Mayhem
by Amber Averay
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The quiet, after the noise and frenetic energy of the Court, was balm to my shredded soul. Whoever would imagine that to fall in love should cause such mad folly! Henry’s love should be enough, it should make everything bearable – yet the people, his people, those who adore him and the Old Spaniard, loathe me with a passion bordering on the violent. Henry assures me it matters not, that our love is enough to last eternity and will be our strength against such intense opposition. He showers me with gifts, plies me with letters dripping with love and adoration, has even begun easing into my hands responsibilities long held by the Spaniard. We believed that if the people saw him entrusting more to me, allowing me share – and gradually assume – the role currently, precariously, in the grasp of the old Spanish woman that the love they bore their king would then fall upon me too.
But Henry’s people are stubborn, and revoltingly loyal to the woman they trust to be his true wife. They call me ‘whore’, ‘concubine’, ‘sorceress’, believing it is only through witchcraft that I caught and keep their king’s attention. Nobody can understand that after Katherine’s saggy skin, failed pregnancies, and Popish adoration Henry is in need of a woman who loves him above all, who challenges him mentally, who refuses to give in to his advances. He is a hunter, and I the prey who dangles tantalisingly within sight, without reach. The longer I hold him at bay the brighter burns his ardour, and there is nothing he will not gift me, acquire for me, do for me.
It is neither his fault, nor mine, that we are surrounded by incompetent Popish followers who seek refuse the king his happiness in both the marriage bed and matters of his soul. At Court I am liked by some, tolerated by others, though I am in no doubt that those who smile and curtsy to me might be hiding affection for the Dowager Princess of Wales, calling herself Queen Katherine and wife of King Henry! They report to her, whispering lies, falsities concocted to make me appear bold, mannish, flirtatious, the coquette. Court is a storm of vindictive whispers, villainous spies, slanderous accusations, and shadowed corners filled with simpering folk who seek my favour or flint-eyed Spaniard supporters who dream of my downfall.
Being on one’s guard all the time is exhausting, and my dearest Henry sees every day how it wears me down. Despite his love, his adoration, his assurances that I am his heart, he cannot always ease the pain splintering my soul. Every barb, every time ‘witch’ or ‘whore’ is spat at my feet, I pretend it bothers me not yet I am only human. I weep, I rant, I fume and thunder at the injustice of it – why should the people desire a haggard old foreigner who no longer holds her king’s affection over one such as I? Younger than she, English to the marrow, assuredly capable of bearing His Majesty the son he desires – and yet I suffer abuse, and mockery, and hatred.
My beloved Henry understands it is hard for me, as he cannot understand why others love me not as he does. It was he who suggested I venture abroad, away from the hissing vipers of Court, and so I gratefully made my way to the home of a friend. A lovely manor house on the River Thames, it was a sanctuary of peace and calm, witty banter and trustworthy faces. We drink spiced wine, dine on meats boiled and roasted and baked, consume hippocras, comfits, sweetmeats, and my hosts have procured for me my favourite fresh cherries and strawberries. It is bliss – there is respect, and reverence, and I am treated as if I am queen in actuality rather than loitering in the declining yet lingering shadow of one who will not relinquish her delusions – and I wish life can always be so sweet. The only thing missing is my Henry – my loud, brash, tenderhearted and quick-tempered love – and yet I feel guilt that I so enjoy the calm that is lacking at the king my lord’s Court.
I would this could last forever, this tranquillity, and yet as my goblet is refilled by a waiting servant I and my host become aware of a disturbance outside. The noise grows steadily, and a maidservant hurries to the table, curtsying and babbling a frantic apology for the interruption. She bleats something about a frenzied mob, women, armed with yard tools and kitchen utensils and bellowing vile threats and foul accusations.
They know I am here. They are come for me!
Immediately my contentment recedes, replaced with fear, astonishment, fury. I need to get away, I must leave. The crowd is vast, and noisy, and they storm closer to where I languish – undefended, vulnerable – and seek to tear me apart. They will have my head, make it impossible for Henry to take me to wife, force him to return to Katherine.
My host rallies to action immediately, barking questions and orders at his servants, demanding to know if we are surrounded, how close the women are, how much time have I?
The angry, vituperative voices pour through the casements and I realise with horror that they are closer than we’d understood. My hosts hurry to my feet and usher me through their home, down the staircase where we are met by another servant. ‘The Lady Anne must not go this way!’ he exhorts his master. It is clear he is greatly afeared, and his next words chill me to the very bone. ‘The mob is grown large, and they are at the door. She cannot face them, they will rip her limb from limb, my lord!’
‘This way!’ My host dares take my elbow, his fear apparent, and hustles me in the opposite direction from the crowd. Yet their voices, their fury, continue to grow, and I hear a female voice shriek in terror as the force push their way inside. We hurry, my gown gripped in white-knuckled fists, and we emerge into the cool evening – this is when I realise how hot my flesh, how warm blazes my indignation and fear. That they dare do this to me – hunt me down, threaten me as they never would were I with Henry! – it boils my blood yet I cannot fight. Not a crowd this great, nor one this stirred to passion.
I hasten down the steps leading to the waterside, the mob now close behind me. What a roar they make! Baying like hounds scenting blood, they howl for my submission, cry their hatred of me, their love for Katherine – Queen Katherine, they dare proclaim! Fools! Simpletons!
Forcing myself to retain the poise for which I am known, I hurry to the wharf where the royal barge lies waiting, and am swiftly bundled into it. ‘Go, man, go!’ yells my anxious host, the women directly behind him and bearing close. The waterman pushes away from the dock, and we sweep into the waters of the Thames as the outraged group reach the bank.
I sit, shaking, huddled in my thick cloak and refusing to look back at the blazing torches lighting the demonic faces of the crowd. I do not wish to see how anger has distorted their features, though I shall never forget the terror they instilled in me this night, the rushed escape from my pleasant idyll.
Nor shall anyone doubt that I will inform the king my lord of the mayhem brought by the mass to the door of such a renowned gentleman and his wife. Oh, yes, Henry shall hear of this night!
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