The Nymph from Heaven, page 97
part #1 of The Tudor Chronicles Series
The prolonged silence became uncomfortable as Henry continued to stare at the girl long after Frances had moved away and Lady Catherine, with her hand upon her fiancé’s arm, approached the dais in her turn for her formal introduction to the king and his court. Mary’s son, Henry Brandon, Earl of Lincoln, was openly besotted with his bride-to-be, and seemed amused at his royal uncle’s reaction to her astonishing looks. Finally the king recovered himself. After the formal introduction Henry exchanged a few remarks with the couple. Catherine’s behavior was correct in all ways, even unto the deep curtsey she bestowed upon the king when it was time to end the interview.
Mary stole another glance at Henry and noticed wet patches at the corners of his mouth as his eyes followed Lady Catherine’s retreating back. Suddenly he jumped up and cried, “There, that is done! Now let us dance! Musicians, strike up a merry tune! My Lady Catherine, do not away so quickly! We shall lead the dance. With your gracious permission, of course,” he said to the earl, whose hand still lay possessively upon Catherine’s delicate white arm.
Instantly music filled the room. Lady Catherine detached herself from her fiancé’s hold and walked boldly up to the king with a smile. He took her hand and led her to the dance floor. Usually Henry danced each dance with a different lady, alternating dances with Anne. Tonight he danced three times in succession with Catherine Willoughby before relinquishing her to his nephew.
Mary reveled in the discomfiture that Anne displayed when Henry finally took her hand and led her to the floor. The room seemed charged with an indefinable energy and the atmosphere was alive with dangerous currents. Behind the sound of the music, the court was already abuzz with gossip; never before had Henry so blatantly shown favor to another in Anne’s presence. He had been remarkably faithful to his love, in a court rife with romantic intrigue. Most marriages were arranged, and few married where their hearts desired, making for many an illicit affair. Mary, who had been somewhat dismayed by the open licentiousness of the French court, was nowadays less easily shocked; but many wondered how, and why, Henry had striven to remain so faithful to a woman who, by all accounts, gave him nothing in return for his extraordinary fidelity. Certainly there had been lapses; but these were few.
And now this! Finally, after so many years, a chink had appeared in the armor of one who had until now seemed so invincible. Perhaps there was hope yet of ousting Anne, thought Mary, despite Henry’s earlier words. Her only regret was that Henry had made it plain that whatever happened with Anne, Katharine had no hope of ever being restored to her rightful place as queen of England.
St. Alban’s, Hertfordshire, August 1532
The massive abbey gate came into view as the royal party cleared the trees and crested the hill. The air was hot, almost oppressive, and not a breeze stirred to alleviate the heat. Anne felt a trickle of sweat travel down the nape of her neck, and gave an involuntary shudder when it was stopped abruptly at the top of her gown.
It had been a miserable spring, followed by a miserable summer. The stalemate between Henry and the pope dragged on with no end in sight. Henry, to all outward appearances, still held that marriage with her was his goal. But his eye had begun to wander, and soon, she feared, his attention and his commitment to her would do likewise. She had begun to feel very much like a rat in a trap; no matter which way she turned, it seemed she faced disaster.
Henry had not responded directly to the pope’s exhortation to take back the queen. His response, this time, was more subtle. Spurred on by Cromwell’s Protestant leanings, he had confronted the clergy with their oaths of allegiance to both king and pope. Whom did they serve, he demanded to know? For they could not serve two masters, and whilst they had their feet planted on English soil, they would be the king’s men or he would know why.
Gleefully had Cromwell put forth the king’s terms to the reluctant clergy; henceforward, all clerical legislation must receive the king’s consent, and any and all past clerical judgments were subject to reversal by royal committee. A few brave bishops had dared to point the king back to the words he had written in his own Assertio about clerical immunity in England, an assertion to which Henry had not even deigned to reply. A stunned clergy had had no choice but to submit or brand themselves traitors to king and country. Hard on that shocking incident had come Henry’s declaration that clerical annates were to cease immediately; hit Rome in its pockets, by God! Perhaps that would move Clement. The Medicis had always known how to count a ducat! If all else failed, by God, he would blackmail Clement into submission to his will!
