Anne Boleyn, a King's Obsession

“That’s an impressive horn,” she said.

“It’s been in our family for generations, your Grace,” Sir John told her proudly. “We Seymours are hereditary rangers of Savernake Forest, and that is the symbol of our office.”

“There’s good hunting to be had hereabouts,” Henry beamed, helping himself to another custard tart. “These are excellent, Lady Margery.”

“We’re in for a good season, sir,” their host said. “We’ll ride out tomorrow and show your Grace some lively sport. But I fear that’s all that’s lively in these parts. This year’s harvest has been ruined due to the bad weather.”

“So I heard,” Henry replied, his good mood wavering. Anne knew that the common people blamed him—and her, naturally—for the rains and the poor harvest, seeing them as a sign of God’s displeasure with them both. There were still murmurs of disapproval about the executions that had taken place earlier in the year.

Sir John turned to Anne. “Your Grace, I trust that Jane is giving satisfaction.”

Anne smiled at Jane, who was sitting demurely farther along the table and gave a faint smile in return. “I have no complaints,” she said. Except that she never says anything but what she has to for courtesy’s sake, and that I have a strong feeling that she doesn’t like me, and I don’t really like her much either.

“She is a good girl,” Lady Margery said.

“You have a fine family,” Henry told her, looking wistful.

“Ten I’ve borne, sir, and buried four, God rest them. We count ourselves lucky.”

“Oh, to be a country gentleman and have a houseful of children and a good table like this!” Henry mused. It pleased him to entertain such fancies.



When did she first notice that Henry was paying too much attention to Jane Seymour? Was it when she saw them standing together in the garden, Henry looking down at Jane as she pointed out the various plants in the herb bed she had made? Or was it when Henry leaned over Jane’s chair on the third evening of their visit and praised her needlework? She had looked up and given him a rare smile.

These incidents could have meant nothing, but when they arrived in Winchester, Anne noticed that Henry seemed to be in Jane’s vicinity more and more—and that Jane seemed to have acquired a new confidence.

She decided to ignore her suspicions, and made an effort to be merry and enjoy the daily hawking expeditions that had been arranged. She came to love Winchester, as Henry did. He was fascinated by King Arthur’s Round Table, which hung in the great hall of the castle. Sometimes Anne thought he fancied himself as the reincarnation of the hero King.

In the evenings, they feasted, and afterward Anne’s ladies and some of the King’s gentlemen gathered in her chamber to play cards or make music. It hurt her to watch Madge flirting with Norris, yet she was pleased to see that Norris was not responding, possibly out of consideration for her presence, or that of Nan Saville, who was seated on his other side. One evening, she sent for Mark Smeaton, who was in Henry’s train, to play the virginals for them. George insisted on accompanying him on the lute, and Anne watched them covertly, relieved to detect no sign that they were anything other than friends. But Smeaton kept throwing her bold glances that made her feel uncomfortable. In the end she dismissed him, saying that it was late and the music would disturb the King in his chamber below. She would not call on Smeaton again, she resolved.

They were still making the most of the good hunting that Hampshire had to offer, and were following the beaters one day when Cromwell arrived, his clothes mud-stained, his horse lathered.

“Your Grace, I must speak with you urgently. Tunis has fallen to the Emperor, and the Turks have lost a great naval base.” He looked unusually perturbed. “Effectively they’ve been crushed, for this will halt their encroachment upon the eastern reaches of the Empire.”

The holiday mood melted away. Anne began to tremble. Henry’s face drained of color. “That leaves Charles free to make war on England, if he chooses,” he said hoarsely, after a long pause.

“Indeed it does. Does your Grace want me to look into the state of the kingdom’s defenses?” Cromwell asked.

Henry nodded. “I’ve inspected many myself, although Dover may need reinforcing. Yes, get surveyors out.”

He could not sleep that night. He lay restlessly, turning this way and that.

“Can’t you get comfortable?” Anne asked.

“No. I have too much on my mind.” He got up, lit the candle, and used the stool chamber in the corner of the room. Then he sat down heavily on the bed, rubbing his leg. Of late, an old wound from a fall from his horse years before had started to give him pain. “I doubt that Charles would make war now on Katherine’s behalf, for he must know she is always ailing, but he might decide to enforce what he sees as Mary’s rights.”

“If you had proceeded against them both when they defied you, you would not be suffering this anxiety,” Anne said.

“If I had done as you urged me, I’d have had Charles and his army on my doorstep long ere this.” He sighed. “All we can do now is wait and see what he will do—and pray that the Turks find some means of fighting back, although, God knows, I never thought I’d hear myself saying that.”



By the time they reached the Vyne, the fine residence of the King’s chamberlain, Lord Sandys, Anne had begun to fear that Henry had again distanced himself from her. Since receiving the news about Tunis, he had been preoccupied and sometimes abrupt, and for the last two nights he had not come to her. He must be distracted by the very real prospect of war, a war that might lose him his throne. God knew, it struck terror into her too. But could there be a reason closer to home, in the person of quiet Mistress Seymour?

Soon, though, it might not matter! She was cherishing the secret hope that she was with child, waiting until she was absolutely sure before she told Henry. If only God would look kindly on her this time!

She prayed alone in the Vyne’s chapel for the great blessing of a son. The room was gloomy, the windows above the altar shrouded in canvas sheeting. Lord Sandys, apologizing profusely, had said that they were being repaired, but the work had taken longer than promised. But if any glaziers had been working in the chapel, there was no trace of them now, no tools, nothing. Curious, Anne entered the sanctuary and lifted the canvas—and there, in all the glory of their jeweled colors, were exquisite stained-glass portraits of a young Henry and Katherine. No wonder Sandys had hidden them—and no wonder he had no intention of destroying them, for they were very fine indeed.

Should she tell Henry? The possession of that glass could be seen as evidence of disloyalty, and yet she knew Sandys to be wholeheartedly the King’s man. No, she would hold her peace and let him keep this great treasure.



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