26 August 1534
August was not the best time for traveling by carriage in England, even for a half-day's ride from Whitehall to Hatfield. Heat hung like stagnant fog, doubly so in the stuffy, confining carriage, and Anne's riding habit was soon sweat-soaked and clinging to her skin. More than once, the horses had to stop to rest and rehydrate themselves. At one point, her guard had even asked her if she would rather make the journey another day, but Anne had ordered him to continue on.
The road they were traveling on passed by many hamlets and monasteries, and like any royal procession, the carriage attracted a good number of onlookers and gawkers. Anne did not need to glance outside to know that they greeted her little entourage with stony silence at best, and jeers and insults, at worst.
She shifted so that the rocking of the carriage was not as disorienting. If Anne closed her eyes, she could almost imagine that she was on a ship to France or to the Netherlands. A part of her longed to return to those days, to stand at the helm of a ship again and crane her neck for a glimpse of the horizon. For a moment, her desire was so strong that she could have sworn she could taste salty sea air and hear the bellows of sailors.
But the crash of the carriage as it hit a particularly rough bump in the road brought her back to herself, reminding her that she was no longer a young maiden, giddy with dreams and hopes of adventure in a faraway land, but a married woman, Queen of England and mother to one daughter, one dead child, and no son.
It seemed incredible that one year ago today, she had entered into confinement, confidently awaiting a prince. When the Great Matter had been in progress, there were moments where she felt as though time had dug its heels in and would never move. Now that her queenship was finally here, time seemed to be galloping along at breakneck speed, so fast she could barely breathe.
From the moment Elizabeth was born, a girl in place of the son they had staked everything on, Henry had committed himself to cementing her legitimacy in the minds of the people- a task that Anne was now convinced would have less success than commanding the sea to turn purple. The implementation of the Acts of Supremacy and Succession had done nothing to sway public opinion; most had signed when threatened with death, but Anne was well aware that resentment must still fester in the hearts of many. And those whose opinions mattered most- such as Thomas More, Bishop Fisher, Katherine, and the Lady Mary- had still refused to sign.
Henry, of course, had exacted stern penalties against them and banished them for their disobedience: Katherine to the More, Mary to Hatfield to wait on Elizabeth, and More and Fisher to the Tower of London. Meanwhile, the pope and the Emperor continued to slander Anne as a whore and Elizabeth as a bastard, with most of Europe following their example. Although Henry was pushing a French marriage treaty, to boost her legitimacy, Anne knew better than to trust in Francis too deeply.
Throughout the battle to establish Elizabeth as a princess, Anne and Henry had not stopped trying for a son. She had conceived again just a few months after Elizabeth's birth, but in March, her second child had fled her womb, leaving its- she never knew what sex it would have been- mother even more terrified for her position and her life.
Anne was keenly aware that with every day the royal nursery remained empty, her hold on Henry's heart grew weaker. Indeed, the cracks had begun to show already. During her second, ill-fated pregnancy, he had taken a mistress, Bess Harvey- a memory that still caused her anguish. Despite her family's advice to turn the other cheek to his infidelities, Anne did not know how she was to remain silent when the man she loved was dallying with another woman. It had shocked her to her core when she found out, and if she was honest with herself, her heart had never really recovered from the betrayal.
Anne would have given anything for someone to whom she could unburden herself freely, but her options for doing so were sorely limited. Her father and brother would simply remind her to keep a smile on her face. Her sister Mary had been banished from court several weeks ago for her marriage to a lowly soldier, as had her sister-in-law Jane Rochford, for helping get Mistress Harvey removed from her ladies, so she had little female company to take refuge in.
So she had settled for the next best thing, which was visiting Elizabeth. One of the few positive things she had discovered during her first year of queenship and motherhood that all she needed was one glance at Elizabeth, one hour with her, for all her worries to disappear. Her little girl would be turning one in a few weeks' time, she thought fondly. Lady Bryan's letters related that Elizabeth had begun crawling about on her own and making her first attempts at speaking. Elizabeth was growing up to be healthy and intelligent, and if her daughter was such a remarkable child, the son that followed would one day be the greatest king England had ever known.
It was nearly noon by the time they reached Hatfield. Anne asked the servants who greeted her at the door for a few moments alone in the chapel. She needed to be close to God, to be reminded that beyond this world and its immediate trappings of pain, ego, and vanity, there was a deeper meaning to her struggles.
The chapel was cool and the air heavy with incense as Anne entered, her ladies trailing behind her. She was about to kneel before the altar when she realized with a start that she was not alone. A lone figure sat hunched nearby in a pew, twining a rosary through her fingers and whispering forbidden Latin prayers.
Instantly Anne felt her heart begin to pound as she gazed upon the Lady Mary. Though the chapel was dark, she bore a marked resemblance to her mother bent over in prayer, as Anne remembered from her days as a lady-in-waiting to Katherine.
