But Deliver us from Evil (Matthew 6:13)
Summer had come and passed without anyone at court taking much of a notice. Now that September had them in its clutches, court life slowly began to normalize into a state similar to the time before the Sweat. People proceeded as usual with their daily work with the exception that they heard mourning masses once a week. England seemed to be very satisfied with the King's display of affection for his deceased family and friends. They were especially pleased to hear of the great memorial tomb that would be built within London's walls, a memorial that would not only be dedicated to their beloved Queen Catherine but also to every ordinary man and woman who had succumbed to the Sweat. It was a great gesture that made the people love their King even more. His past transgressions seemed to be entirely forgotten.
Other things had changed, too. The King was now more determined than ever before to be his own master and head of his own Church. He would not allow the clerics of his realm to serve two masters, the Pope and him, and asked them to leave the See of Rome once and for all. He had begun secret negotiations with the French to secure a promising marriage for his daughter Mary to spite the Emperor. He had also secretly withdrawn his love from Norfolk and Rochford and was already planning to snub them publicly. So they had hoped to influence him by abusing his Anne? They had considered her nothing but a "pouch" that he could put his "sword" in, as some courtiers had overheard? They had made her act against her conscience because they thought her nothing but a worthless woman? He would show them their place; he would teach them a lesson how to treat his most beloved Anne… soon.
Things had also changed for Princess Mary, once a pale and lonely child. She was now the pearl of all the court, the centre of attention, and was roaming around the palace with her new friend Frances Brandon and her curious little dog George. They had become somewhat of a trio infernale, bantering with the servants and chasing each other through the gardens. After so many years of grey silence, King Henry's court was finally filled with children's laughter again.
Mary was just running behind her dog that was chasing Frances when she almost clashed with a woman evolving from behind a hedge. She tried to slow down, but it was too late. Mary felt arms close around her as the woman disrupted her impetus and kept her from falling to the ground.
"I am infinitely sorry, madam, I did not see you comi… oh," Mary hurried to say, but stopped when she noticed the woman's face. A smile graced her lips. "Lady Anne!"
Anne Boleyn released the Princess from her grip and returned the smile. "Princess Mary," she curtseyed. "I was rather hoping to see Your Highness today."
"Why?" Mary adjusted her dress. She turned her head to search for Frances and George, but she could only hear them in a distance. "I mean: Why would you wish to see me, Lady Anne?"
"I heard you would be leaving court," Anne replied.
"Yes, my carriage to Ludlow departs tomorrow, I'm afraid," Mary responded seemingly sad. "My father tells me it is important that I should learn to run my own court and therefore I must leave him for Wales. But I do not object, for I will have George and Frances and Thomas Wyatt with me."
"Wyatt?" Anne frowned.
Mary's eyes began to sparkle. "Yes, the poet. Have you heard of him? He'll be world famous one day, of that I'm sure. Can you believe my father assigned him to be my very own tutor?"
Anne smiled. "Your father is a very generous man," she nodded. "Will you walk with me for a moment, Princess Mary?"
"Of course," Mary gently answered as she began to walk. She always thought it exciting that her father's friends cared enough to converse with her. It made her feel so grown up.
"Your Highness, there is something I should like to ask your counsel about," Anne carefully began.
"You want… my counsel?" Mary was amazed at the thought. "I mean, yes, of course. I will do my very best to help you."
"It concerns your father," Anne went on. "You know that he and I have been good friends for quite some time, but now he thinks about changing our friendship. The truth is: He has asked for my hand in marriage."
Mary instantly stopped walking and looked at her dialogue partner in shock. Her big childlike eyes were wide open. Anne sighed and went on talking.
"I am well aware that I could never replace your mother in the people's hearts, much less in yours, and I would never try to. We would wait until the time of mourning is over, but I would not say yes if it caused you too much trouble."
"Does he love you?" Mary asked in a very low voice.
"I believe he does," Anne nodded.
"And do you love him?"
The raven haired woman nodded once more. "With all my heart, Your Highness."
Mary turned away to hide the tears that were filling up her eyes. She could not bring herself to ask the third question on her mind: And do you love me? She was not so much shocked at the though of having a new stepmother but rather feared not to be loved by her. All her confidence had vanished the moment Anne had announced the King's intents. Was that why he was sending her away to Ludlow? Would he forget about her entirely as soon as he had new children with Lady Anne? Mary began to shiver.
