Truth Endures

by Sandra Vasoli

  Although I had been guaranteed by both Henry and Cromwell that the Act would be passed, I was not at all certain and prepared myself for confrontation. The Act embodied, within its content, a requirement that all subjects take an oath of loyalty. And should any amongst them refuse? Well, they would then be guilty of treason. It would place a formidable burden on my adversaries.

  As I had been promised, on the last day of March the closing assembly of Parliament pronounced its endorsement of the Act. Allegiance to me, and to my daughter or any other issue I may bear with my husband, the King, was now law – with a dreadful punishment awaiting those who objected. At this news, I felt a great relief. But not without a certain tinge of misgiving.

  As we nibbled on gingerbread and spiced wine and selected almonds from a large bowl, we giggled and gossiped in low whispers, leaning in to be heard. Mary Scrope, whose husband was William Kingston, Constable of the Tower, told us, with eyes widened, that her husband had reported exceedingly grotesque behavior by the imprisoned Elizabeth Barton, the so-called Nun of Kent. I was particularly interested in this news because Barton – a demented religious zealot – had been a tribulation to Henry and me for many months. Born to an impoverished family in Kent she, as had been reported, began having fits and spasms as a young girl. It was after one of these episodes that she started uttering prophecies. It was not surprising that the poor and gullible townsfolk followed her, listening to accounts of her visions with a swelling number believing she had been imbued with some mystical power. More and more frequently her look took on a deranged aura while her outrageous prognostications became increasingly focused on fanatical Catholicism. Soon Barton took up the subject of Henry’s divorce from Katherine, and to the crowds who surrounded her, ranted and raved about it.

  It had been on Henry’s and my return to London from our trip to Calais two years prior that she had waylaid us and confronted Henry directly. As I’d looked on, she had made her declarations: eyes wild and rolling in her head, crinkled hair escaping her cap and whipping about her face, spittle flying from her mouth as she spoke in varying inflections – some loud and growling, others high and melodic, and still others with her mouth seemingly closed – a sight which made my skin crawl. She had craned her neck then stretched as far as she could towards Henry, spitting that, should he proceed to marry me, he would surely die a painful villain’s death within the month.

  Horrified at her effrontery, I had wanted to look away from the spectacle of her, but could not … but then the situation became farcical when she told Henry that she knew he had been prevented from receiving communion while in Calais due to his great sin, whereupon she - who had been present, but of course invisible - had received his host instead, directly from the Virgin Mary!

  At this revelation, I exploded in unbridled laughter, the result being that the crazy crone whirled her head to glare at me next, while directing a look so terrifying that I could not help but reimagine it for days. Not for a moment, though, did I believe she was anything but a brazen charlatan and, indeed, seemed to have been proved correct for in that autumn she had been arrested, along with a whole group of deceitful men who had the gall to call themselves monks, on suspicion that they had jointly and severally colluded to bring about the downfall of His Majesty the King. Archbishop Cranmer had been called in to question her. Consistent with my expectation, he’d found that she, in collusion with the monk Edward Bockyng, had constructed lies and materials to feign her holy powers while, coincidentally, making a great deal of money by doing so.

  Mary Scrope told us that in the two weeks since Barton, Bockyng, and several other accomplices had been attainted of high treason, they had behaved in a manner barely short of barbaric during their imprisonment: all the while Barton still attempting to assume the appearance and demeanor of an ascetic visionary.

  In response she, along with her cohorts, had been thrown into the deepest dungeons of the Tower, where they wailed and howled all the night and day. Mary said her husband had told her that none of the guards would agree to go near them, so frightful were their screams and writhings. Indeed, Constable Kingston was forced to induce guards with extra payments just to approach the miscreants’ cells to throw in scraps of food and push pails of water through the hatch doors. Now, all that was left for the Holy Maid of Kent was to await her execution, which was imminent.

  While I listened, I shivered and pulled my silken wrap more closely around my shoulders. The suppression of those who would defame Henry and me, my daughter, and my marriage was both necessary and warranted, but hearing such bald description of its reality somehow turned my stomach. My heart pounded strangely, leaving me feeling weak and light-headed.

