The Lady in the Tower

The Consummation

WOLSEY WAS DEAD, and so began another year. Could there be any end to our problem? Were we going on like this forever? We could not. We had to succeed soon or fail altogether.

Cranmer, together with Cromwell, had brought us new hope, and it was to Cromwell I looked. He was a man with a single idea; that idea was entirely his, and he could see—and so could I—that on the success of that idea hung his entire future; it could be the foundation of his fortunes.

It was so simple. The Church of England should have as its natural head the King of England.

It was a daring idea, and I do not believe it would have occurred even to Cromwell but for the growth of those ideas, begun by Martin Luther, in parts of the Continent of Europe for a reformation of the old religion, which would mean breaking away from the influence of Rome. Cromwell did not, however, suggest a change of religion in England— only a change of Head, the King in place of the Pope. Wolsey had been a brilliant statesman; he had guided the King through many troubled waters; he had encouraged education in the country; his foreign policy had been successful and won respect—and pensions for him with it— from royalty other than his own; but he had become a Cardinal and kept England bound to the Vatican.

The King spent a good deal of time with Cromwell, but he could not like him. Cromwell had a natural coarseness which his elevation could not overcome; he had great ugly hands; but if his uncouth manners offended the King, Henry liked his ideas. He could snap at Cromwell and Cromwell remained imperviously servile. Cromwell was pursuing one goal: he was going to break with Rome and set the King up as Head of the Church of England.

Henry could be all powerful at home, he pointed out, free of the domination of the Church through Rome. No more fear of giving offense and of threats of excommunication. What would the Head of the Church feel for the vague threats of one who was of no importance in his country? Such an act would make England great, and, moreover, it would be a simple matter for the King to marry where he pleased. Already the authority of the Pope was being questioned in Germany and Switzerland. A new form of the old religion would come about. It would not be sub-servient to Rome. The King would be leading the way. Others would follow.

But Henry could not forget that he bore the title of Defender of the Faith and he had to wrestle with his conscience.

“Would Clement have denied the divorce if Queen Katharine had not been the Emperor's aunt?” he asked.

The answer was, of course, he would not. But for that relationship, the matter would have been settled four years ago.

Still the months passed in indecision and I was chafing more and more against the delay. Why could not Henry follow Cromwell's suggestion? Cromwell had the answer. Why should the King bow down to Rome?

Henry declared that it was not a simple matter. There was so much to be considered. He must have the people behind him.

“The people?” I cried. “What do the people know?”

“There would be those who would adhere to Rome and they would create a danger. Why, even all my ministers are not with me.”

“That old fool Fisher!”

“The man is no fool, Anne. There is Warham, too… and More is against it.”

“How dare they oppose the King.”

“Oh, Anne,” he said, “I do not know which way to go.”

My father was as frantic as I was. He feared that the King might be swayed and turn from me. The price of my queenship was too high. Warham was an old man, his protests would not mean much. Still, he stood for the old ways. There was Fisher. He was a man who did not care what trouble he brought on himself; he would stand up and say what he believed to be the truth.

One day there was a disaster at Fisher's dining table. Twelve members of his household died. There was one woman beggar who was also affected, for the Bishop's palaces were always open to the hungry at mid-day; they came into the dining room and sat there at a table on trestles which had been set up especially for them.

The Bishop was unharmed. He had been in deep discourse with a friend and had left his soup untasted.

It was soon discovered that an attempt had been made to poison him.

Henry was enraged. This was not the way. Fisher would have to be coerced, threatened perhaps, but any attempt to poison him—and such a clumsy one—would not be tolerated.

He passed a law immediately. Poisoners should be boiled alive.

The soup was tested. Richard Rouse, the cook, was taken for questioning and immediately confessed to the deed. He could not say who it was who paid him well for what he did; it was a stranger and he knew not whence he came.

Suspicion was, of course, directed against me and my family, although we knew nothing of the matter.

Crowds gathered in Smithfield to see the sentence carried out. I was told that the screams of the victim were bloodcurdling.

The King was annoyed and sullen. He was clearly disturbed but he was thinking more and more of the possibility of a break with Rome. Strict laws were enforced against the clergy; and he stated publicly that some priests were only half Englishmen because they had taken an oath to the Pope. But still the months were passing without any action being taken.

Henry was disturbed further when Sir Thomas More resigned the Great Seal. He asked this through Norfolk, pleading ill health. I think he saw which way we were moving and he was a deeply religious man. Henry wanted the support of such a man who was highly respected; he had simple tastes, living happily in the heart of his devoted family. I heard that Norfolk had found him on one occasion in the chapel of his home in Chelsea, singing in the family choir. Norfolk had reproved him, saying that he dishonored the King and his office by parading as a parish clerk. More's reply had been disconcerting. He said he was serving God, the King's master. Ominous words, as it happened later.

It was just at this time that he resigned the Great Seal, and it was a clear indication of his thoughts.

At last there came a turn in our affairs.

What had irritated me most was to be in the palace with the King and to be made constantly aware of the Queen's presence, for, in spite of the relationship between them, Henry kept up appearances in public, and wherever he went on ceremonial occasions, the Queen was with him. This had stressed the fact that Katharine was still the Queen and that put me in the position of concubine. It was something I found intolerable and, I think, was largely responsible for my outbursts of temper.

Henry was becoming more and more anxious to be rid of her. If he was absent for a few days, she would write to him, behaving just as though there was no rift between them. Her attitude was one of tolerance, implying that he was momentarily straying but like a good and patient wife she would forgive him and in due course he would realize his mistake and return to her.

He would ensure no more of this, he said. He had been patient too long. He was going to ask her to retire from Windsor Castle. There was a place which had come to him from Wolsey. The Moor in Hertfordshire. She should take up her residence there. It was a command and she could not disobey his instructions; and now, with Katharine gone, I was in the position of Queen. Her apartments became mine. The people in the streets might cry their insults; it was different in Court circles. There, people must pay homage to me, for this move of Henry's was significant. It showed that his determination was as strong as ever.

He said to me: “We should wait no longer.”

I knew what that meant and I had to make a quick decision. I had always known that this moment must come. I had fought long enough. He had made his gesture by turning Katharine away from Court, which was tantamount to declaring that she was no longer the Queen, and if I was to be, how could I deny the King that which he had been passionately seeking for so long?

I was tortured by the decision I had to make. I was not a sensual woman and I did not look forward to the consummation with any pleasure. Perhaps it was due to my upbringing at the Court of France, when I was in the midst of such promiscuity that I acquired a distaste for it. My virginity had been my strength. What would happen if I lost it? Suppose I had relented all those years ago in the rose garden at Hever, where should I have been now? Cast off like my sister Mary, spoken of as una grandis-sima ribalda, as François had referred to her? So I had become well versed in the art of evasion. Heaven knew, I had had long enough practice with Henry, and even before that at the Court of France. I was avid for admiration; I knew that I had special attractions and I liked them to be appreciated. I liked to know that I was desired, and in that was the pleasure for me.

But I had come to the point when there could be no more hesitation. Since Henry had removed Katharine from Court, I was the Queen in all but fact; and if I were to attain that glittering role I must not take one false step now.

