The Lady in the Tower (32 page)

It was not long before I discovered. A messenger came to me. The King commanded me to go to him at once. That sounded ominous.

I was taken to him almost like a prisoner. When we were alone, he said: “Anne, is Wyatt your lover?”

“I believe he has some affection for me.”

He came to me and took me by the shoulders. He shook me. I drew myself up haughtily. “Your Grace, I do not know what I have done to merit such treatment.”

I saw the fondness come into his eyes, and I marveled at my power over him.

He told me what had happened on the green. I was glad that Francis had warned me so that I was prepared.

“He had your tablet. I know it was yours. I have seen it about your person. He suggested that you were his.”

“Your Grace, I am no man's.”

“The tablet…”

“He snatched it from me when the link of the chain which held it was broken. I demanded that he give it back to me and he refused to do so.”

His mouth slackened. He was believing me. I was touched because I could see that he so desperately wanted to believe.

“And he has never been your lover?”

“I have told Your Grace that I have never been any man's mistress and I never will be.”

“Then all is well, sweetheart. And I am happy.”

He took my hand and kissed it.

“This waiting is intolerable,” he went on. “But soon now … soon.”

The incident was not over.

George told me that the King had suggested that Thomas Wyatt should retire from the Court for a while.

This Wyatt did. I heard that in leaving the Court he had met Sir John Russell, who was an ambassador at the Papal Court. Russell was on the point of returning to Rome, and Wyatt said in a characteristically impulsive manner: “Suppose I accompanied you? I could get the King's leave, for I do not think he is in the mood to deny it. Can you delay your journey for a few hours?”

Russell was delighted to have such entertaining company, and the King readily gave his permission.

So after that fracas on the green, Thomas Wyatt retired from the Court and went off to Rome with Sir John Russell.

Henry had certainly decided there should be no more delay. He told me gleefully that Wolsey believed that, as Papal Legate, he could give the divorce, and all that would be needed would be the Pope's endorsement.

“Therefore, sweetheart,” said Henry, “you may set your fears at rest. The Emperor will know nothing of what is happening until it is too late for him to do anything about it.”

Then he went on to tell me what he proposed.

“Wolsey is a past master in diplomacy. There are few problems that man cannot solve. And he is giving his full attention to this matter. There is to be a meeting at York Place between myself and the clergy.” He gave a little grin of amusement. “I…
I
am to be summoned to appear before them. Wolsey will preside and Warham will be there.”

I eagerly awaited the outcome of that meeting. It was to be conducted with great secrecy insomuch as the people were not to know what was taking place.

The King arrived by barge at the York Place privy steps and with him were Warham, Archbishop of Canterbury, and several lawyers.

I did not greatly fear Warham, for I guessed he would go which way the King wanted him to. He had held his archbishopric since the early years of the century; he was a tired old man and no doubt longing to escape from his duties. Wolsey had, so the King told me, referred to him as “an old fool.” It seemed likely that he would raise no objections.

There were of course the lawyers and Wolsey himself. But I knew that none of these men would have entertained for a moment the thought that the King could possibly be thinking of marrying me. They would all be of the opinion that it was simply because of Katharine's inability to provide a male heir that she was being replaced, and they would be assuming that, when the divorce was completed, Henry would marry some princess—almost certainly Queen Claude's sister, Renée—as we were on such friendly terms with the French.

If any of them had known that the King wanted a divorce in order to marry me, their reactions would be very different. Of course I was not foolish enough to expect the King to tell them the truth. They must believe that all this had been set in motion because the Bishop of Tarbes had raised the question of Mary's legitimacy, and Henry felt the need to sift the matter in order to get at the truth. So the ecclesiastical court which was to assemble in York Place at the command of Wolsey must not know of the King's infatuation for me and my refusal to be anything but his wife.

As soon as the meeting was over, the King came to me to tell me about it.

“Wolsey was superb,” he said. “I never saw him more astute. The man is truly marvelous. He sat there at the table surrounded by the clergy and the lawyers and he told the court that the Archbishop had a searching question to put to me. You should have seen poor old Warham. He was trembling in his shoes. And understandably so. He had to stand up and charge me with living illegally for all these years with a woman who was not my wife.”

“Oh yes, I can understand his fear.”

“Wolsey had told him beforehand that it would be no surprise to me and that my conscience had been troubling me on this score for some time, so there was no need to fear that he would offend me. He told him that when I had heard what the Bishop of Tarbes had said and this was conveyed to me by the French ambassador, I knew that I must search my soul and face up to any questions which a court of inquiry might ask me.”

“But to stand before those men and accuse you!”

“Poor fellow, I was quite sorry for him. At one point he faltered, but Wolsey pulled him through. I listened carefully to what he had to say and when he had finished they were all watching me intently. I told them then how grieved I was and how I could understand their concern. I had no hard feelings toward those who had thought it necessary to bring this case.”

“You could not have been expected to have hard feelings against yourself,” I reminded him.

He frowned. That was one thing I had to learn about him. In the midst of the most blatant hypocrisy he could delude himself into believing what he was trying to make others believe. It was extraordinary that a man of his intellect could do that. It showed an unusual dexterity of the mind. It amused me and I could not help referring to it. That was dangerous. I was as impetuous and reckless as Thomas Wyatt.

