Dear Heart, How Like You This (30 page)

But, even though I admit to the truth that Anne was wrong to do what she did, still I lay the blame on the King. Anne loved Hal Percy, perhaps too much. When he was ripped so violently from her life, she felt she had no other reason to live but to plan revenge. She was too young to suffer such a broken heart and come away whole. If only the King could have left well enough alone, we all could have been spared much suffering.

Yea, I love Anna more than I can ever hope to express. Even my poems are but an echo of what I truly feel. But, I believe I could have been content in my life to simply see my girl happy. I had no prior claim on her. My heart had always been freely given. With no expectation, aye, no expectation at all, that she would ever love me like I did her.

The King, with little thought and with care only for his lust, destroyed whatever happiness we all could have had from life. I blame him and only him for all the tragedy that was to befall us.

One other who also lay the blame upon the King, for
his Great Matter
, and cared not to hide it from him, was his youngest sister, Mary the Duchess of Suffolk, Dowager Queen of France.

At the end of Easter 1531, I heard from George how the Duchess had insulted Anne by expressing her amazement, in front of the entire court, that her brother the King would look so low for a wife.

As the Duchess left the confines of Whitehall, the servants of Anne and the Duchess continued the slanging match. A fight then broke out between these attendants, with the grim result that one man lay dead before the horrified eyes of the court.

The household of the Duke and Duchess Suffolk was, for several long months, somewhat in disgrace over this bloody mishap. Matters, however, began to return to a semblance of normality when the Duke made the King a promise to keep his men—and his wife—under tighter rein.

However, the threat of violence still lingered as if taking the shape of storm clouds gathering force, darkening the sky. It came to the ears of Thomas Cromwell and, through him, to the ears of the King, that certain servants of the Duke had sworn to wreak revenge at the earliest opportunity.

When the King heard this he went quickly to his sister and her husband, demanding that they and their household bow to the inevitable and pay proper respect to the woman he planned to make his Queen.

Not only was George, as one of the attendants to the King, witness to this meeting, but my father also wrote to me an account of it, so I can easily reconstruct how this meeting took its form. Imagine, reader, this scene: Two towering men, and a tall and slender woman—a woman who was overly slender because of illness taking its relentless course in its destruction of her body. The three stood close together in a dark library, made even darker by the near-black wood panelling, and the fact that the only source of any sunlight was a narrow window set high up in the wall. In a huge fireplace a fire burns with hungry heat, giving to the room’s winter pale occupants a curious, reddish glow.

“So, Henry,” said the woman, tossing her head slightly, “you think you can come here, to my own home, and tell me how I should conduct myself.”

“I am your King, Mary, and you are subject to me just as the lowest of my subjects.”

Mary frowned at her brother, and gestured to him with impatience.

“Henry, you forget the blood that flows in your veins also flows in mine!”

The other man, who so far had stood by silently, jumped into the conversation. “Mary, you forget yourself!”

Angrily, the woman spun around to confront him. “Who are you to tell me that I forget myself?”

The man stood up taller, loudly saying: “Lady, I am your husband!”

The woman grimly laughed, raising both her hands to place them on her slim hips.

“My Lord, ’tis so amusing that you remember that now. Do you only remember that you have a wife when it is convenient to do so?” Pausing slightly but not waiting for an answer, the woman continued: “Let me say that today I find it convenient to forget I have a husband. Keep your overly large nose out this, Suffolk! This matter concerns not you, but is only between my royal brother and myself.”

Her brother laughed, and looked around the room. Suddenly he espied a flask of wine, with an empty goblet beside it. He moved briskly—more briskly and gracefully than expected for such a huge and tall man—across to the table and poured himself a drink. He turned back to his sister before raising it to his mouth to drink.

“Yea, Mary, you too are a Tudor. But I would have thought you, of all people, would support me in this.”

Mary looked at him sadly, saying: “Brother, ’tis because I am a Tudor that I do not support you. I believe you to be so wrong, Henry—so very, very wrong.”

“Woman!” The taller man straightened his form so he towered over the woman even more. “Who are you to say the rights and wrongs of this matter? ’Tis I, by Divine Providence, who is the King here. Surely ’tis I, not you, who is to say what is, or is not right.”

Mary looked at her brother for a long moment before replying quietly and sadly: “But, brother, in this you are not right, and my conscience would not rest easy if I were to do other than what I am doing now.”

The King took a deep breath, as if to control an urge to lash out. His voice, when next he spoke, stayed soft, but behind it was a strong promise of a storm, if things were not soon decided his way.

“Mary, you reason this matter like one of your sex. I will try to be patient with you.”

Mary smiled slightly to herself, turning her face to hide her amusement from her brother.

“I will try hard to remember that you do not have the skills to dismember and make logical decisions.”

Mary now raised a hand to her mouth, as if stifling an urge to laugh.

“Firstly, Mary, you have not made long years of study, like I have, to discover why my so-called marriage to Catherine has been cursed with such a lack of living sons…”

Mary turned back to face her brother with a harsh laugh.

“Long years of study!” she mocked. “Long years of study just to affix the blame of the loss of your sons on something other than yourself! Have you never thought, brother, that the fault for your lack of sons lays not with Catherine, but with you?”

The King stirred, beginning to swell with rage. Mary reached out a hand to him, palm facing him, but not touching. She then said: “Stop! Henry, do not become angry, but wait and hear me speak.”

The man before her stared at his sister; clearly it was only the great regard and affection he had for her that prevented the storm, which he held uneasily within his chest, to at last break loose and overwhelm them all.

“I will listen, sister, but be warned—even you can go too far!”

