Chapter 24: Queen Anne's English allies
November 22, 1537, Château de Fontainebleau, Fontainebleau, France
King Henri II of Navarre opened the door to the study. "Margot, are you here?"
His wife's reply was short, signaling that she was busy. "Yes, Henri."
The study was illuminated by candelabra placed upon marble tables. Queen Marguerite of Navarre sat at a desk filled with ledgers, parchments, and inkwells. A multitude of books, most of them humanistic manuscripts, were stacked in shelves, which ran from the floor to the ceiling.
He strode over to the table. "Are you working on some French state papers?"
She lifted her tired eyes to him. "Yes, I am. These are reports of all kinds from Chancellor Guillaume Poyet. I'm especially interested in fiscal reports, for I need to allocate the gold we confiscated from the deserted Imperial camps to the needs of our people and the country."
The Navarrese ruler had a mane of brown hair. His doublet of black silk and his white lace-edged collar emphasized his average height and slight build. Beneath the highly arched brows, his hazel-green eyes, smart and lively, twinkled and smiled, while sometimes piercing others with a rapier's thrust of his sharp wit. His haughty, pointed chin indicated his strength of will.
My husband is handsome, Marguerite said silently while clasping some report in her hands. Henri d'Albert was her second spouse after her disastrous union with the late Duke Charles d'Alençon, who had blamed her for the lack of his progeny due to her numerous miscarriages. The marriage to Henri, who was several years younger, had brought Marguerite a lot of happiness; despite her four miscarriages and the death of their son Jean, Henri still adored his wife.
The only surviving daughter of the Navarrese couple was Jeanne d'Albert. A pious, clever, bonny girl of five, she was being raised together with the Valois children at Saint-Germain-en-Laye. After their son Jean's death three years ago, Jeanne became the apple of her parents' eyes and Navarre's only heiress, for Henri didn't hope to have another child with Marguerite.
Henri eased himself into a chair beside the desk. "Are you the Queen of France or the Queen of Navarre? Have you forgotten that you have a duty to our kingdom too?"
She stiffened. "I remember that. Navarre has been France's closest ally for years. It is only thanks to the House of Albert's alliance with the Valois family that we have not been annexed by Spain. By taking care of my brother's realm, I am doing a great deal of good for Navarre."
"From a political standpoint, I understand you, Margot."
"Then what is wrong, Henri?" She preferred not to touch upon this excruciating topic. "I cannot abandon François. We have ruled France together since our mother's death."
He snapped, "François is my friend, but he has councilors to help him."
In a conciliatory tone, Marguerite articulated, "What would have happened if I could not act as supreme regent of France during the recent Habsburg invasion when my brother battled against the emperor?" She raised her voice. "France would have crumbled like a clod of earth."
While the late Louise de Savoy had been alive, François, Marguerite, and their mother had ruled France together, having been called 'Holy Trinity'. The three of them had constructed and overseen the existing economic, political, administrative, and legislative systems of France.
"That is true. I could not help François during the invasion because I was barely able to hold back hordes of the Spaniards invading Navarre. The disaster continued for months."
She frowned in confusion. "Then why are you so angry?"
"The invasion is over, thanks be to God," the ruler said emphatically. "Now you can leave for Navarre and reside at our court in Bearn, just as you ought to do as my queen."
She shook her head. "I can only come to Pau or Bearn from time to time. France is encircled by Habsburg domains, and despite Spain's current financial problems, they still pose a threat to us. After Spain recovers from the troubles, they will invade again to retaliate."
A sigh escaped Henri. "Emperor Carlos will not forget his crushing defeat here."
She took one of the parchments in her hands. "He shall not."
"While Ferdinand is your prisoner, his warmongering brother will not attack."
Marguerite stamped the paper with the Valois seal and put it aside. "You never know what that half-Flemish, half-Spanish thug with a protruding lip will do tomorrow."
The relaxed air about him was gone. "No amount of persuasion is likely to aid my cause."
The queen was torn between her duty to two kingdoms, as well as her love for her brother and for her husband. "Our daughter Jeanne spends most of her time at Saint-Germain-en-Laye."
The monarch warned, "The friction between us will not disappear until you do your duty to me as my wife. Your place is with me in Navarre! Jeanne must live with us as well."
"Do you want me to betray François? My mother would spin in her grave, then."
He folded his arms over his chest. "Are you choosing France over Navarre and your brother over me?" His voice was tinged with anguish. "Have you ever loved me, Margot?"
Leaning across the desk, Marguerite took his hand and kissed it. "I've always loved you, my Henri. I consider us soulmates, and any misunderstanding between us tortures me."
He removed his hand from hers as if he could not take the close personal contact any longer. "Soulmates have deep feelings for one another. However, you are destroying our relationship."
As if unaffected by his outburst, she meditated, "At times, I think that soulmates come into your life just to reveal another layer of yourself to you. Their goal is to change your mindset, tear apart yourself, show you obstacles and teach you lessons, and perhaps even break your heart."
Henri laughed morbidly. "We are soulmates tied by bonds of our dying marriage."
Tears prickled Marguerite's eyes. "No. Don't say that!"
He continued uncompromisingly, "There is only one way to save our marriage. You must leave France and live with me in Navarre. We would visit your brother from time to time."
Instantly, the queen collected herself. "I don't like your tone, Henri."
The king jumped to his feet, and paced the study agitatedly. "I'm a king – I need my queen by my side. I am a healthy man, so my wife ought to perform her marital duties."
Her temper was slightly exacerbated. "I'm aware of your rare affairs in Navarre."
He paused near a table in the corner, and poured for himself a bejeweled goblet of wine. "After your mother's death, God bless her soul, your sojourns in Navarre became so rare and so short. I've been tolerant, enduring our separation and not complaining at all."
