Anne the Saint Page 6

  “Of course,” Anne said with her small smile. “I was merely being silly. You hear such things from a courtier and do not know what it means.”

  “I did not realize it had already reached your ears. I would have told you myself; I informed your uncle of my consent only this morning!”

  Anne and I laughed together at the power of gossip in the court and I brought her hand to my lips to kiss it.

  “No child will ever take precedence above your son, Anne,” I whispered.

  “Thank you, Henry,” she said, a rare soft look in her dark eyes.

  I dropped her hand and reached back for my book as she stood. She had almost left my chambers when she turned around again.

  “Henry?”

  “Yes?” I asked, in a good mood.

  “I did also wish to speak with you on the education opportunity I wanted to create for the citizens of York, I think you will remember what I said from—“

  As she continued I felt my good mood disappear.

  Charles Brandon was once again dispatched to fetch my son to us for the holiday seasons. I sent an armed guard with him but was not concerned about thieves or ill-wishers on the road. Even though most of what I had said to Anne had been to console her, I had been correct in guessing the attitudes of my people. With the birth of the longed-for heir to the throne, hearts and minds had begun to turn and I had no more reports of dirty poems nailed to the street corners in London or threats of death from the north.

  Cromwell’s spies, who had been Wolsey’s spies, were still on alert throughout the kingdom. The biggest complaint they reported was of the closing of the monasteries. It seemed that unfortunately Cranmer had been right — the numbers of poor had risen and there had been a distinct lack of education provided in the past months. However, Cromwell assured me that all was well and it was merely the people becoming used to a new way of life.

  Charles’ arrival found Anne and I down again at the stables, this time at Greenwich palace where we would be spending the holiday seasons. Unlike with his departure two months prior, the entire court was with us and as I looked around, it was hard to distinguish the courtiers from one another as they all stood wrapped in the heaviest cloaks and furs. Only George Boleyn was distinguishable to me, a large falcon feather standing proudly out of his hat.

  Anne was tense; I believe if we had been alone she would have begun pacing in front of me. There was little I could do to reassure her, as I too was anxious to see our son. I knew that if anything had happened on the road we would already know about it, but I would feel better when I held my son in my own arms.

  A light mist escaped from Anne’s lips through the frosted air when a large cloud of dust could be seen down the lane, Brandon’s standard flying before them. Anne had hardly waited for the horses to be fully stopped before running to the steps to the carriage, opening the door herself and reaching in for her son.

  I could see a look of disapproval on Lady Margaret Bryan’s face when she stepped out of the carriage, watching Anne coo over her son. Lady Bryan had been governess to Catherine’s daughter Mary as well and there had been no such displays from Catherine over her child, even when their separations from one another had been long.

  Of course there had been no longer separation than the one they were currently experiencing. Catherine and Mary had last seen one another two and a half years ago during the last summer progress Catherine had been permitted to accompany me on. It was due to their own stubbornness in refusing to acknowledge Anne as my wife that they endured this current separation.

  Anne led the court back into the warmth of the palace and I, satisfied to see my son even from a distance, walked down to where Charles Brandon was dismounting.

  “Your Majesty,” he said, falling into an immediate bow.

  “I see you have completed another duty as godfather,” I said laughing, rising him up. “Her Majesty and I are very pleased to have our son with us for the holidays.”

  Charles broke into a smile.

  “I am glad to have pleased Your Majesty,” he said quickly. “And have another Christmas surprise as well, if Your Majesty so wishes it.”

  I raised an eyebrow and motioned for him to continue as we turned to travel indoors.

  “Your Majesty’s sister has written to me and begs to be allowed to attend the court this Christmas season.”

  I turned sharply to him, barely noticing the cold wind that suddenly blew up around us.

  “Is she asking to be permitted or is she willing to acknowledge the Queen?” This was the crucial question and the reason Mary had been absent from the court since my marriage to Anne almost a year prior.

  “She is prepared to acknowledge the Queen and show her proper homage,” Charles responded with his easy smile.

  “Praise be to God,” I said, relieved to know that my dear sister would once again be a part of the court. I slapped Charles on the back and we continued inside.

  Anne was never to be seen without her son. Throughout the week leading up to the Christmas festivities she held him in her arms almost constantly, only surrendering him to Mother Jack for his feeding.

  It was during one of those times that Sir Robert Aske of the northern countries came to petition the court. Charles was being fed and would then take his mid-day nap, so instead of being in the nursery, Anne was for once at her seat on my dais. During the Christmas season I tried to hear more petitions than usual, I saw it as my gift to the people. They usually responded with many problems, most I considered beneath my reckoning and would issue them to Cromwell.

  Sir Aske was brought forward by Lord Henry Percy of Northumberland, a sickly fellow who had once had a fancy to marry Anne himself. Even then, almost a decade ago, I had known that this was not the path for Anne and had Cardinal Wolsey put a stop to their marriage.

  “Your Majesties,” Percy said with a deep bow, his thin figure bending neatly in half. I glanced to Anne but she looked bored with the proceedings; her mind was obviously on her son, not this old flame.

