Suffer the Little Children (Mark 10:14)
A dark cloud hung over England, pressing down men and women alike, taking their lives as if they were nothing. Death was at every window- the Sweat was here.
Henry stared at the letters in front of him. Three of them, written in different hands, but all painfully similar. The first came from Lady Knollys, the governess of his adorable son Henry Fitzroy. The boy had taken ill the night before. The Sweat, it seemed. He was not likely to live through the day. The second was written in the familiar hand of Charles Brandon, informing him of the sickness of his sister Margaret. She too had caught the Sweat, as had several of her servants. Brandon told him that he would not consider leaving her side, even if it meant his death, and that he would do everything within his powers to keep her alive. The third letter, still, was the most devastating. It was written by her who was most dear to his heart: Anne. Her maid had succumbed to the Sweat, making it likely that she had been infected. She begged him to tell her what to do. Henry was desperate.
"I would counsel against any contact with infected persons or those who have had any contact with infected persons. You are the king of England."
"Yes, but what if she…" Henry's throat closed. His fear was physically painful. "What if she dies?"
Wolsey looked away, somehow embarrassed. Henry buried his head in his hands. Of course you would look away, he thought angrily. You think her a silly girl. You would not care if she was dead. I'd rather YOU were dead than her, useless prelate. But he didn't say it. Instead, he ordered Wolsey to send Anne back to Hever, for her protection and for his. He would write to her. It would soon be over.
"And what of Her Majesty?" Wolsey asked.
Why can you not leave me alone? What do I care? Henry was in no mood to discuss this. "The Queen will join our daughter at Ludlow. I pray to God they will be safe enough in Wales."
But then he thought of her, Catherine. However wrong their marriage had been, Wolsey was right to insist upon her safety. She was a good woman, stubborn though she was. She did not deserve to die. He had to tell her to leave. He had to save her.
Henry exchanged only few more words with Wolsey before leaving the room and giving instructions for Catherine's journey. The next day, he made his way up to the Queen's chambers. Her maids were already packing all the Queen's belongings. Henry entered her chambers in a good mood, willing to tell her that he wanted to save her life. Surely, she would be grateful for his care. But as soon as he saw her face again, he remembered how stubborn she was, standing between him and his true love, Anne. He changed his mind.
"I've come to say goodbye," he began.
"Are you pleased to send me away?" She came closer.
Henry tried to keep calm. Stubborn woman! "Are you not pleased to see our daughter?"
But Catherine would not do him the favour of answering. Instead, she insisted on her stubbornness. "Are you sending me away so that you can be with her?"
"No, she's not…" He cut himself off. Whatever happened between him and Anne was none of her business, really. He would not lower himself to the level of her suspicions and her jealousy. "Do you mean Lady Anne Boleyn?"
"Yes, I mean Lady Anne Boleyn. You make no secret of her," Catherine spat out the words.
"No, she's going back to Hever," he replied hard-headedly. "One of her maids died of the Sweat."
"And your fear of the Sweat is greater than your infatuation with your mistress?"
Henry was displeased by the triumphant smile on his wife's face. "Catherine, she is not my mistress," he explained to her as if she was a feeble child. "I do not sleep with her. Not whilst you and I are still married."
"But do you tell her that you love her?" Catherine came closer once more. "Do you make promises to her? Does she make promises to you? Will you not tell me, since, as you say, I am still your wife?"
He would not give into her sulky attitude. Instead, he came closer, holding her by her shoulders. "Catherine, I wish with all my heart you could accept our marriage was based upon a lie," he said. The sour expression on her face was instantly replaced by a sad one. "And in the meantime, I still love you enough to want to save your life. Now do as I command. Go to Wales." Then he placed a kiss on her forehead.
Catherine's heart almost jumped out her chest when his lips touched her skin. He loved her, he still loved her! His touch at last! Happiness flooded every fibre of her being. "When you speak like that, my love, I…"
She could not finish her sentence, for he had already turned around to leave. Why, God? Why do you show me all that I long for and then withdraw it from me?
"You act as though I had the plague, as though love itself were a plague!" She shouted behind him.
