The Lady in the Tower (49 page)

The King was very tender toward me, very solicitous that I should take great care. But I began to ask myself whether that was really for the sake of the child.

I was surrounded by all the ceremony which is a Queen's natural right; I was the most talked-of person in the country. Soothsayers and astrologers were making prophecies about my child. They all declared it would be a boy. They would have received little thanks from Henry for a girl.

I was learning more about my husband. When I thought of all the warning signs I had had during the last years, I marveled at my lack of perception. I had been adored so long that I thought it would go on forever. I had come to believe that I was possessed of some special powers to draw men to me. I should have looked more closely at men's motives— more than that, I should have looked to myself. I had been the most attractive woman at Court, and I had been convinced that this was due to
some special quality I possessed. Now I perceived that, although I was not without attractions, it was the ardent desire of the King which had enhanced my allure. There must be something very exciting about a woman for whom a man would do so much. That was what they told themselves, and they promptly fell in love with me. I should have seen that Henry was tired of Katharine and that his mixture of piety and sensuality made it necessary for him to indulge his desires while placating his conscience. He had never taken mistresses to the extent that François had. He wanted a regular union because he thought that was pleasing in the eyes of God, and Henry sought favor in that direction—just as his courtiers did with him. Thus there had been a combination of events: boredom with Katharine and the need to remove her but in a manner which could be seen to be righteous; desire for me, who had stood out against anything but marriage; the obstinacy in his nature which could not bear to be balked; and above all the overriding need and desire for a son. That was what had motivated Henry, and I had deluded myself into believing that it was entirely due to his passion for me.

My brother George had been my main supporter through all my triumphs and tribulations. He was closer to me than any other person. I loved him dearly and I knew he was the only one whom I could trust absolutely. My father, for whom I had some natural feeling of affection, was, first and foremost before he was a father, an ambitious man. He saw me not so much as a daughter but as the Queen of England, who had made the grandest marriage of all those obliging Boleyn ladies. I knew that he would always think first of the fortunes of the family. George would think first of my well-being.

I saw my stepmother from time to time, for, because of my father's rising power, there were occasionally times when she must be beside him at Court functions. I knew she came most reluctantly from Hever and much preferred to be in her still-room or herb gardens. She was overawed to see me. I laughed at her and embracing her assured her that I was the same Anne in spite of my crown. She began to fuss about my condition and the baby, giving me all sorts of hints as to what I should do. It was a great pleasure always to see her.

George's married life was far from happy. He was a very attractive man; he had good looks and was extremely witty and cultured. He had traveled widely, for the King had employed him on many missions abroad. He was a poet—not quite up to Wyatt's standards, but Wyatt was reckoned—correctly I think—to be the greatest poet at Court.

It was because of George that I took his wife, Jane, into my house-hold. Perhaps that was another of my mistakes, for I did not like her in the least and she presumed on the relationship. I often thought what a pity it was that George had married her. So did he. He had been relieved when, in the course of his duties, he had had to spend much time abroad. It gave him some respite from Jane.

What was so difficult for him to endure was her jealousy. She was desperately in love with him. Perhaps she might have been a different person altogether if he had returned that love. How could he? Jane was a stupid woman, a blundering woman; she had a habit of making remarks showing clearly that she had not followed a discussion; yet instead of keeping quiet, she would insist on speaking; she would offer opinions that were trite; she could not match George's intellect. She irritated me in the extreme; but at least I could see little of her. She was a foolish woman but if she had been meek and gentle I could have put up with her more easily.

I began to notice that Henry's attitude was changing toward me. He was no longer quite so respectful as he had been; he was careless; and when I lost my temer, which I am afraid I did with increasing frequency, he did not attempt to placate me as he had in the old days.

He was often out of my company and seemed to seek that of his friends. I, of course, was now unable to join in the dancing and frivolities which were so much a part of Court life. Before our marriage he would have wished to spend the time with me; we would have read together or played cards; I would have listened to his latest musical composition; we would have discussed topics of the day, very likely the reforming of the old Church laws, a subject which was very much in most people's minds these days.

But he spent little time with me. We slept together in the royal bed and he was always talking about our child, what should be prepared for him on his arrival, even getting as far as his education. He was already making plans for his christening. But he had changed.

He was making me feel that now I had become Queen I had to remember constantly that he was the King, so that after my coronation, ironically, I had become less important than I had been before. Then I had been so essential to his happiness; my outbursts of temper had been painful to him, and his great desire had always been to bring me back to a sweeter mood. Now he would walk out and leave me and later make no reference to the matter and still behave in a somewhat lordly way as though saying: I have made you my Queen, but I am the King and you are still my subject.

He did not actually say this, but he was not a man to cloak his feelings, and one could often read from the expressions which flitted across his face; his little eyes would harden, his little mouth grow cruel; and the color in his big face would deepen to a rich purple. These were the signs which could terrify his subjects. I had never allowed them to frighten me but in the past they had rarely been directed against me.

I was in my eighth month—longing for the time to pass. Pregnancy in August is even more trying than in the cooler months. I was beginning to think of the child—not so much as a future King but as my baby. Sometimes for hours I would talk of little else. I gathered women about me who had shared the fearsome but exhilarating experience of child-bearing. I made them talk to me. I enjoyed the discourse.

I longed for September. I would hold my son in my arms, and Henry would be as he was before. He would be so grateful that I should be assured of his devotion forever; and it would not be long before I regained my ascendancy over him.

It was Jane Rochford who planted distrust and suspicion in my mind.

I think she delighted in it. In spite of the fact that she was my sister-in-law and a member of that family to which I was bringing great good fortune, she hated me. Envy was the key to her character. Most people have a sprinkling of it in their natures, and it had always seemed to me the most deadly of all the seven deadly sins and the one from which most others erupt; but with Jane it was the theme of her life. She was envious of George while loving him passionately. I did not realize then how deeply she hated me and that it was mainly because of my brother's love for me.

