Above All Others

by G Lawrence

  I shook my head, happy and a little overcome. “You are too generous, Henry… I do not need all these gifts, although do not think that I am not grateful! I came to see you…” I turned back to the bow, picking it up and looking along its length and power with glittering eyes. “Although… I would not want to give these things up, all the same.”

  Henry beamed. “Although we have seen much of the park already, there is more to see. I long to show you the secret places that have long been favourites of mine.”

  “Katherine did not visit them with you, did she?” I asked softly, keeping my eyes on the bow.

  A gentle hand fell on my shoulder. “No,” he said, his breath hot against my ear. “She did not. I would share with you the places I have loved alone… and now they will become our special places.” He turned me around and I lowered the bow. “Why do you speak of her now?”

  “I am sorry, Henry… I did not want to do or say anything to ruin our time here… Perhaps it is just natural for a woman to be jealous of another who has the place that she longs for… Our situation is so strange and awkward… There are three of us in this one marriage.”

  His hands took hold of my waist. I felt so tiny compared to his great build. “I know, my love,” he whispered. “I know how hard it is… on you and on me.” He gazed into my eyes. “But here and now, I will command you as your King! Think no more on Katherine; think only on the present and our pleasures here. We will be lost in the wilderness together, my Anne… and with your new bow, you will be as Diana of the forest!”

  I laughed with him. Henry was like that… choosing to concentrate on the good in life over the bad. He was boyish and eager to get out into the park and trial the bow, and I did not deter him. Sometimes I rode my own Irish palfrey, but increasingly I rode behind Henry, on a special saddle that allowed me to ride pillion. He had had this, too, made especially for the two of us to enjoy together. When we hunted for large birds such as crane or heron, we took both hawks and dogs with us. When we hunted hare or deer we would ride out flanked by large greyhounds. Henry’s mews were large and well-stocked with highly trained birds like lanners, sparrow hawks, sakers and goshawks, but I always preferred falcons who were best for flying in wide open spaces, over marshland and park.

  Some nights, when we were deep into the chase, accompanied by Henry’s Game Masters and servants, we would stop for the night at Henry’s hunting lodge, Sunninghill, in Windsor Park. It was called thus as it sat on a small hill, and caught the last of the sunshine as the wolf-light fell. On such nights we would share an intimate supper by the fireside, and then retire to our separate rooms, riding out again before the dawn the next morning.

  On some of our excursions, we did not hunt at all, but merely rode out into the wild and open countryside, and practised shooting, competing against each other and wagering on who could make the best shot. But when we did hunt, I found Henry was often careful to go through the superstitious customs of old, saying prayers and reciting ancient phrases over his dogs and birds, to bring luck, and to protect against loss.

  The first time this happened, I was sat on my palfrey, arranging my quiver and bow. “In nomine Domini volatilia celi erunt sub pedibus tuis,” I heard Henry murmur over his hawk as he took her onto his thick leather glove. I looked at him and smiled softly. In so many ways, Henry was still wrapped in the superstitions of old.

  “In the name of the Lord, the birds of the heavens shall be beneath thy feet?” I asked.

  He looked sheepish, and colour sprang to his cheeks. “The old ways are often the best ways,” he protested. “I have never lost a bird when I have said the old prayer to bless them before the hunt.”

  “Then let us hope that God sends us luck, my lord… It would be good to feast on some heron this night.”

  Henry chuckled, still bashful. “My father always said the same blessing over his birds,” he went on. “And my mother said that her father did the same… It is not well to follow every tradition slavishly, but I believe these prayers have brought me good fortune.”

  “Then I shall say the same.” I stooped my head and whispered the same words in Latin over my own falcon, who sat upon my glove in her fine hood of leather and velvet. Henry was pleased when I followed his lead, for it did not always happen, and therefore was only the more charming to him when it did occur.

  When we rode out together, there was between us such a spirit of unified enjoyment in the pleasures of the hunt and the love of the countryside. We rode over the hills and through the spare woodland; tracking and flushing birds and small animals from the reeds and bushes. We ate simple fare of griddled wheat cakes, slathered in butter or melted cheese, and picking at the juicy flesh of our freshly killed prey, roasted over fires by Henry’s men under the cover of obliging trees. Henry was overjoyed to find that I loved his greyhounds as much as he did, for he was fond of all the beasts in his vast collection. They wore collars made of velvet, with pearls or the King’s arms upon them. They were rubbed down each night by the men who tended them, and were fed meat, unlike the lap-dogs permitted to ladies of the court who were fed only bread to discourage them from developing a taste for the hunt. Sometimes, despite his prayers, Henry’s hounds and hawks would get lost on the hunt and he paid vast sums to those who found and returned them, so great was his love for these elegant and noble creatures.

  When we rested on our excursions, we would sit, side by side next to the sloping, wending flames of fires made by Henry’s huntsmen, and talk of the hunt, exchanging our past tales of glory in such adventures, and listening to the crisp wind as it sailed through the trees. Henry’s men would bring fresh mounts to meet us at various points in the park so that we could continue to ride until dusk. In the spring sunshine and its often biting wind, even through sleet and rain, we rode, returning to the castle in the evening exhausted, but merry.