Marguerite comprehended his motivation for this conversation. "I've reconciled myself to your periodic infidelities because I know how difficult it is for a man to be without a woman for a long time. Your silent and benevolent acceptance of the fact I reside in France pushed me to turn a blind eye to your liaisons in gratitude for your forbearance and understanding."
Henri drained the goblet in one draught. "During the past six years, while you neglected our kingdom and marriage, I had only three affairs in Navarre. None of them lasted for longer than three months or so. For most of the time, I lived in celibacy, dreaming to see you."
A haze of jealousy encompassed her. "Did any of them mean something to you?"
"God, of course not." He refilled his goblet and drank half of it at once.
Forgive me for this lie, Margot, Henri thought remorsefully. I love you dearly, but your own actions and choices pushed me away to someone else. Indeed, he had never had many mistresses, and for the most part, he remained faithful to his spouse. However, the face of Anne de Pisseleu d'Heilly, who had been his clandestine lover every time he came to the French court, plagued him day and night, awake or dreaming, and Henri yearned to make her his again.
Her lips quivered as she asked, "Do you still love me, husband?"
Setting the goblet on the table, the monarch cast an affectionate gaze at her. "I do, Margot. That is the reason why I am attempting so hard to salvage this marriage. I need you!"
Her heart fluttered with a longing so intense that she trembled. "Henri, I need you too."
Henri rushed to his spouse and gathered her into his embrace. His kisses were every bit as intoxicating and drugging as the best wine from vineyards in Bearn. Their clothes suddenly felt too restricting, but as they were in the study, he unlaced his hose, while she raised her skirts. The tempest of primeval passion overpowered them like charioteers no longer able to manage the reins, and they made wild, uninhibited love as Henri placed her on the table.
God, such tremendous passion and pleasure are not a sin, Marguerite's heart sang. With muffled cries as she bit her bottom lip, she offered herself to her husband fully, enjoying his every thrust, pushing aside all the doubts after their candid discourse. Since Henri's arrival at the French court in September, they had shared a bedroom and had intercourse, but it was the first time that they had been so swept up by desire, just as they had been during the first years of their matrimony.
In the aftermath, they rearranged their garments. Henri gathered her into his arms.
She whispered, "You are my god, my ideal of manhood, and my husband."
He let out a chuckle. "I thought your brother is your ideal."
"No. François has many flaws despite all my devotion to him."
The ruler cupped her face between his hands. "Will you act as my spouse?"
His question broke the spell. "I'm a woman of duty to France, a woman of letters, and only then a wife," she pronounced apologetically. "My brother and the whole nation need me here. If something happens, there will be no one who can become a better regent than me."
A disappointed Henri released her. "Your heart belongs to France."
"To you too," she claimed, feeling too cold out of this embrace.
"Does it?" His eyes were pools of heartache. "You are more a Valois than anything else, Margot. Your mother raised her female copy: just as Madame Louise de Savoy devoted her life to her only son and France, you are following in her footsteps by dedicating your life to the country of your birth. I do admire this! On the other hand, do you know that you are hurting me?"
Marguerite's features formed an agonizing mask of guilt. "You knew that I'm not like others when you wed me, Henri. Duty to both France and Navarre pushes me to stay here."
"Because there will be no Navarre without France," he finished.
"Yes." She could scarcely breathe. "Henri…"
"You are too extraordinary." His face was blank, but his dolorific eyes spoke volumes. "I want a wife and family, Margot. I am a simple man from Bearn who craves warmth."
His words chilled her, her guilt intensifying. "Come to France more often."
The monarch stalked towards the exit and left. Marguerite slid to her knees and wept. At such a late hour, only François could visit the study, so no one would see her vulnerability.
What should I do now? How can I explain everything to Henri? Marguerite thought of the young Henri who had whiled away his time with a pen as he had composed clumsy poems to her after their wedding, and she had praised him, although they had been far worse than her brother's. But Henri d'Albert was no longer her beloved artist who had once painted her life in gorgeous colors of exhilaration. They loved each other, but the rift between them was swiftly widening.
December 5, 1537, Leeds Castle, Kent, England
Waiting for the royal party, Queen Jane Seymour and her sisters, Elizabeth and Dorothy, stationed themselves near the entrance to the Gloriette. The monarch's spouse and her family had arrived at Leeds a week earlier as the king had sent them ahead from Eltham.
"Why is the court moving here?" Jane's gaze wandered around the inner bailey.
Elizabeth Seymour, Lady Cromwell, smirked. "Years ago, His Majesty transformed Leeds Castle from a fortified stronghold into a palace for Catherine of Aragon."
"He must like this lovely palace," opined Dorothy.
The queen's countenance brightened. "I'm honored to be here because the late Queen Catherine loved this place. Maybe His Majesty misses her and decided to come here."
"No," denied Elizabeth. "Here the king has fewer reminders of the Boleyn adulteress."
"He has forgotten her," Jane blurted out.
"Naïve," Elizabeth barked, "or foolish. If a man cannot stay in places associated with his once beloved, he runs away from his memories of her and his feelings for her."
Jane's heart sank into her stomach. "He cannot still lust after that whore."
"Enough," rebuked Dorothy. "Elizabeth, if your intention was to ruin our day, you have accomplished that. But don't forget that Jane is your queen – treat her with respect."
"Wisdom cannot be imparted," Lady Cromwell snapped.
Their argument was interrupted by the appearance of the monarch's jester, Will Sommers.
"Our fairest dames of England!" The jester swept a bow to them. "The king will be here soon. The weather will be splendid tomorrow because he will shine upon us like a sun."