Cordiality wasn't one of Anne's greatest strengths; she had always preferred cold reason. But now that she faced a crying child, she did the only appropriate thing to do: She embraced Mary and comforted her with her presence.
"Please do not be afraid, Mary. I would never take your father from you, and if you do not wish me to marry him, I will not do it. But let me say this: I would happily be his wife and your stepmother, even though I cannot substitute your mother. If you let me, I would much rather be like a sister to you, and would always make sure you remain your father's most beloved daughter."
Mary raised her head, afraid that her swollen red eyes made her look nothing like a princess. She snuffled quietly and searched the other woman's eyes for any signs of lies yet she found only honesty. Anne meant what she said; she would be a friend and patron to Mary if she became Queen and not allow the King to abandon her even if he had sons. Mary dared to hope that the promise of sisterhood included the advice of an older woman who would teach her all the things Lady Salisbury did not tell her. She dreamed of pretty dresses and lush banquets and mysterious foreign princes asking her to dance. They seemed like things Anne would do, she was an attractive and proud woman, and if she decided to teach the secret of her strength to Mary, the Princess herself could one day be like her. Mary wanted to be self-confident like Anne; she wanted to never be alone again. If Anne could make it happen, she had no reason to object to her marriage. A broad, relieved smile entered her face as she hugged Anne back. No words were needed now.
And in the distance, a serendipitous king watched the scene and quietly praised God for this wonderful way he had rewarded him for his promise of humility. Everything now would be perfect.
Archbishop Warham was solemnly listened to a boy's choir singing his favourite holy hymn. He imagined himself within the realm of God's angels now every day, for he expected to be there very soon. There was only little left on his conscience, and he intended to make up for it. Suddenly, he felt a hand on his shoulder.
"Your Grace, may we speak?" It was the King's secretary Cromwell. He seated himself next to the archbishop. "I'm here to inform Your Grace as Archbishop of Canterbury that the King intends to put a bill before the new session of parliament."
"What does it concern, Master Cromwell?"
"In the first place, it means to deny the Pope much of the revenue he now receives from the English Church," Cromwell explained calmly. "It also means to lay indictments against the privileges of leading clergy in this country."
Warham was not stupid; he knew this was a planned provocation, although suspected its origin to be the King himself rather than his secretary. He was careful enough to choose his words in such a way that they could not be used against him. "Master Cromwell, what can be the cause of this further attack upon our Holy Church?"
"People can see themselves that the monasteries are already sitting on great wealth which could be better applied elsewhere for the good of the whole commonwealth. For the good of ordinary, hard-working people."
"This does not strike me as an attack against abuses but rather an open attack upon our faith," he coughed, "and the faith of our ancestors."
Cromwell rose quickly. "That is your judgement, Your Grace. It is not mine. Neither is it the King's." He received nothing but the hint of nodding. Then he left the archbishop. He had seen what he had come for: That the old man had actually decided against the King and the reformation, and that he was close to death. God willing, this problem at least would soon solve itself. He could easily be supplanted by someone more pliable, more inclined towards the matter Cromwell held so dear. And this new archbishop would also make sure Bishop Fisher kept his malicious tongue. There had been rumours someone had tried to poison him, a cook had been questioned, but there was no real evidence for it. Cromwell sighed at the thought. Amateurs. Why use a pry when there were subtler means at hand?
And if God chose to deal him a good hand, soon there would be only one man left standing between Cromwell and his desired reformation: Chancellor More. It was a pity that such a bright mind was so hopelessly stuck in his overcome traditions that he did not see the need for the utter destruction of this greedy monster called the Holy Church. But unlike More, Cromwell had no desire to make his enemies see the truth of his arguments. He cared not for other people's thoughts. His plans were as sharp as a scalpel making only tiny incisions where it was most necessary. There was only a small cut necessary to make More give up himself, and Cromwell was already whetting his blade.
Anne was stitching in her apartment with the two maids Henry had given her when a herald announced the presence of Sir Thomas Wyatt. A cold shiver ran down her spine. No, not you! Not now! Are you trying to spoil everything?
"I shall receive him in the parlour," she told the herald and quickly shooed her maids to the other room. They had to move around her furniture as to make it look as much like a throne room as possible. There should be no doubt as to whose wife she would be. "He may enter," she finally said once she had taken a seat on a heavy chair.
