“But he’s my child!” Mary protested. “She shall not have him!”
“I won’t take him away,” Anne hastened to assure her. “He can stay with you and all will be as it was before. When he is older, I will find him good tutors, so that he will be well educated. You cannot object to that. Look upon me as a kind of godmother, who will always have a care for his interests.”
Mary subsided. “You will consult me in everything?”
“I will,” Anne promised.
—
She did not really want the responsibility of her nephew. She was more preoccupied with the election at Wilton Abbey, and ready to take up the cudgels on behalf of Eleanor Carey. At the very least, it showed Mary that she had the Carey family interests at heart, and indeed Mary softened toward her when she saw how determined Anne was to honor Will’s dying wish.
But Wolsey, damn him, had got there before her. Henry wrote to say that the Cardinal had sent a commissioner to Wilton to examine the candidates to assess their suitability for the office of abbess. Dame Eleanor had confessed to having had two children by different priests; she even admitted she had recently left her convent for a time to live in sin with a servant of Lord Willoughby. Anne was horrified, for these revelations would surely reflect on her own reputation. How her enemies would love pointing the finger, jeering that she had pressed for the election of a whore. Wolsey must be laughing.
Henry, thank God, was being reasonable. To do Anne pleasure—for he knew very well that she would not brook Wolsey’s candidate winning the election—he had commanded that neither Eleanor Carey nor Isabel Jordan should be abbess. “I would not, for all the gold in the world, clog your conscience or mine to make Dame Eleanor ruler of that house.” Instead, he had decreed that the office should go to someone of good character. She would not argue with that. She wondered if Will had known that his sister had led such an immoral life.
The sweating sickness was slowly abating. Henry told Anne she should judge whether the air at Hever was best for her, but he hoped it would not be long before he saw her again.
Anne thought she should leave it a little longer before returning to court. She still tired easily in the wake of her illness, and did not feel up to battling off Henry’s advances.
She was furious to hear from him that the Cardinal had taken it upon himself to force the election of Dame Isabel Jordan. Henry had spoken severely to Wolsey about his presumption, and Anne could well imagine how scorching that reprimand had been. The Cardinal had made a groveling apology, and the very next day there arrived at Hever a letter begging forgiveness and a rich gift of jewels for Anne. The election was declared null, and the matter left in abeyance. She had won!
1528
The King had returned to Greenwich, for the sweat had died down. George, now back at court, appeared at Hever, bursting with news.
“I am appointed a gentleman of the Privy Chamber!” he announced. Anne and Mother hugged him, and Father clapped him on the back. “You have done well to rise so high at only twenty-five, my son,” he said.
“The King has asked me to give you this, Anne”—George handed her a letter—“and to warn you that there is much gossip about you.”
Anne broke the seal. “Darling,” she read, “I am not a little perplexed with such things as your brother shall tell you, and I pray you give him full credence. That I trusted shortly to see you is better known in London than it is here at court, whereof I marvel. Someone has been indiscreet, but I trust that in future our meetings shall not depend upon other men’s light handling. Written with the hand of him that longs to be yours, H.R.”
She shrugged. “I suppose such gossip is only to be expected. With the legate coming from Rome, there is bound to be talk.”
That night, after an enormous celebratory dinner, Anne and George sat up in the parlor catching up on their news.
“How is Jane?” Anne asked.
“She is enjoying being back at court,” George said. She could sense his evasion.
“How are you and Jane?” she persisted. She had long known that theirs was not a happy marriage.
“We see as little of each other as possible,” George admitted, his expression darkening. “If you want the truth, we cordially hate each other—and sometimes not even cordially.”
“But why? She’s comely enough.”
“Her beauty is only skin deep. Anne, she was brought up without any bridle. Her father seems to have been so immersed in his books that he neglected to instill in her the importance of virtue. She has betrayed me with several men, following her lust and filthy pleasure, without any wifely loyalty.”
Anne was shocked. “She has actually committed adultery?”
George snorted, his handsome features twisted in contempt. “Yes, if you want it plain! She dreads neither God nor falling from grace. Her behavior is vicious.” He downed the dregs of his wine and helped himself to more. “But I am as much to blame, I and my great appetite for women. Believe me, Anne, I have not been chaste.”
“The whole court knows that,” she said gently.
“They don’t know it all,” he muttered.
“What are you trying to tell me?”
George looked stricken. Long moments passed before he spoke. “Anne, I am consumed with guilt. I must talk to someone, and you’re the only person I can trust—and yet if I tell you what torments me, you will hate me.”
“I could never hate you,” Anne declared. “Tell me!”
He hesitated, not looking her in the eye. “It’s as if I want to devour women; it’s all I think about, day and night. I’m out of control, and powerless to change. I’ve—I’ve even forced widows and deflowered maidens. They are all one to me.” His voice was strangled.
Anne was shaken to the core. Her own brother, whom she loved like a second self, was confessing to rape, the crime she most abhorred—it was beyond comprehension. No wonder Jane had looked elsewhere!
“You should have more control!” she hissed at him, leaping up and slapping his face hard. “Have you no respect for women?”
“I can’t help it.” George looked utterly wretched. His cheek was red from the slap. “It’s my nature, and sometimes I hate myself for it. But I can’t love Jane anyway. There’s a rottenness in her. She…she wanted to watch me with one of my paramours.”
“By all the saints!” Anne cried. “What’s the matter with you both? George, these excesses won’t do you any good. Do you want to get the pox? You should look to your wife, and put an end to her misconduct. Stop forcing yourself on other women! I can think of few worse things a man can do. Have you any idea of the hurt and damage it does? Look at Mary, our sister!”
George hung his head. “I will try, Anne. Honestly I will.”
He held out his hand, but she would not take it.