To Die For: A Novel of Anne Boleyn

TWENTY-TWO

Year of Our Lord 1536

Greenwich Palace

Hampton Court Palace

I wrote him a note telling him that I repented of my hasty words and if he’d forgive me I would be glad to speak with him whenever he would. I was then sorry that I had dismissed Edithe for the evening, for I was eager to return the letter to him and set things right between us.

The visitors to court would be leaving anon, I knew, as the Christmas celebrations concluded in early January and all but the customary courtiers returned to their homes and properties. I expected Will to find me soon. And he did.

At Greenwich he was familiar with which were my rooms—well-appointed apartments close to Anne’s, because we often cloaked ourselves and went between our rooms late at night to talk over the day’s events. Will knocked on the door and I opened it, preparing to offer a friendly greeting of welcome. Instead, he pushed the door closed behind him, took me firmly into his arms, and kissed me for nigh on a minute. My shock turned quickly to response. After a moment he held me far enough out to hold my gaze.

Libido.

“I have wanted to do that since Hever gardens and I gave myself leave to do so now. I’d like to do it again.”

I sat in a chair and he joined me nearby. “I too. But…. I’d told you I did not want you to kiss me thusly until you could make good on the promise behind it. Which would require marriage.”

“I can marry you,” he said. “I am no longer a priest. And”—he held his hand up—“’tis not for the reason you’ve accused me.”

I opened my mouth to repent, in person, of my tongue-lashing but he stilled me with a look.

“When we last talked I told you that I felt called, nay, required, to help Master Coverdale with his translation of the Old Testament, to complete what Tyndale had begun, and therefore present the entire Scripture in the English language. Late in the summer we completed the task. ’Tis done, Meg! The whole counsel of Scripture. In English!”

His eyes shone as they had when he were a boy and I was transported to that time with him. I grinned back.

“Thus my task was completed, and when my father approached me after Walter’s death I prayed and did feel a release of my call. Many reformed priests are marrying now anyway—did you know that Archbishop Cranmer has a secret wife?”

My astonishment must have shown. He grinned at me.

“And your nephew John Rogers is soon to marry, though he will remain a priest. Scripture does not enjoin a priest to remain unmarried. As for me, I am called to something else now—I know not what, as He has not disclosed it to me, but I am released from priesthood.”

I had longed for those words. Yearned for them. And now that they had come, I felt an unwelcome hesitancy. “In your note you mentioned Anne,” I said.

His face turned somber. “Yes. While here at the Christmas court Rose’s husband heard Cromwell speaking with the king. The king asked Cromwell if it should be necessary for him to remarry Katherine of Aragon if anything should…. happen…. to Anne.”

“Happen?” I pressed for more. “If she dies in childbirth?”

“Or any other way, I suspect,” Will said. “It was not made clear nor specific. Cromwell told him no, he would not be required to remarry Katherine—in fact, ’twould further free him. The king is not fearful of making whatever changes he requires to meet his desires. I would not be surprised if he set Cromwell’s fine legal mind to figuring out how to disentangle himself from Anne. His love for her seems to have run its course.”

More’s head on a pike appeared in my mind.

“Is she in danger?” I asked.

Will inhaled deeply but didn’t flinch. “Not if a prince is born. Then she’ll be safe no matter what his feelings. In fact, I suspect his feelings for her will turn on the birth of a prince. Or not. But if a prince is not born….”

I grimaced. Neither of us needed to finish the sentence.

“And as for you…. what of Lady Jamison?” I asked. “It was only a few weeks ago that Rose introduced her to me. Said your father was negotiating your marriage with her. Rose implied that it was a marriage you wanted as well.”

He kissed me again, lightly this time. “There is only one woman I have ever wanted to marry, Meg. That is you.”

“But your father may not be amenable to that,” I said.

“You are right,” Will said. “And the negotiations with Lady Jamison continue apace. So I am here to ask you—can you leave court immediately if I were able to convince him?”

