I think she would have spoken out against me had she dared but of course Henry would not have allowed that; and she had changed a little from the fiery young woman I had known. She was now a sober matron completely absorbed by her family and wanted to bring no trouble on them.
My aunt, now the Duchess of Norfolk, did not approve either, although I could not see why she should resent the glory I should bring to the family; and another aunt, Lady Boleyn, out of jealousy I think, would have been critical if she had dared. The fact was that they were all friends of Katharine and they understood—as I did myself—what she was suffering at this time.
They all knew now that the King wanted a divorce from the Queen in order to marry me. They looked upon me as some sort of siren possessed of evil powers which had bewitched him. They attached no blame to him. If I had told them that in the beginning I had tried hard to evade him, they would not have believed me. They would not accept the fact that I had been robbed of the man I loved and had had no wish to be in this situation—but now that I was, I was determined to make the best of it.
Perhaps I flaunted my position too much. Perhaps I enjoyed the power I had over the King. I basked in the admiration of many of the courtiers; the King's passion had added a kind of glamour. I knew this and I reveled in it. I can only say that I was young—and like all the young thought I was wiser than I actually was.
The summer had passed and the winter days had come, with their long evenings. Fires burned in the big rooms of the palaces, and there were dancing and entertainments which continued far into the nights.
I often found the Queen's eyes on me. She knew—as everyone else did—that I was the object of the King's passion and the reason for his wanting to be rid of her. I think that, for all her saintliness, she must have hated me. She would often give me duties to perform which meant that I must be at her side instead of that of the King. There was a brooding tension throughout the palace, and I wondered how much longer we could go on thus.
The Queen liked me to play cards with her. I think this was because the manner in which I was obliged to hold the cards brought my sixth nail into prominence, and even my hanging sleeve could not hide it. I was sure it was whispered that it was a sign of witchcraft, and that only one with special powers could have had such an effect on the King.
I shrugged my shoulders at them all. I cared nothing for their whispering, I told myself. But it was a little disheartening that so many of them should be against me.
I remember one occasion when I was playing cards with the Queen and some others. In the game one had to take a card from the pack, and it was good luck to be dealt a king. This card came to me.
The Queen looked at me very steadily and said: “The Lady Anne has had the good fortune to stop at a king. But she is not like the others. She will have all or none.”
I smiled and continued to play as though I did not understand the bitterness behind her words.
We were to go to Greenwich for the Christmas festivities. I and my little band of wits devised the masques, and each day I waited for the messenger to come from Rome with the good news that the Pope had given the sanction. I knew that Henry was waiting with the same eagerness and that it was not due to sloth on his part that we were making such little headway.
Dr. Knight wrote encouragingly and frequently, but we never seemed to make any progress. There were always promises.
A few days before Christmas a messenger came in great haste and demanded to see the King. I was with Henry at the time. It was the most exciting news we had had for a long while. The Pope had made a dramatic escape from his prison. Disguised as a merchant, he had left the Castle of St. Angelo, passed through the city undetected by the Emperor's men and found refuge in the bishop's palace there.
He was therefore no longer the Emperor's prisoner.
Henry was delighted. “It cannot be long now, sweetheart,” he said.
That was a very merry Christmas at Greenwich. The plays were especially witty, the dancing more vivacious than ever. The King was in excellent spirits and was at the center of everything.
Henry said: “This is a matter for great rejoicing. The Pope is free. Let the whole country thank God for his delivery.”
The people were always ready for a celebration, and they threw themselves into the rejoicing with vigor. There was dancing in the streets, and the light from the bonfires made night like day.
But no one could have been more delighted than the King and I. Henry said: “It will be easy now. Clement will have no love for the Emperor. He will want to pay him back for all he has suffered. This time next month you will be my Queen.”
But it did not work out like that.
At first when we read the letter we thought our hopes were realized.
Dr. Knight said that Clement had hesitated and prevaricated and that he still feared the Emperor. He wished to please his good friend the King of England and he knew how dear this matter was to his heart. He therefore found himself unable to deny his friend what he so eagerly wished for.
Henry read that aloud and embraced me. “At last!” he cried. “At last.”
The dispensation was following. He had had to hold it back for Cardinal Pucci to do a little revision on it, and as soon as it was ready it would be dispatched.
At first Henry wanted to celebrate immediately. He wanted to tell Wolsey that he could now hold his court and decide in his favor, for the Pope's dispensation was about to arrive any day now.
And so we waited. The days passed. The King gave orders that any messenger was to be brought to him without delay.
The waiting was hard and the delay seemed long. The King cursed first Clement and then Dr. Knight. Clement was a vacillating fool; Knight was slothful and indifferent to his master's needs.
And then it came.
With what joy it was received!
But as the King read it, his face grew scarlet.
“That meddling Pucci,” he cried. But he knew it was not Pucci who had made the thing useless. It was Clement… swaying this way and that, afraid of Henry but more afraid of the Emperor.
That which would have given Wolsey the power to pass judgment had been deleted. So the dispensation was useless, and all our efforts had been in vain.
It was clear that the Pope—even now he was free—was unlikely to give us the help which was necessary before the King could marry me.
The King was furious. He shouted threats against shilly-shallying Clement, sly Pucci and the bumbling Dr. Knight. Poor Dr. Knight, he had done his best. It was not his fault that Clement was in fear of the Emperor.
“We should have left it to Wolsey,” he said. “He is the only man who can outwit them. I know you feel he is no friend to you, sweetheart, but it is not so. He is a friend to me and that means he must be to you. We need Wolsey to set this matter to rights.”
In the meantime he declared war on the Emperor.
I had to forget my animosity toward Wolsey. I must remind myself that it was the King who had prevented my marriage to Henry Percy; Wolsey had merely obeyed instructions. His manner in carrying out those orders, though, had certainly been arrogant and offensive. “This foolish girl …” I would never forget that, nor the humiliation he had meted out to us both. But I had to forget it. A master's hand was needed to sort out this business, and Wolsey's was undoubtedly the one.
Wolsey decided to send two men to the Pope—Stephen Gardiner and Edward Fox. Fox was an extremely clever young man, about thirty years of age. He had been educated at Cambridge, where he had astounded his tutors with his brilliance and had been known as the wonder of the university. He was related to Richard Fox, the Bishop of Winchester, which had certainly not been a hindrance to his advancement; but Wolsey said he was a man of immense energy, ability, resource and tact; and he had those qualities which were necessary to bring this matter to a satisfactory conclusion.