|"She hath miscarried of her Saviour."|
|"You'll get no more sons from ME." Yes, Anne, that means things are very bad indeed.|
He was scathing in his dismissal of her shortly afterwards.
Worse, his eye was wandering in a way Anne Boleyn surely recognized - that same wandering eye brought her to him.
|"Henry, are you f*cking kidding me? Really? Jane f*cking Seymour?"|
|Mea culpa, mea culpa|
and winning back the king's affection, she turned spiteful and played games with the men of the court's very innermost circle.
|Fiddle-dee-dee! I swear, I don't know which of you courtiers is the handsomest! I was awake all night trying to decide. . .|
And while Anne Boleyn's guard should have been up, it seems she couldn't tell if she were simply jumping at shadows or if it was really as bad as she feared.
|No. It's much, much worse.|
The factions at court whom she'd left politically bruised began circling.
They were joined by those whom she'd squelched over religion.
|I never forget a thing I've been told, nor an action I've seen.|
|That's Uncle Enemy to you, Anne.|
And then there were all those spiteful frenemies who lined up to spew their 'dirt' on her, all the while maintaining a wide-eyed innocence as though their ladylike sensibilities were shocked by the queen's vulgar actions.
|"I can hardly bear to repeat what I've seen . . . no, wait, I'll tell you a bunch of shit about her, and I'll make stuff up, too."|
It was a month when the rumour mills worked overtime, when the king openly dandled a mistress/queen in waiting on his knee, when the queen made a fatal flirtatious quip to a courtier, telling him if something happened to the king, that same courtier would want to have her, when the king's man Cromwell vacuumed up every and any tidbit of gossip about the queen.
Such a pretty month, too; when the earth throws off winter's last frost and warmed under the sun, gives off the smell of newly-turned soil and delicate green shoots appear almost overnight with the promise of wildflowers and berries.
Anne Boleyn was still able to go through the motions at court in April, 1536 - but with an unsettled feeling that something was not quite right.
TS Eliot was onto something when he wrote, "April is the cruelest month."