A/N: Thank you for your kind words - I really appreciate your comments. Yes - I intend to give Lady Rochford another prominent role, as I think she deserves a better deal than history has given her, blaming her for someone else's incendiary gossip, though there isn't a silver knife under her overgown in this one! In the meantime, however, the dust continues to settle, and some small scale manoeuvring begins to take account of it...
One short note about the Tudor Calendar - the TV show portrayed the new year as being in January, as it is today; but it was in fact in late March - on the Feast of the Assumption of the Virgin, also known as Lady Day. In the spirit of grabbing onto the historical context as tightly as possible as I completely abandon actual history, I've reverted to the previous calendar.
CHAPTER TWO
The Height of Artifice
Snow is now lying thickly across the gardens and parkland that stretch behind Placentia. Sitting in a finely upholstered chair, sipping from a cup of warmed wine, Wiltshire allows himself a sense of relief that the King has finally admitted Anne back into his presence again. Now it is for her to tease him back into her bed, and conceive a son at the first opportunity. His own survival depends upon it.
It is of no concern to him whether or not Anne is ready, or willing, to undertake such a deadly dance - or even whether such a thing is even possible. She is married to the King - it is therefore her responsibility to get with child again, and to make sure not only that the child is a boy, but also that, this time, he lives.
God - if she were not now the property of the King, he would have beaten such a concession out of her. The fate of the family, its prestige and its wealth - oh yes, its wealth - rests entirely upon the fulfilment of his daughter's promise. That he is a master of his own destiny is not a matter that passes his mind: as a man, he has opportunities to survive and prosper that are beyond the reach of his daughter. But much of his ascendancy is built upon the foundation of the King's love for her, and if that falters, the structure cannot be certain to stand. Men died upon the scaffold in the battle to get the crown upon her head - and there is nothing to stop more men suffering that exact same fate if there is a battle to remove it. He is determined that he shall not be one of them.
"Damn her." He mutters, crossly. All was so secure - so certain. He held a primary place at the Council Table, his son was prospering in the light of the King's favour and his daughter was in the process of bringing forth the heir that would cement their positions for the rest of the reign. Until she allowed it to die. God above - all men take mistresses. What the hell was she thinking, throwing a childish tantrum over her husband's dallying with another woman? Does she not realise that marital vows are only binding for the wife?
He looks up as the door opens and Rochford steps into the Chamber, "What news?"
"No news." Wiltshire sips at his wine again, "She is back in his presence again, and she shall win him over."
"Do you think she can?"
"She can if she knows what's good for her."
Rochford looks out of the window, pensively. Regardless of his own desire to grab what he can for himself as the family profits from their proximity to the throne, he has always been close to his sister, and she to him. He knows that his own wife has whined to Anne on occasion about his philandering - only for Anne to defend him - and he chastised her for her presumption as soon as his sister warned him of her betrayal. God, he loathes the wretched woman. She is no longer of sufficient class to improve his own position - and he would give anything to remove her and find a woman of higher rank.
"Once she has done so, and we are restored in the King's favour, we can dislodge the baleful influence of those bloody Seymours." He muses, "If that old fool wants to palm off his milk-pale daughter upon a man of rank, perhaps I shall repudiate one Jane and replace her with another Jane."
"You shall not." Wiltshire growls, "We are scandal-ridden enough as it is. I will not lose all that I have gained through the foolish mishaps of my children. You benefit from my rank, George. Not the other way about. Do not forget it."
"And do we not benefit from Anne's rank?" Rochford counters. It cannot be denied - no amount of hard work and making oneself useful can accumulate power as quickly as a relative made royal.
Wiltshire glares, but does not comment. Whether he likes it or not, he knows that George is speaking the truth. It is a truth that is whispered behind their backs in corridors and private chambers - the fate of the Boleyns is tied entirely to that of the Queen. Should she fall, there is little chance of either father or son escaping those bonds and retaining the favour of the King. Were that Seymour girl to be sat upon the throne, her rapacious family would be quick to benefit from it, and seek to oust anyone bearing the tainted name Boleyn.
