Anne Boleyn, a King's Obsession



The Admiral of France was in England on a state visit, his purpose being to promote friendly relations between the two kingdoms. Henry arranged a great banquet in his honor and invited many beautiful ladies to court to take part in the festivities. Anne was to preside, and took great care in choosing her attire. A glance in her mirror told her that she was looking strained, miserable, and every one of her thirty-three years. She pinched her cheeks and compressed her lips to redden them. It was essential that she look her best beside the other ladies. She wanted to impress the Admiral, who was a great friend of the French King and very powerful in France. She needed to convince him that there was no better bride for King Fran?ois’s youngest son, Charles, Duke of Angoulême, than the Princess Elizabeth. Fran?ois’s agreement to their marriage would amount to a public recognition of her as queen, and Elizabeth as Henry’s legitimate heir. And once Elizabeth was betrothed to his son, he would surely prove as powerful a friend to Anne as the Emperor had been to Katherine.

Anne was making this approach with Henry’s blessing. He himself had suggested the match some time before. He had not said as much, but she’d guessed that he had been thinking forward to a time when Elizabeth was Queen of England. Marrying a younger son, who had no obligations to his country and could live here, would prevent England from becoming a mere dependent of France.

A thousand candles lit the great hall, the plate on the buffets glinting in their glow. During the banquet, the Admiral, a cultivated and rather handsome aristocrat, listened courteously to Anne’s arguments. He gave nothing away. Seeing there was no more to be gained from persuasion, she asked if he had ever met Leonardo da Vinci, and he told her he had, and that the old man’s beloved portrait of Monna Lisa was now hanging in King Fran?ois’s bathroom.

She was reminiscing about her time at the French court and watching the dancing when Henry joined them.

“My lord Admiral, I am just going to fetch your secretary and present him to the Queen,” he said. Anne watched him go, weaving between the swirling couples, and saw him suddenly stop and bow before a lady. It was Joan Ashley! Seconds later, they were dancing together. The shock made her laugh out loud.

The Admiral looked offended. “Madam, do you laugh at me?” he asked.

Hastily she shook her head and pointed across to where the King was standing.

“He went to fetch your secretary,” she said, “but he ran across a lady, and she has made him completely forget what he went for!” She laughed again, but the tears were welling. The Admiral looked away, embarrassed.



Mary had now been rusticating in the country for three months. George had learned that she and William had gone to stay with the Stafford family.

“I’m still furious with her,” Anne told him. “She’d better not show her face here!”

But now here was Cromwell, showing Anne a letter from Mary in which she had begged him to intercede for her. Anne read it, then thrust it back at him in disgust.

“She does herself no favors!” she snapped. “I have never heard a petitioner use a more defiant, unrepentant tone. How come she thinks her plight is more deserving of pity than anyone else’s? Master Cromwell, she makes too many demands of you. If she is really hoping for a reconciliation with me, she is going the wrong way about it.”

She did not say how sharply Mary’s words had stung. For well I might have had a greater man of birth, but I assure you I could never have had one that loved me so well. I had rather beg my bread with him than be the greatest queen christened. The taunt went too deep. It laid bare Mary’s jealousy and underlined the bitter irony of their respective situations.

“Never again will I receive her at court,” she told Cromwell. “It is useless to plead for her.”

“I had no intention of doing so, madam.” His smile was wry. “I could perceive the venom in that letter. My advice to her will be to go with her husband to Calais and stay there.”



Christmas was approaching, and Anne and her ladies were sewing smocks for the poor, when Henry arrived looking unusually solemn.

“You may go,” he said, and the ladies scattered.

He took the chair opposite Anne, then stood up again and, coming over to her side of the fire, went down on his haunches before her and took her hands. She was so overcome by the gesture that when he seemed to be struggling to speak, she thought he was about to say that it was all over between them. That was what had happened with Katherine.

“I know you set much store by Little Pourquoi,” he said at last. “Anne, I’m sorry to tell you that he fell from a window within this last hour. There was nothing anyone could do to save him.”

“Oh, no!” she cried, desolate. Henry hesitated, then she felt his arms go around her, and, despite her grief over Little Pourquoi’s terrible end, it was so good to feel him close and being kind to her after so long. For a precious moment she felt safe.

“No one dared tell you,” he said against her hair. “My good niece Margaret came to me and asked if I would do it. I am very sorry. It must have been instantaneous.”

He drew back and her eyes searched his. In them she could read only pity.

Christmas was awful. Harry Percy was at court, and when they came face-to-face in a gallery, he threw her a look of utter contempt and walked on, not even bothering to bow. She felt as if she had been slapped.

“Cheer up, niece!” Uncle Norfolk chided her at dinner that day. “You won’t entice the King to your bed with that whey face!”

“Why don’t you just go and swive yourself?” she flung back, and everyone stared.

Norfolk stood up, flung down his napkin, and stalked out. “I can see why they call you the great whore!” he spat as he reached the door of her chamber.

At that very moment, the King arrived. Norfolk almost collided with him. Henry looked at the Duke and then at Anne. She waited for him to explode and censure her uncle for speaking so foully to her—he must have heard him—but he said nothing and, no doubt deciding that his mistress would be more congenial company, went away again. Anne was near to despair. Once he would have taken exception to such a gross insult to her, but not anymore.





1535


In the depths of January, Henry joined Anne for supper one evening. His mood seemed lighter, conciliatory.

“This will please you,” he said. “I have appointed Cromwell Vicar General, with the power to arrange visitations to every religious house in my kingdom. Like you, I am concerned to root out abuses within my Church, and there have been too many reports of irregularities in the monasteries. Moreover, Cromwell tells me that some of the smaller houses lack the wherewithal to support themselves.”

Anne’s spirits soared. “You are reforming the monasteries?”

“I wish to evaluate their wealth and expose any shortcomings in their practices.”

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