Chapter 6 : A life so changed


The next morning dawned quietly, eerily. Faint rays of lilac and orange slowly made their way out of the darkness and into the rooms of the palace, where all was strangely still, as though everyone behind those walls who had the luxury to do so was desirous to linger in bed just a little longer, wondering what this day would bring.

Only the servants, ever bound to duty and obligation, were up and about, but they moved on silent feet, unwilling to disturb the peculiar noiselessness. They sensed rather than knew that this was an important day. For the king, for England. For all of them.

Naturally, they were worried. The death of a king was always a tragedy, a tragedy that had been prevented this time, thank God. His Grace had survived – but at the court of England, you never knew what a new day might bring. Fortune or downfall - it was a never-ending surprise. Even the "mere" accident of a ruler could have dire consequences: instability and intrigue, for a weak king usually meant a weak system, and it was not above eager courtiers to take their chances when the right time came.

Outside the palace, a lonesome gardener was already awake and preparing for his daily task. Before reaching down to inspect some flowers he had been worried about for weeks, he turned towards the palace, raised his head and gazed up at the strong stone walls behind which the King and Queen, and all the other nobles, were still lying in their warm beds. He knew he was but a servant, in no position to judge or ask questions, and he always kept his thoughts to himself. But think he did, quite often, and ever since the king's dreadful accident he had not stopped worrying and thinking about what would happen in the days to come. He did not know much, merely essentials, like almost everyone else who did not belong to the inner circle that surrounded his Majesty. But what he did know, was that the king had been crushed by his horse and very likely hurt and gravely ill, though out of immediate danger. No one knew any specifics, which was frustrating, but what could a man of lesser birth do? They were all but servants of the Crown and had to be satisfied with what they heard from other staff or those who had influential masters close to the king.

In any case, the gardener knew for sure that his Grace was inside the palace and probably still asleep. It would be immensely interesting to see the king again, or at least to have some news, for no one really knew how he was doing. Yesterday, only the doctors, Secretary Cromwell, the Duke of Suffolk and the Boleyn men had been allowed to attend on him. And, of course, the Queen.

Right now, everything was quiet, but it was only a matter of time before tongues would start wagering. Anne Boleyn was not beloved of the people, and, so the gardener figured, gently touching the petals of a beautiful rose, it remained to be seen what was to become of her. Gossip had been spreading over the last few months that she was losing influence. And yet, she was the one tending to the king now, behind those walls that hid so many secrets from lesser men.

It was all very peculiar.

The gardener shook himself out of his reverie and startled. In his musings, he had twisted so hard that the rose had been broken. Its crown, so beautiful, so proud, had been severed from the stem.


In his spacious bedchamber, blissfully unaware of the musing of his subjects, Henry the Eighth groaned silently as a single, weak ray of sunshine made its way through a space between the thick curtains concealing the large windows. Slowly, he cracked open one eye and blinked at the intrusion of light. He had slept well, and for a fleeting moment he did not remember what had transpired in the last 24 hours. He yawned, opened both eyes and lay there motionlessly, thinking of how beautiful the sunrise must be out there… if only he could draw those curtains and look outside and – the curtains!

He sat up abruptly, suddenly wide awake. Incredulous, he stared at them, those long velvet drapes falling lusciously to the wooden floor. They swayed lightly in the faint morning breeze coming in now through one of the windows, and it was to him as if his mind swayed with them - for he had no idea where he was.

He felt panic rise in him, absolute and utter panic. This room was not familiar, and everything in it was so very strange to him. His eyes could not stop roaming frantically. He took in the dark mahogany furniture: tables, a wide desk, expensively cushioned chairs, big chests. Portraits and mirrors on the walls. Everything was placed on thick carpets, there was gold and velvet and other such luxuries everywhere. It was an overload of senses; a room fit for a king, he thought jokingly. He almost laughed and, his mood improved, he lifted his feet out of the bed in order to get up.

He only startled when his feet touched something. Someone, to be exact. He let out a cry as the body beneath him began to move and a boy jumped to his feet, dagger in hand. It was – it was a bodyguard, no, a groom! Something like that. He was wearing a uniform.

The boy breathed heavily. "Your Majesty!"

Henry said nothing. He just said there, utterly lost. He was at a loss for words, he could not move, he could not even think straight. But as he managed to look at the boy's face, something in him triggered. The lad looked up at him with such devotion, such willingness, such …. such worship. The way a servant would look at his master. The way every subject would look at their lord. The thought was too enormous to be borne, and he could not bring himself to say something to the boy. He could only stare at the young face and sit on his huge bed, clad only in his undergarments.

"Your Majesty… are you well? Can I get your Majesty anything?"

