Doomed Queen Anne (18 page)

As Nell bathed my face with scented water and laced me into another gown, sparkling with tiny jewels, I groaned, “With all my heart I wish that this, the greatest day of my life, at an end!” But long hours yet remained.

At Westminster Hall I was seated on the king’s marble chair at a long table on a dais above the other guests. Hidden behind a screen in a gallery above me, the king dined in the company of important foreign ambassadors. Several ladies, including my sister, stood by me; others crouched under the table, ready to do my bidding as time crept by. Everything had been done to improve my comfort, including the installation of a chamber pot within the king’s chair so that I could relieve myself discreetly, as was frequently necessary, now that my condition was well advanced.

Two noblemen on horseback escorted the Knights of the Bath, who paraded into the hall, carrying twenty-eight dishes for the first course, which were presented first to me. Two more courses followed, each one followed by a subtlety, a marvelous construction of sugar. Guests seated at the lower tables were offered fewer dishes, but by all accounts everyone was satisfied with the richness of the banquet. Well they should have been, for it had cost the king—and the kingdom—a large fortune.

At last it was over! The official ceremonies ended, but the next day, Monday, was the event the king himself lived for: jousting in my honor in the new tiltyards at Whitehall, followed by more feasting and dancing. Although the common people had jeered at me, the nobility had to pay me great honor, and I was gratified—if not “the most happy.”

NOW I HAD ONLY to await the birth of the prince in order to achieve all that I set out to do. My mood improved.

The summer passed pleasantly, save for the death of Henry’s sister, Mary. She had suffered from an illness that prevented her attendance at my coronation, but I was sure she would have found an excuse in any case. The duchess had been insulted when I was allowed to walk ahead of her. Now she would have no further complaints! After the funeral we observed a brief period of mourning, but any sadness I might have felt was assuaged by the arrival of my coronation gift from the king of France. François had sent me a magnificent litter with three beautifully trained mules to carry it.

In July my husband and I traveled by barge up-river to Windsor Castle. Out of concern for me.

Henry had given up his customary summer progress. “I can as well hunt in the forests at Windsor,” he assured me. “And you can entertain guests as you wish.”

And entertain I did. There were banquets nearly every afternoon, music and dancing in the evenings, and flirtations at every hour. Watching my pretty young maids of honor practice their artful wiles upon the men of the court, I remembered when I had been such a maid and the young King Henry’s roving eye had fallen upon me, as it had often fallen upon other damsels of Catherine’s court.

Somewhere, I thought, among the primped and powdered maids who swirled about me, was one—perhaps more than one—who would surely set out to capture the king’s fancy, if only for a night or a fortnight. I watched them, trying to guess who she might be, and seethed as my choice fell upon first one, then another.

Jealousy and the tiresome waiting drove me to fits of despair and bursts of temper that ended in tears. Yet, despite harsh words that I often regretted but could not stop, Henry responded with tenderness. Although I frequently felt unwell, our time together during those weeks was the best it had ever been. Henry was so much in love with me that I could have asked him for the moon and stars, and he would have gathered them for me.

Henry spent hours planning for the arrival of his son and heir. He drew up announcements of the birth, with the name and the date to be filled in when the child was born. He was still deciding upon a name: It would be either Henry or Edward.

“There will be jousts in the prince’s honor,” Henry said. “And great feasts. All the nobility of the realm will be invited, and I expect King Francis and the ruling monarchs of Europe to come. Even Emperor Charles cannot very well ignore this, for the marriage is valid and there is no question of the boy’s legitimacy.”

THE TIME DREW NEAR for my confinement. On the twenty-first of August, Henry and I left Windsor for Greenwich. A few days later I took formal leave of the court and retired to my chambers, where I would await the birth surrounded by my ladies-in-waiting.

I felt heavy and ungainly. My ankles were swollen. What had become of the slender body with the narrow waist and the small, firm breasts of which I had been so proud? The body once so much desired by the king had been taken over by this rollicking infant.

By custom, the windows of the suite set aside for the birth were covered with tapestries, and we spent the sultry days in a gloomy, nearly suffocating world. The bed that Henry had given to Catherine at the time of Mary’s birth was moved into the innermost chamber, where I would labor and be delivered.

