Anne Boleyn: A Novel (25 page)

“Not to me this time,” she said. “I give you another toast. To our son!”

His mouth opened and the raised cup stayed in midair. Then it struck the wall, and the contents streamed over the floor as he flung it aside and reached her in a single movement.

“Nan! Oh, Nan, my heart’s life! Is it really so?”

She nodded, her face pressed against his shoulder, her hands clinging to him more tightly than she knew.

“I am with child; I suspected, but I waited to be sure. Now there’s no doubt...”

“God be praised,” he exalted, squeezing her in his excitement. “God be praised. Nan.” He kissed her vehemently and then stopped, shaking his head. “I must be careful of you now, love. No thoughtlessness.” He bent and picked her up and walked to a chair with her. He sat, cradling her in his arm, and stroked her cheek.

“You’re a sly minx, keeping your secrets from me, eh? My little pale Nan...I thought you looked pinched and not yourself lately.”

“Are you pleased?” she asked him, looking into his flushed, delighted face. There was no indifference in it now; he was tender and solicitous like any husband. She moved closer into the circle of his arm and tears of relief came into her eyes.

“Pleased? I’m the happiest man in England! It’ll be a boy. Nan; I know it will!”

“The son I promised you,” she murmured, “with my black eyes and your red hair...do you remember, Harry, how we used to talk of it and long for it?”

“By God I do,” he retorted happily. “Sitting like this more often than not, with you on my knee...”

He recalled the past with ease then, remembering only the sweetness of that long courtship and forgetting that in the final phase it was losing taste...A son. God’s answer to his prayers, God’s answer to the unhappy self-examination he had indulged in before she came to tell him. Dear Nan. He kissed her affectionately. Boredom and disappointment faded from his mind in the overwhelming joy of Anne’s news. She was pregnant; she was the proof of his vigor; her son would be the proof of his manhood. But she was pale, and he frowned, remembering that she was narrow. She must be careful. Nothing must happen to endanger the child. But nothing would happen. God had taken Catherine’s children only because they were born out of deadly sin.

This child would live, he said to himself, holding Anne on his knees with both arms round her. It would live and it would be a boy.

On March thirtieth Thomas Cranmer was consecrated Archbishop of Canterbury. Clement had accepted him with alacrity when his nomination arrived at Rome, and he had the Englishman’s private assurance that he intended following in Warham’s footsteps, and doing all in his power to protect the Church’s independence, and persuade King Henry to take back Catherine as his lawful wife. At the same time, the prospective Archbishop received clear warning from Cromwell that his first duty would be to take whatever action it pleased the King concerning the divorce, and to impress on his flock, both lay and clerical, that complete submission to the royal will was the only right course. His own example, the Secretary added dryly, would be the best way of convincing them. Cranmer gave his assurance. The King would find him an obedient servant in all things.

The new Archbishop was a man of brilliant intellect and great personal charm, but his years abroad had made him more career diplomat than priest, and the obstinate resistance to the inevitable, as in the case of Bishop Fisher, struck him as merely stupid. He was not a heroic man, nor a ruthless and determined one, like the ugly little Secretary who had no social graces. The separation of the Church from Rome was coming, and to refuse the See of Canterbury, which was the pinnacle of his ambition, or to quibble over a few diplomatic lies to the Pope, never entered his head. Henry held the real power, and as Archbishop he was ready to do whatever Henry wanted.

“My Lord Mountjoy is here, Madame, asking to see Your Grace.” Catherine of Aragon looked up from the book of devotions she was reading and laid it down on her lap. The light was trying her eyes; she was becoming as poor-sighted as her daughter Mary, The King had given her into Mountjoy’s keeping when she arrived at Ampthill, and he disguised his function of jailer as well as he could by treating her with every courtesy. When he came to her apartments it usually presaged more instructions from the King.

She nodded to her serving woman, and rubbed her aching eyes with a handkerchief.

‘Thank you, Bess. Send him in.”

When Mountjoy came into the room he bowed and stood awkwardly in front of her. Her patience disconcerted him; she was always sitting in her chair by the window, looking out over the park as if she were actually confined to the room as well as the environs of the house. She wore black, and it accentuated the tired, unhealthy pallor of her face; she wore few jewels, and her headdress was plain velvet. Mountjoy had seen the King’s messenger ride off with the casket to give them to Anne Boleyn.

