by G Lawrence
It was the secrecy which troubled me. Although I understood that whilst Henry was still officially married to Katherine we could hardly marry before the court, as I wished we could, the measures Henry had gone to shook me. Did he still think himself married to Katherine? My head told me this was so, just as my heart told me he had never been Katherine’s husband. I was a bag of emotions, tumbled together, shuffling awkwardly as they all attempted to oust one another. It should have been the happiest day of my life, but it was not. There was too much uncertainty riding my blood to feel secure, or to allow joy to master the other emotions tearing through my soul.
Before daybreak, we skittered through the empty halls and gathered in the high chamber of York Place, inside the bridge which connected one side of the vast palace to the other. As I walked towards Henry, I saw his chaplain looking nervous. Had Clement truly announced he had found in Henry’s favour, there would have been a proclamation, and there had not. But Doctor Lee had supported the annulment, and I suspected he understood Henry had lied to him. That lie would suffice, in order for him to marry us.
Doctor Lee began to speak of the comfort and joy of marriage, and asked if any knew of any reason we should not be joined. Not surprisingly, there was no comment from our witnesses. What worried me a little was that, obviously, the banns proclaiming our union had not been published. The banns were there to ensure that any objection to a union was brought to light before the wedding. This was not done in our case. This did not make the ceremony illegal, but should an objection be raised later, it might be upheld. I tried to cast away such dark thoughts, but they nagged at my heart.
When Doctor Lee asked for the permission of the Pope to be read, Henry smiled and said it had been received. “Think you me a man of so small and slender foresight and consideration of my affairs that unless all things were safe and sure, I would enterprise this matter?”
My nerves almost got the better of me. A fixed smile sat upon my lips. Would Lee refuse?
Lee pressed for it to be read, and Henry declared it was within his private papers, all but challenging Lee to call him a liar. “If I should fetch it,” Henry said, “now that it waxeth towards day, I would be seen early abroad and there would rise a rumour thereof other than were convenient. Go forth in God’s name and do that which appertaineth to you.”
Technically, Henry did have a papal licence to marry me. The fact it specified the condition that his marriage to Katherine had to be found void before our union could be allowed was why Henry did not want it read. The licence did not say, however, who was supposed to make this announcement. The papacy, of course, would take it for granted that it was the Pope. Henry, however, as Head of the Church, believed he could.
But if he was uncomfortable about the missing licence, Doctor Lee did not falter. He read from St Paul to the Ephesians, “wives be subordinate to their husbands as to the Lord. For the husband is the head of his wife, just as Christ is head of the Church, he himself the saviour of the body. As the Church is subordinate to Christ, so wives should be subordinate to their husbands in everything.” He went on to St Paul to the Corinthians, “man is the image and glory of God, but woman is the glory of man. For man was not made from woman but woman from man. Neither was man created for woman, but woman created for man.”
Although it was a Bible-held truth that woman was made from man, I resented the notion that women should obey their husbands without question. But there was no getting around the vows of marriage.
“Will you, Anne Boleyn, take Henry Tudor, King of England, to be your lawfully wedded husband? To love, honour and obey. To be buxom and bonny. To have and to hold from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer for poorer, in sickness and in health, until death do you part?”
“I, Anne Boleyn, take you Henry Tudor to be my lawfully wedded husband. I promise to be true to you, in good times and in bad, in sickness and in health, for better or for worse. I will be buxom and bonny in bed, according to your pleasure and will love, honour and obey you all the days of my life according to God’s Holy ordinance, and thereto I plight thee my troth.”
“With my body I thee worship,” said Henry, slipping a golden band on my finger. “And with all my worldly goods I thee endow.”
“In the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit, Amen. You have declared your consent before the Church and these witnesses here present. May the Lord in His goodness strengthen your consent and fill you both with His blessings. What God hath joined, men may not divide. Amen.”
In the eyes of God, I was certain I was Henry’s wife. But when I looked at Henry, I could see fear. In the eyes of all who supported Katherine, Henry was a bigamist.
The day after the ceremony, Henry took Cromwell aside and ordered him to ensure our marriage was recognised as legitimate. With his union with Katherine not annulled, and the secrecy with which our wedding had taken place, Henry was aware there were many who would question our marriage. Parliament was recalled that very day. They would be called upon to pass the necessary legislation, but would not be told we were married. Parliament was filled with men who we knew would vote in our favour, and with Cromwell’s man, Audley, as Chancellor, we had a friend in the House of Lords too.
And there was more good news, for Cranmer had finally made it home. My dear friend had not made much progress in convincing the Emperor to see Henry’s point of view, but I was not displeased. Charles of Spain would never listen to us, and, at that time, I saw no further need that he should do. We were making our own kingdom; one of faith and glory. Cranmer would lead it, and with him as Archbishop of Canterbury, Henry and I could announce our union soon.
