Anne plainly welcomed the King’s attentions. Since her miscarriage the previous year the King’s passion had been much on the wane, and she was obviously relieved that, for whatever reasons, he now frequented her bed. Thus, by the time the royal progress had drawn to its close, Anne knew herself to be again with child. And all of us who loved Anne, prayed hard that all would go right for her this time.
But bad omens haunted the land.
December had been a bad time in the county of Kent; half the crop harvests of many counties had been lost and now the spectre of famine loomed before many peasants’ eyes. It was often said, even by those who should have known better, that this was the judgement of God upon the marriage of the King. Thus, this state of affairs did nothing to improve the feelings of the common people towards his chosen Queen. In sooth, the King’s executions of Bishop Fisher, Sir Thomas More, and the holy Carthusian monks only served to increase the people’s hatred of her. It seemed to me that Anna was increasingly made the King’s scapegoat for his own wrong doings.
January came, and Anne, though not having an easy time of it again, began to feel secure in her new pregnancy. And a death now came to make her feel even more secure.
Catherine of Aragon, pushed from bad abode to worse, took her final breath. Some said it was poison, sent by Anne’s own hand. But I know my Anna, and speak the truth when I say nay. It was not Anne. But I know what killed the poor, noble lady. Catherine’s tender heart was broken by the callous acts of the King and she wished no longer to live. For a long while she had been sickening, and she was made even sicker and more invalid by the fact that Kimbolton Castle, where Catherine was forced to make her final home, was damp throughout, being situated on the Fens, and in a dreadful state of disrepair. For a long while, knowing that this illness was likely to be her last one, Catherine of Aragon had begged sight of her daughter Mary, and the King heeded her not.
Still the poor Lady died loving him, saying, in her final letter: “I make this vow, that mine eyes desire you above all things.”
Yea! Poor Catherine!
She died loving a man not fully realising that this man was no more. The King had been killed by his own selfish lust: lust for power and lust for things of the flesh. Yea, the Henry who she loved was long dead himself.
And how did the King act when he heard of this lady’s death?
“God be praised,” he cried to all his court. “We are freed at last of the harridan. No longer do we have to live in fear of war!”
The King believed that Catherine, fearing that her daughter’s rights were in danger of being lost forever, had written to her nephew the Emperor and begged him not to hesitate to make use of his armies, if that was what it required, so to protect his cousin Mary’s birthright.
Anne also was pleased to see the end of Catherine. As Catherine was afeared for her daughter Mary, so was Anne for her own daughter Elizabeth. Anna knew that as long as Catherine lived the party resolute against her would have a backbone difficult to break. But now all was different. With Catherine gone there was no one to claim that there was one who had greater right to sit by the side of the King. Thus, Anne was the only Queen in the land, the King’s undisputable wife. The child within her would be born without the doubt that had shadowed over the birth of Elizabeth.
So great, indeed, was the relief of the King that he ruled that a banquet, followed by much dancing, would take place upon that same evening. And when that evening came, Anne and the King arrived upon the scene dressed all in yellow, all in yellow that is except for the white feather in the silken cap of the King.
Their little girl, clothed alike to her parents in a silken dress of yellow gold, also attended this night’s festivities. Elizabeth arrived soon after the banquet in the arms of her governess, Anne Shelton, who was the Queen’s own aunt. Anne had been right; when big-bellied with her first child, she told me that her child was to be something very special. Elizabeth was a child born to be taken notice of. Even though only two, Elizabeth seemed to all to be an exceptionally bright and intelligent child. Indeed, the infant girl no longer talked nonsense, as other young children of that age often do, but spoke good and clear sentences.
The King made much of his little girl this night. The King took the child from lady Shelton and carried Elizabeth around the room to show her to all his court—taking much delight every time he snatched off her silken cap to display to the invited dignitaries her beautiful golden red hair so much alike to the hair of his own youth. The little girl laughed in his arms, and looked with adoration up at the gigantic man who was her father. And I could not help to wonder what the future had in store for this tiny child, this girl child who had been born into the royal house of Tudor.
I glanced at Anne, who stood only a short distance from me, to see her looking on with obvious maternal pride; but then, as I watched, I saw her grimace with pain and close her eyes, as if in prayer, with her hands on either side of her belly.
Remembering her last miscarriage, I moved swiftly towards her in fright.
“Anna!” I whispered to her.
She opened her eyes, and saw me there before her. I suppose the alarm in my face must have told her what I feared, for she smiled reassuringly at me.
“’Tis alright, Tom. Truly—nothing ails me. I but prayed to God to forgive my happiness. Look at me! Many people say that yellow is the colour that the royals of Spain wear in mourning. I know otherwise! Oh, Tom! That a poor woman must die before I could be so happy! What if God punishes me…?”
I thought through my memories to find words to comfort her, and found there words of a priest long dead.
“Remember, Anna, how Father Stephen told us that God is like a good blacksmith, and during our lives he shapes us into the metal best suited for his purposes? Think not on the punishment of God; that is not his way. Think only that we must face and deal with life as best as we are able.”
Anne smiled at me again, and went as to touch me, but then suddenly looked around her, obviously remembering that all the court surrounded us.
