A/N: Thank you for your review, Ally - the 'Mary's age' boo-boo has been duly amended! Yes, the 'ploy that failed' is indeed the attempt to poison Fisher and More.
Thanks too for your review, Anne - yes, they're singularly naughty people, aren't they? I do have a bit of sympathy for Jane Boleyn-Rochford; she really has had a rough deal from history, her foolish behaviour with Katherine Howard notwithstanding. Getting the blame for that 'incest' rumour when it wasn't her is a bit raw, so it's nice to use fiction to rehabilitate her.
CHAPTER FOUR
Shifting Sands
Cromwell gathers his papers together, taking care to conceal that most explosive document well within the pile. The matter of the treaty with the Emperor is not the only issue that he must discuss today: there is also the plan for the future closure of the larger monastic houses. Based on the amount of money that has been recovered from the smaller houses alone, such an undertaking shall be quite enormous. Consequently, he intends to establish a new department to deal with it: the Court of Augmentations.
The days when the King stepped aside and allowed others to run the Kingdom while he amused himself are long gone, and now he expects to be apprised of everything. While that is a preferable state of affairs, as a King who does not pay attention to the rule of his Kingdom allows his council to create factions and squabble amongst themselves, it also makes his work slower and more difficult, as he cannot be sure that the King shall agree to a proposal from one day to the next. His Majesty has always been mercurial and capricious, and too many have paid the price for it with their lives.
It is not that the King is a fool - far from it - and there was a time when he was celebrated as one of the most intelligent and enlightened Princes in Europe. But the vagaries of life have changed him - and there is something dark in his Majesty now: something that seems to have emerged only in the last few weeks. It is as though the King fell from his horse at the joust, but another man entirely rose when he emerged from his unconscious state. That capriciousness is far more dangerous than once it was.
The bell of the great palace clock strikes the hour outside the office window, so he tucks his leather wallet under his arm and makes his way through the corridors to the King's Privy Chamber. Within, the King is standing at the window, looking out at the central court beyond. Even from the door, his face in profile, he looks to be elsewhere in his head; as though his body is present, but his soul is far away. To Cromwell, it could not be clearer that his master is thinking of Miss Seymour.
Eventually, the King wrenches his attention away from the window, "Mr Cromwell."
"Majesty." Cromwell bows and enters.
As soon as the door is closed, Henry beckons Cromwell over to the large table, "You spoke to Chapuys?"
"Yes, Majesty." He burrows into his wallet, "His Excellency's proposals are noted in this document."
The King takes the offending document and examines it. His silence is long, and increasingly unnerving, as Cromwell knows that he is reading that most difficult stipulation. Elizabeth's status in the succession is protected in law - and a great deal of effort went into forcing all of England to recognise her as both Princess and Heir - while Mary's repudiation was so firmly applied that even now she remains at Hatfield in the entourage of her younger sister.
But then - if it was such a simple matter to reduce England's pride to naught but a servant to a royal babe, to do likewise to Elizabeth would be no more difficult, would it?
Finally, the King looks up again, "Arrange for Chapuys to attend an audience at the Lady Day celebrations, Mr Cromwell. I shall speak to him upon the matter at that time."
"Yes Majesty."
"What else do you have for me?"
No more certain of his ground than he was when he arrived, Cromwell sets to work on presenting the rest of his papers.
The door of the Privy Chamber opens, and once again Wiltshire enters, "Dismiss your ladies. I wish to talk to you in private."
His eyes are cold, his expression unpleasant; for a moment, no one moves.
"Get out!"
"Remain where you are ladies." Anne's voice is equally firm, "Whatever his Grace wishes to say, I am sure it can be spoken of publicly."
The gathering of women dithers, torn between the furious order of the Earl, and the calm command of the Queen. She has never openly defied her father before; but a surreptitious conversation in the darker back corridors of the palace have changed her perspective in a manner that nothing else could. The depths to which he would be willing to sink in order to continue to benefit from her royal status have shocked her beyond measure, and the last vestiges of respect and love that once she held for him have followed those dark thoughts into that abyss.
Wiltshire stares at his daughter, unsure whether to be shocked or angry over her defiance. Her eyes are diamond hard, and there is a cold authority about her that he has never seen before. Scowling, he tries again, "Dismiss your women."
Anne remains silent, and the ladies exchange fearful glances. With each passing second, Wiltshire's patience is being ever more tested, and his temper is shortening at an equally precipitous rate.
