A/N: Thank you so much for your review Boleynn, I really appreciate your comments; half the pleasure is building a world for the characters to inhabit, and trying as hard as I can to keep it grounded in the times. I hope I can keep up the pace!
CHAPTER THREE
Desperate Measures
The candles have burned low, but are still of sufficient height to give light for another hour or two. Seated at his desk in the growing darkness, Cromwell stifles a yawn and continues to read the documents that he has been working on.
The clerks have long since departed, as has Sadleir. Rich, of course, departed hours ago, in search of a gaming table and a few pots of ale, no doubt. He would have returned to his apartments as well, but for the meeting that he intends to hold shortly.
Being at Placentia, the journey back to his home in Stepney would be too much time wasted aboard a barge. Even though the King is away from Court, Cromwell does not like to be too far away from the centre of government. There have even been occasions where he has hosted the Council at the great house of Austin Friars in order to retain that control.
He looks up as his steward arrives, "Sir, his Excellency is without."
"Excellent. Send him in, Badham." Hastily, he clears away the papers. He does not want Chapuys to see those.
"Mr Secretary." Chapuys approaches the desk as Cromwell rises respectfully to his feet. Tall, elegant and as lacking in principles as any other in this benighted place, the wily Savoyard looks intrigued to have been invited to speak to a man who has no rank, but nonetheless appears to be as close to the King as the Groom of the Stool.
"Excellency - please, be seated. Might I offer you a cup of spiced wine?" Base-born he may be, but Cromwell can politic with the best of them, and he is the very soul of gentility.
"Thank you, that would be most welcome. How can I be of assistance to you?"
Cromwell seats himself again as Badham brings across the wine, "His Majesty has asked me to enquire with you whether his Imperial Majesty would be interested in making a treaty with England of mutual friendship and support against our enemies."
"You mean France." Chapuys says, smiling.
"As I said - against our enemies." Cromwell answers, blandly, "His Majesty envisages many opportunities for trade, and other activities of mutual support that shall ensure that we are bound together in peace and prosperity for years to come."
He chooses not to mention the matter of religion - now that the King has divested himself of the authority of the Pope, there is no means that can be employed to bring him back such subservience again. But then, Chapuys must know that - he has been here for long enough, has he not?
The Ambassador sips his wine, speculatively, "It is important to set out at the first step that there shall be certain…conditions…attached to any agreement. His Imperial Majesty would expect concessions to be made pertaining to the Lady Mary." He pauses, and frowns, impressed: "This is most excellent wine."
"Thank you, Excellency. Of course, his Majesty is keen to consider all conditions that might be raised - though I am no more able to speak for my King than you are for yours." He knew this was coming. Chapuys is no more well disposed to the Queen than his master, and sees her Majesty's recent calamity as nothing more than God's judgement upon a sinful and invalid marriage. That any settlement with the Holy Roman Emperor would involve Mary is no surprise - but how to do so is a question that he cannot easily answer; not when the very family who has benefited the most from the Queen's favour still remains at the Council table. Besides, Queen Anne would never allow even the thought of the hated Mary being placed back in the line of succession ahead of her younger sister.
"His Imperial Majesty would be most keen to agree to a treaty with England, Mr Secretary, and he has previously authorised me to speak upon his behalf. I can assure you that, in order to secure such a treaty, his Majesty the King must restore the Lady Mary to the succession, and overturn the order that declared her bastardy. He would also be willing to betroth her to his son, Philip, as part of said treaty."
Cromwell nods, sagely, though his thoughts are sceptical. Whether he likes it nor not, Henry shall have to consider that intractable problem - the success of a treaty with the Emperor might well hang upon that one condition. Regardless of the size of her King's self-regard, England is a small nation that cannot stand alone against the might of the Empire, or of France. She must ally with one or the other - but in each case, the ambassadors offer their sons to a banished bastard, and not a princess. The disparity in their ages is of little account - the King was six years junior to his first Queen, so the prospect of tying a young woman of seventeen years to a nine year old boy is hardly shocking. No, the problem is the Boleyns.
All of them.
"His Majesty has authorised me to tell you that he is equally keen to make a treaty with the Emperor for the benefit of our nation, and of the Empire. And if there are any obstacles to that treaty, I am sure that they can be overcome."
