Truth Endures

by Sandra Vasoli

  For my part, I planned to remain indoors with my ladies, having no interest in watching the spectacle.

  As we worked, we enjoyed the breeze which wafted through the open casement: the day being unusually warm. The number of spectators was great enough that we could detect the distant bellow of the crowd when one jouster took down another. We stitched and gossiped, and then I noticed that it had been some time since we had heard any noise at all from the tiltyard. At that exact moment, my Uncle Norfolk appeared at the door to the chamber, his face ashen.

  “Milady!” his eyes sought mine. My heart stopped.

  “What is it, Uncle? What, has something happened? TELL me!”

  “Madame, ‘tis your husband, the King! He was galloping toward his opponent …”

  His usually resonant voice failed momentarily; then he regained control.

  “… but as they closed, his horse lurched, slipped and fell - directly on top of His Majesty! The horse was injured, and they had to pull it off the King. Lady, the King did not move. I fear he is dead!”

  My ladies gasped, and some started immediately to cry. I felt the blood drain from my head and became so faint I believed I would swoon. Anne Zouche rushed to me, removed the fabric and needle clutched frozen in my hand, and had me lie flat on a bench. She fanned me with a swatch of cloth and cried for someone to pour ale. I felt as if I would vomit from fear. Anne held my head forward and had me sip the weak brew, but it helped little. My hands trembled violently, and my thoughts were jumbled. Henry dead? It could not be! He was so hugely alive and robust mere minutes ago!

  Eventually, feeling terribly unwell, the ladies and a steward helped me to my bedchamber where I lay dry-mouthed, shivering with fright and covered with a blanket while Bess Holland scurried to seek further information. It seemed hours that I waited, and while I did, all I was able to think of was what I would ever do should Henry be gone? What if his death was confirmed and I now should bear him a son? The cruelty of that possibility caused me to weep. I prayed that somehow a mistake had been made, and he still lived.

  When I thought I could bear it no longer, Bess returned with my blessed brother. I gazed at him wild-eyed. “George, tell me the truth - what has happened to Henry?”

  George sat on the edge of the bed and took my ice-cold hand in his. “Anne, he lives. Thank God Almighty, he has been restored to us!”

  With a little cry, I sat up and George hugged me close while I sobbed with a mix of fright and relief. When I, at last, could compose myself, he told me that the Henry’s huge steed had taken a heavy fall after losing its footing and that my dearest had been trapped beneath it. But even when the horse was lifted, a Herculean task which required eight men, the King had remained pale and unmoving. When he did not respond to being called - and because, due to his armour, no one could tell if he still drew breath - it was first assumed that he had perished. It took many more men to carry him to his chamber on a strong litter, whence he was laid upon the bed. With great difficulty, his armour was removed, yet still he did not wake!

  Only once his breastplate could be removed did his doctor listen to his chest and declare that the King still breathed. Those in attendance gave great thanks, but it was yet many minutes before Henry opened his eyes. He seemed not to know what had happened to him, George told me, but he was now resting, attended by several doctors administering many potent remedies: all known to be the most efficacious available in the Kingdom, and because of their skilled interventions, Dr Butts felt that the King would recover.

  My prayers of thanksgiving were fervent: my relief immeasurable.

  But I felt very unwell.

  I did not see my husband for several days after his fall. He convalesced in his privy chambers with the assistance of Henry Norreys and his doctors. Only eventually was I given a report that his strength was returning and that he would be hale once again. In the meantime, I too kept to my chambers, resting and taking little activity. Something was not right. I felt unusually tired and drawn. I had no appetite. My ladies fussed over me. What I did not tell them - what, in fact, I was reluctant to admit even unto myself - was a dawning awareness that the infant in my womb, once again, had ceased moving.

  I felt as if I floated outside my body. Looking back, I believe my heart was not able to grasp such a bitter possibility, my mind being shrouded in such a fog of confusion. This was how I fought for survival in the face of such a dreadful truth. Until that truth, itself, became inescapable.

