Anne the Saint Read online

  Christian even used her considerable influence on the continent to secure marriage for Mary. I had approached George Boleyn about it. He had told me it would be “tricky,” but refused to elaborate. When I complained to my wife that night about this, she had looked up from where she had been reading in bed and spoken to me calmly.

  “It is tricky because she was a princess and now she is a bastard,” she said in a straight-forward voice. “You cannot trust any of your nobles to marry her; they may try to take the throne for themselves. And she cannot marry a prince of Europe, because she is a bastard.”

  Normally the direct way in which my wife spoke helped me with decisions. That night it had only infuriated me.

  “I cannot help what her mother did to trick me!” I yelled, throwing myself into a chair that strained with the weight I had gained since the birth of my last son.

  “Yes, and neither can Mary,” Christina quipped back.

  I felt my temper defusing, as it always did with the girl’s soft-spoken sense.

  “Indeed not,” I responded, in a much softer tone of voice.

  “Allow me to take care of it,” she answered. “And come to bed.”

  I had done so and, true to her word, she had taken care of it. A noble in Denmark, young enough that I did not feel like I was yoking my daughter to a man facing death but old enough to know his place in the world. And far away enough from England that any assault would be unimaginable.

  Charles continued to grow and stayed by my side as I was determined to give him all the lessons I had never learned as a child on statecraft. The boy was bright and kind, something I did not feel he got from me. And occasionally I would see a flash of Anne in him, even if it was how he cheated at cards or the way his face lit up when he learned something new. And it was those times that filled me with peace and gave me hope that I had not lost Anne forever.

  Anne’s vision stretched out across the country. Even Archbishop Cranmer was hard pressed to find a town without one of his poor houses. Last year, he and Sir Edward Stafford had begun opening what quickly became known as Queen Anne’s — schools in every town for those who wanted to learn. The plans were loosely based on the schools created by the Ancient Greeks and I had convinced Erasmus, the most noted humanist on the continent, to come to England to oversee them.

  I was not sure where the term “Queen Anne’s” had come from, but I was thankful for it. Seven years ago I had still struggled at how to credit Anne with the changes that were taking my country. Though I still made public appearances, I remained mostly in my chambers with my thoughts of how to expand Anne’s plans and how to make sure she was seen as the instigator. Too many ballads still referred to her as a witch or sorceress.

  Only the boy, Edward Stafford, had been serving me on that rainy afternoon. It was only after I had stared into the fire for two hours without a word that he approached me.

  He had grown taller throughout the years and more self-assured. His brother, Geoff, had been sent to join the church and currently worked with the Bishop of London in the boys’ choir.

  “Your Majesty,” he muttered, dropping to both knees in front of me. I glanced over at him, slightly stunned; the only other time he had shown such deference had been when he begged for his brother to leave my services and join the church. That had been an easy wish to grant and I hoped what was plaguing him now would be as easily gifted.

  “Edward?” I asked. I let him stay on his knees, knowing that if he was asking for something he would prefer not to look me in the eyes.

  “Your Majesty, I wished to inquire about the Church of England.”

  This alarmed me; an inquiry about the Church of England was much more serious than reassigning an ill-fitted page boy.

  “Inquire, if you believe this be wise.”

  Edward paused for a moment and I could hear him give a slight gasp for breath. I could still be ruthless when I needed to be, something Cromwell had learned on the scaffold.

  “Your Majesty, the icons of the Roman Catholic Church were seen as idolatry. I wanted to know if all saints were idols.”

  I paused for a moment. Few people, aside from my wife, ever questioned me on religion.

  “No, Edward,” I decreed after having thought about it for a moment. There was a time when I would have demanded Cranmer attend to me and help me determine my mind. However, my reliance on others had long passed. I was now confident in my ability to judge what was best for the church.

  “Then may I ask what the saints of the Church of England are?”

  I paused here for longer. We were stepping into dangerous territory, and I knew better than to decide such matters on a whim.

  “That is a question that has not yet been addressed,” I answered honestly.

  “Your Majesty, I know little about how one becomes a saint.” He paused but I did not respond, I do not think he was looking for a lesson in the tutorage of the making of a saint.

  “I merely wondered, Your Majesty,” he continued with a deep breath. “If perhaps Queen Anne would be eligible.”

  And that was it. As soon as the words escaped the boy’s lips I knew that this was what I had been searching for. I grasped the boys head and planted a kiss on his crown, leaping from my chair. I had not moved with this much energy in three years.

  “You there!” I called out to a new page boy. “Go and fetch Archbishop Cranmer. Tell him there will be a new policy for the church regarding Queen Anne. Hurry!” The boy scampered off without a backwards glance and I looked back down to where Edward was kneeling. I gestured for him to rise to his feet.

  “I shall reward you for this,” I promised with a grin. The boy kept his head bowed and his blushed a deep red. I gestured him over to my table and we both sat when the archbishop arrived, the Bishop of London and Sir Francis Weston on his tail.

  “Your Majesty,” he said with a deep bow. “I had the Bishop and Sir Francis accompany me, as you said it was a matter of the church and Her Majesty, Queen Anne?”

  “Yes,” I said with a smile, gesturing for the men to sit. Edward made to move away and I put out a hand to stop him.

  “No,” I said plainly. “You must share with us more of your ideas.”

  Edward had, and after that it was a simple matter for the head of the Church of England and the Archbishop of Canterbury to instate a saint — a new saint, the first saint of the Church of England.

  Saint Anne of Kent.