Truth Endures

by Sandra Vasoli

  My mood was bright and for the first time since the summer’s dreadful occurrence, I felt warmth and delight as I played with my child who had passed the first anniversary of her birth. She was so engagingly imaginative, constantly babbling while intently watching my mouth as I spoke to her. It was plain that she had a great desire to talk and be understood. Her uninhibited childish antics made me laugh – and how good that felt! Hugging and cuddling her provided a balm to my suffering like no other, and at last, I began to feel my outlook improve.

  Mary, on the other hand, maintained her brazen effrontery. Defying my command to meet, she again feigned illness and remained in her room until I had left to return to Greenwich. However, I was changed since I had last encountered her, and instead of indignantly forcing her to an audience with me, this time, I left her behind, not caring one whit if I ever saw the young wretch again.

  Nevertheless, although I placed Mary Tudor far from my thoughts, I had discovered that in the weeks since the tragic loss of Henry’s and my child, Katherine still came frequently to mind. She lingered alone and in exile, a situation she alone had the power to reverse, but it was not that which caused my melancholy. Instead, we were now linked by a terrible bond: the catastrophe of a child lost – one so longed for, so joyfully anticipated - who had noiselessly slipped from one’s grasp into eternity, like a wraith into the night. I began to understand the depth of her despair, and knowing that she had endured not one, but many such losses induced me to wonder how she had marshalled the strength to carry on.

  By God’s tears, I found that I now pitied her; the woman who had caused me so very much aggravation.

  I wondered if somehow she had heard of our plight, and if so, was she at all moved by my misfortune?

  Somehow I rather thought not. Justified, more than likely: gratified by my inadequacy.

  As Christmastide drew nigh, I asked Henry if we might have Elizabeth stay with us at Greenwich, and he agreed. In the weeks of late October and November, Henry and I had spent several nights together, but they had been awkward. We’d been distant from each other, and our love-making had not been successful. My pain had now subsided sufficiently that I knew it was well past time for me to put my mind toward repairing the damage that my miscarriage had caused between my husband and me. I needed to get on with living and to find once again happiness and delight in my surroundings. So, even though we intended to have a quiet Christmas, I looked forward to holding intimate suppers with Henry, just the two of us, in the hope that I could reignite the flame that had once burned so brightly.

  Greenwich Palace of Placentia

  Christmastide 1534

  I took charge of the stewards at Greenwich, and with the help of the Lord Chamberlain, readied the palace for the festive season. I gave instructions that the Great Hall was to be laden with winter greenery, filled with holly – only branches which held the reddest berries - and fresh candles and tapers were to be added to every corner of every room. The Yule log would be massive, and I conferred with the Master Cook to be certain he and his staff were prepared to serve only the very choicest selections of beef and venison, the freshest possible breads and the most desirable sweets and spiced puddings. I took pains to ensure that, although we were not going to host a mighty banquet in this year, each and every small gathering would be pleasurable.

  As a surprise for Henry, I had arranged a very special musical performance for him and our closest friends, on an evening just before Christmas. One of my keen interests was the financial support of artists who displayed rare progressive talent in their fields of endeavor. Dear Marguerite d’Alençon had been a true artists’ patron in France and, as a young, impressionable girl, I had been fortunate enough to have been in the company of the illustrious musicians, painters and writers she had encouraged.

  Thus, it was that, through a referral by the brilliant Bishop Richard Cox, a friend and true reformer, and a dean at Oxford, I came to know a man with prodigious musical skill by the name of Christopher Tye. Tye was then studying at Cambridge, and I had been told that he was a new master at composing and directing splendid choral music. The Bishop was most enthusiastic about his friend’s abilities, and since I trusted and admired Cox so greatly, we organized a performance with Tye and a small choral group, so that he might perform several of his compositions for the King. I then met with Master Tye himself to discuss his program, found him to be exceedingly pleasant, and was amused at his excitement, which he tried very hard to control by striving somewhat unsuccessfully to appear dignified. It felt wonderful to become once again immersed in planning a special celebration – something joyous that I would look forward to.

  That elegant evening supper was a great success. I’d wanted to take Henry’s breath away like I had once been so adept at doing, so I took great care in selecting my gown and jewels. To help in that scheme, I utilized the skilled assistance of a new French maid, Simonette, whom I had recently employed, and who excelled at working miracles with hair and cosmetics.

  Between the elegant vision of Mistress Clerk, who not only fitted my new satin gown - the colour of rich cream - so that it made the most of my figure, but also helped to select my jewels: a parure of deep blood red rubies - and Simonette, whose artistry with powders, creams, and colour for the face was simply unmatched– I once again glowed with youth and health. When all of the ministrations were complete, and we each studied the overall effect, Simonette and Mistress Clerk nodded with satisfaction – happy with their accomplishments. I, for that matter, found that my confidence had been restored. I could not wait for Henry to see me, and I fully intended to demonstrate just how much I had missed our intimacy.

  Just before joining Henry to greet our guests, I snatched a few minutes to peer into the room to ensure all was in readiness. The spacious Presence Chamber was bedecked with Christmas finery: the warm glow of candlelight reflecting on highly polished, rich wood paneling; the mantels over the hearths laden with greenery and red berries; the fireplaces crackling merrily and the tables set with pure white napery.

