“Darling, give me a chance. I would speak with her.”
“You’ve spoken with her before, to no effect! I had thought you would spend this day, of all days, with me.”
Henry turned and squeezed her hand. “I promise I will not stay long. I’ll be back by evening, and then, sweetheart, we can be together again.” His eyes were alight with promise.
“Very well,” she conceded, “but see you do bring her to heel. She could prove every bit as dangerous as her mother.”
“I am her father,” Henry said. “She will obey me, you’ll see.”
—
That morning, after Henry had kissed her lovingly and ridden off to Hertfordshire, Anne joined George to watch a game of bowls in the palace gardens.
“You heard about Warham?” she asked, as they sat on the grass a little away from the others.
“I did! Things are moving speedily your way, sister.”
“I know. But still the King is being too lenient with the Princess. He’s gone to visit her today to make her see sense, but he won’t succeed. That little madam is molded from the same clay as her mother. God help me, but I could strangle her! When I am queen—and it won’t be long now—I’ll have her in my own train and give her too much dinner! Or I’ll marry her to some varlet!”
“Would that I were in want of a wife!” George teased. “I’d teach her!”
“Would that you were,” Anne agreed, wishing that he could be released from his unhappy marriage to sour-faced Jane.
—
When Henry returned that evening, he embraced her absentmindedly. Who would have thought that they had become lovers only the night before? He was tense and morose.
“Don’t tell me,” Anne sighed, as she poured him some wine. “The Princess proved difficult.”
Henry sighed. “She’s as stubborn and opinionated as her mother. I warned her she had better look to her future, for big changes were coming. But darling, I don’t want to dwell on her unnatural behavior. I’ve decided that, in advance of our visit to France, I am raising you to the peerage. You will accompany me as my lady Marquess of Pembroke. It is a royal title; my Uncle Jasper bore it. No woman has ever before been granted a peerage in her own right in England, so consider yourself very special.”
Anne hugged and kissed him heartily. “Sir, it is a great honor.” And a reward, of course. “I thank your Grace.” Her mind was racing through the implications. Such a title not only elevated her status for the coming trip: it also conferred nobility on Henry’s future queen.
“I want you to see the wording on the patent of creation,” Henry said, and handed her a paper on which he had scrawled some sentences. It began, “A monarch ought to surround his throne with many peers of the worthiest of both sexes, especially those who are of royal blood.” She liked that reminder of her descent from Edward I. But she was perturbed to see that something was missing from the passage relating to any children to whom her new title might one day descend.
“Shouldn’t it say ‘lawfully begotten issue’?” she asked.
“I thought about that, but we need to ensure that any child we conceive is provided for in the event of my dying before I can marry you,” Henry explained, coming up behind her to nuzzle her neck. She relaxed in relief. For a horrible moment she had feared that, having possessed her, he was thinking of pensioning her off and providing for any bastard she might bear him. And that, she knew, was what others might think when they heard the patent read out at the ceremony of ennoblement. But they would soon find out how wrong they were.
—
It was at Windsor, on the first day of September, that Anne received her peerage. A fanfare sounded as, preceded by Garter King of Arms carrying the patent of nobility, and her cousin Mary, Norfolk’s daughter, bearing a robe of state of crimson velvet furred with ermine and a gold coronet, she entered the presence chamber, flanked on either side by the countesses of Rutland and Sussex, and followed by a great train of courtiers and ladies. For this ancient ceremony she had been given the traditional robes of nobility, in a style dating from centuries ago: a short-sleeved surcoat of crimson velvet trimmed with ermine, with a close-fitting long-sleeved gown beneath it; like a queen, she wore her glossy hair loose about her shoulders.
Ahead of her the King sat enthroned, attended by Norfolk, Suffolk, the French ambassador, and the lords of his Council. She curtseyed three times as she approached him, then knelt as the Letters Patent conferring her new title were read out by Stephen Gardiner, who had been made Bishop of Winchester as a reward for all his hard work in Rome. Henry rose, smiling at her. He placed the mantle of estate about her shoulders and lifted the coronet onto her head, then presented her with her patents.
“I thank your Grace most humbly,” she murmured, then rose and curtseyed again, before leaving the chamber to another burst of trumpets. Afterward, Henry joined her for Mass in St. George’s Chapel, where the Te Deum was sung in her honor.
How could she ever have thought there was something wrong? She had imagined it. Henry was as loving as ever—more so now that they were lovers in every way, every night. It was as if he could not leave her alone for an hour.
—
There were now only a few weeks to go before the visit to Calais. Henry had high hopes of it.
“I have never desired anything as much,” he declared. “Fran?ois hopes to meet with the Pope early next year, and I’m glad of this chance to see him first and tell him in person of the determinations of the universities. That will make Clement sit up and think!”
Even now, he was hoping that, at the last minute, Clement would decide in his favor.
“Darling, I want you to wear the Queen’s jewels in France,” he told her. Anne had seen those jewels many times when she served Katherine. She knew they had been handed down from consort to consort, and that some were centuries old and had great historical or sentimental value. When she was queen, they would be hers, but the prospect of having them now—and of Katherine being made to realize that she had no right to them—suddenly assumed prime importance.
“It will show the world that our marriage is as good as made,” Henry said, and sent a messenger to Katherine demanding that she deliver up the jewels to him.
But the messenger came back empty-handed: Katherine had refused to surrender them without the King’s express command in writing, because he had commanded her not to send him anything. Anne stood in the privy chamber, her cheeks burning, as the messenger repeated what Katherine had actually said: that it was offensive and insulting to her, and would weigh upon her conscience, to give up her jewels for such a base purpose as that of decking out a person who was a reproach to Christendom and was bringing infamy on the King through his taking her to France.
“I’ll write the order now!” Henry shouted, enraged.