“The Church of Rome owns great wealth and estates here,” he went on, then looked at Henry. “Given a free hand, I could make your Grace the richest sovereign that ever reigned in England.”
Henry’s eyes gleamed. “I do believe that breaking with Rome would be a popular move,” he said. “True Englishmen resent having to pay Peter’s Pence to Rome. It is a burdensome levy.”
“Your Grace could stamp out corruption the more easily if you were head of the English Church,” Anne pointed out.
“By God, I could!” Henry agreed, fired up at the prospect. “I should be governing my kingdom without interference from Rome or any other foreign power.”
She thrilled to hear him say it. But, on past experience, how far was he really prepared to go?
He surprised her. At the end of January, he summoned the convocations of the clergy of Canterbury and York to Westminster. It was apparent to everyone that something momentous was in the air, for it was only with the assent of Convocation that important church reforms could go forward.
A week later, the King stood up in Parliament and demanded that the Church of England recognize and acknowledge him as its sole protector and supreme head.
“Neither Parliament nor Convocation will defy me!” he told Anne afterward.
Daily he granted leave of absence to those Members of Parliament who supported the Queen. And then the elderly Archbishop Warham announced that the Convocations were prepared to acknowledge the King as Supreme Head of the Church of England—as far as the law of Christ allowed.
“They insisted on that qualification,” Henry told Anne, somewhat disgruntled, when he visited her at Whitehall that evening. “Tempers got a little frayed as we negotiated. But the thing is accomplished, darling. Henceforth the English Church will no longer recognize the Pope, or the Bishop of Rome, as I would have him called now. Nor may he receive allegiance from my bishops or enjoy any spiritual jurisdiction in England.”
Anne felt dizzy with joy. It was far more than she had ever hoped for. She was sure that no king of England had ever undertaken so daring an enterprise. Her respect for Henry soared. He was showing great courage in pushing ahead with what was effectively a revolution. England had been subject to Rome for a thousand years, and now all that would be overturned. It was a magnificent, if daunting, prospect. The ramifications could be never-ending.
“Together, Anne, we can build a new Church!” Henry said, his eyes shining. And in that moment she loved him, truly loved him.
—
Parliament wasted no time in approving the King’s new title, and the momentous news was proclaimed all over England. Henry’s subjects were told that he was now effectively king and pope in his own realm, with jurisdiction over his subjects’ material and spiritual welfare.
Anne was beside herself when the announcement was made at court, and threw her arms around Henry in full view of everyone. “I feel as if I have gained Paradise,” she cried. She caught Chapuys’s hostile stare and smiled challengingly at him.
Father and George were ecstatic. And when, at the reception afterward, the venerable John Fisher, Bishop of Rochester, insisted that it was against God’s law for the King to be head of the Church of England, Father’s blood was up.
“Bishop, I could prove to you, by the authority of Scripture, that when God departed this world, He left no successor or vicar,” he asserted.
“Who then said to His disciple, ‘Thou art Peter, and upon this rock I will build my Church; and the gates of Hell shall not prevail against it’?” the old man countered.
“Let us have no dissent today,” the King said, intervening. “As you will see, my Lord Bishop, most of the nobility have come to rejoice with me—and not a few of your fellow clergy. Come, my lord of Wiltshire, and drink with me.” He and Anne left Fisher to ponder on that and joined Cromwell.
“My chancellor is not here,” Henry said, looking around in vain. “I had hoped to see him.”
“Thomas More will not countenance this,” Cromwell said. “It has probably upset his stomach.” But there More was, hurrying into the presence chamber with a great stack of papers under one arm. Joy and relief shone in Henry’s face.
“Thomas!” he cried, and embraced More before he could bow.
“I crave your Grace’s pardon. I was detained in Chancery, and then I had to wait at Westminster for a barge.” His smile was pleasant, but his eyes were wary.
Norfolk joined them. “By the Mass, Master More, I did not look to see you here!” he exclaimed, clapping More on the shoulder. They had long been friends.
“I am the King’s good servant,” More said. “My place is here.”
“What does your lordship think of the King’s new title?” Cromwell challenged Norfolk. As Henry fixed his gaze on her uncle, Anne drew in her breath. Everyone knew that Norfolk, a devout Catholic like all the Howards, was against reform.
“Don’t ask me!” the Duke snorted. “I leave all that business to those with brains in their heads, like His Grace here.”
Henry laughed. “Spoken like a true Englishman! I hope that all my subjects will prove as wise as you, my lord. Unlike that fool Fisher.” He turned to Anne, her father, and Cromwell, leaving Norfolk and More conversing together. “He has to be stopped,” he said in a lower voice.
“I will have a quiet word with him,” Cromwell said.
“That wretched Bishop was bloody rude to me,” Father chimed in.
“He could be a dangerous opponent,” Anne warned. “People respect him as a great theologian. He defended the Queen without fear or favor, remember.”
“He’s still writing books defending her,” Henry fumed. “Her supporters see him as saintly. My grandmother did too—he was her chaplain. But there’s steel beneath that air of sanctity. See he keeps his mouth shut, Cromwell.”
—
Fisher was just one dissident. “There could be legions of them,” Anne burst out to George the next morning, as they braved the February winds to walk in the gardens.
“Last night, even after the King tried to silence him, the Bishop was airing his views to whoever was listening,” George told her. “Spreading sedition, no less. And some did listen, especially those who favor the Queen.”
“He must be silenced!” Anne cried. “No one can be allowed to challenge the King’s supremacy. I will speak to His Grace.”
“He can now have him defrocked,” George reminded her. Yes, she would speak to Henry.
—
Henry’s face was grave.
“There has been an attempt to poison Bishop Fisher,” he told Anne one afternoon after he had been in Council. “We’ve arrested the culprit, a knave called Richard Rouse, the Bishop’s cook. He added some powders he says he was given to the gruel that was to be served to my lord and his guests and servants. Two of them have died, and seventeen are seriously ill. It beggars belief that anyone could do such a thing. Poisoning is a horrible crime, and worthy of severe punishment.” His lips were pursed primly in outrage.