To Die For: A Novel of Anne Boleyn

TWENTY

Year of Our Lord 1535

Whitehall Palace

Templeman Castle

Greenwich Palace

In January of 1535 Henry saw to it that Cromwell was well rewarded for his loyalty as chief henchman. Cromwell was appointed vice-regent, vicar, and special commissary, which made him not only the highest civil authority in England, save for His Majesty, but also the highest religious authority in England, save for His Majesty.

Henry, of course, remained head of the Church of England. Though he sometimes listened intently as the truly godly and learned bishops Anne had angled into place spoke and exhorted, His Grace also spent chapel time reading over accounts and jotting poesies and notes in the permanent copy of Holy Writ placed in the royal box afore handing it over to Anne, who oft replied in the same manner. Out of compulsion or desire, I know not. But it vexed me some, I’ll admit. As for me, I flourished under the teaching of men who taught, in English, and plainly, from God’s word.

One afternoon in early spring Anne instructed me to get her riding outfit ready and then called for her chamberlain to have her horsemen prepare some steeds for riding. “I feel the need to ride out,” she said.

“Is it…. safe?” I asked her.

She nodded solemnly. “I began to bleed this morning.”

Ah. I, like all of her ladies who cared for her future, knew exactly when her flow should come and prayed that it would not. But it had. Another month with no promise of a son. I, always eager to ride, prepared her clothing and then went to change into my own riding habit. We had servants attend to us, of course, but they knew well enough to stay a comfortable distance behind us.

We galloped out and across the parkland next to the palace before cantering and then walking. “We’ve got better steeds, thanks to His Majesty, than we had as girls, don’t we?” I asked.

She grinned. “Yes, he can be a generous benefactor. He’s just arranged for several more horses of spirited blood to be delivered for me. He said he wants the steed to match his mare.”

Coming from another man, that sentiment may have been a denigration, but when it had been said, all knew that Henry was signaling to a faithless court ready to shift loyalties within a moon phase that Anne was queen, his wife, and still held his affections in her elegant hands. Seeing her now, her color high and her spirit restored by his renewed affection, it was not difficult to see why.

“You look well,” I said. “And I am pleased.”

“The air does you good, too, Meg,” Anne said. “You are lovelier than when we rode as girls. I see why Sir Thomas was so taken with you at the masque last week; indeed, I believe he first trained his charm on you at a picnic a year earlier.”

“Your memory astonishes me,” I said, laughing, but thankful for the compliment. Anne was aware of her own effect on men but never begrudged another woman beauty or attention. She was jealous only for the affection and attention of her husband; ’twas reasonable, for certes. “I suspect Seymour trains his charm on any who eschew hose for gowns.”

Anne smiled but then turned to the sound of an approaching rider. None should ride toward us unless there was trouble. “’Tis George,” she said a bit distractedly.

Her brother shortly arrived but did not dismount. He did bow his head. “Ladies,” he said before raising it again. “I wanted you to know afore you returned to your chambers,” he said. “This day, the king has begun to enforce the Treasons Act. I was in the privy council yesterday when it was announced. Today the sentences were carried out.”

Anne nodded but the high color drained from her cheeks.

“His Majesty had four Catholic monks of good repute hanged, drawn, and quartered, their entrails burned in front of them before beheading them for denying that he, not the pope, was the head of the Church in England. And then, to show that he is just, he had fourteen of the reformers who had fled here seeking sanctuary burnt at the stake for refuting infant baptism.”

This was the man my lifelong friend succored in the bosom of her heart.

The look on Anne’s face was somber and she remained quiet for some time before responding. “I cannot do anything to help them. I cannot cross His Majesty and even I have learnt when I can offer counsel and when I must hold my peace.” She looked toward the castle, the west wing, where Henry was constructing a massive addition. “What I may do is bring English Scripture into places that it has been forbidden and allow all to read. I can place firm beams, load-bearing beams, men of goodness and godliness, committed to reform, on the altars and in the chaplaincy and hope that they can stand. I cannot do more.”

She lightly dug her heels into her mount and rode back alone, George and I trailing her. By evening, when Henry expected her to entertain some guests from Francis’s court, she had recovered her gaiety and drew near to the king. What other could she do? She, a beam, had to bear up too.

