by Alison Weir
Hugh Latimer, a fiery reformist who preached regularly before the King, had agreed to take up the struggle on her behalf the next day of that Holy Week.
“Think on the parable of the tenants who refused to pay rent to the owner of a vineyard,” he enjoined in his homily in the Chapel Royal. “Once the tenants have been evicted, the vineyard will pass to more worthy persons, who may convert it to some better use.” There could be no doubt in anyone’s mind that he was referring to the dissolution of the monasteries.
Henry made no comment. After the service, he threw Anne a withering look and stumped off, so she immediately enlisted the assistance of Archbishop Cranmer, who agreed to defend her in any argument with the King, and to write to Master Secretary in support of her views. Soon, thanks to Cranmer, Anne was gratified to find that Henry’s enthusiasm for her plans—and her bed—had revived. But while they had reached common ground and were getting on better than they had in a long time, it did not prevent him from dallying with Mistress Seymour. Anne saw them playing bowls together on Maundy Thursday, smiling at each other with that special intimacy of lovers, and she felt like weeping and raging as she performed the traditional queenly function of distributing money to beggars and washing their feet (which had been thoroughly scoured beforehand) in memory of the Last Supper. Was that little bitch always to be a malign presence in her life?
—
“We are moving closer toward friendship with the Emperor,” Henry told her that night, as they lay in bed. “There are still obstacles to be overcome. I am determined to get Charles to recognize you as Queen, and to that end I have asked Chapuys to come to court on Easter Tuesday, to give him the opportunity of paying his respects to you.”
Relief and elation surged through her. This proved that Henry still respected her as his Queen, even if he did not love her as he used to.
“It’s about time!” she said. “Chapuys has never bent the knee to me as Queen, never kissed my hand.” How she would savor her triumph!
“He will do so now, and in public,” Henry growled, “and he will know he is acknowledging that I was right all along to put away Katherine and marry you. I will not sign an alliance with Charles on any other terms.”
—
Henry sent George to receive Chapuys at the gates of Greenwich Palace, so that the ambassador should be in no doubt that the hoped-for alliance was conditional upon his being cordial to the Boleyns. George had instructions to afford Chapuys a warm welcome, making it plain that Anne, her family, and friends were in favor of a rapprochement with the Emperor.
Cromwell was to follow close behind, bearing a message from Henry inviting Chapuys to visit Anne and kiss her hand, a great honor conferred only on those in high favor. “He will say that this will be a great pleasure to me,” Henry told her, rubbing his hands in satisfaction at the thought.
Anne followed Henry into chapel, and they seated themselves in the royal pew in the upstairs gallery. Below them, in the main body of the chapel, there was a great concourse of people. Word of Chapuys’s visit had been spread, and everyone was curious to see what he would do. Some, she knew, were probably hoping that he would slight her.
When the time came to make their offerings, Henry made Anne descend the stairs to the altar first, keeping close behind her. At the bottom, she almost collided with Chapuys, who was standing behind the door. There was a pause, and then he bowed to her. She smiled graciously. No one could touch her now. The Emperor would soon be her friend.
Courtesy being the order of the day, she made a deep curtsey to Chapuys as his master’s representative, and was surprised when he did her the kindness of handing her two candles to use in the ritual.
She emerged from the chapel feeling jubilant, and deeply relieved. As she walked along the gallery with Henry at the head of a long train of courtiers, she could not contain her euphoria. “I am sorry that Spain is at war with France,” she said loudly, so that all could hear, “but I am firmly on the side of the Emperor. I have abandoned my friendship with King François. It seems to me that, tired of life on account of his illness, he wants to shorten his days by going to war.”
“He can’t shorten them quickly enough for me,” Henry murmured. He escorted her to dinner in her apartments, as was his custom after Mass; often he invited honored guests.
“Will Chapuys be joining us?” Anne asked.
