by Jean Plaidy
The King did not attend these revels of the Boleyns. Having given the order for the arrest of Wolsey, he wished to shut the matter from his mind. He was torn between remorse and gladness. Wolsey had left much wealth, and into whose hands should this fall but the King’s!
Henry prayed: “O Lord, thou knowest I loved that man. I would I had seen him. I would I had not let his enemies keep him from me. Did I not send him tokens of my regard? Did I not say I would not lose the fellow for twenty thousand pounds?”
But he could not stop his thoughts straying to the Cardinal’s possessions. There was more yet that he must get his hands upon. Hampton Court was his; York House was his, for he had never given it back after Anne went to Suffolk House, liking it too well.
But he wept for the old days of friendship; he wept for Wolsey; and he was able to deplore his death whilst considering how much more there was in gold to come to him.
Soon after this there were two matters which caused Anne some misgiving. The first came in the form of a letter which the Countess of Northumberland had written to her father, the Earl of Shrewsbury. Shrewsbury had thought it wise to show this letter to the Duke of Norfolk, who had brought it to his niece with all speed.
Anne read the letter. There was no doubt of its meaning. Mary of Northumberland was leaving her husband; she told her father that in one of their more violent quarrels her husband had told her that he was not really married to her, being previously contracted to Anne Boleyn.
Anne’s heart beat fast. Here was yet another plot to discredit her in the eyes of the King. She had been his mistress for nearly two years, and it seemed to her that she was no nearer becoming Queen than she had been on that first night in Suffolk House. She was becoming anxious, wondering how long she could expect to keep the King her obedient slave. For a long time she had watched for some lessening of his affection; she had found none; she studied herself carefully for some deterioration of her beauty; if she were older, a little drawn, there were many more gorgeous clothes and priceless jewels to set against that. But she was worried, and though she told herself that she longed for a peaceful life and would have been happy had she married Percy or Wyatt she knew that the spark of ambition inside her had been fanned into a great consuming fire; and when she had said to Anne Saville that she would marry the King, no matter what happened to herself, she meant that. She was quite sure that, once she was Queen, she would give the King sons, that not only could she delight him as his mistress, but as mother of the future Tudor King of England. Having tasted power, how could she ever relinquish it! And this was at the root of her fear. The delay of the divorce, the awareness of powerful enemies all about her—this was what had made her nervous, imperious, hysterical, haughty, frightened.
Therefore she trembled when she read this letter.
“Give it to me,” she commanded.
“What will you do with it?” asked her uncle. She was unsure. He said: “You should show it to the King.”
She studied him curiously. Cold, hard, completely without sentiment, he despised these families which had sprung up, allied to his own house simply because the Norfolk fortunes were in decline at Henry the Seventh’s accession on account of the mistake his family had made in backing Richard the Third. She weighed his words. He was no friend of hers; yet was he an enemy? It would be more advantageous to see his niece on the throne of England than another’s niece.
She went to the King.
He was sitting in a window seat, playing a harp and singing a song he had written.
“Ah! Sweetheart, I was thinking of you. Sit with me, and I will sing to you my song . . . Why, what ails you? You are pale and trembling.”
She said: “I am afraid. There are those who would poison your mind against me.”
“Bah!” he said, feeling in a merry mood, for Wolsey had left riches such as even Henry had not dreamed of, and he had convinced himself that the Cardinal’s death was none of his doing. He had died of a flux, and a flux will attack a man, be he chancellor or beggar. “What now, Anne? Have I not told you that naught could ever poison my mind against you!”
“You would not remember, but when I was very young and first came to court, Percy of Northumberland wished to marry me.”
The King’s eyes narrowed. Well he remembered. He had got Wolsey to banish the boy from court, and he had banished Anne too. For years he had let her escape him. She was a bud of a girl then, scarce awake at all, but very lovely. They had missed years together.
Anne went on: “It was no contract. He was sent from the court, being pre-contracted to my Lord Shrewsbury’s daughter. Now they have quarreled, and he says he will leave her, and she says he tells her he was never really married to her, being pre-contracted to me.”
The King let out an exclamation, and put aside his harp.
“This were not true?” he said.
“Indeed not!”
“Then we must put a stop to such idle talk. Leave this to me, sweetheart. I’ll have him brought up before the Archbishop of Canterbury. I’ll have him recant this, or ’twill be the worse for him!”
The King paced the floor, his face anxious.
“Dost know, sweetheart,” he said, “I fear I have dolts about me. Were Wolsey here . . .”
She did not speak, for she knew it was unnecessary to rail against the Cardinal now; he was done with. She had new enemies with whom to cope. She knew that Henry was casting a slur on the new ministry of Norfolk and More; that he was reminding her that though Wolsey had died, he had had nothing to do with his death. She wished then that she did not know this man so well; she wished that she could have been as lightheartedly gay as people thought her, living for the day, thinking not of the morrow. She had set her skirts daintily about her, aware of her grace and charm, knowing that they drew men irresistibly to her, wondering what would happen to her when she was old, as her grandmother Norfolk. Then I suppose, she thought, I will doze in a chair and recall my adventurous youth, and poke my granddaughters with an ebony stick. I would like my grandmother to come and see me; she is a foolish old woman assuredly, but at least she would be a friend.