Henry turned around. "I shall write to you. Tell Mary, the King, her father, sends his love and devotion." He would not say any more on the matter.
The king seated himself inside the confessional. What else could he do now? The Sweat had a firm grip on his kingdom. Hundreds and thousands were dead; they kept dying like flies. God had abandoned his country, and everyone within its borders. Compton was dead, as was his pitiful wife.
Henry Fitzroy was dead. The King had received his coronet only yesterday and wept over it. Yet, his grief-stricken heart had more to bear still. Three of Margaret's maids had died, while she herself was closer to death than to life. Her husband, Charles, had also taken ill the day before. Wolsey had fainted in his office, and it was believed that he, too, had caught the Sweat. And above all, it was now certain that his beloved, sweet Anne was ill. Every life he cared about was at stake. He had never been so desperate before in his life.
"Father, it is well said and known that sickness is a visitation by God and a punishment for sins. But why, Father, why is my land so marked out for disfavour? What have we done that offends our mighty God so much that he brings this pestilence upon us?" He asked praying. He received no answer. "Is it my fault? Father, I ask forgiveness for sins unknown. And I beg you for your blessing- not as a king, but as a man." Silence. "Please, Father. Father? Father?"
Henry left the confessional in terror, slowly approaching the other side. He pulled back the curtain and saw- nothing. There was no one in there. Oh my God, I am going mad!
Anxious silence filled the room. The two men did not dare to look at each other. Too many questions circled in their heads, questions they were too afraid to ask. Finally, the door burst open, and the physician emerged from the room. They turned to him.
"In my opinion, there is no hope. The vital signs of life are weak and worsening. The priest should attend her now, in extremis," the man said. "I'm very sorry."
Thomas Boleyn could not believe what he heard. He began to play nervously with a chain in his hands. How could this be? His daughter had come so close to bringing Wolsey down, to become the King's mistress, the Queen perhaps! He could have been the grandfather of the next king of England, he could have been a duke! How on Earth did things go awry? Why had his weak-hearted daughter allowed her sick maid to even come close to her? Now, everything was lost. Everything!
George's eyes met his gaze, looking like a whipped puppy. He threw himself into his father's arms, desperately searching for consolation. And for a moment, Thomas shared his grief. He remembered Anne as a child, his precious little daughter. She had been his favourite, even though it was far more likely that Mary would be the family's fortune. But Anne shared his spirit, his wit, and his ambitions. He had always known that she was special.
But then again, he could not see why George was so inconsolable. What did he know? He was just as weak-hearted as his sister, only thinking of his personal emotions. This was about family business, about politics! God forbid that everything he had worked so hard for should now fall into pieces because of a woman.
"I will speak to her," he said, pushing his son away.
Her face was as pale as death; her body seemed to be made of wax. It frightened Thomas to see his daughter like this, but he did not allow his emotions to take control over him. Instead, he knelt at her bedside and clutched her hand.
"Sweetheart," he began in his softest words. "Do not give up, daughter. Can you hear me? You mustn't give up."
A small groan, barely audible, escaped her lips. He smiled relieved.
"Now, I have it on good authority that Queen Catherine has caught the Sweat on her way to Ludlow. She is frail and most likely to give in to the sickness. Do you understand? She will be dead soon, and the King will be free," Thomas rejoiced. "Free to marry you! You can indeed be Queen. Oh Anne, you must not give in to the sickness now that all our fortunes are sealed."
She opened her eyes and looked at him. He gladly kissed her hands, ignoring the risk of infection. It was a sign from God, surely! She would be well, all would be well, and he would be a duke soon!
"Do you hear me, sweetheart? You will be Queen soon. We will all be the most happy. You can make all our fortunes!"
Anne heard him, she understood his words. Lucky for her, she was too weak to answer, for her answer would not have pleased her father. It was so hard to think clearly, yet she tried to focus.
