by Karen Davies | Nov 22, 2025 | Blog, History
Did Henry VIII Try to Erase Anne Boleyn From History?
The Primary Sources Say Yes — And the Usual Excuses Don’t Hold Up.
A popular new argument insists Henry VIII didn’t try to erase Anne Boleyn, that dismantling her household, removing her badges, and burying her quietly were simply “standard protocol” for a disgraced queen.
But when you return to the documents written in May 1536, by ambassadors, clerks, bishops and royal administrators, a different picture emerges.
Henry VIII didn’t just execute Anne Boleyn.
He tried to eliminate her memory.
1. Her badges and monograms weren’t removed — they were destroyed
On the very day of her execution, 19 May 1536, Imperial Ambassador Eustace Chapuys reported:
“The King has already caused her badges and arms to be taken down and effaced in all the places where they were.”
— Chapuys to Charles V, 19 May 1536, CSP Spain, vol. 6
“Effaced” means chiselled off stone, scraped from ceilings, hacked out of woodwork, a deliberate, physical purge.
Henry did not do this to the emblems of Catherine of Aragon, Anne of Cleves, or Katherine Howard. Their symbols remained visible long after their falls.
2. Her imagery disappears from royal inventories
Later Crown inventories record:
“Item: sundry hangings lately belonging to the late Queen are not now found.”
— Letters & Papers, vol. xi, no. 1040
When items and artworks associated with Anne vanish from the record, someone removed them.
3. Her household was broken up before she legally ceased to be queen
Clerks noted in early May 1536:
“The Queen’s ladies are discharged and her household dissolved.”
— LP x.972
“Her servants to repair elsewhere, the Queen’s estate being determined.”
— LP x.994
This happened before her trial, annulment, or execution, when she was still legally Queen of England.
4. The annulment reveals Henry’s intention — historical deletion
On 17 May 1536, two days before Anne’s execution, Archbishop Cranmer annulled the marriage, declaring it invalid from the start.
“We pronounce and declare the marriage… to be invalid and of no force.”
— Cranmer’s Sentence, LP x.911
The annulment served one purpose: to erase Anne’s queenship from the historical, dynastic, and legal record, to make her a queen who “never was.”
5. Her burial was designed to silence, not commemorate
Tower records note she was buried:
“The body of the said Anne was buried… without pomp.”
— LP x.911
Wriothesley adds she was placed amongst others “without any mark,” and that:
“her body was put into an elm chest which was made to put bow-staves in, and was buried without any other ceremony.”
— Charles Wriothesley, A Chronicle of England, vol. 1, p. 41
Anne had been an anointed queen, yet she was buried without monument, inscription, or even a coffin.
6. The survival of private objects doesn’t disprove erasure
Anne’s Books of Hours and the book George Boleyn gave her at Alnwick endure only because they were already outside royal hands when she fell.
The Pattern Is Too Consistent to Ignore
A queen’s historical existence is normally secured through:
- her heraldry
- her official portraits
- her badges in royal palaces
- her household and inventories
- her legally recognised marriage
- her tomb and epitaph
Anne Boleyn lost all of these in May 1536.
Not because Henry remarried. Not because punishment required it. Not because protocol demanded it.
But because Henry VIII behaved as though she had never existed, and wanted history to do the same.
Her unmarked grave remains the final, brutal proof.
So what do you think?
Was Anne Boleyn the most deliberately erased queen in English history, or was Henry VIII simply rewriting an inconvenient past?
Ask me anything about Anne Boleyn.
by Karen Davies | Oct 22, 2025 | Blog, History, Writing
“It is neither safe nor right to go against conscience. Here I stand; I can do no other. God help me. Amen.”
— Martin Luther, Diet of Worms (1521)
The word occult comes from the Latin occultus – meaning hidden.
It speaks of what lies beyond sight: the unseen world, the life beyond this one, the forces beneath the surface of things.
Magic had always existed, as trickery, and as the belief that hidden forces could be summoned and directed.
Scripture taught that true power belonged only to God.
When Christ’s followers received the Holy Spirit, they performed wonders, but by submission, not command.
That was the line between faith and sorcery: Obedience versus control.
By the Middle Ages, that line had blurred.
The Church claimed authority to dispense grace through sacred rituals.
At the heart stood the Mass – the belief that bread and wine became the very body and blood of Christ.
To the Reformers, this was not faith but presumption.
They believed the Church had usurped divine power, claiming miracles that belonged only to God.
In their eyes, this fulfilled Christ’s warning: the False Prophet performing wonders in His name.
The Mass became the most contested ground of all.
