London - Edward Rutherfurd [291]
But that August afternoon there was more important news which, after the summer of uncertainty, was today being whispered throughout the palace. As they came out of the courtyard through a heavy archway, Thomas nudged his brother-in-law and remarked, with a grin: “Look up.”
The arch was certainly fine. If the previous century had been darkened by the Wars of the Roses, its compensating glory had been its architecture – in particular that very English culmination of the Gothic style known as Perpendicular. Here, the tiers of pointed arches gave way to a purer structure of simple, elegant shafts between which hung not walls but great curtains of glass; and above this the ceiling, nearly flat now, spread out in the lovely fan vaulting, a lacework in stone, the finest examples of which were in the chapels at Windsor and at King’s College, Cambridge.
The ceiling of the archway also had a fan vault; and it was there, amidst the delicate tracery, that Thomas and Rowland could see, lovingly entwined, the two initials which, this summer, were bringing a new hope to England: H, for Henry and A, for Anne.
Anne Boleyn.
When, after two decades of affectionate marriage to his Spanish wife, Katherine, Henry still had no legitimate heir except his sickly daughter Mary, he was understandably alarmed. What would become of the Tudor dynasty? No woman had ever ruled England: wouldn’t it dissolve into chaos, like the Wars of the Roses? Nor was it surprising if, as a loyal son of the Church, he finally began to ask himself: why? Why was he being denied the male heir his country needed? What had he done wrong?
One possibility existed. Had not Katherine, however briefly, been his elder brother’s wife? For before the poor boy’s untimely death, Arthur, the then heir had first been married to the Spanish princess. So wasn’t Henry’s union forbidden? At this juncture he had met Anne Boleyn.
She was an English rose. The Boleyns were a London family; Anne’s grandfather had been Lord Mayor. But two brilliant marriages had allied the former merchant family with the upper aristocracy, and a stay at the French court had given her an elegance and wit that were captivating. Soon Henry was in love; before long he was wondering whether this bewitching young woman could provide a healthy heir. And so it was that, impelled by desire as well as the needs of state, he decided: “My marriage to Katherine has been cursed. I shall ask the Pope for an annulment.”
It was not as shocking as it seemed; indeed, Henry had every reason to assume it would be granted. The Church was not without mercy. Grounds were sometimes found to release couples trapped in impossible marriages. The laity manipulated the rules too: an aristocrat might marry a cousin within the forbidden degree of relationship, knowing the marriage could be annulled; some even made deliberate mistakes in their wedding vows, leaving a loophole to have them declared invalid. But all this aside, the Pope had a clear desire and responsibility to help England’s loyal king create an orderly succession if he could.
It was therefore amazingly bad luck that, just as Henry appealed for help, the Pope himself should have been virtually taken prisoner by another, even more powerful Catholic monarch: Charles V, Holy Roman Emperor, King of Spain, and head of the mighty Habsburg dynasty, whose aunt was none other than Katherine. “The Habsburgs would be insulted by an annulment,” he declared; and as Henry’s messengers arrived, the Pope was told: “Say no.”
The ensuing negotiations were part tragedy, part farce. Henry’s minister, the great Cardinal Wolsey, was broken by them. As Henry pressed, the poor Pope prevaricated. Everything was tried. Even Europe’s universities were canvassed for their opinions. Earthy Luther laughed: “Let him commit bigamy.” The Pope