  My ladies saw that I gripped the bench while my complexion must have turned pale because Maggie and Nan quickly gave me a sip of ale, then got me to my feet and helped me back to my chambers, where I took to my bed until the next day.

  By the end of March, and just before Parliament was prorogued until the following autumn, all of its members were sworn to the succession as described in the Act. Commissioners were dispatched far and wide across the realm to take the oath of the men and women of England. Mostly, their efforts produced great consent.

  But there were detractors. Notable amongst them? Katharine, of course – who fought belligerently against any urging to sign such a document.

  The others were John Fisher, Bishop of Rochester and, most distressingly, Henry’s former advisor, councillor, Lord High Chancellor and dear friend, Thomas More.

  But there could be no tolerance of weakness. As the only recourse to their persistent defiance, both were arrested and locked in the Tower.

  Fisher was not a man well known to me. He had never been an ally, having always championed Katherine and her cause, so his imprisonment caused me little concern.

  But More? His arrest hit me hard. Sir Thomas had always seemed an enigma to me – exceedingly soft-spoken and gentle, with a dignified bearing and warm manner who had invariably conducted himself with cordial deference in my company. And to Henry he had long been a confidante and true friend, advising and caring for him with a genuine affection that was indisputable. But having said that, for such a learned man his viewpoints often seemed unwisely resolute, and in certain matters he was as indomitable as were many of the antiquated monks who shuffled about the monasteries buried deep in the countryside. As the Great Matter had progressed on its turbulent path to the final outcome, More had taken pains to be certain Henry knew he held no actual opposition to our marriage but, as Henry drew further and further apart from the Roman Church and the Pope’s jurisdiction, Sir Thomas had nevertheless become increasingly distressed. Finally, at the critical moment – when Henry looked to Thomas to sign the Oath of Supremacy - that great religious lawyer and statesman could not, and would not, do so. Henry tried ardently to convince his friend, knowing what consequences would be required if he continued to refuse. I saw plainly how the disagreement weighed on him; not only was it a singular indictment of Henry’s position of supreme authority, but a betrayal by a mentor he had well and truly loved. While he told me of their fruitless discussions, eyes downcast, he appeared heavy and forlorn, and when he departed the chamber, the slope of his shoulders caused me great sorrow.

  There was something indefinable about More’s imprisonment which seemed symbolic, as nothing else had to date. It caused me to reflect, quite unpleasantly, on the conditional nature of that which I had so naively believed to be certain.

  To cheer myself, just before Easter I planned a visit to Hatfield, longing to see and play with, and kiss my little lambkin, Elizabeth. I had several trunks packed because I planned to stay for several days, at least. Sheets of rain battered us as we lumbered across the winter-rutted roads, but nothing could contain my excitement at seeing my baby girl. Since Elizabeth and her retinue had assumed residence in December, I had received regular reports from Lady Bryan, and always promptly replied, usual
ly sending packages with velvets for Elizabeth’s gowns, along with soft flannels and fustian for her bedclothes and blankets. Lady Bryan assured me, in the interim, that Elizabeth was as bright and intelligent a baby as ever she had known. I could not wait to see her.

  Once settled into my chambers, bathed and dressed in dry clothing, I hurried to the nursery. At its threshold, I stopped to admire the snug, comfortable setting in which Elizabeth spent most of her time. The tapestries lining the walls were brilliant with colourful forest animals and birds: the great bay window allowing a flood of bright sunlight through its leaded panes. At both ends of the large and spacious room hearths burned cheerily, keeping the room delightfully warm. I gazed about me for just a moment before, suddenly, a little head, clad in a linen bonnet revealing a shock of vivid ginger hair, popped up above the edge of the deep wooden cradle, brilliant blue eyes, wide open, staring at me.

  I rushed to sweep her into my arms and cover her with kisses. She tilted her head back to study me carefully, then buried her face in my neck. And, as happened every time I was with her, my heart swelled near to bursting with love. She knew me! Even though I had not seen her for what seemed too many weeks, she knew I was her mother, and nuzzled me as I hugged her.

