Dear Heart, How Like You This (35 page)

All down the Thames, other similar barges escorted Anne’s (or Catherine’s) barge, also done up in the highest style, belonging as they did to the high nobility of the land.

Hundreds and hundreds of common folk were there also. But it was too easy to see who they supported in the “King’s Great Matter.” Here and there, I heard cries of “Nan Bullen, goggle-eyed whore!” but, other than those sorts of remarks, the crowds remained silent—a silence that but spoke far too loud their disapproval.

Joyful music helped to distract from this ominous note to the coronation. And there was music everywhere, from the music played aboard the barges to the music heard in the streets of London.

At last, the royal barge finished its slow journey and Anne arrived at the Tower, all its cannon firing their noisy, ear-hurting welcome. The sound of the Tower’s cannon was echoed further afield—ships docked in the Thames also saluted the importance of this day by firing their guns, as did the cannons at Limehouse.

After the Tower’s Constable and his Lieutenant greeted Anna and her attendants, the Constable escorted my cousin to the King. I noticed that Anne held in her hands a golden purse, which she now passed on to one of her ladies. The King frowned when he saw this, but he came and put his hands—sparkling with jewels—on either side of her swollen belly; bending to brush his lips for a second to hers.

I, who closely watched all this, could not help reflecting that it was as if the King said to all: “But for this child growing within this belly you would not be here!”

The King took Anne’s arm and began walking with her.

“How liked you the look of London?”

“My sovereign husband, I liked the city well enough—but I saw a great many caps on heads, and heard but few tongues.”

The King and his yet uncrowned Queen entered the refurbished apartments at Westminster; the great chamber and dining room had been specially rebuilt for these celebrations.

*

I sank my eager teeth in the soft manchet loaf, my mouth watering for more. Casting my gaze around the dining room, I again took in the decorations. Like all things King Henry commanded of his servants, no expense or talent had been spared. On the chamber’s brightly coloured walls not only suspended a long, wooden frieze, painstakingly carved and gilded with gold, depicting Bacchus and his followers—an over-abundance of playful putti acting the part of their audience—but also costly silk wall-hangings of royal emblems. Everywhere I looked proclaimed this new chamber a majestic place of wonder.

Next to me, George made a pile of rose petals, gathering them from the thick layer strewn—intermingled with sweet smelling herbs—across the table. Paying closer attention, I smiled to see that he had formed a pattern of Tudor roses from the petals. I thought he shaped a pretty design, adding greatly to the gold thread embroidering the white damask.

Seeing me watching him, George gave an abashed laugh, sweeping his hand over the petals. When he removed his hand, his fashioning lay no more, but the weight of his hand had left behind on the damask the colour of the deepest rose petal. The area in front of George now appeared streaked with blood. Not knowing why, I shivered, my heart growing cold and heavy in my chest. I took another bite from my bread.

Freed from my duties for the night, George and I sat amongst handpicked friends of the King and Anne. I was included for the most part because of my close relationship to Anne (how close, it goes without saying; I prayed for Anne’s sake that the King will never, ever come to suspect). Near us, on the dais, set twelve steps higher than the four tables for guests, the royal couple relaxed for the evening—the King at his most hale and genial. That night we, the company of the royal couple, all enjoyed an elaborate meal; each course announced by a fanfare from one of the ten minstrels playing trumpet, pipe, harp or lute.

Swallowing the last mouthful of loaf, I reached to take up a small cherry tart from the dish loaded with an assortment of fruit tarts, ignoring the fact my stomach groaned at the thought of more food. Tonight I had strived to quieten my fears by eating much and drinking deep. Dish followed yet another dish: steamed sole, roasted swan, huge sides of beef, succulent pork, venison covered with flaky pastry (one of the King’s favourite dishes) sweetmeats, and then various deserts. The King’s kitchens had left no room for complaint.

All through the long night I had closely watched Anna. Maybe because of her pregnancy or nervousness (perchance a combination of both), Anne ate little of the feast set before her. Rather she sat there bright eyed, drinking in everything with her eyes as if she could barely believe the events taking place. I found myself taking yet another tart to settle my unease.

*

The following day, the King and Anne spent resting up for the ceremonies on the morrow as well as seeing to the needs of the young men who would be knighted in honour of their new Queen’s coronation.

Saturday arrived, with its flawless, blue-skied weather, to see all the court, either on horseback or in litters, gathered together to witness the making of a Queen. Because of Anne’s goodly belly, holding all the King’s hopes, a comfortable litter had been prepared for her, pulled by two white palfreys—above all picked out for this day not only for their gentleness, but also because of their training to not be startled by large crowds.

For the occasion of her coronation, Anne wore a pure white gown and mantle, both trimmed with ermine. A canopy of silver cloth was carried over her litter, held by four knights of the realm, who themselves were clothed in scarlet robes. Her litter and horses, all covered with silver cloth, completed the picture she wanted aimed towards perfection. Though if Anna was striving to achieve an image of purity, I must be truthful and say her swollen belly added a wrong and jarring note.

In a comfortable litter, provided for several elderly noblewomen, rode the Dowager Duchess of Norfolk, dressed also in scarlet—the bright sunlight glittering the coronet of gold upon her head. The old lady had taken the place of her daughter-in-law, who had refused, despite her relationship of aunt to Anne, to have anything to do with a coronation replacing a very living Queen Catherine with Anne, the concubine and usurper. The Duchess of Suffolk also refused her brother’s invitation to attend this day, though she used her ill health as the excuse. Even so, it was plain to those of us who lived our lives around the English court that the Duchess would have refused to attend even if she had not been sickening.

