Truth Endures

by Sandra Vasoli

  And as day followed bitter day, a further concern preyed upon my conscience. I could not stop thinking, when the ferocious wind howled about the eves at night and I was snugly tucked into my warm bed with ample soft and thick coverlets, of the poor – especially the children and the pregnant women – who had so little, and whose houses were thinly constructed of wattle and daub, with nary a hearth to provide heat. So, to alleviate my guilt over the care and comfort I received, I ordered a massive quantity of canvas and flannel then commanded all of my ladies, and also drafted women from the surrounding noble homesteads, to sew shirts, smocks, and sheets for the poor and indigent. With the flannel, we made petticoats. As items were completed, I had Henry’s guards distribute them amongst the many parishes surrounding London, offering each poor family some warm clothing and two shillings apiece. It was not much, but it gave me peace to know that their suffering had been lessened, if only a little.

  As the weeks wore on, I felt slightly better. Still, though, my sense of health was not nearly as robust as it had been in my third month of pregnancy with Elizabeth. So I rested as much as I could, took great care with the food I consumed, and hoped matters would improve.

  Taking advantage of a short break from the cold, Henry had gone to Hatfield to visit Elizabeth. I knew he had an additional mission, however. His daughter Mary had also been moved to Hatfield House not long ago, with the intention that she would serve in her sister - my Elizabeth’s - household. As expected, this news had been unwelcome, and Mary reacted rudely, initially refusing to go. Only after an ugly altercation did she sullenly pack her belongings, and allow herself to be transported to her new home. Henry hoped he would be able to smooth her discordant feelings and convince her to accept her new position, paying deference to Elizabeth, and to me.

  I had wished him well on his departure suspecting, meanwhile, that I would be greatly surprised if he returned with good news.

  One sunny afternoon, I sat in the short gallery which led from the King’s Presence Chamber toward the privy chambers. A weak beam of light spilled through the windows, and I sat on a bench reading one of a packet of letters I had received from my good friend Honor Lisle. Honor and her husband Arthur had moved to Calais shortly after my coronation where Lord Lisle now served as Lord Deputy of that city. I missed Honor; we had been close, and I loved her because she was extremely lively, full of high spirits and humor, and could always make me laugh. She was fashionable, and we had enjoyed talking together about the new and ever changing styles coming from the capitals of Europe.

  Happily, Honor was a great letter writer – I do not think she was able to write, herself, but she had a command of the language and was witty, so she dictated her many missives to a handful of scribes whom she trusted and used frequently. The letters were always amusing and full of interesting gossip in which she would tell me all about the wives of the prosperous French merchants who came to Calais to trade and conduct business: what they wore, what they liked to eat and drink, and who was having illicit affairs with whom.

  We also shared a love of animals and birds – at least, of some of them. Indeed, I had a great affection for my horses and dogs – especially for Jolie, my hound, and Purkoy, my little spaniel. I did not mind cats, and I held a particular liking for kittens … but monkeys? Some people I knew actually kept them as house pets. Oh, I had such a distaste for the strange little creatures. In fact, seeing them look about with their beady eyes and grin and grimace like tiny people sent chills down my back. So I kept my great distance and left explicit instructions never, ever to gift me with a monkey. Honor, on the other hand, always had a myriad of pets in her household; all of them wandering in and out – dogs, cats, birds in cages, peacocks parading across the lawns. She even gave names to certain fish in her carp ponds! So she had sent me a gift along with this group of letters, all delivered by the Lisle’s devoted gentleman steward John Husee - a little bird in a delicate cage called a linnet. It had a red breast and a greyish-blue head, and it trilled and sang constantly. How I loved it! He was such a little fellow of great cheer, and I kept him in my sitting rooms where his lively voice could be heard greeting me every morning with the sunrise.

