Doomed Queen Anne (19 page)

Not long after this I traveled with my retinue to Hatfield to visit my infant daughter. The king did not accompany me. Eagerly I looked forward to seeing her. Princess Elizabeth, a comely child who already showed a marked resemblance to her father, was thriving to everyone’s satisfaction—I was kept informed of her progress by weekly messages—but Lady Shelton seemed greatly vexed by the behavior of Lady Mary.

“She is insolent and impertinent,” complained my aunt. “She still fancies herself a princess and refuses to answer to anyone who addresses her as ‘Lady Mary.’ She will not eat with Princess Elizabeth, who naturally occupies the place of honor; the lady Mary claims that place rightfully belongs to her. Whenever the princess rides in her special litter, the lady Mary refuses to walk behind her, as precedence requires. Madam, I have never witnessed such defiance, as you shall see with your own eyes!”

Lady Shelton was correct. I made no attempt to speak to Mary but gave this order to Shelton: “Show Lady Mary no kindness or understanding. Slap her whenever she exhibits such outrageous insolence, and at other times as you see fit. And remind her, whenever possible, that she is nothing but an accursed bastard.”

“Perhaps I might also remind her that the king would have her beheaded if she does not yield?”

I hesitated for only a moment. “Perhaps,” I agreed. Although Henry was angry at Mary for her stubbornness, he had not even hinted at such a drastic measure.

What I would not now give to call back those cruel words!

IN THE EARLY SPRING my most heartfelt prayers were answered: I conceived another child. King Henry celebrated by ordering a beautiful silver cradle ornamented with Tudor roses and set with precious gems, and once again I enjoyed Henry’s favor. My confidence returned that I would present the king with a male heir and secure my future as queen.

But Lady Mary was still an irksome problem. I decided to try a new tactic: I would attempt to improve my relationship with Mary—not for Mary’s sake, but for Henry’s—knowing that would benefit me as well. On a springtime visit to my precious Elizabeth, I sent Mary a carefully worded note, offering to welcome her if she would but acknowledge me as queen and inviting her to sup with me. I inquired of the cooks at Hatfield what foods Lady Mary might especially enjoy, but no one seemed to know; Shelton had ordered her to eat with the servants.

And what reply to my kindness did I receive? This curt note was delivered to my chambers:

I know not of any other queen in England than Queen Catherine, my mother. And if it should please the king’s mistress
[This was how she referred to me!]
I should be most grateful if she would intercede with my father on my behalf.

First she insulted me, and then she begged a favor!

I departed from Hatfield without ever having laid eyes on my ungrateful stepdaughter. Riding back to Greenwich in my litter, I wished there were some way to get rid of both Mary and her mother; I knew that, for as long as they lived, they and their supporters would plot against me.

As I brooded upon this, Henry announced that he would again travel to France. He wished to secure the kings promise to come to England’s aid should the emperor—that spiteful nephew of the spiteful old queen—decide to invade England on his aunt’s behalf, a possibility that worried Henry. I was in no condition to make such a long and difficult journey, but I did not attempt to dissuade Henry from going. In the king’s absence, I would rule as regent. And with him far away, I would be free to use my authority to rid myself of the detestable Lady Mary, once and for all. I thought of poison. Perhaps I could bribe an apothecary to prepare a potion to be given secretly, in small doses. But who would administer the potion? Perhaps my brother could again help me.

“Do not be a fool. Nan,” George cautioned when I hinted at my plan. “The king will not forgive you if any harm comes to her. You risk too much for too little in return.”

“I am her death and she is mine,” I told George, but in the end I knew that my brother was right. Mary lived on.

THE INFANT’S BIRTH was to be in late summer. This time my husband didn’t cancel his summer hunting progress to stay at my side, but went wherever he wished, whenever he wished. When he was absent, I imagined him with my cousin, auburn-haired Margaret. This conviction preyed on my mind, until I became half mad with suspicion.

“You have waited until I am utterly at your mercy to show your affections to another woman,” I scolded Henry. “Why can you not rejoice in the son I am about to give you?” I cried. “Do I no longer matter to you?”

