Shaking the Throne

by Caroline Angus Baker

  Henry gazed at the window close to his desk, the faint winter sun falling upon the desk. He sighed but said nothing for a moment. ‘Today is the funeral for Katherine, all but one hundred miles north,’ he mumbled.

  ‘As you wished, and kept within the budget you wanted, Your Majesty.’

  ‘Do you think I treated Katherine harshly, Thomas?’

  Cromwell knew not the right answer. Henry had been terrible to his wife of twenty years, who loved him freely, who obeyed, said nothing of mistresses, raised an army against the Scots on her own, acted as a peacemaker between England and Spain, and between England and the Roman Empire for years… Henry had been hateful to Katherine, England’s true queen. But her Catholic heart meant Cromwell had no choice but to ruin her on Henry’s orders.

  ‘You needed a new wife, Your Majesty, for the sake of continuing your family’s line. And remember; the Church found your marriage to Katherine illegitimate. You had to do as your conscience told you, and that was to install a new wife by your side. Queen Anne makes you happy.’

  ‘I am glad of my new marriage, and taking authority from the Church has gained us so much money over these past years. It is you who has helped me, Thomas. You have brought taxes during peace time to the fore. A brilliant plan! You have given me the right to decide on religion in my country. Anne… she has given me Elizabeth, and I love her so, yet the happiness has weakened over time.’

  ‘Perchance this is common in marriages of love?’ Cromwell shrugged.

  ‘Was your first wife not a love match, Thomas?’

  ‘I liked Elizabeth, trusted, respected her. Love can grow with time.’

  ‘Yet it was not lust which brought you to her.’

  Cromwell shifted his feet spread apart, which ached in his shoes after yet another long day.

  ‘Ha!’ Henry smiled. ‘I have made the infamous Thomas Cromwell uncomfortable with talk of lust,’ he jested. ‘Come, Thomas, for you are married to a young woman dressed in men’s attire! You clearly do not feel devoid of lust or love. Does your love weaken over time, as mine with Anne, like a candle worn down to the end of its wick?’

  ‘No, Your Majesty. While I was working to secure you an annulment and a new bride, I was not able to legally do that for myself. My marriage is valid in your eyes only.’

  ‘What other eyes do you need?’ Henry asked and raised his palms in the air, as if to display his own wonder.

  ‘Indeed, Your Majesty.’ Now was not yet time to propose an alliance with Rome, as the Emperor wanted. Cromwell would have to heartily pray for forgiveness for such greed, pushing a country to support another for his own desires.

  ‘Do you know why I like you, Thomas?’

  ‘Because my turquoise ring controls you through witchcraft?’

  ‘I had forgotten that one,’ Henry laughed. ‘I like you because you have not yet asked me how my leg is healing.’

  ‘I believe you to be a healthy and strong man.’ Henry yelled for days, at any person who dared ask after his health.

  Without warning, one of the doors to Henry’s privy chamber burst open and Cromwell spun to admonish whomever appeared foolish enough to do so. But there stood Nicòla, panting with worry, her green eyes searching the angry faces before her.

  ‘I humbly beg for forgiveness, Your Majesty,’ Nicòla said as she bowed. She swiped off her hat, but dropped it on the floor, making a struggle of her respect to the King she just invaded.

  ‘What on God’s Earth be all this?’ Cromwell asked, annoyed at Nicòla. Henry was in a fine mood for the first time since he fell from his horse some six days ago, even on the day of his first wife’s funeral.

  ‘Tis the Queen Anne, she stumbled, and she bleeds! I was asked to send word.’

  Henry jumped from his seat, bumping his sore leg on the table. He fell back into the chair with an angry scream. Cromwell grabbed Nicòla by the shoulders, too scared to approach the King.

  ‘How bad is it? We need that baby!’ Cromwell sneered at Nicòla, barely heard over Henry’s painful cries.

  Nicòla just shook her head. ‘Ready His Majesty for the worst.’

  ‘We will all be undone without a son!’

  ‘And Anne knows that,’ Nicòla hissed. ‘She is holding herself, her hands covered in blood, desperate to keep her baby alive. I care none for men now!’

  With that, Nicòla disappeared from the doorway while Henry’s gentlemen came in to move him to lie down and deal with his agony.

