Anne Boleyn, a King's Obsession

“I’m not risking infection,” he declared. “There is plague in Richmond.” He contented himself with sending Katherine hectoring letters, urging her to enter religion. Weak as she was, she persisted in her refusal.

Soon, Anne knew, the universities would speak. In a few short months—weeks, even—she might be queen. She knew there would be criticism that her lineage was nowhere near as impressive as Katherine’s or most of the queens of England who had gone before her. It was not enough to be descended from ancient royalty through the Howards on her mother’s side; it was who your father was that counted, and there would be plenty to point the finger and say that she was too lowly to be queen. But there had been talk in the family, doubtless passed down for generations, that the Boleyns were descended from a Norman lord who had settled in England in the twelfth century.

She discussed the matter with a herald from the College of Arms, and commissioned him to draw up a family tree. To her delight, he traced her lineage back to a great lord, Eustace, Count of Boulogne, who had married into the English royal family and whose granddaughter had wed King Stephen.

Henry scanned the impressive chart showing all the generations of Boleyns, and frowned.

“Who is the knave that did this?” he asked, to her dismay. “It’s an invention. The sons of this Eustace became kings of Jerusalem.” Henry was well informed on his royal pedigree.

“There was another son from whom my family descends.”

“Hmm,” he murmured, not convinced. “Best not trumpet this about.”

“But it’s the truth!” Anne protested.

“I said no, Anne. I would not have you a laughingstock.” And he was immovable.

He was equally displeased by the motto she had chosen and had embroidered on the new liveries she had bought for her servants—“Thus it will be, grudge who grudge.” It was a message for anyone who dared challenge her right to be queen.

But Henry put his foot down. “Do you really want to attract ridicule, Anne? You of all people should know that the Emperor’s device is ‘Grudge who grudge, long live Burgundy.’ You were at his aunt’s court. Already people are making jests. I saw Chapuys smiling at one of these badges yesterday.”

Anne felt her cheeks flaming. She had not consciously remembered the device from her days in Burgundy, but now she was mortified. Immediately she gave the order for the offending badges to be removed.



Katherine did not die. For His own mysterious reasons, God let her live. She joined Henry at Greenwich, with the Princess Mary, for Christmas—and once again Anne found herself celebrating (if that was the word) the season at Hever. Another year wasted! But it would be the last. Henry had assured her that their marriage would undoubtedly be accomplished in the new year.





1531


The Spanish Lady Willoughby looked down her aristocratic nose at Anne. Of all Katherine’s ladies, she was the one who had shown the most contempt. An outspoken woman, she had made no secret of her opinion on the King’s case. So when Anne encountered her in a gallery on the day she returned from Hever to Greenwich, the air became as frosty indoors as it was outside.

“Oh, Lady Anne,” the Baroness said, as she moved aside to let Anne and her baggage-laden attendants pass, “we had hoped you would stay at Hever.”

“And I,” Anne countered, “wish that all Spaniards were in the sea!”

“Such language is disrespectful to our good mistress the Queen,” Lady Willoughby reproved.

Anne was determined to discountenance this unpleasant woman. “I care nothing for her,” she retorted. “She is no true queen, and I would rather see her hang than acknowledge her as my mistress!” And she sailed on, not giving her tormentor a chance to reply.

As always, Henry welcomed her back to court with open arms, and they dined together alone in his privy chamber.

“I wish you had been here for Christmas, darling,” he said. “The festivities were marvelous and the court was crammed. The best thing was having Mary to spend it with me. She is quite the young lady now, and very learned and accomplished.”

Anne felt her anger rising. “This is the same Mary who has defied you and supported her mother?” she lashed out. “I marvel that you should praise her so, when she has forgotten her duty to you!”

Henry stared at her, that dangerous flush rising from his neck. “Sometimes I think you forget yourself,” he said. “We have been apart for days, and I had been longing to see you again, but already you are upbraiding me.”

“I was overjoyed to see you,” Anne cried, “but you seem to be deluding yourself—or has the Princess now changed her opinion and become obedient?”

“No, but Anne, she is my daughter, and I love her dearly. She will see sense in time. She is young and lacking in the wisdom to deal with such matters. Really, you could be a little kinder. Katherine never in her life used such ill words to me.” There were tears in his eyes.

“Well, I’m sure she’d be delighted to have you back!” Anne said tartly.

Henry reached across the table and took her hand. “Let’s not quarrel, darling, please. I will deal with Mary, I promise, but in my own way. I don’t need any more unpleasantness at this time. Clement has cited me to appear in Rome to defend my case.”

“Will you go?” She squeezed his hand back, to let him know she had forgiven him. Always, these days, she found herself pushing him to the brink, then realizing that she must let him see her softer side.

“No! And I intend to ignore also the brief he has issued, ordering me to send you away and forbidding my subjects to meddle with my case. Truly, Anne, I am becoming convinced that the English Church would be better off with me, the King, as its head.”

Don’t just keep talking about it! she fumed inwardly. Do something!

“I have thought that for a long time,” she said, “and you know that others think it too.”

“Cromwell for one,” he told her. “We’ve been having some interesting discussions. He thinks there would be many advantages to severing the Church of England from Rome. But he can tell you himself.”

He sent for Cromwell there and then, and invited the big bull-necked man to join them at table, calling for more food and wine to be brought.

“This is an unexpected honor, sir,” Cromwell said, smiling, “and what a pleasure to have the company of the Lady Anne.” He bowed his head in her direction.

“Tell her what you said to me,” Henry commanded, as they tucked into venison pasty and jugged hare.

Cromwell turned to Anne. “The Pope delays in judging His Grace’s suit. Why wait for his consent? Every Englishman is master in his own house, so why should the King not be so in England? Ought a foreign prelate to share his power with him? I have told him, with no disrespect intended, that he is but half a king, and we are but half his subjects.”

An impressive argument! And Henry was lapping it up greedily, by the look of him.

“I could not have put it better myself,” Anne declared, warming to Cromwell.

Alison Weir's books