Moth To The Flame

by Angela Warwick

  A few days later, Anne and George were preparing to go hawking together, a sport which both enjoyed immensely. Anne had just led her horse away from the stables and was preparing to mount, when she suddenly felt all strength leave her body and slumped against her horse for support.

  “Anne!” cried her brother in alarm.

  “I feel so strange George” she muttered. “My head is pounding and I feel so weak and dizzy; and so hot!” Then realisation dawned on her. “God help me; it is the sickness!”

  Greatly concerned, George threw the reins of his horse to a groom, picked her up and carried her hastily back to the castle. There, he handed her over to his mother and Mary, neither of whom needed any explanation about what ailed her. As they unceremoniously half lifted, half dragged her up the spiral staircase to her chamber, George, feeling suddenly very weary, dropped himself on to a convenient seat and called “Mother! As soon as she is abed, bring me news of her condition. I must inform the King immediately”.

  Sometime later when Elizabeth Boleyn returned to tell George that his sister was gravely ill with the sickness, she found her son sprawled on the floor. Gently she turned him over on to his back, knowing in her heart that he too had succumbed. There was no need for her to feel his forehead, for his face was covered with beads of sweat and even through his clothes she could feel his body’s heat.

  With a sinking heart she called for servants to put her son to bed, then sighing deeply, she sat down at a table to pen a brief message to the King.

  Less than a day later the King eagerly tore open the letter from Hever. He had expected a cheery note from Anne; instead it was a tragic message from her mother informing him that both his favourite gentleman of the bedchamber and his future Queen lay dangerously ill with the sweating sickness.

  Although it was late in the evening and the court but recently retired, Henry immediately called for one of his physicians. It was his second physician Doctor Butts who answered the call; his most favoured, Doctor Linacre, apparently not in the palace. Swiftly the King instructed him to set out for Hever with all speed where his dearly beloved Lady Rochford and her brother lay ill of the sweat. Doctor Butts agreed to leave immediately and as he prepared to take his leave of the King, Henry whispered menacingly “Do not let her die, for if you do, I will not be responsible for my actions”.

  He had made himself abundantly clear; should the Lady Anne die, then Doctor Butts knew he would most likely pay for her death with his own life.

  When eventually a flustered Doctor Butts hurried in to Hever’s entrance hall, he found himself met by a subdued Lady Boleyn. “I think my son is improving” she told him, “but I greatly fear for the life of my daughter”. Her words sent Butts scurrying to Anne’s chamber, where he found her conscious and able to speak of her symptoms.

  “I feel racking pains all over my body” she whispered weakly. “One minute I burn with the fever, the next I shiver with cold. I find it hard to draw enough breath as my chest feels as though a great weight sits upon it and my head swims with constant pain. I know not whether I am living or dead and I no longer care for surely even Hell cannot hold such evil as this?”

  After quickly examining her, Butts drew her mother to one side. “She is approaching the crisis point” he whispered. “Has she shown signs of delirium?”

  Elizabeth nodded. “Some, yes. She slips in and out of it. She spent a terrible night, raving of things beyond my comprehension”.

  Butts nodded gravely. “I feared as much. If she survives until morning, she may well recover. If she should lapse into unconsciousness and we cannot rouse her to give her water, her body will give up the fight and she will die”. Butts rubbed the back of his neck thoughtfully, mindful of his sovereign’s parting words. “We must see that she does not sleep during the next few hours”.

  Elizabeth nodded, her face pale with strain and worry. Butts gripped her arms. “What of you?” he questioned anxiously. “Have you developed any symptoms? What of the rest of the household?”

  “I am well” she told him. “So far as I know, it is only Anne and George who have become ill. Their sister Mary and her child seem untouched at present, as do all the servants”.

  “I am relieved to hear it” breathed Butts. “As you and your elder daughter have not succumbed I think we can safely assume that you and she have some kind of immunity. We can only pray that your other two children have a similarly strong constitution and will be able to throw off the disease. Kindly conduct me to your son’s room Lady Boleyn, I must examine him too”.

  They found George quite cheerful; conscious, and in full possession of his faculties. “My son reached the crisis point during the night” Lady Boleyn said, gazing lovingly at the bedridden figure whilst she tucked the coverlet more securely about him. “He tossed and turned and cried out in his agony then suddenly fell silent. I feared he was dead, but found him to be sleeping peacefully, all trace of the fever gone”.

  Butts performed a perfunctory examination. “You are well on the way to recovery, Lord Rochford” he pronounced at last. “However I advise you to stay in bed for a few more days. The rest will help you regain your strength and keep you safe from re-infection”.

  “How is Anne?” George asked. “Will she live?”

  “I cannot say as yet” the physician replied. “She will approach her own crisis soon. If she is strong enough for the fight, she too will recover. All that remains for you to do my Lord is pray for her”.

  As Butts had predicted, soon after darkness fell, Anne’s condition worsened dramatically. On the King’s instructions, messengers were dispatched from Hever every three hours with news of her condition. They returned only hours later, bearing letters for the Lady Anne in which the King told her of his great love and the agony he was experiencing whilst she fought for her life. Elizabeth dutifully read the letters aloud to her daughter, but as midnight approached, Anne was aware of nothing but her pain and delirium.