Finally, she relents, "Ladies, if you could excuse us, please? His Grace wishes to speak to me in private." Her tone is sweet, her expression mild. To all present, the Earl included, it is clear that the Queen has assumed the power between them.
Wiltshire is quaking with rage by the time the room has emptied, and he turns on Anne, his face almost cherry red, "How dare you humiliate me so! I am an Earl of England!"
"And I am the Queen of England. Do not forget it." Even now, she does not raise her voice. Instead, her tone is cold and unnervingly distant. There is no hint of her prodigious temper, nor any suggestion that he is as able to overrule her as once he did. Startled, he blusters somewhat, before stepping forth and grasping her wrist painfully tightly.
"I am your father, and you will obey me." He hisses, viciously.
Still horribly cold, she wrenches her arm free, "I am not your property any longer, Father. I belong to his Majesty now, not to you. Until my marriage, I was a peeress in my own right - and I am now a Queen. According to the laws of England, my rank is higher than yours, and thus you have no power to command me."
She awaits the explosion - and it is not long in coming. Grasping her shoulders, he shakes her so violently that her hood is knocked askew, "I will not be spoken to so, you ungrateful little bitch! You shall do as I say! You are naught but a mere woman, and even the poorest of the pot washers in the sculleries has a higher rank than you!"
"And they have had a crown set upon their head? By the King of England himself?" Still, she remains cold, and calm. Calmer than she ever has before in the face of confrontation. She has her father's temper, and has always struggled to contain it when events have piled up upon her; but she is now in a fight for her very survival, and that temper shall serve her little if all she has won is now at stake, "Do not think to insult me, Father. I have bowed to your whims and demands for long enough. There is but one man to whom I answer now, and that is my husband: his Majesty the King."
There was once a time when such defiance would have earned her strokes with the paddle at the hands of her nurse; but she is no longer a child, and there is no nurse present. Frustrated, enraged, he stands back, unable to think of a response. Words failing him, he turns instead to gestures. His eyes savage, he draws back his arm, and slaps her violently across the face, dislodging her hood further still.
And even that is not sufficient to move her. Anne continues to look at him without emotion, despite the rising redness upon her slapped cheek. Wiltshire steps back, his anger fading as fear rises to take its place. Something has changed in her - something…he can see it. What has happened?
"There is nothing between us any longer, your Grace. You have made your view of my worth abundantly clear, and thus you are naught but his Grace the Earl of Wiltshire, and I am her Majesty the Queen." She does not mention the plot that they inadvertently revealed to her - it is a weapon that she wishes to retain in her arsenal until it is needed, "You are dismissed from my presence."
He opens his mouth to object, but cannot find words; he has struck his Queen - and the evidence is writ large upon her face. She could, at a stroke, have him arrested. Given her current, cold mood, he is not entirely convinced that she shall not do it, either. Deeply uncertain, and with his intended instructions all still unsaid, he backs away and retreats. He has not bowed to her, but then she did not expect it.
No sooner has he departed than her ladies return, and one of them lets out a squeal of shock at the sight of her dishevelled hood and reddened cheek, "Majesty! What has happened?"
"What does it look like to you, Madge? His Grace has struck me." She says, calmly, "As he considers it appropriate for a father to do."
"But you are the Queen!" Already, Margery is summoning women with rose-water, powdered eggshell and cloths to attempt to reduce that ghastly redness, "No man has the right to strike you!"
"It is of no moment. He has done naught but prove to me that I have bested him." Anne ignores Margery's look of confusion at her statement; but she is convinced of it. Her father has overstepped a barrier in striking her, and she could easily have him arrested for doing so. A mere man may not chastise an anointed Queen, and they both know it.
The redness has subsided by suppertime - a fortuitous occurrence, as she has been summoned into the King's presence. Having returned from chasing that damned Seymour slut, he wishes to pretend to all that he has done no more than visit an old friend for the hunt, it seems. Such superficiality.
As she stands and views the gowns paraded before her to choose, she eyes them all most carefully. If tonight is a grand performance, then she shall play her part with the best of them.
The morning air is still rather chill as the feast of the Annunciation dawns. Despite her apparent reconciliation with her husband, Anne knows that the King is slipping away from her grasp a little more each day. God, he was distant as she sat beside him and supped. So distant that her appetite fled away from her, and she was obliged to lean behind a patterned cloth and vomit what small morsels she could consume into a basin. Her victory against her father had seemed so sweet - but it was a pyrrhic one; for there is no protection for her from a King who seems unwilling to even look at her any longer.
