Truth Endures

by Sandra Vasoli

  We passed conduits in Cornhill bubbling with wine and were given gifts by the local ladies before proceeding on to Chepe, which proved a wonder of gold and silver with swathes of crimson velvet hanging from every building. A festive atmosphere was at hand, yet the crowds were well behaved and controlled by the Constables. At every window pressed a multitude of faces, all clamoring for a better view. Once again the fountains ran with both white wine and claret in an abundance no one had ever seen before.

  We continued on our route, and came to the Cross of Eleanor at which place the Aldermen waited, whereupon Master Baker, the Recorder, approached me, bowed low and handed me a gilt purse which contained one thousand marks in gold. I nodded in grateful acceptance before addressing the standing Aldermen, assuring them I was honoured and would do my utmost to serve them well as their Queen. We then turned toward the gate of St Paul’s where I was greeted by yet another pageant consisting of beautifully draped ladies sporting banners on their heads bearing Latin inscriptions, who encouraged me by advising that, when I bore my son, there would indeed arise the dawning of a new and golden world.

  As we entered the churchyard a most joyous sight greeted me: a staging which bore well nigh two hundred children of all sizes and ages. Their shy, smiling faces melted my heart. Several of the older ones recited verses, nervously shifting from one foot to the other but nevertheless projecting their voices loudly enough to be clearly heard. Their appearance was welcome refreshment because I had begun to tire, my face beginning to feel frozen into a smile, though my heart was still indefatigably jubilant.

  The procession continued, passing Saint Martin’s church and Ludgate; choirs singing and bells pealing with undiminished enthusiasm as we entered Fletestreet, where yet more wine flowed from every aqueduct, until finally winding through Temple Bar toward Westminster Hall.

  With barely a moment’s hesitation, my litter was borne into its immense cavern. Even though I had been hailed by the splendour of vivid colour and an abundance of gold throughout the afternoon, I drew my breath at the sight of that magnificent Hall of Westminster, adorned for the occasion. I knew it to be the largest hall in England and Europe, and Henry had not missed the opportunity to feature its importance. With his consummate finesse, he had directed the purchase of the most costly tapestries, which were to be hung on every available expanse of stone wall; myriad gilt candelabra, each as tall as a man, lined its length, glowing with masses of the purest white candles; tables were set with exquisite white drapery while, to my left towered an immense cupboard stacked with gold plate and vessels each piled high with the most aromatic dishes. And, soaring above us was the hammerbeam roof, its ornate oaken timbers gilded and painted in bright hues with the carved heads of angels overseeing all that occurred below.

  The litter halted once it reached the middle of the Hall where I was helped down, all the while praying my legs would hold me after having sat unmoving for so long. Leaning upon the steadying arm of the Lord Mayor, I was led to the south end of the room to ascend four stone steps to the dais. There I was seated at the King’s High Table. On its smooth, dark marble surface was my place setting of gold. Immediately I was served a goblet of hippocras. I indicated to the servers that they should provide my ladies with the same. Gratefully we drank, and as the liquid warmed my throat and stomach, I became infused with the requisite vigour to address the assemblage in a strong and clear voice.

  “My Lords and Ladies, respected Mayor and gentle subjects: I am honoured this day, beyond my imagining, by your generosity and gracious esteem. The events of the day have moved me greatly, and I am anxious to serve you, if God be willing, to the very best of my ability. I look forward with humility and deference ‘til tomorrow when I will be anointed as your Queen. Therefore, may I express my most profound gratitude for all you have done for me today. I retire from you, then, with humble regard and the promise of my singular dedication on the morrow. Good evening.”

  Following which I nodded in grateful acknowledgement before, surrounded by my ladies, being led to a door at the south end of the Hall and out to the royal barge waiting quayside, ready to transport us to the welcome respite of my chambers at Whitehall.

  Once on board, what a clamor of female voices was heard! Each lady, at last able to speak once released from the watchful eyes of the senior nobles and city officials, let loose with a torrent of excited chatter, gossip, and observations on this most special of days. It was a welcome relief to chortle at the exaggerated fervour of many of the merchants, guild leaders, and sheriffs as they made certain their representation was seen as the best of the day; to sweetly recall the children’s faces as they sang; and to exclaim over the expectant crowd which had stretched and craned, some hanging most perilously from crumbling windows, to watch the spectacle unfold.

