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ANNE WAS DEPRESSED, more depressed than she had ever been in her life. She had thought things were going well, believed that Henry’s love for her had been rekindled, that it was still as strong as ever. She had begun to believe that his little dalliances with the likes of Madge Shelton and a few others could never lure him away from his wife.
She had been furious with him over his women and if he thought her jealousy was caused by her love for him, it was best to let him think so. He did not need to know that it was the blow to her dignity which caused her fury, as well as the fear that his love for her was fading fast.
Nothing happened at court that its Queen failed to hear about and this new trollop of Henry’s was no different.
Her name was Mistress Jane Seymour, sister of those Seymour brothers who had been edging their way into the King’s good graces for months. Anne had heard via her ladies that the King had sent this Seymour a purse of gold coins and that she had sent them back with a note that if the King wished to gift her money, he should do so when she had a husband.
Anne could almost find that amusing were it not for her recent loss of a son and the dull dread which assailed her. Mistress Seymour was following her, Anne, refusing to give in to the King. Was her mention of a husband her way of telling him that she, too, wanted nothing less than marriage?
He would not have to tear England away from the church this time, would he? But it would not be easy. Anne would not go quietly; she was his lawful wife and she would remain so. But an irritating little memory crept into her mind, a memory of three years ago when he had insisted on marrying her in secret, and while he was still legally wed to Katherine. She had asked him then if he would use such a bigamous marriage to rid himself of her.
He had sworn that would never happen, that he loved her too much to ever want to be parted from her. She had not trusted his words then and she did not trust them now.
He still called her his most beloved wife, still spoke lovingly of her to others, so what was his true meaning? Anne had no idea and not knowing was worse than anything.
He promised their postponed trip to Calais would happen when she had fully mended. No, Mistress Seymour might try to play the same game as Anne, and that might get her to the King’s bed, but no further. Anne had nothing about which to worry, but she would not tolerate infidelity. She had sworn it years ago and now he must be told.
Today she was happy, as she had asked the King to make her dear brother a Knight of the Garter this year. He had smiled kindly on her when she made her request and George had been a loyal servant. She looked forward to the ceremony, where she would take her place beside the King for the award.
She dressed with care, in purple as a Queen should, with ermine trimming on her sleeves and a new French hood edged with pearls. She looked radiant and knew how to flirt, how to tempt the King. He had not visited her bedchamber since her miscarriage, likely wanting to give her more time to recover. She smiled; that was kind of him, but now it was time to try again for the longed for son.
Followed by her maids of honour, she made her way to the King’s privy chamber and took her seat beside him on the dais. George was there, waiting for his award, but Anne was surprised to see her cousin and enemy, Nicholas Carew, also in attendance.
She glanced at the King, puzzled, but he avoided her gaze. Instead he called Nicholas to him and pinned the ribbon on him, gave him the award.
Perhaps he intended to make an exception and give two awards this year. Anne smiled at George, hoping to still his obvious fears, but Henry got up and left the chamber.
He had promised her the garter would be given to George! In all the years she had known King Henry, he had never broken a promise like this, had always given her that for which she asked. Her heart sank. It was true then; Seymour’s influence was supplanting Anne’s and that she could not have.
***
HARRY PERCY ARRIVED at his house in Newington Green early that year. He had a few things to attend to in London and he wanted to have recovered from the journey before he had to meet with anyone.
Last year he had put his affairs in order, had arranged to leave his estate to the King on condition that it passed to his nephew. He had never got on with his brothers and recently they had been trying to persuade him to renounce his position in favour of one of them. They said it was to ease his discomfort, because of his ill health, but Harry knew better.
They were against the King’s break with Rome and if he did not cut all ties with them, the Northumberland earldom would cease to exist.
His arrival coincided with important events at court, events he knew nothing about for a few days after that arrival. He had, as usual, been forced to take to his bed for those days to recover from the journey.
His servant informed him that Thomas Cromwell was putting in force plans to dissolve the lesser monasteries, the ones that had but a few monks. He intended to pension off the abbots and priors and move the monks to larger establishments.
Harry had little interest in the plan, except to think that it was not before time. He had little patience with religious houses and was secretly studying the new ideas on religion. It was nothing new; he had studied these works with Anne when they believed they would be husband and wife.
When he finally rose from his bed, his groom was talking while helping him on with his clothes. He chattered on about events at court, about how the King was in favour of closing the monasteries and more importantly for Harry, the state of the King’s marriage.
“How do you know these things, James?” Harry asked. “Do you have a spy in the Palace.”