Most are still sleeping, for the King hosted a great feast last night; a feast at which she was seated beside him, but the distance nonetheless an almost insurmountable divide. Her garments are simple, even dull, as she has no wish for any to witness her mission this morning.
She has always held a great affinity to France; it was, after all, where she became the sophisticated, exotic woman that so captured the King's attention when she came home and entered the service of the woman she would go on to supplant. Never a beautiful woman by conventional standards, she has risen to such heights thanks to her manners and intelligence - and now she must use that intelligence again to avoid falling as far, and far more quickly than she rose.
There he is - making his way back to his apartments from his morning Mass. Like Chapuys, de Castelnau is ostentatiously religious, and would certainly have undertaken extensive devotions this morning to celebrate Lady Day. Most of the rest of the Court shall attend the larger royal Mass later this morning - probably nursing sore heads - but those who remain firmly Catholic are clearly intent upon flaunting their greater piety as an example to those who have turned to the Lutheran heresy.
Biting down her sudden flash of spite, Anne hurries up the stairs as quietly as she can, "Excellency!" her voice is a low hiss, "Please - wait!"
He turns, and stares at her in shock, "Majesty? What are you doing?"
"Forgive me," she is breathing rather fast from her exertions, "But I knew not where else to go. I am beset by enemies, and I look to you, and to his Majesty, King Francis, for aid."
"In what way can I aid you, Majesty?" de Castelnau is obviously terrified, "Please - we must not be seen…"
"I am aware of that, Excellency - but I ask you to appeal to your master upon my behalf. Enemies at court plot against me, and I am in need of his support against them. Ask him to write to the King - to make overtures of friendship. I shall do what I can here to speak well of such overtures. You and I both know that the Emperor is no friend to peace between our realms."
"I shall do what I can, Majesty," he stammers, fearfully, "but you and I both know that we are powerless in the face of Princes."
"I know - but I trust you to serve your master well, Excellency. Thank you - thank you…" looking about for fear that someone might have seen their encounter, Anne turns and retreats in haste.
To approach an Ambassador independently is a dangerous move, and she is well aware of it - but she is beset by enemies, and what else can she do?
Jane is waiting for her as she returns to her apartments, "Majesty - where have you been?"
"Forgive me. I sought out the French Ambassador to ask for the aid of the King of France."
"Is that wise? King Francis's advocacy for you is no more free of self-interest than that of any other Prince."
Anne sinks into a chair, "I know, Jane. I know - but I have no alternatives. There is so little room to manoeuvre, that even this is better than to say nothing. As long as we retain our friendship with France over that with the Empire, then I have one friend who can speak for me. Send through Madge and Anne, it would look most strange if I looked to you to assist me in my preparations for the feast tonight." Briefly, she squeezes Jane's hand.
"Yes Majesty."
The hall is packed with people, talking, circulating, waiting for the moment when the King and Queen arrive, and they can finally sit down to eat. The Kitchens have been busy since first light, roasting great sides of beef, boiling enormous hams, baking capons and mutton saddles in an orgy of gastronomy that shall be consumed in a single evening by a multitude of hungry courtiers.
To a man of little principle but keen eye, it is a fascinating display, and Sir Richard Rich considers himself to be a most accomplished observer. The tables are set, and people are seated according to their rank. But for his presence upon the Privy Council - only recently granted - he would be sitting much further away from the dais, where the King's table awaits him.
God, he is famished; what's taking so long? Irked, he shifts slightly upon the bench - though he shall be obliged to rise when the royal couple arrive. Fortunately, his impatience is released as the roar of brazen trumpets fanfares from the gallery above their heads, and the doors open to admit the royal party.
The display is spectacular, of course; with both King and Queen resplendent in silks and jewels. But nonetheless the sense of falseness that accompanies them is as vivid as the scarlet of the King's embroidered doublet. Even those who are less acute to their surroundings could hardly fail to miss it. It escapes Rich not at all.
The couple say nothing to one another, nor do they do more than touch their fingertips together, as little as decorum will permit. Their movements are stiff, but the King's actions seem almost to display repulsion - as though he has no wish to be anywhere close to the woman at his side.
The trumpets rasp again to welcome the first remove, paraded in by stewards clad in red. The finest dishes, of course, are served to the high table upon the dais, and all watch enviously as piles of spiced meats gilded with fine gold leaf, and a magnificently roasted peacock, dressed in its original skin with the feathers fanned up behind it, are set before them. The tables occupied by men of lesser, but still high, rank are served steaming piles of roasted beef and mutton, glistening with sweet, spiced sauces that are delightfully sticky and rich, alongside the same piles of finest manchet bread and bowls of fruit-spiked frumenty. Being a Councillor, Rich is amongst those served so well, and he is keen to reach for a portion.
