“What did Sir Thomas say?” Henry asked anxiously.
“He will not come, sir. He said there are those who are desirous to deflower us, and when they have deflowered us, they will not fail soon after to devour us. But he would provide that they shall never deflower him.”
Henry bristled. “So this is how he repays me for my friendship! Well, no matter, we will not spoil your day, darling, for an ungrateful knave!”
It was three o’clock. The Lord Mayor was here. There was no more time for talk. Henry kissed her farewell. He would travel to the Tower by covered barge.
She stepped into the barge she had appropriated from Katherine, followed by Mary and her other ladies, her father, and a group of privileged nobles. Out on the Thames bobbed the gaily decorated crafts of the London guilds, many of them filled with minstrels playing sweet music. Anne was gratified to see huge crowds lining the banks as her barge began making its stately way along the river, its cloth-of-gold heraldic banners fluttering in the breeze. On a boat to her left a water pageant was being staged, with terrible monsters and wild men casting fire, which made her maidens squeal. But there was little cheering from the eerily silent crowd, apart from when the monsters ended up in the water, and she was relieved to catch sight of the Tower of London ahead.
As she alighted at the Queen’s Stairs, the Lord Chamberlain greeted her and escorted her to the King, who was waiting just inside the postern gate in the Byward Tower.
“Darling!” he cried, and kissed her lovingly, as trumpets and shawms sounded her arrival and the cannons on Tower Wharf fired a resounding salute.
Anne thanked the waiting Mayor and citizens for their kindness in arranging such a wondrous pageant, and then Henry led her to the old royal apartments.
“I’ve had Cromwell refurbish them in your honor,” he told her. “He’s spent over three thousand pounds on repairs and improvements so that you can be accommodated in suitable splendor.” They entered the Queen’s lodgings and she looked around, impressed. The walls and ceilings had been decorated in the antique style, with plaster friezes of gamboling cherubs, all gilded, and costly new tapestries portraying the story of Queen Esther, which Henry had commissioned in acknowledgment of her zeal for reform.
“This is your great chamber,” he told her, “and that closet over there will serve as a private oratory.” He ushered her into a dining chamber embellished with a great fireplace and fine wainscoting. Beyond it was a bedchamber with a royal bed hung with red velvet, and a privy set into the wall.
“These were my dear mother’s lodgings,” Henry told her, looking around wistfully. “She died here. Of course, they look very different now. I do hope you are pleased with them.”
Anne took his hands. “They are superb, and I will thank Master Cromwell for the good work he has done.”
They spent the next day resting in the Tower, and in the evening Henry dubbed eighteen Knights of the Bath, explaining to Anne that this ancient ritual was normally performed only at the coronations of reigning monarchs, but that a special exception was being made for her. Francis Weston was one of those he honored.
In the morning, Anne rose early to be made ready for her ceremonial entry into London. For this she had chosen a traditional surcoat and matching mantle of shimmering white cloth of tissue furred with ermine. On her head she wore a coif surmounted by a circlet studded with rich stones. Her hair was loose, in token of her symbolic virginity as a queen, but beneath the white gown the mound of her belly swelled.
Her ladies assisted her into a horse litter of white cloth of gold, to which were harnessed two palfreys caparisoned in white damask. Sixteen knights of the Cinque Ports took up their positions around it, bearing a canopy of cloth of gold on gilded staves, attached to which were silver bells that tinkled above Anne’s head. Already the great procession of lords, clergy, officers, and courtiers was leaving the Tower, bound for the City of London. As her litter was borne up Tower Hill behind it, a great train of ladies followed in chariots and on horseback. Crowds were gathering, but they mostly just stood there watching, some of them palpably hostile.
The City of London had spared no expense in honoring her. She passed along newly graveled streets, beneath triumphal arches, past buildings hung with scarlet and crimson cloth. Every window was crammed with ladies and gentlewomen, eager to catch a glimpse of her. Music played, children made speeches, and free wine splashed in the conduits and fountains, that all might celebrate this day. Choirs raised their voices in sweet harmony in her honor:
Anna comes, the most famous woman in all the world,
Anna comes, the shining incarnation of chastity,
In snow-white litter, just like the goddesses,
Anna the Queen is here, the preservation of your future.
“Honor and grace be to our Queen Anne!” the singers chorused. “For whose cause an angel celestial descends, to crown the falcon with a diadem imperial.”
In Cornhill, the Three Graces wished Anne hearty gladness, continual success, and long fruition. “Queen Anne, prosper, go forward, and reign!” they cried.
In a pageant in Cheapside, an actor playing Paris, asked to choose the most beautiful of the three goddesses, Juno, Pallas, and Venus, took one look at Anne and declared that, having seen her, he could not call any of them fair. In St. Paul’s Churchyard, the choristers sang an anthem that recalled the coronation of the Virgin: “Come, my love, thou shalt be crowned!”
Verses recited by a little child reminded Anne of the fruitfulness of her saintly namesake, St. Anne, mother of the Virgin Mary. One banner bore the legend, in Latin: Queen Anne, when thou shalt bear a new son of the King’s blood, there shall be a golden world unto thy people.
“Amen!” Anne said loudly, smiling.
Within the city walls, the crowds had turned out in their thousands, but as before they were largely silent and their welcome was cold. As Anne passed by, turning her face from side to side to greet the people, she saw few caps removed and hardly ten people who cried, “God save your Grace!” She heard her fool, capering along a little way ahead, cry angrily, “Ye all have scurvy heads and dare not uncover!” Worst of all, wherever the intertwined initials of their King and Queen appeared in the decorations, the mob jeered, “HA! HA!” Remembering what had happened at Durham House, Anne prayed fervently that the citizens would confine their hatred to verbal abuse. She felt horribly exposed in her open litter, a sitting target for anyone who might make an attempt on her life.