“I have asked him to come,” Henry said, as they sat down at the high table. The room was filling up, but there was no sign of the ambassador. She looked in vain among the group of foreign envoys waiting at the door to be announced. Had Chapuys repented of his gesture already?
“Why does not Messire Chapuys enter?” she asked Henry.
“No doubt he has a good reason,” he answered. “His courtesy to you will have excited much comment, especially among the Imperialists, some of whom who will be angry with him for acknowledging you.”
“They had better get used to it,” she said, and sent her usher to find Chapuys. He returned to say that he was dining with her brother and the chief nobles of the court in the King’s presence chamber. She smiled at Henry, satisfied.
—
The next day, George told her that there had been a furious row between Henry and Cromwell about the negotiations with Spain. From what he could gather from those within earshot, Cromwell had exceeded his instructions. George had seen him slumped on a coffer outside Henry’s presence chamber with sweat running down his face, looking as if he’d just escaped from the hounds of Hell.
“It looks very much as if he is out of favor,” he said gleefully.
Anne smiled. “I will take full advantage of that.”
The following morning, Henry told her that Cromwell was ill and had gone home to his house at Stepney to recuperate.
Good riddance! she thought. She was more concerned about the imminent annual chapter meeting of the Order of the Garter, for a vacancy had arisen for a new Garter knight, and she had asked Henry if George might fill it. Although it was the knights who voted, she hoped that he would make his wishes known.
She was highly displeased to hear that they had chosen Sir Nicholas Carew, whom she had come to despise for his friendship with the Seymours. She knew what people would be whispering: that she lacked sufficient influence to secure this most prestigious honor for her brother.
“But darling,” Henry protested when she took him to task in private, “I promised François years ago that I would remember Sir Nicholas, whom he loves, when a Garter vacancy arose, so I felt bound to put his name forward.”
Yes, and because he is known to be close to the favorite, he got the vote. But she could not say that to Henry. It was galling to have to accept that her enemies had scored this small triumph.
—
Walking into her chamber the next day and coming upon Francis Weston flirting with Madge, Anne’s patience snapped. It offended her to see Norris being made a fool of. Madge should not have encouraged it. She did not deserve such a good man.
“Go to my chamber and finish those smocks!” she ordered. Madge fled.
Weston looked at her sheepishly. “Your Grace wouldn’t deny me a little innocent pleasure, surely? She is such a comely wench.”
“If she’s so comely, I wonder why Norris has not yet married her,” she retorted.
The smile vanished from Weston’s handsome face. “Does your Grace want the truth?”
“What do you mean?” she asked warily.
“We all know that Norris comes more to your chamber for you than for Madge.”
Her heart sang, but she must not show it. “Nonsense!” she snapped. “You just want Norris discountenanced because you love Madge and you don’t love your wife.”
Weston’s gaze was bold. “I love one in your household better than them both.”
“Who is that?”
“It is yourself.” There was a silence. Weston loved her? It was the first she had known of it. He was just chancing his luck at the old courtly game!
—
“I’m taking you with me to Calais,” Henry said, as he watched Anne raise her bow to shoot at the butts.
The visit had been arranged some weeks before, and she had assumed he was going alone. It was gratifying to hear that he wanted her with him. It was the physic she needed, after receiving news from Hever that her mother was ill with a cough that grieved her sorely. It had come on in the winter and seemed to be getting worse. Anne had written, promising to visit as soon as she returned from Calais, and prayed fervently that Mother would soon be restored to health.
“Bull’s-eye!” Henry applauded. The courtiers clapped.
“We’ll make a progress of it,” he told her, reaching for his bow. “We’ll go via Dover, as I want to inspect the new harbor and fortifications.”
“You’re not planning to meet with François this time?” she asked warily.
“I’ve not decided. I have to choose whether to ally myself with Charles or François. Charles is insisting that Mary be restored to the succession before Elizabeth, but I’ve told my envoys to oppose his demands.”
