Anne Boleyn, a King's Obsession

Within hours, he was all contrition. To make up for his outburst, he announced that he was creating her father not only Earl of Wiltshire, but also Earl of Ormond. Piers Butler had died, and that coveted title was to be Thomas Boleyn’s at last. As Anne thanked Henry, lovingly, gratefully, she was thinking of what this elevation would mean for her and her family, and realizing that he was also preparing her for greater things. The daughter of a belted earl was a far more fitting mate for the King of England than the daughter of a viscount.

A week later, she watched the ceremony of ennoblement, sitting there proudly, near the throne, as her father knelt to receive the trappings of his new rank, which made him one of the chief peers of the realm. George, as Father’s heir, was now Lord Rochford, and Anne would henceforth—for a short space, until she was queen—be the Lady Anne Boleyn. Instead of the Boleyn bulls, they would all adopt the black lion of Ormond as their heraldic emblem.

The next day, to celebrate Father’s elevation, the King hosted a feast at Whitehall, insisting that Anne sit at his side, in the chair of estate that Wolsey had kept for Katherine, and take precedence over all the ladies of the court. She saw Eustache Chapuys, the Emperor’s ambassador, watching her disapprovingly, but paid him no heed. Soon he would be bowing his knee to her.

There would be such a feast when she was married, Anne decided. In fact, given tonight’s festive air, the rich food, and her virginal gown of white and silver, it seemed as if nothing was wanting but the priest to give away the nuptial ring and pronounce the blessing. If only this could have been her marriage day!



Henry had promoted George to the Privy Council. He was to follow in his father’s footsteps and pursue a career as a diplomat, for which—being Father’s son—he had considerable talent. Already he enjoyed great influence at court. But his private life was a mess. Anne knew that he and Jane were virtually estranged. Anne had tried to get the resentful Jane to confide in her, but with no success.

When Anne saw George at court these days, he was sometimes in company with a young man who was very handsome—a little rough-spoken, with a strange accent, yet gifted on the lute and keyboard.

She asked Norris who he was.

“Mark Smeaton,” Norris said, his eyes warm. She knew that, had she given him the slightest encouragement, he would have been at her feet, for all he was still in mourning. “Why do you ask?”

“George seems to like him, but he seems of lowly birth to me.”

“He’s recently been appointed a groom of the Privy Chamber. His father, apparently, was a carpenter.”

“I should not sneer at that.” Her smile was wry. “Our Lord was a carpenter’s son too. Yet there is something coarse about Mark Smeaton.” Something sly too. She did not like the appraising way he looked at her, for one thing.

“I think he’s Flemish. He was in Wolsey’s household. He’s come far because of his talent for music. Give him any instrument and he’ll play it.”

He could dance too. He was often in the throng, showing off, when there was dancing in the presence chamber. Anne noticed that his shirts, hose, shoes, and bonnets were of the finest quality. Henry obviously paid him well.

Smeaton once sang, at Henry’s behest, for the entertainment of the court, but he overdid the dramatics.

“Even honey, if taken too much, becomes sickly,” Father murmured at Anne’s side. “Who is that oaf?”

George, however, was increasingly with Mark, and they were often joined by Francis Weston, another young gentleman of the King’s Privy Chamber. He was a likable young man with fair hair, blue eyes, and an extravagant taste in dress, who was also skilled on the lute. Sometimes Anne and her closest attendants—her cousin, beautiful Madge Shelton, and Norfolk’s daughter, Mary Howard—would join them, along with Norris, Bryan, and other gallant gentlemen. One day Anne picked up a manuscript of poems someone had brought along. She recognized it as a book that George had once treasured. It was inscribed: “This book is mine. George Boleyn 1526,” but below it was written, “Mine, Mark S.”

It perturbed her. How come George liked Mark so much that he had given him that precious manuscript? Was Mark worthy of a nobleman’s friendship? Was it because of George that he was always aping his betters? He not only dressed well, but kept several horses at court and had servants who wore his livery. How did he afford it all?

At the French court, Anne had heard of men who loved other men. In England, such things were never spoken of. She could not believe it of her brother and Mark. She had seen Mark ogling ladies of the court—she herself had been the recipient of his bold stares (and God only knew what Henry would do if he noticed)—and George, by his own admission and reputation, was a womanizer.

No, the common bond had to be music.



Parliament had been in session for a month when, three weeks before Christmas, the Lords and Commons presented the King with a list of forty-four charges against Wolsey. Anne rejoiced: all those weeks of working to bring Wolsey down had borne fruit. And Henry had agreed to consider the accusations. She was annoyed, therefore, when he seemed reluctant to lift his hand against his old friend, and even refused to discuss the matter.

The thought of Christmas depressed her. She could not face another season of keeping it in solitary state while Katherine queened it over the court, so she had resolved to go to Hever with her family. Next Christmas, God willing, things would be different, and it would be her presiding over the Yuletide festivities.

Henry begged her to stay. He was concerned to see her so low. She would stay low, she was determined, until he saw sense over Wolsey. But Henry was not subtle enough to get the message. Even so, he was moving closer toward pushing through radical changes. Before she left court on Christmas Eve, while they were inspecting the ranks and ranks of silver-gilt cups that he would present as gifts to favored courtiers on New Year’s Day, he turned to her.

“You know, darling, if the Pope pronounces sentence against me, I will not heed it. I prize the Church of Canterbury as much as people across the sea prize the Church of Rome. And so I will tell Katherine. She must not put her hopes in the Pope.”

“England would be better off unshackled from Rome,” Anne observed.

I am coming to believe it,” Henry said. “The only thing that would make me change my mind is a judgment in my favor.”





1530


At Hever, Anne could think only of what she was missing at court, and fretting at the thought of Henry being with Katherine and their daughter, sharing in the festivities, while she was left out. As soon as Twelfth Night was over, she hastened back to London.

She found Henry despondent. “It has been hellish without you,” he told her. “When I think of how long I have waited for a ruling, I confess that I find myself in such perplexity that I can no longer live in it.”

Anne rested her hand on his. “Let us put our faith in the universities.”

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