by Jean Plaidy
The King had a great fondness for More. He liked to visit the house in Chelsea where More lived, surrounded by his family, rather more simply than a man in his position usually did. This domestic felicity pleased the King, and More was of course a brilliant man—perhaps the most brilliant man in the kingdom—and his conversation was witty, so at More's house the King was entertained as he liked to be.
So he was pleased when More's explanation was accepted.
That was the state of affairs at the beginning of that momentous year.
The Nun of Kent was in prison awaiting death; and many of those who had been ready to question the King's action had now realized that it would be unwise to do so.
There was a rumbling throughout the country. Monks and priests were boldly preaching against the break with Rome; people congregated in the streets and talked of the doom which would come to England. Cromwell wanted stricter laws to be enforced. There must be harsh punishment to quell rising revolt, he said.
Sentence was passed on the Nun of Kent and she was burned at the stake. It was an example of what would be done to those who spoke against the King.
Then a terrible thing happened to me. There was no reason for it. I lost the child I was carrying; and it would have been a son.
I could not understand it. I was healthy and capable of bearing strong children. There was nothing wrong with Elizabeth except that she was a girl.
And here we were, conforming to the old pattern which had set itself for Katharine. This was my first miscarriage… and a boy. How often had that happened to Katharine? Too many times to remember.
I was heartbroken and the King was bitterly disappointed.
“We'll have our boy yet,” he said; and I had to be comforted because he did not blame me as he had blamed Katharine. I did not want the people to know of my misfortune. If they did, there would be murmurs about the wrath of Heaven.
I was tense and worried.
But Henry was still in love with me. There had been no repetition of the alarming affair just before Elizabeth had been born.
I was very quickly pregnant again. This time, I told myself, it must come right. Nothing shall go wrong this time.
England had changed. Fearful of the murmuring of the people and the great controversy which had arisen out of the break with Rome, Cromwell had thought it necessary to introduce new laws. In the past, if a man stood against the King, that was treason and might well bring the death sentence. Now it was a crime even to speak against the King.
People had to watch their words, and that made for a very uneasy state of affairs, for how easy it was for an enemy to report a traitorous remark spoken by one he wished to harm.
For the first time in his life the King was really unpopular. He resented it. It was he who had insisted on the divorce and the break with Rome, but I was learning something of Henry's character. When something went wrong, he looked around for someone to blame; and there were times when I caught him looking at me with a calculating expression. I did not comment on it. I was afraid to. I thought it might bring forth a tirade of recriminations to which I might make some pointed and unforgivable comments.
Still, I was once more pregnant, and that softened Henry toward me.
Then again I lost the child.
This was frightening. I began to suspect it was Henry who could not get healthy children. Of all the pregnancies Katharine had had, she had produced only one girl—Mary; and Mary was scarcely the picture of health. He had one son by Elizabeth Blount; but there was an ethereal quality about the young Duke of Richmond, as though he might not be long for this life. And myself… healthy in every way—and I had lost two boys. True I had produced my Elizabeth, who was full of vitality, but I had lost the boys. There seemed to be some significance in it somewhere.
Henry was bitterly disappointed. “Two boys lost,” he said, looking at me as though it were due to some fault of mine.
I had dismissed those niggling fears before, but I could not very easily now.
He was less tender, ready to contradict as though he enjoyed disagreeing with me.
It was Jane Rochford who conveyed to me the fact that he had renewed his attentions to the lady he had sought during my pregnancy with Elizabeth.
“Are you going to endure it, Anne?” she asked. “At your Court. You are the Queen.”
“I will not endure it,” I said.
“Then what will you do about it?”
“I will speak to the King.”
“Would that be wise?”
“What do you mean?”
“He might be angry.”
I could see that the state of affairs between us was known. I should have seen it too. But I was ever one to act first and think after.
I did say to him: “It is disturbing to me that the whole Court is aware that you have a mistress.”
His eyes narrowed. “Then, Madam,” he said, “you must, I fear, remain disturbed.”
“You dare to flaunt her…here at Court. Surely you might have the discretion to attempt to hide the fact that you are an unfaithful husband.”
“You should show more gratitude for what I have done for you.”
“And become your long-suffering wife?” I cried. “Like Katharine… you think…to stand aside and watch your affairs with other women. Do you think I would ever endure that?”
“You must needs endure what is given you,” he said.
“I will not.”
He lifted his shoulders and turned from me.
I said: “Henry…have you forgotten…”
He turned to me and there was a frightening coldness in his eyes. “I forget not what I have done for you. I brought you up… and I tell you I can cast you down. There are many who urge me to do this. You should remember…I picked you up from nothing…”
“Nothing!” I cried. “Do you call a member of the Howard family nothing? There are some …” I stopped in time. I was about to say that some thought the Howards more royal than the upstart Tudors. I had to keep a hold on my emotions. I must be careful. I must remember the great power of this man. He was right when he said he could cast me down. He could and God help me…in that moment I believed he would.
