“How did you come by it?” I asked.
“It was a gift,” Anne snapped. I noticed that she still gripped the quill, and that she was attempting, without success, to hide both the letter with the royal seal and the sheet on which she had been writing.
“A lovely gift indeed. I believe Bessie Blount has one just like it. And Madge Shelton, and others who have enjoyed my husband’s favor. Is it, by chance, a gift from the king?”
Anne seemed confused. She said nothing, but bit her lip. I saw that I had shaken her confidence, but only for a moment.
She struggled for a response.
“If you must know, yes. Henry Norris brought it to me.”
“My husband’s groom of the stool.”
She nodded, still unsure.
“And did Norris bring you the king’s letter as well?”
“What letter?” she started to say, but I was too quick for her. I had already snatched the letter from her trembling hand.
“Oh please, Your Majesty, I beg of you—” Anne began, dropping to her knees and shaking with fear. “I swear I have done nothing. It was not my fault—”
But I had already begun to read the letter, which was in my husband’s uneven, hard-to-read handwriting. I had always found the few brief notes he had written to me over the years difficult to decipher. He hated to write notes or letters, I had heard him say often that he found writing tedious and painful. Yet he had written to Anne. And the more I read the letter I had taken from her, the more I suspected that he had written others. And that, as the whisperings and mutterings and flung insults alleged, there was an intrigue going on between Henry and Anne, complete with secret letters and messages, furtive meetings and avowals of love, and worst of all, I feared, promises of marriage.
13
All at once, as it seemed, I was being told where I could and could not go and who I could and could not talk to. The new restrictions came from Henry, I was certain of that, but he lacked the courage to inform me of them himself. Instead he sent his messages to my gentleman usher Griffith Richards, who received them with an ill grace and passed them on to me.
“Your Majesty may no longer order the royal barge or walk abroad without an escort of ten men of the royal guard,” I was told. “Dr. Vittoria may no longer serve as your physician and must leave our court at once.” My serving men, cooks and laundresses were reduced in number and my gold and silver plate—brought from Spain when I came to the English court as a bride—was taken away and replaced with vessels and platters of inferior metal.
There seemed to be no end to the humiliations. It was as if I were a servant myself, some sort of higher servant, whose services had been found wanting and who was being demoted as a result.
My shrunken household was to operate on a far lower budget than in the past; rather than accept lower wages, many of my servants left in search of more lucrative positions. My seamstresses were informed that from then on they would be required to serve the Lady Anne, who was in need of a new wardrobe in the French style. I am glad to say that they all left court rather than serve “the king’s harlot,” as they called Anne—though I did hear them remark that the harlot had good taste in gowns.
When I entered the banqueting hall I was surprised to see painters on high scaffolds, repainting the ceiling, which had many images of the pomegranate—my symbol—entwined with the Tudor rose. All the pomegranates were being replaced with more roses. I was being erased, wiped away. I remembered when those pomegranates were first painted, along with my initials and Henry’s intertwined. I looked up at the painters, indignant that they should carry out such an unsavory task. But they merely kept on with their work and ignored me.
That I was no longer allowed to speak with the imperial ambassador Inigo de Mendoza did not surprise me, though I protested loudly against this new restriction. But when the royal canopy of state was ordered removed from my apartments and I was told I must no longer sign any documents as “Catherine the Queen” but only as “Catherine, Princess of Spain,” I felt a chill of fear and that night I was unable to sleep.
My world was crumbling. However I was determined not to show weakness, not even when I heard that the cardinal had convened a secret meeting of experts in church law to decide whether or not my marriage to Henry was a true and valid one. I wore out my knees in praying, night after night, kneeling on the stone floor beside my bed until my poor knees were bruised and bloody. I remembered that my mother had worn a coarse hair shirt under her clothes as a reminder to rebuke her flesh. A hair shirt! A torturous device that scratched and tormented her skin. I thought of doing the same, but realized that I did not have mother’s force of will. I could not mortify my flesh as she had. But I could wake in the middle of the night to pray until my knees bled, as a sign of how sincerely I was entreating the Lord’s aid in my time of need.
