Philippa Gregory's Tudor Court 6-Book Boxed Set (123 page)

“Go!” I said fiercely, and ran to Anne. She had her hand on her belly as if she would shield the baby from the disastrous news. I pinched her cheeks, and watched her eyelids flutter.

“He’ll stand by me,” she whispered. “Cranmer himself married us. Crowned me. They can’t say it is all to be put aside.”

“No,” I said as staunchly as I could, thinking that yes, perhaps they could put it all aside, for who could deny the Pope when he held the keys of heaven in his hand? The king must surrender. And the first thing he would have to surrender would be Anne.

“Oh God, I wish George was here,” Anne said with a little wail of despair. “I wish he was home.”

Two days later, George came home from France with a brief panic-stricken letter from our uncle, demanding to know what should be done next in the negotiations to resolve a crisis which had suddenly become a disaster. The king sent George straight back to France again with orders for my uncle to break off the talks and come home. We would all wait and see what would happen.

The days grew hotter, they drew up plans for the defense of England against a Spanish invasion, the priests preached calm from the pulpits but wondered which side they should be on. Many churches simply bolted their doors in the crisis and no one could confess or pray, bury their dead or christen their babies. Uncle Howard begged the king to let him go back to France and implore Francis to persuade the Pope to lift the excommunication. I never before saw him look so terrified. But George, the steadiest of us all, turned all his attention to Anne.

It was as if he thought that the king’s immortal soul and the future of England were too great for him. The one place where he could be effective was to keep the baby growing in Anne’s belly. “This is our guarantee,” he said quietly to me. “Nothing secures our safety more than a boy baby.”

He spent every morning with Anne, sitting with her on the day bed in the window embrasure. When Henry came into the room George would wander away, but when Henry was gone again, Anne would lean back on the pillows and look for our brother. She never showed Henry the strain she suffered. She remained for him the fascinating woman she had always been. She would show him her temper if he crossed her, quick enough. But she never showed him her fear. She never showed her fear to anyone but to George and me. Henry had her sweetness
and her charm and her flirtatiousness. Even eight months with child Anne could flick her eyes sideways in a way which would make a man catch his breath. I used to watch her talking with Henry, and see that every gesture, every inch of her was devoted to delighting him.

No wonder that when he left the room to go hunting she leaned back on the pillows and summoned me to take off her hood and stroke her forehead. “I’m so hot.”

Henry did not go hunting alone, of course. Anne might be fascinating but not even she could hold him when she was eight months pregnant and forbidden to go to his bed. Henry was flirting openly with Lady Margaret Steyne and it was not long before Anne knew of it.

When he visited her one afternoon he got a sharp welcome.

“I wonder you dare show your face to me,” she greeted him in a hiss as he sat down beside her. Henry glanced around the room and the gentlemen of the court at once moved a little further away and pretended to be deaf while the ladies turned their heads to give the royal couple the illusion of privacy.

“Madam?”

“I hear you’ve bedded some slut,” Anne said.

Henry looked around and saw Lady Margaret. A glance at William Brereton prompted that most experienced of courtiers to offer Lady Margaret his arm. He swept her out of the room for a walk by the river. Anne watched them go with a glare which would have frightened a lesser man.

“Madam?” Henry inquired.

“I won’t have it,” she warned him. “I won’t tolerate it. She must leave court.”

Henry shook his head and rose to his feet. “You forget to whom you speak,” he pronounced. “And ill temper is not suitable to your condition. I shall bid you good day, madam.”

“You forget to whom you speak!” Anne retorted. “I am your wife and the queen and I will not be overlooked and insulted in my own court. That woman is to leave.”

“No one orders me!”

“No one insults me!”

“How have you been insulted? The lady has never paid you anything but the greatest of attention and politeness, and I remain your most obedient husband. What is the matter with you?”

“I won’t have her at court! I shall not be so treated.”

“Madam,” Henry said, at his most chilling. “A better lady than you was treated far worse and never complained to me. As you well know.”

For a moment, absorbed in her own temper, she did not catch the reference. And when she did she flung herself out of her chair to her feet. “You cite her to me!” she screamed at him. “You dare compare me to that woman who was never your wife?”