Is that all you think about, father? Your fortune? I can feel death's cold fingers already, and you only care about your dukedom? Where is George, why is he not here? Is there word from the King? Wait, what- Catherine is sick? God, has everyone taken ill? What if she dies? Could I be Queen? Wouldn't that make her a martyr? I don't want to be hated by everyone, I want to be loved. Henry loves me. Why don't you love me, father, as you used to? Why do you abandon me in my hour of need? Just as Henry abandons his daughter… poor Mary, she will lose her mother just like I did, and her father cares nothing about her, just like mine… Mary…
"Mary," she whispered her last thought.
Thomas smiled. "Yes, of course, I will send for your sister, if that makes you recover. I'll do anything. Just get better, sweetheart, and all will be for the best."
Anne wanted to say something, to tell him what she really thought, but it was too much of an effort. His hopeful face began to blur, and then it all faded into black.
Never could he have guessed that the mere sight of some objects would ever make his heart die. It felt as if someone tore open his chest and ripped out his heart, slowly, painfully. He could feel his heart bleed; he felt the pain that mauled his body like knives. His empty eyes stared at the ruby red brooch, the small coronet and the preciously gemmed necklace on the table. They might not mean anything to someone else, but to him, they meant immeasurable pain.
"Why?" He almost choked on this word. "Why?"
"Your Majesty knows there might be no answer to such a question," a familiar voice answered.
Henry turned around, his sore red eyes looking vacuously at his old friend Knivert. He suppressed a crying fit with all his might.
"It is a punishment from God; it is divine retribution for abominable sins, they say," Henry tried to explain the unexplainable. "We might not know it, but God in his infinite wisdom surely saw things that remain hidden from our eyes. Perhaps… perhaps they deserved it."
"Why would Your Majesty think they deserved it? What earthly faults could they have committed to deserve such punishment?"
Henry leant forward, his hand tightly clutching to the brooch Compton had bequeathed him. "Compton was no saint, Tony, do not deny it! He has taken many women to his bed, some of them engaged, some of them even married! He has broken his marriage vows on many occasions. Surely, God would be displeased by it," he argued, completely forgetting about the fact that he himself had broken these vows, perhaps more often than all of his friends together. He began to believe his own argument.
His face turned red with anger as he let go of Compton's brooch and turned to the necklace. It had been a birthday gift from a much younger king to his most beloved sister. Now it was all that remained of her. "And she… you know, I always wondered why that unwanted husband of hers died so soon after the wedding. Was it not… convenient?"
"Are you saying that she…?"
"Could you not imagine it, Tony? I have heard certain rumours that his servants suspected something. If it is true, God has been merciful on her still, for that would make her a murderer, and a traitor. This is regicide!" He almost spat it out. "And even if she did not do it, she defied me, her lord, by marrying Brandon. Without my permission! She has become a bonfire of disobedience for all who would look. She made a fool out of me, she who was bound to serve and obey!"
He looked at the necklace with disgust. It was all that was left of his sister. Margaret was dead.
"God has judged her," he concluded.
Silence filled the room that had once been full of voices debating the country's future. Now, it seemed like there was little future left. Henry studied the face of his friend, the only one left who had not caught the Sweat. Or was he even real? Perhaps Knivert was dead already, and he, Henry, was only deluding himself. Maybe he was going mad indeed.
"But what of the Duke of Richmond," Knivert finally brought himself to say. "He was but an innocent child, unable to sin in the eyes of God. How did he forfeit his life?"
Henry looked at him, seemingly stricken with awe. The fault of his entire argument became instantly obvious to him. Knivert was right; there was no way a young child could have sinned the way Compton and Margaret had been able to. He had been a boy, a sweet innocent boy. Why would God take his life, too? His eyes found the coronet once more. The grief became almost unbearable.
"Oh God, why?" His face began to distort as the pain filled his every vein. "Why are you punishing the innocent? Why did you take my son from me? God, what have we done to offend you so much?"
There was no answer. He was the king of England, and God denied him an answer. Henry broke down crying.
She had been so happy in the beginning. It was dull in the Welsh marches, even in late spring, so Princess Mary had been more than delighted to hear her mother was coming to see her. At last! She had promised to see her as often as she could, but she had never come. Of course, Mary was a well-educated, obedient daughter, and as such, would never raise her voice to complain. But in her heart, she had begun to dislike her mother for it. After all, she had promised it, and people must keep their promises!
