The Lady in the Tower

Into Danger

I HAD THOUGHT THAT when I reached the pinnacle of my ambition I should be completely happy. Here I was, Queen of England, soon to bear the heir. My tribulations were over. Whatever the Pope did could not harm me now. Cranmer was the King's man and he had declared the King's first marriage invalid; and if there was any difficulty from Rome, Cromwell had his solution. Oh, I knew it was a drastic one and that the King was nervous of putting it into practice; but we were married now. This was the culmination of all our efforts for seven years.

But it was not quite perfection. Perhaps there is a reaction after such a conclusion is reached. Perhaps the continual plans, the upheavals, even the setbacks gave a zest to the days. I wondered if the King felt as I did. The excitement of our encounters had waned a little. Perhaps it was because the excitement of doing what was forbidden was removed. There is a spiciness in sinning which acting virtuously lacks. It was now perfectly legitimate for us to share the same bed. We were almost like a long-married couple; and there was I, no longer alluring, for how could a woman heavy with child be that?

The King was very tender toward me, very solicitous that I should take great care. But I began to ask myself whether that was really for the sake of the child.

I was surrounded by all the ceremony which is a Queen's natural right; I was the most talked-of person in the country. Soothsayers and astrologers were making prophecies about my child. They all declared it would be a boy. They would have received little thanks from Henry for a girl.

I was learning more about my husband. When I thought of all the warning signs I had had during the last years, I marveled at my lack of perception. I had been adored so long that I thought it would go on forever. I had come to believe that I was possessed of some special powers to draw men to me. I should have looked more closely at men's motives— more than that, I should have looked to myself. I had been the most attractive woman at Court, and I had been convinced that this was due to some special quality I possessed. Now I perceived that, although I was not without attractions, it was the ardent desire of the King which had enhanced my allure. There must be something very exciting about a woman for whom a man would do so much. That was what they told themselves, and they promptly fell in love with me. I should have seen that Henry was tired of Katharine and that his mixture of piety and sensuality made it necessary for him to indulge his desires while placating his conscience. He had never taken mistresses to the extent that François had. He wanted a regular union because he thought that was pleasing in the eyes of God, and Henry sought favor in that direction—just as his courtiers did with him. Thus there had been a combination of events: boredom with Katharine and the need to remove her but in a manner which could be seen to be righteous; desire for me, who had stood out against anything but marriage; the obstinacy in his nature which could not bear to be balked; and above all the overriding need and desire for a son. That was what had motivated Henry, and I had deluded myself into believing that it was entirely due to his passion for me.

My brother George had been my main supporter through all my triumphs and tribulations. He was closer to me than any other person. I loved him dearly and I knew he was the only one whom I could trust absolutely. My father, for whom I had some natural feeling of affection, was, first and foremost before he was a father, an ambitious man. He saw me not so much as a daughter but as the Queen of England, who had made the grandest marriage of all those obliging Boleyn ladies. I knew that he would always think first of the fortunes of the family. George would think first of my well-being.

I saw my stepmother from time to time, for, because of my father's rising power, there were occasionally times when she must be beside him at Court functions. I knew she came most reluctantly from Hever and much preferred to be in her still-room or herb gardens. She was overawed to see me. I laughed at her and embracing her assured her that I was the same Anne in spite of my crown. She began to fuss about my condition and the baby, giving me all sorts of hints as to what I should do. It was a great pleasure always to see her.

George's married life was far from happy. He was a very attractive man; he had good looks and was extremely witty and cultured. He had traveled widely, for the King had employed him on many missions abroad. He was a poet—not quite up to Wyatt's standards, but Wyatt was reckoned—correctly I think—to be the greatest poet at Court.

It was because of George that I took his wife, Jane, into my house-hold. Perhaps that was another of my mistakes, for I did not like her in the least and she presumed on the relationship. I often thought what a pity it was that George had married her. So did he. He had been relieved when, in the course of his duties, he had had to spend much time abroad. It gave him some respite from Jane.

What was so difficult for him to endure was her jealousy. She was desperately in love with him. Perhaps she might have been a different person altogether if he had returned that love. How could he? Jane was a stupid woman, a blundering woman; she had a habit of making remarks showing clearly that she had not followed a discussion; yet instead of keeping quiet, she would insist on speaking; she would offer opinions that were trite; she could not match George's intellect. She irritated me in the extreme; but at least I could see little of her. She was a foolish woman but if she had been meek and gentle I could have put up with her more easily.

I began to notice that Henry's attitude was changing toward me. He was no longer quite so respectful as he had been; he was careless; and when I lost my temer, which I am afraid I did with increasing frequency, he did not attempt to placate me as he had in the old days.

He was often out of my company and seemed to seek that of his friends. I, of course, was now unable to join in the dancing and frivolities which were so much a part of Court life. Before our marriage he would have wished to spend the time with me; we would have read together or played cards; I would have listened to his latest musical composition; we would have discussed topics of the day, very likely the reforming of the old Church laws, a subject which was very much in most people's minds these days.

But he spent little time with me. We slept together in the royal bed and he was always talking about our child, what should be prepared for him on his arrival, even getting as far as his education. He was already making plans for his christening. But he had changed.

He was making me feel that now I had become Queen I had to remember constantly that he was the King, so that after my coronation, ironically, I had become less important than I had been before. Then I had been so essential to his happiness; my outbursts of temper had been painful to him, and his great desire had always been to bring me back to a sweeter mood. Now he would walk out and leave me and later make no reference to the matter and still behave in a somewhat lordly way as though saying: I have made you my Queen, but I am the King and you are still my subject.

He did not actually say this, but he was not a man to cloak his feelings, and one could often read from the expressions which flitted across his face; his little eyes would harden, his little mouth grow cruel; and the color in his big face would deepen to a rich purple. These were the signs which could terrify his subjects. I had never allowed them to frighten me but in the past they had rarely been directed against me.

I was in my eighth month—longing for the time to pass. Pregnancy in August is even more trying than in the cooler months. I was beginning to think of the child—not so much as a future King but as my baby. Sometimes for hours I would talk of little else. I gathered women about me who had shared the fearsome but exhilarating experience of child-bearing. I made them talk to me. I enjoyed the discourse.

I longed for September. I would hold my son in my arms, and Henry would be as he was before. He would be so grateful that I should be assured of his devotion forever; and it would not be long before I regained my ascendancy over him.

It was Jane Rochford who planted distrust and suspicion in my mind.

I think she delighted in it. In spite of the fact that she was my sister-in-law and a member of that family to which I was bringing great good fortune, she hated me. Envy was the key to her character. Most people have a sprinkling of it in their natures, and it had always seemed to me the most deadly of all the seven deadly sins and the one from which most others erupt; but with Jane it was the theme of her life. She was envious of George while loving him passionately. I did not realize then how deeply she hated me and that it was mainly because of my brother's love for me.

So she delighted to whisper this secret to me.

She began by gazing at me in perplexity, beginning to speak and then stopping. “Perhaps I shouldn't …Only I thought…and after all…we are sisters… and if anyone should… perhaps I should be the one…”

I cried impatiently: “What are you trying to say?”

“Please don't ask me to go on. And you in your condition… This month has been so trying. I thank God it will soon be over. September is almost here.”

“Jane,” I said firmly, “tell me what you are trying to say. I command you.”

She hung her head as though suddenly aware of my exalted position, but I noticed the satisfied turn of her lips.

I took her by the shoulders and shook her.

“Well… then… since you insist. The King is seeing a great deal of a certain lady. They are saying he is seeking her out. And she is giving her

self airs.”

“Who told you this?”

“Your Grace, the whole Court is whispering of it.”

“I don't believe it.”

“No, no,” she said soothingly. “It can't be true… and you just on the point of giving birth to the heir.”

“There are always those who will gossip in the Court and see what does not exist outside their evil imaginations.”

“Oh 'tis true, 'tis true. But I just thought…I thought you would want to know what people are saying.”

I said: “Thank you, Jane, for telling me. It's nonsense but one should know what is being said.”

I dismissed her then. I wanted to be alone to think. So it was true. He was seeing someone else. All during those waiting years I believed he had been faithful to me; now that we were together, as soon as we had reached the desired state, he had already begun to stray.

I could not believe it. Not so soon! And in a week or so my child was due.

Was Jane lying? I did not think she would dare. She was sly and delighted to plant uneasiness in my mind, but I did not think she would dare lie in such a matter.

My anger against Henry grew with every minute.

I was always impetuous and perhaps more so than ever now. My fury seemed to be choking me; the only way I could keep a little calm was by thinking of the baby.

A little later I saw Henry. He was not alone, though only one or two of his friends were with him. I could not wait. He came over to me, leaving them in a corner of the room. He asked after my health and I burst out: “And you, sir, how is it with you and your mistress?”

He looked at me in astonishment, his little eyes narrowed. I should have been warned. But I had many lessons to learn and I had not yet mastered one of them.

“Do not feign innocence,” I cried. “It is all over the Court. I will not endure such conduct. Here I am … in this condition…”

“Madam,” he said coolly, “you forget to whom you speak.”

“I speak to my husband,” I retorted, “who should have more concern for me and our child… than to chase my servants.”

I had never seen him look like that before. His face was pale for a moment before the color flamed into it. Then he spoke. “You will close your eyes as your betters did before you.”

I was stunned. I had expected him to deny the accusation. I would not have believed him, but I would have accepted his assurances of eternal fidelity and told myself that this would be a warning to him. That I had not expected such a reaction showed how little I knew him or understood the situation to which I had been brought.

He seemed to have forgotten the listening courtiers—as I had temporarily—but I remembered afterward.

He then said something which sent a shiver through me. He had taken a step toward me, and his expression was almost threatening. “You ought to know that it is in my power in a single instant to lower you further than I have raised you up.”