“I have no dowry,” I said. “Not even a small one.”

“I recall. It is a forbidding obstacle, that is true. I do not know a way round that.”

I saw one small flicker of hope. “If things go well for Anne and she births a son, Henry will give me a small dowry for her sake. He knows that we are like sisters. The birth of a prince is all that can save her now. I fear that if the child is not a boy, Henry will put her away, mayhap in an abbey. I have heard rumors of his infatuation with Lady Jane and seen his roving affections.”

“And if things go poorly for her?” Will asked.

“Then it would be best for you not to be associated with me at all. I am the closest to her and all know it. It may taint you and your house with the king. Your father would never allow shame to fall upon your house and likely would not even accept a small dowry. Mayhap it would be best for us to put aside the passions of youth and face the responsibilities of adulthood with cold resolve.”

Will remained silent for a moment before answering. “What if the passions of youth continued into adulthood? And still grow?”

Mine did too.

He knew it. “Could you leave now before Anne’s future is decided one way or another? She’s had her life, she’s made her choices. Now—before my father finalizes the arrangements with Lady Jamison. Which will be soon. Maybe your father—or Edmund—will pay a dowry.”

Lord Jesus, is he right? Am I released from my service to Anne? Have I served her well and now, the very last chance I have for a life, and a man, and a child of my own, may I take it?

The answer came immediately to my heart. No.

I didn’t pull my hands from his but shook my head. “Neither Edmund nor my father will help me and Thomas is in no position to help though I know he’d like to. And, my love, I have made a promise to Anne. I, too, have a call, to serve. I believe in his first epistle to the Corinthians, Saint Paul exhorts those of us who have been entrusted with a service to be found faithful.”

He sighed. “I regret handing Tyndale’s book to you.”

“No, you do not,” I said. “And besides the call to serve, she is my dearest, closest friend. I will not leave her in her hour of need.”

“No,” he said. “I knew you would not.”

“I love you, Will Ogilvy, soon to be Baron Ogilvy. You are the only man I have ever loved and I declare that I will ever love. If I were free, I would give you my oath now. But when my lady was being crowned queen in Westminster Abbey I felt drawn to the buttresses—yes, the buttresses—in that great building. And I know now why. The building is grand and majestic and able to appear thusly because of the buttresses, which remove weight from the load-bearing beams. I have been given a call to serve. ’Tis my duty.”

“I understand,” he said.

“I know that.” I let my tears flow and he did too.

“I will ever only love you,” he said.

“I know that too.” For the first time I took the initiative to kiss him. “To remember me by.”

“Nihilo quo tui meminerim mihi opus est,” he whispered before bowing, courteously, and left my chambers.

I need nothing to remember you by.

The first death came days after my conversation with Will and looked, at first, like something that Anne’s friends should rejoice over. Katherine of Aragon had taken ill just after Christmas. With her so near to death, Anne felt compelled to have Lady Shelton, Mary’s governess and Anne’s own relation, seek a truce between Anne and Mary. She instructed her, via letter, to suspend all pressure on Mary to conform and said that she herself had considered the Word of God’s injunction to do good to one’s enemy and hoped that Mary would submit to her father quickly whilst it would still do her good.

Mary, surrounded by the mounting strength of conservative courtiers longing for the old days and a return to the True Faith, and hoping for the passing of favor from Anne, refused the offer of friendship as well as the advice.

On January seventh, shortly after having received extreme unction, Katherine of Aragon died, nearly alone, at cold Kimbolton Castle. Henry could not have behaved with less decorum. He dressed in his finest yellow clothes and kissed Anne often and with great passion in front of all. He sent for the princess Elizabeth and showed her off to the court, loudly proclaiming that she would soon be joined by a brother, the prince. He robbed Katherine of what little remained of her earthly goods, setting one of Cromwell’s minions to finesse the legalities so that Mary, and Katherine’s charities, received naught. She had asked to be buried in a Carthusian monastery, but ’twas not to be; Cromwell had already begun to dismantle as many Church of Rome properties as possible. She was buried at Peterborough Castle, and although he, shockingly, allowed “Queen of England” to be inscribed on her tomb, Henry, for his part, ordered a celebratory joust to be held on the day of her funeral.

