The Baker's Daughter Volume 1
Page 52
Cromwell left the room still in a fog, but orders were orders, and very soon, the party was on the road.
Henry insisted that Cromwell accompany him; after all, Anne was his find and he deserved to be there to bask in that glorious moment when the king and the New Queen finally came face to face. Norfolk, as first peer of the realm, was already at Rochester, along with his son, the Earl of Surrey, having been sent to greet Anne officially. All of Anne’s new ladies were at Rochester Castle awaiting Her Grace’s arrival. They were to have escorted her to Greenwich to meet the king. He had pictured it many times; he would be seated on his throne, his canopy above him, with the august arms of England at his back. It was to have been a show of power and might that was sure to impress her and make her glad that she had come to England to be his queen.
What he was doing was impetuous, but what of that? He had missed his grand Christmas wedding, but he had no intention of beginning the new year without his New Queen. He had seen to the packing of his New Year’s gifts for Anne himself. Green was her color, and he had commissioned for her a sumptuous green velvet cape trimmed with powdered ermine and lined with golden sable. There was a tippet to match. Nothing was too good for his New Queen.
Rochester Castle, January 1540
As much as Henry tried to ignore the pain of his leg now that his thoughts were distracted by his new love, the ride from Greenwich to Rochester in winter weather had proved a challenge. The party had had to make several stops along the way, ostensibly to change horses; Sir Anthony had sent a swift outrider ahead to arrange for posting stations along the way where fresh horses could be obtained. But a journey that should have taken a group of young men no more than a few hours had taken Henry’s party all day and into the wee hours of the night. They arrived at the castle long after everyone was abed. They were received by the castellan, who had been waiting for them, and ushered into rooms made warm and ready for them long before they arrived.
Archbishop Cranmer, who was at the castle as part of the delegation charged with Anne’s reception, scolded Henry as he bathed.
“It is not appropriate for Your Grace to spend the night under the same roof as your affianced bride,” he said. It was his duty to point out the impropriety, but further than that he would not go. He enjoyed being the premiere prelate in the land, a position he had never expected to attain, and which he had not thought to retain after the fall of the Boleyns, who had sponsored him; he had no desire to anger the king.
“Well, then,” replied Henry jovially, as he relaxed in the enormous copper bathtub with the steam rising in little wisps, “rouse the lady and marry us now!” It was not a bad idea, actually; he was itching for his marriage bed. Perhaps he should have Cranmer marry them here, at Rochester, on the morrow. But another part of him said no, it was best to wait. He may have missed his grand wedding on Christmas Day, and now New Year’s Day would pass as well and see him a bachelor still, but he wanted his wedding to Anne to be the wedding of all weddings. For a king who had been married three times, it was absurd that he had never had a magnificent wedding ceremony. His wedding to Katharine had been necessarily subdued, because it had taken place hard on the heels of the death of his father; his ceremony with Anne had taken place in the utmost secrecy, definitely a hole-in-corner affair; and his wedding to Jane had been subdued because it had followed so closely upon Anne’s execution. For once and for all, he wanted a wedding that was a splendid affair, with wine running in the conduits, cheering people, and flowers in church.
Henry splashed his face and rubbed the water out of his eyes. Archbishop Cranmer still stood before him like a stone apostle. He sighed. “All right, Thomas, you shall spend the night in my own bed, to ensure that there is no cause for concern. And I hear from Lady Rochford that some wizened old crone sleeps with my bride! What more could you ask?”
The thought of spending the night in the king’s bed was enough to make Cranmer simply roll his eyes and shake his head. His duty done, he departed.
Henry went to sleep with the exhilarating thought that when he awoke, it would be the first day of the new year, and he would see Anne for the first time.
