“Of course, darling, but if I am to marry you, I have to ensure that you are free from all previous entanglements, for I dare not risk compromising the legitimacy of our children. So I will have the Earl questioned in the presence of the Duke of Norfolk and my lawyers, just to be on the safe side.”
Harry denied any precontract. He even swore it on the Blessed Sacrament, perjuring himself. Of course, it would have been dangerous admitting to having loved the King’s future wife. “Noli me tangere, for Caesar’s I am!” And Parliament refused his wife’s petition. Anne felt sorry for them both. The Countess must have been unhappy in her marriage to take such a drastic step. Anne hated the thought of Harry trapped in a loveless, acrimonious wedlock. He was a good man, and he did not deserve that.
—
It was August when the news came that Archbishop Warham had died.
“I should be mourning the old man, but he’s of more use to God than he ever was to me,” Henry said, clasping Anne and whirling her around in his joy. “No one can say no to us now, darling! I’m nominating Cranmer to the See of Canterbury this very night. I’m going through the motions with Rome, so that none in Christendom can challenge my new Archbishop.”
Anne could hardly believe it all. When Henry let her go, she stood there trying to grasp the implications of Warham’s death. It really would be only a matter of weeks now before her marriage. For Cranmer would not hesitate to declare Henry’s union with Katherine invalid; and he was the one man who would zealously push through the religious reforms that were so important to him and Anne.
Henry was looking at Anne as if he might devour her. She met his gaze and read in it years of pent-up desire. Outside the open window behind him, the sun was descending behind the trees, casting soft, radiant light on an enchanted world and on his red-gold hair. They were alone on this balmy summer evening. Henry took a step toward her and she went into his arms.
“I love you, Anne.” His voice was heavy with passion. “Be mine, darling! There is nothing to stop us now.”
Why not? she thought, her cheek against the rough gold thread of his doublet, her arms twined around his broad torso. We have denied ourselves for so long! And if I do not love him as he loves me, I have at least been aroused by him. Suddenly she was shaken by a longing to be at one with him, to give something back for all the long years of a very one-sided wooing—and for not loving him enough.
“Would your Grace like to see me in that beautiful nightgown?” she murmured, looking up into his eyes. They were blazing with his terrible need of her.
“Darling!” His voice trembled.
“Wait here. I will not be long,” she promised.
—
She lay in her tumbled bed, sore but triumphant. Outside, the watch was crying two o’clock, but otherwise all was quiet. She stretched and looked across to where Henry had lain. The pillow still bore the indentation of his head, the sheets were stained with his seed, which was leaking out of her. He had gone, kissing her lovingly good night, to write Cranmer’s nomination, promising to return as soon as he had done it. He’d wanted to get it off to Rome at first light.
Their coming together had not been quite as she had expected. It had hurt a little, but there had been no pleasure, just the sweaty fusion of two bodies. She had never seen a man naked and erect before, though she had imagined it after hearing many jests and giggling confidences, yet the reality of Henry did not quite match up to her mental vision of what he would be like. His member was smaller than the codpiece had led her to believe.
He had himself slid the nightgown from her shoulders, then held her away so that he could gaze on her body, revealed to him for the first time. Then he’d pulled her down on the bed, his eyes dark with desire. And yet—she was sure she had not imagined this—he had been nervous. He kept touching his manhood and squeezing it. And then he entered her, painfully, breathing heavily and thrusting frantically back and forth—and it was all over very quickly.
Was that it? she asked herself, as they lay together afterward with his strong arms around her, his face buried in her hair. Was that what the poets and lyricists made such a song about? What men languished or killed for? What Henry had broken with Rome for? If so, it must be very different for men! Yet she was not unduly disappointed, apart from wishing that it could have happened after the wedding. What mattered was power and founding a dynasty and pushing through reforms. Sex was a means to an end, and now all those things were within her grasp. She was Henry’s; they might even have conceived the son who would crown all their blessings. Within her, triumph burgeoned.
Henry had held her for a long time after they made love. He told her several times that he loved her, and thanked her for letting him possess her. He had kissed her hand when he left the bed to write his letter, and murmured a fond farewell. He had done all the right things. So why was it that she was left with the disconcerting feeling that something was out of kilter? Was this culmination of all the years of waiting and denial? Had she done something wrong? She had played a passive part, letting him take the initiative; wasn’t that what women were supposed to do? And then she remembered things from her days at the French court: the reliefs on that golden bowl; the very paintings on the walls; those lewd books that had been passed around. No, she had it all wrong. Women were meant to take an active role. That was the way to keep a man interested, once he had conquered you.
She tried to imagine doing those things to, and with, Henry. It made her realize how little she knew him. What would make love special for him? Should she ask, or should she surprise him? Just do it, she told herself, smiling.
Then, unbidden, came a treacherous thought, of how much more wonderful love would be with Norris. If he were in her bed, she would feel something, she knew it. But that could never be; she must never think of it. And yet, when Henry returned an hour later, claimed her once more, and climaxed again in her arms, she let herself imagine that he was Norris—and then desire did stir in her.
—
The next morning, Anne was hoping that Henry would lie abed with her so that she could pleasure him as she had planned, but he was up and pulling on his nightgown as she awoke. He bent and kissed her.
“Good morning, sweetheart!”
“Good morning, your Grace,” she smiled, stretching luxuriously.
“I wish I could stay, but I must go,” he said, reaching for his nightcap. “I ride to Hunsdon this morning.”
“To Hunsdon? Why?”
“I had planned to visit Mary.”
Anne sat up, her good mood evaporating. “I marvel that you show her such favor, considering how disobedient she has been.”
Henry bent to put on his slippers. He had his back to her. “At heart she is a good child, and loving. I would bring her around with gentle words.”
“It’s more than she deserves!” Anne retorted. “She’s sixteen and should know her duty better. If I were her father, I would have her whipped, and put an end to this nonsense.”