And with that he turned and went from the room, his companions following him.

I went to my apartments in a daze and sank onto my bed.

It was like a nightmare. Was this the tender lover who had always sought to placate me during my outbursts of temper, the man who had sworn eternal fidelity and worked with such determination—and world-shattering consequences—for seven long years to make me his Queen? And in less than seven months he was tired of me!

I lay looking up at the ornate canopy. I had never been so bewildered in my life.

Then I thought of the child stirring within me. He could do me no harm … not while I carried the heir. This child was what he wanted more than anything…more than he wanted me or the simpering maid of honor he was pursuing.

His words would be reported all over the Court. I could imagine the sniggers of my enemies.

But I carried the heir. I would be the mother of the future King.

I had never loved Henry. But I was already loving the child I carried. The child would be my salvation.

I did not see Henry for three days after that incident. I was glad. I was very uncertain how I should behave toward him. I could not forget the ominous threat behind those words. During those few days I thought more often of Katharine than I ever had before and with different emotions. I had considered her an obstinate woman who refused to make life easier for us all because she would not go into a convent. What anguish had she suffered when he had made it clear to her that he wished to cast her aside? He could not have spoken to her as he had to me. He had not “raised her up”— not the daughter of Queen Isabella and the mighty Ferdinand; she was of nobler birth than he with his dubious ancestry. He could not lower the daughter of kings; it was different for one whose great-grandfather had been a mere merchant of the city of London. Katharine had had powerful relations to guard her; and yet she had been thrust aside by the power of the King.

These, I told myself, were foolish thoughts. I must try to be rational. He was merely having a little sport while I was incapacitated, to while away the time until I was myself again. Jane, with her sly comments, had aroused my anger and without thinking I had flared up—which I was afraid was not uncommon with me.

All would be well when the child was born.

September had come—the month for which we had all been waiting. The birthplace of the child was to be Greenwich Palace, and great preparations were being made.

When I arrived in my barge, people lined the banks to watch me. The cheers were half-hearted but at least there were no hostile manifestations. I suppose even my enemies had some respect for a pregnant woman.

The chamber I was to use for my confinement had been hung with tapestries depicting the history of the Holy Virgins. Here I should bring forth this most important child; in it was a very fine bed which Henry had given me some weeks before. It was ornate and exquisitely decorated and had belonged to a French Duke; I think it came into Henry's possession as the spoils of war. It was the finest I had ever seen. In this chamber was another bed over which was a crimson canopy. This was where I should receive those who came to see me and the infant after the birth.

Heavy and elaborate drapes were drawn across the windows to shut out all light; they gave the room, in spite of its luxurious fittings, a somewhat somber look.

When I arrived at Greenwich, I was taken by a large company of courtiers including my ladies to my chamber where I took communion. Then I was conducted to my lying-in chamber. It was all very ceremonial, for everything must be done in accordance with tradition.

Notices had already been prepared announcing the birth of a Prince. This might seem premature but the soothsayers and prophets had, almost without exception, proclaimed that the child would be a boy. There was only one man who had dared say it would be a girl, and he was so unpopular and had incurred the King's wrath to such a degree that no one else dared mention that disastrous possibility.

The King had come to see me just before I went to Greenwich. There had been a certain restraint between us and if I had expected some humility from him I was disappointed. He had made his point. He would act as he wished, and it was my duty to remember that he was the King and all my honors had come through him.

He kissed me coolly on the cheek and said: “You must not excite yourself. You must remember the child.”

“I think of nothing else,” I replied.

“Then that is well. I have been considering his name. It shall be Henry…Henry IX. That sounds well to me… but that is in the future… far in the future. He has to grow up first. Or Edward. That is a King's name. I have not yet decided.”

I had expected him to ask my opinion, but he did not do so, and this was a further indication of the changing relationship between us.

But at this time I could think only of my journey to Greenwich and what awaited me there.

There I lay in that darkened chamber. My pains had begun. It was a long labor but during the exquisite agony of childbirth my spirits were upheld by what this child would mean to me. Nothing could alter the fact that I should be the mother of the King. Henry's infidelities would be hard to bear, but I should be safe… secure; and once I had my son I would make sure that I regained my ascendancy over him.

At last I heard the child's cry. My baby was born.

I lay back exhausted. It was over. I had attained the very peak of my desire. I was drifting off into an exhausted sleep.

I opened my eyes. A woman was standing by my bed. It was the midwife.

“The child …” I said.

“Your Grace, the child is strong and lusty.”

“Oh, praise be to God. I want to see him.”

“Your Grace has given birth to a fair lady.”

“No,” I cried. “It must be a boy.

“A beautiful child,” went on the midwife. “A strong and healthy little girl.”

“No, no,” I cried. “No, no, no.”

“I will bring her to you. She is a little love.”

I shook my head. I could not bear it. A girl! Katharine had had a girl and much trouble she was causing.

“It's a mistake,” I said.

The midwife was silent.

I lay there. But the prophets… the soothsayers… they had merely said what the King wanted them to say. They had dared say no other. I had failed. Already he was tired of me. And all I had done, after all the trouble, was to produce a girl. Katharine had done that before me.

I felt the tears on my cheeks.

Henry came into the apartment.

What was he feeling? What would he do now? Would he upbraid me for failing? I was too tired to fight.

He looked at me.

“A girl,” he said, with some contempt.

I did not answer. I just lay there with the tears running down my face.

Then I looked at him, so big, so glittering, so powerful. “I have failed you,” I said. “I believed I could give you a son. God is against me. Everyone is against me. I am hated and reviled. There is no one to care for me. It would have been better if I had died in the ordeal.”

There was a strong streak of sentiment in Henry. He had never before seen me like this… humble, broken and desperately unhappy.

He came closer and took me in his arms.

He said gently: “This is a blow to us both. They had promised me a son. But be of good cheer. There is time, Anne. We'll get our son yet. The child is strong and healthy, and God has shown us that we can get healthy children. He does this to test us. He will give me a son, I know.”

I said again: “I have failed. I was so sure that I could please you.”

“How now,” he said. “All is well between us two.”

I said: “No …no more…”

There were tears in his eyes. They were glazed with memories.

“All shall be well,” he said. “I would rather beg from door to door than forsake you.”

This was balm to me.

My spirits recovered. It was only a setback. Heaven knew we had had those in plenty.

I felt my spirits rising. I, who had overcome so much, would overcome this.

As soon as he had gone, I ordered that the child be brought to me. When I held her in my arms I loved her, and in my heart I wanted her no different from what she was. She was perfect.

I said to the ladies who crowded around my bed marveling at the perfections of my daughter: “They may now with reason call this room the Chamber of Virgins, for a virgin is now born in it on the vigil of that auspicious day on which the Church commemorates the nativity of the Holy Virgin.”

I was happy. It was true my moods had always changed quickly, but this was a complete reversal—from despair to great happiness.

Henry had declared his continuing love for me; and I had the most adorable daughter.

Life was good again.

The disappointment was forgotten. Preparations for the child's christening were going ahead. The notices which were being sent out had to be altered by adding “ss” to the word “Prince.”

This ceremony was to take place on the tenth of the month—four days after the birth.

It was wonderful to hear of all the splendor which was being made ready to honor my daughter—exactly the same which would have heralded the arrival of a son.

She was to be named Elizabeth, which seemed appropriate because it was the name of both my mother and Henry's. She was to be christened at Grey Friars Church, which was close to the palace. The church was hung with arras, and sweet-scented herbs were strewn all along the way to it. All the highest in the land were present; and Mary Howard, who was betrothed to the Duke of Richmond, Henry's illegitimate son by Elizabeth Blount, carried the pearl-and-jewel-studded chrisom. The Dowager Duchess of Norfolk carried the baby, and over them was a canopy held by my brother George, two of the Howards and another recently ennobled member of our family, Lord Hussey.

I wished that I could have been there. I wished I could have seen the Bishop of London performing the ceremony with all the rites of the Church of Rome. Cranmer was her godfather, and the Duchess of Nor-folk and the Marchioness of Dorset her godmothers. I should have been so proud to hear Garter-king-at-arms crying out: “God, of his infinite wisdom send a prosperous life and long to the high and mighty Princess Elizabeth.”

The procession from the church to the palace was lighted by five hundred torches, but around my baby walked gentlemen carrying flambeaux, and thus they came to my chamber.

I held out my arms to receive my little one, that high and mighty Princess Elizabeth.

And I rejoiced in her. I could not have cared more for a son.

I wanted to keep her with me to be a mother to her, and for a few days I did so. I loved her more every day. She was a beautiful child—perfect in every way. The ladies said that, in truth, they had never seen a more lovely girl.

Henry regarded her with interest, in which there was only just a faint resentment because she was not a boy; even he was not immune to her charms, and I could see that he was beginning to be fond of her.

He had changed since that occasion when he had made it clear to me that his feelings for me had altered. I heard no more of the woman he had been pursuing. It had been whispered that she was the wife of Nicholas Carew, a very attractive woman, not averse to a little flirtation, and her husband might well not object if he were looking for favors. However, it had blown over and I could tell myself that it was, after all, forgivable. We had suffered a great deal of stress, and I, far gone in pregnancy, had not been a very bright companion. If that were all, I had little of which to complain.

He was now attentive, visiting me often, talking of the future and the brother our delightful daughter would have.

Those who had thought the King's love for me was dead now had to change their views.

He was looking forward to my return to normal life. He had been lonely, he said, without me. It was as near to an excuse as he could bring himself to make for that temporary infidelity, and having suffered a big fright, I did have sense enough to accept it.

I was feeling stronger each day. I had my baby beside me; I had the attention of the King. All was well. The next child would certainly be a boy; and then all would be perfect.

