And they did ever wait on thee;
All this was gallant to be seen,
And yet thou wouldst not love me
Thou couldst desire no earthly thing,
but still thou hadst it readily.
Thy music still to play and sing;
And yet thou wouldst not love me
Well, I will pray to God on high,
that thou my constancy mayst see,
And that yet once before I die,
Thou wilt vouchsafe to love me
Greensleeves was all my joy
Greensleeves was my delight,
Greensleeves was my heart of gold,
And who but my lady greensleeves
I sat in marvel, tears welling and spilling over. I knew not how to react to such an overture. His astonishing creation was for me alone - a theme which would become a legacy of our love, epitomizing gallantry and courtly romance. It touched me more profoundly than I could express.
“My Henry, when did you compose that piece?”
“Most of it while you were at Hever, recovering from your illness. There were times when I feared I might never hold you in my arms again, Anne. I pictured you, so vividly, in the magnificent gown with the emerald green sleeves you wore before we were parted, and this composition came forth, as if on its own.”
“It is so personal, darling, and I wish it could remain for me alone. But it is so very beautiful. It is unforgettable! You must play it so others can hear it. And henceforth all who do will know the true nature of your love for me!”
I had scarcely recovered from that emotional scene when Henry was on his feet. Motioning me to remain, he whispered something quickly to the guard, and as the esquire stepped out of the chamber, Henry turned back to me. “There is something else, Nan. Close your eyes.”
I closed them, not at all sure what might follow. When Henry said “Now you may open them,” I did so only to see him standing before me holding a squirming, wriggling, spotted white greyhound pup – Jolie!
How I squealed with joy! I took her from him and could barely contain the excited mite as she wiggled to lick whoever was closest. I had made arrangements to have her delivered once I returned to Durham House, thinking she would be a burden at Greenwich over Christmas, but Henry had collected her for me and taken care of all the details. I was so happy to have her with me. She sported a beautiful green satin collar and leash, which looked most elegant against her white and fawn coat. Once put down, she ran to and fro in Henry’s chamber, sniffing everything she could. And, of course, she squatted to pass a little water on the Turkey carpet. Henry laughed out loud, as did I, and a steward rushed in to clean it. One of the esquires on duty said he would take her outside to relieve herself – I would have done so myself had it not been so frigid – then return her so she could sleep in her new, soft velvet-covered bed.
Once Jolie was brought back, we played with her a while longer, then put her on her bed for the night in the small closet adjacent to Henry’s bedchamber.
As for us, we retired alone to the inner suite.
And snuffed all of the candles but one.
Durham House
Greenwich
January 1529
Henry and I settled into uneasy waiting as an icy, raw winter gripped London and the surrounding countryside. We received reports that many subjects in both the city and the towns and villages suffered great hardship due to the brutal cold and deep freeze. Royal instructions were delivered to local officials to do whatever they could to alleviate the worst of the need, and to this end Henry provided alms for foodstuffs and tinder, yet the winter took a toll on much of the populace. As fortunate as we were to be warm and well-fed, still we sought activity which would keep us distracted. Meanwhile, in Rome, Clement had taken to his sick bed yet again, and we knew not when we would receive the next scrap of news on that issue which mattered to us most.
Patient endurance was not a virtue that Henry or I exhibited very easily.
The stakes in the Great Matter escalated, and Henry’s tolerance was tested until it was nigh to breaking. Sir Francis Bryan was instructed to compel the Pope, at any cost, to agree with the King’s wishes to grant the divorce. Henry had made it clear to Sir Francis he was not to mince words in conveying to the Pope that he must accede, and since Francis was possessed of a particularly sinister edge, we felt he could apply a fitting pressure to those who needed it most.
We had received two updates from Bryan since his departure. Neither was particularly promising. But he remained committed to swaying the opinions of those most reluctant. The second letter stated ‘We trust that if fair words, large offers of money or pension, or bishoprics, or if all this will not serve, with some bold words we shall win these men.’
Katherine, it seemed, had launched her counter- offensive to thwart Henry’s plan. Just before Christmas, she informed him that she had specific knowledge of a brief which would prove her claims to be surely truthful. Upon Henry’s insistence, she revealed it to be a written dispensation from Pope Julius II, created in 1503 after Arthur’s death, which permitted her marriage to Henry even though she and Arthur may have consummated their marriage. Both Henry and I found the entire concept preposterous! How, indeed, did she come upon such a document, and why had it not been revealed until now? And, most absurd was Katherine’s deception – did she, or did she not consummate her marriage to Henry’s brother?
In the weeks following, the situation became more and more of a muddle. There was a mad scramble to locate the original of this brief which Katherine insisted was real. The Emperor contended he owned it, and then sent a copy of the document to London with an affidavit confirming his custody of the original. Henry did not trust Charles’s claim, so Wolsey dispatched a group of ambassadors to Rome to seek the original there, if indeed it did exist. All the while, the days slowly churned into weeks, and no advance whatsoever was made toward releasing Henry from his marriage to Katherine. I strained to be a model of forbearance, though God knows, at times it took every shred of self-control I could muster.