One fear haunted me. What if I submitted and he found the result not as satisfactory as he had hoped? For years he had longed for me—me only. Was I so much different from other women he had known? Oh, I knew I was in daylight…my clothes, my manners, my sudden moods, my intense delight in the joys of the moment, my ability to devise clever entertainments. Yes, I was different. But in sexual encounter how should I fare…I, a novice with no great enthusiasm for the game compared with doyennes of the art like my sister Mary. Experience made perfect and in this matter I was completely without that. He had dreamed so long of possessing me. What if I did not match his fantasies?

There was another possibility. Suppose I became pregnant? That could be a two-edged sword. I could say to him, “You must marry me at once or our child will be born out of wedlock.” That would never do for the heir to the throne. On the other hand, suppose I was barren? Well, a woman cannot expect to conceive immediately—though it was a possibility.

The matter was constantly on my mind; and then I decided that I could afford to wait no longer. The opposition was crumbling. Cromwell and Cranmer had “the right sows by the ears.” Henry was prepared to snap his fingers at the Pope and the Emperor and at the same time to break with the Church of Rome.

If ever there was a time, this must be it.

I must prepare for the occasion. As always at such times, I considered what I should wear. This would be one of the testing occasions of my life, and a great deal depended on my clothes. Clothes had always had an effect on me; they changed my moods. I often thought that whatever tragedy was about to befall I could never be completely unhappy if I were wearing a gown which lifted my spirits, and however pleased I was with life, I could not be completely so in a drab and ill-fitting garment.

So therefore, on this occasion, clothes would be all-important.

My nightgown should be made of black satin, lined with black taffeta, and this should be stiffened with buckram and lined with black velvet. I enjoyed designing it. I showed sketches to Henry. He was now so happy—like a bridegroom. He was affable to everyone. I said, “You must not give away our secret,” and we laughed together.

We even talked about my coronation.

“This Cromwell is a man of ideas,” he said. “I welcome him. I wish I could like him better. I always want to cuff him … then I remember his uses.”

But he did not want to talk of Cromwell for long. We were like two lovers planning our honeymoon. Henry thought we should pay a visit to François. “He has been our good friend over this matter,” he said.

I knew that François wanted to woo Henry from the Emperor. It was all part of the power struggle. And I should like to see the French Court again.

The nightdress was very costly. The price was £10.15s.8d., and there was a cloak with it edged with velvet and lined with Bruges satin which was almost as costly as the gown, being over £9.

An extravagant garment. But it was for a very important occasion, and the bills were settled by the Treasury, together with many more, for if I was going to France, I should need a new wardrobe and, knowing the French, it must be of very special elegance.

So I tried not to think of the night and gave myself up to the joys of discussions with the seamstress and being fitted and making suggestions—while I waited with trepidation.

We were to sup together.

I wore the black nightdress and the cloak that went with it. I had chosen wisely, although I had hesitated to wear black because of my darkness—red being the color which set it off to perfection. But the low-cut bodice, exposing so much white flesh, was alluring.

His eyes never left me. They shone with something more than lust. He was at his most attractive that night. He was almost humble, a quality which sat oddly on him. He looked younger, for the last years had taken a certain toll on him. This was how he must have looked when he came to the throne. I felt an affection for him. I realized, too, that I was different. I had made up my mind. I was no longer tortured by the fearsome question of Dare I? I had given way because I fancied I could see the goal in sight, and this was the way to it.

It was a discreet supper à deux; we were waited on by two silent-footed servants. There was no ceremony. We might not have been the King and the one who aspired to be his Queen. He glowed as he talked to me of his love for me, how it had changed his life. Indeed it had—and the course of the country's history perhaps. But he was modest, which made him almost like a stranger. He was so pleased because my choice had fallen on him and that I had saved myself for him.

I did not reply to that. In truth, my choice had fallen on a crown and on him because he could supply it. I had previously chosen Henry Percy, he must remember; and it was he who had snatched me away from that young man.

But on such a night we did not wish to talk of such things; and to see him thus—so different from the arrogant King whose wrath, Warham had once said, “was death”— to see him thus, for my sake, endeared him to me.

I almost loved him on that night.

I should have liked to linger over supper but he was impatient and we were alone. I emerged from my black satin and went to him.

I had prepared myself for the onslaught of passion which I knew must come—all the pent-up feelings of the years of waiting. He was incoherent, murmuring words of love. I responded, as well as I could, fearful all the time of my inadequacy—which was a new role for me, as the humble lover was for him.

It seemed to me that on that night we were both playing parts to which our natures had made us unaccustomed.

We lay in the darkness. There was silence between us. I asked myself: What is he thinking? Why all this fuss? Is not one woman very like another? Mary had held him for a long time. Mary had special powers. She was born to play bedtime games. I had not been.

“Anne.” His voice came to me in the darkness.

“Yes…Henry?” I whispered fearfully.

He said: “Methinks I am the happiest man on Earth.”

Waves of joy swept over me. Then I had not failed.

I replied: “Then must I be the happiest of women.”

“There was never love like this,” he said.

No, I thought, never love that would rock the foundations of the Church.

The weeks which followed were happy for both Henry and me. I had made the decision; there was no going back, and I was no longer plagued by that eternal question. Henry was delighted; he looked years younger, and everyone noticed the change in him. He was no longer frustrated. Katharine was out of sight and he ceased to think of her. I was there beside him; in fact, he hated me to be out of his sight. I was immensely relieved. I had submitted and I still held him—perhaps even more firmly than before.

He took a delight in my extravagance. I bought yards and yards of red velvet—the color which became me most. The dressmakers were busy. I was beside him at the Court functions. It was tantamount to being Queen. People began to treat me as such; they brought petitions to me, asking me to intercede for this and that with the King. All knew that what I asked would be mine. Enthusiasm was second nature to Henry. When he wanted something, he wanted it fiercely. Tenacity was another of his qualities. I was not sure of fidelity; but I was determined to keep him as he was now.

He wanted me always beside him. Even when I was alone, I rode in state. He had given me special harness for my horses and my saddle was in the French style—black velvet fringed with gold. But he liked it best when I rode pillion with him, sitting on a down-stuffed pillow.

I was Queen in all but name, but that was not good enough.

The precariousness of my position was brought home to me by the people.

How they hated me! The common people—and not only they—hate to see others rise, particularly if that rise is spectacular. I shall never forget the hatred which was directed against Wolsey when he was at the height of his greatness, and the sympathy which came to him when he was down. The sympathy suggested good nature but the hatred betrayed the truth of the matter, and I came to the conclusion that envy is the greatest of the seven deadly sins, and from it spring all others; the sympathy offered to such as Wolsey when they are brought low is at heart pleasure because of their downfall.

Now I was to taste that hatred.

“We'll have no Nan Bullen,” they cried, attempting to give my name a plebeian note. How I hated them, with their sly, envious faces and their petty minds. This was not sympathy for Katharine; it was not indignation against my position. It was plain envy.

I would have snapped my fingers at them if it were not for the disturbing effect they had on the King.

Cromwell said he would suppress it.

