The Complete Tudors: Nine Historical Novels

by Jean Plaidy

  “I knew the lady once,” he said, feigning not to know it was with none other that he now danced.

  “That must have been very long ago.”

  “A few years. But such a lady, Madam, one would never forget, you understand.”

  She said: “Speak French, if you wish it. I know the language.”

  He spoke French; he was happier in it. He told her she spoke it enchantingly. He told her that he would wager she was more fair than the Lady Anne herself, for he had never set eyes on such a lithesome figure, nor heard such a melodious voice; and he trusted she had the fairest face in England and France, for he would be disappointed if she had not!

  Anne, feeling Henry’s eyes upon her, rejoiced in Henry. He was a king and a great king; she could not have endured Francis for all the kingdoms in the world.

  Henry, impatient of watching, would now remove the masks; and did so, going first to Anne.

  “Your Majesty has been dancing with the Marchioness of Pembroke,” he told Francis, who declared himself astonished and delighted.

  Henry moved on, leaving Anne with Francis.

  “And what did I say of my old friend, little Anne Boleyn?” he said.

  Anne laughed. “Your Majesty was fully aware with whom he danced.”

  “I should have known that one so full of grace, so pleasant to the eye and the ear, could be none other than she who will soon, I trust, be my sister of England. I congratulate myself that she chose to dance with me.”

  “Ceremony, as Your Majesty will well understand, demanded it.”

  “You were ever unkind, fair lady! That I well remember.”

  “Tell me of your sister.”

  They talked long together; Anne’s laughter rang out now and then, for they had many reminiscences to share of the French court, and each could bring back memories to the other.

  Henry watched, half proud, half angry. He had ever been jealous of Francis; he wondered whether to join them or leave them together. He did not care to see Anne in such close conversation with the lecher Francis, and yet it must be so for he was the King of France, and honor shown to Anne was honor shown to Henry. Francis’s approval at Rome could mean a good deal, for though Charles was the most important man in Europe, might not Henry and Francis together carry more weight than Katharine’s nephew?

  The dance broke up; the ladies retired. Henry talked with his royal guest. Francis suggested he should marry Anne without the Pope’s consent. Henry did not see how this could be, but enjoyed such talk; it was pleasant to think he had French support behind him.

  He went to Anne’s chamber, and dismissed her ladies.

  “You were indeed a queen tonight!” he said.

  “I trust I did not disgrace my King.”

  She was gay tonight, savoring the success of the evening; adorable in her costume of cloth of gold and crimson.

  He went to her and put his arms about her.

  “The dresses were the same, but you stood out among them all. Had one not known who you were, it would have been easily seen that you were she who should be Queen.”

  “You are very gracious to me.”

  “And you are glad I love you, eh?”

  She was so very happy this night that she wanted to shower happiness all about her; and on whom should it fall but on her royal benefactor!

  “I was never happier in my life!” she said.

  Later, when she lay in his arms, he confessed to jealousy of the French King.

  “You seemed to like him too well, sweetheart.”

  “Would you have had me ungracious to him? If I seemed to like him, it was because he was your guest.”

  “Methought you appeared to coquette with him a little.”

  “I did only what I thought would please you.”

  “’Twould never please me, Anne, to see your smiles given to another!”

  “My smiles! Bah! If I smiled too warmly then ’twas because I compared him with you and was happy in the comparing.”

  Henry was overjoyed.

  “I declare he puts on years as one would put on state robes; he is weighed down with them. I never thought him handsome….”

  “Debauchery is apparent in his face,” said Anne.

  Henry’s prudish little mouth lifted into a smile.

  “I would not care to own his reputation!”

  Then she amused him with an imitation of the French King, recounting what he had said and what she had answered; and the King laughed and was very happy with her.

  In the morning Francis sent Anne a jewel as a gift. Henry examined it, was delighted with its worth, and jealous that it had not come from himself.