Vaughan told us that Cranmer had wrestled with his scruples on the journey home, and he also believed this was why the potential Archbishop had delayed.
“He does not wish to take an oath binding him to the papacy,” Cromwell told me.
“My good, sweet Cranmer!” I cried, quite forgetting all the frustration and fear I had felt as he tarried on the way home. “He is a man of true faith and honesty.”
“The King has already agreed that Cranmer will swear the traditional oath but will add that he will not act against the law of Christ,” said Cromwell. “That way the Pope will think Cranmer is his, but His Majesty knows that his Archbishop is true to him alone.”
Henry called Cranmer to court, and although the man had already been told of his new office, he was overcome by Henry’s praise. “You are the only man worthy of the post,” Henry said. “The only one I trust to lead my people into the light of God.”
The poor man could hardly stutter his thanks and went to leave the chamber, utterly stunned. I stopped him by kneeling before him and kissing the hem of his robe.
“My lady,” he said. “You honour me too much. I am not yet Archbishop of Canterbury.”
“In my eyes, in the eyes of the King and of God, you have long held that post,” I said. “I honour you, Your Eminence. No better man could have been chosen. The King is wise to see the grace you will grant England.”
As Cranmer left, I saw Henry’s eyes glowing with hope.
Despite our resolution to remain silent about our baby, Henry and I became like children with a secret too delicious to be silenced. People waiting for positions in my household were told by Henry, with an accompanying wink, they would not have to wait long.
Chapter Forty-Four
York Place
Winter 1533
As drifts of late snow sailed over England, Parliament opened. And Cromwell was ready. A new bill was prepared that restricted the right to make appeals to Rome, making Henry’s word and that of the Archbishop of Canterbury final and unchallengeable. Cromwell was so set in his resolution that he even ignored Henry’s comments on the bill. Cromwell understood this session of Parliament was of the utmost importance, not only for his career, but for his life. Only too aware of Wolsey’s failure, Cromwell was not about to make the same mistakes.
Anyone who spoke out against t
he bill was added to a list Cromwell was making. Any man who obstructed his path to glory would regret they had dared. Sir George Throckmorton was one. He had already pointed out that if our marriage went ahead it was likely to cause disquiet in Henry’s conscience, and had lately said to Henry that he had meddled both with my sister and my mother… a curious slight on my mother’s good reputation, and one Henry denied, saying “never with the mother!” as he walked away with his cheeks flaming.
Throckmorton swiftly found himself banished. Cromwell told him to retire to his country estates, and, if he knew what was good for him, stay there to live, serve God, and meddle little.
Another bill was sent through Parliament too. Called An Acte for the punishment and vice of Buggerie, it was the first law against sodomy. This had previously been dealt with by ecclesiastical courts, but Cromwell thought it was being abused by priests and monks who had good reason to desire light sentences for such offences. The Act defined sodomy as an unnatural act, against the laws of God and man, and it also included bestiality for good measure. If convicted, a man could lose his goods and property, which would go to the Crown rather than to his kin, and his life would also be forfeit. Whilst this Act was intended to cover all people, everyone knew it was really a strike against the Church. Sodomites were rife in the close quarters of the cloisters, and for a long time had got away with consensual, and non-consensual, acts. This was intended to stop this practice, protect younger brothers and nuns who were sometimes subjected to rape, and warn the Church that their days of loose living were done.
Cranmer was due to be consecrated in March. We could not announce my pregnancy or our wedded state until he was in place and had ruled upon Henry’s first marriage. But neither I nor Henry could help ourselves. Offhand comments trickled out, bringing our supporters into a heady confusion of excitement, wariness and jubilation. My father told the Earl of Rutland that Henry was determined to wed me at once, and when Rutland argued that Parliament had no authority over spiritual matters, my father lost his temper, shouting at Rutland until the unfortunate man agreed to vote for Henry. Other peers were handled in the same way. Everyone could see our confidence. They could also see Henry’s eagerness. It was not a good idea to stand in the King’s way when he was bent on a charge to glory.
“If I am not with child by Easter,” I announced brazenly to Norfolk at a gathering at York Place. “I shall undertake a pilgrimage to pray to the Virgin.”
My uncle was rather surprised by my comment, as we had not been speaking of anything to do with children, but when he saw Suffolk nearby, glaring, he chuckled. I returned his grin and turned it on Suffolk, who twisted his sullen face away.
That session of Parliament was the first my brother attended as a Member. He returned to England some time after us, after negotiating with François. When he came to court, I went straight to his rooms, and, sending his servants out, told him everything.
“You amaze me!” he exclaimed. “So… you are my Queen!”
“Not quite,” I said. “The Appeals Bill must get through Parliament. This is the final step. Once this is passed, Cranmer can proclaim Henry and Katherine’s marriage null and void, our union can be announced, and no man will dare to appeal to Rome.” I ran a hand over my stomach. “And not a moment too soon…” I added, smiling.
