by Jean Plaidy
She was amazed.
“Cousin,” I went on, “I know not what will become of me if this woman continues to pour her poison into the King's ears.”
“How can you stop her?”
“By supplanting her.”
“But you are the Queen. For you the King has done so much.”
“Men are strangely fickle, cousin. Their loves do not last.”
“But the King loved you for many years. For you he has broken with Rome.”
“The King loved the chase. He wanted a son. He could not get one with Katharine. He wanted me, too. I think it was in that order. You see how I trust you, cousin. I am talking to you very frankly, and what I say does not go beyond these four walls. I believe you love me and would do a great deal for me.”
She nodded.
“May Heaven bless you! This is a big thing I am going to ask of you.”
Her eyes were shining with purpose. She would do it, I knew, for me.
“I want you to lure the King from his mistress.”
“I?”
“Yes, you. You have a freshness and charm and he has already noticed you. Be in his way. Smile…nervously. Seem overwhelmed when he looks at you. Let him see that you think he is the most handsome, powerful, god-like being on Earth. He will respect your judgment and immediately fall in love with you, because you are indeed very attractive.”
“But I don't think…”
“Try, Madge. My future could depend on it. I want you in her place. I want no more talk of how good and wonderful Katharine and Mary are; I want you instead to talk of me, to tell him of my incomparable charms, my looks, my brains and above all my great fondness for him. Tell him that I am desolate because he has turned from me. Make him believe that, although I may not show this to him, it is because I am uncommonly proud and of a somewhat inflammable nature. Tell him that I admire him …as you do… and as all women of discernment must.”
“And do you?”
I laughed loudly and checked myself. No hysteria. The plan was so wild it might not succeed. But I was desperate and it was worth a try.
“Madge,” I went on earnestly, “for my sake I want you to take the King away from his mistress. It is time he began to be tired of her. It is very important to me that he ceases to soften toward Katharine and Mary. It is of even greater importance that I get a son.”
“But surely you only have to tell him this…”
I shook my head. “That would not be the way. This might be. Cousin, I am asking too much. Forgive me. But I thought you would do a great deal for me.”
“I would,” she replied earnestly. “I would do anything.”
I saw the excitement begin to dawn in her eyes. The King was the King. He was still handsome, and power sets a mighty aura about a man. Most girls would be flattered to be noticed by him. She would have to perform her part well; and he could be courteous and charming enough when he was attempting seduction.
“You will win my eternal gratitude,” I said. “Do you want to think about it?”
She nodded.
“Then please do. And remember: this is between us two.”
“I swear it shall go no further,” she said.
Jane Rochford was very excited.
“The King is no longer seeing his mistress so frequently.”
“Oh, is he not?” I asked languidly.
“There is another.” She looked at me with satisfaction.
“Oh yes, I suppose there would be.”
“You would never guess who.”
“Tell me.”
“It is really rather funny. Who would have thought it? She seemed so quiet. The King is in hot pursuit. It is our cousin, Madge Shelton.”
“Well, she is a very attractive girl.”
“Don't you mind? To think that a member of our family…”
“It has to be someone, I suppose.”
“You take it calmly.”
“How else could I take it?”
“George was with you a long time last night.”
“We were talking.”
“I was on the point of coming in.”
“You would not do that unless invited.”
“I knew I shouldn't be invited. I'm not clever enough. George always implies that.”
I did not answer. I was thinking of Madge.
I saw her later. She had changed. She was now the King's mistress. I marveled at a devotion which had made her go so far. It had seemed such a wild plan and yet it was working.
“Does he talk much…of affairs of Court?” I asked.
“He talked about Katharine and Mary.”
“They are much on his mind.”
“He says they have caused him grievous suffering.”
“I hope you were sympathetic.”
“Oh yes. I said it was wrong that any should harm the King. He has so much to think of… affairs of state… matters of the Court. Everyone should do their best to give him peace.”
“As you do.”
“Yes, as I do. I said I thought it was wrong of Katharine and Mary to be in such close touch with Chapuys. He said he supposed I heard gossip about the Court. I told him I did and he asked me one or two things. I don't think he likes Katharine and Mary quite as much as he did.”
“And did he mention me?”
She nodded, smiling. “I told him how much I loved you and how kind you had always been to me, how wonderful you were, and that I was afraid I imitated you in so many ways. And he said, ‘Well, there is no one like the Queen.’ He looked soft for a while and then he went on: ‘She has a sharp tongue.’ I replied that it was really because you were so honest. You did not stop to think what advantage would come to you for saying this and that. You spoke freely and you were quick tempered, but you were so merry quickly afterward and how much more exciting it was to be with people when you did not know exactly what to expect from them. Then he said: ‘You are a staunch advocate of the Queen,’ and I said, ‘So would Your Grace be if…’ Then I clapped my hands to my mouth and I said ‘Forgive me, sire, I spoke without thinking.’ He laughed and said: ‘Like her, eh?’ And he seemed to speak of you with some fondness.”