He had his spies everywhere. If they heard an adverse comment directed against me, the person who made it would find himself or herself in chains. This did not prevent a good many people risking imprisonment.

The most disturbing of all were the priests. They were different from the people in the streets. Their great anxiety must have been for their position in the Church. There was one, Friar Peto, who actually preached at Greenwich. He was one of those headstrong monks who see themselves in the role of martyr as a way to eternal joy and saving themselves from the flames of hell by one magnificent gesture at the end. He was attached to the Franciscan convent and was emphatic in his denunciation of the divorce. The King had been ill advised, he said. He would be like Ahab, and when he died the dogs would lick his blood.

And this in the presence of the King!

Henry's leniency was amazing. Cromwell would have had the man in the Tower and soon taking the short walk to Tower Hill, but the King was in a mellow mood. The Friar had at least spoken out to his face and had not made traitorous remarks behind his back as he feared so many did. So Friar Peto was sent to France to join a Franciscan order there. Such leniency was not really wise, for he came back later and continued preaching, so that there was no alternative but to imprison him.

But this was nothing compared with the case of Rice ap Griffiths. What made this more unusual was that Griffiths was a distant relative; he had married one of my mother's sisters. Criticism from my own family always surprised me. One would have thought we should have clung together. But the resentment the Howards had always felt toward the Boleyns was constantly flaring up. Griffiths was arrested and put in the Tower. He never left it, except to walk out to Tower Hill and lay his head on the block.

This was an example to others, and it did have some effect, but I knew that the people were ready to revolt against me, and the clergy against the new laws which were to be imposed.

At the Court, where I sat beside the King, few dared show resentment, for it was those close to the King who had the most to fear. It was true that Mary, Duchess of Suffolk, had left Court on account of me but I did not greatly care. It seemed amazing to me that she could behave so. After all, she herself had married a commoner. When I thought of that bright young girl and her passion for Charles Brandon, I could scarcely believe that she could behave thus toward me. She had been quite fond of me in a patronizing kind of way. She had let the little Boleyn into her confidence as she had no other. Of course, she had been a friend of Katharine, so perhaps that was behind her dislike of me.

I doubted that anyone in England had more enemies than I at that time. Vaguely I was aware of the antipathy, but I tried not to let it bother me. If I had been older and wiser, I should have been deeply shocked and horrified and certainly alarmed by the rancor I engendered.

One day the Duke of Norfolk asked to see me. I wondered why he had come. I was very wary of him. I suspected that he, like Suffolk, had used me to help discredit Wolsey; and I suspected they would work against me with the King if they had a chance.

Norfolk said that he had been handed a note which had been written by the Countess of Northumberland and sent to her father, the Earl of Shrewsbury. The Earl had brought it to the Duke, who thought I ought to see it.

I took it, wondering what Henry Percy's wife should have to say to her father which could be of interest to me.

I opened it and, when I read it, I was trembling with dismay.

Here was one of my enemies who could do me harm if she wished— and she clearly did wish. She had written to her father to say that her husband, Henry Percy, had admitted to her that, while he was in the service of Cardinal Wolsey and I was a maid of honor to Queen Katharine, he had had a pre-contract with me.

I stared from the paper to Norfolk. He was smiling sardonically, fully aware of the contents of the letter.

“I thought, Lady Anne,” he said, “that you would wish to give some thought to the matter.”

“It is of no importance,” I lied. “But it shall be shown to the King.”

He bowed and retired.

I sat there reading and re-reading the letter. How she must have hated me! Her marriage had been a failure from the start. Henry Percy would have been a faithful husband to me. I wondered if he still thought of me, and I was sure he did. Mary Talbot's vindictiveness was evident in this note. How reluctantly he had married her—and she knew it.

Now she would have heard of the brilliant marriage which lay ahead of me. Henry Percy would know, too. And what was he thinking now? Of what might have been, I dareswear, with a certain longing, as I did now and then when I was particularly frustrated and thought that nothing would ever come of my attachment to the King.

Now she saw a chance of revenge—this petty Mary Talbot who had had the misfortune to marry a man who was deeply in love with someone else.

But she had a point. That was the frightening aspect. One always thought of precedents when such occasions arose. Not so long ago Richard III had declared himself to be King because of his brother's pre-contract with Eleanor Butler before marrying Elizabeth Woodville, thus rendering illegitimate those two little Princes who had died so mysteriously in the Tower. If this pre-contract with Henry Percy was proved to be valid, my offspring with the King could be declared to be a bastard.

There was only one thing to do: I must lay the matter before Henry without more delay.

I went to him. His face lit up at the sight of me. Then he saw that I was disturbed.

I said: “Norfolk has just handed this to me.”

He took it, read it and cried: “My God, this must not be.”

He looked at me questioningly.

I said: “There was no signed contract of marriage. You know full well that when I was at Court I knew Northumberland and that there was talk of marriage between ourselves. It never went further than that. It was you who arranged with Wolsey to separate us.”

“Thank God,” he cried. “Then there was no pre-contract.”

“Once we thought that we would marry, which we might well have done if it had not been prevented.”

“I will give this to Cromwell at once. We cannot let it pass. Norfolk knows of it… and Shrewsbury, of course.”

“You think this will prevent our marriage.”

Henry smiled. “Sweetheart, nothing on God's earth is going to prevent our marriage. That rogue Cromwell will sort it out.”

And Cromwell did.

Percy was summoned to appear before the Archbishop of Canterbury and the Privy Council.

I knew that I could rely on him. He had loved me deeply; I think he had never forgotten me. He would know that I wished to marry the King, that I must marry the King after all that had passed between us. He was loyal as I had known he would be. He admitted that he and I had known each other at Court and there had been an attraction between us, but there had never been a pre-contract.

Whether he had been threatened by Cromwell, I did not know, but I liked to believe that he said what he did out of love for me.

So that was another defeat for my enemies. The King—as he was determined to—believed Northumberland was speaking the truth, and the rest of the Council must also.

That little matter was settled and need not bother us further.

Henry was relieved that the question of my alliance with Henry Percy had been satisfactorily settled and he could talk of little else but our coming visit to France.

François had been a good friend to us throughout the troubled negotiations of the divorce. I wondered why. Was it because he was romantic at heart? Hardly that. He wanted an alliance against the Emperor. That was the answer. But we could not afford to ignore such a powerful ally.

François was eager for the visit, and as Henry and I should be together, and I should be traveling with him as his Queen to a man who was prepared to accept me as such, it should be a most enjoyable occasion.

“There is one point,” said Henry. “You are merely the Lady Anne Rochford. It is not a very high rank for the exalted position you will occupy. Therefore I have decided to make a change.”

I looked at him expectantly and he kissed me.

“I am going to make you a peeress.”

I felt dizzy with pleasure.

“I have thought out the matter and it is all settled. You are to be the Marquess of Pembroke. It is a title which I much esteem because it was last borne by my uncle, Jasper Tudor. It links you with my family.”

“Do you think that will be approved by the nobles?”

He spoke almost haughtily. “It is my wish.” Of course I was delighted. It was a great honor. It would set me above those who had resented having to pay respect to me.

