For the Love of Anne Read online

Henry’s mood changed, as it often did, and he threw her hand from him and scowled at her.

  “I’d advise you not to meddle in my affairs, Madam,” he said angrily. “Remember what became of your predecessor. Remember Anne.”

  HARRY PERCY STAYED in his bedchamber for a month following Anne’s execution. He took to his bed, both to soothe his continuing illness and his grief. He could not believe that Anne was gone and worse, that he had played a part in her going. He had no choice, he knew that and most importantly, so did she. She had even given him an encouraging smile, but that did nothing to assuage his guilt.

  Still he hated himself, still he would have done almost anything to be able to join her. But Harry felt sure that day was not so very far away. This illness, whatever it was, had been growing worse for years and after these events, he had neither the strength nor the will to recover.

  Returning to the north, he settled at Wressle Castle, another of his estates in Yorkshire. He intended to stay there throughout the summer, hope to live out what remained of his life in seclusion with his guilt.

  News had a habit of reaching him, whether he wanted to hear it or not. It seemed the King was still going ahead with his plans to dissolved all the monasteries, not only the smaller ones. Anne had quarrelled with Cromwell about that, had wanted the money and income gained from their dissolution to be given to the poor, to charities and to education. Cromwell wanted it to swell the King’s coffers and if Cromwell wanted it, it was certain that the King also wanted it.

  There would be civil war over this, Harry was sure of it, but he was too ill and too despondent to care. Yet he was forced to care when, after returning from London, he received a visit from Robert Aske, the lawyer who was organising and leading a pilgrimage to London. There had already been one uprising in Lincolnshire in an effort to persuade the King to restore the monasteries. It had failed, of course it had.

  Trying to persuade King Henry to do anything was a waste of time and ultimately, a waste of human lives. Such rebellions always ended in trials for treason, trials that were a foregone conclusion, just like Anne’s.

  Now, this Robert Aske was here in Harry’s home and he had a good idea of what he wanted. Harry knew well that his own mother and brothers were sympathetic to the pilgrimage, but they needed him, the Earl of Northumberland and head of the family, to give credence and manpower to their cause.

  Aske was shown into Harry’s bedchamber, where he greeted him still wearing his nightgown, and with the windows covered in heavy drapes from the night before.

  “Master Aske,” said Harry. “Please sit and be quick. I am too ill for unnecessary civility.”

  “As I see, My Lord,” Aske replied. “I am sorry to see it. I see you will be able to do little for the right and just cause which we represent, yet your name alone could be the difference between success and failure.”

  “My name, Sir?” said Harry. He gave a short, derisive laugh. “My name will do nothing save anger the King. Do you not know that he hates me?”

  Aske shook his head.

  “I am sure you are wrong, My Lord.”

  “Do not patronise me! Did the King not tear from me the only woman I ever loved? Did he not force me into a marriage with a woman I despised and who despised me? Did he not force me to be among those enemies of my love who condemned her?”

  “I see your bitterness, My Lord, but surely that is even more reason for your opposition to his plan.”

  “Even if I were not so ill, even if I were stupid enough to oppose this tyrant King, I could not support your cause.”

  “Why not? Your brother and your mother...”

  “I care nothing for them. I cannot support your cause because I do not believe in it. I think that the only good thing our beloved King ever did was to break us away from the oppression of Rome. I will support him in that, if in nothing else.” He took a sip from his goblet, looking at his guest over the rim. “Now, please leave me in peace.”

  “Will you at least relinquish command of the marches into the hands of your brothers?”

  “How would that be different from offering my support? I’ll do nothing to support you and your cause.”

  “But your mother, your brothers...”

  “My brothers are fools. I have seen nothing of them for so long, I can scarcely remember when. I intend to leave them nothing on my death, which will likely not be far off. Now leave, before I have you thrown out.”

  Harry returned to his bed and his intention to sleep the rest of his life away, but he was not to be given that privilege. Later that day, another lawyer arrived.

  “William Stapleton, My Lord,” said the visitor with a bow. “At your service.”