The voice of the younger man pierced him like a needle, and he stubbornly fought against what the boy's words implied. Henry refused to hear it. He did not want to listen, he did not want to know.

But, automatically, he replied: "I'm alright. It's nothing… just a bad dream. And yes, get me a glass of wine."

Where did that come from? He wondered. He watched in silence as the lad poured some wine into one of the goblets and came back to the bed, drink in hand. He handed it to Henry and bowed low. "Majesty," he said simply, then just stood there waiting for an order. But Henry was unable to say anything else. In his despair, he only managed to wave the boy away. When the groom did not move immediately, he yelled out of the blue: "Out! Out!"

When the door finally fell shut behind theyoung man, Henry gulped the entire content of the silver chalice and collapsed back into the pillows. The goblet fell out of his hand and landed on the floor with a thud.

Henry wished fervently to be in a dark place with nothing and nobody except himself in it. He longed for silence and peace of mind, but it was impossible. His mind was in turmoil, and as he looked up at the carvings in the great bed, unable to block out reality any longer, he finally admitted to himself that the boy was his servant, this was his room, and he was … Say it. Say it.

He was King.

So much was obvious, and somewhere in his mind the fact that he was a noble lord rang a bell. He knew that, and, as all his senses were slowly returning to him, he could not help thinking that at least some things in this room looked familiar, and the manner in which he had given orders to the boy had seemed only natural. He just could not make a connection between this morning and yesterday, and struggled in vain to remember. Little did he know that his troubled mind was trying to protect itself by blocking out the harsh truth.

It was half an hour later that memory returned. He had finally managed to get up and was drawing the curtains when the images returned. The light of the sun, now relatively bright, almost blinded him, used to the darkness as his eyes still were. It was like a flash of lightning, and with it came the knowledge of what had transpired yesterday.

The accident. Pain. Unconsciousness. Waking up in this very room.

At the thought of what had happened to him, what he had been through and the stress of it all, he touched his forehead as if struck by a headache and slowly sank to his knees. What was he to do? Where to start? What was there that mattered? And, most importantly, whom could he turn to?

He heard a knock. Confused, he pulled himself together and stood up.

"Who is it?" he asked meekly. God, he hated himself.

And then he heard it. That voice. It was like a light in a dark tunnel.

"It's me, Anne. May I come in?"

Before he knew it, he was at the door, still in nothing but his nightclothes. He pulled the door open and saw her. The last amount of dignity in him stopped him from throwing himself to the very ground at her feet, begging her to hold him. Instead, he simply whispered, "Anne."

She curtsied, not sure how much formality was appropriate, but, seeing the tormented look in his eyes, rose quickly and looked at him as he stood there in the doorway. She was worried beyond belief and cut not bear seeing him like this, so obviously confused and, dare she say it, frightened.

"May I come in?" She gave him her most beautiful smile. Above everything, she wanted him to feel comfortable in her presence.

"Oh. Do forgive me," he said and made way for her. He breathed in her lovely scent as she walked past him. Quickly, he closed the door and went over to the bed, where he sat down and watched her strolling about the room. He remembered so well now how she had stood by him yesterday, how she had comforted him. His wife! The thought was still new and awkward, but he sensed that nothing could give him more pleasure than to be with her as he was now, missing not a single gesture of hers.

She was so very beautiful. So very desirable.

Her lithe and lissom body moved lightly yet with the boldness of some wild thing, a contrast that gave her a strong physical presence he could not help but be drawn to. She was elegant and cultured; the very lifting of her proud dark head told of her good breeding. But there was something rash and daring about her, too, something strong and stalwart that belied the easiness of her stance. Hers was such an easy grace; the grace of a wildcat lounging lazily in the sun, the grace of a deadly predator ready to strike.

There was something deep and dangerous in Anne... those eyes of hers were like dark hooks for the soul.

"What… how…" he began but trailed off. It was strange. He felt a desperate desire in him to talk, talk endlessly, but he could not find the words.

Anne knew what he wanted to know. "Last night, before you went to bed, I instructed your boy to inform me as soon as you woke up. He came to me with the information. I then sent him off to report to my lord Secretary Cromwell. Don't worry, he won't come back, that is, unless you want him to. I have dismissed all of your servants for two days, all except a few of your most trusted grooms, hoping to attend on you myself in your private chambers. Well, myself and the Secretary, also the Duke of Suffolk and your doctors."

"Very well. I think I'll be in need of some privacy." Henry managed a small smile. The Secretary was Cromwell, he remembered. They had talked about Anne. And Suffolk was Charles, yes, good old Charles! What a relief to know someone, to be reminded of someone's face just hearing their name.

"I will look after you, if you'll only let me," Anne went on. "It is all about recovery now… and, God knows, I pray every minute that you'll get well soon."

