“My smiles! Bah! If I smiled too warmly then ’twas because I compared him with you and was happy in the comparing.”
Henry was overjoyed.
“I declare he puts on years as one would put on state robes; he is weighed down with them. I never thought him handsome. . . .”
“Debauchery is apparent in his face,” said Anne.
Henry’s prudish little mouth lifted into a smile.
“I would not care to own his reputation!”
Then she amused him with an imitation of the French King, recounting what he had said and what she had answered; and the King laughed and was very happy with her.
In the morning Francis sent Anne a jewel as a gift. Henry examined it, was delighted with its worth, and jealous that it had not come from himself.
He gave her more jewelery; he gave of his own and Katharine’s and even his sister’s, Mary of Suffolk. The King was more deeply in love than ever.
When it was time for them to leave Calais there was a high wind and it was unsafe to cross the Channel. Anne was reminded of that stay at Dover; but then she had been a seven-year-old girl of no importance whatever, trying to listen to those about her and learn something of life. Pleasant it was to think back, when one had come so far.
They beguiled the days with dice and cards, at which the King lost heavily and Anne almost always won; nor did it matter if she lost, for the King would pay her debts. One of the players was a handsome young man named Francis Weston for whom Anne conceived a genuine liking, and he for her. They played by day and danced at night; they were hilarious over the cards; there was much fun to be had at “Pope Julius,” the favorite game of the court, with its allusions to matrimony, intrigue and the Pope—they all found it so apt in view of the pending divorce. Thus passed the days, with Anne happier than she had been since deciding to occupy the throne, more secure, more content.
The old year was dying, and Christmas came. Still the Pope was adamant; still action hung fire. Four years ago Anne had become the King’s mistress, and now, at Christmas of the year 1532, still she waited to be his Queen.
She was pale and listless.
“Does aught ail thee, sweetheart?” the King asked her.
“Much ails me,” she told him.
The King was alarmed.
“Darling, tell me instantly. I would know what is wrong, and right it.”
She said very clearly: “I fear he who should follow Your Majesty as King of England will after all be but a bastard.”
Henry was beside himself with the importance of this news. Anne was pregnant! A son was what he wanted more than anything—next to Anne herself—on Earth. Anne, who should have been the Queen long ere this—and had they married she would have given him a son by now, for it had ever been her wish that no children should be born to them until she was Queen—Anne was with child. His child! His
“And by God,” said the King, “he shall be!” Now he was all tenderness, all loving care; that body which sheltered his son had become doubly precious. “Fret not, sweetheart. Be done with fretting for evermore. I declare I’ll endure this delay no longer. I’ll be cut free from that canting Pope, or, by God, much blood will flow!”
Anne could smile; this was the happiest thing that could have happened; this would decide him. She was determined that her son should be born in wedlock; and so was Henry.
Well he remembered how he had looked with something like fury on his son, the Duke of Richmond—that fine boy so like himself, who, had he been born of Katharine instead of Elizabeth Blount, would have spared him much heart-burning. No! There should be no repetition of that!
He called Cromwell to him; he would see Cranmer; he would leave nothing undone, no way out unexplored. Divorce he must have, and quickly, for Anne was pregnant with a son.
Henry’s determination was vital; it swept all opposition before it; none who valued his future, or his head, dared go against him, whilst those who worked with him and were blessed with success were sure of favor.
Warham had died in August, and who should replace him but Cranmer, the man who, when the idea of divorce was first being considered, had the right sow by the ear! The Archbishopric of Canterbury could therefore be placed in good hands. Then Cromwell: Cromwell’s daring scheme of separating England from Rome, which had on first hearing seemed too wild to be put into action, now presented itself as the only sure solution. Cromwell, unlike so many, suffered not at all from a superstitious dread of consequences; he was not by any means scrupulous; he could bring in evidence against Rome as fast as his master cared to receive it. What had Henry to lose by the separation? he demanded of his King. And see what he had to gain!
Henry’s eyes glistened, contemplating the dissolution of those storehouses of treasure, the monasteries . . . treasures which would naturally be thrown into the King’s chests. The state would be free of Rome; it would be strong, beholden to no one. Moreover, free from the Pope, why should Henry care for his verdict on the divorce? Henry, all-powerful, might make his own divorce! The Continent, in the grip of the reformation, had weakened the Church. Everywhere in Europe men were challenging the Pope’s authority; a new religion was springing up. It was simple; it merely meant that the headship was transferred from the Pope to Henry. Henry had hesitated, turning this truly delightful plan over and over in his mind. He had to consider his conscience, which troubled him incessantly. He was afraid of isolation. How would it affect him politically? Wolsey—the wisest man he had ever known—would have opposed Cromwell’s scheme; he did not like Cromwell, he considered him a knave. Was Cromwell right? Could Cromwell be trusted? Cromwell might be a knave, but was he a wise man?
Henry shilly-shallied. He had always considered his accession to be influenced by the Holy See, and through the Holy See, by God; but he was ever ready to support an idea he liked. He was superstitious to a great degree; he had looked upon the Pope as holy; it was not easy for a superstitious man with a conscience to overthrow a
