Anne the Saint Read online

  “So be it,” I answered, nodding my consent.

  “I have already instructed a young man from Cambridge to serve Sir Aske’s home. I will have it stipulated that he travels two days a week to the poor house to service those men as well.”

  I nodded again, pleased with the sense of this idea. Once again, my wife had surprised me.

  “But I do insist on the farming.”

  “Anne, there is no need to have more farmland designated than what is needed for the house itself.”

  “No, Henry,” Anne argued. “The additional farmland will give the men a task while there. And any additional food they bring in can be taken into York and sold there. That way they will not flood the market in their town and they will scarcely bring in enough to upset a town the size of York.”

  Anne’s plan made sense and I could tell she was frustrated that I had not let Cranmer explain this to me.

  “And the tenants must be allowed to stay there a month.”

  There was no need to argue with her; I would not win. One thing I had learned on the battlefield was when to concede defeat.

  “I can accept those terms,” I said, and was rewarded with a dazzling smile from Anne.

  “Thank you, Henry,” she said simply. Charles had drifted back to sleep and she carefully walked up to me.

  “Here, take him,” she said with a small smile. I had visited the boy’s rooms daily but had not received much interaction with him. I gladly took him from my wife and held him close.

  “You must protect him and educate him if I cannot,” Anne suddenly said. I looked up at her, startled. We never spoke of death. Her eyes were soft and she gazed into the fire with a faraway look.

  “Really, Henry,” she insisted, clutching my free arm. “If for some reason I cannot you must protect both Charles and my vision of for England.”

  I nodded and patted her knee.

  “Of course I shall, sweetheart,” I answered with a determined smile. “But you will be here to argue with me for a very long time.”

  Anne smiled and seemed to come back to her surroundings.

  “Yes, I suppose I will.”

  Chapter Six

  January, 1534

  The separation from Charles was not as difficult this time around. Anne allowed him to go with much less fuss and was comforted by the idea that he would be back in February for the beginning of Lent.

  Charles Brandon once again accompanied his godson on the road and returned to us a few days later with a satisfactory report of their travels. My sister had remained with the court even after the festivities and upon her husband’s return was even seen to be conversing with Anne over the state of young Charles. Indeed, it seemed that the birth of my son had melted even the staunchest opposition to Anne.

  The only person who was not affected was Catherine. Cromwell had informed me that Catherine’s household still addressed her as Queen Catherine on her command, and I had informed the Duke of Norfolk that when the winter thaw had finished he would travel to her home, The More, and order her to desist. I knew that he would have his nieces’ interests at heart and would not treat Catherine with any of the compassion some members of the court still thought she deserved.

  Our daughter Mary, however, had written to Cromwell. She had begged for him to pass on her congratulations on the birth of a boy to me, though she had neglected to mention Anne at all, or the fact that Charles replaced her in the line of succession. Cromwell and I had spoken about what could be done with Mary, but thus far no solution presented itself.

  But beyond these two dissenters, there was very little opposition to Anne anymore. King Francis had written, acknowledging Anne as my queen, soon after the dukes and princes of Italy had written as well. Internationally, only the Pope and Emperor Charles still referred to Anne as my mistress but I had heard recently that Charles was battling enemies in Turkey, and I considered him no threat to my empire at this time. Besides, he would soon learn the value of a son.

  I had just signed off on the most recent plans a still-humble Archbishop Cranmer had brought me. The new poor house could support just over a hundred men and included a large pasture for farming. A tutor had already been dispatched to Sir Aske’s home and would visit the house twice a week to educate the men there and anyone else in the community who wished to learn. Anne had received most of her wishes.

  Our last council meeting of the month was drawing to a close when Charles Brandon motioned that he would like to speak.

  “The Duke of Suffolk,” Cromwell said with a nod.

  “Your Majesty,” he began, pulling out a worn paper. “I have recently received a letter from one of my tenants, a Sir Geoff Chandler, who has heard of your efforts in Aughton with the poor house. He applauds those efforts.” I smiled at this; it was the third such letter that had reached my ears.

  “And he requests that such a house be considered for his town of Clare.” Charles rushed out this last sentence, aware that I would not be pleased.

  I looked around the long table from Cromwell’s stricken face to Cranmer’s pleased one. This was no time to be making promises.

  “Write to Sir Chandler and inform him that the house in Aughton is merely a test. No more houses will be built until we understand the usefulness of that one. Otherwise it would be a waste of funds.”

  Charles nodded and I saw that most men of the table agreed with me — no need to waste money that could be used on them when we did not even know if the poor house would be successful in helping the community.

  “Inform him that it will be July at the earliest before we can give him a satisfactory answer.”

  Charles made a note on the letter. When nothing else was brought forth, the council was dismissed.

  I motioned for Cromwell to walk with me so we could further discuss the matters the council had brought forth.

  “Your Majesty,” he said, and then turned to issue instructions to a page boy to collect his papers and return them to his chambers. Normally, I would have reprimanded him for this breach in conduct, but was too concerned about Brandon’s letter to do so then.