So she delighted to whisper this secret to me.

She began by gazing at me in perplexity, beginning to speak and then stopping. “Perhaps I shouldn't …Only I thought…and after all…we are sisters… and if anyone should… perhaps I should be the one…”

I cried impatiently: “What are you trying to say?”

“Please don't ask me to go on. And you in your condition… This month has been so trying. I thank God it will soon be over. September is almost here.”

“Jane,” I said firmly, “tell me what you are trying to say. I command you.”

She hung her head as though suddenly aware of my exalted position, but I noticed the satisfied turn of her lips.

I took her by the shoulders and shook her.

“Well… then… since you insist. The King is seeing a great deal of
a certain lady. They are saying he is seeking her out. And she is giving her

self airs.”

“Who told you this?”

“Your Grace, the whole Court is whispering of it.”

“I don't believe it.”

“No, no,” she said soothingly. “It can't be true… and you just on the point of giving birth to the heir.”

“There are always those who will gossip in the Court and see what does not exist outside their evil imaginations.”

“Oh 'tis true, 'tis true. But I just thought…I thought you would want to know what people are saying.”

I said: “Thank you, Jane, for telling me. It's nonsense but one should know what is being said.”

I dismissed her then. I wanted to be alone to think. So it was true. He was seeing someone else. All during those waiting years I believed he had been faithful to me; now that we were together, as soon as we had reached the desired state, he had already begun to stray.

I could not believe it. Not so soon! And in a week or so my child was due.

Was Jane lying? I did not think she would dare. She was sly and delighted to plant uneasiness in my mind, but I did not think she would dare lie in such a matter.

My anger against Henry grew with every minute.

I was always impetuous and perhaps more so than ever now. My fury seemed to be choking me; the only way I could keep a little calm was by thinking of the baby.

A little later I saw Henry. He was not alone, though only one or two of his friends were with him. I could not wait. He came over to me, leaving them in a corner of the room. He asked after my health and I burst out: “And you, sir, how is it with you and your mistress?”

He looked at me in astonishment, his little eyes narrowed. I should have been warned. But I had many lessons to learn and I had not yet mastered one of them.

“Do not feign innocence,” I cried. “It is all over the Court. I will not endure such conduct. Here I am … in this condition…”

“Madam,” he said coolly, “you forget to whom you speak.”

“I speak to my husband,” I retorted, “who should have more concern for me and our child… than to chase my servants.”

I had never seen him look like that before. His face was pale for a
moment before the color flamed into it. Then he spoke. “You will close your eyes as your betters did before you.”

I was stunned. I had expected him to deny the accusation. I would not have believed him, but I would have accepted his assurances of eternal fidelity and told myself that this would be a warning to him. That I had not expected such a reaction showed how little I knew him or understood the situation to which I had been brought.

He seemed to have forgotten the listening courtiers—as I had temporarily—but I remembered afterward.

He then said something which sent a shiver through me. He had taken a step toward me, and his expression was almost threatening. “You ought to know that it is in my power in a single instant to lower you further than I have raised you up.”

And with that he turned and went from the room, his companions following him.

I went to my apartments in a daze and sank onto my bed.

It was like a nightmare. Was this the tender lover who had always sought to placate me during my outbursts of temper, the man who had sworn eternal fidelity and worked with such determination—and world-shattering consequences—for seven long years to make me his Queen? And in less than seven months he was tired of me!

I lay looking up at the ornate canopy. I had never been so bewildered in my life.

Then I thought of the child stirring within me. He could do me no harm … not while I carried the heir. This child was what he wanted more than anything…more than he wanted me or the simpering maid of honor he was pursuing.

His words would be reported all over the Court. I could imagine the sniggers of my enemies.

But I carried the heir. I would be the mother of the future King.

I had never loved Henry. But I was already loving the child I carried. The child would be my salvation.

I did not see Henry for three days after that incident. I was glad. I was very uncertain how I should behave toward him. I could not forget the ominous threat behind those words. During those few days I thought more often of Katharine than I ever had before and with different emotions. I had considered her an obstinate woman who refused to make life easier for us all because she would not go into a convent. What anguish
had she suffered when he had made it clear to her that he wished to cast her aside? He could not have spoken to her as he had to me. He had not “raised her up”— not the daughter of Queen Isabella and the mighty Ferdinand; she was of nobler birth than he with his dubious ancestry. He could not lower the daughter of kings; it was different for one whose great-grandfather had been a mere merchant of the city of London. Katharine had had powerful relations to guard her; and yet she had been thrust aside by the power of the King.

These, I told myself, were foolish thoughts. I must try to be rational. He was merely having a little sport while I was incapacitated, to while away the time until I was myself again. Jane, with her sly comments, had aroused my anger and without thinking I had flared up—which I was afraid was not uncommon with me.

All would be well when the child was born.

September had come—the month for which we had all been waiting. The birthplace of the child was to be Greenwich Palace, and great preparations were being made.

When I arrived in my barge, people lined the banks to watch me. The cheers were half-hearted but at least there were no hostile manifestations. I suppose even my enemies had some respect for a pregnant woman.

The chamber I was to use for my confinement had been hung with tapestries depicting the history of the Holy Virgins. Here I should bring forth this most important child; in it was a very fine bed which Henry had given me some weeks before. It was ornate and exquisitely decorated and had belonged to a French Duke; I think it came into Henry's possession as the spoils of war. It was the finest I had ever seen. In this chamber was another bed over which was a crimson canopy. This was where I should receive those who came to see me and the infant after the birth.