  Harry lifted his head and stared at him, but his only thought was to wonder why he could not be left alone to die in peace. The pain in his stomach grew worse with every interruption, keeping him from his sleep and making his anger fierce and dangerous.

  “At my service?” he said, pushing himself into a sitting position. “Get me some wine and some for yourself if you will. Then tell me what you want and get out.”

  Stapleton handed him the wine, but took none for himself.

  “I come from Master Aske,” he began, but Harry put up a hand to stop him.

  “Then you can have nothing to say that I might want to hear,” he said.

  “Please listen, My Lord, for your own benefit.”

  “My benefit? Joining my family in committing treason is now for my benefit?”

  “Master Aske sent me as a matter of urgency. His followers are after your head and they will have it if you stay here. You are in danger, and I come only to escort you to York.”

  “What is in York save more of your traitors?”

  “A monastery where you will be safe. Please, My Lord. Master Aske and I have no wish to harm you. You must trust us.”

  Harry rolled over and pulled the covers up over his head.

  “Go away,” he said.

  “No, My Lord, I will not leave. I have an armed guard with me, ready to take you to York.”

  Many voices shouting came through the open window and Master Stapleton went to look down, where he saw familiar faces.

  “My Lord,” he said, turning back to the bed. “There are men outside. They want revenge because you refuse to support them. You must trust me.”

  Harry was too ill to argue. He had remained loyal to the King, but not for his own beliefs, not really. It was what Anne believed to be right and he kept her wishes out of duty to her memory.

  He wanted nothing more than to end his life, but he had no wish to end it at the mercy of an angry rebel brandishing an axe. He had little choice but to allow his guest to help him dress and lead him to safety.

  HARRY RETURNED TO NEWINGTON Green in the New Year. He had seen enough of monks, heard enough of chanting, and there was always the danger that the King would send his army to arrest them all. Harry did not want to be involved.

  The rebellion that Robert Aske had wanted him to join had failed, which came as no surprise to Harry. They had called it the Pilgrimage of Grace, but Harry saw nothing graceful about it. It was a rebellion, no matter what they chose to call it.

  There were forty thousand pilgrims, forty thousand who had gathered up some nuns and monks who had been displaced and restored them to their monastery and nunnery homes, having ousted the King’s new tenants.

  That was a brave move, if a foolhardy one, but forty thousand people met with the Duke of Norfolk’s seven thousand. Harry’s father-in-law, the Earl of Shrewsbury, was there as well. That was a man he would always loathe; he was as much to blame for Harry’s miserable life as the King. He had forced his daughter into the marriage, then, instead of leaving them to sort out their differences and try to make something of it, he had interfered and sent servants to spy on them.

  Harry was sorry the man had escaped from this meeting with his life. Norfolk, too, should have perished.

  But they knew they were vastly outnumbered, so t
hey made an agreement with the pilgrims. According to what the monks in York had told Harry, Norfolk and Shrewsbury had made certain promises on behalf of the King, enough to make Robert Aske disperse his followers, send them back to their homes.

  They should never have trusted the King’s men. Harry knew that, so why did they not know it? He would not have trusted them, would never have believed that the King would compromise, would go back on his actions, admit he was wrong. He was the King; he was never wrong. Henry sincerely believed that every thought that entered his head was God speaking to him and how could God be wrong?

  Once the pilgrims had gone, the leaders were arrested and charged with treason. Harry might have found it amusing, had he not been too ill to care. Two of those charged were his own brothers, Sir Thomas Percy and Sir Ingram Percy.

  Ingram was too young to know what he was doing. He likely only followed Thomas and now they were both in danger of being charged with treason. Harry wondered for a brief moment whether everyone close to him was destined to be executed.

  But Thomas’ end was much harsher than that French swordsmen who took the life of Anne. He suffered that ghastly death of being hanged, cut down while still alive, having his genitals and entrails cut out of him before he was sliced into quarters and taken to various parts of the country to be displayed as a traitor. His head would be mounted on a spike somewhere for all to see.

