Anne Boleyn: A King's Obsession

by Alison Weir

  What if something evil befell her? It would leave Elizabeth so vulnerable. What could she do to protect her?

  She sent for her chaplain, Matthew Parker, a good reformist and a great preacher. Henry liked him as much as she did, and would heed what he said.

  “I am afraid!” she told him. “I hope I’m mistaken, but I fear I might be accused of treason.” She was weeping now. The young chaplain waited until she had composed herself, his blunt features creased in concern. He tried to reassure her, saying it was all in her imagination, but she would not be comforted.

  “You must help me!” she insisted. “If the worst happens, will you look to the care of my child? There is no one I trust more.”

  Father Parker regarded her with compassion. “Your Grace may count on me,” he vowed. “I give you my word.”

  —

  She sat with her women, trying to concentrate on her sewing, but hemming smocks for the poor did not offer much distraction. Furtively she glanced at Madge, and Mary Howard, and Margaret Douglas, and all the rest. Did they know what was going on? What about those unexplained absences? Dare she confront them? They might think she was mad. For the first time, she found herself missing her sister. There had been no letters exchanged between them in nearly two years. Mary was still in Calais. George kept in touch. He said she sounded very happy. Lucky Mary!

  Still Henry had not visited Anne. He had been in Council every day until late in the evening.

  Anxiously she asked George if there was anything afoot.

  “There’s trouble with France, I think,” he said. “Certain letters have been brought by the French ambassador. There’s no need to look so worried.”

  Maybe François had threatened war. If so, Henry’s visit of inspection to Calais was timely. They were due to leave three days after the traditional May Day jousts. Anne distracted herself by planning her wardrobe, choosing her most flattering gowns. Maybe the passion Henry had shown during their first sojourn at the Exchequer Palace would be rekindled. And maybe she would send for Mary and forgive her.

  Leaving her maids and chamberers to pack the gowns in her traveling chests, she returned to her presence chamber, where she found Weston playing on a lute, Margaret Douglas deep in conversation with Thomas Howard, and Mark Smeaton standing in the oriel window looking miserable.

  “Why so sad, Mark?” she asked briskly, disliking the bold, haughty mien he always adopted. She had avoided him since he had stared at her too familiarly in Winchester.

  “It is no matter,” he said, and leered at her. By God, he was trying to play the game of love with her—and he but a lowly musician.

  Her voice was icy. “You may not look to have me speak to you as I should do to a nobleman, because you are my inferior.”

  He was still smiling at her. “No, no,” he said, “a look suffices me.” He bowed. “Farewell, your Grace.” And he sauntered out of her chamber, the insolent knave.

  Well! she said to herself. Any more of that kind of conduct and Henry would hear of it.

  —

  After Mass on the last Sunday morning in April, Anne took Urian for a walk in Greenwich Park and stopped to watch a dogfight. She laid and won wagers, and returned to the palace feeling a little more cheerful.

  After dinner, she gathered her ladies and favored gentlemen and led them into her privy garden, to make the most of the sunshine. Norris was of the company, and she guessed he was trying as hard as she to make it appear that there was nothing more between them than friendship—not so easy now that they had declared their feelings.

  She bade him sit next to her on the stone bench in the arbor, keeping a safe distance between them. A few feet away, well within sight, the others were strolling along paths, chattering away, laughing and even kissing.

  “Why have you not gone through with your marriage to Madge?” Anne asked.

  Norris paused. “I’ve decided to tarry a time.”

  She lowered her voice. “You look for dead men’s shoes, for if anything evil befell the King, you would look to have me.”

  There was another silence. “No,” Norris murmured. “If I had any such thought, I would wish my head off. Madam, this is dangerous talk. To speak of the King’s death, even in jest, is no light matter.”

  She knew it. It was treason to imagine or plot the death of the sovereign, and probably even to speak of it.

  “Yes, but I can trust you,” she said. “Remember, I can undo you if I so please!” It was said in jest, but Norris was looking at her in horror.