  He gave her more jewelery; he gave of his own and Katharine’s and even his sister’s, Mary of Suffolk. The King was more deeply in love than ever.

  When it was time for them to leave Calais there was a high wind and it was unsafe to cross the Channel. Anne was reminded of that stay at Dover; but then she had been a seven-year-old girl of no importance whatever, trying to listen to those about her and learn something of life. Pleasant it was to think back, when one had come so far.

  They beguiled the days with dice and cards, at which the King lost heavily and Anne almost always won; nor did it matter if she lost, for the King would pay her debts. One of the players was a handsome young man named Francis Weston for whom Anne conceived a genuine liking, and he for her. They played by day and danced at night; they were hilarious over the cards; there was much fun to be had at “Pope Julius,” the favorite game of the court, with its allusions to matrimony, intrigue and the Pope—they all found it so apt in view of the pending divorce. Thus passed the days, with Anne happier than she had been since deciding to occupy the throne, more secure, more content.

  The old year was dying, and Christmas came. Still the Pope was adamant; still action hung fire. Four years ago Anne had become the King’s mistress, and now, at Christmas of the year 1532, still she waited to be his Queen.

  She was pale and listless.

  “Does aught ail thee, sweetheart?” the King asked her.

  “Much ails me,” she told him.

  The King was alarmed.

  “Darling, tell me instantly. I would know what is wrong, and right it.”

  She said very clearly: “I fear he who should follow Your Majesty as King of England will after all be but a bastard.”

  Henry was beside himself with the importance of this news. Anne was pregnant! A son was what he wanted more than anything—next to Anne herself—on Earth. Anne, who should have been the Queen long ere this—and had they married she would have given him a son by now, for it had ever been her wish that no children should be born to them until she was Queen—Anne was with child. His child! His son! He who should be King of England!

  “And by God,” said the King, “he shall be!” Now he was all tenderness, all loving care; that body which sheltered his son had become doubly precious. “Fret not, sweetheart. Be done with fretting for evermore. I declare I’ll endure this delay no longer. I’ll be cut free from that canting Pope, or, by God, much blood will flow!”

  Anne could smile; this was the happiest thing that could have happened; this would decide him. She was determined that her son should be born in wedlock; and so was Henry.

  Well he remembered how he had looked with something like fury on his son, the Duke of Richmond—that fine boy so like himself, who, had he been born of Katharine instead of Elizabeth Blount, would have spared him much heart-burning. No! There should be no repetition of that!

  He called Cromwell to him; he would see Cranmer; he would leave nothing undone, no way out unexplored. Divorce he must have, and quickly, for Anne was pregnant with a son.

  Henry’s determination was vital; it swept all opposition before it; none who valued his future, or his head, dared go against him, whilst those who worked with him and were blessed with success were sure of favor.

  Warham had died in August, and who should replace him but Cranmer, the man who, when the id
ea of divorce was first being considered, had the right sow by the ear! The Archbishopric of Canterbury could therefore be placed in good hands. Then Cromwell: Cromwell’s daring scheme of separating England from Rome, which had on first hearing seemed too wild to be put into action, now presented itself as the only sure solution. Cromwell, unlike so many, suffered not at all from a superstitious dread of consequences; he was not by any means scrupulous; he could bring in evidence against Rome as fast as his master cared to receive it. What had Henry to lose by the separation? he demanded of his King. And see what he had to gain!

  Henry’s eyes glistened, contemplating the dissolution of those storehouses of treasure, the monasteries…treasures which would naturally be thrown into the King’s chests. The state would be free of Rome; it would be strong, beholden to no one. Moreover, free from the Pope, why should Henry care for his verdict on the divorce? Henry, all-powerful, might make his own divorce! The Continent, in the grip of the reformation, had weakened the Church. Everywhere in Europe men were challenging the Pope’s authority; a new religion was springing up. It was simple; it merely meant that the headship was transferred from the Pope to Henry. Henry had hesitated, turning this truly delightful plan over and over in his mind. He had to consider his conscience, which troubled him incessantly. He was afraid of isolation. How would it affect him politically? Wolsey—the wisest man he had ever known—would have opposed Cromwell’s scheme; he did not like Cromwell, he considered him a knave. Was Cromwell right? Could Cromwell be trusted? Cromwell might be a knave, but was he a wise man?

