Henry was incandescent when Anne reached Whitehall and threw herself, still pale and trembling, into his arms.
“They shall pay! Every last one of them!” he bawled, holding her tightly to his breast as if he would never let her go. But by the time his soldiers got to Durham House, the mob had long dispersed and there was no way of tracing them. Anne’s spirits plummeted when she heard. Forever after, she knew, whenever she went abroad in London, she would wonder if any of those fiends was lying in wait for her.
She had been due to return yet again to Hever for Christmas, a Christmas she had expected to keep as queen, but she was so shaken by her narrow escape that she decided to go now. Henry protested, of course, but she told him she did not feel safe in London, and needed time to recover. Reluctantly, he let her go.
1532
Hever, for once, felt like a refuge. In the peace of the snowbound Kent countryside, Anne began to recover her equilibrium. It had been a horrible year, and she would be glad to see the end of it.
By Christmas, she was bored, and fretting about missing the celebrations at court. Next year, please God…
By the end of December, boredom had outweighed any fears she had about returning to court. Henry would protect her. She could have all the armed might of his guards behind her if she wished. On New Year’s Day, she set off for Greenwich.
Henry, apprised of her coming, was waiting for her, and embraced her passionately.
“I have a surprise for you, darling,” he said, and escorted her, to her astonishment, to the Queen’s apartments.
“These are yours now,” he declared, with a flourish of his hand.
Waiting for her in the sumptuous presence chamber were her ladies, their numbers now increased, waiting to attend her as if she were queen. Henry was watching her, eager for her response.
“This is a great honor,” she said, thinking, If only I could be entering here as queen! “Your Grace is more than good to me.” She looked about her in wonder and resolved to be kinder to Henry in the future. Maybe Uncle Norfolk had spoken sense.
“And is prepared to do more for you when I can,” Henry promised. “Now open that door.” It was the door to the Queen’s privy chamber, made of solid oak. “This is my New Year’s gift to you,” he said.
She gasped. The whole room was newly hung with cloth of gold and silver, and heavy embroidered satin.
“Here you shall hold court, just like a queen,” Henry told her.
She was choked, filled to the brim with warring emotions, overwhelmed by the apartment and the magnificent gift—but why, oh why must she always be like a queen!
“It makes my gift to you seem paltry,” she apologized. “It is some ornamented spears for hunting the wild boar that King Fran?ois shipped over. And Mary has sent you a shirt she embroidered herself. When my gear is unpacked, you shall have them.”
“How very kind! I shall look forward to both gifts,” Henry said gallantly.
“May I have Mary to be my lady-in-waiting?” Anne asked. “I really should ask her.”
“Of course,” Henry agreed. But it was clear that he wasn’t keen, and to be honest, Anne wasn’t either. Yet it would have looked odd not to have her sister serve her. Whatever Father and Mother said, she could not leave Mary hidden away at Hever.
As they wandered through the spacious rooms, from which all trace of their previous occupant had been removed, Anne could not help but think of Katherine. And when they came to the bedchamber, with its great bed hung with green silk, she thought of Henry spending his wedding night with Katherine here, and the many nights he would have lain in her bed thereafter. Judging by the awkward silence between them, he was remembering too.
“Katherine sent me a gold cup,” he said at length, “but I sent it back with a message commanding her not to give me gifts in future, since I am not her husband, as she should know.”
“Do you think that this new year will see us wed?” Anne asked anxiously.
“By God, I hope so!” Henry replied, and kissed her hand with fervor.
—
It seemed, however, that the opposition just would not lie down and be quiet.
Henry’s cousin, Reginald Pole, the son of Katherine’s beloved Lady Salisbury, had until recently been supportive of the King’s case, and had used his influence to ensure that learned opinion was in Henry’s favor at the University of Paris. But now, persuaded doubtless by his mother, he suddenly turned his coat.
“He warned me that dangers would ensue upon our marriage, and said I was in error to seek a divorce,” Henry raged. “After all I’ve done for him, paying for his education and advancing his family! I ordered him to explain himself, but he refused, and now he’s bolted off to France. It beggars belief. My own blood deserting me!”
Archbishop Warham now entered the fray. His unease about the Great Matter had been no secret, but the King’s supremacy was a step too far. That February, the Archbishop made a formal protest in Parliament against all Acts that were derogatory to the Pope’s authority.
“Evidently he fears the judgment of God more than he fears me,” a grim Henry observed to Anne.
“He is your Archbishop of Canterbury. You should censure him.”
“He is dying, Anne. I’ll let him be. It cannot be long.” And he would not be moved. It was infuriating, because without the Archbishop’s cooperation, there could be no formal declaration that Henry’s marriage was invalid. And there Anne was, still unwed, still a queen-in-waiting, and still the target of widespread hatred. It was no use Henry commanding that those who called her a common whore and worse be hauled before the justices—it did not silence her ill-wishers, or the mad Nun of Kent, who had continued to shout out in public her vile prophecies against the King.
“She is in league with Bishop Fisher,” Cromwell told Anne. “My agents are watching her. Fear not, she will condemn herself out of her own mouth.”
There was criticism closer to home, too. On Easter Sunday, Anne was seated beside Henry in the royal pew of the Chapel Royal at Greenwich when the Princess Mary’s confessor, Friar William Peto, ascended the steps into the pulpit and directed his hawklike gaze at Henry.
“O King, hear what I say to you: I tell you truly that this marriage you intend is unlawful. Take great heed lest, being seduced into error, you merit Ahab’s punishment, who had his blood licked up by the dogs.”
Henry had gone purple with rage. He rose to his feet before the friar had finished, grabbed Anne’s hand, and stalked out. The following week he had one of his own chaplains preach a sermon denouncing Friar Peto.
“He is a dog, a slanderer, a base and beggarly rebel and traitor!” the chaplain thundered. “No subject should speak so audaciously to his Prince!”
“What if his Prince has the audacity to put away his lawful wife?” cried a voice in the congregation. It was another friar.