His eyes never left me. They shone with something more than lust. He was at his most attractive that night. He was almost humble, a quality which sat oddly on him. He looked younger, for the last years had taken a certain toll on him. This was how he must have looked when he came to the throne. I felt an affection for him. I realized, too, that I was different. I had made up my mind. I was no longer tortured by the fearsome question of Dare I? I had given way because I fancied I could see the goal in sight, and this was the way to it.
It was a discreet supper à deux; we were waited on by two silent-footed servants. There was no ceremony. We might not have been the King and the one who aspired to be his Queen. He glowed as he talked to me of his love for me, how it had changed his life. Indeed it had—and the course of the country's history perhaps. But he was modest, which made him almost like a stranger. He was so pleased because my choice had fallen on him and that I had saved myself for him.
I did not reply to that. In truth, my choice had fallen on a crown and on him because he could supply it. I had previously chosen Henry Percy, he must remember; and it was he who had snatched me away from that young man.
But on such a night we did not wish to talk of such things; and to see him thus—so different from the arrogant King whose wrath, Warham had once said, “was death”— to see him thus, for my sake, endeared him to me.
I almost loved him on that night.
I should have liked to linger over supper but he was impatient and we were alone. I emerged from my black satin and went to him.
I had prepared myself for the onslaught of passion which I knew must come—all the pent-up feelings of the years of waiting. He was incoherent, murmuring words of love. I responded, as well as I could, fearful all the time of my inadequacy—which was a new role for me, as the humble lover was for him.
It seemed to me that on that night we were both playing parts to which our natures had made us unaccustomed.
We lay in the darkness. There was silence between us. I asked myself: What is he thinking? Why all this fuss? Is not one woman very like another? Mary had held him for a long time. Mary had special powers. She was born to play bedtime games. I had not been.
“Anne.” His voice came to me in the darkness.
“Yes…Henry?” I whispered fearfully.
He said: “Methinks I am the happiest man on Earth.”
Waves of joy swept over me. Then I had not failed.
I replied: “Then must I be the happiest of women.”
“There was never love like this,” he said.
No, I thought, never love that would rock the foundations of the Church.
The weeks which followed were happy for both Henry and me. I had made the decision; there was no going back, and I was no longer plagued by that eternal question. Henry was delighted; he looked years younger, and everyone noticed the change in him. He was no longer frustrated. Katharine was out of sight and he ceased to think of her. I was there beside him; in fact, he hated me to be out of his sight. I was immensely relieved. I had submitted and I still held him—perhaps even more firmly than before.
He took a delight in my extravagance. I bought yards and yards of red velvet—the color which became me most. The dressmakers were busy. I was beside him at the Court functions. It was tantamount to being Queen. People began to treat me as such; they brought petitions to me, asking me to intercede for this and that with the King. All knew that what I asked would be mine. Enthusiasm was second nature to Henry. When he wanted something, he wanted it fiercely. Tenacity was another of his qualities. I was not sure of fidelity; but I was determined to keep him as he was now.
He wanted me always beside him. Even when I was alone, I rode in state. He had given me special harness for my horses and my saddle was in the French style—black velvet fringed with gold. But he liked it best when I rode pillion with him, sitting on a down-stuffed pillow.
I was Queen in all but name, but that was not good enough.
The precariousness of my position was brought home to me by the people.
How they hated me! The common people—and not only they—hate to see others rise, particularly if that rise is spectacular. I shall never forget the hatred which was directed against Wolsey when he was at the height of his greatness, and the sympathy which came to him when he was down. The sympathy suggested good nature but the hatred betrayed the truth of the matter, and I came to the conclusion that envy is the greatest of the seven deadly sins, and from it spring all others; the sympathy offered to such as Wolsey when they are brought low is at heart pleasure because of their downfall.
Now I was to taste that hatred.
“We'll have no Nan Bullen,” they cried, attempting to give my name a plebeian note. How I hated them, with their sly, envious faces and their petty minds. This was not sympathy for Katharine; it was not indignation against my position. It was plain envy.
I would have snapped my fingers at them if it were not for the disturbing effect they had on the King.
Cromwell said he would suppress it.
He had his spies everywhere. If they heard an adverse comment directed against me, the person who made it would find himself or herself in chains. This did not prevent a good many people risking imprisonment.
The most disturbing of all were the priests. They were different from the people in the streets. Their great anxiety must have been for their position in the Church. There was one, Friar Peto, who actually preached at Greenwich. He was one of those headstrong monks who see themselves in the role of martyr as a way to eternal joy and saving themselves from the flames of hell by one magnificent gesture at the end. He was attached to the Franciscan convent and was emphatic in his denunciation of the divorce. The King had been ill advised, he said. He would be like Ahab, and when he died the dogs would lick his blood.
And this in the presence of the King!
Henry's leniency was amazing. Cromwell would have had the man in the Tower and soon taking the short walk to Tower Hill, but the King was in a mellow mood. The Friar had at least spoken out to his face and had not made traitorous remarks behind his back as he feared so many did. So Friar Peto was sent to France to join a Franciscan order there. Such leniency was not really wise, for he came back later and continued preaching, so that there was no alternative but to imprison him.
But this was nothing compared with the case of Rice ap Griffiths. What made this more unusual was that Griffiths was a distant relative; he had married one of my mother's sisters. Criticism from my own family always surprised me. One would have thought we should have clung together. But the resentment the Howards had always felt toward the Boleyns was constantly flaring up. Griffiths was arrested and put in the Tower. He never left it, except to walk out to Tower Hill and lay his head on the block.
This was an example to others, and it did have some effect, but I knew that the people were ready to revolt against me, and the clergy against the new laws which were to be imposed.
At the Court, where I sat beside the King, few dared show resentment, for it was those close to the King who had the most to fear. It was true that Mary, Duchess of Suffolk, had left Court on account of me but I did not greatly care. It seemed amazing to me that she could behave so. After all, she herself had married a commoner. When I thought of that bright young girl and her passion for Charles Brandon, I could scarcely believe that she could behave thus toward me. She had been quite fond of me in a patronizing kind of way. She had let the little Boleyn into her confidence as she had no other. Of course, she had been a friend of Katharine, so perhaps that was behind her dislike of me.