He was looking at me and I saw hatred in his eyes.
“I have done much for you,” he said slowly, “and because of it you give yourself airs. And what do you give me? Where are the sons you promised me?”
“It is no fault of mine that we have no son.”
The pious look crept into his face. “I cannot see why God should so punish me.”
So he implied that God was punishing me. When things went wrong it must never be Henry's fault. There must always be others to take the blame.
“Perhaps if you were to give up your philandering and paid more attention to your wife…”
He turned to me, his eyes narrowed, color flaming into his face once more. “You should be content with what I have done for you,” he said. “I tell you this: I would not do it again.”
With that he strode out.
I was trembling with rage. It was hard to believe he could have changed so quickly. When I thought of how he had pursued me, how he had put up with my tantrums—and I admit there had been some very unreasonable ones—and how tender he had been, how humble…I could not understand what had happened. Was he realizing the great price he had paid for me—and there was no doubt that he was regretting it!
Jane Rochford came in. I believe she listened at doors. She was a foolish, reckless woman; she would be caught one day. If she eavesdropped on the King and he discovered her, I could imagine his fury. The Boleyn clan was not in very high favor even though one of its members was the Queen.
“That woman is a serpent,” she said. “I have heard that she is poisoning his mind against you. You know how it is…at night…sharing a pillow.” Her eyes were sly. I knew she was trying to hurt me under cover of sympathizing. She should be sent away from Court before she could do real harm.
I said: “
I am tired, Jane. I want to rest.”
“Of course you are tired. Who wouldn't be! You're worried, aren't you, Anne? It is terrible for you. I do sympathize.”
“Thank you,” I said. “Good night.”
“I shall be thinking of you. I'm going to do all I can to help. People feel depressed after miscarriages. I know just how you are feeling. But it will be all right. I am going to think of something.”
I wished she would leave. She was sly and stupid. George often said so. I knew that she had no fondness for me and was jealous because of George's affection for me.
I had been a fool to let her come to Court. Yet it is difficult to refuse one's own sister-in-law.
But it did seem that she was trying to help in her clumsy way.
She picked a quarrel with Henry's mistress and they were quite abusive to each other. The matter was talked of: the Queen's sister-in-law and the King's mistress. An interesting combination.
It was an opportunity for me. I sent for the woman.
I said: “I will not have brawling in my Court. You will leave immediately.”
I was foolish. But then I did act foolishly. My path was strewn with foolish acts. In my mind I was still living in the days when Henry had adored me to such an extent that I could act rashly and no harm come of it.
I was the Queen, I kept telling myself. I was the most powerful person at Court … under Henry.
The woman did as I knew she would do. She went to Henry.
Of course he would not allow her to be dismissed from Court. She must have told him of the quarrel with Jane Rochford, and being Jane, I was sure it had been provoked in the most heavy-handed manner.
It was not Henry's favorite who was to leave Court. It was Jane. Jane had always been stupid, and not long ago, when her hatred of me had been so strong, she could not contain it and had talked of her loyalty to Katharine—indiscreetly, of course. This was now brought against her and, as a result of her scheming, Jane was sent to the Tower.
Discontent was growing. It was hardly likely that a monarch, even one as powerful as Henry, could make such drastic changes to the religion of the country without repercussions.
People were afraid of Henry. The bluff, genial man they had known in his youth was changing. They had seen how determined he could be when something was denied him. Surely no other sovereign in Europe would have had the temerity to break with Rome?
But not all the nobles would bow to his will; this was particularly so with those in the North, who were a law unto themselves and, I knew from Henry Percy, considered themselves the rulers of the North. They were too far away to be so much in awe of the King as those who spent their lives close to him and therefore had to fawn on him and tremble at his frowns.
One of these was Lord Dacre of Naworth. He had always been one of Katharine's most staunch supporters. He was a firm Catholic, and Chapuys, the Spanish ambassador, who was on the alert for some means of getting rid of me and reinstating Katharine, was a friend of his.
Chapuys and he had been in close communication apparently. Dacre in his border territory had been dealing with the Scots, and he, with Chapuys and others, planned to persuade the Scots to invade England when men such as Dacre would join them and force the King to give me up, take Katharine back and return to Rome.
Cromwell had his spies everywhere and by means of intercepting letters learned what was going on. Dacre was forthwith arrested, charged with treason and sent to the Tower to await trial.
The case looked black against him. He was tried before his peers. It was an indication of how the King's popularity had fallen when Dacre was not condemned.
There were some members of the peerage who regarded Cromwell as a common creature who was worming his way into the King's confidence. It was Cromwell's zeal which had brought Dacre to face his judges. Dacre had spoken so strongly against me that they believed—and correctly— that I would wish to see an end of him. Dacre was a clever man; he addressed the court and spoke for seven hours in such a manner as to carry the peers along with him. He thought that some of inferior blood— meaning Cromwell and myself—were seeking to rule the country, with what results we had seen. He was no traitor. He was a loyal Englishman aghast at the way in which his country was going.
