Truth Endures

by Sandra Vasoli

  In the aisles between the tables, astride white horses which were caparisoned in crimson velvet with gold trappings, rode … yes - RODE! … Charles Brandon, the Duke of Suffolk, and Lord William Howard, who represented the Duke of Norfolk, absent due to a diplomatic mission in France. Both men were fairly studded with gleaming jewels and made an astonishing sight directing members of the retinue to their seats from those lofty positions on horseback.

  As if by magic, my mother materialized at my elbow, with Maggie close behind. Anne Zouche led the way and the three of us quickly entered an antechamber which had been furnished as a withdrawing room for my rest and refreshment before the lengthy banquet. The instant the door closed behind us, all three fell to busily fussing about me, first leading me to a seat cushioned with pillows while expressing concern for the exhaustion I surely must feel, before solicitously arranging a thickly padded stool under my feet. And then the strangest thing happened. Maggie abruptly halted her ministrations and looked at me, stricken. So much so that I instantly became alarmed.

  “What is it, Maggie? What’s causing your distress?”

  But she didn’t answer. Instead, she lowered her gaze and slowly sank into a deep curtsey. I swallowed hard, reached for her hand, raising her to her feet. Only then did she meet me eye to eye.

  “Your Grace,” she whispered uneasily. “My most humble apology for forgetting my place, and for such common behavior about your royal person. May I offer you the deepest respect and loyalty any subject has ever held for a queen.”

  It was at that point I noted her lashes were wet with tears.

  At this, my mother and Anne stopped what they were doing, and both dropped into curtsies with downcast eyes. “Your Grace,” they murmured in unison.

  Respectfully they stood before me, and we were suddenly uncertain of the new relationship which had been forged between us just an hour before. We looked at each other awkwardly, my lips trembling with emotion as I nodded and wholeheartedly said, “Thank you – thank all of you. You are the most important women in my life, not merely my subjects, and I do not know what I would do without you!”

  An even longer moment passed. Then - and I could not help myself, I swear, although I tried to hold it aback – a snort escaped my nose and, however inappropriate it may have seemed, I could not contain the laughter which followed. Holding my sides I let loose a torrent of unrestrained guffaws, and they joined me. In a trice, we were as children in the sober surroundings of a chapel when all you wanted to do was scream with ill-timed hilarity! Desperately we tried to muffle our mirth lest the servants wondered what silliness had overcome us, whereupon that made the matter ever funnier for it had no stopping. We roared until tears ran down our cheeks and were mopped with the glorious velvet of our gowns.

  Only finally did we begin to gain control. Maggie, still giggling, looked about, finding a basin of water and linen cloths so we could dab at our eyes and freshen our faces. Every few minutes another explosion of chortles would rise, unbidden, to the surface until at last we recovered our composure.

  What a much-needed release that had been! For me, and for all of us. Thank the good Lord that my first few minutes as Queen had not been witnessed by any but my most loved and trusted companions. Revitalized, they tidied my gown and jewels while I hastily rearranged my expression in a manner more suitable for a newly crowned Queen of England.

  The door opened, one last deep breath and then I swept forward to be seated at the High Table to dine with my subjects for the first time.

  The King’s Table was raised well above the many hundreds of guests below. To my right, at a table several steps down, was Archbishop Cranmer. Standing to each side of me, ready to do my bidding, were the Countesses of Oxford and Worcester. They stood during the entire dinner service, and when I went to wipe my lips, or remove a bone or piece of gristle from my mouth, they held a linen cloth before me so no subject would see his Queen engaged in such a crude act. Beneath the table at my feet sat two high-ranking servants of the household, who would assist me in any way needed.

  At the long tables arrayed before me were, to my left, the Mayor and Aldermen of London. Next, stretched a table filled with duchesses and countesses, while on the opposite side of the middle aisle were seated the men: earls, barons, the Lord Chancellor and, at the far right, the barons of the five ports and masters of the chancery. The premier earls were designated for the occasion as chief servers, each of a specialty: a carver, a butler, cupbearer, larder – their status affording them the privilege of serving the Queen. All in attendance were hatless as a sign of obeisance.