“She was a Princess of the Blood,” he shouted back. “And she would never, never have reproached me. She knew that a wife’s whole duty is to mind her husband’s comfort.”

Anne slapped her hand on the curve of her belly. “Did she give you a son?” she demanded.

There was a silence. “No,” Henry said heavily.

“Then princess or not, she was no use. And she was not your wife.”

He nodded. Henry, and indeed all of us, sometimes had trouble remembering that most debatable fact.

“You are not to distress yourself,” he said.

“Then do not you distress me,” she answered smartly.

Reluctantly, I drew closer. “Anne, you should sit down,” I said as quietly as I could. Henry turned to me with relief. “Yes, Lady
Carey, keep her quiet. I am just going.” He gave a little bow to Anne and left the room abruptly. Half the gentlemen swirled out with him, half of them were caught unawares and stayed. Anne looked at me.

“What did you interrupt for?”

“You can’t risk the baby.”

“Oh! The baby! All anyone thinks about is the baby!”

George drew close to me and took Anne’s hand. “Of course. All our futures depend on it. Yours as well, Anne. Be still now, Mary’s right.”

“We should have fought it out to the end,” she said resentfully. “I should not have let him go until he promised to send her from court. You should not have interrupted us.”

“You can’t fight it through to the end,” George pointed out to her. “You can’t end up in bed till you’ve been birthed and churched. You have to wait, Anne. And you know that he’ll have someone else while he’s waiting.”

“But what if she keeps him?” Anne wailed, her glance sliding past me, knowing full well that she had taken him from me when I was in childbirth.

“She can’t,” George said simply. “You’re his wife. He can’t divorce you, can he? He’s only just got rid of t’other one. And if you have his son he’d have no reason to. Your winning card is in your belly, Anne. Hold it close and play it right.”

She leaned back against the chair. “Send for some musicians,” she said. “They can dance.”

George snapped his fingers and a pageboy jumped forward.

Anne turned to me. “And you tell Lady Margaret Steyne that I don’t want her in my sight,” she said.

♦   ♦   ♦

The court took to the river that summer. We had never been near to the Thames in the summer months before, and the master of
the revels devised water battles and water masques and water entertainments for Henry and his new queen. One night they had a battle of fire at twilight on the water and Anne watched it from a little tented palace on the bank. The queen’s men won and then there was dancing on a little stage built out over the river. I danced with half a dozen men and then I looked around for my husband.

He was watching me, he was always watching me for the moment when we could slip away together. One discreet tilt of his head, one secret smile and we were gone into the shadows for a kiss and a hidden touch and sometimes, when it was dark and when we could not resist each other, we would take our pleasure, hidden in the darkness by the river with the sound of faraway music to disguise my moan of pleasure.

I was a clandestine lover and it was that which made me alert for George. He too would take part in the first half-dozen dances and establish his presence at the center of things. Then he too would step back, back, back from the circle of light into the obscurity of the garden. Then I would see that Sir Francis was missing too and know that he had taken my brother off somewhere, perhaps to his room, perhaps to the stews of the City for some wild doings, perhaps gambling, or riding in the moonlight, or for some rough embracing. George might reappear in five minutes, or he might be gone all night. Anne, who thought he was roistering as he always had done, accused him of flirting with the maids around the court and George laughed and disclaimed as he always had done. Only I knew that a more powerful and more dangerous desire had my brother in its grasp.

In August Anne announced that she would retire for her confinement and when Henry came to visit her in the morning, after hearing Mass, he found that the rooms were in chaos with
furniture being moved in and out, and all the ladies in a great toil of activity.

Anne sat on a chair among all the confusion and ordered what she wanted. When she saw Henry come in she inclined her head but did not rise to curtsy to him. He did not care, he was besotted with his pregnant queen, he dropped like a boy to kneel beside her, to put his hands on her great round belly and look up into her face.

“We need a christening gown for our son,” she said without preamble. “Does she have it?”

