Suddenly she felt his hand on her heaving shoulder. “Anne? I apologize if I was abrupt with you. It may not be your fault that our sons have died, but is it mine? Have I offended God in some way? In faith, I am so angry, so confused, and so frustrated. I am a plain man, and sometimes a rough one.” He sighed. “I wonder what has happened to us. Where we lost each other.”
Anne turned to face him. She sat up in the bed, wiping her eyes. “I thought you blamed me for the loss of our sons, that I had forfeited your love because of it. And when I saw that you loved others, my heart broke.” He must believe that it was her heart, not her pride, that had been wounded.
“You are still my lady,” Henry said, looking at her more tenderly than he had done in months. “I am determined to show the world that I was right to marry you. Pray God this night’s work will bear fruit. I will come to you tomorrow, and again after that, to make sure.” He was actually smiling at her.
Relief flooded through her. She still had power over him!
—
This new kindness between them proved to be no fleeting thing. When Henry went away on his annual progress, to the West Country this year, he took Anne with him. Her presence was important, he said, his purpose not just to get her with child.
“I am determined to see that my reforming policies are being enforced,” he told her. He would be inspecting monasteries, talking to bishops and clergymen, favoring with a visit those who supported his policies, as well as traditionalists whose goodwill he wished to retain. The aim was to rouse support for the coming closure of the religious houses. Cromwell, who was traveling separately, would be ensuring that the King’s laws were being observed and valuing the assets of the monasteries he visited. Anne was to be visibly supporting Henry’s policies.
He was looking forward to the progress. He liked to be seen by his subjects, to bask in his popularity, and to win more by listening to what they had to tell him and redressing their grievances. Above all, he loved the good hunting to be had in this grease season. Anne caught his mood. She was happier than she had been in months.
The great procession set off from Windsor, and she rode at Henry’s side. In their wake lumbered a long train of lords, ladies, officials, servants, carts, and sumpter mules bearing the rich furnishings that always accompanied the King when he was on progress.
Late in July, they arrived at Winchcombe in Gloucestershire, where they were to stay at Henry’s castle of Sudeley, in the magnificent apartments built by his great-uncle, Jasper Tudor, Duke of Bedford. Anne sent George and some officers of her household to inspect Hayles Abbey, where there was a famous vial of the Holy Blood—Christ’s own life blood, spilled on the Cross—which people had flocked for centuries to venerate.
“It’s the blood of a duck,” George informed her on their return. “The monks regularly renew it.”
“And they charge pilgrims to see it?” she asked, outraged. “Tell them in my name that they must remove it from public view or face my displeasure.”
George saw that the monks obeyed, but when Henry and Anne were on their way to Tewkesbury, they were annoyed to hear from Cromwell that the vial had been put back.
“Soon they won’t have four walls in which to house it,” Henry growled.
The progress continued. They stayed near Gloucester, at Painswick Manor, then moved on to Berkeley Castle, Thornbury Castle, a fine but unfinished palace confiscated from the late Duke of Buckingham, and Acton Court, where Sir Nicholas Poyntz, a reformist and friend of Cromwell and Tom Wyatt, had built a lavish new lodging, with the latest in antique decoration, especially for their visit.
Early in September, they arrived at Wulfhall, a manor house on the outskirts of Savernake Forest in Wiltshire. It was the residence of Sir John Seymour, Sheriff and Justice of the Peace for Wiltshire, whose daughter Jane was in Anne’s train. She had been proudly telling the other maids about her family seat, which was nowhere near as grand as she had given them to believe.
What Anne saw before her was a substantial timbered manor house. They rode into a cobbled courtyard, where Sir John and his lady were waiting, their strapping sons and pale-faced daughters drawn up in a line behind them, all bowing and curtseying. Henry greeted his host affably, and kissed the hand of Lady Seymour. Then, when Jane had been embraced by her parents, the King and Anne were shown by their effusive host to the comfortable lodgings that had been prepared for them. On the way, Sir John took great pleasure in pointing out the impressive long gallery he had had built, and the tapestry-hung family chapel.
It had been a long ride, so Anne dismissed her ladies and lay down on her bed to rest. Presently Henry joined her, and soon they were making love, feeling the warm September breeze drifting through the open window and caressing their entwined bodies.
Afterward Henry poured some of the wine that Sir John had thoughtfully left for them.
“He’s an old rogue,” he said. “A capable administrator, and something of a diplomat, but a scoundrel with the ladies.”
“What? He must be at least sixty!” Anne sat up in the bed and took the goblet from Henry.
“He’s an old Priapus! You met his son, Edward—the tall, serious one, not that buffoon, Thomas, or the rustic, Henry. Edward’s been at court for years, ever since he was my page. He was young when his father found him a bride. She bore him two sons, and then I heard that she’d been packed off to a convent. She died last year and Edward married again. When I gave my permission, he told me that his father had seduced his wife and had probably sired her sons too.”
“My God!” Anne exclaimed.
“He has disinherited them now, and do you blame him? Did you not notice the frostiness between Sir John and Edward Seymour?”
“I didn’t. I was more interested to meet Lady Seymour, because my mother served with her in the Duchess of Norfolk’s household when they were girls. The poet Skelton dedicated verses to them both.”
“My old tutor,” Henry said. “I know one of those poems: ‘To Mistress Margery Wentworth.’ The poor lady has had a lot to put up with.”
“And yet she seems cheerful enough. How awful for her, having her husband dally with their son’s wife—and probably under her very roof.”
“We will not mention it. It’s best forgotten.”
“It doesn’t seem fair,” Anne pondered.
“What doesn’t?” Henry stroked her hair.
“If Lady Seymour had fornicated with her daughter’s husband, all hell would have been let loose. But let a man commit incest, and he gets away with it.”
“There will be a greater reckoning, Anne. God, who knows all, will judge him.”
“I rather think an earthly power would have judged Lady Margery—and harshly.”
“That is because a wife must not compromise the issue she bears. Her husband must be sure it is his, or all the laws of inheritance will be in jeopardy.”
Anne sat up. “True. But I think Sir John should have been called to account.”
“No doubt he has—by his wife!”
—
Anne pointed to the great silver-bound ivory hunting horn resting on brackets on the wall of the Broad Chamber, where they were having an abundant and delicious dinner, all prepared under the supervision of Lady Seymour.