But he was too excited at that moment to reprove me. He went on as though I had not spoken: “I think there is only one thing for me to do and that is, however distressing, to submit to an inquiry.” He turned to me, his face alight with joy. “Anne, it will not be long now. We shall be together. All we have to do is wait for Wolsey. He will go to the Pope and get the whole matter sealed and settled before the Emperor hears a word of it.”

I was beginning to believe that this fantastic future could be mine.
The King would submit to an inquiry which Wolsey would see took the right course. The clergy would be convinced that the King's marriage to Katharine was no true marriage; and then Wolsey would declare it invalid. All he would need was the sanction of the Pope as a matter of form, and as a Cardinal he would be in a position to get that.

It did not occur to Henry that the Queen would raise any objection. She had always been gentle and loving; she had pretended not to notice his peccadillos; she was of a dignified, quiet and retiring nature. He said with an air of magnanimity that he would regard her as his sister. She would be well looked after. She should have a household worthy of her, and she could spend her days in meditation and prayer. Perhaps she would like to go into a nunnery? It all seemed very simple.

I was changing. That was inevitable. I excuse myself by stressing my youth. I was only twenty years old and not really as wise as I thought I was. Who is, at twenty? I thought, because I had been brought up in the sophisticated French Court, because I had a ready wit, because I was an accomplished musician, because I could thrust and parry in conversation and join in a discussion with the best of them, that I was wise.

If only I had been, my story might have been different.

Now my reluctance was slipping away from me. I now knew why it was that men risked everything for a crown; through the ages that had been so. They fought for it, sacrificed everything they had for it. I did not pause to think that often, when it came, it had brought only trouble, care and tragedy.

I wanted now, desperately, to be Queen of England; and only now, when the crown seemed to be within my grasp, did I realize how much.

I was sorry for the Queen but I told myself I was more suitable to share Henry's throne. She would have hidden herself completely away if that had been possible. Henry needed someone as lively as he was, someone who could share in the revelries, plan them, sing, dance, look the part of Queen just as he did that of King.

He had urged me to buy what materials I needed—velvets, brocades, cloth of gold and silver. The cost would be taken care of. He wanted to see me outshine them all, which he assured me I could do if I were dressed as a beggar; but that did not mean he wished me to have anything but the finest.

I gave way to my passion for clothes and he supplied the jewelry. Gifts came to me frequently; and they were usually priceless gems.

I was now learning the meaning of ambition.

The Queen was aware that something was very wrong. It was impossible to hide it from her. The King had not yet spoken to her as he intended to. He wanted the ecclesiastical court to have progressed a little farther in its findings. Then he would go to her, and I was sure he would put up a great show of melancholy which would appear all the more genuine since, while he was with her, he would be able to convince himself that he really felt it.

I think she was a very frightened woman.

She knew of his favor toward me, but she was not really concerned, for she did not realize what part I was to play in “the King's Secret Matter.” I was, she no doubt believed, his mistress as my sister had been before me.

That she would have liked to banish me from Court I was sure, but she would not run the risk of dismissing me any more than she had Mary, for she knew that, if she did, the King would call me back to Court, which would be humiliating for her; she did not want, at this stage, to irritate him.

There were only a few—my brother George, for instance, and my father, both on intimate terms with Henry—who knew of his plans for me. He was very anxious to keep me out of it, and I believe he was determined that Wolsey should not know. Though Wolsey was
his
servant, he was also a Cardinal and owed a certain allegiance to the Pope. I could not guess what Wolsey's reactions would have been had he known. I expected he would have done his best to dissuade the King from that course of action and tell him that the only thing he could do, when he was free from Katharine, was to marry a foreign princess.

Ambassadors were natural spies. I had always known that; and the Spanish ambassador was as skilled in the art as much as any, save only the French. They had to be because of the relationships between the countries. I do not know how many people Inigo de Mendoza had working for him in secret—although we did learn that he knew that Wolsey was promoting the divorce and that the King had assembled bishops and lawyers to prove that the marriage was illegal.

I believed at this time that everything was going well. Wolsey was about to proclaim the marriage invalid and then go to Rome to persuade Clement to give the final word, which would be easy with a sizeable bribe. Only when this had been accomplished did the King wish him to know that he intended to make me his Queen.

We anticipated no trouble, and the end seemed in sight.

Soon, I told myself, I should be going to my coronation.

An entertainment of rather special splendor was in progress. Since I had been of such importance at Court, I flattered myself that our masques and playlets were more cultivated, more witty. I was remembering so much of what I had learned in France.

On this occasion we were dancing. I was with the King as usual, and people had fallen away so that we could be almost alone as we danced. This often happened when the King performed. He liked it. It was an indication that when he danced people wanted to look at no others but him … and his partner.

I enjoyed it, too. I knew that my dancing was of the highest standard. I liked to be watched and admired—even as he did.

Then there was a clatter beyond the hall. A man appeared in the doorway. The ushers sought to hold him off, but he cried: “I must see the King. I have news.”

He was travelstained and muddy and looked as though he had ridden far.

Henry shouted: “How now. What means this? What news have you brought? Ill it would seem.”

“Your Grace, a most terrible tragedy. Rome has been overrun by the Constable de Bourbon's troops. The Constable has been killed. The troops have sacked Rome, and the Pope has escaped to the Castle of St. Angelo, where he is a prisoner.”

There was a deep silence throughout the hall. The King's face had turned ashen and then purple.