“She” meant only one thing in the royal vocabulary. “She” was always the queen that had disappeared, the queen that no one ever mentioned, the queen that everyone tried not to remember, sitting in that chair, preparing for her own confinement in that room, and forever turning to Henry with her sweet deferential smile.

“It’s her own,” he said. “Brought from Spain.”

“Was Mary christened in it?” Anne demanded, already knowing the answer.

Henry frowned at the effort of recovering a memory. “Oh yes, a great long white gown, richly embroidered. But it was Katherine’s own.”

“Does she have it still?”

“We can order a new gown,” Henry said pacifically. “You could draw it yourself, and the nuns could sew it for you.”

A toss of Anne’s head indicated that this would not do. “My baby is to have the royal gown,” she said. “I want him christened in the gown that all the princes have worn.”

“We don’t have a royal gown . . .” he said hesitantly.

“I’ll warrant!” she snapped. “Because she has it.”

Henry knew when he was beaten. He bent his head and kissed her hand, clenched on the arm of the chair. “Don’t
distress yourself,” he urged her. “Not so near your time. I’ll send to her for it. I swear I will. Our little Edward Henry shall have everything you might want.”

She nodded, she found her sweet smile, she touched the nape of his neck with her fingertips as he bowed to her.

The midwife came to them and swept a curtsy. “Your room is ready now,” she said.

Anne turned to Henry. “You’ll visit me every day,” she said. It sounded more like an order than a request.

“Twice a day,” he promised. “The time will pass, sweetheart, and you must rest for the coming of our son.”

He kissed her hand again and left her, and I drew close as the two of us went to the threshold of her bedchamber. Her great bed had been moved in, and the walls hung with thick tapestries to exclude any noise or sunshine or fresh air. They had put rushes down on the floor with rosemary for scent, and lavender for relief. They had moved all the other furniture out of the room except for one chair and table for the midwife. Anne was expected to stay in bed for one whole month. They had lit a fire although it was midsummer and the room was stifling. They had lit candles so that she could read or sew, and they had put the cradle ready at the foot of the bed.

Anne recoiled on the threshold of the darkened stuffy room. “I can’t go in there, it’s like a prison.”

“It’s only for a month,” I said. “Perhaps less.”

“I’ll suffocate.”

“You’ll be fine. I had to do it.”

“But I’m the queen.”

“All the more reason.”

The midwife came up behind me and said: “Is it all to your liking, Your Majesty?”

Anne’s face was white. “It’s like a prison.”

The midwife laughed and ushered her into the room. “They all say that. But you’ll be glad of the rest.”

“Tell George I’ll want to see him later,” Anne said over her shoulder to me. “And tell him to bring someone entertaining. I’m not going to be all alone in here. I might as well be imprisoned in the Tower.”

“We’ll dine with you,” I promised. “If you rest now.”

♦   ♦   ♦

With Anne withdrawn from court the king returned to his normal pattern of hunting every morning from six till ten and then coming in for his dinner. In the afternoon he would visit Anne and then there would be entertainments laid on for him in the evening.

“Who does he dance with?” Anne demanded, as sharp as ever though she lay hot and tired and heavy in the darkened room.

“No one in particular,” I said. Madge Shelton had taken his eye and the Seymour girl, Jane. Lady Margaret Steyne was peacocking about in half a dozen new gowns. But none of this would matter if Anne had a boy.

“And who hunts with him?”

“Just his gentlemen,” I lied. Sir John Seymour had bought his daughter a most handsome gray hunter. She had a dark blue gown to ride in and she looked well in the saddle.

Anne looked suspiciously at me. “You’re not chasing after him yourself, are you?” she asked nastily.

I shook my head. “I’ve no desire to alter my station in life,” I said honestly enough. Carefully, I kept my thoughts from William. If I let myself think of the set of his shoulders or the way he stretched when he was naked in the morning light, then I knew that my desire would show in my face. Anyone could read it. I was too much his woman.

“And you watch the king for me?” Anne insisted. “You do watch him, Mary?”

“He’s waiting for the birth of his son, like the rest of the court,” I said. “If you have a boy then nothing can touch you. You know that.”