Nearby, two cradles stood ready for the infant. Except for my husband and the physicians, no men were permitted beyond the curtain hung in the presence chamber to preserve my privacy. I would not leave these chambers until several weeks after the birth.

Like my withdrawal from masculine company, the presence of Lady Mary was also a matter of tradition. “Tradition be hanged!” I shouted when I learned that my stepdaughter had been summoned to witness the birth of the babe who would replace her as heir to her father s throne.

It was Nell’s thankless task to bring me word of her arrival. “Where shall we accommodate the lady Mary, madam?” she asked.

I thought for a moment. “In the part of the palace reserved for merchants and travelers,” I said.

Nell stared at me in disbelief. “But, Your Majesty..,” she began.

“Lady Mary has no royal title, no standing at all!” I cried. “Let her stay where others of her kind are allowed to rest.” Then I added, “Tell her I expect her to pay her respects to me at once.”

The king’s beloved pearl of the world appeared much later, dressed in a worn kirtle. She was now seventeen, and despite her poor dress, rather pretty. I’d had no conversation with her in more than six years, since her betrothal to François, although I’d often seen her at court before the king had sent her away. Now we glowered at each other. I loathed her on sight, and I knew from her eyes that she loathed me as well.

“Have you no manners?” I cried. “Then we shall have to teach you some! Kneel!”

Mary sank to her knees, and I explained what her life would be like from now on. “You will serve the infant prince. It will be your privilege to change his napkins whenever they are wet or soiled. That will teach you some humility.”

“And if it is a daughter, madam?” she asked insolently.

I was infuriated. Every expert her father and I consulted had assured us that the signs were all in agreement: The child in my belly was male. With scarcely a thought except to rid myself of my wretched stepdaughter, I snatched up a silver goblet and flung it at her, followed by a golden pomander and anything else I could seize. Lady Mary fled.

But I would not let her go so easily. I had to break her will, to force her to acknowledge me as queen. And so every day thereafter I summoned Lady Mary from what I hoped were her uncomfortable quarters to stand or kneel by me until I thought of some demeaning chore for her to perform. Eventually I hit upon a fine idea: I ordered her to help me to my chamber pot. Thinking of ways to humiliate the girl with her father’s red-gold hair and his blue eyes was simply a way of passing the time as the days moved slowly, slowly toward the hour of the birth of my child, England’s future king. But Mary neither broke nor bent.

ON A SATURDAY MORNING in early September my pains began. I remember little of the hours that followed, save that the labor was long and arduous. In the beginning I was jubilant—at last the day had come! But as the hours passed, I became weary and at last wished only that it be finished. With each pain my ladies tried to encourage me, “The king’s son is coming!” But in time even that failed to hearten me.

At last, before dawn on the morning of the seventh day of September,
anno Domini
1533, the heir to the throne of England slid into the world. Moments later I heard the newborn’s lusty cries.
I have done it! I have done it!

But then I realized that I’d heard no sound from those around me. Only minutes earlier the room had been filled with midwives and physicians; my aunt. Lady Shelton; even the wretched lady Mary, had stood wide-eyed at the foot of my bed! Now they all seemed to have melted away.

I gripped the sleeve of the head physician, who hovered at my side. “Why are you silent?” I gasped. “Why are there no cheers for the future king?”

“Madam,” he said gravely. “The infant is a girl. You have given the king a new princess. A fine healthy daughter.”

“No! No!” I shrieked, thinking at once of Henry and how he would respond to this awful disappointment. I had failed! Failed! “No, it cannot be!”

My wails and sobs went on and on, seeming to come from someone else. I had not done it after all, and I feared that the king would not, could not, forgive me this fault.

CHAPTER 16: Suspicions and Accusations, 1533-1536

The king glanced at the infant sleeping in her cradle. Then he came to stand at the side of the great bed, where I lay gazing up at him, exhausted and fearful. “So you have borne a daughter,” he said in a voice laden with sadness and bitter disappointment.

“Yes, my lord,” I whispered.

