Prologue
September 1530
Hampton Court
Mary observed her sister’s growing agitation. She would pace a while, sit, embroider, then be about on her feet again. She was a strange concoction of nerves and fury. ‘Why do you look at me?’ questioned Anne, as she glared at Mary.
‘I worry for you,’ Mary replied simply.
Anne nodded as if distracted once more. ‘This is unbearable.’
‘Why allow Father to pressure you?’ Mary pleaded. ‘This is his revenge.’
‘Aye, for he knows the Cardinal’s punishment if I lose Henry’s devotion! I must separate him from Henry once and for all.’
‘What if he should side with Wolsey?’
‘How you would revel in my disgrace!’ Anne spat.
‘Calm yourself.’ Jane placed an arm about her sister-in-law, reminding Anne of her presence. ‘Wolsey has condemned himself. The King will side with you.’
‘It is not that which concerns me, it is that my existence is the only reason why Henry leaves his wife. Should I not exist, Henry would remain and would perhaps still love her!’ Tears began to fall revealing the true distress in her heart. ‘Katherine would remain next to Henry, my Henry.’ Mary remained silent, unable to reassure. ‘She condemns me to her own misery,’ Anne continued. ‘I would see myself burned before denying him any happiness.’
‘Come along, the King is expecting you,’ spoke Mary. ‘The turmoil you’re exhibiting will displease him. Be of peace.’
Anne gave a defeated sigh. ‘I’ve condemned myself, my heart, my soul, my sanity.’
Henry’s own happy countenance changed on seeing Anne and became serious. ‘What is this?’ he questioned her cold aura and reddened eyes.
‘Have you not heard, Sire?’ Anne queried with a renewed fire in her eyes. ‘Rome has it on good authority that should the Pope excommunicate you, you will return to Katherine.’ Henry snorted with contempt. ‘If that approach fails, then Rome has been instructed to support an invasion of England by the Spanish in support of Katherine. They have been reassured; however, it will not come to that. I quote, “Once the concubine is removed from the King of England’s company, his better judgement shall return and he shall be about his wife once more.”’
Henry was white. ‘Who doth advise the Pope?’ he asked while receiving the copied letter.
‘Cardinal Wolsey, who else?’
‘These are letters between Katherine and Wolsey?’ Henry said out loud, trying to make sense of it.
‘Aye, printed about the French court.’
Henry knitted his brow; he thought on the betrayal with bemusement. His slowness to react, however, caused an explosion of temper within Anne.
‘Every injury! Every truth, there be a traitor! Wolsey has stalled, debated, questioned and deliberated, he! Who has the highest authority on such a subject finds himself impotent to act! A man who has direct communication to the Pope is unable to summons an answer! Oh Henry, do not speak in his cause!’ She silenced him with ease; he was uncomfortable when she cried. ‘He thinks your passions be base, that I, a concubine, a whore hath persuaded you to commit a sin against God. Tell me, Sir, what is my sin? I fought for my honour as the Church commands and yet it is quick to condemn me for my virtue. If ever there was a contradiction, an injustice of judgement, it is here! For the holy Cardinal has a woman and has sired children, his human weakness is not condemned! Nor is his corpulent greed at your expense. The council distrusts him, Parliament despises him and the public mock us because he inspires them to do so.’ Anne let out a cry. ‘He has betrayed us, for all of Europe believe I am nothing to you, that your passions are a dying amber, soon to be left in the grate to go out …’
Henry rushed to Anne to comfort her and Mary caught Jane’s eye.
‘No! He shall not cause this disquiet within your breast!’ Henry answered. ‘I’ll sign an arrest warrant for Wolsey: he has betrayed me.’
‘Merciful Prince, secure my belief that I am to be your wife for reasons of love betwixt us.’
‘Aye, aye, it is to be, my sweetheart,’ Henry promised with growing passion.
‘Perhaps Henry Percy should make the arrest,’ she suggested with sudden thought.
Henry stilled his ardour and thought a moment. ‘As you wish,’ he slowly agreed. ‘I see your eyes be dry now, Mistress,’ he noted with suspicion.
‘Justice, My Lord,’ answered Anne.
‘Vengeance,’ replied Henry.
March 1539
Kent
Some are snared by fate. When our downfall comes, our torturous minds seek the cause and he was no different. Though no amount of recollection could change his reality. It was done, he thought while retaining an all-consuming dark emotion of regret. Morality can only be born from honest faith and his faith was lost.
The cold air numbed his skin but internally he felt no temperature, no exhaustion. The suffering was within, convulsing, conflicting and turbulent.
He confronted his grief as if afresh. The exertion of justifying his part in their deaths was wearisome but he had to defend his motivations. How many of us can say we have lived without error of judgement? How many of us consider our actions before they are taken?
He pondered to quell the foreboding sense of blame. How would he be judged? Again and again he thought, searching his memory, justifying his conduct. He attempted to divert his conscience away from fault but that weighty emotion returned to lay heavy within him.
His horse was beginning to tire beneath him; he had to reach his home soon. He punished the stallion with extra exertions. The horse, being loyal to its master, strained to obey and kept up the gruelling pace. ‘Not long,’ he spoke, attempting to reassure the beast. ‘We’re not far.’
Nothing though could ease his own plight; he cursed himself for not objecting. The horse could stop if it was so tender and weak — why doesn’t it stop? No, nothing could persuade him to release his remorse, though there were defences. There were reasons for his collusion, but he put them aside. Dark thoughts clouded his senses. Only death would answer his fears.
The ride had been tiring and taken longer than he had anticipated but Thomas Boleyn, Earl of Wiltshire, had arrived home to Hever. As the horse trotted its way into the courtyard, Thomas glanced at his castle with fondness and familiarity. The servants rushed around him, taking his satchel from his horse, aiding him through to the comfortable dwelling behind. The stable boys cooled the horse and led it away, but all the commotion seemed distant, as though Thomas no longer participated with the living — as though he was observing from far away.
‘I thought you would send for me?’ spoke John Robson, his servant.
‘I knew the ride could be done, make no fuss.’ Thomas dismissed his concern and carried on walking into his Great Hall, where much had been celebrated and commiserated over the years.
Little time had passed when another set of galloping hooves could be heard thundering across the drawbridge and into the courtyard. John grabbed his master as Thomas attempted to swing around to view the scene behind him, but staggered. Robson hurried to hold his master upright.
‘Who is that, Robson?’ enquired Thomas, unable to focus.
‘Archbishop Cranmer,’ he calmly replied while instinctively sensing an uneasy foreboding.
‘Ah!’ yelled Thomas. ‘I told him! I told him, I needed no aid!’ His rage was such to cower anyone but the intimidation was diminished by his stooped, thinning figure.
‘If I take you to rest in your chamber, Cranmer can sit with you a while,’ Robson suggested.
‘Aye, I knew he was following me,’ Thomas said with a defeated tone.
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