For the Love of Anne Read online

  “That is none of your concern,” he said in a chillingly cold tone. “I shall come to your bedchamber tomorrow, if you are sure you are up to it.”

  “And if I am not?”

  “Then I will wait until you are fully able to conceive again,” he said. “There is little point else.”

  She flung her knife down onto the table so that it bounced and landed on the floor. She pushed her chair back as she jumped to her feet.

  “I’ll not endure this, Henry!” she shouted. “I swore I’d never be like Katherine, mildly turn a blind eye to your infidelities. You said you loved me; you pursued me for years, you risked your soul and you made me your Queen. If you are now not going to respect me, you may as well invite Katherine back.”

  “Do not tempt me,” he said.

  He left the chamber, leaving Anne fighting back tears of both frustration and fear. So it was over, or soon would be. His ardour for her had been just as she always suspected, like a spoilt child he wanted what he could not have.

  “I am the Queen, dammit!” she screamed at the open door. “I’ll not be treated like this!”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  From a Great Height

  SIR THOMAS MORE HAD grown so accustomed to his cell in the Tower, he knew every stone, every crevasse, every rat that peeped out from its secret tunnel to visit with him.

  He had books, he had writing materials but it was not until the late spring of 1535 that he was allowed a visit from his wife and children. It was not something he had been expecting. Indeed, he had asked Cromwell for such a visit many times since his incarceration here, but had always been refused.

  Now they had arrived, excited and nervous and the door opened suddenly, giving Thomas no time to register their presence before his wife, Alice was in his arms, Margaret, his daughter behind her and her husband at the rear.

  Thomas clutched tightly to them all, his eyes filling with tears. So this was it; he knew why they had been permitted this visit, even if they did not. It was Cromwell’s last resort to persuade him to sign the Oath.

  “My dears,” he said. “What has happened? You are so welcome, but tis not a thing I can trust.”

  “Thomas,” said his wife as she held tight to him, kissed his lips. “The King has promised you a pardon, promised that you can come home with us if only you will sign the Oath.”

  His sad eyes swept over her. It hurt his heart to have to refuse her, it really did, but he could no more reconcile his conscience with that damned Oath now, than he could when the King first demanded it.

  “I cannot, Alice,” he said gently. “You know I cannot.”

  “Why not? Tis only a piece of paper! God knows what your heart holds. He will forgive you.”

  “Will he? You may be right, but I will never forgive myself.”

  They were only allowed a few minutes with Thomas, a few minutes in which to persuade him to go against his conscience, then they were removed by the guards, leaving Thomas to pray in private for a quick death. He knew that his failure to abide by the King’s wishes, to accept him as supreme head of the Church in England, was about to try the royal patience to its limit.

  He had also heard, during his time here, that somewhere in this grim building, like him, sat John Fisher, formerly Bishop of Rochester. He it was who had defended Katherine of Aragon at the divorce trial, he it was who refused to sign the Oath of Succession, which made Henry and Anne’s offspring legitimate and the Princess Mary a bastard. He it was who kept silent on the subject of the Supremacy of the church, just like Thomas.

  But both were about to be trapped into admitting their true feelings by one young lawyer named Richard Rich. He had been nurtured in his apprenticeship by Thomas himself, but somehow his ingratitude came as no surprise.

  News of Fisher’s fate reached Thomas via his gaoler, who hesitantly confirmed that the former churchman was to be hanged, drawn and quartered. Thomas felt his heart about to burst as he prayed that he would be spared the same fate.

  On the day the execution was due to be carried out, Sir William Kingston, constable of the Tower, paid him a visit.

  “Is it done?” asked Thomas. “Is Fisher at peace?”

  “He is, Sir Thomas. I came to put your mind at ease; the King commuted his sentence. He was beheaded on Tower Hill this morning.”

  “Praise the Lord,” said Thomas. “It was a kindness of the King.”

  Kingston laughed shortly.

  “Not so. He did not want him to linger into the feast day of John the Baptist.”

  Richard Rich, the only witness against Sir Thomas, perjured himself at his trial. He swore on oath that Thomas had told him that he did not agree with the King’s claim to be head of the church. Thomas’ response that he had ever had a low opinion of Mr Rich and was unlikely to have told him the secrets of his heart, did nothing to save him.

  A few days later, Thomas mounted the scaffold to lay his own head on that bloodstained block of wood.

  With his final words, he captured the hearts of the crowd.

  “I die the King’s good servant,” he said. “But God’s first.”

  THE EXECUTION OF ONE of the King’s closest, most long standing friends, made Anne shudder with fear. Thomas More had been no friend to her, it was true, but did he deserve a traitor’s death? It seemed that men were no longer permitted to follow their own consciences; the King wanted to dictate to their souls.

  Queen Anne accompanied her husband on journeys throughout the country, where they showed themselves as the devoted couple he wanted them to be seen as.

  They held banquets, they entertained guests with jesters and acrobats, they accepted the obeisance of their subjects, they bedded together in further attempts to conceive a son.

  Anne’s desire for Henry had not grown. If anything, it had lessened since he took little care to preserve what had once been a manly body. Now he was running to fat, but, of course, no one dared tell him that.

