The Rose Without a Thorn (8 page)

I DID NOT FORGET
Francis Derham. There was the red rose to remind me. I often wore it. Dorothy and Joan smiled when I told them Francis Derham had given it to me. They often commented on it and afterward I wished I had not told them whence it came. So then I did not wear it as much as I should have liked to; and it seemed they forgot him. But I did not need the red rose to remind me of him.

Something was happening, and we were aware of it. This was due to living near the Court and not in Horsham. Moreover, my grandmother and the Duke of Norfolk appeared to be concerned in it.

I saw little of my uncle, but my grandmother often left the Court and returned to the house. The Court was constantly traveling round the country and my grandmother did not like the journeys. She said she was feeling her age, and Court life could be exhausting.

Her limbs were stiff, she complained. She had procured some soothing lotions from her physician which had to be rubbed into her swollen legs, and she summoned me, as a member of the family, to perform this intimate task.

This, although somewhat distasteful to me, had its compensations, for, as I massaged, she would slip into a dreamy state and talk almost as though to herself, which meant she often forgot discretion and said more than she intended. Thus I began to understand much of what would otherwise have been a mystery to me.

It quickly became clear to me that all was not well with Queen
Anne. The euphoria was fast evaporating, and the King was less devoted than he had been.

“It began with the birth of the child,” mused the Duchess. “If only she had been a boy. That would have bound them together. He had set his heart on a son. All the documents announcing the birth … they had all been prepared for a boy. And then comes the Princess Elizabeth … a beautiful child … no weakness there … but a girl. He had thought my granddaughter perfect. He had thought she could give him all he wanted. But it is the good God who decides the sex of a child, and he chose to give them a girl! And there are those to say that this is a sign of divine disapproval. That Peto. Oh, he is not the only one. They should have been silenced. Well, there it is. If it had been a boy, all would have gone well, all would have been saved.”

“Saved!” I gasped. It was a mistake. I should have kept silent.

“What’s that, eh? What are you doing, child? Get on with the rubbing.”

You must not interrupt her, I admonished myself. She must forget that you are here. No talking then from me. Let her do it all.

I rubbed, gently, soothingly, and she was soon continuing.

“Poor child. So beautiful. There is no one to rival her. What if it is he who cannot get the boys? There is the Lady Mary and now the Princess Elizabeth … and all the boys Catherine had were born sickly and did not live. There is Richmond, of course, the King’s son. Did he not admit to it? Did he not rejoice in the boy? But a bastard. He can get bastards, but no heirs. It is as though God is against him. Can it be? That is what they say. Some of them are so bold … they risk their lives. They are like the saints. They do not care for the axe—and they are lucky if they get that. That’s for the nobility, but it’s hanging, drawing and quartering for some … and still they do not care. They will say what they believe to be the truth. The people don’t like it. They don’t like
her
. They are all envious of my beautiful granddaughter. Oh, what a lovely creature! When she came back from
France, there was no one to touch her. And now … she is Queen indeed … but he begins to wander, they say. The Duke is worried …”

I wanted to ask if the Queen were worried too, but I stopped myself in time. It was an unnecessary question. Of course she must be worried. And my uncle was disturbed. There would be reason for that. The family had been greatly honored since one of its members had become the Queen.

My poor cousin Anne! I remembered the glimpse I had had of her at her coronation. So proud, so beautiful, the most powerful woman in the country; but even she had to remember that her power came through the King, and everything depended on her pleasing him.

The months passed. Often I thought of Francis Derham, and I wondered whether he would ever come back.

I saw Henry Manox now and then. He was still at Lord Beaumont’s. Whenever we met, he looked at me pleadingly, but I was not in the least tempted—perhaps because I carried the image of Francis Derham in my mind. He was so different.

I learned more of what was happening. It was well known now that all was not well between the King and the Queen, and throughout the house there was an air of impending doom.

On the rare occasions when I saw my uncle, the Duke, he was clearly disturbed; as for my grandmother, she was very obviously affected. Not so long ago, she could not have spoken of our kinswoman, the Queen, without glowing with pride; now she did so with apprehension.

