Anne Boleyn, a King's Obsession

“But she is a child!” Anne thought back to the court of Burgundy and that cold, heavy-jawed, disdainful boy, the Archduke Charles. He was King of Spain and Holy Roman Emperor now—the most powerful man in the world, and he must be all of twenty-two years old. Her heart bled for the exquisite little Princess, to be shackled to such a miserable man. “He is old enough to be her father! She is only six!”

Yet she understood only too well why the King, who so obviously adored his daughter, could give her in marriage to a man nearly four times her age, luckless little maid. Father would have done the same had an advantageous opportunity arisen.

“She will be empress. It is a glorious marriage for her,” Mary was saying. “And I imagine that the Queen is delighted. The Emperor is her nephew. Anyway, as I was saying, there is to be a pageant performed before the King and Queen and the ambassadors. Cardinal Wolsey is hosting it at York Place. Do you want to take part? I can put in a word for you.”

“I should love that,” Anne smiled, trying not to think of the poor little Princess.



Two days later, King Henry came to visit his wife and daughter. He was broader and more solid than ever, a big man with a majestic presence and an easy manner, although Anne could imagine, observing his narrow eyes, red hair, and prim mouth, that he could be dangerous when provoked. Only last year he had sent his cousin, the Duke of Buckingham, to the scaffold, for allegedly plotting to take the throne; and Penshurst, where her brother Thomas had once served the Duke, had been appropriated by the Crown. Father had been made its keeper—another office to add to the many he already held.

The King bent to kiss the Queen and spoke to her most lovingly. Then Anne was presented to him. While he still held little attraction for her, when he fixed that piercing blue gaze on her she had to acknowledge that there was a certain magnetism about him. It came, she knew, from the authority he wielded, and his considerable talents. There was no doubting that he was highly accomplished. When he tested the Princess on her Latin and French, addressing her in those tongues, he was fluent, and when, later, he played the lute for the Queen and her ladies, and sang one of his own songs, he had everyone rapt.

It was clear that he loved his wife. Anne had not forgotten the incident with Etiennette de la Baume, and no doubt there had been others—kings would be kings, and she had long had the example of the promiscuous, rapacious Fran?ois before her—but this was a good marriage. Anyone could see that. Even so, there were some ladies present who could not take their eyes off the King, and even some who went out of their way to attract his attention. Anne was certain that this man had only to beckon with his little finger, and half a dozen of them would fall willingly into his arms—and, no doubt, his bed. But he took no notice of them. He was deep in conversation with his womenfolk.



In the ornate stand at the side of the tiltyard, Anne watched the Queen’s face as the King, in gleaming armor, on a lavishly trapped white steed, led the contestants into the tournament ground. Katherine was gazing at him as if adoring a saint, and when he wheeled his mount, bowed in the saddle before her, and dipped his lance for her favor, she leaned forward eagerly and tied on a scarf bearing the colors of Spain. The Imperial ambassadors, seated between her and Cardinal Wolsey, beamed approvingly. Then, as the King turned away, Anne saw Katherine’s expression change. She was staring at the horse’s silver trappings, on which the legend “She has wounded my heart” had been embroidered.

It was probably no more than a device of the game of love that Anne knew so well how to play, but the Queen looked stricken. Then she seemed to recover herself, as the other knights approached the stand and the ladies jostled to bestow their own favors. A gentleman was saluting Anne. She recognized James Butler, smiling at her beneath his visor.

“My chosen lady!” he called.

She did not want his attention, did not want publicly to acknowledge herself his future wife, but she knew it would be churlish to refuse, so with as much grace as she could muster, she attached her handkerchief to his lance, and he rode off happily enough.

The jousts began, and Henry Norris entered the lists. Anne’s heart gave a jolt. He was even more beautiful than she remembered—but he was wearing the Fiennes colors as his favor. Her eyes were drawn further along to the stand where many ladies were sitting, and she saw Mary Fiennes among them, cheering her husband on. She had to look away.

James Butler acquitted himself nobly and won a prize, at which he bowed in Anne’s direction, showing the world that it was in her honor; but the King excelled all, and emerged victorious to thunderous applause.

When she left the royal stand in the Queen’s wake, Anne took care to stay close to Katherine, hoping that James Butler would not come seeking her out. Fortunately, she was able to avoid him in the throng of people crowding into the pavilion where refreshments were being served. The King was there, enlarging expansively and loudly on his exploits, surrounded by the Queen and an admiring crowd of ladies and courtiers. Anne wondered who was supposed to have wounded his heart. He did not look at all wounded. And who would have dared refuse him? Whoever she was, Anne silently applauded her.

That evening, while the King and Queen were dining in private with the ambassadors, Anne was free, so she hastened to Mary’s lodging to put the final touches to the costume she was to wear two days hence in the pageant. True to her word, Mary had secured for Anne one of the coveted parts, doubtless through Will Carey’s influence.

She was surprised to find Mary downcast and preoccupied. Her sister was making an obvious effort to be cheerful, but in vain.

“I know something’s the matter,” Anne said, picking up the heavy white silk gown to finish embroidering it with gold thread.

“I dare not tell you,” Mary muttered.

“Come now, you must,” Anne insisted. “I will just worry otherwise.”

Mary’s dark eyes brimmed with tears. She always could cry beautifully. “You must promise not to say this to a soul, especially Will,” she blurted out. “The King is trying to seduce me—and I do not want him!” Now she was sobbing uncontrollably.

“But that’s appalling!” Anne cried, as the motto on Henry’s trappings suddenly made abhorrent sense. “You must say no!”

“I have! And he was angry.” Mary dabbed at her eyes. “It started at Christmas. He paid me compliments, gave me gifts—and I thought he was just flattering me. But then he started to drop hints that he was prepared to be very generous indeed, and last month he gave Will a grant of land. Will was delighted, but I knew it for what it was—an inducement to let me know that I would be well rewarded.”

“I’m glad you said no,” Anne told her. “But I expect he isn’t used to that. Most women are probably flattered by his attentions. He is the King, after all.”

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