“I do not want Elizabeth’s rights overturned,” she said, alarmed.
“I will never allow it,” Henry assured her.
—
The last week of April was mellow and warm with the blossoming of spring. Anne walked daily in the gardens at Greenwich with her ladies, often accompanied by George, Norris, and the other gentlemen she favored. While Henry was busy with state business, she watched tennis matches, played bowls, and ordered baskets of food to be eaten outdoors. Whenever she encountered Jane Seymour, she threw her an icy glance and walked on. Her position seemed once again secure. She would not let Jane bother her.
One fine evening, as dusk fell on a golden sunset, she climbed to the very top of the hill behind the palace to Mireflore, an old tower that had been part of the original palace of Placentia, which Henry had had refurbished but rarely used.
“Come on, you snails!” she yelled at her ladies, who were puffing along some way behind her. “Oh, wait there then!” she laughed, and they gratefully collapsed onto the grassy slope.
The tower stood four-square before her, looming up imposingly against the darkening sky. Close up, it looked eerie and forbidding, but Anne was not one to be frightened by phantoms. Using the key the sergeant porter had given her, she unlocked the iron-barred door and pushed it open. Inside she found herself in a dim vaulted chamber covered in wall and ceiling paintings. There was something repellent in the stark black outlines of the people portrayed in them.
It seemed that no one had been here in a long time. Cobwebs trailed across the pointed windows, and a musty smell pervaded the still air. Anne climbed the spiral staircase in the corner. It led to a bedchamber, but the tester bed had been stripped bare. On the floor lay a dusty lady’s stocking.
There was nothing of interest here. She was about to leave when she heard a footfall above. Her heart began to race. What if someone who wished her ill had seen her coming, raced ahead and hidden, determined to kill her?
The footsteps were coming down the stairs now. Her instincts told her to run down to the ground floor as fast as she could, but then a man appeared in the doorway.
“Norris!” she cried in relief.
“Anne!” he exclaimed delightedly. In his surprise he had not used her title.
“I came to explore this place,” she said. “And you?”
“I…had to collect some things.” She noticed he had nothing in his hands.
“What’s up there?”
“Another bedchamber. There’s not much to see.” He seemed reluctant to move, so she sidled past him and ran up the stairs. She was astonished to enter a sumptuous apartment with a bed made up as richly as her own, three tapestries, and some fine pieces of furniture. On the floor lay a costly Turkey carpet.
Norris had ascended the stairs behind her.
“This is a room fit for a king!” she exclaimed.
“His Grace uses it occasionally,” he said.
“For his trysts with Jane Seymour? Don’t worry, Norris, I know about that.” Her voice was bitter. “But I didn’t know that they were making the beast with two backs.”
Norris hesitated again. “Jane Seymour has not been here,” he said.
Understanding dawned. “But he has brought others.”
He did not answer.
“In my time?” She turned to face him.
“Don’t make me hurt you,” he begged, choked. “I love you too much.”
It would have been so easy to go into his arms, to feel—for a magical moment—safe and cherished. Kissing him would come as naturally as breathing, and feel beautiful and right. She had never experienced anything like that with Henry. She cared not whether he had brought a hundred women in here. He had never had her heart.
Yet she was his Queen, and—which mattered more—she did not want to forfeit Norris’s respect. She was no wench to be tumbled on that luxurious bed, although for a wicked instant she had been tempted. It would be the perfect revenge to cuckold Henry on the very bed in which he had betrayed her. But this precious thing that existed between her and Norris must not be sullied by revenge or any baseness.
Her voice was gentle but firm. “You cannot know how much I have longed for you to hold me,” she told him, as he looked at her yearningly. “But we can never be lovers.”
“I am ashamed of declaring myself,” he confessed. “The King accounts me his friend. He has been good to me. But I was overcome at the sight of you. I thought, we’re alone here and no one will know.”
