Our heads close, we spoke of many things. How Henry’s love for me had raised our family’s rank and fortune — my Father made Earl of Wiltshire and Earl of Ormond, George made Lord Rochford, my Sister made Lady Mary Rochford, and I, Lady Anne Rochford. Too, George was made Ambassador to France and thus, his journey there.
We recalled the great banquet Henry gave at Whitehall for our family to celebrate that raising. ‘Twas most magnificent this gathering, with many high lords and ladies as his guests. George said he thought the King’s sister, Duchess of Suffolk, looked greener than her chartreuse gown to see me seated high at King Henry’s right hand, a place reserved for crowned Queens. Du Bellay, the French Ambassador did eye the night’s proceedings closely, and George chanced to see Eustace Chapuys, the Emperor’s new spy at Court (and Katherine’s counsellor), writing notes of the affair into a small tablet hanging at his waist. Me-thinks the goings on were made into a missive to his master Charles to use as weapon on his Aunt’s behalf.
Many fine and sumptuous courses were set at this meal — roasted goose and hares, mutton, pigeons, quail and venison, butter pastries stuffed with winter berries, vast quantities of sweet wine, and a pear and apple tart so large it hung beyond the table’s edge. Musicians played all thro the feasting. Later came the merry making fools and jesters. Still more musicians played when tables then were taken down. We danced, laughed, caroused till morning light shone thro the palace windows. ‘Twas such a happy night, some whispered that it seemed as tho it were a wedding celebration.
As we stood upon that winter shore, George and I, there came a lord, his lady and their retinue to make the Channel passage. The lord was handsome, his wife fair, and there behind them came several maids and several daughters. They stood against the wind and shook to think of such a crossing on a wooden ship in choppy seas.
“O George,” I cried. “Just now I see a vision of my past! I was a girl of nine. Tall and skinny, you remember.”
“I do remember that child. High spirits, wild temper. Her father’s willful black eyed girl.”
“Were you not with us here on Dover beach that day when our Sister Mary and my self accompanied Princess Mary on her wedding journey to France?”
“I was up in London then.”
“‘Twas a day much like this. Grey, cold and stormy seas. We all huddled on the shore with several royal ships anchored past the waves waiting for our boarding. That day I laid eyes on Henry for the first time. He was handsome as a god, made King not long before, still happy with his Spanish bride. They’d come to see his sister off, to make her royal match to doddering old King Louis. I saw the young King standing in the sand, tho never did he notice me, a scrawny girl. In those days his eyes were only for the Queen, proud Katherine whose belly swelled large with child.”
“I remember Henry in those days,” said George. “He seemed overlarge to me, almost bursting from his garments with great vitality and hunger for the world. His childhood had been a kind of prison. Second son, destined for the priesthood, he’d been cloistered in his father’s own austere apartments. Schooled well but allowed to speak to no one save his tutors, he walked alone in empty castle gardens. All tolled, a very lonely boy. Then his father died and soon thereafter Arthur died, too. O Anne, young Henry was like a butterfly escaping his cocoon. He emerged fully formed from that quiet state into a wild and brilliant life, as tho he’d been born to it. Great Harry — an apt title for a marvellous man and King.”
George turned and took my hands. “He will marry you, I know he’ll find a way. I intend to return to see my sister crowned a Queen.”
Then a sailor came and bade George climb aboard his tiny boat to row him to the ship, heaving and rolling at its anchor. I kissed him, bade him Godspeed and let him go. He climbed aboard the creaking dinghy and as I watched, a sudden gust took his cap, but his nimble fingers snatched it back. He turned and grinned at me, a little boy again. The warm love in that smile flew across the sand and enfolded me like some great wool cloak. And thus protected I stood and watched as his ship set sail and disappeared behind the grey horizon.
Yours faithfully,
Anne
25 December 1529
Diary,
O am I wretched in the extreme! Hidden away in my apartments I can hear the raucous Christmastide festivities in the great hall of Greenwich — most grand and public celebrations presided over by the King and Queen whilst here in my paltry gathering I’m attended only by my Sister and my Mother, Thomas Cranmer and several loyal courtiers. George is still in France and Father — I think he does not know what loyalty means — feasts beside the King tonight.