Within the month, Anne had Matthew Parker, a reformer of calm and patient temperament and dedication to the Scriptures, and a friend of Will and John Rogers, appointed to an important position in Stoke-by-Claire. She also named him as her personal chaplain.

It seems our king had whetted his taste for living without consequence. In June, he had Cardinal Fisher, Katherine of Aragon’s champion, hung for a day before being beheaded; his head was placed on a pike just outside for all to see.

A few weeks hence Anne came to my rooms, dismissed Edithe, and sat on my bed, head in hands.

I joined her. “What is it?” Anne was not given to fits of sadness or displays of weakness.

“Henry has had Sir Thomas More condemned to death. He refused to affirm the king as head of the Church in England, holding to his belief that the pope is the rightful head of the Church everywhere. More is to be beheaded as well.”

“I’d heard,” I said. The news had blown through court like an ill wind. “But why does this sadden you, dearest? Sir Thomas was for certes no friend to you.”

She nodded and twisted her emerald wedding ring about her finger. “I admit I am not a generous enough person to grieve his death, though I do not believe he dies justly. However”—she looked at me and I saw, for the first time, fear in her eyes—“Henry loved Thomas More. He thought of him as a father, a brother, a counselor, a friend, of many decades. Does Cromwell not see that if Henry can change his affections, of an instant, for one well-beloved counselor he can do that for another in like manner?”

I took her hand in my own, soothing her without a word. Because the words we did not, could not, say were: if Henry set aside one wife, a well-beloved wife, in an instant, could he not do that of another in like manner? That was the heart of the matter. We both knew it.

Fisher’s head was taken from its pike, pitched into the Thames, and replaced with More’s.

England was as restless as an unwell child, and the king restless along with her. His answer was to take Anne, and the court, on a long progress throughout his own properties, the properties of his nobles, and even to the west country. We started at Windsor, moved to Reading, and then planned to go through Oxfordshire to Templeman Castle and Sudeley Castle in Gloucestershire. We’d progress through Wiltshire, Southampton, then Portsmouth, followed by Winchester, feasting and bankrupting his hosts all the way. Henry wanted to see his people face-to-face, judge their loyalty, and affirm his sovereignty. We left as soon as More’s pulse stilled.

Endless hunting and dancing and dining kept the king at peace for months, happy, his heart and hand interlaced with Anne’s, which was, I supposed, best for all. Still, there was no sign of a child and she’d gone many months now without a pregnancy. So when she pulled me aside to speak in private I thought mayhap she had good news. But it was other news she wanted to share.

“The king has told me that we leave, on the morrow, for Templeman Castle,” she said. “The Earl of Blenheim has erected a great jousting stadium in honor of His Majesty, has arranged for a pageant and a masque. I expect the Ogilvy family will all attend.”

I nodded. “But Will is in Antwerp, with Miles Coverdale.”

“I wanted you to be forewarned,” Anne said. “And I want you to take one of the gowns you’ve just had made for me—that one of garnet sarcenet with gold shot throughout—and keep it for yourself. I shan’t have you showing up at Rose’s home looking any less fashionable than she.”

I squeezed her hand in silent thanks.

“I have not forgotten my promise to ask the king for a dowry for you,” she said. “I shall, next time I am with child. My brother, George, can find a good man for you, a noble knight or other kindly person in high gentry. Or mayhap you prefer Thomas Seymour?”

I laughed. We both knew Thomas Seymour was out of my grasp even if I wanted him, and I didn’t. “I have no wish to partner Master Seymour for anything other than the briefest of dances, Your Grace. But thank you.”

We arrived at Templeman, I in Anne’s litter, which meant that Rose would have to remain in a curtsy while I alighted because she knew not whether it would be me or Anne who would come out first. I hid a smile. I was not beyond enjoying the poke but I had no wish to cause further ill will.

“Lady Blenheim,” I said. Her father-in-law had passed away; her husband was now completely vested in his title, as was Rose.

“Dowager Baroness,” she said, emphasizing “dowager.” I minded it not. The years had not been kind to her and her self-righteous spirit had soured her within as well. Her eyes looked unwelcoming, as always, but also deeply smudged.

Once the court had settled in their rooms—new ones had been prepared for the king and for Anne, whom Rose continued to refer to as “my dear, dear childhood friend the queen”—the earl called us into his gardens, where he held an enchanting pageant. I looked about me. Where was Will’s father…. and brother? Neither were here when the king was being entertained? I set Edithe to make inquiries from the servants, so as not to draw attention to my queries, and was shocked at what she reported back.