  “Madam, I pray I can trust you too,” he said, standing up and bowing.

  “Don’t go,” she whispered.

  “I have duties to attend to in the King’s privy chamber,” he said. “Good day to your Grace.”

  As he walked away, she saw Lady Worcester’s brother, Sir Anthony Browne, enter the garden. He bowed in her direction and went to speak to his sister. They were looking at her curiously. She realized with a shiver of fear that he would have approached her garden by the path that skirted the arbor. Oh, God—he hadn’t heard what she and Norris had said? Sir Anthony was close to Henry and much respected by him. If he told the King about their conversation, Henry might well believe him. She would be condemned out of her own mouth, and Norris too. It might be inferred, from what she had said, that they shared a guilty secret. Violating the King’s wife was high treason. Any man convicted of it would suffer the unthinkable horrors of hanging, drawing, and quartering.

  Not Norris! Not loyal, good, devoted Norris, who had done nothing wrong apart from love her hopelessly from afar.

  She must warn him! Bidding her attendants stay, she hastened into the palace, heading for Henry’s apartments. She caught up with Norris in the pages’ chamber, where he was administering a rebuke to some wretched boy for idleness. When the page had gone, goggling at the sight of the Queen standing there, she closed the door. Norris stared at her in dismay.

  “I think we were overheard,” she said, as he looked at her with horror. “Sir Henry, I pray you, go to my almoner now and swear that, whatever he hears of me, I am a good woman.”

  “Anne, is this wise?” Norris asked, profoundly agitated. “It smacks of protesting too much. I could swear it myself, should the need arise.”

  “Go!” she shrilled. “There is no time to be lost!”

  —

  “Madam, the King wishes you to attend him,” her chamberlain announced.

  Having spent the past two hours agonizing over what had happened with Norris, Anne was expecting the worst. This was the retribution she had been expecting. Henry had found out. Well, she would not go down without a fight! For ammunition she picked up Elizabeth—with her child, so unmistakably the King’s, in her arms, she would appeal to Henry as a wronged mother.

  She found him staring through an open window at the courtyard below. He was frowning, restless. She curtseyed, still clutching the child, and he turned.

  “I have been hearing strange things of you, Anne,” he said, his eyes like steel. “Your almoner told your chamberlain that you felt the need to send Norris to protest your virtue to him.”

  “Sir,” she cried, “it was to counteract horrible gossip about me, that I am a loose woman, and I did not want Father Skip believing it. I thought it would come well from Norris, because he is known for an upright man and loyal to you.”

  Henry did not answer. “If I thought you had played me false, I would never forgive you,” he said.

  “How could you think that?” she asked. “I love you, Henry. This child was born of our love. I could never forsake you for another.”

  His gaze bore down on her. “Never let it be said that you made me a cuckold, madam!”

  “Why is Papa cross?” Elizabeth asked as Anne carried her away.

  “It is nothing to worry about,” Anne assured her, fighting tears and praying that was true. “All will be well, sweeting.”

  —

  That evening there was a banquet, and Henry was once more his us
ual self, courteous and companionable. His anger, to Anne’s relief, had burned itself out. They led the dancing, and he admired her gown, a new one of gray damask with a crimson kirtle. He left at ten o’clock, pleading the need to attend to urgent state business.

  When he had gone, she became aware of an undercurrent of speculation in the presence chamber. Around eleven o’clock, someone said that the Council was still in session. Clearly some deep and difficult question was being discussed. Was war imminent?

  She waited until the meeting of the Council broke up, and caught her father as he emerged from it. His face was gray and he looked as if he was bearing the weight of the world on his shoulders.

  “What is it?” she asked urgently.

  “I cannot tell you, Anne,” he croaked. “We are all sworn to secrecy. But the King’s visit to Calais is to be postponed for a week. They’re announcing it shortly.”

  “Does this concern me?” She could hear the fear in her voice.

  “It concerns us all. Now I bid you good night.”

  If it concerned everyone, it must be war.

