Shaking the Throne

by Caroline Angus Baker

  ‘You should all pray,’ Dr. Butts said to all in the tent. ‘For unless His Majesty wakes, there is little we can do now.’

  Many fell to their knees, but old Norfolk threw his wrinkled hands in the air instead. ‘Forget p-p-prayers! What shall happen t-t-to England if Henry does n-n-not wake?’

  All eyes swept to Cromwell, who tried to clear the lump from his throat. ‘The Act of Succession states… states that in the absence of a son, the first daughter of Queen Anne shall rule.’

  ‘Hold the country with a baby girl, and another child in the belly of the Queen,’ Audley added. ‘Can it be done?’

  ‘You question the laws we created?’ Cromwell cried and began to recite the Succession. ‘And for default of such sons of your body begotten, and of the heirs of the bodies of every such son lawfully begotten, that then the said imperial crown, shall be to the issue female between Your Majesty and your said most dear and entirely beloved wife, Queen Anne, begotten, that is to say: first to the eldest issue female, which is the Lady Elizabeth, now princess, and to the heirs of her body lawfully begotten….’

  ‘An Act that all have sworn an oath to uphold,’ Thomas Boleyn said from the edge of tent where he stood with George.

  ‘And you,’ Suffolk spat to Boleyn, ‘are you to be to be Lord Protector, king in all but name?’

  ‘Tis treason to ask such things!’ George Boleyn threw back to the distraught Duke.

  ‘Arguing shall not save our king!’ Cromwell said. Now his mind began to clear; he focused not on the mysteries of the body, rather he could focus on the laws he wrote, the country he controlled. ‘All paperwork pertaining to ruling in Princess Elizabeth’s name is clear. We shall have no worries. Parliament could gather and declare Elizabeth a queen within the day. Someone must return to the palace and tell Queen Anne of this accident before she hears it from some attendant charging to the pregnant woman’s rooms with tales of ruin.’

  ‘I sh-sh-shall do it,’ Norfolk grumbled and turned away from the group in a moment. Neither of the Boleyns seemed eager to join Norfolk in visiting Anne; they wanted to see the moment they snatched power on Elizabeth’s behalf, see the moment Henry breathed his last.

  ‘Shall we call a priest?’ Cromwell asked the doctor.

  ‘Yes, send for one, for we know not if the King needs the last rites read in his name.’

  At that suggestion, Henry Norris turned and left the tent, and Cromwell caught a glimpse of outside in the tilt yard; many of the crowd begged to hear news.

  Suffolk sat on his knees next to Henry, praying fervent Catholic words for life to return. Cromwell sank down opposite Suffolk and began to do the same from his reformist teachings. He should have gone back to his office, to hold everything in case of uprising in the name of Elizabeth or Mary, but he could not leave. Nicòla rested her hand upon Cromwell’s shoulder, a gesture to steady him as he began to pray.

  ‘Most Merciful Jesus,’ Cromwell whispered, ‘lover of souls, I pray You, by the agony of Your Most Sacred Heart, and by the sorrows of Your Immaculate Mother, to wash in Your Most Precious Blood, and have mercy on the dying…’

  ‘God be praised!’ cried Dr. Butts.

  Cromwell lifted his head to see Henry’s eyes flutter as life returned to him. No need for prayer, Henry’s strength instead brought him to life. Everyone crowded around to see the blue eyes of Henry open and blink a few times, confused by his surroundings.

  ‘Your Majesty,’ Dr. Butts said clearly, ‘can you hear me?’

  Henry turned to Cromwell, and his hand lifted from the table to grip Cromwell’s arm. The King said nothing, and Cromwell took Henry’s fingers in his own. ‘Your Majesty, you fell from your horse. Fear not, for you will be well.’

  Henry tried to lift his bloodied head and looked down upon himself, stripped of his armour, Francis Weston holding a handkerchief on the wound on Henry’s leg. He appeared not to feel any pain.

  ‘Can you speak, Your Majesty?’ Suffolk asked his lifelong friend.

  ‘Charles,’ Henry whispered, and everyone finally took a breath. The King was safe.

  Cromwell held Henry’s hand tightly in his, their hearts probably beating as fast as the other.

  ‘Praise God,’ said Chapuys from the other end of the tent. ‘It felt as if the King slept for two hours!’

