I finished dressing her in layers of silk and cloth of silver and fastened about her graceful neck her finest pearls, which she loved. Anne and the king were entertaining diplomats that night at a quiet dinner in Henry’s quarters. After she left, I straightened her wardrobe and dismissed the rest of the ladies. When I was certain that the last one was gone I went to the cabinet where Anne kept the reformist books she often read aloud from or loaned to her closest ladies. I opened the cabinet and saw the book of hours that I’d seen her writing in with Henry.

I took the book out and opened it, thumbing through the pages till I came upon some that had been written upon.

There it was. Henry had written, If you remember my love in your prayers as strongly as I adore you, I shall hardly be forgotten, for I am yours. Henry R. forever. He’d written it on the page under the Man of Sorrows, presumably representative of himself, a rather unsuitable comparison.

Anne had written back, By daily proof you shall me find, To be to you both loving and kind. She’d written it under an illustration of the angel telling the Virgin Mary she was about to have a son.

I closed the book. By this I knew, and Henry would too, that Anne was promising him a son.

Oh, Anne.

I was compelled to open the book back up again and when I did I stared at the Man of Sorrows. His skin was slashed from the top of his head to the bloody wounds on his feet. His face was writ with anguish. Blood dripped or ran across his entire body. And yet He still knelt in prayer and obedience. Underneath Him were written words from Isaiah: He was a man of sorrows, acquainted with grief.

I sank into a chair, the book still in my hand, and I gave free rein to the memories and feelings flooding forward. I felt anew the beatings at the hands of my father, whence blood had coursed down my face, too; recalled the unjust hardship of my mother’s lifelong illness; anguished at the powerlessness of being chattel—sold in marriage for a price. I allowed myself to truly recognize the fears I felt for Anne, who had given herself wholly to a man I suspected would be true to none but himself. Finally, I grieved the utter despair of my relinquishment of Will, who remained, as our Lord must know, my heart of hearts.

And then, that for which I had yearned happened. Christ spoke to me in our common language, one I could understand. Not Latin. Not English. Distress.

I am a man of sorrows. I am acquainted with grief.

He understood and, therefore, could be trusted. I let Him wrap His arms around me and for the first time since my lady mother died, I cried myself dry.

FOURTEEN

Year of Our Lord 1532

Greenwich Palace

Richmond Castle

Woodstock

We were back at Greenwich for Christmas that year and in every way save name and body, Anne reigned over the celebrations as queen. Court etiquette demanded that courtiers give gifts to one another and, of course, to the sovereign. The boundaries of many relationships were narrowed or expanded by the value of the gifts given, the placement of the person understood by the significance of the gifts received.

That year Henry decided, as Katherine was no longer queen and also, because of her unwillingness to cooperate with his plans, no longer his friend, to give Katherine of Aragon nothing at all. Furthermore, he decreed that all were to follow suit and that no presents were to be sent to her at Enfield, where she moldered. The whispers grew strident among the ladies that Anne had been behind this indignity. I failed to understand how any person with more than a Whitsunday’s experience at court could imagine that Anne, or anyone, could steer Henry in a course not of his own plotting. His sailed by his own star alone.

I supposed the rumors were fueled by the fact that Katherine’s loss was clearly Anne’s gain. Not only was she the recipient of dozens of expensive gifts of plate, cloth, and jewelry from ambitious courtiers, she was the benefactress of Henry’s wealth. He’d apparently kept his jeweler, Master Hayes, busily employed with, among other gifts, a girdled belt of crown gold. The gift I found to be the most perplexing was Henry’s gift of a Katherine Wheel set with thirteen diamonds. It had a beautiful shape, of course, gold spokes enclosed in a delicate ring, much like a wedding ring. But all knew that the Katherine Wheel, also called a breaking wheel, was a device intended for execution of the condemned.

No one else seemed to note it, or if they did, they kept their peace.

My brother Thomas returned from Calais and was immediately appointed as commissioner of the peace in Essex, far from court. Mayhap the king had his hand in it. But the order was signed by Cromwell and initialed by Edmund Wyatt. We had barely time for dining together once or twice before he was whisked out of Anne’s sight again.

Once the forced conviviality of Christmas had passed, the court again drew tense. The factions were clearly marked, and though Katherine was no longer present at court, some of her supporters were. They spoke mostly in whispers and in corners. Anne told me that the king grew intolerant of them. He had proved his point, legally and scripturally, and they were waking a dangerous impatience by their prodding.

We arrived at chapel on Easter Sunday. Anne and the king sat in the royal chamber, out of sight of the rest of the gathered courtiers, though we all heard the same message. I normally sat with Lady and Lord Zouche, but this day I had helped Anne a bit longer than usual and approached the chapel by myself. Most pews were filled. As I stood there, a man about my own age caught my eye.

“My lady?” He indicated the pew he’d just vacated. “Please.”

I smiled at him. “Thank you, Sir….”

“Sir Anthony Litton,” he said. “At your service.” His smile was warm and, indeed, welcome. I saw him shove a friend over, as schoolboys do, to make way on the pew in front of me and I held back a giggle.

We had come, of course, expecting to hear of resurrection and new life and celebration after the bleak weeks of Lent. William Peto, one of Henry’s favorite friars, of the Observants, began the message. He took his text from the Old Testament. Strange, for Easter Sunday. And then the court grew palpably ill at ease as he began to preach, energetically, about King Ahab.

“Ahab was a wicked king who had been handed a good kingdom and misspent it,” he said. “He was selfishly willful. He was blessed and yet returned curses for blessing. And then he chose to marry Jezebel.”

Friar Peto went on to indict Jezebel as a Baal-worshipping pagan, a domineering woman who ordered her weak-kneed husband around and would lead his kingdom to ruin.

Rivulets tracked down Father Peto’s face though ’twere only the end of March. I dared not look up at the royal chamber, but in the stillness of the church we could hear Henry panting with anger. All knew Peto styled Henry as Ahab and Anne as Jezebel. Shortly after we sang the Te Deums and filed out.

Henry, to his credit, didn’t have Friar Peto strung to a Katherine Wheel. Instead, he reasonably sent one of his chaplains to preach a rebuke the next Sunday. When the king’s man arrived he was barracked and prevented from speaking. They followed that indignity up by hauling said chaplain before the ecclesiastical court for discipline.