Dear Heart, How Like You This (40 page)

So great, indeed, was the relief of the King that he ruled that a banquet, followed by much dancing, would take place upon that same evening. And when that evening came, Anne and the King arrived upon the scene dressed all in yellow, all in yellow that is except for the white feather in the silken cap of the King.

Their little girl, clothed alike to her parents in a silken dress of yellow gold, also attended this night’s festivities. Elizabeth arrived soon after the banquet in the arms of her governess, Anne Shelton, who was the Queen’s own aunt. Anne had been right; when big-bellied with her first child, she told me that her child was to be something very special. Elizabeth was a child born to be taken notice of. Even though only two, Elizabeth seemed to all to be an exceptionally bright and intelligent child. Indeed, the infant girl no longer talked nonsense, as other young children of that age often do, but spoke good and clear sentences.

The King made much of his little girl this night. The King took the child from lady Shelton and carried Elizabeth around the room to show her to all his court—taking much delight every time he snatched off her silken cap to display to the invited dignitaries her beautiful golden red hair so much alike to the hair of his own youth. The little girl laughed in his arms, and looked with adoration up at the gigantic man who was her father. And I could not help to wonder what the future had in store for this tiny child, this girl child who had been born into the royal house of Tudor.

I glanced at Anne, who stood only a short distance from me, to see her looking on with obvious maternal pride; but then, as I watched, I saw her grimace with pain and close her eyes, as if in prayer, with her hands on either side of her belly.

Remembering her last miscarriage, I moved swiftly towards her in fright.

“Anna!” I whispered to her.

She opened her eyes, and saw me there before her. I suppose the alarm in my face must have told her what I feared, for she smiled reassuringly at me.

“’Tis alright, Tom. Truly—nothing ails me. I but prayed to God to forgive my happiness. Look at me! Many people say that yellow is the colour that the royals of Spain wear in mourning. I know otherwise! Oh, Tom! That a poor woman must die before I could be so happy! What if God punishes me…?”

I thought through my memories to find words to comfort her, and found there words of a priest long dead.

“Remember, Anna, how Father Stephen told us that God is like a good blacksmith, and during our lives he shapes us into the metal best suited for his purposes? Think not on the punishment of God; that is not his way. Think only that we must face and deal with life as best as we are able.”

Anne smiled at me again, and went as to touch me, but then suddenly looked around her, obviously remembering that all the court surrounded us.

“Thank you, dear Tom. You always know what to say to best comfort me. I am full of strange fancies, but women with child often are.” She laughed softly, but her dark eyes were sad and full of melancholy. Her eyes returned to reflect on me again, and she said, “Father Stephen also spoke that our life’s shaping is through the gift of suffering… that both joy and suffering go hand in hand. Tom, do think I have suffered enough? Do you think that God will wish for me to suffer more than what I already have done?”

I looked at her, and wished we were truly alone. I just wished to take her in my arms and protect her from any further hurt. But I felt I had to answer her question the best way that I was able.

“Dearest Anna. You know as I do that true joy in this world is but a brief, fleeting thing, a glimpse we are given through the doors of Heaven, but a glimpse soon gone. Oh, Anne! What can I say? As long as we live and breathe there will be pain…”

Our brief conversation was suddenly broken into by the arrival of the Queen’s maid, Madge Shelton, who curtsied to the Queen and said: “Your Grace, the King desires your company.”

I bowed to Anne, and took her too-frail hand to kiss it tenderly.

“I am grateful to have had this opportunity to speak to my Queen.”

Anne smiled her farewell, and then turned to follow Madge.

I watched her as she went to where the King now stood, and decided that I had had enough of this evening’s entertainments. Thus, I made my departure to my London lodgings.

The old Queen was buried with little fuss. Death at last won the King his victory, to have her assume the title of Dowager Princess of Wales. But, then, the piteous lady was now past caring.

After the funeral of the old Queen—or, I should say, Dowager Princess—the King continued his celebrations at Greenwich by arranging a joust. As usual, the King was one of the participants, and was enjoying himself to the full in the competition of manly pursuits. But, at the end of the day, the King was galloping his horse in the tiltyard when his huge, black stallion suddenly stumbled. The destrier fell heavily, throwing the King head first onto the ground. Many of us watching now rushed forward in unison, seeking to go first to his aid.

When I had arrived at the side of the King, I found Henry Norris there before me. Norris was frantically trying to remove the King’s armour. I knelt beside him so to help him. I looked at Henry Norris, and felt his great fear and love for the King had driven him close to breaking point. I gently removed the King’s helmet from Henry Norris’ shaking hands; indeed, his hands were shaking so much that I greatly feared the King’s headgear would slip from his grasp and cause more injury. Poor Norris was repeating softly, in what seemed almost akin to a cry: “My Liege! My Liege! My Liege!”

I put down the helmet to one side, and began to attend to the King’s chest plate. Other Equerries of the King’s body now gathered around the King, removing, piece by piece, his near hundredweight of armour.

With his helmet removed, we all could see that the King was bleeding profusely from a head wound. His forehead was much bruised and already swollen. But the King, though deeply unconscious, was obviously very much alive, for his heart beat strong and steady. All who attended him thus began to breathe a little easier.

Now that the King’s armour was stripped from his body, we were able to lift his enormous form on the waiting stretcher, and carried him indoors. Doctor Butts, the King’s second physician, now walked alongside us, muttering loudly to everyone his immense concern.

