The Bishop was unharmed. He had been in deep discourse with a friend and had left his soup untasted.
It was soon discovered that an attempt had been made to poison him.
Henry was enraged. This was not the way. Fisher would have to be coerced, threatened perhaps, but any attempt to poison him—and such a clumsy one—would not be tolerated.
He passed a law immediately. Poisoners should be boiled alive.
The soup was tested. Richard Rouse, the cook, was taken for questioning and immediately confessed to the deed. He could not say who it was who paid him well for what he did; it was a stranger and he knew not whence he came.
Suspicion was, of course, directed against me and my family, although we knew nothing of the matter.
Crowds gathered in Smithfield to see the sentence carried out. I was told that the screams of the victim were bloodcurdling.
The King was annoyed and sullen. He was clearly disturbed but he was thinking more and more of the possibility of a break with Rome. Strict laws were enforced against the clergy; and he stated publicly that some priests were only half Englishmen because they had taken an oath to the Pope. But still the months were passing without any action being taken.
Henry was disturbed further when Sir Thomas More resigned the Great Seal. He asked this through Norfolk, pleading ill health. I think he saw which way we were moving and he was a deeply religious man. Henry wanted the support of such a man who was highly respected; he had simple tastes, living happily in the heart of his devoted family. I heard that Norfolk had found him on one occasion in the chapel of his home in Chelsea, singing in the family choir. Norfolk had reproved him, saying that he dishonored the King and his office by parading as a parish clerk. More's reply had been disconcerting. He said he was serving God, the King's master. Ominous words, as it happened later.
It was just at this time that he resigned the Great Seal, and it was a clear indication of his thoughts.
At last there came a turn in our affairs.
What had irritated me most was to be in the palace with the King and to be made constantly aware of the Queen's presence, for, in spite of the relationship between them, Henry kept up appearances in public, and wherever he went on ceremonial occasions, the Queen was with him. This had stressed the fact that Katharine was still the Queen and that put me in the position of concubine. It was something I found intolerable and, I think, was largely responsible for my outbursts of temper.
Henry was becoming more and more anxious to be rid of her. If he was absent for a few days, she would write to him, behaving just as though there was no rift between them. Her attitude was one of tolerance, implying that he was momentarily straying but like a good and patient wife she would forgive him and in due course he would realize his mistake and return to her.
He would ensure no more of this, he said. He had been patient too long. He was going to ask her to retire from Windsor Castle. There was a place which had come to him from Wolsey. The Moor in Hertfordshire. She should take up her residence there. It was a command and she could not disobey his instructions; and now, with Katharine gone, I was in the position of Queen. Her apartments became mine. The people in the streets might cry their insults; it was different in Court circles. There, people must pay homage to me, for this move of Henry's was significant. It showed that his determination was as strong as ever.
He said to me: “We should wait no longer.”
I knew what that meant and I had to make a quick decision. I had always known that this moment must come. I had fought long enough. He had made his gesture by turning Katharine away from Court, which was tantamount to declaring that she was no longer the Queen, and if I was to be, how could I deny the King that which he had been passionately seeking for so long?
I was tortured by the decision I had to make. I was not a sensual woman and I did not look forward to the consummation with any pleasure. Perhaps it was due to my upbringing at the Court of France, when I was in the midst of such promiscuity that I acquired a distaste for it. My virginity had been my strength. What would happen if I lost it? Suppose I had relented all those years ago in the rose garden at Hever, where should I have been now? Cast off like my sister Mary, spoken of as una grandis-sima ribalda, as François had referred to her? So I had become well versed in the art of evasion. Heaven knew, I had had long enough practice with Henry, and even before that at the Court of France. I was avid for admiration; I knew that I had special attractions and I liked them to be appreciated. I liked to know that I was desired, and in that was the pleasure for me.
But I had come to the point when there could be no more hesitation. Since Henry had removed Katharine from Court, I was the Queen in all but fact; and if I were to attain that glittering role I must not take one false step now.
One fear haunted me. What if I submitted and he found the result not as satisfactory as he had hoped? For years he had longed for me—me only. Was I so much different from other women he had known? Oh, I knew I was in daylight…my clothes, my manners, my sudden moods, my intense delight in the joys of the moment, my ability to devise clever entertainments. Yes, I was different. But in sexual encounter how should I fare…I, a novice with no great enthusiasm for the game compared with doyennes of the art like my sister Mary. Experience made perfect and in this matter I was completely without that. He had dreamed so long of possessing me. What if I did not match his fantasies?
There was another possibility. Suppose I became pregnant? That could be a two-edged sword. I could say to him, “You must marry me at once or our child will be born out of wedlock.” That would never do for the heir to the throne. On the other hand, suppose I was barren? Well, a woman cannot expect to conceive immediately—though it was a possibility.
The matter was constantly on my mind; and then I decided that I could afford to wait no longer. The opposition was crumbling. Cromwell and Cranmer had “the right sows by the ears.” Henry was prepared to snap his fingers at the Pope and the Emperor and at the same time to break with the Church of Rome.