As I lay in bed, I often thought of the injustice done to my sex. Why should not the child sleeping in the cradle be as great a monarch as any man? She could not, of course, lead her armies in war—but wars were folly in any case and rarely brought good to either side; and perhaps if there were more women rulers, then there would be less of that foolishness.

I had attained my ambition to win a crown; now I had something else to work for: my child.

She must be proclaimed Princess of England—a title which had hitherto belonged to the Princess Mary.

I anticipated trouble from that quarter. The girl was devoted to her mother, which was natural, of course; for so long she had thought of herself as heiress to the throne, and no doubt she had been thinking she would be Queen from the time when it seemed unlikely that her mother would have another child. Now she was about to be set aside that another girl might take her place.

At this moment that little baby, the Princess Elizabeth, was heiress to the throne for there was no Salic law in England as in France, and a girl had a chance of reaching the throne unless a boy was born to take it from her. That always filled me with irritation.

I had never realized before that I had strong maternal instincts. How different one becomes when one is a mother! I wanted to be to her all that a mother should. I did not want to hand her over to nurses. She was mine.

In the new confidence inspired by Henry's devotion, I declared I would feed her myself, and I started to do so.

Henry was annoyed. It meant of course that I had Elizabeth in the royal chamber, for she might require attention at any time and I must be at hand to give it. I saw a return of that cold anger which I had glimpsed not so very long ago.

“I never heard the like,” he said. “A Queen to make herself a nursemaid!”

“This is my daughter… our daughter.”

“The child shall be with her nurses.”

“But I wish…”

“I wish her to go to her nurses.”

“I want her with me.”

“You forget your state,” he said. “You have risen too high. You do not understand the ways of royalty.”

“You speak as though I am some kitchen slut.”

“Then pray do not behave like one.”

“Is it sluttish for a mother to love her daughter?”

“It is the duty of the Queen to remember her state.”

I wanted to scream: Very well, you do not want my daughter here. In that case I shall go with her. But I had had one example of his cold anger. Now and then would come to me the memory of those cruel eyes and the words: “I have raised you up. I could so easily lower you.” And I felt a tremor of fear.

I heard myself say in a quiet voice: “Very well, she must go to her nurses.”

“’ Tis the best place for her,” he said; he came to me and put an arm about my shoulders. I smiled at him, returning his kisses; but my heart was filled with misgivings.

In spite of his refusal to have her in our bedchamber, Henry gave a great deal of attention to Elizabeth's household. He approved as her nurse the wife of a gentleman named Hokart; he said the Dowager Duchess of Norfolk should be her state governess, which gave the old lady a very fine residence and 6,000 crowns a year. This seemed a good choice as I was a connection of the Howards. Another concession to me was the selection of Lady Bryan, whose husband was a kinsman of the Boleyns, to be her governess. I was delighted, for I knew Lady Bryan was a good woman. She had, as a matter of fact, been governess to the Princess Mary, so she was accustomed to the position.

I was very sad though when, at the age of two months, Elizabeth was sent to Hatfield, which was to be her home; with her went those people whom the King had selected.

I had to reconcile myself to her departure and promise myself that, whenever possible, I should be with my child.

In the meantime there was trouble with Mary.

She must now renounce her title that Elizabeth might have it.

She was a pale girl—delicate-looking—so that her boldness was amazing. She was defiant and seemed to care nothing for the wrath of the King.

I was determined she should submit. I had my Elizabeth to fight for; and it was an undisputed fact that, if Elizabeth were to have her rights, Mary must first give them up.

This the rebellious girl refused to do, and when members of the Privy Council went to her and told her she must resign her title, she refused to see them until she had assembled her entire household—and all those people who had looked after her for the last years, from officials of the household to the humblest kitchen maids. Then, before them all, she had the temerity to announce that she could not give up a title which had been bestowed on her by God and her parents. She was a Princess; she was the daughter of a King and Queen; and she had more right to her title than had the daughter of Madam Pembroke. She was the Princess of England and could not order her household to address her in any other way.

I was very angry when I heard this. By referring to Elizabeth as Madam Pembroke's daughter, she was implying that she was illegitimate. This I could not allow.

I sent orders that she was to lose her royal privileges; she was not to eat alone when she wished to; the custom of having her food tasted before she took it was to be stopped; and she was to have no communication with her mother. Perhaps this last was harsh; but I had begun to see that in Mary I had as formidable an enemy as I had had in Katharine; and I was incensed by her implications directed at my daughter.

Later I regretted the last injunction. Mary loved her mother with an almost fanatical devotion. Looking back, I can imagine what they must have meant to each other in those years when Katharine was fighting for her position and her daughter's; and indeed I think now, having a greater understanding of human nature, that each suffered more on account of the other than for themselves.

It was decided that Mary should be sent to Hatfield. I realized that she would consider this an added insult, for she would be in an inferior position in the household of the Princess Elizabeth who, she would consider, had usurped her place.

I thought it would be just punishment for I was smarting under the insults to me in daring to refer to the Queen of England as Madam Pembroke, with the implication that I was not the King's wife but his mistress.

Christmas was upon us, and this had to be a Christmas to outdo all others. It was my first as Queen. I surrounded myself with the wits of the Court—Weston, Bryan, Brereton, Norris, my brother and Wyatt. We laughed; we were very frivolous; we made amusing entertainments, and the King liked to be with us better than any others. With us he could forget certain anxieties which weighed heavily on him at times. Clement had now given the verdict, which was that the marriage between Henry and Katharine was valid, which meant, of course, that ours was not.

Henry had snapped his fingers at the Pope's verdict, obviously given under the orders of the Emperor Charles; but it put him in a dilemma. Excommunication would follow if he continued to live with me as his Queen, and it was not easy to defy such an edict. At least it might be for Henry himself but there were the people to consider. Many of them were staunch Catholics, and if Henry were excommunicated, that would entail the entire country. He had no alternative but to break with Rome; but this did not mean a rejection of the old religion: it was merely changing the Head of the Church. Everything could be as before—the same rituals, the same ceremonies—but the Church of Rome would now be the Church of England, and Henry would be the Head of that Church instead of the Pope.

It had been Cromwell's idea, and it seemed to Henry the only solution.

But it gave great cause for anxiety because of the reactions of the people.

There were already murmurings.

So therefore it must be a very merry Christmas. It was my nature to be able to assume an excess of gaiety when the future might be fraught with danger. There had always been an element of recklessness in me. Now it was close to hysteria. I laughed—perhaps a little wildly—and although at this time I did not realize what great danger threatened me, warnings kept flashing into my mind. I knew that I was on a hazardous course for I should never feel quite secure after that scene when Henry had pointed out his power to destroy me.

So that Christmas we danced and masqued and were very merry.

The facts could not be ignored. Henry had defied the Pope. There was only one course open to him if he were to withstand the disasters and the discord in the land which excommunication would bring about, and Henry had taken it.

In the new year he declared himself Head of the Church of England. He had broken with Rome. He made it clear that he had no wish to change the religion. In fact, he opposed Martin Luther's teachings; he was not in favor of doctrinal reform. The only difference was that the rights of the Pope now belonged to the Crown.

He was not alone in this departure for many of the German states who were firm adherents of Martin Luther had already done so. There was to be a translation of the Bible into English, which would be wonderful. Many people would be able to read it who had not done so before. Surely they would see the advantage of that.

That was a troubled year. Everything seemed to go wrong.

I was pregnant again. The King was delighted and his old tenderness returned. This time he was sure we would have a boy. Desperately I longed for that boy. He would be my security as my little Elizabeth could not. I saw her when I could. She was enchanting and, I was sure, far brighter than other children of her age. She was more like her father than me in looks. Her blue eyes were bright and inquiring, her hair shone like gold. She was a beautiful child.

When I went to Hatfield to see her, there was of course the unpleasantness of Mary's presence. She was insolent, that girl. When she was told that Queen Anne had come she said: “Queen Anne? I know of no Queen by that name. There is only one Queen of England and that is Queen Katharine.”

What could one do with such a girl? Beat her? Little good that would do. I loathed her. I did not see her when I was at Hatfield. I could have forced her to be present but I did not want to do that.

I told them that they must be sterner with her and not endure her tantrums.

Henry was going to Hatfield to see Elizabeth. That pleased me. I did not go with him because I was not riding now. I was taking every possible precaution. Nothing must go wrong with this child. Once I had a son, I was secure. It was a wonderful relief that I need no longer fear the Pope. He had lost his power over England.

Oh yes, I assured myself, once I had my son all would be well.

Of course there were the people. They seemed as if they would never like me whatever happened.

There was unrest throughout the country. For years the Pope had been almost like God to them. They had obeyed him without question. To those ignorant people he was not a man but a deity.

And the King had defied him—and all because of a black-eyed witch.

I was blamed for everything. The King had been led by me and I had the powers given to me by the Devil.

All through that year there was grumbling among the people. I was blamed for any misfortune. If it rained too much, it was God's displeasure because of the havoc brought to the Church by a witch.

At Hatfield, when Mary appeared, they cheered her as they did Katharine at the Moor. People were talking freely of the disasters which were coming to England; and Cranmer and Cromwell decided that something would have to be done about it.

There was one woman who was causing a great deal of trouble, and there could not have been anyone in the kingdom who had not heard of the Nun of Kent. Her name was Elizabeth Barton and she was a woman of some eloquence and persuasive powers. She had in fact been a servant in the house of a certain Thomas Cobb, who had been a steward of one of Archbishop Warham's estates—that was her connection with the Church. It turned out later that, at the age of about twenty, she had suffered from some obscure disease which had left her a religious maniac. She began to have visions and was obsessed by Sin. Thus she began to get a reputation for holiness, and people believed that she really was inspired by the Holy Ghost.