As he eats, he looks back up to the high table, where the King is determinedly winnowing his way through the victuals set before him. Now and again, he pauses to wipe his grease-dripping fingers upon the napkin that rests over his shoulder and laughs rather too heartily at whatever joke is being shared with Suffolk, who sits beside him. To his left, the Queen picks at her portion with little enthusiasm, and says nothing to Wiltshire who sits beside her with a thunderous expression upon his face.
Most are far too busy gobbling from their trenchers, but Rich can see Cromwell nearby, eyeing the high table with the same degree of scrutiny as himself. Doubtless he sees it, too; for the atmosphere between the King and Queen is painfully brittle, and Rich is well aware that the Secretary is a greater talent at observing the unspoken moods of others than even he is.
By the time the second remove is paraded into the hall, the free-flowing wine has loosened tongues, and the noise level has risen in response. Such is the clamour that no individual conversation can be heard, but the arrival of flocks of capons, sallets bejewelled with violets and marigolds and bright, clear broths with yet more manchet bread, soon refocuses everyone's attention, and the noise reduces again. Even the King seems less stiff now, thanks to the liberal application of claret, but nonetheless he still does not say a word to his Queen.
The diners rise after two hours and talk amongst themselves as the feast is voided, while other stewards set out the banquet on long tables alongside one of the walls of the hall, and the musicians come down from the Gallery to set up again nearby.
Standing alongside a door-jamb, goblet in hand, Rich looks about carefully and views the movement of people minutely. Across the hall, the musicians are playing a jaunty tune, that primped peacock Smeaton having abandoned his lute this evening in favour of an outlandish instrument that appears to have been imported at outrageous expense from a small town in Lombardy where the luthiers are experimenting with the shape of the viol. Where the hell is he getting his money from - surely the King is not that generous? Perhaps he is - the youth's talent has won him a great deal more favour than his birth warrants. The young man moves easily, loosely, almost dancing to his own music as he draws a long stick taut with horsehair across the strings. What was that thing called again? Oh yes - a bow.
All are in their finest clothes this evening, and he is no exception. Dressed in a pale crimson doublet, and a floor-length brown simarre trimmed with fur about his shoulders, he looks no less courtly than anyone else, though - of course - there is always one who refuses to conform, and that crow Cromwell is in his habitual black. God, does he have the Seymours with him? Yes - there is even that chit Jane, dressed in pale green silk with a pearl-cowled hood. He notes that she has opted for the gabled English style, rather than the more usual rounded French version. It could not be a more obvious statement that she intends to be an entirely different prospect to her Frenchified Queen.
Most congregate at the banquet tables, where sweetmeats and comfits nestle alongside small amusements of fried oysters, crusts of fried bread with minced livers upon them and dishes of cream cheese. The aromas of the meal that preceded are still prevalent in the air, tinged with the accumulated reek of a hundred different perfumes, and the tang of human sweat.
He is not blind to the opinion most have of him - but Rich has never been interested in the accumulation of friends. He does not move in the highest circles, and thus has no need for the power of factions to protect him. Some call him a weasel, but others call him a rat - who circles around those of higher estate and snatches from them what he can.
Today, however, he has a job to do. The King intends to hold an audience with the Imperial Ambassador, and he has been tasked with collecting Chapuys from the Hall. While he waits, however, he lingers. And watches.
"Shall she do it?" Rochford is asking Wiltshire, oblivious to the fact that the burr of conversation is not sufficient to conceal his words from Rich's sharp ears.
"Now that we know the King means to ally with the Empire, the sooner she puts de Castelnau in his place, the better." Wiltshire snaps, still stung by her defiance two days prior, "She knows, as we do, that our future lies with the Empire now, and thus we must do what we can to build bridges with Chapuys."
"He is over there, by the oysters." Rochford observes.
"Come then." The pair depart, and Rich resumes his surreptitious observations of the Queen's small gathering in a chamber adjoining the hall. She is seated, surrounded by her ladies, a few of her retainers and a gaggle of Ambassadors. De Castelnau is amongst them, but standing behind the Milanese Ambassador, who is engaged in conversation with her. They are all well fed this evening, but her cosmetics seem quite luminous tonight, thanks to her pallor beneath the layers of colour. He can see that she faces a truly unpalatable task - but one that she has no choice but to perform. If she was looking to France to entrench her position, the choice of the King to abandon Francis in favour of Charles has shifted the ground beneath her feet.
