The Lady in the Tower

The Court and Blackfriars

TIME WAS PASSING. Wolsey was making progress in France but he was no nearer to bringing about the freedom of the Pope.

Henry wrote impatiently. I saw the letter. It accused the Cardinal of not giving his full attention to the matter uppermost in the King's mind.

Wolsey replied that he was straining every effort. François was sympathetic and Wolsey believed that he would welcome a union with the Princess Renée.

My father came to see me. He now regarded me in a very different light. He looked at me with some wonder and called me “dear daughter.”

I was skeptical of his sudden affection for me. Of course I was carrying on the tradition of the Boleyn family, which had forced a few roots into society through the women of the house. I was about to follow the tradition—but in a much more spectacular fashion than any of my predecessors.

I wanted to laugh at him.

“My dear daughter,” he said, “you look in good health.”

“You too, my lord,” I replied coolly.

“This is a most exciting project we have on our hands. The King has told me of his feelings for you.”

“So I have found favor in your sight, my lord?”

“My dear child. I always knew that you, of all my brood, were the one with special talents.”

“Mary had some excellent talents,” I reminded him.

“Ah, your sister Mary… she was always a fool. Well, she reaped her folly. There she is… living humbly with Carey. He will never make a name for himself.”

“Except as the husband of the King's one-time mistress.”

He laughed, rather sycophantically, which amused me.

“It is you we have to think of.”

“I can think for myself.”

“I am sure you can. But the King is most put out. He thinks Wolsey is dilatory about this Secret Matter.”

“He has a big task before him.”

“I don't trust Wolsey. At this moment he is trying to make an agreement with the King of France for the Princess Renée. If he knew the King's true mind, I cannot imagine what he would do.”

“Surely he would do as the King commanded him.”

“He is a wily creature. I would not trust him. And the King has a special feeling for him. He has been talking to me. He is very uneasy about his relationship with Mary.”

“That is over.”

“But the King has qualms. He is wondering whether his intimacy with Mary might be an obstacle to his marriage with you… due to the fact that you are her sister.”

“You mean… the closeness of the relationship?”

“It is natural that His Grace should want everything to be indisputable. He wants to get a dispensation on account of Mary. He has talked of it with George and me. Wolsey has plans for setting up a papal government in Avignon over which he, Wolsey, would have full powers. This is to last just during the Pope's captivity. He could then give sanction to the divorce, but before he could do this he would have to have the agreement of the Pope. He did not think it would be an insuperable task to smuggle a man into the Castle of St. Angelo to get the Pope's agreement to this scheme. The King does not think it a good idea. It is all too slow. He wants to send an ambassador, and he has chosen Dr. Knight. He is going out ostensibly to meet Wolsey and assist him, but in fact he has a secret document with him with which he will ask for a dispensation on account of the King's relationship with Mary.”

Everything seemed to go against us. We discovered later that Wolsey's spies had searched Knight's bags before he joined him, and therefore the King's true intentions were revealed to him. This naturally made his position in France untenable. The King had betrayed him to such an extent that he was negotiating with the King of France for a marriage with the Princess Renée when all the time he was determined to marry me.

Wolsey had no alternative but to return home.

I daresay he was a very worried man. For the first time he did not have the King's confidence. The King was working against him, keeping him in the dark, which put Wolsey in an impossible position.

We were at Richmond Palace when he arrived back.

I was with Henry and a few of our special friends—my father, George, Francis Bryan, Weston, Surrey and several others.

One of the Cardinal's servants came into the palace and was brought at once to the King.

“The Cardinal is on his way, Your Grace,” said the man. “He comes straight from France and would know where Your Grace will receive him.”

I knew that Wolsey wanted to see the King alone. I was very suspicious of Wolsey. I could never forget that he had called me a foolish girl unworthy to mate with Northumberland, and because of that I always felt that I wanted to show him my power.

I said boldly: “Where should the Cardinal see the King but where the King is?”

There was silence throughout the company. I had been over-bold. But I was sure of myself.

Henry nodded and did not answer.

So Wolsey came to him there… where we all were, and the look of amazement on his face when he saw how he was received was pitiful indeed.

He seemed to change in that moment. He looked like an old, tired man who had failed in his mission.

I think Henry was aware of his dismay and despair, and he had a true affection for Wolsey.

He said gently: “Well, Thomas?”

Wolsey bowed. Then he looked straight at me. I wondered whether he read the triumph in my eyes.

They were difficult months to live through. There was frustration at every turn. Wolsey's position was growing more and more uncertain. Henry told me that, when he had confessed to him his true intentions, Wolsey had pleaded with him to abandon me and consider Renée of France.

“I told him that in no circumstances would I.”

“He has always hated me,” I said.

“No, sweetheart. He is a good servant. He is afraid that if it is known that I wish to marry you no one will believe the question of divorce has arisen because of my doubts about the legality of my marriage with Katharine. They will say it is because of my desire for you.”

I felt exasperation rising in me. That was the reason… but he would not accept it. He wanted his actions to be seen as selfless, a desire to right a wrong. But at least between ourselves surely he could admit the truth? But he could not do that. Sometimes I thought it was impossible to reason with such a man.

When I look back, I see how foolish I was. I should never have allowed my desire to take revenge on Wolsey overcome my common sense. I should have taken more care in my attitude to those about me. I should have remembered Queen Katharine's gentleness, her dignity, her religious life, the fact that she had never wittingly done harm to anyone, which had made her many friends. They closed in around her now that she was in trouble.

One who greatly resented me was the King's sister, Mary, whom I had accompanied to France when I was a little girl. She was at the Court often with her husband, the Duke of Suffolk. Because of the King's Secret Matter, doubts were being raised all around; and there had been some hints that due to Suffolk's previous marriage to Margaret Mortymer, the widow whose defunct husband had been Suffolk's grandfather's brother, his marriage to the King's sister might not be valid. This may have given Mary a special sympathy with Katharine. However, the two were great friends and Mary showed her resentment that one who had been her maid of honor should now aspire to be Queen of England.

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.

Stephen Gardiner was one of Wolsey's private secretaries and like Edward Fox had shown his brilliance. He was older than Fox—I should think by at least ten years; and his birth was somewhat obscure. Some said he was connected with the Rivers family. At Cambridge he was soon noticed. He was a doctor of civil and canon law; he became a lecturer and then tutor to the son of the Duke of Norfolk, and it was Norfolk who had introduced him to Wolsey. Always on the alert for talent which he could use, Wolsey decided to employ Gardiner. And thus he was chosen with Fox for this very delicate task which was going to need the utmost tact and resourcefulness.