If a priest could turn creation – bread and wine – into the Creator Himself, then humanity had seized the authority of God.
That, the Reformers said, was the greatest magic of all.
The moment when religion crossed into sorcery.
🕯️ The true battle was never between witch and priest, but over who held the power to command the divine.
by Karen Davies | Oct 22, 2025 | Blog, History, Writing
“The Law of God is eternal and cannot be changed, though heaven and earth pass away.”
— Martin Luther, Lectures on Galatians (1535)
The oldest heresy was obedience.
When witch hunters spoke of the “witches’ sabbath,” they meant something specific.
They meant those who gathered at sundown on the seventh day.
Some historians now argue the witch trials were never about religion – just fear, famine, and feuds.
They note that executions were carried out by secular courts, not church courts.
But the Church condemned witchcraft as heresy, then handed the accused to the secular arm.
The judgment began in the church courts. It ended at the stake.
Modern scholars claim Christ never spoke of witches – that Scripture barely mentions magic.
The record says otherwise.
Christ warned of false prophets and lying wonders (Matthew 24:24), of unclean spirits that return (Luke 11:24–26), of those who cast out demons in His name but are unknown to Him (Matthew 7:22–23).
He didn’t say the word witch – but He confronted the power behind it.
And Scripture speaks plainly:
“There shall not be found among you one who uses divination or consults the dead.” — Deuteronomy 18:10–12
Saul, forsaken by God, sought the Witch of Endor.
The next day he fell upon his own sword.
Beneath these verses lies the deeper revelation – the Sabbath.
“And on the seventh day God ended His work which He had made; and He rested on the seventh day, and sanctified it.” — Genesis 2:2–3
That seventh day, Friday sundown to Saturday sundown, was blessed before Moses, before Israel, before the Church.
In the fourth century, Emperor Constantine I moved the day of rest from the seventh day to the first.
From Sabbath to Sunday.
From commandment to resurrection.
Those who kept the original Sabbath were condemned as heretics.
And when fear met theology, they were whispered about as witches.
Those who gathered at sundown on the old day were accused of keeping the witches’ sabbath.
They were not conjuring spirits.
They were keeping faith.
🕯️ The truest haunting is forgetting who changed the day.
by Karen Davies | Aug 23, 2025 | Blog, History, Writing
Tracy Borman recently claimed in her 2025 book “The Stolen Crown”:
“It’s a big statement, but it’s a statement I stand by because technically, legally, he [James I] did steal it. Elizabeth didn’t name him her heir. His accession to the throne was against the acts of succession laid down by Henry VIII, and it went contrary to Henry VIII’s will.”
This interpretation, whilst provocative, fundamentally misunderstands the nature of constitutional succession. Borman’s central error lies in her failure to grasp that theft requires a victim – someone from whom something is being stolen.
Her argument that James’s accession violated Henry VIII’s will overlooks a crucial reality: that will, though ratified by Parliament under the Third Succession Act of 1543, was not legally binding in perpetuity. Its enforcement depended on the Privy Council – a body that had transformed significantly in the sixty years since Henry’s death. By 1603, it reflected entirely different political interests and priorities. More importantly, Parliament – the supreme legislative authority – did not oppose James’s accession but ratified it swiftly and without objection.
Her claim that Elizabeth’s failure to name a successor somehow constitutes “theft” reveals a profound misunderstanding of both law and logic. By this tortured reasoning, every inheritance where the deceased dies intestate becomes “theft” by the legal heir. When someone dies without a will, the law determines inheritance. In 1603, the “law” was England’s constitutional practice, which allowed succession to be resolved through council decision, parliamentary assent, and political consensus.The absence of a named successor left the succession open to proper resolution through established constitutional mechanisms – not “stolen property” in need of restoration to its rightful owner.
Borman’s central argument from her book rests on her analysis of William Camden’s manuscript, claiming that key passages were altered to create a false narrative of Elizabeth endorsing James on her deathbed. However, this focus on manuscript authenticity deflects from the fundamental reality of what happened in the hours after Elizabeth’s death – and from more fundamental questions about constitutional legitimacy and the nature of succession itself.
The historical evidence contradicts the assertion of illegal seizure. James’s succession was peaceful, uncontested, and broadly supported – hardly the characteristics of a stolen throne. English politicians, notably chief minister Robert Cecil, had maintained secret correspondence with James for years to ensure a smooth transition. When Elizabeth died on 24 March 1603, James was proclaimed king approximately seven hours later, and Parliament moved quickly to formalise his accession.