“I love Queen Anne with all my heart, but ’tis a shame, Katherine dying alone an all tha’,” Edithe said as she prepared me for bed that night.

“’Tis,” I said, wondering if I, too, were destined to die alone.

“My cousin’s a maid for Lady Shelton, Mary’s gov’ness. She said that Katherine had asked her confessor if she’d done wrong, afore she died. Asked if by her stubbornness in not giving His Grace a divorce, or hieing her to an abbey, she’d brought heresy to England.”

I’d not thought of that. “I do suppose that her refusal forced the king to move against the queen,” I said, “and toward reform. For that, we may be glad.”

“Yes, ma’am. I am, for certes. Also…. is it wrong, mistress, to pay attention to those who say deaths happen in threes? ’Tis all the maids can talk of these days.”

“’Tis superstitious nonsense, Edithe, and you should know better!” I snapped.

She nodded. “You’re right, ma’am,” she said. “I’ll be taking your mending and leaving now.”

“Thank you,” I said, my tone softened. She left and I rolled over in the linens and stared at the cold winter moon. I was at least honest enough with myself to recognize why I had snapped. It was myself I was irritated with. I had not been able to exorcise every superstitious thought from my heart, either, and the worry had crossed my mind about death happening in threes too.

Henry’s joust had been planned for January 24, and that morn I arrived in my lady’s chamber to help her dress for the event. The king would be wearing one of her favors, and I’d had a dress made of similar fabric, fashioned so it was clear to all present whose favor the king rode under.

When I arrived in her apartments, though, she was still in bed. “I am afraid I am unwell,” she said.

“But, lady—the king’s joust!” I insisted. Nan Zouche looked at me, urging me on. The king did not like to perform without an audience; he played to the ladies, of whom his wife was foremost.

“’Tis all the activity and chatter round Katherine’s death,” Anne said. “I shall send my regrets to the king, with a note, and hope to lie here and recover my health before the dinner tonight.”

She sent her secretary with the note, and I and many of the other ladies followed to the jousting arena shortly thereafter. The king did not have Anne’s favor on his lance. ’Twas not certain whose favor he rode under, but the plain fabric looked distressingly like the light brown gown on Jane Seymour.

He turned back to the field, ready to meet his challenger at the lists, when all of a sudden his great horse stumbled. The crowd let out a collective gasp and then many screamed as both Henry, wearing over one hundred pounds of armor, and his horse fell heavily to the ground. Shockingly, the horse fell partly on top of His Majesty.

“Help us, help now!” one of the noblemen near the field called out. Several men threw off their own armor and ran to the king’s side and many others streamed from the arena to the field. They lifted the horse, who was frothing at his bit with his eyes rolling back into his head, and pulled the king out from under him. Tearing off Henry’s armor, one checked for a pulse.

“Someone tell the queen!” a call went out, and I saw Norfolk dash back toward the palace. I stood of a moment, looking at His Grace, willing him to stand up, to sit up, to call out. He did none of them, rather continued to lay without consciousness.

“Come.” Nan Zouche grabbed my arm. “We must to Anne!”

I picked up my skirts and we ran toward Anne’s rooms. We were still well down the hall when we heard her wailing. I pushed open the door to see Norfolk trying to talk sense to her.

“He’s dead! Dead!” Anne cried out, and held her hands in her hair, clutching great clumps of it but not tearing it. The tactless Norfolk, always ready to crow bad news, had told her the king was dead!

I took her face in my hands and stared in her eyes. “He is not yet dead, madam. He has lost his senses, but he may yet regain them.”

She looked at me, eyes going from wild to guarded. “Is it true?”