Of all the thorns in her side, this stubborn girl was the most pernicious, and the most dangerous. Anne could never forget that at any time he chose, Henry could re-declare his first marriage valid and reinstate his elder daughter as heir, displacing Elizabeth. All that was stopping him was his pride. And nearly a year as a servant had not blunted her loyalty to her mother and Rome; the last time she visited Hatfield, the Lady Mary had haughtily rebuffed her attempt at reconciliation and even called her Henry's mistress to her face.
Anne remained fixated on the girl for a few more moments, before she pulled her gaze away and knelt before the altar. Nothing good would come of a confrontation now, and in any case, she had come to the chapel for peace. She bowed her head and gave thanks to God, beseeching him to watch over her, her family, and most importantly, her precious children- her daughter and the child that was surely with God now. Almighty God, give me a son who is the living image of his father. A son who will one day rule England in the reformed faith. A son who will please his father and keep his mother and sister safe.
When Anne rose and crossed herself, she turned to see that the Lady Mary was gone. She had expected as much; the girl could hardly have revised her view of Anne as the heretical temptress who destroyed her parents' marriage in the few weeks since their last confrontation. Perhaps, however, her offer to reconcile Mary with her father had given the girl something to think about, and Mary had to have realized that continuing to defy her father would get her nowhere. When Anne saw Lady Bryan, she would make sure to inquire about the Lady Mary.
Anne listened attentively as Lady Bryan described Elizabeth's progress, calling her a credit to her parents in every way. She nodded and thanked the lady governess for her devoted care of her charge, and then moved on to a decidedly more prickly topic.
"And the Lady Mary? How has she been, these past few weeks?"
Lady Bryan caught the deeper implications of the question and grimaced. "I regret to inform Your Majesty that the Lady Mary remains one of the Princess Elizabeth's most disobedient ladies. She goes out of her way to be difficult, insisting on meals and exercise at odd hours. She has caused many an unseemly disturbance, and despite being punished for her rebellion, she will not yield."
"And has she ever acknowledged the princess as her superior? Has she ever curtseyed to her, or accorded her the respect she is due?"
"No, Your Majesty." Lady Bryan looked even more uncomfortable. "She insists that the title of princess belongs to no one but her, and it is a daily struggle to ensure that she walks behind the Princess Elizabeth and dines at the lower tables, with the other maids."
Anne nodded. The news came as no surprise; the Lady Mary was too much like her mother to relinquish her defiance so easily, and Anne suspected she would not give in unless Henry took much harsher action against her. That was a battle for another day, however, and for now, Anne simply wanted to see her daughter. She was about to leave when one of her ladies piped up.
"Forgive me for interrupting, Your Majesty," the lady babbled, nearly tripping over her words. "but while we were in the chapel, the Lady Mary was there as well, and she curtseyed to Your Majesty just before leaving."
Anne studied the lady in question, Madge Shelton. Madge was her cousin and loyal to her, though quite simple, so Anne had no reason to mistrust her. On the other hand, Anne could hardly believe that her stepdaughter was softening toward her. Could this be the beginning, however tentative, of a friendship between them? Had God answered her prayers, in an unexpected way?
"Find the Lady Mary at once and tell her that the Queen has a message for her," Anne ordered Madge. "Convey my apologies for not noticing her, and that I am grateful that she has finally acknowledged me as her queen. Let her know that I am willing to extend a hand of kindness and friendship towards her, and that if she wishes to return to court and be reconciled with her father, she may do so today."
Madge nodded and scurried away. Anne watched her go, heart thumping with hope. Perhaps this was God's way of answering her prayers, after all. Anne and Elizabeth's position would be strengthened immeasurably, if Mary herself was seen to submit to them. With the focal point of contention for the Catholic faction to rally around gone, and his elder daughter back in his life once more, Henry would be on the whole much happier…. Perhaps this victory might even revitalize feelings somewhat between Anne and her husband, which would make getting a prince in the cradle all the easier… Oh, how shocked and delighted Henry would be when Anne returned to Whitehall that evening with Mary in tow…
Anne shook herself from her reverie as Madge returned, looking very flustered. "Well?" Anne pounced on her.
Madge had the look of a condemned woman about her.
"F-forgive me, Your Majesty. But the Lady Mary said that the message could not have possibly come from the queen, since she is so far away from this place." Madge swallowed audibly, almost quailing under Anne's rapidly darkening expression. "She made the curtsey to the high altar, 'to Your Majesty's maker and hers alone', and you are mistaken in assuming anything else."
A deathly hush had fallen upon the room. Not a single lady dared to breathe. Lady Bryan was ashen, and Madge's eyes were downcast in shame. Anne unconsciously fisted her hands in her skirt, repressing the urge to thrash her young cousin for her idiocy. Of course the Lady Mary had not been offering an olive branch, and Anne felt foolish for thinking otherwise. In her desperation to have even one thing go right in her life, she had jumped at the slightest sign of hope, and Madge had handed the Lady Mary yet another opportunity to snub Anne.