Marquess of Pembroke! A title—and such a title—in my own right! I had clearly taken the right course.

Henry announced that his reason for bestowing this honor was because a monarch ought to surround his throne with the worthiest of both sexes, and so, by the consent of the nobility of the kingdom (he did not add that none of them dared withhold his consent), he was creating his cousin Anne Rochford, the daughter of his well-beloved cousin the Earl of Wiltshire, to be Marquess of Pembroke. Then he added a most important point: by putting on the mantle and the coronet, he was investing the name and title to the male heirs.

This was a precaution. If by some evil chance it should happen that my marriage to the King was prevented—although he had sworn nothing should—and I were to give birth to a child, that child could be assured of a grand title.

It was plain that the King wished to do great honor to me and to show all that I was the most cherished being at his Court, for this was the first example of a woman's being created a peer.

Everything seemed mellow on that lovely September morning— summery, yet with a touch of autumn in the air. Henry was seated in the Presence Chamber at Windsor Castle surrounded by many of the peers, including Norfolk, Suffolk, my father and the French ambassador.

I had been dressed in a surcoat made of crimson velvet and lined with ermine; it had short sleeves for I was to wear the mantle over it. I wore my hair as it suited me best, loose about my shoulders, and I was led in by a company of lords and ladies, at the head of whom was Garter-king-at-arms. My cousin Mary Howard, daughter of the Duke of Norfolk, carried the robe of state and the golden coronet. Slowly I approached the King, between the Countesses of Rutland and Sussex, and knelt.

Gardiner read the Charter, and the King took the robe from Mary, which he caressingly laid about my shoulders. Then he placed the coronet on my head.

I was ennobled. Marquess of Pembroke. It was a moment of great triumph.

Henry presented me with another charter which ensured me £1,000 a year during my lifetime.

I was very happy as the trumpets heralded my departure from the Presence Chamber.

In my apartment were gifts from Henry—some exquisite miniatures, the work of his favorite painter, Holbein; these were made more valuable by the jewels in which they were set. They were beautiful and could be worn as pendants. Henry was determined that all should know of his love for me. He showered gifts on me. I now had a train-bearer and maids of honor—all noble ladies—just as though I were already the Queen. The cost of my clothes alone for the ceremony had been more than £30—all cheerfully paid for from the privy purse.

I had nothing to fear.

Then we were planning the journey to France.

François had been most cordial and he delighted us both by suggesting that we marry while we were in France. This was an exciting prospect because if we did so it would proclaim to the world that the King of France was on our side. He had always shown a great deal of sympathy and understanding, and I was vain enough to suspect that it might be because of a fondness for me. He had certainly cast rather lustful eyes upon me when I was at his Court, and I imagine he thought of me with some respect because I had refused him. Therefore this coming visit was of very special importance to Henry and me, for we planned to take François's advice and then, when we returned to England, the marriage would be a fait accompli.

So there I was at the peak of my dreams, soon to have done with this anomalous position in which I had stood so long—Queen of England.

I was delighted for the time being with my new eminence; but soon I should be in that place to which I had aspired for so long. Perhaps I became a little haughty, assuming airs of royalty. Henry did not object to my doing so—in fact, he rather encouraged it. I felt now that I could command all…even him.

I was preparing a wardrobe for the French visit. Velvets and silks were brought to me and I planned with the utmost pleasure.

I was really happy during that time. I had ceased to look back nostalgically to the past and what might have been. There never could have been for me a more glorious future than that which confronted me now.

There were one or two minor irritations. Henry demanded that Katharine should give up her jewels. Although as Queen of England she had been wearing them for years, they did not belong to her but were the property of the Crown. Henry said that, now God had shown him that theirs was no true marriage, the jewels must be returned.

The fact was that he wanted me to wear them during the French visit and after my marriage they would be in my possession.

Katharine indignantly refused to return them. She would not give up such jewels to adorn the person who was the scandal of Christendom, she declared, and whose very presence at Court brought ignominy to the Crown.

Katharine could be very bold, and always there was the shadow of the Emperor beside her. For that reason, although she might be insulted, even the King would not dare harm her physically.

But the Emperor was far away and the King was supreme in England and promising to be even more so than he had been before.

He now commanded her to deliver up the jewels, and messengers were sent to collect them.

It was wonderful to have them but I did regret that they had had to be forced from Katharine.

Then there was the Duchess of Suffolk. As the ex-Queen of France she would renew many old acquaintances, for Henry wished her to accompany us. She had always been stubborn, and she had, of course, special privileges with the King. He always thought of her as his little sister Mary. She had married Suffolk and overcome his displeasure. And now she resolutely refused to come to France with us.

This was, of course, because I was going. Had Katharine been in my place, Mary would have been happy to join the party.

I did not know what I wished for—whether he should command her to come, which would have been most unpleasant for she would have been very disagreeable, I was sure, or whether he should give way and accept her refusal, which was an insult to me. In either case it was not very pleasant, but really, as I said, just a minor irritation.

Then there was Suffolk himself. Henry was really angry with him. Because of his longstanding friendship with Henry and his close relationship to him through marriage, he had had the temerity to suggest that the idea for the trip was not a good one.

I guessed what his comments were. Henry was taking a woman not his wife, and flaunting her as his Queen on a visit to another state. It was a mistake, even though François had sent messages expressing his pleasure.

Henry had been furious.

As a result Suffolk had been sent from Court—not to remain in exile but to prepare without delay for the journey. As this was going to be very costly, Suffolk was far from pleased; and his wife insisted on staying at home.

Even though François had welcomed the plan so enthusiastically, the visit had its less pleasant side. He was to meet us at Boulogne, but none of the ladies of the French Court would accompany him.

Of course, the important person was François.

“We'll do better without the ladies,” said Henry, but it naturally meant there would be occasions when I could not be present.

I had to remind myself that it was probably the first time a King had taken with him a woman who was not his wife on what must be a state visit.

“In any case,” he added, “I would not wish to meet the Queen of France.” She was Eleanora of Austria, sister of Charles, and therefore Katharine's niece. “I'd rather meet the devil than a lady in Spanish dress,” added Henry.

In spite of all these setbacks, plans went ahead. There was a certain amount of misgiving of which I could not fail to be aware. It was a daring thing to do to take me away with him on such an occasion before there had been a marriage ceremony. True, I was now a peeress with one of the highest titles in the land, but I was more unpopular than ever with the people.

Nevertheless I was happy, and so was Henry. He could not bear to leave my side; he sent the company ahead to Dover so that we could be alone—or almost—together. We stayed at the house of Thomas Cheyney—always a good friend to me—and Henry insisted that there should be no fuss and we would live simply for a few days. This we did— riding together… eating alone… and living away from people…privately. I was surprised how much we both enjoyed it. Perhaps I was beginning to love him. It is difficult for a woman of my nature not to be fond of one who shows such care for her.

Love changed Henry; he was both ardent and grateful; it made a different man of him; and I liked that man better than the mighty King; or it may be that I enjoyed seeing the mighty King reduced to a humble lover. It was difficult to think of Henry without his royalty. It was so much a part of him; and to think that he could cast it aside was very endearing.

