The Secret Diary of Anne Boleyn Page 15

  Henry stopped then and threw back his head as tho remembering something painful.

  “What is it, love?” I asked. “What then did she say?”

  “That with God as her judge — God again, how many times did she invoke his name — that when I first took her to my bed she was a true maid without touch of man. A virgin she went to Arthur’s bed, and virgin came she away.”

  “’Tis the opposite fact upon which you wholly base your argument, is it not?” He nodded gravely. “But my Father,” I continued, “remembers that he spoke to Arthur the morning after their bedding and Arthur clearly said, ‘Bring me a cup of ale, for I have been in the midst of Spain last night!’ Others proclaim it true. She was not a virgin when she came into your bed and so your case is justified, no matter how many times she invokes the name of God.” He listened to my logic, but still looked haunted.

  “You did not see the crowd when she left the hall. ‘Twas wholly with her. All the Bishops, clerics, lawyers, Legates sitting stunned and quiet heard the cheering thro the open doors. ‘Good Katherine!’ cried the people. ‘How she holds the field!’ ‘She’s afraid of nothing!’ O, Anne, she was marvellous strong.”

  “And so are you!” I cried and grabbed both Henry’s hands in mine. I could see his strained and ropy neck, the unhappy flush upon his cheeks. “She spoke truly, Katherine did, in saying she’s a foreigner here. This is your country and she was Queen only by your gracious hand!”

  “True, true,” the King agreed. He seemed to rally at my words.

  “Your Tudor blood fought for this Crown and won it. You are the eighth Henry to rule this land, but by far the greatest. No Spanish princess can murder your resolve.”

  “Nor should a cursed Cardinal!” We both looked up to see my Father enter then, recent from his river transportation and the court. “Begging your consideration,” he continued, “your man Wolsey does you wrongly, Majesty. This thing is out of hand and I believe his fault.”

  “A harsh judgement, Thomas.”

  “Not harsh, Sire. Too kind. The Duke of Suffolk, sent by you on diplomatic errand into France, quotes King Francis saying Wolsey had ‘a marvellous intelligence with the Pope, and in Rome, and also with the Cardinal Campeggio.’ Where’s the loyalty, I ask you? Even Thomas More, that learned scholar, calls his actions crafty. Says he juggled with you most untruly. The people hate him too, Your Majesty, for taxing them offensively to pay for foreign wars. I say watch him closely, and that other red robed lackey of the Pope, Campeggio.”

  “Thank you for the sentiments, Lord Ormond, and for yours, sweetheart. But tho you may be right about the Cardinals, I believe within my heart that they will never dare to rule against me. The Pope in Rome is loath to lose his English ally. We have had a hard day, my friends, but we shall prevail.”

  So, good humor restored, the King dined with us at Durham. We shared a pleasant meal, laughter. I played the lute. We sang and after when my Father did retire, we kissed and clung together. Henry said ‘twas this that made him move all Heaven and Earth. He loves me truly and I search my heart every moment to find the same for him. One day, I know, my love will match with his but for now I make pretence and remain

  Yours faithfully,

  Anne

  25 July 1529

  Diary,

  Such unimaginable treachery is done by the Popes hand that I can hardly speak of it. But speak I must for my fate and Henrys are thus entwined. The Legate court has been adjourned with no verdict made at all, neither favorable to the Kings divorce nor against it, but simply closed, the case revoked to Rome! A disaster, pure and simple. Katherine has won this battle, for if the case is heard in that place, it will surely be determined in her favor.

  How it has come to this is clear and the Queen, tho victorious, is not her self the cause. She is just a pawn of men and war, like me. What has happened is, unknown to us, the French were sore defeated in the Italian field at Landriano by Imperial troops, and a plague did carry other Frankish men away. So as Henry sweltered here in Blackfriars’ summer heat waiting patiently for some resolution to his cause, Pope Clement went to Barcelona and signed a treaty with the now crowned Emperor. Then our ally Francis went to make a peace with them in Cam-brai. All of this we did not hear. Just the grave announcement of the courts adjournment, told that when it opens once again in Rome, the trial will come to fair conclusion. ‘Twas only afterwards that all was clear to our minds. The Pope, now peaceful friends with Emperor Charles — Queen Katherine’s kin — will never ever put his name to this divorce.