Where would it end? He was married to her, but some said it was no true marriage. Had he not been married to Queen Catherine? But he had thrust her aside; and she was related to the great Emperor Charles, which was why the Pope could not accept a bribe from the King to agree to the divorce. And Anne … who was she? Who would defend her? The family of Howard? A great family, yes, but insignificant compared with such as the Emperor Charles, the most powerful ruler in Europe. And who were the
Howards to set themselves against the King? A previous king had shown them how easily he could humble them.

I was indeed growing up, and learning something of the world, and I was deeply sorry for my brilliant cousin.

And well I might be! I often thought later what she must have suffered during those months, and then I understood it so well.

Everyone knows that story.

There was a time when I was aware of the lightening of my grandmother’s spirits. There was a definite new optimism. The Queen was pregnant.

The Duchess talked of it while I rubbed her legs.

“This could save everything. It is God’s answer to our prayers. True, it will not be the same … he is not a man to stay constant. His fancies stray and many are standing ready.” She laughed mirthlessly. “I think of those Seymour brothers … a fine pair they are. Mischief-makers, both of them. Edward is a rogue, and so is Thomas. They have always been enemies of the Howards. They are seeking advancement through this …”

It was all rather vague, and I dared not ask for clarification since this would be the quickest way to silence her. But there was a good deal of gossip going on, and I was able to glean something of the situation, so I soon learned that the King was enamoured of one of the Queen’s ladies-in-waiting. Mistress Jane Seymour was not of significantly high birth, but she had those two ambitious brothers. Anne Boleyn, lady-in-waiting to Queen Catherine, had ensnared the King. Now it seemed it was the turn of Jane Seymour, lady-in-waiting to Anne, to do the same.

My grandmother had gone back to Court to be near her granddaughter when she gave birth.

Oh, for a son, we prayed. Only God could give Anne that.

Alas, he did not listen to our prayers, or only partly. It was very dramatic, I understood. The Queen had burst in on her maid, Jane Seymour, and the King. They were in each other’s arms and certain familiarities were taking place. How Anne must have hated that woman and longed to be rid of her, but naturally, she could
do nothing about the matter, for the King would not allow her to be dismissed: and Queen Anne, who once could have demanded anything from him, must now stand by and suffer the humiliation of seeing another preparing to take the place which had been hers—just as Queen Catherine had had to do before her.

Queen Anne was so angry that she gave vent to her rage and the King shouted at her that she must perforce endure what others had before her. Poor Anne, she must have seen the end in sight, and the only way she could avert the fate which had fallen to Queen Catherine was to have a son. And that was not in her power, except by prayer, which was not always reliable.

It was certainly not in her case. There was not even a daughter like the Princess Elizabeth. The shock of that encounter between herself, the King and Jane Seymour brought on a miscarriage. It was the end.

The Duchess returned to us, sad-hearted and defeated. She could no longer delude herself into thinking that all would come right. There was no son. The King was tired of her whom he had once desired sufficiently to defy the Pope and break with Rome; and now she was no more to him than poor, sick, tired Catherine of Aragon.

The Duchess had been with Anne when she lay in her bed, sick and frantic with worry, and during one of those sessions when I was rubbing her legs, she talked of the occasion.

“She was in need of comfort. She had lost her child … a sadness for a mother at any time, but when so much depends on it … Oh, he was cruel. The anger in his little eyes … his tight, straight mouth. And it was worse, because the child had been a boy. Oh, if only she had not come upon them … if only she had not lost what she so needed. But how could she help it, poor soul? She knew how he had behaved with Queen Catherine—and, alas, she had helped him in that, one could say. But he was cruel. He may be the King, but I will say it. He said, ‘You shall have no more boys by me.’ And there she lay, sick, deserted, my poor, poor child.”

