At just after three of the clock in the afternoon, Henry met me and escorted me to the wharf, whereupon a number of my ladies and I boarded a barque – the Queen’s barge, gaily painted and decorated with my colours, which set off and took its place amongst the most marvellous parade of watercraft one could have imagined. Most fantastic was the leading vessel, a many-oared galley from whose decks writhed a huge dragon, twisting, turning and spitting flame! Surrounding this ship were other vessels, each supporting gargoyles and monsters breathing fire and emitting fearsome noise. They led the way, and following came the Mayor’s barge and the Bachelors’ barge. From each ship drifted lovely music played by minstrels on board, although the musicians themselves were fairly hidden by swathes of gold tissue and bright shining silks draping the decks.
I sat on the deck of my barge and gazed about me, giggling with delight. Scores of craft - all sizes and shapes – bobbed on the sparkling river with standards and flags waving gaily, bells tinkling from the rigging, musicians on most of them, playing and singing, and everywhere a gleaming profusion of golden tissue, flags, and other adornments, flashing gloriously in the afternoon sun. It was a breathtaking sight – splendidly colourful and, I thought, a perfect foil to the formality to come. As we rowed past bankside landmarks, mighty gunfire discharged in salute while I could see the crowds ashore waving gaily as we sailed by, no doubt enchanted by the exotic water pageant. The fair beauty of the day allowed the sides of the vessels, lined with beaten gold, to appear as if they were on fire, and from the riverbanks, we must have presented a spectacular sight. As my barge drew near to Wapping Mills, a four gun salute gave notice to the Tower that we approached. Thoroughly captivated by the river journey, my ladies and I clasped our hands, squealing in mock terror when the guns fired nearby. Gone was my fog. At last, I felt fully alive, thrilled with the excitement of the scene.
Escorted by craft which bore the nobles of the Realm, my barge rounded the final corner and came into view of the Tower. Instantly there sounded the deafening report of cannon marking my arrival. At the blasts my babe jumped, startled, in my womb, and I was amazed that he had been able to detect the reverberations. I sat and quietly rocked for a moment cradling my stomach, soothing him as best I could, not wanting him to be afraid.
I was assisted from the barge by the Lieutenant of the Tower, Sir Edward Walsingham, and its Constable, Sir William Kingston. Heralds surrounded me as we processed along the gravel path along which stood, at attention, officers at arms. Glancing along the row of gentlemen of Henry’s court, I recognized Lords Carlisle, Richmond, Windsor, Lancaster, York, Chester, and Sandys. The elderly Dowager Duchess of Norfolk followed; her designated role to ceremonially bear my train. When we arrived at the King’s Bridge, before entering the Tower I turned and called out to all within earshot, thanking them with great warmth – the Mayor, the officials, and the citizens – for the magnificent celebration they had staged for me that afternoon and assured them that never would I forget it as long as I should live. With that, I made my way to the Royal Apartments - those that had required so much of Henry’s time and money to be carefully refurbished for this very event.
Once I stepped inside and my eyes adjusted to the dimming light, I was stunned by the sight. The previously drab and damp Great Hall had been transformed into an exquisitely ornate cavern – a gleaming riot of colour and decoration wherein long tables, laid with white cloths and shimmering candelabra, groaned under the weight of plates piled high with foodstuffs for a festive supper.
Henry greeted me just inside the doors, and grasped me by the shoulders, pulling me to him and kissing me most lovingly. Offering thanks to his courtiers, he dismissed them from his service for the evening and led me by the hand to my chambers. Once we were alone, I relaxed into a chair thick with padding and silk brocade and smiled broadly at Henry. His eyes glittered; it had been a long while since I had seen that gleam – the look of the young, excited boy about him.
“Did you enjoy your special afternoon, my love?” he asked with keen anticipation.
“Henry – it was indescribable. I have never, ever seen anything like that river tableau in all my life … it was an absolute delight! Thank you so very much, my darling. Oh, I adored the dragon! However did they do that? The fire on the water was astonishing.”