Henry had swaggered triumphantly for a week, then had been stunned and dismayed by Sir Thomas More’s resignation as Chancellor of England. Henry had reluctantly agreed to accept his friend’s retirement from public office. He had then stormed into Anne’s chamber and blamed More’s defection on her.
Anne had been wary and fearful for many months about her position, and managed to keep her temper in the face of Henry’s unfair berating. This time, she did not blanch and she did not threaten. She simply packed her bags when the king’s tirade was over and departed for Hever without a word. It had taken Henry half a day to notice her absence; that in itself was ominous. She was actually relieved when a messenger caught up with her party bearing the king’s royal apology for his hasty words, and bidding her to return to court.
In the old days she would have ignored both the apology and the request. But now she could not afford to do so. Henry still planned to ennoble her as Marquis of Pembroke in September, and his plans to take her to France with him the following month had not, as far as she knew, been changed. Still, there was much speculation that her new title, lands and income were to be but a sop for her broken betrothal. Henry swore that was not true. But true or not, she reasoned, she would not go the way of her sister! Let Henry throw her the bone of Pembroke. If it gave her her freedom from both marriage with the king and dependence upon her family, she was nothing loath.
And then had come the astonishing news of the sudden death of William Warham, the Archbishop of Canterbury. This, said Henry jubilantly, changed everything. They had abruptly stopped their progress and made for London, which they would reach on the morrow after breaking their journey at St. Alban’s.
Already there was the usual talk of poison, especially after what had happened to Bishop Fisher the previous summer. William Warham had defied his king more than once, but his refusal to grant Henry an annulment in the name of the church in England had greatly angered the king. So much so that Henry had lashed out viciously at the old archbishop, charging him with Praemunire for consecrating a new bishop without the king’s permission. Warham had stood his ground, refusing to be cowed by the king’s wrath. But the archbishop had not been well of late, and could not face up to this one last battle, it seemed.
Anne was struck by Henry’s seeming jubilance at the death of one whom he had known all his life, who had married him to his queen and then crowned him king.
“Do you not see, Sweetheart,” said Henry, slapping his thigh, “what the death of this recalcitrant old man means? We will make us a new archbishop, one who will be malleable, and he will declare my marriage to Katharine null and void! Then I will be free to marry!”
Anne regarded her mercurial lover. Because of his seeming change towards her, a certain turning away, she had been afraid to cross him of late, fearing for her own position. The more weakness she showed, the more contemptuously he treated her. She would not soon forget his unseemly display with Lady Catherine Willoughby! It was strange, though, that the moment she had once again shown a spark of spirit, he had backed down, become once again the solicitous suitor. It was intriguing. But his words were not lost on her… ‘I will be free to marry…’ he had said, not ‘We’. Was he indeed planning to set her aside, after all this time? Perhaps her enemies were right that her coming elevation to the peerage was just a sop.
“Whom did you have in mind?” she asked.
“Eh?” Henry looked confused.
“As archbishop,” said Anne helpfully.
Henry glanced at her slyly. “What think you of Thomas Cranmer for the post?”
Cranmer! thought Anne. If anyone could free Henry from Katharine, it was the unassuming and obscure prelate who had first come to the king’s notice when he had suggested the canvassing of the universities of Europe to gain adherents to support the King’s Great Matter. “But will the pope approve such a choice?” asked Anne skeptically. “Cranmer is known to support your divorce from Katharine.”
“The pope!” roared Henry. “I swear that Clement was born upon this earth simply to plague my heart out. I know not if he will approve the appointment. But having so far thwarted me on every other point, I suspect that he will bow to this request.”