Wyatt entered the room with a happy smile on his golden face. He curtseyed to her. "My Lady Anne. You are to be congratulated for reaching so high." He bowed down to kiss her hand.
How do you know? There was no public announcement as of yet. But I will not do you the favour of being surprised!
Anne smiled gently. "Thank you, Thomas. I shall never forget that we were once true friends."
"Oh," he said and withdrew. "I wish I could forget."
"But I see you are raised, too?" She tried to keep the conversation from becoming awkward.
Wyatt smiled. "Only as a sometimes-diplomat and now tutor to the Princess Mary and the Lady Frances Brandon. Thanks to the patronage of Mister Cromwell, we poets and painters sometimes have our uses."
"So I assume you are leaving for Ludlow tomorrow?"
"Unless the King suddenly changes his mind and decides to keep his daughter close, I believe I will," Wyatt tried to charm his way out of the situation. "But you will find no need to miss me or my poetry, Lady Anne, for I have found more than sufficient compensation. There is someone here I should like you to meet."
"Go on," she assured him curiously. A compensation? What was he up to?
"Lady Anne Boleyn, this is Mark Smeaton. Dancing master, singer, musician, and general all-round genius."
A dark haired man with warm eyes entered the room, a violin in his hands. Even before he bowed to her, Anne knew that she would grow to be very fond of him. There was something in his eyes that made him seem so familiar. It felt as if their souls had just met on a higher level.
"Mister Smeaton," she whispered as he kissed her hand.
"Oh, he likes to be called plain Mark," Wyatt remarked.
"How could he possibly be called plain?" Anne replied without turning her eyes away from the musician.
"My Lady, it is a great pleasure," a warm voice said to her. It sent a shiver down her spine.
"You play the violin?" She asked. "Play me something."
And that he did. Her heart began to dance as soon as his bow met with the strings. It was but a sweet little melody that he played, neither happy nor sad, but she felt that it reflected her innermost feelings. On the one hand she was happy to become the King's wife and to be friends with his daughter, but on the other she was frightened of the things to come and afraid that she would miss her future stepdaughter's presence. How would the people of England react when Henry announced to them his plans to marry Anne? Would the bishop of Rome convince the Emperor that they had done it without his approval, would there be war? Would religion disunite the frail bond between Anne and Princess Mary that had just begun to develop? There were so many open questions that made Anne shiver with anticipation.
"My Lords, Your Graces," the King spoke loudly as everyone took their seats. "Have you come to a decision?"
Henry anxiously looked to the bench that contained Archbishop Warham, Bishop Fisher, and… Chancellor More. He was determined not to let his anger show, but it was more than just an affront for him that his old friend had chosen to side with his pesky enemies. Oh yes, you're keeping your promise by keeping your mouth shut, but your seat in this room makes it plain to everyone whose side you are on. How can you betray me like that, Thomas, after all that we have meant to each other? You are my chancellor; you should be on my side! Damn you and your stubborn idealism!
"Do you still deny me? Or do you accept the authority of your king?" He went on.
There was a long silence only broken by the hard sound of Archbishop Warham's steps on the cold floor tiles. He ventured forward and presented the King with a sealed box on a cushion. "Your Majesty," he coughed and almost stumbled to the floor. "Here is the submission of the clergy to Your Majesty's will."
A murmur went through the crowd. Thomas Boleyn triumphantly whispered to his son that the Church was broken now. Bishop Fisher told More that he had hoped not to see this day in England. More replied by expressing his fears about heretics now being allowed to roam freely and uncontrolled. There was only one who remained silent: Thomas Cromwell, chief secretary of the King. He was unmoved as usual, standing in an obscure corner of the room unnoticed by most. His eyes were focused on the Chancellor that had affronted his King for everyone to see. How easy it had been to plant the idea in the head of Bishop Fisher's groom, who had then suggested to his master that the support of More could still change the tides. More had needed no other push to follow Fisher's demand for support. Now they were the only ones left standing and utterly alone. Cromwell had almost won.
Princess Mary swallowed her tears as she saw the roofs of London slowly shrinking outside the window. Once more she had to leave court and her father behind to go to the Welsh marshes, only this time she would not be alone. George was barking happily on her lap, and she could see her new tutor and favourite poet Wyatt riding next to her carriage. But most of all, she was delighted to have Frances with her. She had been baffled at her father's offer of a companion first, but once she had met her cousin, she had felt an overwhelming urge to be friends with the only family she had.