The King was an extremely heavy man, and, despite the fact that there were four of us bearing the weight of the stretcher, my arms began to feel stretched to their full capacity. I glanced around myself, to see how much further we needed to go, when I saw the Duke of Norfolk suddenly break away from the horde of courtiers following us and head in the direction of Anne’s chambers. Anna had felt unwell this day, and had chosen to remain inside with her attendants.

In that same instant, I felt my skin prickle in fright and premonition of doom so near I could almost touch it.

My God! Dear God!
I thought.
He must be going to tell Anna. Sweet Jesus! How will he tell her? What will he tell her?

Norfolk had a reputation for being blunt and to the point; and he, despite the fact he was her uncle, had little love for Anne. In sooth, Anna regarded him as her greatest foe.

I looked quickly around, and saw a face I knew.

“Francis!” I cried, and gained his attention. “Take my pole, I beg of you. I can bear its weight no more.”

Francis came at once to my succour, and took the pole from my now trembling hands.

After being released from my burden, I began to race after the Duke of Norfolk.

Within minutes I entered into the chambers of the Queen, now fast on the heels of Norfolk, to hear the bloody idiot Duke announce: “Madam! The King is dead!”

Anne was seated on a chair near the fire. It happened so quickly that I could do nothing to stop it. When she heard the Duke’s foolish words, Anne, heavily pregnant, at once stood up. Too hastily, because, when she arose in panic, Anna lost her balance and fell with a resounding thud to the floor.

“No! God in Heaven, no!” I cried, and rushed over to her.

Her maids fluttered around her in fright, while poor Anne both cried and said hysterically: “The King is dead? The King is dead? I am done for. My poor babes are done for! Sweet Jesus! What am I to do?”

“Have you hurt yourself, my Queen? Have you any pain?” I asked her, trying to lift her as gently as I could from the floor. The Duke, I could not help but notice, had disappeared from the room. As if he realised, now too late, what his ill spent words had put at risk. Or, I found myself wondering: had he meant for this to happen?

“Oh, Tom! Tom! The King is dead. What will happen to my poor, unprotected babes?”

“Anne! Anna! Please listen to me! The King is
not
dead. He is indeed injured, but I am not feared for him. He is strong, and will surely recover. But what of you? Dearest girl! Have you hurt yourself?”

The woman before me looked so white that she appeared like a ghost. So great, indeed, had been her fright.

“Harry is not dead?” she said, visibly beginning to shake.

“No, Anna,” I repeated. “The King is not dead!”

“Oh, Tom. I feel so sick!”

And she looked it too. I gestured to her women to come and help me, so we could take her into her bedchamber. When we had helped her stand upright, we began to escort her to her bed, but Anne suddenly shut her eyes and became even paler.

Fearing in my heart that she was only short seconds away from a complete collapse, I threw discretion to the winds and picked her too frail body up in my arms. Despite the swelling of her belly, Anne seemed not much heavier than I remembered from that last time I held her so, near eight long years ago. Her ladies tuttered their great disapproval of my behaviour, but then saw that their Queen had completely fainted in my arms. It was I who now began to feel sick.

“Someone go and get the doctor! Where, in God’s good name, is the midwife?” I yelled at those useless women who surrounded me, but did nothing but get in my way.

Thus, without further ado, I carried my beloved girl to her bed.

CONTENTS

“Thanked be fortune, it hath be otherwise.”

Days later, and because she fought so hard against it, in great pain and agony Anne miscarried the King’s child, a son. Some say it would have been her saviour. I say otherwise: the baby was her doom.

How could it be otherwise? The boy-child she gave premature birth to was deformed, with an over-large head and a stump where there should be an arm. The King—now up and about after his head injury, but shorter of temper than usual—was horrified, sickened, when he was told of this. Deformed babies are believed by many to be the sign of the evil one and powerful witchcraft, and it was his own wife who had borne this monster within her, claiming it was flesh of his flesh.

Perchance, I can understand—a little—the King’s first horrified reaction. He told Anne that she would bear no more sons to him—saying, as he left his distraught wife, “I will speak to you more of this when you are up from this place.”

And he henceforth escaped from the birthing-chamber, with its sickly smell of blood, and the shuttered-in pathos of dark, hopeless despair.

Such dreadful horror from hell must have a cause. But the cause must never be fixed at the King’s door.

It was not long after this that the King was heard to say that his passion for Anne had been caused by witchcraft. Thus, there was no recourse now but to rid himself of the witch who had put him under such a spell. I cannot say I understand why this catastrophe happened, but I know it was no witchcraft. I have always known in my deepest heart that Anna’s relationship with the King was doomed from the start.

But there is always a lull before every storm. And for a time, those of us who stood steadfast to the Queen deluded ourselves into hoping that all could and would right itself one day.

Anne had many loyal and loving friends, friends who all did their best to comfort her during this most terrible time. When she had physically recovered from her miscarriage, we, including George, Henry Norris, Francis Weston, and myself (as much as discretion allowed), would all gather in her chamber and try our hardest to distract her from her grief. And she was grieving, not only for the baby—though it had been best for the poor thing to be born dead before his time—but for the final death knell upon her marriage. Anne knew the Lord Cromwell had made the King aware how, with Catherine now dead, he had but to rid himself of her and he would be free to gain for himself a
bona fide
marriage. And a new marriage would give the King yet another opportunity for siring his longed-for Prince.