“I hope you are right.” Anne’s head began to spin with plans. If Thomas Cranmer were consecrated as Archbishop of Canterbury, her marriage to the king would be imminent… if indeed he still planned to marry her. Perhaps the time had come to change her tactics. For only by surrendering to the king’s desire could she hope to hold him any longer.
London, August 1532
The sad dirge rose to a crescendo, drowning out momentarily the sounds of the people’s grief. Westminster Abbey was full to bursting with doleful mourners lamenting the late archbishop. Mary dabbed her eyes with a linen square; she had known William Warham all her life, and had both loved and respected him. His death had affected her greatly.
She had not expected to stay so long at court, but due to her worsening illness, she had been forced to spend the summer in town. She had done her best to avoid Anne until Henry left to go on his summer progress, which, mercifully, had begun early that year.
Mary had resented mightily having to bide at the Bridewell, when Suffolk Place lay just across the river. Henry had long ago confiscated her house for Anne while York Place was being transformed into Whitehall Palace, and it had never been returned to her and Brandon. Anne, now having more pleasant accommodation in and out of town, had not stayed there in a long time, and Suffolk Place now lay abandoned.
Mary realized that she was frowning deeply and sought to direct her attention back to the high altar, before which the archbishop’s body lay in state, clad in his purple robes and holding his crosier, surrounded by thick white candles in silver floor-standing holders.
When the requiem mass was over, Mary returned to her apartments and began supervising the packing of their belongings for the journey back to East Anglia. As chief mourner, Mary was to serve as royal escort to the body of the old archbishop, who would be mourned again in his own cathedral of Canterbury before being laid to rest beneath the high altar there.
Suddenly cries of “The king! The king!” began to sound faintly down the corridor, followed by Henry’s heavy tread and the jangling sound of his spurs growing louder and louder. He burst into her rooms moments later, his face still flushed from the exercise he had taken after the mass. Death always roused in him the need to engage in strenuous physical activity, as if he sought confirmation that he was still alive.
Tears sprang into Mary’s eyes. “This is a sad day, Brother,” she said, holding out her hands to him.
“Oh, ‘tis that, to be sure,” he replied, kissing her cheek. “I am sad to say goodbye to the archbishop, but sadder still to see you go. I have seen you so seldom these last few years.”
It sounded like a reproach, but Henry knew well why she avoided the court. There was nothing to be gained by pointing it out. “I am sorry, Henry. But you know full well that my health is not good. I fear me that this journey to Canterbury and on to Westhorpe will tax me most sore.”
“It is that of which I have come to speak,” he said. He hesitated, nibbling a cuticle. "Mary…”
Mary regarded him warily. Henry was usually so sure of himself; a nervous fear gripped her, but she said nothing.
“Mary…” he said again.
“What is it, Henry?”
“I have decided,” he said, “to send Princess Mary in your stead to Canterbury. I need you here.”
A warning bell sounded in her head. “I have been long from home, Brother,” she said carefully. “I never meant to stay here so long. I must needs go home.”
“But you said yourself that you are ill. Can you even tolerate such a journey in your present condition?”
Mary shrugged impatiently. “The pain comes and goes. I am indeed fortunate that this is one of the times when I feel I will be able to travel tolerably well.”
“Mary, I want you to attend Anne’s elevation to Marquis of Pembroke.” Mary drew breath to speak but he held up a hand to forestall her. “Hear me out. Anne is to accompany me on my upcoming journey to meet with King François. You are far too ill to travel as far as France, I know that. I would not ask it of you. All I do ask…” and with these words he fixed her with his most commanding royal look, “…is that you attend Anne’s ceremony of ennoblement.”
“No.”
“But you must!” he cried, slapping his hand with a thud upon the arm of the chair in which he sat. “Mary, you were once queen of France, and are still dowager queen of that realm. If you will not do this, then how can we expect François’ queen to acknowledge Anne? And she must, Mary, she must.”
