Mayflowers for November: The Rise and Fall of Anne Boleyn (33 page)

Chapter 39

Summer 1535

‘Passing letters to Queen Katherine and Princess Mary was a treasonable offence. The dispatches might have brought news of a French invasion,’ I tell my husband after we have knelt at prayer and snuggled into bed. ‘Lady Shelton was very fearful that such a plot should be discovered in her house.’

‘Aye, I knew I was dallying in dangerous water and much afraid.’

We read for a while; me, my New Testament and he, his little book of prayers. After he has plumped up my bolster to make me comfortable he snuffs the candles.

‘Fear of a traitor’s death made a coward of me,’ he says into the darkness.

‘What? You a coward? Never,’ I declare. ‘You defy the watchman and the constables each time you go upon the water at night. You are brave, too brave.’

‘Hear what I say, my wife. In my youth I was a coward.’

His sigh is heavy and deep.

‘Your father was good to me. I have had to live my life knowing that I failed him.’

He pleads with me to let him finish his story so that he may have my forgiveness before he becomes a father himself.

It was a wet summer in 1535, and a bloody one. On the sixth of July, Lydgate and I earned good money ferrying folks to the Tower to watch the beheading of Sir Thomas More. That evening Lydgate went into a tavern with other watermen and I waited in the wherry, as was our custom.

Sometime later, I was surprised to hear Lydgate calling me from sleep. Immediately he bid me row in the direction of Windsor. He would tell me nothing for all my questioning, but I knew that he was sorely troubled. He chided me severely and bid me row faster although he knew I was drowsy from being wakened from sleep.

‘What is the matter that we must row for our lives,’ I complained. ‘Tell me, or I will not row another minute.’

‘Do you know ought of a dark-eyed man and a grinning man who are in Master Secretary Cromwell’s pay?’ he asked.

‘Aye, do they seek me? They will have me hanged, dragged through the streets and butchered for treason,’ I cried out.

‘It is not you they seek to destroy,’ Lydgate told me.

One of his watermen friends had taken him aside in the tavern.

‘Lydgate,’ the man had asked, ‘is your brother-in-law a big man who bakes for the King at court?’

‘Aye, Peter Grinnel’s his name. What of him?’ Lydgate asked.

‘See over there, that broad man with the little black eyes and his mate who grins. I heard ‘em talking. Master Secretary Cromwell has told ‘em to stop the baker’s tongue. I heard ‘em say how they’ll give the baker boys physic to make ‘em ill and have to run to the jakes and stay there awhile with a terrible flux, and meanwhile, these two scoundrels will surprise the baker when he’s all alone and they’ll push him into the oven with the burning faggots as if he were a loaf of bread, and hold him there with the long peels while he burns like the heretic papist he is.’

‘The court is at Windsor, so row, with haste, through the night,’ Lydgate charged me. ‘And as to your secret business with your gentleman that makes you fear a traitor’s death should you be found by Cromwell’s men, never, ever, tell me ought of that.’

Lydgate was very afraid for me and, when we reached Windsor in the morn, he charged me to stay hidden in the boat amongst the rushes and went the long journey on foot to warn your father. He was an old man even then. I was young and strong. I could have run like a deer to Windsor Palace, but to my shame, I hid in the boat where, hours later, the chandler found me and told me of your father’s so-called accident and that his wife and daughter and brother-in-law were with him. He took me to a place of safety away from Cromwell’s men. I pleaded that I wanted to go to your father but he would not listen.

‘If those two find you they’ll make you talk, and there will be two of us hanged, drawn and quartered for treason, and maybe Sir Nicholas also,’ he said, and dragged me away.

‘Forgive me, Avis,’ my husband whispers.

The very air of the chamber is heavy, as if an ocean of guilt is sending waves to push us apart.

What is forgiveness? I have forgotten; just as I have forgotten how it feels to have the wine turn into the blood of Christ when I sip at the chalice on Sundays. I speak words of comfort to my husband. This is all I can do.

‘Father would have been sorely distressed to have you dragged through the streets as a traitor. He would not have traded your death for his life. I tried to warn him, so did mother. And George Constantine tried too. Father would not listen. He would never deny the Catholic religion and, in the end, he died for it.’

Chapter 40

17th November 1558

No daylight is allowed into the room. The shutters are closed. Cracks in the wall are stuffed with rags. Draughts are dangerous for a birthing mother and her new-born child. Only light from the fire is allowed. My hands are tied to the wooden bedposts.

‘The child resists,’ says the midwife. ‘This usually does the trick.’

A strong hand is raised to strike my belly where it swells high under my ribs.

‘No, no,’ I scream. ‘You will harm the child.’

I have to summon all my energy when the next pain has passed to ask the midwife to call for my husband.

‘Whoever heard of a man in the birthing chamber,’ scoffs the midwife as she wipes my brow with a rag. ‘Your neighbours should be here to help me.’

I am drifting out of consciousness with each pain. I cannot see, only hear.

‘The child will not turn,’ the midwife frets. ‘So breech it must be. If you will not have me hasten the birth there is nothing to be done but wait. God’s will is done in God’s own time.’

