by G Lawrence
I sighed, suddenly feeling a little lonely. I missed Henry, I had to admit it. Although I was peaceful at Hever away from his relentless pursuit, I missed the sound of his voice and the eager way he looked for me in the crowds. I had forgiven him, I think, for his unfounded accusations born of jealousy and fear, although I was not willing to allow him to insult me in such a way again, or to let him off lightly for the hurt he had caused me. It would not do to be too sweet to him in my reply, but at the same time, I did not want him to start looking elsewhere for another heart to grow fond of in my place.
The messenger stood waiting for my reply and I wrote a quick letter to Henry.
Sire,
I give great thanks to you, for thinking of me as I reside apart from court. I find that the goodly airs of my family’s home have brought restful peace to my spirits, but I promise you that I intend to return to court, and to you, in time. Although I was most wounded by our late conversation in the gardens of Greenwich, I am assured by your words that you no longer believe ill of me, and will continue to be the knight of my affections. I swear to you that I am well and hale, and am finding the lands of my family most pleasant at this time.
I thank you for the gift of the buck; a fine beast who I will order to be prepared for the house this night so that I might taste his sweet flesh. I will think of the hunter as I dine, with love.
Your servant,
Anna Boleyn, Hever.
Once the silence was broken between us, more letters came; a veritable flood of them. Messengers seemed to be carving new depths to the roads between Hever and London; riding up and down to place letters from Henry in my hand almost daily. He was, it seemed, most happy that I had responded to his first letter, and could not stop writing to me in his excitement. Perhaps he had believed that I was so angry with him that I would not respond at all… Perhaps he thought he had lost me for good. George had always told me that the King despised writing, even though he was a prolific reader. Henry usually dictated to others, but now he wrote to me in his own hand, and not only that, but many of the letters he wrote to me were in French, the language in which I felt most at home. He sent me poetry of his own composition; gifts of food, such as the buck; and fine cloth, French hoods and jewels. Every gift came with a message that he expected nothing in return for such things, and yet almost every letter asked that I take him as my lover. There were protestations of love, affection, and of how greatly he missed me; they were intoxicating letters to receive. The most powerful man in England, one of the most powerful men in the world, was on his knees before me… And he was a man whom I loved truly. The peace that Hever had brought to me dissipated under the barrage of Henry’s affection, unstopped and unquenched by the miles between us. He had not lost his love for me in the face of my anger, nor in my disappearance from court… He was more mine than at any time before.
Such thoughts are likely to turn a young woman’s head. In truth, I knew not what to do. My family were unlikely to disapprove if I did give in to Henry and become his mistress, but would he simply tire of me in time, no matter what he said now? There was a part of me that wanted to give in, of course there was! What woman can hear a man she adores, a man she loves, talk and write so to her, and be unaffected? Not I… But still, I had held off so long from this… Was I willing to give up everything I believed in, had believed in so strongly, for the temptation of love?
Perhaps Henry read my indecision, for one of his letters said as much.
On turning over in my mind the contents of your last letters, I have put myself into great agony, not knowing how to interpret them, whether to my disadvantage, as you show in some places, or to my advantage, as I understand them in some others, beseeching you earnestly to let me know expressly your whole mind as to the love between us two. It is absolutely necessary for me to obtain this answer, having been for above a whole year stricken with the dart of love, and not yet sure whether I shall fail of finding a place in your heart and affection, which last point has prevented me for some time past in calling you my mistress; because, if you only love me with an ordinary love, that name is not suitable for you, because it denotes a singular love, which is far more common. But if you please to do the office of a true loyal mistress and friend, and to give up yourself heart and body to me, who will be, and have been, your most loyal servant (if your rigour does not forbid me) I promise you that not only the name shall be given you, but also that I will take you for my only mistress, casting off all others besides you out of my thoughts and affections, and serve you only. I beseech you to give an entire answer to this my rude letter, that I may know on what and how far I may depend. And if it does not please you to answer me in writing, appoint some place where I may have it by word of mouth, and I will go thither with all my heart. No more, for fear of tiring you.
Written by the hand of him who would willingly remain yours,
H.R.
Late that May I was formally requested to return to court to serve the Queen once again; she wrote, however, that it was her husband’s ardent wish that I return and I wondered whether, in that letter, Katherine was offering me a warning. She perhaps believed that I was indeed as I said I was; a maid who valued her honour. But my heart was as ever divided, and more so than my mistress could possibly know.
If I chose to return, I should still have Henry chasing me; if I stayed away, his passion may cool. Being honest, I knew not which of the two I wanted. I did not want him to stop turning his affections on me but I did not wish to have to fend him off for the rest of my life. I was torn, but I missed him. I missed Henry and I missed the court. If I kept my head about me then I should be able to keep the role of his mistress of courtly love and yet retain my virginity… I just had to play carefully.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Greenwich Palace
1527
I returned to court in May, and was riding into the great city of London when I heard the news. There was great tension in the air and there were everywhere shouts and conversation in heated and high voices; something of importance had happened. I sent my men to find out what.