So together Fox and Gardiner left England, two ambitious men, fully aware of how much hung on the success of their mission.

Meanwhile there was trouble at home. War with the Emperor meant a cessation of trade with the Netherlands, and the clothiers in Suffolk lost their markets in Flanders. The Flemish too were disgruntled by the interruption the war brought to their trade with England.

Rioting broke out…fi rst in Suffolk, and then it began to spread.

Henry had a dread of losing the affection of his people. He had always known that, however powerful a monarch might be, he must never lose the approval of his subjects as a whole. Emperor Charles no more wanted war with England than Henry did with him. A truce was arranged; trade was resumed; and the rioting died down.

Henry had been very anxious to see a friendship between Wolsey and me. He made a point of the three of us supping together. He beamed on us both; he wanted the two people who were closest to his heart to be friends. There was a certain simplicity about him which was at that time endearing. It was hard to recognize in this Henry the cruel person I knew, even then, that he could be.

His affection for Thomas Wolsey showed in his voice when he addressed him. “Good Thomas,” he would say, putting his arm about the Cardinal's neck in a gesture of affection, “he will lead us through this maze.” It showed that he was capable of caring for people. I was not sure that his affection was disinterested though. He was no fool. He had been most carefully educated; he was a man of culture; and he knew Wolsey's worth. Perhaps it was for that that he loved him. And myself? Why did he love me? For the excitement I could bring? Were we loved for the pleasure we could bring him? But was that not the source of all loving? So why should I doubt Henry?

During those meetings Wolsey, because it was the King's wish, showed great deference to me and I to him; and it was amazing how some semblance of friendship grew up between us. I do not think it went very deep, but it was there on the surface for the King to see and delight in.

Wolsey had given Gardiner and Fox an account of my virtues to take to the Pope. He had been most flattering; he had also written a masterly treatise on how important it was to get a male heir, and the King's fears as to what would happen on his death if he did not leave a son to follow him. He was young yet…young enough to have a son and bring him up as a ruler. If the matter were delayed for a few years, he might no longer be young enough to get a son and give him the necessary guidance.

The spring had come and all through the days we awaited news of the mission with which Gardiner and Fox had been entrusted.

At last it came. They had made some progress, and the Pope now realized the King's predicament. Clement wanted to help, so he was sending Cardinal Lorenzo Campeggio to England, and he, together with Cardinal Wolsey, should try the case.

It was not what he had hoped, but it was something.

The King was eager for the court to be set up immediately, but before this could be done calamity struck us.

The sweating sickness came to England.

The dread disease struck terror in everyone. It spread rapidly through the country and into the towns. It was dangerous to be in the company of anyone who had suffered from it because it was so infectious; and one could never be sure where it would strike. If anyone in a household contracted it, it was necessary that no one should leave or enter that house.

I decided that the best thing I could do was go to Hever. Henry was all in favor of this for he was terrified that I should catch the disease. He himself would leave London and travel with a depleted entourage about the country, for the country was always less dangerous than the crowded towns.

So I returned to Hever.

On my first night there, I awoke feeling alternately hot and cold. I touched my face. It was wet. I tried to sit up but I had not the strength to do so. My nightgown clung damply to my skin, and a fearful lassitude had taken possession of my limbs.

I do not remember very much of the days which followed. I saw vague figures in the room and recognized that of my stepmother. Occasionally my thoughts were lucid. Then I said to myself: So this is the end of all my dreams of glory. I shall never be Queen of England. I am to die, as so many have before me, of the sweating sickness. The Queen will be pleased, and the King…he will love me forever because I am dead.

They were strange thoughts but I must have been near delirium.

Later—it must have been much later for I had lost count of time—I was lying on my bed aware of my damp sheets and pillows; they changed them frequently but they were always damp. I heard them speaking about the crisis. So they would soon know whether I was to live or die.

In that strange state of being in limbo as though suspended between two worlds, I was not sure which way I wanted to go. I was vaguely aware of a crown for which I was reaching… and on the other hand there was a delicious peace which seemed to me infinitely more desirable.

I learned later on that they were all convinced that I would succumb to the sickness as so many had before me. My stepmother called it a miracle that, when the crisis was over, I was still with them.

I was aware of a man standing by my bed. I heard my stepmother's voice. “The King has sent him, darling. He will make you well.”

So …I was not to die. I was too weak to move but no longer affected by the dreaded sweat. I could recover.

My stepmother was ever at hand, bringing me soothing possets from which I turned away until she begged me to take them for love of her.

“The King is beside himself with anxiety, Anne,” she said. “You must recover for his sake. He has sent his physician, the great Dr. Butts. Dr. Butts says, if aught happens to you, he would not dare to return and face the King's wrath. So you must try, sweetheart. You must get well for all our sakes.”

Dr. Butt commended my stepmother for her care of me. She had nursed me not only tenderly but wisely. Rest was what was needed now—and nourishment. “The Lady Anne is strong and healthy,” he said. “We shall soon have her well again and gracing the Court.”

My stepmother told me that the King was still wandering around the country with a small company of courtiers. If there was the slightest hint of the sickness near any place, he avoided it.

“The greatest calamity to the country would be if aught happened to him,” she said.

She read me the letter which he had sent with Dr. Butts. It was all that I could have wished for.

The most displeasing news that could occur came to me suddenly at night. On three accounts I must lament it. One to hear of the illness of my mistress, whom I esteem more than all the world, and whose health I desire as I do my own. I would willingly bear half of what you suffer to cure you. The second from the fear that I shall have to endure my wearisome absence much longer, which has hitherto given me all the vexation that was possible. The third because my physician, in whom I have the most confidence, is absent at the very time when he could have given me the greatest pleasure. But I hope by him and his means to obtain one of my chief joys on earth, that is, the cure of my mistress. Yet, from the want of him, I will send you my second and hope that he will soon make you well. I shall then love him more than ever. I beseech you to be guided by his advice in your illness. By your doing this, I hope to see you soon again, which will be to me a greater comfort than all the precious jewels in the world.

Written by that secretary who is, and forever will be, your loyal and most assured servant. H.R.

