In response, she poured out her fears, of the sweat, of losing Henry to it, and about the Cardinal working against her. Henry was quick to allay them with brave words.
One thing may comfort you, for they say that few women get this malady, and no one at court has died of it. So I implore you, my entirely beloved, to have no fear at all, nor let my absence upset you, for wherever I may be, I am yours. One must sometimes submit to ill fortune, but comfort yourself, take courage, and banish this anxiety as far as you can, and then I trust soon to make us exult in its dismissal. No more for the present, for lack of time, but that I wish you in my arms, that I might a little relieve your useless and vain thoughts.
Written with the hand of him who is, and always will be,
Your ImHRmutable.
There were cases of the sweat in Surrey, he had warned her, so it was advisable for her to leave Byfleet and go home. She had her maid pack up her gear once more, and departed for Hever.
There she found her father, who had returned when the court was broken up. He sent her straight to her bedchamber and ordered her to stay there, lest she infect him, Mother, or Mary and the children, who were staying with them. She went meekly enough. It was a wise precaution.
The next morning, Mary pushed a letter from Will under Anne’s door. Anne seethed when she read it. Will had been in attendance when the King opened a letter from Cardinal Wolsey and exploded with anger, for Wolsey had begged him to abandon all thoughts of his nullity suit, for fear of God’s wrath.
He used terrible words, saying he would have given a thousand Wolseys for one Anne Boleyn. He said that no other than God should take her from him.
Anne was incandescent. Henry must now see that Wolsey was working against them. Here was proof, if ever he needed it! Maybe he would heed her more now, and not dismiss her real concerns as womanish fancies.
She laid down the letter, her hand trembling with anger, and opened the door to get the tray of food that had been left outside. Cold slices of venison, manchet bread, thickly buttered, and a beaker of ale. She did not fancy any of it; she was in too much turmoil to eat and her head was aching a little. She sat down and picked up her Book of Hours, an exquisite illuminated manuscript in vibrant colors. It had always brought her comfort, ever since she had bought it in the Netherlands, and after reading a few pages she did feel more positive. She would triumph in the end, she vowed it! And in anticipation of that, she took her pen and wrote at the bottom of one page, “Le temps viendra. The time will come!” Then she added her name, so that anyone finding the inscription in years to come would know who had written it. By then she would either be famous or forgotten.
The headache was becoming more oppressive, and there was a niggling pain near her heart. And then, suddenly, she was pouring with sweat, and knew what ailed her.
She cried out, again and again, and there was Mother, fearlessly wrapping her in blankets.
“You have to sweat it out, Anne,” she exhorted. Out in the gallery, Mary was wailing about her children. But all Anne could think of was that she was going to die, very soon, and die a virgin, without ever knowing the joy of love’s consummation.
Half an hour later, she could not have cared.
—
Through her delirium, she heard voices.
“The King must be informed!”
“Should we call the chaplain?”
“Oh, my poor, poor child!”
They came to her through a feverish haze, in which she convulsed in violent sweats. Her whole body seemed to be in pain, and the worst of it was an intense feeling of agitation. Consciousness came and went, and when she did wake, her thoughts were in turmoil. She was aware that she had the sweat, and could remember hearing someone say that a sufferer could be merry at dinner and dead at supper, and that only those who survived the first twenty-four hours could hope to live. Terrified, she tried to prepare for death.
But God was not ready for her. In the night, her fever subsided and the sweating eased. At dawn, she awoke to find Mother sitting beside her, telling her rosary beads.
“Praise be to God, you are better!” she cried, as Anne stretched out a hand to her. Mother’s cheeks were smeared with tears and there were dark circles under her eyes.
“I have been up all night watching,” she told Anne. “Your father also has the sweat, but not so badly. He will recover.” She sagged, exhausted, in her chair.
“That’s a relief,” Anne murmured, too weak to say much. “The King…”
“We sent to inform him that you were ill. Before I go and lie down, I must send another letter to say you are restored to us.” Elizabeth Howard caressed Anne’s cheek. “I am so very thankful to see you looking yourself again. I was in terror, fearing we would lose you.”
Anne laid her hand over her mother’s. “God, I think, has spared me for a reason.”
—
Having sent the maids scurrying to change Anne’s sheets, sponge her down, and put on a clean night rail, Mother was fast asleep when the King’s own physician, Dr. Butts, arrived an hour later. It was Mary who sanctioned his admittance to the castle, the drawbridge having been raised to stop the sweat from spreading, and showed him up to Anne’s room.
“Mistress Anne, I rejoice to find you so much better,” Butts greeted her. She had met him before and admired his urbane, reassuring manner and his great learning. He asked her several questions about her illness, then smiled. “You need no medicine, Mistress Anne, but I have brought you a tonic.” And he handed her a letter bearing the royal seal.
“I will examine my lord your father,” he said, and discreetly withdrew.
Weakly, Anne tore open the letter. Henry had written in a frenzy. The sudden news had been the worst he could have received. It had shocked him to hear that the sweat had visited the person he esteemed more than all the world, whose health he desired as much as his own. He would willingly have borne half of her malady to have her healed. She had to smile at that. Half! It was typical of Henry to shy away even figuratively from illness.
Frantic, he had wanted to send Dr. Chambers, his chief physician, but Chambers had been away, tending to the sick. Fortunately Dr. Butts had been at hand. If he restored Anne to health, Henry would hold him even more closely in his affection. She must be governed by Butts’s advice in all things, and then he could trust to see her again, which would be to him a more sovereign remedy than all the precious stones in the world. He had once more drawn a heart around her initials, writing them between his own at the end.
—
Father and Anne were out of bed and resting in the parlor when the news came that Will Carey had died of the sweat. The end had come with deadly swiftness; he had ailed only three hours before.