Truth Endures

by Sandra Vasoli

  I asked Lady Anne what it was like having him live under their roof.

  “Oh, Madame, it was a curious experience, that is certain. He was kind to our two boys, but he was, ah … different, do you know what I mean? After lessons were completed for the day he gathered piles of books and went out into the orchards. He would sit under a tree and read and read for hours on end. Once dinner was finished, he would go to the antechamber near the hall where he kept further stacks of books, parchment, and quills, and write furiously well into the night, having searched the house to seek out and use every nub of candle he could scrounge. ”

  My eyes grew wide, imagining the workings of such a mind. “Was he easy to speak with, Milady? Did he, for instance, relate to matters of everyday life?”

  She chuckled softly. “Umm, that is a good question, Your Highness. At times he seemed to – but at others, one could see that he was elsewhere. Often he ate very little. He seemed to forget to eat! He was a tall young man - almost gaunt. And all too often …” she wrinkled her nose at the memory, “he would neglect entirely to wash or to comb his hair. I needed to remind him, or the boys would not go near him!”

  I chuckled and shook my head, thinking about how it must have been to have lived with a true genius under one’s roof.

  “After a short period, he became obsessed with a desire to go to London to pursue his interest. He was bound to obtain permission to translate scripture, and I would say he was single-minded about securing that; insisting that all men – women too – should be able to read God’s word in their own language … Oh, I did so admire him for his perseverance! And could not help but agree. So, eventually, we gave him some money, wished him well, and off he went to pursue his life’s work. And, as I believe you know, Madame, he has not had an easy time of it.”

  How I enjoyed talking with this enlightened, educated woman! There were so few of us who valued reading, scholarship, or the acquisition of knowledge. There were even fewer who were willing to stand and express their beliefs to the world.

  “So did you remain in touch with William, Lady Anne?”

  “We did, but just for a while. He had poor luck in London. There were those who shared his beliefs, but few who were agreeable to risking their standing or prosperity by endorsing such a seemingly eccentric young man; even fewer prepared to underwrite his cause …” She frowned uneasily. “John and I were taken aback when we heard of an argument William had had with the scholar John Foxe. Foxe argued the necessity of following the edicts laid out by the Pope. By then, William had come to disavow the Pope and the statutes of the Vatican. In his very careless way, we were told that he replied, ‘I defy the Pope, and all his laws; and if God spares my life, ere many years, I will cause the boy that driveth the plow to know more of the Scriptures than thou dost, Doctor Foxe!’”

  She shrugged uncertainly then. “Well, Madame, as I am sure you can understand, shortly after that outburst it behooved William to leave England to see if he could gain a foothold elsewhere. We knew he had gone to Europe, but John and I knew not where.”

  Captivated, I said, “I knew that he travelled around Germany and the Netherlands, seeking sponsors. I also heard about him from people in France who were taking hold of the new ideas and proselytizing on behalf of them. Through my connections, I was able to acquire some books which were, as you know, forbidden – very vocally condemned by Cardinal Wolsey - and of course, Lady Anne, it should come as no surprise to you that I was not a great favourite of Wolsey’s?”

  We met each other’s glance and started giggling at the understatement about what had been an awful time, but was now so far in the past that it seemed almost humorous.

  At this point in the story, I picked up the narration. I was glad that Lady Anne and I were alone, and Henry in another chamber with Sir John so that I could speak frankly. Nevertheless, I still lowered my voice to a near whisper.

  “You may know that Tyndale, in his reckless but committed way, wrote against Henry’s pursuit of a divorce from Katherine?”

  “I do, Your Highness. That must have been difficult for you,” she said with obvious regret.

  “It was. But strangely, I found that I was less angered by that action of his than those by others who just spoke against us with no basis for their argument. There has always been something about Tyndale, for me, which prompts me to cheer for him. I firmly believe that what he is doing will change the world. I was given my own copy of his English translation shortly after Henry and I became betrothed. It remains one of my greatest treasures. In fact, I have it with me. Would you like to see it?”

