Doomed Queen Anne (16 page)

CHAPTER 14: The Last Card, 1532-1533

Will the woman never accept her fate?” raged King Henry, pounding the table with his fist. A richly decorated gold cup danced on the wooden board with every angry blow.

The occasion was the New Year of 1532. The old queen had not been invited to court for Yuletide. In addition, she had been ordered to stay in her far-off manor house and forbidden to send the king any further messages. But Catherine had decided that a gift was not truly a message, and she had sent the king the gold cup.

“
She
will not accept her fate because
you
do not accept it, my lord,” I reminded him. “The dowager queen still maintains a household of two hundred servants, with thirty ladies-in-waiting and as many grooms and ushers. Send back the cup and take away her servants. Only then will Mistress Catherine begin to understand that she is no longer the queen.”

King Henry sighed deeply. “You are right, Anne. I will do as you suggest. This is the year that we shall wed. I promise you that, as your king and the one who loves you above all else. Now come, sweetheart. I have a special gift for you.”

He led me into a chamber of the palace that I had never before entered. The chamber was empty, save for a splendidly carved bed, piled high with wool-stuffed mattresses and draped with brocade bed-curtains stitched with gold braid.

“For the next queen of England,” he said, with the youthful smile that always touched my heart, and he urged me to step closer to the bed. There, spread out upon the blue silk coverlet was a magnificent crimson velvet mantle. Bands of snowy ermine trimmed the front, the neck, the hem. Only the highest-ranking nobility were permitted to wear ermine, the costliest of furs! The king lifted the mantle and arranged it around my shoulders.

Thrilled with the gifts, I embraced the king and kissed him passionately. Suddenly King Henry seized me in his arms and carried me to the bed. I struggled against him, but the king was far more powerful than I. “My lord,” I cried, “I beg you! If, as you say, we shall soon be wed, then we must wait a little longer.”

The king groaned and released me, nearly dropping me onto the mattresses. “You are right, Anne. Once again, you are right.” He walked out of the chamber, leaving me alone on the great bed, still wrapped in the dazzling ermine-trimmed robe.

THE MONTHS FOLLOWED one upon another, and I observed another birthday. Twenty-five! To think that I had once wished to be older; I now dreaded it! Still, there was cause for my hopes to rise. The king had ordered work begun on the royal apartments in the Tower of London, where by tradition I would stay on the night before my coronation. This encouraged me to believe that we would indeed soon marry, and I would soon be queen.

We set out on a summer hunting progress. “May we now choose a date for the wedding, my lord?” I asked as we rode side by side beneath a hazy sun.

The king was in an expansive mood, as he always was when he’d left behind the cares of governing, and he smiled at me fondly. “Nothing would please me more, dear Anne,” he said. “But that is not yet possible. You yourself know that I have not yet obtained the annulment.”

I turned my face away and bit my tremulous lip.

“There are, however, two other dates that you must reckon upon,” the king continued.

My two greyhounds bayed excitedly as they scented game nearby, and the master of the hounds released them. But I was paying no attention to the dogs and wheeled to face the king. “And what might be the occasions, my lord?” I asked.

“In October you will accompany me to Calais for a reunion with King Francis. It is to be a splendid occasion—as splendid as our Grand Rendezvous at the Field of Cloth of Gold.”

“It will be my great privilege!” I exclaimed, transported back in memory to that eventful day a dozen years earlier when I’d gazed upon the great King Henry VIII, and my life forever changed.

“You will travel as my intended queen, and so you must have an appropriate title. Therefore, on the first of September, I shall make you the marquess of Pembroke.” King Henry beamed, clearly enjoying the surprise he’d planned for me.

Impetuously I reached for his hand and brought it to my lips. “My lord, you do me the highest honor!”
No more simply “Lady Anne”! I would have a noble title!
“But ‘marquess’ is a gentleman’s title, is it not?”

“As I wish it to be. Most noblewomen acquire the title of marchioness through marriage. I want you to have a title that no woman has held in her own right.”

Then abruptly, lured by the yelping of the hounds. King Henry saluted me and, spurring his horse, rode off in pursuit of his quarry.