  On that final day of court, supposed day of judgement, 23 July, I went myself to Blackfriars — I could not wait at Durham Hall to hear my fate decreed or I’d go mad — and hid behind a balcony. The Cardinals stood and Wolsey, pale and sick knowing what would come was silent, trembling as the Cardinal Campeggio spoke his righteous smirking speech.

  He proclaimed that he did fear God’s displeasure and his soul’s damnation if he granted any favor to a Prince or high estate, and that he could not give a judgement here. Henry, poised for happy news, was outraged, but helpless as a babe. He strode fuming from the court, shaking the floor neath his feet.

  The Duke of Suffolk spoke for Henry then, venting all his fury saying, “By the Mass, now I see that old saw is true, that there was never Legate nor Cardinal that did good in England.” Alone in that balcony I admit I cried bitter tears for all that time wasted. All those hopes shattered.

  And where was Cardinal Wolsey’s great influence in all this? Where in deed. Impotent old fool who caused us to believe most falsely that the Legate court could have a happy disposition here in England. Cursed Wolsey. Ipswich butcher’s son risen most glorious and high. His star has lost its luster now. Henry hears me when now I speak badly of T Carlis Ebor. He will suffer my displeasure, this wretched Cardinal. He will fall and never rise again. I will see to that.

  Yours faithfully,

  Anne

  31 August 1529

  Diary,

  The King and I and all the Court are midway thro the hunting progress in the high summer countryside, having made our house in Waltham, Barnett, Tuttenhanger Holborn, Windsor, also Reading. There is some grumbling amongst the courtly retinue when I ride beside the King on my stallion, magnificently caparisoned in fringed and tasseled black velvet, silks and gold. But even more grumbling when I ride pillion close at Henry’s back upon his great horse. Common folk who see us thus are scandalized and most believe me his flaunted mistress soul and body.

  On this day we rode hard thro green and flowering hills and fields, horns blasting, stag bounding majestic, dogs yapping, wind whipping sunburnt faces. Henry loves the hunt. He is a sight on his white charger, bold and manly, his eyes ablaze with happy fire. All cares vanish under those thundering hooves, and even then is his Great Matter soon forgot.

  My hound, Urian whom I’d sent for, brought down and killed a cow today, ripping out its throat. Henry paid the farmer for its worth, but there was more whispering. Urian is the name of Satan’s familiar, they say, making me once again a sorceress who has bewitched the King. ‘Tis true, he’s badly smitten and shows his love to me most clearly. Not just gifts, tho these are many — all my saddles and my harnesses, clothing, bows and arrows, shooting glove, undergarments too. But publicly he shows me great affection, fondling, kissing, petting for all to see.

  When we supped this evening in his private rooms before a blazing fire, I told him these demonstrations are unwise. Far away in Rome his men still try delaying Henry’s trial for this divorce. The Queen, tho banished now from Henry’s eyes, likewise persists with Spanish ambassadors in her favor. Till then, I told him firmly, we must give the look of chastity.

  Then when we were done, wine flushed and full, he stood with back to me and stoked the fire saying quietly, and I thought slyly, that some months back Clement told him that if he stayed in married state to Katherine he, the Pope, would grant a special dispensation making my bastard children with Henry legitimate. I co
uld not believe my ears! I stood and made to leave his chamber ‘fore he saw my furious tears. He grabbed me, held me at the door.

  “Nan, don’t go. I never meant that I agreed to this.”

  “Then why tell me of it?”

  “I tell you everything!”

  “I believe you like his offer. Keep your Queen. Have me. Have your bastard sons made legal. Keep the Pope your friend. Yes, Henry, you like it well!” I tried to pull away, but he held me fast and now my tears fell freely. “O God, what a fool I’ve been. I have been waiting so long who might in the meanwhile have contracted some advantageous marriage and borne children, but no! Farewell to my time and youth spent to no purpose at all!”