  1536

  Anne had always loved May Day and the annual court festival celebrating the coming of spring, which was customarily marked by a great tournament. This year it was to be held in the tiltyard at Greenwich. It was a warm day, and pennants fluttered in the breeze as she took her seat at the front of the royal stand, her ladies clustering behind. Presently Henry arrived, to a great ovation. He greeted her cordially, but seemed preoccupied as he took his seat. He had been meaning to compete himself, but the old wound in his leg was still giving him trouble, and did not seem to be healing.

  They watched as the contestants ran their chivalrous courses, lances couched, armor gleaming. George led the challengers, thrilling the crowd by his skill in breaking lances and vaulting on horseback. Norris headed the defenders, but his temperamental mount refused to enter the lists, whereupon Henry called down that Norris could ride his own horse as a token of his esteem. Anne was thankful that Henry seemed to harbor no suspicions of his old friend.

  Tom Wyatt excelled himself, surpassing all the rest, although Norris, Weston, and Brereton all performed great feats of arms, and Henry was loud in his applause and appreciation. Anne smiled down encouragingly on all the gallant knights.

  Halfway through the contests, a page appeared and handed a folded piece of paper to Henry, who read it, flushed a dangerous red, then got up and stalked off, nearly overturning his chair. Father and George were among the lords who hastened after him.

  Anne could not credit that Henry was leaving. There was a hubbub of comment. What had happened? Had the French invaded? He had not troubled to say farewell to her—he who rarely scanted in his courtesy—so it must be serious. She could not help but read something ominous into his hasty departure.

  She signaled for the jousts to resume, but she was aware of the whispers and the speculation. When, bewildered and fearful, she returned to the palace a few hours later, and was told that the King had gone to Whitehall, she knew that some great catastrophe was at hand. And there was no one she could ask about it. As soon as the jousting ended, Norris had hurried to join the King. All her powerful protectors were gone.

  She slept fitfully that night. In the morning, hoping and dreading that the day would bring Henry’s return, or at least some news of what was going on, she had her women dress her in a sumptuous gown of crimson velvet and cloth of gold, and then tried to divert herself by watching her household officers playing tennis. Her champion won, which lifted her spirits a little.

  “I wish now I had placed a wager on him,” she said to Madge, who was sitting next to her in the viewing gallery. Madge nodded, indicating that there was someone behind her. Anne turned to see an usher in royal livery standing, waiting.

  “Your Grace, I am come to bid you, by order of the King, to present yourself before the Privy Council at once,” he said. The Privy Council was here at Greenwich? She had thought it with the King at Whitehall.

  “Very well,” she replied, trying to stem the tide of panic that gripped her. For a queen to be thus summoned was strange indeed, and she was in deep trepidation as she entered the Council chamber.

  There were three grave-faced men seated at the Council board: Uncle Norfolk, looking implacable; Sir William Fitzwilliam, whom she had never liked, the feeling being mutual; and Sir William Paulet, the King’s comptroller, who alone greeted her with gentle courtesy as they all rose to their feet.

  Norfolk came to the point without preamble. “Madam, by the powers granted by the King’s Grace to us as royal commissioners, we are formally charging you with having committed adultery with Sir Henry Norris, Mark Smeaton, and one other.”

  Anne was overcome with faintness. This was her worst nightmare coming true. How could they believe such things of her? And with Smeaton? How could they even think she would stoop so low? And Norris—they had been overheard! But she had done nothing wrong. Trembling, she opened her mouth to protest, but Norfolk raised his hand and stilled her.

  “Before you say anything, you should know that Norris and Smeaton have admitted their guilt.”

  “Then they are lying, since there is nothing to admit! I am the King’s true wife, and no other man has ever touched me.”

  “Tut, tut, tut! We have the depositions of witnesses, madam. Are they all lying?”

  “Someone is making an occasion to get rid of me!” she countered, in great fear.

  “You have given them the occasion by your evil behavior,” Norfolk sneered.

  “Oh, you are cruel, uncle, to believe such calumnies of an innocent woman—and your own blood at that!”