“Your pardon for disturbing you, Your Grace,” he said.

Catherine smiled. “You’re always a welcome visitor, my Lord. My life is lonely, in spite of your kind efforts. What can I do for you?”

Mountjoy steeled himself.

“A deputation has come from London,” he answered, “headed by the Dukes of Norfolk and Suffolk and several other Lords, who wish to see you.”

A deputation. Catherine said nothing for a moment, knowing what that meant. Another attempt to cajole or bully her into giving way. The gentle gray eyes hardened into stone. She placed the religious book on the low table beside her chair and folded her hands tightly, drawing herself upright.

“I will see the deputation. I don’t expect I’m to be given any time to prepare. Let them come in, my Lord.”

“Madame...”

Mountjoy hesitated; he had seen the attitude of Suffolk and the rest when he met them in the hall below. Something was in the air; this was more than the periodic attempts to put pressure on the Queen. He could tell by Suffolk’s aggressive bearing and the tough, impatient demand of Norfolk to see her at once.

“Madame, if it will help you, I can tell the Lords to wait awhile. This is my house, and I can protect my guest from molestation...”

“I am no guest, my Lord,” Catherine reminded gently, “and you know it, though you’ve tried to make me feel one. Don’t bring the King’s anger on yourself for my poor sake. Go down to the deputation and bid them come to me here. And thank you.”

She was standing when Norfolk and Suffolk came through the doorway; tired and ill though she was, it was a means of making them stand also.

“Gentlemen.”

She greeted them calmly, watching Suffolk’s fierce bearded face as he approached her, noting that Exeter and the Earl of Oxford had come this time.

They bowed to her, one after the other, and she inclined her head slightly and waited.

“Madame.”

It was Suffolk who began, “As His Grace’s brother-in-law I am commanded to convey a special message to you.”

“If the King’s message is written, then kindly give it to me and I will read it myself,” Catherine interrupted; he had taken a parchment out of his doublet. The Duke ignored her outstretched hand.

“The message is also from the Council, of which my Lord Norfolk and myself are members,” he continued. “We represent the Council. And my instructions are to read the message publicly.”

“In that case you shall have a public answer!”

Catherine’s voice had deepened with anger, and her Spanish accent was suddenly very pronounced. Norfolk watched her covertly and without pity. She was expecting another appeal to abandon her opposition to the divorce, a more forceful appeal than the others, but that was all. It would be interesting to see her reaction when Suffolk read that paper. Suffolk was enjoying the situation, unlike Exeter and the others, but then Suffolk had a natural talent for bullying women; it was supposed to be the secret of his attraction for them. Norfolk smiled crookedly. It certainly didn’t attract his niece; it was difficult to judge whom Anne hated most, Suffolk or himself...

“The King’s Grace in concert with the opinions of his Council and the wishes of the nation, require that the Princess of Aragon shall relinquish all forms and titles pertaining to Queen, neither signing herself or permitting those around her to address her in such manner from this day heretofore, the said forms and titles being expressly prohibited under pain of the King’s displeasure, being unlawful, illegal, and contrary to the truth, inasmuch as the said Princess of Aragon was never wife to the King’s Grace. The King is most graciously pleased to bestow the title of Princess Dowager of Wales on the said Princess of Aragon, and out of the regard and respect he has for her, to allow her a pension of £8000 a year to maintain herself as befits the widow of His Grace’s royal brother Prince Arthur. Given this eighth day of April in the year of Our Lord 1533 at our palace of Greenwich.

Henry R.”

Suffolk rolled up the parchment. “Our names are also fixed to the document, though I’ve spared you the reading of them.”

For a moment she said nothing, looking from one to the other, glancing in cold loathing at Suffolk, who stared back without wavering, though he reddened slightly; then at Norfolk, whose squint was an advantage at such times; to Exeter, who had once been banished for speaking in her favor but had been frightened into submission and sent on this undignified errand to teach him the lengths his King was prepared to go; he bit his lip and looked away and the Earl of Oxford was staring out of the window. She came to Mountjoy; he was the King’s man, body and soul, but he was chivalrous and the attitude of the crowd of men standing there browbeating a lonely woman had distressed him.