The news that came back to my covered litter was almost unbelievable. The Emperor Charles V and his armies had sacked Rome; the Holy City was undone. Pope Clement VII had signed a treaty with France; and Charles, the Emperor, had taken the Holy City in retribution for this. But Charles’ armies had raged wildly, out of his control. Mercenaries in the Emperor’s pay had overturned the city, churches were on fire, their riches robbed; monks were struck down by the swords of the soldiers on the city streets and blood ran in rivulets, turning the canals and the river red. Men said that the brides of Christ were raped in their habits, across the holy altars of the City of God. I crossed myself with horror as my guard told me what had occurred. The pictures in my head of the atrocities were overwhelming. I felt the screams of those nuns reverberate through my body. I felt the fear and the pain of people watching their city burn. I mourned, hidden within my litter, as we approached the court in residence at Greenwich. I could not stop weeping for the fate of the Holy City. I was not alone; all of England, and indeed the rest of Christendom were in shock that day.
I believed there were problems within the Church, I had long believed so, but that belief did not stop me from feeling horror and disgust at the actions of the Emperor’s troops. How could Charles have allowed such atrocities to take place? Why had he not stopped those mercenaries raping and pillaging through the City of God? He was the Holy Roman Emperor, supposedly the protector of the Pope and the Holy City!
We heard more news as time went on; that the Pope had fled to his citadel and was safe, that the Emperor had sought to control his troops, which still rioted in the Holy City, looting, burning and defiling. Katherine had all of us pray daily with her for the deliverance of Rome and the Pope. It was an event that shook us all. For war made upon man is one thing, but war made upon the servants of God is another.
There was more news, almost as distressing to me as th
e last. Before the sack of Rome, Tom and John Russell had made it to Italy, and met with the Pope. The Medici Pope took the money offered by Henry to remain in the anti-imperial league, but had offered no firm promises to the King. As they were travelling back, Russell’s horse stumbled, throwing him from his saddle and breaking his leg. With such an injury, Russell could not go on and was forced to stay behind as Tom went on to continue negotiations on his behalf. Just outside Bologna, Tom was captured by mutinous imperial troops, much like those who came later to sack Rome. They ransomed him to the Duke of Ferrara for 3,000 ducats, a princely sum. It was usual in such circumstances for the liege lord of a captive to pay the ransom, but it was also usual for the captive to re-pay his lord once returned. Perhaps because Henry now believed that I had never been Tom’s lover, he agreed to repay Ferrara and urged Tom home to England. Henry seemed to have forgotten his anger at Tom in the face of so much occurring in Europe, and was keen to have him report back to him, seeing as Russell could not.
I felt quite sick to hear that Tom had been taken a captive, and relieved to know that he had been freed. In many ways, this, rather than anything else allayed my anger towards him. I began to hope that I would see him soon, and let him know that I was no longer angry at him. I prayed for his safe return. Margaret was distraught to think of her brother in such danger, but I consoled her with soft words and gentle lies until the time we heard he was safe and on his way home. Poor Margaret, she loved her brother a great deal. I understood, for it was the same for me, with George.
As time went on, we heard that Henry had sworn to join with France to best the Emperor and remove him from the Holy City. I was proud to see Henry stand in front of his court and announce the union of France and England against the Spanish King’s tyranny. Katherine, sitting quietly beside him, said nothing. After all, the sacker of Rome was her nephew, her own blood; a man she once told me she considered as much her own son as her nephew. Whilst we knew that she deplored his actions from the bottom of her soul, we also suspected that she remained more loyal to her old country than she let anyone know, especially Henry.
When I returned to court, I felt as though my position had changed subtly, especially within the chambers of the Queen. Although Katherine was as polite as ever, she was distant, and her ladies, at least those loyal to her, acted in the same way as their mistress. I am sure that most of them thought I was now Henry’s mistress. I still had my friends, of course, those who did not think ill of me… and others at court began to seek out my company, thinking that as I carried favour with Henry, I would be able to speak for them. I was unsure where I stood, for on the one hand, I had Henry’s love and devotion, I had his attention held upon me, and yet, I still held him at arm’s length. I was his mistress and I was not his mistress. I had power; I had no power. I felt most precarious and at the same time, wildly excited.
My father called another family meeting to examine what Henry’s favour could do for the Boleyns. This time, I was surprised to find my uncle of Norfolk standing amongst the rest of the family, with his little habitual moans and groans punctuating the conversation. My mother, Mary, George, and his wife Jane were also in the chamber.
“Are you the King’s mistress?” our father asked me bluntly almost before I had entered the room.
I curtseyed. “Good afternoon to you also, father,” I said, and went to kiss my mother who stood near the window. She smiled at me. Mother still looked pale. Each winter, her mysterious sickness returned and she seemed to grow frailer every year. There was fear in my heart for her.