  His face fell, his broad chin quivered, his eyes were glittering wet. “Hear me now, Anne. I will marry you with the Pope’s decree or else without.”

  I stood like some deaf woman who now could hear. “You would do that?”

  “If I must.”

  I was silent, knowing what this meant to him. Excommunication from the Church. A holy war against all England.

  “You see I read your book,” said Henry quietly. “Tyndale’s ‘Obedience of a Christian Man.’”

  “And what found you in that book?”

  “The passages you marked for my perusal with your fingernail I read and read again.” He looked past me, staring at the fire. ‘“Tis a book for all Kings to read. It says Kings are themselves responsible for not just the bodies of their subjects, but their souls as well.”

  My tears were drying fast. “Go on,” I urged.

  “I am an English King, and so by an ancient right am absolute Emperor … and Pope in my own Kingdom.”

  “Yes, you are, Henry!” said I. “And if you have a liking for the thoughts within that book, I have another for your own examination.”

  “What book is that?” he asked, his eyes flashing with a light alike to one I’ve seen when we are hunting.

  “‘A Supplication for the Beggars’ by one Simon Fish.” “And he says…”

  “That it is King’s work reforming Churches, not the clergy’s, for they are wicked and corrupt, and that Purgatory’s nothing more than gross invention, made to milk good Christians of their money, believing most erroneously that the sacrificial payments help their loved ones trapped twixt Heaven and Hell.”

  “’Tis a strange title for a tome.”

  “Fish writes cleverly, appealing on behalf of all the hordes of English beggars made, he said, because the clergy steals the money they might earn in honest work.”

  Then Henrys face grew dark and he was overcome with heaviness like Atlas with the worlds weight upon his shoulders. “These ideas are right and true, I grant, but they are simply words on paper writ by authors who have only one life to care about. I cannot afford a war with all of Catholic Europe now. I have no standing army nor money to pay my soldiers. All of England would suffer so …”

  “I know.”

  “And we have not lost in Rome yet!”

  “I know that too.”

  “God, I love you, Anne!” he cried and held me to his breast. “Stand and fight with me in this and we will win, I know it!”

  “I shall, Henry, I shall.” I kissed him then and held him. Our battle will be long and brutal hard, but this night I knew his purpose still was strong, but more important I knew he’d seen a path to our goal illuminated by a different light — a light whose source was far from Rome and whose name was Luther.

  Yours faithfully,

  Anne

  27 October 1529

  Diary,

  ‘Tis a marvellous occasion. The once great Cardinal Wolsey has fallen and I, “that foolish girl yonder in the Court,” have been the instrument of his destruction. He did truly dig his own grave, setting foreign law — the Pope’s — above the King’s, and thus defying English law of Praemunire. So that one fine morning this week past, the Dukes of Norfolk and of Suffolk strode into York Place and seized his Chancellor’s Great Seal of the Realm, divested him of rank and all his lands and worldly goods. Head bowed, tail between his fat legs, he left York Place upon his painted barge whilst London’s citizens in boats, at least a thousand strong, did jeer at him and shout they hoped he’d end the Tower’s prisoner. His final destination tho was banishment to a cold and distant house called Esher.

  My part in this was making Henry see that Wolsey was no friend, in deed was one who brought down upon the King’s head no end of trouble and disgrace. Whilst we walked in Greenwich garden with winds blowing leaves in swirls about our shoes, I lectured Henry like some sharp tongued tutor.

  “That great loan the Cardinal arranged to pay for your war against the French,” said I, “has indebted every English subject in the realm worth five pounds, to you. But worse, your Cardinal’s diplomatic blundering has left us now without the French as allies. All his arse kissing of Francis wasted. England’s place amongst the European powers lost.”

  Henry nodded gravely knowing what I said was true and this made me brave to then continue my invective. “You have raised this Priest so high that his wealth is fully one third of your own treasury, yet Wolsey has no country to run on his income. Do you know they call your English Cardinal the King of Europe?”