Jane smiled faintly. "Winters in Kent are mild and foggy, but rarely sunny."
Sommers made an inviting gesture. "Watch His Majesty's arrival!"
Dorothy whispered to the man, "The queen is not interested in seeing the king's slut."
At this, Jane shivered with her whole body, in spite of wearing a warm ermine cloak.
Realizing the truth, Sommers was shamefaced and sent Jane an apologetic look.
§§§
A signal gun from the Constable's Tower heralded the approach of the royal party.
First appeared a dozen trumpeters, blowing flourishes. Then a contingent of halberdiers, whose leader warned as they pressed forward, "Make way for the king's grace!"
Then succeeded a master-at-arms, bearing the standard of Baron Cromwell of Okeham. Next rode the English chief minister himself, mounted on a horse enveloped in golden brocade, his saddle covered with the same stuff, and gilt stirrups. Cromwell was attired in an expensive cloak made out of genet. In spite of his preference for ascetic fashions, he loved wealth and pomp.
A group of nobles rode ahead to meet the king, each frowning at the sight of Cromwell.
"That bastard has a princely retinue," the Duke of Norfolk assessed.
"I hope that he burns in hell," growled the Duke of Suffolk. He did not like Norfolk in the slightest, but he shared the negative sentiments towards the chief minister with others.
"Soon!" Francis Bryan tossed the words over his shoulder.
Norfolk and Bryan snickered, and Surrey joined in their laughter. A prickle of suspicion slid down Suffolk's spine: Bryan had definitely seen Anne Boleyn in France.
Thomas Audley opined, "Cromwell deserves to fall from the king's good graces."
"That beastly devil must be burned," hissed Nicholas Carew, who had recently returned from Italy. "All the torments in purgatory will not cleanse his soul."
Its history dating back to the time of Norman intrusions into England, the castle had been erected on two small islands in a lake, formed by the River Len to the east of Leeds village. After winding their way slowly along the river, the royal cortege passed through the great gateway and reached the outer barbican, then entered the inner barbican through a narrow drawbridge.
The group of nobles waited for a short time, and it suddenly started snowing.
After a line of lords, knights, and esquires emerged the ruler's sumptuous litter draped in cloth of gold. It was drawn by stallions caparisoned in purple velvet down to the ground, so the expensive fabric was already covered with snow. A contingent of arquebusiers encircled the litter. Next succeeded a chariot swathed in green and silver brocade, which contained the Bassett clan.
The snowflakes swirled almost horizontally, forcing them to slow down a little. Another drawbridge and the bridge over the moat carried them to the main island. They rode through the inner bailey and to the Gloriette, where the royal apartments were located.
As the cavalcade finally stopped, the trumpets blasted their shrilling notes. Joyful strains proceeded from sackbut and psaltery; the lords flung their caps and toques into the cold air.
King Henry and Anne Bassett climbed down from the litter. Anne's mother, Lady Honor Grenville, and her sisters, Philippa and Catherine, disembarked from their chariot next.
The monarch gazed at the lordly palace, above which the Tudor standard floated, and a smile curved his mouth. He had not been here for quite some time. At least, the ghost of the Boleyn adulteress will not plague me here, but maybe Catherine's will. I stayed here with my brother's widow on numerous occasions. Suddenly, Henry doubted his decision to return here.
Lady Bassett was tired after days of journeying on the snow-dirtied roads. Nevertheless, pride swelled in her bosom: she had accompanied the king on his progress to Leeds instead of his wife. Just as her eye chanced on Queen Jane and her sisters, the mistress shot her rival a triumphant smile. I long for the day when I'll approach any royal residence as its mistress, she dreamed.
At first, Henry paid no attention to his wife, who waited with her relatives and Sommers.
The Dukes of Norfolk and of Suffolk with their companions consigned their horses to their pages. They observed the king saunter to his consort, who advanced forward and curtsied to him.
Surrounded by her relatives, the royal mistress reluctantly stepped back from the monarch.
"Good day, Madame," was all that Henry told his spouse.
"I'm happy to see Your Majesty again." Jane glimpsed the pitch darkness in his eyes.
Turning away from the queen, Henry beckoned his mistress to him. "To me, my dear!"
Anne Bassett strolled to him with a measured gait of royalty. "Your Majesty!"
The monarch eyed her with passionate admiration. "At Leeds Castle, you, together with Jane, can make yourself a mistress of it, just as I am its lord and master."
Supreme haughtiness tinged his paramour's visage. "You are the kindest king, sire."
Jane cast down her eyes to conceal her shame from her husband's behavior. Her siblings feared that their position was turning more precarious; only Edward looked composed.
"I feel the advent of spring," interposed Sommers, "just because you are here, sire."
Henry laughed. "I'm so powerful that I can change the cycle of nature!"
Melting snowflakes moistened Anne's cheeks. "Ah! My skin! The snow damages it!"
"My daughter might catch cold!" Honor Grenville headed to Anne.
"Let's go inside," the ruler enjoined, giving his paramour his hand.
Amid continued fanfares, King Henry quickly led both Anne and Jane inside the palace. The relatives and ladies of his mistress and his consort involuntarily mingled, shooting each other fierce looks before heading off in different directions, as Jane parted her ways with the ruler in the great hall. In a few minutes, thick fog and heavy snowfall reduced visibility outside to zero.
§§§
Eustace Chapuys and his English friend entered the ambassador's apartments.
Nicholas Carew strode across the chamber. "Has the devil bewitched the king completely? Have you seen him treat that Bassett whore as if she were a queen? The slut is a reformer!"
"Good day, Sir Nicholas." The Imperial ambassador eased himself into a chair.
Carew settled into a chair next to the diplomat. "Nice to see you again, Eustace; I was glad to receive your letters while in Bologna. You look normal, despite the happenings at court."