  “The members of the committee to investigate the monasteries should soon be finished in Kent,” Cromwell began. “I have high hopes for that area. Their previous letters indicate that there will be many closings there.”

  “What good will those closings do if the money is being sent out again to these poor houses?” I demanded.

  “I would not be overly concerned, Your Majesty,” Cromwell answered carefully. “I do not think that this poor house in Aughton will succeed. The Queen and Archbishop Cranmer believe that the men in these houses will work together for the betterment of themselves and the community.”

  “And you do not?”

  “I have a more —“ Cromwell paused for a moment, biting his lip as he determined the correct word. “A more realistic view of the world.”

  I nodded. That realistic view had aided me more times in the past six years than I could count. As a king, it was best to be surrounded by men willing to please who did not have such a strong sense of right and wrong.

  “Would Your Majesty prefer that I make sure this house does not succeed?”

  I should not have been startled by the question, but it was something that had not yet occurred to me. Cromwell was right; it was unlikely that Anne’s view of the world would come to pass. I thought of Anne’s pleased face when she spoke about the poor house and the education the people of Aughton would receive.

  “No,” I answered. “You are right; it is unlikely that the house will be successful. There is no need for us to trouble ourselves with it. It is not in the nature of men to make a world like that.”

  “A utopian world,” Cromwell agreed.

  “A what?” I asked, unfamiliar with the word.

  “Utopian,” Cromwell repeated. “It is a term being used on the continent to describe the world that Thomas More created in his book Utopia, some twenty years ago. Erasmus coined the phrase ‘utopian world�
� to mean the idealistic world, where everyone helps each other and none are wanting.”

  “I am sure that Sir Thomas More would be pleased that his views are being trumpeted by Archbishop Cranmer and Queen Anne,” I answered.

  Even stiff Cromwell laughed at that. For the past year Sir Thomas More had remained at his home in Chelsea, refusing to acknowledge my marriage to Anne or our son Charles. I had visited him early in his self-imposed exile, but had been unable to persuade him to my cause. And I had heard, through Cromwell’s spy in his household, that privately he despised Queen Anne’s “heretic ideals” and scorned Cranmer as “a Lutheran.” As long as he kept these ideas at home I was prepared to leave him to finish his days in peace — but the spy was on alert for any mention he may give of his views to the outside world.

  I waved Cromwell away and he scurried back to his dark chambers to find more charges to bring against the houses of England. He worked harder than Cardinal Wolsey ever had.

  Months passed and, after the Easter season, the Duke of Norfolk was dispatched to the More to retrieve a written statement from Catherine promising that she would desist from calling herself the Queen of England and my wife. He arrived to find the doors of the castle locked against him and Catherine’s steward refusing to allow entry. Fortunately the man never traveled without an armed escort and quickly broke through the walls and into the castle. As they prepared to bash through the main door, however, it opened and he was admitted.

  In his written report to the council, the Duke left out any personal details about Catherine—her health, the estate she kept, if her damned Spanish accent was still present. I was all the more pleased not to hear these pieces of the life I had left behind.

  But possibly the most distressing part was that she was resisting change. Not that I had ever had any success with the stubborn old woman, but I had hoped that her time in exile would have softened her, and that Norfolk would return victorious.

  Instead, the Duke came storming into my castle in the middle of a summer rainstorm, a surprised herald announcing him and watching as his soaked clothes dripped until a puddle gathered on the floor.

  “Well?” I asked. Catherine’s response could affect the powers of Europe — if she finally agreed to my ruling it was conceivable that the Emperor Charles would not feel any need to avenge his aunt and could convince the Roman Catholic Church to refrain from excommunicating me. The excommunication would do nothing to my soul, but could very well hurt my armies.

  The Duke shook his head and handed me a crispy folded, surprisingly dry letter.

  “She said that she would obey first her conscious and the laws of God, and then do her worldly duty by submitting to her husband,” Norfolk barked out, obviously not impressed by Catherine’s answer.

  “As she considers the laws of God to be the laws of the Roman Catholic Church, I am not comforted by her answer,” I responded. I quickly broke the seal of the letter and looked down at the page.

  I had not fully begun to read the letter when my eyes were caught by the signature at the bottom.

  Catherine, Queen of England.

  I let out an angered cry, shocked that she would refer to herself in this manner to me and quickly cast her letter into the fireplace before me. I turned to glance at Norfolk but, other than a raised eyebrow, he did not react.

  The damned woman had always signed her letters as such, even as a child before traveling to England to marry my older brother Arthur. She had such faith in her destiny, in her place in the world, that she never ceased to sign her name as such, even during the years between her marriage to Arthur and then to me. I had often felt that many times she had married me only to sign that name, looking through me to see my brother Arthur, who had been her husband first. Remembering all this, I sighed, Catherine’s eyes still visible in my mind.

  “I am unsure how to proceed,” I finally admitted, leaning onto the mantle above the fireplace. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Norfolk shrug his shoulders.