  ‘I swear this!’ Henry yelled at Cromwell as he pushed away Sir Richard Page’s careful assistance ‘All shall be lost without a son by Anne! I mean not the end of my child, but the end of my love, the end of all you ever built!’

  Cromwell hurriedly excused himself from the warm room filled with men desperate to appease their injured monarch, and he hurried through the private hallway from Henry’s rooms into Anne’s. He burst into one of the presence rooms, to see Nicòla standing in the distance beside the doorway to the bedroom. Women rushed past towards the tearful cries of Cromwell’s queen.

  Nicòla rushed to Cromwell’s side, but her eyes, glistening with tears, told of a broken dream. This was not the first child lost by Anne, nor the first witnessed by Nicòla.

  ‘I dare not enter the room,’ Nicòla hushed. ‘A man close to the Queen in her state? I was questioned over the last miscarriage. Oh, Tom, all is lost…’

  Cromwell looked up over Nicòla towards the bedroom. One of the ladies slammed the door shut, but Anne’s screams, not of pain but of loss pierced every ear near the bedroom. From the other side of the room, in skidded George Boleyn and his father. They saw Cromwell and Nicòla there, and their faces fell.

  ‘What news?’ George cried. ‘Why are you hither?’

  ‘I come on the behalf of Henry,’ Cromwell replied. ‘I wish nothing more than total health for Anne and the future King of England.’

  The bedroom door opened once more, and George’s wife Lady Jane appeared. Blood smeared her hands and silver dress.

  ‘We are doomed to hell!’ the elder Boleyn yelled, veins in his throat throbbing with every word. ‘Stupid girl!’

  ‘The child, you witch,’ George sneered at his bereft wife.

  ‘Tis no good,’ Jane despaired. ‘Anne gave birth to a tiny boy, three, perchance four months, along. A tiny, perfect, dead prince!’

  Jane burst into heavy tears, but George had no desire to comfort his wife. Nicòla muttered a quiet prayer while everyone stood in stillness. Anne was far from favour and now she had lost a son.

  ‘I shall not share the news with Henry,’ George said, shaking his head, bouncing his dark hair. ‘Jane, you saw the mess. You tell the King.’

  ‘No, I shall tell the King,’ Cromwell said. ‘I am not afraid.’

  ‘We should all be afraid,’ Boleyn scoffed.

  ‘Tarry hither for now,’ Cromwell whispered to Nicòla. ‘Wait. Listen, aid in any way you can. I shall go to Henry. Make sure the child is not destroyed.’

  Cromwell scurried along the private hallway back to Henry’s rooms; his feet felt so heavy, as if wearing Henry’s armour at the joust last week. While the King needed to know of this failure, Henry’s mood could be one of wild temperament.

  Henry glanced up once more when Cromwell entered the privy chamber in silence and clasped his hands together.

  England’s great king stood slowly from his chair, his attendants parting like clouds in a steady breeze. With a hand he dismissed them all, the men of the privy chamber gone in a moment, yet not slow enough for Cromwell’s taste. He could have waited forever to speak the truth, that the world had stumbled.

  Words did not form upon Cromwell’s lips, the same way they would not form upon Henry’s. The King’s red eyelashes batted his cheeks gently as the moments ticked past, neither daring to speak or move, except for Henry’s blinking eyes. Cromwell thought for a moment, of Nicòla losing their children, of the horror of their first son, Nicòla close to death. Then, another son lost by God’s choice, and C
romwell himself caught far away on his own deathbed. To think of Nicòla alone in that moment, separated from the man who got the child upon her; Cromwell did not wish that for Anne.

  ‘Your Majesty,’ Cromwell spoke with a cough, and steadied his feet further apart for confidence. ‘I am sorry to report that Her Majesty Queen Anne has delivered a child, three, four months old, and male.’

  Henry clutched at the edge of his fur-lined coat, his blue eyes tender, innocent. He probably looked the same when he learned of his mother’s death when he was but a boy.

  ‘A son.’ The whisper passed Henry’s lips, barely reaching Cromwell’s ears.

