—
Anne had long accepted that, for the sake of outward appearances, Henry must visit Katherine from time to time, dine with her, and even share a bed with her. He had assured her that on the rare occasions he visited the Queen at night, he never touched her. But why sleep with her at all? That he still did angered and disturbed Anne more and more. Did he truly want to separate from Katherine? The Queen had some hold over him that he seemed unable to shake off. Was it that she was older than he, a mother figure? Was she the link to his lost youth, the living reminder of happier, more carefree times, before the loss of his sons? Or was he just a moral coward, reluctant to provoke a scene—or the Emperor’s wrath—by depriving Katherine of his company altogether?
Eventually Anne could bear it no more. “The legate is here!” she cried, when, after a quiet afternoon spent making music together in her chamber, Henry had announced that he was going back to Bridewell Palace to have supper with the Queen. “The case will soon be tried, yet you still have but one bed and one table!”
Henry hastened to placate her. “Sweetheart, be at peace. It is for form’s sake only. But I would not upset you, darling. I promise you, I will never bed with Katherine again. I am well aware of the moral danger that may ensue to me by it. From now on, she shall sleep alone. And soon, my dear love, we shall be together.”
“I do pray so!” Anne said, not entirely mollified.
She insisted on staying at Durham House, deaf to Henry’s protests, while the court moved to Greenwich without her. Henry would not leave her be, of course, and in December she finally gave in to his pleas, closed up the house, and joined him at court. There she was delightfully surprised to be assigned a finer, more spacious lodging than before, near his own. He himself had chosen the furnishings, which included the costliest bed-hangings and tapestries, and a great oak buffet laden with gold and silver plate. The rooms were fit for a queen!
It was gratifying when the highest in the land came paying court to her, obviously anticipating that she would soon be marrying the King. It was noticeable that few were making their devoirs to the Queen, who wore her usual smile in public, bearing the snubs with dignified patience and staying firmly at Henry’s side, to Anne’s fury.
Anne was still uncomfortably aware of the hostility beyond the palace walls. When she had come here by river, they had watched her sullenly from the banks, and some had shouted, “Nan Bullen shall not be our Queen! We’ll have no Nan Bullen!”
It was intolerable! And Henry, for all his threats, was powerless to silence them.
There was still no sign of the two cardinals setting up the hearing. Christmas was approaching, and nothing would be done until afterward. Anne was beginning to think it never would.
She learned only after it had happened—and then by overhearing one of Henry’s councillors mentioning it to someone else—that Dame Isabel Jordan had been quietly installed as Abbess of Wilton after all. Her anger burned. That would have been Wolsey’s doing. Did Henry know that the Cardinal had defied him? Or had Wolsey persuaded him to give his consent, both of them hoping she would not find out? Either way, Wolsey would soon learn that she was not to be trifled with.
—
Anne was furious when Henry invited Wolsey and Campeggio to keep Christmas with him at Greenwich, as his guests of honor, and resolved to stay in the empty splendor of her rooms.
Henry was distraught. “But darling, I have laid on jousts, banquets, masques, and disguisings. I am keeping open house. Come and join me, please!”
“Not while the Queen is presiding with you over the festivities,” she said. It was true, but it was not the whole truth. Yet Henry was growing weary of her complaints about Wolsey.
He looked helpless. “I hate to think of you all alone here. How can I make merry, knowing you are not?”
“It will not be merry for me with those cardinals there.” She knew she was being unduly peevish, but she could not help herself. She was bursting with frustration and resentment.
He left her then, but he came back late at night, after the revelry had ended, and brought with him jewels: diamonds for her hair, gold bracelets set with true lovers’ knots, a flower brooch, borders of gold for her sleeves, buttons crafted with rubies, roses, and hearts. She accepted them as no less than her due; after all, had she not been kept waiting for the crown an unconscionably long time?
1529
The gifts kept coming, as that seemingly endless winter gave place to spring. When they were together in public, Henry caressed Anne openly, as if she were already his wife, holding her hand, touching her cheek, putting his arm about her waist, not caring who saw. Yet still she would not be mollified. She held aloof, and took herself back to Durham House, angry at yet more delays.
“Why?” she kept demanding. “Can they not just hear the case and be done with it?”
In private with George, she vented her frustration, and then ended up laughing hysterically. “What an extraordinary situation we find ourselves in!” she gasped. “Who could have foreseen it?”
She kept thinking of the parallels between herself and Queen Esther.
“I will be a second Esther,” she told her brother. “I will be the champion of pure religion and save the Church in England from corruption. Let them call me a heretic! I know what people say about me. They think I follow Luther’s teachings.”
“They think me and Father more Lutheran than Luther himself,” George grinned.
“I will never be a Lutheran,” Anne declared, “and everyone will realize that in time. Until then, like Esther, I must tread carefully with the King in matters of religion.” And yet, she reflected, even Henry’s staunch orthodoxy was being worn down by Clement’s handling of the Great Matter.
She had managed to obtain a copy of another forbidden book, William Tyndale’s The Obedience of a Christian Man, and how Christian Kings Ought to Govern. In it, Tyndale openly challenged the authority of the Pope and his cardinals, and asserted that the head of the Church in each realm ought to be the King, rather than the Pope, because the King, by virtue of his having been anointed with holy oil at his crowning, was next unto God anyway, and invested with divine wisdom, unlike ordinary mortals.
Several of Anne’s maids, taking their lead from her, had become interested in the cause of reform, and she lent the book to one, Nan Gainsford, warning her to keep it hidden. But one day Nan came to her, weeping, and confessed that her lover, George Zouche, had seized it from her in a playful scuffle, then carried it off to read himself.