# # #
The ladies had repaired to the solar after breaking their fast. Anne was disappointed at not reaching London for her grand entry into the capital on New Year’s Day, but it was not for lack of trying; she had done her best, insisting on pushing on each day through the sleet, rain, and wind. After resting only overnight at Canterbury, they had pressed on to Rochester, where she had been met on Reynham Downs by the Duke of Norfolk and a party of English courtiers. Up to that point, her will had been law; but the duke informed her that there would be no more traveling until the weather cleared. The king had no desire to lose his New Queen to sickness before he had even had the pleasure of making her acquaintance. The king was kept informed of every step of her progress, and would issue orders as to when she should proceed.
At that Anne had shrugged and settled in. After all, what did it matter? She was here and would be here for the rest of her life. And it would be much nicer to make her grand entrance into her capital city on a lovely day, instead of in nasty weather. Although the weather had yet to keep her hardy new subjects from celebrating her arrival; every day she had been met on the road and cheered by throngs of well-wishers. So now she was content to wait.
Anne had been practicing her cards, and now shuffled the deck expertly, dealing hands for a game of Noddy to Lady Rochford, Lady Edgecumbe, and Lady Browne, three of her new English ladies. Anne had just thrown down her first card when the door to the solar burst open and a troop of archers barged in. For a moment, all was pandemonium. Startled, the English ladies stood up abruptly, knocking back their chairs, and Anne’s Dutch ladies screeched and gabbled in their guttural German-Dutch patois.
Frightened thoughts chased themselves through Anne’s head at the sight of a dozen armed men entering the chamber without being properly announced; despite the enthusiasm with which she had been greeted by the English people on every step of her journey, perhaps there were some who resented the alliance with Cleves, and wanted to assassinate her; mayhap these were desperate men who meant to kidnap her for the ransom; maybe she had been meant to die and had been spared a watery death in the stormy Channel only to meet her bloody end here in this room. Such a pity; it had all been for nothing. Well, she was her father’s daughter and she would not go down without a fight.
While the room was still in a seeming uproar, Anne snatched up the heavy silver candelabra that sat on the table next to her and raised it over her head threateningly at the red-headed giant who was bearing down upon her. In that split second, she also gave a thought to her virtue; would she die a virgin, or would he try to ravish her first, before he killed her? And where was the palace guard? How had these men even gotten into the room? What…
Suddenly she realized that the room had gone silent. Everyone stood rooted to the spot they were standing on and no one uttered a sound. The red-haired giant stood before her, but made no further move against her. She had been panting in her agitation; slowly she lowered her formidable silver weapon.
The man who stood before was old for a soldier, or the type of rapscallion who roamed the roads looking to rob innocent people. He was almost bald and the flesh about his beady eyes hung in unattractive folds. She was used to tall men; she came from a family, indeed, a land, where men and women were taller than average due to their Viking heritage. She realized that as tall as he was, she was almost at eye level with him. And he was remarkably fat for a man of action, which she assumed he was, judging from the quiver of arrows slung across his back and the longbow that he carried.
Suddenly the silence was broken by Sir William. He was fluent in Dutch, but his accent was strange to her, and when he started gabbling so fast that it was difficult to understand what he was saying, Anne held up her hand. She was in England now and judging by the fact that it seemed as if she was not to be pinned to the wall by a three-foot arr
ow and raped senseless, she wanted to be addressed in her new language. “Stilte!” she cried. “Silence, pleesse, Sir Villiam. I beg off you to tell me that vich you vish to say in Engles, pleesse. Vertel me in het Engles.”
Upset and unable at first to comprehend Anne’s words, for her English was as bad as his Dutch, he continued on, “Mijn Dame, deze man is de koning.”
Anne’s head swiveled and she looked again at Henry, who was now feeling remarkably foolish in his archer’s garb. “Der koning? Der…kink? Diss man iss der kink?” For a moment she could not comprehend his meaning, and then it dawned on her. She dropped the candelabra, which plummeted to the floor with a thud, and collapsed into a deep curtsey. But when she arose and looked into Henry’s eyes with a smile, his face was stony.
“Pleesse,” she said. “I vass not knowing dat diss is der kink.”
