I supposed the rumors were fueled by the fact that Katherine’s loss was clearly Anne’s gain. Not only was she the recipient of dozens of expensive gifts of plate, cloth, and jewelry from ambitious courtiers, she was the benefactress of Henry’s wealth. He’d apparently kept his jeweler, Master Hayes, busily employed with, among other gifts, a girdled belt of crown gold. The gift I found to be the most perplexing was Henry’s gift of a Katherine Wheel set with thirteen diamonds. It had a beautiful shape, of course, gold spokes enclosed in a delicate ring, much like a wedding ring. But all knew that the Katherine Wheel, also called a breaking wheel, was a device intended for execution of the condemned.
No one else seemed to note it, or if they did, they kept their peace.
My brother Thomas returned from Calais and was immediately appointed as commissioner of the peace in Essex, far from court. Mayhap the king had his hand in it. But the order was signed by Cromwell and initialed by Edmund Wyatt. We had barely time for dining together once or twice before he was whisked out of Anne’s sight again.
Once the forced conviviality of Christmas had passed, the court again drew tense. The factions were clearly marked, and though Katherine was no longer present at court, some of her supporters were. They spoke mostly in whispers and in corners. Anne told me that the king grew intolerant of them. He had proved his point, legally and scripturally, and they were waking a dangerous impatience by their prodding.
We arrived at chapel on Easter Sunday. Anne and the king sat in the royal chamber, out of sight of the rest of the gathered courtiers, though we all heard the same message. I normally sat with Lady and Lord Zouche, but this day I had helped Anne a bit longer than usual and approached the chapel by myself. Most pews were filled. As I stood there, a man about my own age caught my eye.
“My lady?” He indicated the pew he’d just vacated. “Please.”
I smiled at him. “Thank you, Sir….”
“Sir Anthony Litton,” he said. “At your service.” His smile was warm and, indeed, welcome. I saw him shove a friend over, as schoolboys do, to make way on the pew in front of me and I held back a giggle.
We had come, of course, expecting to hear of resurrection and new life and celebration after the bleak weeks of Lent. William Peto, one of Henry’s favorite friars, of the Observants, began the message. He took his text from the Old Testament. Strange, for Easter Sunday. And then the court grew palpably ill at ease as he began to preach, energetically, about King Ahab.
“Ahab was a wicked king who had been handed a good kingdom and misspent it,” he said. “He was selfishly willful. He was blessed and yet returned curses for blessing. And then he chose to marry Jezebel.”
Friar Peto went on to indict Jezebel as a Baal-worshipping pagan, a domineering woman who ordered her weak-kneed husband around and would lead his kingdom to ruin.
Rivulets tracked down Father Peto’s face though ’twere only the end of March. I dared not look up at the royal chamber, but in the stillness of the church we could hear Henry panting with anger. All knew Peto styled Henry as Ahab and Anne as Jezebel. Shortly after we sang the Te Deums and filed out.
Henry, to his credit, didn’t have Friar Peto strung to a Katherine Wheel. Instead, he reasonably sent one of his chaplains to preach a rebuke the next Sunday. When the king’s man arrived he was barracked and prevented from speaking. They followed that indignity up by hauling said chaplain before the ecclesiastical court for discipline.
George dined with Anne and me weeks later, the night after Henry responded to all of this with stunning force. “He brought himself to his full height, was dressed in his richest robes, and had a wondrous fury on his face,” George said. “He reminded all present that they had agreed, in principle, that a king has jurisdiction in his own realm. He recalled that he had proved his case for sovereignty, as well as against the legitimacy of his first marriage, legally and scripturally. And that they had agreed, in kind.”
“Who spoke against him?” Anne refilled George’s ale herself, though we knew as many maids as could stood just outside the chamber, listening.
“The Church in Rome elected the bishop of Winchester, Gardiner, to speak on its behalf. Before the assembled churchmen, courtiers, and government officials he told Henry, ‘We, your most humble subjects, may not subject the execution of our charges and duty, certainly prescribed by God, to Your Highness’s assent.’”
“In other words,” Anne said, “the pope, who has never been to England, and who is under the sway of Charles the Fifth, shall be the ultimate law in our land.”
George raised his eyebrows. “I’m not sure they would see it that way but…. yes.”
“Henry will not stand for it,” I said. “Will he?”
They both shook their heads. “Indeed, Henry unmanned Gardiner in front of all assembled, raging that he, too, had a God-given appointment as anointed king and that he would defend it afore all comers. Few looked ready to pick up a lance and meet him in the tiltyard.” He looked at Anne. “They blame you, you know.”
She nodded. “It’s not about me. It’s about sovereignty. But they find me to be an easy scapegoat. A sacrificial lamb. However,” she said, biting into a date, “I am safe. Henry’s promised me.”
It had come to a head. Within the month all had declared sides. Sir Thomas More, Henry’s friend and the writer of the hopeful Utopia, but also the author of half a million sharp words against Tyndale and church reform, threw his weight against the king and tendered his resignation as chancellor. Henry accepted his resignation with cool civility.
By the end of April Henry had decided that since the Church in Rome would not do things by halves, neither would he. He had a bill presented to Parliament that would strip the Church in Rome of all its powers in England.
By June, King Francis of France had allied himself with Henry. Now not even Charles would agree to come against England lest he fight France as well. All seemed settled.
Till July.
We ladies had gathered in the court gardens of a sticky summer evening to play cards. The woody freshness of rosemary mingled with the nectar of the roses and the slight salt of feminine sweat—hot months did not excuse us from the cumbersome number of layers required for us to be properly dressed. I reposed with the Duchess of Norfolk and her daughter Mary, who had caught the eye of the king’s baseborn son, at a table a few feet away from Anne. She sat with Lady Lisle and Lady Zouche. “Here comes the duke’s manservant,” Lady Norfolk’s daughter teased her mother. “Mayhap he is come to bring funds with which to pay your debt.”
The duchess, never known for a quick smile, puckered at her daughter, drawing her wrinkled skin round her mouth as purse strings. I grinned at Mary Howard and admired her wit. The duke’s manservant did not stop next to the duchess, however; he went directly to Anne and handed her a note. She read it, folded it, and made her excuses to leave. As soon as I could reasonably do so I followed her. Once in her chambers I saw that she had dismissed all of her ladies save Jane Rochford, who was not so easily put out.
“What is it?” I asked.
“Henry Percy,” she said.
“Henry Percy? Whatever can he want?”
“It’s not what he wants. It’s what his wife, Mary Talbot, wants. She claims that her marriage to Percy has been one sore grievance after the next and that the reason for that is that it is illegal and ill conceived. She claims that Percy and I were precontracted and therefore her own marriage is null and void.”
I opened my mouth to speak and just before I did, Jane Rochford’s utter stillness caught my attention. I gathered my thoughts and then responded, “What will you do?”