The Lady in the Tower

The Lady in the Tower

WE HAD TO BE MERRY… outwardly. There was a great outcry on the Continent about the death of Sir Thomas More. Rome was shocked by the death of Fisher. He had recently been made a Cardinal, and no Cardinal had ever been executed in England before. This was further defiance of Rome. Henry was called the Monster of England. The Emperor Charles said that the execution of Sir Thomas More was an act of folly. “Had we been master of such a servant,” he was reputed to have commented, “we would rather have lost the fairest city in our domain than such a counselor.”

Henry's anger was intense. There should be no weakness. Those who opposed the King should face the penalty.

There were more deaths. Monks must acknowledge the King as Supreme Head of the Church, and for those who would not there was death. There were some who preferred it.

Death was not easy for them. There was no quick stroke of the ax. They died as had the Carthusian monks, dragged through the city on hurdles, hanged, taken down alive and cut open, that their entrails might be burned. People congregated to watch these grisly spectacles in fascinated horror.

They said it was all due to the goggle-eyed whore.

The most disturbing news was that Pope Paul—no vacillating Clement—was so outraged by the deaths of Fisher and More and the monks that he was contemplating waging a holy war against England. The Emperor would lead the army of invasion with the help and blessing of the Pope. They were seeking an alliance with France.

Oddly enough, I had ceased to be as worried as I had been. This was a threat against Henry. Before, I alone had been in danger. It is easier to accept a universal danger than a personal one.

I tried to shut myself away from events by taking an even greater interest in the new religion. There were several Protestant bishops in the Church now—chief of them Cranmer, Archbishop of Canterbury, and Hugh Latimer, Bishop of Worcester. They were strong men and my friends, because I was known to support the new ideas.

Henry was still at my side. I told him that he was right in what he had done. Those who thought otherwise were ill advised. The Catholic Church had many faults. It had diverged from the teachings of Christ. I believed I was beginning to make him see that his escape from the bondage of Rome was the best thing that could have happened to him. Providence had set me in his path that it might be achieved. He only had to consider the wealth of the monasteries, much of which had found its way to Rome. Now it was his. He was no man's slave. When he considered all, he would see that he was the richest Prince in Christendom. Through him the Church was to be reformed. He had done a great service to himself and all Englishmen.

He listened and was comforted.

And once again I was pregnant. This time all must go well. I must have my son who would make me safe forever.

During the last months of that year England stood alone, fearing that at any time we might be invaded. I knew from what I gleaned from the spies that Katharine's hopes were high. I heard there was a plot to oust Henry from the throne, set Mary up in his place and marry her into France so that England would become a vassal of that country.

I pointed out to Henry that I had been right to recognize Katharine and Mary as enemies. It was true that they had never deceived him in their attitudes; they had remained staunchly Catholic and had never accepted me as the Queen. That was understandable; but nevertheless they were a danger and a threat to the throne and were plotting against him. He was turning over in his mind some way of ridding himself of them.

All through the autumn we waited for some attack from Rome. It did not come. Katharine was ill and frustrated. We understood that the Pope could not act without the Emperor, and the Emperor was at this time heavily engaged in Africa, where he was achieving some resounding victories.

Meanwhile Henry had instructed Cromwell to have an examination made of the monasteries; and according to Cromwell they were stews of iniquity. Rumors were circulating through the country concerning the life that went on behind monastery walls—orgies in which naked nuns danced before depraved priests. We heard of illegitimate children buried in monastic grounds, and obscenities of every kind.

The whole country was talking about the secret life of the nuns and monks.

Cromwell was eager for war to be avoided and was worried that if hostilities broke out this would have a disastrous effect on trade. The people would not tolerate that, and there would be insurrections.

Moreover, the autumn was particularly wet and that resulted in a bad harvest.

It seemed that everything was going against us.

Then our luck turned. Sforza, the Duke of Milan, died childless; and Milan had always been a matter of contention between François and the Emperor. While the Duke lived, their dispute had been suspended. Now he was dead, the question of who should succeed him in Milan had arisen again.

Whether François had ever intended to make war on England was questionable; but it would have suited him if the Emperor had, for then he could have given himself over to the conquest of Milan without interference. François made a complete turnabout. He needed Henry's support, so cynically he ceased to be concerned about the schism in the Church and sought England's friendship.