  A fanfare of trumpets blasted the arrival of the first course, and samplings of each of a score of dishes were placed before me. And so it began: course after course, each dish more marvelous than the preceding. Every course was followed by the presentation of spectacular sotelties – fantastical edible creations made to appear as if they were sculpted: ships moulded in wax carrying sweetmeat cargoes within; lions rampant; a jelly superbly crafted to look as if it was the façade of Whitehall Palace. Roast pork and venison, rabbit, veal, and lamb – stewed, baked, in pies, steamed with herbs … dish after dish after dish appeared until a positive mountain of food towered before me! Impressive indeed, but oh, how I wished my ladies were nigh so we could have a giggle at how excessive it seemed.

  A lovely consort of minstrels played as we ate, and shortly another trumpet flourish announced the second course. This course was equally immense in scope with fish of every imaginable kind: sturgeon, salmon, lampreys, pike and bream. On and on it went as the afternoon hours waned. I very quickly appreciated the practicality of the cloths the countesses held in front of my face at my signal. In this way, I could be seen as tasting numerous dishes, but could then spit the unswallowed food into a basin. How else was I to remain polite and appreciative for such a feast without eating till I became sick? So I smiled throughout, and gamely tasted, chewed, spat, and nodded my approval of dish after dish, course upon course.

  I imagined that Henry and the ambassadors who were his private guests, ensconced in a closet off to the side near the cloister of St Stephen, thoroughly enjoyed the magnificent array of food accompanied by the finest Burgundian wines.

  At times, I needed to remove myself from the table and retire to the antechamber to stand, stretch my legs and relieve myself. The feast lasted all afternoon, and never was I so glad to see the hippocras being poured, indicating the meal’s conclusion. I washed my hands in a scented basin of water held for me by my ladies, then rose to step forward into the middle of the hall. A solid gold cup was brought to me, along with a gilt tray of spices and delicate sweets. I detected a confection made with cinnamon and nutmeg, took a sip from the cup, and addressed the Mayor and his aldermen to thank them; my words accompanied by the warmest smile I could muster, for their painstaking efforts in presenting a celebratory feast which would never be forgotten.

  Finally, under the golden canopy of estate, I was led to the great doors, at which point the canopy was presented to the Barons of the Cinque Ports. There a litter awaited me, and thankfully I climbed aboard to be transported to a barge which would row me back to Whitehall.

  It was six o’clock in the evening on the fourth full day of coronation events.

  The new Queen was mightily tired and ready to go home.

  That evening, deliciously and comfortably attired in a black satin dressing gown edged in white ermine, I reclined against velvet cushions in my privy chamber. A sharp rap on the door was the only notice Henry had given before he strode into the room, eyes agleam and smile broad. He hurried to my side, bent down and kissed me, stroked my cheek and pulled a chair from the table so he could sit beside me without having me rise to my feet.

  Resting his elbows on his knees, he gazed wordlessly at me for a moment, then said “Well, my Queen, it is done at last. You now are my consort and friend in every way. And well you should have that specia
l honour, Anne. It is completed before you bear our son.”

  He raised himself up, drew a deep breath and nodded with the satisfaction he felt at having been victorious, all his desires and plans having come to a triumphant conclusion – with just this last, the arrival of his expected son and heir, imminent.

  “How feel you, sweetheart? How did you enjoy your day? You are now revered, admired - and, above all, respected. That is significant, is it not, Anne?”

  “Oh Henry, it was brilliant! Truly it was. Every minute of the last four days was near to overwhelming. I am so grateful and humbled by your generosity that I cannot begin to tell you what was most extraordinary - the procession through Westminster on Saturday, the exquisite ceremony in the Abbey, or the opulent banquet in the Hall … were there truly eight hundred mouths served? I cannot fathom the complexity of such a task!”

  I took his strong hand in both of mine and squeezed. “While all the time, my darling, you have no idea how often I sought a glimpse of you and longed for you to be next to me!”