  Lady Bryan joined me, and we spent the rest of the afternoon playing with my little Princess. I delighted in watching her bounce on sturdy little legs when we held her upright, vigorously rock to and fro on her hands and knees, and even attempt some crawling steps. I exclaimed in satisfaction when we peeped into her mouth to see several teeth emerging from healthy pink gums. While Elizabeth sat happily on a rug waving a wooden rattle and mostly pushing it into her mouth to gnaw on it, Margaret told me of the happenings in the household. I inquired after Mary, who had been living at Hatfield now for several months.

  Margaret looked uncomfortable. “Your Highness, I rarely see her.”

  I stretched to wipe a bit of drool from Elizabeth’s chin. “What mean you, Margaret? How is it you never encounter her – in the halls, at meals, walking in the courtyard?”

  “Well, Madame, I am told by her serving staff that she remains in her chambers. She is served her morning meal, and then reads and prays in her apartment. When it comes time for dinner, she usually claims she has a headache and takes to her bed for most of the afternoon. I have no idea if she sups with anyone for I am busy caring for Elizabeth at that time, preparing her for bed.”

  I was confused. “But does she not come to the nursery to visit her sister? Has she ever taken her for a walk in the gardens on dry days?”

  “Never, Madame. She has been in this room but once, and that for a mere blink of an eye.” Lady Bryan appeared flustered at bearing such unseemly news.”Even then she did not look upon the baby – not at all.”

  I pursed my lips as I put Elizabeth’s toys in order on her play rug.

  “Well, that will surely change. With immediacy!”

  Late the following morning I sat in my small receiving chamber, awaiting the arrival of Mary. I had issued an order for her to see me. The page returned to report that the Lady Mary was not feeling well, and thus could not keep the appointment. I sent the young man immediately back to her, with an irrefutable command that, unless she appeared in my chamber at the appointed time, her father the King would be informed, and he would be highly displeased.

  So I sat, drumming my fingers on the arm of my chair, and waited. A full quarter hour after the designated time, a crier arrived at the doorway and announced, “The Lady Mary, Your Highness.”

  Dragging her slippered feet, eyes to the ground, Mary entered the chamber. She cast me a surly glance, and her hands moved to the sides of her skirts. At the same time, her head gave the smallest bob while her knees barely eased. Her curtsy was as disrespectful as one could manage without neglecting it altogether. I ignored it.

  “Good morning Mary,” I called in a voice studied in its civility. “How fare you this day?”

  “Not well, Madame.” Her reply so muted I could barely hear her, even though she stood just a few paces away.

  “Speak up, Mary, I can scarce hear you! How has your time been here at Hatfield? Do you find it an improvement over the large and drafty Beaulieu? Are you happy here?”

  She remained obstinately silent. It grew awkward, yet I waited, determined that she answer me with some propriety.

  Finally …

  “Now that you ask, Madame, I will tell you. I am most unhappy. I feel unwell almost all the time. And …”

  “And …?” I encouraged.

  “… and I never stop thinking about my lady mother: the true Queen of England, a Princess of Spain; a woman with the noblest lineage, who is forced to languish – ill and without the comfort of me, her daughter, nor any of her beloved friends and servants - in a dank and inadequate dwelling, as if she had committed a most heinous crime. My mother! The woman all of England adores and demands to see resume her rightful place upon the throne! So NO, Madame - I am not at all well!”

  By the time she had finished her speech, she had drawn herself erect, squared her shoulders, and was glaring at me with blazing eyes. Eyes filled with hatred.

  Coolly I met her stare. Just as I had once, years ago, with her mother when I was first the object of Henry’s love, and at a royal banquet Katherine had surveyed me accusingly – then, lifting my chin, I looked directly into Mary’s eyes. Not for a second would I have this truculent young woman feel entitled to speak to me in such a disrespectful way.

  Deliberately I kept my voice quiet and composed.

  “Mary, if I were you I would hold my tongue and never again utter such treacherous words about your mother being the true Queen. We both know very well that the most learned men in the world - foremost among them your noble father the King - have found that statement to be false.”

  I drew a deep breath, then.

