Anne Boleyn, a King's Obsession



Henry’s next letter was despondent. The commissioners had said that they were not competent to judge his case. He had therefore consulted his Privy Council, who had agreed that there was good cause for scruple and advised him to approach the Pope for a decision on his marriage.

Anne’s shoulders sagged in disappointment when she read this. Applying to Rome would surely take months, even if the Pope was willing speedily to oblige the King.

Far worse news followed. Early in June, Henry wrote to say that Rome had been savagely sacked by mercenary troops of the Emperor, who was then campaigning elsewhere in Italy. Lacking a commander, they had surged unchecked into the city and unleashed an orgy of violence and murder that had raged for days.

“I will not upset you with details of their atrocities,” Henry wrote, “for they were unspeakable. Those brutes even desecrated St. Peter’s itself.” The Pope had been forced to take refuge in the Castel Sant’Angelo, and was now a virtual prisoner of the Emperor Charles, Queen Katherine’s nephew, who was willing to exploit a situation that had delivered the Holy Father into his “protection.” And that, Anne realized, her spirits plummeting, meant that, for the present, a favorable decision on Henry’s case was as unlikely to be forthcoming as a man flying to the moon, especially if the Emperor learned that he wanted to marry her. She remembered him as an insufferable youth who had hated her for her presumption.

She felt helpless, and when George, now the King’s cup-bearer, came home for a brief visit later that month, she poured out her frustration.

“Couldn’t the Cardinal, as Papal legate, just declare the marriage invalid?” she cried.

George shook his head. “Father says the Emperor is all-powerful. If provoked—and Wolsey dissolving the marriage on his own authority might be seen as provocation—Charles might declare war. No, dear sister, there is nothing for it but to have patience.”

“Maybe I should return to court.”

“I would not advise it right now. The King’s ‘Great Matter’—as they are calling it—is now as notorious as if it had been proclaimed by the town crier. His Grace had to command the Lord Mayor of London to order the people to cease spreading rumors, on pain of his high displeasure, but it won’t stop them. Father said the clamor has reached such a pitch that the Cardinal felt it prudent to inform all our ambassadors of the truth.”

“Is my name being spoken?” Anne asked, alarmed. It was not meant to happen this way. She had anticipated a speedy, amicable divorce followed by a joyous wedding.

“Not yet.” Brother and sister stared at each other, knowing that it soon would be.

“Does Mary know that the King wants to marry me?”

George grimaced. “Yes. Father told her.”

“I can tell from your reaction that she was not best pleased.”

George shrugged. “She doesn’t want the King. She just can’t bear the idea of your being queen!”

“She’s the least of my worries. I can’t be dealing with her jealousy at this time.”

Anne could not settle to anything, she was so agitated. Her mother tried to calm her, assuring her that all would be well in the end.

“But you don’t know that!” she flared.

“No, but I trust in the goodness of God,” Mother declared. “Now stop this fretting and help me in my still room.”



At the end of June, Henry rode down from Greenwich Palace. Anne was relieved to lay eyes on his small cavalcade approaching, delighted to see him for once. He must have news!

“Your brother told me that you were disconsolate, darling,” he said, embracing her tenderly after her mother had left them alone together in the parlor. “You must not worry. The situation in Italy is volatile and could change at any moment. I put my trust in his Holiness. I have been a good son of the Church.”

Anne had hoped for something more tangible, but she forced a smile. “I know. I have read your Grace’s book defending the sacraments that Martin Luther denied.”

“Indeed?” He looked pleased. “The Pope was so grateful, he conferred on me the title Defender of the Faith. So I am hopeful that he will look favorably on my suit.”

He sat down and accepted one of the little marmalade cakes Anne offered. “Quince is my favorite,” he told her appreciatively, pulling her to him and kissing her hungrily. “Anne, you will be mine and you will be queen, never doubt it!”

She kissed him back, then disengaged herself. Henry let her go reluctantly. His eyes alighted on her illuminated prayer book on the table.

“This is beautiful,” he remarked, turning the pages until he came upon a vivid picture of Christ, the Man of Sorrow, pierced with wounds and crowned with thorns.

“Darling, I meant what I just said.” And he reached for her pen, dipped it in the ink pot, and bent to the page. “If your remembrance be according to my affection, I shall not be forgotten in your daily prayers, for I am yours, Henry R., forever,” he wrote.

She could do no less. Taking the pen from him, she added her own inscription at the bottom of the opposite leaf: “By daily proof you shall me find to be to you both loving and kind.”

“Anne!” Henry murmured, his voice thick with desire. “You are the sweetest, loveliest mistress, and I am blessed indeed!”



No sooner had the King departed for Greenwich than Father came home, bringing with him Uncle Norfolk. As Mother flapped off to stir the servants to preparing a fine repast, the Duke took Father’s chair at the head of the parlor table and fixed his gimlet gaze on Anne.

“Niece, we have reason to believe that the Cardinal is not to be trusted. He does the King’s bidding in this Great Matter, but his heart is not in it. Even if the King’s suit is successful, Wolsey means to marry him to a French princess.”

“He would not presume so far!” Anne cried.

“He has been presuming thus far for years,” Father said, grim-faced. “He runs this kingdom.”

“While we, the nobility, who should be the King’s natural counselors, are kept from enjoying the power that should be ours by right of birth,” Uncle Norfolk growled. “I’ve always said it—this upstart butcher’s whelp is a pernicious influence.”

Father nodded. “When I was made Lord Rochford, I was forced to resign my post as treasurer without any financial compensation. I blame Wolsey. He hates our family. He sees us as a threat, and will do anything he can to bring us down.”

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