“No!” she whispered, prying them away. She had never permitted him to undress her in any way. And she was thinking about that date in the book. It had been made for him when he was young and happily married to Katherine. Had he shared those very same lyrics with her?
“Oh, you are cruel,” he groaned, his lips at her neck. She could smell the sweat on him, mingled with the scent of herbs, feel the hot tousle of his hair against her cheek, the rasp of his beard on her skin. She drew his face up to hers and kissed him, hoping to deflect his baser intentions, but he was too set on his course, moving his lips to her breast, pulling the stiff fabric down and taking her nipple in his mouth, teasing it with his tongue. Desire shot through her, shocking her, thrilling her. She had never expected to feel this with Henry.
He must not think he had conquered her. From here it was only a small step to greater liberties—and then what? Would he force her to submit wholly to him, as Mary claimed he had done to her? She was aware of his strength, his power. That arm that was holding her so tightly could wield a broadsword effortlessly. She was slender and much smaller than he was—he could overcome her with ease.
She sat up, gently but firmly pushing him away, and quickly adjusted her bodice.
“No!” he protested, looking at her with longing. “Do not be cruel, Anne!”
“I am thinking of us both,” she said. “The closer the embrace, the greater the frustration. We must be patient a little longer, my love. Besides, we dare not risk any scandal now.”
“No, you are right,” Henry sighed, letting her go. “But I do not know how much longer I can stand this.”
—
When she returned to Durham House, there was already a letter waiting for her.
Mine own sweetheart,
This is to tell you of the great loneliness that I feel since your departing, for I assure you I think the time longer this time than I used to do when we were apart for a whole fortnight. I think your kindness and my fervent love have caused this, for otherwise I would not have thought it possible that it should so have grieved me. But now that I am coming toward you, I think my pain will be half cured, and also there is comfort in that my book keeps me busy. I have spent above four hours writing it today, which has caused me to write the shorter letter to you now, because of some pain in my head. Wishing myself, specially of an evening, in my sweetheart’s arms, whose pretty dugs I trust shortly to kiss.
Written by the hand that was, is, and shall be yours, by his will, H.R.
He could not endure to be without her—and the legate would shortly be here!
—
“I have offered Cardinal Campeggio a state welcome in London,” Henry told Anne, as they glided along the Thames in his barge one evening early in October, to the sound of lutes and shawms. “But he has refused it. I’ve put Bath Place by Temple Bar at his disposal. He’ll be comfortable there, and it will be convenient for the Black Friars’ monastery, where the hearing will be held.”
Anne drew in her breath. It was nearly upon them now, this judgment for which they had yearned for so long.
But when the good Cardinal did arrive, three days later, he immediately took to his bed.
Henry, discreetly visiting Anne at Durham House that afternoon, was exasperated. “It seems he has gout, which was what delayed his journey.”
How clever of Clement to send a cardinal whose progress would inevitably be slow. She did not say, I told you so. Instead she began girding herself to face the likelihood that Campeggio’s only instructions were to keep stalling and delay judgment for as long as possible. Already it had taken him five months to reach England—a journey that would normally take about three weeks in summer.
“Well, I’ll give him tonight to rest,” Henry was saying, “and I’ll send Wolsey to talk with him tomorrow.”
—
The next evening, Henry stalked into her chamber, flushed with anger.
“Wolsey spent hours discussing the case with Campeggio today,” he fumed, “and do you know what this legate said? He said the best solution would be a reconciliation between me and the Queen. But Wolsey, give him his due, stood his ground, and urged the expediting of the business with all possible dispatch. He told Campeggio that the affairs of the kingdom are at a standstill, as indeed they are. This Great Matter has ousted all else, and needs to be resolved.”
Anne said nothing. It was all happening as she had feared. They had put all their faith in this Pope, and for what?
“Don’t look so despondent, darling,” Henry enjoined her. “Wolsey will prevail. There’s no statesman to touch him.”
“I wish I could believe it!” she cried. Only yesterday her father and Uncle Norfolk had again expressed concern about the Cardinal’s true motives. They suspected him of secretly supporting the Queen. And if that were true, he would welcome the legate’s stalling tactics.
“Why, sweetheart!” Henry was all concern. “You are distraught, I understand that. This waiting has been too distressing. I assure you, no man has worked harder than the Cardinal on our behalf.”
“Then I must accept your Grace’s assurances,” Anne conceded.
Henry kissed her. “It is a joy to me to see you so wise and sensible. Try to rein in these vain thoughts and fantasies with the bridle of reason. Good sweetheart, continue in this resolve, for by Wolsey’s means there shall come, both to you and me, the greatest quietness in this world.”
Anne only hoped that Henry’s confidence in the Cardinal would be repaid.
They fell to talking of other matters. The court was moving to Bridewell Palace, by the Black Friars’ monastery, and Henry, anticipating a speedy outcome to his case, was arranging for apartments at Bridewell to be prepared for her.
“But the Queen will be there,” Anne said.
“Fear not, darling, she won’t trouble you,” Henry told her, his eyes taking on that steely glint that spelled danger. “I am determined to make her heed my doubts about our pretended marriage, and take them seriously, which she has always refused to do. It irritates me, when I am very pensive, worrying about this hearing, and she goes about with a smile on her face, encouraging her people to dance and make music—all out of spite for me. And there is more…In truth, I am persuaded by her behavior that she does not love me.”
Anne tried not to laugh—or cry. Why should Henry care if Katherine loved him? And why should the Queen love a man who was doing his best to repudiate her? If she was not his lawful wife, he could expect no wifely devotion. But he wanted it both ways.
“What has she done, besides look cheerful?” she asked.
Henry grimaced. “She has not shown, in public or private, as much love for me as she ought. She shows herself too much to the people too, and tries to steal their affection from me. What else can I conclude but that she hates me?” He paused, looking very sorry for himself. “My Council has received a secret report of a design to kill me and the Cardinal.”