Chapuys nods, smiling, "I think our minds are meeting, Mr Secretary."
Sitting back, Cromwell returns the smile - though in his deepest heart, he cannot help feeling the cold spread of yet another stain upon his ever more besmirched soul.
Jane Rochford sits upon a stone bench and watches as her Queen plays with her favourite dog, throwing a small ball for the spaniel to chase and return to her, though she does not retrieve the saliva-drenched ball from the animal's jaws - instead a steward picks it up and sets it in one basket, while a second steward hands her a clean ball from another.
That today has been difficult is an understatement; a tempest of anger and tears, then laughter and vivaciousness. No one who approaches the Queen knows whether they shall be accepted or rebuffed. Despite all efforts to keep the news from her, she is aware that the King has gone to Wiltshire. And she knows why - but then, everyone knows why. She should hate that richly dressed woman who is not permitted to sully her hands with dog-spit; but with each passing day, she begins to find that her animosity is being chipped away by sympathy. She should be thinking that the fates have served Anne right - punishing her for her presumption that she could oust a ruling Queen without consequence - but instead, she feels sadness, for she has overheard her own husband's views, and his endless plotting to keep the privileges that her crown has won him.
A cloud rolls over the sun, killing what little warmth there is in the air. Shivering slightly, Jane wonders whether to tell the Queen of her brother's ever wilder plans. That she has spoken ill of George before tells against her, and the Queen does not trust her. But who is left for the Queen to trust now?
She looks up again, and her stomach knots - as it always does - with tense anger and resentment, a companion from the moment she was obliged to wed the Boleyn's only son and serve the younger daughter. It seems to have become utterly instinctive, and she must swallow down the bile with a conscious effort.
The sun does not reappear, and she raises her eyes skywards to see that the clouds are growing thicker. When she looks to the ground again, she can see spots of rain upon the flagstones.
"Take the dogs in." Anne says, shortly, then ignores the ushers as they rush to comply. The ladies are obviously keen to return to the Palace, as the rain is becoming a thick drizzle that threatens to settle into garments and chill the wearer to the bone. But she does not move, "Leave me."
They dither, unwilling to leave her unattended, but equally intent upon getting indoors as soon as possible, and Anne turns, her expression savage, "I said, leave me!"
She watches them as they flee. All but one.
"I do not wish you to stay, Jane." God, she sounds so tired. But then, she has slept not at all for two nights in a row, and even the smallest matter seems like an insurmountable mountain in her path. There is no one to whom she can turn - not a soul in whom she can confide…
And then her eyes are full of tears, tears of pain, grief and loneliness. Her desperately wanted son is gone, her husband halfway across England seeking to court another woman. Her father is interested only in his own welfare, while even George seems unwilling to come to her presence any longer. She cannot even turn to her sister for sympathy, not now that she has banished Mary from her presence thanks to her inappropriate choice of husband.
Somehow, it seems not to matter to her that she is standing in the midst of the rain, her headdress sagging in the wet; or that the only confidante she has is a woman who despises her. All despise her, so what is there left now?
"Come, Majesty. Come under the awning out of the rain." Jane's voice is astonishingly kindly, and she guides Anne to the cloth awning that is the only shelter available to them.
"God help me," Anne weeps, "God help me - I have no one left. I am so alone…"
They sit together, Jane soothing her sister-in-law and sharing her grief at the inconstancy of husbands, until the tears dry, as tears always do.
"I must ask your forgiveness, Majesty." Jane says, quietly, "I have looked upon you with dislike, and that is most unChristian of me."
"But hardly unjustified." Anne sighs, "If you seek forgiveness from me, I grant it - though I think that there is nothing to forgive. I think, between us, we must work together to the end of bringing our husbands to heel, must we not?"
For the first time in longer than she can recall, Jane laughs, "Yes indeed, Majesty."
"But before we do so - I think I must seek your forgiveness in return."
"You have it, Majesty."
"Come, we should go in. Is there a less public means of doing so? I have no wish for my enemies to see me drenched by rain and blubbered with tears. I must wash my face and apply some cosmetics before I dare to show myself to the Court." How remarkable catharsis can be - her voice is stronger, and more purposeful. In a moment of despair, she has been granted the light of a friend to whom she can turn.
It soon becomes clear as they enter the palace that Jane knows many more corridors and routes through the palace than Anne does, and they are unseen, until the sound of voices drive the pair into an alcove to remain out of sight.