THE CEREMONY TOOK place at Windsor Castle. I had attended many such ceremonies; this would be mine alone.

My parents and brother, of course, were present for the occasion, as well as my sister, to whom I’d sent a purse of gold for several new gowns. My cousin, Margaret Shelton, more comely than ever, arrived with her mother, our escape from the howling mob a distant memory. Another cousin, young Mary Howard, was chosen to carry the crimson mantle and the gold coronet. As a dozen trumpeters blew jubilant fanfares, the king, splendidly garbed in purple trunk hose slashed with cloth of gold, read out the documents granting my title. He placed the coronet upon my head as I knelt at his feet. I was now marquess of Pembroke, my rank exceeding my fathers and my brother’s but not my uncle’s, the duke of Norfolk.

When the long ceremony ended, we moved in procession to Saint George’s Chapel for the Mass, celebrated by the theologian, Thomas Cranmer. Later, the Great Hall of Windsor was the setting for a grand banquet. I wore a gown of black satin embroidered from neck to hem with hundreds of pearls.

At the end of the day I was exhausted but exultant. The common people might jeer all they wished—as they had again just weeks earlier, spoiling a late-summer hunting party—but I slept that night content in the knowledge that I was without question the most important woman in all England and would soon take France by storm.

WITH A THOUSAND attendants to accompany us on the journey, we were ready to depart for Dover and thence by ship to Calais. All that remained was for Catherine to turn over her jewels before we sailed. Yet still the old queen resisted. Henry reminded her that the jewels were not hers, but the property of the crown. Finally, Catherine yielded and returned the jewels. Riding in my splendid litter as our retinue made its way to Dover Castle, I wore them for all to see.

The royal entourage stretched for over a mile, but my personal retinue was small—much too small. Many of the ladies of the English court, among them the king’s sister, had disdained the invitation to accompany me. I’d heard that the duchess’s husband, Charles Brandon, had protested to the king about my part in the meeting with François. My brother’s wife. Lady Rochford, had agreed to come for George’s sake. If I had learned a single thing during my years as King Henry’s sweetheart and intended wife, it was that only one opinion truly mattered—the king’s. Still, their sniping wounded me.

One who did willingly accompany me, even riding with me in my litter, was my sister. I believed that Mary would be loyal to me, despite her occasional bouts of jealousy, and I thought she’d enjoy a reunion with her former lover, François.

“Will you be married in Calais, then?” Mary asked as the litter jolted along the muddy road. “I have heard such a rumor.”

“No such plans have been made,” I replied.

“Yet you travel like a queen,” Mary said, “and live like a wife.” She glanced at me and then looked away.

“Neither queen nor wife,” I said with a sigh.

“Not like a wife?” Mary suppressed a laugh.

“I am still chaste,” I said primly.

“You, Nan? Chaste?” This time Mary laughed aloud.

My temper flared. “You doubt me? I am still a virgin.”

“King Henry has pursued you for six years, and you have not yet yielded your virtue? Nan, there is no one in all of Christendom who believes that!”

I began to utter a retort and then thought better of it.
Why bother to argue? I’ll never convince her.

Moodily I stared out at the long line of carts and horses plodding toward Dover. Mary reached over and laced her fingers through mine. “I have known Henry for a long time,” she said. “And I can tell you what I am certain will spur him to action: if you were to conceive his son...” She squeezed my hand. “This may be your last card, Nan. Dare to play it.”

Perhaps she is right,
I thought.
Suppose I were now to conceive a child—a son! But should I risk it?
Hour after hour, day after day, I pondered the question:
Should I? Do I dare?

ON THE ELEVENTH of October we set sail for Calais, a coastal town long held by the English but surrounded by France. Standing on the deck with the wind in my hair, I recalled the journey I’d made nineteen years earlier across this same water. It had been a dreadful, stormy trip, and I was a frightened little girl determined not to show her fear. Today the sky was blue, a stiff breeze filled the white sails of the
Swallow
, and the mighty king of England stood by my side. It was a relief to be leaving behind my enemies in England and sailing toward what I anticipated would be a generous welcome from the French. I felt myself at ease.

