Anne Boleyn, a King's Obsession



In a fever of hope and suspense, Anne sought out George and told him what had happened. Seeing her tears, he drew her into his arms. He was shaking with anger.

“How dare he!” he raged against Wolsey. “Wait till Father hears!”

His support was a comfort to Anne. But there was no comfort to be had of the Queen. Katherine did not tell her what the King had said, only that she must go home to Hever.

“When the time is ripe, Mistress Anne, you may be assured of being welcomed back into my household,” she told her.

Anne was barely holding herself together. “I thank your Grace. You have been very kind. But madam, I have been treated most unjustly, and I have been insulted.” Wolsey would pay for that. “If ever it lies in my power, I will work the Cardinal as much displeasure as he has done me!”

The Queen stared at her and swallowed. “I hope that in time you will find it in your heart to forgive him,” she said. “Now God speed you.”

I will never forgive him! Anne resolved. Head held high, she went on her way. The carapace was firmly back in place.





1523-1524


Hever was inestimably dull, but Anne was so unhappy that she did not care where she was. The days were all gray, one much the same as another, and she could take no interest in anything. She had been robbed of her future, and her present was unutterably bleak. As for her past, she dared not think of it.

Mrs. Orchard offered a shoulder to cry on. Mother encouraged, then begged Anne to have a care for herself, growing increasingly concerned.

“You must pull yourself together,” she urged. “There’s plenty more eels in the pond!”

Father, of course, was at court. She had not seen him since her disgrace, but she knew he was as furious as he had been when Mary confessed that the King had gotten her with child and abandoned her. He was not angry with Anne, but with that butcher’s whelp who had scuppered the brilliant marriage she had planned, and which would have brought Father so much glory. He was on her side, although he could not openly say so at court. The last thing he would do was offend the King.

There had been no more word of the marriage that was supposedly being planned for her. All lies! she seethed. She kept going over and over that interview with Wolsey, whose name she could not now bear to utter. She wished, how she wished, that she had given a better account of herself, put the Cardinal in his place, exposed him for what he was. But her moment would come. She did not know when or how, but she and her family would see him brought down. She had vowed it. He would suffer, as he had made her suffer.

It was a sad summer, made sadder still by news of the death of Queen Claude from a malady caught in childbed. “Or from her husband!” Mother observed tartly. “The world knows that satyr has the great pox.” It was news to Anne, but in England people were prone to believing any gossip about King Fran?ois and the hated French.



All through that dismal winter, Anne could not lift herself out of her depression.

Father arrived home for a week in February, and showed himself unusually sympathetic.

“Don’t look so wan, Anne,” he counseled. “Time heals. We’ll find you a good husband yet.”

She smiled weakly, reflecting on how unlucky she had been. She doubted she would ever give her heart again, even if she did wed.

Father went upstairs to slough off the mud from his journey and change his clothes. When he reappeared, he summoned Anne to the parlor, which was gloomy due to the descending dusk outside. He lit two candles, then sat in his great chair by the fire.

“Sit down,” he said, indicating the settle opposite. “I have something to tell you. Harry Percy is married. The wedding took place last month.”

She bit her lip. She would not cry. But the news that Harry was lost to her irrevocably was the bitterest of blows. She did not know how she would bear it.

“Thank you for telling me,” she said. “I’d rather have heard it from you than from anyone else.”

Father nodded. “Mary is coming home to have her child,” he said. “Will has agreed. The court is no place for a woman in her condition. Your mother will take care of her.” His voice was brusque. They had all colluded in keeping the truth from Will, who was plainly looking forward to the arrival of his child. Anne wondered what he would say if he discovered it was not his, for he loved his wife. Poor Mary. Her deception was a terrible burden to bear.

Anne knew that the King had taken no interest in Mary since learning of her pregnancy, and for a few weeks, when Will was not around, Mary had been tearful and resentful; but as her pregnancy advanced, she had grown absorbed in the coming child, and Anne began to hope that the King had become a distant memory, and that he would not trouble Mary again. Let the world think this child was Will Carey’s—and why should it not?



Anne was sent out of the room. It was not fit for an unmarried woman to witness a birth, Mother said, unwittingly twisting the knife by reminding her that she was not married, and probably never would be. She was twenty-three now, and soon she might be too old to snare a husband. Not that it mattered to her anymore.

She went downstairs and sat in her mother’s office, reading a book. But the words danced before her eyes—she could not concentrate, not when the great miracle of birth was taking place somewhere above her.

She stood up and went to the window. It was a fine April morning, with blossom on the trees and fluffy clouds in the sky. The gardens looked glorious. It was desperately sad not to be sharing their beauty with the man she loved. She realized to her horror that Harry’s image was fading and that she could not quite remember what he looked like, or the sound of his voice. It was eight months since she had seen him, and the worst storm of her grief was over. What was left was this pall of sadness, and soon, no doubt, that would pass too, and she would begin to live again, rather than just exist.

A cry echoed through the castle—the unmistakable wail of a newborn. Picking up her skirts, Anne raced upstairs.

“Is all well?” she called through the door.

Her mother opened it, a tiny infant swathed in a blanket nestling in the crook of her arm. “A girl, safely delivered,” she said, “and Mary had an easy time, thanks be to God. But Anne, look.” She pulled aside the edge of the blanket and the little face was revealed—the very image of the King. The eyes of mother and daughter met.

“There’s no point in making a fuss,” Mother said briskly. “We must all act as if the babe is Will’s. Let us pray he does not notice anything amiss.”



A messenger was sent to summon Will from court, and he arrived at Hever within a few hours. Anne and her mother were present when he came into Mary’s bedchamber to find his wife propped up on her pillows, the swaddled infant in her arms.

Alison Weir's books