“I see,” she said at last. “In other words if I relinquish my rightful title as Queen of England and accept one which annuls my marriage and bastardizes my daughter, His Grace will make me a handsome allowance.

“He underestimates me. I refuse the order and the bribe. As you enjoy imparting bad news, my Lord Suffolk, return with that answer to the King! Tell him the Queen prefers the quiet of Ampthill and is happy to remain here.”

Suffolk stepped near her, and his eyes were merciless.

“Don’t count on staying here, Madame,” he advised. “Ampthill’s a pleasant place compared to some His Grace could choose for you!”

“If His Grace chooses the Tower,” she retorted slowly, “I should go there as Queen, and as Queen I shall die.”

She was terribly pale and in spite of her outward calm she was trembling. There was a movement and Mountjoy pushed past the Duke of Norfolk.

“Let me get Your Grace a chair.”

Norfolk swung on him.

“Didn’t you hear the King’s order? What’s this ‘Your Grace’?...Address her like that again and you’ll go to the Tower before she does! And now, Madame,” he turned to Catherine.

He knew Henry’s temper; whether he hated Anne or not, no man who valued his head had better show mercy to Catherine. Suffolk bullied her because she was helpless; he was going to give her the
coup de grâce
because it was expedient.

“You speak brave words,” he said, “but they’re as hollow as your rights. You’re neither wife to the King nor Queen of England, and you haven’t been for the last three months. The King married my niece Lady Pembroke in January!”

Her control broke then; not in tears as Norfolk expected but in a blaze of Spanish rage, as royal as her mother, the terrible Isabella of Castile, Catherine turned on him then, white-faced, with one shaking hand flung out in dismissal.

“Then your niece has just committed bigamy! She’s not the King’s wife and never will be, as long as I’m alive. And any child born of her will be a bastard the same as Bess Blount’s brat! Now go. You have my answer for the King, now go!”

They turned their backs on her without a word, and the door slammed behind them, leaving her alone, listening to the shouts and footsteps in the hall below, and the noise made by their departure as they left for London and the King. Now that she was alone the anger drained out of her; her shoulders sagged and she groped for the chair Mountjoy hadn’t been allowed to bring her, and sank into it.

He had married her. In January, while she still hoped for a reconciliation, the hope bolstered by her knowledge of how quickly Henry tired of any woman, and while she still wrote encouraging letters to Mary...

The creature was pregnant, of course.

Catherine sat forward, hunched and old; remembering her own ill-fated pregnancies, terminated by miscarriage or the death of the newborn, her heart ached with jealousy for the young and healthy woman who had fulfilled herself in Henry’s love. He hoped for a son. That was why he had married her illegally; the child born of Anne Boleyn was going to be declared England’s legitimate heir. The great upheaval which for seven long years had rumbled under the country’s social and religious structure like an unbelievable earthquake was about to erupt and bring it crashing down to make way for the child in embryo. The ruins would bury Catherine, and she knew it. She would be cast off now, by any means available; even death.

Slowly she rose, and for a moment stood helplessly in the empty room, hesitating; then she turned automatically toward the alcove were an oratory had been set up, guided by the dim red light from the Sanctuary lamp which burned in front of the altar. She knelt in front of it, and covering her face with her hands, began to pray. Not for herself, but for the seventeen-year-old girl confined to a house many miles away from her mother and her friends. Her own struggle was all but over; Mary’s was just beginning.

The morning of Whitsunday, June the first, was clear and brilliant. The sun shone, sparkling over the red roofs of York Place, now named the Palace of Whitehall, casting a golden sheen on the river. It streamed into the room in the royal apartments where Anne Boleyn was dressing for her Coronation.

She sat down while her woman fastened her jewels; the heavy diamond headpieces which had belonged to Catherine of Aragon pressed hard on her small forehead, and already her head ached. She was numb with tiredness; the night before, after her royal progress from the Tower to Westminster, she had hardly slept at all. “Your Grace’s mantle is ready. Shall we fasten it now?” She looked into Margaret Wyatt’s excited face and shook her head.