“Seems Master Walter has passed on, my lady, only a few weeks ere the progress. His father and mother are putting things to right at their estate and ’tis too soon after the death to be at a masque an’ all.”

Walter. Dead. Dear, sweet Walter. The heir.

I purposed in my heart to approach Rose that evening with my condolences. Her card table was full, but I found an open spot at one nearby so that I could approach her with my sympathy at the right moment. She caught my eye but didn’t wave me over. It did seem to me that she spoke more loudly, though. Mayhap so I could hear?

Lady Lisle offered pity and comfort and then asked Rose, “Will your father recall your brother Will home, then? He’s your father’s heir now, is that not right?”

Rose spoke up. “Thank you for your gentle wishes, my lady. My brother Will has already returned home and performed Walter’s funeral, a private family matter. As he is a priest, and told my father only last year that he was called to remain a priest, I shan’t expect him to be named my father’s heir. That honor will go to my eldest son, Philip.” She caught my eye, smiled, and turned back to her table.

It grew clear to me that she did not want my good wishes, so I finished my game of trump, thinking that Rose had already trumped me and we were not even at the same table, and took my leave.

Walter was dead. Philip, a spoilt little man given to fits of temper any time I’d seen him and overindulged by Rose’s unmanned husband, now heir to two great estates. But even more startling, Will was here.

The next evening, our last afore moving on, I attended to Anne’s needs in an unusual haste. As I brushed out her hair I tugged at a knot.

“Have a care!” She quickly put her hand to her head. “If I didn’t know better, madam, I would say you were in an unseemly hurry to dress yourself at risk of service to your queen.”

“I’m sorry,” I said, but then I caught the gleam in her eye. She knew Will was here, mayhap had known all along.

“You may be sorry but ’tis clear you cannot focus on the task.” She waved me away. “I’d prefer the patient hands of Nan Zouche tonight. Be gone!”

I hurried to my own chambers and dressed myself in the garnet gown that shimmered like deep flames when it caught the light, threads of gold running through it like an unspoken promise. I knew how much the fabric had cost—I’d procured it on the queen’s behalf. If all the earnings from each person in the village surrounding Allington Castle were pooled together for one year, ’twould be enough to commission the dress. I masqued myself with a gold and black feather headdress.

The great hall at Templeman was magnificent. Rose’s husband was bound as ivy and oak with Cromwell, who had appointed him to several lucrative positions. Indeed, Cromwell himself had joined us on progress. My brother Edmund was there with his new bride, an untested girl who spoke little and seemed to be currently avoiding Katherine Willoughby, the Duke of Suffolk’s young wife, who had a lively spirit and quick tongue. I’d had several words with Edmund’s wife during the weeks she’d been on progress with us, tried to befriend her, but it soon became clear that Edmund had poisoned the air between us and she was reluctant to offer anything but the most proper and perfunctory greetings. I’d not seen her smile since their smallish wedding. I suspected he’d kept it low-key because it was rushed after Charlotte had married Simon.

“Are you enjoying the progress, Tilda?” I asked her.

“’Tis fine. And you, Margaret?” she offered meekly.

“Do not call her Margaret, ’twas my mother’s name. My sister’s name,” Edmund spat out, “is Meg.”

I bade them good evening and, sighing, took my leave. I should have to ask Alice, also present, if she’d had better luck with our sister-in-law.

Of course Baron Blackston was there. His wife, Charlotte, was an especial favorite of Rose’s. Simon asked me to dance and I had little choice but to agree.

“How are you, Meg?” His voice clearly showed that he couldn’t be less interested in my well-being.

“I do well,” I answered. “I see that your wife is with child. Congratulations.”

He smiled and steeled his gaze before the thrust. “You know young ladies. So often with child so quick after a wedding. And many times thereafter. Like your friend, the Countess of Blenheim, our hostess.”

Yes, Simon, I am aware of my age and lack of fecundity. “I wish you goodwill with your child,” I said, and then added a little barb from which he could draw his own meaning. “I shall certainly keep your child in my prayers.” Simon looked ready to say something further when someone tapped on his shoulder.