There was aid of a sort, though not exactly the sort I was hoping for. After a long day of hunting Henry came into my apartments one June evening and collapsed onto my bed. He called for a servant to relieve him of his boots and, sighing a deep sigh, closed his eyes and was soon asleep, snuffling loudly and tossing from side to side.
It had been a long time since he had come to my bed, and as I suspected, he did not intend for me to join him there. I slept that night in an adjoining small room, having left word with my dresser Maria de Caceres that she was to wake me in the morning as soon as the king arose.
To my surprise, I slept the night through. When Maria woke me the following morning it was to tell me that my husband was already up, and was hungry. He wished me to join him for a dew-bit, as he liked to call a huntsman’s light morning meal. Maria had already laid out my clothes and helped me quickly into them. Then I joined Henry.
He sat awkwardly on the bed, chewing on a small manchet loaf and drinking from a goblet. I felt a twinge when I saw him there, a tug of familiarity and loss. He was still a handsome man, broad-chested and with muscular arms and legs. And his voice, when he spoke, was pleasing—the voice of a singer—unlike the thick, hoarse voice of my nephew Charles.
“Catherine,” he began, indicating that I should sit beside him on the bed, “what I have come to tell you is this. My conscience has pained me for a long time. In an effort to ease it I have taken counsel with scholars and with my confessor. Wolsey has asked the opinions of men learned in interpreting the Scriptures. I have prayed and I have fasted.”
He paused to eat more of his manchet loaf and to drink from his goblet. I noticed that no share of the dew-bit had been provided for me, though I was hungry.
“At last I have reached a conclusion,” Henry went on. “I am convinced now that you and I have been living in sin these many years. A union such as ours is an abomination, not a blessing. Rather than continue it, or endure the indignity of a trial, I ask you in the name of all that’s holy to make your profession as a nun and leave court.”
“I will, my lord and husband, if you will do the same, and enter a monastic order.”
I saw a fleeting smile cross his features, then disappear.
“Even if I agreed, I am king of this realm, and a reigning monarch cannot desert his subjects.”
“Only his wife,” I said, more tartly than I meant to sound.
“Catherine,” he answered with unaccustomed patience, putting the remainder of his loaf and his goblet aside, “you are not my wife in the eyes of God. The deaths of our children bear out the truth of this. The Lord punishes false unions such as ours. I have borne this punishment long enough. I must end it.”
He called for a serving man to bring him his boots, rubbing his chin and feeling the prickly ends of his unshaven whiskers. Just at that moment he gripped his belly and cried out, his face contorted with pain, his loud outcry carrying throughout my apartments.
“What is it? Shall I send for Dr. Huick?”
But Henry only gave another sharp cry, waving away the servant who came through the door carrying his boots, my gentleman usher and other servants draw
n to the room by the sudden sounds of his distress.
“Out! Out! Get them all out!” He waved one hand in the air uselessly, pathetically as it seemed to me then.
“But milord husband—” I began, only to break off when he glowered at me. Hurriedly I told all the others to leave.
I stood where I was, watching anxiously as Henry’s face grew contorted once again, then relaxed. He breathed quickly, shallowly, still holding his belly.
“I’ve begun a course—in physick,” he managed to gasp out after a moment. “I see now—that it was unwise. The dog days are almost upon us, and the moon is waxing. Yet when this pain—grips me—I must find relief—”
His words came in snatches, he grimaced with each breath. I could see that he was suffering, though the pain did not seem quite so intense as when he had first cried out.
“Dr. Vittoria,” he was murmuring. “A pox on him! Where is he when he could be of use?”
“You ordered him sent away,” I said quietly.
“Bring him back.”
“As Your Majesty wishes.”