“What a beautiful letter,” said my stepmother. “How he loves you!

Who would have thought that a King could care so much!” I put out my hand; she took it and kissed it. “Thank you,” I said, “for all you have done for me.” “My dearest child,” she replied, “it has given me great joy to be of service. As for what I have done, you must repay me by getting well. I long to see you on your feet again.”

My stepmother had kept disturbing news from me, and I was dismayed to hear that my brother had taken the sickness—so had my father. They had both recovered before I was told. Mary's husband, Will Carey, had not been so fortunate. Mary was now a widow.

She came to Hever in some distress, not knowing where else she could go.

My stepmother welcomed Mary but she clearly had not the same affection for her as she had for me. I think she had been greatly shocked by Mary's behavior in France. To have been sent home because of her immoral conduct was something which could not be easily forgotten; and then she had blithely entered into a relationship with the King, which was quite different from mine. Until now her misfortunes had sat lightly on her, but this was a bitter blow, because she had lost not only her husband, of whom she was quite fond, but her means of sustenance as well. Will Carey had been ineffectual but he had—owing to his complaisant attitude to his wife's affair with the King—been awarded certain grants which had given him a fair, if not affluent, income on which he and his family could live in comfort. He had been Constable of Plashy Castle and Steward of the Duchy of Lancaster—both very desirable posts. On his death, of course, there had been no lack of people clamoring to take them up, and the King had bestowed them.

This was to be expected, but what of Mary? She was left penniless.

“I do not know how I shall live,” she told me.

“Have you never saved anything?” I asked.

She shook her head.

“But all the time you were at Court …”

“I never asked for anything. Clothes I had, which the King's treasury paid for… but there was nothing else. And clothes wear out.”

“What do you propose to do?”

“I thought you could help?”

I raised my eyebrows.

“If the King would listen to anyone it would be to you.”

I felt ashamed that Mary should have been left like this. Of course it was her own fault. She had been feckless—or perhaps I should say over-generous. I felt a shiver of alarm. She had been his mistress—not just casually but over a long period. And here she was… cast off, penniless. What a lesson! That should never happen to me.

I said: “I will speak to the King.”

I wrote to him of her plight.

His reply was another of those love letters which he sent to me while I was absent from him. I had a number of them, all professing undying devotion. There was hardly a mention of Mary except that I should speak to my father, telling him that it was the King's wish that he should look after his daughter. Of course, it was what my father should do, and it angered me that he should need the King's order to do it.

When I pondered on the matter, it occurred to me that Henry had shown no interest or compassion to one who must have been very close to him at one time. It should have been a lesson to me, but I was heedless of lessons in those days. Looking back, I can see many that I failed to learn.

I knew that Henry hated any mention of Mary. She troubled his conscience not because of his affair with her and her present need but because he feared her relationship to me might prove a stumbling block in our union.

Henry was single-minded; he had no thought to spare for a discarded mistress who had fallen on evil times.

The tragic summer dragged on.

Cardinal Campeggio had left Rome and was on his way. He had been on his way for weeks. He was so old, so full of gout, that traveling was painful to him. He would travel for a day and rest for two in order to regain his strength.

At home in Hever, I fumed. Sometimes I despaired. I believed that the Pope had decided that the matter should never be settled and that, terrified of the Emperor as he was, he was determined to drag it out— hoping perhaps that Henry would grow tired of me. Perhaps that thought was in my mind too. Mary's affair had not helped to appease it. But I would get those letters of his, pulsating with his desire for me—and my optimism would return. I would beat them all—Katharine, Wolsey, Campeggio…every one of them.

My relationship with Wolsey would always be uneasy; no matter how we displayed our new friendship, for the pleasure of the King, the animosity was never far below the surface. I knew that he regarded me as an upstart. Is it not upstarts who are most antagonistic to other upstarts? At least I had not been born in a butcher's shop. Wolsey respected me now, but as a formidable enemy. Before, I had been a foolish girl. That was the difference.

Wolsey could see that another—as he would say—had the King's ear. Before my coming, Wolsey had been closer to the King than anyone. The King had, from the first, seen Wolsey's tremendous capabilities and moreover had a deep affection for him. Wolsey had carried him through many a difficult situation, but this matter of the divorce was defeating him. He had been thrust into an almost untenable position. He was a Cardinal who owed allegiance to the Pope, and it was almost impossible to serve two masters. Many powerful forces were against him. Before, his own power had been so great that he could withstand his enemies; now they were crowding around him, seeing the champion weakening, waiting for the moment to give him the coup de grâce.

I was not sorry for him. Mine was not a forgiving nature. I often thought of what my life might have been: the peace of it in Alnwick Castle with my husband who would love me devotedly all our lives, our children sturdily growing up in the clear northern air to be strong men and women. The Northumberlands were the kings of the North. I should have been a queen in a kingdom more congenial to me than that of the Court.

Wolsey had prevented that. No, it was the King, who had commanded it because all those years ago I had had a special attraction for him. But why had he let me go for so long? All that time he had been sporting with my sister Mary who now, poor girl, was cast aside and was an embarrassment to him. He simply did not want to know of her; he wanted to forget she had ever existed.

Was that the first warning sign? Perhaps my guardian angel was showing me a signpost on the dangerous road along which I was traveling. But I did not see that then and it was only afterward that these thoughts came to me.

If only I had had the wisdom to take heed!

Mary stayed at Hever. My father would of course have to provide for her, which he would have done, I suppose, though grudgingly. But now he must do it with a fair grace since the King commanded it.

Perhaps I wasted sympathy on Mary. As soon as she knew that she would be able to live in some comfort, she cast off her dejected looks and was almost her old self. Misfortune sat lightly on her.

My stepmother wanted me to be quite well before I returned to Court. I was nothing loath to remain at Hever during this time. It was becoming increasingly difficult to hold off Henry. He was impatient. He was not going to go on being content with a few caresses. All the time he was urging me to greater intimacy. Instinct told me I must hold back. If I submitted, where would be the incentive to fight for this divorce when he could have what he wanted without? It was a very difficult position for me. I often wondered whether I dared hold out, whether his lack of satisfaction might indeed curb his passion. On the other hand, if I submitted, would he decide to drop this contentious matter of the divorce which so many people seemed determined to prevent?

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.

So all through that year we waited.