If ever there was a time, this must be it.
I must prepare for the occasion. As always at such times, I considered what I should wear. This would be one of the testing occasions of my life, and a great deal depended on my clothes. Clothes had always had an effect on me; they changed my moods. I often thought that whatever tragedy was about to befall I could never be completely unhappy if I were wearing a gown which lifted my spirits, and however pleased I was with life, I could not be completely so in a drab and ill-fitting garment.
So therefore, on this occasion, clothes would be all-important.
My nightgown should be made of black satin, lined with black taffeta, and this should be stiffened with buckram and lined with black velvet. I enjoyed designing it. I showed sketches to Henry. He was now so happy—like a bridegroom. He was affable to everyone. I said, “You must not give away our secret,” and we laughed together.
We even talked about my coronation.
“This Cromwell is a man of ideas,” he said. “I welcome him. I wish I could like him better. I always want to cuff him … then I remember his uses.”
But he did not want to talk of Cromwell for long. We were like two lovers planning our honeymoon. Henry thought we should pay a visit to François. “He has been our good friend over this matter,” he said.
I knew that François wanted to woo Henry from the Emperor. It was all part of the power struggle. And I should like to see the French Court again.
The nightdress was very costly. The price was £10.15s.8d., and there was a cloak with it edged with velvet and lined with Bruges satin which was almost as costly as the gown, being over £9.
An extravagant garment. But it was for a very important occasion, and the bills were settled by the Treasury, together with many more, for if I was going to France, I should need a new wardrobe and, knowing the French, it must be of very special elegance.
So I tried not to think of the night and gave myself up to the joys o
f discussions with the seamstress and being fitted and making suggestions—while I waited with trepidation.
We were to sup together.
I wore the black nightdress and the cloak that went with it. I had chosen wisely, although I had hesitated to wear black because of my darkness—red being the color which set it off to perfection. But the low-cut bodice, exposing so much white flesh, was alluring.
His eyes never left me. They shone with something more than lust. He was at his most attractive that night. He was almost humble, a quality which sat oddly on him. He looked younger, for the last years had taken a certain toll on him. This was how he must have looked when he came to the throne. I felt an affection for him. I realized, too, that I was different. I had made up my mind. I was no longer tortured by the fearsome question of Dare I? I had given way because I fancied I could see the goal in sight, and this was the way to it.
It was a discreet supper à deux; we were waited on by two silent-footed servants. There was no ceremony. We might not have been the King and the one who aspired to be his Queen. He glowed as he talked to me of his love for me, how it had changed his life. Indeed it had—and the course of the country's history perhaps. But he was modest, which made him almost like a stranger. He was so pleased because my choice had fallen on him and that I had saved myself for him.
I did not reply to that. In truth, my choice had fallen on a crown and on him because he could supply it. I had previously chosen Henry Percy, he must remember; and it was he who had snatched me away from that young man.
But on such a night we did not wish to talk of such things; and to see him thus—so different from the arrogant King whose wrath, Warham had once said, “was death”— to see him thus, for my sake, endeared him to me.
I almost loved him on that night.
I should have liked to linger over supper but he was impatient and we were alone. I emerged from my black satin and went to him.
I had prepared myself for the onslaught of passion which I knew must come—all the pent-up feelings of the years of waiting. He was incoherent, murmuring words of love. I responded, as well as I could, fearful all the time of my inadequacy—which was a new role for me, as the humble lover was for him.
It seemed to me that on that night we were both playing parts to which our natures had made us unaccustomed.
We lay in the darkness. There was silence between us. I asked myself: What is he thinking? Why all this fuss? Is not one woman very like another? Mary had held him for a long time. Mary had special powers. She was born to play bedtime games. I had not been.
“Anne.” His voice came to me in the darkness.
“Yes…Henry?” I whispered fearfully.
He said: “Methinks I am the happiest man on Earth.”
Waves of joy swept over me. Then I had not failed.
I replied: “Then must I be the happiest of women.”
“There was never love like this,” he said.
No, I thought, never love that would rock the foundations of the Church.
The weeks which followed were happy for both Henry and me. I had made the decision; there was no going back, and I was no longer plagued by that eternal question. Henry was delighted; he looked years younger, and everyone noticed the change in him. He was no longer frustrated. Katharine was out of sight and he ceased to think of her. I was there beside him; in fact, he hated me to be out of his sight. I was immensely relieved. I had submitted and I still held him—perhaps even more firmly than before.
He took a delight in my extravagance. I bought yards and yards of red velvet—the color which became me most. The dressmakers were busy. I was beside him at the Court functions. It was tantamount to being Queen. People began to treat me as such; they brought petitions to me, asking me to intercede for this and that with the King. All knew that what I asked would be mine. Enthusiasm was second nature to Henry. When he wanted something, he wanted it fiercely. Tenacity was another of his qualities. I was not sure of fidelity; but I was determined to keep him as he was now.
