It was turning out in the way which the Dukes of Norfolk and Suf-folk had wished, though they would have preferred to impeach Wolsey and send him to trial for High Treason. The Commons were less vindictive, largely because of a certain Thomas Cromwell who was vehement in his support of the Cardinal.
I think that was the first time the King noticed Cromwell. He was a man of very humble beginnings, the son of a blacksmith who must have been a very energetic man as he was also a fuller and a shearer of sheep, besides keeping a hostelry and a brewhouse. Thomas Cromwell was to play a big part in our story, and I learned a good deal about him later.
He had been wild in his youth and had even spent a time in prison— though I did not know this at the time. It is only when people attain power that there is an interest in their origins, and if they are in any way disreputable, this fact is triumphantly brought to light and even exaggerated. After serving his sentence he went abroad and was in the French army for a while. Then he returned to England and married the daughter of a shearman determined, some said, to remind everyone of his beginnings. He became a successful businessman and moneylender; he was clever, shrewd, quick-witted and witty, and in due course he was noticed by Wolsey, who liked to recruit clever people to his service. There was no doubt of Cromwell's cleverness, and Wolsey was quick to make use of it, rewarding him and teaching him a great deal—for which Cromwell was grateful.
He became—doubtless through Wolsey's influence—member of Parliament for Taunton; thus, when Wolsey's case was brought forward, he was present in the House and he defended his old master with courage and determination to prove him innocent and avoid the accusation of traitor.
Whether he saw his own ambitions—which depended so much on Wolsey's favor—fading, or whether he acted out of loyalty to his old patron, I was not sure. But with everyone ready to attack the fallen man, his action was a brave one.
The King noticed it and approved. I think Henry had decided he was going to pardon Wolsey whatever verdict was reached. But it was Cromwell's speech which decided the Commons’ vote against impeachment.
So there was Wolsey—a broken man, robbed of almost all his vast possessions, but still free.
In spite of the fact that he had been my enemy and was no longer in a position to harm me, the situation had changed little.
It was true that I was at Court, where I lived in great state. I had my dressmakers working for me; I had the most exquisite materials sent to me by the leading mercers; my clothes, designed by myself, were a legend; but I had to keep changing the fashion because I was imitated to such an extent that, if I appeared in a new style of gown, a week later most of the ladies at Court would be wearing a similar one.
People paid homage to me. I was the acknowledged queen of the Court. But I was not Queen of England, and Katharine was there, a shadowy third to spoil my pleasure.
Moreover the strain of holding Henry off was great. I was in a state of bitter uncertainty as to whether or not it would be better to give way, fearful that if I did he might come the conclusion that Anne Boleyn was just like any other woman in the dark, and if I did not, would he grow tired of waiting? How long could I keep him at bay? I allowed certain intimate caresses. I was torn between my love of adulation and my fear of losing it. Of course I knew that those who flattered me today would be the first to attack me if I were brought low. I should have looked upon Wolsey's case as an example, but I am afraid I did not think of him very much now that he was out of my way. Most of the time I was too sure of myself, possessed as I was of that mysterious allure, the essence of which was my aloofness—so different from my sister Mary. I was a heedless girl in those days—but all the same I was becoming aware of the passing of time.
Another year was almost over and I was no nearer to becoming Queen in reality than I had been four years ago.
I had always been of a quick temper. My stepmother had constantly told me to guard it—especially in my precarious position. But when it flared up, I could not restrain it; and I was at this time under great pressure.
Henry had for some time given up sleeping in Katharine's bed. He had declared that, as he believed he was not really married to her, cohabitation must cease. His conscience would not allow him to continue to sleep with her, as it would be committing a sin. For some time they had occupied the big state bed, she at one end, he at the other—so he told me—but now he thought it wise that they should not share that bed.
I remember that November day—a dreary day with a heavy mist which seeped into the room and somehow added to my depression and the feeling that this matter would not be resolved.
Royalty is rarely ever alone, and there is always someone in attendance to report what is done and said. Only in bed at night do they have any sort of privacy, and then there are servants who, though they are not actually present, are aware of what is going on.
Henry had dined with Katharine and came to me afterward. He was looking glum and I asked him what ailed him.
“Katharine!” he said. “How that woman plagues me! Now she is reproaching me because I do not share her bed.”
“So … she misses you,” I said.
“By God's Holy Mother, she thinks of what she calls her rights. I told her that I was not her legal husband and therefore I cannot share her bed.”
“And she, being such a pious lady, doubtless agreed with you.”
“She would not leave it at that. She accused me of not daring to have the case tried before an unprejudiced court. She said that, for every one I could find to decide in my favor, she would find a thousand to declare that our marriage was a good one and indissoluble.”
I was amazed and apprehensive that he had allowed the discussion to go so far with her. I thought: We shall never defeat that woman. She will always win. And how could he allow her to speak to him thus? It showed that in spite of everything he was still in awe of her.
“I can see,” I said, “that she will always better you in argument. One day you will listen to her reasoning and cast me off.”
“Never,” he declared vehemently.
“I have waited for so long,” I said. “I might have been married by now. I might have had children, which is the greatest consolation in the world. But alas, farewell to my time and my youth… spent to no purpose.”
I stood up then and left.
Unfortunately one of Chapuys's spies overheard the scene between us and reported it to that cynical man, who in turn at once sent an account of it to his master.
I believe at that time they all thought that Henry would soon grow weary of the matter—as I so clearly was.
My words had had a particular effect on Henry, especially my reference to marriage. He knew that there were many men at Court who wanted to marry me. In fact, I thought sometimes that the King's unswerving devotion to me was fostered by the effect he saw I had on other men at Court. He was terrified of losing me. The desire for the divorce had become a passion with him—whether entirely due to his desire for me or because of that obstinacy in his nature which would not be denied, I was not sure. But his determination was fierce.
To placate me, he gave my father the title of Earl of Wiltshire. Thus George became Lord Rochford, and I was the Lady Anne Rochford. It increased our status considerably.
This was a settlement of that old matter concerning Piers Butler which was to have been brought about by my marriage to James Butler and which had so suddenly—seemingly without reason—been broken off. As a result, for years there had been a dispute about the earldom between Piers Butler and my father. Henry had kept the matter in abeyance. He did not want to offend me by disappointing my father of his hopes; but on the other hand Piers Butler was very useful to him in Ireland. Now Henry made the sudden decision that my father should have the title. Butler was given certain lands in Ireland to console him; and the matter was peacefully settled, for over in remote Ireland Piers Butler would know how important the Boleyns had become to the King.