"I'm accustomed to seeing His Majesty disrespect Queen Jane in public. By keeping the Bassett slut close, he is punishing his wife for her miscarriage. But you don't know the worst."
"What?" Alarm slithered through Carew.
The ambassador's fists balled, knuckles white. "His Majesty is striving to align with the German Protestant states. To achieve this, he intends to marry Princess Mary off to some heretical high-born noble, despite the discrepancy between their religious beliefs."
"Sweet Christ," Carew mumbled in frustrated horror.
"We shall not allow that to happen. Never ever!"
They shared determined looks, their hatred for the Protestants written across their faces.
"I was in Rome," Carew informed.
Chapuys blinked. "The Vatican? Whatever for?"
"To visit the great Pope Paul. While still in Bologna, I received an invitation from him. On my way back to England, I journeyed to Rome and met with His Holiness."
"What did he say, Sir Nicholas?"
Carew grinned slyly. "We remembered William Brereton."
At this, Chapuys smiled craftily, and they broke into a fit of conspiratorial laughter.
§§§
The Duke of Norfolk rolled to his side as the dull light of late afternoon slipped through the wooden shutters. Exhausted after the swift journey to Leeds, he had resolved to spend the rest of the day in bed. He was not alone: his mistress, Elizabeth Holland, known as Bess, lay on her back beside him, strawberry-blonde hair spilling across the pillow, her mouth half open in sleep.
"Bess, you are so lovely." Norfolk touched her shoulder, its skin smooth and soft.
"Let me rest, my lord." Her voice slurred in sleep.
"You cannot, my dear. My son, Surrey, and Bryan will visit soon."
Norfolk embraced Elizabeth, his lips capturing hers as if he hadn't kissed her for months. His paramour moaned, feeling the most marvelous sensations as something hot and thick invaded her. They had been together since 1527, but Bess still found it unbelievable that sometimes, this ruthless hawk could be so tender, especially with someone whose birth was far lower than his own.
Bess had once been a laundress in the household of Norfolk's spouse – Lady Elizabeth Stafford, Duchess of Norfolk, from whom Thomas had separated a couple of years earlier.
When it was over, Bess sat up, pulling the sheet to her chest. "I'll return to my room."
"Bess, remember what we discussed the other day. We need you here."
With a nod, she climbed out of bed and skittered to the dressing room. She emerged from there in a matter of minutes, her slender form clad in a gown of brown satin worked with silver, with long, open, pendent sleeves, which Anne Boleyn had introduced to the English court. Her lover had already changed into a doublet of fuchsia satin embroidered with diamonds.
Norfolk burst out laughing. "You are very quick today, Bess."
"Wear vibrant colors, my lord!" she hooted. "We will prove your niece's innocence."
After quitting his bedroom, Thomas and Elizabeth went to meet the duke's guests.
The small reception chamber was framed with elaborate paneling on the walls and ceiling. The fireplace was adorned with a pomegranate emblem. Walnut furniture, ornamented with inlaid ebony, the vargueno cabinet, and many Spanish motifs in the interior's decorations suggested that this suite had once been occupied by someone who had predominantly foreign tastes.
As they entered, Norfolk snarled, "The Spaniards are leeches on the body of the Christian world. My niece rightly said that they should all be at the bottom of the sea."
Elizabeth recognized the room. "Lady Maria de Salinas lived in these apartments."
His distaste of Catherine of Aragon and his disdain for her influence on England's policy during her queenship were well known. "That Spanish cow told a falsehood about her mistress' virginity, together with that blasted Doña Elvira Suárez de Figueroa, Catherine's duenna."
She concurred. "Certainly, Prince Arthur and the late Princess Dowager of Wales were intimate. Because of their lies, you schemed a lot to place your niece, Anne, on the throne."
As they stopped near a line of chairs, Norfolk asserted, "We will have to work hard in order to clear Anne's name of the false charges for Princess Elizabeth's sake."
"And for your own power," she stressed.
With an overweening air about him, he proclaimed, "For the House of Howard!"
The door opened, and the Earl of Surrey barged inside. He bowed to his father.
An athletic man of average height, Surrey was handsome in that thoroughly English way. Shaped like a slightly rounded rectangle, his face exuded a ruddy glow of youth, while ambition glistened in his blue orbs. Surrey wore a doublet of red satin wrought with gold, blue silk hose, a fancy girdle made of gold and emeralds, a black velvet toque on his head.
A paternal smile warmed Norfolk's frigid countenance. "My son! A handsome man by all accounts, and no lovesick youth. A warrior, a fine courtier, and a great Howard!"
"Father!" Surrey called with a grin. "I've come at your request."
The duke hugged his heir. "Together we are a force to be reckoned with, Henry."
At the sight of his father's mistress, Surrey grinned from ear to ear. "How lovely, Your Grace of Norfolk! Lovers need morning, noon, and nightfall with each other."
Elizabeth trained her eyes on the earl. "Lord Surrey! A rich, lazy, but sly and clever, lord such as yourself should be resting for days after a long, tiresome journey on horseback."
The young man didn't bother to hide his negative attitude to his father's liaison with a former laundress. Thus, Bess never missed the opportunity to make fun out of him.
"Miss Holland." Surrey backed away as she moved closer.
The annoyed duke was about to intervene when Sir Francis Bryan strode into the room. "Lord Surrey and Lady Holland, may I borrow His Grace for a moment?"
Norfolk settled himself into a chair carved with vines. "They will stay."
Stopping next to him, Bryan regarded him curiously. "What for?"
"My son is a Howard!" the duke stated with pride. "He will aid us, and so will Bess."
