Anne the Warrior Read online

  He certainly was the luckier man today. As I began to pace outside the door, dreading the minute I would be forced to enter, he watched me with a mild look of sympathy.

  “I tell you this, Charles,” I snarled out. “If it were not to satisfy the world, and my realm, I would not do what I must do this day.”

  “Eloquent,” Charles replied. “Have you been working on that a while?”

  I glared back but did not answer. I continued to pace, waiting for him to speak again.

  “Your Majesty, I am sorry that you must do this duty for England,” he finally said. I could tell by his tone that he regretted his teasing words, but if this was because he was truly sorry or merely did not want to arouse my temper, I could not tell.

  “I tell you Charles, she is the most foul –“ my voice broke off, unwilling to list Anne’s sins once again.

  “Your Majesty, the Lady Anne has picked up many card games in the few weeks she has been here. And I am sure that once her attendants return to Cleves she will bow to English customs and fashions.”

  “That will hardly make her a queen!”

  Charles bit his lip and looked to the door, obviously waiting for our cue to enter.

  “Your Majesty, need I tell you that your circumstances could be much worse,” he finally muttered.

  “How?” I demanded, stopping to fully face him.

  Instead of answering Charles paled, looking away from me. I dropped my gaze as well. He need not remind me of my former marriages, of the women who had shaped my life so far and disappointed me in so many ways. Catherine, the dazzling older woman who in nearly two decades never produced a living son and then refused to free me from our incestuous marriage. Anne, the temptress who lured me into loving her and then attempted to destroy those who I held dear. And Jane, my precious bride, who provided me with a son before abandoning us both.

  But in all those years, in the three times I had prepared for marriage, I had never approached it with such dread. I took one fleeting glance at Charles, turned, and prepared to face my new queen.

  Chapter Two

  February, 1540

  The table before me creaked under the strain of the food. I looked to my chamberlain, but he seemed unconcerned about the old wooden table, a relic of my father’s time. He merely nodded at a page who pushed another silver plate laden with pork into place before me. The boy had barely backed away before I pulled a large piece of meat onto my golden plate, reaching beyond for a leg from a turkey.

  To my right, Anne grinned and reached for the ham herself. Pig was rare to her; it had to be prepared fresh, and she seemed enchanted with its salty taste. As I pulled the hind quarters of a chicken to my mouth, I watched my queen as she dragged a large slice of bread across the piece of meat before bringing the slice, soggy with the pig’s juices, up to her lips. She took a huge bite before turning to me.

  “It is good, Your Majesty!”

  Used to me not responding to her statements, she pulled another piece of bread away from the loaf in front of her and repeated the action. To my left Charles Brandon grimaced; like me, he had never seen a woman eat quite as Anne did. Certainly no lady who had ever sat in one of my great halls had ever reached out like the men, pulling what she craved down onto her own plate, instead of waiting for a page to pull the choosier morsels for the lady to lightly sample.

  It had not been until Anne that I had realized a woman could belch as a man did. I of course knew it happened, even the most demure ladies slipped occasionally, but never with such force or so unashamed as my current wife. Watching her peel off another leg of chicken I knew we would all be privy to another noisy example from Anne before the day was done.

  I pulled another piece of turkey towards my plate, conscious of how my meals were now so different from how they had been at the beginning of my reign. It was not the amount of food that had changed necessarily, but the time of the meals. In my younger years I had been so anxious to leave the table—there was jousting or hunting, or any number of ladies that could call away my attention. Food had seemed almost an inconvenience then; pleasant certainly, but never as consuming as they were now, lasting hours and with plate after plate of delicacies to tempt me.

  But now there were no jousts to distract me. Hunting, which I still loved, could not pull me away, as I tired after only a few hours in the saddle. There was no horse that could carry my bulk at a canter for more than few minutes, and the rough riding would chafe against the wound on my thigh that I had received jousting so many years ago.

  That wound had changed everything. Due to my inactivity I had learned to enjoy food, had clothes that were expanded, and could not maintain the typical activities of my youth. But in the past years the wound had not closed, instead swelling and griping me with a pain unimaginable when I exerted myself. With no activities to distract me, I had looked to food for entertainment. Where was I to go?

  And as my size had increased, the number of ladies brought to my bed had lessened. Oh, they would still come; I was the king and one of the most sought after men at court. But it seemed my eating had an unintended consequence, one that had embarrassed me with a lady who had returned with me to my chambers six months ago. I had never before had a woman look at me with sadness and slight frustration, to roll away from me and to apologize for something that was clearly my fault. With a small shake of her head she had left me, and since then I had not been willing to try again.

  Not even with my wife. Not that I had any desire to draw nearer than necessary to Anne, but we were still yet to be married fully. And now, as I looked at the woman who was currently using her sleeve to wipe away excess juices from her lips, I could not find any desire to bed any woman. For if I could bed a mistress, surely I would have to bed Anne, an act that seemed impossible.