  My beloved ladies made certain I was well wrapped against the breeze on the river and raised my feet so they rested on a cushion. So tenderly concerned were they with my welfare that they fluttered about, tucking blankets here, adjusting pillows there: all the while marvelling at my endurance, being, as I was, six months with child. I loved them for it, and could not hope for a better end to a long and tiring, but wondrous event.

  The final pleasure of that memorable day yet awaited me. I was impatient to see Henry and to relish the evening with him in our privy chambers before the most solemn service on the morrow.

  I had so anticipated talking with Henry late into the evening, describing for him every detail and each observance of the extraordinary day. But I found that once I had changed into a more comfortable gown and hungrily consumed roasted venison, stewed rabbit, viand ryall – a dish prepared with rice, spices, wine and honey - and a whole cherry pudding, all accompanied by wine, I could scarce keep my eyes open. I bid my husband the King good night with a sweet kiss and welcomed the assistance of Maggie along with Lucy and Emma, who readied me for bed. I fell immediately to sleep while they prepared my wardrobe for the following morning, for it was sure to come early.

  Westminster Abbey

  Whit Sunday

  1 June 1533

  Awakened shortly after dawn by my maid Emma, I stirred and stretched in my bed. I felt refreshed and prepared to take on the day. An exceptional day, one altogether unimaginable and momentous. On this day I would, as had others before me for untold centuries, become a consecrated Queen of England.

  For a moment, as I lay there idly watching the pale sunlight play on the darkly polished wood of my chamber walls, the prospect seemed preposterous. For the first of many times that day, I felt dreamlike. Memories flooded my head unbidden. I re-lived, as if it had been but yesterday, that narrow sliver in time when Henry and I had intently regarded each other on the hunting field; our intimate encounter concealed by that swirling pearl-grey mist … how it seemed so long ago! November of 1525, when I was twenty-four years of age and, under that compelling gaze, had fallen deeply in love for the very first time in my life. And now, a woman of thirty-two years, I was married to my love the King, carrying his precious son. By God’s eyes, the time that had passed between our fateful rendezvous and this day had been an onerous journey; one not for the weak or tremulous, that much was certain.

  I had been mightily drawn to Henry, and he to me. My consistent refusal to his request that I became his mistress had, at times, been almost impossible to uphold. But as we grew in closeness we were surprised by the depth of our rapport – and we read on the concept of the ‘second self’ as described by Aristotle in his Ethics. Soon we came to regard ourselves in exactly this way: each as the second self of the other; it was as if we had known each other all our lives, and perhaps even before – in some boundless and eternal way. We would achieve only good for the other, based as it were in the unity of deep friendship. And it was just such strength that somehow enabled us to endure years of frustration while Henry had sought to dissolve his marriage to Katherine of Aragon. It had bound us ever more tightly even as we survived th
e great plague of sweating sickness which had killed so many through that horrible period during which, due to our separation, we truly came to recognize the depth of our love. And from that time forward we were one, eventually living as if we were husband and wife, though not yet wed. We travelled to France - a couple betrothed - and presented a unified front to the French King, and to the questioning nobility of England and France. Once we had returned to London as Henry and Anne - with Katherine at last banished forever - blessedly, we conceived a child: the son for whom Henry and I both yearned. We married, though the Pope had never given his dispensation. With that act of defiance, Henry had staked his place as the Supreme Head of the Church in England. And as his wife and the mother of his expected son – his second self – my destiny was made manifest: I would be crowned Queen. Not merely a Queen Consort! No, I was to be an anointed Queen of England – royalty bestowed upon me and my issue by God, never to be withdrawn unto my death. I would be, in every way, a fitting match for my husband...

  “Madame! Your Highness! You must arise right now lest we have scant time to ready you!”