Oh dear little cousin Madge, I thought. It could work. It was not a crazy scheme after all.
It did not take the King long to tire of Madge, but so well had she done her work that even before her time was over he was looking toward me. I think he had come to regard her as a pale shadow of myself.
When we were hawking, he was close to me. He spoke a few words in a most pleasant manner and when I replied gently he seemed pleased.
We progressed from there, and within a week or so my old enemies were looking glum. Some of them obviously thought they had been a little premature.
One day he said to me: “There is none like you. No matter who…I would always find myself coming back…to Anne.”
In the old days such a comment would have enraged me. I should have replied that I was not waiting on his pleasure. Now, I smiled as though contented. I had to get a son.
So we were together again, and it was almost as it had been in the first days of our marriage.
Although that was not so very long ago, I had grown up a good deal since then. I had begun to understand him better. He was completely selfish and could be very cruel indeed, and it was odd that his cruelty grew out of his assumed piety. I often compared him with François. François's lasciviousness and his determination to satisfy his carnal desires had stood in his way of becoming a great king. With Henry his actions had to be justified; he had his conscience to consider. It had to be placated, and this could only be done by putting himself right in the eyes of Heaven; that often meant treating those about him with complete ruthlessness. If he wanted to rid himself of me, as he had Katharine, he would not admit to himself that he was tired of me, and I had not, after all the trouble, brought him the desired son, which was the truth; it would have to be a concern of his conscience because of a possible pre-contract with the Earl of North
umberland. He wanted to say, I was not truly married to her. It was a mistake. But any solution which meant taking back Katharine was out of the question for him. Perhaps, as George had pointed out, I owed something to Katharine.
In the past I had been confident of my power to lure him to me, and I now believed that, in spite of the fact that I had grown thinner and older and had suffered disappointment in childbed, that power was still mine.
And it seemed so, for he had come back.
It was not long before I could tell him the joyful news. I was pregnant. I was wildly happy. This time it must be a son.
Now he was the devoted husband, solicitous of me, talking constantly of the arrival of the Boy.
I was very interested in the new religion which was being taken up in Germany and the Low Countries, and I was reading all I could about it. I interested him in it and we would spend enjoyable hours discussing it together. I would read something and hurry to tell him about it. He enjoyed this, for he had an alert mind.
I was full of confidence. Once I had my son, I could feel safe.
That was a year of tragedy.
It seemed I was not to have my child. I was following in the steps of Katharine. I was filled with melancholy when I miscarried.
“Why? Why?” I demanded. I had taken the utmost care. I had so desperately wanted…so desperately needed this child.
The King was bitterly disappointed. He could see that I was useless to him.
But something seemed to touch him. He could be sentimental at times, and that softened him.
“We'll have boys yet,” he said, and nothing could have comforted me more at that time.
It was a disastrous year.
People talked of nothing but the Oath of Supremacy which had to be accepted by all. Those who did not accept it, did so at their peril.
At the end of the previous year, Parliament had conferred on Henry the title of Supreme Head of the Church, and it was declared to be High Treason to deny the title.
It was too much to hope that there would not be some who rebelled.
The King's fury was intense. Fisher and More were in the Tower. The King sent Cromwell to ask for More's opinion of the new statutes. More was a lawyer, and his opinion would be worth having, for if he agreed with them he would carry many with him. More was perhaps the most respected man in England. Learned, deeply religious, a good and moral man, he was above bribery and corruption. If he would be prepared to give his approval to the statutes, it was certain that many would do the same. The King must get that approval.
“Were they not lawful?” demanded Cromwell of him.
More's reply was that he was a loyal subject of the King and he could say no more than that.
When Cromwell returned to the King, Henry abused him. He was like that with Cromwell. But Cromwell stood by, patiently humble, smiling, waiting for the abuse to cease and letting the insults pass over his head.
He tried More again, with the same results.
The King cried out in a pained voice: “I have given my friendship to that man, and now he refuses this little I ask.”
More's reply was that he was the King's servant, but God's first.
What could one do with such a man? He disturbed Henry, making it difficult for him to reconcile his conscience, which was one of the greatest offenses a man or woman could commit.
On the Continent affairs in England were closely watched. Henry was isolating himself, and that made him uneasy.
The Pope had sent word that Fisher had been made a Cardinal. This was clearly meant to aggravate Henry, for Fisher was in the Tower. Like More, he had refused to accept the Oath of Supremacy.
“A Cardinal!” spluttered Henry. “Tell the Pope I'll send his head to Rome to receive his Cardinal's Hat.”
Such outbursts were of little use.
He was most disturbed by Thomas More. The strong sentimental streak in Henry was uppermost in his feelings for More, and he was at times capable of affection. He admired More almost as much as he had Wolsey. The lively brain, the witty conversation, the clear view of life which comes to most of us too late and to some not at all, that innate knowledge of what is of true importance in life, often seeming to the worldly simple—that was More. A man greatly beloved by his family and his friends, one of whom had been the King. Henry used to visit the house at Chelsea now and then. He knew the family well, and he had at times been a little envious that so much felicity should come to a man who lacked what he, Henry, had—royalty, power, good looks.
