by G Lawrence
“There is nothing in this world that could ever take me from you,” he wrote. “No man, no woman, no power on this earth or in heaven above. You are mine, and I will have you. Think not that I, too, do not suffer as you in our days of separation. I long for you, I dream of you… and I awake wanting to hold you in my arms. I dream of our sons, and our daughters. I dream of the day when you will stand at my side, in the sight of my country and in the eyes of God… my true and only Queen. The one and only love I have ever known.”
I clung to those letters. They were a balm to my terrors and annoyances. At night, I dreamed of Henry. I dreamed that he came to me as a husband, as a lover, taking me into his embrace, moving against me, our heated skin finally free to take pleasure in each other’s love. But each morning I awoke unsated. I went back to waiting, longing, yearning.
That February, Bishop Tunstall started an avid campaign against heretics, those who dared to read Tyndale’s Bible translation, and Lollards. Ecclesiastical prisons in London swelled with suspects. Rather than burning them, which was the punishment for heresy, many were forced to repent, signing confessions and doing penance. Many had to process through London, bare-headed and bare-footed, carrying faggots upon their backs. They were made to hear Mass on their knees, and refused the Sacrament as a punishment. Some had their property seized, or were forbidden to leave their parishes, living ever after as suspected men. Thomas More, too, was increasingly vindictive in his attack on heretics and the Church was glad of his help. He had spies placed about London, ready to inform on any illicit activities and on men who met in secret to discuss Tyndale’s Bible, and other works. But groups of resistance were moving in the shadows. People were leaning much the Church did not want them to know. More and his heretic-hunters were busy in that cold winter. They were after all who would dare to think for themselves.
As foxes sang their unearthly songs to vixens in the woods, as the snowdrops started to push their sword-shaped leaves through the icy ground, as the snow melted and the brown trout spawned in the rivers, I waited and I waited. Young jack pike lay like sunken ships at the bottoms of the weed beds, and men hunted them with huge barbs of treble hooks. In the frost-rimmed grass at the edge of rivers, water voles chewed on young, wild watercress, watching for young fish to pursue. As primroses came to the woodlands, spreading bright colour through the dull gloom of the forests, still I waited for news, and a chance to see my beloved once more.
Chapter Fifteen
Hever Castle
Early Spring 1528
That season, as slate-blue kestrels performed for their mates and flowers emerged from beneath frost-covered earth, I was uneasy. There had been but small news from our envoys in Rome, and no progress here in England. I was troubled that without me at Henry’s side, there was less enthusiasm to hurry along the Great Matter, and the Cardinal appeared to be dallying too.
I mentioned absently to the ever-attentive Thomas Heneage, who rode out to see me often on Wolsey’s behalf, that I felt the Cardinal seemed somewhat distracted from the proceedings of the King’s Great Matter. We had had no news of this Legatine Court that he intended to set up to try the validity of Henry’s marriage once the delegate from Rome was approved. I made it clear to Heneage that I was less than happy to think the Cardinal was not acting with all speed to ensure the King’s pleasure. “The King is not a patient man,” I warned Heneage who viewed me calmly. “But I am even less patient than he.”
Heneage bowed. “I will inform the Cardinal that you are troubled, Mistress Boleyn,” he promised, playing with his cap. “The Cardinal would not want your pretty head to be so full of worry.”
What should my pretty head be full of then? I would have wagered that the Cardinal hoped it was stuffed with straw rather than with a mind… My eyes wandered thoughtfully out of the window. The world was beginning to break into new life, even as my own had grown stagnant. I wanted to see something moving for us. I wanted proof that I was not being ignored here at Hever. “It would be nice to have some good fish for Lent,” I remarked. “Our ponds here at Hever are not as well-stocked, I think, as those the Cardinal owns?”
“His Eminence has a great stock of those beasts suitable for eating during holy times, it is true,” Heneage agreed. I smiled. The man knew what to do should he wish to incur my favour. I wanted the Cardinal to know I was keeping an eye on him, and I wanted to see what he would do to please me.