“Thank you, dear Tom. You always know what to say to best comfort me. I am full of strange fancies, but women with child often are.” She laughed softly, but her dark eyes were sad and full of melancholy. Her eyes returned to reflect on me again, and she said, “Father Stephen also spoke that our life’s shaping is through the gift of suffering… that both joy and suffering go hand in hand. Tom, do think I have suffered enough? Do you think that God will wish for me to suffer more than what I already have done?”
I looked at her, and wished we were truly alone. I just wished to take her in my arms and protect her from any further hurt. But I felt I had to answer her question the best way that I was able.
“Dearest Anna. You know as I do that true joy in this world is but a brief, fleeting thing, a glimpse we are given through the doors of Heaven, but a glimpse soon gone. Oh, Anne! What can I say? As long as we live and breathe there will be pain…”
Our brief conversation was suddenly broken into by the arrival of the Queen’s maid, Madge Shelton, who curtsied to the Queen and said: “Your Grace, the King desires your company.”
I bowed to Anne, and took her too-frail hand to kiss it tenderly.
“I am grateful to have had this opportunity to speak to my Queen.”
Anne smiled her farewell, and then turned to follow Madge.
I watched her as she went to where the King now stood, and decided that I had had enough of this evening’s entertainments. Thus, I made my departure to my London lodgings.
The old Queen was buried with little fuss. Death at last won the King his victory, to have her assume the title of Dowager Princess of Wales. But, then, the piteous lady was now past caring.
After the funeral of the old Queen—or, I should say, Dowager Princess—the King continued his celebrations at Greenwich by arranging a joust. As usual, the King was one of the participants, and was enjoying himself to the full in the competition of manly pursuits. But, at the e
nd of the day, the King was galloping his horse in the tiltyard when his huge, black stallion suddenly stumbled. The destrier fell heavily, throwing the King head first onto the ground. Many of us watching now rushed forward in unison, seeking to go first to his aid.
When I had arrived at the side of the King, I found Henry Norris there before me. Norris was frantically trying to remove the King’s armour. I knelt beside him so to help him. I looked at Henry Norris, and felt his great fear and love for the King had driven him close to breaking point. I gently removed the King’s helmet from Henry Norris’ shaking hands; indeed, his hands were shaking so much that I greatly feared the King’s headgear would slip from his grasp and cause more injury. Poor Norris was repeating softly, in what seemed almost akin to a cry: “My Liege! My Liege! My Liege!”
I put down the helmet to one side, and began to attend to the King’s chest plate. Other Equerries of the King’s body now gathered around the King, removing, piece by piece, his near hundredweight of armour.
With his helmet removed, we all could see that the King was bleeding profusely from a head wound. His forehead was much bruised and already swollen. But the King, though deeply unconscious, was obviously very much alive, for his heart beat strong and steady. All who attended him thus began to breathe a little easier.
Now that the King’s armour was stripped from his body, we were able to lift his enormous form on the waiting stretcher, and carried him indoors. Doctor Butts, the King’s second physician, now walked alongside us, muttering loudly to everyone his immense concern.
The King was an extremely heavy man, and, despite the fact that there were four of us bearing the weight of the stretcher, my arms began to feel stretched to their full capacity. I glanced around myself, to see how much further we needed to go, when I saw the Duke of Norfolk suddenly break away from the horde of courtiers following us and head in the direction of Anne’s chambers. Anna had felt unwell this day, and had chosen to remain inside with her attendants.
In that same instant, I felt my skin prickle in fright and premonition of doom so near I could almost touch it.
My God! Dear God! I thought. He must be going to tell Anna. Sweet Jesus! How will he tell her? What will he tell her?
Norfolk had a reputation for being blunt and to the point; and he, despite the fact he was her uncle, had little love for Anne. In sooth, Anna regarded him as her greatest foe.
I looked quickly around, and saw a face I knew.
“Francis!” I cried, and gained his attention. “Take my pole, I beg of you. I can bear its weight no more.”
Francis came at once to my succour, and took the pole from my now trembling hands.
After being released from my burden, I began to race after the Duke of Norfolk.
Within minutes I entered into the chambers of the Queen, now fast on the heels of Norfolk, to hear the bloody idiot Duke announce: “Madam! The King is dead!”
Anne was seated on a chair near the fire. It happened so quickly that I could do nothing to stop it. When she heard the Duke’s foolish words, Anne, heavily pregnant, at once stood up. Too hastily, because, when she arose in panic, Anna lost her balance and fell with a resounding thud to the floor.
“No! God in Heaven, no!” I cried, and rushed over to her.
Her maids fluttered around her in fright, while poor Anne both cried and said hysterically: “The King is dead? The King is dead? I am done for. My poor babes are done for! Sweet Jesus! What am I to do?”
“Have you hurt yourself, my Queen? Have you any pain?” I asked her, trying to lift her as gently as I could from the floor. The Duke, I could not help but notice, had disappeared from the room. As if he realised, now too late, what his ill spent words had put at risk. Or, I found myself wondering: had he meant for this to happen?
“Oh, Tom! Tom! The King is dead. What will happen to my poor, unprotected babes?”