Henry remembered his manners and bent to kiss his new queen on the lips, but suddenly drew back and lifted her hand instead, barely brushing it with his lips before dropping it again. Her hands were broad with stumpy, stubby fingers and unattractive squarish nails. Disgusting!
He had wanted to surprise her, and in that very surprise, of course she could not have known that his men posed no threat and that it was all just a joke. His charade, which had been so popular with Katharine and her ladies, had fallen flat. He felt like a fool and did not like the feeling.
He smiled pleasantly and bowed. “My lady,” he said. “A poor joke. I apologize to have frightened you.” Sir William translated, this being beyond Anne’s English at the moment.
“We will dine together this evening,” he said, and turning, waved Brandon off, who had been poised to deliver into the king’s hands the New Year’s gifts that Henry had meant to present to her after they finished laughing at her surprise at the king’s masquerade.
Once the king and his costumed party departed, the ladies all began to chatter at once, and the room sounded like the Tower of Babble. Anne, who had a lively sense of humor, now understood the joke and laughed heartily. But it was too late for Henry to hear her.
# # #
Henry strode purposefully back to his apartments and once the men had filed in behind him, he slammed the door so hard that every item in the room jumped, and a wine cup, set too close to the edge of a table, clattered to the floor.
No one dared to speak.
Henry, who had gone merrily on his charade without his walking stick, yanked it up off the bed and began pacing the room like an angry lion. His leg was throbbing. Suddenly he let out an inhuman cry. It was a keening sound, borne of anger, pain, disappointment, and fury. All the men kept their eyes on the floor; no one wished to be singled out to experience the king’s deadly wrath.
They were, however, mightily perplexed; it was true that the masquerade had not gone as well as the king had probably wished it to do, but that was no tragedy. Why was the king taking it so hard?
Henry, who had been pacing the length and breadth of the sizable chamber, came to an abrupt halt in front of Cromwell. Without hesitation and without warning, the king raised his stick, which was made of hickory and was topped with an elaborate golden knob, and struck Cromwell a blow to the side of his head.
It was perhaps fortunate that Cromwell had seen the blow coming, or it might have cracked his skull. Even so, the sound of the knob connecting with Cromwell’s temple made a sickening thud, and he collapsed into a heap on the floor, crying out in his pain and surprise.
“You!” shrieked the king. “You! This is all your doing! This is all…your…fault!” As the king bellowed the last words, he kicked Cromwell three times in succession. Only Cromwell’s agonized writhing had prevented the blows from landing in the same spot. Although the king’s shoes were tipped with metal, it was a mercy that they were not pointed, or the velocity with which the kicks were delivered might have been fatal. It remained to be seen whether the blow to his head would be.
At this Brandon, the only person in the room who dared to approach the king in such a fit of rage, did the unspeakable and laid hands on the king, pulling him back.
“Your Grace,” he said softly. “Enough.”
Henry’s head swiveled as if it had been on an oiled stick and faced Brandon. His eyes were bulging and the whites were as red as his angry face. White foam had formed at the corners of his mouth, which was set in an angry square, all the teeth showing; his breath hissed though them in short gasps.
For a moment the king was silent and then he roared, “Did you see her, Brandon? Did you see her? See her!” he shouted. “My God, man, did you smell her? Does she never bathe? Did you behold her cheeks? All pitted and scarred! And new sores broken out as well! Christ on the cross, is she poxed? And if she is, then she is no virgin! I will not marry such a beast!”
Henry turned to look for Cromwell, who had wisely crawled to the nearest corner to put himself out of the angry king’s path. But it was no good; Henry strode to where Cromwell cringed and picked him up in both of his mighty hands as if he had weighed no more than a dried leaf. “Did you know? Did you know about this? Why have you done this to me?” With that bewildering statement on his lips, he flung Cromwell back down to the floor.
