Anne the Saint Read online

  Anne the Saint

  The Six Lives of Henry the VII

  Leigh Jenkins

  To all my friends,

  your kind words and unwavering support

  have meant more to me than you will ever know.

  Prologue

  September, 1527

  Catherine’s ladies fluttered around their mistress as I entered her chamber unannounced. It did not take much time for me to see that what Wolsey’s spy in her household had said was true— my wife was laid back on a group of pillows, her face ashen. The midwife scurried past me, and her ladies followed soon after.

  For the first time in weeks Catherine and I were alone. I did not make a move toward her bed.

  “It was not even six weeks.”

  Catherine’s head turned toward me and she bowed her head.

  “I am sorry, Your Majesty.”

  “Sorry?” I asked, the words practically spitting out of my mouth. “You are sorry that you lost what could have been a Prince of Wales?”

  Catherine didn’t respond, but instead closed her eyes and leaned back into her pillows. I continued my frustrated pacing. For the past month I had been assured that the miracle we had waited for was here. Look to Abraham, I had been told. Had not his wife Sarah given birth in her advanced age? Surely God would work a miracle for his favorite king.

  “There is still time,” Catherine said softly. “I have not yet passed from —“

  “I’ve heard differently,” was my sharp rebuke.

  Catherine didn’t say anything, so I took my opportunity to continue.

  “I heard you had not had a course for over three months before I came to your chamber. I heard your physician say that he believed your time for bearing princes had come to an end. It’s true, is it not?”

  With a nod, Catherine sank even farther away from me. So she was admitting defeat so easily. I turned from her, ready to leave the room.

  “Harry?” she called, her voice strained but still thick with her Spanish accent.

  I stopped but did not turn around.

  “The lady you have had —“

  With that I did turn around, furious at her audacity to criticize me when she had been unable to keep one child in the past eleven years.

  “The Lady Anne Boleyn is above reproach. You will not harm her or cause her any undue distress.”

  At this Catherine became even paler. But she did not waver.

  “She does me great dishonor —“

  “She does you no dishonor. There is not a blemish on her character, is that understood?”

  I waited for Catherine’s weak nod, before turning my back on the woman who had been my wife for eighteen years. As I moved swiftly down the hallways of Hampton Court towards Cardinal Wolsey’s chambers, I had only one thought — what would I have to do for my son now?

  Chapter 1

  January, 1533

  “Everything is ready, Your Majesty.”

  I turned to look at William Brereton, a young man who had just been raised to become a Groom of the Privy Chamber.

  “Ah, yes, Sir William. Let us begin this glorious day.”

  I followed the young man out of my chambers and through a set of secret hallways. Since Catherine had been expelled from my court the previous year, the Queen’s apartments had been used by the woman they always should have belonged to — the Lady Anne Boleyn, newly created Marquis of Pembroke.

  Walking down the corridors of York Palace, I relished in my recent success. True that Parliament had not yet fully passed the law that said Catherine had never legally been my wife, but Archbishop Cranmer, another courtier who held a new post, assured me that Parliament would rule in my favor soon.

  And my advisors had said it couldn’t be done. Even my own sister had supported Catherine — Catherine, whose only child to me after eighteen years was a girl. And that girl, who would soon be known not as the Princess Mary but only as Lady Mary, was as stubborn as her mother, refusing to acknowledge that my marriage to my late brother’s widow could not be lawful – indeed, as it said in the book of Leviticus, for a man to take his brother’s wife was considered a sin and they would cursed with childlessness — something that seemed to be an obvious curse on my house, as Catherine and I had no son.

  I had not seen Mary in many years. When word had reached her of my intentions towards her mother, Mary had taken to her bed for a month, claiming illness. Catherine had wanted to go to her but I had refused. Mary was merely looking for sympathy. And I had no doubt that mother and daughter would conspire against me, Catherine working her poison into what had once been my precious daughter.

  My mind quickly pushed away thoughts of Mary, the girl who had once been so devoted to me. She had been my only pride for so long that cutting her out now pained me more than I would dare say; not to her and her mother, and certainly not to Anne, who cursed the girl’s stubbornness. My hope was to one day welcome my daughter back to court and back to my loving arms, but there could be no such reconciliation at the present time.

  Of course, the Pope had taken Catherine’s side. First Wolsey and then Cromwell had explained to me that this was merely because Catherine’s nephew, the Emperor Charles, held the Pope captive and Charles would not allow the Pope to take any action that would insult his beloved aunt. I, however, felt the Pope that I had defended from that heretic Martin Luther should have understood what a serious business having a son was for a king. No matter what bodily harm could come to him, he should have ruled on the side of what was right, not what was convenient for him.

  Brereton led me through a number of twists and turns until I reached the doors of the Queen’s Closet, the small chapel that had been attached to all of Catherine’s rooms so she could pray to God for what little help he could give a person so willing to live in sin like she had been.

