I have been weak as a babe these many days since I returned from my otherworld sojourn, but thankful to God for not only my life, but that of my Brother George and Father who have also made recoveries. Henry sent me his own Physician, Doctor Butts, when hearing of my illness. The King was sore aggrieved that his first physician was absent and could not come to me, but prayed the man he’d sent could cure me. As it was he arrived too late to be of any help with my body’s sickness, but brought with him a document from Henry which did my mind much good in deed. ‘Twas a letter from the French King confirming his staunch support for Henry’s divorce, which is so important. For without the love of Francis our good cause would sure be lost. And a letter, too, from Henry came with Doctor Butts, begging me return to Court the moment I am well and strong.
For now I am content to rest at Hever praying for Cardinal Campeggio’s safe passage out from Italy to France and hither then to England, and thanks be to God that I’m alive.
Your faithfully,
Anne
5 August 1528
Diary,
God’s Blood! Cardinal Campeggio has not yet left for France and all this time I thought, as Henry did, the man was on his way to bring us our salvation. Poor man suffers from the gout and so remained abed in Italy till its subsidence. Meanwhile French soldiers lose ground daily to Imperial soldiers moving closer to Orvieto where the Pope still resides. What will happen if Emperor Charles should take old Clement prisoner? What then becomes of his new friendship in our cause? Dead and gone, altogether hopeless.
I prod my Father and my Brother, Uncle Norfolk too, for news of war in Italy. Nights I look for sleep but find my self instead in fervent waking prayers, supplications all to God to help King Francis’ soldiers, that these men fight with valor, luck and bold intent. That their armor, swords and shields hold strong against the deadly clash of the Emperor’s assaults. Henry wishes me to stay with him at Ampthill for a fortnight more, but I declined. I shall go back to Edenbridge once again, for tongues are wagging. Henry, more than glad to see me well again, makes daily scandalous demonstrations of his love and lust for me, and fondles my self publicly. He even bids me make the plans for marriage, but this is folly! Soon Cardinal Campeggio will be well and start his journey here. When he arrives he must have no cause to think the King desires divorce to marry me. I say this to Henry and he laughs and kisses me, made reckless by desire. It does gall me to have to rein him in. So, wearily I pack again for Hever House to wait for some old man’s gout to heal and pray for France’s victory. I remain in steadfast hope
Yours faithfully,
Anne
19 October 1528
Diary,
I am altogether wretched. As I came in from hunting with Urian at my heels, I passed the kitchen and chanced to hear a whispered conversation tween two maids. ‘Twas little more than market gossip but it cut me to the bone. They tittered, joyfully scandalized, how a mistress of their house was subject of the gossip brought all the way from London with the spices and the Flanders wool. “Nan Bullen, the King’s black eyed whore” they’re calling me. Me, a whore! All this time I have with firm resolve kept intact my maidenhood. My conduct has been strong and chaste — I’ve kept a lusty King at bay. Does a monarch spar with Pope and Emperor to win a legal wedding for a whore?
But this is idle gossip, nothing but a trifle and a misdemeanor. Worse is that there is no progress in the case of this divorce. Campeggio, finally come to England, pleads endlessly his gouty legs and will not call the trial. Methinks this is a ruse, a poor excuse with full intent of purpose to delay. His master is the Pope and my heart tells me that despite reports that Clement is Henry’s friend in this, the man of God is just a man, with fear for his own life and limb. I swear he plays with Henry. And Henry does not know it.
The King came to Hever one week ago. He came with news he thought to cheer me — gave report of how after a fortnight spent in bed at Bath Palace, Campeggio roused himself to seek audience with Henry. How it rained in Biblical proportions as the legate’s barge was borne down the Thames to Bridewell. He could neither ride nor walk, and so four men had carried him in a crimson velvet chair from river’s edge to castle steps where Henry waited. Old Wolsey in procession with his fellow Cardinal was waterlogged, the mule he rode in mud up to its knees. Inside was a magnificent occasion. A great feast. Some letters from the Pope and many honeyed speeches. Henry dangled ‘fore Campeggio’s nose the Bishopric of Durham which the legate covets mightily, we’re told. But of all this, nothing came! For pleading pain and indisposition, the Cardinal begged early leave and Henry, ever gracious, gave it.