I ask for my husband again, cry out his name. With relief I hear running footsteps on the stairs. My husband says nothing. Yet I sense his nearness. Inside my head I see him. His face is ashen. I feel his fear. I taste it, like acid. Someone is with him.

‘I thank you, goodwife, God will bless you for this,’ he says.

I hear myself cry out, ‘Get Bess. Go now.’

I cannot tell if I am really speaking or in a dream. The now familiar ache drags through my belly, swells and tightens like a creature inside me clutching my child with its sharp pincers to drag it out.

‘Go now for Mistress Lydgate,’ a woman tells my husband. ‘I will stay with Avis and the midwife. This house can bring me no worse evil than I have already borne.’

I open my eyes and see Goodwife Smedley. I want to cry.

Sleep and pain, sleep and pain. The goodwife wipes my brow, unties my wrists and holds my hand, and I fall into sleep.

I awake to the ringing of church bells.

‘Your aunt is here,’ says the midwife sullenly. ‘I’ll take my leave. That’ll be six pence for my trouble yesterday and six pence more for through this morning.’

Bess places her hands where the pain is.

‘Thanks be to God, I am not too late. We’ve done it before, for others, we two together,’ she says calmly. ‘We will manage again and your good neighbour here will help us.’

‘Let us get her into the birthing chair, if you please,’ she says to Goodwife Smedley, ‘and with as much haste as she can bear.’

‘Why do the bells ring?’ I ask

‘We have a new queen: Elizabeth. Queen Mary is dead, God rest her soul,’ calls my husband from where he waits outside the chamber door.

I have lost track of the hours, the days.

‘It is Thursday,’ Bess tells me.

I have lain here two days. Am too old to give birth? Has my time come too late?

‘It is the seventeenth of November,’ she adds.’

Suddenly I am alert. I grasp Goodwife Smedley’s hand. ‘Today is the seventeenth of November? Are you sure?’ I ask.

‘Do you think me too ancient and simple in my mind to know what day it be?’ my aunt snaps, hurt, for she equates her great age with wisdom.

The next pain comes gently like a dull ache from my back.

‘Mayflowers for November,’ I murmur, squeezing Goodwife Smedley’s hand.

‘Why do you speak of mayflowers?’ she asks. ‘Whoever heard of hawthorn flowering in autumn

‘She is wandering in her mind,’ she whispers to my aunt.

When the pain rises and tightens I listen to the bells and hear them speak the new Queen’s name. Dang-dong-dang-dong; E-liz-a-beth.

‘Push now,’ Bess urges. ‘Harder, much harder. It is not called labour without good cause.’

She is right.

‘I am exhausted,’ I plead.

‘Now,’ she commands severely, ‘push. And quickly.’

When it is over and the babe cries I hear the door creak and my husband’s footstep in the doorway.

‘Just you wait there,’ Bess orders him. ‘There’s women’s things to do yet.’

‘All is well,’ Mistress Smedley tells him gently.

After the cord is cut and the babe and I are washed they help me to bed and prop me up with bolsters. They give me my child wrapped in a blanket. It has brown hair like my husband and a little round nose like a lump of dough. Goodwife Smedley takes her leave and promises to return with the caudle that Goodwife Trinder has prepared.

‘Pray, tell my neighbours they are welcome to come to see the child if they wish,’ I say. ‘I am in your debt for your kindness today and know not how to repay you.’

‘It is enough that you allow me to share your happiness,’ Goodwife Smedly says simply. ‘There has been too much grief these last months.’

‘Come, see your child,’ Bess calls to my husband at the door. Gingerly, he tiptoes across the room. He runs his fingers through my wet hair and kisses my forehead.

‘I am fine,’ I say, ‘just a little tired. Here is your child.’

He holds the bundle awkwardly in his arms, as if it is a great gun, ready to explode and as heavy as stone. Outside, the bells toll louder. Musical chords rise and descend: E-liz-a-beth, E-liz-abeth, they chime.

‘I have decided upon a name,’ I say firmly. I keep them waiting a little before I announce, ‘Elizabeth.’

‘I cannot think of a more fitting name for a daughter born in London town upon this day,’ my husband says, smiling at the babe who grasps his forefinger with its tiny fingers.

‘A suitable name?’ Bess has never so much as smiled since the sinking of the Mary Rose but now she is laughing and is obliged to plonk herself down on the bedside and put her bloody apron to her face.

‘Avis, I am surprised at you. All these years you have known what other women are carrying, but you can’t do it for yourself. Elizabeth indeed. Don’t you know I cut the cord long?’

‘The cord long?’ my husband asks.

‘Aye, long, for a boy.’ And Bess is off laughing again.

‘Shall we name our son Peter, for your father?’ my husband asks.

I know this is not what he really wants.

‘Our first son should share his father’s name,’ I say firmly. ‘White Boy shall take my father’s name when he is christened with our son. He is the baker in our family.’

My aunt smiles and dabs her eyes. ‘My brother would have liked that.’

