Anne Boleyn: A Novel (26 page)

“Give me a moment, Meg. We’re in good time.”

“It’s a perfect day, Madame. Everything smiles on you!” That was her cousin, the young Duchess of Richmond, Norfolk’s daughter.

“Everything but the citizens of London!” It was said before she could stop herself. The sun was shining and she was going to Westminster Abbey to be crowned Queen of England, but the people hated her, and yesterday they had had their chance to show it. She would never forget that progress from the Tower. It was Henry’s idea; let the people see her in all her beauty and majesty, and she would capture them as she had captured him. It was a gallant speech, but she was not deceived. The marriage had been made public, and the outcry in churches and towns all over the country had upset him; it was only equaled by the furore in Europe, when the trick they had played became known. The marriage was reviled; the hurried ceremony performed in this same palace by a common friar in the presence of her father and her uncle, a few days after she told Henry she was pregnant, had been kept secret until the time of Cranmer’s consecration.

As a reward for the hole-and-corner wedding, as the King put it, she should be crowned and acknowledged with all the magnificence at his disposal. But the display was not for her, and she knew it. The progress was not done to please her; it was to impress Henry’s subjects that she was truly Queen, that the child she was obviously carrying would be born legitimate. That was the reason; that was why he had absented himself from the ceremonies of the last two days, leaving the limelight he loved to beat on her head alone. He wanted his people to acknowledge her; to take her to their hearts as they had done with Catherine. To cry “God save Queen Anne,” instead of cheering his divorced wife and bastardized daughter whenever they appeared outside their houses.

She knew the real motive for the money he spent on the pageantry which was to culminate today; that was why she had chosen Catherine’s personal barge for her State journey up the river from Greenwich to the Tower. It was the sort of mad, futile gesture which she couldn’t stop herself from making, and which always rebounded on her own head. He had been furious when he saw them burning the Aragonese arms off the barge and fitting it out for the new Queen; the mask of loving solicitude slipped for a moment, and she saw his rage glaring at her out of his little pale eyes. And the words which always struck straight at her heart when anger let them slip. “How dare you take my wife’s barge!”

She rounded on him with such violence that he withdrew, reminded of the child, the precious son she carried, and for its sake he gave way, and she made her brilliant journey up the river, followed by the whole court and the Lord Mayor and aldermen of the great City of London, sitting under a golden canopy in Catherine’s place. The river was a glorious sight, crowded with gaily decorated barges and over two hundred small craft which sailed out to see the spectacle. The City Companies’ boats were more magnificent than many of those owned by the nobility. The City was the center of English wealth, and the dour Lord Mayor, Sir Stephen Peacock, was as important in his own trade citadel as many of the Lords who stood at Henry’s elbow.

If the City acclaimed her, it would have important effects in the country and abroad. And the City had been informed quite clearly of the King’s interest in her reception.

After the journey by river, she spent one night in the royal palace at the Tower, unable to rest before the next day’s ordeal because she had to be present at a formal banquet, and then walk through the court on Henry’s arm, exactly as she had seen her predecessor do on State occasions. And she had no chance to talk to him and tell him she was nervous about her progress through the City the next day, because he left immediately to sleep in his apartments, while she was conducted with great ceremony to hers. She was Queen, and the Queen had less access to her husband than a maid of honor.

“One of you adjust this headpiece, for the love of God; it’s cutting into my scalp!”

She watched them moving the heavy ornament further back till it rested on her hair, the diamonds flashing in concert with the big stones fastened in her ears and blazing in the brooch at her breast. She felt faintly sick as usual, but thank God the nausea was not too bad.

“Are you all right, Madame?” The Marchioness of Exeter asked her; as senior lady in waiting she might be held responsible, if the Queen fainted on her way to the Abbey. And considering the size of her belly, the Marchioness thought viciously, there was a good chance that she might.

“Perfectly, thank you.” She knew Exeter’s wife hated her; Exeter had once been banished for opposing the divorce. They had long memories, she thought bitterly, and they resented waiting on her. Her grandfather was a merchant; the splendid coat-of-arms emblazoned on her liveries and belongings had only one genuine quartering, the arms of Norfolk. To women like Lady Exeter, she was still a parvenu raised out of her station by an infatuated King.