"Lady Bryan, where is the Lady Mary?" Anne's voice was low and murderous.
"She is most likely in the Princess Elizabeth's nursery. If Your Majesty wishes for me to summon her-"
"Thank you, Lady Bryan, but that is not necessary. I will seek her out myself." Anne turned on her heel, moving to leave the antechamber. At the door, she stopped suddenly and turned.
"And Lady Bryan, if the Lady Mary ever dares to besmirch the titles of Queen or Princess by applying them to either herself or her wretched mother, you have my permission to box her ears as the cursed bastard she is."
And with that, Anne stalked through the halls of Hatfield, with one goal in mind: to crush the Lady Mary's unbridled Spanish blood for once and for all.
Anne's pace was brisk as she stormed towards Elizabeth's nursery. Servants milling about ducked out of her way and bowed. Tears blurred her vision and she angrily blinked them away. The Lady Mary's latest jibe was the last straw in a catastrophic year, and Anne was determined to make her pay for her rudeness. No one disrespected the Queen of England without redress, not even Katherine's daughter!
As she neared the nursery, she could hear delighted squeals of laughter. Her pace slowed a fraction and a faint smile worked itself onto her face, as she listened to Elizabeth laughing and gurgling. The guard stationed at the door moved to bang his staff and announce her title, but Anne motioned for him to be silent. She wanted to greet Elizabeth as a mother to her daughter, rather than as a Queen to Princess. She would spend a few minutes of happy reunion with her daughter before moving on to the unpleasant business of confronting the disobedient bastard.
With one hand, Anne eased the heavy oak door open, wanting to surprise Elizabeth. Elizabeth's giggling grew louder, and as Anne widened the crack, she caught her first glimpse of her daughter.
Elizabeth stood in the center of the nursery, hood askew, red curls peeking out, and gown rumpled. Pudgy cheeks glowed as she managed to push herself off the carpet and totter about on unsteady legs, managing a few steps before collapsing back to the ground, clapping her hands in delight.
It was a sweet image, a testimony to her daughter's enduring health, and would have made Anne's heart swell with pride, but for one matter: Elizabeth was not alone.
Close behind her was the Lady Mary, kneeling on the carpet as well. Her black gown and cap were plain and threadbare, her skin sallow, and her cheeks sunken- all spoke of the hardship of bastardy, poverty, and servitude, yet she was clearly as merry as Elizabeth. Her arms were outstretched, ready to catch Elizabeth, and she cooed words of encouragement as she helped the infant hoist herself to her feet once more.
Anne heard rustling behind her and turned to see that Lady Bryan had caught up with her, out of breath. She peered over Anne's shoulder and saw the two sisters engaged in happy play, blissfully unaware of the adults watching them. "Shall I announce Your Majesty to the Lady Mary?" the governess asked in an undertone.
"No," Anne whispered back, her throat tight suddenly. "Don't disturb them."
With that, she slowly closed the door, feeling an inexplicable sense of guilt. It lingered with her for the rest of the afternoon, even when she went down to the Great Hall for a small meal, even when she had Elizabeth brought down to see her, even as she kissed her goodbye and got back into the carriage. Anne told herself she had not taken Lady Mary to task for her rudeness because it was getting late and she did not want to delay the return to Whitehall. But the lie seared her consciousness like live coals on bare skin, as she gazed out the narrow window at the dusky sky.
18 May 1536
A year and a half later- two controversial executions, one queen's death in miserable exile, and one more miscarriage later- Anne found herself gazing out another narrow window, at the same dark sky, this time in the Tower of London.
Even after hearing the sentence ("To be burned or beheaded at the King's pleasure") and even after watching her brother and his companions lay their heads on the block, Anne still found it incredible to believe that she was to die tomorrow on Henry's orders. After her fateful miscarriage in January, she had feared the worst. Annulment. Banishment to the countryside, or a nunnery. Perhaps even poison. But she had never expected that Henry would be willing to have her arrested, locked up in the Tower, put on trial for ridiculous charges, and sentenced to death along with other innocent men, all so that he could marry another woman! It was even more astounding when one considered that, as her marriage had been annulled the day before, she had never been Henry's wife or Queen at all, and therefore could not have committed adultery.
Whether or not she was truly guilty of adultery, whether or not she could have ever anticipated this level of betrayal, didn't matter now. She could not even bring herself to be that surprised; who better than she knew how ruthless Henry could be? She had urged him to harden his heart against her enemies, encouraged him to cast them from his life when he might have otherwise been inclined to mercy. She had been so blind, never realizing that if he could turn on them when they no longer pleased him, he could betray her too.
