It was not his fault that More had been executed, he reiterated. He had been forced to sign the death warrant. Others were to blame. The Parliament had conferred the title of Supreme Head on him and ordered that those who did not accept this were traitors and should be dealt with accordingly. He had loved More; he had suffered when the sentence had been passed on him. He had merely taken the advice of his ministers.
There was great relief when it was discovered that More's daughter Margaret had taken down her father's head. The King declared that she must be allowed to do what she would with it. He would hear no more. The whole affair had been a great sorrow to him.
Strangely enough, he turned to me for comfort and, stranger still, I was able to subdue my feelings of contempt and give him what he sought.
“He was a traitor, Anne.”
I took his hand and said: “As all who disobey you must be.”
“He was a good man…”
“It seems good men can sometimes act traitorously.”
“He was not against me … only the Act. At the end he thought of me.”
“You had been good to him, Henry.”
His expression lightened. That was the right note. He said: “Yes, I would go to Chelsea… would sit at his humble table. I asked for no ceremony. I walked in his gardens with him and watched his children feed the peacocks.”
“You did him great honor.”
I soothed him; and we were together again.
The Lady in the Tower
WE HAD TO BE MERRY… outwardly. There was a great outcry on the Continent about the death of Sir Thomas More. Rome was shocked by the death of Fisher. He had recently been made a Cardinal, and no Cardinal had ever been executed in England before. This was further defiance of Rome. Henry was called the Monster of England. The Emperor Charles said that the execution of Sir Thomas More was an act of folly. “Had we been master of such a servant,” he was reputed to have commented, “we would rather have lost the fairest city in our domain than such a counselor.”
Henry's anger was intense. There should be no weakness. Those who opposed the King should face the penalty.
There were more deaths. Monks must acknowledge the King as Supreme Head of the Church, and for those who would not there was death. There were some who preferred it.
Death was not easy for them. There was no quick stroke of the ax. They died as had the Carthusian monks, dragged through the city on hurdles, hanged, taken down alive and cut open, that their entrails might be burned. People congregated to watch these grisly spectacles in fascinated horror.
They said it was all due to the goggle-eyed whore.
The most disturbing news was that Pope Paul—no vacillating Clement—was so outraged by the deaths of Fisher and More and the monks that he was contemplating waging a holy war against England. The Emperor would lead the army of invasion with the help and blessing of the Pope. They were seeking an alliance with France.
Oddly enough, I had ceased to be as worried as I had been. This was a threat against Henry. Before, I alone had been in danger. It is easier to accept a universal danger than a personal one.
I tried to shut myself away from events by taking an even greater interest in the new religion. There were several Protestant bishops in the Church now—chief of them Cranmer, Archbishop of Canterbury, and Hugh Latimer, Bishop of Worcester. They were strong men and my friends, because I was known to support the new ideas.
Henry was still at my side. I told him that he was right in what he had done. Those who thought otherwise were ill advised. The Catholic Church had many faults. It had diverged from the teachings of Christ. I believed I was beginning to make him see that his escape from the bondage of Rome was the best thing that could have happened to him. Providence had set me in his path that it might be achieved. He only had to consider the wealth of the monasteries, much of which had found its way to Rome. Now it was his. He was no man's slave. When he considered all, he would see that he was the richest Prince in Christendom. Through him the Church was to be reformed. He had done a great service to himself and all Englishmen.
He listened and was comforted.
And once again I was pregnant. This time all must go well. I must have my son who would make me safe forever.
During the last months of that year England stood alone, fearing that at any time we might be invaded. I knew from what I gleaned from the spies that Katharine's hopes were high. I heard there was a plot to oust Henry from the throne, set Mary up in his place and marry her into France so that England would become a vassal of that country.
I pointed out to Henry that I had been right to recognize Katharine and Mary as enemies. It was true that they had never deceived him in their attitudes; they had remained staunchly Catholic and had never accepted me as the Queen. That was understandable; but nevertheless they were a danger and a threat to the throne and were plotting against him. He was turning over in his mind some way of ridding himself of them.
All through the autumn we waited for some attack from Rome. It did not come. Katharine was ill and frustrated. We understood that the Pope could not act without the Emperor, and the Emperor was at this time heavily engaged in Africa, where he was achieving some resounding victories.
Meanwhile Henry had instructed Cromwell to have an examination made of the monasteries; and according to Cromwell they were stews of iniquity. Rumors were circulating through the country concerning the life that went on behind monastery walls—orgies in which naked nuns danced before depraved priests. We heard of illegitimate children buried in monastic grounds, and obscenities of every kind.
The whole country was talking about the secret life of the nuns and monks.
Cromwell was eager for war to be avoided and was worried that if hostilities broke out this would have a disastrous effect on trade. The people would not tolerate that, and there would be insurrections.
Moreover, the autumn was particularly wet and that resulted in a bad harvest.
It seemed that everything was going against us.
Then our luck turned. Sforza, the Duke of Milan, died childless; and Milan had always been a matter of contention between François and the Emperor. While the Duke lived, their dispute had been suspended. Now he was dead, the question of who should succeed him in Milan had arisen again.
Whether François had ever intended to make war on England was questionable; but it would have suited him if the Emperor had, for then he could have given himself over to the conquest of Milan without interference. François made a complete turnabout. He needed Henry's support, so cynically he ceased to be concerned about the schism in the Church and sought England's friendship.
The Pope could do little without the joint help of François and the Emperor, and although Charles might have been ready to invade England, he was not going to leave himself open to attack by François, which would have meant having a war on two fronts. The Pope had to content himself with thundering out threats against Henry. He cursed him and all those who aided him. When he died, he was to be unburied and his soul lie in hell forever. He ordered the King's subjects to renounce their allegiance to Henry; they were to fall under the interdict of excommunication if they continued to obey him. No true son of the Church was to hold intercourse or alliance with him on pain of sharing his damnation. The princes and people of Europe must, as they owed allegiance to the Holy See, drive him from his throne.
The Pope's ranting made less impression on Henry now that François was seeking his friendship and the Emperor was showing less inclination to go to war with England. He believed that, providing he showed his strength to his people, they would obey him. The executions and the terrible and humiliating sufferings of those who refused to obey him must bring the people to obedience. It was only saints and martyrs who risked a death like that.