Trained in Salamanca and learned in the Arab medical treatises as well as the Latin ones, Dr. Vittoria was both a physician and an apothecary, and often used his own herbal remedies to ease the pain of his patients. I had come to know him well during the years he had spent in my household, and I trusted him to carry messages to my nephew and bring messages back to me from the imperial court. That he had Moorish blood—he was dark-skinned and slight of build—had always made Henry uneasy, no matter how much he admired the doctor’s skill. When my household was reduced in size, Dr. Vittoria was ordered not only to leave my service but to leave England. Henry called him a spy and an informant.
Once he had gone, I missed not only his learning and skill, but his intuition. His healing instincts were nearly always correct, and his methods flawless.
Before he left the doctor had told me privately that in his view the king was more ill than anyone at court realized. He had a putrid ulcer on his inner thigh that was slow to heal, and that the physician believed was growing worse.
“I have seen this sort of affliction before,” he confided to me. “It robs a man of his ability to father a child. It affects his legs, then spreads throughout his lower body. The testicles swell and become tender. The pain grows worse. And then—” He did not go on. There was no need.
I had not shared the doctor’s opinion with anyone, knowing how dangerous it would be to do so. If Dr. Vittoria was right, Henry would never have a legitimate son to succeed him. If he was wrong … then nothing much would change. Yet I had never seen my husband in such pain.
Then another thought struck me. What if Henry was so very ill that he had not long to live? What would happen to Mary then? She was not yet old enough to rule on her own. If Henry died and Mary became queen suddenly, unexpectedly, would I be appointed regent for her, as Henry had appointed me regent in his stead when he went to lead his army in France years earlier, before Mary was born?
Henry interrupted my thoughts. In a low voice he repeated his words. “Bring him back. And tell him to hurry.”
I wrote a hasty message and dispatched a swift rider to begin the long journey to the imperial court in Mechelen where I was certain Dr. Vittoria would be found. It would be weeks before he could be expected to return to England—provided he would agree to return, knowing how Henry’s moods were inclined to change. In the meantime I sent for Dr. Huick. But by the time he arrived my husband had fallen into a fitful and troubled sleep.
* * *
I remember hearing my mother say that there is a divine order behind everything that happens. As time passes, she would say, the Lord guides events so that the wicked are punished, and those who strive for righteousness are rewarded.
So it seemed in the Year of Our Lord 1528, the year of the shadow of death.
It began with a shiver. Then a twitch. Then a stink spread from the poor wretch. Then he felt damp, wet all over, so wet he had to tear his clothes off and pray for a cooling rain to fall.
By the time he (or she) had begun to stink, Dr. Vittoria said when he returned to court, there was no saving him. Not all the remedies devised by all the apothecaries, not vinegar and wormwood, rosewater and treacle, not even ground sapphires mixed with pure gold (the king’s favorite remedy) could prevent the sufferer from dying—and quickly.
So many, many died in the first few days, even more in the first weeks of that summer of mortal illness. I sent Mary to the north where the disease had not yet spread so widely. Where the hand of God spared more than it slew. My husband’s wealthy chamber gentleman Will Compton, struck down by the sweating plague, spent his last hours surrounded by his servants, who—so I was told—began plundering his possessions even before he was dead. In his will he left an ivory chest filled with jewels and treasure to Henry, but the chest could not be found. It had disappeared, along with his other valuables—all but his chessboard, which was thought to be of no value.
Anne shivered and twitched and grew damp, and I could see that she was terrified, her eyes wide and her hands shaking with dread. Her father Thomas Boleyn had sickened but recovered, yet Anne seemed more afflicted. I made certain that she was given extreme unction, and afterward, feigning concern lest her possessions be stolen as those of Will Compton had been, I ordered Griffith Richards to bring Anne’s storage chest to my bedchamber.
Telling Maria de Caceres to guard my door and let no one enter, I opened the chest and took out the golden desk.
Tucked away in the desk was a bundle of letters, tied with an embroidered ribbon. All of the letters bore the stamp of the royal seal. I took a deep breath, untied the ribbon, and began to read.
“My mistress and friend,” Henry wrote, “my heart and I put ourselves in your hands. To be apart from you hurts me more than I could ever have thought possible.”