With ridiculous speed, the Cardinal sent a gift of fresh fish to Hever. Carp arrived alive and swimming in huge barrels from his famous stock ponds, along with trout, salmon and grayling. But the Cardinal did not stop there. Huge volumes of good shrimp came from merchants who supplied his houses, along with crab, cases of smoked herrings, mackerel, mussels, winkles, oysters and ells. Groaning wagons lumbered to the castle gates and my mother was dumbfounded at the stupendous offering, wondering aloud how we were ever to eat it all. She set to work; sending servants to smoke fish, salt fish and release those we could into our own stock ponds. I walked around the barrels and cases of fish, trailing a hand over them with pleasure. Wolsey had leapt fast to try to please me. He feared my ill-will.
There was a letter that came with the generous gift, reassuring me that he was working for the annulment with the utmost urgency and diligence. He had been working both night and day, he wrote, to ensure we had the best arguments and the best case to put before the court and the papal delegate when they were assembled. The reason I had not heard from him, Wolsey wrote, was because he had hardly taken time that winter to sleep or eat, so busy was he with the King’s Great Matter. I showed the letter to my family.
My father chuckled when he read the parchment. “To the most gracious lady of our Kingdom.” My father grinned, laughing with pleasure when he saw my scowling face. “Oh come, Anne!” he chuckled gleefully. “I laugh not at the phrase but at the newfound humility of the writer! How the mighty can be brought to heel…” He turned the letter over in his hands. “Oh…. the little rodent will have to do a lot better than this!” He almost skipped to the fireplace where he warmed his hands whilst re-reading the letter.
“It seems the Cardinal is the second great man at court to be in your pocket, sister,” said George, grinning from ear to ear. “Soon, perhaps, you will have the Pope also, and then your power in this and every other realm shall be complete!”
“Will you be serious, George?” I said waspishly. “This is not a game. The Cardinal is shaken because he did not realise how important I am to Henry and it is his business to know all that the King wants and needs, even before he knows it himself. He slipped, and now he tries to right himself. He flatters me to trick me into thinking well of him and hopes I am fool enough to be bought. He hopes I will speak well of him to Henry. He is not our friend. He is our enemy and would think nothing of crushing us if he could, most especially me. He worries that Henry will turn to me, rather than him. He seeks to placate me, that is all.” I paused, running my nails down the sides of my green velvet dress. Its skirts glistened with silver thread, sewn in the shapes of rose buds, lions and dragons; Henry’s emblems. “We must be careful; until the King has his annulment my position is precarious… I have only Henry’s love to rely on.”
“He does not seem any less in love with you, Anne,” spoke my gentle sister, toying with a dark ribbon at her breast. “If anything, every day of waiting makes him only more anxious to wed you. Will says when you are not there Henry’s temper is dangerous. He has never shown such emotion, nor been as unable to hide it, when he claimed to love others.”
I shrugged. “But I am not others,” I said coldly and saw her flinch. I tsked impatiently. I was not intending to hurt her. “I mean that I am seeking to be his queen, not just to catch his attention for a month.” Mary cringed again, but I was growing tired of worrying about her feelings. I had enough worries of my own. This winter had not helped at all. My temper was fractious and my tongue was sharp. I nodded curtly at her. “I know the King loves me,” I went on. “But
Wolsey is not an opponent to dismiss. He has much power and Henry’s love too. They have been close for a long time. This is the first time he has failed to immediately satisfy Henry’s wishes. Henry wants to believe in him. He loves the man.”
My uncle of Norfolk shifted about in the corner and groaned, rubbing his stomach. I had no doubt his digestion was paining him, for at dinner, he had eaten like a hog who had found truffles in the woods. “Then we must make sure that the King loves you more,” he gasped. “This matter is not only important to our family, it is vital for England, for our future, that this marriage comes to pass.”
