No, silence was imperative. She must bear this burden alone.
Henry sent for the Princess Elizabeth to be brought to Greenwich, and the next morning he carried her triumphantly to Mass with the trumpets sounding a fanfare and the child—she was two and a half now—sitting solemnly in his arms. The message was clear to all: she was his undoubted heir. She sat between her parents, very well behaved, a cushion on her chair so that she might see over the edge of the pew. Already, Anne noticed, her daughter knew when to make the responses in the service.
Anne spent the rest of the morning playing with Elizabeth, getting to know and like her better, this little stranger whom she had hardly seen. She was extraordinary, with her quicksilver wits and eternal curiosity; she spoke as well as a four-year-old and could read all the letters on the horn book she wore at her girdle. She was so self-contained, so poised, so much her own mistress already, that Anne began to feel less guilty about not loving her enough. Elizabeth did not need her. Lady Bryan was, clearly, far more important to the child. What mattered was that Anne did her best for her and defended her rights. And soon she could take pleasure in preparing for Elizabeth’s marriage to the Duke of Angoulême.
In the afternoon, Henry arrived in the hall where Anne and her ladies were dancing. He was dressed defiantly, from head to foot, in yellow, the color of joy, hope, and renewal, with a white feather in his cap, and brought in his wake a company of gentlemen.
“Ladies, let us celebrate England’s liberation from the threat of war!” he cried, and took Anne by the hand. She danced as she had not danced in a long time, the other couples swirling around her as he led her in measure after measure. If she gave herself up to pleasure, she might forget the dreadful secret that overshadowed her.
After an hour, Henry departed for his apartments, urging everyone to carry on with the revelry. Minutes later, he reappeared with Elizabeth in his arms, and proudly showed her off to everyone present, with the gentlemen kissing the tiny imperious hand and the ladies cooing at her. Anne looked on, gratified and relieved that Henry had chosen to emphasize Elizabeth’s importance. Following his example, she herself donned yellow for the banquet he hosted that evening, and showed the world a triumphant face, but later, when her ladies were preparing her for bed, her fears returned.
“Is anything the matter, madam?” Madge ventured, looking concerned.
“Is your Grace feeling unwell?” Margaret asked, in her pretty Scots accent.
“It’s not that,” Anne replied. “I keep thinking that, throughout Christendom, most people will now regard His Grace as a widower. And if I do not bear a son, I am afraid they may do with me as they did with the Princess Dowager.”
“Nonsense!” Margaret exclaimed. “You only had to see how proud of you the King looked today, and how he favors the Princess, to know there is no danger of that.”
“But if this child is a girl, or…” She could not voice it.
“His Grace loves you,” Madge assured her.
“He pursues Jane Seymour,” Anne said.
There was a silence. “I know by your faces that it is true,” she told them. “But as long as he respects me as the mother of his heir, and does not publicly slight me, I am content.”
—
In the second week in January, Henry came to Anne’s chamber after supper and sent her attendants away.
“I’ve received the report of the chandler who examined the Princess Dowager’s body,” he said, his face grave. “I wanted to talk to you in confidence.”
Anne’s heart began thudding against her chest. The child must not be affrighted. She had to calm down.
“Why?” she asked, trying not to sound as if it mattered much.
“Because I’m concerned, and Chapuys is asking questions,” Henry said. “They found all the internal organs sound except the heart. It had a black growth, hideous to behold. The chandler washed it, but it did not change color, and it was all black inside. I don’t know what to think, Anne, but I’m doing my best to keep the report secret. Already people are saying that Katherine was murdered. They’re even accusing me of sending a messenger to hold to her lips a poisoned gold cup. Chapuys is very suspicious.”
“No doubt some hold me responsible,” she said, inwardly shuddering to think how close Henry had come to guessing the truth. He might yet guess it, she thought, the hairs on her neck prickling with fear.
“I didn’t like to tell you,” Henry admitted. “Some blame you and your family. They say you had the most to gain. Do not heed them, Anne—they are ignorant. But I came to warn you what is being said, so that you won’t heed any gossip. We have to think of the child.”
She did not like the way he was looking at her, as if he was remembering all the times she had urged him to proceed against Katherine, and wondering if the gossips were right.
—
That month, the Lady Mary fell dangerously ill at Hunsdon. She had taken the news of her mother’s death grievously, and was in a desperately sad condition.
It was time, Anne felt, to give lie to rumor and extend the olive branch. Hate Mary as she did, she could yet feel pity for a girl who had lost a beloved mother, and now that Katherine was no more, Mary might feel able to recognize her as queen.
She sent a message asking Lady Shelton to tell Mary that, if she would obey her father like a good girl, she, Anne, would be the best friend in the world to her and, like another mother, would try to obtain for her all that she wanted. And if she would come to court, she would be exempt from carrying the Queen’s train and would always walk by her side, as an equal. She couldn’t have offered more.
Mary’s reply was like a slap in the face. To comply with Anne’s terms would conflict with her honor and conscience.
Well, she had had her chance. Infuriated, Anne informed Lady Shelton that her pleasure was that she attempt no more to make the Lady Mary obey the King’s Grace. “What I have done,” she wrote, “has been more for charity than because the King or I care what course she takes. When I have a son, as soon I look to have, I know what will come to her. Remembering the word of God, that we should do good to our enemies, I have wished to give her warning before then, because I know the King will not value her repentance, or the cessation of her madness and unnatural obstinacy, when she no longer has power to choose. Lady Shelton, I beseech you, do not trouble yourself to turn her from any of her willful ways, for to me she can do neither good nor ill.”
She entrusted the letter to a messenger and went to lie down. The effort of dealing with her stepdaughter had exhausted her.