The Lady in the Tower (45 page)

I was Queen in all but name, but that was not good enough.

The precariousness of my position was brought home to me by the people.

How they hated me! The common people—and not only they—hate to see others rise, particularly if that rise is spectacular. I shall never forget the hatred which was directed against Wolsey when he was at the height of his greatness, and the sympathy which came to him when he was down. The sympathy suggested good nature but the hatred betrayed the truth of the matter, and I came to the conclusion that envy is the greatest of the seven deadly sins, and from it spring all others; the sympathy offered to such as Wolsey when they are brought low is at heart pleasure because of their downfall.

Now I was to taste that hatred.

“We'll have no Nan Bullen,” they cried, attempting to give my name a plebeian note. How I hated them, with their sly, envious faces and their petty minds. This was not sympathy for Katharine; it was not indignation against my position. It was plain envy.

I would have snapped my fingers at them if it were not for the disturbing effect they had on the King.

Cromwell said he would suppress it.

He had his spies everywhere. If they heard an adverse comment directed against me, the person who made it would find himself or herself in chains. This did not prevent a good many people risking imprisonment.

The most disturbing of all were the priests. They were different from the people in the streets. Their great anxiety must have been for their position in the Church. There was one, Friar Peto, who actually preached at Greenwich. He was one of those headstrong monks who see themselves in the role of martyr as a way to eternal joy and saving themselves from the flames of hell by one magnificent gesture at the end. He was attached to the Franciscan convent and was emphatic in his denunciation of the divorce. The King had been ill advised, he said. He would be like Ahab, and when he died the dogs would lick his blood.

And this in the presence of the King!

Henry's leniency was amazing. Cromwell would have had the man in the Tower and soon taking the short walk to Tower Hill, but the King was in a mellow mood. The Friar had at least spoken out to his face and had not made traitorous remarks behind his back as he feared so many did. So Friar Peto was sent to France to join a Franciscan order there. Such leniency was not really wise, for he came back later and continued preaching, so that there was no alternative but to imprison him.

But this was nothing compared with the case of Rice ap Griffiths. What made this more unusual was that Griffiths was a distant relative; he had married one of my mother's sisters. Criticism from my own family always surprised me. One would have thought we should have clung together. But the resentment the Howards had always felt toward the Boleyns was constantly flaring up. Griffiths was arrested and put in the Tower. He never left it, except to walk out to Tower Hill and lay his head on the block.

This was an example to others, and it did have some effect, but I knew that the people were ready to revolt against me, and the clergy against the new laws which were to be imposed.

At the Court, where I sat beside the King, few dared show resentment, for it was those close to the King who had the most to fear. It was true that Mary, Duchess of Suffolk, had left Court on account of me but I did not greatly care. It seemed amazing to me that she could behave so. After all, she herself had married a commoner. When I thought of that bright young girl and her passion for Charles Brandon, I could scarcely believe that she could behave thus toward me. She had been quite fond of me in a patronizing kind of way. She had let the little Boleyn into her confidence as she had no other. Of course, she had been a friend of Katharine, so perhaps that was behind her dislike of me.

I doubted that anyone in England had more enemies than I at that time. Vaguely I was aware of the antipathy, but I tried not to let it bother me. If I had been older and wiser, I should have been deeply shocked and horrified and certainly alarmed by the rancor I engendered.

One day the Duke of Norfolk asked to see me. I wondered why he had come. I was very wary of him. I suspected that he, like Suffolk, had used me to help discredit Wolsey; and I suspected they would work against me with the King if they had a chance.

Norfolk said that he had been handed a note which had been written by the Countess of Northumberland and sent to her father, the Earl of Shrewsbury. The Earl had brought it to the Duke, who thought I ought to see it.

I took it, wondering what Henry Percy's wife should have to say to her father which could be of interest to me.

I opened it and, when I read it, I was trembling with dismay.