The king stepped behind me and held me fast against him so that I could feel the beating of his heart. For six years I had waited for the king to resolve his Great Matter and to make me his wife. For six years the situation had dragged on unresolved. If anything was going to change, then I must be the one to change it. If I begot a child, Henry would surely take the final step and marry me, regardless of the pope’s ruling. I thought again of Mary’s words:
This may be your last card. Dare to play it.

Closing my eyes, I made my decision. I moved the king’s hand to cover my breast.

That night in Calais, I welcomed King Henry into my bed for the first time.

FOR DAYS I WAITED restlessly in our lodgings while Henry met with François, first in Boulogne and then in Calais, where Henry ordered three thousand guns fired in honor of the French king.

I waited for Henry’s return, and I waited for the invitations I expected from Queen Eleanor, the wife of François, and from the ladies of the French court, who were expected to entertain me. But no invitations came. There was no extravagant welcome for me, King Henry’s intended bride. Nothing! I was spurned first by the queen and then by her ladies. There was not a single formal occasion at which I could make an impression with my fine wardrobe of new gowns and the royal jewels. And my sister was a witness to my humiliation.

“How can they do this to me?” I cried bitterly. “Surely the next queen of England does not deserve such rude treatment!”

Mary tried her best to comfort me. “Their behavior has nothing to do with you personally, Nan. To them you are merely a marchioness—and you will not be accorded the respect due a queen until you are one. Now come, let us gamble a little at cards to pass the time, until Henry comes back to you. And when he does come, do try to hide your hurt and resentment. It will only upset him.”

I took what comfort I could from Mary’s reasoning, but we both knew that Queen Eleanor was Catherine’s niece—a fact that surely played a part in her rudeness.

And so, with little to do, I spent hours playing cards with my sister. Henry often paid my gambling debts. Now he would have to pay for both of us as we each won and lost small fortunes. And again I took Marys advice and swallowed my wounded pride.

TOWARD THE END of our stay, Henry arranged a banquet in a hall hung with cloth of gold and gilded wreaths decorated with precious stones. Candles gleamed in twenty silver candelabra, and Henry, with my guidance, had ordered 170 dishes to be presented, half of them French and half English. I planned a masque at which I would make a grand entrance with seven ladies, all costumed in gold tissue and disguised with velvet masks. Each of us chose one of the Frenchmen as a partner; I made it a point to choose François. When the dancing had ended, the French king kissed my hand and paid me many flattering compliments.

Then he drew me aside, to speak with me in private. “Mademoiselle Anne,” he said gravely, “you know that for several reasons I, as king of France, cannot approve of your proposed marriage to King Henry. The reasons, you understand, are not personal but diplomatic.”

I nodded, not thinking it necessary to inform François that I had no need of his approval.

“Still,” François continued, “as a personal matter, it pleases me to make you this small gift.” He produced a pouch of embroidered silk and emptied the contents into my hand. A diamond as big as a walnut glittered in my palm. I guessed that Queen Eleanor knew nothing of this magnificent gift. My heart lifted.

I closed my fingers around the gem and held it to my breast. “I shall cherish it always, as I cherish your friendship,” I said, and allowed François to escort me back to the gold-draped hall. King Henry rose to welcome me with a kiss, embracing me in front of everyone. Apparently he no longer cared what anyone thought.

The weather turned foul as we prepared to leave Calais, and for days it was impossible to set sail. It was mid-November when the king ordered his bed and trunks put aboard the
Swallow
, and we sailed for England. A Te Deum
was sung at Saint Paul’s Cathedral in thanksgiving for the king’s safe return, but for once Henry was in no rush to be back at court. His love for me had blossomed anew, and he wanted my company and no other’s. I returned his love in full measure.

The weeks passed happily for us both. Soon I observed certain telltale signs in my body. I prayed fervently that I was not mistaken. By Yuletide I was positive, but still I kept the secret to myself for a few days more. Then, at the New Year of 1533, my gift to the king was the greatest I could imagine: I knelt at his feet and whispered, “My lord and my love, I am carrying your child within my womb.”

The king bowed his head and wept for joy Henry’s gift to me a few days later were these thrilling words: “I have arranged all, dearest Anne. Before the month is over, we shall be married. But it must be in secret.”