When next day Henry made the trip to Bath to make his studied theologic case against the marriage, Campeggio dissembled, begging the King consider making good his current wedded state. When Henry did object, firm but most politely, then the Cardinal made a new suggestion, one which Henry liked quite well. Let the Queen retire to a nunnery, was his advice. A pious woman and a reasonable one, she would sure oblige.
Next day, in fact, Campeggio and Wolsey made the pilgrimage to Katherine down at Bridewell, told her that the Pope did wish this happy end for her. The Queen withheld response, Henry told me, several days hence paying a call to Campeggio her self, at Bath. Then did she regale him with so harsh an answer that he was chafed and sore amazed. She told him firmly she would live and die within the state of matrimony into which God had called her. She had had no intercourse with Henrys brother Arthur and was certainly a virgin when she came to Henrys bed. And it was her most resolute decision that she would rather to be torn limb from limb and die several times, than make alteration to her married state with the King her lawful husband.
If this were not enough to make me wretched, a great crowd, angry at these divorce proceedings, came to Bridewell Palace loudly calling out their blessing and their love for Katherine. “Victory o’er our enemies!” they cried. Who else, I wondered, is that enemy but me, their future Queen?
I was in a fury. I tore at Henry like a dog let loose at a bear baiting. How could this tiny woman from Spain prevail o’er papal prelates, courtiers and Kings, I wished to know? How could he allow the sly Campeggio to stall and feign his gout and play him like a deck of cards? The rude legate had not even been to visit me, as Henry’d promised that he’d do.
The King tried to take me in his arms to kiss and soothe me, but I pulled away. He had to see the sense I made, that he was being made a fool. So he smoothed my hair, stroked my hand and promised me he’d see the course went differently. Then rode off with high hopes. I stayed behind and prayed.
A letter came from Henry yesterday. He said he’d writ an order that no crowds could come and gather at the palace grounds again. What thinks he? That since they cannot say in public places how they love the Queen, they do not yet feel it in their hearts? Henry then reported of a meeting that he’d called of all the London Aldermen and Mayor, to his great hall at Bridewell. Here he hoped to gather all their loyalties to the cause of his divorce. He made much deference to Katherine, said how he loved her still, but pricked by conscience and the need for male heirs, did seek a separation. The Aldermen seemed amenable, he said, but when he heard some whisperings amongst these men he added one more thing so they should know his cold resolve. That if he found anyone who spoke in unsuitable terms of their Prince, “there is no head so fine” but he would make it fly.
The final blow, he wrote to say, is that the Queen has found (or mayhaps forged) a copy of Pope Julius’ dispensation for her marriage to Henry, given she says, to her mother Isabella on her deathbed. This document, with different wording from the one that Henry keeps, throws Cardinal Wolsey and the King into confusion and anxiety. Now they themselves delay the trial!
So the King makes stabs at this beast but does not kill it, barely wounds it. And I am left helpless here at Hever, with nothing more to show for my travails than a weary body, a foul mood and a rude nickname. The future does indeed look bleak.
Yours faithfully
,
Anne
2 March 1529
Diary,
I fear your faithful friend’s become a shrew. I am crowded with vexations and frustrations that leave me sore and tearful, even causing me to heap my screaming rage upon the King. He holds me tenderly and soothes me with his many hopeful words. To see me in my lavish new apartments here in Greenwich, richly hung with gifts from loving Henry, surrounded by my family and those courtiers who hope to see me Queen, you’d think me only happy, hopeful, merry. But I have many grievances and much cause for moroseness. Seven months in England, and the Cardinal Campeggio has not seen fit to open up the court. Seven months of vile procrastination, letters flowing here to Rome and back like some foul and circular tide, filled with pleading, useless logic, lies.