“I am sure I don’t know, but one must engage the right people to accomplish such feats, and that I do know how to make happen,” he said with an offhand wave. A satisfied chuckle underscored his pleasure as he came to me for a proper kiss, which I was more than happy to bestow upon him!
“Now, my Queen, take you to your inner chambers where your ladies will help you out of your finery and into something more comfortable. Indulge in some repose, and then I will join you for a private supper. We will sup early, for it is off to bed with you. You have important days ahead, and I want to be certain, above all, that you and my son are well rested and not subject to the strain of fatigue.”
Stifling a yawn, I allowed Emma, who had arrived at the Tower earlier, to escort me to my changing suite and bedchamber. I had relished the first day of my coronation celebrations very much. Very much indeed.
The next day, Friday, was mine to luxuriate in at leisure. I made good use of the opulent renovations Henry had ordered in the King’s and Queen’s apartments in the Tower. After awakening at almost mid-morning, I breakfasted with several of my ladies. Then, because the weather was so lovely, we walked and sat in the privy gardens which were abundant with exquisitely hued roses while we listened to music, played cards and lolled in the sunshine, chatting and giggling as the day wore on languidly. Henry, himself, had a full diary of ceremony and official business. He was to create eighteen new Knights of the Bath in a rite which would commence at dinner that day and conclude on Saturday morning when he would dub almost fifty men Knights Bachelor. Many of my friends and supporters were amongst those numbers, and it served as a fitting backdrop for what was to come. I had no official place in these formalities, though, so could remain hidden from the crowds, rest, and gather my strength.
In the early evening, I was requested to grant a brief audience with a relatively new ambassador from the French court of François I, Monsieur Jean de Dinteville. The Monsieur came from a most illustrious family belonging to the noblesse d’épée – nobility reaching back many centuries. It was said that he was elegant, learned, and quite handsome. Most intriguing to me, however, was the fact that he was a close friend of Jacques Lefèvre d’Étaples, the renowned French humanist and theologian. I would certainly entertain a visit from Monsieur Dinteville this evening, and anticipated lively future discussions with him as a member of my court.
He swept into the chamber, a flourish of velvet, gold, and a feathered chapeau with which he dusted the floor in a dramatic bow. He was young, perhaps late in his twenties - thirty years of age at most - yet he had that charming savoir-faire so well adopted by Frenchmen. His features were regular, his dark beard full but neatly groomed, and his clothing rich yet tasteful.
“Your Royal Highness,” he greeted me, “I bring the most respectful, forthright, and truly heartfelt wishes of joy and congratulations from Mon Souverain, François. If only he could be here to share your great and deserved honour tomorrow.”
“Merci beaucoup, Monsieur.” I studied him closely as I spoke, and felt that we would be friends. “I am grateful for the sentiments you bear from François. I, too, wish he could be with us, but I am greatly pleased that you are present to stand in his stead. And, once the pageantry has concluded, Monsieur Dinteville, I intend to spend time with you discussing that which you have learned from your wise friend, Monsieur Lefèvre d’Ėtaples. I am a devoted student of his writings, you know, and have been for some years.”
“Indeed, so I have been told, Your Highness. It will be my great privilege to converse with a woman of such profound beauty and grace, who clearly possesses the intelligence to match. I do not wish to o
ccupy you overmuch on this important evening, but I did want to say that I am deeply honoured to be a part of the procession tomorrow, leading you to Westminster. I will count the hours until then,” whereupon, with a warm and captivating smile, he bowed once more and backed from the room.
Once Dinteville had departed, I remained seated to enjoy my rare solitude, and soon became lost in thought. I was on the brink of the most momentous two days imaginable. I had married the King of England, and in doing so, became his Queen Consort. In Henry’s mind, this designation was not sufficiently worthy of me. He continued to believe firmly, as did I, that we were part and parcel of one another, each the other’s second self. Therefore, he believed nothing less would be acceptable but that I be a Queen anointed and crowned. The holy and ancient ritual of coronation would be sanctified by God, and no one could dare deny my royalty henceforth.