“None of your sauce, Anna,” our father said sternly. “I would know now, are the rumours that the King is much in love with you and that you have become his mistress true?”
I shrugged. “It may be that one of those rumours is true.”
My uncle’s face blackened and his cheeks fired with red blotches. “Impudent girl!” he cried and strode across the room. “Answer those better than you in age and wealth and sex! Have you no respect for your father?”
I stared into his angry face and then I laughed. My reaction surprised me as much as it did anyone. I seemed to laugh at entirely inappropriate moments, often when I was under pressure. But this time, perhaps I knew the reason. I knew suddenly, you see, that they could not touch me or hurt me. I knew that for once I was not just the lowly pawn in their games. I was the one moving the pieces on the board, not just one of the pieces to be moved.
I turned pointedly to my father who was looking extremely annoyed; a sight that would previously have lowered me to fear. But now I stood confident and strong before him. After all, I had faced the wrath of a king and survived… I did not fear my father’s anger now, nor that of anyone. “I am not the King’s mistress,” I said. “But he wants me to be such more than anything else in this world.” I looked at my father’s speculative face and smiled. “You asked me to hold his interest, and I have, but without giving my body to him. The King writes messages of love to me, asks that I be present in every party, near him, and asks me daily to allow him into my bed. I have not allowed him any such favour and I do not intend to. I have told him this, repeatedly, and it has not cooled his passion for me in the slightest. He calls me his sweetheart and the mistress of his heart. He has told me he loves me and will forsake all others for my company. Does that answer your question, father?”
There was surprise in his face. He went to speak, and nothing came out. It was satisfying to see, for once, my father speechless. My mother turned to me and beamed. “You have kept true to your own heart, Anne,” she said. “I am proud of you.”
“The King asked that you become his mistress, his sole mistress… and you refused him?” asked my uncle with incredulity.
“I did.” I stuck my chin into the air in defiance of what they should say next.
My uncle had stepped back and was viewing me as though I were a cow at market, and he was working out how much milk I should yield. “The King was not deterred by your refusal?” he mused. “Interesting...”
“Men always want what they cannot have,” Mary said quietly from her space in the corner. I searched her face, but it held no rancour. Perhaps enough time had passed since she left the office of the King’s mistress for her to accept my situation without resentment. I wanted to talk to her on the matter, but now was not the time. “It makes it more worthwhile to gain that which is more difficult to hunt.”
“And the King is a prolific and enthusiastic hunter,” nodded our father, regaining his power of speech.
“Have you considered what you are to do next, niece?” Norfolk asked me, a growing note of respect in his voice.
I faltered. “I know not,” I said and sunk down on a chair. “I do not wish to be his mistress,” I said quietly. I wanted to have Henry’s love more than anything else, but never as his mistress. I was afraid that I would be ordered to take such a position, and that perhaps Norfolk had been brought in to harass me into this choice. But it seemed that there were other possibilities emerging in the mind of my wily uncle.
“Perhaps… you do not have to be his mistress…?” our uncle suggested quietly. His eyes narrowed and there was a far-off look on his face.
“What are you thinking, Your Grace?” our father asked sharply.
Norfolk smiled. “I do not believe that the thought has not passed through your mind, Thomas,” he said. “It is not as though you are a dullard, or my father and I would never have allowed you to marry my sister,” he nodded his head towards my mother who was suddenly looking paler than before. The thought was there, hovering in the air like the English morning mist, but no one had had the courage to voice it out loud, except my uncle.
“Some years past, Wolsey was asked to look into the King’s marriage…” our uncle Norfolk continued, smiling darkly at me with his hawk-like grin, “… to check its validity. Many fear what will happen if the Princess Mary continues as the only heir to the throne, and our King is still young enough to sire a male heir, in a lawful marriage to
a woman still young enough to breed. There are precedents; infertile queens have been relieved of their position and entered holy orders allowing a king to marry again and produce an heir. There have been questions on the validity of Henry and Katherine’s marriage since even before it took place in light of the Queen’s previous union with Henry’s own brother. Multiple objections were raised, and dispensations were drafted out. But even when the dispensation from the Pope was granted, there were many who still questioned the legality of a man marrying his brother’s widow. Henry and Katherine married in private, for that same reason. At the time, Henry was much enamoured of Katherine and wished to push the wedding through without further opportunity for any to raise opposition… but that was long ago. He loves her no more. Many times in the last few years, Henry himself has voiced scruples on the matter, to Wolsey and to me. The Holy Bible states that a man may not marry with his brother’s widow, or else the marriage will be seen as sinful in the eyes of God… and will remain childless.”
George nodded. “Leviticus,” he murmured. “But there are conflicting passages… in Deuteronomy it is written that a man should marry with his brother’s widow.”
“Canon law instructs that Leviticus holds precedence over Deuteronomy,” replied Norfolk, groaning a little and rubbing at his stomach thoughtfully.