He said he had never been so happy in his life as during those days we spent away from the rest of the company, and what joy it gave him to contemplate that in a very short time we should be married.

We could not live in our sylvan paradise forever. We had to go on to Dover.

As we rode along, I noticed the looks of the people; they were more sullen than vituperative. They did not approve of the French visit—well, perhaps it was not the visit, but the fact that I was accompanying the King.

There was plague in some of the hamlets along the southeast route. A sign, said the people. There were all sorts of omens. People had dreams. Some saw a sign in the sky—a comet perhaps. But it was more likely to have been conjured out of someone's imagination. Someone else had seen a strange creature in the sea. It looked like a fish, but it was not. It had the face of a man. What its purpose was supposed to be, I had no idea— except that it was some dire warning because of our evil ways. And all these signs meant that God was not pleased with a king who put away his wife and flaunted his concubine—even before the eyes of the King of France.

In due course we embarked for Calais. We had a fair crossing in spite of the dire prophecies. A great welcome had been arranged for us. The town was en fête. The townspeople were gathered to cheer us as we went first to the church of St. Nicholas, where Mass was celebrated and we gave thanks for our safe crossing. After that we were taken to the lodgings which had been prepared for us. Henry's huge bed and furniture which we had brought with us had gone on before and were already installed.

They were wonderful days. Henry and I were together most of the time. He took great pleasure in riding the town with me. I was cheered by the people there. How different from the reception I had from the people at home! Perhaps the news had not reached Calais or perhaps they were so glad to have us there, with our ceremonies to enliven their days, that they accepted me as part of it.

It was wonderful to see Thomas Wyatt again. He was as handsome as ever and delighted to see me in such good spirits.

“Do you remember those days at Hever still?” he asked me.

“They will never be forgotten, Thomas,” I answered.

“I rejoice in your good fortune, but it is bad fortune for me.”

“How so?”

“Because you are lost to me forever.”

“Thomas,” I said seriously, “there must be no such talk.”

“Indeed not. Look what it cost me before! I still have the tablet.”

“Then do not let it be seen.”

“It was such a cause for royal jealousy.”

“Thomas, there must be no more.”

“Anne! Queen Anne! Well, you were made for distinction.”

“You too, Thomas.”

“You will be remembered as the Queen. I perhaps… perhaps not… as a poet.”

He wrote a charming poem at that time which was for me. I always remembered it.

Forget not yet the tried intent

Of such a truth as I have meant,

My great travail so gladly spent

Forget not yet.

Forget not, oh! forget not this

How long hath been and is

The love that never meant amiss

Forget not yet.

Forget not now thine own approved

The which so constant hath thee loved

Whose steadfast faith hath never moved

Forget not yet.

It could not help but please me that a man such as Wyatt had loved me for so long. Yet I was a little fearful of him. He was very impetuous. But perhaps he had grown wiser now. He knew what it meant to offend the King.

Henry seemed to have forgotten the affair of the tablet and the slander which Suffolk had spoken against Wyatt and me. Now that we were lovers he was satisfied. I had managed to convince him that my passion for him matched his for me; and if I was less sexually ecstatic than someone like my sister Mary, he would regard that as evidence of my finer nature.

I was perfect to him in those days. Moreover, with François's approval we should soon be married. Then his conscience would be at ease, for Cromwell and Cranmer were working assiduously to prove that Henry's marriage to Katharine was no marriage, and soon he and I would be together without having to endure the occasional—very occasional now—twinges of that infuriating conscience.

After a week in Calais, during which preparations were made to welcome the French King there, Henry rode off to meet François at Boulogne. It had been decided, after a great deal of consideration, that it would be better if I did not accompany him, as we had been warned that the ladies of the French Court would not be coming with François. I did not like this, but I understood it. Until I was actually married to Henry, I could not be treated on ceremonial occasions as his Queen; and like Henry, I had no wish to meet the French Queen since she was Katharine's niece. It would have made a very awkward situation; but all this would soon be at an end, for Henry had decided that our marriage should take place in a week's time; and if François was a guest at the ceremony, that would mean a great deal to us.

Meanwhile I remained in Calais. I had devised several masques which I wanted to be considered witty, amusing and elegant, even to French tastes. Wyatt was present and he would write some of his verses, and everyone must admit that he was a poet of quality.

Henry had spared no expense in fitting out the castle's banqueting chamber, and it was hung with tissue of silver and gold, the seams of the material studded with glittering stones and pearls. The plate was all gold. It was going to be very elaborate and worthy of our guest, the King of France.

I was impatiently awaiting their return. Then the all-important ceremony would take place, and my fears would be at an end. I should go back to England as Queen.

The meeting of the two Kings had been, I heard, a glittering occasion. I wondered if they had both been reminded of that other meeting at Guines and Ardres. They embraced warmly, as though there had never been any enmity between them. François had arranged entertainments for Henry at Boulogne; but I knew he would be impatient to return to me, and I thought it was a pity the ladies of the French Court had not come, for then I could have been present. I tried to convince myself that it was really due to the fact that the Queen of France was so closely related to Katharine, and the last person she would want to see was Henry, who had just cast off her aunt.

So I supposed it was a wise decision, although a little galling, and it would give them the impression that they had not come because I was not Henry's wife.

I consoled myself that that would soon be remedied.

In due course the two Kings arrived in Calais.

I was received with the utmost graciousness by François. He soon dispensed with ceremony and told me that I had become even more beautiful than he remembered. I could hardly say the same of him with truth. A great deal had happened to François since those days of his early kingship. Those years of imprisonment in Madrid, where he had almost lost his life, had taken their toll on him. He looked debauched, which was not surprising after the life he had led; but François had an innate charm, and his graceful manners and general elegance could not fail to please.

There was to be a banquet in the splendidly decorated hall, but before that I had an opportunity of being with Henry alone.

He kissed me with passion and said the separation had seemed long, but I noticed that he was deeply concerned about something. As our wedding was to take place so soon, I felt a tremor of alarm.

And well I might.

It was not long before he was telling me all about it.

The wedding ceremony which we had planned could not take place. François, who had urged us to marry in France and return home with the deed already done, was now of a different opinion.

The Emperor Charles had defeated the Turks, so they were no longer a threat to him. This meant he would be free to turn his attention elsewhere. We could guess that that could mean France.

In the circumstances, François could not appear to give his public approval to our marriage, although he hoped we would continue to regard him as our very good friend.

“So,” I gasped, “there is to be no marriage.”

“Not here. We shall have to postpone it… but only for a short while.”

I was angry. Once more I was faced with frustration. I had been so certain that all would be well, and I should have security within a few days, and now to have it snatched away from me, just as I was about to reach out and take it, was more than I could bear.

“How dare he!” I cried.

“Sweetheart, he has good reason. It is true that, if he gave his outward blessing to us, the Emperor would take his revenge. We must see his side, my dearest.”

“He has tricked us.”

“No…no. It is the King of France of whom you speak.”

“I care not for kings.”