  Henry winced as tho I’d struck him, for there ingrained within his seething anger for old Wolsey were both loyalty and love, and thus a pain within their parting. But there was no help for the man. His fate was sealed.

  When Wolsey’d left York Place, Henry took me there and we looked amongst the Cardinal’s confiscated booty. It was far beyond imagining, the richness and the quantities of things we saw laid upon great trestles and along the walls. Tapestries, dozens upon dozens of rugs, pillows, hangings, sixteen carven and canopied beds, tables, thrones, chests, huge paintings, golden plate and goblets made to serve one hundred, jewelled and gilded crosses, chalices and vestments.

  “These are yours now, Henry, and rightfully so,” said I as we stared at all the bounty. I could see amazement in his eyes that these lavish treasures now he owned.

  “’Tis yours too, Nan,” he said.

  I smiled a smile he could not see. “A wedding gift from Wolsey, is it?”

  He was silent then and sad, perhaps with thoughts of all the Cardinal’s good counsel.

  “You’ve done no wrong, Henry. ‘Twas Wolsey’s time to go.”

  “Aye, I need a Chancellor now who’s no cleric. What think you of my choice of Thomas More?”

  I did not speak quickly for I knew the lawyer, learned author of the tome “Utopia” was Henry’s friend. He was a man both respected for his fairness and most popular at Court and with the common folk. But thought of his appointment gave me pause.

  “He is a staunch Catholic, my love, and opposes the divorce,” I finally said.

  “True enough. And in that I encourage him to follow after his own conscience. But he shall not concern him self with my divorce, but only other state and legal matters. More has always shown to be my loyal and obedient servant, and only gives opinion when I prompt him to.”

  My mind went wandering back to when I’d first laid eyes upon the man Thomas More. I stood in Henry’s Presence Chamber which rustled loudly with stiff satin and heavy gilt chains clinking gainst great jewelled brooches, where French parfum wafted from every starched lawn fold of every slashed doublet and lacy bodice. Then into this gaudy peacock garden strode a bird of an altogether different feather — a man in black and rough wove garments simply hung upon a slender frame. The eyes were soft, expression kindly.

  His reputation did precede him. Henry’s friend since childhood and counsellor of many years, he was Katherine’s friend as well, host to Erasmus when that scholar came to England, a family man and father. All knew of his long marriage to sharp tongued Alice More, and of his natural daughter Margaret, and his adopted child — again a girl — and their devotion to this man. I could not tear my eyes from that face, imagining sweet words from those lips to his daughter’s ears. Soft guidance, tender
education in this harsh life. All those confections that from my Father I should never know. A vision came before me of my Father’s face — steely eyes, razor slit for mouth spewing harsh advice on my advancement. My worth measured only on that advancement… I snapped back to present circumstance, to Henrys question wanting my advice.

  “Mores reverence for His Majesty is admirable and I’m sure sincere, but he’s got a family to support and needs advancement to his career.”

  “You question his motives?” Henry asked.

  “Not motives, but propensity to change his mind. In Mores ‘Utopia’ does he not deal with harsh immovability upon those guilty of adultery or any other sexual sin? The first offense is punished with slavery. The second with nothing less than death.’

  “’Tis true. But also in his book he does allow divorce is possible. And I believe that all my studied arguments, both rational and theological will turn his mind round eventually. Then he will be a most valuable ally to our cause.”

  I pray Henry is correct, for we have before us a pitched battle and a terrible fight.

  Yours faithfully,

  Anne

  2 December 1529

  Diary,

  This grey and blustery day I saw my Brother away to France. On Dover beach in Dover Castle’s shadow we stood. The wind was in my unbound hair and also in my skirts. It blew them out like canvas sails, and only George’s firm arm thro mine did keep my feet on English sand. ‘Twas cold, but we were warm in our affection. He pressed my shivering hands deeper in my red fox muff whilst we watched small boats loaded high with baskets, travelling chests and wooden barrels rowed past breaking waves to where the “Princess Mary” anchored off the white-capped shore.