"Then she shall do it. She shall ensure that John Seymour never sets his girl up in her place." Setting the wine aside, Wiltshire grasps the arms of his chair and hefts himself to his feet. Damn - too much wine…
"Where are you going?" Rochford asks.
"To speak to the Queen."
The glove-cuff is almost complete, and Anne sits back from her embroidery frame with a sigh of satisfaction. It may now be possible to gift the pair to her husband after all - an outcome that would have been all but impossible a mere three weeks ago.
She still does not feel entirely secure, and has not yet admitted any men to her apartments, not even to the outermost Presence Chamber. Despite her observance of her marriage vows, and her husband's equal disregard of them, she has seen the differing standards of expectation over such things, and with matters in a state as delicate as they are, she has no wish to add fuel to any unwarranted fires. As soon as she has regained Henry's regard, she shall concentrate upon conceiving again: she promised him a son, and as God is her witness, she intends to keep that promise.
Her ladies sit around her, each absorbed in their own embroideries, though Jane Rochford has abandoned her hoop and is instead practising calligraphy on scraps of rag paper, apparently intending to inscribe a passage from the first epistle of John. She has seen many of those previous attempts scattered across the table, and sighs inwardly at the words - for they echo her own predicament rather more than she would like.
Beloved, let us love one another, for love commeth of God, and everyone that loveth is borne of God. He that loveth not, knoweth not God: for God is love.
It's a message to George - it must be. Lady Rochford has come to her more than once to seek her aid in persuading her brother to be more faithful to her. She had scoffed at the time - and suggested that her miserable lady in waiting be more patient and wifely. Perhaps even provide him with a son to carry on the family name? Even George had been amused at the thought when she had told him of it. After all, had she not earned the regard of her own husband through the conception of a son?
She chills inside - such hypocrisy; telling her sister-in-law to make her husband be faithful, while she could not perform the same feat with her own. God knows that he has hardly been a constant husband; they have quarrelled over his infidelities more than once; but that moment…actually finding him with another woman. No - that is the worst betrayal of all. He cared so little for her feelings that he was willing to fondle one of her own ladies in waiting in the midst of the day - abandoning all pretence of discretion.
Her musings are brought to a halt by the sound of heavy footsteps in the corridor outside, and she looks up, expecting her steward to announce her visitor.
He is not given the opportunity.
The door is opened with such aggression that it swings round to slam into the wall. Heads fly up, and someone lets out a small shriek.
"All of you - out!" Wiltshire's tone will brook no argument. Expressions shocked, the various women and servants hasten to obey, leaving the Earl alone with his daughter.
"Of all the things I asked of you." He says, once all is quiet, "The one, one thing that will save us all - and you destroyed it!"
She does not rise, but remains in her chair, impassive. What can he possibly say that shall hurt her more than that grievous loss?
Angered even more, he strides across the room and leans over her, his hands upon the arms of the chair, "Do I need to remind you of the danger that we face?"
Trapped in the chair, Anne looks up at him, her expression savage, "That you face? What can you know of danger? Does it not even enter your head that each child I carry might bring me to my death? All so that you can continue to preen yourself and call yourself powerful! Do not forget that I am the reason for your ascendancy - and I did so upon my own terms! Have a care how you treat me, father - I shall regain the King's favour and love, and when I do, I shall rise so far above you that you cannot touch me. I am no longer your property. Do I need to remind you of that?"
She is speaking out of turn, and she knows it. It does not become a woman to speak so to a man - particularly one of her own blood - but she is cornered like a cat, and in common with any cat, claws are unleashed in such circumstances.
His eyes vicious, Wiltshire rises and steps away from her. To some, her fiery temper might be alluring, but to him it is - and has always been - a bloody nuisance, "If you do not regain the love of the King, daughter," he spits back, "Then do not look to me for protection. Should you fall, you shall not take me with you, or your brother. You shall fall alone, and I shall watch as you are repudiated and banished from the Court as nothing more than a common harlot."
So it has come to this, then. Rising from the chair, Anne looks at him almost with new eyes. He has always been a mercenary power-grasper; she knew that from the moment he first dispatched her into royal service. Having a son to succeed him, he has no concern over the welfare of his daughters other than as jewels with which to bribe better men in hopes of gain for himself.