My husband leaves me and charges Aunt Bess to wait awhile before she swaddles our boy. He is gone only a minute or two. When he returns he sends Aunt Bess downstairs to tend to Goodwife Trinder and the caudle. He has brought my red goatskin purse. The hide is still as soft as the day I found it hanging about my waist at St Bart’s fair, for it has been softened with grease every week for twenty-two years. He pulls out each of the four coins in turn and places them on the bed cover.

‘Here is the first noble, to seal my pledge,’ he says solemnly.

‘Here is the second, for constancy,’ I say.

‘And here is the third to let you know that I am watching out for you, to protect you from danger.’ His voice falters. He is thinking of my father. I know he is. I tell him he is just one man. It is enough to care for a wife. He cannot save everyone.

‘Here is the fourth angel that you gave to me upon our marriage, all wrapped in rosemary,’ I tell him.

He reaches again inside the purse and opens his palm to reveal a glistering, golden angel much brighter than the others.

‘I have polished it, in secret, each holy day since we wed.’

‘The fifth angel, for the birth of a son.’

‘You would have had the fifth angel if it were little Elizabeth lying in your arms.’

He takes the babe’s hand and closes his baby fingers around the shiny coin.

‘Thomas, my son,’ he says and can speak no more.

I put my finger to his cheek and bless little Tom with his father’s tears.

Chapter 41

Spring 1559

‘A lady is riding along the lane dressed all in costly black, with cambric ruffles at her neck and cuffs.’ White Boy almost falls upon the settle to catch his breath. ‘She rides a white palfrey and her servant boy follows behind on a little black pony with a brown face.’

All I can think is that our prayers to Saint Augustine have been answered and a miracle has happened. Have White Boy’s eyes been healed and his pain been taken away after all these years?

‘Did you see all this?’ I ask weakly.

‘Nay, mistress, how could I? Widow Purvis told me.’

I see that he wears his clout and has tapped his way home with his stick as usual, although at a greater pace to tell me the news. Just as well he cannot see the disappointment that must be so great upon my face.

‘The lady is talking with Goodwife Trinder, who directs her to our house. Widow Purvis told me to make haste to bring you the news.’

I hear the clacking of the latch and turn towards the door. A lady dressed in black court clothes waits smiling in the doorway.

‘May I come in, Avis?’ she asks in the same lilting Welsh accent that I remember from so many years ago.

I curtsey but she pulls me up short and we are in each other’s arms saying how the years seem mere moments when friends meet again.

‘Look at you,’ she says, glancing at the crib by the fire. ‘A mother now.’

She sees the harp. ‘Do you play, Avis?’ she asks.

‘My servant plays. Do you remember the blind beggar boy who used to play by the watergate at Greenwich palace? This is he.’

‘Ah, we missed you when we found that you were gone,’ she tells White Boy. ‘Nurse and I loved to hear your harp when we alighted from our barge.’

I send White Boy to her servant to direct him to the tavern and give him coins from my purse for food and drink for the boy and the horses.

‘I saw you amongst the Queen’s ladies, following Queen Elizabeth when she paraded through London at her coronation,’ I tell Blanche, excited like a girl. ‘You wore a gown of crimson velvet adorned with cloth of gold all trimmed with blackwork.’

Blanche smiles. ‘You haven’t changed at all, Avis. You always did love to admire the ladies’ gowns and noticed every little detail. Did you see the Queen’s cousin, Katherine Carey, amongst the ladies? She is Lady Knollys now and has but recently returned to court to serve Elizabeth. She lived abroad in exile during Queen Mary’s reign, she and her husband being of the reformed religion.’

‘I remember that you both loved Princess Elizabeth and wished never to leave her. Now your wishes have come true.’

‘What of Mistress Madge?’ I am almost afraid to ask. ‘How does she fare?’

‘She is rarely at court these days. She lives in the country with her husband and her little children.’

Is she happy? Please let her be happy, I say silently to God.

Mistress Blanche asks if she may rock my son’s cradle but I lay him sleeping in her arms where he stays cosy and does not awaken while I prepare wine and biscuits.

White Boy returns from the tavern and she will have no excuses that his music falls far short of what she hears at court, and insists that he play for her while we talk of old times. Later, I bring downstairs the precious gifts I have kept for Queen Elizabeth.

‘What beautiful embroidery,’ she says of the baby bonnet. ‘It would be wonderful to me if Queen Elizabeth were to marry and have a little child for me to rock.’

She looks at the portrait in her palm. ‘Such a good likeness,’ she says. ‘So proud and regal, just as I remember her. Oh, but Anne Boleyn had a sharp tongue, did she not, and Lady Shelton was so fearful that she would find fault with her housekeeping that she scolded the wet-nurse terribly before Anne Boleyn’s visit, and Nurse’s milk turned sour and gave the princess colic, do you remember?’

‘Queen Anne was always kind to me,’ I say quietly. ‘Does Queen Elizabeth talk over-much of her mother?’

‘Never,’ Blanche replies. ‘Not once since that terrible day in May when Lady Bryan told her that her mother was dead.’

‘Will she want Master Hans’s miniature?’ I ask, worried.

Blanche returns the bonnet and the portrait to me. ‘You must ask her yourself.’