Mary eyeballed her cousin. They were separated by some years, yet still she sometimes felt inferior to the younger girl. It seemed to her that Frances knew much about the world that had been hidden from her. She had begun to realize that she was leading an overprotected life, a life that was nothing like the everyday life of other children. It was something of a prison. But inside of Mary, a plan had slowly begun to evolve; a plan to break free from this prison and lead her own life. She wanted to be a free spirit like Frances, an attractive lady like Anne, and a strong woman just like her mother. Queen Catherine had once won a war on her own and Mary was determined to prove a worthy daughter to her in every aspect.
"You're very quiet," Frances suddenly remarked.
"Lady Brandon," Elizabeth Darrell, Mary's new lady in waiting, scolded the girl. "You must not address the Princess improperly."
Mary raised a hand. "No, Lady Elizabeth, I do not mind it at all. After all, Frances is – excepting the King and her siblings – my only family, and I wish for her to be at ease with me."
"If you so wish, Your Highness," Lady Darrell replied smiling. She was so happy to see the magnanimous attitude of her beloved mistress's daughter.
Frances leant forward and dangled her legs. "At least you're not so quiet now."
"I have been thinking," Mary nodded.
"About what?"
"Many things, Frances. I think I will miss court very much."
Frances's eyes began to glow. "So will I. It is terribly exciting, isn't it? All these people bowing and the men ruling the kingdom and everything. And there will be dancing and feasts when we return, did you know it?"
Mary smiled at her cousin. There was something about Frances that was just so refreshing. She was a whirlwind of energy and never shied to express her opinions. In a way, she was the exact opposite of Mary. If Mary was a pure, timid little lamb, Frances was a young lioness. Mary secretly admired her for her natural confidence and strength that made her seem so much at ease even when the whole court was staring at her. Mary herself wished she could be more like that.
"My father has told me about his plans for Christmas, and I am certain it will be a wonderful feast. The people of England surely deserve a time of merry after they pains they have suffered over the year," Mary replied and concealed the painful thought of her mother with a courteous smile.
Frances stared at her in awe for a moment before sliding back on her seat and stretching her back. She tried her best to mimic Mary's posture and attitude without attracting attention. Mary was a true princess just like Frances's mother, and her father had told her not to shame her mother's memory. Of course the King had told her that her behaviour had been flawless, but she had come to believe that he was only trying to flatter her. She had overheard some courtiers who thought it normal for the King to flatter pretty girls but who had also mentioned that none of them had ever had a true place in his heart- except his daughter. Frances was bright enough to put two and two together: If she wanted to make her father proud and reach high one day, she had to try to be more like Mary. More restrained, more eloquent, more regal.
"What kinds of plans does he have?" Frances wondered.
"Great ones," Mary assured her smiling. "He plans to ennoble certain good friends to show them his esteem, and perhaps there will even be some marriages announcements." She bit her tongue; she had promised her father not to speak of his own marriage before Christmas.
"That does sound exciting. Do you think he will marry you to someone?"
Mary shook her head. "Not as of now, I think. He cannot allow me to leave the country as long as he doesn't have a son. But he will one day, and then I am free to leave and become a wife and mother." It seemed the most natural thing on earth to her, though she did not yet fully grasp the responsibility that came with it.
"And if he doesn't have a son, you will be queen one day and can choose your husband on your own," Frances concluded they chain of thoughts on her own.
"What? No," Mary was shocked at the mere thought. "A woman cannot be queen, everyone knows that. And the King will want to remarry, he will want sons."
Frances stretched her entire body and yawned. "Bah, I don't think so. I know for one thing that my father runs the country, and he isn't doing much. It cannot be that difficult. You're a clever lass, you could do it just as well," she said. "And I don't think boys are that important, either. I know I will be Duchess of Suffolk one day."
Mary was too puzzled to tell her cousin all her wrongs. How could she seem so fiercely convinced of things that were close to impossible? Elizabeth Darrell, too, was too astonished to intervene on Mary's behalf. Frances however took their silence as consent and smiled.
"If you ever wish to be queen, just let me know. I have a special connection to God; he would not refuse my request."