The Pope could do little without the joint help of François and the Emperor, and although Charles might have been ready to invade England, he was not going to leave himself open to attack by François, which would have meant having a war on two fronts. The Pope had to content himself with thundering out threats against Henry. He cursed him and all those who aided him. When he died, he was to be unburied and his soul lie in hell forever. He ordered the King's subjects to renounce their allegiance to Henry; they were to fall under the interdict of excommunication if they continued to obey him. No true son of the Church was to hold intercourse or alliance with him on pain of sharing his damnation. The princes and people of Europe must, as they owed allegiance to the Holy See, drive him from his throne.

The Pope's ranting made less impression on Henry now that François was seeking his friendship and the Emperor was showing less inclination to go to war with England. He believed that, providing he showed his strength to his people, they would obey him. The executions and the terrible and humiliating sufferings of those who refused to obey him must bring the people to obedience. It was only saints and martyrs who risked a death like that.

Henry would have his way and trample on all those who tried to prevent him—no matter how close to him they had once been.

It should have been a warning to me that he could even contemplate murdering Katharine and Mary, for during those months I came to believe that he would have done this if he could without dire results harmful to himself. But he had come too close to war to take such a risk.

That Christmas of the year 1535 must be a merry one. We must show the country and the world that we were unperturbed by the threats from the Continent. We stood in isolation, which made us greater than we had ever been. Henry, King of England, would bow to no one.

My kinsman Francis Bryan came to see me some weeks before Christmas. Francis was a close friend of the King. He was one of those witty lively young men whom Henry liked to gather around him. Francis was clever, something of a poet; he had wild ideas and he could be quite outrageous. Henry was amused by him. Cromwell had dubbed him “the Vicar of Hell.”

He told me that a week or so ago, when the King had been hunting, he had been a member of the party and they had stayed a night in Wilt-shire at Wolf Hall, the home of Sir John Seymour. Sir John had a daughter—a quiet, unassuming girl, and he was eager for her to have a place at Court.

“I promised,” said Francis, “that I would speak to you and ask if you would allow her to join your household.”

“But of course,” I said. “What is she like?”

“I would not presume to ask Your Grace if she were not a good and virtuous girl. As a matter of fact, she is rather shy and retiring. Her father thinks it would do her good to come out into the world.”

“Let her come then,” I said.

So she came. I took very little notice of her at first. She was rather insignificant—fair-headed, neither short nor tall, with eyes a nondescript shade of water which took their color from whatever she was wearing. When I addressed her, she spoke almost in a whisper.

For some days I forgot all about her. Then one evening, when we were dining, I realized that the King was watching her. I saw her meet his glance, blush and lower her eyes.

No, I thought, he cannot be interested in such an… insect!

I was alert though. And yes, he was interested in her. How strange! She was not the type I should have thought to attract him. Elizabeth Blount, Madge Shelton… they had all been exceptionally beautiful. But this girl looked dull; she was colorless, with hardly a word to say for herself.

I suppose he just wants a change, I thought. She is, I suppose, just about as different from me as a woman could be.

I did not expect the matter to go farther, but as the weeks passed he was still watching her. Then it occurred to me that he might have asked Francis Bryan to see that she was brought to Court. He had gone to Wolf Hall when out hunting. He must have noticed her then.

I laughed contemptuously. I had little to fear from her, I thought.

Christmas came. I tried to make it a merry one. Norris, Brereton, Wyatt, George, we all put our heads together to devise entertainments, and there were feasting and festivities as grand as any that had gone before.

I ceased to worry. I was pregnant. I felt sure that I could not be disappointed again. I was more like my old self. I looked attractive, I knew; I detected that serenity in my face which comes to some women when they are pregnant. I felt that we had come through the worst. I would have to accept Henry's infidelities. But did I care? If I had a son, he and Elizabeth would be the main care of my life. It would not matter much what Henry did as long as I and my children were safe. It was not as if I loved him. I knew him too well for that—though sometimes I felt a kind of contemptuous affection for him. He was such a strange man that one could not help marveling at him. It was that cruelty and selfishness alongside the sentimentality, the conscience which did in truth plague him, even though he manipulated it and set it going in the direction best suited to his needs. I feared him, yes. I knew how ruthless he could be. When I considered how passionately he had pursued me I could now only think that his persistence had been due largely to his need to prove to himself that he was omnipotent. I had been mistaken in thinking it was love for me. One could not love such a man; but one could live with him. I could accept his philandering. I had never had great sexual desires myself, and at this time they were nonexistent. That was why I could adopt a flirtatious manner toward the men about me, for I knew there could be no culmination. I merely liked to have them about me, admiring me.

