Truth Endures

by Sandra Vasoli

  The cause of my dissatisfaction was evident to all. I could not stop lamenting that such a wonderful, miraculous event - the baptism of my long-awaited child – was to take place without me. How did other queens, other noblewomen, bear up under such trying conditions? I had no idea, and so I continued to ruminate, scowling, while wondering if Henry would even bother to come to my rooms to see me before he joined the guests for the mass and the ceremony.

  True, he had visited a few times in the last few days and had held Elizabeth briefly on each occasion. With me he was exceedingly polite, smiling and seemingly pleased with our daughter, expressing his anticipation for having me back at his side, but nevertheless, I sensed a gulf had opened between us. It did not surprise me. After all, I had wondered at length how we would conduct ourselves once we were truly alone and tried to persuade myself that the easy cadence of our former affection would resume quickly. But, at that miserable moment?

  Well, frankly - I simply didn’t care!

  I glanced up from the book I held, merely as a form of distraction, to find Maggie sweeping across the room to my bedside. She pulled up a chair, sat down, took one look at me, and said, “Oh my. No wonder you are sitting here all alone, in the midst of a whole crowd of people. No one has the courage to come near you, I see.”

  I could not help myself. A single, self-pitying tear traced its way down my cheek.

  She reached over and took my hand in her cool one. Even her touch was soothing.

  “Anne, I know how you are feeling. I remember the days following the birth of baby Henry, even though it was almost three years ago. While I rejoiced in the fact that I had survived the birth, and my baby boy was hearty and robust, I had never felt so low in my entire life. I longed to coddle and feed him, but, just like you, I could not. Instead, I had to watch his wetnurse suckle him, and it about broke my heart. My breasts caused me agony, and my mood was always dark. It seemed there was nothing I could do to shake it, even while acutely conscious that I should be happy and grateful. The midwife assured me, however, that the despondency would pass. She encouraged me to hang on, just as I do now with you, and soon I would feel like myself once again. I hardly believed her, but the days passed quickly, and I did come round, as will you. Once finally able to step outside into the sunshine, after my churching had taken place, I improved vastly.”

  I clung to her hand, still sniffling pathetically.

  “I feel I will never again escape this room – these accursed walls! I hope I never see those wretched tapestries again: I care not a whit how costly they were!”

  “And you won’t have to. As soon as you are able, Anne, we will walk in the gardens every day. Better still, I will stay at Greenwich and not return home for as long as you need me. And think! You will be well recovered in time to enjoy the beautiful autumn – your favourite season, yes? Have faith, my Lady! All will be well.”

  It was then that she leaned in and spoke quietly. “Anne, is your sadness because you birthed a girl? Do you cry because you feel you have failed the King?”

  Using both hands, I roughly brushed my tears away. Maggie handed me a linen square, and I blew my nose. I hesitated just a moment longer, then with an emphatic sniff, “No. No, I do not feel that way, and it is certainly not the cause of my malaise, Maggie! I only need to look at Elizabeth and am filled to the brim with pride. She flourishes by the day and seems uncannily alert, full of life. And always she reminds me of Henry – her hair, of course, but also, her lips, and the shape of her little face are his. He sees it, too, and is pleased. He immediately assured me of his happiness and his certainty that we would beget a son.”

  … and here I lowered my voice to a rumbling growl, mimicking him, “Anne, we will yet have sons. We are young: both young enough to have a boy child – in fact many boy children!”

  At that, Maggie and I shared an incredulous look at my temerity, then spluttered with laughter. My imitation of Henry, as well as the fact that he had called us ‘young’ - which seemed rather preposterous - sparked our mirth. Together Maggie and I had always been able to laugh so easily; her objective was achieved.

  My gloom lifted while Maggie called for one of the assistant midwives to bring me a herbal tisane to ease my bodily discomfort. As I sipped the warm infusion of lemon balm, mugwort, and rosemary, sweetened with a bit of honey, I did indeed begin to feel better.

  We spent a while longer discussing the christening and the celebration banquet, and I told her all I knew about what was to take place. I asked her to make certain, in my absence, that the baptismal water was warm enough, and that there were no draughts in the centre of the Church where Elizabeth was to be held. She promised that not only would she ensure these things on my behalf, but that she would remember every single detail to recount them to me tomorrow.

  I thanked her, kissed her, and let her take her leave so she would not be late.

  The ceremony was to take place in the Church of the Friars, adjacent to the palace. Henry had been christened there since the Franciscan Friars were much beloved by his father, and by his mother as well. The resident friars had always served the court well, being advisors and confessors to the Catholic nobility when the court lodged at Greenwich although now, of course, there existed discord based upon Henry’s distancing himself from the Church of Rome. Still, there were those Franciscan brothers with whom Henry, and his courtiers, remained close: indeed some would still serve at the religious ceremony.

  Otherwise, the church would be filled with nobility and clergy. I hoped Elizabeth would comport herself as befitting a royal princess, and not cry or fuss. Once the ceremony was concluded, the guests would present their gifts to the baby, then after having partaken of refreshment would come to my chambers to show Henry and me what they had given to the mighty Princess of England, Elizabeth.

