Wolsey decided to send two men to the Pope—Stephen Gardiner and Edward Fox. Fox was an extremely clever young man, about thirty years of age. He had been educated at Cambridge, where he had astounded his tutors with his brilliance and had been known as the wonder of the university. He was related to Richard Fox, the Bishop of Winchester, which had certainly not been a hindrance to his advancement; but Wolsey said he was a man of immense energy, ability, resource and tact; and he had those qualities which were necessary to bring this matter to a satisfactory conclusion.

Stephen Gardiner was one of Wolsey's private secretaries and like Edward Fox had shown his brilliance. He was older than Fox—I should think by at least ten years; and his birth was somewhat obscure. Some said he was connected with the Rivers family. At Cambridge he was soon noticed. He was a doctor of civil and canon law; he became a lecturer and then tutor to the son of the Duke of Norfolk, and it was Norfolk who had introduced him to Wolsey. Always on the alert for talent which he could use, Wolsey decided to employ Gardiner. And thus he was chosen with Fox for this very delicate task which was going to need the utmost tact and resourcefulness.

So together Fox and Gardiner left England, two ambitious men, fully aware of how much hung on the success of their mission.

Meanwhile there was trouble at home. War with the Emperor meant a cessation of trade with the Netherlands, and the clothiers in Suffolk lost their markets in Flanders. The Flemish too were disgruntled by the interruption the war brought to their trade with England.

Rioting broke out…fi rst in Suffolk, and then it began to spread.

Henry had a dread of losing the affection of his people. He had always known that, however powerful a monarch might be, he must never lose the approval of his subjects as a whole. Emperor Charles no more wanted war with England than Henry did with him. A truce was arranged; trade was resumed; and the rioting died down.

Henry had been very anxious to see a friendship between Wolsey and me. He made a point of the three of us supping together. He beamed on us both; he wanted the two people who were closest to his heart to be friends. There was a certain simplicity about him which was at that time endearing. It was hard to recognize in this Henry the cruel person I knew, even then, that he could be.

His affection for Thomas Wolsey showed in his voice when he addressed him. “Good Thomas,” he would say, putting his arm about the Cardinal's neck in a gesture of affection, “he will lead us through this maze.” It showed that he was capable of caring for people. I was not sure that his affection was disinterested though. He was no fool. He had been most carefully educated; he was a man of culture; and he knew Wolsey's worth. Perhaps it was for that that he loved him. And myself? Why did he love me? For the excitement I could bring? Were we loved for the pleasure we could bring him? But was that not the source of all loving? So why should I doubt Henry?

During those meetings Wolsey, because it was the King's wish, showed great deference to me and I to him; and it was amazing how some semblance of friendship grew up between us. I do not think it went very deep, but it was there on the surface for the King to see and delight in.

Wolsey had given Gardiner and Fox an account of my virtues to take to the Pope. He had been most flattering; he had also written a masterly treatise on how important it was to get a male heir, and the King's fears as to what would happen on his death if he did not leave a son to follow him. He was young yet…young enough to have a son and bring him up as a ruler. If the matter were delayed for a few years, he might no longer be young enough to get a son and give him the necessary guidance.

The spring had come and all through the days we awaited news of the mission with which Gardiner and Fox had been entrusted.

At last it came. They had made some progress, and the Pope now realized the King's predicament. Clement wanted to help, so he was sending Cardinal Lorenzo Campeggio to England, and he, together with Cardinal Wolsey, should try the case.

It was not what he had hoped, but it was something.

The King was eager for the court to be set up immediately, but before this could be done calamity struck us.

The sweating sickness came to England.

The dread disease struck terror in everyone. It spread rapidly through the country and into the towns. It was dangerous to be in the company of anyone who had suffered from it because it was so infectious; and one could never be sure where it would strike. If anyone in a household contracted it, it was necessary that no one should leave or enter that house.

