Anne Boleyn, a King's Obsession



Her heart lighter, she went to hear Mass, in company with her household. Afterward she went in procession to her presence chamber, where she sat beneath her canopy of estate and was offered spiced wine and little cakes. Then her chamberlain required all her people to pray for her, that she might be safely delivered. As the trumpets sounded, she withdrew into her privy chamber and then to her bedchamber—the Chamber of the Virgins, so called because it was hung with tapestries depicting St. Ursula and her eleven thousand virgins. There, dominating all, was the great French bed. She sank down on it thankfully as her ladies drew a heavy curtain across the door. They had most of them been appointed household officers, for no man save the King and her chaplain might enter her chamber while she was in seclusion.

They brought her, along with the choicest food and anything else she fancied, all the latest gossip. The Duke of Suffolk was about to marry his son’s betrothed, a girl of fourteen—and he nearly fifty! Anne laughed aloud when she heard the name of his bride, for young Kate Willoughby was the only child of the Princess Dowager’s staunchest friend, that dragon, Lady Willoughby! She could foresee fireworks, for Suffolk had long supported the King…

Early in the morning of the seventh day of September, Anne’s pains began and the midwife was sent for. All was progressing well, she pronounced, even when the contractions became unbelievable agony, with little respite in between. It seemed to go on for hours, but around three o’clock in the afternoon, just as Anne thought she could endure no more, the midwife told her the babe was coming.

“Chin down on your chest, your Grace, deep breath, and push!”

Anne pushed—and pushed, and pushed. Travail was rightly named!

“I can see the head!” the midwife cried. “Not long now!”

Around the bed, the ladies were crying encouragement. She strained again, and felt the child slither out between her thighs. There was silence—then a lusty wail.



A girl. She was devastated, racked with disappointment and fear of what Henry would say. He had set such store by all the doctors and astrologers who had predicted it would be a boy. Only William Glover had seen the truth.

Would Henry lay the blame for this at her door? Would he see it as a sign of divine displeasure?

He had been sent for. She lay tense in her grand bed, washed, refreshed, and clad in a clean lawn shift with a pretty embroidered neckline, waiting with dread for his coming. Beside her, in the vast gilded cradle bearing the arms of England, the sleeping babe lay swaddled, robed in crimson velvet, with an embroidered satin bonnet on her head. Anne had held her once, surprised at how tiny she was. She had looked down and seen the Tudor red hair, Henry’s Roman nose, and her own narrow face and pointed chin. It was an old face for so young a child.

“She’s strong and healthy,” the midwife had said. All the women had praised the child, saying that her safe arrival presaged a long line of sons. And the wet nurse had exclaimed at how quickly the babe had latched on the breast and taken suck. But Anne felt strangely detached from her. She had heard that mothers experienced a great rush of love for their newborns. It had not happened to her. She was too disappointed, too gripped by a strong sense of failure. The tiny creature in the cradle would be a constant reminder of it.

There was a muffled commotion outside, then the curtain was drawn back, the door opened, and Henry strode in, wearing his hunting clothes and bringing with him the scent of the open air.

“Darling!” he said. “Thank God you are come through this safely.” He bent over the bed and kissed her, then peered into the cradle. “Hello, little one,” he said, and picked up the sleeping infant, tenderly kissing the tiny head. “May God bless you.”

“Sir,” Anne whispered, “I am so sorry I did not bear you a son.”

He looked up. She could see no reproach in his eyes.

“You have given me a healthy child,” he said. “You and I are both lusty, and by God’s grace, boys will follow.”

She could not help herself. The relief was so great that she began weeping.

“Darling,” Henry said, handing the baby to the midwife and taking Anne in his arms, “I am proud of you. I would rather beg from door to door than forsake you.”

“Thank you!” she sobbed, laughing and crying at the same time.

He let her go and reclaimed the infant. “We will call her Elizabeth, after my mother,” he said.

“By a happy coincidence, it’s my mother’s name as well,” Anne said. “The perfect choice.”

“She has my nose,” Henry remarked, kissing the child and laying her back to sleep, beckoning the rockers to come forward. “Now I will leave you to rest, darling. I have the christening to arrange.”

“What of those letters you had prepared?” Anne asked.

“There is room to amend ‘prince’ to ‘princess,’?” he said. “They will go off tonight.”

“When will you hold the tournament?”

“I’ve decided not to.” For the first time, Henry looked a little downcast. “But we will have a splendid christening. Until we have a son, Anne, Elizabeth is my heir, and all must recognize her as such.”



When Elizabeth was three days old, Anne watched her being wrapped in a purple mantle with a long train furred with ermine. Then she was borne off in the arms of the Dowager Duchess of Norfolk to be taken in a stately procession to her baptism in the chapel of the Observant Friars. Father would be supporting his granddaughter’s long train and George was one of those carrying the canopy of estate above her head.

Anne lay on her grand French bed, an ermine-trimmed mantle of estate about her shoulders. Henry, wearing cloth of gold, had come to sit beside her to await their daughter’s return. They would not attend the christening; it was the godparents’ triumph. Henry had chosen four: Archbishop Cranmer and the Dowager Duchess, and two supporters of Katherine, the Marchioness of Dorset and the Marquess of Exeter. “It will look as if they approve,” he gloated.

As they waited, Henry described for Anne the tapestries that had been hung on the outer walls of the palace and all along the processional route; the font of solid silver, set on a platform three steps high beneath a crimson satin canopy fringed with gold; the ceremonial to be observed; the noble guests. She listened approvingly. No honor had been scanted.

Presently, in the distance, they heard a fanfare.

“They’re bringing her back,” Henry said. Soon the Princess was carried into the Queen’s chamber and placed in the King’s arms. He gave her his blessing, then passed her to Anne, who gave hers and called the child by her baptismal name for the first time, as was a mother’s privilege. Refreshments were served to the godparents and chief guests, and then Henry directed Norfolk and Suffolk to convey his thanks to the Lord Mayor and aldermen for attending.

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