Events of the past year had nurtured my confidence. I had learned, often as the result of missteps - and at a not-inconsiderable cost to my pride - to hide any appearance of fluster by pointedly assuming a calm and patrician air. I was well aware that many courtiers and their ladies thought me haughty and arrogant, but that caused me no concern. They were mere acquaintances; sycophants and grovellers who simply wished to gain Henry’s attention and favour. They could not possibly know my thoughts; they knew not the true me. I had, by careful design, become quite accomplished at maintaining a particular affectation to protect myself from frequent affronts delivered by those who clearly resented me for the position I had achieved. Oh, I freely concede I did lean heavily upon Henry’s strength at times but now, on the cusp of my Queenship, I was fiercely determined to conduct myself in such a way that all and sundry would know me to be as laudable a Queen as had been Katherine.
As I remained in the Presence Chamber, unusually but delightfully alone for a few minutes, on that evening of 3 May 1533, my lips twitched in a wry smile. For all my headstrong determination and staunch resolve as I assumed the role of England’s Queen I knew myself to be simply Anne …
Nan Bullen. A country girl from Kent.
I had made certain Henry would not be disappointed in me, for I knew just how to play my part. In preparation for this momentous day, Master Cromwell had worked ceaselessly to ensure every detail would be carried out to perfection. As for me, I had read and reread the Articles Ordained by King Henry VII For the Regulation of His Household, for it contained explicit instructions for ‘the Receaving of a Queene, and the Coronation of Her’. I intended to follow those ordinances precisely.
I retired that evening, readying for bed in the extravagant chamber Henry had constructed for me in the Tower, confident that the ceremony to come would not be soon forgotten by England’s peers or its subjects.
On Saturday, I was slow to arise and lay abed surrounded by pillows which propped me up just enough so I could lazily nibble on cheeses and sweets brought to me by my ladies, striving to be as rested as possible for the procession later that day, and for the coronation on the morrow. I was relayed the good news that, again today the weather promised to be fair; something for which we all heaved sighs of relief. With Lucy and Emma fully occupied performing a thousand tasks, my sister Mary, Anne Zouche, Honor Lisle, and Bridget Wingfield assisted me in preparation for my appearance at the coronation procession.
I bathed and had my hair washed, dried and brushed out with lemon oil to make it as lustrous as a seal’s hide. We giggled and chattered all the while, and let out peals of laughter recalling the deadly serious demeanor assumed by the dressmaker, Master John Skut, upon his departure for a trip to France: his official mission being to design and sew a gown of the very latest French fashion; the one I would wear during the coronation procession. When informed of his selection for this honour, his eyes nearly popped out of his head, his mouth soundlessly opened and closed, and he was struck speechless. The dear man had then prepared for the trip as if he had been instructed to retrieve the Holy Grail personally.
The result of his efforts, though, was fine. So very fine. A fitted gown of white satin accented with golden threads, and created so cleverly that at once I looked elegant and graceful, yet the fullness of my pregnancy was clearly visible. I was to be a vision in white. Pure white, too, would be the litter in which I would be carried, and even the horses and their caparisons which accompanied me. Glinting in the late afternoon sun would be ample touches of gold: the lacy, woven gold of my coif draped over my dark hair, and the golden circlet, studded with gems, which would rest upon my head.
My hair, in all its shining glory, would be loose, falling to my waist as is ordained for a Queen crowned.
It grew late before we were ready, my ladies and me. The days waxed long now, so the mellow afternoon sun slanted through the windows of the Tower, light catching the golden floss woven into my gown as its train slid across the floor. Our assembly took shape at the gate, and thus did the coronation procession commence.