"And you believe that?" she laughs at him, a harsh sound riven with spite, "Believe me, father, I have no intention of falling - but not to save you. No, I shall regain the King's love, and give him a brood of sons - I shall ensure that the line of Tudor shall not falter and fail. I am no longer solely your daughter. I am the Queen of England, and I shall do my duty. Not for your benefit, but for that of the King, and his people."
Wiltshire glares at her. Put in such terms, any argument he might offer in return would sound petty and treacherous, and quite possibly make its way back to the ears of the King. Silenced by that simple statement of loyalty to her husband and her realm, he turns on his heel and stalks out.
Alone again, Anne closes her eyes and sinks back into her chair. Such a Queenly pose - but it has set her a challenge that seems almost insurmountable. She must regain Henry's love, and give him the sons that he demands. Once she has done so, however, the rewards shall be beyond counting. She shall be undisputed - and, as the mother of the heir to the throne, she shall have the power to rule as his equal.
Now all she has to do is believe it.
"I have the fair copy of the King's proclamations for Lady Day, my Lord."
Cromwell looks up to see that his secretary, Ralph Sadleir, is holding a sheet of vellum upon which is inscribed the intricate Chancery hand of John Stalke, the best scribe in the offices. The King has always used the celebrations of new year, and the annunciation of the Virgin, to bestow gifts upon those who have earned his favour over the past year. A manor here, a pocket of land there. Gifts of money or jewels to some, or even on occasion honours and peerages if the recipient has particularly won his favour. This shall be no exception - though the list seems rather longer than usual; as though his Majesty is attempting to erase the disasters of the last few weeks through an extensive display of generosity to his Courtiers. Bad enough that he was nearly lost to them all when he fell at the Joust - but also the loss of his son to compound that dismay. The King is not a man who can wear a garment of humility - or humiliation - and thus attempts to conceal his losses in a grand display of wealth and largesse. There is even the opportunity for one fortunate soul to be admitted to the Order of the Garter - and that is, above all, a mark of royal favour. A place is only vacated by death, or dishonour. In this case, it is a death, and there are two men most likely to gain that empty place: Lord Rochford, or Sir Nicholas Carew. Both are favoured, though Cromwell considers Carew to be closer to the King as a friend. It shall be Rochford of course - for no amount of laughter and companionship can trump a familial connection. As the King's brother in law, George Boleyn is certain to be admitted to that august group. Another coup for the family.
Eyeing that sheet of vellum, he smiles, pleased. Ralph has proved to be a man of talent and discretion, and he is most satisfied with the young man's progress, "Excellent. See that it is set with the other documents for His Majesty's approval."
"Do you not wish to view it?"
"Do I need to?" he asks.
"Well, no; but…" Sadleir looks surprised at such a degree of trust in his work.
"If you are content, then I am content. Go to." Shaking his head with mild amusement, he returns to his own papers as Sadleir retreats and his shadow recedes from the light.
Only for that light to be obscured again as someone else steps into it, "Forgive me, my Lord; the King has requested your presence."
He looks up again at one of the King's many Ushers, and attempts - without success - to remember the boy's name. He does not ask why he has been summoned: an usher would not have been given a reason. As he is not scheduled to meet with his Majesty, he has no papers to carry, instead setting his quill into a pot and returning his papers to the coffer alongside his desk.
When he reaches the Privy Chamber, the King is seated in one of his favourite armchairs alongside a roaring fire, chewing upon comfits and sipping from a glass of mulled wine. There is, of course, no reciprocal chair for his Chief Minister, and Cromwell waits at the door for his Majesty to summon him into the chamber.
"Cromwell." The King does not turn to look at him, but he obeys the invitation to enter.
"Majesty." He bows, deferentially.
"It is becoming increasingly clear to me that God shall not grant me a son from the womb of…" he pauses, as though fighting to get the words out, "…her Majesty."
In spite of himself, Cromwell feels a little sick inside. If his Majesty cannot even bring himself to speak her name, then what hope is there for Queen Anne now? Much as he has turned his back on the woman, even she does not deserve this.
He knows better than to comment, however. There are no words that he can say that shall not earn him a stern rebuke.