"I am given to understand that Milan was occupied by the French." She is saying, smiling at him politely.
"Alas, Majesty," the poor man looks rather embarrassed, for de Castelnau is at his back, "We are still occupied."
"Is that so?" she sits back, looking sympathetic, "Then you are aware, as am I, of the duplicity of the French, are you not? Indeed - is there any man here present who cannot testify to the truth that the French are naught but hypocrites and liars? Have they not promised much, but given little? And what treaties have they made that they have not abrogated? No, sirs, it is safe to say that none should trust the word of a Frenchman."
The laughter is polite, but nervous; and de Castelnau turns upon his heel and stalks away, brushing past Rich, who watches him depart. If he was her last hope of an ally, then he shall be no longer. Shaking his head, he turns again at the sound of the King's voice summoning him, "Majesty?"
"I shall speak with the Imperial Ambassador. Fetch him to me."
"Yes, Majesty."
Across from him, Cromwell is thick as thieves with the Seymours, he notes, as he makes his way past the gathering to where Chapuys has been accosted by the elder Boleyns - presumably attempting to salvage some degree of regard from a man that they have previously rather rudely dismissed. Certainly, Chapuys seems disinterested in their overtures, though he is not impolite enough to ignore them entirely. Being dispatched by the King, Rich has no concerns at interrupting, "Your Excellency." He says, bowing, "Follow me."
Chapuys smiles, cheerfully, at his unwanted companions, "Ah. Excuse me."
As he leads the Ambassador back, Rich glances behind to see that, astonishingly, the two Boleyns are following them. Are they truly so convinced of their importance that they think they can intrude upon a private audience? Shaking his head at their impudence, he shows in the Ambassador, and conceals a smirk as the King waves Wiltshire and Rochford away with a frown.
Cromwell, on the other hand, is more welcome, and enters the room where the King and Chapuys converse quietly. Though his ears are as sharp as those of the rodent after which some name him, Rich cannot hear what they say; but the look on the Crow's face suggests that, whatever it is, it shall be of greater benefit to the Seymours than the Boleyns. Why else would he be associating with them?
But then something shifts in the atmosphere within the room. Chapuys has said something that the King does not like: the laughter has ceased, the smile has faltered to a frown - and Cromwell has stiffened, so he must've heard the mis-step. God, what has he said? Immediately Rich concentrates upon blotting out the noise of the music in hopes of capturing some of that fleeting discussion. Whatever Chapuys has intimated, it is not within the script that Cromwell had prepared.
"And what is it that you are suggesting, Excellency? What is it that your master is saying?" The king's voice has risen to a point that it is already audible beyond the doorway, "Do you think me less than a man? That I am incapable of bearing sons?"
Ah - he has suggested that the line of succession being exclusively female must be God's will; or something to that end. No wonder Cromwell has gone so still. Of all the things he would have prompted Chapuys to say, that would have been nowhere near the list.
"Am I not a man?" He says, louder still, then rises to a shout, "AM I NOT?"
Even Rich jumps at that, while the hall goes silent. Stunned at his rage, Chapuys bows low, and hastily withdraws.
But it is not yet over. Instead, he stalks out in the Ambassador's wake, "I demand that the Emperor's conditions be set out in writing, d'you hear? In writing!"
Cromwell's eyes have widened - no King shall do such a thing as that. It has never been done…
"I shall do nothing further until your Master has issued an apology to me for all of his duplicity and lies! He must accept Queen Anne as the lawful Queen of England, and the Princess Elizabeth as my lawful progeny!"
"Majesty…I…" Chapuys looks helpless; all present know that it shall not happen.
The King snatches at the Ambassador's simarre, and shakes him like a rat, "Take that back to your master, Excellency; or there shall be no treaty between us!"
Fortunately he releases Chapuys, who bows hastily, and flees with the few remaining rags of his dignity.
From his vantage point, Rich can see that Cromwell is most discomfited, and smiles to himself. A few feet away, however, the smugness upon the faces of Wiltshire and Rochford is a sight to behold.
If any thought that Queen Anne was a tottering edifice set shortly to fall, then the apparent erection of a buttress by the King has changed that entirely. And so the positions shall shift again - and now all shall see who shall stand, and who shall fall.