He raised his eyebrows and looked grave. He said, slightly coolly: “I trust there is one King you care about…”

I threw myself into his arms. He was very patient with me. I often marveled at that afterward. He stroked my hair. “You must not be distressed,” he said. “It is a bitter disappointment… but it is not the first we have had, eh? We'll get over it. Mayhap it would be better to be married at home. Doubtless there would be some to question its legality… if it took place here.”

There was some truth in that and I allowed myself to be subdued.

I had to forget my rancor and prepare for the entertainment we were to offer.

I had arranged, with the help of Wyatt and a few others, a splendid masque; and Henry was right, I must not show my animosity toward François. Henry gently reminded me that I was now dealing with a powerful man. I should have to be particularly gracious to him. So I must subdue my irritation—which he felt no less than I did, for by God and all his saints I could not long for my marriage more than he did.

So there was the grand banquet in that splendidly decorated hall. The food was served in a unique manner—in the French fashion for François and in the English for Henry. There were three courses; in the first, forty dishes were served, in the second sixty and in the third seventy. François declared himself to be amazed.

I and my ladies were not present at the dinner. This was because the ladies of the French Court had not accompanied François. Perhaps this should have made me doubt his sincerity, for he could have commanded them to come. I had thought that Marguerite might have been with him. She was now Queen of Navarre, having married again; she had always been so forward-thinking that I was surprised she should have found it impossible to meet me just because I was not yet married to the King. I tried to convince myself that it was for some other reason that she had not joined the expedition.

We came into the hall when the meal was over. We were all masked and our dresses were of a strange exotic style meant to imply that we had come from some far-off land. The gowns were made of cloth of gold slashed with crimson tinsel thread and laced with gold. They were very effective, I had made sure of that. Each of us was to select one of the French guests for the dance; and, of course, I was to choose François.

We would then dance together, and it would be assumed that the French did not know with whom they danced until that moment when Henry came to the ladies in turn and removed their masks. They would all express surprise—a gambit which had delighted Henry from those long-ago days when he had just come to the throne and had turned the somber Court of his father into one of merriment and laughter.

Through my mask I watched the King of France. He was not as handsome as Henry, for Henry was still a very good-looking man and had been particularly so in his youth. Some ten years ago the Venetian ambassador had described him as “more handsome than any sovereign in Christendom—much more handsome than the King of France—very fair and admirably proportioned. His beard looks like gold and he is an accomplished musician, good horseman, speaks French, Latin and Spanish, is very religious and hears Mass three times daily when he hunts and five on other days.”

That had been said before his obsession with me. I wondered what the Venetian ambassador's opinion would be now.

Still, if time had wrought some havoc on his looks, he was still a fine figure of a man—so tall and commanding, and above all he carried that aura of royalty which set him above other men.

François though had an incomparable charm of manner; he was highly intellectual; he had an air of almost weary worldliness, but his mind was alert; he was cynical, whereas Henry could at times be almost childishly simple.

One could scarcely imagine two men more different; and I decided that I was fortunate to have Henry.

François was studying me lasciviously.

“How fortunate I am to be chosen by you,” he said. “As soon as I saw you enter the hall, I thought, though I may not know the lady's name until unmasking time, I see she stands high above all others in charm and beauty. I was praying that she would select me.”

“The King of France would be the choice any lady would hope for.”

I spoke in French which I could do with as much ease as I spoke English.

“Then let us rejoice that you chose me, and if the choice had been with me, I should have chosen you.” He then complimented me on my rendering of his language. “You might be one of us,” he added, “but for the so slight difference which makes your speech entirely delightful.”

In spite of my anger against him, I could not be unaware of his charm. My mind went back to the days of my youth when those lascivious eyes of his were turned on me. I had heard stories of his conquests. He was ruthless in his pursuit. No matter whom he sought, he would employ any methods to satisfy his desire. There had been whisperings of girls who had been kidnapped and brought to him because he had seen them in the streets…in church… anywhere. I had heard that the daughter of an innkeeper had thrown acid into her own beautiful face because she feared that her soul would be damned if he forced her to be his mistress.

We continued with that light banter which was completely false.

“Would not Your Grace have been a little rash in choosing a woman whose face he could not see?”

“Some instinct tells me that her face will be as beautiful as that which I can perceive and which so delights me.”

“And the King of France, as all know, is a connoisseur of beauty.”

“I would hope that is so.”

“It amazes me that, with all the beauties of France ready to fall at his feet, he should be so ecstatic about one masked Englishwoman.”

“But such an Englishwoman! The Lady Anne is here tonight. I'll swear she could not match with the lady who had the goodness to select me for her partner.”

“She would not be pleased to hear you talk thus.”

“I had the pleasure of being acquainted with the lady… once.”

“That must have been a long time ago. And still you remember her?”

“She is making history now.”

“That surprises you?”

“It is not given to all to do that. She was an entrancing creature in those days. Such eyes! I remember them well. Black eyes…a witch's eyes.”

“You think she has bewitched the King?”

“Not I alone. The whole world knows she has bewitched the King. I long to see this face which has so enchanted my brother of England.” He leaned toward me, smiling that lazy, sensual smile which I remembered from the past, his eyes boring through me, through my mask, through my gold and tinsel.

“Do you know, mysterious lady, I'd wager that the Lady Anne is no more beautiful than you.”

“The King of England might be hurt to hear you say that.”

“The King of England would never deny the truth.” I heard the irony in his voice, I imagined how he must have laughed—probably with Marguerite—at Henry's declarations concerning the gnawing of his conscience.

“I see none of the ladies of your Court here tonight, Your Grace. That is unusual is it not?

“Oh, they dared not face the competition of the English ladies… particularly the Lady Anne.”

“Are they so lacking in confidence then?”

“They have heard so much of her charms. The jealousy of your sex! It seems they would rather remain in ignorance than be so out-classed.”

“So you did not command them to come?”

“Oh, it is not my practice to command ladies.”

I was amazed that he could indulge in such frivolous conversation. Of course, it was all part of the masque that he should pretend not to know who I was. He would, of course, understand that in the traditional manner I would choose the King of France. I wondered what he remembered of me from the past; although he had aged considerably, I should have known him in any guise.

Henry was watching us, and I could see that he was beginning to be irritated. François's manner was distinctly flirtatious and he knew that the King of France could not be in the company of any attractive woman without attempting to seduce her.

Henry decided that it was time the deception ended, so he started to remove the visors, coming to me first. His face was a little flushed. It reminded me of that long-ago occasion when the rivalry between the two Kings could not be disguised for all the cloth of gold settings and protestations of friendship. Henry, a brilliant figure in velvet cloth of gold, about his neck a collar of rubies, diamonds and pearls as large as any I have seen, as usual looked a trifle flamboyant beside the elegant, more soberly clad François about whose person diamonds discreetly sparkled as he moved.

“Your Grace has been dancing with the Marquess of Pembroke,” he announced to François.

François, in the approved manner, declared himself astonished, gratified and delighted, his sly smile indicating to me that of course he had known all the time.

Henry passed on to unmask the other ladies.

François looked at me, still smiling.

“Of course,” I said, speaking to him now as one on equal terms, for though he was King of France, very soon I must be Queen of England, “you knew all the time.”