  I looked about in approval. The buffets were stacked with sparkling gilt plate and serving pieces, ready to serve up their delicious contents once the guests were seated. Crystal decanters of claret added striking touches of colour, placed as they were on the white cloths of the sideboards. I noticed that, in accordance with my wishes, the censers placed in the corners of the room burned, releasing just the slightest winter fragrance of rosemary and myrrh to perfume the air.

  Content, I smoothed my silken gown, arranged my ruby necklet, and went to meet Henry.

  It proved a marvellous evening. The food was exquisite, the company engaging and, above all, that music …! Master Tye surely excelled. His choral singers had heavenly voices, and his compositions were uplifting and magical.

  More pleasurable than anything else, though, was the way Henry looked at me when he greeted me. As we walked together through the halls of the privy chambers to the Presence Room, he kept his eyes on me. They glistened with appreciation. I knew him well, and I knew his expressions better than my own. My heart swelled with love in return – and relief. He took my hand as we walked, and we entered the room to meet our guests, hand in hand. We paused just past the threshold, and as we smiled at the assembled group, Henry raised my fingers to his lips and kissed them, signalling to all that I was his Queen, and his love.

  Although that evening gladly marked the renewal in Henry’s and my ardour and desire for one another, and while I had determined to maintain an uplifted spirit, nevertheless the ponderous weight of the previous six months stubbornly refused to yield.

  Just nigh to Christmas Eve, we received a plaintive message from the wife and children of Sir Thomas More, who had now remained incarcerated in the Tower for more than eight months. They sent a petition for his pardon and release, the letter adding that he was ‘in great and continual sickness of body and heaviness of heart.’

  Car
efully I watched Henry’s expression grow sad while the letter was read aloud. His mouth twitched almost imperceptibly, but I knew just what it signified. At the letter’s conclusion, he sighed, and sat without responding for several long minutes while distractedly examining his hands clenched tightly in his lap. Finally, he looked up and, in the presence of several of his Privy Councillors, responded that unless More was prepared to sign the Oath – as he should do, out of respect for his sovereign – there was no likelihood of a release. At any time, he added, if Sir Thomas became more sentient, which would be wise, his King was prepared to reconsider immediately the punishment enacted upon him.

  There was no mistaking it. Thomas More’s imprisonment – no, in actuality, his refusal to honour the friendship Henry thought they had shared – grieved the King. He felt betrayed and, worse, bereft of the support of a man he’d trusted implicitly since his youth. Even if More now recanted his position, signed the Oath, and was subsequently released from prison, their bond was broken: it would never be the same for Henry.

  Once betrayed, Henry never forgot.

  The closeness and comfort we shared with each other were reinstated, and it felt wondrous to me. Not only did I still love Henry with an irresistible attraction, but he had always provided me with a powerful sense of protection through his great physical presence as well as the authority he wielded over his domain. It was reassuring, to say the very least, to be in his good graces.

  We had resumed the practice of supping together, quite privily, on a regular basis. I loved those evenings because we were able to share chat – light, ambling conversation and laughter – which was so difficult to achieve when surrounded by courtiers and staff. We discussed ideas for building and design at the many royal palaces, we talked about art and music, our horses and of hunting and, of course, about our bright and beautiful daughter.

  But then, one evening after Christmas but before the New Year, we had just finished our supper. As I rose, preparing to adjourn to another chamber, Henry grasped my arm. There was something about his touch which caused me unease.

  “Anne, remain seated. I have something yet to say.”

  I was immediately filled with anxiety and realized how quickly I responded this way to any possible sense of disaster – whereas before I had suffered my great loss I had been much more resilient. I looked at Henry in dismay.

  He reached out to touch my cheek. “Darling, don’t worry so. Our daughter is fine and healthy. You and I are well …”

  “Then what is it, Henry? I see plainly you have news – and it promises not to be good.”

  He held my hand, and his expression was compassionate. “Anne - your little dog Purkoy … he has died.”

  My hand went to my mouth. “What happened, Henry? He was young - and well! I had not received a message that he was ailing. Oh alas, my poor, poor Purkoy!”

  Henry looked reluctant to reply. After a minute, he muttered awkwardly, “I am so sorry, Anne. Your little companion fell. He fell out of an open casement window from an upper floor of the palace. No one wanted to tell you, as they felt terrible, and everyone knows how much you loved him.”

  My heartache knew no bounds. Amplified as it was from the occurrences of the recent past, I broke down. I cried and sobbed while Henry held me in his arms, waving away the servants who stood by, and letting me weep on his strong shoulder, releasing all of the pent up anguish I held inside until there were no more tears to be shed.

  At last, I pulled myself together.

  It was very unusual. All at the same time, while I felt happy - grateful for Henry’s love and his strength – I also felt unhappy: overshadowed by the spectre of loss. It seemed that this new dichotomy might become an inevitable pattern in my life.

  In any case, I was more than ready to bid the year 1534 adieu.