  Elizabeth watched her daughter with sad eyes for she seemed far worse than her brother had been. She raved incessantly, but thankfully her words were garbled and senseless. At times she seemed possessed of such strength that as she tossed, her writhing body caused the bed covers to slip to the floor. Patiently her mother tucked the blankets securely around her daughter yet again, and tenderly stroked her face.

  After several hours, her condition had not changed. Close to tears, Elizabeth looked towards Doctor Butts and whispered “How much longer can this go on? She is fast losing her strength!”

  As she spoke, Anne writhed even more strongly and the physician rose from his seat to help her mother hold her down. “I have done all I can Lady Boleyn” he said. “Her fate is in God’s hands now”.

  Seconds after he finished speaking, Anne half rose from the bed emitted a final agonised shriek and fell back amongst her pillows. Rooted to the spot, Elizabeth waited; fists pressed to her mouth as Doctor Butts bent over Anne, felt her forehead and put his ear to her chest. After a seemingly endless time, he raised his head and looked at Elizabeth. “The King should be told at once” he announced. “The Lady Anne will live”.

  Chapter 20 – Back To Court

  It was August before Anne felt sufficiently recovered to return to court. Having become used to the slow country life during her convalescence, the hectic pace of the court was not something to which she looked forward with any enthusiasm.

  The King wrote to her almost constantly; reminding her of the great love he bore her, telling her that as the Almighty had spared her, surely He had given His divine approval to their proposed marriage.

  Anne answered some of the King’s letters, but not all of them. She reasoned that her enforced absence would likely increase his desire, so she determined not to hurry back to her King’s arms.

  When at last the King had word from Doctor Butts that she was fully recovered, he wrote eagerly to Hever asking when he might expect her. Anne replied airily that she had a mind to stay where she was indefinitely, for she
was weary of the insults constantly hurled at her by the Queen’s faction.

  Upon receiving this reply, the King alternatively wept and raged, then immediately set about acquiring a separate house for her which would enable her to live her own life away from the Queen’s service whilst remaining close to court. He decided on Durham House; its gardens sloped away to the river which would enable her to reach most of the palaces within a short time. Delighted with his scheme, he lost no time in informing her.

  She was overjoyed; his actions were tantamount to declaring to the world that he intended to make her his wife. Durham House had been the lodging of Queen Catherine prior to her marriage with Henry, whilst she still bore the title of Dowager Princess of Wales. The omens were good, Anne decided, and immediately set out for court.

  Henry received her with boyish enthusiasm, much in the way that a faithful dog might greet a long lost master, Anne thought with a smile. The morning following her arrival, they went together by barge to Durham House, for he insisted on personally guiding her around it.

  Anne had expected a sizeable but modest house and when she saw the splendour of Durham she was quite overwhelmed. “It is so grand!” she exclaimed to a delighted Henry. “It is a miniature palace!”

  Fondly he informed her “You are right. It IS a miniature palace, and you shall reign over it until you are able to take your place beside me as my Queen”.

  Suddenly a thought came to her. “Surely this house belongs to the Cardinal?”

  “Indeed” the King confirmed. “But when I informed him that I needed a suitable house for you, he was pleased to offer this”. Henry diplomatically left out that fact that he himself had informed the Cardinal that he required the use of the house, leaving Wolsey no option but to agree.

  Anne absorbed his statement with amazement. She fully believed that the Cardinal had fallen so low and was so in fear of her that he had offered one of his own houses in order to please her. This was power indeed!

  That evening, at a banquet arranged specifically to celebrate her return; Anne turned to Henry and said sadly “I see the sweating sickness took its toll upon the court”.

  The King paused in the act of stuffing a capon leg into his mouth and replied thickly “Every gentleman of the privy chamber caught it; it killed three of them”.

  Anne sighed. “Poor Zouche. Whenever I write a note to you I always expect to see him bring the reply. He was so trustworthy”.

  Henry nodded, chewing thoughtfully. Then carefully scrutinising the leg bone to ascertain he had taken every last shred of meat, he said “You remember Sir William Compton? He died. So did your sister’s husband, Carey”.

  “I never liked him” Anne admitted, “but I know he truly loved and cared for her and she mourns him sincerely”.

  Henry’s eyes gleamed at the thought of his buxom ex-mistress. “We shall soon find her another husband. Once we are married sweetheart, the suitors will be queuing up for the hand of the Queen’s sister. Your father must support her in the meantime”. Then he remembered his son and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, leaned towards her and asked in a low voice “How does the boy?”

  “Bonny and growing fast” replied the proud aunt. “Whenever I see him I am reminded of how Your Grace must have looked at a similar age”.

  Henry puffed out his chest with pride, boasting “I have two sons now!”

  “Both illegitimate” Anne reminded him quietly.

  The contented smile left his face and he glared at her. “You never lose an opportunity to remind me that you will not give in before marriage, do you? I am well aware of that so kindly do not persist in raising the issue!”