  “And who have you brought before us?” I asked, though Cromwell had of course prompted me on everyone I was to meet today.

  “Sir Robert Aske of the high countries,” Percy responded. “He speaks on behalf of his community.”

  “Well then speak Sir Robert,” I commanded. The older gentleman came forth trembling; this was his first trip to court. He was not as clean as he should be and his gray hair had not been brushed; the cap he doffed sent it in every direction. A poor knight then, and from a poor community.

  “Your Majesties,” he whispered, then cleared his voice and repeated the words a bit louder.

  “I have come from the community of Aughton to speak on their behalf. The monastery there was recently closed. The people were distressed at seeing the many treasures they had once prayed with destroyed and taken away. Beyond this, there is now nowhere for the poor to go for food or shelter. They overrun the streets. And my own son was educated there. I am now forced to tutor him myself.”

  I glared over at Henry Percy, angry he had brought this man forward to speak of everything Cranmer had foretold. Percy, however, was speaking to Charles Brandon and not paying this man the slightest attention. I looked to Cranmer to see if he had planted this man here to speak the Archbishop’s opinion but Cranmer was arguing over a book with Sir Francis Weston. As I continued to look around the room I quickly realized that only I had heard this man’s plea. I could quickly dispatch with the man and none would be wiser.

  “On what charges was the monastery closed?”

  I turned my head sharply to my right. There sat Anne, elbows perched on her knees, leaning towards this old man, completely enraptured with his next answer.

  “The monks there numbered under two hundred, Your Majesty,” Aske answered, turning towards Anne.

  “And what other charges?”

  “Idolatry, Your Majesty.” Anne nodded at this answer and sat back, looking towards me.

  “Sir Robert, we cannot re-open this
monastery that has been charged with idolatry,” I said to him, trying to ignore Anne’s sharp look.

  “Yes, your Majesty, but there must be some solution to our problems,” Aske insisted.

  “And what solution may that be?” I questioned.

  “A poor house.” This answer had not come from Robert Aske, but from Anne. I glared towards her; I had thus far resisted the structures.

  “Sir Robert, a moment,” I said, and leaned in towards Anne. Aske backed away so as to not overhear us.

  “Anne, I am against the houses,” I whispered quickly. So far no one else was paying us any attention but I knew if we began arguing that would not remain the case.

  “And I am for them,” Anne answered. “Henry, you are to present my Christmas gift tomorrow, are you not?”

  “Yes,” I said, confused at her changing the conversation.

  “Then make this my gift,” she insisted, reaching out to grab my arm. I noticed courtiers beginning to glance at the dais, curious as to what we must be discussing.

  “Anne, I —“ I stopped, not sure what to say. I already had the court artist Hans Holbein construct a magnificent piece of jewelry for Anne and this poor house was not what I wanted to substitute it with. Of course, I had just commissioned him to create another jeweled piece for the twelfth night.

  I turned from Anne’s face to look at Robert Aske. He glanced around the room, nervous and a small pile of dirt had fallen from his clothing onto my rug. I looked back to Anne who had sat back in her chair, head held high, looking like a queen. It had been many years since a wife of mine had helped shape policy. I certainly did not relish it and wished that she had remained a young woman who could be bought off with pretty jewelry.

  But looking into Anne’s determined face I realized that the jewelry would have to wait. I gestured for Sir Robert to approach us once again.

  “Sir Robert, I shall commission a poor house to be built for your town. Construction will begin after the winter’s thaw and I will insist that work be completed before the plague season begins.”

  “And Sir Robert,” Anne added. “I shall personally provide a tutor to your home for the education of your son and any others who may need it.”

  Aske’s face lit up. He had obviously not expected any of this, much less a private tutor sent to his home from the queen.

  “Thank you, Your Majesties!” he exclaimed, too loudly, dropping to his knees in front of us. Immediately all the attention in the room came to him and before I realized it, word was shifting through the room on the plans for the poor house.

  I sought out Cranmer’s face and watched the joy spread across his face as he heard. Turning to the dais he beamed up at me; he was obviously already planning the house.

  I knew this was only the beginning.

  “The Archbishop of Canterbury, Thomas Cranmer.”

  I groaned at the announcement and turned to look at the smiling round face of the Archbishop. This was the third visit in as many days and as usual his arms were full of plans for what had quickly become his poor house. The day after Aske had appeared before the court I had presented Anne with the necklace Holbein had designed, determined that her gift from me would not be a house for the poor. There was already talk enough about the house and I did not want to embarrass my country by providing such a small gift to my queen. I was determined that the gift of the poor house would be a secret between me and Anne.

  And she had little to do with the actually planning anyways. As soon as I had agreed to let the house be built, Cranmer had overtaken the planning and Anne had gone back to Charles’ nursery.

  “Archbishop,” I greeted him. “I believe I informed you that I did not need to be appraised of every detail that went into planning.”

  “Yes, Your Majesty,” Cranmer responded, sweeping that comment aside. “However, these are also the prayers that have been written for the twelfth night that also need your approval.” He handed me a small sheet of paper that was buried beneath the other information.