I regret my intemperate words, surely another grievous error. In the past when we’d argued, Henry tried to calm me or simply left until I’d regained my composure. This time he did neither. He lost his temper.

“Shut your eyes and endure what you must!” he bellowed. “Remember that it is I who have raised you from nothing, and it is I who at any time can lower you to where you were.”

For days we quarreled. Finally some measure of peace was restored, but I was left with the nagging fear that he had found solace from the flames of my anger in the arms of another, younger, slenderer, and more agreeable, woman.

THE FEW PEOPLE around me offered small comfort. My mother was with me at times, and yet I found no solace in her. I had my petulant sister-in-law, Jane, whose company was worse than none at all. Mary Howard, another of my cousins, had recently married Henry Fitzroy; now I feared that she would produce a child to supplant my own as the king’s heir. The duchess of Norfolk made no secret of her dislike of me, and Lady Wingfield, who’d been a friend of Henry’s sister, bore me great malice. Of all the ladies in my court, only Madge Lee, sister to my old admirer, Tom Wyatt, seemed to offer true friendship, but, when I most needed her, she was called away by the illness of her son.

My sister, Mary, was one of my ladies-in-waiting.

She had been widowed for a half dozen years and suffered financial difficulties. I knew that she had pawned her jewels, and sometimes she came to me for money. Our father was cold to her, as was always his way. Occasionally I invited her to spend time alone with me, and on one such visit she confided shocking news: “I am with child,” she said.

“With child?” I gasped. “With whose child?” In panic I remembered her earlier affair with the king.

Covering her face with her hands, Mary confessed that some months previous she had secretly married one William Stafford, a man of neither wealth nor rank. “The child is his,” she whispered.

I was stunned. “You are nothing but a fool!” I cried. “Not only have you married far beneath you, but you have married without royal permission! Your life is ruined, as you must surely realize.”

“Love overcame reason,” Mary sobbed. “I loved him as well as he did me. Knowing how little the world thinks of me, I decided to forsake all other ways to live a poor and honest life with him.”

“How could you embarrass the king and me and the entire Boleyn family in this way?” I demanded.

She glared at me defiantly. “I had rather beg my bread with him than to be the greatest queen christened.”

How dare she be happy? How dare she carry a child by the man that she loves?
I could imagine that she would bear him a fine, healthy son, while I struggled hard to attain the same end. Even now I was jealous of my sister.

It was my duty to tell Henry what my sister had done. I greeted him with the news when he had returned from one hunting progress and had not yet left on another. “A disgrace!” he shouted. “She must leave court at once!”

I called Mary to my chambers for the last time and delivered the king’s message with little compassion. “His Majesty and I wish never to set eyes again upon such a pitiable creature as you!”

Mary bowed her head and was gone. For a moment I wished that I could call her back to embrace her. But I did not.

THE DAYS DRIFTED by slowly I awaited my confinement, indulging my passion for gambling at cards, always losing the money that Henry allotted me for that purpose. I sometimes played the harp. I disliked watching others dance when I could not. My ladies prattled about fashion, and I dressed in gowns with panels added to accommodate my growing belly. I became increasingly restless and short-tempered. The king paid me little attention.

Francis Bryan, one of the king’s favorites, brought me the gift of a little French dog to distract me. I made much of the dog, named Purkoy, until he slipped out of an open window and fell to his death. I wept for days, not only for dear little Purkoy, but for all that was lost. The years were passing, and I would never again be young and beautiful. Nothing cheered me except the belief that in a few weeks the ordeal would end, and I would have presented the king with a son.

But what if it were not a son? What if I bore yet another daughter? I could not trust the prognostications of the soothsayers or the physicians. I plagued Nell for reassurances. “What say you, Nell?” I demanded, stroking my round belly. “A boy, surely?”

But Nell, worriedly twisting a handkerchief, would say only, “God alone knows, madam. The rest of us must wait to see what blessings he sends us.”

“Another daughter is no blessing,” I said shortly.

And then, while the king was away on progress, the unthinkable occurred: I awoke to find myself bathed in blood and knew at once that I had lost the child. I screamed for Nell.