“May I?” he asked. It was Will. His being near family with Simon made it difficult for Simon to do anything other than graciously agree.

“From the arms of a fallen angel into the arms of a priest,” I teased. I noticed Will did not wear vestments but was dressed in typical courtly attire. Mayhap it was because it was a masque.

Though he was masqued, as was I, it was still possible to lock eyes and we did, he showing more open interest in me than he had the last time, which confused me. The music seemed far away, as did all others. I was only aware of one person.

“I may not be a priest for long,” he said, and I nearly pulled away from him at the shock of that.

Beatissima!

He held me close to keep things looking normal all round. “I will find you to speak of that in a short while.” He kept his tone even and quiet and disturbingly unemotional following that kind of revelation. “For now, I must tell you something of great import, and quickly. Our friend may be in trouble.”

I leaned in and whispered, “Anne?”

He nodded. “I must speak quickly as I am promised elsewhere shortly. The smith’s son,” he said, “whom our friend considers as one of her own, may not be so trustworthy after all.”

Cromwell! Cromwell was a smith’s son; in fact, there had long been petty murmurs among nobility about his being raised too high from the floors of the smithy. “There must be a certain danger if you are reluctant to name the man,” I said.

Will nodded. “He’s said that he has a goal in mind—reform, for certes, and the wealth of the realm, and his own coffer. Like any smith he will pick up or cast aside tools as required for the task.”

“Our friend?”

“Maybe,” Will said. “The king’s eye wanders, his interest wanders. Carewe and other courtiers unfavorable to the queen comment time and again on her bewildering inability to bring forth a son from such a virile man as the king. ’Twas a time he would not have listened. But Rose’s husband, thick with Cromwell, says the king listens now. I understand that he may be asking Cromwell to investigate Anne.”

“To find?”

“Whatever he may.”

The song drew to an end. “I will be wary and do what I can,” I promised. “And…. your other news?”

“I shall seek you tonight. Soon,” he promised, but his air seemed reserved. He let me go and then slipped into the crowd of hundreds.

In spite of the attention my dress, and my nearness to the queen, drew to me that night I left early so Will could speak with me at his pleasure.

I dismissed Edithe early—her husband had accompanied the Boleyns—and remained in my rooms alone. Shortly a knock came at my door. I opened it with great expectation only to be let down.

“Oh. Come in,” I said to my sister, Alice. She stooped down and picked up a slip of paper that I’d left peeping out from under the door so Will could find my chamber in the hallway where Anne’s women were housed.

“This was in the hallway,” she said. I took it in hand and closed the door behind her. “May I have a seat?” she asked after a moment went by without my offering.

“Oh yes, yes of course.” I indicated a plumply cushioned chair next to the window and pulled one alongside her. As it were the height of summer it was not yet black outside.

“I was concerned when I saw you leave,” she said. “Are you all right?”

I nodded and grinned. “Perfectly. I, ah, well, had been going to share my condolences with Will, at the loss of his brother. Later.”

Alice drew near me and took my hands in her own. “I knew he’d be here tonight, but only just. My son John told me that Walter had passed on and that Will’s father had recalled him from Antwerp. John arrived just ahead of Will. John also shared with me that, well, that Earl Asquith has named Will as his heir.”

“His heir? But Rose felt that her son Philip would be named heir.”

“I suppose that may have been true had Will chosen to remain in the priesthood. But it seems he has not. His father is, even now, searching for an heiress to marry him to, to increase both their holdings and status and…. family members. John believes the earl may have found such a young woman and, indeed, has already spoken to Will of the matter.”

It didn’t need to be said that I was not a great heiress, had, in fact, no dowry at all, no great title to offer, and at this age, even my ability to add to a family was in doubt. He would have been a suitable match for me as a second son. But not as an heir.

“I’m sorry,” Alice said. “’Tis better to hear it from me, though I suspect he will tell you on his own as well.”

I nodded. “Thank you, Sister,” I said. Then I stood. “Would you mind if I had some time on my own to pray?”

“Of course not.” She drew me to her, kissed my cheeks, and squeezed my hands before taking her leave. I would not replace the paper under the door.

As she left, I spied Will coming down the hall. I had no time to shut the door; he’d seen me.

’Twas a pity that I’d not had time to pray, as I’d indicated I would, ere Will reached me. I stood in the doorway.

“Meg, can we speak together?” he asked.