King and his court, I rested awhile in my privy chamber with my lady mother and Maggie Wyatt - whom I should now more correctly refer to as Lady Margaret Lee, considering she had married Lord Anthony Lee several years ago. To me, though, the friend I had grown up with – the daughter of the Wyatts of Allington, a neighboring estate to my family home at Hever - would always be known by her girlhood name.
Reclining in a plush chair, my tired feet propped on a low padded stool, I shook my head in frustration. “I am stumped, Maggie. I just can’t seem to create anything inventive enough. I have thought and thought on it, but every time I have an idea, it seems laughable by the morrow. I fear I will blunder into something which will make me out to be a buffoon, just as I did before.”
In preparation for my coronation, I was required to invent a personal motto; the one which would identify me as Queen. The task was proving a surprisingly heavy burden, knowing that whatever I adopted must maintain its relevance regardless of what transpired during my reign. I had already experienced one mistake with a device I had rashly chosen in the late autumn just over two years ago. Irked by the lack of progress in the dissolution of Henry’s marriage, and stung by underhanded and malicious remarks made by certain sneering individuals, I had impulsively decided to have a particular phrase emblazoned on the livery of my servants. At the time I felt it to be fitting; after all, I’d recalled a similar saying from the court of the erudite Margaret of Austria when I was in her service as a girl. The phrase had struck a chord with me then, and foolishly I’d determined it was just what I needed to counter my adversaries:
‘Ainsi sera, groigne qui groigne’ quoth the embroidery. ‘Let them grumble; that is how it is going to be’.
Needless to say, no one but I thought it diplomatically constructive, least of all Henry. So I promptly had it removed, mortally embarrassed by the indiscretion and, since then, had not dared to give thought to what might be a more fitting motto.
“I cannot offer any worthwhile suggestions, Anne,” responded Maggie, relaxed against pillows lining the deep window seat. “This kind of thing is usually within the purview of my brother, Thomas, as he is the accomplished linguist in our family.”
Then I heard a gentle voice; that of my beloved compass, somehow knowing when her direction was needed: “Well … since you must use a phrase that reveals something of yourself, Nan, you might consider that you have so much to be thankful for right now. Why not reflect that in your motto?”
I looked at my mother appreciatively. Leave it to her to provide just the right guidance. “Of course, you are right, Mother. It makes perfect sense. And perhaps, this time, I can manage something more graceful than the pig’s breakfast I offered before.”
I knitted my brow, still struggling to devise something meaningful and clever. Again, my lady mother provided a stroke of brilliance. “Nan, remember so long ago when you and I walked together in the gardens at Hever? When we talked about your desire to marry for love, and I told you to abandon such a romantic notion and resign yourself to an arranged marriage?”
I thought back and instantly knew what she intended. “I do Mother. I’d said, ‘What if my marriage happened to be both one of love and advantage?’ whereupon you replied, ‘Well then you would be a most happy woman.’ I have never forgotten it.”
“And now, remarkably, it has come to pass,” Mother smiled. “You have married for love, Nan, and I doubt that even your father could ask for a better family position.”
“… thus, I am both happy, and very advantaged indeed, Mother,” I finished for her while clapping my hands with relief and delight. “And so therein should lie my motto: ‘La Plus Heureuse - The Most Happy’! What think you both of this choice?”
Mother nodded sagely while Maggie chirped, “It is perfect, Anne. And I suspect the King’s Grace will heartily approve.”
Thus, it was in that most marvellous of springs as my pregnancy progressed and my coronation was being planned that those words were emblazoned just so on my badges:
The Moost Happi.
Greenwich
Tower of London
Westminster
May and June 1533
My favourite chambermaids, Lucy Holbrook and Emma Potter, had fussed over me for the past hour. Anne Zouche had just departed for her chamber, and Bridget, Lady Wingfield, remained in one of my outer chambers where she would spend the night.
Emma purposefully pried from my hands the book I had been reading, closed it with a resounding cla
p, and shooed me toward my bed which had been invitingly turned down, exposing crisp white sheets beneath its silken coverlets.
“Your Grace, you simply must get into bed. Please do not give me cause to rail at you! You have an exhausting four days ahead: indeed, I worry myself sick thinking about how you, in your delicate condition, will ever endure all that you need do, as wonderful as it promises to be. But the pageantry concerns me not: my job is to look after you, and I will not shirk my duties ... To BED!”
The daylight was just fading, and it was earlier than I typically retired, but I conceded that Emma was right. On the morrow, I was to be collected from Placentia Palace at Greenwich and conveyed by barge, in the van of a mighty waterborne procession, to the Tower, where I would reside in preparation for my coronation as Queen of England. I had once again that strange sense of feeling as if all of the preparation and all the pomp and celebration to come was for someone else and I would be but a spectator. Still, heeding Emma’s affectionate protests, I allowed her to remove my dressing gown and, in my chemise, clambered between the sheets. I wondered if I would be able to sleep, but by the time Lucy had snuffed the candles and stepped from the room, gently drawing the door behind her till it stood barely ajar, I had drifted off.
I arose refreshed on the following morning, Thursday 29 May. The skies were blue with wispy, high clouds. I gave thanks that, on this day at least, there would be no rain.
It was the oddest thing. One would think that my day would have been a whirlwind of continuous activity. Instead, there were so many women serving me, each with her assigned task, that I had little to do but obediently turn this way and that, sit and stand as instructed, step into layers of silk, satin, and tissue, and allow myself to be ministered to. I had become used to being served, but the degree to which my ladies handled everything about me only increased my ethereal sense of displacement. While eager for the ceremonies to come, I nevertheless struggled to feel aware, in every aspect, of what was happening and desperately hoped the strange fog would lift.
Truth Endures Page 3