  I held him a few moments more, then added wistfully, “How I wish my brother George had been there. He has worked so hard and long on our behalf, so that we would see this very day. I do wonder, was it necessary for him to be on the Continent just now, with Norfolk? Could not that business have waited?”

  I frowned then, thinking of my dour and disagreeable uncle. Lately, I avoided him whenever possible. One would think he would be inordinately pleased – even grateful, by God’s blood - that he and his Howard brethren were now closely related to the reigning Queen. But it was not so. He had made no effort to hide his growing disapproval of Henry’s stance in separating from the Church of Rome. Norfolk remained loyal to the Pope, and his refusal to modify his beliefs bred a very visible dislike of me, seeing me as the instigator of Henry’s defection. His relationship with his brother-in-law, my lord father, had also taken a downturn.

  I guessed that Norfolk took a vindictive pleasure in the fact that my beloved George missed my coronation. Surely the man must have been pleased to have had a good excuse not to attend, himself. And though I pined for George, I was just as glad not to behold Norfolk’s sour face.

  Dwelling on Norfolk, I was reminded of another unpleasantry. Without thought, I demanded, “Oh, and Henry - where was Thomas More? I know he will never disavow the Pope, and there has been considerable disagreement between you, but he has long professed himself as your friend. Yet the righteous Sir Thomas could not manage to appear at a ceremony which he well knew meant so much to you?”

  My throat tightened, and I heard my voice grow sharp.

  “Moreover, Cromwell has told me that More was sent twenty pounds for suitable clothing by the bishops, which I understand he was all too happy to accept. God’s teeth, Henry! The wretched man could not even bring himself to dine with us at the feast?”

  It was to prove a mistake, but I was sore offended, and indignation had taken hold. Glancing his way, I saw an ominous frown darken Henry’s expression. Briefly, I regretted my comments, but too late: they had been uttered.

  Jubilant mood deflated, he quietly replied “His convictions stand in the way of sensibility for Thomas. He could not be forced to attend. I did receive a note from him, in which he wished us good favour and said he would pray continually for our well-being, and that God might bestow His grace upon us.”

  I thought little of the crumbs More had offered Henry, and rolled my eyes in response.

  At that, my love turned abruptly from me and made to leave the chamber, whereupon I was instantly contrite for spoiling our moment of celebration. Jumping from my chair I caught his arm, turning him to me and embracing him tightly, pulling his head to mine and kissing him long. When we parted, and I looked into his eyes, I saw his deep desire. But I could not fulfill it – we must not come together as husband and wife. Nothing could imperil my pregnancy, and we simply could not lie together: not even on this momentous, long-awaited day.

  We had lain apart for some many months now, and briefly I wondered if he was tempted to seek release with other young ladies of the court. Though I knew the practice to be common amongst noblemen, the thought was abhorrent to me. Henry and I were so closely coupled that his loyalty felt absolute, as was mine for him. So I shrugged the concern aside, laid my hand gently on his manly cheek and murmured, “Soon, darling. It will be soon.”

  The day following, Monday the second day in June, was replete with festive events. Whitehall was bedecked and the newly constructed areas for recreation - the tiltyard, lawns and gardens, tennis plays, and banqueting house - all hosted tournaments, competitions, a myriad of gala feasts and masques in my honour. I attended as many games as I could, displaying my newly acquired royal jewels and elaborate wardrobe. In the evening, there was a soirèe in my chambers with music, dancing, laughter and flirting amongst my closest courtiers. A delightful time was had by all the guests, while I, too, enjoyed myself immensely.

  Covertly, though, I had my sights set on bigger things than masques and balls, feasting and pastime. What I longed for was to be effectual in the governance of the realm: to be seriously regarded as someone whose decisions were justified and meaningful. I wanted – as I had determined some years ago – to be a woman with a voice. Now, as Queen, I intended my reign to be remembered. There was much I planned to do, God willing; changes I proposed to make which would benefit the poor, the illiterate, the afflicted. While at Hever - oh, how long ago it seemed, now - I had told my mother that I wished to use my learning – my education – and my passionate interests in much the same way as I had observed Marguerite, Queen of Navarre, do so fearlessly. At the time, my lady mother had told me she wished she had been able to use her resourcefulness in ways that women rarely, if ever, were permitted. But she did not scoff at my dream, instead, she endorsed it.