To the amazement of all, and the fury of the King and Cromwell, Dacre was acquitted.
It was an indication of the danger into which we were heading.
There was worse to come. When news of the acquittal was released, the people of London came out into the streets to light bonfires, to dance and sing; they wanted to show their delight that a man who had dared to speak his mind and say what so many of them were feeling was found not guilty.
There was a rumor going about that Cromwell had said that it would be easier if Queen Katharine would pass away and take her daughter with her. This was construed as a threat to their lives, and as usual the blame was laid at my door.
No one in the country had more enemies than I; everything that could be brought against me, was. My slightest remarks were misconstrued.
It was now freely said that I was planning to have Katharine poisoned. I knew I was surrounded by spies. Jane Rochford had been released from the Tower; her sojourn there had been just to frighten her and punish her for daring to attempt to get the King's mistress banished from Court. One would have thought she would have become wiser through such an experience, but that was hoping for too much from Jane.
I was growing more and more nervous; my temper could be easily provoked at the slightest upset; this did not endear me to those around me. I had few friends—and I did know then how much I needed friends.
Here I was at the pinnacle of my ambition, and what an uneasy place it was proving to be! My only real pleasure was in my daughter, whom I could visit only at intervals, and when I was with her I had to be under the same roof as Mary, who showed clearly her contempt for me. I noticed, too, how the conduct of those who accompanied me was changing. Many of them slipped away to pay their respects to Mary. This could mean only one thing: my power was waning and they knew it. What was in the future they could only guess; but they wished to show Mary that they respected her… just in case she should be of importance later on.
The King had been fond of Mary. She had been for so long his only child. It was only when she had stood so resolutely beside her mother and refused to obey him that he had turned against her.
News came to Court that she was ill. I could not help being pleased, and people noticed it. Naturally I should feel much more secure if Mary died. While she lived, she was a threat to Elizabeth, and one of my greatest desires was for Elizabeth—if I could get no sons—to be the heir to the throne. Perhaps in an impetuous moment I said this. Katharine was dropsical, and her health was precarious. Well, the situation would ease considerably if neither she nor her daughter was there.
This was logical, and many people must agree with it.
What was so disturbing was the King's concern when he heard of his daughter's sickness. He immediately sent his physicians to her.
Jane Rochford told me she had overheard Cromwell say that the King loved the Princess Mary a hundred times more than he did his latest born.
“I don't believe it!” I cried.
“It was what Cromwell said. But of course it isn't true.”
I knew it was true. Elizabeth was too young to interest him. Moreover, she was my child—and he was fast becoming tired of me.
Henry certainly showed a great deal of solicitude for Mary; he said that if he heard of any showing harsh treatment toward her they would have to answer to him.
I could see that his conscience was beginning to worry him, and that boded no good for me.
Clement died. There was no cause for rejoicing in this. Pope Paul III, who was elected to follow him, was quite different from his vacillating predecessor. He was firm in his resolution to bring Henry back to Rome and showed a certain friendliness toward him. This might have been a good thing if there had not b
een a shift in the attitude of France toward us. François had been a good friend during the divorce controversy and had helped us considerably to the marriage. I liked to believe that he was kindly disposed toward me because of memories from the past. But, of course, rulers feel no such sentiments, and their actions are invariably dictated by experience.
He now offered to renew negotiations for a marriage between Mary and the Dauphin. This shattered me. It was tantamount to saying that Mary was legitimate—and if she were, what of my position? What of Elizabeth's?
Admiral Chabot de Brion arrived in England to discuss the possibility of the match. I was very tense. I felt that so much hung on the decision. The fact that François could suggest it was significant. What was going on behind my back? I was so nervous I felt ready to burst into tears at any moment. There were times, though, when the humor of the situation forced itself upon me. Throughout all those years I had been so passionately sought and had eluded capture. Suppose I had relented early in the chase, would I have been dismissed long ago? When I thought of it, I wanted to laugh… not the laughter of happiness but something near hysteria.
I had to be careful. I had to control myself.
But if François was seeking the hand of Mary for the Dauphin, it must mean that he considered her legitimate. There was no other answer to that.
I thought I might have an opportunity of speaking with the Admiral. He had been an admirer of mine in the old days at the French Court. He had flirted pleasantly and he had expressed a great admiration for me. I felt I could ask him to enlighten me as to François's motives. But he did not seek a meeting with me, which was strange; in fact, it was not very good manners, on which the French so prided themselves.
I could, therefore, discover nothing of the negotiations, and Henry made it quite clear that he had no intention of telling me anything. My behavior to his daughter Mary had been such that I was the last person with whom he would want to discuss her future.