Here was one of my enemies who could do me harm if she wished— and she clearly did wish. She had written to her father to say that her husband, Henry Percy, had admitted to her that, while he was in the service of Cardinal Wolsey and I was a maid of honor to Queen Katharine, he had had a pre-contract with me.

I stared from the paper to Norfolk. He was smiling sardonically, fully aware of the contents of the letter.

“I thought, Lady Anne,” he said, “that you would wish to give some thought to the matter.”

“It is of no importance,” I lied. “But it shall be shown to the King.”

He bowed and retired.

I sat there reading and re-reading the letter. How she must have hated me! Her marriage had been a failure from the start. Henry Percy would have been a faithful husband to me. I wondered if he still thought of me, and I was sure he did. Mary Talbot's vindictiveness was evident in this note. How reluctantly he had married her—and she knew it.

Now she would have heard of the brilliant marriage which lay ahead of me. Henry Percy would know, too. And what was he thinking now? Of what might have been, I dareswear, with a certain longing, as I did now and then when I was particularly frustrated and thought that nothing would ever come of my attachment to the King.

Now she saw a chance of revenge—this petty Mary Talbot who had had the misfortune to marry a man who was deeply in love with someone else.

But she had a point. That was the frightening aspect. One always thought of precedents when such occasions arose. Not so long ago Richard III had declared himself to be King because of his brother's pre-contract with Eleanor Butler before marrying Elizabeth Woodville, thus rendering illegitimate those two little Princes who had died so mysteriously in the Tower. If this pre-contract with Henry Percy was proved to be valid, my offspring with the King could be declared to be a bastard.

There was only one thing to do: I must lay the matter before Henry without more delay.

I went to him. His face lit up at the sight of me. Then he saw that I was disturbed.

I said: “Norfolk has just handed this to me.”

He took it, read it and cried: “My God, this must not be.”

He looked at me questioningly.

I said: “There was no signed contract of marriage. You know full well that when I was at Court I knew Northumberland and that there was talk of marriage between ourselves. It never went further than that. It was you who arranged with Wolsey to separate us.”

“Thank God,” he cried. “Then there was no pre-contract.”

“Once we thought that we would marry, which we might well have done if it had not been prevented.”

“I will give this to Cromwell at once. We cannot let it pass. Norfolk knows of it… and Shrewsbury, of course.”

“You think this will prevent our marriage.”

Henry smiled. “Sweetheart, nothing on God's earth is going to prevent our marriage. That rogue Cromwell will sort it out.”

And Cromwell did.

Percy was summoned to appear before the Archbishop of Canterbury and the Privy Council.

I knew that I could rely on him. He had loved me deeply; I think he had never forgotten me. He would know that I wished to marry the King, that I must marry the King after all that had passed between us. He was loyal as I had known he would be. He admitted that he and I had known each other at Court and there had been an attraction between us, but there had never been a pre-contract.

Whether he had been threatened by Cromwell, I did not know, but I liked to believe that he said what he did out of love for me.

So that was another defeat for my enemies. The King—as he was determined to—believed Northumberland was speaking the truth, and the rest of the Council must also.

That little matter was settled and need not bother us further.

Henry was relieved that the question of my alliance with Henry Percy had been satisfactorily settled and he could talk of little else but our coming visit to France.

François had been a good friend to us throughout the troubled negotiations of the divorce. I wondered why. Was it because he was romantic at heart? Hardly that. He wanted an alliance against the Emperor. That was the answer. But we could not afford to ignore such a powerful ally.

François was eager for the visit, and as Henry and I should be together, and I should be traveling with him as his Queen to a man who was prepared to accept me as such, it should be a most enjoyable occasion.

“There is one point,” said Henry. “You are merely the Lady Anne Rochford. It is not a very high rank for the exalted position you will occupy. Therefore I have decided to make a change.”

I looked at him expectantly and he kissed me.

“I am going to make you a peeress.”