“Yes, dearest,” I said. “He is fine. Now calm yourself for the babe’s sake, if not for your own.”

She breathed heavily for another few minutes whilst Lady Zouche rushed Norfolk from the room. Anne settled and within hours someone had sent word that the king was now conscious and speaking but badly bruised.

I spent the night in Anne’s chambers, brushing her hair, whispering about light topics to bring a smile to her face. It was first light when she called to me. “Meg.”

I awoke from my chair near her bed and came to her side. “Yes, Anne?”

“I feel a trickle of blood down the inside of my thigh,” she whispered. “’Tis yet only a trickle. I need linen. And prayer.”

For whatever reason, it seemed as though the Lord Jesus had stoppered His ears against our many entreaties, because soon thereafter the trickle turned into an ooze and by the fourth day, it was clear that the queen was going to have to do the mighty, sorrowful travail of delivering a child which would not live to take a breath. Our king was delivered from death just afore his child was ushered into it.

The midwife had been called. After the baby’s body had been delivered Anne called out, “Was it a boy?”

The midwife looked at the tiny child, crossed herself, and then said, “Yes, madam. A son.”

The second death of the new year.

Anne burst out in tears, long jagged sobs from which she would not be pulled back. Four days of weariness and birth work coupled with the certain knowledge of how her husband would take the news fused into an animal-like wail. I sat on one side of her and my sister, Alice, on her other. After some time she looked up at us, composed herself, and said, “I have miscarried of my savior.”

Henry was well enough to come to visit her within days. We had her made up to look as lovely as could be, but she was still wan from the delivery. She dismissed us, but I and my sister remained, unseen, in her closet nearby. I wanted to be at hand should she need me when the king took his leave.

He came into the room, dismissed his men, and, from the foot of her bed, said, “I see that God does not wish to give me male children. At least, not by you.”

“I am sorry, sire. It was my worry for you, my worry for your well-being when you had been unhorsed.”

“You would have done better by me to have kept your peace and nurtured my son rather than let your emotions run untamed and cause his certain death.”

I held my breath. Anne—causing the child’s death? Could he not find it possible to offer her a word of comfort or hope as he had before?

“I do keep my peace, sire. But ’tis hard to do when I see how you favor others with that which rightfully belongs to me.”

She spoke of Mistress Seymour, of course, and all the others that had come before her.

“Nothing belongs to you, madam, you understand, except for what I give you. You would do well, as I once warned you, to shut your eyes and ignore, as your betters did.”

I could hear Anne sit up in bed. “Katherine shut her eyes because she loved you not. Yea, she may have served you. She was obedient. She did as she was told and as was expected. Because she did not love you, Henry, as I do, she could afford to shut her eyes; it pained her not to shut her eyes. But when I shut my eyes I see my husband in bed with another woman and I cannot bear it!” By now she was shrieking.

Please, Lord Jesus, close her mouth. Close it. Henry hated a scene unless he was throwing it.

She quieted herself and finished softly, “My heart breaks when I see you with others.”

Henry stood for a moment, shocked, I was sure, that anyone was speaking to him thusly. If her words moved him, he didn’t show it in his response. “I will see you when you are well,” was his reply. Within minutes the door to her chamber closed and I went to her. She accepted my arms and words with nary a response.

By March my sister told me that the king had sent a purse of gold to Jane Seymour, along with a sealed letter. An invitation, all were certain, to join him in his chamber.

Mistress Seymour returned the letter to him unopened—thereby deftly sidestepping a direct answer to his invitation—but did reply that as a gentlewoman born of good and honorable parents, and she with an unsullied reputation, she must refuse His Majesty’s gift. She would be prepared, however, to accept a gift from him upon her marriage. She withdrew from court to stay at the home of Sir Nicolas Carewe, who had turned into one of Anne’s deadliest enemies.

Henry was noted to be moping about at Jane’s absence.

And then it was April, not March, that was in like a lamb, out like a lion.