by Julia Fox
Decode the cryptic messages, Anne did. But she refused to submit to Henry’s demands. Indeed, he began to wonder whether any of her hints that she might eventually succumb to his entreaties were groundless. “Since my parting from you,” he then wrote, “I have been told that the opinion in which I left you is totally changed, and that you would not come to court either with your mother, if you could, or in any other manner.” This, he felt, was “a very poor return for the great love” he had for her. He could not understand why, if she loved him, it was not “a little irksome” to be apart. This letter went further. Anne really did have to make up her mind. If she “voluntarily desired” their separation, he “could do no other than mourn my ill-fortune, and by degrees abate my great folly.” Even Henry’s patience was not inexhaustible.
How Anne responded we will never know, for all of her replies are lost. She certainly did not yield. So Henry tried once more. He had been, he said, “for above a whole year stricken with the dart of love” and still did not know where he stood. Did she love him “with an ordinary love” or a “singular one”? He was desperate to “know expressly” what she really felt “as to the love between us two.” Then came what for him was the supreme offer. If Anne would surrender both her “body and heart,” she would be his “only mistress” he would think of no one else and “serve” her alone. So desperate was he for her answer that if she did not want to reply in writing, he was ready to go wherever she wanted to “have it by word of mouth.”
To have the king so besotted with Anne presented the Boleyns with an acute dilemma. Henry’s lust for Mary had brought rich pickings for all of them but his craving for Anne, which had already lasted unrequited for over a year, was of an entirely different order. While the potential rewards were massive, so was the danger. Katherine had serenely ignored her husband’s extramarital entanglements but, so far, they had amounted to little. And the well-loved, universally respected queen had powerful friends to support her if they became more intrusive. Wolsey could not be disregarded either; he would not easily relinquish his intimate influence with his royal master to Anne or to her potentially grasping relations. To cross him was unwise. Rumor had it that he had played a shadowy part in engineering the execution of Buckingham, who had once insulted him. Neither Thomas nor George wanted to count him an enemy, despite Anne’s alleged bravado. More crucially, Henry remained a married man. An affair, even an exclusive one, would not last forever. Henry was surrounded by young and pretty women. Both Elizabeth Blount and Mary Boleyn were living examples of Henry’s fickle nature. The intelligent Anne understood the situation: once she lost his affection, she would be married off to an obliging courtier. For Elizabeth Blount the payoff had been good, because she married Gilbert Tailboys whose family owned lands in six counties, but, equally, there was a risk that Anne might be offered a minor noble and then sink into comparative obscurity. And, whereas Mary had settled back into court life quite contentedly as Carey’s wife, Anne, a more extrovert and ambitious character than her sister, would have found the status of discarded mistress intolerable. Yet to refuse the king forever could be to give up the chance of a lifetime, not only for herself but also for Thomas and George. It was not a decision to be made lightly, nor was it one to be made alone. A free spirit in many ways, Anne, like Jane, was still a woman in a patriarchal society. She would be unwise not to ask the advice of her parents and, since she loved him, her brother. Finally, after countless hours of thought and, doubtless, family discussion, Anne made her choice. She gave in.
She did so in style and she did so symbolically. When she responded to the king, she gave him a token, one that required planning, thought, and some expense as it needed to be specially crafted. Since she possessed no lands in her own right, Thomas must have agreed to purchase it for her. The Boleyns were with her all the way. Intriguingly, there is a payment, which could be significant, listed among Thomas’s accounts “to Cornelys,*6 the king’s goldsmith, £4.” Four pounds was probably too small a sum to buy the whole present, but it might well have been an installment.
Henry’s response was ecstatic. “For a present so beautiful,” he wrote, “I thank you most cordially.” The gift was a jewel, a “fine diamond” complete with a ship in which a “solitary damsel is tossed about.” Anne’s gift was shrewdly chosen. Henry understood its “fine interpretation”: Anne, the damsel, was safe in the ship just as she was safe in his arms. She entrusted herself to him. Henry promised everlasting love in return. He felt obliged, he said, “for ever to honor, love and serve you sincerely,” pledging “loyalty of heart and a desire to please.” But he also fretted that Anne was still not prepared to sleep with him. His heart was hers, but “I wish my person was too,” he lamented. For, as Jane knew, Anne’s surrender was only partial.