  What was most humiliating was that the entire court knew of this difficulty. I expected nothing less – even my bowel movements could be cause of much interest to my courtiers, who believed they could divine my moods from how I had acted on the toilet that morning. I had tried to place as much of the blame away from me as possible, informing my inquiring doctor that I could not bring myself to be with Anne, but believed I could still satisfy another woman. Any other woman.

  That there was something unpleasant about Anne could not be denied. However, I knew my courtiers did not fully accept this excuse and were still hoping for a second prince for the nursery.

  As the empty plates were taken away from in front of us and another dish of game fowl brought to rest before me, I turned to Anne, but spoke loudly enough for the rest of the court to hear.

  “Madame, I wish to inform you that the Lady Mary will be joining the court to celebrate the season of Lent,” I said with a slight bow of my head.

  Anne furrowed her brow and I could almost see her translating my words inside her head.

  “Ah,” she said finally. “Stepdaughter.”

  An embarrassed silence swept over the table and I cleared my throat before responding.

  “Not exactly, sweetheart,” I said with as much compassion as I could. “The Lady Mary is the same age as you are. I hope you will be friends, but I do not believe you will be a mother to her.”

  The typical silence followed as Anne searched to translate.

  “Will the Lady Elizabeth and the Prince join us?” she finally asked.

  “The Lady Elizabeth will join the court for Easter,” I answered. “But Prince Edward will not.” I emphasize my son’s name, hoping that this time it will stick in her memory.

  “Prince Edward,” she muttered, nodding her head as if still angry at herself. “I am sorry that he will not be here. I hope to meet the stepson.”

  I smiled but did not say what I was thinking, which as that I hoped that Edward never saw this horrible replacement for his mother.

  “The Lady Mary,” Anne said as she turned to me. “She is friends with the Pope?”

  I began to wish that I had started this conversation elsewhere, but I had no way of
knowing that Anne would suddenly become so inquisitive.

  “No one at my court is friends with the Bishop of Rome,” I responded stiffly. “Which is what we call the Pope here in England.”

  Anne nodded, once again muttering to herself. Her eyes had almost crossed themselves with the effort she was using to remember this information. I felt myself momentarily compelled to assist her.

  “But the Lady Mary’s sympathies do lie with the Catholics,” I conceded. “In as much as the law allows. She was raised as such.”

  Next to me Charles raised his eyebrow; it was rare that I allowed such information to be said about Mary. And how she was raised was certainly no excuse. Everyone who sat at my table had been raised a Catholic; none of them had found any trouble with remaining loyal to me rather than a superstitious Pope.

  “Well, we will talk to her,” Anne said with confidence.

  “We?” I asked. Nothing I had said to my daughter had yet changed her opinions.

  “Me,” she corrected. “Can talk and help her.”

  I sighed but did not fight her. Let her talk to my stubborn daughter. It would be no cause of concern to me.

  ***

  Mary took to Anne more than I had believed she would. Arriving only two days before the beginning of Lent, Mary first greeted me, then went straight to my new wife’s chambers. There, with broken English, they began to speak. Though Anne was almost the same age as Mary, it seemed I had underestimated my daughter’s desire for a mother.

  Over the next two days the women had bonded. I even caught them laughing together over supper. How my naïve and quiet daughter had found something in common with this uncouth wife of mine I could only imagine. However, Mary’s presence did have one advantage – I now no longer had to search for topics of conversation with Anne, as she and Mary seemed to prefer dining in the Queen’s chambers without the court.

  I did not see my wife again until the Tuesday evening before the start of Lent. I had already retired to bed, with dispatches from my ambassadors to France and Spain surrounding me. A page boy smartly held the door open for Anne, who entered in her newest dressing gown. With a short bow, the boy exited to my outer chamber, abandoning us to each other.

  If there was one positive to Lent, it was that these nightly visits would cease for the next sixty days. It was forbidden by the church for any relations to take place, even between a husband and wife. For the first time in my forty-eight years, I looked forward to this restriction.

  “Your Majesty,” Anne muttered, falling into the curtsey she had recently learned. I motioned for her to rise and to join me in the bed. As usual she crept beneath the sheets, careful not to roll against me or touch me in any way. Indeed, I did not even think she knew what we were not doing.

  “Important?” she asked, gesturing to the letters that surrounded me.

  “Very,” I snapped back, intent to ignore her until she drifted away. Unfortunately, she was not put off by my tone and instead raised her eyebrows, inviting me to continue. Bowing to her expectations, I sat back, lifting up one letter.

  “It seems that Francis and Charles have both begun to call up armies,” I said.

  “Kings call up armies – against you?” she asked. I sighed; the girl obviously did not even know why our marriage had taken place.

  “Yes,” I responded, my voice sounding weary instead of the anger I had tried for. “Francis and Charles have drawn up large armies. Their aim could be for the holy land, but my advisors and I believe a more likely target is England. It is closer, and together there is the potential they could overrun our country.”

  “And if Catholics in England help,” Anne replied. “Armies could enter easily.”

  “Well – yes,” I agreed, stunned that she understood this point.

  “Brother – my brother said armies should not attack England. That his power would keep them away.”

  I felt myself grow exasperated with the absent duke.

  “Your brother is not as powerful as he may think.”

