By @KngHnryVIII
It’s May, that time of year when historians and Tudor fans are reminded of the anniversary of my marriage to Anne Boleyn ending on Tower Green; and it’s only natural their thoughts turn to me, wondering, ‘how is Henry VIII doing?’
Good question. Let’s explore my pain.
As you may recall, I’d set my heart on Anne Boleyn when I first espied her in the mid-1520s. I’d fallen for her to such an alarming degree that I was willing to do two things:
- cancel her plans to marry Henry Percy, 5th Earl of Northumberland (did you honestly think that was Wolsey’s doing?)
- put aside her sister, Mary Boleyn, as my mistress
Let’s pause for a moment to recognise these steps for what they are – big. Those are two big, bold, monarch-size moves. And you might be tempted to think there would be some large rewards in store.
But no.
For even as I expressed my love through word and deed, Anne failed to present me with the hot rumpity pumpity that is usual and courteous in such situations.
She explained that all mistress-y, girlfriend-y, bedchamber-y rompityy-romps would have to wait until she became my wife. Because virtue.
Ha. No need for worry. I’d heard this codswallop before and it usually lasted a day or two until the lady’s virtue melted like a chastity belt made of sorbet in the sunlight of my ardor.
Not so with Anne. Her refusal for the old jump-and-thump went on for months. And then years. It was cruel, icy, and heart-withering.
Was I defeated? Lesser men might have been. I was not. I know what solid mental wellbeing looks like. And it looks like cheese. And cake. And wine. And more cheese.
The blows to my heart were piling up in ways that are difficult to define since you can’t actually create a pile of blows. But it feels like you can and we all know that facts are feelings.
The time came for bigger, bolder manoeuvres.
The same Pope who’d once awarded me a lovely “Defender of the Faith” trophy now refused to grant my proposed annulment with my first wife, Catherine of Aragon. Which I would have been ready to do, Anne or no Anne. Catherine’s womb, despite all promises and sacred vows and international agreements, had refused to produce a viable male heir. Meaning that they either died or were girls. Catherine had also done the disservice of becoming older and less appealing. And that’s basically treason, if we’re to be honest.
I had no choice but to engineer the first Brexit. In 1534 I broke with Rome and all its associated costs and strictures and declared myself the supreme head of my own church. I feel it’s important to point out that I did not call it The Church of Henry – could have done. Didn’t. (No one ever awards me modesty points for that one.)
Of course you know the rest of the story. Like my first wife, my second – secured at such emotional and actual cost – also failed to give me a viable heir. Okay, she gave me a girl, who I suppose I could eventually marry off to some florid French git but it’s not what I was promised or what I needed.
As if that wasn’t enough, Anne mocked my poetry.
And I have it on the word of an all-male jury at a show trial that she did loads of sleeping around, including with a musical peasant. Apparently her chastity belt was indeed one constructed of a fruity, frozen dessert when it came to other men not named Henry VIII.
I’m unclear on how many more ways my heart could have been battered, smashed, garroted, hewn into sandwich slices, and donkey-kicked by Anne Boleyn.
But somehow, I have been targeted, especially by lady historians, as “the bad guy”. Which twists a knife already drenched in rubbing alcohol.
Think of all I’ve done for lady historians – given them so much quality material to work with, which in turn has given them uni degrees, given them books, TED Talks, live video rants on Instagram, programmes on the telly box. All of which has paid for their wine, travel, jewels, and pretty hats. One would think I would be the most celebrated lady supporter in all of history. Alas, no. Must I point out their faulty thinking? Must I remind them who their true friend is? Must I sit them down and mansplain feminism?
So, yes, all right, we’ve explored my pain, but have we understood it? Have we appreciated it’s width and depth. Not bloody likely. I remain the true victim.
*Images are from the 1933 British film ‘The Private Life of Henry VIII’ starring Charles Laughton as Henry VIII and Merle Oberon as Anne Boleyn*
Are you craving more of Henry VIII’s wisdom? If you answered yes, then this is the book for you! Buy on Amazon today.
This is unbelievably good!