Page 61 of The Queen’s Witch

Though silent over the torture of the five monks, Henry flew into a royal rage over a hat.

Bishop John Fisher, who had refused to take the Oath of Supremacy, had been imprisoned in the tower for a year. In May, Pope Paul created Fisher a cardinal. From Rome, the pope sent Fisher a red cardinal’s hat, a direct blow at the king’s claim to power over the Church of England. Henry bellowed that he would send Fisher’s head to Rome to fit the hat.

Henry’s fury did not lessen. In June, more monks were executed, those who had refused the oath. As the court feasted, the monks, tied upright to stakes and denied food and water, died slowly and painfully. Bishop Fisher was tried for treason and beheaded.

An outcry went up in London, not against Henry, but against Anne. She must have felt disturbed, either by the anger in the streets or by whatever part of her remained open to pity toward even her enemies, for she attended a Mass for the repose of Bishop Fisher’s soul. Or perhaps she went to the royal chapel hoping that the king would accompany her. He did not. He still catered to her pregnancy by granting whatever she wanted, but the tenderness he had shown in March had waned.

As always, Anne met her husband’s coolness with defiance. “He will enjoy the masque I have arranged for tomorrow,” she said to Emma. “It will divert him.”

Perhaps. But only the birth of a prince could truly divert Henry from his grief and rage at his own acts. Anne knew that. She reassured herself by reassuring Emma, Anne’s face under its jeweled French hood almost ugly with tension, her hands resting on the curve of her belly under the silk gown.

Henry did enjoy the masque, which portrayed divine approval of England, including its monarch. He congratulated Anne on her entertainment and added, “Have it performed again on the Eve of Saint Peter.”

A day usually dedicated to honoring the pope. Anne, elated, said, “Of course, my liege. I am so pleased you like it.”

But after the masque, I saw Henry standing in a window embrasure with Mistress Seymour, one of Anne’s ladies. From his great height, the king bent his head toward hers. The light in his eyes—hers were modestly downcast—the forward lean of his widening body, the softness of his mouth . . . I had seen it all before. So Jane Seymour was to be the next Madge Shelton, the next Mary Boleyn, the next Bessie Blount, who was mother of the king’s bastard son. Jane Seymour, with neither wit nor beauty, seemed an odd choice for a royal dalliance. There were much livelier, prettier women at court.

I looked away from the window. He would tire of her within a month.

As June dragged on, the strain on Anne increased. Constant whispers at court, jeers outside the palace. Constant striving to keep her husband’s attention on her expanding belly. Constant need to appear unconcerned, witty, confident. She relieved the strain when alone with Emma and me. She berated, she threatened, she cursed. Her ladies grew afraid of her, even those whose friendship was not feigned. Even Lady Lee, Thomas Wyatt’s sister and Anne’s closest friend, tensed whenever near the queen.

“Emma! Shut the door!” Anne stormed into her privy chamber, Lady Lee close behind.

“Your Grace, be easy, you must not—”

Emma shut the thick wooden door firmly on Lady Lee, to the shocked faces of the ladies arrayed behind her.

“The whoreson! The lying, sarding bastard—I will have him captured and eviscerated! By God’s blood, I will have Henry make war on him!”

So her wrath was not with the king. Who?

“He should be roasted over a slow fire, and I would laugh to see it! Treacherous whoreson!”

She kicked the closest object, which was me. I am not even sure she realized I was not a stool. I backed away from her foot in its silken slipper and bent to rub my shin.

Emma put a hand on Anne’s arm. She shook it off. “Do not touch me! How dare you touch me! I am the queen!”

Emma, who touched Anne daily as she dressed and undressed her, stood frozen. Anne did not notice. She cursed for another full minute, curses I had heard only at the docks and in the taverns of Southampton. From amid the foul language emerged the name of the man she wished to roast over a slow fire: Francis, king of France. Anne had favored betrothing Princess Elizabeth, not yet two years old, to the Duke of Angoulême, Francis’s third son. Negotiations had collapsed.

Emma tried again. “Your Grace . . .”

Anne went on raving, tears and spittle flying from her face.

Emma gave me a glance and the tiniest nod. I slipped the packet of sleeping powder from the pouch at my girdle and dusted it into the wine already waiting on a small table. Eventually, Anne stopped raving long enough to grab the goblet, sloshing some onto the rich tapestry covering the table, and gulped it down.

When Anne had quieted, Emma tenderly undressed her and coaxed her into bed. There would be no more wild raving, at least not this night.

20

Whitehall Palace

Anne returned from an evening of cards and dicing in the king’s reception chamber at Whitehall, and I with her. She had eaten of only a few dishes at dinner and drunk only a single glass of wine, all of which I had tasted. Rumors persisted that she had poisoned Lady Mary earlier in the year, and also Katherine, increasingly ill in her imprisonment at Kimbolton Castle. Where rumors of poisoning attach to one person, actual poisoning might occur to another. Anne’s pregnancy had changed the situation. If the child she carried was a girl, Anne would have borne two possible heirs instead of one, an insurance against childhood illness carrying off Elizabeth, and Mary’s position would be further imperiled. She and Katherine still had silent supporters at court. My tasting was a charade, but not the silent spells I now cast, spells to detect poison that Agnes had grudgingly taught me.

Anne looked exhausted, drawn and—despite her pregnancy—middle aged. This night, she was too tired for anger. Silently Emma untied her sleeves, unlaced her bodice, lifted off the heavy brocade gown.

And gasped.

From my stool beside the table laden with wine and sweets, I could see the blood staining the back of Anne’s petticoats, bright red.