“Sweetheart,” said the King, “I shall go now and settle this matter, for there will be no peace of mind until Northumberland admits this to be a lie.”
He kissed her lips; she returned his kiss, knowing well how to enchant him, being often sparing with her caresses so that when he received them he must be more grateful than if they had been lavished on him. He was the hunter; although he talked continually of longing for peace of mind, she knew that that would never satisfy him. He must never be satisfied, but always be looking for satisfaction. For two years she had kept him thus in difficult circumstances. She must go on keeping him thus, for her future depended on her ability to do so.
Fain would he have stayed, but she bid him go. “For,” she said, “although I know this matter to be a lie, until my lord of Northumberland admits it I am under a cloud. I could not marry you unless we had his full confession that there is no grain of truth in this claim.”
She surveyed him through narrowed eyes; she saw return to him that dread fear of losing her. He was easy to read, simple in his desires, ready enough to accept her own valuation of herself. What folly it would have been to have wept, to have told him that Northumberland lied, to have caused him to believe that her being Queen of England was to her advantage, not to his. While he believed she was ready to return to Hever, while he believed that she wished to be his wife chiefly because she had given way to his desires and sacrificed her honor and virtue, he would fight for her. She had to make him believe that the joy she could give him was worth more than any honors he could heap on her.
And he did believe this. He went storming out of the room; he had Northumberland brought before the Archbishops; he had him swear there had never been a contract with Anne Boleyn. It was made perfectly clear that Northumberland was married to Shrewsbury’s daughter, and Anne Boleyn free to marry the King.
Anne kn
ew that her handling of that little matter had been successful.
It was different with the trouble over Suffolk.
Suffolk, jealous, ambitious, seeking to prevent her marriage to the King, was ready to go to any lengths to discredit Anne, provided he could keep his head on his shoulders.
He started a rumor that Anne had had an affair with Thomas Wyatt even while the King was showing his preference for her. There was real danger in this sort of rumor, as there was no one at court who had not witnessed Thomas’s loving attitude towards Anne; they had been seen by all, spending much time together, and it was possible that she had shown how she preferred the poet.
Anne, recklessly deciding that one rumor was as good as another, repeated something completely damaging to Suffolk. He had, she had heard, and she did not hesitate to say it in quarters where it would be quickly carried to Suffolk’s ears, more than a fatherly affection for his daughter, Frances Brandon, and his love for her was nothing less than incestuous. Suffolk was furious at the accusation; he confronted Anne; they quarreled; and the result of this quarrel was that Anne insisted he should absent himself from the court for a while.
This was open warfare with one who—with perhaps the exception of Norfolk—was the most powerful noble in the land, and the King’s brother-in-law to boot. Suffolk retired in smoldering anger; he would not, Anne knew, let such an accusation go unpaid for, and she had always been afraid of Suffolk.
She shut herself in her room, feeling depressed; she wept a little and told Anne Saville that whoever asked for her was not to be admitted, even should it be the King himself.
She lay on her bed, staring at the ornate ceiling, seeing Suffolk’s angry eyes wherever she looked; she pictured his talking over with his friends the arrogance of her who, momentarily, had the King’s ear. Momentarily! It was a hideous word. The influence of all failed sooner or later. Oh, my God, were I but Queen! she thought. Were I but Queen, how happy I should feel! It is this perpetual waiting, this delay. The Pope will never give in; he is afraid of the Emperor Charles! And how can I be Queen of England while Katharine lives!
There was a tap on the door, and Anne Saville’s head appeared.
“I told you I would see no one!” cried Anne impatiently. “I told you—no one! No one at all! Not the King himself . . .”
“It is not the King,” said Anne Saville, “but my Lord Rochford. I told him you might see him . . .”
“Bring him to me,” said Anne.
George came in, his handsome face set in a smile, but she knew him well enough to be able to see the worried look behind the smile.
“I had the devil’s own job to get them to tell you I was here, Anne.”
“I had said I would see no one.”
He sat on the bed and looked at her.
“I have been hearing about Suffolk, Anne,” he said, and she shivered. “It is a sorry business.”
“I fear so.”
“He is the King’s brother-in-law.”
“Well, what if that is so? I am to be the King’s wife!”
“You make too many enemies, Anne.”
“I do not make them! I fear they make themselves.”
“The higher you rise, sister, the more there will be, ready to pull you down.”
“You cannot tell me more than I know about that, George.”
He leaned towards her.
“When I saw Suffolk, when I heard the talk . . . I was afraid. I would you had been more reasonable, Anne.”
“Did you hear what he said of me? He said Wyatt and I were, or had been, lovers!”
“I understand your need to punish him, but not your method.”
“I have said he shall be banished from the court, and so he is. I have but to say one shall be banished, and it is done.”
“The King loves you deeply, Anne, but it is best to be wise. A queen will have more need of friends than Anne Rochford, and Anne Rochford could never have too many.”
“Ah, my wise brother! I have been foolish . . . that I well know.”