A wave of dizziness swept over her, and she bit her lips, fighting it back. In the name of God, why had she lain awake, tossing and crying last night when she knew the ordeal ahead of her...Now she was sallow and sunken-eyed, on what should have been the most triumphant morning of her life. But she couldn’t forget that drive through the City, swaying in an open litter hung with cloth of silver, the palfreys caparisoned in white damask. They had dressed her in a gown of silver tissue, and a mantle furred with ermine, and her magnificent black hair flowed loose under a caul of pearls. The wardens of the Cinque Ports carried a canopy of cloth of gold over her head, and her enemy the Duke of Suffolk rode escort beside the litter, with her younger uncle, Lord William Howard. The highest-born ladies in England attended her, on horseback and in gilded chariots, dressed in scarlet and cloth of gold, with a brilliant crowd of courtiers, priests and foreign representatives riding behind them.

The procession started from the Tower and moved through the narrow city streets, hung with bright hangings and banners, with tableaux erected on the way. A press of people jammed either side of her path, craned out of the windows, and balanced on the sloping roofs, staring at the glittering figure in the litter, sometimes so near that she caught the smell of them, and raised her scented posy to her nose. There was hardly any sound at all, except the clatter made by the procession though there were shouts here and there, but they only emphasized the silence; a few waved their caps; the rest remained covered while she passed.

The quietness and the hostility pressed in on her till she felt like beating it back with her fists, and the eyes of the people followed her; inquisitive and full of hatred. They murmured and pushed, and at one or two points where agents of the King were placed, there were desultory cheers, but they died away, and the procession crept on through the narrow streets. They halted to receive a purse of gold at Cheapside, which was the City’s gift to her, and again at St. Paul’s where a group of children shrilled some poetry in her honor. She thanked them, but her voice shook. So did her hands. They trembled so violently that she hid them under her skirts. The tears which had gathered in her eyes seeped back unshed. They shouldn’t have that satisfaction. They shouldn’t see how their silence and their hostile stares had hurt her; they should never know that she had hoped that they might welcome her, give her a chance to make herself beloved like that other, who brought them running to kneel when she traveled from one prison to another.

She had never hurt them, she almost cried out loud. If Henry was hounding their churches it wasn’t her doing. Let them hate Cromwell, who had thought of it, or the King himself. Why must their eyes burn into her like that, especially the women. God protect her from the women who looked as if they would have torn her to pieces. They peered at her face first, and then their eyes traveled down, raking over the rich dress and the jewels, to fasten on her weary, pregnant body, until she suddenly pulled the mantle round her and sat holding the edges tight together.

The merchants of the Staple had erected a pageant at Leaden-hall, depicting St. Anne, the mother of the Virgin. A lisping child had made her an address. From St. Anne had sprung a fruitful tree, she said, and they prayed God the same would be true of this Anne also.

She nodded, tight-lipped, and the litter moved on. St. Anne had borne one child only, and that was a daughter. The insult hadn’t escaped her. The progress dragged on and on through the winding City streets until it came out into the Strand, within sight of the river, with the green of the countryside stretching away past the village of Charing.

At Whitehall Henry met her. He had come forward eagerly, his hands outstretched, in his enthusiasm not noticing her white face and quivering mouth.

“How liked my sweetheart the look of the City?” he asked heartily. It must have gone well for he knew how his people loved a spectacle, and he’d given them a rare one that day.

“The City was well enough, Sire,” her voice was razor sharp. “But I saw many caps on heads and heard too few tongues!” And she brushed past him and fled into her room in tears.

The pregnancy had made her weak, she thought wearily; she had never imagined that a child could drain the strength like this. She wanted to sit back and laugh at that moment, with all the ladies standing round her in their scarlet robes and coronets, waiting to escort her to the Abbey, and let the laughter turn to floods of tears.

“If Your Grace is ready now,” Lady Exeter prompted. “It is nearly nine o’clock and we shall be late.”

“I am ready. Fasten the mantle now.”