  Not a good start, Anne thought to herself, angering him so soon after their reunion. Quickly she said “I did not mean to imply that. I merely wished to remind Your Grace that as you have sired such healthy sons outside marriage and without God’s blessing, surely the royal nurseries will be bursting with princes in the years to come!”

  He liked that, as she knew he would. He grasped her chin, planted a great greasy kiss on her lips then loudly called for more capon.

  Meanwhile, Henry’s London subjects were not entirely ignorant of the great events taking place. Although there had been no official announcement, rumour was rife that the King intended putting away Queen Catherine and taking another wife. Anne’s enemies lost no time in spreading her name around as the likely supplanter.

  Catherine was informed of the peoples’ support and took to appearing amongst them whenever she could, graciously acknowledging their cheers. Whenever Anne appeared, the mood would grow ugly; there would be jeers and shouts of whore, night crow or concubine. Anne tried not to let such things upset her, but she longed to be loved and accepted by the people. She consoled herself by entertaining lavishly in her new house, and soon Durham became to centre of the fashionable “Boleyn set”.

  At last good news filtered through to England; the Pope’s legate had arrived in France and was shortly to set sail for Dover. His name was Cardinal Campeggio; he was very old, very gouty, and had taken an interminable time to travel from Rome to Calais.

  Finally news reached Durham House that the Cardinal was safely in England. The date was September 29th and Henry gleefully told his sweetheart that they would be married before Christmas. The following day they were happily making plans for the great event when Cardinal Wolsey was admitted to their presence. Henry rose to his feet and boomed “Ah, Wolsey. And where is Campeggio?”

  Wolsey took a great swallow, and then in a small voice said “Dover”.

  “Still?” interjected Anne incredulously.

  Wolsey executed a small bow in her direction. “I regret” he continued, “that the Cardinal has had to take to his bed due to an attack from a particularly painful form of gout”.

  Henry and Anne looked at each other, speechless. Then the King, scratching his beard thoughtfully, suggested “You must travel to Dover, Thomas, and speak with him. He can no doubt instruct you in the procedures he intends to adopt, then we can have everything in readiness here for his arrival”.

  Wolsey backed out of the presence chamber muttering “As Your Grace pleases; I will travel at once”.

  After talks with Campeggio, Wolsey wrote from Dover that the Cardinal seemed more interested in attempting to reconcile Henry and Catherine, rather than presiding over any divorce proceedings. As Wolsey had feared, the news did nothing to improve the King’s temper. “The Pope has tricked us!” he fumed to Anne. “He sends us some gouty old idiot to try and reconcile Catherine and me, not to instigate divorce proceedings!”

  Anne was perhaps even more aggrieved than the King. She had risked everything to make this marriage. Her good name was gone, for even though she was not the King’s mistress, most believed her so. Her chances of making any other marriage were all but gone and worst of all, she was wasting her best childbearing years.

  Towards the end of October, Campeggio reached London and met with the King. In his slow careful English, the legate said “Cardinal Wolsey informs me that Your Grace does not wish for reconciliation with the Queen?”

  Piously Henry replied “She was my brother’s wife. To atone for our sin, she and I must separate if we are not to incur God’s eternal wrath”.

  “Surely” Campeggio interrupted, “your union is only suspect assuming the Queen’s first marriage was consummated. I understand that Prince Arthur was weak and sickly even on his wedding night”.

  “Not too sickly to call for refreshment the following morning, telling all in earshot that he had been in Spain all night and that marriage was thirsty work!” replied Henry darkly.

  Campeggio paused, regarding Henry shrewdly. “If you cannot be reconciled then there is another way to avoid divorce …” he began, his eyes fixed on Henry’s face.

  Henry’s eyes narrowed with suspicion. “Continue!” he barked.

  Campeggio eased his pain racked body into a more comfortable position and continued. “If the Queen could be per
suaded to publicly renounce her title and retire to a religious institution, the marriage would be automatically dissolved”.

  The King beamed. “Excellent. Excellent. Catherine is at Bridewell; Wolsey will accompany you”.

  It turned out to be a fruitless journey. Catherine received the two Cardinals graciously and listened to their suggestions and advice. “I am afraid it would be quite impossible” she told them. “Prince Arthur was too weak to consummate our marriage and I swear I went virgin to his brother. I am a true wedded wife and my daughter Mary is the King’s sole legitimate heir”. She paused, regarded them contemptuously, then snapped “Good day gentlemen” before sweeping regally from the chamber.

  Campeggio looked at his fellow Cardinal and shrugged his shoulders in an expressive Latin gesture.

  “The King will not be pleased” murmured Wolsey as they returned to their barge. “The King will not be at all pleased!”

  Indeed he was not, but for once he was powerless; Campeggio had to make the next move. The legate had written to the Pope informing him that their plans for reconciliation had fallen flat and that the Queen had refused to enter a convent. With the King rampaging like a caged lion, Campeggio reasoned that the safest course of action was to take to his bed and blame the gout whilst he awaited the Pope’s reply. However, whilst Campeggio was doing his level best to avoid coming out into the open and declaring his intentions, the King had another worry on his mind.