“He will not let the matter rest here, Anne; he will seek to work you some wrong.”
“There will always be those who seek to do me wrong, George, no matter what I do!”
“It is so senseless to make enemies.”
“Sometimes I am very weary of the court, George.”
“So you tell yourself, Anne. Were you banished to Hever, you would die of boredom.”
“That I declare I would, George!”
“If you were asked what was your dearest wish, and spoke truthfully, you would say ‘I would I were settled firmly on the throne of England.’ Would you not?”
“You know me better than I know myself, George. It is a glorious adventure. I am flying high, and it is a wonderful, exhilarating, joyous flight; but when I look down I am sometimes giddy; then I am afraid.” She held out a hand and he took it. “Sometimes I say to myself ‘There is no one I trust but George.’”
He kissed her hand. “George you can always trust,” he said. “Others too, I’ll warrant; but always George.” Suddenly his reserve broke down, and he was talking as freely as she did. “Anne, Anne, sometimes I too am afraid. Whither are we going, you and I? From simple folk we have become great folk; and yet . . . and yet . . . Dost remember how we scorned poor Mary? And yet . . . Anne, whither are we going, you and I? Are you happy? Am I? I am married to the most vindictive of women; you contemplate marrying the most dangerous of men. Anne, Anne, we have to tread warily, both of us.”
“You frighten me, George.”
“I did not come to frighten you, Anne.”
“You came to reprove me for my conduct towards Suffolk. And I have always hated the man.”
“When you hate, Anne, it is better to hide your hatred. It is only love that should be shown.”
“There is nothing to be done about Suffolk now, George. In future I shall remember your words. I shall remember you coming to my room with a worried frown looking out from behind your smiles.”
The door opened and Lady Rochford came in. Her eyes darted to the bed.
“I thought to find you here.”
“Where is Anne Saville?” said Anne coldly, for she hated to have this tâte-à-tâte disturbed; there was much yet that she wished to say to her brother.
“Do you want to reprove her for letting me in?” asked Jane maliciously. “Marry! I thought when my husband came into a lady’s chamber, there should I follow him!”
“How are you, Jane?” said Anne.
“Very well, I thank you. You do not look so, sister. This affair of Suffolk must have upset you. I hear he is raging. You accused him of incest, so I heard.”
Anne flushed hotly. There was that in her sister-in-law to anger her even when she felt most kindly towards the world; now, the woman was maddening.
Jane went on: “The King’s sister will be most put about. She retains her fiery temper. . . . And what Frances will say I cannot think!”
“One would not expect you to think about any matter!” said Anne cuttingly. “And I do not wish you to enter my apartment without announcement.”
“Indeed, Anne, I am sorry. I thought there would be no need to stand on ceremony with your brother’s wife.”
“Let us go, Jane,” said George wearily; and she was aware that he had not looked at her since that one first glance of distaste when she entered the room.
“Oh, very well. I am sure I know when I am not wanted; but do not let me disturb your pleasant conversation—I am sure it was most pleasant . . . and loving.”
“Farewell, Anne,” said George. He stood by the bed, smiling at her, his eyes flashing a message: “Be of good cheer. All will be well. The King adores you. Hast forgotten he would make you Queen? What of Suffolk! What of any, while the King loves you!”
She said: “You have done me so much good, George. You always do.”
He stooped and kissed her forehead. Jane watched jealously. When had he last kissed her—kissed her voluntarily, that wa
s—a year ago, or more? I hate Anne, she thought, reclining there as though she were a queen already; her gowns beautifully furred—paid for by the King doubtless! Herself bejeweled as though for a state function, here in her private apartments. I hope she is never Queen! Katharine is Queen. Why should a man put away his wife because he is tired of her? Why should Anne Boleyn take the place of the true Queen, just because she is young and sparkling and vivacious and witty and beautifully dressed, and makes people believe she is more handsome than anyone at court? Everyone speaks of her; everywhere one goes one hears her name!
And he loves her . . . as he never loved me! And am I not his wife?
“Come, Jane!” he said, and his voice was different now that he spoke to her and not to his sister.
He led her out, and they walked silently through the corridors to their apartments in the palace.
She faced him and would not let him walk past her.
“You are as foolish about her as is the King!”
He sighed that weary sigh which always made her all but want to kill him, but not quite, because she loved him, and to kill him would be to kill her hopes of happiness.
“You will talk such nonsense, Jane!”
“Nonsense!” she cried shrilly, and then burst into weeping, covering her face with her hands; and waited for him to take her hands, plead with her to control herself. She wept noisily, but nothing happened; and taking down her hands, she saw that he had left her.
Then did she tremble with cold rage against him and against his sister.
“I would they were dead, both of them! They deserve to die; she for what she has done to the Queen; he for what he has done to me! One day . . .” She stopped, and ran to her mirror, saw her face blotched with tears and grief, thought of the cool, lovely face of the girl on the bed, and the long black hair which looked more beautiful in its disorder than it did when neatly tied. “One day,” she went on muttering to herself, “I believe I shall kill one of them . . . both of them, mayhap.”