  Sensing the urgency in Emma’s voice, my reverie was broken, whereupon I pushed the coverlets aside and scrambled from my bed. Not wanting her to be fearful we would delay the day’s schedule, I handed myself over to her. Maggie, Mistress of the Wardrobe, entered the room briskly, and when my eyes met her blue ones which were filling with tears, I could see that she was overwhelmed with the enormity of what was to take place. I grabbed her hand. “Maggie, don’t. Please – you, of everyone today - must be my rock. I need you! And good that you are here, for who else will help me, swaddled in these heavy robes and furs, to find a pot every time I need to pass my water? Which these days seems to be every few minutes!”

  She laughed aloud, and with that, the moment grew light. I thanked the Lord that my longtime dearest friend would be with me on this day. We went to the adjacent closet where my bath had been drawn, to begin the long process of preparing for my coronation day.

  For yesterday’s procession, during which I was on view to the people of London, I had been a vision in shimmering white. Today, though, I was to wear the colours and accoutrements of royalty. The kirtle, so skillfully designed and sewn by Master Skut, was of a most vibrant, blood-red crimson velvet, its lustrous, silky gloss unlike any fabric I had ever seen. Draped over that elaborate kirtle was a rich purple velvet robe. The intensity of colour lying one against the other was brilliant – almost an assault to the eye – relieved only by a liberal application of fluffy powdered ermine, the white fur edging gown and robe alike. My hair, brushed to a high sheen, was swept under and pinned, and atop it was affixed a remarkable caul made of seed pearls set throughout with rubies and diamonds. The effect was a lacy, bejeweled web which held my dark hair in place. On the crown of my head was set a golden coronet. I wore a necklet of pearls, each one the size of a large pea. And as for my toilette: my face was lightly buffed with a tinted powder to afford it an even sheen. The very lightest touch of cochineal rouge enhanced my cheeks and lips. I added no adornment to my eyes. I wanted my face to represent my genuine, innermost self.

  At exactly thirty minutes past the hour of eight in the morning, with my ladies-in-waiting about me, we again processed into Westminster Hall. Assembled there were the Mayor, aldermen, sheriffs, members of the clergy, and many of the nobility, uniformly clad in brilliant crimson and gold. Upon my arrival, they bowed in unison while I was led to stand under the golden cloth of estate. Before me, stretched a royal blue carpet, upon which I would walk, barefooted as was the ancient custom, through the Hall and on to the High Altar in the Abbey.

  The assembly positioned themselves in order of rank. Oh, if only I could fairly describe the sight! The members of parliament in their ceremonial robes along with the city officials led the procession, with the bishops, archbishops and abbots closely following, outfitted in their pontifical vestments and mitred hats. Then walked the nobility: Knights of the Bath, barons, and viscounts, and finally, wearing crimson velvet furred with ermine, the earls, marquesses, and dukes. Preceding me went the Marquess of Dorset, bearing the sceptre of gold, and the Earl of Arundel, grasping the rod and the dove. A pace behind came the Earl of Oxford, High Chamberlain of England, conveying the crown of St Edward, and finally the Duke of Suffolk: Brandon, who for that day was High Steward of England holding in his hand the ceremonial ivory rod.

  Only then did I begin to walk under the gold canopy of the Cinque Ports. Carrying my long train once again was the Dowager Duchess of Norfolk, fulfilling her responsibilities as the highest noblewoman in the land, second only to me. It must have been difficult for her as the path was long and the train heavy. But she withstood the stiffness of her aging limbs and handled her task admirably, closely followed by the highborn ladies, gowned in scarlet velvet with narrow sleeves trimmed in lace, crimson mantels furred with ermine, and gold circlets upon their heads. Slowly and ceremoniously we paced along the carpeted path. I held my head high and looked about covertly for Henry. I knew he was to be positioned some place where, hidden from view, he would watch the solemn rite. It was not his day - instead, it was mine - and he would not overshadow me by his presence.