I had always known that Warham was an old fool. Fortunately he had died and so enabled Cranmer to come in with his cool common sense. Warham had subscribed to the belief that Elizabeth Barton was divinely inspired, and he had sent messages to her in which he had told her she must not hide goodness and the words of God which were imparted to her during her trances. About this time she had ceased to be a servant in the Cobb household and was living as a member of the family.

The woman went on prophesying, and the Prior of Christchurch, Canterbury, took her into his charge. She was given instruction in the ways of the Church and the legends of the saints. It was believed that the Virgin Mary spoke through her. I suspected many of these priests of seeking ways of upholding the declining condition of the Church. When Martin Luther had nailed his theses to that church door, he had started something of great importance which must have given many a priest some uneasy moments.

Elizabeth Barton was supposed to have performed miracles. The Virgin Mary, according to Elizabeth Barton, commanded her to leave Aldington and make her home in Canterbury. No one cared to disobey the orders of the Virgin Mary, so the woman was given a cell in St. Sepulchre's Priory.

All knew of the Nun of Kent; Warham had supported her; he had collected her pronouncements and presented them to the King. Henry dismissed them as the wanderings of a simple-minded woman, guided by churchmen who led her where they wanted her to go. The King showed them to Sir Thomas More, who shared his opinion.

Sir Thomas More had written a book about a similar case. It concerned a twelve-year-old girl named Anne Wentworth, and, although later she withdrew her belief in her own prophecies, because Thomas More had written of her as though she were genuinely inspired and he was a man of high reputation throughout the country, it helped to enhance Elizabeth Barton's fame.

The King's divorce was naturally something which would be eminently suitable for prophecy, and Elizabeth Barton seized on it and in the name of God forbade it.

That a simple countrywoman should dare tell him what to do enraged Henry, but Elizabeth Barton appeared to be fearless. She went on to say that she had been told by Heaven—whether the Virgin Mary or God himself she did not indicate—that if the King wronged Queen Katharine he should no longer be King of the Realm and would die a villain's death.

She was making a great nuisance of herself. People listened to her and, as she had the support of the Church, they were ready to believe her. Great men interested themselves in her—Fisher for one, and Sir Thomas More visited her and made no attempt to treat her as the charlatan she was.

She began to be invited to the houses of the nobility that she might prophesy for them. The Holy Nun had become a fashionable fortune-teller. Her fame grew and grew, and she had a big following in all classes of society.

It was rather amusing that she had prophesied that if Henry married me he would die within a month. It was certainly awkward for her that he was still alive and in good health months later.

She was not completely witless. She said that the prophecy had been rather obscurely worded; she had meant he would no longer be King, and people had construed this as meaning that he would die. But what she had implied was that he would no longer be King in the sight of Heaven; and he was not.

Cromwell had talked very seriously to the King about this woman. She was no longer to be regarded as a simpleton; she was doing great harm to the King and the country; too many influential people were her friends. Therefore she must be arrested.

With his usual efficiency Cromwell soon had the Nun of Kent under lock and key.

He could be trusted to deal with the matter in a subtle way to cause as little trouble to the nation as possible. He did not immediately pass sentence, which he might have done. He kept her in prison and put her through examinations. Questions were fired at her. She was not tortured. He thought that was unnecessary and would bring the usual cry that she had confessed under torture. He could have said that surely, in her case, her friends God and the Virgin Mary might have come to her aid, but he was more crafty than that.

She was after all a simple woman. What education she had was of Church matters, and without her mentors beside her she broke down under Cromwell's expert questioning. He drew a confession from her that she had never had any visitations from Heaven and what she had said came from her own imagination to satisfy those who had looked after her and her own desire for worldly praise.

“That is what we need,” said Cromwell in delight. He had taken the precaution of arresting the two monks who had taught her, and before long he had confessions from them.

“By God's Holy Mother,” cried the King, “that fellow Cromwell has a way of getting to the heart of a matter. Clever fellow. I wish I could like him better. He deserves it for his brains. I wish the rest of him pleased me as well.”

There was a trial in the Star Chamber—where all confessed and were declared traitors. Lord Audley, the Lord Chancellor, proclaimed that Elizabeth Barton had plotted for the King's dethronement, and the punishment for that was death.

They were taken back to prison. Cromwell thought there should be inquiries about those who had supported the woman; and at the beginning of that momentous year she was still in prison awaiting her sentence.

Meanwhile, those who had known her and declared she was indeed a messenger of Heaven were now in a very precarious position.

Several were attainted, among them Fisher and More. Many were assuring Cromwell that, although they had listened to the prophecies, they had never believed in them. They had been testing the Nun. They wanted to assure the King that never in their lives had they entertained a traitorous thought toward him. Fisher and More admitted that they had seen the Nun and talked with her, but this was only to test her. Fisher's support had been strong and he was not released. Sir Thomas More, however, did prove that he had warned her not to meddle in politics, and he firmly denied that he had ever said she had prophetic powers.

The King had a great fondness for More. He liked to visit the house in Chelsea where More lived, surrounded by his family, rather more simply than a man in his position usually did. This domestic felicity pleased the King, and More was of course a brilliant man—perhaps the most brilliant man in the kingdom—and his conversation was witty, so at More's house the King was entertained as he liked to be.

So he was pleased when More's explanation was accepted.

That was the state of affairs at the beginning of that momentous year.

The Nun of Kent was in prison awaiting death; and many of those who had been ready to question the King's action had now realized that it would be unwise to do so.

There was a rumbling throughout the country. Monks and priests were boldly preaching against the break with Rome; people congregated in the streets and talked of the doom which would come to England. Cromwell wanted stricter laws to be enforced. There must be harsh punishment to quell rising revolt, he said.

Sentence was passed on the Nun of Kent and she was burned at the stake. It was an example of what would be done to those who spoke against the King.

Then a terrible thing happened to me. There was no reason for it. I lost the child I was carrying; and it would have been a son.

I could not understand it. I was healthy and capable of bearing strong children. There was nothing wrong with Elizabeth except that she was a girl.

And here we were, conforming to the old pattern which had set itself for Katharine. This was my first miscarriage… and a boy. How often had that happened to Katharine? Too many times to remember.

I was heartbroken and the King was bitterly disappointed.

“We'll have our boy yet,” he said; and I had to be comforted because he did not blame me as he had blamed Katharine. I did not want the people to know of my misfortune. If they did, there would be murmurs about the wrath of Heaven.

I was tense and worried.

But Henry was still in love with me. There had been no repetition of the alarming affair just before Elizabeth had been born.

I was very quickly pregnant again. This time, I told myself, it must come right. Nothing shall go wrong this time.

England had changed. Fearful of the murmuring of the people and the great controversy which had arisen out of the break with Rome, Cromwell had thought it necessary to introduce new laws. In the past, if a man stood against the King, that was treason and might well bring the death sentence. Now it was a crime even to speak against the King.

People had to watch their words, and that made for a very uneasy state of affairs, for how easy it was for an enemy to report a traitorous remark spoken by one he wished to harm.

For the first time in his life the King was really unpopular. He resented it. It was he who had insisted on the divorce and the break with Rome, but I was learning something of Henry's character. When something went wrong, he looked around for someone to blame; and there were times when I caught him looking at me with a calculating expression. I did not comment on it. I was afraid to. I thought it might bring forth a tirade of recriminations to which I might make some pointed and unforgivable comments.

Still, I was once more pregnant, and that softened Henry toward me.

Then again I lost the child.

This was frightening. I began to suspect it was Henry who could not get healthy children. Of all the pregnancies Katharine had had, she had produced only one girl—Mary; and Mary was scarcely the picture of health. He had one son by Elizabeth Blount; but there was an ethereal quality about the young Duke of Richmond, as though he might not be long for this life. And myself… healthy in every way—and I had lost two boys. True I had produced my Elizabeth, who was full of vitality, but I had lost the boys. There seemed to be some significance in it somewhere.

Henry was bitterly disappointed. “Two boys lost,” he said, looking at me as though it were due to some fault of mine.

I had dismissed those niggling fears before, but I could not very easily now.

He was less tender, ready to contradict as though he enjoyed disagreeing with me.

It was Jane Rochford who conveyed to me the fact that he had renewed his attentions to the lady he had sought during my pregnancy with Elizabeth.

“Are you going to endure it, Anne?” she asked. “At your Court. You are the Queen.”

“I will not endure it,” I said.

“Then what will you do about it?”

“I will speak to the King.”

“Would that be wise?”

“What do you mean?”

“He might be angry.”

I could see that the state of affairs between us was known. I should have seen it too. But I was ever one to act first and think after.

I did say to him: “It is disturbing to me that the whole Court is aware that you have a mistress.”

His eyes narrowed. “Then, Madam,” he said, “you must, I fear, remain disturbed.”

“You dare to flaunt her…here at Court. Surely you might have the discretion to attempt to hide the fact that you are an unfaithful husband.”

“You should show more gratitude for what I have done for you.”

“And become your long-suffering wife?” I cried. “Like Katharine… you think…to stand aside and watch your affairs with other women. Do you think I would ever endure that?”

“You must needs endure what is given you,” he said.

“I will not.”

He lifted his shoulders and turned from me.

I said: “Henry…have you forgotten…”

He turned to me and there was a frightening coldness in his eyes. “I forget not what I have done for you. I brought you up… and I tell you I can cast you down. There are many who urge me to do this. You should remember…I picked you up from nothing…”

“Nothing!” I cried. “Do you call a member of the Howard family nothing? There are some …” I stopped in time. I was about to say that some thought the Howards more royal than the upstart Tudors. I had to keep a hold on my emotions. I must be careful. I must remember the great power of this man. He was right when he said he could cast me down. He could and God help me…in that moment I believed he would.

He was looking at me and I saw hatred in his eyes.