  I tried to dispel all memories of Catherine as I gazed at the woman waiting for me beside Archbishop Cranmer. At twenty-nine years of age, the Lady Anne Boleyn would never again be considered young. However, she had something that no other woman in my kingdom had at the moment – she was pregnant with my child.

  It had taken seven long years for us to reach this point. For there to be enough supporters that my marriage to Catherine could be considered annulled. For Cromwell to have enough strength in Parliament to push through the latest bill, one that had declared me Supreme Head of the Church of England.

  And it was all thanks to Anne. Anne, who had danced into my life with youthful vigor just as Catherine’s youth was fleeing. Anne, who had placed a small book into my hand with a suggestion that I read it. And with Catherine refusing to enter a nunnery and no son to follow in my footsteps, I had read its words and taken them to heart.

  A king could be a spiritual leader to his own people. The Obedience of a Christian Man had been filled with such truths and so many opportunities for me.

  I could still see the way Anne had sparkled the first time I had met her. There had been dancing in Catherine’s rooms and my eyes had been drawn to her and the yellow dress she had worn. She had recently returned from France where she had accompanied my sister Mary during her brief reign as Queen of France.

  She held the room captive; I approached her later as she shared a glass a wine with many of the young men in my train. I approached her from behind, studying the turn of her head and the grace she seemed to exude.

  “But of course King Francis could not see the value in the venture,” she had said, her French accent rippling across the words. She crooked her finger and the four young men leaned in closer to her as if to hear a great secret.

  “So the Emperor Charles declared that if Francis could not see the value of a mare in spring time, it was only because he could not see past the nose on his face!”
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  The young men burst into laughter, the line not being particularly funny, but each seemed to want Anne’s eyes to fall on him. She smiled at each boy in turn before continuing.

  “And of course you have heard of the King of France’s great nose — he saw this as such an insult! And that is, of course, why there is the current disagreement between France and Spain.”

  I had smiled at her simple explanation of European politics. The boys seemed to accept it though and all made to speak at once ‘til the youngest noticed my presence and leapt to his feet.

  “Your Majesty,” he said with a quick bow that was copied then by each of the boys. Anne remained seated for a moment, placing her wine glass before her, then standing to sweep me a small curtsey. I took one of the boys’ seats at the table before waving them away.

  “Please, sit,” I said, waving her back to her chair. She sat lightly, arranging her skirts so as to not look to me.

  “And do you believe all politics explained so easily?” I asked, feeling myself move towards her as the boys had done.

  “Non, ne fais pas l’idiot,” she said with a wave of her hand, before remembering who she was talking to. She blushed prettily. “Forgive me your Majesty,” she said lightly. “I merely mean to say that talking politics to boys is one thing, to speak with you would be quite another.”

  “Well you are speaking with me now,” I had said with an easy smile. “Do you truly think that Francis and Charles fight merely because of those words?”

  She sat back in her seat and seemed to think for a moment.

  “It is not because of those words, but it is because of the attitude that they possess,” she finally said. “It is why they would use such crude insults, why Francis will point out Charles’ great chin and the Emperor of Spain will refuse to dine with the Queen of France. They lack the ability to see greatness.”

  “And I?” To my great chagrin I realized that I too was leaning in as those boys had, hanging on her next word. But I could not seem to draw myself away. Anne smiled again and this time it was blinding.

  “You seem to understand greatness wherever it can be found,” she whispered.

  Only a few weeks later she had first spoken to me of the books she had read in France, the new learning that could rid me of my elderly wife and our only daughter.

  But it had taken my secretary Cromwell and his acquaintance, a cleric named Thomas Cranmer, to be able to shine the light that I needed, to show me the way to break not only with the Church in Rome but with hundreds of years of tradition.

  Wolsey had not been able to see this path. Many others, such as Catherine and my former tutor Sir Thomas More, had not been able to see it either. And in their fear they had made many grave errors. Thomas More was isolated in his house at Chelsea, working on his precious books. Catherine had been banished to a series of small palaces, places that were fine for the Dowager Princess of Wales. And Cardinal Wolsey was dead.

  As I walked to my bride I could see the smile on her face and the lines that had fallen from around her eyes. Many times she had come to me, tears on her face, swearing that she never should have begun this road with me. When I had first promised marriage to Anne, it had all seemed so simple — Catherine would be placed aside. I felt sure the Pope would rule in my favor; he had recently named me Defender of the Faith, and I was his favorite prince. But between his fears and Catherine’s stubborn refusal to step aside, Anne’s patience had worn thin.

  As had mine. In the seven years we had waited, Anne had refused to give me her body, insisting that only with marriage would she be safe. During this time, I had only taken one other woman, a serving girl in Kent during one of my summer progresses. It had not lasted very long, nor been very satisfying. And that had been two years before Anne had relented, had felt safe enough in my promise of marriage to give herself to me. It was the longest I had gone without a woman since I had taken the throne.

  But it had been worth it. Within weeks of coming to my bed Anne had become pregnant with the son she had assured me we would have. Even now, as I drew closer to her, I could see her loosened gown around her swollen stomach. I smiled and reveled in the look she returned to me.