I railed loud and fierce at Henry for this miserable arrangement, but he claimed impotence at changing ancient custom.
“Whilst she is Queen,” said he, “Katherine must remain my public consort still at Yuletide and at Easter celebrations. Other times, sweetheart, you’ll surely be at my right hand. Already we are most scandalous and flaunt our love prodigiously. But on these holy days my subjects would not stand to see you at my side, but would rebel most loudly, Anne. Forgive me, please.”
I did not forgive Henry, but sent him from my sight with hot tears rolling down my face. And now I listen to the music wafting from the hall below, see in my mind a thousand candles making bright the festive tables, Henry’s glittering guests, their jewels and gorgeous fashions, dancing, laughter and my enemies gloating at my absence.
I laid my miseries on my widowed sister Mary’s doorsill. She listened long to me as I lamented all my enemies. First of course the Queen, who in her stolid perseverance and infuriating dignity, repels all Henry’s machinations and refuses still to treat me badly. Mary claims that Katherine believes that we will never marry, that if she holds her place with firm resolve and says nothing ill construed or hurtful, day will come when she is reinstated in her place in Henry’s heart, her marriage once again whole. The Queen, she says, cannot hate me, that her Catholic faith and pious love will not allow it.
This is not the same for Princess Mary. My Sister clearly sees, as I do, the poison in that young girl’s eyes for me. Catholic or not she wishes me dead. And tho Henry more and more despises Katherine, he yet loves his pretty daughter Mary, now thirteen, most clever and well schooled, his Pearl of the World. Until my womb bears our little Prince this frail girl remains his only legal heir.
Lesser enemies but still vexing are Katherine’s Spanish waiting ladies. I’ve said aloud I wished they all were lying at the bottom of the sea. Mary asked was it true I’d told the Queen’s maid Maria de Moreto I would rather see the Queen hanged than confess she was my mistress. I confessed yes, ‘twas true in deed, and Mary roared with laughter which I joined. ‘Twas good to feel the grey cloud lifting from my heart as we dispatched my many other foes with great bawdy jokes and jabs.
Then she asked me what I wished most fervently for. It took me no time to answer. To have Henry send the Queen and Princess Mary far from Court, I told her.
“Let me tell you how to wrest such a favor from the King.” She leaned close. “He’s a lusty man, our Henry, and all your kisses, fondling and such must leave him most unsatisfied.”
“’Tis how I hold him, Sister. In his dreams I am far more than I could ever be in life.”
“Give him something, Anne, and still keep your maiden flower. Assume the French technique of satisfaction — with your mouth. I swear ‘twill please him marvellously well, and you’ll be hard pressed to count the gifts and favors granted you withal a night of these embraces.”
I felt my liquid humors boil. Was I to take advice from Henry’s used and now discarded concubine? Said I to her, “Do you presume to teach me the strategy of love when I’m within arm’s reach of England’s crown?”
“O, do as you will, little sister. But that crown still rests firm upon Queen Katherine’s head, and she will not gladly part with it.”
“Henry loves me!”
“Aye, and Henry is fickle.”
I wished
to slap Mary’s pretty face, but I held my hand. For tho I true believed the King’s good intentions, yet I sat abandoned and in exile from him self and all the Christmas feasting. God, I pray my Sister’s wrong and that by Christmas next I will be Queen.
Yours faithfully,
Anne
9 June 1530
Diary,
It much pleases me that in recent days I have come to be schooled in the arts of intrigue and politicks and my tutors — Norfolk, Suffolk, Thomas More, and my Father Lord Wiltshire — are the greatest artists in the land. I watch mindfully as they and Henry weave the fabric of government into a fine tapestry, the warp and woof of fiefdoms, subjects, wars and taxes shot with golden strands; embroider it with elegant diplomacy and laws; and stitch together staunch borders with the thread of loyal lords and fighting men.