“Anne! Anna! Please listen to me! The King is not dead. He is indeed injured, but I am not feared for him. He is strong, and will surely recover. But what of you? Dearest girl! Have you hurt yourself?”
The woman before me looked so white that she appeared like a ghost. So great, indeed, had been her fright.
“Harry is not dead?” she said, visibly beginning to shake.
“No, Anna,” I repeated. “The King is not dead!”
“Oh, Tom. I feel so sick!”
And she looked it too. I gestured to her women to come and help me, so we could take her into her bedchamber. When we had helped her stand upright, we began to escort her to her bed, but Anne suddenly shut her eyes and became even paler.
Fearing in my heart that she was only short seconds away from a complete collapse, I threw discretion to the winds and picked her too frail body up in my arms. Despite the swelling of her belly, Anne seemed not much heavier than I remembered from that last time I held her so, near eight long years ago. Her ladies tuttered their great disapproval of my behaviour, but then saw that their Queen had completely fainted in my arms. It was I who now began to feel sick.
“Someone go and get the doctor! Where, in God’s good name, is the midwife?” I yelled at those useless women who surrounded me, but did nothing but get in my way.
Thus, without further ado, I carried my beloved girl to her bed.
CONTENTS
* * *
Chapter 5
“Thanked be fortune, it hath be otherwise.”
Days later, and because she fought so hard against it, in great pain and agony Anne miscarried the King’s child, a son. Some say it would have been her saviour. I say otherwise: the baby was her doom.
How could it be otherwise? The boy-child she gave premature birth to was deformed, with an over-large head and a stump where there should be an arm. The King—now up and about after his head injury, but shorter of temper than usual—was horrified, sickened, when he was told of this. Deformed babies are believed by many to be the sign of the evil one and powerful witchcraft, and it was his own wife who had borne this monster within her, claiming it was flesh of his flesh.
Perchance, I can understand—a little—the King’s first horrified reaction. He told Anne that she would bear no more sons to him—saying, as he left his distraught wife, “I will speak to you more of this when you are up from this place.”
And he henceforth escaped from the birthing-chamber, with its sickly smell of blood, and the shuttered-in pathos of dark, hopeless despair.
Such dreadful horror from hell must have a cause. But the cause must never be fixed at the King’s door.
It was not long after this that the King was heard to say that his passion for Anne had been caused by witchcraft. Thus, there was no recourse now but to rid himself of the witch who had put him under such a spell. I cannot say I understand why this catastrophe happened, but I know it was no witchcraft. I have always known in my deepest heart that Anna’s relationship with the King was doomed from the start.
But there is always a lull before every storm. And for a time, those of us who stood steadfast to the Queen deluded ourselves into hoping that all could and would right itself one day.
Anne had many loyal and loving friends, friends who all did their best to comfort her during this most terrible time. When she had physically recovered from her miscarriage, we, including George, Henry Norris, Francis Weston, and myself (as much as discretion allowed), would all gather in her chamber and try our hardest to distract her from her grief. And she was grieving, not only for the baby—though it had been best for the poor thing to be born dead before his time—but for the final death knell upon her marriage. Anne knew the Lord Cromwell had made the King aware how, with Catherine now dead, he had but to rid himself of her and he would be free to gain for himself a bona fide marriage. And a new marriage would give the King yet another opportunity for siring his longed-for Prince.
Once upon a time, so many long years ago, Anne had no love for the King, but with the passing of year upon year her feelings for him had become changed from hate into pit
y, and then to something akin to love. Perverse, indeed, are the winds of human life. And, as Anne grew to love him, so did the King’s feelings for her change into something alike to hate. Hatred exposed to all close to them after the dead, deformed boy had been born.
Yea, there was so much for Anne to grieve for. Not least the fact that she felt herself increasingly swept away to where none could save her.
My beloved girl attempted to forget all that afflicted her by losing herself in the creation of new dances, dances that she would dance for us in her chambers. Sometimes, as I watched her, I was swept back into the far reaches of my memories. There she was, in a bright, sunlit room, a woman in a heavy golden dress, with her ebony hair flowing loose, past her tiny waist, whirling, always whirling around the room. And I? My heart would stand painfully heavy and still, remembering the innocent and happy child that Anna once was. Nonetheless, where before the tiny child had danced to music she alone could hear, this time it was Marc Smeaton or myself who made the music, while Anne danced her latest dance with her ladies and some of the King’s own gentlemen.
Marc, though lowly born, being the son of a carpenter, was a vastly talented young man, especially when it came to playing upon the virginals. He had been now in Anne’s service for close to three years, and it often struck me that he was often jealous of the other gentlemen who had greater claim upon the attentions of the Queen. Anne was aware that his feelings for her were greater than were sensible. (But who is ever sensible when it comes to love?) Anna tried her best to remind him of his place, and stop the poor lad from deluding himself that he had a claim upon her closer affections.
One time when I was with the Queen at Greenwich, we noticed Marc eyes upon us with an expression on his face that could be only described as lovelorn. Anna shrugged her shoulders at me, and gave a wry smile.
Dear Heart, How Like You This Page 27
