Anne Boleyn, a King's Obsession

“You will close any that are poor or corrupt?”

Henry hesitated. He poured himself some wine and drank deep. “I intend, in time, to close all of them.”

“All?” She had not expected this.

“It’s nothing new, Anne. Henry the Fifth was doing it a hundred years ago. Wolsey closed some minor or corrupt houses. Do you know, there were only two new foundations in England in the last century?”

“But the monasteries succor the poor. They look after the sick—”

“They are hotbeds of popery!” Henry interrupted. They’re subversive and disloyal. And they grow fat on wealth that should be mine, as head of the Church. It will give me the wherewithal to buy support for my reforms—the reforms you wanted, Anne. I can sell off monastic land to those who defend my stand against Rome, and the rest can go toward replenishing my treasury. It is all but empty.” She knew it. He had squandered his father’s fortune on pleasure and fruitless wars.

In many respects she approved of his plans, and his aim to stamp out popery. But what of the consequences for all the monks and nuns who would be turned out on the streets, the sick who had no one else to care for them, the beggars who would starve, but for the bounty they received at the monastery gates, and the travelers who would find no lodgings for the night? Almost as bad would be the tragic loss of houses renowned for their excellence in learning and teaching, and as repositories of knowledge and great libraries.

This was Cromwell’s doing, she had no doubt. Hadn’t he promised to make Henry the richest sovereign who ever reigned in England? But had he thought this scheme through? Surely there was a better way?

“I have no doubt that your Grace will do all for the best,” she said, resolving to see what transpired and what she could do to achieve a compromise.

Henry stayed with her that night. He took his pleasure briskly, and was just donning his night robe before returning to his own apartments when she caught at his hand.

“Do you think Fran?ois will agree to Elizabeth’s marriage?” she asked, hoping he would not see how much store she set by it.

He sighed and loosed his hand. “I don’t know, Anne. Fran?ois has become a good son of the Church, stamping out heresy and free thinking. He may balk at marrying his son to the daughter of one whose marriage has so often been called into question.”

Icy shards pierced her heart. That Henry, who had been so zealous in ensuring that everyone acknowledged her as his true Queen, should say such a thing to her! Did he now doubt that she was? Was he thinking of divorcing her too?

Lying there alone, she told herself that, even if he did regret marrying her, she was still safe, for Katherine’s supporters would see any sign of his abandoning her as an admission that he had been wrong all along, and urge him to take Katherine back. And that she was certain Henry would never do.



It was not until February that Palmedes Gontier, secretary to the Admiral of France, asked for an audience with them both.

“It must be about Elizabeth’s marriage!” Anne cried.

“If he has asked for you to be present, it must be,” Henry smiled. “It is proper for a queen to be consulted when her daughter is to be married.”

She sat beside him on the dais in the crowded presence chamber and smiled at the advancing Gontier. He bowed and presented her with a letter from the Admiral. She devoured it, but her spirits plummeted when she saw that it contained no word of Elizabeth’s betrothal.

Henry took the letter and read it, then scowled at Anne as if it were her fault. “If you will excuse me, I will confer with my Council,” he said, and leaving her with Gontier, he strode over to his waiting lords.

Anne beckoned Gontier forward. Something had to be said. Ignoring the proposal was tantamount to rudeness on the part of King Fran?ois.

She realized that the lords and courtiers in the presence chamber were watching her closely, some with ill-concealed hostility. Henry was watching her too. As the envoy drew near, she lowered her voice. “Tell your master, sir, that this long delay in sending an answer about the proposed marriage has engendered in the King my husband many strange thoughts, for which there is great need of a remedy. I hope the King my brother does not wish me to be driven mad and utterly lost, for I find myself near to that, and in more pain and trouble than I have been since my marriage.”

Gontier flinched, obviously embarrassed by her outburst. She knew it was an unforgivable breach of diplomatic etiquette, but she did not care. She was fighting for her daughter’s future and her own. “I pray you, speak to the Admiral on my behalf,” she begged. “I cannot speak as amply to you as I would like, for fear of where I am and of the eyes that are watching me. I cannot write, I cannot see you again, and I can no longer talk with you.”

She rose, leaving the astonished secretary staring at her, and joined Henry, who took her hand and led her out to the hall.

“I told him how eager we are for the marriage,” she said lightly.



For several days now, Anne, ever watchful, had seen Joan Ashley going about with a long face.

“I think, or rather, I hope, that the King has tired of her,” she said to Madge Shelton, as they sat at a table with Mary Howard and Margaret Douglas, looking through the poems Madge and her friends had collected for their book.

“He has,” Madge said. “She was weeping about it this morning.”

“He was ever fickle!” Anne’s laugh was bitter. “To be plain, Madge, I’ve given up expecting him to be faithful. What I couldn’t bear was the arrogance of that little bitch.”

“She’s not arrogant anymore.” Madge grinned.

“You are lucky having Norris for a suitor,” Margaret said. “He’s a good man. He would never be untrue.”

Anne froze. Norris was courting Madge? That could not be. He loved her, she knew it. But she was forbidden to him…and he was a man, with a man’s needs. She should be glad that he was seeking happiness elsewhere. Yet that did not allay the pain of the wound she had just been dealt.

Madge was watching her curiously. Their eyes met. “He can never be true to me,” Madge whispered. “He loves another.”

If she had guessed, others might.

“Nonsense!” Margaret smiled at Madge. “He told me he hoped you would marry him.”

“Well, I won’t,” Madge declared. “And if the King must take a mistress, your Grace should push in his path one who loves you and will win his sympathy for you.” Their eyes met again.

“Are you offering?” Anne asked after a long pause.

“I have taken lovers before,” Madge shrugged. “Between the sheets, even the King is a man like other men.”

“You would do that for me?” Anne asked, deeply affected.

“You are my blood. Of course I would. We all owe you so much.”

“Are you sure you want to do this?” Anne asked. “What of the risk?”

Alison Weir's books