  Sometimes there were problems, of course. On one occasion my greyhound, a young and over-excitable creature named Neptune, who was a gift from the King, was in pursuit of a deer I had wounded when he came across a small group of cows being tended by a young lad. In his excitement and bloodlust, Neptune fell on one of the younger animals and savaged the creature so entirely that when Henry and I reached him, Henry’s men had to kill the cow there and then. The lad watching them was distraught. Although more than aware that the great giant before him was his King, he protested that he would be soundly beaten when he returned home. He was supposed to protect the animals for his stepfather, and had failed in his task.

  “Fear not, lad,” called Henry, leaping from his saddle and crossing to the boy who was explaining his predicament to Henry’s unmoved huntsmen who had dispatched the cow. “Here!” Henry tossed him a full bag of coin, worth far more than the thin creature itself had been. “Give that to your stepfather with his King’s apologies. It should allow him to buy more than one cow to replace the beast you have lost.”

  The boy stuttered his thanks… As well he might. For now his family not only had the flesh of this poor thin cow to use through the winter, but would have several new beasts, too. A fine present to bring home!

  “Please accept my apologies, too,” I said, taking a ring from my finger. It was not worth a great deal, but it was far richer than anything this peasant owned. I gave the small silver ring to the lad and his face burst into crimson flame. He bowed awkwardly.

  “My thanks, my Queen,” he mumbled, bowing and almost running to take the cows home so he could tell his step-father of their newly won fortune.

  As the lad ran off, Henry looked happy. “You see, my Anne?” he asked. “Even the common men see the mark of a queen in you!”

  I rolled my eyes. “He believed me to be Katherine, my lord,” I said and sighed. “Now that will go down as another mark of her generosity, rather than mine.”

  “Still,” Henry said, turning his mount and indicating to one of his men to stay with the cow so that it would not be eaten by wild beasts before the lad came back with his stepfather to bu
tcher it. “Perhaps it is better that he thinks so… We do not want the people knowing that you are at my side rather than Katherine… They would not understand, sweetheart, of the innocence of our love.”

  Innocence… Well it was, in one sense, and in another it was not. Hunting and riding certainly helped Henry and I tame our lust, but it never dispelled it entirely. It was always there. On days when we did not ride out, when inclement weather kept us inside, our passion inevitably escalated. One or both of us had to be stern at such times, and save us from ourselves. Even with such control, our embraces were becoming more serious, more passionate… Hands and fingers reached inside clothing, caresses grew more urgent. It was hard to bear.

  My mother made herself scarce more often than not, which allowed Henry and me to physically express our love for each other in private. I am sure that the servants heard our groans and moans through the walls of his chamber and imagined me to be the greatest whore living… But we were careful never to go too far and endanger my womb with a bastard child. All our touches were kept on the surface of our clothes… or just inside them. In some ways, the cloth separating us from each other only added to the tension; smooth silk and rich velvet, soft wool and fine chemise… sensual material which was exciting to the touch. I wondered if two people had ever been as tested as we were.

  Henry lavished gifts upon me as well. In many ways, I believe he hoped to please me with presents, since our Great Matter was far from being resolved. The Cardinal, too, continued to send me gifts when he knew I was with Henry. Wolsey was no fool. These carefully timed gifts were there to make Henry believe that Wolsey respected and loved me.

  Meat and fish for my supper table arrived in plentiful amounts. Cloth for clothes, French hoods decorated with pearls, fine books and expensive trinkets all arrived at Windsor for me. When there was a surplus of food, I would send some as gifts to my family, or order it sent to near-by abbeys and monastic orders. Wolsey’s plan worked. Henry was overjoyed to see his friend afford me such attention, and urged me to see that this meant the Cardinal loved me as well as my King did.

  “You see, sweetheart?” he asked, turning a fine bolt of dark green velvet over in his hands, admiring it. “You see how it is? Those that I love, love you… that is the way it should be.”

  I agreed with Henry, but unlike him, I could see through the slippery Cardinal. He was trying to buy my complacency. It was not working.

  One item Wolsey sent me that spring was a perfectly and delicately wrought golden girdle ornament. It surprised me that Wolsey was able to assess my tastes so perfectly, but then he was a great politician and flatterer. Henry encouraged me to write to the Cardinal, suggesting that we three spend time together.

  “It would please me to see two of those I love most in the world to be bonded together by friendship,” he said, a slither of warning in his voice. Henry was aware that I harboured suspicions about the Cardinal. I had tentatively told Henry I felt Wolsey was not fully committed to the Great Matter. Henry had denied this, and wanted me to be Wolsey’s friend, and so I agreed, writing to the Cardinal and thanking him graciously for his generosity.