"When is the King expected back?" The women exchange a glance, for the voice is that of Rochford.
"Tomorrow." Wiltshire answers, his voice hoarse and low, "Why such secrecy? Hiding in alleys like footpads?"
"Can you be certain that we shall not be overheard anywhere else, father? Do you truly not know that Cromwell has spies everywhere?"
Anne frowns; while she knows that Cromwell is well informed, she is equally aware that he does not have ears everywhere. It just seems that way. How bizarre that her brother has become so convinced of it that he hides in dark corners to carry out his plotting.
Wiltshire shrugs, "When he returns, or does not return, is irrelevant. Unless Anne gets with child again, we are doomed. The wretched girl has lost his love, and threatens all."
"It does not have to be that way." George's voice is much lower now, "What if we can bring it about?"
"He will not come to her bed - and only the Virgin ever conceived without the aid of a man."
"And if his seed is failing?"
Wiltshire is not the only one who is startled at such a suggestion.
"Think upon it, father," Rochford urges, "when, at any time, has the King fathered a son who is both legitimate, and alive? Perhaps it is a weakness in the line - but it cannot have escaped your notice that the succession has not one man in its ranks? Maybe the King is not capable of fathering a son."
"Apart from Fitzroy."
"An aberration."
"And how do you propose to resolve this…issue?" Wiltshire asks.
"It is not hard. We find another who can impregnate the Queen. Then we ensure that his Majesty is suitably encouraged for a woman, and insensible enough not to know with whom he tumbles. After all, a dog cares nothing for the breed of the bitch with which it couples if it is sufficiently hot to do so."
Anne tenses, waiting for her father to defend her.
"And how do we find one who shall provide the seed that shall impregnate the Queen?"
Jane rests her hand upon Anne's arm, and shakes her head.
"It shall perhaps be costly - but not impossibly so. A sedative in the Queen's wine, and she shall not be awake to refuse him. Come now, father. It is not as though we have not been obliged to intervene in obstructive matters before?"
"If I recall, that enterprise failed in its intentions."
Jane looks at Anne, who shakes her head, bemused.
"This shall not. Once there is a babe in the Queen's belly, all shall be secure for us again. Come Lady Day, I shall be within the Order of the Garter, and we shall see off those Seymour upstarts once and for all. And I shall have Jane put away as a madwoman, annul the marriage and marry a woman of higher rank to match my own."
Wiltshire nods, "So you have thought this through." He says, approvingly, "Anne's continued failure is intolerable to me. It seems that we must step forth where she has faltered, and save ourselves. If she is lost, then so be it. But I have not come this far only to see all that I have won snatched from me by my daughter's inconstancy. Should we succeed in this, then I would not be concerned should you wish to find a more suitable wife."
"Come, I have wine in my chambers. As soon as his Majesty is returned from Wiltshire, we shall put our plan into action."
The Queen and her Lady in Waiting remain where they are for some considerable time, unwilling to move from their concealment.
"My God…" Anne whispers, weakly, "Are they truly so desperate that they would use me so?"
Jane does not answer - she does not need to. The answer is written upon the Queen's face.
Cromwell reads the paper containing the proposals for the new treaty with the Empire, and sags a little. If he had thought it likely that the Boleyn star was upon the very verge of falling, then the words upon this sheet of paper are a blanket of night to snuff it out.
Most of the conditions are more than acceptable: the freedom to trade openly, mutual protection of shipping, and other stipulations that are worthwhile for the future prosperity of England through the absence of war. But there is still that one - the most difficult to implement - the requirement to restore the Lady Mary to legitimacy, and return her to the succession.
There is a way around it, of course. Now that Queen Katherine is dead, all that needs to be done is for the King and Queen to re-state their marriage vows. They do not even need to do it publicly - all that would serve is to state that they are man and wife, and then enter into carnal relations - but would the King be even remotely willing to do so? That is the sticking point. He is angry and resentful towards Queen Anne, and would willingly extricate himself from the marriage now that the Seymours have placed a pretty face in front of him. The only means to keep him in the face of such temptation would be for Anne to become with child again: that would bind them together with bands of iron that no amount of resentment could break. But to do that, he must come to her bed, or she to his. And he has not shown any inclination to permit either.