  I had at last perked up and called my maids to come and help me prepare for my visitors. I might be bed-bound, but it would never do to look anything but my best.

  The days passed excruciatingly slowly while herbal remedies, brewed by one of the skilled midwives who had also apprenticed as an apothecary, fortified me. As my body regained its vigour, I also became strengthened in spirit by a renewed zeal to serve as an enlightened, reformist queen. Now that my pregnancy and the birth were behind me, my thoughts were consumed by the possibilities for change which beckoned me as the crowned and anointed Queen of England.

  I requested books and writings that instructed me on the lives of some of the women I most admired, beginning, of course, with the beloved mentor and heroine of my youth, Marguerite d’Alençon.

  Marguerite had been the first woman to make me aware that a lady need not merely sit placidly and prettily, convention-bound to never enter into any conversation of substance. Instead, Marguerite deliberately provoked debate, prodding those involved in such a way that she created an opening with which to propose her ideas, however radical. I had loved watching her interact with learned groups of men.

  Next, I read about Catherine of Valois, who, after a desperately neglectful childhood in France rose nevertheless to a position of power as the wife and queen of Henry V then ruled after his untimely death to, ultimately, enter into a relationship with Owen Tudor, a Welsh soldier. Their union produced Jasper Tudor, a figurehead of the future Tudor dynasty.

  The boldly enterprising Eleanor of Aquitaine and the tenacious Margaret Beaufort also stood forth as relevant females for thought-provoking study. And finally, enthralled, I turned to Le Livre de la Cite des Dames - The Book of the City of Ladies - by Christine de Pisan.

  Born in 1364, Christine had been an ingenious thinker and writer in a time when most women had little or no knowledge of how to even read or write, much less the wherewithal to challenge standard rules of belief. The daughter of a Frenchwoman, she was born in Venice to an Italian father who had taken her to France at an early age and provided for her the then-unthinkable - a thorough and
broad education. She was an avid reader, being well versed in multiple languages, and thus fortunate to become wed to a man greatly supportive of her intellectual pursuits. He died, however, at a young age, leaving her to care for herself and her children. But Christine was no woman of faint heart. Employing her talent for language, she began to write. At first, she composed poetry and prose, but soon initiated a written analysis of women and their place in society. I marvelled at the way she condemned the depiction of women in literature, and instead argued for their education and ability to have a voice in the world.

  With keen enjoyment, I devoured, again and again, The Book of the City of Ladies, delighting in Christine’s creation of three mythical figures: Lady Reason, Lady Rectitude, and Lady Justice. They carry on conversations with each other, and with other notable women in history who have come to live in the fictional ‘city’. They discuss why women are or are not suited for certain jobs, why they have been denied the education they deserve, and recount the inventions and the many advantages that women have provided to humanity throughout the ages. Above all, I delighted in her work’s melodious French, and her ideas, so artfully presented, inspired me.

  Increasingly I grew restless for my churching: that small traditional ceremony which declares a new mother fit to re-enter the world after having given birth. I felt ready and impatient to assume the role of Queen. I wanted to rule alongside my husband. I wanted to implement change in the realm; not merely in religious practice, but for the good of all England’s subjects.

  Whitehall

  October 1533

  As soon as I was able, I was rowed downriver to my suites at Whitehall. Long had I waited for that day of my return, as I felt it to be my palace. The rooms were beautiful and very comfortable – after all, Henry and I, together, had designed the Queen’s apartments in preparation for the major renovation of Wolsey’s York Place into a luxurious palace for the King and Queen. And after my long confinement, I needed to escape Greenwich for a while.

  It was there in mid-October when the air had turned crisp, and the blazing hearth fires warmed the handsome palace chambers at night, that I arranged a tryst with my husband. It would be the evening in which we would reunite as husband and wife – in total privacy.

  To my surprise, I found myself to be anxious. Henry had regularly come to my apartments at Greenwich where, while our interaction had been coolly courteous, he’d never failed to demonstrate great pride in baby Elizabeth. He’d held her and cosseted her, and discussed at some length who would make up her royal household, for she would, by the end of the year, have an established residence of her own, where she would be cared for by a meticulously selected staff.

  Picture it so: Henry and I cooing over our beautiful baby, smiling at each other when she smiled, or blew a tiny bubble, or pushed her fist into her mouth – did it not create a lovely family tableau? But the harsh truth remained: Henry needed a son, and I – his ‘second self’, his parallel, his beloved consort who had been preordained to provide him with that which was only good – I had, quite simply, failed to deliver him of one! Oh, I loved Elizabeth with my whole heart and believed that she was all I had ever hoped for. But I was rational, too, and fully aware that Henry would not be satisfied with merely another daughter, no matter how bright and beautiful. So, truly, it was left to me to renew our closeness, and, God be willing, to bear more children with the great hope that the next one would be a boy.

  As I had done little more than a year ago, I carefully planned Henry’s seduction. It was of the utmost importance that we not only share a marriage bed but that he fall once again deeply and irretrievably in love with me.