  Just five days after Henry’s accident, I began to bleed. The midwife was called and quietly and quickly I was delivered of an infant so small it was as yet only partially formed. Such a tiny, defenseless soul! I did not look upon it, but brave Nan Cobham, who was with me as ever, told me how it seemed as if it would have been a healthy child, had it lived and grown in my womb as it was supposed to.

  Through my sorrow, I posed the question which had to be asked. She hung her head, and I saw her tears glint in the candlelight as she answered.

  “It was a male child, my dearest Madame.”

  Whitehall

  Eastertide 1536

  There was nothing to do but recover.

  I had no other choice.

  I could hardly lie in melancholy on my bed until I died there while my ladies anguished for me. It was bad enough they crept about like sad mice, pulling handkerchiefs from their girdles to mop quietly shed tears. I watched them for some days until finally calling them together.

  “My ladies, you are dear to me beyond words. Truly, I know not what I would do without every one of you. Your distress is a comfort to me because it means I am loved, and love is the salve that heals all wounds. But I want you all to know this - although I sorrow deeply for my poor unborn child, I will survive this tragedy. Already I am feeling increasingly well. Every day I regain strength, so much so that I can tell you I will conceive again, and that it will be soon. And this time it will surely be the son the King and I both long for. Weep for me no longer for I have deep faith in God, and truly believe He will grant this to me, and to our noble and much-loved monarch. So, please, dry your tears: let us put smiles on our faces and make ready for the Lenten season, and for Easter. Meanwhile, I ask you to pray for me and my petition, while I, in turn, will pray for each and every one of you.”

  With just a few more sniffles, they gathered themselves and went about their business. It had helped me, too, giving that speech.

  I, myself, had even started to believe what I’d just said to them.

  More than a week had passed before I saw Henry while, in the interim, I both craved the comfort of his presence and dreaded the sight of him. After all, I had failed my King yet again. Failed just like his first wife, who now lay dead and mouldering. But there was no putting it off further. He entered my chamber in complete privacy one morning in the middle of February as I sat awaiting him in great trepidation. He crossed the room and heavily lowered himself into a chair facing me while I, for my part, felt the sweated palms of my hands slide from the arms of my seat. We gazed at each other, and I was struck speechless. When I peered into his face, a countenance so familiar to me I knew it better than my own, it did not belong to the man I knew and loved. I was so bewildered I swallowed convulsively, whereupon my words stuck in my throat. The more I gazed at him, the less recognizable he seemed! What had happened? His return stare was cold in a way I had never – not once in all the time I had known him – encountered. It was as if he knew me not at all, either.

  “Henry…?” I began, though not at all sure of what next to say.

  He stopped me with a curt retort. “I see, Madame, that neither you nor God will give me a male child.”

  “That is not true, Henry! We have conceived three children in three years! You must surely realize that our baby was lost only due to my great shock at hearing about your accident.” I fought desperately to gather myself before continuing, “Husband, I feared you
were dead! And I could not have borne that anguish. You have said it yourself - we can again conceive, and this time it will be a boy. I … I shall take great care of my health. You will see!”

  He stared deep into my soul with those cold, glassy, alien eyes, all the while with that peculiar look on his face. It gave me a chill such as I had never before experienced.

  With nary another word, he scraped his chair back, stood, and left the room.

  Greenwich

  April 1536

  For days he avoided me, leaving the disconcerting feeling that my once greatly beloved husband was no longer the man I had known. I made mention of it to no one, but it seemed that hurtful news was the order of the day when, shortly after that, I was hesitantly informed by my very dear Nan Zouche that Henry had been seen with Mistress Jane Seymour, her arms wound about his neck and her bottom perched upon his lap. At first, my fury threatened to take over, and I was ready to find her, slap her face, then send the ugly wench packing back home, never to return to court. But Nan restrained me, wisely counselling that if I were so to do, it might well give the King all that much more cause to defy me and pursue my rival even more avidly. She convinced me, with great difficulty, to allow any potential assignation to run its course.