I had a very talented musician in my household, Mark Smeaton, a pleasant young man who still could not believe in his good fortune in being employed at the Court. He was very good-looking and would have made a wonderful subject for one of our painters, with his small oval face, large dark eyes, and hair which curled about his head. He was delicate-looking, with the most beautiful hands and long, white, tapering fingers. He could dance gracefully. He was a charming boy.

I talked to him about music, and at first he was overcome by shyness because I had noticed him. That endeared him to me, and I told him he must not be shy for I admired his playing very much. Sometimes, when I felt depressed and uneasy, I would make him play for me.

I encouraged him to talk about himself, about his humble home where he had lived with his parents. His father had been a carpenter, and people had brought their chairs for him to mend. Mark had helped him but his heart was in music. Being exceptional, he was noticed by the local squire, who had quickly discovered his musical talents and had brought him into his house to teach music to his daughters. When the daughters married and went away, a visitor to the house, who had been impressed by Mark's playing on the virginals, brought him to Court; and as I liked to gather the best musicians about me, he was soon in my household.

He could never grow accustomed to his good fortune, and he had a feeling for me which I can only call adoration.

When I complimented him on his playing, he would almost swoon with delight. I found him amusing. His clothes were shabby, so I ordered them to make some velvet suits for him. Then I gave him a ruby ring to wear with them. He was overcome with joy.

I was something of a musician myself. Very few people played the virginals better, and I had always had a good singing voice; so Mark and I had a good deal in common.

Such adoration was balm to me in those days when I had to accept the fact that Henry had a mistress—so Mark had become a great favorite. He was a good boy and never gave himself airs. He was always incredibly humble, constantly implying his worship for one so far above him.

The others laughed at him sometimes.

“Yet another admirer,” said Henry Norris. “Your Grace attracts them like bees to the lavender blooms.”

Norris was often in my party. Now a widower, he was supposed to be courting Madge Shelton, but the courtship did not progress very quickly. I really believed it was because he was in love with me.

So that Christmas was a merry one. I looked forward to the New Year. How fortunate it is that we cannot see into the future! And when that Christmas I anticipated the coming years with such pleasure, I did not know it was to be the most disastrous one of my life.

I would have a son. I had come to terms with my relationship with the King. I would pretend not to see his infidelities. I would accept what I had—which was a good deal—and be thankful for it. I would devote myself to promoting my children.

I had suffered certain qualms of conscience over Mary. I had a daughter myself now and knew a mother's feelings. Katharine was heartbroken; not only was she a repudiated wife but she was deprived of her daughter's company. But Katharine was obstinate; she would have removed me if she could, and I doubted whether she would have been overnice in the method. She was a strong woman determined to hold on to her rights; but Mary was not so very old, not so very knowledgeable in worldly matters. One should have been more tolerant with her.

So I had written to her, telling her that if she would stop being obstinate and be a good daughter to her father, I would be her good friend. She could come to Court and I should not insist that she should bear my train. She should walk by my side.

I had gone as far as that, and I would have kept my word.

But Mary would not give way. She replied that she wished for nothing more than to be her father's good daughter, but she could not for-swear the principles for which Bishop Fisher and Sir Thomas More had died.

It was hopeless to try to get Mary to see good sense, but having done what I could, I did feel a little better.

Christmas passed and the New Year was with us.

News came from Kimbolton where Katharine had been sent, that she was very ill indeed. We heard this through Eustace Chapuys, which infuriated the King. He sent for Cromwell. Poor Cromwell, he seemed to be blamed for everything, and yet the King knew that he could not do without him.

“Why is it that I first hear news of what is going on in my castles from foreigners?” he demanded.

Cromwell humbly said he would take Sir Edmund Bedingfeld, who was in charge of Katharine's household, to task.