No - as things stand, either Mary is legitimate, or Elizabeth is. They cannot both hold that state, for the validity of one marriage negates the validity of the other. After all the effort to declare the marriage to Katherine null and void, to turn about and admit otherwise shall humiliate a King who refuses to be made to look a fool - but if the Lady Mary is to be granted back her royal state, then how else to do it? If she is returned to the succession, all of Christendom shall expect it to be as a legitimate princess.
Normally, he would regard such a problem with relish, for it challenges his formidable intellect - but there is so much riding upon this that an error upon his part might well be his last. He has the favour of the king, yes, but the deaths of others has shown him just how fickle that favour can be.
"I have a flagon of wine, Mr Secretary," Sadleir looks around the door with a cheerful smile, "Would you like some?"
He raises his head from his notes, and smiles, "God yes, Ralph. I am parched, and wine would be most welcome."
As Sadleir ducks back out again, he conceals the papers. None know of this, and he wishes to keep it that way. God, it would be helpful if he could consult another legal mind over this - but confidentiality is essential until the King has returned, and the only lawyer whose expertise he would trust is Rich. Unfortunately, as he cannot trust Rich himself, Cromwell must remain silent.
Sadleir returns with the wine, and he accepts a cup gratefully. Today has been difficult: most difficult. If he is to get what the King desires - a treaty with the Emperor - then he must persuade the King to do something that he most definitely does not desire: to admit that the annulment of his marriage to Katherine was wrong, and that Mary is a Princess of the Blood. No matter how capable he is; no matter how many hours he works, he cannot reconcile the impossible.
With no way to confide his difficulty, he instead savours the wine, and allows Sadleir to apprise him of all that has occurred in the offices today, "We have set traps in the archive again, Mr Secretary; James found that some of the older papers have been nibbled by mice, and there are signs of mildew in one corner, so I have engaged builders to investigate the source of damp."
Cromwell nods: another salvo in the ongoing conflict with the enemies of good archiving, unwelcome invaders of the storehouse that supports his work to reform the operations of government that is a legacy left behind by Cardinal Wolsey. That in itself is a monumental challenge, and is not progressing as well as he would wish. Not with so many obstacles in his path - mostly wealthy, titled obstacles. God, what he wouldn't give for freedom to organise the Government into a more efficient mechanism…
"Oh, I thought you should know, Mr Secretary, the King is due to return tomorrow."
"He is? Good. I have matters that I need to discuss with him." Cromwell does not give away that he already knows of the King's impending return, for one of his men is concealed within the King's party.
Unlike most, Sadleir doesn't ask him what matters are to be discussed; he is far too discreet for that. Others might, like that tiresomely inquisitive Solicitor General. Not only is he one for unguarded discussion over ale pots, but Rich is also one to retain information that he considers worth keeping for future use - ready to unveil at the most advantageous moment for his own advancement. Did he not do exactly that with the late Sir Thomas More? A conversation of little merit, but - shorn of its context - sufficient to destroy a far better man than the one to whom those trivial words were spoken.
He looks up to see that the Secretary is gazing off somewhere into the middle distance, his eyes drowsily heavy, "Perhaps you should retire?"
Cromwell shifts slightly, and looks up again, "Forgive me, Ralph. It has been a long day. I shall finish the wine, clear my papers and seek my bed."
"I shall send one of the stewards to snuff the candles."
Rising, he notices that Cromwell has covered papers up to avoid his seeing them, but he is neither concerned nor resentful at the secrecy. He owes far too much to his mentor, and his admiration for the talent of a man who came from nothing the base of a solid loyalty that few share.
Locking the papers away, Cromwell allows himself the luxury of a wide yawn and a stretch. Tomorrow the King shall be back, and he shall present the Emperor's terms.
Queen Anne is pacing back and forth, her thoughts going round and round in circles. She had always known that her father viewed her in quite mercenary terms - but to hear George speaking of her so? God have mercy, how could he? How could he?
Is that all she is to them? A brood mare whose existence is solely to provide them with the means to cement their power at Court? And that they would bring a man to her bed while she lay insensible - just to ensure it? Shaking, she reaches for her glass of wine and takes a rather larger sip than she intended.