“Tis common knowledge, My Lord,” he replied. “Tis said that Secretary Cromwell wants to break up the monasteries and give the lands and income to swell the King’s coffers. The Queen has other ideas.”
“Oh?” said Harry. “What ideas?”
“She is in favour of using the money to build more schools and universities and for charitable uses, to help the poor.”
Harry smiled. It was just like Anne, to think of those less fortunate, and she was right. The King had enough money and when Harry died, he would have Northumberland. He did not need the monastery money; the poor did.
“I expect Cromwell will have his way, though,” said James. “He has the King on his side. But I hear the argument has become quite heated, that the Queen has fallen out with Cromwell about it. They used to be great friends, but no more.”
“I hope you are wrong,” said Harry, choosing his words carefully. “Cromwell is very powerful.”
He said no more. He knew how dangerous it was to voice one’s thoughts, although he had said nothing which could be turned against him. At least, he hoped not.
***
IT WOULD SOON BE SPRING, Anne had recovered from her miscarriage and wanted only to try again. But Henry had not come to her and she could not do it alone. She tried to tell herself that he was being considerate, thinking about her health, but she knew that was not in his nature.
He had mostly ignored her since the loss, and Anne had a strong suspicion that something was happening, something other than his indiscreet pursuit of Mistress Jane Seymour. She sensed that control was slipping away and she could not quite grab hold of it and drag it back.
These things worried Anne, soured her mood and when she found her young musician, Mark Smeaton, standing in the window of her presence chamber, his eyes following her like a devoted puppy, as always, she was disinclined to humour him.
“Why do you look so sad?” she asked, but she knew the answer and could give him no comfort.
“It is of no matter,” he replied.
“You may not look to have me speak to you as I should do to a nobleman, because you are an inferior person.”
He flushed, turned his face away to hide his blushes.
“No, no,” he said hurried. “A look will suffice.”
When he had left, she felt a twinge of pity, but her words were true and needed to be said.
She had more important things to concern her that day, first among them being how to tempt the King back to her bed. Wearing her most provocative shift, her most aromatic perfume, she steeled herself to go to him. She should wait for him to come to her; she knew that. It was not her place to seek him out, but he was her husband, dammit!
She made her way to his chamber, knowing that he would not be alone, that he would be attended by his grooms and dressers, but hoping he would dismiss them. She did not expect to see him coming out of the chamber of her own cousin, Madge Shelton. Anne heard a mischievous giggle as she passed Madge’s apartments, turned toward the sound and saw the King coming out into the gallery, closing the door behind him and still fastening his codpiece.
Anne had warned her before, but apparently she had taken no heed. She was betrothed to Sir Henry Norris, Henry’s close friend, and this was how he respected such a man.
Madge was also carrying on an affair with Sir Francis Weston, another married man. She thought no one knew about that, but Anne did. Perhaps Sir Henry approved of this insult to his manhood. Perhaps he was another like her sister’s late husband, William Carey, who closed his eyes to his wife’s affair with the King while he helped himself to the spoils and thought himself fortunate. Anne hoped Sir Henry Norris was not of that ilk.
Her rage grew into a monster over which she had no control. She took a threatening step toward her husband, her fingers bunching into fists at her sides, her jaw clenching, her heart pounding so hard she feared it might leap out of her mouth.
Henry stood before her, his face a mask of fury. He towered over her, threatening her with his very proximity. She wanted to move away, wanted to run, but her pride would never allow her to retreat.
“You want a legitimate son,” she said. “Do you think you’ll get one by giving your favours to others?”
“I no longer expect a legitimate son from you, My Lady,” he said bitterly. “You have proven yourself incapable.”
“You know why I miscarried last time,” she retorted. “Twas because I was so distressed when you fell from your horse, when the beast landed on your precious body with his full weight. I was so afraid for your safety, my terror caused me to lose our son.” She drew closer, ran her fingers along his arm. “We can try again, Henry. I have been waiting.”
He flipped her hand away as though it were an annoying fly that had landed on him, then he turned and made his way toward his own chambers, left her staring after him, hoping he would come back, invite her to join him.
She hated this, hated having to debase herself like this. She did not love him, had never loved him, but she had grown tender toward him and his rejection hurt. She had to give him a son, she simply had to.
It was a curious comfort to know that Henry was not completely devoted to Mistress Jane Seymour. If he was still bedding Madge, Seymour was less of a threat than Anne had feared. But she had to know if her cousin’s relationship with the King was carried on with her betrothed’s approval.
The following day, Anne confronted Sir Henry Norris. She was angry, furious with him, with the King and with everyone else who was getting in the way of her ambition. Once that ambition had been to marry the man she loved; now a new purpose had been forced upon her, to be a good wife to Henry, to be his Queen, to give him a son.