  And now here I stood, with ample opportunity, and all the world, for that matter, at my feet.

  Windsor

  Summer 1533

  I stretched, groaning as discreetly as I could manage.

  I had spent the entire morning sitting, then standing, in a partitioned area at the east end of the Queen’s Presence Chamber. This room’s angled windows caught the morning light in just such a way that Holbein, the court painter, chose to use it regularly as his temporary studio.

  Master Holbein was still basking in the success of his brilliant designs which had been on display during the coronation. He had created the scenery for the tableaus, insisted upon specific table settings for banquets, and had taken charge of the extravagant decorations along the processional routes. His collaborative work with Master Cromwell on that undertaking had bonded them firmly. I was no less an admirer of his work than of the man himself; gruff and reclusive as he was. He had already painted an excellent portrait of me, which Henry adored. Now, though, he was diligently engaged in the completion of my full-length, official coronation portrait. He had finalized the preparatory cartoon for the painting, which he accomplished swiftly since I was to stand, positioned at an angle just so, with my hand on a stack of books gazing directly at the viewer. Once the cartoon was finished and its content transferred to the final canvas, I merely needed to visit him while he worked on the actual painting when I could sit, attired in my regalia, simply so he might observe and record it accurately.

  This morning, after adding some detail to my portrait, I watched fascinated as he finished an impressive painting I had commissioned of him several months ago. The piece was complex, yet it drew the eye as well as the imagination. It featured the French ambassadors Jean de Dinteville and Bishop Georges de Selves. Dinteville, de Selves, Holbein and I were all proponents of the new theology. Bishop de Selves, in addition to making a visit to England to provide the younger ambassador with instruction from their King, had brought me a treasured message of encouragement and support from Marguerite, Queen of Navarre – François’ sister and the beloved adviser who had most poignantly
shaped my intellectual development while I was a young court protégée in France. It had been because I was so overwhelmed with gratitude at this gesture that I’d insisted de Selves play a prominent role in the composition.

  The origin and evolution of the painting had been the joint contrivance of Holbein, Dinteville, and myself. It was replete with symbolism, and to my delight incorporated a puzzle challenging the viewer to decipher it. I had a special zeal for such cryptic devices, as did Henry. And Holbein had, indeed, done a consummate job in creating this one. The gentlemen were backed by a green brocade curtain - Dinteville especially, gorgeously attired. The floor upon which they stood was of cosmati paving – exactly the pavement of the High Alter at Westminster Abbey, the one upon which I had been crowned Queen. Placed strategically on the table between the two men were some symbolic items: a calendar device which indicated the date of the official announcement of my Queenship, a globe, a lute with a broken string, a book of mathematics demonstrating division, and a Lutheran hymnal. These mystical images, along with the merest suspicion of a crucifix hidden behind the green curtain, all spoke to our conviction of a religion free from the dogmatism of the Roman church. It confirmed my connection with the French humanists. It was an acknowledgement of my ascendancy to Queen. And, overall, Holbein’s signature style of realism, accomplished through his brilliant touch and vivid use of colour, created a masterpiece in which one could become completely immersed.

  Henry and I prepared to receive visitors in the King’s Presence Chamber. June was drawing to a close, and I had been Queen for just a few weeks. There was much I wanted to accomplish, and to that end, I spent a good deal of time with my advisors discussing and learning about matters of state which pertained to me and, I readily admit, some which extended beyond the ordinary reach of a Queen Consort. Meanwhile, instead of following a standard progress for the summer, my cherished husband remained close by, hunting in the environs of Windsor Park or journeying no more than a few hours from the palace, so he could be certain to be near should I need him in the last weeks of my pregnancy.