  Harry’s brother, his own flesh and blood. His mother was pardoned, as she had no serious part in the rebellion and for that Harry was grateful. He cared little for her, but it would be assumed she would have been obeying his commands, as the Earl and head of the family. He had to disown her, in order to save himself.

  He heard that his youngest brother, Ingram, had been imprisoned in the Tower with no definite date for either his execution or his release. Harry should plead with the King for him; he was his elder brother, the Earl of Northumberland, but he could not bring himself to care enough.

  Robert Aske and some of the other leaders had been sentenced to be hung in chains. That was a horrendous death, to be hung from the castle walls, no food or drink, left to soil themselves for however long it took them to die. Perhaps Thomas had the better end; it was terrifying and agonising, but it was quicker than Aske’s.

  And all these men really wanted was to be allowed to follow their own consciences. Harry wondered if that was a privilege that would ever be permitted to any man.

  It was a long journey to Newington Green from York, not one that Harry’s health was really good enough for. He tried to sleep during the journey, but it was hot inside the carriage and the uneven roads were not conducive to rest. Every bump in the road hurt his insides till he wanted to scream out in agony.

  Every time he did sleep, though, his dreams showed him his childhood, when he and his brothers were friends. They would play together in the grounds of Alnwick Castle, they would pretend to be Robin Hood or King Arthur, Sir Lancelot; they would even find the Holy Grail and hide it somewhere. He woke wondering if that cup they had stolen from the kitchens was still where they had hidden it.

  His eyes were filled with tears, tears he had not been able to shed during his waking hours. Those childhood memories were hidden behind a wall of bitterness, before he was sent to serve Thomas Wolsey, the great Cardinal, before he had met Anne, before he had fallen in love. He had known dreams then, dreams of a future with a wife who loved him, of children who would play happily in those same grounds where he and his brothers had played. They might even find that ‘Holy Grail’, if it were still there.

  But Anne had been too beautiful for him, too enchanting for him. The King had wanted her, so Harry was forced to marry a woman who hated him for loving someone else.

  He could hardly blame her. Imagine how he would have felt, knowing that it was Mary who loved someone else. But he could not imagine that, because it was always Anne that he wanted.

  The King had ruined all their lives, Harry’s, Mary’s, Anne’s, and now he was free to ruin others.

  THE SUMMER HEAT WARMED the air both outside and in. Harry tried to sleep, but the heat was too intense and he threw off his nightclothes in an attempt to cool himself. His body was emaciated now, as he had eaten little for weeks. It hurt to eat, but his stomach was distended, almost the shape of a pregnant belly, but yellow.

  The pain was unbearable, caused him to scream out in his sleep or out of it. The whites of his eyes were yellow and he knew his mind was failing. He could scarcely tell his dreams from reality any more; he would open his eyes and think Anne was there, would think they were still young and in love.

  She was so lovely. Not in any way that would turn heads, but when she spoke, when she laughed, there was never anything so beautiful. It was that laugh, that joy of life, that attracted the tyrant.

  That morning he had a brief visit from Richard Layton, a representative of the King, likely sent to confirm that Harry really was dying. He had willed his lands to the King, personally, and the monarch likely wanted to be sure he would get them sooner rather than later.

  Harry could hardly remember why he had left his lands to that King who had destroyed his life. He thought it was done in the hope that Anne would gain something from it, as she was still Henry’s beloved wife at the time. But later, he had no idea why he left it as such. It hardly mattered.

  Layton stayed but a few minutes, and his presence made it necessary for Harry to cover himself, but he made no effort to rise from his bed.

  “I came to see how you fare, My Lord,” said Layton. “The King was anxious.”

  “I’ll just wager he was,” said Harry. “Well, you can tell him he will soon get his hands on my property. As you see, it cannot be long before I go to join my beloved.” Harry paused to cough, then his yellow eyes looked up at his visitor. “Please tell him I said that,” he added. “I want him to know that she was loved by me, if not by him.”

