It was a quandary which hung heavily upon me. This was why I was delighted to stay at Hever and was in no great hurry to end my convalescence.
Mary and I were sitting in that garden where I had had my first encounter with Henry. I always remembered it when I was there, for it was the beginning of all that happened afterward.
She told me that she had had a letter from her sister-in-law Eleanor Carey, who was a nun.
“The Abbess of Eleanor's convent has recently died,” she was saying. “That means her place is vacant. Eleanor would dearly love to step into it.”
“Perhaps she will.”
“It needs influence.” Mary looked at me. “Eleanor asks if you would help.”
“I? What do I know of convents?”
“You don't have to know anything about them. A word from you to the King is all that would be needed.”
“I don't usually meddle in such matters.”
“Oh come, Anne, this is one of the family. Everyone knows that the King dotes on you. You have only to say the word and it as good as done.”
I must confess that I liked to feel I had influence with the King, so I wrote and mentioned the matter to him.
To my intense annoyance I heard that Wolsey had passed over Eleanor Carey and given the appointment to one of the other nuns.
Who became Abbess of the convent was of no importance to me, but that my wishes should be slighted was.
As soon as I heard, without waiting to hear any explanations, I wrote angrily to the King. Wolsey had deliberately ignored my request. He had known I wished the appointment to go to Eleanor Carey and because of this he had appointed someone else.
It was characteristic of Henry's devotion to me that he immediately called Wolsey and wanted to know why Eleanor Carey had been passed over when he had mentioned my interest in the matter.
Wolsey had his reply. Before appointing a woman to such a post, he must discover whether she was worthy of it. Under cross-examination, Eleanor Carey had admitted to having not only one illegitimate child but two—and with different fathers. Two priests, in fact, which made it worse. Wolsey had thought there was no need to report such a sordid happening because he was sure that all concerned must agree that such a woman was unfit for the post.
I was young and foolish. If only I had had the wisdom which later events were to force upon me!
I raged. I stormed. I would not let the matter rest. It should have been clear that Eleanor Carey's past made her unfit for the post, but I would not see that issue. All I saw was that I had asked a favor and it had been denied me because Wolsey thought it fit to do so.
I implored the King to give the post to Eleanor Carey.
Henry was torn between us; he hated to offend me and I think he understood the humiliation I had suffered.
He compromised. Neither Eleanor Carey nor Isabel Jordon—the woman whom Wolsey had installed—should have the post.
“But,” he wrote to me, “I would not for all the world clog your conscience or mine, to make Eleanor Carey a ruler of a House of God…”
He then went on to say that, as I had especially asked for it, this was the only way his conscience would allow him to act.
Wolsey could be foolish too. Isabel Jordon had already been appointed, he said. There was no way in which she could be cursorily dismissed.
I laughed when I heard it. I said: “Wolsey is one of the King's subjects who does not have to obey him.”
Henry was getting angry. The whole matter had been blown up to immense proportions. He sent a stern rebuke to Wolsey.
The Cardinal was the perfect diplomat. He put on a show of abject humility.
The epidemic had disrupted his household. He himself had been in a state of poor health. Somehow the matter had gone ahead too quickly.
The King's reply was: “It is understandable. The Cardinal would never go against my wishes.”
I was dismayed—fi rst at his lenience with Wolsey and secondly that I should be so blatantly outwitted by him.
I knew now that, for all his fine words and show of friendship for me, Wolsey was my enemy.
I think of that year as one of frustration and wild optimism, ending in the fear that nothing would ever be accomplished. I dared not think what would happen if the divorce was not granted soon. How long could Henry be kept with this burning desire for me? How long before he was as weary of the matter as I was?
It seemed then that everything worked against us. There was the Queen, who remained aloof with an air of piety which disturbed me more than any outburst of anger would have done. Wolsey was a frightened man, I knew. He feared that this matter of the divorce would be the end of him; he could hear his enemies baying at his heels. How Norfolk, Suffolk and the rest of them would rejoice to see him brought low. I shall never forget how two years before he had calmly handed over Hampton Court to the King. Hampton Court! The pride of his life, with its magnificent architecture and all its treasures which were indeed grander than many of those in the royal palaces.
“Should a subject have a palace more royal than those of his King?” Henry had asked him one day. He had long coveted Hampton Court, and Wolsey, so clever, so astute, knowing that the King's favor was essential to his well-being, had immediately realized his folly in creating such a residence and replied that a subject could build on the perfection of such a place with only one object in view. And that was to present it to his King.
What a masterly stroke! It was sheer genius. And how delightedly the King had accepted the magnificent gift. After that he had loved Wolsey more than ever. Wolsey knew better than to let a canker grow. Cut it right out was his method, however painful the surgery.
But this was something from which Wolsey could not escape. He was a Cardinal. Some would have said his first duty was to the Pope, and Henry would want none about him whose first duty was not to himself.
The Cardinal's power was slipping away from him. Yes, there were certain times when I thought he was a very worried man.
He was not the only one who was worried. That year was one of misfortune. Nothing seemed to go right.
We were still waiting for Campeggio's arrival. When the King made impatient inquiries, the reply was always the same. Cardinal Campeggio was an old man; he was racked with gout; he was making progress as fast as he could.
I was shuttling from Court to Hever. I never stayed long at Court—a fact which pleased me, for it was becoming more and more difficult to hold Henry off. His impatience was growing. He made constant references to the consummation of our love. I greatly feared it. How long would I be able to hold him once I had surrendered? But how long could I keep him at bay? It was a terrible situation to find oneself in. I often wondered at his devotion, which so far had not wavered, and sometimes I thought that all the obstacles which had been raised might have strengthened his purpose, made him more determined to overcome them, but at others I wondered if he would ask himself whether it was all worthwhile.
We had decided that while Campeggio was presiding over the court it would be better for me to keep out of sight, to give the impression that Henry's desire for a divorce had nothing to do with me.
Although I was not present on so many of those occasions, I heard about them from several sources. Henry kept me informed; so did my brother and my father. They were both working assiduously for the divorce. My father was naturally overjoyed at the prospect of my becoming the Queen; even with his ambition, he had never visualized a daughter of his going so far.