“Merciful God, when I got within a foot of the wench, her breath nearly knocked me over! She was panting, spewing that fetid air directly at me! And the stench of her! I have never been so struck with consternation, never been so much dismayed in my life, as to see a lady so far unlike that which has been represented! Why did no one tell me? Why did no one warn me? Southampton!”
Sir William nearly swooned like a green girl on her wedding night at the sound of his name issuing forth from the angry king’s lips. Henry spotted him amongst the dozen or so of his courtiers who had been, most unwillingly, recruited to dress up as archers. Many of them were too young to remember the king’s antics as a young man, and thought the whole thing absurd. Henry planted his legs apart and placed his hands on his hips, a sure sign of fury. “You have been with her since Calais. Did you never notice that she stinks like a pigsty?”
Sir William had grown very fond of Anne and was most uncomfortable to be forced to bear witness to the abuse the king had just flung at her; he would not condone such behavior, even in a king. “Your Grace,” he said very softly. “I did notice that the New Queen…”
“She is not the queen!” yelled Henry. “Nor will she be! I will not marry with such a one as she! Did you see her, man? She is as broad as a cow, without the udders! She is out of all proportion! Why, she’s as big as a man!” He was accustomed to delicate, diminutive, sweet-smelling women. Oh God, what had he gotten himself into?
Norfolk, who had been making a concerted effort to stifle his smug sneer at the turn of events, now said, “But Your Grace, I thought I heard you say when you were hoping to court Marie de Guise that you liked big women?” He had no spleen against Anne of Cleves; the fact that she had turned out to be Catholic was a point in her favor, as far as he was concerned. But anything that undermined Cromwell made him very happy indeed.
Henry snorted. “Marie de Guise has been lauded as one of the most desirable princesses in Christendom!” he replied. “Never have I heard her described as a fat, ugly cow! I have been saddled with a Flanders mare! Well, I won’t have her! I tell you, I like her not!”
And then a strange thing happened. Cromwell, who had torn a sleeve off of his shirt and bound his own head with it, for his wound was bleeding freely where the king had struck him, stood up, raised himself to his full height, which even so only brought him up to the king’s mighty shoulders, and said, “Your Grace, this is an arranged match and like any such, has been made for political purposes. It is no different from any other arranged match. England needs the alliance with Cleves. Without it, she stands alone and naked to her enemies. You must marry the lady and get her with child. It is your duty as king to do so.” No longer was he the craven, cringing, lowly lawyer; he was now my lord the Earl of Essex, and by God, he was going to act like it.
Everyone was expecting another explosion of the Tudor temper, but this time, Henry said in barely a whisper, “Oh, must I? Well, I tell you, I will not. You got me into this, and by God, you will get me out of it.” With that the king strode from the room and none dared to follow him.
Baynard’s Castle, London, January 1540
The chanting of the monks at Blackfriars was to be heard no more, but Mary, in her extremity, could have sworn that she heard their plaintive voices sighing on the wind. The sound was soothing whatever its origin, which Mary suspected was the poppy syrup that Dr. Owen had given her for the pain. Her head ached abominably, she was nauseous, and so was unable to eat, and even her arms and legs ached. When he had visited her earlier, Dr. Owen had been very concerned indeed. Lady Kingston, who now had charge of her household, stood by with worried countenance and wringing hands. Between them they decided that there was nothing for it but to call in Dr. Butts, who, as senior court physician, must be consulted. Lady Kingston laid a cool, vinegar-soaked cloth across her forehead and departed. No one dared even whisper the word “plague”; but Mary knew in her heart that it was no earthly thing that bedeviled her. Besides, it was January, and the likelihood of plague was so slim at that time of year as to be non-existent.
As she had done a hundred times in the past few days, she felt at her neck for the little diamond cross that Philip had given to her. The room was dark, lit only by a single candle beside the bed. The light hurt her eyes and she had kept them closed while Dr. Owen poked and prodded and Lady Kingston fretted. But now she opened them just wide enough to watch the diamonds sparkle in the firelight. Even though it hurt her eyes, the sight still cheered her.