  Anne’s nose wrinkled as she waved her hand, searching for the words she needed.

  “Not powerful as you,” she said. “But power not only in army. Power in money.”

  She was correct about that. What her brother could not give me in armies, he could provide in money, or in mercenaries.

  “But the threat of even that does not seem to scare them,” I responded.

  Anne shrugged before speaking.

  “You should not look to brother to help.”

  I narrowed my eyes at her but allowed her to continue.

  “Brother may help,” she conceded. “But England should be powerful army without. England cannot look to brother and Protestants to save.”

  “We have an army,” I explained. “And they have served me well —“

  “With small uprising,” Anne interrupted, her face flushing. “Farmers. Men with forks, knives. Not against large army.”

  “I have fought France before,” I reminded her, my anger rising.

  “With help of Spain,” she responded. “Many years in past.”

  She was correct about that, but I did not plan on telling her so.

  “Well, what would you suggest?” I snapped, knowing there was no easy answer.

  “Boats,” she answered with confidence. “England has all water around. Must have more boats.”

  “We have one of the greatest navies —“

  “More,” she said, her face flushing as she sat up to face me. “And must not wait. Must not wait for brother, or for miracle, but must make miracle for England. Other kings will not wait to attack England. England must not wait, either.”

  I looked at her, hair loosened out of its plait, red-faced and fire in her eyes. I reached down and gathered the papers before me, moving them to the table beside me.

  “No, I don’t believe we should,” I answered with a nod, surprised that this foreign princess cared so much for my England. I looked back at her, as she sank back down into the sheets, ready to turn away from me once again. Leaning to the side, I blew out the candle and prepared to sleep with only one thought to plague me.

  Anne was beautiful when she was angry.

  ***

  Though it was Lent, Archbishop Cranmer had agreed that a council of war could be drawn up. This cheered me, as neither Francis nor Charles, with their slavish devotion to the Archbishop of Rome, would dare speak of war during Lent.

  To my right, Charles Brandon still looked slightly uneasy at the prospect of considering war during the holy season. But he had eaten the beef that was served during lunch, although that too was forbidden during Catholic Lent. I was sure that my old friend would soon forget his trepidation.

  By his side the Duke of Norfolk, Thomas Howard, with his gruff exterior that spoke of earlier generations, seemed pleased that we were finally to meet and plan this summer’s expedition. I knew some of his household held Catholic tendencies, but believed that the old duke would put England, and his wealth, before religious sympathies.

  Across from both dukes sat Cromwell, his papers covering half of the wooden table. As king, I naturally led the proceedings, but it was generally Cromwell’s knowledge and information that dictated how the course of the meeting was to run. I knew it strained the dukes’ nerves to wait on a merchant’s son to begin the meeting, but neither would dare voice displeasure in my presence.

  Cromwell finally glanced up at me with a slight nod.

  “Very well,” I said with a sigh. “As you all know, we are here today to discuss the possibility of war. If we determine this is the correct course of action, a discussion will be taken to the Privy Council, where it will be determined to what scale we will act.

  “The Archbishop of Rome has declared not only me, but our kingdom, in excommunication. While I know, as Head of the Church of England, that this will not affect our souls, it will inspire King Francis of France and Emperor Charles of Spain to rise against us. Not only that, but if there are any in England who feel comp
elled to follow the Archbishop of Rome, they will see this as cause for rebellion.”

  I glanced at Cromwell, who cleared his throat before beginning to speak.

  “Reports from our ambassadors show that before the beginning of Lent, King Francis was already calling up an impressive force. He tells our ambassadors, naturally, that he plans to attack the Turks who have invaded the Holy Land. However, my spies show that he has been in contact with Emperor Charles and the Archbishop of Rome and has promised both of them that he will attack England within the year.

  “Emperor Charles has not moved as swiftly,” Cromwell continued. “He has called no men to arms, but has agreed with King Francis that England must be destroyed for its insolence.”

  “More spies?” the Duke of Norfolk gruffly interrupted.

  “No, he said that directly to our ambassador,” Cromwell replied. “Emperor Charles has made no secret that he wishes to attack and is only waiting for a loan from the Archbishop of Rome to call up an army. He and King Francis have already declared that Calais should consider themselves under French rule.”

  “How is the mood in Calais?” Charles Brandon asked, leaning forward over the table, one hand in his dark ginger beard.

  “Defiant,” Cromwell answered. “We need not worry about an uprising there.”

  “Where should we worry about an uprising?” I asked, picking up on what was not said.

  “The North, naturally,” Cromwell answered. “That is where most of the rebels who formed the Pilgrimage of Grace three years ago originated from. Though Your Majesty swiftly dealt with those Catholic heretics, there are still those who cling to the old religion. And if Scotland were to back them —“ Cromwell trailed off. We all knew the power of Scotland’s raids; the Scots were wild men who would pillage and burn just for the pleasure of doing so. With a nudge from their traditional ally, France, they would double their efforts.

  “Well, what should be done?” Charles Brandon asked. “Should we move to call up an army? And if so, where would be best to attack – France or Spain?”