  Ralph ran from the tent, and Cromwell heard him cry out of the King’s safety, to the powerful cheers of the crowd. Without a word, Henry looked up to Cromwell and closed his hand against his. Cromwell simply nodded as tears formed in his eyes. It was Cromwell who could convince Henry all was well; for without Henry, England could surely dissolve into war at the prospect of being ruled by the infant of Anne Boleyn, the great whore. God had surely shown that England needed a male heir.

  F

  Chapter 32 – January 1536

  lyes can hurt even when the lyar means no harm

  Greenwich Palace, outer London

  ‘I thought the plan was to remain calm,’ Nicòla said as they whisked along the hallway to the King’s chambers, Cromwell just ahead of her.

  ‘Yes,’ Cromwell said slowly, not looking back.

  ‘Then stop walking so fast, Tomassito! For you move as if Jesus is due to return to Earth and scorch us all!’

  Cromwell eased his pace, his steps smaller, far easier for Nicòla. ‘I mean not to hurry.’

  ‘If Henry’s accident must be an event not worth mentioning, not worth recording or discussing, then you must look calm, not filled with worry and regret.’

  Cromwell slowed again in the hallway and looked to Nicòla. ‘The King of England almost died three days ago, and I could not do a thing.’

  ‘You are not a man of medicine. You cannot control everything. Only God could make the decision to return Henry to us,’ Nicòla sympathised. ‘Had the worst happened to the King, our laws would have held England steady.’

  ‘Perchance. I know the commoners are angry at the changes to the monasteries. They could revolt against the crown, with Lady Mary as their leader, and hang us all.’

  ‘We could all be hanged or beheaded any time, for that is the life we have chosen,’ Nicòla replied as they reached the doors of the King’s rooms, the eldest Seymour brother standing with the guards.

  ‘Master Seymour,’ Cromwell said, and Edward nodded hello. ‘Shall we find the King in much cheer?’

  ‘No, you take a risk,’ Seymour replied, ‘for Her Majesty is currently in Henry’s privy chamber. They are not speaking, or rather, His Majesty shall not speak to Anne.’

  ‘Does Queen Anne speak of your sister Jane?’ Nicòla asked.

  Seymour narrowed his eyes. ‘My sister is at the palace to assist the Queen, as she has for many years now. We must accept that Henry chooses to share his affections with Jane.’

  ‘And how does the Lady Jane respond to these affections?’ Cromwell asked.

  ‘Jane does not push away the King. He wishes to write to her, to speak with her, all in the presence of members of the family. But with the Queen waiting to bear Henry’s child, Jane is careful to keep her distance. Her Majesty is not well.’

  Indeed not. The moment the Duke of Norfolk, the uncle Anne hated, burst into her rooms and informed her that Henry had fallen from his horse, Anne had not been well. She appeared with pale skin, her eyes showing signs of no sleep, her back hunched, her smile faint. If Lady Jane Seymour made trouble for the Queen and her baby, half the court would vilify her, the other half ready to embrace her.

  ‘What brings you to the King’s chambers?’ Cromwell asked Seymour. ‘I hope no trouble.’

  ‘Indeed no, instead I wait for Sir Nicholas Carew. We are to ride out together this afternoon.’

  Nicòla watched Cromwell stare his golden gaze at Seymour, who stood tall, his nose tilted upwards, ever the man of high standing. The brother of the woman Henry lusted for was riding with a man of the court who hated Queen Anne. That was no simple ride; both Nicòla and Cromwell knew so.

  A simple farewell to the ta
ll Seymour brother and Nicòla followed Cromwell through Henry’s presence chamber into the private rooms. Announced by the chamberlain, Nicòla stood behind Cromwell, to see Henry lying on a day bed by the window, blankets covering his whole body. Anne stood by the fireplace, and Nicòla swore she saw the stain of tears on the Queen’s cheeks. Anne looked not at all well, and Henry was laid back to help with his leg pain. His head rested upon pillows, helping him to sit and pretend to be well after his fall. Word had been spread that all was well with the King, to ease Henry’s embarrassment. The man who unseated Henry, Sir William Brereton, seemed suspicious by his absence from the chamber.

  ‘At last, some company I wish to enjoy.’ Henry said and tried to sit up a little. Henry Norris jumped forward to help the King and was shoved away.