Surrey darted an arrogant look at Bryan. "It is the best happiness to have a large, close-knit family. This lets us work together for the benefit of our noble house."
Bryan let out a laugh; he quite liked the lad. "Fair enough, Lord Surrey."
"Of course!" Elizabeth took the seat beside her lover. "Have you forgotten that I served as a maid-of-honor to Queen Anne Boleyn? I adore her and wish her daughter well."
For an hour, they discussed Francis Bryan's visit to France. They listened with rapt attention to his descriptions of Anne's life in France and François' stratagem. Bryan had already briefed the king on the subject of his stay at the Valois court, and the Tudor temper had ignited.
Bryan characterized the French queen. "A woman with brain and class, cousin Anne faced extreme hardships with courage. They taught her to be an icy queen in front of the Valois court."
Norfolk nodded approvingly. "Anne's short temper and her interference with Henry's affairs led to the Boleyns' downfall. François values female intelligence, so Anne is fortunate to have him as her husband, but he is unlikely to tolerate her outbursts and jealousy towards his lovers."
Bryan reported, "The King of France does not have any mistresses at this time."
Surrey stood up and approached a table in the corner. He poured wine for himself and drank a little. "Has the Boleyn siren charmed her philandering French husband so utterly?"
Getting to his feet, Bryan came to the same table, where Surrey stood. Bryan informed, "I observed Anne and François in public together. He is reserved and regal, but his look of absolute adoration directed at her from time to time cannot be missed. Unlike Henry, he is not a volatile man prone to obsessions, and our cousin shall not wrap him around her finger."
Elizabeth shrieked with laughter. "His French Majesty is in love with Anne!"
Bryan filled his goblet. "But she does not seem to return his feelings."
"Excellent," Norfolk nearly purred. "Love should not become Anne's downfall again."
The duke's paramour giggled. "A woman's heart is like a deep ocean, and it hides secrets. I heard enough about François to predict that Anne's heart and body, which turned cold due to Henry's betrayal, must come alive under his expert touch. If not her heart, then her body."
Bryan took a swallow of brandewine in his goblet. "According to rumors, Anne and François spend every night together. The French court awaits news of her next pregnancy."
Surrey returned to his chair with a full cup. "Women are for childbearing, men for power!"
Elizabeth Holland threw a contemptuous glance towards the young Howard. If in anything her opinion was of consequence to her lover, it was not where a woman's inferior position was concerned. In men's opinion, women had to be submissive and respect their fathers' and later their husbands' authority. You all are weak and too emotional, Norfolk had once told her.
Resentment flowed out of Bess. "We women are no fools! Often we are stronger and better educated than men. Take Queen Anne: she made mistakes, but no other woman, save Eleanor of Aquitaine, has married two kings. I wish her happiness with her new husband, who is different from King Henry and most Englishmen, at least some those who gathered in this room."
Norfolk gritted his teeth. "Shut up, Bess." Surrey nodded at his parent.
Bryan diffused the tension. "Making love is one of the most enjoyable activities known to men. Without ladies men would not have been able to experience such pleasures."
"Indeed, Sir Francis." It was Surrey's first kind response to Francis.
Norfolk stated, "Anne should bear for the French king many children."
Bryan's grin was wide. "With the frequency of Anne's beddings by François, she will be pregnant many times. Henry didn't show such attention to her after his passion had cooled off."
The Earl of Surrey said sincerely, "I admire my truly extraordinary cousin. If she bears a male heir to the French throne, the Howards will be related to the Valois dynasty."
Norfolk drummed his fingers along the wooden armrests. "Dauphin Henri's marriage is still childless. Prince Charles, Duke d'Orléans, is healthy, but King François lost his eldest son."
Surrey cried, "A toast to heirs to the thrones of France and England with Howard blood!"
Elizabeth filled four chalices with wine and brought them to the three men. Twirling the fourth cup in her hands, she eased herself into her chair. Together they all drank a toast to Queen Anne's prosperity and to their dream to see her children monarchs of two countries.
Francis Bryan moved the theme to agenda. "We shall wait for a signal from King François."
Bryan extracted several papers from a pocket in his doublet, then unfolded them and handed to Norfolk. He talked and talked about his audiences with the Valois ruler.
Now the Duke of Norfolk had a glint of danger in those hazel eyes that promised death to his enemies. "I agree that we should not act until King François' spies learn more about the Pope's plot against my niece. Then we will take action against Cromwell."
"What do you think of the Pope's deeds?" Bryan quizzed.
Thomas Howard forced himself to remain calm on the outside. "I'm a devout Catholic. Yet, it is the only way to prove my niece's innocence, bring down that baseborn usurper of power, and ensure that Princess Elizabeth will not be tainted by her mother's alleged crimes."
Both shaken by the Vatican's attempts at Anne's destruction, Norfolk and Surrey felt rather uncomfortable. However, if Elizabeth became the Queen of England, the House of Howard would climb to the unprecedented heights. They would sacrifice their spiritual ideals for power.
At the same time, Francis Bryan recalled the French monarch's words about Elizabeth's personality. He had given a good deal of thought to the matter, and now he agreed with François. Elizabeth's character was a great, yet toxic to a degree, blend of Anne's and Henry's qualities, so the girl was bound by nature to excel in learning to govern the realm. Bryan didn't think that the princess would be easily manipulated, outmaneuvered, or ruled by men as she grew up.
"I'd assist you, my lords," interjected Elizabeth Holland. "I'll do anything to help Anne."
"I figured you would act as our spy," Surrey drawled, frowning.
"Then congratulations are in order!" Bryan jested. He added seriously, "A female spy is capable of seeing beyond social norms and barriers to reveal truths not so apparent to men."
"So very true, Sir Francis." Her voice flattened into a jovial hum.