  His face was like granite. “I serve the King, madam. My first loyalty is to him, and he has ordered your arrest. These crimes laid against you are grave and, if proved, will merit just punishment.”

  Henry had sanctioned this travesty of justice! Did he really believe the worst of her? It terrified her that he had preferred to heed the accusations of others, rather than give her a chance to refute them. What hurt most was that an investigation must have been going on all these past days, yet he had said not a word of it. Oh, her enemies had been busy!

  “What is to happen to me?” she asked. “I must see the King. He will listen to me.”

  “He won’t see you,” Fitzwilliam snarled. “He is the Lord’s anointed: he won’t be tainted by associating with a traitor.”

  “A traitor?” She feared her knees would buckle. “I am no traitor.”

  “Compromising the royal succession is treason, madam,” he barked, as Norfolk tutted sorrowfully.

  “We will escort your Grace back to your apartments,” Paulet said. “Dinner will be served to you, and you will remain there until further notice. Your chamberlain has informed your household that you have been charged with treason.”

  It was a nightmare walk back from the Council chamber to her lodging, with the lords walking stone-faced either side of her and the King’s guards keeping pace in front and behind. News of her disgrace must have spread quickly beyond her household, for everywhere there were people staring at her, most of them hostile or disapproving. They were ready to believe anything of her, it seemed.

  It was no great relief to get back to her chamber, for she was greeted by the ominous silence of her ladies, and servants struggling to conceal tears, which further unnerved her, as did the presence of guards outside her door, their halberds crossed to prevent any unauthorized person from entering. They raised them to allow in her servitors, who brought her the usual choice of delicious dishes, but she was so upset when the King’s waiter failed to appear with his customary greeting—a poignant reminder of the awfulness of her situation—that she could not touch the food. She could only sit there, making stilted conversation with her ladies about children and dogs and tennis. She thought of sending for Elizabeth, but feared that, seeing and holding her child, she might break down, which would distress the little one. And probably they wouldn’t let her see
Elizabeth anyway; there would be more nonsense about the taint of treason.

  At two o’clock, she was still at table, seated under her canopy of estate, when Norfolk returned with Cromwell, Lord Chancellor Audley, and several other Privy councillors. Norfolk had in his hand a scroll of parchment.

  She rose to her feet in alarm. “Why have your lordships come?”

  “This, madam”—Norfolk waved the paper—“is the warrant for your arrest. By the King’s command we are to conduct you to the Tower of London, where you will abide during His Highness’s pleasure.”

  The Tower! Her flesh shrank from the prospect of being incarcerated in that grim fortress. She had only ever visited at the time of her coronation, when the Queen’s apartments had been refurbished at huge expense for her, but she knew the rest of the Tower was grim by comparison. Thomas More had been in prison there for a year. They said he had emerged an old man…And about fifty years ago, two little princes had disappeared in the Tower, done to death, it was bruited, by their wicked uncle. Would she disappear too?

  She made a huge effort to muster her courage. “If it be His Majesty’s pleasure, I am ready to obey,” she said. “What may I take with me?”

  “You must come as you are,” Norfolk said.

  “In this?” She looked down at her gorgeous royal gown.

  “There is no need to change.”

  “All necessities will be provided,” Paulet told her. It sounded ominous, until she remembered hearing that prisoners in the Tower had to pay for their own keep and any comforts they wanted.

  “What of my household?”

  “They must remain here. New attendants await you in the Tower.”

  “You will wait here until the tide changes,” Norfolk told her. “We expect to leave at half past four.”

  They left her then, and she spent the afternoon trying to hold herself together, going over and over in her head what she could possibly have said or done to lead people to think she had given an ounce of encouragement to Smeaton. Norris she could understand, although they were guilty only of indiscreet banter and that brief acknowledgment that there was more between them than could ever be fully said. But Smeaton—the very thought turned her stomach! How could Henry have believed it of her? And how could he have done this to her, whom he had passionately loved, and who had borne his children?