  “However, I still wish to offer you a sign of peace. If you will acknowledge me as your Queen, and if you will honour your sister Elizabeth as the true Princess – and especially if you will visit her, cherish her, and treat her as a sister is meant to … well, then I am prepared to love you as a daughter in return, and to entreat your father to bring you to court with all of the comforts and deference you would be owed as the King’s child, even though your status is, as we know, illegitimate. You must surely see how generously he has benefitted his son Richmond, and I feel confident that your endowments will be of no less value.”

  I paused, giving her a chance to consider that which I had proposed, assuming in the meantime, an air of benevolence.

  She did not rush to respond. No, she made me wait. While doing so, I could not stop thinking of how the child needed a sharp slap to address her insolent disobedience. It mattered not whether she favoured me: noble and well-brought-up children were taught never to display rudeness to their elders. It confirmed for me that her mother had done a poor job of raising the girl. Still, I kept smiling, albeit somewhat fixedly, until she finally did deign to speak.

  “Madame, it is most unfortunate, but I cannot even bring myself to thank you for your proposition. In truth, I find it insulting! I will never – and I repeat, never! - acquiesce to your ridiculous assumption that you are Queen and that your child Elizabeth is the true Princess.”

  By now, her voice, created by the most ill of feelings, had reached a high pitch while tears made her eyes unnaturally bright. Lip trembling, she then added, “And threaten all you wish, Madame - I care not where my father puts me … he can throw me in the Tower if he so chooses. I will NOT change my position!”

  She spun about without a backward look and fled from the room.

  I did not see Mary – nor did I attempt to– during the remainder of my stay at Hatfield, spending as much time as I could with Elizabeth instead, reading to her, singing lullabies, and watching her inquisitive mind take in all that surrounded her. I knew without any doubt that she was a
n exceptional child, and my pride knew no bounds.

  As I left to return to Whitehall, my heart heavy at leaving Elizabeth behind, I determined to put Mary from my mind. And that I did.

  I was not to see her again for many, many months.

  Whitehall

  Hampton Court

  Summer 1534

  After the melancholy I had experienced in early spring, the blossoming of a beautiful summer came as a welcome distraction. The weather grew temperate while ample rain had prompted the roses, lilacs, and heather to flourish and release their perfume in the soft, warm air.

  Henry and I enjoyed each other’s company, entertained by talented musicians from across England and Europe who made a destination of the King’s court as they travelled from location to location. We held suppers for our friends and made merry playing cards, gambling for gold sovereigns. On evenings when Henry was otherwise occupied, I held soirées in my chambers and my ladies, and the gentlemen serving Henry danced, flirted, and carried on in great high spirits while I observed from the comfort of a well-padded chair, hands cradling my swelled stomach. It was not unpleasing to note that every male courtier present strove for the opportunity to sit near me and pay me beautiful compliments, flattering my comeliness and engaging in the witticisms of courtly chivalry.

  Eventually, the court moved from Westminster to Hampton Court for the duration of the summer. I was pleased to leave the city behind and to travel upriver with my retinue and become settled at Hampton Court, where I intended to stay for the duration of my confinement. My baby would be born in the pleasant and healthy surroundings there.

  By early June, my household was fully established. I did love the palace, as everyone who visited seemed to, for, in addition to its very comfortable lodgings, the gardens were such a wondrous sight: harmonious bands of colour waving in the breeze while flowers of every kind bloomed continuously from early spring through to autumn. The walk from the house down to the river had been pleasingly designed to dazzle the eye and soothe the soul. Henry had commissioned the most talented gardeners in England to create new parterres extending both left and right of the central walkway which featured splashing fountains, neat and angular arrangements of flowers and plants, and, best of all to me, some areas – my favourites - offering a wild, natural look. Along those shaded terraces grew billowing grasses; deep green, cooling ferns; carpets of orange balsam with their cup-like flowers and lovely fragrance; beds of evening primrose, and iris of every variety. Tucked into hidden corners were carved stone benches, cleverly placed next to deep formal pools in which multi-hued carp lazed, graceful fan-tails swirling behind them like the trains of ladies’ gowns.