  Cromwell bowed to the King and Nicòla copied. ‘Good morrow, Your Majesty,’ Cromwell said. ‘I am sorry to break your time with Queen Anne.’

  ‘Anne is leaving,’ Henry said, and threw a dark look to his wife, whose gaze appeared ready to throw daggers back at her husband.

  ‘Perchance I could assist Her Majesty back to her chambers?’ Nicòla offered.

  ‘Splendid,’ Henry barked, and with a wave also dismissed all the servants in the room.

  Anne turned and shuffled from the King, less of an angry gesture, more of a defeated retreat. Nicòla ran to open the door for Anne to the private entry to the queen’s rooms.

  ‘I need you not, Frescobaldi,’ Anne snapped.

  ‘I wish to serve Her Majesty in any way I can.’

  Anne stopped in the short panelled hallway, not yet at the rooms where her ladies would be waiting. ‘You know the gossip and idle talk of all in England,’ Anne replied in the darkness. ‘There is no one Cromwell does not spy upon, even among my own ladies. Tell me, what news of Jane Seymour and my husband?’

  ‘I swear upon my life I have never heard His Majesty speak of, or meet with, the Lady Jane,’ Nicòla replied honestly.

  ‘But someone has seen, certainly.’

  ‘Secretary Cromwella has never laid eyes upon Lady Jane in Henry’s presence.’

  ‘Be plain, Frescobaldi! I am your queen!’

  ‘The Seymours are intent on making themselves more beloved at court, to rise in favour. They have paired with Sir Nicholas Carew and the Duke of Suffolk. Neither have ever been friends to you, Your Majesty, or Secretary Cromwella. How they mean to use Lady Jane with the King, I know not. They may not even know. For one, Lady Jane is a mere fool among a pack of wolves and would have no plan of her own.’

  ‘Now you speak some truth.’ Anne paused and cupped her hands under the small bump of her belly. ‘You bring me good news, even if I do not have the will to express any happiness.’

  ‘Please, Your Majesty, you must rest. You carry the golden child of England, and you seem not at all yourself.’

  ‘Since the moment Henry came from his horse, I have been in nothing but agony,’ Anne said with a fresh burst of tears. ‘I am tired, I am weakened; I feel as if the world begins to close in on me as I desperately try to bear the new ruler of England.’

  Nicòla rushed to the next door and opened it for Anne. The light of the Queen’s privy chamber showed Nan Cobham, Anne’s closest lady-in-waiting, who ran to her ill queen.

  ‘I shall not lose my saviour,’ Anne muttered, her hands upon her stomach again as Nan took her arm. ‘Please be my eyes, Frescobaldi.’

  Nicòla bowed as another of Anne’s ladies closed the door once more, and she turned on her heel to scurry back to Cromwell. She found Henry still upon his day bed, Cromwell seated close by, leaning in to hear the words of the King. Nicòla stood to one side in the far corner, to await instruction.

  ‘Tis I who came from my horse these days past,’ Henry gruffed, ‘and yet Anne comes hither, complaining and saying my jousting caused her much distress! She, who sits idle all day! I am the King and I cannot stop appearing before my people, whether that be upon my throne, or upon my horse!’

  ‘We are not young, Your Majesty,’ Cromwell replied, his voice gentle, to not anger Henry further. ‘I am sure you could privately agree that our bodies do not act as they once did.’

  ‘I must admit I remember little, none, of what happened to me. I remember getting upon my horse, and I remember waking in bed with a sore leg.’

  ‘You clung to my arm, Your Majesty, upon waking.’

  ‘Yes, you were there, I am told. You spoke of what my realm would suffer if I died, that is what Suffolk told me.’

  ‘Only to answer other people’s fears, Your Majesty. But also, to calm myself. I believed not in your death and wished wholly for your survival. But knowing we could save all you have built brought me comfort.’

  ‘I heard the Boleyns worried not, indeed seemed only worried with who would be Lord Protector.’

  ‘I am sure as a worried grandfather and an uncle to Princess Elizabeth only.’ Cromwell would not believe his own words, Nicòla knew so.

  ‘If Anne were not with child...’ Henry sighed and looked out at the cold rain beyond the window.

  ‘But, to our delight, and God’s mercy, Anne is with child,’ Cromwell replied. ‘Inside her belly could be the son you have wished for since the moment you were crowned so many years ago.’