“Nor shall they. What we have said shall be our secret. It will be enough to carry in my heart. You have Madge. Be happy.” She felt tears threatening. Thank goodness it was growing dark. She did not want Norris to see her cry. “I must go back.” She led the way down the stairs. “My ladies might come looking for me. I’ll go ahead, you go after.”
He caught her hand as she hastened to the door, lifting it to his lips and kissing it. “You are the sweetest lady that ever drew breath, Anne, and if I can ever be of service to you, you have only to crook your little finger.”
“I will remember that. Now farewell. Give me a few minutes.” She slipped through the door and almost ran down the hill, her heart heavy with a poignant sadness.
—
Her conscience would not let her rest. She wondered if Henry felt the same urge to confess to sinning with his mistresses. And her infidelity was only in her heart!
She sought out Father Skip and unburdened herself. He absolved her and imposed a light penance, since he felt she had truly repented.
Feeling as if a weight had been lifted from her soul, and resolving never to be alone with Norris again, she called for Elizabeth to be brought to court from Hatfield, summoned her tailor, and had the child fitted for more new clothes. Because Elizabeth was so adventurous, darting off without warning, she ordered two leading reins with big buttons and long tassels, then decided that her daughter would look very pretty in a new cap of taffeta with a caul of damask gold. Henry was not forgotten. She bought silver and gold fringe and buttons for his saddle.
She became aware that day of a sense of unease pervading her household. There was nothing tangible, just the feeling that everyone was approaching her a little warily. Over the past week, some had absented themselves inexplicably, with no excuses offered. Today, a few others briefly disappeared. One was Jane Seymour. Was it her imagination, or was something going on? It was like being the only one left out of a secret.
All her old insecurities surfaced again. She felt as if some unknown disaster was looming. But that was nonsense. All was well. Henry was behaving much more kindly toward her; he had defended her rights and Elizabeth’s; he was taking her to Calais soon. So what could she have to fear?
Father came to see her and spent a few minutes admiring Elizabeth and grinning at her antics. But
Anne could tell he was preoccupied.
“Your uncle of Norfolk and I have been appointed to the Middlesex Grand Jury,” he told her.
“Why look so miserable about it? It’s an honor, surely.”
“I don’t know,” he admitted, as Elizabeth threw her ball at him. He tossed it back. “We are to sit on a commission that will inquire into all kinds of treasons, but I don’t know anything more, and I’m not supposed to talk about it. But you’re the Queen; I can tell you.”
“Henry has probably decided to silence his opponents once and for all,” Anne speculated. “He might even be thinking of proceeding against the Lady Mary.”
Father shook his head. “That really would scupper his entente with the Emperor. No, it can’t be that.”
“Maybe he is planning to make a case against Cromwell.”
Father’s eyes gleamed. “Maybe! Cromwell is still at Stepney. That would be a surprise for him, hah!”
“No more than he richly deserves,” Anne said.
It was only when she was lying in bed alone in the dark that a dreadful thought came to her.
Suppose Henry had determined to marry Jane Seymour? The Emperor would far prefer Jane, who was known to be a good Imperialist. Yet Henry, surely, would not want to go through another divorce. Could he be plotting some other way to get rid of her? Oh, God, had she and Norris been observed? Had it been a trap? And had her father been appointed to that jury to lull her into a false sense of security while her enemies plotted a case against her?
They were legion. Cromwell, the Seymours, Chapuys, the Papists, Francis Bryan, Nicholas Carew…A disparate group with one thing in common.
She must calm down. These were night thoughts. She would feel better in the morning. She must remember that Henry had shown no sign of displeasure toward her—rather the opposite.
But she did not feel better in the morning. She still had a terrible feeling of nameless dread, that something awful was about to happen. She wished that Henry was there so that she could unburden herself to him. If anyone could make her feel safe, he could. But Henry had not visited her bed for three nights now, and that in itself seemed ominous.