  Her eyes shone as she nodded in silent affirmation.

  I went to my chamber and brought the dark leather-bound book to her. As she leafed through its pages, her lashes became wet with tears.

  “It is incredibly moving, is it not, Lady Anne?” I commented softly after a long while. “I feel the same way whenever I read it, or even touch it. What a brilliant, incredible, crazy man! And what a gift he has given us all. I have no doubt that, although you and I will fade into lost memory once we are gone from this earth, the name and the work of William Tyndale will live on. As well it should. And thank you for the part you have played in nurturing his life and his works.”

  She reached out to touch my hand in silent gratitude for my comment. I saw that she was overwhelmed, and I returned her grasp to let her know how much I valued our truthful conversation, and the privilege I felt at visiting their home.

  I ventured, “Master Cromwell and I hope to discuss Tyndale’s fate with Henry. Even though he still holds resentment from William’s foolish publication about Henry’s first marriage, there is no question Henry still considers Tyndale to be a great mind. His earlier work Obedience of a Christian Man was what truly enabled Henry’s thinking about his supreme authority as a King – his divine right to rule. So we owe much to Master Tyndale. And, if you and Sir John will join the conversation, together I think we can convince His Majesty to offer a stronghold for William, and perhaps have him return to England to continue his work.”

  “You know, Madame, that he is now imprisoned somewhere in Brussels? We have just received word of this through our sources abroad.”

  “I had heard the same thing, Milady. It is terribly wrong. We are obligated to do whatever we can to allow him to continue his work. Do you agree? Will you join us in discussing it with the King?”

  And, just as I expected from this brave and intelligent woman, she nodded her agreement.

  So it was that we sat and talked, long into the night: Henry, Cromwell, Sir John, Lady Anne and me. I led the discussion, fervently making a case for the need to match our ideology with action. Henry listened to me speak, giving me his full attention, and allowing the others to present then their views. At the conclusion of our impassioned plea, recognizing that Tyndale and his work formed a core of our new religion, Henry conceded that he would do what he could to have Tyndale released from prison, returned to England, and allowed to complete his work on the biblical translation.

  The very next day, Cromwell composed a letter on behalf of the King of England which would be forwarded to Flanders, seeking Tyndale’s release. Only time would tell if this tactic would prove effective.

  Once the letter was composed and completed, we raised a toast to its hoped-for success. As we did so, Master Cromwell studied me intently, both in appreciation of my achievement and in a sudden comprehension of the sway I now held over His Grace, the King.

  … studied me very intently indeed.

  August gave way to summer’s end and, this year, I fully indulged in its rich golden beauty. How I loved the season – I always had – and marveled at the difference a year had made. Although I was stabbed with the sharp pain of profound sorrow whenever I thought about the loss of our baby girl, I believed that I had never been happier than I was on that cusp of September. If it had been possible to achieve the good
fortune of such contentment in these months past, how much more might Henry and I gain in the years to come? I could not help but smile in happy anticipation thereof. We had travelled miles, stayed in wonderful houses, ridden though marvelous great swathes of the English countryside and, perhaps best of all, we had garnered approval from the many, many people we had met along the way. I had been accepted: I was the King’s partner, and it was known to all who saw us.

  And now the time had come for us to look forward to yet another significant event – the consecration of three illustrious bishops who had advanced the cause of the reform in England. The ceremony was to take place at Winchester Cathedral on 19 September, and it would be a blessed, meaningful hallmark in the chronicle of reformation – not only for England but also for the other European countries whose numbers of evangelicals increased every day.

  Before then, though, we arrived at Wulfhall, the home of Sir John Seymour, on 3 September for a several day visit. Sir John was the father of my maid of honour, Jane. Sir John’s wife, Margery, was soft spoken, a seemingly kind woman and one who very warmly welcomed us into her home. Wulfhall was located near Marlborough, in Wiltshire. The property, which lay on the edge of the thick Savernake Forest, consisted of an attractive manor house – certainly not lavish – but the surrounding gardens had been well cultivated and were lovely, the lands extensive, and the house had a private chapel.

