It felt strange to be at Beaulieu, a house in Essex that her family had once owned, and which she remembered visiting as a child, when it had been much smaller. But Father had sold it to the King while she was in France, and now it was a great palace faced with fashionable red bricks, with a fountain playing in the courtyard and glorious jeweled glass in the windows.
Henry seemed to have abandoned all discretion in summoning her here. She had only been gone from court for five weeks, and little could have changed in that time. She was astonished when as soon as she arrived she was escorted to the King’s privy chamber and he embraced her in front of all his gentlemen. Seeing her expression, he was bullish.
“I have done with subterfuge, Anne! My love for you is an honorable thing, and I would show the world how greatly I hold you in esteem. No harm shall come to your reputation. The world shall see that you are virtuous, beyond reproach and”—he lowered his voice—“fit to be my Queen.”
He pressed into her hands a small silver casket, in which nestled an emerald ring and other costly jewels, and she smiled, murmuring her thanks. She was aware of the scrutiny of the men in attendance, whose attention was meant to be focused on their cards, dice, and music-making. The handsome Sir Henry Norris was among them. For a brief moment, their eyes met, and Anne felt herself blush. She quickly looked away.
Henry invited her to walk with him in his privy garden. As soon as they were outdoors, she told him how disconcerted she had been to find that the sole topic of conversation in the inn where she and her father had lodged on the way had been the Great Matter.
“People were saying they could not believe that your Grace would ever carry so wicked a project into effect. The women, in particular, spoke out in the Queen’s favor. They said that you sought to be rid of her purely for your own pleasure.”
Henry waved a dismissive hand. “They are ignorant fools, and impertinent to be questioning their King. Sweetheart, I did not bring you here to speak of a few disloyal subjects. I would be private with you for a space before I lose you to the Queen.” He bent and kissed her mouth, drawing her to him, his golden beard rough against her cheek. She twined her arms around his neck, wishing she could feel something of what she had felt for Harry or Norris. For all that she wanted the crown, at times like these, which brought home to her the price of it, she felt as if she was being swept along in a current she could not dam.
She hastened to visit Mary in the lodging she shared with Will. She wanted to warn her that the secret would soon be out. But Mary’s reception was cold.
“What business is it of mine?” she sniffed. “You’re welcome to him.”
“There will be a scandal,” Anne told her.
“You made your bed, now lie on it!” Jealousy blazed in Mary’s eyes. “If you think I’m going to bow the knee to you as queen…”
“I didn’t come to argue,” Anne said. “I don’t want any bad feeling between us over this. I didn’t take the King from you.”
“You came to queen it over me!” Mary was implacable.
Anne tried again. “At least let me see the children.”
“They’re asleep. Good night.” And Mary shut the door.
—
Katherine was going about with a determined smile on her face, but the smile slipped a little when Anne kept absenting herself from her duties. The King would not take no for an answer. She must come hunting with him every day. She must join him in his gallery to make music. She must watch him play tennis. He said that if the Queen knew that it was his pleasure, she would not complain. Nor did she, for at first she clearly did not know that Anne meant anything to Henry; and even when her ladies must have informed her, she showed no displeasure, but accepted what was happening in good part, with—Anne thought—exceptional patience.
“She probably thinks I am merely another Bessie Blount and will be discarded in due course,” Anne said to George over supper in his lodging one evening. It was cramped, but it had two rooms and a privy, and best of all, it was near the King’s apartments. The closer to the King, the more privileged the courtier.
“Already there is speculation that you are far more than that,” he told her. “The world is full of rumors. Imaginations are running riot.”
“What are they saying about me?”
George snorted, and swigged back his wine. “Only that the King fancies you so much that good order and everything has flown out the window! Most think, predictably, that you are the cause of his doubts about his marriage.”
“He assures me that is not so.”
“No, but what does it look like?”
Almost overnight, Anne found herself in a position of great influence. She was thrilled when a young clerk approached her with a request for a post at court and pressed a bag of gold coins into her hand. She had great satisfaction in persuading Henry to grant him a place in the Lord Steward’s office—not that it had been difficult, for he could refuse her nothing—and the man was so grateful. He was the first of many courtiers who fawned on her, seeking her patronage because they knew she had the King’s ear. This, her first taste of real power, was a heady experience. It gave her a new confidence, for it was gratifying to be able to fulfill others’ expectations and thus secure their loyalty, which would be invaluable when she was raised to queenship.
The King showered her with gifts: jewels, bolts of rich velvets and damask silk, lapdogs, fine wines…Dressed in such finery, she looked like a queen. Within two weeks of her arrival at court, rumors were circulating that the King meant to marry her. That provoked an excited swell of gossip, not all of it approving.
When she ran into her sister in a gallery, Mary swept a mocking curtsey. “My, aren’t we fine,” she sneered. “You should hear what they’re saying about you.”
“One day soon you’ll sing a different song!” Anne called after her departing back.
The court was one thing—the King’s pleasure was too respected there for resentment to spill over into open protest—but England at large was another. Anne was horrified when, riding out to the hunt with Henry, with the Queen there too, people spat at her and shouted out their outrage that she should dare presume to supplant good Queen Katherine.
“Whore!” they shouted. “Witch! Adulteress!” The women were worse than the men. It was frightening, and Anne’s cheeks burned with the unjustness of it. And for all his angry commands, bawled from the saddle, there was nothing the King could do to still the voices. There were always others ahead to shout more abuse. But when Katherine rode by, they cried: “Victory over your enemies!”