Henry sent a delegation, Warham among them, to the Queen with a harsh report from him. There were rumors, Warham told her then, of murderous plots afoot against the King with Katherine the cause. They’d advised him he should henceforth make him self altogether absent from her presence, both her bed and company, lest he be poisoned by her self or servants of her house. They say she listened with a face of stone and bade them leave. The King placed spies around her then and kept her from all correspondence with Mendoza, diplomat of Spain. Henry too forbade the Queen from seeing her daughter Mary, which admittedly is harsh beyond all reason. And did this break the Queen of spirit or of mind? Not at all. Her stubbornness grows stronger every day, and with it loyal subjects’ staunch support for this cheerful martyr. Some days in my temper I do wish to claw her pious eyes out one by one! And strangle all the scores of weak livered men who at most can bully her, but neither understand her mind nor steer her from her righteous course.
But worst of all and dangerous to me is that cursed Wolsey’s plotting my demise once more. Last week the Dean of Henry’s chapel found amongst my things a tract by Tyndale — “Obedience of a Christian Man” — and brought it to the Cardinal’s attention. Wolsey took it to the King. ‘Tis true that even reading such a book is thought to be a breach of Catholic ethics, heretical in fact. I could see my self with Wolsey standing by, a smile upon his piggish face, whilst I, disgraced, walked in public procession carrying a faggot on my way to prison. I knew that brooding long on this was folly, and in truth I felt more anger then than fear, and swore to George and all my courtiers loud and clear that it should be the dearest book that ever Dean or Cardinal took away from any one.
I went and found the King that very hour and fell upon my knees for kind forgiveness for my act. He’d been thinking, then he said to my relief, that tho he was a loyal Catholic still, he wished to read the book him self and make his own opinion of it, maybe write a treatise of his own. I was saved and most grateful for dear Henrys open mind and heart.
But Wolsey, it is clear, still wishes for my downfall. And at this writing I can scarce believe the King will even have his day in court or take his legal leave of Katherine. Sly fox, this Campeggio who, with long and ragged beard, has claimed he grows it thus to mourn the English Church. I think he never meant to bring us any joy, but only empty promises and lies from Clement. My head aches with anger and this cold and never ending winter. We have not seen the sun in many weeks.
Yours faithfully,
Anne
31 May 1529
Diary,
‘Tis a great morning, this. The legate’s court has opened and my wedding’s now assured. Last night ‘twas chilly at my Father’s river mansion Durham, when King Henry’s gilded barge brought him hither to await the changing tide. He was very jolly, very self assured, having put behind him all of Clement’s foul excuses and delays, and with a Kingly hand did call the court himself. This, he said, was necessary to prevent the Pope convening it in Rome, which meant disaster for our cause. So ‘tis done, and even now Henry sits at Greenwich Castle waiting for his formal summons from the legates at the Priory of Blackfriars where the court will be.
Last night he regaled us — me, my Father, Brother George — with scholarly epistles he had writ upon the subject of his marriage and divorcing under canon law. Henry has become quite the expert, and convinced the Cardinals will champion his cause. He was full and happy in those hours he spent among our clan, well at ease with his new family, which is how he calls us now and I, his blushing bride to be.
When the tide had turned and Henry’s barge departed, I found my Father standing at the central fire alone and lost in contemplation. I moved beside him, warmed my hands but kept the silence. Our eyes met and in his stare I saw a kind of consternation, even wonder, Tore he turned his face away. I removed my self and went upstairs where George was also retiring. We met in the passage tween our rooms, candles flickering, voices whispering. Sweet George, now Esquire of the Body of the King and Master of the Buckhounds, I asked him if he understood our Father’s mind upon the subject of my self and he said yes, he did.