  We entered the great Abbey of St Peter. At once its mysterious beauty overwhelmed me: a veritable forest of dark stone, its ribbed vaulting soared heavenward. We glided silently past ancient tombs, their ominous presence reminding me of my mortality, even on this day. Smoke rose and swirled from a multitude of torches and candles, and the sharp, biting scent of incense burned my nostrils. Lightheaded, I drifted in a semi-hypnotic state while the glorious voices raised in melodic chant faded until all I could hear was a buzzing, as if my head was filled with a swarm of bees. I feared I might faint, but somehow my feet kept moving ever forward as I approached the High Altar where I was assisted up several steps, and seated in the gold-draped Coronation Chair – that venerable relic in which Monarchs of the realm had been crowned for hundreds of years.

  Once settled I breathed deeply to try and dispel my dizziness. A slight movement behind a lattice screen placed high above the congregation finally allowed me to glimpse Henry, whose vantage point was out of sight of those in attendance. I wished he were next to me, his vigour a stronghold of support. But I took heart knowing he watched me, and even that merest sight of him had caused my haze to dissipate. The ages-old cosmati-paved floor of the altar had been laid with thick carpet, and I descended from the chair to this most revered place and slowly lowered myself to the ground to lay prostrate before the Archbishop of Canterbury, Dr Cranmer. As I lay there, he prayed over me. In truth, I heard nothing he said; instead, I tried my best to remain immobile despite lying uncomfortably on my swollen belly.

  After what seemed an eternity, I gratefully accepted Cranmer’s hand in helping me to my feet to resume my seat in the Chair of St Edward. Intoning the stately rites, the Archbishop - a friend who had singularly found the way for Henry and me to marry - placed upon my head St Edward’s Crown, the sceptre of gold into my right hand, and the rod of ivory with the golden dove into my left. The choir erupted into a Te Deum, clear notes resonating throughout the massive space. Dr Cranmer approached me and removed the terribly heavy crown, which after all, had been made for men, and replaced it with a much lighter version which Henry had had smithed especially for me before the Holy Mass then commenced.

  As Cranmer conducted the liturgy, I observed my surroundings. It was eerie to feel enclosed by the imposing carved burial vaults of the distinguished and holy: Edward the Confessor, Henry VII and his wife Elizabeth of York, Eleanor of Castile and Edward Longshanks … their ghostly presence was palpable and the hairs on the back of my neck prickled. The ethereal voices of the choir, men, and boys, were lifted in a psalm. Transfixed I watched as a young boy of about seven or eight years, positioned in the front row, fidgeted and shifted from foot to foot, singing angelically all the while. This child was robust - a picture of health - with a
shock of vibrant ginger hair and bright blue eyes, face crimson-cheeked and adorable. I was overcome with a sense of longing for a boy just like that one – and pretended, for only a moment, that the impish, chubby, sweet red-headed child was Henry’s and my son. I could not draw my eyes from him, and prayed earnestly – with the greatest devotion I was able to conjure – that God would bless us with such a gift.

  Mass finally concluded, I went to the shrine of St Edward with an offering and a prayer that I serve England with God’s good grace, after which I turned in preparation to recess from the Church. But before I took a step, every duchess and countess raised their arms in unison to acknowledge my new Queenship by placing upon their heads their coronets and circlets of gold, many interwoven with flowers. It was a lovely sight and one that gladdened my heart. Thence, supported on one side by my father, Earl of Wiltshire, and on the other by Lord Talbot, we began the recessional to depart the Abbey. I glanced upward and again caught Henry; his face pressed to an opening in the lattice … I swear I saw him wink at me as I passed by! And at that small but welcome gesture, I allowed my lips to relax into a smile – my first true smile as Anne, the Queen.

  Westminster Hall had been made ready to host a magnificent coronation banquet, its massive space suffused with as much warmth and grandeur as could be installed into such a normally bleak old gallery. Arras, vibrant with reds, blues and gold threads winking, lined every wall. Four great tables extended the entire length of the hall, all draped in white linen. Torches burned and sent smoke heavenward. Hundreds of candles shimmered and cast a golden light on masses of silver and gilt plate stacked atop buffets throughout the room. On the raised dais was the King’s High Table, above which had been raised a canopy of gold damask with golden fringe. Alone at this imposing table, reputedly carved hundreds of years ago from the dark Purbeck marble quarried in Dorset, I found myself acutely conscious of the spirits of the many kings and queens who had feasted, governed and asserted their divine royalty from this very place.