The Boleyn Prince

Chapter 6

By morning, he was her old Henry again, tender and loving. Just as he had been in the early days of their romance.

"Good morrow, sweetheart," he said tenderly, kissing her hand.

His tender words brought a soft smile to her lips. "Good morning, my lord,"

"It is a glorious morning," he declared, pulling back the heavy curtains to reveal brilliant sunshine that bathed her chamber with a golden glow. "After Mass, we can go hunting if you wish."

"In other words, he wants to go hunting," Anne thought wryly. Still, it would be no hardship for her. She loved the thrill of the hunt and in the early days of the courtship, it had been the only time when they could be properly alone. However, it would be a wrench to leave her son for the whole day. Especially as she had also planned to spend time with Elizabeth before her household returned to Hatfield. She seldom came to court and Anne was relishing the time she could spend with her.

"Whatever gives Your Majesty pleasure," she replied suggestively. Her flirtatious voice was as smooth as silk. Henry had the grace to smile. The memories of the night before still affording him a degree of pleasure.

"We shall ride out after Mass," he said huskily, kissing her cheek, before limping out of the room.

She threw herself back against the plump pillows and let out a sigh of satisfaction. She was back in Henry's favour and his bed. Another child could already be growing in her womb. A Duke of York to really secure England for the Tudors, and the Boleyn's.

She was allowed no more time for the luxury of daydreaming. The Kings' departure had spurned her maids into action. They hurried into her chamber, their bowed heads discreetly scanning the room for evidence the King and Queen had resumed their marital relations. Confirmation of which would win them a handsome bribe. Anne knew the value of such information. She had been asked to trade in such secrets herself when she had been in service to Katharine.

"Let them know," she thought to herself, tossing her tousled dark hair over her shoulders as she rose from the exquisitely designed bed her husband had commissioned for her. She was no prude, as Katharine had been. The knowledge of her sexual favour with the King ensured the court continued to defer to her rather than some uppity chancer of a girl who might try to displace her as Jane Seymour had.

Anne chose a gown of purple silk, cut in the French fashion for her return to public life. The lavish jewels of the Queens of England that she had so proudly worn the previous night were returned to their coffers. Instead, she opted for her Boleyn pearls, a string of 24 pearls with a golden B hanging from them.

For a finishing touch, she daubed her neck and wrists with her favourite rosewater perfume from France. Drinking it its fresh floral scent from her wrist as the maids brought her looking glass before her.

In her purple gown and matching hood, she looked deliciously regal, exceptionally so this morning than ever before. Her gown was not laced as tightly as normal. Though she was thankful she had not grown as big this time around as she had with Elizabeth. She was determined she would regain her slender figure; The last thing she wanted was to end up fat and dumpy as Katherine had in her later years. Henry would soon find some pretty little wench to satisfy himself with if she lost her looks.

Anne timed her entrance to the chapel perfectly. The court stood assembled ready to proceed into the chapel.

The King arrived at precisely the same moment as she did. He raised her up from her curtsey, kissed her hand and led her into the chapel. She smiled her courtier smile to them as they made their obeisance to her. Behaving as though she was delighted to see them all. As though she did not care they had been ready to support Jane Seymour against her.
When Archbishop Cranmer offered up a surprise prayer for the kings' gratitude for the safe delivery of Prince Henry and thanked God for blessing him with Queen Anne, she feigned humble modesty. Inside, she was cheering.

She returned to her chambers to change for the hunt more confident than she had felt since before Elizabeth had been born. Henry was not just hers again, but he was thanking God for sending her to him.

"I'm afraid your hunt has had to be postponed, madam," her irksome sister-in-law, Jane Rochford said, letting herself into Anne's chamber.

"Why?"

Jane shook her head. "I don't know. A messenger in the Duke of Richmond's livery arrived after you had returned from Mass. He went straight in to see the King."

"Attend me," Anne commanded her ladies, heading straight for the King's rooms, which she found as she entered his presence-chamber, to be a hive of activity.

"Clear the way. Make way for the Queen!" Sir Francis Weston bellowed to the throng of people who were oblivious to the arrival of their Queen. He guided her through the room and into the Privy Chamber, which stood empty and deathly quiet.

It was only when George and her uncle, the Duke of Norfolk emerged from the privacy of the King's bedchamber, grim and ashen faced did she know something was dreadfully wrong.

"What is it? What's happened?"

"Henry Fitzroy is dead," Norfolk said bluntly.

"Dead?" The disbelief was evident in her tone.

Henry Fitzroy was her husband's bastard son by Bessie Blount, one of Katharine's young maids. The only one he had ever publicly acknowledged. Although her sister Mary had long claimed her son Henry and daughter Katherine were the king's children from their affair, he had never acknowledged them to be so. They bore the name of Carey, Mary's late husband. There had been no grants of land for them. No dukedoms. Just the respectability of the Carey name. Fitzroy, by comparison, had been raised and treated like a Prince from the moment of his birth. The King had showered him with lands and wealth, even ennobling him with the double Dukedoms of Richmond and Somerset. There was even talk the king might try to legitimize him and make him the heir over Mary, such was Henrys determination to ensure a son followed him on the throne.