Nevertheless, despite the disapproval of many, from the ranks of nobility down to that of commoner, the whole day was full of bright colour and pageantry. Magnificent and priceless tapestries were hung along many of the main streets of London, and red wine flowed as if without end from many of its fountains.

As soon as Anne arrived at Westminster she was given food and drink; with a smile of gratitude she swiftly passed the refreshments to her attendants. Anna then left by a side door to go to Whitehall to spend the rest of the evening in the company of the King. The next day, Sunday, the first of June, was the grand finale: my cousin’s crowning. On this day, Anne wore a long train the colour of royalty: purple velvet.

I could not help remembering—my eyes filling with tears I quickly blinked away—that early morning so many years ago, after we had made love for the first and only time. Then I had a vision of Anna as some sort of regal figure. I could hardly believe, even as I watched it happen before my own eyes, that it was all coming true.

The Archbishop of Canterbury, Cranmer, who had done so much to make this day possible since his appointment, anointed Anne’s hands and breast with warmed holy oil. Solemnly, he placed the crown upon her head—the heavy St. Edward’s crown.
Too heavy for my Anna?
Oh how that question gnawed away at me, leaving a belly ache of fear in its place. The loud drumming of my heart left me deaf to the Cranmer’s final words.

At last, the symbols of royalty were placed in her outstretched hands; Cranmer placed the jewel encrusted sceptre in one thin hand and in her other the golden orb, dulled to seem greenish-blue in the haze of candlelight and ornamented round its middle by blood-red rubies and sapphire gems. Even from where I stood—quite a fair distance away—I could see several of Anne’s nails were badly chewed. Suddenly I felt deafened with the roars of the people within the confines of Westminster, and I added my own voice—trembling with emotion—to the deluge of sound.

Anne. Anna. My beloved. My dark lady. Now the anointed Queen of all England. Queen Consort to King Henry.

The die was cast, she had once said. Aye, the game, for the moment, was won. All she needed now was to have the Prince all England prayed for and the game would be forever won.

King Harry took no part in the proceedings, but I heard that he watched closely from a screened gallery. The King would have had no cause for complaint. Anne—the girl whom Wolsey had once called foolish and an upstart—struck everybody that day in Westminster as a woman foreordained to be Queen.

I returned after the day of the coronation to my father’s home for an extended stay. He was still very much bedridden and thus unable, as yet, to look after all his affairs. Despite the distance separating us from the court, I still managed to keep myself closely informed about events happening there. Despite everything that had gone before, eventuating in Anne’s coronation, the King was still determined to have his new wife and Queen recognised by the papacy. George was sent again abroad; this time to Lyons, where he was one of the party of English diplomats who had gone with the Duke of Norfolk to parley with the Pope. England was still trying desperately to avoid a complete schism with Rome. However, Pope Clement’s hand was forced by the pressure of the Imperial Emperor—who was the old Queen’s nephew—to threaten to excommunicate the King if he did not take back Catherine of Aragon as his Queen and wife. The force of this excommunication was promised for September.

Not long after all this occurred at Lyons, my father insisted I leave his sickroom and visit the court, even if but for a short time. He felt it was important that the King forget not his loyal servants by the name of Wyatt.

While at court, I was immensely delighted to see George, who had just arrived home back from the Continent. My cousin had been sent briefly back to England so to be able to receive further instructions from the King about how he desired that they should proceed. When we spoke together, George told me of this threatened excommunication and these new demands of the Pope. When I heard all his news I could not help but laugh. As if a King who was lacking heirs would put away a wife who was due that same month to correct that very situation. However, George told me that, understandably, the English party was badly shaken by this threatened excommunication, as was, similarly, myself and most of the court. George’s uncle, the very Catholic Duke of Norfolk, had taken it so badly that he had fallen down in a dead faint.

We at court were not the only ones to be shaken up by the news. All of England wondered what would happen next. For myself, I was astonished to find that the King, instead of raging loudly as he usually did, took the news as if he was more than half expecting it. Without delay, George was sent on his way back to France with a message from the King for the Duke of Norfolk to bring the English party home. Even if the King appeared to us at court to have expected this development, it was easy to see that it still worried him greatly that things had come to such a pass.

George, when he arrived home again, stayed at court to give Anne the support she needed during the final months of her pregnancy. Soon August of 1533 had come to its end, and it was September. The time was drawing near for Anne to give birth. I could not help feeling like the spouse myself (yea, if only I was!), experiencing more concern than what I had felt when Beth had brought her own children into the world. I was so worried that Anne’s fragile frame might not survive the tortures of childbirth. It was easy to see that the final stages of pregnancy had been an absolute trial for her. Every time I saw her she seemed to have grown more grey and gaunt, while her belly grew and became huge. Thus, every day I lit a candle to the Madonna and prayed hard for my dark Lady’s safe delivery.

At last, on the eighth of September, I received a messenger from George that informed me that at 3 o’clock, in the afternoon of the previous day, Anne was safely delivered of a daughter. A daughter! Yea, how does fate laugh upon all our hopes!

I could well imagine what the King’s feelings were at this time. All had been prepared for the birth of a son. Anne’s lying-in-bed had once formed part of a French prince’s ransom; a magnificent bed meant to welcome into the world the new Prince of England. Indeed, so much did our King believe in the birth of his
son
that it was well known two names had been put forward for the new prince: Edward and Henry. So sure had been the King, aided in his beliefs by the confident predictions of stargazers and the like; they foretold all about the birth of a child that would be all he and England desired. (I found out later, Anna herself had to alter the
Prince
to
Princess
before the proclamations were sent out.) Poor little lass—how unwelcome must she be.

But it was the child’s mother who I was most concerned for. It was the mother whom I loved, and have always loved. What if the King decided to blame her for this all too natural mishap?