And now More was in the Tower. He was going to refuse to sign the Oath of Supremacy because he was a man of strong will and high principles. This refusal would brand him a traitor, and the punishment for traitors was death.
Henry had to face that. How could he sign a death warrant? This was a man he loved—in spite of his obstinacy. He raged. Why was More such a fool? Why was he ready to give up everything he had—and by God, that man had a great deal!— just for the sake of signing his name!
Fisher was such another. “Obstinate old fool,” grumbled Henry.
June had come—hot and sultry.
Henry was stubborn. He had to go ahead. Several Carthusian monks and twenty-four other people were cruelly executed for denying the King was Supreme Head of the Church—carried on hurdles to the place of execution, then hanged and cut open while they were alive and their intestines were burned.
Fisher's execution followed.
The King sent a command that no one was to preach about Fisher's treason. And they were not to mention Sir Thomas More.
I know that Henry suffered over More. He tried to put off the trial. He was sullen. I found him glaring at me as though I were to blame, for after all, if I had given way in the beginning, there might not have been this break with Rome, and More might, at this time, be living happily with his family at Chelsea.
But he could delay no longer. On the first day of July, More faced his judges in Westminster Hall.
My father was among those judges; so were Norfolk, Suffolk and Cromwell. More was charged with infringing the Act of Supremacy and maliciously opposing the King's second marriage. He answered that he had not advised Fisher to disobey the Oath; he had not described it as a two-edged sword, approval of which would ruin the soul. All the same, a verdict of guilty was pronounced and he was sentenced to be hanged atTyburn.
Henry was most distressed. He could not allow his old friend to be hanged like a common felon; he immediately changed the sentence to a more dignified form of execution: More was to be beheaded.
Everyone was talking of More. He was a man much loved by the people. Henry should never have agreed to his execution. But he could not turn back now. He had gone too far.
More had faced his accusers with courage and almost indifference, which was expected of such a man. He had few enemies, which was rare for a man in his position. He loved his daughter, Margaret, especially. People talked of her terrible grief and how she had run to him when he left Westminster Hall with the ax turned toward him and thrown her arms about his neck. Only then did he show signs of breaking his control. He had begged her not to unman him; and the poor girl had fallen fainting to the ground while he was forced to go on…a prisoner.
There was one thing he had said, and this had made a great impression on me. It was reported to me by those who pretended to be my friends and kept me informed of what was going on. Usually it brought disquiet, but I had to know. More's daughter Margaret had raged against the dancing and feasting which was going on at Court while her father suffered imprisonment; and of course she talked of me with hatred, for like everyone else, she blamed me for all the ills which had befallen us.
“Poor Anne Boleyn,” Sir Thomas More was reported to have said. “It pitieth me to consider what misery, poor soul, she will shortly come to. These dances of hers will prove such dances that she will spurn our heads off like footballs, but it will not be long ere her head will dance the same dance.”
I shivered when I heard tha
t. It was not completely implausible. Oh, if only I could get a son…
On that sad July day Sir Thomas More was taken out to Tower Hill. There was a silence throughout the Court. It seemed that everyone was there in spirit to witness that grisly scene.
He was jesting when he died, having approached the scaffold with the utmost composure. He said to the executioner: “I pray you see me safely up, and for my coming down let me shift for myself.” He told the watching crowd that he died in the faith of the Catholic Church, and he prayed God to send the King good counsel.
Then the ax fell.
The King was playing cards with me when the news was brought that Sir Thomas was dead. He turned pale; his lips tightened. For a moment he looked a frightened man. I knew he was thinking that he had ordered the death of a saint. I saw a quiver run through his plump cheeks; then his eyes fell on me.
He was afraid of what he had done. He feared Heaven's wrath; and in case God had forgotten he had to remind Him of the real culprit.
There was cold hatred in his eyes as they surveyed me. “You are the cause of this man's death,” he said, and left the table.
I felt death very close then. I saw him more clearly than I ever had… this man who could be so ruthless and had the power to work his will on us all.
Thomas More's body was buried in the church of St. Peter in the Tower, but his head, as was the custom with traitors’ heads, was placed on a pole and set up on London Bridge, that all who passed beneath it could reflect on the fate of traitors.
A shiver ran through the Court when news came that the head had disappeared. It seemed like Divine interference. Henry was in a state of great nervousness. He had always thought of himself as being on good terms with Heaven; and now this looked like a sign of disapproval.
It was not his fault that More had been executed, he reiterated. He had been forced to sign the death warrant. Others were to blame. The Parliament had conferred the title of Supreme Head on him and ordered that those who did not accept this were traitors and should be dealt with accordingly. He had loved More; he had suffered when the sentence had been passed on him. He had merely taken the advice of his ministers.
There was great relief when it was discovered that More's daughter Margaret had taken down her father's head. The King declared that she must be allowed to do what she would with it. He would hear no more. The whole affair had been a great sorrow to him.