  I sat contentedly, enjoying reading the letters. From the entrance to the gallery, I heard voices but continued my reading. Only when a peculiar tone – clandestine; somehow conspiratorial – caught my attention, did I glance up. Standing just outside the doorway of the Presence Chamber, and unaware of my presence, were my Uncle Norfolk, and the repugnant Spanish ambassador, Chapuys. Their heads were bent toward each other, and their voices low but emphatic. It was clear from their posture and facial expressions that they were collaborating on something because shortly they both nodded in agreement and shook hands. Only then did they look up and see me watching them. It was uncomfortable for them both, as I gave each in turn a pointed look of contempt.

  Even the mere sight of the snide Chapuys made my skin crawl. How I disliked him: particularly since I had learned that he referred to my daughter as ‘The Bastard’. He might call me whatever he chose – I knew that it was often ‘Concubine’ – and I cared not, but since he’d dared to disparage my child, he was now, even more so, my sworn enemy. I fixed my eyes on them, unblinking, until they both averted their gaze. Norfolk bowed; Chapuys barely inclined his arrogant head then they quickly retreated into the Chamber from whence they had come, undoubtedly seeking another exit so as not to have to pass directly by me.

  My growing irritation ruined the pleasantry of the hour. But I will admit, I also worried. My uncle was becoming ever more conspicuous in his antipathy towards my family and me. What were he and Chapuys planning? And when and why, for that matter, had they become co-conspirators? The bond did not bode well.

  Suffolk, too, now took opportunities to make his differences with my family and me well known, but he was careful. He had long been one of Henry’s closest companions, and his dislike of me threatened that friendship, and hence his standing at court.However, it was well known to me, and to Henry too, that Charles Brandon had resented me and my position from the early days of my courtship with Henry.

  It seemed as if that afternoon was a sinister harbinger of turbulence to come.

  Shortly after the incident in the Whitehall gallery, I was having supper with Henry and decided to tell him about it. I knew it to be a risky decision, for Henry’s humour had not been good of late. He had returned from his trip to Hatfield greatly displeased by Mary’s behaviour, and I knew he had no idea what his recourse with her might be. But we were enjoying good conversation, and he was eating a savoury roasted lamb, one of his favorite dishes, so I carefully described to him the scene I had encountered. When I told him that Norfolk and Chapuys had shaken hands in obvious collusion over something they wished to keep private, he stopped eating and put his knife down.

  “I will tell you what I suspect was the topic of their agreement, Anne. Yesterday, Norfolk told me Chapuys wished to speak with me. When the ambassador was received in my chamber, he said that six months ago he’d heard of the new title assigned to Katherine. Of course, he insists upon continuing to call her ‘the Queen’. He had also been told about the change in title for Mary, from Princess to Lady.”

  As usual, when we discussed a subject of great distaste, I aimed to arrange my expression so I did not appear as a hysterical woman ready to give vent at any moment. But it was not easy.

  Henry continued. “Chapuys had asked Norfolk and Cromwell to tell me that such conduct was not lawful, thinking that the message would be better received from them, instead of himself.”

  He snorted and looked as if he smelled a bad odour. “He then asked for leave to make such a representation to Parliament. I made him squirm by staring at him long and hard, but saying nothing. Then I told him, in the tone of exaggerated patience I typically use with Master Chapuys, that he was in truth well aware I am married to my lawful wife, so perhaps I misunderstood his intent? Pe
rhaps there was some strange confusion, because since I am lawfully married, and my first marriage has been pronounced unlawful, then by rights my first wife can in no way be called ‘Queen’ nor hold property given to her in consequence of the marriage. Furthermore, nor could the person he called ‘Princess’ be legitimate, nor able to succeed. And …”

  He was beginning to turn red by then, recalling the disgraceful scene caused by the ignorant ambassador. “… and that even if Mary were legitimate, her disobedience alone is sufficient to merit disinheritance while, as for his request to go before Parliament, Anne …? It is not the custom: the damn fellow has no such power, and I was appalled by his demand.”

