—
In March, Henry invited Anne and her mother to stay as his guests at Windsor Castle. They found him with only his riding household and a handful of attendants, but George was there, and Norris. Anne tried hard not to keep looking Norris’s way, but there came a day when she entered the royal library in search of a book and found him there alone. For a long moment they looked into each other’s eyes. There could be no mistaking his feelings now. His gaze held hers, but when he opened his mouth to speak, she laid a finger to her lips. Some things were better left unsaid. It was enough to know that her feelings were reciprocated. Without a word, she smiled and made herself walk out of the door.
The weather was fair, and every afternoon Henry took Anne hunting or hawking. They covered many miles, not returning until late in the evening, when a hearty supper would be served to them. In the mornings they went walking in Windsor Great Park, and Henry told her about a murdered forester called Herne the Hunter, whose antlered ghost was said to walk these woodlands. “If you venture out at midnight you might see it,” he teased her.
“That’s why I’m making sure I walk here in the mornings!” she laughed.
“Anne, I miss you dreadfully when you’re not here,” Henry said. “Come to Greenwich with me.”
It struck her that it was time to exercise a little vigilance on Wolsey.
“Very well,” she agreed. “I will.”
Henry’s eyes were shining. “You mean I don’t have to beg?”
“Not at all. I should like to come very much.”
—
As soon as she arrived at Greenwich, there was a scramble to pay court to her. People clearly expected that she would soon be queen, and so they vied for her favors and her patronage. And no one was more fawning and obsequious than Wolsey. Eager to please his master and ingratiate himself, he entertained Henry and Anne to great feasts and lavish banquets at York Place. It was gratifying to see the mighty Cardinal almost tripping over his red robes to pay homage to her.
No longer was she to serve the Queen. Henry knew it would be unpleasant for both of them, and assigned Anne a lodging off the tiltyard gallery. It was one normally allocated to the most favored courtiers, and he had had it furnished with fine tapestries, a carved tester bed, and a wealth of silverware. It was wonderful to have her very own apartment, and the leisure to enjoy it.
“It is but a foretaste of what you will have in the fullness of time,” Henry promised.
Now she could entertain her friends in private, and pass the time making music, writing poetry, playing cards, or gossiping. George came nearly every day, and sometimes he brought Jane too, but she clearly felt ill at ease among the ladies and gentlemen, many of them self-seekers, who crowded Anne’s chamber in search of good pastimes, witty conversation, and favors from the King. Anne was relieved when she stopped coming.
—
Early in May, Henry appeared at her door. “Dr. Foxe is returned from Rome.” And there the good doctor was, right behind him.
“Welcome!” Anne greeted him, trying not to let her hopes surge too high. “Have you brought us good news?”
“Your Grace, Mistress Anne, it is not quite what we had hoped, but his Holiness has agreed to send Cardinal Campeggio to England to try the case with Cardinal Wolsey. Yet we could not persuade him to grant a commission empowering Cardinal Wolsey to give judgment. Nevertheless, sir, we both feel optimistic, given the goodwill of his Holiness toward your Grace.”
“That’s wonderful news!” Anne cried. “Thank you, Dr. Foxe, thank you!”
Henry grabbed Anne’s hand and led them to the Cardinal, eager to tell him the news.
“Excellent, excellent!” Wolsey said, eyeing Anne nervously.
But then Foxe spoke up. “There is one cause for concern, your Grace. His Holiness has heard rumors that Mistress Anne—forgive me, mistress—is with child, and he feels she may not be worthy to be queen.”
“That’s a wicked lie!” Anne protested.
Henry’s expression was thunderous. “By God, I won’t have you slandered so! My Lord Cardinal, you will write to the Pope now and inform him that he has been laboring under a vile misapprehension. You will stress Mistress Anne’s excellent virtue, her constant virginity, her chastity, her wisdom, her descent of noble and regal blood, her good manners, her youth, and her apparent aptness to bear children. You will tell him that these are the grounds on which my desire is founded, and the qualities for which Mistress Anne is held in esteem here.”
Wolsey nodded fervent agreement. “I will write immediately, sir,” he promised. “The world shall know the truth about Mistress Anne.” And he bowed in her direction.
But the world—at least that portion of it in England—appeared instead to be paying heed to a mad nun in Kent, who was making wild prophecies and proclaiming that she had seen holy visions.
“This tiresome woman rants against me in public,” an irritated Henry told Anne. “She’s a lunatic, but she draws large crowds wherever she goes. Now, the authorities inform me, she has predicted that, if I put away my lawful wife, as she calls Katherine, I shall no longer be king of this realm and shall die a villain’s death.” He shrugged. “It beggars belief!”
Anne was alarmed. “Henry, if ignorant people are giving credence to her fantasies, you should take action against her.”
“Sweetheart, she is a harmless madwoman,” he said. “Just ignore her.”
—
That summer, the dreaded sweating sickness once again broke out in London, infecting people with alarming speed. It was the disease that had carried off Anne’s older brothers eleven years before. She had been in France then, and had not experienced the horrors of an epidemic such as this. She was gripped with fear that, at any moment, she might be struck down with the sweat; that she might wake in the morning feeling well, but be dead by dinnertime. Any little symptom—feeling overheated, which was natural in this sweltering May, or a little breathless—assumed a sinister significance. Some said that getting a physician to bleed you helped; Henry swore by a concoction of herbs in treacle. But Anne had no faith in either. When it came down to it, there was nothing you could do to protect yourself, save avoiding contact with those who were stricken.
She was disturbed to hear that some were saying that this visitation was a judgment of God on the King for putting away his lawful Queen. But Henry was having none of it.
“They might also say that it is a judgment on me for living in sin with her!” he growled. “Do not fret, sweetheart.”