  With the help of my steward and several of my ladies, I planned an elegant light supper which would be served in my chambers for just the two of us. I arranged, too, for a single lutist to play for us as we dined, for Henry loved the lute and its sweet harmonies rarely failed to make him feel sentimental. Lastly, I set the stage with a table laid with gold and silver plate, an abundance of candles placed low on the furnishings to create an intimate, ambient light, and with just a hint of incense burning to scent the air.

  Once those details had been attended to, I paid mind to my appearance. When Henry was to join me for supper, I would be clothed in a soft grey gown of velvet. I would wear a circlet of pearls to add lustre to my face, and my skin would be enhanced by a soft flush of pink powder.

  … and thus came the night upon which so much depended.

  Once our supper had drawn to a close and the servants clearing the remains had been dismissed, I retreated to my bedchamber where two of my ladies helped me out of the grey gown, and into an unstructured, but close-fitting robe. Mistress Clerk had created this special garment that I was to wear strictly for Henry’s pleasure. It was made of light, very beautiful white satin, fine and fluid. My hair was loosened and brushed about my shoulders, my jewelry removed … and then I waited.

  Henry opened the door quietly and stepped into the warm, fire-lit chamber. His eyes met mine, then travelled the length of me as I stood before him in only a gossamer layer of white – nothing more – with every curve accentuated by the flickering light. I knew I looked virginal… glowing … white silk slipping over my body with my ever luxuriant hair lying on my bare shoulders. I wanted him to remember why he fought for me – why he married me – why he loved me still.

  Without words, we came together. As soon as I was close to him, his scent – that personal redolence which was distinctly his – immediately aroused me as it had always done. He buried his face in my hair and ran his hands over my body, feeling the slip of the satin. Gently he pulled my head back, so I looked him in the eyes and I could immediately see that his ardour had been renewed. He gazed at me as he had always done, with a mixture of lust and pure adoration. His voice was husky: whispering close to my ear.

  “Anne, how I have missed you; holding you; pressing my lips to yours …”

  Then his mouth was on mine and our kisses somehow sweeter than I remembered them to be. As we lay together on the soft bed, strewn with furs, I sighed in sheer pleasure. Once again I was with the only man I had ever really loved.

  And as that sensual night progressed, I was left with no doubt that my King truly did love me.

  The next morning we sat together at a small table in my bedchamber, breaking our fast; eating silently, having exhausted our conversation for the time being. As he relished his cheese, grapes, and fine white manchet, I studied him. He had passed the forty-second anniversary of his birth some four months previously. Lines had become etched at the corner of his eyes, and under his neat beard, there was distinct evidence of some heaviness in his cheeks, settling into jowls. His ginger hair betrayed threads of grey, and his broad, powerful body had thickened somewhat, to be certain, but his eyes were lively as ever, his smile quick and infectious, and his potent allure had not waned at all. He was still the most vibrant, finest-looking man I had ever encountered and, without question, my attraction to him remained as compelling as it ever had been.

  But my thoughts could not be swayed from a particular topic which tormented me. I had told myself over and over to let it go: never to bring it up. But the seemingly opportune silence, and my feeling so close to him after our night together loosened my resolve.

  “Henry, I have never felt such contentment and joy with you, my darling, as I do this morning,” I smiled, offering him all my charm. “I feel complete, having been back in your arms once again.”

  He raised a querying eyebrow over the rim of his cup, and I saw his pleased look in return.

  I hesitated for just a moment. “But … I can’t help but wonder, my love. It is only because I am so devoted to you that I need to ask …”

  He waited.

  I could have stopped there. Or I might have substituted another, more agreeable question. But I forged ahead.

  “Did you feel the need to take a mistress while I was restr
icted by my pregnancy?” My heart was pounding. “Henry, did you have another who loved you?”

  Instantly his eyes narrowed while his expression grew hard. In a mere second, his warmth tempered, the set of his jaw and shoulders clearly indicating displeasure.

  “And if I had? What would you think to say to me, Anne? What would be your response?”

  “Only that my heart would be broken! You are mine, Henry, and I yours. I want you to be touched by no other woman’s hands or lips. Is that too much to ask of my husband?”

  For what seemed an eternity he sat without responding, regarding me impassively. When he did eventually reply, his voice was cool.

  “Indeed, I love you, Anne. I have loved you like no other woman in my life. And I have sacrificed much for you, that you well know … but do not deign to feel as if you can tell me how to conduct myself! I am a man, and I am King. Should I choose to take a mistress, I can, and I WILL do so!”

  The knot in my stomach, which had made its presence known as soon as the question had left my lips, tightened even more cruelly at his response. I was dismayed. I had fully expected him to commit to me and only me, and to promise eternal fidelity … oh, how foolish I had been! Now I must bear his response with grace, or further anger him and jeopardize the delicate bond which had been built the evening before.

  He looked me directly in the eye then. “Having said that, though, I will, in this case, provide you with the answer you seek … I had no other woman in my bed. I waited for you.”

  There fell a silence between us. Then followed, “… I hope you grasp the significance of what I declare?”

  “Indeed, it is a salve to my soul, Henry. Please indulge me. I asked only because I simply could not bear to share you with another. You mean that much to me.”