“Father still grovels to the King, as yet I do. We fear the slight misstep, the word with tone too harsh, too soft, too controversial. But you, Anne, you have him at your feet. I swear he’d wash your dirty linen if you bade him! You scream and curse and make a proper tantrum as you please. You’re taken into confidence on matters of importance as a man would be. And now he’s brought him self before the Papal Court to ask divorce from Katherine for your hand. He’s quite beside him self, this King of ours, and you’re the only cause. Our father sees this and can neither understand nor be altogether happy.”
“Why not happy? His daughter will be Queen.”
“’Tis not done yet, Anne.”
“But the King believes—”
“The King believes his dreams.”
“And I believe them too!” said I most fervently. “Henry rules this land and neither Lords nor Emperor nor Pope nor God him self will keep him from his hearts desire. And that desire is me. How this came to be’s a mystery, I’ll grant. I used my French wiles, my wit, my reticence that made him want me more, but to be honest, Brother, I know not how his Majesty came to love me with such a raging fire as this. I do know that he burns so deeply that he will move all of Earth and much of Heaven to have me. So be of good faith, George. I will be Queen. You’ll see.”
He smiled with such hope and sweet affection that my heart swelled with love for him. Tho my father broods upon my fate and lacks true loyalty, I have luck to own a brother such as George Boleyn. And so I wait here in Durham House as Henry waits at Greenwich. Waits for all the English Bishops and the Cardinals at Blackfriars Court assembled altogether in their scarlet robes and scarlet hats on thrones of cloth of gold, to call him there to make his case that for twenty years past he had lived adulterously.
Go with all good grace and honor, Henry. Shake the world and take the fallen pieces in your hands to make it ours and ours alone!
Yours faithfully,
Anne
21 June 1529
Diary,
The battle has been roundly joined and on this day tho all are bloodied, none are yet fallen. I watched out Durham’s river windows as Katherine’s barge was taken by the morning tide to Blackfriars for her day in court.
All lined along the river’s edge were citizens, women most, who cheered her stately progress on with cries of love and loyalty. I knew they were but a few of many who support their Queen and much hate me. I have heard of all the jostling crowds who stand outside of Blackfriars Hall to wait for her and call her name, give her strength to carry on her doomed campaign against the King.
The day was hellish hot and no relief was found along the river. Inside, the stagnant air was rank with fear. Hours dragged and no word came from Father nor from Uncle Norfolk of the day’s proceedings. But when the long afternoon melted into honeyed evening light, the great floating procession then began of divers wherries, boats and barges of the court’s participants making upriver back to London. There amongst them was Henry’s most magnificent craft which broke away and docked at Durham quay.
Smiling and defiant and in plain sight of a
ll, he strode cross the lawn and I, made brave by that defiance, went out to meet him in my rich sapphire gown, hair unbound and flowing down my back. But once concealed within the house the Kings strong posture changed. He seemed to wilt, the smile dropt away replaced by tired anger. I sat this weary soldier down and ministered to him kindly — wiped his brow with cool and parfumed cloths, brought him chilly wine, and kissed him gently.
He smiled a little then, seemed to be remembering why he fought this endless battle, then began to talk about the day in court. He had started with his heartfelt deposition of a conscience most tormented by his own innocently adulterous acts with Katherine, his brothers lawful wife.
“I spoke well and long,” he said, “and brought about my arguments to make advantage of my case, but then when I was finished, Katherine stood and with that regal Spanish bearing walked across the silenced hall and fell upon her knees at my feet. She then beseeched me, Anne, for all the love that had been between us and for the love of God in whose name she claimed to speak, to let her have Justice and Right. She asked for pity and compassion being a stranger and a foreigner, and said that she had indifferent counsel. This is true. The two Imperial lawyers she had hoped would come from Flanders to plead her case did never come — they say her nephew Charles would not allow it, fearing for their safety. But let me tell you, Katherine did speak well enough to put any counsel to shame. She said she’d been a true, humble and obedient wife, loving my friends and hating my enemies. And of the stillborn children that she’d had, their deaths were not her fault but only God’s will.”
The Secret Diary of Anne Boleyn Page 14