  Henry shilly-shallied. He had always considered his accession to be influenced by the Holy See, and through the Holy See, by God; but he was ever ready to support an idea he liked. He was superstitious to a great degree; he had looked upon the Pope as holy; it was not easy for a superstitious man with a conscience to overthrow a lifetime’s tradition. He was afraid of God’s wrath, although he did not fear the vacillating Clement. He had been proud of his title “Defender of the Faith.” Who was it who had written the most brilliant denouncement of Luther? Henry of England. How could he then overthrow that which he had so ardently defended!

  Cromwell had talked slyly and persuasively for if he would keep in favor, this matter of the divorce must be settled, and he saw no way of settling it but this. He explained this was nothing to do with Lutherism; the religion of the country remained the same; it was merely the headship of the church that was involved. Was it not more seemly that a nation’s great good King should lead its Church?

  Henry tried to justify this procedure morally. Once he had made a case for the breakaway, it would be done. Warham had died at the most convenient moment; that was a sign perhaps. Who better to head a country’s Church than its King! Anne was pregnant. This was a sign. He must have the divorce if he was to legitimize Anne’s child. The time was short. There was no longer occasion for conferences, for shilly-shallying. Sir Thomas More, a few months previously, had retired from the office of Chancellor. More had ever been one to discountenance Henry. He liked the man, he could not help it, but he had been rather shaken when More had said, on taking office, that he would “first look unto God and after God to his Prince,” for that was a most uncomfortable thing for a minister to say; but More was an uncomfortable man; he was beloved by the people, he was honest, religious in that true sense to which so few do, or even try to attain. He had calmly walked out and gone home to his family and friends; he begged to be allowed to do this on the plea of ill health, and Henry had to accept that plea; but he had always liked the man, and he knew his lack of ease was more mental than bodily. More could not reconcile himself to the divorce; that was why he had resigned and gone to the peace of his Chelsea home. The King had outwardly taken his resignation in good part; he had visited Chelsea; but at the same time he was disturbed on More’s account, since More was known as a good man, and the King would have preferred him to be less arbitrary.

  Cromwell was whispering in the King’s ear. Cromwell was smart; Cromwell was cunning; any delicate job could be left to Cromwell.

  Divorce! Why divorce? When a marriage has not been valid, what need of divorce? He had never been married to Katharine! She was his brother’s wife, and therefore the ceremony was illegal.

  Henry dared delay no longer. Anne’s child must be legitimate. So, on a January day, he summoned one of his chaplains to a quiet attic of White Hall, and when the chaplain arrived, he found there—much to his astonishment, for he had been told he was merely to celebrate mass—the King attended by two grooms of the chamber, one of them being that Norris whose sympathy for Wolsey had lightened the Cardinal’s last hours. The chaplain had not been there more than a few minutes when who should arrive but the Marchioness of Pembroke accompanied by Anne Saville!

  The King then took the chaplain aside, and told him he would be required to marry him to the Marchioness.

  The chaplain began to tremble at this, looking fearfully about him, at which the King stamped impatiently. Greatly did the chaplain fear the King, but more so did he fear Rome. Henry, seeing himself in a quandary, hastily told the man that the Pope had granted the divorce, and he need fear nothing. The ceremony was over before the light of morning, and all the party went secretly away.