He paused and pushed a hand into his side, trying to assail the cramps which gnawed at him. “But you are right to mistrust Wolsey. The Cardinal does not wish to see the headstrong daughter of a powerful family usurp his power over the King and therefore I do not believe that he will work for us, no matter what gifts he sends or flattery he uses. We shall all keep an eye on his dealings, and report on his doings. If he works for us then we shall support him. If he works against us, or stalls this annulment in any way, we will move against him. For now, Anne, take his gifts and flatter him to his face, but be wary, be watchful. If he should slip even once, mention it to the King. Last year the King accused him of being distracted on the Great Matter and it scared the Cardinal badly to have Henry’s anger for once directed at him. Let us see if we can give the arrogant Cardinal more of a scare, shall we?”
There was venom in my uncle’s voice. Who could blame him? The Cardinal had taken much from our family, and others, and had grown rich on the profits… Such a man makes enemies easily.
I agreed to keep an eye on the Cardinal, but it was almost impossible to do so at Hever. Being kept at Hever felt like a punishment, but even though I was not at court, my wishes were carried out and my pleasures were attended to. I started to ask small favours for my supporters. A kinsman, Sir Nicholas Carew, was restored to the Privy Chamber at my request. My father encouraged me in this, and convinced me that such favours would infuriate Wolsey, and so I relished the task of securing them.
I despised that red-robed rodent who flung himself arrogantly around the corridors of power with oranges stuck to his nose, waving people out of his way as though he were the King himself. I hated his greed and avarice. He often kept the wealth of monasteries dissolved for corrupt practises for himself rather than giving it to educational institutions or setting up new abbeys, as he was supposed to. He erected grand houses, some which rivalled the King’s palaces, rather than using that vast wealth to bring comfort to the poor, as he should have. He accepted bribes, sold indulgences, and took pensions from countries such as France, to further their causes with the King. He wanted to become the Pope, one day, but not for the good he might do in that position, but for pride, advancement and desire for power.
I hated that he upbraided others for adultery, infidelity, or promiscuity, when he himself kept a mistress and had bastard children. He was a hypocrite, a liar, and untrue to the vows he had sworn to God. He was no man of God; he was a man of gold. I liked not his influence on Henry either. It scared me. I was nervous that, in my absence from court, he would push forward some buxom, flaxen-haired girl from another noble family to try to uproot me from the affections of the King… I was anxious, yes. But my family was my vanguard during that winter, delivering messages and extolling my virtues to the King until I was the very image of perfect womanhood. George took much time to dismiss all other women at court as being “too fair” or “too weighty” or “from a family of dullards,” so that Henry should continue to believe me to be the only flawless woman. The distance between us was lessened, also, as my uncle threw gatherings which I could attend without scandal, but at which I could meet Henry, too.
Despite my fears, the distance and time apart only fired Henry’s passions for me. When we met, I had difficulty in making him behave in a regal fashion in public. But there had to be some semblance of respectability, or I would be seen everywhere and by everyone as his whore, unsuited to the throne of England. But the passion in his touch and the heat between us reassured me that he was not falling out of love with me, but in love more and more deeply.
I tried to be patient. I failed.
Chapter Sixteen
Windsor Castle
Spring 1528
Unable to bear our separation any longer, Henry moved my mother and me to Windsor Castle. Windsor was a formidable fortress rumoured to be over five hundred years old in parts. Three hundred years before our time, Henry’s ancestor Henry II had made it into the palace it now was, but its military bearing remained despite the lavish royal lodgings, laid out around three grand central courtyards.
Henry’s father had made many improvements to Windsor, ordering a tower to be built with opulent chambers, its ceilings decorated with plaster roses painted bright red and white. There was a royal library, a great wall painting of the Knights of Malta besieging Rhodes, and in the Queen’s chambers the ceiling was studded with tiny mirrors, sparkling above like all the stars in the night’s sky. Henry did not like Windsor as much as some of his other palaces, as it was rather antiquated, but he had made improvements too. There was a tennis court he had added at the foot of the Round Tower, where he liked to spend time when not out hunting or riding. Windsor was usually occupied by the court in the summer months, and Henry used the castle as something akin to a giant hunting lodge. He came here to escape into the great park, and this time, to escape with me.