Contemporary sources provide precise details of this transition. John Manningham, a barrister at the Middle Temple who kept a detailed diary, recorded that Elizabeth died “about three at clocke” in the morning, and that “about ten at clocke the Counsel and diverse noblemen having bin a while in consultacion, proclaymed James the 6, King of Scots, the King of England, Fraunce, and Irland.” This seven-hour interval – rapid by seventeenth-century standards – demonstrates careful preparation rather than hasty improvisation.
More crucially, seizure or theft by definition means to take from someone what is not rightfully yours – yet there was no one else from whom James was taking the crown, and there were definitively no active contenders in March 1603. James possessed a legitimate blood claim to the English throne as the great-great-grandson of Henry VII through Margaret Tudor, making him Elizabeth’s closest living relative.
If anything, the swift and orderly transfer of power – with Elizabeth’s councillors, Parliament, and the broader political establishment in agreement – demonstrates constitutional approval rather than usurpation. To suggest James “stole” the crown ignores the historical reality that no other viable claimant contested his succession, and that legitimacy through political and popular consent was the de facto mechanism that had secured monarchical transitions throughout the Tudor period.
The constitutional precedent was clear: when statutory provisions became impractical or obsolete, political consensus determined succession. James’s peaceful accession, rapidly endorsed by all the key institutions of English government, represents the successful operation of this unwritten constitutional principle rather than any form of theft.
by Karen Davies | Jul 4, 2025 | Blog, History, Writing
The Case of the Mislabelled Blonde and the Anonymous Brunette
In British history, how a portrait survived often tells us more about who it depicts. The preservation stories of two Holbein drawings – the famous “Windsor Sketch” and the mysterious “unidentified woman” RCIN 912190 – reveal a fascinating tale of recognition, secrecy, and scholarly assumption.
The Windsor Sketch: A Contaminated Journey
The Royal Route (1543-1675) The Windsor Sketch followed the predictable path of royal property: Holbein – Henry VIII – Edward VI – through noble collections – back to Charles II. This was the route of official court art – prestigious, documented, but ultimately contaminated by centuries of speculation.
The Problem: Official ≠ Accurate
- Passed through 8 different hands over centuries
- Subjected to repeated unbinding and rebinding
- Labels could be separated, mixed up, or lost
- Even if Cheke’s identification was correct initially, subsequent scrambling could have attached accurate labels to completely different drawings
- The famous “Anna Bollein” inscription was added centuries later—not by anyone who knew Anne Boleyn
Why This Preservation Pattern Suggests It’s NOT Anne Boleyn: The Windsor Sketch was preserved as official royal property – valuable regardless of who it depicted. Its survival tells us nothing about the recognition of the sitter’s identity, only about institutional preservation of royal artistic assets.
RCIN 912190: The Underground Railroad of Recognition
The Private English Route (1543-1792) While the Windsor Sketch traveled through official channels, RCIN 912190 took a dramatically different path: Holbein’s workshop dispersal → (approx) 200 years in private English hands → J. Richardson the Elder → Richard Mead → Walter Chetwynd → Benjamin Way → patriotic donation to the Royal Collection.
This Preservation Pattern Screams Significance:
1. The 17th-Century Conservation Decision
Someone in the 1600s – closer to the Tudor period than any modern scholar – made a expensive, professional decision to preserve this drawing:
- Precise cutting along the contours of the headdress and shoulders
- Professional remounting on prepared paper
- Costly conservation not undertaken lightly
- Driven by recognition of the sitter’s importance
2. The Distinguished Collector Chain
Each owner was a serious expert who recognised value:
- Jonathan Richardson the Elder: England’s foremost expert on Old Master drawings
- Richard Mead: Distinguished collector
- Walter Chetwynd: Discerning antiquarian
- Benjamin Way: Fellow of the Society of Antiquaries
These weren’t casual art buyers – they were connoisseurs who understood significance.
3. The Patriotic Donation
Benjamin Way’s decision to present (not sell) this drawing to the Royal Collection in 1792 is telling. The act of donation rather than sale suggests he recognised this as material of significant English historical importance that belonged with the Crown.
This preservation pattern completely contradicts recent scholarly speculation that RCIN 912190 depicts Amalia of Cleves – an obscure German princess who never set foot in England and had no connection to British heritage.
The Holbein Annotations: A Smoking Gun
RCIN 912190 bears Holbein’s own annotations:
- “Samat” (velvet)
- “Damast” (damask)
These were luxury fabrics restricted by sumptuary laws to highest nobility. Holbein only bothered to note fabrics when the commission was extraordinarily significant – precisely what we’d expect for a queen’s portrait.
