—
She had a high belly now and tired easily. In three months, God willing, she would bear a son, a living image of his father. Henry fussed over her constantly. He had Archbishop Cranmer warn preachers that they must not weary her by over-long sermons in chapel. He gave her, for her delight, a peacock, and a pelican that had come all the way from a far-off country called Newfoundland. But the best gift of all was his sanctioning the translating of the Bible into English, in response to a petition from his clergy, which had been driven by the seven reformist bishops who had been appointed, thanks to Anne’s good offices, since she had become queen. A reformist scholar, Miles Coverdale, was undertaking the translation, and his work was going to be dedicated to Henry and to her. Anne had hugged and kissed Henry when he told her.
She was delighted to receive from Lady Lisle, wife of the Governor of Calais, a brace of dotterels for her table, a singing linnet in a cage, and an adorable little dog. Of course, Lady Lisle had daughters she no doubt hoped to place at court, and wanted to ingratiate herself, but with well-wishers thin on the ground, the gesture was heartening. The dog was the sweetest thing. It gazed up at her with soulful, inquiring eyes, and she thought of a name for it at once.
“I shall call you Little Pourquoi, because you look as if you are always asking me why!”
Heartening too was Henry’s decision to punish Katherine for not taking the oath by sending her under house arrest to Kimbolton Castle, which was farther from London than Buckden. Then he sent out heralds to warn all his subjects that anyone slandering his beloved Queen or his lawful heirs would be guilty of high treason, for which the penalty was death.
—
In the second week of July, George, now Lord Warden of the Cinque Ports, was sent on an embassy to France, leaving Anne feeling depressed. She wished he did not have to go away when her child was soon to be born and she needed him most to allay her fears, or just listen to them. Mary had gone home to Hever—not that she would be much comfort anyway. Even the antics of Little Pourquoi, or the docile loyalty of the greyhound Urian, failed to cheer Anne.
A week later, Henry broke the news that his daughter had refused the oath. When he had gone, growling about making her pay for her defiance, Anne took up her pen and wrote to Lady Shelton: “Give her a good beating, for the cursed bastard she is.” She would see to it that Mary got her just desserts, even if Henry balked at it.
George was soon home.
“It’s been agreed that I won’t go to France this year,” Henry told Anne. “Katherine and Mary bear you no small grudge, and might in my absence make mischief.”
“Thank God,” Anne said. “I feel much safer when you are with me.”
Henry caressed her cheek. “It will not be long now, darling. The doctors say it is often easier the second time.”
It was easier—in fact it was all over within two hours. The baby came sooner than she had expected: she had not even taken to her chamber. But her pains were for nothing.
As the midwife wrapped the tiny babe in a cloth and covered his dead face, Anne lay racked with sobs. “Why? Why?” she kept crying out. “Other women have sons—why not me?”
Her women tried to soothe her, but when they heard that Henry was coming, they drew back nervously, warning, “The King! The King!”
Anne twisted in the rumpled bed. She knew she must look dreadful, her face raw from weeping, her body sweaty from her travail, as yet unwashed and still clothed in her bloody shift. She pulled the sheets and counterpane around her. Little Pourquoi leapt up and snuggled next to her, as if sensing her distress.
Henry’s gaze was wounded and accusing. There was no doubting that this was her fault.
“I am so sorry!” she sobbed. “He came too early.”
“Where is he?” Henry demanded.
“Here, your Grace.” The midwife nervously handed him the shrouded bundle. Henry pulled the covering aside. “Oh, God, my son, my little son,” he murmured brokenly, tears streaming down his face. “Take him.” He thrust the body back into the midwife’s arms, mastered himself with an effort, then bent his gaze on every soul in the room.
“You will not speak of this to anyone,” he commanded. “If you are asked, you must say that the Queen miscarried. Do not say it was a boy. Do you all understand?” Anne knew he would not look a fool in the eyes of Christendom.
The women nervously nodded assent.
“I will leave you to rest,” Henry said to Anne. “See to the Queen, ladies.”
Anne lay there weeping silently. This wasn’t how it was meant to be. What of her dreams of power and of the reign of virtuous women? It was all an illusion, dependent on the will of men. Because, when it came down to it, power depended only on a woman’s body not letting her down.
—
She mended quickly, and by the end of July she was ready to accompany Henry on his annual summer hunting progress. But her spirit was crushed, for he had been cold to her since she had lost their son. It was cruel of him, for she was grieving too, for her baby, for herself, and what this tragedy might mean for her.
If she had been depressed before the birth, she was in despair now. It was hard to rise above it and be the sophisticated, witty woman with whom Henry had fallen in love. And yet she must win him again. He too had suffered a bitter disappointment, but underneath the distant exterior, his heart still beat with love for her—she must believe it.
She could not find in herself much appetite for lovemaking, but Henry returned to her bed, almost with an air of doing what he had to do. She submitted willingly, knowing that conceiving another son was the only way to keep him hers. She did not deceive herself: it was a joyless experience.
And soon she found out why. Apparently it was no secret that he was betraying her—with her own maid of honor, too! Joan Ashley was seventeen, a pretty girl whom Anne had thought shy, but a more apt word would be sly. With her own credit with the King lower than it had ever been, there was no shortage of people to drop hints. She had even come across Jane Rochford gossiping about the affair, and been met with an embarrassed silence. It seemed it had been going on for some time.
Rage consumed her. When Henry next came to dine, she dismissed the servants and stood with her back to the door.
“Why are you wasting your seed on that worthless little cow Joan Ashley?” she challenged him. “You’re my husband and you’re old enough to be her grandfather!”
“You forget yourself, Anne,” Henry barked, his voice icy. “I am your King, and you have good reason to be content with what I have done for you—which I would not do now if I were to begin again.”
“That’s rich! You’re the one who commits adultery, yet you have the gall to censure me!”