“How could I fail to know that one so full of grace and charm must be the incomparable Lady Anne? I will tell you something: I should have known you anywhere… masked or otherwise. I could see those black sparkling eyes through the slits in your mask. There is only one pair of eyes like that in the whole world.”

“You were teasing me.”

“Forgive,” he said pleadingly.

“The King of France asks forgiveness of a mere Marquess!”

“So soon to be the Queen…as she already is in the heart of the King of England and that of the King of France.”

I had had enough of this frivolous talk, and I asked about Marguerite.

“You and my dear sister were good friends, I remember. She follows your fortunes with great interest. She sends her good wishes to you. She says that she always knew you were meant for a distinguished career.”

“I am sorry not to see her.”

“She is now the Queen of Navarre.”

“I see that the King of Navarre is of your company.”

“He leaves Marguerite in charge of his kingdom.”

I did not believe that. I knew very well that the ladies had not come because I was not married to Henry. It was hurtful to my pride but understandable to my logic.

“She has a daughter—Jeanne—a bright child.”

“That must give her much pleasure. And her writing?”

“She will always have time for that.”

“I remember the stories of the Heptameron so well. My happiest times in France were with her.”

“I will convey your kind words to her.”

The King had called a halt to the dancing and François conducted me to Henry.

Whether François was genuinely sorry that he had not been able to give us his support and consequently we were still not married, I was not sure. One could never be entirely sure with François. But he seemed to be sincerely eager to do something to help.

Henry and I talked with him alone. He was very attentive to me and treated me with the utmost respect. He had sent me a gift of some magnificent diamonds and, apart from the fact that he had not brought the female members of his Court with him, he had behaved as though I were already Queen of England.

Frankly we discussed the divorce with him. The Pope was on the point of giving his verdict and we knew, in view of the relationship now existing between him and the Emperor, that it must be in Katharine's favor. Once that decision had been given, it would be difficult to act against it. It could only result in excommunication for Henry and myself if we went ahead with the marriage after that.

“I suggest that I send two of our Cardinals to Clement,” said François. “I will tell him that I have seen you in person and that you have agreed that the court shall be held here in France and when the verdict is given you will accept it.”

“But I will not accept it,” cried Henry hotly.

“Ah, but the whole point is the delay this will entail. It will give you time to conclude the measures you need to get the divorce declared in England, and for you to marry in the meantime. Then, whatever the decision of the court here, it will not affect you. You will already have obtained the divorce and married.”

“It seems feasible,” agreed Henry.

“We know Clement. He will seize on anything that will enable him to delay. He trembles because he fears that whatever decision is come to, he will suffer. He is afraid of you…but the Emperor is nearer at hand. He dare not offend Charles—but at the same time he does not want to offend you. You should be thankful that you have such a man to deal with.”

“There could be something in that,” Henry admitted.

We sat for a long time discussing the plan and we were both of the opinion that—for whatever reasons—François wanted to help us.

The following day there were tournaments and wrestling matches, but this time the two Kings did not attempt to wrestle with each other. They were not as agile as they had been thirteen years ago.

On the 30th of the month Henry left Calais with François. He escorted him to that point where the English dominions ended and they dismounted on French soil. They embraced like brothers—Henry told me afterward—and they vowed eternal friendship before they parted, François for Paris, Henry to join me in Calais.

We were not altogether displeased, although we had hoped to be married by now. But there was a good deal in Henry's point that the people would not have liked a marriage which had taken place in Calais. It was not fitting for a King of England to marry there. And this plan which François had put forward seemed feasible. So it had not been a wasted journey.

We now turned our faces toward home but the weather was against us. The gales had started and each day when we expected to sail we were advised not to.

We were nothing loath. We were together and there was plenty to do in Calais. In the evenings we played cards and dice. Henry lost a great deal of money to me, which seemed to amuse him. He liked me to win— and I liked winning, so we were both satisfied.

We played Pope Julius, a game which was now very fashionable at home. It was topical because of the divorce; and the various points in the game were matrimony, intrigue and pope—so it was significant and caused a great deal of amusement.

They were very pleasant days which we spent at Calais waiting for the weather to improve; and although I had not yet the legal right to call myself Queen, I felt I was in every other way.

I had rarely seen Henry so happy.

It was not until 14th of November, about a fortnight after we had said goodbye to François, that we landed at Dover.

Christmas, which had been celebrated with the customary festivities, had passed and January had come. I had made a momentous discovery. I was pregnant.

I could scarcely wait to convey the news to Henry. He was overcome with joy. I sometimes wondered whether his desire for a son surpassed that for me. The two ran very close.

“I knew it must come,” he said. “When, sweetheart? When?”

“In September, I think.”

“It is a long time to wait.”

It was the usual period, I reminded him. “And in those months there is much to be done…unless you wish your son to be born a bastard.”

He was sober at once.

“A pox on Clement,” he said. “This matter would have been settled long ere but for him.”

I agreed.

His brow was furrowed. I understood our predicament as well as he did.

Warham had, most conveniently, died during the previous August, and Cranmer was to take his place, but until he was actually installed as Archbishop of Canterbury he could not declare Henry's marriage to Katharine invalid; and until this was done we could not marry. If the Pope's court decided that Henry was indeed married to Katharine, our marriage would be invalid.

But with the child on the way, something had to be done.

Henry was torn by different emotions. Immense joy at the prospect of the child was uppermost; but he knew what effect excommunication could have and he could visualize the country rising against him—men like Fisher and More who had no fear of consequences.

But the child was on the way.

It was early morning of a day I shall never forget—25 January in the year 1533. I was told I must be in the west turret with Nan Saville in attendance.

The King was there with William Norris and my father and brother.

As soon as I entered, I saw that the King was talking earnestly to one of his chaplains, Dr. Rowland Lee, who, Henry told me afterward, had come in the belief that he was to celebrate Mass. When he was told that he was to perform a marriage ceremony, he was overcome with fear. He had to obey the King but he was in terror of offending the Pope, which he would most certainly do if he officiated at this ceremony.

Henry was exasperated but managed to control his wrath for he needed the man's help, and he was afraid he might be one of those martyrs who were ready to face any consequences rather than go against the Pope.

In order that the ceremony should go on, Henry was forced to tell him that the Pope had declared his marriage to Katharine invalid.

So, with great trepidation, and obvious uneasiness, Dr. Rowland Lee complied.

Henry and I stood hand in hand. Then he solemnly kissed me. I was Queen of England in very truth.

I was exultant. At last I had reached my goal. Once my son was born, I should be secure in my power, but for the time we must act cautiously. The wedding was a secret. Only those present knew of it. Even Cranmer was kept in the dark.

I wish I had been wiser. I wish I had been able to look ahead. I was surrounded by ill-wishers and I snapped my fingers at them. How the Queen and her daughter Mary must hate me! I had usurped Katharine's place, and through me Mary had lost her birthright. What did that proud Princess feel to be branded illegitimate?

But I did not stop to think. I was overwhelmed by the power which was in my hands. I had seen the fall of the great Cardinal—once the most powerful man in the land—and his fall was in part due to me. I had toppled him from power—that “foolish girl” at whom he had sneered.