  It was within this chapel that Henry, Cromwell, Archbishop Cranmer - who had joined the progress - and several others of Henry’s Privy Council convened to sign official documents confirming appointments of Edward Fox, John Hilsey, and Hugh Latimer as Bishops in the new Church of England.

  After this memorable rite, all the guests adjourned to the broad chamber to celebrate with a feast. When we entered the hall, however, I was momentarily surprised to encounter the Seymour’s daughter, who – of course, I well knew her – was my maid of honor. I had forgotten that Jane had sought permission to spend part of the summer with her parents at Wulfhall while the rest of the court was on progress. Immediately she approached and smiled, curtseying respectfully.

  “I welcome you, Your Highness! Welcome to Wulfhall. I hope you and His Majesty will be comfortable and feel at home here.”

  I nodded to her in return. “Well, thank you, Jane. That is very kind of you. I feel certain we will enjoy our stay. Your family’s estate is lovely, and we greatly appreciate your father’s hospitality.”

  It was strange. As I turned from her to be seated at the table I suddenly felt uneasy. Admittedly I had never taken a liking to Mistress Seymour. Not that she had done anything which was offensive. But nevertheless, there was something about the young woman.

  We all took our places at the long table which had been carefully placed and beautifully set for our repast. Rhenish wine was poured, along with a strong ale imported from Holland. Henry stood at the head of the table and raised his glass.

  In his deep voice, he pronounced: “My gentle friends - on this quietly momentous day – one which has clearly marked the legitimacy and the authority of the English Church – I would like to thank those who have worked tirelessly to enact it. Of course, we give all good recognition to Doctors Latimer, Foxe, and Hilsey, for their enlightened ideology and beliefs that have guided them and which will now, thankfully, guide us as well. Also, though, we must be grateful for the determined efforts of Master Cromwell, and of my entirely beloved wife, Queen Anne. Without their foresight and inspiration, we would not have in place the firm foundation for a Church, which will serve our Almighty Father and the people of England.” Then, as he lifted his arm holding his goblet aloft, Henry looked down at me with pride and love. “So now I bid you all to raise your glasses and let us honour them for their contribution.”

  Oh, so many dishes covered the table. The ale was potent, and talk and laughter grew ever louder. I sat to the right of Henry, and we spoke animatedly with our hosts and the others, but also often with each other. His constant smile was a joy to my soul. As the guests ate and conversed, I happened to glance down the length of the table and caught sight of Mistress Seymour. She had no idea I watched her. But how could she? Her gaze was solely fixed on Henry. She never took her eyes from him, and her countenance was one of pure adulation. Occasionally she glanced down, and I saw a blush flood her cheeks. But it was not long before her adoring attention returned only to him and she followed his every word and every nuance.

  Henry, on the other hand, had no idea of her absorption with him. Observing this, I was confused. But in a mere moment’s time, I realized what I was witnessing, and a knot of white-hot anger was kindled in my gut. I stared at the wretched creature until somehow she must have sensed my glare and looked up from her worship of my husband to catch my expression. At first, she was taken aback and grew quite red, eyes darting about the room as if she were innocent. I kept my unblinking watch on her, never wavering. Then, though, instead of becoming ever more flustered, she looked back at me. She looked me directly in the eye. I saw her draw in her breath, sit straight, and raise her chin at me in defiance.

  Oh, I recognized that challenging gesture.

  It was the same cold stare I had levelled at Katherine, years ago.

  We remained at Wulfhall for several days and during that time, I kept my distance from Jane. Henry, who very clearly had noticed nothing during the meal, or after that, was constantly busy hunting, reviewing documents, meeting with Cranmer and Cromwell in preparation for the upcoming ceremony. I knew of his whereabouts every minute of each day. By the time we were packed and ready to ride on, some of my raw anger had subsided. How impudent of that young woman - I knew there had been a reason why I had disliked her from the start! But I resolved not to allow her simple behavior to affect me overmuch: it was absurd to fear that that a man like Henry would ever notice a girl like Jane, much less take an interest in her. For a start, she was exceedingly plain, poorly dressed unless she wore one of the costumes I provided at court, and unintelligent. She had not spoken up once at dinner, nor did she when my household was convened. She hardly read, and spoke no languages other than English – and that, not artfully. In fact, more than not, she quite faded into the background altogether. Henry would never take heed of her – nor would any other man, sadly for her, I concluded.