“I have done much for you,” he said slowly, “and because of it you give yourself airs. And what do you give me? Where are the sons you promised me?”

“It is no fault of mine that we have no son.”

The pious look crept into his face. “I cannot see why God should so punish me.”

So he implied that God was punishing me. When things went wrong it must never be Henry's fault. There must always be others to take the blame.

“Perhaps if you were to give up your philandering and paid more attention to your wife…”

He turned to me, his eyes narrowed, color flaming into his face once more. “You should be content with what I have done for you,” he said. “I tell you this: I would not do it again.”

With that he strode out.

I was trembling with rage. It was hard to believe he could have changed so quickly. When I thought of how he had pursued me, how he had put up with my tantrums—and I admit there had been some very unreasonable ones—and how tender he had been, how humble…I could not understand what had happened. Was he realizing the great price he had paid for me—and there was no doubt that he was regretting it!

Jane Rochford came in. I believe she listened at doors. She was a foolish, reckless woman; she would be caught one day. If she eavesdropped on the King and he discovered her, I could imagine his fury. The Boleyn clan was not in very high favor even though one of its members was the Queen.

“That woman is a serpent,” she said. “I have heard that she is poisoning his mind against you. You know how it is…at night…sharing a pillow.” Her eyes were sly. I knew she was trying to hurt me under cover of sympathizing. She should be sent away from Court before she could do real harm.

I said: “I am tired, Jane. I want to rest.”

“Of course you are tired. Who wouldn't be! You're worried, aren't you, Anne? It is terrible for you. I do sympathize.”

“Thank you,” I said. “Good night.”

“I shall be thinking of you. I'm going to do all I can to help. People feel depressed after miscarriages. I know just how you are feeling. But it will be all right. I am going to think of something.”

I wished she would leave. She was sly and stupid. George often said so. I knew that she had no fondness for me and was jealous because of George's affection for me.

I had been a fool to let her come to Court. Yet it is difficult to refuse one's own sister-in-law.

But it did seem that she was trying to help in her clumsy way.

She picked a quarrel with Henry's mistress and they were quite abusive to each other. The matter was talked of: the Queen's sister-in-law and the King's mistress. An interesting combination.

It was an opportunity for me. I sent for the woman.

I said: “I will not have brawling in my Court. You will leave immediately.”

I was foolish. But then I did act foolishly. My path was strewn with foolish acts. In my mind I was still living in the days when Henry had adored me to such an extent that I could act rashly and no harm come of it.

I was the Queen, I kept telling myself. I was the most powerful person at Court … under Henry.

The woman did as I knew she would do. She went to Henry.

Of course he would not allow her to be dismissed from Court. She must have told him of the quarrel with Jane Rochford, and being Jane, I was sure it had been provoked in the most heavy-handed manner.

It was not Henry's favorite who was to leave Court. It was Jane. Jane had always been stupid, and not long ago, when her hatred of me had been so strong, she could not contain it and had talked of her loyalty to Katharine—indiscreetly, of course. This was now brought against her and, as a result of her scheming, Jane was sent to the Tower.

Discontent was growing. It was hardly likely that a monarch, even one as powerful as Henry, could make such drastic changes to the religion of the country without repercussions.

People were afraid of Henry. The bluff, genial man they had known in his youth was changing. They had seen how determined he could be when something was denied him. Surely no other sovereign in Europe would have had the temerity to break with Rome?

But not all the nobles would bow to his will; this was particularly so with those in the North, who were a law unto themselves and, I knew from Henry Percy, considered themselves the rulers of the North. They were too far away to be so much in awe of the King as those who spent their lives close to him and therefore had to fawn on him and tremble at his frowns.

One of these was Lord Dacre of Naworth. He had always been one of Katharine's most staunch supporters. He was a firm Catholic, and Chapuys, the Spanish ambassador, who was on the alert for some means of getting rid of me and reinstating Katharine, was a friend of his.

Chapuys and he had been in close communication apparently. Dacre in his border territory had been dealing with the Scots, and he, with Chapuys and others, planned to persuade the Scots to invade England when men such as Dacre would join them and force the King to give me up, take Katharine back and return to Rome.

Cromwell had his spies everywhere and by means of intercepting letters learned what was going on. Dacre was forthwith arrested, charged with treason and sent to the Tower to await trial.

The case looked black against him. He was tried before his peers. It was an indication of how the King's popularity had fallen when Dacre was not condemned.

There were some members of the peerage who regarded Cromwell as a common creature who was worming his way into the King's confidence. It was Cromwell's zeal which had brought Dacre to face his judges. Dacre had spoken so strongly against me that they believed—and correctly— that I would wish to see an end of him. Dacre was a clever man; he addressed the court and spoke for seven hours in such a manner as to carry the peers along with him. He thought that some of inferior blood— meaning Cromwell and myself—were seeking to rule the country, with what results we had seen. He was no traitor. He was a loyal Englishman aghast at the way in which his country was going.

To the amazement of all, and the fury of the King and Cromwell, Dacre was acquitted.

It was an indication of the danger into which we were heading.

There was worse to come. When news of the acquittal was released, the people of London came out into the streets to light bonfires, to dance and sing; they wanted to show their delight that a man who had dared to speak his mind and say what so many of them were feeling was found not guilty.

There was a rumor going about that Cromwell had said that it would be easier if Queen Katharine would pass away and take her daughter with her. This was construed as a threat to their lives, and as usual the blame was laid at my door.

No one in the country had more enemies than I; everything that could be brought against me, was. My slightest remarks were misconstrued.

It was now freely said that I was planning to have Katharine poisoned. I knew I was surrounded by spies. Jane Rochford had been released from the Tower; her sojourn there had been just to frighten her and punish her for daring to attempt to get the King's mistress banished from Court. One would have thought she would have become wiser through such an experience, but that was hoping for too much from Jane.

I was growing more and more nervous; my temper could be easily provoked at the slightest upset; this did not endear me to those around me. I had few friends—and I did know then how much I needed friends.

Here I was at the pinnacle of my ambition, and what an uneasy place it was proving to be! My only real pleasure was in my daughter, whom I could visit only at intervals, and when I was with her I had to be under the same roof as Mary, who showed clearly her contempt for me. I noticed, too, how the conduct of those who accompanied me was changing. Many of them slipped away to pay their respects to Mary. This could mean only one thing: my power was waning and they knew it. What was in the future they could only guess; but they wished to show Mary that they respected her… just in case she should be of importance later on.

The King had been fond of Mary. She had been for so long his only child. It was only when she had stood so resolutely beside her mother and refused to obey him that he had turned against her.

News came to Court that she was ill. I could not help being pleased, and people noticed it. Naturally I should feel much more secure if Mary died. While she lived, she was a threat to Elizabeth, and one of my greatest desires was for Elizabeth—if I could get no sons—to be the heir to the throne. Perhaps in an impetuous moment I said this. Katharine was dropsical, and her health was precarious. Well, the situation would ease considerably if neither she nor her daughter was there.

This was logical, and many people must agree with it.

What was so disturbing was the King's concern when he heard of his daughter's sickness. He immediately sent his physicians to her.

Jane Rochford told me she had overheard Cromwell say that the King loved the Princess Mary a hundred times more than he did his latest born.

“I don't believe it!” I cried.

“It was what Cromwell said. But of course it isn't true.”

I knew it was true. Elizabeth was too young to interest him. Moreover, she was my child—and he was fast becoming tired of me.

Henry certainly showed a great deal of solicitude for Mary; he said that if he heard of any showing harsh treatment toward her they would have to answer to him.

I could see that his conscience was beginning to worry him, and that boded no good for me.

Clement died. There was no cause for rejoicing in this. Pope Paul III, who was elected to follow him, was quite different from his vacillating predecessor. He was firm in his resolution to bring Henry back to Rome and showed a certain friendliness toward him. This might have been a good thing if there had not been a shift in the attitude of France toward us. François had been a good friend during the divorce controversy and had helped us considerably to the marriage. I liked to believe that he was kindly disposed toward me because of memories from the past. But, of course, rulers feel no such sentiments, and their actions are invariably dictated by experience.

He now offered to renew negotiations for a marriage between Mary and the Dauphin. This shattered me. It was tantamount to saying that Mary was legitimate—and if she were, what of my position? What of Elizabeth's?

Admiral Chabot de Brion arrived in England to discuss the possibility of the match. I was very tense. I felt that so much hung on the decision. The fact that François could suggest it was significant. What was going on behind my back? I was so nervous I felt ready to burst into tears at any moment. There were times, though, when the humor of the situation forced itself upon me. Throughout all those years I had been so passionately sought and had eluded capture. Suppose I had relented early in the chase, would I have been dismissed long ago? When I thought of it, I wanted to laugh… not the laughter of happiness but something near hysteria.

I had to be careful. I had to control myself.

But if François was seeking the hand of Mary for the Dauphin, it must mean that he considered her legitimate. There was no other answer to that.

I thought I might have an opportunity of speaking with the Admiral. He had been an admirer of mine in the old days at the French Court. He had flirted pleasantly and he had expressed a great admiration for me. I felt I could ask him to enlighten me as to François's motives. But he did not seek a meeting with me, which was strange; in fact, it was not very good manners, on which the French so prided themselves.

I could, therefore, discover nothing of the negotiations, and Henry made it quite clear that he had no intention of telling me anything. My behavior to his daughter Mary had been such that I was the last person with whom he would want to discuss her future.

So I did not know what had been decided.

The Admiral was to leave for France and we gave a banquet on his departure. I was seated at the table on the dais with him on my right hand. The talk had been formal. Henry seemed a little more affable. I could still look more attractive than most women, in spite of my anxieties, and when I noticed his rather covert looks of approval, my spirits rose a little.

