lifetime’s tradition. He was afraid of God’s wrath, although he did not fear the vacillating Clement. He had been proud of his title “Defender of the Faith.” Who was it who had written the most brilliant denouncement of Luther? Henry of England. How could he then overthrow that which he had so ardently defended!
Cromwell had talked slyly and persuasively for if he would keep in favor, this matter of the divorce must be settled, and he saw no way of settling it but this. He explained this was nothing to do with Lutherism; the religion of the country remained the same; it was merely the headship of the church that was involved. Was it not more seemly that a nation’s great good King should lead its Church?
Henry tried to justify this procedure morally. Once he had made a case for the breakaway, it would be done. Warham had died at the most convenient moment; that was a sign perhaps. Who better to head a country’s Church than its King! Anne was pregnant. This was a sign. He must have the divorce if he was to legitimize Anne’s child. The time was short. There was no longer occasion for conferences, for shilly-shallying. Sir Thomas More, a few months previously, had retired from the office of Chancellor. More had ever been one to discountenance Henry. He liked the man, he could not help it, but he had been rather shaken when More had said, on taking office, that he would “first look unto God and after God to his Prince,” for that was a most uncomfortable thing for a minister to say; but More was an uncomfortable man; he was beloved by the people, he was honest, religious in that true sense to which so few do, or even try to attain. He had calmly walked out and gone home to his family and friends; he begged to be allowed to do this on the plea of ill health, and Henry had to accept that plea; but he had always liked the man, and he knew his lack of ease was more mental than bodily. More could not reconcile himself to the divorce; that was why he had resigned and gone to the peace of his Chelsea home. The King had outwardly taken his resignation in good part; he had visited Chelsea; but at the same time he was disturbed on More’s account, since More was known as a good man, and the King would have preferred him to be less arbitrary.
Cromwell was whispering in the King’s ear. Cromwell was smart; Cromwell was cunning; any delicate job could be left to Cromwell.
Divorce! Why divorce? When a marriage has not been valid, what need of divorce? He had never been married to Katharine! She was his brother’s wife, and therefore the ceremony was illegal.
Henry dared delay no longer. Anne’s child must be legitimate. So, on a January day, he summoned one of his chaplains to a quiet attic of White Hall, and when the chaplain arrived, he found there—much to his astonishment, for he had been told he was merely to celebrate mass—the King attended by two grooms of the chamber, one of them being that Norris whose sympathy for Wolsey had lightened the Cardinal’s last hours. The chaplain had not been there more than a few minutes when who should arrive but the Marchioness of Pembroke accompanied by Anne Saville!
The King then took the chaplain aside, and told him he would be required to marry him to the Marchioness.
The chaplain began to tremble at this, looking fearfully about him, at which the King stamped impatiently. Greatly did the chaplain fear the King, but more so did he fear Rome. Henry, seeing himself in a quandary, hastily told the man that the Pope had granted the divorce, and he need fear nothing. The ceremony was over before the light of morning, and all the party went secretly away.
Henry was disturbed and not a little alarmed; he had done a bold thing, and not even Cranmer knew he had intended to do it in this way. For, by marrying Anne as he had, he had irrevocably broken with Rome and placed himself at the head of the English Church. The Council could do nothing but accept this state of affairs; Henry was their King. But what of the people, that growling mass of the populace who had come through pestilence and poverty, and were less inclined to bend the knee than his courtiers? In the streets they murmured against Anne. Some murmured against the King.
If the King trembled, Anne was triumphant. She was Queen after four years of waiting; Queen of England. Already she carried the King’s child within her. She was mentally exhausted by the long struggle, and only now did she realize what a struggle it had been, what nervous energy she had put into maintaining it, how she had feared she would never reach this pinnacle of power. She could now relax and remember that she was to be a mother. Love was not to be denied her then. She carried a child, and the child would inherit the throne of England. She slept peacefully, dreaming the child—a son—was already born, that her attendants laid it in her arms; and her heart was full of love for this unborn child. “September!” she said on waking. “But September is such a long way off!”
George Boleyn was preparing for a journey; he would leave the palace before dawn. Jane came gliding to him as he buttoned his coat.
“George . . . where are you going?”
“A secret mission,” he said.
“So early?”
“So early.”
“Could I not accompany you?”
He did not answer such folly.
“George, is it very secret? Tell me where you go.”
He contemplated her; he always felt more kindly towards her when he was going to leave her.
“It is a secret, so if I tell you, you must keep it entirely to yourself.”
She clasped her hands, feeling suddenly happy because he smiled in such a friendly way.
“I will, George! I swear I will! I can see it is good news.”
“The best!”
“Tell me quickly, George.”
“The King and Anne were married this morning. I go to carry the news to the King of France.”
“The King . . . married to Anne! But the Pope has not given the divorce, so how can that be possible?”
“With God—and the King—all things are possible.”
She was silent, not wishing to spoil this slight friendliness he was showing towards her.
“So you are the Queen’s brother now, George, and I am her sister-in-law.”
