Anne Saville could not take her eyes from the headless figure on the page.
“The book is a foolish book, a bauble. I am resolved that my issue shall be royal, Nan . . .” She added: “. . . whatever may become of me!”
“Then your ladyship is very brave.”
“Nan! Nan! What a little fool you are! To believe a foolish book!”
If Anne Saville was very quiet all that day as though her thoughts troubled her, Lady Anne Rochford was especially gay, though she did not regard the book as lightly as she would have those about her suppose. She did not wish to give her enemies the satisfaction of knowing that she was disturbed. For one thing was certain in her mind—she was surrounded by her enemies who would undermine her security in every possible way; and this little matter of the book was but one of those ways. An enemy had put the book where she might see it, hoping thereby to sow fear in her mind. What a hideous idea! To cut off her head!
She was nervous; her dreams were disturbed by that picture in the book. She watched those about her suspiciously, seeking her enemies. The Queen, the Princess, the Duke and Duchess of Suffolk, the Cardinal . . . all of the most important in the land. Who else? Who had brought the book into her chamber?
Those about her would be watching everything she did; listening to everything she said. She felt very frightened. Once she awoke trembling in a cold sweat; she had dreamed that Wolsey was standing before her, holding an axe, and the blade was turned towards her. The King lay beside her, and terrified, she awoke him.
“I had an evil dream . . .”
“Dreams are nothing, sweetheart.”
She would not let him dismiss her dream so. She would insist that he put his arms about her, assure her of his undying love for her.
“For without your love, I should die,” she told him. He kissed her tenderly and soothed her.
“As I should, without yours.”
“Nothing could hurt you,” she said.
“Nothing could hurt you, sweetheart, since I am here to take care of you.”
“There are many who are jealous of your love for me, who seek to destroy me.” She blurted out the story of her finding the book.
“The knave who printed it shall hang, darling. We’ll have his head on London Bridge. Thus shall people see what happens to those who would frighten my sweetheart.”
“This you say, but will you do it, when you suffer those who hate me, to enjoy your favor?”
“Never should any who hated you receive my favor!”
“I know of one.”
“Oh, darling, he is an old, sick man. He wishes you no ill. . . .”
“No!” she cried fiercely. “Has he not fought against us consistently! Has he not spoken against us to the Pope! I know of those who will confirm this.”
She was trembling in his arms, for she felt his reluctance to discuss the Cardinal.
“I fear for us both,” she said. “How can I help but fear for you too, when I love you! I have heard much of his wickedness. There is his Venetian physician, who has been to me. . . .”
“What!” cried the King.
“But no more! You think so highly of him that you will see him my enemy, and leave him to go unpunished. He is in York, you say. Let him rest there! He is banished from Westminster; that is enough. So in York he may pursue his wickedness and set the people against me, since he is of more importance to you than I am.”
“Anne, Anne, thou talkest wildly. Who could be of more importance to me than thou?”
“Your late chancellor, my lord Cardinal Wolsey!” she retorted. She was seized with a wild frenzy, and drew his face close to hers and kissed him, and spoke to him incoherently of her love and devotion, which touched him deeply; and out of his tenderness for her grew passion such as he had rarely experienced before, and he longed to give her all that she asked, to prove his love for her and to keep her loving him thus.
He said: “Sweetheart, you talk with wildness!”
“Yes,” she said, “I talk with wildness; it is only your beloved Cardinal who talks with good sense. I can see that I must not stay here. I will go away. I have lost those assets which were dearer to me than aught else—my virtue, my honor. I shall leave you. This is the last night I shall lie in your arms, for I see that I am ruined, that you cannot love me.”
Henry could always be moved to terror when she talked of leaving him; before he had given her Suffolk House, she had so often gone back and forth to Hever. The thought of losing her was more than he could endure; he was ready to offer her Wolsey if that was the price she asked.
He said: “Dost think I should allow thee to leave me, Anne?”
She laughed softly. “You might force me to stay; you could force me to share your bed!” Again she laughed. “You are big and strong, and I am but weak. You are a king and I am a poor woman who from love of you has given you her honor and her virtue. . . . Yes, doubtless you could force me to stay, but though you should do this, you would but keep my body; my love, though it has destroyed me, would be lost to you.”
“You shall not talk thus! I have never known happiness such as I have enjoyed with you. Your virtue . . . your honor! My God, you talk foolishly, darling! Shall you not be my Queen?”
“You have said so these many years. I grow weary of waiting. You surround yourself with those who hinder you rather than help. I have proof that the Cardinal is one of these. “
“What proof?” he demanded.