Everything concerned with the matter seemed to take on an almost farcical note. The King had decided that Campeggio should be given a royal welcome. Indeed, while he was in England, deference must be paid to him; he must be placated; in every way his sympathy was to be won. Therefore he was to have a warm welcome.

The merchants of London with their apprentices brought out the banners of their guilds and their houses were decorated with streamers of cloth of silver and gold. Noble lords and their retinues formed the procession, which was joined by the clergy with all their paraphernalia of office, making a colorful display. And at the head of it rode the Cardinal, more splendid than any, in his rich red robes, his silver crosses and the Great Seal of office borne before him with his cardinal's hat.

This was to be the great occasion—the meeting of two Cardinals both appointed legates of the Pope. Such scenes were rare in London.

It was characteristic that Compeggio, for whom all this pomp and ceremony had been arranged, should fail to appear.

While London was waiting for his great entry, he was in bed, suffering from another attack of the gout. So the crowds who had come out to see him were disappointed of the spectacle to which they had looked forward.

Campeggio came into London by barge the next day, and no one noticed his arrival. As soon as he was there, he had to retire at once to bed.

I had expected that once he was in London the court would be set up and the verdict given quickly.

But no. That was what Wolsey might desire but he could not act without the cooperation of Campeggio, and I began to wonder whether that prelate ever intended to give a judgment, for he showed every reluctance in taking even the first steps.

Henry was in a state of suppressed fury. He wanted to shake them until their teeth rattled. He wanted to threaten to have their heads. But, of course, he was not Campeggio's master—even Wolsey must bow to the wishes of that other beside whom even the King's power was ineffective.

The head of the Church was the Pope of Rome, and this was a Church matter.

But for his difficult position I believe Henry would have stormed at them, threatened them, but he could not do so. He was caught by his own conscience. He must pretend throughout that it was the reason for the inquiry.

I soon realized that Campeggio must have had his instructions from the Pope to delay matters as long as possible, in the hope that most likely the King's passion for me would burn out—and they could play a waiting game until that happened, when the entire dangerous business could be forgotten.

This was all due to the powerful Emperor, who was clearly a man not to be trifled with. The Pope's position was very insecure. The Emperor had made great progress in Italy; and while the Pope sought to placate Henry, he could not offend the Emperor. My future depended on the politics of Europe.

After he had arrived in London, Campeggio lay in bed for two weeks, unable to move. Henry was getting frantic and Wolsey had to make some move, so he visited Campeggio and pleaded with him to help bring the matter to a conclusion. The court must be opened.

Campeggio was not feigning illness. He really was in great pain. The devious Pope must have sent such a man because he knew his very incapacity could help to bring about delay.

Then Henry had an unsatisfactory meeting with the legate; he explained to him how much his conscience troubled him. Henry could be very eloquent where his conscience was concerned. But he nearly lost his temper—which he realized he must not do—when Campeggio suggested that the Pope might be ready to give him a dispensation so that he need have no more qualms about his marriage to Katharine.

Henry was adamant. He could not reconcile his conscience to that. He had had God's warning in his inability to get sons.

God had made it clear to him that He was displeased with the marriage. He quoted Leviticus. No, Henry must divorce Katharine and marry again speedily for the sake of the heirs his country needed. He was acting as a monarch should—thinking solely of his country.

When Campeggio suggested that Katharine might go into a nunnery, Henry was delighted. He almost clapped the poor old man on the back, which would have had a disastrous effect on his bones. It was the answer. Why, there had been an example across the water only a short time ago. Louis XII's Jeanne had retired to a convent and the King of France had married Anne of Brittany. Yes, that was indeed an excellent idea.

Campeggio was sure the Emperor would not object to that.

“The Queen is a lady of great virtue and deeply religious,” said Henry. “I am sure that she would feel great happiness in a convent. She shall have her own. She shall live just as she chooses. It is the answer.”

Full of optimistic hopes that the end of this contentious matter was in sight, Campeggio and Wolsey presented themselves to Katharine.

The Queen never forgot that she was the daughter of the great Isabella. Her health was not good but her determination was strong. Her devotion to her daughter was unswerving. I think she would willingly have sacrificed her life for her daughter's sake. Now she was going to fight for her daughter. Mary at this time was heiress to the throne and would remain so until the King begat a son. Katharine knew that she would never bear that son. Henry was her husband, she maintained, and therefore the crown must in time be Mary's. She would fight for her daughter as she never would have fought for herself. If she allowed her marriage to be branded invalid, then her daughter would have no right to the throne. I was sure that was the one thing which was uppermost in her mind. Strictly religious, adhering to the rules of the Church of Rome, she was not going to lie about her marriage because the King was besotted with one of her maids of honor who was ambitious enough to demand marriage in return for her favors. She told Campeggio and Wolsey that, although she had been married to Prince Arthur, the marriage had never been consummated and she had come as a virgin to Henry. She was not going to tell or act a lie before God; nor would she live a lie if by allowing herself to be sent to a convent, which would be tantamount to admitting that she had never been married to the King and had been living in sin all those years. The answer was No.

How Henry fumed! How Wolsey trembled! Campeggio retired to bed; he had no desire, it seemed, except to rest his painful body.

Anxiously we watched events on the Continent. The successful Emperor made an offer of peace to Clement which would be of advantage to him. Clement, in a difficult position, wavered. There was Henry thundering on one side and Charles menacing on the other; and Clement had more to fear from Charles than he had from Henry. What could he do? The peace with the Emperor was still being considered; Clement dared not offend on that front; on the other hand he needed Henry's friendship. He was an unlucky man. On other occasions when his predecessors had been asked to help kings out of unfortunate marriages, there had not been these complications. It had simply been a matter of placating the powerful monarch or accepting a bribe. Rarely had a man been in such a position— and a man such as himself who asked only for a peaceful life!

Campeggio was holding back—just in case affairs with the Emperor did not go as promised, for then, if Henry was offended, where would Clement be… without friends and allies?

To Wolsey the Pope wrote with feeling that if it were merely a matter of his own personal safety he would have given the King what he wanted; but it was more than that. If only the lady concerned did not have such powerful relations, it would have been easy. But he, Clement, could not risk what action might be taken by the Emperor if he considered his aunt had been unjustly treated, even by a monarch so great as King Henry.

Wolsey had his network of spies, and most correspondence which came back and forth was scrutinized by him.

