“Oh, Anne,” she cried, “I came to see how you were. Is there anything I could do…”
She looked at George eagerly, but he turned away.
I was thinking: How long has she been standing there? She moved so silently and came upon one unexpectedly. That could be disconcerting.
I said: “I want nothing, thank you.”
“And are you feeling better?”
“Thank you, yes.”
“The King will be pleased.” There was a touch of malice in her sly face. She hated to see George sitting close to me, deep in conversation.
George kissed me lightly. “You should rest a little longer,” he said and, taking Jane by the arm, he drew her from the room.
All through that terrible winter the sense of doom was with me.
I had so few friends and apart from George I was not sure whom I could trust. It seemed to me sometimes as though they were all watching… waiting for my fate to overtake me. Perhaps they were not entirely certain what it would be. On more than one occasion I had recovered a certain power over the King after having appeared to have lost it forever. Could I do it again? My rival was by no means the most attractive woman at Court. But it might be that she was not so simple as she appeared to be. She had managed so far to preserve her virtue, to cling to her “honor” and imply “A crown or nothing.”
It was a complete imitation of the method which I had used with him. I had blazed the trail, given the example, and they were following it slavishly. She was backed by her ambitious brothers—and she was winning.
Once again Henry was being challenged.
I found great relief from tension in my reading. It was mostly religion, and I was growing more and more interested in the new ideas. I read everything the reformers were writing that I could find. I could forget my troubles when I did that. My other source of comfort was my daughter. She was such a bright and intelligent child. I was often with her. I enjoyed going through her wardrobe, discussing it and planning it with Lady Bryan. I thought that surely such an attractive child must be a delight to her father.
As the weeks were passing, I grew more desperate. I tried to make him notice her, for naturally when he turned from me he turned from my daughter also. How could any father be so indifferent to such a child?
I was at that time overcome with melancholy, and after these bouts such was my nature that I would give myself up to wild gaiety.
I still had my admirers. They must have been genuinely attracted by me for my declining fortunes made no difference to their devotion. I wanted their company, their compliments, their looks of admiration; they made my spirits rise and gave me fresh hopes. I even looked for admiration from young Mark Smeaton. He was completely devoted to me. My ladies said that he never played so exquisitely as when I was present, and it was then that he played for me. He now looked very handsome in the new clothes which I had provided for him.
I told him that he must not expect too much attention from me, and he replied soulfully: “No, Madam. A look will suffice.”
Such complete and abject adoration, even from a humble musician, was balm to me at such a time.
I had some good friends among my ladies. Madge Shelton was as friendly as ever. Our little adventure with Henry had not changed us; rather it had bound us together, and she did not take it amiss that Henry Norris, who was supposed to be courting her, gave his attention to me. There was Margaret Lee, who served me well; and Mary Wyatt had always been close to me.
My sister Mary had come to Court. She had a great capacity for happiness. For the first time in my life I was envious of Mary, with her children and her happy marriage; she was serene and secure. She declared that Will Stafford was the perfect husband; he had made up for the loss of dear Will Carey. It seemed to me that Mary had found the right way to live. Perhaps I could have learned from her if it had not been too late.
It was part of my tempestuous nature that I could at times be hilariously merry. I still had the wits of the Court about me to help me construct amusing entertainments. I would sing, dance, indulge in flirtations with my admirers; and then afterward, alone, I would sink into melancholy.
I said to Mary Wyatt: “The King plans to be rid of me as he rid himself of Katharine. He thinks he will get sons by Jane Seymour. But I think the King will never get a son… because he cannot.”
Mary warned me that it was unwise to say such things.
Dear, calm, wise Mary. How right she was!
There were times when I knew such despair that I tried every means to touch his heart. Once I took Elizabeth and, with her, waited before the windows of his apartments for him to appear. After a long time he did. I made the child lift her hand and wave to him. He just stared at us stonily for a few moments and turned away.
I knew there was no moving him then. I saw that we had gone too far for him ever to turn back to me. My enemies were all watching, waiting for the moment when they could give vent to their hatred. They were unsure as yet… waiting for the King.
I knew that George was very worried. He saw what was happening, perhaps more clearly than I did.
A rumor was started about the Court that the King was lacking in the power to get children and that he was all but impotent.
This would madden Henry when it reached his ears. He would blame me as the one best qualified to set about such a rumor. Enemies everywhere. And so few friends.
When we heard that there was to be an alliance with the Emperor and that he had mentioned he was sending an ambassador to talk with the King and Queen, George's spirits rose.
He came to me that we might talk in private in my chamber.
“He has mentioned you,” he said. “That means he is accepting you as the Queen. It is a great step forward.”
I saw his point. Henry was wavering, but my fate did not rest on Henry's own subjects but those two powerful states of Europe—by necessity enemies of each other, and who were grappling for power. It was so important for France to accept me as Queen; and if the Emperor did also, I might be safe.
“The attitude has changed now that Katharine is dead,” said George. “He could condemn your marriage only while she lived. Now it seems he is letting his political needs override his family feeling. He needs Henry as an ally against François.”
“François has been a good friend to us for most of the time while the divorce was pending.”
“He has shown himself to be completely unreliable. The Emperor would be more stable. Moreover, he is a great general. He is the wisest ruler in Europe and he would be a better ally.”
“Then there is a glimmer of hope?”
George nodded. “I cannot believe that the King wants to go through all the trouble of divorce again.”
“He will have to, if he wants to marry Jane Seymour.”
“He must tire of her soon. If only the silly little thing would sleep with him, it would be over in a matter of weeks.”
“She's set on a crown.”
“You mean her brothers are for her. She is of a nature to be pushed this way and that.”
“So different from me. I think he looks for change.”
“It may be. But we have to stop it, Anne. And if the Emperor shows he is ready to accept you, it might well be that the King would forget Jane Seymour.”
“What of the Pope? What of the break with Rome? The Emperor will never accept that.”
“Emperors and Kings accept whatever is expedient. I think the Emperor wants an alliance with England. Religion is used by rulers. That is why there is often conflict between Church and State.”
And so we hoped.
My spirits rose—as they could so easily. We prepared entertainments for the emissaries. I even became friendly with Chapuys. I think, as usual, I reacted too vehemently, and I have no doubt now that my actions were regarded with cynicism by that wily spy.