Nearby, Jane sits quietly and watches. Of all her ladies, Jane is the one she would have trusted the least - the absolute least. But they are now bound together by a dreadful secret - and it is only in the light of that knowledge that she begins to see the woman across from her as a potential ally in the battle to come.
"They shall not use me so." She says, softly, "I will not permit it. Never. The child I bear shall be my husband's; not the progeny of a stranger. We must find a way for me to regain his favour, Jane - and there is no one I can trust but you."
"I give you my word, Majesty." Jane rises to her feet, "I shall not betray that trust. We are both at the mercy of men who would destroy us for their own gain."
"Thank you." Anne looks relieved, "I shall never disparage you again. I promise you."
Jane curtseys, "I shall ensure that I remain hostile in countenance, Majesty. It would be considered most strange if our previous enmity were seen to have been overturned."
The Queen nods, "That is wise. We are navigating dangerous waters now, Jane; and I cannot promise you that we shall emerge from them in safety. The King loved me once - I know it, and I love him still. I have always loved him - regardless of the rages and conflicts. I shall appeal to that - to all that was once between us. I shall dance, and flirt, and entertain those who attend upon us on Lady Day."
"Might there be any who could speak to the King upon your behalf?"
Anne's eyes widen, "de Castelnau - I still have friends from my days in France. His Majesty may listen to King Francis - and we are still upon friendly terms with him; or, at least, we were. Whether that is still so…" her voice trails off. It is impossible to know from one week to the next which of the two strongest powers on the continent is England's friend; but Antoine de Castelnau shall know.
"Should I pass him a note?"
"No. I shall seek him out. A note shall not convey the urgency of my plight. While his Majesty is absent, there are fewer who might see me and report my act."
They are disturbed from their contemplations by the sound of voices approaching the Presence Chamber. Immediately, Jane rises to her feet and slips away into a side chamber. It would not serve their purpose for them to be found alone together.
"Majesty!" Margery's expression is delighted, "Your gown for Lady Day is ready - the dressmakers shall deliver it in an hour, and the jewels that were re-set at his Majesty's command to accompany it." She sounds so excited - and genuinely so. Despite her own misgivings, Anne knows that she must play the game now, and play it well.
"That is excellent news, Madge!" she says, clapping her hands, "Ladies! Ensure that we are ready to admit the dressmakers. Summon Mr Smeaton and his lute - I wish to have music while I try the gown."
It is as though they are in the summer of those first months after her marriage and coronation. Bustling, whispering women, giggling amongst themselves in anticipation of the arrival of a new and beautiful gown for their Queen. Smeaton arrives in short order, dressed almost ridiculously richly. God above, where has he got the money to pay for such frippery? The King pays him well, certainly - and has made him a Gentleman of the Privy Chamber; but that gives him no rights to ignore the sumptuary laws. Has he forgotten his place?
"Good heavens, Mr Smeaton!" Lisbet Browne simpers, jokingly, "What has happened to you, have you fallen into a Duke's closet?"
Despite his bright expression, the young man gives no answer, but instead calls through to the Queen, who waits in her dressing chamber on the other side of a thick curtain, "What shall I play for you, Majesty?"
"Something bright and cheerful - a galliard for choice, though a tourdion shall suffice."
Then her silk-women arrive, bearing a carefully wrapped bundle, which they are permitted to carry past the closed curtain. In spite of herself, her expression of delight is no longer feigned, for she has always loved fine clothes and jewels - and she has every hope that the gown within those wrappings shall be fit for a woman eager to regain the favour of a King.
As the women draw back the covers, her gasp is one of wonder, for it is glorious. The kirtle is a deep bronze silk damask, while the overgown is a shining ivory-gold, embroidered with red leaf motifs that echo the richness of the kirtle. Yes, it is most beautiful.
"Show me the jewels." She cannot keep the eagerness from her voice.
Eleanor Rutland reaches for a velvet covered case, and lifts the lid to show a great chain thickly set with rubies and garnets. Its length is such that it shall encircle her neck twice, with a great pendant that shall rest over her stomacher - while a beautiful half-circlet of gold shall sit at the front of her french hood. That, and her finest rose perfume, shall be most ideal. For the first time in days, Anne feels almost happy - as though all the miseries that have been visited upon her had never occurred at all. She is perseverance once more, just as she was on that first day at Court when she danced in the Chateau Vert masque.
And her husband shall fall in love with her all over again.