He could see real, raw feeling in her eyes and it touched him deeply. Here was someone who was truly worried on his behalf, praying and hoping for him. The state of shock and confusion he was in was so much easier to bear now, knowing he had the support of a woman so loyal to him.

He smiled graciously. "Of course I'll let you look after me. Aren't you my wife?"

She did not answer. Her lips twisted for just a second and her eyes fell before she plastered a smile onto her face, or so it seemed to Henry. A long silence followed his words. They looked at each other, both of them confused, wondering what the other was thinking.

Anne looked at him, the man she knew so well,and yet did not know any more. Who was he, now that a tragic accident had robbed him of his memories of her, of them and their hurricane union? And she thought, "Yes, I am your true wedded wife, and I love you. We were happy once. But then you turned away from me and treated me coldly."

She was lost in his eyes, those beautiful, mesmerizing eyes. God, she loved him so much. He was so dear to her she was afraid she would not be able to go through with her plan. She had to woe him, seduce him. But did she have the strength? She tried hard to smile, so that he would not know of her inner thoughts. But she sensed it was too late. He knew that something was off.

All Henry knew for sure was that Anne was beautiful, gracious and kind, but he did not know who she truly was. How one could forget a woman of such beauty and character he did not know, but it had happened, and now he was desperate to find out more.

Also, he had no idea what their marriage had been like. Had they been happy before the accident? Had he made her unhappy? For, despite her brave and friendly display, he sensed that something was not quite right. At times she seemed uneasy, as if not quite sure how he was going to treat her. Why was that? Was she not the woman by his side, the Queen of England? Just now, when he had asked her whether she was his wife or not, she had reacted oddly.

But maybe it was just nerves, and he was overreacting. Had he been in her place, perhaps he would have reacted the same way. Whatever the reason for her being uneasy, he wanted her to feel comfortable. And he silently vowed to do everything he could to get to know her and make her happy.

"Anne," he said ad looked her straight in the eye. "I'll be needing you. I have no idea what awaits me."

Such an honest confession of anxiety from Henry was rare, and Anne reminded herself of what she had sworn to do. She would help him, guide him, and if God gave her the strength, win back his love somehow.

"Of course, your Majesty. I am your Majesty's true and loyal subject, ever comfortable to your will and pleasure." (She thought that perhaps some modesty and obedience were appropriate and might be favourable to her cause.) "But I shall also be your friend."

She smiled then, and Henry rejoiced in it. Yes, with her by his side, he would make it.

I shall conquer this, he thought. I shall.


They continued chatting about this and that and it gave Henry a great deal of pleasure to talk to Anne. She was bright and clever, her ideas refreshing, her manners of speech impeccable.

He told her he had no objections to having a few selected grooms serve him, but they agreed that none of the servants should know of the his loss of memory. Not now. Not ever.

The boy was called back to help Henry get dressed and ready for the day. Anne left the room for a short while to sent a messenger each to Cromwell and Brandon, asking them to join her and his Majesty in the king's private rooms.

Half an hour later, they were all sitting at the great table where Henry usually had his meals, waiting for breakfast to be served. Henry looked well in a grey vest and discreet jewellery of the highest quality. Anne was sitting next to him and made it her mission to smile reassuringly and take his hand every now and then. Every time she did this, she was shocked at the things the touch of his skin made her feel. It felt good, so good it scared her. But to the outside, she kept her cool. She had always been a talented actress. Cromwell and Brandon looked stately in their black clothes, and Anne wondered what they must be thinking.

The meal itself was quite good, and they all ate in silence for a while. Henry, who felt a deep connection with Brandon and had decided yesterday that he liked Cromwell as well, was not really nervous, especially because he had Anne with him. But he was not sure how to initiate a conversation. He was still struggling with the knowledge of being King of England, and the responsibility, the opportunities and the power such a title brought with it. He did not want to say anything wrong.

That, in itself, was so unusual for the Henry they knew that the two visitors did not quite know what to make of it. It would be interesting to see how all this would turn out, and they were both anxious to use the influence they had on the king, or hoped to still have.

Finally, the Duke of Suffolk took heart. "Your Majesty, if I may," he said, smiling at his old friend. Henry nodded cautiously.

"Has your Majesty considered the great desire all of your subjects have to see you after this dreadful accident? I understand the need for seclusion after such a tragedy, but I think there's great unease among your courtiers, and the lesser folk as well."

Henry struggled, but before the kindness and encouragement in his friend's eyes, he felt a lot better. "I had hoped to gather my thoughts, to contemplate… to lock myself away for a day or two, before showing myself to my – subjects."

