Anne Boleyn, a King's Obsession

“Very well. I’ll have her as a maid of honor,” Anne agreed.

Jane Seymour was twenty-five, demure and dutiful. She performed her duties efficiently, behaved with circumspection and decorum, and gave no cause for complaint. But Anne could not like her. Her friendly overtures had been received with courtesy, not warmth, and Jane seemed to exist alongside the life of the Queen’s household, rather than as a part of it. When there was pastime in Anne’s chamber, she was rarely to be seen. She kept her head down and herself to herself. No doubt she still nursed an affection for her previous mistress. Yet Anne could not sense hostility, only detachment. She did her best to make the young woman feel welcome, but it was hard work.

She was more preoccupied with the nausea of early pregnancy and what was happening at Buckden. In Suffolk’s first letter, he had reported that Katherine had shut herself in her chamber and refused to open the door. Neither threats nor entreaties could persuade her. The Duke dared not use force, and had contented himself with dismissing her servants, leaving only a few to care for her needs. In his second letter, he described how he had stood outside Katherine’s door and pleaded with her to come out. Against all reason, she had refused, saying she would not go to Somersham unless he bound her with ropes and took her by violence. “She is the most obstinate woman that may be!” he complained, adding that he had found things at Buckden far from the King’s expectations, and would explain further when he returned to court.

The next they heard was that a hostile mob of yokels, armed with scythes and billhooks, had encircled Buckden and were just standing there watching menacingly. Suffolk feared that, if he tried to force Katherine to leave, they would pounce.

Exasperated, Henry instructed Suffolk to return to court.

“There’s nothing he can do,” he explained to Anne. “I cannot risk an ugly confrontation. Imagine if Katherine was hurt. We’d have the Emperor here at the head of an army in ten minutes, never mind the Turks!”





1534


As soon as Suffolk returned to Greenwich, he asked to see the King in private. Anne was present when Henry welcomed back his old friend, warmly assuring him that he did not blame him for what had happened. “The Princess Dowager is best left to her obstinacy,” he declared.

“Your Graces, there is more to the situation than that,” Suffolk said, gratefully taking the chair Henry indicated.

“Leave us, please,” Anne ordered the servants. “I will pour the wine.” She handed out the goblets and the Duke took his gratefully. He looked exhausted. No longer was he the dashing hero of the lists of Tournai, but a middle-aged man running to fat, his once-handsome face showing lines of strain, his hair grizzled. Beside him, Henry, his mirror image, was a paragon in his prime.

“So tell me, Charles, what is the true situation at Buckden?” Henry asked.

“The Princess Dowager is a sick woman, sir. I hardly recognized her. Her chamberlain told me she has dropsy and will not live much longer. I can well believe it.”

Anne realized she had been holding her breath. Maybe God was smoothing the way for her son to be born as the undisputed heir to England. Because, once Katherine was dead, no one could deny that she, Anne, was the true Queen.

“She’s not so ill that she can’t defy me.” Henry’s voice was peevish.

“Her spirit is undaunted,” Suffolk conceded. “I do not think she will ever give way.”

“Then the sooner God Almighty takes her to Himself, the better,” Henry muttered. “Her obduracy only encourages Mary. Did you know that Mary made a scene when they came to escort her to Hatfield? Norfolk told her plainly that she was unnatural and, if she was his daughter, he would knock her head against the wall until it was as soft as a baked apple.”

“I can imagine him doing it,” Suffolk observed.

“He’s right,” Henry said. “She’s a traitor and deserves punishment, and so he told her.”

“Lady Shelton will treat her as she deserves,” Anne said. “I have every confidence in her.” Mary must be brought to heel. Anne had come to hate and fear her more than she hated and feared Katherine. Elizabeth was the King’s true heir and, however deficient her own qualities as a mother, Anne was determined that her blood should sit upon the throne. It was Mary who posed the deadliest threat to Elizabeth’s future.



Mary had been at Hatfield for two weeks when Henry received a letter from her, begging leave to see him.

“You won’t say yes, will you?” Anne flared.

“No,” he said, after the barest hesitation. “But darling, she is my daughter, and for all her disobedience, she has many good qualities. I would not be too harsh on her.”

She stared at him. What an about-turn! “She is a traitor—you said so yourself. We deal harshly with traitors in this realm, and quite rightly!”

Henry sighed. “I will ignore the letter. I would not have you upset at this time.”

As she well knew, the bonds of parenthood could be strong; look how fiercely protective she herself was of Elizabeth’s rights. It would be a struggle to make Henry see Mary as the subversive rebel she really was. When he announced one morning that he was going to visit Elizabeth at Hatfield, she fell into a frenzy of anxiety lest he decide to see Mary too and be moved by her youth and his fatherly pity to treat her better and restore her title. That Anne could never allow.

After he had gone, she summoned Cromwell and commanded him to ride after Henry and prevent him, at any cost, from seeing or speaking to Mary. Cromwell looked at her askance. His expression said that, as Chancellor of the Exchequer, Master of the Jewel House, and Master of the Rolls, he was too busy to act as her messenger, but he pursed his lips, made no comment, and left.

Whatever he said to Henry had the desired effect—to begin with. Probably he had warned him of the need to keep Anne calm while she was breeding. But, as he explained later, all his persuasions were for nothing.

“When the King was mounting his horse, ready to leave, the Lady Mary appeared on the terrace at the top of the house, and knelt with her hands joined in supplication. His Grace turned around and saw her. He bowed to her and put his hand to his hat. None of the rest of us had dared to raise our heads, but, following His Grace’s lead, we had to salute her.”

Anne could not contain her rage.

“How could you do it?” she screamed at Henry when he arrived a few minutes after Cromwell had left.

“Do what?” he countered, but she could see from his face that he knew.

“You saluted your bastard, as if she had done nothing wrong.” She was in tears now.

“It was but a courtesy,” he said defensively.

“She does not deserve your courtesy,” she snapped, and sank into her chair in a storm of weeping.

“Darling, please!” Henry begged, kneeling down and embracing her. “Think of the child.”

Alison Weir's books