George gaped, then sprang from his seat, lifted me in his arms and whirled me through the air. “Sister!” he almost shouted. “What joyous news!”
I laughed. “Hush,” I said. “Until the bill is passed, this must be secret.”
“I shall tell not a soul.”
“Jane will tell you about the service, for she and Mary were there,” I said. “Even Mother and Father do not know. But soon they will.”
Leaving George’s chambers with my brother in tow, I spotted Tom in the hallway. Intoxicated by my conversation with George, I turned to him. “Good day to you, Master Wyatt,” I said, smiling at the courtiers surrounding him, including my sour-faced aunt of Norfolk. “This is a fine day, do you not think?”
“A beautiful day, my lady,” Tom said.
“I must congratulate you on your appointment to the Privy Council,” I went on. “I know what faith His Majesty has in you.”
“I understand that you spoke for me, my Lady Marquess,” said Tom. “And I am grateful for your intervention.” He looked me up and down. “You look radiant,” he said. “I hope you are as well in spirit as you seem in body?”
“I am,” I said. “Although I find myself quite overcome with a curious and furious desire for apples. The King tells me this is a sign I must be pregnant, but I have told him such a thing is impossible.”
Tom looked stupefied and George was barely able to contain himself as the others gaped. I took George’s arm, laughing loudly, and led him back inside.
“I thought you said it was to be secret,” George whispered.
“When I saw the Duchess, I could not resist.” I leaned against his shoulder, crying with laughter. All the hurt and the pain and the misery of the past years lifted. Why should I not crow? Why should I not laugh in my foes’ faces? They had thrown enough barbs at me over the years. Now they would see how wrong they had been!
The papal bulls allowing Cranmer’s appointment arrived late that February and Henry called him to court. “We must go ahead with all speed,” he told Cranmer. “I want no more delays. Your first order of business must be the matter of my marriage to Katherine.”
“It has, indeed, been too long, Majesty,” said Cranmer. “Clement’s shocking lack of respect and understanding of Church law, along with his hesitation and reluctance, have brought the faith into disrepute. This will continue no longer.”
When Henry left to talk to Cromwell about affairs in Parliament, I took Cranmer to one side. “I am merry to hear your firm resolve, my friend,” I said. “And you are right. Everyone questions Rome because of cowardly Clement. At last people are waking, all over the world, to the understanding that Rome does not control their lives or their spiritual beliefs.”
“The King will be a just and fair ruler over the spiritual concerns of the country.”
“As will you, old friend,” I said. “Perhaps even more so.”
“Madam… you flatter me.”
I shook my head. “No,” I said. “I do not. You have a good heart, Cranmer. That brings me hope. You will do good for England, and her people. They were lost, but under your care, they will be found.” I kissed his cheek. “I could not be happier.”
“I will never cease to be grateful, my lady, that you and your father spoke for me.”
“The King hardly needed convincing. You did not get this position through flattery or influence. You got this on your own, Cranmer. You are the soul most worthy.”
“I will do my utmost, my lady, never to disappoint you.”
“And I will do the same,” I said. “When I am your Queen.”
Cranmer smiled shyly. “You could never disappoint me, my lady.”
Chapter Forty-Five
Greenwich Palace
Winter 1533
Late that February, I held a feast in my rooms. Henry was buoyant, riding high on the promises of my two C’s and I was giddy with delight. I had invited everyone at court, and, since this feast was given in Henry’s honour, none could refuse to attend. I had taken care to send invitations to my enemies to be presented when they were in company with Henry or his men. Henry would hear if they slighted me. The new French ambassador, Jean de Dinteville, had also been invited, but instructed not to accost Henry with demands from France.
Henry was pleased with the idea of a night away from talks about politics, and gave me permission to send for tapestry from all of London’s palaces to decorate my chambers. I took particular delight in demanding a set from Richmond Palace, where Princess Mary languished.
“Do you not think that is a bit spiteful, sister?” my sister asked.
“When Lady Mary discovers she is nothing but the King’s bastard, she will
have to get used to doing without the trappings of royalty,” I retorted briskly. “She might as well begin now.”
“But, sister, people will talk. There is already sympathy for Katherine and her daughter.”
“Enough,” I hissed. “Have I not put up with enough from them? You find it easy to be so good and meek, Mary, but you do not have the people shouting whore at you, or have to endure Katherine calling you the Scandal of Christendom, do you?”
“Men and women have called me many names in my time, sister,” she said stiffly. “Where men are not judged for taking hundreds of lovers, I was disgraced for taking two, and so I know there is no point in responding, or showing spite, for it only makes them resolved to do you more ill.” She shrugged. “Do as you will,” she said. “But I think you are making a mistake.”
“You will address me as my Lady Marquess, in public,” I said, annoyed, for I knew she had a point.
“As you wish, my Lady Marquess.”