I was called upon by one Master Cromwell, Cardinal Wolsey’s secretary, and that audience has piqued my mind. This little man dressed all in lawyers black — beady eyes, large pointed nose, small mouth set upon a boxy face — came to beg on behalf of his now humble, still banished master a kind word from my self and Henry. As he spoke of Wolsey, very ill of dropsy and despair he said, and in great need of comfort, I sensed within the man a second meaning. ‘Twas nothing in the words he said that made me think he was disloyal. Just a glint in those clever eyes, a half smile upon thin lips that told of other purposes and schemes. Perhaps this brewer’s son, risen so high, has an admiration for a girl who’d turned the once grand Cardinal to some grovelling supplicant.
This strange man did excite my curiosity, he seems so sure, so confident. But I held my counsel and pretending generosity, gave a small gift to him for Wolsey — a golden tablet that I wore round my waist on which I wrote some comfortable words and commendations. He thanked me humbly, bowed low and then withdrew.
Thomas Cromwell seems to be somewhere near in my future. Time will tell, I’m sure.
In his passionate attachment to my self, the King has found a clever strategy for claiming his divorce. My family’s new chaplain, Thomas Cranmer late of Cambridge and a mild and friendly man, made a bold suggestion that Henry had no need of Rome’s approval, just opinions of divers European theologians saying if they felt the Pope had right, or not, to have given dispensation for Henry’s wedding to his brother’s wife. Or even could they judge the case at all? This simple idea was like a bomb dropped upon the King’s head.
Altogether impressed with this cleric’s vision, Henry swore that Cranmer “had the sow by the right ear” and with no delay sent to all the Universities of Europe many envoys, with their pockets bulging full of gold. Their intent — to guide the minds of scholars of the canon law and help them see the logic of divorce from Katherine, and to write their positive opinions on the matter. What I learn from this is that the means are sometimes unimportant if the ending justifies. And this coming marriage of ours is cause enough for all and every type of Machiavellian scheme.
‘Tis cause for much confusion too. The town and country folk despise the English Priests and Bishops, but when those very clerics defend within their pulpits Henry’s right to seek divorce from Katherine and Roman rule, they’re boo’d and pelted with abuse. Even Henry vacillates on issues of heretical intent. First made furious by Tyndale’s tract called “Practices of Prelates” that crucified Wolsey and condemned the King’s divorce, Henry suddenly then made offer that the author have a seat within the Royal Council, if the man would publicly change his mind!
I swear, sometimes methinks the world is going mad and I with it. But I must hold my course and steady Henry on his, if we are to have our way.
Yours faithfully,
Anne
1 December 1530
Diary,
T Carlis Ebor is dead. Not beheaded as Henry had ordered, but felled by common dysentery on his way to London Tower. I feared that Wolsey’s final battle for Henrys love would see him once again victorious. For the King, of late, had been most displeased with his councillors Wiltshire, Suffolk and Norfolk, lamenting loudly that the Cardinal was a better man than all of them together. He’d given back the Cardinal’s properties, let him remain as York’s Archbishop and given him a pretty present of some £3,000. ‘Twas worrying in deed. What if Henry raised again that vicious prelate to his counsel? Wolsey hated me still. In weeks past I had learned thro certain spies of mine that in his absence from the Court, the Cardinal’d been in treasonous correspondence with the Pope, giving his approval to an edict forcing my separation from the King.
The Duke of Norfolk, no doubt within his selfish interests, tho happily in league with my desires, wrested from the Cardinal’s Doctor Agostini, a statement that old Wolsey’d asked the Pope for Henry’s excommunication unless he sent me from the Court. And worse, the Cardinal plotted a great uprising in which he him self could grab the reins of government. In Parliament, newly called Chancellor Thomas More spoke rancorously about the lately fallen “eunuch” Wolsey and of the King’s necessity to purge his flock of all rotten and faulty men. My loud protestations added to Mores, and Norfolk’s information were far too strong to be ignored. Stony faced, silent, no doubt broken hearted, Henry signed a warrant for Cardinal Wolsey’s quick arrest.