In the lead was Monsieur de Dinteville, proudly heading a group of French nobles and ambassadors. In homage to my close affiliation with France, the Frenchmen set the tone for what was to come; brilliantly appareled in rich blue velvet trimmed with gold. Their horses, wearing magnificent trappings of blue silk patterned with white crosses, shook their heads impatiently; tack jangling. And then we were off!
Marching forward, hooves crunching the fresh gravel strewn over the streets, the French brigade was closely followed by the sombre city judges then by the newly appointed Knights of the Bath, each elegantly swathed in purple velvet and white miniver. Next came a showing of the powerful and wealthy of the land, so numerous that I had never seen such a sight … abbots, barons, bishops, earls and marquises, dukes and the Lord Chancellor; the Mayor of London along with ambassadors from Venice and Aquitaine and, accompanying them, the High Constable of England, Charles Brandon, Duke of Suffolk, bearing the ceremonial verder of silver.
Before me rode my chancellor, Lord Audley, his head deferentially bare. As he advanced, I resituated myself in the litter, pulled the mantle of ermine loosely about my shoulders, arranged my hair a final time then took a deep breath and lifted my chin, smiling, so the crowds might see me clearly. Directly behind me were Lord Borough, my chamberlain, and William Coffin, Master of the Horse, who led the ceremonial white horse, tacked with a lady’s side saddle and trappings of fluttering white tissue.
Following the horse processed my ladies – the eminent ladies of the realm. First were my ladies-in-waiting all clothed in gold, and directly behind them came the grande dames of England: my lady mother along with the Dowager Duchess of Norfolk and the Marchioness of Dorset. Trailing them were the younger noblewomen, riding horseback in cloaks of red velvet, and then an extended company of peers and important merchants, black velvet coats marking their wellborn status.
I felt remarkably well. The late afternoon sun warmed me, and the measure of the litter rocked me gently as we progressed along Fanchurche Street. It demanded no effort to offer a warmly smiling countenance to all, turning my head from side to side the better for them to take in my full beauty. The further we rode, the more astonished I became at the gorgeousness of the decorated buildings: the houses and shops hung with colourful arras, textiles, and richly hued carpets. Across the narrowest parts of the street gold and silver tissue billowed in the light breeze while everywhere, spilling from each window and doorway and crammed body to body along the processional route, throngs of people gawked at the spectacle, waving and cheering.
When we arrived at the juncture of Fanchurche and Gracious Church streets, my litter halted in front of a stage erected for the occasion. There, a lovely pageant was performed by the merchants. The Mount Parnassus had been constructed, and above it was the fountain of Halcyon. On the Mount sat Apollo and Calliope, offering me unending praise, whilst all around sat Muses playing stringed instruments and singing sweetly. I sat attentively smiling and nodding, noticing that the fountain was designed such tha
t the townspeople could approach it and partake of the Rhenish wine which flowed continuously. ‘Twas little wonder then that, in that particular area, every face I saw bore a broad smile!
Eventually, we resumed progress, stopping at Leaden Hall for the next pageant. A small mountain decorated with red and white roses served as the setting for a snow-white falcon which emerged to settle on its very pinnacle. With a fanfare of music, an angel materialized and set a crown of gold on the falcon’s head, talons sunk deep into its sweet-smelling bed. The white falcon had been chosen as my special symbol - it figured large in my badge, representing me and the majesty and grandeur I would bring to my Tudor marriage. Next to the falcon was a theatrical portrayal of Saint Anne, with her children all about her. Then, just below the stage a further group of children, whose recitation referred to the fruitfulness of Saint Anne, where one sweet child had been chosen to deliver a verse composed for me. In a tremulous voice, he cried out:
“Honour and grace be to our Queen Anne,
For whose cause an Angel Celestial
Descendeth, the falcon as white as a swan,
To crown with a diadem imperial!
In her honour rejoice we all,
For it cometh from God, and not of man.
Honour and grace be to our Queen Anne!”
Watching this tableau, I rested my hands on my swelling belly, acknowledging the message and feeling privately relieved that I was already fulfilling the great expectations placed on me.
Truth Endures Page 4
