—
The autumn leaves were thick on the ground when news came from Rome that Pope Clement had died.
“The great devil is dead!” Cromwell observed, breaking it to Anne. “They’ve elected a successor, Paul III. Already he has made it clear that he will not countenance what he likes to call the King’s disobedience. He has threatened to put into effect a sentence of excommunication that Clement drew up but never published. His Grace, of course, intends to ignore this threat, but we must be wary. If the Bishop of Rome decides to publish the sentence and incites the Emperor to war, the King, as an excommunicate, would stand alone, and could not expect aid from other Christian nations.”
“Do you think the Bishop of Rome will carry out his threat?” Anne asked, envisaging Katherine and Mary being borne back to Whitehall in triumph, and herself…Oh, God, what would they do to her?
“We must not be complacent,” Cromwell said, “but I think it may just be political bluster.”
—
Although Henry had supported Anne in her stand against her sister, and was gradually thawing toward her, gossip informed her that he was still dallying with Joan Ashley. It ate at her. In desperation, she determined to put an end to the affair.
Jane Rochford had taken pleasure in gossiping about it, so Jane could compensate for that by helping her. Anne had never liked her sister-in-law, and the antipathy was mutual, but that did not matter. Jane would pay for her gloating.
“I want to get rid of Joan Ashley,” Anne told her. “I need a pretext to send her away. Maybe we could contrive an urgent summons home?”
Jane’s wide eyes gleamed. Anne suspected that, lacking excitement in her own life, she enjoyed it vicariously at one remove, hence her willingness to be involved in this intrigue.
“Far better if she merited dismissal,” Jane said.
“She certainly does,” Anne agreed. “If it could be put about that she is making herself available to all and sundry, then I would have every justification—and the King would be angry with her for sharing her favors. He will brook no rival. Jane, you know all the latest gossip. Who better to spread the word?”
—
Within days, the entire court was whispering about the King’s mistress, and how strange it was that he was paying his addresses to one who was so promiscuous. Anne smiled inwardly. Revenge was sweet! She would give it a day or so, and then she would send the girl packing.
But that very afternoon, Jane Rochford came to her in tears of rage. “I have been banished from the court!” she cried. “I am to leave at once, and it’s all your fault!”
“On what grounds are you banished?” Anne demanded to know.
“For spreading gossip! I’ve been before Master Secretary. He told me that several people had testified that I had made it all up so that you could get rid of Joan Ashley. I think I’ve been watched. I wish I had never helped you in your foolhardy scheme!” And, omitting her curtsey, she flounced off to the lodging she shared with George.
Good riddance, Anne thought. But she was disturbed to think that Jane thought she had been watched, because if she had been, then Anne herself might be under surveillance too. Jane was right. She had indeed been foolhardy.
“I’m sorry,” she hastened to say, when George came to her chamber and told her that Jane had gone home to Grimston.
“I’m not!” he grimaced. “I’m relieved to see the back of her. She makes my life a misery with her constant barbs. I wish I’d never set eyes on her.” His steely expression softened. “I’m more concerned about you, sister. How has the King taken this?”
“I don’t know,” Anne said, chilled at the thought of Henry’s reaction. “I haven’t seen him.”
“When you do, show yourself loving but remorseful. Say you acted only out of despair at the thought of losing him.”
“I will do that,” she agreed, quailing at the thought.
Henry did not come to upbraid or question her, but his displeasure was soon made manifest.
She went to visit Elizabeth at Richmond, suffering a guilty conscience, as she had not seen her daughter on her first birthday. With her went Uncle Norfolk and the Duke of Suffolk and a train of lords and ladies. She spent some time playing with the child, who was quite a babbler and full of curiosity, toddling around in her velvet skirts and beribboned bonnet, and pouncing on a long-suffering Little Pourquoi as Lady Bryan and her nursemaids stood by, ready to catch her if she fell. She regarded Anne with curiosity, reaching a pudgy hand to her face and pinching it.
“Pretty lady,” she said.
The two dukes, having bestowed the requisite praise on the Princess, were getting fidgety.
“I will not be long,” Anne said. “The nights are drawing in now. We will leave by four o’clock.”
Norfolk then shocked her. “Your Grace, the King has ordered us to visit the Lady Mary while we are here, and convey his greetings,” he said, in a tone that brooked no argument.
“You will not go!” Anne flared, unable to believe that Henry had done this.
“It is His Grace’s command,” Suffolk told her. “We dare not disobey.” And with that they walked out, the other lords and even some of her ladies following in their wake.
Anne stood up and shooed Elizabeth toward Lady Bryan. She was shaking, shocked by the realization that her power was waning and that everyone knew it. Could it be that Henry, even now, was contemplating restoring Mary to the succession? If so, where would that leave her and Elizabeth?
She must do something. If only she were pregnant! But Henry had not visited her bed since she had upbraided him about Joan Ashley—and that little bitch was still at court.
As she was rowed back to Whitehall, she sat in her cabin with the curtains drawn. She would not speak to those who had betrayed her. When she reached the sanctuary of her chamber, she lay on her bed and cried hot tears of despair.
Feeling a little restored, she decided it would be politic to do as Henry wanted. If she too showed herself friendly to Mary, it might go a long way toward restoring her to his good graces. And so she wrote warmly to her stepdaughter, bidding her be of good cheer.
There was no reply. But she suspected that Henry had heard about her letter, for he began visiting her again at night. He was still distant, and stayed long enough only to do what was necessary to impregnate her, but it was enough for now. Once she was with child, he would come back to her, as he used to be, and Joan Ashley could go hang herself! And when she herself had a son, none would dare touch her.