  His lovemaking had ever been selfish, but now it seemed to Anne that his selfishness had grown. He cared nothing for her feelings, nothing for her satisfaction, only for his own and pretending to be excited by him was one of the hardest things she had to do.

  It was almost Christmas when she received a visit from her uncle, the Duke of Norfolk. He had been against her since the beginning, believing she should have become the King’s mistress and got it over with, like her sister. What could he possibly know about it? He was a man and, as such, could never understand a woman’s sexual feelings.

  Despite being her mother’s brother, Anne was convinced he would see her dead rather than see her Queen. She was likely right.

  He bowed, as he must to the Queen, but it was so obviously a reluctant courtesy, very unlike the sort of respect he would have given to Katherine.

  “Uncle,” she said stiffly, offering her hand. He briefly brushed his lips over it, then straightened up. “Tis not often I have the honour of your company.”

  The Duke swallowed hard, blushed a little, as though what he had to say he would rather remained unsaid.

  “I have a favour to ask, much as it pains me.”

  “A favour? Would you not do better to ask your favour of His Grace, the King?”

  “Tis no secret that you have the King’s ear,” said Norfolk.

  She waved her hand and sighed impatiently, wanting him to get on with it and leave her in peace.

  “Well?” she said.

  “Queen Katherine is very ill,” he said.

  “Queen Katherine? Do you not mean the Dowager Princess of Wales?”

  He did not want to call her that. To him and to all Catholics, she was still Queen of England and would be until her death. But if he wanted this pretend Queen to grant his request, he had to comply.

  “Very well,” he said. “The Dowager Princess of Wales if you prefer.”

  “Tis not me who prefers it, Uncle. It is the King.”

  He smirked, turned away quickly to hide it. He did not believe for one moment the
King had done all that he had done without the coercion of this niece of his. Without her influence, the King would have stayed married to his lawful wife, would have stayed loyal to the Church of Rome. He would believe nothing else.

  “She is ill and is asking to see the Princess Mary,” he said. “Or am I to call her the ‘Lady Mary’?”

  “I do not care what you call her. I have to protect the interests of my own daughter.”

  “Will you speak to the King on her behalf?”

  “He kept them apart for a reason,” she said.

  “Yes, because the Queen would not admit their marriage was false.”

  The Queen? Still the Queen.

  “No, Uncle. I believe he did that because he thought they might conspire together against him. I see nothing that might make him change his mind.”

  “She is likely dying, My Lady,” said the Duke. “Will you not have enough compassion to ask the King for a visit from her only child.”

  Sometimes she wished they would both die; that might be the only way people would stop blaming her for their present circumstances.

  “You are my uncle,” she said. “Yet you take their side against me. Why should I do anything for you?”

  “You know the cause, Anne, do not pretend you do not,” he replied. “Had you become the King’s mistress, like your sister, he would have stayed with Katherine, he would have remained loyal to the Pope and to Rome. The country is split, pious men are being brutally executed, and it is your fault.”

  “I knew it would be my fault,” she said.

  “Who else? You knew the King’s desires, his appetites. It is common knowledge that you kept him at bay to increase those appetites, so that he would make you his Queen.”

  Briefly, she turned away to hide her brimming tears. She would not appear weak before this man, before any man.

  I kept him at bay because I did not want him. I still do not want him.

  She dared not say it. Words like that could be twisted, could be made treasonable, and this uncle of hers would leap at the chance to twist those words, to bring her down. She imagined how Henry would react to being told his wife said she did not want him. The idea made her shudder.

  “I will ask him,” she said at last. “But do not expect him to agree.”

  “What do they have to do to make him agree?”

  There was a note of desperation in the Duke’s voice, something that reduced him from his elevated demeanour to that of an ordinary man in the street.

  “I think you know the answer to that,” she said. “Katherine needs to admit her marriage to him was not lawful. Mary needs to sign the Oath of Supremacy. I can do little without that.”

  “You refuse then?” he said, his voice rising. “You refuse to help a dying woman have a few minutes with her only child?”

  “I did not say that,” she said, fighting to control the exasperation in her voice. “I do think you should remember to whom you speak.”

  He took a step back and away from her, his eyes piercing her with anger and humiliation. That he should have to bow down to this spoilt little girl, this nobody, made him want to lash out and strike her. But he controlled himself. He had no wish to end like his friend, Thomas More. So far, he had got away with siding with Queen Katherine and Princess Mary, because, unlike Thomas, he had signed the damned Oath. For this moment he needed to remember that Henry had made Norfolk’s niece his Queen.

  “Forgive me, Your Grace,” he said with difficulty.

  “I will speak to the King,” she said abruptly. “I will try. I can promise no more than that.”

  She watched him go, felt some mild satisfaction at having forced the words ‘Your Grace’ out of his superior mouth. She imagined how she would feel, to be separated from her little Princess Elizabeth, and she pitied Katherine. It was bad enough that her Elizabeth was away from her, in her own household, but she was at least able to see her whenever she wanted.