He knew that the Pope was telling Campeggio to prolong the matter in the hope that the King might change his mind, for what he asked could not be granted without peril and scandal.

Wolsey knew also that Clement had no intention of granting the divorce and that Campeggio was using his gouty condition to enable him to prevaricate with some semblance of plausibility.

I was so frustrated. Sometimes I was quite hysterical. I did not know what the outcome would be. The King seemed as deeply enamored of me as ever; but he was in a nervous state too. It had not occurred to him that when he asked for a divorce he would not get it. He could cite so many examples of monarchs in his position. “Why, oh why,” he demanded, “should I be the one to be denied?”

The answer was easy: Because his wife was the aunt of the Emperor Charles.

We saw each other now and then. I would chafe against the delay and he assured me that Wolsey was doing his best. I doubted this.

“Your Grace is bemused by that man,” I said incautiously.

Henry replied: “Nay, sweetheart, I know him well. No one knows him better. He has always worked well for me and he will continue to do so.”

“Cannot you see that he is working for his master, the Pope?”

“Wolsey is my man.”

“Cardinal Wolsey?”

I withdrew myself from his embrace. He was amazed. No one contradicted the King. No one but myself denied him what he wanted.

He left soon after that, his expression bleak.

When he had gone, I asked myself what I had done. I was letting my nervous tension get the better of my common sense. He had never looked like that before. He was frustrated beyond endurance, and instead of soothing him I had irritated him.

I thought of writing to him. No, that would not do. I must not show weakness. There might be a reconciliation, which could very well have the ending which I was so desperately trying to hold off. On the other hand criticism was something that he would not take from anyone… not even from me.

What should I do? I spent a sleepless night. If only this dreadful waiting was over! In the end I wrote a note to him in which I told him I was sorry for my outburst. I was so weary with the waiting.

His reply was instant.

What a joy it was to understand my reasonableness and he was delighted that I was suppressing my fantasies.

“Good sweetheart,” he went on, “continue the same not only in this but in all your doing hereafter, for thereby shall come to both you and me the greatest quietness that may be in the world …” He ended: “Written with the hand which fain would be yours, and so is the heart. H.R.”

Perhaps the most disturbing element of all came from the people. They knew of Campeggio's presence in London and they had heard of the King's Secret Matter. They knew that he wanted to put away Queen Katharine and set me up in her place.

Katharine had always been popular, though not as the King had, of course. They loved their large glittering monarch who gave such splendid entertainments at his Court, which they were sometimes able to see. He was always cheerful, smiling and approachable…to them, for the ordinary people found him much more affable than his courtiers did. His father—though he had made the country prosperous—had never enjoyed the popularity which had come to his son. The people wanted someone who looked like a king—and Henry certainly did that.

They did not like what they heard, so they had to have a scapegoat. The King was too popular to take that role, so who should it fall to but myself?

Little did they know that in the first place I had been brought reluctantly into this. If only I had married Henry Percy, they would have known nothing of me; I should have lived my life in obscure and peaceful happiness as the Countess of Northumberland.

Now I was called Sorceress. I had a sixth finger which had been given to me by the Devil. By spells I had seduced the King from the path of virtue. The Devil and I had concocted a scheme to break up the King's marriage, that I might take the Queen's place.

They gathered about the palace. They cheered Katharine whenever she appeared, which I think she did more frequently than in the past, reveling in their sympathy. Who could blame her? She was fighting for her position, for her child's right to the throne. I saw that clearly… much as I wanted her out of my way.

They greeted the King with silence. It was the first time in his life that he had lacked the vociferous appreciation of the crowd and he did not like it. It worried him considerably. He must be remembering that his father had come by a devious way to the throne.

“We'll have no Nan Bullen,” they shouted at the King.

Angrily he gave orders that crowds were not to be allowed to gather near the palaces.

They talked about my low birth. This was amusing coming from the apprentices, the seamstresses and the watermen. They passed over the fact that I was of Howard blood—one of the highest families in the land. I was of tradesmen's stock, they said. It had always been amazing to me that the lower orders hate to see someone rise in life. Though humbly born themselves, they cannot bear to see one whom they consider to be of their kind rise to greatness. It was the same with Wolsey. One would have thought they would have been delighted, and see in such a rise a chance for themselves.

So the demonstrations grew and I could not go to London. It was depressing to be so hated.

Henry wrote that I must stay away for if I were there he would fear for my safety.

I had heard that he had appeared before the Mayor of London and the Aldermen because he wished the City of London to understand what was actually happening.

He spoke eloquently of that which always aroused a passionate fluency in him—his conscience. He was thinking of his people. As men of intelligence, they would know that one of the most important safeguards to a country's security was the succession. If only he could be shown that his marriage was legal, nothing would please him more. The Queen had so many good qualities which he had good reason to know, and in births she was incomparable. If he had to make a choice now, he would choose her above all women.

When such words were reported to me, I was filled with fury; but I grew calmer. Hypocrisy was second nature to Henry and he used it so well because he believed it when he said it. But could he even for a moment have believed that he would have chosen Katharine now if he had a choice? It was not a matter of choice. He only had to stop proceedings and Katharine could remain his wife; and I did not suppose for a moment that anyone would question the matter.

How could one trust a man who could talk so convincingly and so untruthfully?

Was that another signpost which I ignored? Should I have asked myself at that time more searchingly what dangers lay ahead in union with him?

It was decided that I should spend Christmas at Court. I should go to Greenwich.

How many weary months ago had I thought that by this time I should be crowned Queen of England.

No sooner had I arrived in Greenwich than I realized it had been a mistake to come.

The Queen was naturally there and, as the King's Secret Matter was secret no longer, all knew that his desire for a divorce was because he wished to marry me. That put me in a very difficult position. There were those who flattered me because of the favors I should be able to bestow on them when I became Queen; on the other hand there were those who thought I never would be, that Katharine's obstinacy and piety would prevail, and to her they wished to show their fidelity. There were some, I knew, who had a genuine affection for Katharine and would rally around her no matter what happened.

I had one or two faithful friends. There was my cousin Madge Shelton, my brother, Mary Wyatt, my dear stepmother, who was torn between pride and fear. There were plenty to flutter round me: Norris, Bryan, Brereton, Weston. They were all in love with me, or professed to be. I think the King's desire for me must have given me a special aura.

