“I’m going to bed,” she snapped, and left him.
She did not sleep that night, but lay wakeful, trying to come to terms with the knowledge that her beloved brother was the kind of man she most despised. By the morning she knew that, even though she was bitterly, devastatingly, disappointed in him, she could never stop loving him. They were too close for that.
—
By the middle of August, Anne was back in her apartment off the tiltyard at Greenwich. Henry came to her immediately, and embraced her as if he would never let her go.
“Darling! You cannot know what a health it is to me to see you looking so well,” he told her. “I thank God every day for restoring you to me.”
“And I thank Him that your Grace was spared,” she replied.
“He ever favors the righteous,” Henry observed, finally relinquishing her. “I hope soon to hear news of Cardinal Campeggio’s arrival in England. Apparently he was delayed by illness, and then, of course, he was unable to come because of the sweating sickness. But I trust he will soon be here—and then, sweetheart, we will see an end to this vexatious waiting.”
Anne desperately hoped so. She wanted an end to all the uncertainty and speculation too.
“It has been eighteen months now since you asked me to marry you,” she recalled. “I never thought to wait so long.”
“And it is three years since I fell in love with you,” Henry murmured, caressing her hair and tilting up her chin so that he could kiss her. “But take heart—all will soon be well.”
He picked up her lute.
“While you were away, I wrote a song for you. I have had it in my head ever since, and gladly, for it conjured your image constantly. I’ve been longing to play it for you, my darling.”
“I long to hear it,” she said. She was now adept at leading Henry to believe that she was as ardent as he was. But the song was moving, and he poured all his feelings into it as he sang in his true tenor voice:
Adieu madame, et ma ma?tresse,
Adieu mon solas et ma joie!
Adieu jusque revoie,
Adieu vous dis par grand’ tristesse!
One day, Anne hoped, she might come to feel real love for Henry, the kind of emotion she felt for Norris. When she saw Norris in attendance the next day, she would not allow herself to acknowledge him, lest she betray her feelings. Yet she was aware of his eyes on her and the warmth emanating from him.
—
Anne was still disturbed about George and his marriage, and wanted to see if she could help. She sought out Jane, her sister-in-law, and invited her to supper in her lodging. They began with pleasantries, but there was a new wariness in Jane. No doubt she thought that Anne would take George’s part, or that the Boleyns were all tainted with the same vices. Anne resolved to disabuse her of those notions.
“George confessed to me that he had been unfaithful,” she said.
There was a silence.
“I suppose he told you that I have too,” Jane said, her pouting lips pursed in resentment.
“He did. Dear sister, why are you both so unhappy together?”
“He is a beast!” Jane burst out. “I could not, for shame, tell you what he has done to me, for I doubt you would believe it.”
“Try me,” Anne said, wondering if she wanted to hear this. “What you say will go no further.”
“He has a…a sensual appetite.”
“I know. It is no secret. He has always been one for the ladies, but I hoped he would settle down when you married.”
“I am not talking about adultery,” Jane said, beginning to weep. “I am talking about his unlawful vices. He made me…Shame restrains me from saying it…Oh, God, it was vile and detestable—an abomination!” She buried her face in her hands.
At the court of France, Anne had heard of many sexual practices, but she had no idea what Jane was talking about. Maybe her sister-in-law was naive and did not understand what was normal and what was not. Yet George had called her vicious.
“In faith, I am at a loss,” she said.
“You should rejoice in your ignorance,” Jane replied. “It is an odious sin against God, what George did to me, several times.”
Anne was even more perplexed.
“Unless you are more specific, I cannot help.”
Jane reddened. “It was like the beasts do!” she burst out.
Anne sagged with relief, remembering erotic drawings she had seen in France. “Then it is not unnatural,” she said.
“Since when has sodomy been natural?” Jane hissed.
—
She did not confront George. She consigned what she knew to a hidden part of her mind, where she did not have to face it. She knew she ought to hate him as the worst man alive, but she could not.
She had tried to show sympathy to Jane, but Jane was having none of it. After her initial outburst, she had refused to be drawn further, and soon afterward had taken her leave. Since then, on the rare occasions they encountered each other—because, Anne suspected, Jane was avoiding her—Jane had seemed more distant, even resentful. It was as if she blamed Anne for having forced the confidence.
Anne had more pressing things to think about. Queen Katherine was still presiding over the court. The Queen was polite enough when they came face-to-face, but being under the same roof was embarrassing for them both.
“It renders my own position anomalous,” Anne complained to Henry one evening, as they were supping with the Cardinal. “I am neither maid of honor nor wife. There is no real place for me at court.”
“It would be more in keeping with propriety, Mistress Anne, for you to have an establishment of your own,” Wolsey said. Those who did not know better would have thought, these days, that she and he were best friends, so effectively had Anne feigned affection for him, and gratitude for all he was supposedly doing to push forward the Great Matter.
“That would be best,” Henry said. “I could visit you there, darling. We must find a house for you.”
Anne considered for a moment. “Since your Grace is so often here at Greenwich, I should very much like one nearby.” Norris had a house near Greenwich. What bliss—and what torment—it would be to be near neighbors.
“Perhaps, sir, I could investigate what is available,” Wolsey suggested.
“Excellent!” declared Henry. “The sooner this can be arranged, the better it will be for everyone.”
“I thank you both”—Anne smiled—“but you will not object, sir, if I go home to Hever until my house is ready?”
Henry groaned. “Not again! I swear I’ll raze that place to the ground.”
“If you do, I will just have to go to my father’s house at Norwich, which is much further away,” Anne said sweetly.
It would be wonderful to have her own house and her own establishment. It would be like having her own court. The best thing about it was that Katherine would not be there.
—