‘Twas undecided who would make its presentation to the man, and truly there were few who had the heart for such a job. I therefore took the reins and chose the deputy myself. My choice, as sweet as it was bitter, was Henry Percy Lord Northumberland. O sweet revenge! How I wish that I had been a fly upon the Cardinal’s wall that night — the eve of what he thought would be triumphant celebration of his reinstatement in the Bishopric of York. Instead, Percy strode into his dining chamber and spoke the words “My Lord, I arrest you now, charged with high treason.”
Then under heavy guard, making his way south in foul weather to London and his inevitable execution, slow in miserable progression he sickened and fell. And there at Leicester Abbey Cardinal Wolsey died more peacefully than I had hoped, depriving my eyes the sight of his humiliating end.
Yours faithfully,
Anne
7 February 1531
Diary,
God bless Master Cromwell. In close clandestine consort with His Majesty — he has a room at Greenwich Palace and the King has secret access there — he has struck upon a plan so ruthless, so brilliant and outrageous that an end to Henry’s Great Matter is now in sight. What cunning mind has this little man to conceive the King consecrated Supreme Head of the Church of England!
At the Canterbury Convocation, Cromwell stood before the meeting pointing out that English clergymen give their whole authority to a foreign power — the Pope. Then like a double swordsman wielding this fact in one hand and terror in the other, charged each and every cleric on this isle with the ancient law of Praemunire, the same treasonous crime for which Wolsey found himself arrested and brought down. Finally he demanded payment from the clergy, ransom if you will, for King Henry’s pardon of them! Cromwell contends that when the Church’s back is broken, the Holy Father toppled from his throne, and Henry made Christ’s Vicar here in England, the King can then command the highest prelate in the land — Archbishop of Canterbury — him self to grant him his divorce. And we shall be wed. Well, all Hell broke loose within that Convocation. Appalled but helpless in their rage, they tried but failed most miserably to come to some conclusion short of making Henry Protector and Supreme Head of Church and Clergy in England!
Lord Chancellor More was livid at the act. But he has proven impotent in his new role, once wielded like a cudgel by old Wolsey. As I told Henry he would, More never moved from his position on the King’s divorce, remaining hard against it. But Thomas More is also Henrys feckless puppet, far too mild and malleable to work against his will. In Mores time in office this family man, this person of supposed high principles has persecuted heretics most mercilously. Stating disbelievers needed no less than full extermination, he showed no tolerance at all. His constant writings on the subject did annoy the King most righteously
but worse, when citizens were found out reading Master Tyndale’s “Practices of Prelates,” those books were tied about their necks on strings and they were made to march thro London streets and later throw the books on burning pyres. He whipped and tortured men and women, threatened burnings too.
Unmoved by his Chancellors sore discomfiture, the King commanded More to make a speech before the House of Lords and later to the House of Commons, there defending Henry’s motive for divorcing Katherine. Anguished and humiliated he argued his King acted not for love of a lady, as some said, but purely out of conscience and for his scruple’s sake. More must have choked on those bitter and lying words.
Henry’s great act is historic and most frightening to me, for it is for my hand alone that he has snatched the Pope’s hat to sit atop his King’s crown. I tremble at the thought… and yet I smile as well. I remain.
Yours faithfully,
Anne
I HOPE I HAVE FOUND that which Her Majesty desires,” said Lord Steward Francis Knollys above the loud clanking of heavy keys on the chain that hung around his slender waist. Elizabeth’s tall and long-legged cousin topped her by several inches but still had a difficult time keeping up with her brisk pace down Greenwich Casde’s long hall.
“My mother was one of your mother’s ladies near the end of her life,” he said. “It was, she told me, dangerous to show any interest or sympathy for Queen Anne, and most of her things were qui-etly dispersed or discarded at her death.”
Elizabeth felt a small shiver of pain sweep through her body at the thought of a woman once so beloved by her husband, whose memory had been so quickly and ruthlessly forgotten. It was strange and uncomfortable to be speaking openly of the convicted traitoress, one whose name she had barely uttered in her twenty-five years. But Knollys, a Boleyn relative, seemed happy to be able to talk of her.
The Secret Diary of Anne Boleyn Page 16