In fact, Anne and Henry had come to a breathtaking agreement. Anne would not be Henry’s mistress; she would be his wife and his queen. With Katherine past menopause, Henry’s last hopes of a son by her had faded. Anne vowed to do better than the woman she intended to supplant: she would give birth to a male heir. Unlike Fitzroy, her child would be legitimate in the eyes of the world because she and Henry would marry. Audacious perhaps, but if the plan was successful, the Boleyns would be there to stay.
CHAPTER 8
Lady-in-Waiting
WHEN JANE PARKER became Jane Boleyn, she envisaged a life similar to that of her mother. There would be time on the Boleyn estates, coupled with visits to court with her husband and journeys back home to Great Hallingbury as a married woman to see her own family. She had not expected to become entangled in the events of the most significant love affair of her age. But as the Boleyns embarked on their great gamble, that is what happened.
Secure in Anne’s love, Henry could hardly bear to be apart from her. In yet another adoring letter to her “whose absence has grieved my heart more than either words or writing can express,” he begged her to come back to court for their “meeting is more desired by me than anything in this world.” There was no joy “greater upon earth than to have the company of her who is dearest” to him. Neither was ready to tell the world about their “secret matter” just yet, of course, but for one glorious evening after her return, Anne was in his arms in front of everyone. That included his wife.
When a French marriage, which eventually failed to materialize, was projected for eleven-year-old Princess Mary, Henry provided the usual joust, followed by a banquet, and then an elaborate entertainment in his hugely impressive, recently constructed building at the side of the tiltyards at Greenwich, for the ambassadors sent by Francis to discuss the matter. With her husband Henry’s cupbearer that evening, Jane had every right to be there. Those who entered the great chamber of the new edifice did not know where to look first. If they stared straight ahead, they saw a huge arch painted with serpents and gargoyles and emblazoned with arms and emblems and a gallery above in which a group of musicians played gently. If they glanced up, they gazed upon the ceiling that was covered with purple brocatelle embellished with representations of roses and pomegranates. The walls were adorned with Henry’s fabulously expensive tapestries of King David. Amber-colored candlesticks in which white wax candles gave out their flickering light nestled beneath the windows, and everywhere there was the gleam of gold. Golden vessels were stacked for display, and the guests were served food from gold or gilt containers that weighed so much that they “troubled sore the bearers.” George’s task was a little more onerous that evening too: the lords, entrusted with carrying the heavy wine cups, “grudged to bear them.” Henry sat with Katherine and his sister under a cloth of estate as dish after dish was served to the assembled company. When the meal was over, everyone progressed underneath the vast arch into the second room for the entertainment, walking over a floor strewn with silk embroidered with lilies and beneath a magical ceiling decorated with a map of the world and the signs of the zodiac. Feasting his eyes on the ladies who sat together in the galleried seating around the side, the Venetian s
ecretary was so overcome with their splendor and beauty that he compared them to a “choir of angels.” There were many different diversions performed that evening but for the Boleyns, it was only the finale that really counted.
Sparkling in cloth of gold and purple satin, with his face shielded by a golden beard and with his feet encased in black velvet slippers, Henry and his fellow maskers danced with ladies from among the spectators. The only woman whose name is recorded is Anne. And she danced with the king. No one took any particular notice. Anne spoke French, after all, and the whole event had been arranged for the French ambassadors. But as Katherine watched fondly while an excited Princess Mary partnered Turenne, the most important French envoy, Anne and Henry were a couple. The moment passed. Henry returned to his duties as host and Anne to the company of the other women. She was not his wife yet. For Jane’s sister-in-law to become queen, Henry had to end his marriage to Katherine. Neither he nor Anne thought that this would prove difficult.