I felt dizzy with pleasure.

“I have thought out the matter and it is all settled. You are to be the Marquess of Pembroke. It is a title which I much esteem because it was last borne by my uncle, Jasper Tudor. It links you with my family.”

“Do you think that will be approved by the nobles?”

He spoke almost haughtily. “It is my wish.” Of course I was delighted. It was a great honor. It would set me above those who had resented having to pay respect to me.

Marquess of Pembroke! A title—and such a title—in my own right! I had clearly taken the right course.

Henry announced that his reason for bestowing this honor was because a monarch ought to surround his throne with the worthiest of both sexes, and so, by the consent of the nobility of the kingdom (he did not add that none of them dared withhold his consent), he was creating his cousin Anne Rochford, the daughter of his well-beloved cousin the Earl of Wiltshire, to be Marquess of Pembroke. Then he added a most important point: by putting on the mantle and the coronet, he was investing the name and title to the male heirs.

This was a precaution. If by some evil chance it should happen that my marriage to the King was prevented—although he had sworn nothing should—and I were to give birth to a child, that child could be assured of a grand title.

It was plain that the King wished to do great honor to me and to show all that I was the most cherished being at his Court, for this was the first example of a woman's being created a peer.

Everything seemed mellow on that lovely September morning— summery, yet with a touch of autumn in the air. Henry was seated in the Presence Chamber at Windsor Castle surrounded by many of the peers, including Norfolk, Suffolk, my father and the French ambassador.

I had been dressed in a surcoat made of crimson velvet and lined with ermine; it had short sleeves for I was to wear the mantle over it. I wore my hair as it suited me best, loose about my shoulders, and I was led in by a company of lords and ladies, at the head of whom was Garter-king-at-arms. My cousin Mary Howard, daughter of the Duke of Norfolk,
carried the robe of state and the golden coronet. Slowly I approached the King, between the Countesses of Rutland and Sussex, and knelt.

Gardiner read the Charter, and the King took the robe from Mary, which he caressingly laid about my shoulders. Then he placed the coronet on my head.

I was ennobled. Marquess of Pembroke. It was a moment of great triumph.

Henry presented me with another charter which ensured me £1,000 a year during my lifetime.

I was very happy as the trumpets heralded my departure from the Presence Chamber.

In my apartment were gifts from Henry—some exquisite miniatures, the work of his favorite painter, Holbein; these were made more valuable by the jewels in which they were set. They were beautiful and could be worn as pendants. Henry was determined that all should know of his love for me. He showered gifts on me. I now had a train-bearer and maids of honor—all noble ladies—just as though I were already the Queen. The cost of my clothes alone for the ceremony had been more than £30—all cheerfully paid for from the privy purse.

I had nothing to fear.

Then we were planning the journey to France.

François had been most cordial and he delighted us both by suggesting that we marry while we were in France. This was an exciting prospect because if we did so it would proclaim to the world that the King of France was on our side. He had always shown a great deal of sympathy and understanding, and I was vain enough to suspect that it might be because of a fondness for me. He had certainly cast rather lustful eyes upon me when I was at his Court, and I imagine he thought of me with some respect because I had refused him. Therefore this coming visit was of very special importance to Henry and me, for we planned to take François's advice and then, when we returned to England, the marriage would be a
fait accompli
.

So there I was at the peak of my dreams, soon to have done with this anomalous position in which I had stood so long—Queen of England.

I was delighted for the time being with my new eminence; but soon I should be in that place to which I had aspired for so long. Perhaps I became a little haughty, assuming airs of royalty. Henry did not object to my doing so—in fact, he rather encouraged it. I felt now that I could command all…even him.

I was preparing a wardrobe for the French visit. Velvets and silks were brought to me and I planned with the utmost pleasure.

I was really happy during that time. I had ceased to look back nostalgically to the past and what might have been. There never could have been for me a more glorious future than that which confronted me now.