  Henry was disturbed and not a little alarmed; he had done a bold thing, and not even Cranmer knew he had intended to do it in this way. For, by marrying Anne as he had, he had irrevocably broken with Rome and placed himself at the head of the English Church. The Council could do nothing but accept this state of affairs; Henry was their King. But what of the people, that growling mass of the populace who had come through pestilence and poverty, and were less inclined to bend the knee than his courtiers? In the streets they murmured against Anne. Some murmured against the King.

  If the King trembled, Anne was triumphant. She was Queen after four years of waiting; Queen of England. Already she carried the King’s child within her. She was mentally exhausted by the long struggle, and only now did she realize what a struggle it had been, what nervous energy she had put into maintaining it, how she had feared she would never reach this pinnacle of power. She could now relax and remember that she was to be a mother. Love was not to be denied her then. She carried a child, and the child would inherit the throne of England. She slept peacefully, dreaming the child—a son—was already born, that her attendants laid it in her arms; and her heart was full of love for this unborn child. “September!” she said on waking. “But September is such a long way off!”

  George Boleyn was preparing for a journey; he would leave the palace before dawn. Jane came gliding to him as he buttoned his coat.

  “George…where are you going?”

  “A secret mission,” he said.

  “So early?”

  “So early.”

  “Could I not accompany you?”

  He did not answer such folly.

  “George, is it very secret? Tell me where you go.”

  He contemplated her; he always felt more kindly towards her when he was going to leave her.

  “It is a secret, so if I tell you, you must keep it entirely to yourself.”

  She clasped her hands, feeling suddenly happy because he smiled in such a friendly way.

  “I will, George! I swear I will! I can see it is good news.”

  “The best!”

  “Tell me quickly, George.”

  “The King and Anne were married this morning. I go to carry the news to the King of France.”

  “The King…married to Anne! But the Pope has not given the divorce, so how can that be possible?”

  “With God—and the King—all things are possible.”

  She was silent, not wishing to spoil this slight friendliness he was showing towards her.

  “So you are the Queen’s brother now, George, and I am her sister-in-law.”

  “That is so. I must away. I must leave the palace before the day begins.”

  She watched him go, smiling pleasantly; then all her bitte
r jealousy burst forth. It was so unfair. So she was Queen of England, and she would be more arrogant than ever now. Why should a man displace his wife because he tired of her!

  A marriage had been arranged for Isabel; she was leaving the Duchess’s retinue. Catherine was not really sorry, never having liked Isabel; and then she was too absorbed in Henry Manox to care much what happened to anyone else.

  Manox had been to the dormitory on several occasions; he was recognized now as Catherine’s lover. There was much petting and caressing and whispering, and Catherine found this a delightful state of affairs. She was grown up at last, reveling in intrigue, receiving little gifts from Manox; she never wrote to him, since she had never been taught how to write properly; but oral messages were exchanged between her and Manox by way of their friends.

  During the lessons they were very conventional in their behavior—which seemed to Catherine a great joke. The old Duchess might fall into a deep sleep, and all Manox and Catherine would do was exchange mischievous glances.

  “I declare, Manox,” said the Duchess on one occasion, “you are too stern with the child. You do nothing but scold!”

  They would laugh at that when she lay in his arms in her bed with the curtains drawn. Catherine, though a child in years, was highly sexed, precocious, a budding woman; over-excitable, generous, reckless, this affair with Manox seemed the high spot of her life. He said he had loved her ever since he had first set eyes on her; Catherine was sure she had loved him ever since her very first lesson. Love was the excuse for everything they did. He brought her sweetmeats and ribands for her hair; they laughed and joked and giggled with the rest.

  It was the Duchess who told Catherine that she was engaging another woman in place of Isabel.

  “She is from the village, and her name is Dorothy Barwicke. She will take Isabel’s place among the ladies. She is a serious young lady, as Isabel was, and I feel I can trust her to keep you young people in some sort of order. I’ll whisper something else to you, Catherine…We really are going to Lambeth ere the month is out! I declare I grow weary of the country, and now that my granddaughter is in truth the Queen…”