In the dimly lit atmosphere of London's dungeons, only a flickering torch contributed some light to the steps he was taking. Chapuys was anxious not to be seen by anyone. It would be accounted high treason if this meeting ever came out, but he had no choice. England was about to go to the devil and it was all the fault of the Lady Anne. The sorry Queen Catherine had told him about her before, fearing that she would be the King's new mistress. Now that the Queen was dead, Chapuys feared that she would become even more: a heretic Queen on the throne of England! She would breed heretic bastard babies that would blight the crown and replace the true Princess Mary in the succession. Was it not true that the Princess had been sent back to Ludlow right after a conversation with the King's precious Lady Anne? Had she not been seen leaving the gardens crying? Surely the girl, being the daughter of her mother, had refused to acknowledge her father's unholy desires for the scheming whore and had been banished at the harlot's pleasure. My poor sweet princess, Chapuys thought. I will save you.
"She's a witch," a voice from around a corner suddenly said. The man drew closer to Chapuys. "She's a heretic who deserves no other fate than to be dispatched to hell, or else she will pull the King into her heresies and all England with him."
Chapuys nodded. "Then you will assassinate the Lady Anne?"
"Being a close servant of the King, I'm in a position to do so," the other said. "She has seduced and bewitched him. He betrayed his lawful wife and the Holy Church for her."
A noise in the distance stirred them up. Was it a door? Was it just thunder? Chapuys palms began sweating.
"You must not stay any longer," he said. "But our prayers and hopes are with you."
And may God bless your dagger, he added in his thoughts.
Sir Thomas Wyatt was enjoying the last sunrays of summer that he could hope to catch in Wales. He had arrived in Ludlow two days ago and was now exploring the site. A wild little meadow had taken a shine on him the day before and he was now keen to show it to his most favourite lady. Birds were twittering as they strolled down the green grass. He mustered her from the corner of his eyes and found her to look as unhappy as usual. Something needed to be done.
"I have read your poem," she said all of a sudden. "I am sorry that you are unhappy. Deadly pain, as you say."
Wyatt smiled at her, remembering the last time they had spoken in private. He would finally get to hear her thoughts about his poem!
"I'm sure I have done nothing to cause your pain," Elizabeth Darrell assured herself.
"My Lady, you are full of causes," he responded in a low, warm voice and began to touch her softly. "Your hair, your eyes, your lips… are all causes of my desire."
He could see the happiness building up in her face and her chest quivering under her heavy breath. Slowly he leant forward, giving her time to withdraw if she wished to, but she remained still. Their lips met in a close-to-perfect moment.
Suddenly she withdrew. "I must go to the Princess!"
"I know you must," he said softly and held her hands. "I know. But stay a moment."
She smiled at him as he led her towards the great tree and put his arms around her. Wyatt kissed her again, and again, and again. Her breath accelerated as he began to loosen the laces of her bodice. She looked at him with big eyes singing a song of both fear and anticipation. Kissing her he turned her around and slowly freed her from the cloth that was mischievously hiding her beauty from the world. His hands found her breasts and could not resist caressing them.
"What are you doing," she sighed.
"I'm giving you a chance to be penitent, my beautiful, pious lady," he squeezed out the words between two kisses. His lips caressed her neck and her shoulders.
Suddenly she turned around and looked him in the eyes. Before he could even wonder what she was up to, Elizabeth began to kiss him desperately and pulled him closer. He touched her hip and embraced her tightly.
"Say you'll be mine, sweet Elizabeth," he sighed.
She began to fumble with his doublet without refraining from her kisses. "I will be yours."
"Say you'll be my wife, the mother of my children."
Elizabeth stopped kissing him and searched for his eyes. Could he mean it? Her heart stopped beating. "Your wife?"
"Yes," he smiled. "Be my wife, end my deadly pains. I shall love only you. Say you will, Elizabeth."
Tears filled her eyes. "Yes I will."
Thomas tore down her trousers and placed his hands on the soft skin of her derriere, pulling her close enough to make her feel his love and desire. A surprised gasp fled her lips, but he sealed them with a kiss. Now that he had her, he would never let her go again.
Author's Note: In the next chapter, many great things will happen: Cromwell will win a battle, but not the war, an important announcement will be made, Henry will stick to his promise by raising his close friends as a token of his esteem, and Thomas Boleyn will feel the bitter taste of his own medicine. And there is even a very special Christmas treat for Princess Mary… so stay tuned!