  But I …? I still determined to keep a watch on the unpleasant little strumpet.

  The liturgy and appointment of the Bishops was a beautiful and gratifying event. A great and happy surprise arrived at the appearance of the French ambassador Jean de Dinteville, who had come to Winchester to attend the consecration. I had always been fond of Monsieur Dinteville, and this time he brought me an esteemed message. Marguerite, sister of François, that lady whom I respected above most all other women, had sent her gracious compliments and admiration to Henry and me. She was pleased with the news of the consecration, and of the great strides we had made for reform in England. In exchange, I returned a message to say that, other than the blessing of having a son, my greatest wish was to see her once again. And perhaps I would be able to if Henry and I were to travel to France one day.

  The end of our progress was in view. But while we still had the freedom it offered, we hawked and hunted in the harvest fields, and I absorbed every aspect of that marvelous time Henry and I shared.

  By mid-October we arrived at The Vyne, a house already familiar to me, imbued with good memories from a visit Henry and I had made to Lord Sandys’ estate about four years previously. And what a gorgeous residence it truly was! Massive, imposing, with every comfort available, and I had my own large suite of chambers on the first floor, which adjoined Henry’s apartments. The fittings in my chambers were of the finest quality – silk and satin drapery, velvet bed coverings, plush padded chairs and benches, and a warm fire constantly burning in the hearth. Even the bed was enormous and invitingly soft. I hoped Henry and I would make good use of it!

  Once the entire party had been se
ttled in their respective chambers, bags and trunks unpacked, we attended a service of thanksgiving in The Vyne’s breathtaking chapel. A lovely, ethereal light streamed through the tall leaded glass windows, each of which bore a coat of arms of the Sandys dynasty. Its panelled walls and choir stalls were of highly polished oak, intricately carved, while, most astonishing of all, were its floors. They were lined with colourful tiles, each remarkably depicting a different image: portraits, birds, animals, and occasionally, a reminder of our mortality and the consequence of living a lawless life – human skulls. As we admired them, Lord Sandys told us they had been specially commissioned in Antwerp and shipped to the house for laying in the chapel, and other areas of the manor.

  The service was most moving, especially since we had just been favoured with the raising of three good men to bishoprics, men who were staunch defenders of my title and position. In addition to giving thanks to God for the many blessings we had been granted on our journey, I made a point of praying fervently that the refreshed bond my husband and I shared would result in a conception. Dear Lord, I beseeched: this time of a son. Perhaps my prayer would be heard, and my request granted. I had great hope.

  The days we spent at The Vyne were idyllic. We were able to enjoy repose since, while in residence, there was no need for evangelisation; the consecration ceremony being behind us now, and which had been carried out without flaw. Indeed, I had only one regret: an awareness that we were coming to the end of a glorious time.

  Henry came to my chamber each night, exclaiming that not only was he there to lie with his beautiful wife but because he believed it to be the best bed in the house! Our lovemaking was tender and very satisfying, and each dawn following I sighed with gladness and relief.There had been earlier periods, in the past months and at the start of our travels, when he had come to my bed yet the act of love had proved impossible for him. I worried terribly when this first happened. What had gone wrong? In the past, he had always been greatly aroused when we lay together. I had to admit to myself that he was almost 45 years of age. Though I knew of men who fathered children past that point, it was not a common occurrence. Perhaps they, too, suffered the same difficulty. It was a subject I was unable to discuss with anyone, though … or anyone except my brother George, perhaps? Might he be able to advise me - and either way, he would certainly be discreet! I resolved to ask him when I next had a chance.