What Henry wanted more than anything was a prince, and everyone else was disposable, no matter who they were. Even Anne, and worst of all, even Elizabeth.
Elizabeth. Anne felt a lump in her throat as she thought of her beautiful daughter, still so young and so innocent. She would not understand why she was no longer a princess and why her mother had been executed. Perhaps she would have no memory of Anne at all. She would be all alone in the world, the bastard daughter of a criminal.
Anne prayed desperately for her daughter's future; yet as she prayed, she could not help but think of another abandoned queen, making the same prayers to God, pleading with Him to ensure that her child would not suffer because her husband had taken a fancy to another woman.
Anne smiled bitterly at the memory of how she had been content to wear Katherine's jewels and sit on her throne, and even dance in yellow on her grave. Perhaps this was God's way of punishing her for her arrogance and her cruelty, His way of ensuring that what goes around comes back around. Anne and Elizabeth would lose their places as Queen and Princess, just as Katherine and Mary had.
Mary. Of all the people Anne had hurt in her quest to become Henry's Queen, it was her stepdaughter who weighed most heavily on her conscience. She had trampled over so many: Wolsey, Katherine, More, Fisher, the Pope, even her own sister, but they had been her equals, her adversaries on a political battlefield. Lady Mary, on the other hand, had been a mere child whose life had been upheaved by the Great Matter, her stepchild, whom she should have loved as much as she did her own child.
But Anne had not, and it was only now that her own beloved daughter faced the same future that she saw with piercing clarity how utterly she had failed Mary. How often had she urged Henry to be cruel to her, and encouraged those at Hatfield to beat her whenever Mary chafed at the new restrictions upon her life? How could she have expected anything else of her, when Anne was the symbol of all that had gone wrong in her life?
Yet throughout it all, Mary had never once vented her anger on Elizabeth, a fact that left Anne both relieved and ashamed in equal measure. It must have been horribly difficult for Mary to watch as her little half-sister usurped the position and honors that were once hers, and Anne would not have been surprised to know that Mary hated Elizabeth, yet Mary had always been loving and tender with Elizabeth, even if she insisted that she was a bastard. Unbidden, the image of Mary teaching Elizabeth to walk leapt into her mind, the memory she had suppressed all these months, and Anne felt hot tears leak onto her cheeks. Mary had been able to set aside her resentment of all that Elizabeth represented, and see only an innocent child- how Anne wished she had had the wisdom and strength to emulate Mary's example earlier!
But it was too late now. Anne was to die on the morrow, without any of it ever being set right. Panic engulfed her suddenly; she could not bear to face God without doing something to make amends, no matter how paltry it was.
Anne turned from the window and sent for Lady Kingston, the Constable's wife and a great friend of both Katherine and Mary. When she arrived, Anne knelt before her, trembling. "When I die, I beg you: go to the Lady Mary, the King's daughter, and tell her this. Tell her that that in my time, I wronged her in many ways, and was most cruel and unkind to her. It weighs upon my conscience, and I cannot leave this earth without making amends."
Lady Kingston bobbed a curtsey and scurried off to deliver Anne's final message. Anne remained kneeling as she watched her go. She was shrewd enough to guess that the Lady Mary would receive this message with the same warmth as she had greeted all of Anne's other messages, and she knew that her apology was far too little, far too late, but it would have to do. She hoped it would be enough to ensure that Mary's love for Elizabeth never turned into hatred; Elizabeth would soon be thrust into a cold, cruel world, and every person prepared to treat her kindly would be a blessing. And even if Elizabeth hadn't been involved, it would have been the Christian thing to apologize to Mary under any circumstances. At the very least, she some token of acknowledgment on Anne's part that the older woman had had a hand in the humiliating abuse meted out to the Lady Mary over the past few years.
Knowing that she had done all she could, Anne was able to return to her prayers with a clear conscience, if not an easy heart. She prayed for her brother and their friends, hoping their souls were at peace. She prayed for Henry; despite everything, a part of her still loved him and would always worry for him. She prayed for her daughter, and that, even if Elizabeth never regained her rightful position as Princess of England, she would at least be happy.
Amidst all her other prayers, she made sure to say one for the Lady Mary. Mary would be bitterly disappointed when she learned that Anne's death would not set her free from acknowledging her parents' marriage as invalid. Anne knew Henry well enough to be sure that he would not concede on that count, even now. She prayed that her stepdaughter found peace and happiness, and was restored to her father's good graces. Most of all, she prayed that no matter what happened to Mary, she never allowed her misery to warp her greatest gift, her capacity for kindness and compassion.
A/N: The story about Anne and Mary being together in the chapel at the same time is taken from history, as is the scene where she begs Lady Kingston to carry an apology to Mary on her behalf. The title is taken from a letter Anne wrote to Lady Shelton, Mary's governess at Hatfield, around January 1536.