He wanted me always beside him. Even when I was alone, I rode in state. He had given me special harness for my horses and my saddle was in the French style—black velvet fringed with gold. But he liked it best when I rode pillion with him, sitting on a down-stuffed pillow.
I was Queen in all but name, but that was not good enough.
The precariousness of my position was brought home to me by the people.
How they hated me! The common people—and not only they—hate to see others rise, particularly if that rise is spectacular. I shall never forget the hatred which was directed against Wolsey when he was at the height of his greatness, and the sympathy which came to him when he was down. The sympathy suggested good nature but the hatred betrayed the truth of the matter, and I came to the conclusion that envy is the greatest of the seven deadly sins, and from it spring all others; the sympathy offered to such as Wolsey when they are brought low is at heart pleasure because of their downfall.
Now I was to taste that hatred.
“We'll have no Nan Bullen,” they cried, attempting to give my name a plebeian note. How I hated them, with their sly, envious faces and their petty minds. This was not sympathy for Katharine; it was not indignation against my position. It was plain envy.
I would have snapped my fingers at them if it were not for the disturbing effect they had on the King.
Cromwell said he would suppress it.
He had his spies everywhere. If they heard an adverse comment directed against me, the person who made it would find himself or herself in chains. This did not prevent a good many people risking imprisonment.
The most disturbing of all were the priests. They were different from the people in the streets. Their great anxiety must have been for their position in the Church. There was one, Friar Peto, who actually preached at Greenwich. He was one of those headstrong monks who see themselves in the role of martyr as a way to eternal joy and saving themselves from the flames of hell by one magnificent gesture at the end. He was attached to the Franciscan convent and was emphatic in his denunciation of the divorce. The King had been ill advised, he said. He would be like Ahab, and when he died the dogs would lick his blood.
And this in the presence of the King!
Henry's leniency was amazing. Cromwell would have had the man in the Tower and soon taking the short walk to Tower Hill, but the King was in a mellow mood. The Friar had at least spoken out to his face and had not made traitorous remarks behind his back as he feared so many did. So Friar Peto was sent to France to join a Franciscan order there. Such leniency was not really wise, for he came back later and continued preaching, so that there was no alternative but to imprison him.
But this was nothing compared with the case of Rice ap Griffiths. What made this more unusual was that Griffiths was a distant relative; he had married one of my mother's sisters. Criticism from my own family always surprised me. One would have thought we should have clung together. But the resentment the Howards had always felt toward the Boleyns was constantly flaring up. Griffiths was arrested and put in the Tower. He never left it, except to walk out to Tower Hill and lay his head on the block.
This was an example to others, and it did have some effect, but I knew that the people were ready to revolt against me, and the clergy against the new laws which were to be imposed.
At the Court, where I sat beside the King, few dared show resentment, for it was those close to the King who had the most to fear. It was true that Mary, Duchess of Suffolk, had left Court on account of me but I did not greatly care. It seemed amazing to me that she could behave so. After all, she herself had married a commoner. When I thought of that bright young girl and her passion for Charles Brandon, I could scarcely believe that she could behave thus toward me. She had been quite fond of me in a patronizing kind of way. She had let the little Boleyn into her confidence as she had no other. Of course, she had been a friend of Katharine, so perhaps that was behind her dislike of me.
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p; I doubted that anyone in England had more enemies than I at that time. Vaguely I was aware of the antipathy, but I tried not to let it bother me. If I had been older and wiser, I should have been deeply shocked and horrified and certainly alarmed by the rancor I engendered.
One day the Duke of Norfolk asked to see me. I wondered why he had come. I was very wary of him. I suspected that he, like Suffolk, had used me to help discredit Wolsey; and I suspected they would work against me with the King if they had a chance.
Norfolk said that he had been handed a note which had been written by the Countess of Northumberland and sent to her father, the Earl of Shrewsbury. The Earl had brought it to the Duke, who thought I ought to see it.
I took it, wondering what Henry Percy's wife should have to say to her father which could be of interest to me.
I opened it and, when I read it, I was trembling with dismay.
Here was one of my enemies who could do me harm if she wished— and she clearly did wish. She had written to her father to say that her husband, Henry Percy, had admitted to her that, while he was in the service of Cardinal Wolsey and I was a maid of honor to Queen Katharine, he had had a pre-contract with me.
I stared from the paper to Norfolk. He was smiling sardonically, fully aware of the contents of the letter.
“I thought, Lady Anne,” he said, “that you would wish to give some thought to the matter.”
“It is of no importance,” I lied. “But it shall be shown to the King.”
He bowed and retired.
I sat there reading and re-reading the letter. How she must have hated me! Her marriage had been a failure from the start. Henry Percy would have been a faithful husband to me. I wondered if he still thought of me, and I was sure he did. Mary Talbot's vindictiveness was evident in this note. How reluctantly he had married her—and she knew it.
Now she would have heard of the brilliant marriage which lay ahead of me. Henry Percy would know, too. And what was he thinking now? Of what might have been, I dareswear, with a certain longing, as I did now and then when I was particularly frustrated and thought that nothing would ever come of my attachment to the King.
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