However, in spite of these people, I felt alone that Christmas.

The Queen, of course, could not be expected to receive me, so I had my own apartments at Greenwich, and Henry had seen that they were very splendid. In fact they had every aspect of royalty. At times it seemed as though I were already the Queen.

I was determined to hide my apprehension, and whatever the feelings against me, it was in my apartments that the lively and witty courtiers assembled; most people wanted to be there, including the King. I am sure Katharine's domain must have been very somber compared with mine. But, of course, for the traditional Christmas ceremonies, Henry must be with her, for instance at the church services and the state banquet when people crowded into the hall and helped themselves from the tables in accordance with custom. They would expect to see the Queen with the King, not with the Concubine—as they called me.

But it was gratifying that, whenever he could, he escaped to my quarters, and there we danced and sang and enjoyed all the entertainments which I and my friends had devised.

That was a great success but I had a heavy heart at these festivities. There is nothing so frustrating as to have one's hopes rise only to be dashed down again and again after months of planning and joyful anticipation, and to realize that there had been no move from the position one was in this time last year.

I was growing more and more suspicious of Wolsey. I began to believe he was in collusion with Campeggio and received his instructions from the Pope no less than the Italian did. Of course, his first obedience was to the Pope, but Henry was too bemused to see this.

During my stays in the country I felt time weighing heavily, and in order to pass it pleasantly I was studying the new religion which was beginning to take a hold on people. Ever since Martin Luther had pinned his theses on that church door in Wittenberg, something had been stirring.

I found that very exciting. I was drawn to the new ideas. I liked what I read. Perhaps it was because I felt a certain antipathy to the Pope that I was fascinated by the idea of curbing his power. The sale of indulgences, which had been Martin Luther's first complaint, was definitely wrong. How could forgiveness be bought in Heaven by giving money to a priest?

Since the King had written his book and become Defender of the Faith, he had been fierce against heretics. He had no fondness for Martin Luther. He had been ready to adhere to the Church of Rome, but I was not sure what his feelings would be now that the Pope was hesitating so long about giving him what he wanted.

Heretics were imprisoned. One sometimes saw them on their way to penance, carrying a faggot—though there was not enough fierce feeling against them to burn them at the stake. On the whole, we English are not a fanatical people. When I dwell on the horrors of the Inquisition in Spain, I feel a sense of pride because we never had it in England—apart from that one occasion when we had been obliged to in the case of the Templars. In almost every other country it had flourished—except ours. I think that says something for our national character. We are inclined to use religion as a crutch to help us along when we need it, not, as particularly is the case in Spain, to be dominated by it. I often marvel how people who claim to have special piety and virtue could calmly look on at the torture of others because they did not share the same faith. I preferred to be a little less religious if this helped me to regard others with tolerance. Moreover, if they had ideas, I wanted to hear them. I would not close my mind and shout: Heretic. For these reasons it seemed to me that our country was a good breeding ground for the new religion.

A man called William Tyndale had written a book which he had entitled The Obedience of a Christian Man and How Christ's Rulers Ought to Govern. I was very interested in this man because he was one of Luther's followers. Most of his time was spent translating. He had lived in England for a while, where he was translating the Bible, and he had gathered together a group of friends who were interested in Luther's doctrines, but after a while he left the country to go to Wittenberg. He had also written Parable of the Wicked Mammon which I had read. It was not easy to get these books, for they were forbidden entry into the country, and the King, at Wolsey's suggestion, had had a strict watch kept at sea-ports to prevent their being smuggled in.

Of course copies did get through and that was how this one had come into my possession. I found it quite fascinating.

I was reading The Obedience of a Christian Man one day when I was called away and I carelessly left the book lying on the window seat.

I forgot about it for several days. Then I asked one of my attendants, Mistress Gaynsford, a young and very pretty girl who was being pursued by a certain George Zouch, one of the gentlemen of the household, if she had seen it.

She blushed hotly and said she had.

“Come,” I said, “where is the book? Bring it to me.”

She stammered that she had been glancing through it when someone had come up on her and, in fun, snatched it away.

“Well, where is it now?”

“He…hekept it…toteaseme.”

“Was it George Zouch?”

She admitted it was.

“Well then, go to George Zouch and tell him I want my book and he is to return it at once.”

It was not as simple as that. Mistress Gaynsford came back without the book, and when I asked where it was, she said that George Zouch wished to speak to me.

He was clearly very embarrassed. “I took the book to tease Mistress Gaynsford,” he said, “and I was just about to go on duty in the King's chapel, and during the service I glanced into it, and to tell the truth I became so absorbed that I was reading it when the service was over. The Dean saw me and wanted to know what I was reading.”

“Yes…yes… Where is the book?”

“He…he took it from me. He was displeased. He wanted to know how I had come by it. I had to tell him that I had it from Mistress Gaynsford and that it was your book.”

“Why did he not give it back to you then?”

“He… said…he was going to take it to a higher authority. He… he mentioned the Cardinal.”

I confess I was dismayed. The book was forbidden. It had been smuggled into the country. There was a penalty for possessing it. It had been written in direct defiance of the Church.

So Wolsey had my book! I knew what he would do. He would take it to the King. He was trying to brand me as a heretic. Did he want to see me in prison? Walking barefooted in humiliation, carrying a faggot?

So it had come to a conflict between us. I was furious. I said to Zouch, who, poor young man, was in a state of abject terror at what he had done: “This will be the dearest book that either the Dean or the Cardinal took away.”

I thought it best to go to Henry, if possible before Wolsey reached him.

The Cardinal had just left him when I arrived, and Henry had the book in his hands.

I went to him and knelt, taking his hand. There was puzzlement in his face, but he was very soft and tender seeing me thus.

“Is it the book?” he said.

“You must understand.”

“Come, darling,” he said, taking my hands and helping me to rise. He looked into my face and added: “Wolsey has brought me this.”

I said: “It behooves those who love you to know what is going on.”

The words were well chosen, Henry was enchanted to hear that I was one of those who loved him.

“Sweetheart,” he said, “this book is forbidden to the country.”

“I know it well. But I must know what is being written. How could I tell you of it if I did not know? It might be setting out some treachery against you.”

He laughed.

“Come, sit down, sweetheart. Tell me more of this book.”

So I sat beside him exultantly. What had I to fear? It mattered not what I did, what rules I broke, as long as I was his darling. Rules didn't apply to me.