"I think I shall visit Wulfhall when the weather warms." Henry muses.
You summoned me here to tell me that? Cromwell thinks to himself, but says nothing.
"It has been too long since I last saw Sir John. He is an excellent man, and I miss his company."
Of course he does, Cromwell thinks to himself, sarcastically, so much so that he has not invited the man back to Court. There is one, and only one, reason why the King longs to visit the seat of the Seymours, and he is quite convinced that Sir John did not have fair locks and a fulsome bosom the last time that he saw him.
And there's the rub. His Majesty might well desire to soothe the burns he has received from Anne's fire, and the insipid Miss Seymour appears to be his balm of choice, but there still remains the awkward obstacle of how the hell they remove Anne having gone to so much trouble to crown her in the first place. Is that what his Majesty wishes to discuss?
God…I hope not.
He has been considering that rather intractable problem for a number of days now; after all, he is bound to the fate of the Queen as much as any other who have risen in the company of the Boleyns. His ties are looser than most, of course, and thus more easily loosed entirely; but still…to destroy that remarkable spirit…that keen intellect…
If only she had been more willing to bend to his Majesty's will - he well recalls how keenly she could argue with him on matters of theology and divinity - and she had had no higher learning, merely that which she had gained herself through her own industry in the Court of France. He would have been proud to have a daughter so accomplished as that. Instead, he must watch as she dances with death, ever closer to an abyss from which no lifeline can save her.
At long last, the King gets to the point, "In the face of the duplicity of France, I think I shall renew overtures to the Emperor. Speak to the Imperial Ambassador, ascertain the price of friendship."
"Yes, Majesty." So he is not being asked to find a way to dislodge the Queen. Not yet, at least.
The snow has largely thawed over the last few days, though frosts in the morning are still hard as February draws to a close. Free to walk in the gardens again, Anne's complexion is rosier now, and her ladies are less fearful for her health than they were when she was cooped up in her apartments. That said, her temper is little better, and one must tread most carefully to avoid provoking it.
The dressmakers are in the process of working upon a magnificent gown for the New Year celebrations on Lady Day, while the finely worked gloves are now complete: to be given to Henry at the feast of the Annunciation that shall accompany the change from the old year to the new.
On the surface, Anne is calm; but within, her emotions are still in turmoil. Despite their argument, and his retreat, her father will not cease from badgering her to reconcile with Henry. Not for her welfare - no, of course not - but in fear of losing his power at Court. Few have his power, but many would be pleased to claim it for themselves. To his mind, it all rests upon her, and her alone. If he loses even the smallest piece of it, then it shall be entirely her fault.
But how to reconcile with Henry? The man blows hot and cold from one hour to the next. On some days, he requires her presence, on others, he refuses it. Only when her absence is likely to cause adverse comment is she permitted to be with him. What can she do? Her only means of regaining his love is to bear him the son he craves - but how can she do so if he refuses to come to her bed?
It is all a great pretence: the very height of artifice. But it is built upon tottering foundations, and if she cannot settle them, then all could collapse around her in an instant.
God help me…please God, help me… I know not what to do…
On and on, the prayer goes around and around in her head, obscuring her thoughts and throwing her attempts to plan into hopeless confusion. There is no one in whom she can confide…not a soul in whom she can trust.
Oblivious to her surroundings, she misses a step, and almost falls to the ground. Immediately, a pair of hands grasp her arm to steady her, and she looks up to thank Margery, only to find that instead it is Jane Rochford. No other lady but a near relative would feel able to grasp at her unprompted, of course.
There is no mockery there, no scorn. It is as though, in their mutual helplessness against their husbands, Jane has abandoned her enmity - but she does not risk a sympathetic expression. They both know that such a thing would be anathema to the Queen.
"Thank you, Lady Rochford." She says, quietly.
"Majesty."
She continues, her unexpected saviour at her side, until they reach a small arbour in the midst of the walled gardens. Alive with blooms in the summer, now it is glistening and frost-crowned; an ice palace as cold as the chill in her breast. Unable to sit, instead she paces back and forth, turning over and over the same thought. Who can help her - who can advise her…who has a cool head, a wise mind, political expertise.
