“I’m aware of that already,” he said, holding her to him as gently as if she were glass and might break. “I’ve consulted Cranmer, who tells me that the granting of that dispensation could fatally undermine my cause against Katherine, and make me look a hypocrite. I said it was essential that the legality of our marriage be beyond dispute, and he recommended that the matter be dealt with by Parliament. As for these protests, they will be silenced. My subjects will accept you as queen. Now be at peace, sweetheart, and rest. You must think of our son.”
The passing of a new Act permitting marriage with the sister of a discarded mistress did not come a moment too soon for Anne. But it did not put a stop to the spreading gossip about Mary, which only served to exacerbate public disapproval of Anne’s marriage. And after Parliament enacted that Katherine should be called Queen no more, but Princess Dowager, there were even more strident protests.
—
Henry appointed Whitsunday, the first day of June, for Anne’s coronation. He himself wrote to the City of London commanding the Mayor and his brethren to prepare pageants for it, and summoned his nobility and clergy to attend.
Anne went about with a smile on her face. The sickness had eased, the child stirred lustily under her stomacher, and she had never felt better. Happily she selected the materials for the gowns and robes she would need for the river pageant that would conduct her from Greenwich to the Tower, her state entry into London, and her crowning itself. She could not wait. Being crowned would invest her with a regal sanctity and set her apart from ordinary mortals—and might silence her enemies.
Meanwhile, Cranmer had been summoning various divines and canon lawyers to a special ecclesiastical court in Dunstable Priory, just four miles from Ampthill. Katherine had been cited to appear before this court.
Henry was convinced that Chapuys was doing his utmost to incite the Emperor to war and persuade Katherine that it was the best way to get her husband back.
“Cranmer pronouncing judgment against her might give Charles the pretext he needs,” he said anxiously.
“He never calls me queen,” Anne seethed.
“He will!” Henry blustered. “I can’t lock Chapuys up, but I can muzzle him!”
Chapuys was summoned before the Privy Council and warned not to meddle further in Katherine’s affairs. Anne doubted it would have any effect, although it might keep him quiet for a while. But Henry could not silence the outcry in Europe at the news of their marriage. Throughout Christendom voices were raised, protesting that Katherine was the rightful Queen of England, and Anne an upstart adulteress.
Dining with her and Henry one day, Cromwell showed his exasperation. “Everywhere there is derision. One of my correspondents in Antwerp has informed me that—saving your Graces’ presence—a painting of Her Grace was pinned inappropriately to one of you, sir. In the Netherlands and Spain they take great pleasure in jesting about your Grace and the Queen. In Louvain, lewd and malicious students have scratched scurrilous verses on doors and street corners. I will spare you the details.”
Henry threw down his napkin. “Have my ambassadors abroad briefed as to how to counter such calumnies. Tell them they must insist that Anne is the true Queen, and refuse to speak to anyone who gives Katherine that title.”
“You think that will silence the protests?” Anne asked.
“Maybe not, but Cranmer’s judgment assuredly will.”
It could not come soon enough. It was now May, and her condition was evident to all.
“Soon I will look like an elephant,” she grumbled to her father. “I’ve had to add a panel to my skirts. All my gowns are too tight.”
“You should stop complaining and thank God to find yourself in such a condition,” he retorted.
Her temper flared. “I’m in a better state than you wanted last year! You were wondering if it was all worth it.”
“I spoke out of weariness with the situation and concern for you,” Father placated her. “God be praised, you did not heed me. I am glad to see you looking so well.”
“I will be better still when this court has declared my marriage valid,” she told him.
“You know that Katherine has utterly refused to obey Cranmer’s summons and says she will have no other judge but the Pope? Cranmer has declared her contumacious, and is proceeding without her, thank God!”
“Amen to that,” Anne said.
On the twenty-third day of May, Cranmer pronounced Henry’s union with Katherine absolutely null and void and contrary to divine law.
“Free at last!” Henry shouted, tossing his bonnet in the air and kissing Anne heartily. “Thank God! Thank God!” Immediately he ordered the distribution of a tract he had written himself to inform his loving subjects of the truth about his marriages. “I’ll make sure Katherine gets one,” he added wickedly.
A deputation of the Privy Council was sent to inform the Princess Mary of Cranmer’s judgment.
“Well?” Anne demanded of Henry when he came to her that evening. She had seen, from her window, the councillors returning.
“She defied them,” he admitted, looking crestfallen. “She said she would accept no one for queen except her mother, upon which, on my orders, they forbade her to communicate in any way with Katherine until she had come to her senses.”
Rage welled up. “How very dutiful of her! You have nurtured a viper in your bosom.”
“Let us hope that being cut off from her mother brings her to her senses,” Henry muttered, his mouth set in a grim line.
—
Five days after he had judged Katherine’s marriage invalid, Cranmer announced that the King’s marriage to the Lady Anne was good and lawful.
“Six years it has taken!” Henry exclaimed. “Six long years! But darling, finally, we have what we have most desired. You are now lawfully mine, and our son will be born in undisputed wedlock.”
Anne surrendered joyfully to his embrace. The ruling had been timely, for on the morrow she was to make her progress by river to London for her coronation. The hour she had dreamed of was almost upon her.
Uncle Norfolk, as Earl Marshal of England, had been put in charge of the arrangements, but he and she were now barely on speaking terms after she had heard him praising Katherine’s courage to Chapuys. His ingratitude stung, because she had just persuaded Henry to agree to the marriages of Norfolk’s daughter to the Duke of Richmond and his son to Frances de Vere—and she had gotten Henry to waive a dowry in Mary Howard’s case. But, for all her uncle’s animosity and constant tut-tutting, he did plan everything with superb efficiency.
The Lord Mayor of London and the aldermen and sheriffs were coming to Greenwich to escort Anne by barge to the Tower, where she would spend the night before her state entry into London.
“You look gorgeous,” Henry told her, when she appeared before him in her cloth-of-gold finery; but as they waited for the city fathers to arrive, he was fretting about Thomas More.
“I sent him an invitation to the coronation, and money for a new gown,” he brooded. “I hope he will come. I’ve dispatched three bishops to Chelsea this morning to persuade him. If he recognizes our marriage by attending, it will go a long way toward quelling the opposition.”
For Henry’s sake, Anne prayed that More would say yes. But when she saw the glum faces of the bishops on their return, she knew their mission had been hopeless.