She stood while they brought the long mantle of royal purple trimmed with ermine. One of her new ladies in waiting, Jane Seymour, reached up to fasten the jeweled clasp across her breast.

“It’s fixed fast, Madame.”

She looked into the girl’s pale round face, with the light gray eyes meeting her own, and thought suddenly that the little Seymour was inscrutable rather than dull.

“Thank you, Mistress.”

This was the moment she had schemed and fought for, during seven anxious years; this was the thought she had held before her mind when her courage failed or her resolution wavered. Anne, Queen of England.

It had always been a dream, a mirage which she couldn’t help pursuing because of an inadequacy in herself that aimed at the highest point of ambition in order to satisfy itself. It wasn’t enough to be beautiful; it wasn’t enough to have lovers—she had never really wanted lovers anyway, except for Thomas Wyatt—the urge might well have settled for Northumberland, had she been allowed to marry him while she was young, but the King stopped her and unwittingly showed her the other prize.

Well, she had it now. She was the King’s wife, whatever anybody said; Cranmer had used his authority as Primate to annul Catherine’s marriage and legalize her own; she was carrying a Prince of Wales, and within the next half hour she would enter Westminster Abbey to be crowned.

She was about to become Queen of England. Her portrait would go up on the wall at Windsor, among the Norman and Plantagenet wives of English Kings and the daughters of France and Spain who had come to an unknown bridegroom, like Catherine of Aragon more than thirty years ago.

She had asked for the universe, and Henry had got it for her; in the Abbey they would put it into her hand, symbolized by the Orb.

Beside all this, what did it matter if he no longer loved her...

“I am ready, Ladies. Let us go.”

“Your Grace.”

Cromwell spoke quietly as the hangings fell to behind him and he moved forward into the room. Henry was standing with his back to the window, and his face was in shadow. Cromwell regretted this as he always liked to judge the King by his expression. He looked even taller and broader than usual, with the light behind him, the strong light of sunshine, for the month was July. He was buttoned to the end of his heavy jaw in a doublet of blue and gold, with a jeweled chain around his neck, and a short half cloak hung from one shoulder, in spite of the warmth of the day. He stood with his legs wide apart, balancing his massive trunk in the attitude which reminded Cromwell of old drawings of the legendary Colossus of Rhodes. The days when the King dressed informally in an open shirt and plain breeches were past; he had begun to set great store by etiquette, and to demand a rigid observance of protocol at court.

“Come here, Thomas.”

Cromwell obeyed until he stood directly in front of the King, and then he could see his face.

“I’ve just had a word with Her Grace’s brother, Lord Rochford,” the King said. “He’s arrived hot from France with some news. The Pope has excommunicated me.”

Cromwell had no idea what reaction Henry wanted. It was impossible to judge because his face was a mask, lit by the little glittering eyes.

He drew in his breath and gambled.

“Much good may it do him,” he said coolly. “Who will he send to enforce it—the Papal Guard?”

Henry’s head went back and he gave a shout of laughter.

“By God, you’re a man after my own heart! There’ll be some lily-livers when they hear this, but you nor I won’t be among them!”

“What was the nature of the sentence, Sire?”

“Excommunication unless I take Catherine back as my wife and repudiate the Queen within six weeks.”

“He’s angry over the Archbishop’s annulment,” Cromwell said, “No man likes to be duped, and Cranmer certainly made fools of him and the Emperor.”

“And so did we,” Henry reminded him. “Those friendly gestures to the nuncio a few months ago cost nothing and achieved a lot...Ah, did he think I’d turn my back on the sign God has given me? Did he think I’d repudiate Nan when I found she was carrying my son? That was my proof, Thomas! God heard my prayers and gave the answer. I’ll have a Prince of Wales before the winter; that’s my reply to fifty Popes!”

“And to the partisans of the Princess Catherine and the Lady Mary,” Cromwell pointed out. Cranmer’s annulment had made a bastard of Mary; like her mother, she was deprived of her rights and titles.

“There are many who cling to them,” Henry said, and his eyes glinted angrily. “The people demonstrate wherever either of them appears. And the clergy urge them on, I won’t have it, Master Cromwell! I’ll not have any pocky priest questioning my actions!”