I said: “Henry, it is a most interesting book. I want to talk to you of it.”

So I told him and he showed interest—whether it was feigned to please me or whether he felt it, I was not sure; but he was a man to whom new ideas had always appealed, and he was a great lover of literature.

“Promise me one thing.”

“Anything you ask of me.”

“You will read this book and judge it for yourself. Then we can talk of it together. That is what I like…interesting discussion.”

He looked happier than he had for some time.

“I promise to read the book,” he said. “And then we will sit thus… close, and talk of it.”

I was very pleased by the way in which the matter had evolved.

But, Master Wolsey, I thought, I have no doubts now that you are my enemy. And you will find a good adversary in me.

The King came to me in a state of great excitement.

“News, sweetheart,” he cried. “I think this may well be the beginning of the end of our little matter. Clement is ill… nigh unto death, they say.”

“And you think his successor will be kinder to us?”

“If the right man succeeds him, without doubt, yes. Anne, it could be the Papacy for Wolsey.”

I caught his excitement. What an answer to our problem! Wolsey… Pope. And why not? It had been his lifelong ambition. He would grasp at the chance, not only because he longed to wear the Papal Crown but because he would escape from a situation which was becoming very dangerous to him.

“Do you think he has a chance?”

“The best chances. I shall support him. François will support him, I believe.”

“And the Emperor?”

“The Cardinals will vote. Will they regard the Emperor's candidate with any favor, think you? They had some rough handling not so long ago. It will take them a long time to forget the Sack of Rome. Yes, Wolsey could be the man, and I will remind him that his first task is to grant my wish.”

“He will no longer be your man, Henry. He will be head of the Church.”

“He will obey me. Nay, sweetheart, this is our chance. It will not be long now.”

Our hopes were raised. It seemed Wolsey had a fair chance. He was like a man reprieved from a death sentence. I did not see clearly then what great danger he was in. He had set the divorce proceedings in motion, and now he could not stop them; if Clement did not give what Henry wanted, it could mean the fall of Wolsey. He had made promises to the King; he had assured him that the Pope could be persuaded to comply; and so far he had been wrong. Wolsey would see more clearly than anyone that, if he failed to give the King what he wanted, it would be the end of his power; and because he had risen so high, the greater would be his fall.

It was small wonder that he clutched at this hope. From a fearful apprehension he would leap to the very heights of his lifelong ambition; from the servant of a despotic king he would rise to a position as powerful as—perhaps more so than—that of the King himself.

Wolsey was going to put every effort into achieving that ambition.

We waited. Everyone believed Wolsey's chances were high, and the result seemed almost inevitable. He was very rich, and money was important to the Sacred College. His three bishoprics and his abbey would bring untold wealth to the Holy See. He was Archbishop of York, Bishop of Winchester and Abbot of St. Albans—and he had just been given Durham.

A glorious prospect for him. The King would lose Wolsey—but not entirely so. He was certain that he would have him working for him in the Vatican. A good English Pope—and there had not been one since Nicholas Breakspear.

It might have worked, for throughout Europe Wolsey was considered to be the favorite.

Alas for Wolsey, Clement, who had wavered between the Emperor and Henry, now wavered between life and death—and finally life won. Clement lived on; there was no papal election; and the matter of the divorce dragged on.

Soon after that, Mendoza was recalled. I think he was glad to go. Everyone involved in this affair wished to be free of it.

Henry told me that before Mendoza had left he had had an interview with him in which the ambassador had said that the Emperor was obliged to defend his aunt because he regarded her plight as a private affair which touched his family's honor.

“I replied,” said Henry, “that he had no right to interfere. This was a matter of state affecting the succession. ‘I do not meddle in the state affairs of other princes,’ I told him. So we must needs press on.”

That was the state of affairs when in June the court was opened in the Dominican priory at Blackfriars.

Both Henry and Katharine were cited to appear. Henry's case was that he feared for the validity of his marriage, and he wanted the matter to be resolved. Katharine made a very dignified impression as the wife who had been set aside after twenty years. She had not believed that the case would be tried in England and had wished it to be in Rome. She pointed out that Wolsey was an English subject and Campeggio held an English bish-opric. Therefore they could not be impartial.

She demanded that the court be held in Rome. The King declared that he would certainly not plead in any court over which the Emperor had control.

After this the court adjourned for three days. Then both Henry and the Queen were summoned to appear.

Henry stated his case, reiterating that for some time he had feared that, since his marriage to his brother's widow, he had been living in mortal sin; and he wanted judgment on this.

When it was Katharine's turn, she made a deep impression on all who saw her. I had feared this. The people were already on her side. They said it was a case of a man wishing to be rid of his lawful wife because she was getting old and his fancy had turned to a younger woman. It was something which aroused indignation, particularly in the women. If this became a precedent, many of them could be set aside after twenty years of marriage. As for the men, they understood the King's desires, but they thought the matter should have been handled with discretion; I should have been Henry's mistress and put an end to the controversy.

But since I would not accept such a position and Henry was so determined not to lose me, the whole country—no, the whole of Europe— must be disturbed because I refused to become the King's mistress.

Katharine had great dignity. It was as though she was reminding all that she was the daughter of the great monarchs of Spain. Slowly she walked across the floor to the chair on which Henry sat. She knelt before him and raised her eyes to his face. I could imagine how she would unnerve him, he who liked his own actions to be seen always as right and honorable.

She said in a loud clear voice that she wanted justice. He must let her have justice for the sake of the love which had once been between them.

I could picture his embarrassment when I was told of this scene. I could see him, wretched, turning his eyes away from her supplicating figure. She was a stranger in this land, she said; and for that reason the court was against her.

Her words were remembered and repeated to me. I could never forget them. It was as though they had been engraved on my mind.

“I take all the world to witness that I have been a true, humble and obedient wife, ever comformable to your will and pleasure.”

It was true, of course. She had always tried to please him. She had made no protest when he had left her bed to share those of his mistresses; Elizabeth Blount, for instance, whose son he had honored; my sister Mary, who had been his mistress over several years. She had accepted Mary at Court and had been a kind mistress to her. And myself…True, she had shown a little rancor where I was concerned. But I understood that—and so must Henry.

“I loved those whom you loved, only for your sake, whether they were my friends or enemies…”

Tolerated, would have been a better word in the cases of Mary and Elizabeth Blount; but he could not complain of her behavior even to them.