God, there is only one man: and she threatened to have him executed. Of all men, he would be more than willing to hurl her to the lions that crowd around her. Dare she approach him? Would he even deign to talk to her now? Could she truly swallow her pride and grovel to the base-born son of a brewer?
No. No, she could not. Never.
If her life depended upon it?
Perhaps. But her life is not yet in the balance. Or is it? She cannot tell.
Without advice, she must rely upon her own skill to flatter and charm. So she shall. When she is seated with her husband to celebrate Lady Day, and the start of the new year, then she shall do it - flatter, dissemble, pretend that her intelligence is naught but misplaced pride. That is what he sees in that Seymour chit, and so she shall emulate it as best she can. Henry has always been susceptible to the flattery of a woman. Perhaps there is still time to turn all about.
Oh, it shall be a supper of wormwood and gall - there is no doubting it; but a plate of ashes is worth ingesting if it shall bring Henry back to her bed - and her heart.
If it must be done, then she shall do it.
The noise from the Mews is astonishing; the clattering of hoofs and the shouting of grooms as the horses are gathered for their riders.
"Are they to hunt?" Rich asks, leaning out of the window to look at them, blocking Cromwell's light as he does so. God, he looks like a child eager for the first snows of the winter.
"No. His Majesty is to ride west, to Windsor, and then on to Burbage on the morrow."
"Ah." Rich's comment is short, but so laden with meaning that Cromwell glares at him. Lord above, he is overly inquisitive - but then he is an unmitigated weasel, keen to seek out information that is advantageous to him. To know that the King has departed to Wulfhall, and to the house of the Seymours, is valuable information to a man so lacking in principles. Cromwell returns his attention to his work, concealing his expression of mild disgust.
Not that it matters what Rich knows. It is doubtless all about the court already - for the news that his Majesty has ridden off to the west to pay court to the Seymours is hardly a secret. Of course, people might say 'the Seymours', but everyone knows that it is the daughter he is keen to see.
Finally, Rich stands back from the window, as the riders depart, and Cromwell has his light back. To his relief, the irksome man seems disinclined to remain hovering nearby, and instead he makes his way back to his own papers, at the other end of the chamber.
With no one looking over his shoulder, Cromwell removes the papers upon which he has been scribbling, and returns to the one that matters: his intended agenda for his meeting with Eustace Chapuys. While he is not negotiating anything of great import, Chapuys is a wily, duplicitous individual, and it pays to be prepared for any eventuality, even if the negotiations are upon friendly terms.
He looks at the notes again, and sighs inwardly. No matter how he terms it, whatever is offered to the King to cement a peace treaty, it shall not include either recognition of Elizabeth, or of Anne. Francis would not do it, and nor shall Charles, no matter how profane and angry the King's ranting that they must. The laws of England do not apply to foreign Kings.
And so another brick is removed from the foundations of the Boleyns' bastions of power. He knows Chapuys too well to believe that the Ambassador shall not demand the restoration of the Lady Mary to the succession as a price of a treaty; and to do that shall be impossible while circumstances are as they are. Henry would rather keep trying to get a son than grant his crown to his first daughter.
Needs must, however. Henry has demanded that he enquire as to what conditions would be in place if England and the Empire are to become officially bound in friendship - and he shall do so.
The small group of ladies sit around the table, playing Triumphs and doing all that they can to keep their gossip quiet. The Queen is abed, and they do not want her to hear their words.
"Has he really gone to Wiltshire?" Anne Bray whispers, softly.
"So I am told," Madge Shelton hisses back, "Gone to pay court to that Seymour trollop."
"But what of Lady Day - while he be back for that?"
"Of course he shall; but whether he shall return to court without those rapacious Wolves,who knows?"
"Hush yourselves!" Margery Horsman snaps, crossly, "It is not for you to speak so! If you cannot speak of any other matter, then speak not at all!"
Chastened, the women return to their game, and their gossip moves on to other matters.
On the other side of the curtains, Anne turns over in bed, the tears falling from her eyes. She knows, too, where the King has gone. And why.
Come Lady Day, she shall have all to play for - and if she fails, then all is lost.