We talked of the Admiral's departure, and Henry asked me if I had said farewell to Gontier, the Admiral's chief secretary.

When I replied that I had not, he said: “I will go and fetch him.”

For Henry to go and fetch a secretary was most surprising. I could not understand, for the moment, why he did not send someone in search of him. Then I saw him leave the hall, and almost immediately his mistress slipped out after him.

I could not help it. The tension seemed to snap. He had gone out to be with her. I thought of how he used to pursue me, and suddenly I began to laugh. It was terrible laughter but I could not stop it.

The Admiral looked very annoyed, for people were glancing our way.

Then he said in a very cold voice: ”Do you mock me, Madam?”

“Oh no, no,” I cried. “It is nothing to do with you, Admiral. I was laughing because the King has just met a lady, and the thought of everything else has gone out of his head.”

Still, I could not stop laughing. The Admiral stared coldly in front of him.

I was trying very hard to fight down the hysterical laughter. I was terrified that it would turn to tears.

I saw Henry later. I asked him if he had passed a pleasant time with his mistress.

“You should look to your tongue, Madam,” he said.

How right he was! But I could not restrain myself. I knew I was being foolish but I went on being so. If only I could have faced the situation for what it was and planned calmly.

“Your treatment of the Admiral was not very well received,” I said. “It was a pity your passion made you forget your duty to your guest.”

He turned to me and I saw the hatred clearly in his eyes. I thought: He feels toward me as he did toward Katharine.

How could it have happened so soon?

There were plans in his eyes. How well I knew him! That pursed-up mouth which could be so pious-looking when he was planning acts of cruelty. The little eyes gazing to Heaven, making his case so that it would win divine approval.

Instinctively I knew that he was planning to be rid of me as surely as he had planned to be rid of Katharine.

I was trembling with fear.

I said ironically: “Have I Your Grace's leave to retire?”

“It is most gladly given,” he growled.

My spirits were lifted a little when I heard that François's request for Mary's hand was refused by Henry on the grounds that she was illegitimate; instead he had offered Elizabeth for the Duc de'Angoulême, a younger son of François.

I saw George a great deal at this time. He was my true friend. My father's attitude toward me had grown quite cold. Norfolk had never shown much warmth. They were turning against me since I was falling from favor. Mary, of course, was her old self but she had always been ineffectual. Still, it was nice to have sisterly affection. She had come to Court some little time before, and occasionally I saw my stepmother and she was as loving as ever. I liked to have my family about me.

I had my admirers still. They were faithful. Brereton, Norris, Wyatt were constantly in my company, all expressing devotion to me. It was such a comfort in this changing climate.

George was with us, but he and I talked alone whenever we could. He could be a little somber sometimes, for he was well aware of the King's changing attitude toward me.

“You will have to walk very warily,” he warned me. “For so long he has been behaving like a besotted lover. It is different now. The tame pet can become a wild beast. Anger and resentment are smoldering there… ready to burst out.”

“I know it,” I replied.

“No one would dare speak to you as I do, Anne. It worries me. You could be in danger.”

“I know he is unfaithful. He has become tired of me. How could it happen so quickly, George?”

George was thoughtful. Then he said: “There must be utter frankness between us two. He has worked himself into a dangerous position. It was a bold move to break with Rome.”

“François, who seemed to support us, seems to be turning right around. The French have been so affable to me. Now they are aloof.”

“You do not put your trust in monarchs, Anne. They go whichever way is most beneficial to them. It suited François to stand for Henry because that was against Charles. But this is different. This is standing against the Roman Catholic world.”

“He did that for love of me.”

George looked at me sadly. “He desired you greatly, that's true. But he wanted to make sure of the succession.”

“There is Elizabeth. There was Mary.”

“Girls! He wanted a son… who would be like him… riding around the country, bluff, hearty, winning the love of the people.”

“Could not a woman do that?”

“Leading the troops in battle?”

“When has Henry last gone to war? When he did, his efforts were not marked by success.”

“Do not tell him that. You are too outspoken… too frank.”

“I know I am. Bur what am I going to do, George?”

“Get a son. He would never discard the mother of his son.”

“I see little of him. He has his mistress now. Oh God, George, do you think he will be with her as he was with me?”

“Anne,” he said, “you are the most fascinating woman at Court. You have a special allure. You must think of that. You must get a son. There is something I have to tell you. He has hinted to Cromwell that he wants a divorce.”

“From me!”

George lifted his shoulders. “Who else?”

“No, George!”

“Why not? He rid himself of Katharine…at what cost! It would be simpler with you. The Boleyns are not the Emperor Charles. The Pope would not stand out against it.”

“Then I am doomed.”

He shook his head. “There is Cromwell. Cromwell has told him that he could divorce you easily…by declaring that his marriage to you was no true one. But that would entail one thing: he would have to take Katharine back. That he will never do.”

“Presumably I am the lesser evil.”

“Presumably. Don't worry. Cromwell is a clever fellow. He won't allow it to happen. If Henry went back to Katharine, he would soon be returning to Rome, and that would be the end of Cromwell. He has based his career on the break with Rome. Cromwell—for his own reasons—is your friend. Rejoice in that.”

“Sometimes, George, I am very frightened.”

“You'll come through if you can get a son. Then you would be safe. But you will have to accept his infidelities… just as Katharine did.”

“I am beginning to realize the patience of that woman.”

“She is the daughter of Isabella. Remember that. She has stood firm… unafraid. She is indeed a brave woman. In spite of everything, she has disconcerted Henry, and there are many throughout the country who support her. Anne, get a son. You must get a son. Therein lies your salvation.”

“These miscarriages…they were boys.”

“Perhaps you have been overanxious.”

“It may be.”

“Get him back somehow. Get a son. When you are pregnant, live more quietly. Give up this wild gaiety. You give an impression of indifference to the King's rising animosity. You flirt too much with men about you. It is noticed, and the King does not like it.”

“Even though he is no longer interested in me?”

“Even so. But he watches you sometimes and there is a glint in his eyes. He knows you are outstanding in the Court. You must find a way, Anne… soon. It is imperative.”

“I know. But at least he told François that Mary is illegitimate.”

“Yes, and offered Elizabeth to the younger son. That is only because she is so young and the Dauphin needs a bride soon.”

“Do you think François will accept Elizabeth?”

“I hope so. I pray so. Much will depend on it. If François refuses it will be tantamount to saying that he does not believe in her legitimacy. A great deal will depend on François's answer.”

“It is frightening.”

“I know. But we must face the truth, Anne. That is the only way we can continue to exist.”

“Thank you, George, you do me so much good.”

“Curb your temper. Remember when you are about to let it fly that you are dealing with a man who is very powerful and probably the most ruthless in the world. You have to forget the tender lover. He is not that any more. You must stop thinking of him as the man who pursued you and was ready to grant your every whim. He has changed, and not only to you. There was a time when he was a kind and courteous husband to Katharine; he loved Mary; true he strayed now and then, but no more than was to be expected. He had certain codes; religion and morals meant something to him. People do change. Events change them. And there have been some notable events in the life of this King. They brutalize. Think of his conduct to Queen Katharine and the Princess Mary.”

“I have said he was too soft with them.”

“You are thinking only of what you want. Consider a husband who has tired of a wife who has done nothing but good. Her only fault is that she is older than he is and is no longer attractive to him. You come on the scene; you refuse to be his mistress, so he schemes and plots and juggles with his conscience. He would get rid of that wife of all those years, repudiate her, and when she refuses to go into a convent she lives like a prisoner under house arrest. What anguish he has caused. And his daughter Mary—a girl brought up to believe herself Princess of England, now deprived of all her rights and separated from her mother…”

“They would have plotted against us. Chapuys is ready to foment a revolt.”

“Think of it, Anne. That's all I ask. If he can act so to one, he will to another. We will see what François's response is to this suggestion for Elizabeth and little Angoulême. So much will depend upon it. In the meantime, Anne, you must get a son.”

I said: “It is good to talk to you, George. I thank God for you.”

His words kept hammering in my brain. A son. A son. I must get a son.

I had a healthy daughter—so why should I not get a son?

There was trouble from an unexpected quarter.

Jane Rochford came to me one day, her eyes shining with that excitement which they displayed when she had disturbing news to impart.

“Mary fainted this morning. She was quite ill. And when we revived her it was clear that…”

I looked at Jane, hating her.

I said: “Send Mary to me.”

“We were amazed…”

“Never mind,” I said imperiously. “Send her to me. I want to see her at once.”

Mary came. She was very apprehensive.

I said: “Are you with child?”

“How …how did you know?” she stammered.

“That snake, Jane Rochford, told me.”

“Yes… she was there. I saw her when I came to.”

“Trust Jane to be there. This is a disgrace. You know I was thinking of a grand match for you. And now like the silly little wanton you are, you have made it impossible.”

“I don't want a grand match, Anne.”

“You are the Queen's sister. Your marriage should be a matter for the King and me to decide.”

“The King is no longer interested in me. He will be glad to see me out of the way. He rarely looks my way and, if by chance his eyes fall on me, he feigns not to see me. It was different once. But that is his way. When things are over, he wants to forget they ever existed.”

Her words struck me like a funeral knell. How right she was.

“In any case,” she went on, “I want only William.”

“William? William who?”

“William Stafford.”

“William Stafford! But is he not only a knight…of no importance?”

“He is of importance to me.”

“As you are ready to proclaim to the world, it seems.”

“Yes, I am.”

“I don't know what the King will say.”

“Nothing…precisely nothing. He is not interested.”

“And our father?”

“Our father has always despised me. I don't know how I happened to be his daughter.”

I looked with envy at the slight swelling below Mary's waist. She had children… healthy children who loved her and whom she loved. Why should they be denied to me?

