For two days she lay there brooding, wishing that Henry would come to her, terrified lest she had lost him for good. When she finally rose from her bed and looked in her mirror, she was appalled to see a thin, drawn, pinched old woman looking back at her. She was thirty-five, no longer the captivating young maiden who had ensnared a king—and never would be again.
Many times she repented of her hasty words of reproach. She was in great fear, for Henry might now consider her as barren of sons as Katherine had been. Was he even now looking for a pretext to have their marriage annulled and their daughter declared a bastard? She did not have Katherine’s powerful friends—she had not very many friends at all—so there would be few to champion her cause. Without Henry, she would be an object of derision, calumny, and hatred; some would want her blood.
—
Early in February, she was informed that the King had gone to London for the Shrovetide celebrations and to attend Parliament.
He left her behind. It proved that he was still angry with her. She wept when she remembered the time when he had been unwilling to leave her for an hour. Her only consolation—if it could be called that—was that he had been unable to take that bitch Seymour with him. With the Queen’s household remaining at Greenwich, he had been obliged, for propriety’s sake, to leave Jane there too. She was skulking about, keeping out of Anne’s way.
Anne’s only companions were her ladies, who could talk of nothing, it seemed, but Madge’s betrothal and forthcoming wedding. For Norris had succumbed to her blandishments and asked her to marry him. Their families approved, and Madge, who seemed to have forgotten her reservations, was luminous with happiness. Anne felt like screaming. Norris did not love Madge. He loved her. It was in his eyes every time he spoke to her. Jealousy was like a sharp knife piercing her vitals.
Every day she mourned her losses: her baby, Henry’s love, and Norris. Security and happiness had been almost within her grasp. Now she lived with fear and an overwhelming sense of failure.
Messengers bearing packages and letters kept arriving from York Place.
“They’re for Jane,” Madge whispered. Anne’s jealousy was a torment. She watched Jane continually, and lashed out at her for the slightest dereliction of duty—but it did not wipe the complacent smile off Jane’s face. One day the woman was brazen enough to wear a new jeweled locket. Guessing who had sent it, Anne confronted her.
“That’s a costly piece. Let me see it,” she demanded.
Jane stared at her mutinously, clearly unwilling, whereupon Anne lost her temper and ripped the locket from Jane’s neck with such force that the chain cut into her hand. With blood welling in drops from the wound, she pried the locket open with unsteady fingers, to find inside a miniature portrait of Henry. Tears blurred her eyes.
She thrust the locket back into Jane’s hands. “Take it, and him! You are welcome to him!”
—
The relief was indescribable when George arrived to tell her that Parliament had assigned her two royal manors.
“Then I am not entirely out of favor,” she said, trying to forget what George had done, and to remember that he was her brother, whom she loved.
“The King approved the grant. It seems that his anger is spent and that he is determined to continue in your marriage.”
“So Mistress Seymour is just another passing fancy. Thank God! She has caused me such grief, flaunting her presents from His Grace.”
“Anne, hearken to me.” George was regarding her with unusual compassion. “Take stock. I am shocked to see how you have grown so thin and sad. Eat for your health. Look to your hair and your dress. Put a brave smile on your face. You can fight back! None knows better how to. You won the King once; now win him back.”
“It’s not easy when he is in London and I’m here,” she said.
“I will persuade him to summon you,” George promised. “Leave it to me.”
—
Days later, the summons came. George had played his part, and now she must play hers. She had herself garbed in a sumptuous gown of black velvet with oversleeves of fur and a low neckline edged with black embroidery and pearls. Around her neck, to proclaim her pride in her queenship and her family, she hung a pendant in the shape of a B—one of several initial jewels she favored. She was still too slim, but the black gown flattered her. Her hair she left loose in token of her rank, threaded with jewels as she had used to wear it.
Henry received her courteously, looking her up and down with approval, yet failing to meet her eye.
“It is a joy to me to see your Grace again,” she said.
“I trust you are fully recovered.” Still his manner was distant.
“I am very well, sir.”
“Your brother told me that you were unhappy at Greenwich, and so I thought you would like to join me to celebrate the feast day of St. Matthias.”
“I shall be honored and delighted,” she told him. She was also delighted to find that Jane was nowhere to be seen on the feast day.
—
Henry was being kind to her. He came to her bed most nights, and she began to believe that all was not lost. It was clear from the petitions she received that others still believed she had influence with him. She took care to be charming to all.
Resolving to be a good mother, she sent for Elizabeth and spent lavishly on clothing for her, dressing the little girl up in caps of purple, white, and crimson satin, cauls of gold, ribbon for her plaits, and miniature court gowns of velvet and damask. She taught her how to manage a train. Watching her daughter toddling along, head held high, swaths of damask trailing behind her, Anne almost loved her.
The signs were that the Emperor was hoping for an alliance with Henry.
“And if he approaches me—so the terms be acceptable—I will be willing,” Henry told Anne. “I’ve heard from my agents in Rome that Pope Paul is ready to proclaim my excommunication. Charles’s friendship might prevent that. Not that I care a fig for what the Bishop of Rome does, but the rest of Christendom will. They may not deal with me honestly if I am cast out of the fold.”
But what of me? she wondered. The Emperor hates me. I am a stumbling block to this alliance. She did not say any of this; it was for Henry to deal with, or rather Cromwell. Instead, she asked how Fran?ois would take it.
“Our relations have been unstable lately,” Henry said, “and I fear there is little hope of Elizabeth’s marriage being concluded. Fran?ois is as slippery as an eel, and he’s ill of the pox and in a bad humor. All that fornication is catching up with him.” Henry’s lips were prim. You can’t talk! Anne thought. “He and Charles are at odds,” he added. “Soon they’ll be at war. Friendship with the Emperor offers us the greatest hope for the future security of this realm.”
Yes, she thought again, but what of my security?
—
“Sir Edward Seymour has been appointed to the Privy Chamber,” Father announced one evening when they were supping alone in his lodgings. “I warn you, Anne, the influence of these Seymours increases daily.”
Rage welled in her. “What can I do?” she stormed. “He flaunts her almost under my nose.”
Father snorted. “I shouldn’t need to tell you what to do to win him back.”
“That’s unfair!” she snapped.