  ‘Not that many years,’ Henry snapped back with a grin. ‘God’s blood, almost thirty years ago. And now Katherine is lost to me. I am blessed to have Katherine and her family no longer fighting me, but she was once the most beautiful woman I had ever seen. Those early years of marriage were the greatest time of my life, with many babies, if not lost. We were both young, active, ready for battle in the field, and in the bedroom. How goes Katherine’s funeral planning?’

  ‘All complete. Frescobaldi has done much of the work on my behalf. St. Peterborough Cathedral is ready for the ceremony and interment. It shall be a simple affair and shall be attended by no members of the royal household, as requested. Tis not the funeral of a queen, but of the wife of the late Prince Arthur. She shall not even receive the grandest burial at the cathedral, indeed some bishops have received grander burials there. Costs are minimal, Your Majesty.’

  ‘I just need it over, I just need Katherine gone from my mind, my burdens. For I cannot bear any more pain.’

  Nicòla thought of Katherine on her deathbed, wanting to write the letter to Henry. Nicòla disguised her handwriting when she instead wrote to the King. Henry had taken the letter and said he would not read it, but rumours said he had. Rumours said Henry had shed true tears upon reading the words of “Katherine”, words of undying love and fealty, to honour the time of their lives together and their daughter. Even Cromwell did not know the letter came from Nicòla’s hand, not Katherine’s.

  ‘Now that Katherine has departed this life, could it be possible to furnish myself with a new wife?’ Henry asked.

  ‘Your Majesty?’ Cromwell gasped.

  ‘Look not so stunned, Thomas, for we have spoken of such before. Yes, Anne carries my child, but for how long? If she bears me a son, then she shall be my wife forever, lavished with the greatest of honours. I shall honour her by taking mistresses more discreetly, and Anne can live out her days in any palace she chooses as my son is raised in my image. But if she does not…’

  Anne spoke the truth; she did carry her saviour inside her womb. Anne Boleyn had risen to the height of queen and was closer to losing her world than she knew.

  ‘The laws we created, to make Anne the Queen of England, are clear,’ Cromwell explained. ‘The Oath, which all must swear, that Anne is your wife, and Elizabeth your rightful heir, is so strong that men have died for refusing the Act.’

  ‘In God’s name, I know all this, and I sometimes regret killing Thomas More. Perchance you speak truth, Thomas. Perchance I cannot take a new wife, perchance I shall feel happier with Anne in times to come. But there must be a son.’

  ‘I pray for the same every morning and night, Your Majesty.’

  Cromwell looked up and glanced over
in Nicòla’s direction; his face spoke of cold fear. Wolsey had died trying to gain Henry a new wife, and Cromwell could face the same fate if Henry turned away from Anne for good. God bless the child in her womb.

  C

  Chapter 33 – January 1536

  lyes do not end love affayrs, the trouth does

  Greenwich Palace, outer London

  King Henry slowly tapped his fingers against his desk while he read. Cromwell stood on the other side of the paperwork as he waited for Henry’s word.

  ‘You think Sir Nicholas Carew should be given the Order of the Garter?’ Henry asked and looked up from the papers.

  ‘It would make good on a promise given to the French king some years ago, Your Majesty.’

  ‘As if I wish to appease the French,’ Henry scoffed and gently leaned back in his chair, careful not to move his sore leg. ‘I gave them my favourite sister many years before, and my patience came to an end with all of France long ago.’

  ‘The other option is to appoint George Boleyn to the Order of the Garter.’

  ‘Has that family not yet gleaned enough from me?’ Henry threw an angry look at Cromwell, a stern brow to match.

  ‘We shall wait to decide, Your Majesty.’

  ‘And the bill to close the lesser monasteries?’

  ‘But weeks away from passing in parliament. Then we shall set up the Court of Augmentations, which shall take the land and wealth of the closed monasteries and you can distribute them as you see fit. All monies shall go to the crown, and land and buildings can remain in your hands, or be given to others. Many are already sending me notes, requesting they be given, or purchase such lands and monasteries, for personal use.’

  ‘I shall leave all those decisions in your hands, Thomas. You decide who gets what, and how much they pay. I can trust you to bribe all those we need appease, and tax all those we do not like.’

  Cromwell’s smug grin ran over his lips. ‘Naturally, Your Majesty.’