Norfolk summed up, "We will make Cromwell and Suffolk lose everything."
Each of them was aware of how careful they had to be so that no one would discover that they had associated with the King and Queen of France, or they could end up on the scaffold.
"What about my sister, Elizabeth?" Norfolk wanted to know about her life in France.
Bryan recited what he had seen in Paris. "The Countess of Wiltshire is taking care of her beloved daughters. I saw Lady Elizabeth in the corridors with her daughters' children. Mary is always at Anne's side, and at court they are called two Boleyn girls conquering France."
The duke chuckled at Bryan's last words. "Did you speak to Elizabeth privately?"
Bess sent a sympathetic glance to her lover; she knew that he worried for his sister.
"No, I didn't," Francis answered. "She is always with her daughters."
"I see." Norfolk hoped that she would write him, but she hadn't. His heart bled that their relationship had deteriorated due to his role in her two children's downfall, but at least, Elizabeth was now content. His conscience was at peace that Mary had found her place in France.
Surrey questioned, "Are you going to use Thomas Boleyn in our scheme?"
His father shook his head vigorously. "No! My sister separated from him and moved to France. Neither of my nieces cares a whit about the man. Let him rot in Hever."
Bess opined, "The Earl of Wiltshire deserves that."
"I believe we are finished here." Francis Bryan jumped to his feet, then turned his head to Surrey. "My lord, let's leave your father with the charming Miss Holland."
"That is an excellent idea," approved a grinning Bess.
The Duke of Norfolk enjoined, "Go to your wife, son."
Surrey's lips quirked into a derogatory grin. "Have a good time, Father."
As the door behind Bryan and Surrey slammed shut, the plotting was over. Bess Holland threw herself into Norfolk's arms and submitted to whatever scandalous desires he had.
December 18, 1537, Leeds Castle, Kent, England
The presence chamber, located in the Gloriette, was lit by a low fire burning in the hearth and candles placed here and there upon tables. Their flames caused shadows from the figures of those councilors who stood in front of the massive throne, where King Henry sat.
The monarch eyed his subjects before announcing, "I shall put an end to the diversity of opinions as to the religious policy in England. I've appointed Secretary Cromwell and Archbishop Cranmer to produce a special statement, which we will call Six Articles."
The Duke of Norfolk despised the mere fact that Cromwell had been charged again with a task to do something important. "Should I aid them to work on it, Your Majesty?"
The king shook his head. "Only after the initial draft is prepared."
Norfolk maintained an impenetrable demeanor. "As you command, sire."
The monarch's answer offended Norfolk and the other nobles, strengthening the resolve of Norfolk and his accomplices to dispose of the man. Cromwell's expression was colored with a snobbishness that accompanies people to whom success went to their head.
"Your Majesty," the Earl of Surrey spoke up. "You may need my father's counsel."
The ruler shot him a withering look. "You are dismissed, Lord Surrey."
As the earl made a stiff bow and stomped to the exit, Norfolk barely repressed his outrage at how their sovereign treated the Howard family. His pride for his son was also immense.
The monarch revealed, "The document will cover six most important Christian dogmas. These include the Catholic doctrine of transubstantiation, the view that one need not receive both bread and wine in the communion, the unconditional obligation of priests to remain celibate, the binding character of vows of chastity, as well as private masses and auricular confession."
Silence prevailed. It was as if they held their breaths before the king elaborated.
Henry scrutinized a set of three wall hangings portraying scenes from lives of Christ and St. John the Baptist. "The disunity of my people has been the source of a continual worry for me. It conflicts with my view of how a good Christian prince should order the lives of his subjects. I've resolved that the Reformation will continue, but we must quieten religious debates."
Henry's gaze drifted to Norfolk. "If I had made you, Norfolk, responsible for the drafting of this act, you would have eliminated as many Protestant doctrines as possible. But our nation needs a religious settlement that will be a compromise for everyone. Whence, Cranmer and Cromwell will create the initial wording, and then Chancellor Audley and you will review it."
Norfolk flattered, "Your Majesty's choice of evangelicals could not have been better."
Nicholas Carew sniggered. "These men will have to curb their reformation vigor." Turning to the chief minister, he pronounced waspishly, "Best of luck with this, Cromwell."
"Thank you." It irritated Cromwell that the nobles refused to address him as Lord Okeham. But he was a competitive person, and if a glove was thrown his way, he would pick it up. "Cranmer and I shall ensure that the Act of Six Articles will also cement the victories of reformers."
"Sire, Cromwell has crossed a line!" Carew huffed in exasperation.
Henry shifted in his throne. "I've grown tired of the rivalry between the reformers and the Catholics. The new Act will establish the uniform doctrine of Christ's religion in my kingdom."
The Duke of Suffolk offered, "I'd like to assist in preparing the Act, Your Majesty."
"No, Charles," Henry denied. "You will run another errand for me. Summon Mary."
Brandon quitted the chamber amid muffled jeers of the other lords. The king's last words had painted him as an errand boy in the eyes of the others, and he hated that.
§§§
"The king will not do that," Charles Brandon, Duke of Suffolk, uttered in disbelief.
The duke gulped ale and sat in an oak chair with two pairs of curved legs crossing beneath the seat and rising to support the arms and back. His private quarters were illuminated by candles on iron sconces; the crackling fire in the hearth provided warmth from the nasty weather outside.
With the remembrance of the king's mad rage at Mary's refusal to wed a Protestant prince, Brandon thought of how fortunate the bastardized princess had been that he had defended her.
Mary had declared while staring intrepidly into Henry's eyes, "Your Majesty's insistence that I jeopardize my immortal soul by marrying a heretic illustrates our religious differences. You abjured the true faith when you broke with the Vatican, so I'm not astonished by your demand."