The drawing was composed during Anne’s queenship. According to K. T. Parker, Keeper of the Department of Fine Art at the Ashmolean Museum, the jewels on the hat are similar to those of male hats and are English. Dr Jane Malcolm-Davies, Tudor clothing expert, also confirms the hat and dress are English.
What the Preservation Patterns Reveal
Windsor Sketch = Institutional Preservation
- Survived because it was royal property
- Value independent of sitter’s identity
- Contaminated by centuries of handling and speculation
- Labels applied by people who didn’t know the sitter
RCIN 912190 = Recognition-Based Preservation
- Survived because experts recognised its significance
- 250 years of careful custody by people who understood its importance
- Professional conservation by those closer to the Tudor period
- Protected from contamination by remaining outside the official labeling system
- Patriotic return when politically safe
The Irony of Art History
While scholars have spent decades defending an attribution based on questionable later inscriptions, the drawing with the strongest preservation evidence sat in the “unidentified” category—protected by its very anonymity from the contamination that affected the royal collection.
The real Anne Boleyn may have been hiding in plain sight, preserved not by royal decree but by centuries of English collectors who recognised her significance and ultimately returned her to the Crown when it was safe to do so.
The Bottom Line
Preservation patterns don’t lie. The Windsor Sketch was preserved as royal property – its survival tells us nothing about the sitter’s identity. RCIN 912190 was preserved by recognition – (approx) 200 years of experts understanding they were custodians of something precious to English heritage.
In the end, how a portrait survived often reveals more truth. And the preservation story of RCIN 912190 tells us everything we need to know about who she really was.
by Karen Davies | Apr 23, 2025 | Blog, History, Writing
Sir Thomas Wyatt – courtier, diplomat, and the man who brought the sonnet to English shores – was no stranger to danger or desire. But behind the politics and poetry lies a question that still lingers:
Did he love Anne Boleyn? And did she ever love him back?
Historians have long speculated on the nature of their relationship. Was it merely courtly admiration? A flirtation before the King took notice? Or something more profound – something sacred but ultimately impossible?
Most historians have concluded that Anne never returned Wyatt’s love. But she was the woman who inspired some of the most piercing verses of his life.
Two poems in particular draw that line of longing and grief: “Whoso List to Hunt” and “Innocentia Veritas Viat Fides Circumdederunt me inimici mei” – more famously remembered by its thunderous Latin refrain: “Circa Regna Tonat”(“Around the throne, the thunder rolls”).
In “Whoso List to Hunt,” Wyatt casts Anne as the elusive deer – already claimed:
“Noli me tangere, for Caesar’s I am.”
(Touch me not, for I belong to Caesar.)
“Caesar” is clearly Henry VIII. Anne is no longer his to even dream of. And yet:
“Yet may I by no means my wearied mind
Draw from the deer… Fainting I follow…
Sithens in a net I seek to hold the wind.”
He cannot stop chasing her in his mind, even as he knows she is forever out of reach.
But in “Circa Regna Tonat,” written after Anne’s fall, Wyatt’s grief becomes devastating.
In May 1536, he was imprisoned in the Bell Tower, watching from behind a grated window as his friends – and likely Anne herself – were led to their deaths. He never forgot what he saw:
“The Bell Tower showed me such sight
That in my head sticks day and night.”
Anne’s death marked the end of something in him. He says so plainly:
“These bloody days have broken my heart.
Oh my lust, my youth did then depart.”
That’s the cry of a man forever changed.
With Anne’s death, a part of him went with her.
His passion. His hope. His fire.
And what’s perhaps most moving is this: through both poems, written years apart, his love never falters. It changes – from longing, to reverence, to mourning – but it never disappears.
And that raises a question rarely asked:
Why say all of this aloud unless Anne had once returned some affection?
Otherwise, truthfully, he would seem obsessive, strange, even unhinged.
But he’s not.
He’s measured. Steady. Loyal.
And he escapes the Tower with his life – having seen what he saw – and still, he speaks of her only with sorrow.
At a time when Anne’s name was being buried, her memory dismantled, Wyatt dared to preserve her in verse:
“Wit helpeth not defence too yern,
Of innocency to plead or prate.”
He speaks for her in those words – not as a poet chasing a fantasy, but as a man bearing witness.
His poem becomes her defence, her epitaph, her unspoken truth.
Was it love? Was it grief? Or have the two become so entwined they are indistinguishable?
All we know is that he mourned Anne Boleyn longer, deeper, and more truthfully than the man who married her.
Henry VIII was wed to Jane Seymour just ten days after Anne’s execution.