He stole a glance at Anne, who smiled benevolently. He then looked expectantly at his Secretary, whose inscrutable eyes were strangely comforting.

Cromwell, who never missed anything, secretly marvelled at the great influence the Queen seemed to have won over Henry in so short a time, and he realized he would have to fight for Henry's goodwill and love once more. But he was willing to do so, knowing that Anne wanted it too and would not stand in his way. What Brandon would do he could only guess, but he would worry about the duke's strategy in this game later. He thought how clever it would be to indulge Henry's every whim, to tell him that it would be best to shut himself away from the world. He felt the urge to defy Brandon's words and agree with the king but, on the other hand, he understood Suffolk's worries.

The people wanted to see their king. Henry had always been popular. Despite his temper, his rage, even his cruelty at times, the people loved him and were anxious to see him healthy and alive, as merry and vivacious as ever. It would be wise to grant them their wish, to let them see their sovereign. Also, a public appearance would be a sign to everyone: Here is Henry, King of England. Never to be subdued. Never to be conquered.

"Your Majesty, I am afraid I have to agree with my lord Suffolk. Already, your court is buzzing. Everyone is desirous to see your Grace. It would be wise to consider a public appearance as soon as your Majesty feels well enough to present yourself to your people," Cromwell concluded.

He saw Henry looking at him defiantly, his lips set in a tight line, and he almost laughed. So the old Henry was not dead yet. But his inner mirth soon subsided, and he grew anxious. He could not afford a rift with the king at such an early stage. He started to open his mouth to revoke his suggestion, when the Queen suddenly cleared her throat and laid a hand on Henry's arm.

"Perhaps we can find a compromise. If it be his Majesty's wish to be alone for a while, to shut himself away, then we should all be ready to obey." She lowered her eyes in respect. "I cannot see the harm in a day or two of seclusion. But it is true that everyone at court is worried about your Majesty's health. Therefore I think your Grace should consider receiving, at certain intervals, some more or less important people in your private chambers. Should your Grace feel like sleeping, reading, or being completely alone, then so be it. But whenever you feel up to it, you could talk to a minister, a friend, one of my ladies, or some other subject of yours. Or anyone else you feel like talking to or who might ask for an audience. By doing so, you would avoid presenting yourself to the public too soon, but word would spread that you are in good health and certainly not dead," she finished with a cheeky smile.

It was so clever Cromwell wanted to strangle her. Why had he not come up with this idea? He looked at her perfect smile, the pertly raised chin, the seeming kindness in her eyes. Good Lord, but she was dangerous. Her wit, her charm, her looks. He would have to be careful around her at all times.

Henry was taken with the idea and relaxed visibly. "So be it. For two days, I will remain in my chambers and entertain a number of guests of your choice." He motioned at Cromwell. The Secretary nodded obediently.

"And maybe," he continued, "maybe I'll be able to remember some people and receive them as well. It remains to be seen." He turned to Suffolk. "How like you this, my friend? After two days, I think I'll be ready for a public appearance, and thus everyone will be satisfied. Don't you agree, Charles?"

His gaze was friendly but also a little demanding, Charles noticed. He was more than willing to agree with Henry, though. After all, he had never wanted anything but to be on good terms with him and serve him to the best of his abilities.

"It is a brilliant idea. I am sure it will be a great success. And, if your Majesty pleases, I myself would like to arrange the festivities here at court."

Henry's smile was even broader. "It pleases me greatly. I should like a great deal of merriment and dancing for everyone, and a possibility for me to address my… my people."

"As you wish, your Majesty."

By now, they had finished their breakfast, and Cromwell and Brandon where both eager to get going. There was a great deal to arrange for both of them. Already the Secretary was pondering the question who should be invited into the king's chambers and who not. Charles was busy imagining the upcoming festivities in his mind and what would please the king the most.

Before they left, Henry asked: "Should there not be an announcement at least, that I am well and will be receiving people in my rooms? I wish to grant an audience also to some people that you, Thomas, might not come to choose, be it for lack of rank or favour, but who might have urgent business to discuss with me."

It was a very just and honourable suggestion, and Brandon, Cromwell and Anne looked at each other for a moment, all of them thinking: Our old and new king, what is he going to be like? What is to become of England?

Cromwell bowed. "An announcement shall be made immediately, your Majesty. When you are ready to receive the first guest, let me know."

Henry inclined his head gracefully. "Very well. My lords, I bid you good day."

When the door had closed behind them, Henry went back to the table and took his wife's hand in his.

"Sweet Anne," he said tenderly. "What lies before me, I do not know. But, with you by my side, I shall surely make it through... My beautiful Queen."

Looking into her blue eyes that were so tempting, so trusting yet so cautious, he raised her hand to his lips and kissed it.