Suddenly his face contorted with anger. “They lied to me!” he exclaimed. “The soothsayers, the astrologers, the physicians—every one of them swore to me that it would be a male child!”

I said nothing, grateful that his displeasure was not directed against me.

“Lying to the monarch is treason, and they know it well!” he raged, pacing about the birth chamber. “I shall have them hanged for their false words!” His ringing voice woke the infant, who commenced howling lustily, until one of the rockers tiptoed in and lifted her from her cradle to soothe her.

He stared down at me as though I had deliberately contrived to dash his hopes—as though his hopes were not my own as well. “My lord,” I said, tears coursing down my face and onto my pillow, “surely I have done nothing to deserve this unhappy fate! I have prayed daily for many months, with all my heart, to give you a son...”

“Never mind,” he interrupted brusquely. “You are not to blame.” But there was no warmth, no forgiveness, in his voice. And he left me to deal alone with my failure and my fear.

WITHIN HOURS HERALDS were sent forth to proclaim the birth of the king’s child. Three days later she was carried in a purple velvet robe to the church of the Observant Friars, where she was christened at the great silver baptismal font by Archbishop Cranmer and named Elizabeth, for Henry’s mother who’d died when he was a boy.

By tradition, Henry and I did not attend the ceremony, but hundreds of others were present. Elizabeth’s half-sister. Lady Mary, was forced to listen as the infant was proclaimed Princess of Wales, Mary’s former title. How that must have galled her!

Most of the grand celebrations were canceled. The birth of a princess did not warrant the jousting that a prince deserved. Still, there were fireworks and bonfires and public fountains spouting wine, the kind of revelry expected by the king’s subjects at the birth of a royal child.

Although he had declared me blameless, it was obvious that the king still held me responsible. I had not yet risen from my bed when I resumed my petitions to Almighty God, praying fervently that I would again conceive as soon as I was able.
Hear my prayer, O Lord, I beg you, and grant me a son!
If God truly turned his back on me, I stood to lose all I had achieved.

Witnessing my distress, my aunt, Lady Shelton, tried to comfort me. “King Henry has no intention of abandoning you. ‘I love her, more than ever’—those were his words,” my aunt insisted. Although I wished to believe her, I could not.

But Lady Shelton did not tell me that the king had already begun an affair, although it was rumored to be with her own daughter, my cousin, Margaret! This I heard from Lady Rochford, who plainly enjoyed being the bearer of these tidings. I silently cursed them all—my aunt, my cousin, my sister-in-law, my faithless husband. I had to find a way to win him back.

EARLY IN DECEMBER, Elizabeth, Princess of Wales, bundled in furs in a splendid litter, was carried in a great procession to Hatfield Palace. Hatfield, a journey of several hours north of Greenwich, would become the royal nursery under the governance of Lady Anne Shelton.

The former Princess of Wales, Mary, had long since taken herself off to her residence at Beaulieu, but I had a few surprises in store for her. I dispatched my uncle, the duke of Norfolk, to call upon her and to inform her that I had given Beaulieu as a gift to my brother and his wife and that she would now move to Hatfield to become waiting woman to the infant Princess Elizabeth. I forbade her to take her governess with her. Lady Mary would fend for herself.

Henry shared my bed once more, yet I sensed that he came to me now solely out of duty. I knew that I must conceive another child, a son, and quickly, or all would be lost. But worry and distress were taking a heavy toll, and I frequently railed at all around me. I’m ashamed to say that poor devoted Nell often received the brunt of my growing desperation.

EARLY IN THE NEW YEAR the king and his Parliament passed two important laws. The Act of Supremacy required every citizen to swear an oath of loyalty to King Henry as supreme head of the Church in England. This meant that the pope no longer had the power to declare my marriage to Henry illegal—at long last the king had carried out his threat made five years earlier. The Act of Succession declared Henry’s marriage to me valid and declared my children by him the legitimate successors to the throne.

But many still spoke slanderously of me; many more remained loyal to the old queen and to Mary. And Henry Fitzroy, now fifteen, was summoned home from France, where he’d been at court. The king didn’t bother to explain why he had done this, but I feared that if I did not soon produce a male heir, Fitzroy might actually be considered the true prince.