  Henry’s weight stumbled under his legs, tumbling the already injured man to the ground, his leg coated in blood. Cromwell dashed forward without a word, and Henry grasped Cromwell’s legs, his hands pulling at the black of Cromwell’s clothing as the great monarch began to cry. Henry sobbed, wailed for all that was lost. For all the battles endured, by sword, by word and by quill, Henry had endured too much for any man to bear. His father had needed an heir, only to see his precious prince die young. Henry endured Arthur’s death to become an heir, only to see his mother die in her quest for another son. Katherine had borne Henry six children, five dead in their arms. Henry’s precious sister Mary was gone from this world, his life with his sister Margaret was troubled, Katherine was dead, and now a third dead son from Anne’s prized womb. All the dreams Henry held, and the dreams of his father, the dream of holding the throne of England in peace shook like a violent storm overtaking the land, all trapped inside Henry’s heavy heart.

  Henry wailed and bawled like an orphan in the gutter, the air filled with the anguish of the Tudor men and their quest for power and peace. No one dared to come to the privy chamber; for whom could ease such pain? Who could offer words of hope or comfort? Until Henry eased in his cries, his tears beginning to fall in silence on his ageing cheeks, could Cromwell offer a prayer for the child.

  ‘To You, O Lord, we humbly entrust this child, so precious in Your sight. Take him into Your arms and welcome him into paradise, where there will be no sorrow, no weeping nor pain, but the fullness of peace and joy with Your Son and the Holy Spirit forever and ever.’

  ‘Amen,’ Henry whispered and wiped his nose upon his coat. He looked up to Cromwell, who offered the bereft king a hand. Henry took it without a word and pulled himself up against his chief minister.

  ‘I would have made that child the King of England,’ Henry whispered, his gaze at his feet beneath him, his sore leg trembling from the pain no doubt coursing through its weary veins.

  Cromwell fought his own feelings, for to weep would be weak, foolish. The loss of a child was sad, yet did not tug at Cromwell’s heart as such, it was the loss of a certain future that hurt so much. Without a Tudor man on the throne, England would surely be at war once more.

  Henry made for the door to Anne’s rooms, and Cromwell followed several paces back. Through the hallway came the sight of Anne’s ladies, eight of them standing in the presence room, Nicòla stolen away in one corner by the window, her eyes near the bedroom, as instructed. No one spoke when the King entered, though the sobbing ladies all bowed slightly. Henry stalked through the group, past the Boleyns and into Anne’s room. Cromwell stopped close to Nicòla, who stood with her arms folded tightly. Indeed, her hands appeared almost white as she held herself so firm. From their position, Cromwell could see straight into Anne’s rooms, where she slept on the bed, folded up under covers, two physicians close at hand. Anne appeared to turn her head slightly to Henry when he approached, and yet they both froze, no words spoken.

  ‘Where is the child?’ Cromwell whispered in Nicòla’s ear.

  ‘Still in the room, watched over by the doctors,’ Nicòla replied. ‘They have been afraid to allow any person to view the boy.’

  Henry stepped close to the bed and Anne looked at him, her face red with grief, not unlike her husband.

  ‘I shall speak with you when you are up,’ Henry mumbled and turned away at once. He left the room, Anne left upon the bed with her sickening face of grief.

  Henry brushed past Cromwell, just the faintest hint to bid him follow. Cromwell fell in behind his king, knowing Nicòla would attend upon the Queen and the child not ready for this world.

  Cromwell closed the door into the privy chamber once more, the room still in silence, the fire not making a sound as it burned gently beneath the mantle. Henry carried on, towards the largest window in the room, the sun beginning to set in the distance far beyond the grounds of Greenwich Palace.

  ‘I see God shall not grant me male issue,’ Henry finally found his voice.

  Cromwell had no words for such a moment. Perchance Henry spoke truth; for it indeed seemed as if God no longer wanted Henry’s line upon the throne. Cromwell could almost hear the laughter of Chapuys now, writing to the Emperor, telling him of England’s fate. All of Anne’s enemies would be raising a glass to the death of her child. Gertrude, Marquess of Exeter, wife to Henry’s cousin, Henry Courtney, was probably getting prophesies at this moment, saying the Marquess of Plantagenet blood should be on the throne instead of Henry. All those against the dissolution of the monasteries would be rallying, thinking this sign from God would halt the Reformation. But woven in with all those things upon his heart, Henry’s words shocked Cromwell.

  ‘There is only one man who would know the words to soothe this,’ Henry uttered as he turned from the sunset. ‘Old Wolsey would know what to say.’