The words were like a dagger in my belly. I could not help but weep as I read on.
He wrote of “the great love I have for you,” he swore to Anne that she was “the one woman in the world whom I most esteem.” He could not bear to be apart from her for long, he wrote, for “the pang of absence” was too great. He was her loyal servitor and beloved, he sought no other.
At the bottom of his brief letters he drew a device of two hearts adjoined, and sent her a bracelet with his portrait.
I forced myself to read more, though with every page my sorrow and distress grew. There were so many letters, so many gifts had been exchanged, plans made and hopes raised. This was no passing infatuation. It seemed clear to me that Henry and Anne were of one mind and one purpose: to be together.
And now Anne was on the point of death.
The Lord was taking vengeance on them both.
* * *
I have asked myself time and again what it was about Anne Boleyn that led Henry to choose her as his great love. After much thought I have decided that he saw in Anne a remedy for his own heavyheartedness. He saw in her an elixir of hope.
In this Anne stood alone. Bessie Blount, who took pride in her title as Mother of the King’s Son, had given him Henry Fitzroy. Anne’s sister Mary Boleyn had given him pleasure—and a worthless, witless son whose existence no one ever mentioned, as he was mad and his madness was incurable. Madge Shelton offered him her charm and her dimples—but did not produce a child, no matter what gossip said. Yet Anne, with her giddy, exuberant restlessness, her willful nature, her very childishness, lifted his spirits. Had his eye fallen on Anne at another time in his life, I reasoned, he would not have been drawn to her.
Choosing her when he did, he was heartened. He saw a way forward, out of failure. From then on he clung to her as a drowning man clings to a floating bit of wood. And that was why, just at that time, he was so eager to free himself from me and marry Anne. He wished, with all the force of his ardor for Anne, that I would not be there to impede his hoped-for marriage. He wished that I would make everything simple for him, and enter a convent.
&nbs
p; But Anne was ill, and expected to die.
Yes, there is a divine order at work in everything that happens. The wicked are punished, and those who strive for righteousness are rewarded.
Sometimes, however, this outcome is delayed.
As Anne lay between life and death, Henry sickened. I was prepared to ask that extreme unction be administered to him. And to send to the north to arrange for Mary’s return, with an escort of a hundred mounted men and another hundred pikemen. For Queen Mary’s return, I almost wrote, as queen she would have been from the moment her father died. And I would have been regent for her.
Instead, Dr. Vittoria arrived at last, bringing with him mandrake root and an unguent of his own mixing which he used to treat weeping wounds and black infections of the skin. I watched as, frowning in concentration, and making the sign of the cross over his pot of greasy cream which had the most appalling stench, Dr. Vittoria sat at Henry’s bedside and worked his healing wonder.
For four days and nights he sat there, sleeping for a few brief hours when Henry slept, waking to swab him again and again with the foul-smelling grease. Through it all he prayed, quietly, to himself and nodded, smiling, as if certain that the wound was on its way to being healed. On the fourth day, when I looked in, Dr. Vittoria was sound asleep, but Henry, roused and looking more alert and happily expectant than I had seen him look in many months, was pulling on his own boots and preparing for the hunt.
“No time to waste,” he called out to me as I stood in the doorway. “The stags are fighting over the roe deer, there are pheasants near the coveys and ducks flying over the marsh. I must be off!”
It was a miraculous healing. Not only had Dr. Vittoria brought Henry back from the brink of death, but Anne too had responded to the medicines he sent with Dr. Butts to give her. How much of Henry’s newfound glee came from the relief he felt in his aching leg, and how much from the news reaching him of Anne’s recovery I could not have said. But while Henry rewarded Dr. Vittoria with his most earnest thanks and the gift of a strong-legged young gelding, he generously rewarded Dr. Butts with the office of royal physician and a salary of a hundred and fifty pounds a year.
The Spanish Queen: A Novel of Henry VIII and Catherine of Aragon Page 17
