Anne Boleyn, a King's Obsession

She began to relax only when her procession left the City by Temple Bar, wending its way toward Westminster. When her litter drew up inside Westminster Hall, she alighted and ascended the great staircase to the high dais, where she seated herself beneath a cloth of estate and was served a banquet of subtleties, wines, and hippocras, which she waved away and sent down to her ladies.

She should have been enjoying her moment of triumph, but she felt so strung up and nauseous that she could barely touch the food, and by the time the banquet ended, and she was thanking the Lord Mayor and all the lords and ladies, she was utterly exhausted. It was a huge relief to withdraw with her ladies to the White Hall in the Palace of Westminster, where Mary and Jane Rochford relieved her of the heavy mantle before she was escorted out of the palace to a waiting barge, which took her swiftly to York Place.

Here Henry was waiting for her, eager to hear how the day had gone.

“How liked you the look of the City, sweetheart?”

“Sir, the City itself was well enough,” she replied, sinking into a chair, “but I saw many caps on heads and heard but few tongues.”

Henry swore under his breath.

“You can’t make them love me,” she said. “If you could stop them hating me I’d be happy, but you can’t tell people what to feel.” She did not tell him that she had felt frightened. “Henry, I must go to bed. I’m worn out and your son is very active. I have a big day ahead tomorrow.”

He was all anxious solicitude. “Of course, darling. I’ll send for your women. You must take care of yourself.”





1533


Anne stood at the great west door of Westminster Abbey, her ladies fluttering around her, checking that her ermine-trimmed surcoat and her robe of purple velvet were arranged perfectly over the kirtle of crimson velvet. Mary adjusted the rich coronet with its caul of pearls and stones, while Madge Shelton gave one final sweep of the comb to Anne’s long hair.

She was ready, and Archbishop Cranmer and the assisting bishops and abbots, richly coped and mitered, moved forward to receive her and support her in procession along a carpet of cloth of ray that stretched to the high altar. She walked beneath a glittering canopy of cloth of gold, with Suffolk going before her carrying the precious glittering crown of St. Edward the Confessor, and the Dowager Duchess of Norfolk bearing her train, which was so long that Anne’s chamberlain had to support it in the middle. Following behind were her ladies-in-waiting, all attired in scarlet, after whom came a great entourage of lords and ladies, the Yeomen of the King’s Guard, the monks of Westminster, and the children of the Chapel Royal, who were to sing during the ceremony.

A platform had been erected between the high altar and the choir, and at its center stood a rich chair, in which Anne seated herself. Around her stood the nobility of the realm, and she caught sight of her parents, watching her with undisguised pride, and George, smiling encouragement. As she rose to go to the altar, she looked around for Henry, and espied a movement behind a lattice set into a pew at the side of the sanctuary. It was comforting to know that he was nearby.

With some difficulty, for she was in her sixth month now, she prostrated herself on the mosaic pavement before the altar while the collects were said, and then she was helped up and raised into her chair, and Cranmer came forward and anointed her on the head and breast with holy oil. Then he lifted St. Edward’s crown—with which every English sovereign had been invested since time immemorial—and placed it on her head. It weighed heavily, but it was a burden she was happy to bear.

It was done, accomplished! She was the Queen of England.

As she received into her hands the scepter of gold and a rod of ivory surmounted by a dove, she was thinking of the words of Christine de Pizan. How appropriate they were now. As the wife of a powerful man, she would ensure that she was highly knowledgeable about government, and wise. Knowledge was power; she must learn to understand everything, and make her influence felt. Moreover, she must have the courage of a man. I have that courage! she told herself. Exultation filled her heart.

The choir burst into song with the Te Deum, after which Cranmer came forward and lifted the great diadem from her head, replacing it with the new crown that had been made for her, a gorgeous golden circlet studded with sapphires, balas rubies, and pearls, with crosses of gold and fleurs-de-lis around the rim. She sat there, crowned and enthroned, while Mass was celebrated.

She had joined the ranks of great queens and women rulers, and she vowed to herself that, in her rule, she would honor the memory and inspiration of Margaret of Austria and Isabella of Castile, and make herself as widely respected as they had been.

A fanfare of trumpets signaled the end of the ceremony, and Father stepped forward with Lord Talbot to support her on either side as she processed slowly out of the abbey. “Now the noble Anna bears the sacred diadem!” sang the children of the Chapel Royal.

In Westminster Hall, Anne’s ladies brought rose water to refresh her, straightened her skirts, and adjusted the crown so that it was comfortable. Ready for her coronation banquet, she seated herself in solitary splendor at the center of the high table on the dais, with the countesses of Oxford and Worcester standing behind her, ready with a napkin and fingerbowl, and two maids sitting at her feet. She was so tense from the overwhelming excitement of the day that she could not eat. In fact she was nauseous, and the countesses had to shield her from view, holding a fine cloth in front of her when she needed to vomit. Archbishop Cranmer, sitting at the end of the high table at the Queen’s right hand, looked at her with concern.

“Is your Grace all right?” he inquired.

“Never better!” she assured him. “It’s just a case of too much emotion and too much rich food. Not a good combination for me, in my condition. Oh, no, more food!” she grimaced, as the trumpets sounded and the new Knights of the Bath brought in the next lavish course.

“Would your Grace like some wine?” It was Tom Wyatt, acting as chief ewerer. He too looked concerned about her, and there was in his expression something of the old Tom she had liked so much.

“No, Tom, but is there any barley water?”

“I will get you some,” he said, and hastened away.

Two hours later, she was still sitting there, sipping barley water. At the long tables below her, the guests were still indulging themselves, and there was a deafening clamor of chatter and laughter. She had managed just three dishes out of the eighty she had been offered, and even though she had admired the subtlety of her own falcon badge, which was made entirely of sugar, and carried in and presented to her with much ceremony, she waved it away.

Alison Weir's books