Through the spring the gloom persisted. It was exactly three years since those glorious days when we were preparing for Anne’s coronation. I remembered my grandmother’s pride and joy because of our connection with the new Queen. The atmosphere had changed a great deal. It would have been better now if we were not related to the Queen. The Duke was very gloomy. He came to the house more frequently. I gathered that he was not as popular at Court as he had been, for the King no longer had the same welcome for members of the Howard family.

My grandmother was frantic with anxiety. She shut herself in her room. Lord William was often at the house, and there were earnest conversations between him and the Duke. I saw them walking in the gardens, and I believed that they did not want what they said to be overheard.

Greatly daring, I went to the Duchess and asked if she needed me, for during one of these sessions of ours I thought I might hear something important from her ramblings; but she sharply told me to be off and not bother her.

Then came that terrible day when our hopes that the storm would blow over were foundered for ever.

It was the topic of conversation everywhere. There were several versions of it, but most were hearsay. The King and Queen had been together at the May Day joust, seated side by side in the royal box. The King did not speak to the Queen, and it was clear to everyone that all was not well between them. The King was glum, while the Queen put on an air of false gaiety in an effort to maintain the pretense of harmony.

Lord Rochford, the Queen’s brother, had challenged Henry Norris; and, with their followers, they began the mock battle.

Perhaps the Queen acted unwisely, but I supposed that, if the occasion had not arisen then, it would very soon afterward, for there were many bent on her destruction—first and foremost among them being the Seymour brothers.

What happened was that, in the heat of the contest between Rochford and Norris, Norris came near to the royal balcony and at
that moment the Queen dropped her handkerchief. Norris picked it up and wiped his brow with it. It was certainly an act of familiarity. Perhaps when the Queen was in favor, she might have acted so with Norris, but now such conduct gave the King an excuse for a fresh grievance.

The King rose and left his seat. The Queen was naturally nonplussed and shortly afterward followed him. As for Norris, he was arrested a little later when he was leaving the joust. Francis Weston was also arrested.

The storm which had been brewing for months had now broken in its full fury. The King was an impatient man. He would wait no longer. His passion for our poor cousin was at an end, and he was as determined to marry Jane Seymour as he had been to marry Anne Boleyn.

The tragedy of Anne, three years a Queen, was now nearing to its end. She was sent to the Tower on a charge of adultery which, of course, was treason. I was horrified to learn that my Uncle Norfolk was a member of the Council which condemned her. I never liked him after that. In truth, perhaps I had never liked him, but I had always thought of him as a great man, for he was the head of our family, and my grandmother always spoke of him with awe. How could he, I asked myself, he, who had always been so eager to stress his connection with her, desert her so cruelly when she needed his help? Perhaps it is so with those who put family pride above all else, for what was their professed affection worth?

It was not so with the Duchess, my grandmother. She was deeply grieved for her granddaughter, and it was not entirely because the once-cherished Queen had placed our family in jeopardy. She would murmur to herself: “My poor child,” and her eyes were red from weeping. Then her face would grow dark with anger, and she would murmur against that cruel monster—the King, of course. But that was only rarely and when I was alone with her.

What happened is known to all. Anne was brought to the block.

For a long time I could not pass the Tower. Nothing would induce me to, and when eventually I did, I was filled with a sudden anger against Fate which had sent my clever cousin to Tower Green and cut off her beautiful head. By Fate, I meant the King—but it was wise not even to think such thoughts. It would be treason.

Others died with her. Norris, Weston, Brereton swore to the innocence of the Queen, even under torture. Poor delicate Mark Smeaton, the musician, gave way and admitted to his and the Queen’s guilt. He was not entirely believed, even by the Queen’s enemies. Poor Mark Smeaton, who had sworn his innocence before entering that grim fortress, where he had been prevailed upon to change his mind.

Thomas Wyatt was lucky. He escaped death and went abroad. I was glad of that, but deeply shocked when my cousin George Boleyn, Lord Rochford, was accused of being his sister’s lover. That was monstrous, and I think even my Uncle Norfolk would have questioned its plausibility if he had not feared to offend the King by doing so. He should have shown more courage, but who can be courageous when one word could betray one and result in suffering to equal that of the victim?