Anne Boleyn, a King's Obsession

She had never seen marriage alone as an especially fulfilling estate for women. She had always wanted more in life—and more than she had ever dreamed of would soon, God willing, be in her grasp. There was so much that she could accomplish as queen, and her children would be royal. That mattered very much indeed. To think that a child of her blood, a Boleyn, would one day sit upon the throne of England, and that her descendants would rule for centuries to come. It was a kind of immortality.

She realized that the prospect of the power she would wield as queen, and as the mother of the heir, was headier than the prospect of marriage with Norris. She looked at Henry and Norris standing together on the dais, and it dawned on her that love was not the most important thing in life. For her, power was more important than pleasure. And although she loved Norris far more than she could ever love Henry—and, yes, lusted after him—she knew that, in truth, they could never be together. She was Henry’s, and he would never let her go. What was it Wyatt had written? “?‘Noli me tangere, for Caesar’s I am!’?”

It would suit her very well, she told herself, to go on loving Norris from afar. It would add some spice to her life, supplying the excitement that Henry could rarely inspire.

Resolutely, she turned to the King and smiled.

“These curtains will have to go!” she said.



Even now, it was proving difficult to get rid of Wolsey. Acquiring the Cardinal’s property had gone a long way toward dispelling Henry’s anger and resentment, and when, at the end of October, Wolsey threw himself on the King’s mercy, Henry took him under his protection and graciously permitted him to remain Archbishop of York, second only to the Archbishop of Canterbury in the English church hierarchy.

“Not to be borne!” snarled Uncle Norfolk, when Anne, barely containing her own anger, broke this news. “We will fix this knave once and for all.”

Norfolk, Father, George, and the Duke of Suffolk, with others who bore a grudge against the Cardinal, began meeting at Durham House, with Anne at their head, to plot Wolsey’s final downfall. There was no time to be lost, for Parliament was soon to meet, and they were hoping to force through an Act of Attainder that would see the Cardinal deprived of his life as well as his possessions.



Henry was jubilant. Before he had even been announced at Durham House, he had burst into Anne’s chamber, surprising her as she was practicing on her lute while her mother sat sewing.

“Foxe and Gardiner are back from Rome, Anne, and they have news.”

“The Pope has ruled in your favor?” she asked, rising to her feet, hardly daring to hope.

“No, not that, darling.” His face clouded a little. “They are both of the opinion that we can hope for nothing from Clement. But”—and he brightened again—“they have met someone who has put forward a brilliant solution to my Great Matter. His name is Dr. Thomas Cranmer, and they met him by chance when they lodged overnight at Waltham Abbey on their way here. He was seeking refuge from some sickness that is raging in Cambridge. He is a fellow at the university, and they’ve both known him for years.”

He drew her to a window seat overlooking the river. “It was a friendly reunion, and Gardiner stood them all a good dinner. Then they fell to talking, and he and Foxe asked this Dr. Cranmer his opinion on my case. And he said he had not studied the matter in depth, but believed that the validity of my marriage should be judged by doctors of divinity in the universities, not by the Pope.”

Anne stared at Henry, light dawning. It was indeed a stroke of brilliance, and might well be the best way forward. And, given that university men often held radical and forward-thinking views, it surely could not fail.

“And if the universities find in your favor, what would happen then?” she wanted to know.

“Ask Dr. Cranmer, sweetheart. I’ve brought him here to meet you.” He rose and walked to the door. “Come in,” he commanded.

The doctor was about forty, a soberly clad cleric with mournful eyes, dark stubble on his chin, and a nervous smile. But it soon disappeared as he warmed to his subject.

“There is but one truth in the matter,” he said in his quiet voice, “and it will be revealed in the Scriptures when they are correctly interpreted by learned scholars trained for such a task. And that, your Grace, may be done as well in the universities as at Rome. Had they been sounded first, you might have made an end of the matter long since.”

“But what authority would their decision have, if they decided for His Grace?” Anne asked.

“Mistress Anne,” Cranmer said, “this case should be decided according to divine law, not canon law, therefore the Pope’s intervention is unnecessary. If the divines in the universities decide that the King’s marriage is invalid, then invalid it must be, and all that is required is an official pronouncement by the Archbishop of Canterbury to that effect, leaving the King free to remarry.”

“It sounds so easy,” she breathed.

“Dr. Cranmer,” purred Henry, clamping an arm around the man’s shoulders, “you have the sow by the right ear! And I want you to set all other business aside, and write a treatise expounding on your views.”

Cranmer looked pleased and worried at the same time, but he agreed. That very day, Henry asked Anne’s father to prepare accommodation for the doctor at Durham House, so that he could write in comfort. Father, of course, was delighted to comply. Never were rooms furnished so quickly! And so Cranmer got down to work.

On the occasions when he emerged to dine or sup with her, Anne found her new guest to be both learned and reassuring. He was interested in humanism and passionately vocal in the arguments for church reform that were so often aired at her table. Before long, Father made Cranmer their family chaplain, and the lugubrious cleric became very much a part of the Boleyn households. Indeed, Anne had come to account him a friend.



“I am thinking,” Henry said, staring fiercely into the flames dancing on the hearth, “that I really would be better off without the Pope. My kingdom certainly would, and my people should be overjoyed at not having to pay tithes to Rome.” He punched his palm. “Why should we owe spiritual allegiance to a man who denies me an annulment for political reasons? Does he not realize that I need an heir, desperately?” He was working himself up into a fury. His temper was becoming more volatile these days.

“Why won’t Katherine set me free?” he ranted. “Why must she be so stubborn? I’m not getting any younger, Anne—I’m thirty-eight. Do you realize I have not bedded with a woman in years?” He looked at her in anguish, longing in his eyes.

“We dare not risk—” she began.

“I’m not asking!” he interrupted. “We are so close to success now. I can wait. God knows, I’ve had enough practice.”

“How much longer will it take to canvass the universities?” Anne asked.

“A few weeks, months, maybe. This time next year you could be carrying my son under your girdle. Think of it, Anne!”

“And what of the Pope?” she asked.

“I mean to be absolute ruler in my own realm,” Henry declared. “I’ll not be in tutelage to anyone, and I’ll brook no interference from foreigners.”

She smiled, rejoicing to see that he was at last discovering the full extent of his strength and his power. There would never be another Wolsey.



Alison Weir's books