As the various guests left the building at Greenwich that evening, they walked past the David tapestries. When she had attended the Field of Cloth of Gold, Jane had wandered through the Great Hall of Henry’s temporary palace at Guisnes, spellbound by what she had seen. One of the wonders on show then was a magnificent example of the weaver’s art: a tapestry, glinting with gold and silver thread, showing King David and Bathsheba. It was on the wall again that night. And therein lay the clue. It was only when Henry had committed himself to Anne that Jane could really understand its significance. The king was deeply interested in David, the Old Testament hero who slew Goliath, had a close relationship with his god, and led his people to great victories against their enemies. For a devout king committed to the glory of war, the link was clear, but there was far more to it than that. David had suffered a serious setback. He so desired the lovely Bathsheba that he had been prepared to send her husband, Uriah, to die in battle so that he could possess her. This had earned him divine retribution: the death of his son by Bathsheba. A deeply religious man, Henry saw a direct parallel in his own life, for a verse in Leviticus (20:21) threatened childlessness to a man who married his brother’s widow. That was what he had done. In marrying Katherine he had sinned and had been punished. After all, little Prince Henry had been taken from him when only a few weeks old and his long years with Katherine had produced only a string of disappointments and one live daughter. This was the proof of God’s displeasure. His conscience was troubling him “daily and hourly.” Only by repudiating Katherine and finding a new wife could he hope to have a son and make his peace with God. He was convinced of the justice of his case. So, of course, were the Boleyns. And they were determined to help him.
Once Anne had agreed to marry him, Henry set about making it happen. As Wolsey had so far managed everything for him, it was Wolsey upon whom he relied to achieve his “secret matter.” A worried cardinal begged the king not to proceed but his entreaties fell on deaf ears; for Anne’s sake, Henry recklessly banished all caution. Banished too from his mind and Anne’s was a realistic assessment of the difficulties ahead. The Leviticus text had been pored over at the Vatican more than twenty years ago when Pope Julius II had granted a dispensation to cover the problem in order to allow Henry and Katherine to go to the altar, an act that Henry now maintained exceeded the pope’s powers. Henry’s solution to the dilemma was ingeniously simple. Since Wolsey was a papal legate, all he needed to do was to pronounce Henry in the wrong for living with Katherine as her husband, require a penitent, remorseful king to leave her, inevitably with a show of reluctance and regret, and then induce the current pope, Clement VII, to accept it all. In so doing, Clement would remedy his predecessor’s mistake. Nothing could be more straightforward.
So, on May 17, 1527, Jane’s new family waited anxiously but confidently to hear what progress had been made. On that day, Wolsey opened the first session of a court at York Place specifically established to look into the legality of the king’s marriage. Henry sat at the cardinal’s right hand as he was accused by Dr. Richard Wolman, in reality his own counsel, of living unlawfully with his brother’s wife. At this stage, neither the king nor the Boleyns wanted Anne in public view. For Henry to admit his love for her would have weakened his case; he had to dissemble and protest that his sole purpose was to put his mind at rest concerning his marital situation. Indeed, he was later to declare that if his marriage to Katherine was lawful and he could stay with her, “there was never thing more pleasant nor more acceptable” to him. Were it only possible, he “would surely choose her above all women.” His love and respect, however, only went so far; he decided not to tell her of his internal torment, nor of the existence of the legatine court. Instead, he prepared his arguments and relied on Wolman and Wolsey. For Anne and her relatives there was every reason for optimism.
Then came the first in what was to become a catalog of disappointments. On the very day when the Boleyns hoped for the news that meant preparing for another wedding, Wolsey announced that the case was too complex for him and had to be referred to the pope. The issue had never been as clear-cut as the newly engaged pair asserted. Wolsey had always known it. Leviticus was not entirely helpful. The verse specified a lack of children, but Princess Mary was alive and well. The trouble was compounded because there was a conflicting biblical text in Deuteronomy (25:5) that appeared to require a living brother to marry his dead brother’s wife if they had no children. That, of course, was precisely Katherine’s situation. To make matters worse, she vowed that her union with Arthur had been unconsummated so that she had never really been his wife and thus there was no impediment at all to her marriage with Henry. It would seem that the papal dispensation, which had weighed up the crucial verses in both Leviticus and Deuteronomy with due care, was correct and the issue certainly was within the pope’s jurisdiction.