Mary’s eyes smoldered. “You are full of “musts” today, Brother. I am sorry, but no. I said no, and I mean it. I will not change my mind. Do what you will, but that is final.”
“Then you do not love me,” he said.
“You sound like a spoilt child, whining for that which it cannot have.”
“And you are a spoilt child!” he roared. “Did I not indulge your whim to marry Brandon? Why will not you indulge me on this one simple favor? I will never ask anything of you again, if only you will do this one thing for me!” His look changed to one of pleading and supplication.
Sharp words rose to her lips; would he never cease reminding her that he had allowed her to keep her beloved husband, instead of handing her his head on a pike, despite his promise that she could marry as she pleased once Louis died? And then Mary’s anger died as quickly as it had flared. “I am sorry, Henry. I love you and I shall always love you, as my beloved brother and as my king. But I cannot do as you ask.”
Henry’s pleading look changed to one of cold calculation. “All right, then,” he said. “Keep your royal sanctity! But from this day forward you are no sister of mine!”
Mary reached out a hand and laid it on his arm. “But, Henry…”
“Leave me be!” he roared. “Leave me be! And go to Canterbury! Then you may go to the devil for all I care!”
“Henry, you do not mean that…” But already the sound of his spurs clanging on the stone grew fainter as he stalked away.
Mary fell heavily into a chair, her side throbbing all of sudden. The room had become as silent as the grave. It was not so surprising that her servants all seemed to melt away whenever Henry came to see her. Whereas before, in the early days, everyone had loved and admired Bluff Hal, their golden boy-king, of late many had come to fear Henry as a mercurial tyrant. And no one wanted to place themselves in the path of the unpredictable royal anger.
“My lady?” said a hesitant voice.
“Yes, Lady Wickham,” Mary said with a sigh.
“The Venetian ambassador is here. He wishes to pay his respects in the matter of the archbishop, my lady.”
“Oh, dear. I had forgotten. Elizabeth, my drops, please,” said Mary. Only the poppy syrup could ease the burning pain that had flared up in her side as a result of the upset with Henry. Lady Wickham held out the bottle. Mary removed the cork and took a swig, shuddering as the sticky, bitter black potion made its slow way down her throat. The relief was almost instant, but soon she felt light-headed, and not quite in herself. It was strange the effect the syrup had upon her when she took it and tried to stay wakeful. Usually she would take it and sleep, and then she would dream strange, beautiful dreams. But if she took the brew and stayed awake, it seemed as if she were floating above the room, looking down upon herself. She suppressed an hysterical laugh at the thought, then tried to collect herself. It was a great pity that she had now to receive an embassy in this state!
Two men swept into the room, bowed low, and each kissed her proffered hand in turn.
“Your Grace,” said the Venetian Ambassador effusively. “Please allow me to express my sincere condolences for your loss, for England’s loss, of such a great churchman and statesman.”
Mary floated up and watched from the rafters as the tears welled up in her eyes at the ambassador’s kind words. She almost blurted out that Warham had been no statesman, even if he had been an exemplary prelate, but she caught herself just in time. She knew that it was the opium drops that produced such outrageous thoughts, and although one may think such things, one must never say them. She must remember…
Instead she strove to focus her attention upon the men before her. Carlo Capello was a charming man, but then most Italians had more than a fair share of charm. Mary turned her gaze to the other man. He seemed vaguely familiar, but in her befuddled state, she could not seem to place him.
“Ah, but I am forgetting my good Lorenzo,” said Capello. “He asked me to fondly remember him to you, and I begged him to accompany me to this audience. I thought perhaps it would cheer you to see him after so many years.”
Mary looked blankly at the grizzled man before her, struggling to remember him. Slowly he lifted his eyes to hers and smiled broadly.
She had it!
“But my dear Pasqualigo!” she said, extending her white hand to him once again. “How good it is to see you!” He was the man who had inventoried and valued the jewels bestowed upon her by the French king at her betrothal ceremony all those years ago. Eighteen years! Had she aged as much as had he?