For a few seconds I felt envious of my simple-minded sister who thought love was more important than ambition, and for a fleeting moment I would have changed places with her. But the moment passed.

I said: “And what do you think is going to happen now?”

“We shall be married.”

“You will leave the Court.”

“It is what we want,” she said, smiling contentedly.

So Mary was banished from Court and married Sir William Stafford. In due course she gave birth to a son.

How cruel fate was! Why give a son to Mary and deny one to me?

There was a ray of hope. François had agreed to consider a marriage between his son the Duc d'Angoulême and Elizabeth.

I was delighted. François had not deserted me after all. If he thought of my daughter as a possible wife for his son, she must be legitimate in his eyes, and that meant he considered my marriage with Henry valid.

This was particularly comforting because George had discovered that the matter of a pre-contract between myself and Northumberland had been revived. The King wanted the matter looked into closely. That was very ominous.

But this action of François's was significant.

I realized afterward that François had no intention of allowing the marriage; he made such outrageous demands as part of the betrothal agreement that they could only be rejected by the Council.

François would have known all along that they would be. But still he had offered to negotiate, which was the important thing, and I still clung to the hope that he had done it out of kindness to me, for I could be sure he was aware of the state of affairs at the English Court.

I kept thinking of George's words. I must act quickly. I must make the King reasonably friendly toward me so that we could occasionally share a bed. Otherwise how was I going to get a son?

He was deeply involved with his mistress. I had to break that somehow for I had discovered that she was a fervent advocate of Katharine and Mary. It might well be that she had been put in the King's path with instructions to become his mistress that she might further the cause of these two. There were all sorts of schemes afoot; there were spies everywhere. Chapuys was a very energetic man, and he had not yet despaired of getting me ousted and Katharine's and Mary's rights restored to them.

An idea occurred to me which I admit was wild, but I was getting desperate.

My cousin Madge Shelton had come to Court. She was an exceptionally pretty girl. Her mother was my father's sister. I had always liked her, perhaps because she had shown a great admiration for me. She used to copy my clothes, my manner, the way I walked; it always amused me. She was delighted to come to Court and I think it was partly because she could be near me.

Naturally such admiration delighted me. She was such a gentle girl, constantly trying to do something which would please me; and not for her own gain either—just to hear me say thank you and smile at her.

Now that I was Queen, she thought I was wonderful. Little did she know of my inward disquiet. She saw me at Court surrounded by admirers, many of them men behaving, as they always had, as though they were in love with me.

There was a faint family resemblance and, as she rather slavishly copied the fashion I had set, I think she looked more like me than any girl at Court.

The idea came to me one evening. I was sitting with the King on the dais, for on certain occasions we had to make a show of being together, when Madge appeared. She was dancing and looked particularly pretty. I saw the King's eyes come to rest on her, and there was in them that glazed expression which I remembered had been directed toward me so often in the past.

His mistress then came close in the dance, and his eyes were all for her. But I had seen the look he gave Madge.

I dismissed the idea. It was preposterous; but at the same time there was an urgent message hammering in my brain. I must get a son.

I decided to speak to Madge.

“I want to talk to you very privately,” I said. “And what I say must be between us two.”

Her lovely eyes opened very wide and she looked at me with something like idolatry.

“We have been very good friends, cousin,” I said.

“Yes,” she answered breathlessly.

“Right from the time when we were both very young. I fancied even then that you had a liking for me.”

“Oh, Madam…yes,” she said.

“I need your help.”

She looked startled; but I could see that she wanted above everything to please me.

“I hope you will feel you can give it to me.”

“But you have done so much for us all… the whole family…”

I laid my hand on her arm. “This is something very special. I am going to be very frank. You must have heard that the King and I are not on very good terms of friendship at the moment.”

She did not answer. Of course she had heard. The whole Court was talking of it.

“It is on account of a certain woman. She is his mistress. She has taken him away from me. She is my enemy.”

Madge looked suitably shocked.

“Yes,” I said, “She is continually talking of the virtues of Katharine and Mary. The King listens to her. And she speaks ill of me. I cannot have that.”

“She should be punished.”

“That is what I intend to do.”

“But how can I help?”

“I think the King likes you.”

“He has scarcely seen me.”

“Oh yes, he has. I have seen him look at you, and I know well his ways.”

She was amazed.

“Cousin,” I went on, “I know not what will become of me if this woman continues to pour her poison into the King's ears.”

“How can you stop her?”

“By supplanting her.”

“But you are the Queen. For you the King has done so much.”

“Men are strangely fickle, cousin. Their loves do not last.”

“But the King loved you for many years. For you he has broken with Rome.”

“The King loved the chase. He wanted a son. He could not get one with Katharine. He wanted me, too. I think it was in that order. You see how I trust you, cousin. I am talking to you very frankly, and what I say does not go beyond these four walls. I believe you love me and would do a great deal for me.”

She nodded.

“May Heaven bless you! This is a big thing I am going to ask of you.”

Her eyes were shining with purpose. She would do it, I knew, for me.

“I want you to lure the King from his mistress.”

“I?”

“Yes, you. You have a freshness and charm and he has already noticed you. Be in his way. Smile…nervously. Seem overwhelmed when he looks at you. Let him see that you think he is the most handsome, powerful, god-like being on Earth. He will respect your judgment and immediately fall in love with you, because you are indeed very attractive.”

“But I don't think…”

“Try, Madge. My future could depend on it. I want you in her place. I want no more talk of how good and wonderful Katharine and Mary are; I want you instead to talk of me, to tell him of my incomparable charms, my looks, my brains and above all my great fondness for him. Tell him that I am desolate because he has turned from me. Make him believe that, although I may not show this to him, it is because I am uncommonly proud and of a somewhat inflammable nature. Tell him that I admire him …as you do… and as all women of discernment must.”

“And do you?”

I laughed loudly and checked myself. No hysteria. The plan was so wild it might not succeed. But I was desperate and it was worth a try.

“Madge,” I went on earnestly, “for my sake I want you to take the King away from his mistress. It is time he began to be tired of her. It is very important to me that he ceases to soften toward Katharine and Mary. It is of even greater importance that I get a son.”

“But surely you only have to tell him this…”

I shook my head. “That would not be the way. This might be. Cousin, I am asking too much. Forgive me. But I thought you would do a great deal for me.”

“I would,” she replied earnestly. “I would do anything.”

I saw the excitement begin to dawn in her eyes. The King was the King. He was still handsome, and power sets a mighty aura about a man. Most girls would be flattered to be noticed by him. She would have to perform her part well; and he could be courteous and charming enough when he was attempting seduction.

“You will win my eternal gratitude,” I said. “Do you want to think about it?”

She nodded.

“Then please do. And remember: this is between us two.”

“I swear it shall go no further,” she said.

Jane Rochford was very excited.

“The King is no longer seeing his mistress so frequently.”

“Oh, is he not?” I asked languidly.

“There is another.” She looked at me with satisfaction.

“Oh yes, I suppose there would be.”

“You would never guess who.”

“Tell me.”

“It is really rather funny. Who would have thought it? She seemed so quiet. The King is in hot pursuit. It is our cousin, Madge Shelton.”

“Well, she is a very attractive girl.”

“Don't you mind? To think that a member of our family…”

“It has to be someone, I suppose.”

“You take it calmly.”

“How else could I take it?”

“George was with you a long time last night.”

“We were talking.”

“I was on the point of coming in.”

“You would not do that unless invited.”

“I knew I shouldn't be invited. I'm not clever enough. George always implies that.”

I did not answer. I was thinking of Madge.

I saw her later. She had changed. She was now the King's mistress. I marveled at a devotion which had made her go so far. It had seemed such a wild plan and yet it was working.

“Does he talk much…of affairs of Court?” I asked.

“He talked about Katharine and Mary.”

“They are much on his mind.”

“He says they have caused him grievous suffering.”

“I hope you were sympathetic.”

“Oh yes. I said it was wrong that any should harm the King. He has so much to think of… affairs of state… matters of the Court. Everyone should do their best to give him peace.”

“As you do.”

“Yes, as I do. I said I thought it was wrong of Katharine and Mary to be in such close touch with Chapuys. He said he supposed I heard gossip about the Court. I told him I did and he asked me one or two things. I don't think he likes Katharine and Mary quite as much as he did.”

“And did he mention me?”

She nodded, smiling. “I told him how much I loved you and how kind you had always been to me, how wonderful you were, and that I was afraid I imitated you in so many ways. And he said, ‘Well, there is no one like the Queen.’ He looked soft for a while and then he went on: ‘She has a sharp tongue.’ I replied that it was really because you were so honest. You did not stop to think what advantage would come to you for saying this and that. You spoke freely and you were quick tempered, but you were so merry quickly afterward and how much more exciting it was to be with people when you did not know exactly what to expect from them. Then he said: ‘You are a staunch advocate of the Queen,’ and I said, ‘So would Your Grace be if…’ Then I clapped my hands to my mouth and I said ‘Forgive me, sire, I spoke without thinking.’ He laughed and said: ‘Like her, eh?’ And he seemed to speak of you with some fondness.”

Oh dear little cousin Madge, I thought. It could work. It was not a crazy scheme after all.

It did not take the King long to tire of Madge, but so well had she done her work that even before her time was over he was looking toward me. I think he had come to regard her as a pale shadow of myself.

When we were hawking, he was close to me. He spoke a few words in a most pleasant manner and when I replied gently he seemed pleased.

We progressed from there, and within a week or so my old enemies were looking glum. Some of them obviously thought they had been a little premature.

One day he said to me: “There is none like you. No matter who…I would always find myself coming back…to Anne.”

In the old days such a comment would have enraged me. I should have replied that I was not waiting on his pleasure. Now, I smiled as though contented. I had to get a son.

So we were together again, and it was almost as it had been in the first days of our marriage.