  That evening was one of those when the King decided he would eat privately with his wife in her chamber. Those evenings were becoming rarer and rarer, and Anne knew the reason, but she had not yet told him her news.

  She waited until he had finished eating.

  “I have news, Your Grace,” she said.

  He covered her hand with his own.

  “We are alone here, darling,” he said. “I am but a man, dining with his wife.”

  “Henry,” she corrected herself. “I am with child.”

  His joy was not what it had been that first time, or that second, but he smiled.

  “We must be careful, sweetheart,” he said. “This time you must take to your bed, you must rest.”

  The idea of spending the next six or seven months in bed held no appeal, but she made no comment.

  “I will rest, I promise,” she said. “But I have been told by my uncle, the Duke of Norfolk, that Qu...” she stopped herself in time. She almost called her ‘Queen Katherine’ and that would enrage him. The fact was Anne still thought of her as the Queen. “The Princess Dowager,” she went on, “is likely dying.”

  “I’ve been told.”

  He frowned darkly. It was unlikely he had failed to notice her slip of the tongue, but she felt safe enough, being pregnant.

  “He asked me to appeal to you, to allow her a visit from the Lady Mary.”

  She did not call her ‘Princess’. She would not make that mistake as well. It was her nervousness that caused the mistake; she knew that her request would enrage Henry, despite her being with child, and his rage could be terrifying.

  “Is my daughter prepared to sign the Oath of Supremacy?” he said angrily. “Is Katherine prepared to admit our union was no marriage?”

  “I do not think so, Your Grace.”

  “Then my answer is no. Mary is fortunate she is not now languishing in the Tower, fortunate she still has her head. Other traitors have lost theirs.”

  “Henry, no! You would not, not your own daughter.”

  He pushed his chair back and leaned into her, his huge face close to hers.

  “Who do you support, My Lady?” he said threatening.

  Anne had known for many months, perhaps longer, that the King’s attraction to her was waning. Her uncle was right – had she given in to him at the start, she would not now be married to a tyrant who would destroy anyone who got in his way. She would not now he expecting yet another child, born out of fear and desperation, she would not now be in that position she had abhorred in Katherine, wed to a man who knew not how to be faithful.

  She despaired of herself, wondered if there was any way she could have avoided this fate. The knowledge that she had missed the chance, made her angry and reckless.

  “I do not support my husband bedding Madge Shelton,” she spat. “My own cousin.”

  Henry never liked to have his amours known; he liked to think people believed him a loyal husband.

  “She is nothing to me,” he replied.

  “That makes it worse, then,” she said. “She is betrothed to one of your closest friends. Or had you forgotten that?”

  “I do not forget. What Henry Norris knows nothing about will not hurt him.”

  “You think he knows nothing?”

  “I know he does, unless you have told him.”

  He turned and left the chamber, his brief joy about her pregnancy forgotten. When Mistress Shelton came to her a few minutes later, she could not have failed to see the hatred in Anne’s eyes.

  “Madge,” said the Queen. “Tis high time you married. You have been betrothed to Henry Norris long enough.”

  She curtsied nervously, carried the linens she had brought to the Queen’s bed, but hesitated to answer.

  “There is time aplenty, Your Grace,” said Madge.

  “Does the King know he is not the only one?”

  “The King, My Lady?” Madge said nervously.

  “Yes, the King. You think me ignorant of your liaison with my husband? I shall speak to Sir Henry about his betrothed, see what he
thinks about your behaviour.”

  “I doubt he will care,” muttered Madge.

  “Get out!” snapped Anne. “I never want to see your disloyal face again.”

  She was not to have her wish. Madge went straight to the King, who ordered that his wife retain his latest mistress as one of her maids of honour. The humiliation she was suffering now, forced to have his whores to serve her, echoed that for which she had pitied Katherine.

  For a long time, Anne had thought perhaps she would be different, perhaps Henry would not treat her as he had his first Queen. He had stayed faithful to Anne for six years, while she gave him no encouragement. He had changed the laws of the country just to have her for his wife.

  Could she be blamed for thinking he really loved her, that he would never betray her no matter what? She should have listened to her heart, listened when her own thoughts told her he was persistent and determined only because here was something he could not have for the asking.

  Gently, she touched her still flat womb and once more prayed for a healthy, living son. It was the only thing that would save her now.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  The Jousting Accident

  IN THE NORTH, HARRY Percy had finally fallen out with all his family, his brothers and his mother. It seemed they wanted to cling steadfastly to the Roman church, despite how the law was changing, despite knowing it might cost them their lives.

  Harry was determined that their stubbornness would not cost him his estates and his livelihood, even if he were no longer here to care about it. And there was always a slim chance that generosity from him might soften the King toward his brothers, although he doubted it.

  He spent more and more time asleep nowadays, more and more time with fat little leeches stuck to his body. How strange that such a short time ago he was young and carefree, in love and looking forward to a contented future. When was that? Only ten years ago? It seemed like another life, a distant past life that was lived by someone else.

  Now he knew he could not last long, he sent for a lawyer to put his affairs in order and he made a Will, leaving his entire estate to the King. It might just save the Percys, at least his mother if not his brothers.