An incensed Henry had darted to her. "Don't you dare, you impudent brat! I am Supreme Head of Church of England, and anyone who says otherwise is a traitor. You signed the Oath, and I'll forget, for the last time, your offensive words, but you will yield to my will."
She had angled her chin defiantly. "Even if I were a scrawny girl who has not had any meal in days, I would not have begged a heretic to give me a crust of bread. By the Gospel, the canons, civil law, and custom, heretics must be burned. I shall not be a heretic's wife!"
"You are your blasted mother's daughter," her parent had screamed. "You cannot escape the fate I designate for you. You must show me that you have learned obedience and humility."
Henry had fisted his hand to strike Mary. Charles had rushed across the room to them.
"Your Majesty, she is your daughter," Suffolk had uttered with a shudder.
The monarch had slapped Mary across the face. He had raised his hand again, but she had scurried off to a window. Henry had run after her, but Charles had jumped in front of her.
"Please, don't do that, sire," Suffolk had implored, shielding Mary with his body.
With pleas and various artifices, Brandon had managed to convince the king to let Mary go. She had then stormed out of the chamber, as though all her nerves were set on fire.
How could Henry be willing to harm to his own fresh and blood? It was one thing to force Mary into an arranged marriage, and another one to treat her so savagely. Didn't the king see that she had grown into a fine young lady, with a mind so strong and a heart so big that those who met Mary admired her at first glance? Hadn't she once been the jewel of Henry's world?
Mary is an ideal daughter, Brandon mused. She would sedulously have cultivated the spirit of contentment in the Tudor family, if only her father had given her a few crumbs of his praise and love. Like her late mother, Mary was intelligent and capable of counseling the king in politics, so doing the best for the realm, not seeking to add to the burden her father must carry as a king.
The two men had been close friends since their boyhood. Years ago, Henry had been Duke of York, sulking that he had not been an heir but a spare destined for the career in the Church. Back then, Charles had believed that Henry would be a better and merrier king than the quiet and somber Arthur Tudor, Prince of Wales, could have been. Later, Brandon had been grateful to Henry for elevating him to the rank of a wealthy duke. Now Charles was truly shocked.
The Duke of Suffolk looked up at his wife's voice. "How are you, Charles?"
"Quite bad." The duke drained the contents of his goblet.
"I knew I would find you here." Catherine closed the door and crossed the chamber. "It must be impossible for you to sleep after that scene in His Majesty's apartments."
"It was horrible." He set the cup back on a nearby table.
She went to a table in the corner and poured for him a cup of wine. She herself had never developed a taste for ale, convinced that it was not a beverage for people of high ranks.
Charles watched Catherine move like a nymph, a blend of elegance, strength, and sadness glowing in her countenance. He was in love with this young creature! In a modestly cut gown of yellow and black damask passmented with gold, she looked beautiful and lithe, with soft skin and eyes like green almonds. Her straight, long, brown hair was braided into a coronet atop her head, but the angular Gable hood, which was popular at court, did not fit Catherine's ensemble.
Being his fourth spouse, Catherine Brandon was not only the Duchess of Suffolk, but also suo jure Baroness Willoughby de Eresby as the only heir of William Willoughby and Maria de Salinas. In 1528, at her father's death, Catherine's wardship had fallen to the monarch, who had sold it to his then-brother-in-law – Charles. For some time, Catherine had been betrothed to Henry Brandon, Earl of Lincoln and Suffolk's son with Princess Mary Tudor, who had passed away in 1534. But Suffolk hadn't wanted to lose Catherine's inheritance and married his ward.
Fortunately, they had fallen in love. For the first time in his lewd life, Charles had been under the indescribable spell of womanhood when he had taken Catherine's virginity in the same way as a gardener treated a delicate flower. Despite the significant age gap, they saw themselves as soulmates: blessed with two sons, Henry and Charles, the latter born just this year. The duke had lived with the ardor of a man whose heart had just awakened … until the rebellion in the north.
Catherine handed the cup to him. "For you."
"Thank you," muttered Charles after swallowing some wine.
She settled into a matching chair beside him. "What is the king intending to do?"
"To use Princess Mary as his pawn, as is his right as her liege lord and father. His Majesty wants to establish a Protestant alliance with German princes. He strives to be friends with King François' allies because of France's currently extremely strong position in European politics."
She frowned. "Why does he need that?"
Twirling his cup in his hands, Charles watched the red liquid swish back and forth. "By doing so, our sovereign will have the chance to destabilize France's relationship with Germany in case King François abolishes the religious tolerance in his realm. Although the whore is his queen, France will remain a Catholic nation. If necessary, François will lash out against that preposterous new religion spreading through the circles of French evangelicals and humanists."
"That Boleyn witch," hissed Catherine, her pretty features transforming into a scowl of visceral hate. "Her crimes against the late Queen Catherine and the Princess Mary are abominable. Her sins of harlotry and witchcraft disqualified her forever from God's absolution."
Charles tipped his head. "Thomas Cromwell, Nicholas Carew, Edward Seymour, and I – we all wanted His Majesty to marry Jane Seymour. Together we destroyed the harlot."
She was aware of the conspiracy against Anne. "It was a fair deed, husband."
"Nevertheless, Queen Jane has failed to produce a prince."
"So far," Catherine hoped. "The Lord will bless Queen Jane's marriage to the king."
"Perhaps." He emptied the cup and placed it on the table. "She does not have much time left. But even if the king never has a son, Princess Mary may rule well."
Catherine had recently become secretly interested in church reform. "My mother remained loyal to Queen Catherine until her last day. We have not acknowledged the sham of His Majesty and the whore's marriage as a legal, valid union." Her voice thinned as unease freshened within her. "But if Catherine's daughter ascends the throne, will she restore Catholicism?"