“Perhaps my words were too ill-composed to be said, but they are true nevertheless.” The man before her began to move in agitation. “No! You have not yet heard me out. Please listen to me, Harry! If there is a cause for the loss of your children, I believe it lies not only with you, but also with all the Tudors. Think, my brother. How many children did our parents have? Eight, was it not? And how many lived to be full-grown? Only three… Arthur, I count not. My earliest memories, yea, even before I could put voice to my thoughts, are of a sickly, forever-ailing elder brother. And fifteen is too young to regard as full grown; he died still only a boy.”

Seeing her brother starting to stir in anger again, Mary touched him gently on his arm. “Aye, brother, I know your thoughts regarding Arthur, but let us at least agree to differ. And Harry, of the three who lived to be full grown—what of us? Have not the three of us buried more babes than our hearts could expect to cope with? Look at Margaret. She lost baby after baby before she was blessed with her two sons. Then there is you; to the kingdom’s great unhappiness, we all know how fate has dealt with you.

“And I?” Mary became for a moment silent, closing her eyes tightly as if she was suddenly struck inwardly with a great pain. She opened her deep blue eyes, and looked sadly at her brother. “And I? I too have watched most of my babes sicken and die before my eyes. Aye—lost too many of my children not to wonder why. Look at your nephew—my son… he is too alike to Arthur. He has no strength to withstand further illness. ’Tis not Catherine’s fault your sons died. Our blood is bad, brother.”

The King turned his glance from his sister, and muttered as if only to himself: “Am I, then, not a man like other men, sister?”

“Yea, Henry, you are a man like other men. But you are a Tudor, and we Tudors are bad breeders. Look at our grandmother Elizabeth of York. Was she not one of twelve children who grew to adulthood? I believe that was because her mother was not royal, nor interbred so her blood ran thinly in her veins. There is something wrong with us. There must be something wrong with us!”

“Mary! You forget that with another woman I have sired a son who has lived to be weaned!”

“Yea, brother—a boy who reminds me so much of our poor brother Arthur… and my own boy. He will not make old bones nor live to have hair upon his face, this son of yours.”

“Mary, you go too far! What do you desire of me? To doom my only living son to death, even in words? Mary, I cannot believe this of you! ’Tis as if you wish to see me bleed to death before your very eyes!”

“Is the truth really so hard to bear, Harry?”

The King stood even taller, puffing out his chest, slowly saying in a voice vibrating with feeling: “I see it not as truth, but the ramblings of a poor woman who deludes herself that she knows better than those who are more equipped than she to decipher what is truth or untruth.”

Mary shook her head, laughing softly with sarcasm.

“I may be a poor woman, brother, but I know well enough when a man wishes to rid himself of one woman to make way for another. Is this not what this is really about, Henry? You wish to get for yourself a new and younger wife?”

The King spoke again very slowly, as if he wished for his message to be completely understood, leaving no room for misunderstanding.

“Catherine has never been my wife. Our supposed marriage was a sin against God!”

Mary looked at her brother as if she wished to see into his soul and see for herself what he truly believed.

“Harry, how can you say that? Do you not realise that one of the best things that you have ever done for England was to marry Catherine? And you forget, brother, she is Queen anointed. She belongs to England, just as surely as you do…”

The King shook his head, saying bitterly in reply: “Do you not realise Catherine has failed England. I have no heir…”

“Yea, you do.” Saying these words, Mary went to her brother and put her hands on both his arms. “Oh, Harry, dear brother, you do have an heir—your daughter Mary! She is all the heir you will ever need! Can you not see what a child she is? She is Tudor all over.”

“A girl child!” The King grunted in disgust, looking away from his sister as if he wished not to discuss the matter any further, but his sister shook him to gain his full attention again.

“A Tudor girl child, whose worth is twice, nay, three times more than any other man who is not Tudor.”

The Duke, who had been listening in silence and in great fear to this royal debate, now stirred.

“I do not have to stay and listen to this!”

Mary turned to her husband.

“No one invited you to stay, Charles. I said before, and I will say it again: this matter concerns only the King and myself. You, of all people, have no part in it.”

His eyes blazing, Suffolk then turned smart on his heel, and left the room, banging the door loudly behind him. The King glanced over at the now shut door, frowning slightly, and then returned his eyes, deep blue like hers, to his sister.

“Should you speak to him like that? Suffolk’s a prideful man, you must know, and he is still your husband, Mary.”

The woman shrugged very slender shoulders, and went over to the fireplace. She studied the dying embers for a moment, and then turned to face the King.

“I care not for his pride. And he has betrayed me too many times for me to take much note of my marriage vows… But, I repeat to you, brother: what of your daughter Mary?”

“Aye! What of Mary, sister? She is but full cousin to the Emperor. Be it, Mary, your desire to see England under his dominion one day? Be that so, I tell you, sister, ’tis not mine!”

“Brother, cannot you see that would only happen if you continue as you are doing now? If you remain determined to travel in the same direction you are moving in now, it will happen, even as you say. But, Harry… I know my small namesake well. She idolises you, and would only wish to emulate you, Harry, if given half a chance… Take her under your wing, brother, and you could mould her to the shape and form of a great monarch…”

“But she is female, and must be subservient to any man she weds.”

“Not necessarily so, Henry. Make sure that Mary understands that she must be Queen Regnant, and any man she marries must always remain her subject and be given only very little power… You have, if it pleases God, many long years left to you, brother—many years in which to prepare the ground for Mary. Choose well her husband, and make her into a Queen that all England will be proud to own. And, brother, have you not thought that Mary could give you grandsons?”