Meanwhile, those who had known her and declared she was indeed a messenger of Heaven were now in a very precarious position.
Several were attainted, among them Fisher and More. Many were assuring Cromwell that, although they had listened to the prophecies, they had never believed in them. They had been testing the Nun. They wanted to assure the King that never in their lives had they entertained a traitorous thought toward him. Fisher and More admitted that they had seen the Nun and talked with her, but this was only to test her. Fisher's support had been strong and he was not released. Sir Thomas More, however, did prove that he had warned her not to meddle in politics, and he firmly denied that he had ever said she had prophetic powers.
The King had a great fondness for More. He liked to visit the house in Chelsea where More lived, surrounded by his family, rather more simply than a man in his position usually did. This domestic felicity pleased the King, and More was of course a brilliant man—perhaps the most brilliant man in the kingdom—and his conversation was witty, so at More's house the King was entertained as he liked to be.
So he was pleased when More's explanation was accepted.
That was the state of affairs at the beginning of that momentous year.
The Nun of Kent was in prison awaiting death; and many of those who had been ready to question the King's action had now realized that it would be unwise to do so.
There was a rumbling throughout the country. Monks and priests were boldly preaching against the break with Rome; people congregated in the streets and talked of the doom which would come to England. Cromwell wanted stricter laws to be enforced. There must be harsh punishment to quell rising revolt, he said.
Sentence was passed on the Nun of Kent and she was burned at the stake. It was an example of what would be done to those who spoke against the King.
Then a terrible thing happened to me. There was no reason for it. I lost the child I was carrying; and it would have been a son.
I could not understand it. I was healthy and capable of bearing strong children. There was nothing wrong with Elizabeth except that she was a girl.
And here we were, conforming to the old pattern which had set itself for Katharine. This was my first miscarriage… and a boy. How often had that happened to Katharine? Too many times to remember.
I was heartbroken and the King was bitterly disappointed.
“We'll have our boy yet,” he said; and I had to be comforted because he did not blame me as he had blamed Katharine. I did not want the people to know of my misfortune. If they did, there would be murmurs about the wrath of Heaven.
I was tense and worried.
But Henry was still in love with me. There had been no repetition of the alarming affair just before Elizabeth had been born.
I was very quickly pregnant again. This time, I told myself, it must come right. Nothing shall go wrong this time.
England had changed. Fearful of the murmuring of the people and the great controversy which had arisen out of the break with Rome, Cromwell had thought it necessary to introduce new laws. In the past, if a man stood against the King, that was treason and might well bring the death sentence. Now it was a crime even to speak against the King.
People had to watch their words, and that made for a very uneasy state of affairs, for how easy it was for an enemy to report a traitorous remark spoken by one he wished to harm.
For the first time in his life the King was really unpopular. He resented it. It was he who had insisted on the divorce and the break with Rome, but I was learning something of Henry's character. When something went wrong, he looked around for someone to blame; and there were times when I caught him looking at me with a calculating expression. I did not comment on it. I was afraid to. I thought it might bring forth a tirade of recriminations to which I might make some pointed and unforgivable comments.
Still, I was once more pregnant, and that softened Henry toward me.
Then again I lost the child.
This was frightening. I began to suspect it was Henry who could not get healthy children. Of all the pregnancies Katharine had had, she had produced only one girl—Mary; and Mary was scarcely the picture of health. He had one son by Elizabeth Blount; but there was an ethereal quality about the young Duke of Richmond, as though he might not be long for this life. And myself… healthy in every way—and I had lost two boys. True I had produced my Elizabeth, who was full of vitality, but I had lost the boys. There seemed to be some significance in it somewhere.
Henry was bitterly disappointed. “Two boys lost,” he said, looking at me as though it were due to some fault of mine.
I had dismissed those niggling fears before, but I could not very easily now.
He was less tender, ready to contradict as though he enjoyed disagreeing with me.
It was Jane Rochford who conveyed to me the fact that he had renewed his attentions to the lady he had sought during my pregnancy with Elizabeth.
“Are you going to endure it, Anne?” she asked. “At your Court. You are the Queen.”
“I will not endure it,” I said.
“Then what will you do about it?”
“I will speak to the King.”
“Would that be wise?”
“What do you mean?”
“He might be angry.”
I could see that the state of affairs between us was known. I should have seen it too. But I was ever one to act first and think after.
I did say to him: “It is disturbing to me that the whole Court is aware that you have a mistress.”
His eyes narrowed. “Then, Madam,” he said, “you must, I fear, remain disturbed.”
“You dare to flaunt her…here at Court. Surely you might have the discretion to attempt to hide the fact that you are an unfaithful husband.”
“You should show more gratitude for what I have done for you.”
“And become your long-suffering wife?” I cried. “Like Katharine… you think…to stand aside and watch your affairs with other women. Do you think I would ever endure that?”
“You must needs endure what is given you,” he said.
“I will not.”
He lifted his shoulders and turned from me.
I said: “Henry…have you forgotten…”
He turned to me and there was a frightening coldness in his eyes. “I forget not what I have done for you. I brought you up… and I tell you I can cast you down. There are many who urge me to do this. You should remember…I picked you up from nothing…”
“Nothing!” I cried. “Do you call a member of the Howard family nothing? There are some …” I stopped in time. I was about to say that some thought the Howards more royal than the upstart Tudors. I had to keep a hold on my emotions. I must be careful. I must remember the great power of this man. He was right when he said he could cast me down. He could and God help me…in that moment I believed he would.
He was looking at me and I saw hatred in his eyes.
“I have done much for you,” he said slowly, “and because of it you give yourself airs. And what do you give me? Where are the sons you promised me?”
“It is no fault of mine that we have no son.”
The pious look crept into his face. “I cannot see why God should so punish me.”
So he implied that God was punishing me. When things went wrong it must never be Henry's fault. There must always be others to take the blame.
“Perhaps if you were to give up your philandering and paid more attention to your wife…”
He turned to me, his eyes narrowed, color flaming into his face once more. “You should be content with what I have done for you,” he said. “I tell you this: I would not do it again.”
With that he strode out.
I was trembling with rage. It was hard to believe he could have changed so quickly. When I thought of how he had pursued me, how he had put up with my tantrums—and I admit there had been some very unreasonable ones—and how tender he had been, how humble…I could not understand what had happened. Was he realizing the great price he had paid for me—and there was no doubt that he was regretting it!