Although that was not so very long ago, I had grown up a good deal since then. I had begun to understand him better. He was completely selfish and could be very cruel indeed, and it was odd that his cruelty grew out of his assumed piety. I often compared him with François. François's lasciviousness and his determination to satisfy his carnal desires had stood in his way of becoming a great king. With Henry his actions had to be justified; he had his conscience to consider. It had to be placated, and this could only be done by putting himself right in the eyes of Heaven; that often meant treating those about him with complete ruthlessness. If he wanted to rid himself of me, as he had Katharine, he would not admit to himself that he was tired of me, and I had not, after all the trouble, brought him the desired son, which was the truth; it would have to be a concern of his conscience because of a possible pre-contract with the Earl of Northumberland. He wanted to say, I was not truly married to her. It was a mistake. But any solution which meant taking back Katharine was out of the question for him. Perhaps, as George had pointed out, I owed something to Katharine.

In the past I had been confident of my power to lure him to me, and I now believed that, in spite of the fact that I had grown thinner and older and had suffered disappointment in childbed, that power was still mine.

And it seemed so, for he had come back.

It was not long before I could tell him the joyful news. I was pregnant. I was wildly happy. This time it must be a son.

Now he was the devoted husband, solicitous of me, talking constantly of the arrival of the Boy.

I was very interested in the new religion which was being taken up in Germany and the Low Countries, and I was reading all I could about it. I interested him in it and we would spend enjoyable hours discussing it together. I would read something and hurry to tell him about it. He enjoyed this, for he had an alert mind.

I was full of confidence. Once I had my son, I could feel safe.

That was a year of tragedy.

It seemed I was not to have my child. I was following in the steps of Katharine. I was filled with melancholy when I miscarried.

“Why? Why?” I demanded. I had taken the utmost care. I had so desperately wanted…so desperately needed this child.

The King was bitterly disappointed. He could see that I was useless to him.

But something seemed to touch him. He could be sentimental at times, and that softened him.

“We'll have boys yet,” he said, and nothing could have comforted me more at that time.

It was a disastrous year.

People talked of nothing but the Oath of Supremacy which had to be accepted by all. Those who did not accept it, did so at their peril.

At the end of the previous year, Parliament had conferred on Henry the title of Supreme Head of the Church, and it was declared to be High Treason to deny the title.

It was too much to hope that there would not be some who rebelled.

The King's fury was intense. Fisher and More were in the Tower. The King sent Cromwell to ask for More's opinion of the new statutes. More was a lawyer, and his opinion would be worth having, for if he agreed with them he would carry many with him. More was perhaps the most respected man in England. Learned, deeply religious, a good and moral man, he was above bribery and corruption. If he would be prepared to give his approval to the statutes, it was certain that many would do the same. The King must get that approval.

“Were they not lawful?” demanded Cromwell of him.

More's reply was that he was a loyal subject of the King and he could say no more than that.

When Cromwell returned to the King, Henry abused him. He was like that with Cromwell. But Cromwell stood by, patiently humble, smiling, waiting for the abuse to cease and letting the insults pass over his head.

He tried More again, with the same results.

The King cried out in a pained voice: “I have given my friendship to that man, and now he refuses this little I ask.”

More's reply was that he was the King's servant, but God's first.

What could one do with such a man? He disturbed Henry, making it difficult for him to reconcile his conscience, which was one of the greatest offenses a man or woman could commit.

On the Continent affairs in England were closely watched. Henry was isolating himself, and that made him uneasy.

The Pope had sent word that Fisher had been made a Cardinal. This was clearly meant to aggravate Henry, for Fisher was in the Tower. Like More, he had refused to accept the Oath of Supremacy.

“A Cardinal!” spluttered Henry. “Tell the Pope I'll send his head to Rome to receive his Cardinal's Hat.”

Such outbursts were of little use.

He was most disturbed by Thomas More. The strong sentimental streak in Henry was uppermost in his feelings for More, and he was at times capable of affection. He admired More almost as much as he had Wolsey. The lively brain, the witty conversation, the clear view of life which comes to most of us too late and to some not at all, that innate knowledge of what is of true importance in life, often seeming to the worldly simple—that was More. A man greatly beloved by his family and his friends, one of whom had been the King. Henry used to visit the house at Chelsea now and then. He knew the family well, and he had at times been a little envious that so much felicity should come to a man who lacked what he, Henry, had—royalty, power, good looks.

And now More was in the Tower. He was going to refuse to sign the Oath of Supremacy because he was a man of strong will and high principles. This refusal would brand him a traitor, and the punishment for traitors was death.

Henry had to face that. How could he sign a death warrant? This was a man he loved—in spite of his obstinacy. He raged. Why was More such a fool? Why was he ready to give up everything he had—and by God, that man had a great deal!— just for the sake of signing his name!

Fisher was such another. “Obstinate old fool,” grumbled Henry.

June had come—hot and sultry.

Henry was stubborn. He had to go ahead. Several Carthusian monks and twenty-four other people were cruelly executed for denying the King was Supreme Head of the Church—carried on hurdles to the place of execution, then hanged and cut open while they were alive and their intestines were burned.

Fisher's execution followed.

The King sent a command that no one was to preach about Fisher's treason. And they were not to mention Sir Thomas More.

I know that Henry suffered over More. He tried to put off the trial. He was sullen. I found him glaring at me as though I were to blame, for after all, if I had given way in the beginning, there might not have been this break with Rome, and More might, at this time, be living happily with his family at Chelsea.

But he could delay no longer. On the first day of July, More faced his judges in Westminster Hall.

My father was among those judges; so were Norfolk, Suffolk and Cromwell. More was charged with infringing the Act of Supremacy and maliciously opposing the King's second marriage. He answered that he had not advised Fisher to disobey the Oath; he had not described it as a two-edged sword, approval of which would ruin the soul. All the same, a verdict of guilty was pronounced and he was sentenced to be hanged atTyburn.

Henry was most distressed. He could not allow his old friend to be hanged like a common felon; he immediately changed the sentence to a more dignified form of execution: More was to be beheaded.

Everyone was talking of More. He was a man much loved by the people. Henry should never have agreed to his execution. But he could not turn back now. He had gone too far.

More had faced his accusers with courage and almost indifference, which was expected of such a man. He had few enemies, which was rare for a man in his position. He loved his daughter, Margaret, especially. People talked of her terrible grief and how she had run to him when he left Westminster Hall with the ax turned toward him and thrown her arms about his neck. Only then did he show signs of breaking his control. He had begged her not to unman him; and the poor girl had fallen fainting to the ground while he was forced to go on…a prisoner.

There was one thing he had said, and this had made a great impression on me. It was reported to me by those who pretended to be my friends and kept me informed of what was going on. Usually it brought disquiet, but I had to know. More's daughter Margaret had raged against the dancing and feasting which was going on at Court while her father suffered imprisonment; and of course she talked of me with hatred, for like everyone else, she blamed me for all the ills which had befallen us.

“Poor Anne Boleyn,” Sir Thomas More was reported to have said. “It pitieth me to consider what misery, poor soul, she will shortly come to. These dances of hers will prove such dances that she will spurn our heads off like footballs, but it will not be long ere her head will dance the same dance.”

I shivered when I heard that. It was not completely implausible. Oh, if only I could get a son…

On that sad July day Sir Thomas More was taken out to Tower Hill. There was a silence throughout the Court. It seemed that everyone was there in spirit to witness that grisly scene.

He was jesting when he died, having approached the scaffold with the utmost composure. He said to the executioner: “I pray you see me safely up, and for my coming down let me shift for myself.” He told the watching crowd that he died in the faith of the Catholic Church, and he prayed God to send the King good counsel.

Then the ax fell.

The King was playing cards with me when the news was brought that Sir Thomas was dead. He turned pale; his lips tightened. For a moment he looked a frightened man. I knew he was thinking that he had ordered the death of a saint. I saw a quiver run through his plump cheeks; then his eyes fell on me.

He was afraid of what he had done. He feared Heaven's wrath; and in case God had forgotten he had to remind Him of the real culprit.

There was cold hatred in his eyes as they surveyed me. “You are the cause of this man's death,” he said, and left the table.

I felt death very close then. I saw him more clearly than I ever had… this man who could be so ruthless and had the power to work his will on us all.

Thomas More's body was buried in the church of St. Peter in the Tower, but his head, as was the custom with traitors’ heads, was placed on a pole and set up on London Bridge, that all who passed beneath it could reflect on the fate of traitors.

A shiver ran through the Court when news came that the head had disappeared. It seemed like Divine interference. Henry was in a state of great nervousness. He had always thought of himself as being on good terms with Heaven; and now this looked like a sign of disapproval.

It was not his fault that More had been executed, he reiterated. He had been forced to sign the death warrant. Others were to blame. The Parliament had conferred the title of Supreme Head on him and ordered that those who did not accept this were traitors and should be dealt with accordingly. He had loved More; he had suffered when the sentence had been passed on him. He had merely taken the advice of his ministers.

There was great relief when it was discovered that More's daughter Margaret had taken down her father's head. The King declared that she must be allowed to do what she would with it. He would hear no more. The whole affair had been a great sorrow to him.

Strangely enough, he turned to me for comfort and, stranger still, I was able to subdue my feelings of contempt and give him what he sought.

“He was a traitor, Anne.”

I took his hand and said: “As all who disobey you must be.”

“He was a good man…”

“It seems good men can sometimes act traitorously.”

“He was not against me … only the Act. At the end he thought of me.”

“You had been good to him, Henry.”

His expression lightened. That was the right note. He said: “Yes, I would go to Chelsea… would sit at his humble table. I asked for no ceremony. I walked in his gardens with him and watched his children feed the peacocks.”

“You did him great honor.”

I soothed him; and we were together again.