Norfolk had pressed Anne to use her influence with the King to bring about a union between young Fitzroy and the Howard family. It had taken all of her cunning and wiles, but she had pulled it off. Fitzroy had married Norfolk's eldest daughter Mary Howard just three years ago.

"The King wants me to see to the funeral arrangements for Fitzroy," Norfolk grumbled, as though it was no small inconvenience for him to bury his son-in-law.

"At Windsor?" George asked.

"Framlingham," he grumbled naming the Howards' principal seat in Norfolk.

"Why is he to be buried as a Howard, rather than as the King's son?" The words were out of her mouth before she had time to check herself.

"Mind your words, madam," Norfolk's eyes flashed angrily. Turning to George he said, "Keep me informed of what happens here." Nodding to Anne he added: "And make sure she doesn't let that tongue of hers land in trouble with the King," he said, walking away before she could rebuke him.

Quick as lightning, George moved to Anne's side to shield her anger from any unseen eyes that may be lurking.

"I have half a mind to land him in trouble with the King," she hissed, her dark eyes blazing. "How dare he talk across me like that? Telling you to control me. As though I am some petty little maid!"

George sighed. He loathed being caught in the constant battle of wills between Anne and Norfolk. Their uncle was the only one in the family who had never been intimidated by Anne's regal power. He still treated her as though she was his precocious niece, obedient to his orders.

"He is used to being the head of the family, and the respect that goes with it," he explained.

"Respect is earned. I am no longer just his niece. I am his Queen. He would never have spoken about Katharine like that and certainly not to her face."

"Not in her presence," George remarked sarcastically. They both knew Norfolk had made disparaging remarks about the former Queen when in the privacy of their company. But only when Anne was her rival and her downfall irrefutable.

"Why do you think Henry has charged him with seeing to Fitzroy's funeral? He claimed him during his life. Why would he forsake him in death?" She whispered moving close to George so as not to be overheard.

"Who knows what goes on inside his head?" George replied just as quietly, scanning the room for spies as he talked. "He has not been the same since he fell from his horse at the joust back in January."

"He is certainly lamer," she confided. "He came to my bed last night, but he could barely manage it."

A suggestive smile curved upon Georges' lip. "Is that right?"

She ignored his teasing. Her eye caught sight of the Kings' closest friend Sir Henry Norris as he emerged from the inner sanctum of the Kings Privy Chamber behind Georges' shoulder.

"Your Majesty, My Lord Rochford, A sad day."

"Have you just come from the King?"

Sir Henry nodded his blonde head. "I have madam, and a sorrowful state he is in too. He loved the Duke so very much."

"Then perhaps I should not intrude on his grief."

"On the contrary, Your Grace. I am sure that if anyone could bring some comfort to His Majesty in this sorrowful time it is yourself."

His compliment brought a faint smile to her thin lips. "Gentle Norris," she said appreciatively with a touch on his russet satin sleeve.

The curtains in the King's chambers had been drawn closed. Only the flames from the candles illuminated the room. Henry was hunched over in his chair, staring at the large unlit fireplace on the left-hand side of the room.

"Henry," she called out to him gently. Though he made no response. She moved closer, placing her left hand on his shoulder.

"Henry," she said again from behind him, her voice softer still.

"He's gone, he murmured. "My precious boy is gone."

"Yes, I know."

"My son,"

She couldn't help but note the irony that she should be called upon to provide him with comfort as he mourned the loss of his bastard. When she had miscarried their second child, he had blamed the death on her and left her to grieve its loss alone.
She had not even told him when she had become pregnant with their third. She was too terrified of what his reaction would be if she lost that child too. And lose it she did. Only George and Margaret Lee had known of her third pregnancy. Only they saw her desperation for the tell-tale fluttering of life from her womb to confirm the child lived and only they saw her devastation when she realised the child was gone.

She had felt more confident in her fourth pregnancy with Prince Henry. Something inside had told her this time would be different. A feeling she had not had since she had carried Elizabeth. A sixth sense perhaps. So many of her women told her a mother's instinct was the strongest of all. But even then, she had come close to disaster, nearly losing the child when the King fell from his horse in the jousts held to celebrate Katharine's death and then finding that wench Jane Seymour sitting in his lap only two days later.

Coming round to face him, she knelt at his feet so he might look her in the eye.

"My boy," her husband whimpered like a wounded animal. His eyes filled with tears. "My son,"

She gripped his hand. "You still have a son, Henry. A strong and healthy Prince. And God willing there will be more. We have the rest of our lives to make more Princes for England. I will give you sons enough for an army."

They were meant to be comforting words, to give him hope for the future. But he could not stand to hear them. He snatched away his hand from her grip and pulled his cloak closer around him and let his tears silently fall.

She wanted to weep herself. Not for the loss of the Duke of Richmond, but the distance her husband had put between them. She had woken up in his arms that morning. He had given public thanks to God for her. Within the space of half of the morning, her mercurial husband had changed once again.

She drew herself up to her full height and clasped her hands at the front of her embroidered stomacher.

"I will leave Your Majesty to your prayers," she said, hoping that he would reach out to her and ask her to stay. Yet he made no move to do so and let her leave without a word.