  Wolsey? Henry dared to mention Wolsey now? The cardinal, the friend, the ally and the most loyal man to the King for twenty years, the man who died trying to evade Anne Boleyn was the man to soothe Henry’s fears? All these angry thoughts and Cromwell could not utter any of them.

  ‘Your Majesty, indeed, Cardinal Wolsey would say the time is not right for a king to be born, that God would bestow the child upon the royal couple at a better time.’

  Henry half-smiled at Cromwell words. ‘Indeed, he would have said just that. You are a comfort, Thomas. I should think of Anne, and yet, I think of Katherine. Is that a sin?’

  ‘Indeed not, Your Majesty. The woman you believed your lawful wife is to be laid to rest today.’

  ‘Katherine lost our first daughter, and one year later, to the day, she delivered of a son, named for me. For six weeks we were the happiest couple in England. Even after the loss of that child, Katherine led an army with a child in her belly, killed a Scottish king in my absence. Anne cannot even hold a child for me for several months! Be there no end to God’s cruelty? Am I to be given barren women? Why do you get a son and I do not?’

  The comment about Gregory threw Cromwell’s calm. ‘My first two sons were named Henry and Thomas, the eldest named for you, Your Majesty. But both were in the grave after a week of life. Gregory survived, only for another Thomas to die at birth, and then another son stillborn last year. My daughters are both in their graves, alongside their mother! I know pain!’

  Henry just shook his head and turned back to the window. ‘I wish to be lonesome, Thomas,’ Henry barked, though Cromwell knew tears streaked his bearded cheeks once more. ‘Order all to leave me until I call upon them.’

  Cromwell bowed in silence to Henry’s turned back and left the room. A quick word in an usher’s ear, and Nicòla was fetched from Anne’s rooms. Cromwell could not bear to enter the Queen’s rooms himself. Nicòla appeared from Her Majesty’s rooms into the public presence chamber where Cromwell waited after only a minute.

  ‘What news?’ she whispered as she stood before him, her face pale and worried.

  ‘No news,’ Cromwell shrugged. ‘There is nothing to say, to do, to report. Anne is lost of her saviour, and I fear so are we.’

  ‘There could be more Boleyn princes,’ Nicòla replied. ‘This is not the first loss.’

  ‘But it is Henry’s last loss, I can promise you. For His Majesty’s heart and kingdom can bear simply no more pain. He shall turn to stone before he endures this again.�
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  F

  Chapter 34 – March 1536

  people lye when they are afrayd of the trouth

  Whitehall Palace, London

  ‘I received a visit from one of the Seymour brothers.’

  Fitzroy’s comment gained Nicòla’s full attention, lost in the view of the river. Despite the cold in the air, the pair wandered the garden close to the Thames, keen to gain a little peace from the palace.

  ‘Edward, I presume,’ Nicòla replied as she looked up to him, their slow steps in time along the path.

  ‘Indeed, for Thomas has gone to visit their brother, Henry, at Taunton Castle. Edward wished to know my mind about his sister, Lady Jane.’

  ‘Henry and Anne grieve the loss of a son, yet men are still eager to ensure Henry has a new mistress.’

  ‘But Jane Seymour?’ Fitzroy frowned. ‘She is so dim-witted, hardly a match for my father in any respect. After the love of a woman such as Anne Boleyn, how could His Majesty possibly be satisfied with someone so dull?’

  Nicòla let out a little laugh. ‘Perchance your father needs a little peace.’

  ‘This past month, I have not seen Queen Anne in my father’s rooms once,’ Fitzroy continued, and flicked a wisp of blonde hair which had fallen from beneath his blue cap.

  ‘Does he speak of Anne? The child?’

  ‘Father weeps at times, though for Anne, I cannot be sure. Did you hear His Majesty sent gold coins to the Lady Jane?’

  ‘I heard it not. Why?’

  ‘A gift. Father wrote a letter to accompany the gold coins, one of hope and courtly love.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Just this evening past,’ Fitzroy replied, and looked around to ensure nobody listened to the garden conversation. ‘Lady Jane is welcome entertainment, I fear. Anne is cast away, grief making talk between our sovereigns too much to bear. The King’s leg has healed, but he is still not himself.’

  ‘Secretary Cromwella has spoken of the same,’ Nicòla answered. ‘He comments on His Majesty’s headaches, his forgetful natures, and of a pitying that will not yield.’