  Most reluctantly I agreed, though I could not look upon the harlot, and kept her as far from me as possible.

  But that was not the end of my travails. I then discovered that Cromwell had been diverting revenue which had been gleaned from monastery closures to an account of indeterminate nature: one which he had taken complete control of. It meant he had purposely contravened the instructions I had given him when we’d discussed this matter on numerous occasions. And of even greater concern: I was certain he had garnered Henry’s complete agreement.

  I decided to fight the battle in a way other than by confrontation.

  I met with John Skypp, one of my three chaplains, and my almoner, who was to assist me in the distribution of aid to the needy. It was arranged that Skypp would give the sermon on the Sunday before Easter, the Passion service, at which the entire court would be in attendance, to include Master Cromwell. I outlined for Master Skypp what I wished him to convey, and left him to what he did best – create an eloquent sermon.

  On Sunday 2 April, every stall in the Chapel Royal was filled. As soon as Skypp stood to deliver his homily, he had the full attention of the congregation. He began, cleverly using the allegory of scripture, to accuse the high and mighty of the court as promoters of false intent simply to please the King, and to advance their personal interests. He went on to relay an Old Testament tale: the story of Esther. Skillfully weaving this before the congregants, he drew a very obvious comparison to Thomas Cromwell - he being the Deceiver - while alluding to me, the noble Queen, as Esther: the representative of Good who was ignored, but who triumphed in the end. He summarized by making it clear to all that Cromwell’s intentions, backed by members of Parliament, was to enrich themselves with the money they collected, and not to do good throughout the land as intended.

  There arose very audible discord within the chapel, and, once the service had concluded, the courtiers and their wives filed out while whispering intently behind their hands. It was clear Skypp’s sermon had had quite an impact.

  It was not long after that that I was approached by Cromwell, his features rigid with annoyance. When he addressed me, it was only in short, clipped sentences. Within the confines of propriety which he was bound to obey, he let me know in no uncertain terms that he had been humiliated by Skypp’s sermon; that he held me accountable, and that I was completely wrong in my assessment. He ended by stating that he no longer held any trust for me.

  I said, “Thomas! Your statements are unkind.”

  Most sharply he replied, “No Madame. I am merely direct!”

  … and with that, our meeting concluded.

  But the rising tide of bad news did not.

  It was during that very week - Easter week - that I discovered Henry had appointed Edward Seymour, the despicable Jane’s brother, to his Privy Chamber. This knowledge, too, made me extremely unhappy. But I held no recourse.

  On Good Friday, Henry and I attended mass during which I performed the Queen’s tradition of washing and presenting the blessed crampe-rings, after creeping to the cross. And on Easter Sunday, we attended mass with Elizabeth, sitting next to one another in the Chapel, and then processed to the grand banquet held in the Great Hall as was the custom every year. Our interactions were awkward, though. There was no closeness between us. And my heart ached because of it.

  Early in the week after Easter, I attended an early service with Henry. I felt buoyant that morning because, upon greeting my husband, his demeanor had considerably warmed toward me, and he seemed to have lost that strange and unaccustomed look. Perhaps there might be a rapprochement between us, after all? I could only pray so. To encourage our good relations, I was cheerful and very accommodating indeed to him.

  As we walked to our pew, I passed Ambassador Chapuys. I turned to him, gave him a cordial smile and nodded in greeting. It would have been appropriate had he kissed my hand then, but pointedly he did not. However, I refused to allow his rude conduct to ruin what had been an exceptionally good start to the day.

  Mass concluded, we returned to the presence chamber and dined with George and two other French ambassadors. I thought it strange that Ambassador Chapuys was not present, but, curiously, as soon as dinner was ended, and I stood to depart, he miraculously appeared. I noticed that Henry motioned for Chapuys to join him at one side of the chamber for discussion. I also espied Cromwell, nervously pacing at the opposite end of the room. He kept glancing at Chapuys, and it seemed quite obvious to me that they were involved in some collusion which was not going as planned. It struck me as exceedingly strange and gave me yet more reason to mistrust entirely Secretary Cromwell.