  Westminster

  Spring 1535

  With the turn of the new year, my perspective improved immeasurably. I felt well and fit, and looked forward to fair weather so I might ride and hunt with Henry, the court, and invited visitors once again.

  The winter had been mild, and England revelled in an early spring. I took advantage of good travel conditions to visit Elizabeth whenever I could arrange it. Each time I saw her, I was astounded by her growth and development and felt proud to be her mother. I knew her to be a remarkable child; only on occasion did I allow myself to think what life would be like if my Elizabeth had a brother – a baby boy as dazzling as she.

  The matters which proved dominant in those months involved a widening gap between ever more strident religious reformers in England and abroad, and the staunch conservative Catholics who were committed to maintaining their obdurate stance at all cost.

  And that cost was proving to be very dear indeed. In May, four monks who had been spreading counsel against the King and his position as Head of the Church of England were arrested. Even under duress, none of them volunteered to change their position. So they were drawn from the Tower of London to be executed. Of course, I was not present, but I was with Henry when he was given a full account. They were hanged with ropes and, while still alive, the hangman cut out their hearts and bowels, and burned them. Then they were beheaded and quartered, and their bloodied parts skewered on spears in full view for the public. It was said that each, until the last, was made to observe his predecessor’s execution fully carried out before he died, yet even while such horrors were being inflicted they each continued to preach: exhorting the bystanders with the greatest boldness to do well and obey the King in everything that was not against the honor of God and the Church.

  My stomach churned as the report was given in all its gory detail, yet I kept my composure and willed my face to remain impassive; taking my cue from Henry, who sat listening as if he were being informed of the ledger expenses at one of his palaces. No emotion – no expression at all – crossed his features.

  More and more often, now, affairs of state were being handled by Thomas Cromwell. His level of activity was relentless. The man seemed to be everywhere: involved in everything. To Henry, he was invaluable. And because Cromwell and I seemed to share the same dogma I, too, was tentatively satisfied with his conduct albeit there always remained a hint of mistrust on my part. I took note of how differently Henry and I responded to what I felt was the man’s ingratiating behavior. Henry welcomed it, and in return allowed Cromwell even greater control. His confidence in his secretary was conspicuous. I, on the other hand, could not help but hold myself in check. Sceptical by nature, I had reservations about all but my closest of family or companions. Perhaps that is why the more trusting Henry could become so utterly devastated when he learned of even the slightest degree of disloyalty from those whom he deemed close to him.

  Master Cromwell’s handprint was all-pervasive. He oversaw the bills and invoices that came to the King for payment from the royal coffers. He heard arguments for and against clerics who opposed reformist beliefs. He directed the disposition of lands owned by Catholic monasteries which were now being dissolved due to a lack of funding and support from Rome and of course, above all, he kept tight control over the royal inventory of jewels, property, and assets.

  Likely because of that dogged pace, Cromwell took ill just before Easter. His ailment increased in severity until we were informed that he might not survive.

  At that same time, the Lady Mary also took dangerously ill – and this time, it was not feigned. Henry was visibly distressed at the news. I wondered how drastic a turn events might take if either, or both of them, died. But as the weeks went by, it became apparent that they were both to survive, though it took some considerable time for each to recover.

  Once he was able to reappear at court and in Henry’s presence, Cromwell assured the King that neither his abilities nor his vigour for matters important to His Grace were in any way diminished. Probably to curry his King’s favour, Cromwell related that Mr John Smith, Dean of St Paul’
s, had sent a message about a jewel that Henry had once seen while at the church. It was a precious little cross with a crucifix of pure gold and a rich ruby in the side, garnished with four great diamonds, four huge emeralds, four large balasses, and twelve magnificent orient pearls. Apparently, Henry had much admired it, and now Mr Smith, with the agreement of his brethren residentiaries, offered it to the King, trusting accordingly in his charitable goodness toward the Church of St. Paul.

  Personally, I had to conceal my cynicism. To me it was quite apparent that Cromwell had brokered this ‘gift’, not only to please the King but to ensure that Smith and the clergy of St Paul’s were beholden to him, Master Secretary Cromwell.

  All this he did, unfailingly, with his usual quiet, modest demeanor.

  The man was shrewd as a moneylender and as cunning as a fox.

  With me - the Queen and the King’s beloved wife - whispering in one ear, and Cromwell the esteemed secretary in the other, Henry confidently oversaw the planning of the progress, which he and a select retinue would undertake commencing in July. After a lengthy discussion, in which I had been thoroughly involved, it was decided that the progress of the summer of 1535 should be significant. That of the previous year had, of course, been dampened by the terrible event just before Henry’s departure, so this time, there was much to be accomplished. The travel would take place west of London, predominantly to villages and great houses rarely visited by Henry and his court. I had never been that far west, and was eager for adventure; certainly I was more than ready to escape the familiar surroundings we frequented, to ride and hunt, and to enjoy the summer months with abandon by Henry’s side. Oh, and of course I wished to advance the cause of religious Reform – the locations we considered were ripe for such an influential visit: one which would convince the local landowners to adopt the tenets of Reform wholeheartedly.