This was the opinion of John Fisher, bishop of Rochester and a highly respected theologian, whom Wolsey had consulted. After considerable research and reflection, Fisher pronounced that he could not “see any sound reason to show that it is prohibited by divine law for a brother to marry the wife of a brother who has died without children.” Indeed, thought Fisher, now very much into his stride, “considering the fullness of authority given by our Lord to the Pope, who can deny that the latter may give a dispensation to that effect, for any serious cause?” Unfortunately, Fisher’s analysis was shared by other experts. Thomas More later said how astonished he had been when the king had first broached the subject as they were walking in the gallery at Hampton Court. Henry opened the Bible and pointed out the words that he felt backed up his case against his marriage. The king suggested that More should research the subject and discuss it all with Edward Foxe, a Cambridge scholar and an able diplomat whose help had been enlisted. Although More was careful not to commit himself against his monarch, he never spoke out in favor of the divorce either. There was no way out of the impasse: for Henry to proceed further, he must petition Clement.
That did not in itself mean disaster. Provided Anne’s name was kept out of things, there was, in theory, no reason why Clement should not be amenable. The worldly and sophisticated papacy was usually accommodating to kings with political or succession problems. Henry only had to think back to his erstwhile brother-in-law, Louis XII, who had divorced his existing wife in order to make a dynastic marriage to Anne of Brittany. And annulments were even closer to home than that: the king’s current brother-in-law, the Duke of Suffolk, had obtained permission from Clement himself to end his first marriage. Unfortunately, Katherine was neither as obliging nor as friendless as Jeanne of France or Margaret Mortimer. She “intended to live and die in the estate of matrimony, into which God had called her” and was positive that her nephew, Charles V, would help her. So, she thought, would the pope. Charles was indeed on her side. Affronted by what he called “so scandalous a proceeding,” he promised “to do everything in his power on her behalf.” Thus, as Jane watched from within the Boleyn camp, the battle lines were drawn.
Battle it would be, for Clement was not an entirely free agent. Charles had an army in Italy. No matter how willing the pragmatic Clement was to assist Henry in his hour of need, especially at a time when he was only too aware that many were falling under the spell of the new doctrines promulgated by Martin Luther, the pope dared not antagonize Charles. Then came the unthinkable. Charles’s unruly and unpaid troops sacked the city of Rome itself. Harrowing tales reached England. The imperial soldiers had murdered the citizens, raped nuns, burned down churches, and used religious images for target practice. As the carnage began, Clement fled to his stronghold, Castel Sant’ Angelo. Jane was as horrified as the rest of the court by these outrages, but for her sister-in-law’s cause, there was a silver lining. With the pope a prisoner, not only was he unable to pronounce in Henry’s favor, he could not really pronounce at all. The solution was obvious: Wolsey, as papal legate, could give the verdict for him. And as long as the cardinal could be trusted to labor on their behalf, the Boleyns, all of them, were right behind him.
Here too they were thwarted. While Wolsey and Thomas More were in Amiens negotiating with the French for joint action over the beleaguered pope, Clement was allowed to escape, which altered the whole situation. A different plan of attack was required. As Jane quickly realized following her own wedding, George and his father were not only intelligent, well read, and thoughtful men, both were fascinated by theology. Involvement in religious debate was very much a family trait, for George’s uncle, James Boleyn, found such discussions just as thrilling as his brother and nephew. They were entirely equal to assessing the doctrinal and international implications of Anne’s “secret matter” and to work behind the scenes to bring about the desired result. Jane watched as the Boleyn family machine swung into action.