  I took my spot by Anne and we bowed before Cranmer. There was little to the service; I knew Anne was unhappy that there was to be no public wedding, but my kingdom’s adoration would come with time. And with the birth of our son.

  Before my mind had begun to stray the ceremony was complete. I was able to turn to the Lady Anne — no, Queen Anne, I had to now remind myself. She was my wife and she must prove to be loyal to me as I had been loyal to her these past seven years.

  Only a few weeks later found me back in meetings with my secretary, Thomas Cromwell. It seemed nothing could be done without my approval, not even time for me to spend with my recently acknowledged wife.

  “Your Majesty, Queen Anne’s coronation has been planned for the date of June 1st. The city of London has prepared many masques and the queens rooms at the tower will be prepared for her.”

  “Very good,” I answered Cromwell. Since the disgrace and death of Wolsey three years previously, I had come to rely more and more on this young man who had shown himself worthy to my cause. I was still hesitant to hand as much power to this clerk as I had to Wolsey. Anne had warned that I must learn from my previous mistakes and no longer trust anyone but her.

  I knew that she was correct. Since my proceedings against Catherine had begun, too many people who I had loved and trusted had turned against me. Had called me foolish or egotistical for setting aside a wife that they said had caused me no harm.

  But Catherine had caused me the greatest harm. I had celebrated my forty-first year last summer and still had no son to show for it. Charles Brandon and Thomas More may say what they will; they both had sons to follow them. Cardinal Wolsey and Bishop Fisher did not understand, but they held no estates to be passed down. And what estate was greater than the throne?

  My councilors knew but could not comprehend what would happen to the throne if I had no son to succeed me. A fearsome council meeting had occurred the past summer when I was still trying to woe courtiers to my point of view, trying to show them that since Catherine could no longer bear children she was of no more use to the crown.

  Cromwell had opened the meeting as always, and Bishop Fisher had asked to be heard first. I was loathe to let the man speak; he had been part of Catherine’s defense during the trial that had been held here in England by the Pope. A trial that the Pope had yet to formally rule on.

  But that day I had allowed it, and the man had begun once again, in a tiresome voice, extoling the virtues of Catherine and asking for her to be more kindly treated. It was not until he turned to me and began urging me to take her back to my bed that the scene became unpleasant.

  “Your Majesty,” he had stuttered out. “Your Queen is blameless in this decision by God to keep male children from you. Welcoming her back into the marriage bed is the will of God —“

  “It is not the will of God, nor is it the will of your King!” I cried out, standing as I slammed a hand down onto the table in front of me. “I cannot believe that the men of the court are as ignorant as Catherine, the Dowager Princess of Wales!” I used Catherine’s correct title to contradict Fisher who persisted in calling her the queen.

  “Do you understand what will happen to this country without a male heir?” The men around the table were silent and refused to meet my gaze. I continued.

  “If Catherine’s daughter, the Lady Mary was to try to take the throne, whatever husband could be found for her would become king. This would be a foreign husband, a husband who would use England and her wealth in whatever way he saw fit to help his kingdom.”

  The men looked uneasy at this possibility; no Englishman would be able to stomach seeing a Spanish prince on the throne and I knew it.

  “Any other issue would not be strong enough to take the throne, as I know the church —“ and here I looked sharply at Bishop Fisher who
remained in his seat with his back straight, staring firmly ahead. “The church would not allow it.”

  The entire room knew that I spoke of my son Henry, the Duke of Richmond. Born to me fifteen years earlier by Elizabeth Blount, he had recently become engaged to Mary Howard. I had harbored hopes that he could one day become my heir but knew of no way to legitimize the boy and have the church accept him as a possible king.

  “And if the crown goes to one not of my issue,” I continued, menacingly, “It will go to King James of Scotland, only son of my sister Margaret! A Scotsman on the throne of England!” I stopped for a moment to allow this to sink in.

  Charles Brandon, Duke of Suffolk, had quickly stepped in to change the subject matter to the upcoming session of Parliament, but I could see that this argument had swayed in the minds of at least some of the council.

  I had to believe that the men would be happy with the coronation of a queen who was already carrying a son and the future Prince of Wales. They had to understand that above my regard for Catherine or Anne, this son was the most important accomplishment I could hope to achieve.

  I remained firmly in my seat at the next council meeting after my marriage had taken place, looking to no one, prepared only to have this meeting finished.

  “And as the last order of business,” Cromwell read from his notes. “Archbishop Cranmer will announce his findings on the King’s Great Matter.”

  It had been Wolsey who had first referred to my attempted disentanglement from Catherine as ‘The King’s Great Matter’ and it seemed the best way to describe it still.

  I watched as the members of the council glanced around at one another nervously. After an extensive trial presided over by Cardinal Wolsey and Cardinal Campeggio from Rome, a trial that had ended in nothing, and the frantic gathering of opinions from all schools of divinity across the continent, it all came down now to Archbishop Cranmer.