On a ferociously cold afternoon, while a piercing wind howled about the corners of Durham House, Henry and I sat in the library reading and talking by a blazing, snap-crackling fire. Durham House, by virtue of its smaller size, seemed more welcoming and protective from winter’s harsh bite than did the cavernous palaces. At least it felt warmer to me. Henry enjoyed it as well, and took opportunities whenever he could to be rowed across the Thames from Greenwich, or downstream from Richmond to spend time with me there. We were certainly gladdened by greater privacy at Durham than we had at court.
As he crunched on an apple, Henry thoughtfully put down the book he had in hand. He had been reading Aristotle that afternoon not only because he found the writings to prompt deep thought, but also because he now constantly sought material which might substantiate his case against Katherine. I looked up to see him peering intently at me, brows knit.
He picked the book up again and said, “Anne, listen to this.”
Turning back a page and following a passage with his finger, he read aloud:
‘… for the good man’s opinions are harmonious, and he desires the same things with all his soul; and therefore he wishes for himself what is good and what seems so, and does it (for it is characteristic of the good man to work out the good), and does so for his own sake (for he does it for the sake of the intellectual element in him, which is thought to be the man himself); and he wishes himself to live and be preserved.’
Glancing up, he said, “this is from the Seventh Book of Aristotle’s Nichomachean Ethics, by the way,” before reading on:
‘… and such a man wishes to live with himself; for he does so with pleasure, since the memories of his past acts are delightful and his hopes for the future are good, and therefore pleasant ...’
Henry paused a moment, then continued to read the next passage slowly, with great sig
nificance.
‘Perfect friendship is the friendship of men who are good, and alike in virtue; for these wish well alike to each other qua good, and they are good themselves. Now those who wish well to their friends for their sake are most truly friends; for they do this by reason of own nature and not incidentally; therefore their friendship lasts as long as they are good - and goodness is an enduring thing.
Therefore, since these characteristics belong to the good man in relation to himself, and he is related to his friend as to himself (for his friend is another self), friendship too is thought to be one of these attributes, and those who have these attributes to be friends.’
“Anne,” he said, with dawning realization, “this is precisely what I have sensed about us. You are, in every way, my other self – my second self! You and I share all that is good, all that is spiritual and mysterious, all that is virtuous and profound. We are one and the same soul. You know this to be true because we have both perceived it.”
He paused then, before stating, “As long as goodness prevails, we will be as second selves to each other; upon this foundation, together we will create greatness.”
He came to me and encircled my waist with his arms. “Is that not extraordinary, my Anne? Aristotle perfectly predicted our unique and miraculous union. He banishes all doubt. According to history’s greatest sage, our intention to create good for one another will be our triumph. It will empower us to bring forth a son whose radiance will be felt by the entire world!”
I looked into his intelligent face, pondering what he had said. I, too, felt that Henry and I were ‘second selves’, exactly as Aristotle had described. This passage finally explained the almost mystical sense of knowing him which had been a part of our relationship since that November day in the hunt field, which now seemed like years ago. I was filled with awe at the concept.
Absently, I reached to stroke his hair as I thought about what this revelation might mean for us.
That evening, after Henry had departed for Richmond to attend to business the next day, I retired to my bedchamber with the copy of the Ethics Henry had been reading earlier. I settled into a chair by the fire, several lanterns providing additional light, and, with Jolie curled at my feet, read the excerpts Henry had notated in the page margins:
‘Friendly relations with one’s neighbours, and the marks by which friendships are defined, seem to have proceeded from a man’s relations to himself. For (1) we define a friend as one who wishes and does what is good, or seems so, for the sake of his friend, or (2) as one who wishes his friend to exist and live, for his sake; which mothers do to their children, and friends do who have come into conflict. And (3) others define him as one who lives with and (4) has the same tastes as another, or (5) one who grieves and rejoices with his friend; and this too is found in mothers most of all. It is by some one of these characteristics that friendship too is defined.
Therefore, since each of these characteristics belongs to the good man in relation to himself, and he is related to his friend as to himself (for his friend is another self), friendship too is thought to be one of these attributes, and those who have these attributes to be friends. Whether there is or is not friendship between a man and himself is a question we may dismiss for the present; there would seem to be friendship in so far as he is two or more, to judge from the afore-mentioned attributes of friendship, and from the fact that the extreme of friendship is likened to one’s love for oneself’.
I considered this passage for some time. It felt real to me: the notion of Henry and I being ‘second selves’. We shared so many of the same ideas, desires, views and opinions. We were a remarkable match in pursuits of skill and mental ingenuity. We felt connected as if we had always known one another. And, it was not to be denied – we shared a passion which was unmatched in any pairing I had ever experienced or otherwise known of. His joys and sufferings were mine, and mine his. Together we felt invincible. And by virtue of this confidence, I knew that we would emerge victorious in the Great Matter and be united; and just as Henry had stated so assuredly, together we would beget a son who would fulfil England’s hopes and dreams.