  Later, George told me that, at the conclusion of Chapuys’ audience with the King, Cromwell had been summoned and, as he and the King conversed, their discourse became heated. George said that discussion soon escalated into an argument, and Cromwell had to step out, shaking with ire. Through further, discreet investigation, George found that, in part, the argument had concerned Chapuys’ continuing and adamant refusal to recognize me as Queen.

  So I had been right in my suspicions, then. Cromwell had turned against me, and in some underhanded way was aligning himself with Eustace Chapuys: long my enemy!

  At this stark realization, my blood ran like cold water. This was no child’s game. It was now an open rivalry, and it was deadly serious. I had no choice now but to try and convince Henry that his dedicated servant Cromwell was a sneak and a plotter.

  But how to go about this? I hoped to build upon the good will I had shared with Henry on that Easter Tuesday. In this way, I might shore up our relationship, and also convince him that he must be wary of Cromwell and his nefarious intentions. I pondered my approach. And what better way to restore normalcy than to affect merriment, I thought? So that was what I set out to do, in the hope of settling the uneasiness of recent months. As in the past, I held evening soirées in my chambers, including members of Henry’s close retinue - always taking great care to invite him, of course. Most often we played cards or entertained ourselves with music and dance. I had taken a liking to the young musician Mark Smeaton, who had played lute for Henry and me on a number of occasions. I found him equally able to play lilting tunes which were perfect for dancing. My ladies enjoyed themselves on these evenings, and I deliberately promoted an air of relaxed pleasure. I will readily admit that after the withdrawal of Henry’s approval, I had suffered greatly, and it had caused me to lose confidence. Suddenly I found myself craving the confirmation that men still found me attractive, and that my skill at courtly flirtation had not abated.

  It was in this setting toward the end of April, on an evening when His Grace the King was not in attendance, that I foun
d myself somewhat unwillingly engaged in discussion with Henry Norreys. Norreys had had too much to drink and proved loud and bawdy from the onset. His betrothed, Madge Shelton, was not present, which inhibited him even less: and when he took me aside to converse, he stood too close. I had my back to a corner, and as he leaned in, I asked him quite pointedly when, if ever, he intended to marry Mistress Shelton? He laughed dismissively before moving even closer. By then I was becoming seriously alarmed but didn’t intend to show it, so I challenged him directly, asking if he were not man enough to take a wife?

  I was confounded by his reply, for he said that he had delayed his marriage in the event, though unlikely, that the King would cease to exist, and then he might have me! I was struck silent, because the risky nature of his comment was astounding beyond belief, and the lecherous implication of his rude behavior entirely unacceptable. I wished to reach out and slap him, but that was impossible, so under my breath so as not to be overheard, I hissed, “How DARE you, Henry Norreys! You presume to fill a dead man’s shoes with ME? While the dead man you speak of is your King? You best rethink your offensive and traitorous words! I demand that you leave my chamber immediately.”

  He stepped back, abashed, and lurched toward the door. By this time, others who had been in earshot stared aghast at what had just taken place. I thought it best to say no more about the unpleasant incident.

  The next day, however, it became apparent that someone had informed Henry – if not the exact words of that distressing confrontation, certainly the scenario of Norreys leaning in as if to kiss me had been recounted with, no doubt, considerable relish!

  Henry was furious. He confronted me at dinner - but stalked off before I had any chance to explain. This was a setback I neither wanted nor needed, so I hurried to the nursery and gathered Elizabeth. Holding her in my arms, I carried her to his Privy Chambers and found him stalking agitatedly to and fro. Calling to him, I approached and waved away the esquires who were in attendance. Henry stared fixedly through the window, refusing to face me as I implored him to hear me and understand that I had had no part in soliciting Norreys’ highly inappropriate actions.