  “Henry! The man’s impertinence! How dare he cross you thus! Can you not have him deported? How long must we bear his snake-like character and his poisonous treachery?” I was ready to summon Chapuys myself and threaten him with the worst form of torture I could conjure.

  My hands shook as Henry continued. It was Chapuys, after all – persistent to the point of obnoxious ignorance – so, of course, the encounter had not ended there.

  “He stood before me, not budging – not cowed in any way, and even quoted from our own English history saying that, concerning the sentence of divorce given by the Archbishop of Canterbury, it should be as little regarded as the sentence which King Richard caused the Bishop of Bath to give the sons of King Edward, declaring them bastards! He added that there was no doubt Parliament would do as I wished, as I had married again and had forbidden Katherine to be called Queen, and she was not summoned to Parliament, nor had any person to speak for her. And then, Anne, although he did hesitate for a few moments, he doggedly went on: persevering in his overbearing way that all the Parliaments could not make his Princess a bastard, and even if my marriage with Katherine were annulled, still the Princess Mary would remain legitimate, owing to the lawful ignorance of her parents.”

  By this time, Henry saw that I was deeply upset. I had paled, and my hand laid upon the table was clenched.

  “Mine own sweetheart! Are you ill? I am sorry, and never intended to dismay you so!” He covered my hand with his big, warm one, and his touch brought me reassurance. I drew a deep breath. How I hated Chapuys!

  “Anne, let me tell you how I ended the meeting. I informed him that, according to the laws of the kingdom, his so-called Princess was unable to succeed, and there was no other Princess except my daughter Elizabeth until I have a son which I firmly believe will happen soon. I looked him in the eye and told him that his arguments I found trite and meaningless, and that, day by day, my respect for him diminished more, while if he believed he intimidated me with his connection to the Emperor, he was surely mistaken. And with that cutting remark, I brusquely dismissed him.”

  He leaned across and brushed my cheek with his lips, to convince me that all was well and that he had matters to hand. I did feel better, for a short while.

  But as winter gave way to March, disorder became the rule.

  Greenwich

  Whitehall

  Spring 1534

  Despite the ample presence of stewards milling about ready to do my bidding, I reached across the table to pour more wine for Archbishop Cranmer, with whom I was dining after Mass.

  “Please, Madame. There is no need for such effort on your part.” He made a motion for me to cease and summoned a servant.

  “Thomas, it is nothing. And why should I not provide for the needs of my dear friends when they are my guests? Anyway, there is much that I require from you today, regarding news and advice. Tell me what you know of the Pope’s ruling on Henry’s nullity suit.”

  I leaned forward, anticipating his account. I knew that Henry had been informed of the most recent developments, but had provided me no detail. I imagine he wished not to grieve me, in my condition. But I had to know!

  “Milady, I am told that the Vatican consistory, a council of twenty-two cardinals, was convened in late February, continued to meet into this month of March, and last week, on the twenty-third, its finding was pronounced that the marriage between His Grace King Henry and Katherine was valid and their issue thereof legitimate. The King has also been enjoined to take back Katherine as his wife.”

  Cranmer did not miss the dark look his news produced. His voice assumed the tone he used when conveying trouble: soft but firm – factual. “The council still requires the signature of the Pope, but that is only a formality. The matter is done, as far as the Curia is concerned.”

  I drew a deep breath. “And what did Monsieur du Bellay do when he heard this report? Did he press on in representing our case, as he knew his duty required him?”

  Jean du Bellay, the former French ambassador to Henry’s court, and an ally as far as I was concerned was now Bishop of Paris and had been designated to be an advocate in Rome for François, and for Henry as well.

  Cranmer was quick to rejoin. “With certainty, Your Highness. Bishop du Bellay relayed that he planned to discuss the matter yet again with his Holiness before his departure, which I believe he did, although I have since been informed that His Grace has now left Rome for Paris: his royal master, François, not wishing him to stay longer. It was felt that the finality of the matter must be accepted, and the news delivered to our king in total. The report is that the Bishop was well aware of how terribly discontented His Majesty would be with him, especially because of the assurances contained in his last letters. He told François to inform His Majesty at once, before he might hear of it from Charles and the Imperialist diplomats who, naturally, are triumphant that at last, the Emperor Charles’s aunt Katherine has been vindicated.”