  “I imagine Your Majesty’s options are simple,” he answered. “First, you can ignore this insult and make sure word of it never escapes. Second, you can admit that Catherine was your wife and take her and her daughter back. Or, lastly, you can mount a full-scale attack on The More and destroy those inside. Claim they were — oh, claim they were treasonous, I suppose.”

  I narrowed my eyes at the old man.

  “Are those truly my only options?” I asked. Norfolk was one of the few courtiers I could count on to speak frankly to me; his opinions were often bare and straightforward. Though Catherine had brought me nothing but trouble, I could not stomach the idea of declaring her treasonous and watching her climb to the scaffold. But nor could I return her to her former place. I turned to look at the Duke as he began to speak.

  “Oh, I suppose Cromwell, or even Suffolk, would tell you there are more diplomatic routes to be taken. But in the end I imagine it will come down to those three options. In war there are only two options — win or lose. Here Your Majesty possesses enough power to simply nullify the opposition, something few armies have the power to do.”

  “And your suggestion is that I nullify them?” I prompted.

  “No!” he barked out with a laugh. “My suggestion is to destroy them. However, I would imagine your other advisors would suggest to simply quiet them.”

  Despite myself, I managed to smile at Thomas Howard. He and his son, the Earl of Surrey, were both ruthless men, but where his son came off as brash, Norfolk managed to simply be tough. I knew I would never be able to trust him — no, he came from a long line of self-serving courtiers. I could count on him, however, to constantly want what was best for himself, which often coincided with what was best for me. After all, a happy monarch is often a generous one.

  “I believe you are correct,” I said, still chuckling. I waved that Norfolk could leave and the sixty-year old Duke gracefully bowed and left my chambers, his proud walk belaying the fact he was wearing soaked clothing.

  Predictably, Anne was not best pleased about what Catherine had said to her uncle. I neglected to tell her about Catherine’s signature, seeing no reason to further upset my wife. She was already demanding reports from the poorhouse in Aughton and I did not need for her to have more ammunition against me.

  “Henry,” she began arguing one evening during a private supper. “Aughton’s house has been running for over three weeks. Surely we know how it is affecting the town; at least enough to write back to Clare, Hertfordshire, and Bath.”

  During the spring two more towns had written to request poor houses of their own. Even though she was never present at the council meetings, Anne always seemed to know what had happened during them, something I blamed on Archbishop Cranmer, though he had denied informing her.

  I sighed deeply, not willing to answer her. Truthfully, we had heard about the poor house. Aughton had immediately seen a decrease in poor on the streets and the house had already made money on a flock of sheep Anne had sent. The pasture they were tending would not yield food until the fall, but a farmer had reported that the crops looked favorable so far.

  “Sweetheart,” I said, taking her hands in mine. “I told those towns that it would be July before we wrote to them. We have over a month to continue evaluation.”

  I could tell that Anne was dissatisfied with my answer, but she did have the sense to stop arguing.

  “I received correspondence from Lady Margaret Bryan today,” Anne finally said. I smiled, taking the peace offering, and responded.

  “How is Prince Charles and his household at Richmond?”

  “Doing well,” Anne responded in a clipped tone. “She says he is trying to stand on his own now.”

  I caught the sadness in her voice at missing these events and smiled.

  “Be happy,” I said. “We will be with him within the fortnight and will spend a month with him before departing on our summer progress.”

  Anne cheered at this thought and we continued the meal, for once talking o
f pleasant things.

  Like I had promised, our time to travel to Richmond came swiftly. The palace was not large enough to hold the entire court as well as Charles’ household, so a very limited number of courtiers joined us, most of the minor nobility leaving for their country homes during our summer progress.

  Richmond was close to London, but smaller than any of my own palaces. I had ordered that supplies for Richmond would come not from the closer London, but from the southern border of Kent, so as to keep away threats of the plague from the city. Also keeping my son far from the court life and those who would seek to manipulate him for their own sake had its benefits.

  There had as of yet been no threat of the plague in England that summer and I was glad for it. I wanted nothing that could take my son Charles away from me. Anne had not yet shown any signs of bearing a second son for me so I was anxious to protect the one that I had.

  The visit began well. Charles quickly remembered both Anne and me and the hunting was superb. Even without the full court, I still served seven courses at dinner and five at supper, resplendent with every type of meat and sugary confection possible. Even Anne, who usually pecked at her meals, was eating her fill off of fully-laden plates. I ate more than anyone, pleased with the fare.

  It was not until we had entered our second week at Richmond that Cromwell came to see me. Anne had argued against him accompanying us, but he had become too valuable for me to leave in London. I was currently having a local tailor lett out a coat I had just received from London; my eating had filled out my large frame some. I knew this was a temporary condition, however, and planned to ride more during the rest of my stay in Richmond.

  “Your Majesty,” Cromwell said, bowing down in front of me as the tailor pulled roughly on the inside of the jacket, attempting to pull it around my stomach.

  I made a motion for him to rise and state his business. I did not wish to be bothered.

  “I regret to inform Your Majesty that there has been an attempt to liberate Cortaz from the Tower of London where he is held.”