  There would eventually be room for only either Cardinal or Queen on this chessboard, not both. But I was happy to bide my time for now. Even an only half-committed Wolsey was of use to us.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Windsor Palace

  Spring 1528

  Wolsey’s Legatine Court had finally been assembled, and charged with investigating the validity of Henry’s marriage to Katherine. Preliminary meetings had begun and the court was now preparing to sit… when, and if, the Pope could be prevailed upon to send an envoy as his representative. The Pope would have the final say on the Great Matter, of course, but we had hope that if Clement sent a representative he might choose to give him the power to decide in his place.

  The court and their task were supposed to be a secret, but soon everyone knew. Passed by the whispers of maidens and the low voices of lords, rumours about the trial seeped through court and into London. Words crept through the walls like water, tumbled through the streets and made their way into every home in England. By now, everyone had heard a murmur of the King’s Great Matter. Most courtiers believed Henry would marry me should the annulment take place. My position was becoming increasingly public, and however damaging that might be, there was little to be done about it. And there were benefits as well as problems as this knowledge leaked out. People started to show me more notice and asked favours of me, offering their support in return. And it was not only people of the court that saw this, but others about London. I was told of a case against a bookseller named Garrett, who had been arrested for storing and selling banned books; works of heresy, as Wolsey, More and the Church saw them. Garrett’s customers had not only been private citizens, but also leading members of the Church. A monastery in Reading had bought sixty copies of one book from him, and the parson of Honey Lane, a Doctor Farham, had also purchased his wares. Farham apparently was of high interest to More and Wolsey as they thought he might be able to provide names of other suspected heretics. But the appearance of men of the Church in this affair clearly showed there were some willing to open their minds to new ideas, even within the Church itself. That brought me comfort.

  Garrett and Farham wrote to Wolsey, asking to be forgiven and freed. They were not listened to and were imprisoned in a fish cellar under the Cardinal’s College. Informed of this ill-treatment by George, who kept an eye on many reformists in London, I wrote to Wolsey, asking him to release them, or at least move them to better quarters. “I beseech Your Grace with all my heart to remember the parson of Honey Lane for my sake” I wrote, “and to show justice and clemency to those who have already admitted their fault in this matter, and have begged for forgiveness.” Wolsey wrote back that these men were dangerous heretics, and I was wasting my compassion on them. I bristled at his dismissive tone in the letter. It was a risk to support Farham and the others, but I could not rest knowing what a pitiful state they had been reduced to, just for wanting to expand their minds. This affair dragged on for months, and I had no success in setting the men free. Poor Farham died later that year, largely for his suffering in that ill, dank cellar, but two of the men who survived I contacted in secret, and told them I would work to further their careers when I could. Although this intervention had not gone well for me, I hoped another would when my brother-in-law, Will, reminded me of a favour I had promised him.

  Dame Cecily Willoughby, Abbess of St Edith’s nunnery at Wilton Abbey had died and Will asked that I petition Henry for his elder sister, Eleanor, to be made Abbess. I spoke of this with Henry one evening as we dined. An embarrassed expression spread over his countenance. “What is it, my lord?” I asked, worried. Did he think I had asked too much, already? “Would you not wish to honour both my family and that of your good friend, Carey?”

  Henry coughed. “I would grant you anything I could, sweetheart,” he said uncomfortably, taking from the platter of spring artichokes which lay seared and tender between us on the table. “But Wolsey has already been here this morning, asking that the same post be granted to Dame Isabel Jordan, the present prioress. Technically, this is a Church matter, but Wolsey asked that I officially support his choice… And Dame Jordan is the prioress, and should be next in line, unless she is in some measure unsuitable.”

  Vexed that the great bat had got to Henry before me, I struggled to control my voice and answer calmly. “She could remain prioress, could she not?” I asked, spooning a portion of braised spring greens in oil, sugar and salt to my own plate to rest aside slices of golden-roasted capon. “It is still an honourable position in a highly regarded Abbey. Dame Eleanor Carey, I hear, is a wise and virtuous young woman. She would serve you well, my lord, and the Church.”

  “That may be true, sweetheart… But, you see, I have Wolsey asking for one thing, and you for another…” Henry sighed, poking at his artichokes, and glancing at me with consternation. He did not lik
e being unable to please me.

  Stay calm, Anne, I told myself. It will do you no good to shout or accuse the Cardinal. Wolsey has been keen to demonstrate his eagerness to please you… Perhaps if he is brought before Henry, he will defer to your choice.

  “Call the Cardinal here tomorrow, my love,” I said calmly, lifting a small morsel of capon to my lips. “And we can discuss this, all three of us together.” I popped the flesh into my mouth and savoured the taste of the garlic and rosemary it had been roasted with. I savoured, too, the idea of playing with Wolsey.

  Henry’s head whipped up with surprise. I was never keen to meet the Cardinal. “A fine idea, Anne.” He beamed, and stood from the table to kiss me, once on the cheek and once on the throat. We went on with our meal; Henry drawing the soft, savoury petals of the artichoke through a bowl of dark vinegar and olive oil, and me complimenting him on the skill of his kitchens.