By March, the Pope was well enough to conduct business again, but the indications we received from Francis Bryan were dire. By then I was quite convinced that the approach we had employed would never succeed. Despite the odds, however, Henry remained optimistic, believing Pope might yet be swayed. At times, I thought him utterly naïve, though I would never have dared say so. Instead, we looked forward to the hearing, which would be held before Cardinal Campeggio and the Legatine Council, with the intent of gathering all existing evidence, evaluating it, and thereby passing determination on the case.
By this time it was all too apparent Cardinal Wolsey would have liked nothing more than to provide Henry with the answer he desired so as to put the issue to rest. The Cardinal badly needed a victory, no matter how small, for the anti-Wolsey movement was growing, and it had become tangible at court. As for Cardinal Campeggio – his character I still found difficult to read. He seemed a kindly man, and my connection with him felt sincere. But after all, actuality would prevail. Campeggio’s mission was to serve his master – and that master was Pope Clement VII. So I had no sense of assurance about the upcoming hearing, yet I remained cautiously hopeful.
With the emergence of the first delicate crocus, I walked in the garden of Durham House, wrapped in a warm cloak of black velvet lined with fur of lynx, another gift from Henry. When the weather was fair, I enjoyed sitting in the sun on a carved stone bench facing the awakening rose beds, to read. I was absorbed in reviewing some of the works of Jacques Lefévre, a French humanist whose writings were introduced to me by Marguerite d’Angoulême. I found his ideas to be both progressive and sound. I especially liked his De Maria Magdalena, which postulated that Mary Magdalene, the sister of Lazarus, and the woman who washed the feet of Jesus were three separate people. I had heard that this work had the Church in France in a frenzy, and that it had been banned at the Sorbonne, Paris’s edifice to conservative Catholicism. I found it to be bold and stimulating, and I admired Lefévre’s courage and creative thinking. I also spent hours reading Erasmus, though admittedly, such reading went more slowly. Not only did he write in Latin, but Erasmus regularly assigned double and triple meanings to his phrases.
The more I read, the more I was unable to suppress the thoughts which continued to demand exploration. Why, indeed, were ecclesiastics held separate from the rest of mankind? Why were they permitted the pretence of determining who was morally right and who wrong? I thought carefully about Cardinal Wolsey, and of other clerics I had known. Of course, there were members of the clergy who were upstanding, and sincerely devout. I considered Sir Thomas More among those numbers, though at times it seemed to me that More’s singular devotion was peculiar in its austerity. But it was not the pious priests who assumed roles of power and wealth. No, it was those who slyly contrived to wrest control of privilege and influence; whose great personal wealth was subtly displayed for all to see; those who carelessly hid their mistresses and bastards; who presumed to have the power to direct the lives of others ... why, then, must Henry – a prince and monarch born, truly responsible for the well-being of an empire and its people – be subjected to the poorly made decisions of these corrupt men who hid beneath their vestments? The more I reflected on this concept, the more illogical it seemed.
But again - I was only a simple woman, and there were few, if any, intellectuals in my female circle with whom I could discuss these ideas.
Henry and I lived a double life that spring. There was the daily occupation of pursuing a resolution to the Great Matter and all the political frustration which went with it - then there was our love affair.
Henry rarely, if ever, arrived at Durham House without an extravagant gift for me. He always had his footmen deliver his favourite marchpane and puddings, claiming that his master baker was far better than the Fr
ench cook I employed at Durham House. But in addition to sweets, he delighted in surprising me with an embroidered satin pouch, a box, a parcel; always gorgeously wrapped. His eyes would twinkle merrily as he watched me ferret out the treasure inside the wrapping. One evening, an especially large package was handed to me by a beaming Henry. He was like a child who could not wait to receive a gift, yet he delighted even more in being the giver. I turned back the satin-lined velvet wrapping to behold three fantastic jewels: a diamond heart with a central sapphire to be worn on a hood, a brooch in the shape of a heart set with diamonds and rubies, and a bracelet of rubies with a diamond clasp.
Looking up at Henry from the desk on which lay the veritable trove of gems, I went to him, wound my fingers into the slashes on his doublet and slowly pulled him to me. Cradling his face in both my hands, I drew him closer and kissed him, taking my time.
When I finally allowed him to be released, he looked into my eyes and said softly, “For you, my Nan, nothing will ever be fine enough. I would give you every jewel in existence to buy time ‘til I can give you myself.”
I prayed it would be soon.
Hampton Court
May 1529
George smiled at me tentatively from across the table in the small, but beautiful library Cardinal Wolsey had built for himself at Hampton Court. His smile did not help one jot as I was in a foul humour, with an aching head, cramping stomach, and feeling just generally pitiable. On this occasion, my poor brother was the victim of my wretched mood.
“I am at my wit’s end, George - and don’t you dare laugh at me! You have no idea how awful it is, watching the drama play out and having no direct way of influencing it! Campeggio, Foxe, Gardener, Bryan… they are all the same. Oh, they appear so sympathetic, so encouraging. But do they care? No! After all, it is not their life which is at stake – the outcome has little bearing on their personal happiness and fulfilment, as it does mine!”
Struck With the Dart of Love Page 17