I saw no obstacles now to my progress. Henry was my slave; and all these important men must bow to my wishes.

At last Cranmer was installed as Archbishop of Canterbury. Before taking office he had made a declaration that the oath which he was about to take in obedience to the Pope, was a matter of form, and could not bind him to act against the King or prevent his reforming anything that was amiss in the Church of England.

The matter was now getting urgent. April had come. I was four months pregnant. We had to move fast, I reminded the King—not that he needed reminding—if our child was to be acknowledged as legitimate.

Cranmer was entirely the King's man. He opened a court and gave sentence; the marriage to Katharine was invalid and the King was, in fact, married to me.

That was the signal. Now I could really come into my own. I arranged my household. I lived in the state of Queen—although to some extent I had done this before. Now all must recognize me as such.

Moreover, it was time for my coronation.

May was a beautiful month—a momentous month for me, as it was to be not so very long afterward.

I was to be crowned at Whitsun. The people loved these ceremonies even though this one was for someone of whom they could scarcely be said to approve. Still, they were determined to have their fun.

Everyone who could find a craft seemed to be on the river that day. The city merchants were out in their decorated barges, and dressed in scarlet, their heavy gold chains about their necks, they made a fine sight. The Lord Mayor, splendid in his ceremonial robes, was followed by fifty barges filled with the leading men of the city… all rowing down to Greenwich. In the leading barge—the Lord Mayor's—was a dragon which, to the amusement of the crowds on the bank, capered as the barge passed along and spat out fire—a most ingenious feat. The people laughed and cheered. The vessel I liked best was the one decorated with my device and in which were seated young girls singing sweetly of my beauty and virtues; in the midst of them sat a white falcon surrounded by red and white roses. At the foot of this was written my motto, “Me and Mine.” The white falcon was henceforth to be my device. It was taken from the Butler crest, and of course the roses indicated that my offspring would bind even closer the Houses of York and Lancaster.

I came out from Greenwich Palace at three in the afternoon, dressed in cloth of gold, and as I stepped into my barge, the trumpets sounded. This was indeed triumph.

We went up the river toward the Tower—my barge followed by members of the nobility, my father in the lead. As I approached the Tower, the guns began to sound. I alighted and was conducted to the postern gate, where Henry was waiting to greet me.

He kissed my hand, his eyes alight with pride. I was doubly dear to him because of the child I carried.

Nan Saville had wondered whether the ordeal of the coronation would be bad for me in my condition, but I told her no. I had waited years for this and I was determined to enjoy every moment.

I was to stay in the Tower for several days. There Henry knighted several people in honor of the occasion, and through those days the river was alive with craft; the sound of music was everywhere; there was singing and revelry and the streets were crowded. For these few days the people were ready to forget their animosity toward me. I might have been Nan Bullen, the King's concubine yesterday, but today I was Anne, Queen of England, and this was my coronation. These were great days for them as well as for me: a holiday with feasting, sporting, dancing, singing and general rejoicing. So therefore just for today it was “God bless Queen Anne.”

There had never been a more splendid occasion. Henry was determined that it should be so. It was more than a coronation. It was an act of defiance against the Pope. No one should gainsay Henry. He was King in his country, and his will should be law.

I was to ride through the city from the Tower to Westminster Abbey. Rails had been set up in the streets to protect the people from the horses. The Lord Mayor, Sir Stephen Peacock, received me at the Tower gate. Then came the French ambassador, the judges, the nobility and the Arch-bishop of Canterbury with the bishops. Suffolk was there as Lord High Constable of England. I wondered what he would be feeling to see me here as Queen. He had tried to destroy me and had worked hard to try to prevent my reaching this position; his wife, my one-time mistress, had refused to accept me. Poor woman, there would be no question of that now, for I had heard that she was very ill—sick unto death, they said— and even if she had wished to leave her home at Westhorpe to come to my coronation, she could not have done so.

It was strange, thinking back over all those years—but such thoughts will come on these occasions—to those days when as a little girl I had accompanied the proud beauty to France. Now I was a Queen and she was a dying woman.

I stepped into my litter. My surcoat was of silver tissue and my cloak was of the same material lined with ermine. I wore my hair flowing about my shoulders, and on my head was a circlet of rubies. My litter was made of cloth of gold, and my two palfreys, which drew it, were in white damask. They were led by sumptuously clad footmen, and the company stretched out behind me.

There were wonderful pageants on the way; we stopped to marvel at their ingenuity and to listen to the speeches of praise. One of these represented Mount Parnassus, from which sprang jets of Rhenish wine. Of course, the white falcon figured in these scenes. One was particularly effective—the falcon uncrowned in the midst of red and white roses; as I approached, an angel appeared and placed a golden crown on the falcon's head. In Cheapside the wine flowed freely—white in the conduit on one side, red on the other.

And so we progressed through the city to Westminister, where I was to spend the night with the King.

I went to bed that night exhausted, but deeply content. I reminded myself that I was not only the Queen but the idol of the people. Well… perhaps for a day or so. The joy was so exquisite that I must savor it to the full. This was no time for analyzing my thoughts and finding uneasy portents there. It was a time for absolute rejoicing, and I gave myself up to it.

The morning dawned… that day for which I had waited through the years. The first day of June. In four months’ time my joy would be complete. Then I would hold my son in my arms and I would have the King's gratitude forever. People would no longer revile me. They would realize that I, Anne Boleyn, had won the love of the King so that he had discovered his first marriage had not found favor in the sight of God. So he had married me and I was giving them their new King, thereby saving the country from split loyalties and perhaps civil war. Henry was not yet old—forty-two years of age. He had time to bring up a son to be a good King to follow him. Had it not been for this marriage and my production of the heir, what would have happened on Henry's death? The old wars of the roses might well have broken out. Any country which has endured civil war would go to any great lengths to prevent that happening again.

I was up early, ready for the great day. My ladies helped me to dress in surcoat and mantle of purple velvet lined with ermine. Then came the walk from Westminister Hall to the Abbey. The barons of the Cinque Ports held the canopy over me; the Bishops of London and Winchester walked beside me; and the ladies, led by the Duchess of Norfolk, carried my train.

I sat in a chair between the choir and the altar, and then I went to the high altar where Cranmar was waiting for me. Finally the crown of St. Edward was set on my head, and the Te Deum was sung.

The ceremony continued and afterward we left the Abbey for West-minster Hall where a banquet was being prepared. Then we sat at a table which had been decorated in a most splendid manner; we were served with twenty-seven dishes and ate to the accompaniment of music.

The King was not present. This was my occasion. He watched, he told me afterward, through a window, for he wanted to see the whole company do honor to me. I was to be the most important person at the table; and had he been there, of course, that honor would have fallen to him.

The meal went on until six o'clock, and when I had drunk from the golden cup which had been brought to me by the Mayor, I presented him with the cup as a reward for his services. I gave the canopy, with its golden bells, to the Barons of the Cinque Ports as payment for their services in accordance with custom. Then I thanked them all for what they had done for me.

Very tired, but deeply contented, I left the hall.

The great day had come to an end and I was Queen of England.