“These twenty years I have been your true wife and by me you have had children, although it has pleased God to call them out of this world.”

He would be growing angry and steeling himself not to show it. If these children had lived—and there had been boys among them—he would not have been trying to rid himself of her. He could not have done so…even forme.

Then came the crux of the matter.

“And when you met me at first, I take God to be my judge, I was a true maid, without the touch of man.”

The court was silent. A woman so deeply religious would not swear before God unless she was telling the truth.

“Whether this be true or not, I put it to your conscience.”

A masterly touch. His conscience was a source of great embarrassment to him. She, who knew him well, would be aware of this. She was telling him that he knew as well as she did that when they had married she had been a virgin. She was calling on him to search his conscience.

But it was his conscience which was his great ally in this matter. Had he not schooled that conscience to plague him to such an extent that he had no alternative but to bring this case?

“If you will not favor me,” she went on, “I commit my cause to God.”

With that she walked out of the room.

Although they called her back, she took no heed of them; and when she left the hall, the crowd which had gathered outside—consisting mainly of women—cheered her wildly. Their shouts of “Long live our Queen Katharine” were heard in the hall.

During those hot June days I could not believe that the court would go against the King's wishes. Henry was optimistic, he was glad Katharine had walked out of the court and refused to return. It was much easier without her mournful, resolute figure to inspire admiration and pity.

There was only one who dared raise his voice against the King's wishes and that was John Fisher, the Bishop of Rochester, who stood up in court and said that his only intention was to have justice done and relieve himself of a scruple of conscience.

These consciences, how they bedeviled us! The King's conscience was well known to me; now here was Fisher's. He could not risk the damnation of his soul by failing to declare his opinion. He believed that the marriage of the King could not be dissolved by any power, human or divine; and he was prepared to encounter any peril for the truth.

Henry was furious. If he could, he would have had Fisher transported to the Tower on the spot. Wolsey came to see Henry, who berated him for allowing the bishop to stand up and make such a statement. Wolsey— torn as he was between Pope and King, disappointed of the Papacy—was showing signs of breaking up. His supreme confidence had left him. Being so much more shrewd and clever than most of us, he could see farther ahead and the danger toward which he was being hurried. He implored the King to believe him when he said that Fisher had given him no indication of his intentions.

“He'll be sorry for this,” growled Henry. “I'll not be plagued by these traitorous bishops.”

News of what was happening in the court always seeped out, and now the Bishop of Rochester was receiving acclaim from the people, which was a further source of irritation to the King.

“But fear not,” he said to me. “This matter must end soon and it can only go one way. I shall make those who act against me feel my wrath.”

But there were some who embrace martyrdom as joyfully as a bridegroom does his bride. I had a notion that Fisher was one of those.

The news from the Continent was not very encouraging. Charles had had a decisive victory over François in Italy; and worse than ever, the Emperor was making peace terms with the French and Clement at Cambrai. This was a greater blow than Fisher's outburst. Henry might deal with his own subject's waywardness; the great obstacle had always been the mighty Emperor.

And so the days passed.

My father, Norfolk and Suffolk were all working hard to have the matter settled. I felt I had powerful friends. It mattered not to me that both the Duchesses of Norfolk and Suffolk were haughtily cool to me. It was their husbands who could do me most good; and they were too firmly behind the King to be influenced by their wives.

It was well into July before the final judgement was to be given. I was beside myself with excitement. I was visualizing my coronation. Queen of England—with the King my slave. We had passed through some difficult times. For four years the King's courtship of me had persisted. Such fidelity could mean only one thing: his devotion was complete.

What a brilliant future lay ahead of me! I was already paying back old scores on Wolsey. Poor old man, he would not last long when I came to power.

I would teach him—and all men through him—what it meant to insult Anne Boleyn, to take from her the only man she had ever loved, to ruin their lives…well, Northumberland's had been ruined. As for myself, I looked upon my brilliant future as a kind of consolation prize. I had lost what I had most desired, and in place of love I had ambition. I could not be Henry Percy's wife—which in my heart I believed would have brought me the greater happiness—so I would be the Queen of England. Fisher's outburst had caused a great deal of anxiety at the time, but Henry had decided to dismiss the man as a hotheaded fanatic. There were others to give evidence more to his liking, particularly those who had been with Prince Arthur on the morning after his wedding to Katharine, and who stated that the Prince had staggered out of the bridal chamber exhausted, declaring to them all that “that night he had been in the midst of Spain.” It was hard to believe in Arthur, a weakling who was not far from death and was of an especially retiring nature, making such a statement. But it was good evidence…or would have been but for the effect Katharine had had when she had called on God to be her witness with such obvious piety and dignity. Moreover, during the court proceedings the shouting of the crowds outside could often be heard in the hall… like a threatening chorus in a tragic drama.

All the same we were optimistic. The King could not believe that, as he had made his wishes so clear, his desire would be denied him in his own capital.

How wrong he was!

At last the day for which we had all been waiting arrived, and the judgment was to be given.

I was waiting impatiently for the verdict and in spite of certain misgivings my hopes ran high.

The King went into the gallery in the company of his brother-in-law, the Duke of Suffolk. He was certain of the verdict. The bishopric of Durham would be Campeggio's when the case was favorably settled and that would assure him of great riches. The man would not be such a fool as to turn his back on that, reasoned the King.

Perhaps he had forgotten that, when men are old and sickly and death does not seem to be so very far away, they are not so easily bribed by worldly goods. Campeggio's illness, which had served him so well in his efforts to play delaying tactics, was genuine. He did indeed suffer from excruciatingly painful gout. His one desire was obviously to leave our damp climate to get away to peace and perhaps a little comfort for his aching limbs.

He stood up and with the King's eyes on him declared: “I will not for favor of any mighty prince do that which should be against the law of God. I am a sick old man looking daily for death.”

He went on to say that he would not put his soul in danger by incurring God's displeasure. He had only one God before his eyes and the honor of the Holy See…He was giving no judgment. He was referring the matter to Rome.

I could well imagine Henry's fury. Suffolk was beside him. He muttered through his teeth: “It was never merry in England whilst we have Cardinals among us.”

It was a direct shaft at Wolsey.

Wolsey had promised the King that the matter would be dealt with speedily and as the King wished.

Wolsey had failed him.