Anne Boleyn, a King's Obsession

“Sirs! Will you witness our plighting?” he cried.

Anne was startled at his eager haste. She should speak to the Queen first, and to Father, or rather Harry should, but she was swept along by his enthusiasm, and smiled as the two gallants bowed before her. The Queen could not object, surely, and she knew that Father certainly would not. So she had no doubt that she was doing the right thing when she willingly repeated, after Harry, the promise that would bind her to him for life. “I, Anne Boleyn, plight thee my troth, Henry Percy, to be your wedded wife.”

“I pray you, sirs, do not speak of this to anyone until I give the word,” Harry asked.

The young men promised, and walked off chuckling, wishing them both happiness and good fortune.

Harry squeezed Anne’s hand. “Let us keep this our secret for now, until I tell my father when he comes to court. Then I will speak to yours. We must do everything properly. But Anne, oh my darling Anne, you have made me the happiest man alive!” And he kissed her again, more hungrily this time. It was bliss!



They tried to keep it a secret, but it was hard, since they were almost never alone. The Queen might encourage flirtations, but she was vigilant. At least she could not hear what they said when they sat in “their” window seat and talked of their future.

“We must have a big wedding, with many guests,” Harry said. “I want all my kinsfolk and friends to see what a beautiful bride I have won!” He was looking at Anne with such longing that her heart sang. And then his hand reached for hers under cover of her skirts. He even caressed that unsightly extra nail.

One evening, Anne stole away after dinner and met him in the lime walk that led to the Chapel of the Observant Friars, a little way from the palace. The place was deserted, and as they melted into each other’s arms, she could hear the brothers chanting Vespers. The King would be hearing the office in the Queen’s chapel. They had an hour at most.

He drew her under the shadow of one of the trees and kissed her with passion. She felt desire stir, lively and insistent, but reined herself in. She was the future Countess of Northumberland, soon to be Lady Percy, and must behave as such. So she made a supreme effort gently to disentangle herself, and took Harry’s hands.

“I love you,” she told him. “Dear heart, we do nothing wrong by loving each other, but we must never give any cause to say that we have behaved improperly.”

“I wanted only to kiss you and hold you,” Harry protested.

“And I wanted that too. But I should go back. It cannot be long until our marriage, and then we will have all the time in the world for loving each other.”

“Alas, I cannot wait that long,” he groaned. “Every day will seem like an eternity. But I respect your wishes, sweetheart. We will go back.”

As she emerged from the shadow of the tree, she saw a man in black standing some way ahead, at the palace end of the lime walk, a stocky man with bullish features. He was looking in her direction, but when he saw her, he turned away. She hoped he hadn’t seen her with Harry, but even if he had, their secret betrothal would soon be a secret no more.



As Anne was watching a game of tennis, Mary appeared.

“I need to talk to you,” she murmured, her eyes pink, as if she had been crying. Anne got up and followed her out of the spectators’ gallery, and they walked in the gardens, shivering a little in the September chill.

“I’m pregnant,” Mary said. “It’s the King’s. There’s no way it can be Will’s. We haven’t…well, not for ages. He’s always too tired. Oh, God, what am I going to tell him?”

Anne stiffened. “Maybe the King can advise you. He got you in this mess.”

Mary was crying. “I told Hal—I mean, the King,” she sniffed. “He has not summoned me since. I think it is over.”

“Of course it is not over! He has a child for which he is responsible!”

“He will not own it. He told me there is a legal presumption that any child I bear is my husband’s, so there is no cause for scandal. But Anne, I never thought to say this—I miss him. I had grown fond of him. There is something about him…”

“Whatever it is, it’s not honor!” Anne retorted, thinking how lucky she was to have found a man of integrity like Harry. “Mary, tell me you have asked him for financial support for your child. Don’t tell me you’ve come out of it with nothing!”

Mary’s face told her all. “I know, I know,” she sobbed, as curious courtiers passing by stared. “But I had no warning. What am I going to say to Will?”

Anne thought rapidly. “How far along are you?”

“I have missed two courses.”

“Then you had best entice Will to your bed without delay, and let him think the babe has come early. Or you can tell him the truth. After all, you had no choice in the matter. He should be sympathetic.”

“If I was going to tell him, it should have been in the beginning,” Mary wept. “He might forgive my succumbing to the King, for I was unwilling, but he will not forgive over a year of deceit. No man would.”

“Then you have to live with your secret,” Anne said. “I’m sorry, that sounds hard, but it’s the lesser of two evils.”

“Please don’t tell Father about this,” Mary begged.

“Why not? I imagine he’d be delighted to be grandfather to the King’s child! You might even outdo the Queen and bear a son. Then you’ll see His Grace’s interest revive, I’ll wager.”

“Bessie Blount bore him a son, whom he acknowledged,” Mary recalled, brightening.

“Yes, and from what I hear, the boy is being brought up like a prince.”

“But if that happened, Will would have to know.”

“Let’s meet that when we come to it,” Anne advised. “Now, if you’ll forgive me, I must go to the Queen. I’m on duty at four.” And Harry was coming to see her this afternoon.



Two days later, the Cardinal and his entourage left for York Place, Wolsey’s great palace at Westminster, and Anne began counting the hours until she could see Harry again. The time dragged endlessly, and she spent her leisure hours planning her wedding outfit. Oh, to be of noble or royal rank and wear cloth of gold or velvet! But silver tissue would do very well, and it would be lightweight in the warm weather, for assuredly this would be a summer wedding. She would wear her hair loose in token of the virginity she had so carefully preserved, but she could plait the crown and thread some jewels and ribbons into it.

She was happily daydreaming about her wedding one morning, on her way from the maidens’ dorter to the Queen’s apartments, when a young man who looked familiar stepped out from under an archway.

“Mistress Anne Boleyn?”

“Yes?” She stopped, startled.

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