  “Archbishop, these prayers are very short and —“ I read the paper more closely. “They seem to keep repeating.”

  “Ah, yes,” he said, taking the paper back and looking over it himself. “I did have one of the new bishops write these. Perhaps they need to be reviewed.”

  “Reviewed?” I asked startled. Never before had Cranmer turned anything so sloppy and ill-prepared in. He had always taken pride in his work and carefully crafted every piece of the service.

  “Archbishop, is this the first time you are looking at these prayers?”

  “Well, yes, Your Majesty,” for the first time Cranmer looked slightly abashed.

  I silently handed the paper back to him and he gazed down at it, cheeks flaming red.

  “I beg Your Majesty’s pardon,” he said softly. “But the plans for the poor house have consumed me —“

  “That is very well,” I interrupted. “But your duties to me and the church should not be sacrificed for them. You must align your priorities.”

  The Archbishop nodded but looked so dejected that with a sigh I finally asked for him to show me his plans for the poor house.

  He began showing me the documents with great enthusiasm, my earlier chastising of him forgotten. Architectural structures began to flow in front of me, much grander than anything I had been anticipating. I noticed that Cranmer had even sketched out where the garden would go and the exact number of plants it would hold.

  “What is this larger chamber, here to the side?” I asked, breaking into his tirade about the sizes of the stoves.

  “It is for the tutor,” he answered.

  “What tutor?”

  “Well, Your Majesty, Queen Anne’s suggestion was that a tutor be provided for those living here to teach them skills so that they may better their own lives. There is no need for them to remain poor forever.”

  “And there is no need for a tutor,” I answered, angrily. “Archbishop, these plans are much too grand. The chambers you have here, how many will they hold?”

  “Five hundred, Your Majesty.”

  “Five hundred?” I repeated incredulously. “That number is impossibly high. New plans will be made. The chambers will hold fifty and there will be no tutor and no expanded garden to be used for farming.”

  “But, Your Majesty —“ Cranmer began.

  “Silence!” I roared, angry that he would contradict me. “You may feel free to argue with my wife, but I am your king and will not be treated as such!” Cranmer immediately backed down, now so afraid that he almost backed into himself.

  “I said there will be fifty and no more, do you understand?”

  Cranmer nodded and I could see a small “yes” pass through his lips.

  “There will be no additional staff outside those needed to run the establishment. No additional amenities are needed for the people and no extra consideration. They are allowed to use the facilities for a week and then must leave; there is no need to support their lifestyles forever. We are not here to change the world.”

  I had stood and begun to pace the table without even realizing it. One of my pages looked around the corner, but at the sight of me quickly retreated.

  “But if your Majesty would listen to the arguments—“

  I slammed a fist down onto the table in front of Cranmer, silencing him and scattering his plans for the poor house to the floor.

  “There is no argument but mine, do you understand?”

  Cranmer nodded and immediately fell to the ground in a bow.

  “I am sorry, Your Majesty,” he said quickly, hunched over his body like he was preparing for a blow.

  I was tempted to give him one but refrained; striking the leading member of my church would do me no good.

  “Leave,” I commanded. “And do not come back here without a more sensible set of plans.”

  Cranmer nodded and quickly scrambled around on his knees to gather the papers that lay there, crumbling some and ripping a few. I was glad to see that he was
scared and would not contradict me again.

  “Henry!”

  My herald followed Anne in but did not attempt to announce her in the wake of her fury.

  “Anne?” I answered. I had anticipated she would seek me out after my altercation with Cranmer, but did not anticipate she would do so with Charles in her arms.

  “How could you place restrictions on my poor house?” she demanded, shifting Charles from one arm to another.

  “Your poor house?” I asked. “Is it not the poor house for Aughton?”

  “Do not try that with me, Henry,” she said, her dark eyes flaming. “It is the poor house that you so begrudgingly gave me for the Christmas season. Although you are loathe to make that public knowledge.”

  “Cranmer brought designs to me that are too grand,” I answered, determined not to become angry at Anne as well.

  “They are my designs, Henry.”

  “Your designs? You have been too busy with the baby to have any say in Cranmer’s plans.”

  “I have not been too busy,” she said, stomping her small foot on the ground. “And they are not Cranmer’s plans, they are my plans. Everything he showed you yesterday came from me.”

  I sighed; there was no point in arguing with her. She may very well feel that Cranmer spoke for her, but she could have no idea what he was asking for.

  “At the very least I insist on the presence of a tutor,” she continued.

  Or maybe she did.

  “Anne, I cannot build a five-hundred person poor house with everything that Cranmer showed me. It is impractical. And you should not be concerned with the construction of this poor house.”

  “Henry, it is the first step into this new world!” she exclaimed, waking Charles up. She started pacing in front of the fire place to calm his cries. Silence hung between us until the child quieted down.

  “Very well,” Anne sighed. “The poor house will be made for a hundred men.”

  “Anne —“ I began.

  “Henry, that is half the number that were served by the monastery.” Anne’s voice held no anger in this, only weary defeat.