I decided that the best thing I could do was go to Hever. Henry was all in favor of this for he was terrified that I should catch the disease. He himself would leave London and travel with a depleted entourage about the country, for the country was always less dangerous than the crowded towns.

So I returned to Hever.

On my first night there, I awoke feeling alternately hot and cold. I touched my face. It was wet. I tried to sit up but I had not the strength to do so. My nightgown clung damply to my skin, and a fearful lassitude had taken possession of my limbs.

I do not remember very much of the days which followed. I saw vague figures in the room and recognized that of my stepmother. Occasionally my thoughts were lucid. Then I said to myself: So this is the end of all my dreams of glory. I shall never be Queen of England. I am to die, as so many have before me, of the sweating sickness. The Queen will be pleased, and the King…he will love me forever because I am dead.

They were strange thoughts but I must have been near delirium.

Later—it must have been much later for I had lost count of time—I was lying on my bed aware of my damp sheets and pillows; they changed them frequently but they were always damp. I heard them speaking about the crisis. So they would soon know whether I was to live or die.

In that strange state of being in limbo as though suspended between two worlds, I was not sure which way I wanted to go. I was vaguely aware of a crown for which I was reaching… and on the other hand there was a delicious peace which seemed to me infinitely more desirable.

I learned later on that they were all convinced that I would succumb to the sickness as so many had before me. My stepmother called it a miracle that, when the crisis was over, I was still with them.

I was aware of a man standing by my bed. I heard my stepmother's voice. “The King has sent him, darling. He will make you well.”

So …I was not to die. I was too weak to move but no longer affected by the dreaded sweat. I could recover.

My stepmother was ever at hand, bringing me soothing possets from which I turned away until she begged me to take them for love of her.

“The King is beside himself with anxiety, Anne,” she said. “You must recover for his sake. He has sent his physician, the great Dr. Butts. Dr. Butts says, if aught happens to you, he would not dare to return and face the King's wrath. So you must try, sweetheart. You must get well for all our sakes.”

Dr. Butt commended my stepmother for her care of me. She had nursed me not only tenderly but wisely. Rest was what was needed now—and nourishment. “The Lady Anne is strong and healthy,” he said. “We shall soon have her well again and gracing the Court.”

My stepmother told me that the King was still wandering around the country with a small company of courtiers. If there was the slightest hint of the sickness near any place, he avoided it.

“The greatest calamity to the country would be if aught happened to him,” she said.

She read me the letter which he had sent with Dr. Butts. It was all that I could have wished for.

The most displeasing news that could occur came to me suddenly at night. On three accounts I must lament it. One to hear of the illness of my mistress, whom I esteem more than all the world, and whose health I desire as I do my own. I would willingly bear half of what you suffer to cure you. The second from the fear that I shall have to endure my wearisome absence much longer, which has hitherto given me all the vexation that was possible. The third because my physician, in whom I have the most confidence, is absent at the very time when he could have given me the greatest pleasure. But I hope by him and his means to obtain one of my chief joys on earth, that is, the cure of my mistress. Yet, from the want of him, I will send you my second and hope that he will soon make you well. I shall then love him more than ever. I beseech you to be guided by his advice in your illness. By your doing this, I hope to see you soon again, which will be to me a greater comfort than all the precious jewels in the world.

Written by that secretary who is, and forever will be, your loyal and most assured servant. H.R.

“What a beautiful letter,” said my stepmother. “How he loves you!

Who would have thought that a King could care so much!” I put out my hand; she took it and kissed it. “Thank you,” I said, “for all you have done for me.” “My dearest child,” she replied, “it has given me great joy to be of service. As for what I have done, you must repay me by getting well. I long to see you on your feet again.”

My stepmother had kept disturbing news from me, and I was dismayed to hear that my brother had taken the sickness—so had my father. They had both recovered before I was told. Mary's husband, Will Carey, had not been so fortunate. Mary was now a widow.

She came to Hever in some distress, not knowing where else she could go.