  He lowered his voice then, to ensure confidence.

  “I am told by very reliable sources that the French are much grieved they cannot send better news. They feel – as of course they would – that events will show how François endeavored mightily to prevent one of the greatest troubles desecrating the Church and perhaps all of Christendom. They feel they have omitted nothing in attempting to attain Henry’s desired outcome.”

  I sat back in my chair and let out a heavy sigh. I cannot say I would have readily agreed with the French envoy’s perspective. “And Katherine knows of the determination, I assume?”

  “I have no doubt, Madame. She has her messengers.”

  “Oh, how marvellous for her,” I snapped sarcastically. “I can picture the scene now … her tawdry, dismal gowns already packed; trunks ready and waiting by the gate; worn-to-the-bone Spanish prayer books assembled - all to be transported in triumph from gloomy Buckden back to her rightful place here in Henry’s beautiful court.”

  I uttered a loud and resentful laugh at that point, whereupon the waiting stewards looked up suddenly, taking notice of the sharp change of tone in our previously discreet dialogue. “Such an immediate move will, of course, be in response to the King’s command when he denounces me, and recalls her as his wife and Queen, obediently following the instructions of the Pope and the Curia!”

  Cranmer’s wiry eyebrows lifted, startled by my venom. “You do not fear that as a consequence, do you, Madame?”

  “No, of course not! But, although the ruling comes as no surprise, it seems an ignominious end to seven long years of battle. And how I despise that Katharine and Mary will feel exonerated in any way. This will do plenty to inflame the already shameful behavior Mary exhibits for her father, and to me, for that matter! I have extended the hand of friendship to her twice now. Both times it has been rebuffed with absolute contempt.” I shook my head in disgust. “I tell you, my next tactic is just to go head-to-head with her in a full-blown rivalry. We will then see who wins: her death or mine.”

  My esteemed and wise friend paused. Then, gently, he placed his hand on my arm. “I advise you, my dear Queen, to avoid such statements of renunciation. They are not representative of your fine character. And, truly - you do not know what the future holds for you and Mary. She is, after all, a you
ng and impassioned girl. In time, she will mature and become softer as we all do.”

  One grey brow arched quizzically nevertheless. I suspected he was wondering just how much softer my attitude had become as I aged.

  “Thank you, Thomas. How fortunate Henry and I are to have you as a friend, advisor, and our Archbishop. You are right, as you always have been. I will follow your good counsel and strive to be more prudent in my thoughts, words, and actions.”

  He offered me a benevolent smile, which I returned, most graciously.

  While, privately, I still clung to my lingering resentment.

  My ladies and I sat courtside, cheering on Henry, William Brereton, Henry Courtenay, Brandon, my brother George, of course, and a few others who were involved in a rousing tournament of tennis at the new, very beautiful courts which Henry had constructed in the yard at Whitehall just a year prior.

  We were enjoying ourselves, being served food and wine by ushers who ran to and fro from special kitchens which serviced that sporting facility. Nan Zouche, Bessie Holland, Maggie Wyatt Lee, Mary Scrope and I spent the afternoon watching, cheering, and gossiping while I blithely showed off the new gown designed for me by Mistress Clerk, which showed my pregnancy to its greatest advantage.

  The lightheartedness of the day was a welcome respite from the burdensome thoughts I had been carrying with me: the disappointing ruling from Rome, followed closely by my anxiety while Parliament was in session to evaluate Henry’s prospective Succession to the Crown Act. That proposed Act would declare Elizabeth as being the true successor to the Crown of England unless Henry and I had sons, who would, only then, supersede her right to the throne. Its text designated Katherine as Princess Dowager, and by the complete absence of any mention, it bypassed Mary as a successor under any circumstance.