So when her mother finally arrived, Mary thought that all would be mended. She would be in her mother's arms again, and she would hear from her father. Oh, how much she missed him! It had been so long since she had heard his voice call her "the pearl of his world". But now, everything would be fine.
The carriages arrived with a creaky sound, and within a second, the entire courtyard was aswarm with courtiers. Why is everyone in such a hurry, Mary couldn't help but wonder. She may have been only twelve, but she was a bright child, and she knew when something was not right. She could read the sorrowful expressions on her servants' faces. Something had gone wrong. She asked them, but nobody would tell her. They wouldn't even talk to her, as if she was air. What had happened?
"For the love of God, Lady Salisbury, I pray you; tell me what this is about! Where is my mother? Where is the Queen?" She asked her governess.
The elder woman looked at her with a painful frown. Mary knew the expression all too well. It meant no good.
"The Queen is ill, Your Highness. The courtiers say it is the Sweat. There has been an outbreak of the disease in London. Thousands are dead."
Mary's heart stopped beating. No, this couldn't be!
"I am told your father, the King, sent your mother here for her protection. Alas, it seems to have been too late. She will be taken to her chambers now. A physician has been sent for already," the Lady went on to explain. "As hard as it may seem, I would not allow you to see the Queen for now. You are, after all, His Majesty's only daughter and heir. God forbid you should fall ill."
"But I need to see her!"
"Send your prayers to God, child, so that she may be redeemed. There is nothing now you can do but pray, and if God so wills it, the Queen will live."
Mary looked to the floor to hide her despair. "Yes, Lady Salisbury. If God so wills it." She nodded silently before heading to the chapel. Mary fell to her knees.
Oh God, in your almighty grace, do not take my mother from me. I beg you! I will do whatever you ask of me; just do not take her life! Do it… do it not for me, but for her. There was never a kinder queen in all of Christendom, or ever one that suffered more. You have taken my brothers and sisters from her already, do not take her life, too! I need my mother, and the King needs his wife. England needs their queen. Oh God, I beg you, please do not let her die! God, why, why? She has done nothing wrong. You have never had a more faithful, loving, or pious servant than my mother. In your infinite mercy, do not take her life!
In another part of England, another girl was deeply in prayer. She was a little younger than Mary and shared some of her facial features, although she was not as pretty as the Princess. Still, she was of royal blood just like Mary, for they both had the same grandparents. Her name was Frances Brandon, daughter of Charles Brandon, 1st Duke of Suffolk, and the late Princess Margaret Tudor.
Unlike Mary, Frances had already lost her mother to the Sweat. She had watched her slowly fade away into nothingness, a sight that she would never be able to forget in her entire life. She might be young, but not too young to understand what was happening now. It was just like what the priests say about Noah and the ark- God had descended to rage on Earth and wipe out those that were filthy and sinful.
Frances had found it hard to believe that her mother was a sinful woman, but then again, who was she to question God's judgement? And indeed, her mother had sometimes been unkind to her, scolding her for no good reason and confining her to her rooms. And had she not heard her parents fighting just a month ago? God had placed women under the care of their men, asking nothing from them but their silent obedience. Perhaps her mother's disobedience had displeased God? Had he punished her for it?
Silent tears streamed down Frances' face. She was not allowed to see her father for fear she might catch infection. She felt utterly alone. Why was her father sick, too? He was the gentlest man that ever lived; he doted on her and spoiled her with gifts. What fault could he have committed to deserve death? Frances was unable to think of one. There certainly was no kinder man in all of Christendom, and if God took his life, how could He be called merciful?
I hate you. Do you hear me, God? If you take my father away from me, I'll hate you until the day I die!
Author's Note: Yes, Margaret is dead. It's not because I do not like her, but she would have died anyway. This way, at least, she does not have to suffer too much from her unfaithful husband. And perhaps, her untimely death sets something in motion? Something that will lead Henry to question his actions? Check out chapter 5 to find out. And once again, thanks for all the kind reviews.