In great secrecy the king was summoned. With Nell clutching my hand, we both sobbed as we awaited with dread Henry’s return. His forgiveness would not be won so easily this time. But when at last he stood by my bedside, I could not stop myself from turning the blame back on him: “You left me here alone, while you were off indulging yourself in your selfish pleasures!” Knowing that he might have been with another woman fueled my anger.

I hurled cruel words at Henry; Henry hurled back his own. I accused him of selfishness; he accused me of unwarranted pride. The only thing upon which we could agree was to tell no one of this loss, to swear to secrecy the physicians and servants who had attended me, and to pretend to the world that nothing had happened. Who would dare question us?

“Let no one speak of this,” I commanded Nell, “by order of Their Majesties, the king and queen.”

“But, Your Majesty,” she said timidly, “how can you erase the memory of everyone who saw you great with child?”

“They will forget,” I said with far more confidence than I felt, “as soon as I am with child once more.”

I had to accomplish this quickly, and I was thoroughly frightened that I might not succeed. I was twenty-seven, and my position as delicately balanced now as it was before my marriage. The king could easily find another woman, someone younger to give him sons; I sensed that he already had. He could find a pretext to have our marriage annulled and send me away to live out my days in penury m some moldering castle far from court, as he had the old queen. What had happened to our love? Somehow it had faded, or worn out, or simply withered away. Perhaps he had already begun the proceedings to rid himself of me.

I LEARNED HER NAME: Jane Seymour. She had come to court as one of my ladies-in-waiting, small, dainty, prim, quiet. Soon I discovered that many members of the court were befriending her, and that she had even sent kind letters to Lady Mary, working her way into Mary’s affections. I was frantic with fear and apprehension, and yet I was helpless to get rid of my rival. Henry made no attempt to hide his affair, and he decreed that she should stay.

“Do you care nothing for me?” I cried, although I knew the answer. “For our future children?”

“Silence!” he roared. “You should be content with all that I have done for you. Do you think that I would raise you up again, if I had it to do over? Give you titles and lands and riches? Madam, I would not!”

His harsh words plunged me into deepest misery. I could feel my life unraveling. And yet I had to find the will and the strength to continue on. My very life depended upon it.

I began to live, not only in anger and humiliation, but in endless dread. I knew that I had to conceive another child. It was the only way left to me to save my position. If I bore him a son, he would not put me aside. If I did not, it was finished. I was ruined. But how to lure a man who was always angry with me and who was plainly in love with another? I paced my chambers and spent hours at prayer, searching for an answer.

Now it was clear to me that it was because of Catherine and Mary that I had not yet borne a son. As long as they remained alive, I would not fulfill my destiny of providing Henry—and all England—with an heir and future king. But how could I persuade Henry? It was far too dangerous to try. I would bide my time and pray that Mistress Jane had not yet fully taken my place.

I STRUGGLED TO WIN back the king’s favor. I arranged a number of banquets and entertainments for him. We went on a long and leisurely progress that took us far from London. The hawking had never been better. We talked amicably, our times were merry, and we became lovers again.

Finally, in January of 1536, we received the good news I had long awaited: Catherine was dead! There was suspicion of poison, and claims by the embalmer that the dead queen’s heart had been black through and through lent credence to the rumor. I was suspected by some, although it was none of my doing.

In celebration King Henry and I dressed in yellow satin. Our daughter, the princess Elizabeth, who had not yet been returned to Hatfield at the end of the Yuletide season, attended Mass with us. After we dined, Henry carried Elizabeth to the Great Hall and joined in the dancing, with his little daughter in his arms. It pleased me to see how he doted on our child whenever she was brought to visit us.

There was even more good news, the best possible: I had conceived for the third time. The birth would come in summer. I had prayed hard for this, but now I prayed even harder:
Please, dear God, this must be a son, a healthy boy!

But my happiness was marred when I happened upon Jane Seymour perched upon the king’s knee. I ordered her away, and after she fled, the king and I stared at one another. A great silence fell between us, for there was nothing to say that had not been said many times before.