His lips moved to form words unpleasant for her. "I'm not a deeply religious man, but I've never supported our sovereign's perverse reforms caused by his obsession with that slut."
To Brandon's surprise, Catherine did not castigate Anne this time. "The restoration of the old regime will lead to suffering, for our country is now religiously divided. Because of corruption in the Catholic Church, Luther's and Calvin's teachings have spread widely."
The duke did not concur that the religion of his forefathers was wrong. "Indeed, the greed and wealth of the clergy has created a split between the peasants and themselves. Nonetheless, there are more Catholics in England than Protestants and Lutherans. If the realm is returned to the Vicar of Rome, there will be little resistance and only few burnings of the most ardent heretics."
Accusation glittered in her expression. "When the king appointed you and the Duke of Norfolk commanders of the royal army and sent you both to crush the uprising, I urged you to take a merciful approach towards the rebels. But you did not, Charles!"
The ensuing silence bristled with tension. A pause pressured with pent-up stress.
The more Catherine learned about her husband, the more painful her understanding of him became. The remembrance of the dreadful atrocities he had committed on their sovereign's orders tormented her every day, just as the ghosts of his infidelities did. Although she had witnessed Charles waking up in cold sweat from his nightmares time and time again, she believed that there was no forgiveness for the murders of those insurgents. You should not have done that, Charles.
He frowned, kneading his forehead. "You know that at first, I endeavored to make peace with the mutineers, who refused to disperse their troops. The king wanted to make an intimidating example by executing hundreds after he had entrapped Aske and his followers."
The Suffolk spouses glowered at each other. Memories deluged them like an avalanche crashing over the rocks: a horrified Catherine had pleaded for Charles not to kill the rebels and their families, even if it meant facing the monarch's disfavor. Despairingly, she had compared the innocent civilians to their own beloved sons, but his answer had broken her world into pieces.
What if they were your own children, Charles?! I shall still have to do it.
Those words stood between Charles and Catherine like a heap of thorns. With each passing moment, the wedge between them was growing wider. She had thought that her spouse could be only a bright companion to her for the days of sunshine, but not one in the crises of her life. His unwillingness to go against the ruler's abhorrent orders had painted him as a colorless individual in her mind. Later, she had lost their baby, which had added a huge amount of her grief.
At last, the Duke of Suffolk repeated what he had told her after his arrival from the north. "Every true subject is bound by the commandment of God to serve their sovereign, so I had to carry out that massacre. And I would have executed anyone and in any number to ensure that none of my family would find themselves at the receiving end of the king's wrath."
"Self-sacrifice is one of the loveliest attributes of human character. However, it has never been an attribute of yours, Charles." Sarcasm was dripping from her lips like venom.
"Catherine, please…" His countenance was tortured before he switched to another subject. "Queen Catherine would be spinning in her grave if Mary were to become a heretic's consort."
"I'm tired." She forced herself to be cautious: as much as she did not want to be with her husband, he did not need to know anything about her religion. "I'll retire for the night."
"Of course, wife." His voice betrayed his chagrin.
Catherine stood up. "Help Her Highness." She marched away.
A shard of ire stabbed through the Duke of Suffolk. If only the king had not sanctioned that massacre, now his wife would not barely tolerate his presence, and she would not have miscarried. The amiable temper and mutual understanding that had once existed between them was a premise for matrimonial bliss, but Catherine and Charles had lost them in the rivers of the rebels' blood.
Staring into the flames in the fireplace, Charles sat quiet for a considerable time. A pang of longing for Catherine and his children from his previous marriages filled the duke. The monarch would not permit him to leave court, so he would not spend time with his offspring. But his wife was here, and in spite of her coldness to him, he loved Catherine. Maybe we will create a new babe tonight, and it will help us heal, Charles speculated as he headed to their bedchamber.
I hope you are all staying safe from Covid 19. I'm staying in lockdown in Tuscany at least until mid-April.
Thank you for reading this chapter! I hope you liked it and will let me know what you think. My mission now is to review other authors more often. As always, I recommend VioletRoseLily and EvilFluffyBiteyThing at AO3, as well as Secret-writer91 at .
Queen Marguerite de Navarre is my one of favorite historical figures. According to contemporary French sources, there are two versions of her marriage to Henri d'Albert, King of Navarre. The first is that they loved each other deeply despite their age difference. The second version is that due to Marguerite's frequent sojourns at her beloved brother's court, Henri distanced himself from her and had mistresses. In B2K and several sequels, the first version is developed; in CWL, I take the second approach. In history, Marguerite's first marriage to Charles, Duke d'Alençon, was childless for some reason, so I took the liberty here – she had miscarriages.
We are back at the English court, which is moving to Leeds Castle. Jane Seymour and her relatives are of course desperate now because they can lose everything if Jane does not have a son. Anne Bassett is ambitious and wants to supplant Jane on the throne. As for Anne Boleyn's English allies, I repeat that the Duke of Norfolk will be Anne's ally, not Mary's despite his religious beliefs, and partly it will be connected with the shock produced by the Pope's deals (I cannot say more, these events are distant). The storm is brewing at the Tudor court. Do you feel it? Poor Jane!
In history, the Duke of Suffolk did not kill those hapless insurgents in the north of England. The showrunners twisted it, making him the murderer of thousands of innocents. In B2K, Suffolk is not responsible for that, but given that CWL is an artistic fiction not for publication (who knows what will happen next…), I decided to take the show's version of events.
Guys, let's support each other and make each other smile! Stay safe!
Yours sincerely,
Athenais Penelope Clemence