We would emerge from our separate chambers and meet each morning in the grey light of the dawn to hear Mass in Henry’s Royal Chapel. I would close my eyes as the voices of the young boys there ripped and tore at my very soul with the beauty of their song. Henry’s choir was like no other I had heard, not even in Mechelen where the beauty of music was held to be so precious. Wolsey had his own choir too, which almost rivalled the King’s, but not quite. The music in the church made me feel closer to God, as though I stood in the presence of His own angels and heard their voices. When I struggled with my restless and changeable emotions, stepping into a church and hearing such voices, such song, brought me peace. I could lose myself for a while in listening to Henry’s choir. Henry was passionate about music, and when he saw my face, overcome with bliss during Mass, he would smile lovingly; he understood my feelings well, for they echoed in him, too.
I spoke to God often as I knelt before the altar. I asked Him to bring me patience, to bring me humility and to show me my path. I asked for guidance, and for the peace of knowing that I had chosen right, in agreeing to become Henry’s Queen. I asked God to care for Henry, to take pity on his headaches and the strain which beset him. “For as he is your chosen on the throne of England, my Lord God,” I said silently. “Grant him the security of knowing he does your work.”
When Mass was done, we would go hunting or walking together in the gardens, and each evening played at cards or dice. Sometimes I played the virginals or lute as he sang in his fine, rich tenor, and at times he played the flute to me, or called on me to sing songs of his own composition; they were all about me. Henry was a wonderful singer, although I have to admit that I was more kind about his poetry than was deserved. But because his songs and poetry were written to me, about me, I felt they warranted flattery. I was so happy to be with him that I wanted nothing to spoil our time together, even if certain words and arrangements of his songs might have been better than they were. His tastes in composition were quite antiquated, harking back to a time long since passed. I showed him my songbook, and parchments I had been collecting since my days at Mechelen, containing my favourite melodies. Henry was fascinated to try new arrangements with me. Although he played all instruments well, he was particularly gifted on the virginals, and took to them often, to show off for me. When he looked for praise at the end of each song, as he always did, his face was so endearing. There was an innocence about Henry for all his worldly experience. He was like a lonely child at times, desperate for respect and praise. I warmed to
this side of him, feeling tender and protective of him because of it.
In addition to gifts of songs written about me, Henry bought me a new saddle, shipped specially from France, crafted of black velvet over rich leather with golden trimmings. It was a work of beauty, and I gasped when he gave it to me. He chuckled, well-pleased. There were few things Henry enjoyed more than surprising someone with his munificence.
“And there is a footstool to match, my love,” he said as I ran my hand over the beautiful saddle, my eyes roaming over her every lovely curve.
“You are too good to me, my lord.“ I breathed earnestly. “This must have cost a fortune. It is a work of art.”
“There is more!” He waved a hand to the men behind him and one brought forth something large under a black silk cover, placing it before me. I drew back the cover and found a stunning yew bow, of exquisite workmanship. Its bowtips and nock were made of horn. There were fine, strong arrows, some tipped with iron and some with horn, made of aspen and birch, and waxed to hold fletching of gerfalcon and goose feathers. There were also smaller arrows, known as piles, which were blunt at the end, and made for shooting smaller game. There were two bowstrings, one of female hemp, and the other of silk, a bracer of dark, thick leather, and a pouch for holding a file to sharpen the arrow points and a cloth for wiping them clean. There was a bowcase of fine, waxy wool, to protect the bow if rain came, and a black, cylindrical quiver with gold trim to match my new saddle. Before I could thank him, Henry pulled a pair of matching gloves from his wide sleeve of golden cloth, and roared with laughter as I gaped at him. “I have pleased you then, sweetheart?” he rumbled.