don’t trust him...”
“Then who am I to trust?” Henry demanded. “Who is to deal with Rome if he does not?”
“He’ll deal with Rome,” she said. “He’ll dally and make difficulties in the hope you’ll sicken of me in time and come round to his way again.”
Then Henry smiled at her, a triumphant smile. She was sometimes right too often and it irritated him, but now he had her. His temper was soothed at once.
“You think too fast and too crookedly, sweet,” he said mockingly. “And you underestimate the Cardinal. If he dallies and makes difficulties, he’ll lose his head and he knows it. He knows my mind and he’s wise enough not to balk me. You’ve said often enough that he ruled me, and you know how that angers me. Say it no more, for I’ve proved it’s a lie. Wolsey himself suggested sending Bishop Gardiner and Dr. Foxe to Rome to see Clement and obtain a commission from him to try the divorce in England. Now tell me he’s trying to thwart my will!”
She retorted with a mock curtsy, pinning her plaits into place with a jeweled pin, and then she came close to him and put her arms round his waist and her head against his chest.
“I thank God,” she said gently. “And I pray him to help us, with Wolsey or without. But to please you, Harry, I won’t speak against him till we see how he conducts this matter and keeps his promises. It may be that he’s true at last; he said the fairest words on his tongue to me today.”
Perhaps Wolsey was genuine, she mused; perhaps he was so afraid of her and so alarmed by the King’s change of attitude that he was prepared to alter his whole policy and follow theirs...Henry believed so, and she knew that he was seldom mistaken. If it was true, the anticlerical party who supported her would be furious; they were hoping for Wolsey’s dismissal within the next few months. Well, they would have to wait, she decided. The devil take them. If she needed Wolsey to become Queen, Wolsey must remain till his turn was served. Afterward...afterward they should have their victim and so would she. And so would Henry Percy, who was reputed to be living so unhappily with his wife that they were separated. He was subject to fits of epilepsy...His marriage—as Agnes Throgmorton, one of Catherine’s ladies, said in her hearing—his marriage to that shrew Mary Talbot had broken his health.
It was a long time ago, Anne thought, with her cheek against Henry’s silk doublet and her eyes closed; a very long time since the days Percy had held her in his arms and begged her to marry him, and now an unbridgeable gulf separated them. They had nothing to say to each other. He was a wreck of a man, nervous and violent and near to feeble-mindedness at times, while she was the most powerful woman in England, who was expected to marry the King.
There was nothing left but some tiny core of regret which throbbed when they met; he would flush and stammer and his hands would shake, and she would smile and say something and pass on. Though there was no future for them with each other anymore, the memory of the past remained. There were times when the past seemed sweeter than the present, when she remembered her early years in France with a gay and brilliant court, and her return to England, ready for marriage and children, like her friends.
Percy had offered her both; he was the only one who had, besides the King, she thought suddenly. He could have made her happy then, but now it was too late. Now marriage and domesticity were impossible. If she had changed Henry, as her enemies said, then Henry had changed her. She was suspicious and on edge, and the struggle to keep her position had made her fierce and ruthless. Sexually the King was coarse and brutal, so in that too she had become debased. The Cardinal had set her life on its present course and there was no turning back.
“Why are you laughing, Nan?”
Henry could feel her shaking against him. Sometimes she laughed for no reason,
“Then who am I to trust?” Henry demanded. “Who is to deal with Rome if he does not?”
“He’ll deal with Rome,” she said. “He’ll dally and make difficulties in the hope you’ll sicken of me in time and come round to his way again.”
Then Henry smiled at her, a triumphant smile. She was sometimes right too often and it irritated him, but now he had her. His temper was soothed at once.
“You think too fast and too crookedly, sweet,” he said mockingly. “And you underestimate the Cardinal. If he dallies and makes difficulties, he’ll lose his head and he knows it. He knows my mind and he’s wise enough not to balk me. You’ve said often enough that he ruled me, and you know how that angers me. Say it no more, for I’ve proved it’s a lie. Wolsey himself suggested sending Bishop Gardiner and Dr. Foxe to Rome to see Clement and obtain a commission from him to try the divorce in England. Now tell me he’s trying to thwart my will!”
She retorted with a mock curtsy, pinning her plaits into place with a jeweled pin, and then she came close to him and put her arms round his waist and her head against his chest.
“I thank God,” she said gently. “And I pray him to help us, with Wolsey or without. But to please you, Harry, I won’t speak against him till we see how he conducts this matter and keeps his promises. It may be that he’s true at last; he said the fairest words on his tongue to me today.”
Perhaps Wolsey was genuine, she mused; perhaps he was so afraid of her and so alarmed by the King’s change of attitude that he was prepared to alter his whole policy and follow theirs...Henry believed so, and she knew that he was seldom mistaken. If it was true, the anticlerical party who supported her would be furious; they were hoping for Wolsey’s dismissal within the next few months. Well, they would have to wait, she decided. The devil take them. If she needed Wolsey to become Queen, Wolsey must remain till his turn was served. Afterward...afterward they should have their victim and so would she. And so would Henry Percy, who was reputed to be living so unhappily with his wife that they were separated. He was subject to fits of epilepsy...His marriage—as Agnes Throgmorton, one of Catherine’s ladies, said in her hearing—his marriage to that shrew Mary Talbot had broken his health.
It was a long time ago, Anne thought, with her cheek against Henry’s silk doublet and her eyes closed; a very long time since the days Percy had held her in his arms and begged her to marry him, and now an unbridgeable gulf separated them. They had nothing to say to each other. He was a wreck of a man, nervous and violent and near to feeble-mindedness at times, while she was the most powerful woman in England, who was expected to marry the King.
There was nothing left but some tiny core of regret which throbbed when they met; he would flush and stammer and his hands would shake, and she would smile and say something and pass on. Though there was no future for them with each other anymore, the memory of the past remained. There were times when the past seemed sweeter than the present, when she remembered her early years in France with a gay and brilliant court, and her return to England, ready for marriage and children, like her friends.
Percy had offered her both; he was the only one who had, besides the King, she thought suddenly. He could have made her happy then, but now it was too late. Now marriage and domesticity were impossible. If she had changed Henry, as her enemies said, then Henry had changed her. She was suspicious and on edge, and the struggle to keep her position had made her fierce and ruthless. Sexually the King was coarse and brutal, so in that too she had become debased. The Cardinal had set her life on its present course and there was no turning back.
“Why are you laughing, Nan?”
Henry could feel her shaking against him. Sometimes she laughed for no reason,
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