She intended only to ask him when he intended to marry, but his words angered her, turned her seemingly innocent question into something that would be overheard, twisted and used against her.
“Tell me, please, Sir Henry,” she said. “Why are you not going through with your marriage to Lady Shelton?”
Sir Henry shrugged, his mouth forming a very slight grimace.
“I would tarry a time,” he replied. “I am in no hurry.”
His flippancy made her angry. He had misunderstood the meaning behind her question, which was to hurry him to the altar.
“You look for dead men’s shoes,” she snapped angrily. “For if aught came to the King but good, you would look to have me.”
Sir Henry’s complexion drained of all colour, his eyes widened and he looked terrified. He had good cause, for to speak of the death of the King was treason. He needed to deny her allegation, to refute it firmly.
He shook his head, took a step back and away from her.
“If I should have any such thought, I would my head were off,” he said.
There was a catch in his voice as he spoke, as though holding back tears, and he looked about him fearfully to see who of his enemies might be listening.
“Do not forget I can undo you like that,” she said, snapping her fingers in his face.
“I do not want you, Your Majesty. You are wrong and if I have done anything to make you think otherwise, it was unintended. What can I do to assure you?”
“You must get on with your marriage,” she snapped. “And you must go to my almoner and swear an oath as to my good character.”
Anne was angry now, angry that she had spoken in haste and without thought and she was terrified, for if her words should reach the King’s ears, she would be in real danger.
She had no idea what to do. She should go to Henry, make sure he knew the words were said in anger. Wistfully, she considered that this whole thing, this whole quarrel with Norris had been the King’s doing, for if he had not been bedding Norris’ betrothed, none of it would have happened. But that would not save her; nothing was ever the King’s fault. In his eyes, he could do no wrong. There was always someone to blame and this time it was Anne.
She hurried to find him, to try to explain, as she was sure someone would have already told him. She saw him leaving his privy chamber and she started to run, wanting to catch him before he went out. He saw her, she knew he had seen her yet he turned away and left the palace.
The argument gnawed away at her for the whole of the following day and night, so much so that she found sleep hard to come by. She spoke in haste, in a flirtatious manner as was her want, but talk of the King’s death had slipped in unbidden.
The next day was the May Day celebrations. There would be entertainments, minstrels, acrobats and jesters and there was a great joust for them to watch. It was the first joust since the King’s accident and Anne hoped he would not be too bitter about being unable to take part himself.
She would smile today, she would be happy, she would flirt and she would make him want her again. But even as she thought it, she still had that nagging suspicion that something was happening about which she knew nothing.
She had noticed the way some people had avoided her gaze of late and she knew that others fell silent when they saw her coming. It was not her imagination, she was sure it wasn’t.
She thought it was the Seymour trollop; she imagined they knew the King was chasing another woman, trying to make her his mistress, and they were avoiding Anne lest she question them about it.
Mark had disappeared as well. Her favourite minstrel, who always followed her about, had not been seen today. She had been forced to reprimand him only yesterday for always being there, with her and her closest friends. These were men like Sir Thomas Wyatt, Sir Henry Norris, high born noblemen whose company the likes of Mark Smeaton should never seek.
Perhaps her words were a little harsh, but they were kindly meant. He was doing nothing save make himself look foolish, behaving as he was. She sought only to save him embarrassment, but he might have taken her words amiss.
She would make it up to him when next they met, give him an extra bonus but make it clear he was a servant, nothing more.
The King was attentive that day, giving Anne the confidence to believe his flirtation with Jane Seymour was just that, a flirtation. She knew from reports that the woman had refused to sleep with him, but she also knew that the Seymour brothers were doing everything in their power to push their sister into the presence of the King.
Anne needed to rekindle the flame, the fire that had caused Henry to pursue her, to divorce a princess of Spain, to establish his own church.
Today he was enjoying the entertainments, especially the jousts.
“Would that I could compete with them,” he said.
“No, Your Grace,” said Anne. “You need to recover from your fall. Then perhaps you will joust again.”
He lifted her hand to his lips and kissed it, sending a thrill of anticipation through her. It was not an anticipation of desire or passion, but rather an eagerness to prove to herself that he was still hers.
Then a messenger appeared with a note, which he handed to Henry. He read it swiftly, his smile vanished, then abruptly he stood and left the stadium. Anne’s eyes followed him, her joy of only a few minutes ago turned to fear. He had left without so much as a goodbye, without so much as a kiss. That was not like him, not like him at all.
She was never to see him again.