  Layton’s eyes opened wide in shock and he took a step back, colliding with the chair behind him. He had no intention of telling the King any such thing.

  “I will leave you in peace, My Lord,” he said quickly. “I wish you well.”

  “You’ll not have your wish.”

  He slept some more, his only prayer that he should soon leave this world. If there was a purgatory, as the Roman Church taught, Harry was sure he had already suffered it.

  He thought he had dozed again, that he was still asleep and dreaming, but this vision was too real for that. It was Anne, but it could not be Anne. Anne was dead, her beautiful head sliced from her body by order of her own husband.

  Her hand reached toward him and he lifted his own to take it. He felt her soft fingers entwine around his own, felt them as he had all those years ago when they thought they had a future.

  It was Anne and as he sat up to reach her, his pain and his sickness disappeared. He felt as young and fit as he had then, when first he laid eyes on her.

  She smiled, her eyes full of love, and pulled him to his feet.

  Letter by Anne Boleyn to King Henry VIII 6 May 1536 – This letter was apparently found among the papers of Thomas Cromwell, but its authenticity is in dispute. It is doubtful that the King ever saw it.

  Your grace’s displeasure and my imprisonment are things so strange to me, that what to write, or what to excuse, I am altogether ignorant. Whereas you send to me (willing me to confess a truth and so obtain your favour), by such a one, whom you know to be mine ancient professed enemy, I no sooner received this message by him, than I rightly conceived your meaning; and if, as you say, confessing a truth indeed may procure my safety, I shall with all willingness and duty, perform your duty. But let not your grace ever imagine that your poor wife will be brought to acknowledge a fault, where not so much as a thought ever proceeded. And to speak a truth, never a prince had wife more loyal in all duty, and in all true affection, than you have ever found in Anne Bulen – with which name and place I could willingly have contented myself, if God and your grace’s pleasure had be
en so pleased. Neither did I at any time so far forget myself in my exaltation or received queenship, but that I always looked for such alteration as I now find; for the ground of my preferment being on no surer foundation than your grace’s fancy, the least alteration was fit and sufficient (I knew) to draw that fancy to some other subject.

  You have chosen me from low estate to be your queen and companion, far beyond my desert or desire; if, then, you found me worthy of such honour, good your grace, let not any light fancy or bad counsel of my enemies withdraw your princely favour from me; neither let that stain – that unworthy stain – of a disloyal heart towards your good grace ever cast so foul a blot on me, and on the infant princess your daughter.

  Try me, good king, but let me have a lawful trial, and let not my sworn enemies sit as my accusers and as my judges; yea, let me receive an open trial, for my truth shall fear no open shame. Then you shall see either my innocence cleared, your suspicions and conscience satisfied, the ignominy and slander of the world stopped, or my guilt openly declared. So that, whatever God and you may determine of, your grace may be freed from an open censure; and my offense being so lawfully proved, your grace may be at liberty, both before God and man, not only to execute worthy punishment on me as an unfaithful wife but to follow your affection already settled on that party for whose sake I am now as I am, whose name I could some while since have pointed unto – your grace being not ignorant of my suspicions therein. But if you have already determined of me, and that not only my death, but an infamous slander must bring your the joying of your desired happiness, then I desire of God that he will pardon your great sin herein, and likewise my enemies, the instruments thereof; and that he will not call you to a strait account for your unprincely and cruel usage of me at his general judgment-seat, where both you and myself must shortly appear; and in whose just judgment, I doubt not (whatsoever the world may think of me), mine innocence shall be openly known and sufficiently cleared.

  My last and only request shall be, that myself only bear the burden of your grace’s displeasure, and that it may not touch the innocent souls of those poor gentlemen, whom, as I understand, are likewise in strait imprisonment for my sake. If ever I have found favour in your sight – if ever the name of Anne Bulen have been pleasing in your ears – then let me obtain this request; and so I will leave to trouble your grace any further, with mine earnest prayer to the Trinity to have your grace in his good keeping, and to direct you in all your actions.