Anne Boleyn, a King's Obsession

“No!” Anne cried, startling the birds roosting in the branches of a nearby tree. She did not want this covert, secretive kind of relationship. She wanted a pure love that she could blazon to the world.

“Please!” Henry’s hand stole around her waist, his breath hot in her ear. “It will not be like that. I will love you and honor you. There is no limit to what I would do for you. You can have whatever you want—riches, houses, jewels—if you will consent to becoming my mistress.”

Anne shook him off and moved away. “Is that your idea of discretion? Surely your Majesty is jesting, or trying to test me? And to ease you of the trouble of asking me the question again, I beseech your Highness most earnestly to desist and take my refusal in good part. I fear for my soul. I would rather lose my life than my honesty, which will be the greatest and best part of the dowry I shall bring my husband.”

Henry looked as if she had slapped him.

“Well, Mistress Anne,” he said, “I shall live in hope.”

She rounded on him.

“I understand not, most mighty King, how you should retain such hope. Your wife I cannot be, both in respect of my unworthiness, and also because you have a queen already. Your mistress I will not be! And now, sir, I beg leave to return to my duties.”

“Anne!” groaned Henry. “Don’t do this to me. I am in torment!”



He was like a man possessed—no, he was a man possessed. Anne’s refusal to sleep with him seemed only to make her infinitely more desirable.

“Why these constant excuses?” he asked plaintively, as they stood by the river at Greenwich one night, in the shadow of the chapel. “I would not make you do anything against your will, sweetheart, much as I desire you. But if you will consent to be my mistress, and let me be your chosen servant, forsaking all others, then I will respect your virtue and humbly do your will.” Once, Anne could not have imagined Henry Tudor doing anything humbly, but he had surprised her. He was like a puppy, craving a scrap of attention.

And then it came to her. Why not? She knew she was growing warmer toward Henry, simply by dint of getting to know him, and being adored by him. She knew there was much to like about him, and there were many interests they shared: music, art, poetry, sport, and stimulating conversation. All of that made her feel kinder toward him, but it was not love, and she could not feel the passion, or anything even approaching it, that he craved of her. And yet being his acknowledged mistress might have its advantages. For the first time since Henry had noticed her, she felt ambition stirring within her. She would have influence, patronage, riches…all the things Mary had failed to obtain. And she would not have to give anything in return.

She kept him in suspense for a time as she considered. Then she smiled. “Sir, I will be your mistress, but on two conditions. One is that you do nothing to compromise my honor. The other is that this remains a secret between us, as is proper for a mistress and a servant. I do not want the world thinking I am your whore.”

“Anything, anything, darling,” Henry agreed, tears shining in his eyes. “You have made me the happiest of men! Let us seal our love with a kiss.” And he bent his lips to hers and kissed her properly for the first time, as if he would devour her. She disengaged herself as soon as she could.



The problem was, Henry would not play the game by the rules. He assumed that Anne was now as ardent as he was, and that she would not mind his constantly trying to kiss or caress her, or even his hand straying to her breast. It was plain to her that the terms on which she had insisted could never satisfy him. She avoided his company as often as she could, but he would not allow it. Always he sought her out. In the end, pleading illness, and praying that the Queen would believe her, she asked if she might have leave to go home to Hever.

Mother was surprised to see her.

“You look well enough to me,” she said, releasing Anne from a welcoming embrace.

“In truth, I am,” Anne admitted, and gave a sketchy account of being pursued by a persistent married suitor.

“I dare not name him, for he is a great lord and could make trouble for me, and for us all,” she said, in response to her mother’s probing.

“Then you did the right thing in absenting yourself,” Elizabeth Howard said, looking at her speculatively.

But Anne was not to be left in peace for long. Daily, letters arrived from the King, under cover of a plain seal. He was in torment. Why had she left him? How had he offended her? What was he to do without her? When could he look to see her? It was clear that her absence had only inflamed his ardor the more fiercely.

Hoping to stem the torrent of pleading, she wrote to him, courteous, noncommittal letters worded only to cool his passion.

He responded vehemently. Reading them, he said, had caused him great distress, for he did not know whether to interpret them to his advantage or otherwise. He prayed that she would let him know her mind concerning the love between them.

Between us? she thought. It was all on his side.

Of necessity, he must have an answer, he insisted, having for more than a whole year been struck with the dart of love. She had to smile at his courtly way of putting it. Thanks to this new coolness on her part, he continued, he had not known of late whether he was entitled to call her his mistress, for the very name denoted a special love, far removed from common affection. But if it pleased her to be his true, loyal mistress and friend, and give herself up, heart, body, and soul, to him—who, he reminded her, had been, and would be, her very loyal servant—he promised her that not only would he then call her his mistress again, but that also he would take her for his only mistress, rejecting from his thoughts and affections all others save her.

And she had thought he had dedicated himself to her alone! It sounded very much as if he had been dallying with other ladies as well. Did he think he was doing her an honor?

He had ended by beseeching her to give a definitive answer to what he aptly called his ill-mannered letter, and tell him how far he might trust in her love. He had ended it: “Written with the hand of him who would willingly remain your H.R.”

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