He came back with Bedingfeld's report, which was that, because he was the King's servant, the Dowager Princess Katharine concealed everything from him. He had known she was ill but not how dangerously ill.

Katharine begged Henry to let her see Mary.

I watched his mouth tighten. They had plotted to bring in the Emperor's armies, to oust him and set Mary up on his throne. That was something he would not forget or forgive.

“There shall be no meeting between those two,” he said. “How do we know that this illness is not feigned, and they are not meeting to plot treason?”

A few days later a letter arrived for him from Katharine. I read the letter with him.

My lord and dear husband, I commend me unto you. The hour of my death draweth fast on, and my case being such, the tender love I owe you forceth me, in a few words, to put you in remembrance of the health and safeguard of your soul, which you ought to prefer before all worldly matters and before the care and tendering of your own body, for the which you have cast me into many miseries and yourself into many cares. For my part, I do pardon you all, yea, I do wish and devoutly pray God that He will pardon you.

For the rest, I commend unto you Mary, our daughter, beseeching you to be a good father unto her, as I heretofore desired. I entreat you also on behalf of my maids to give them marriage portions, which is not much, there being but three. For all my servants I solicit a year's pay more than their due, lest they should be unprovided for.

Lastly, do I vow that mine eyes desire you above all things.

It was the letter of a dying woman. Henry was disturbed on reading it, but he could not bring himself to go and see her. He sent for Chapuys and told him to go at once to Katharine at Kimbolton and give her his good wishes.

“Let Lady Willoughby go to her,” he said. Maria de Salinas, who had come with Katharine from Spain and had married Lord Willoughby, had been Katharine's dearest friend throughout her years in England. So although she was denied the presence of her daughter, she did see her friend.

On 7 January she died in the presence of Lady Willoughby and Chapuys. So it had happened at last, and I am afraid I was impetuous enough to say in the hearing of several people: “Now I am indeed the Queen.”

I was washing my hands when the news was brought to me, and so relieved was I that I gave the messenger the bowl and cover. He was delighted, for it was a costly bowl.

In spite of his conscience, which had been aroused by Katharine's letter, Henry was elated.

“Praise be to God,” he said. “We are delivered of all fear of war. Now I can handle the French. I can keep them wondering whether I will join forces with them or the Emperor. This is a day to praise God indeed. It is His way of showing He will look after me.”

I wondered if Katharine could hear those words in Heaven. They were so typical of him. He did not see why God should not remove Katharine to show Henry how much He cherished him.

He dressed in yellow that night. Why should he go into mourning? he asked. Katharine was never his wife.

There was no absence of festivities. In sumptuous yellow—as I was, too,— a white plume in his cap, he sent for Elizabeth. She came, my little one—just past two years now, very bright, eager to learn about what was going on around her. I was proud as I watched her being carried by her great glittering yellow-clad father.

It was a good omen, I told myself. This was going to be a happy year.

Jane Rochford whispered to me that the King seemed mightily taken with Mistress Jane Seymour.

“It must be a passing fancy,” I said. “She's such a mouse. I feel sure she could not interest him for long.”

“She is not his mistress, you know,” Jane went on. “She is holding out against him … just like…”

“How can you know so much?”

“I keep my eyes open. I think it is important to the family.”

I was angry. I hated gossiping with Jane. But I did want to know what was going on.

“They say he sent a letter and a purse full of sovereigns. You can imagine what was in the letter. She sent the sovereigns back saying that her honor was her fortune and she could receive money only from the man she married.”

Oh God! Familiar talk! Had she learned it from me? That silly little creature! One would never have thought she could learn anything.

Still, I did not worry unduly.

I was sitting with my ladies. We did a great deal of sewing for the poor. I was changing, finding less pleasure in the excitement of the Court. I thought often of the needy, and I wanted to better their lot. I think that had been inspired by my interest in the new religion.

A tournament was taking place, and the King was riding that day. I had not attended. I should have to be there, of course, for the presentation of the prizes but that was not until tomorrow.

Norfolk came bursting into the apartment.

“The King has fallen,” he said. “His horse has thrown him.”

I stood up. I felt the child move within me and I fainted.

When I opened my eyes, Norfolk had gone and I was surrounded by my women who were pushing hartshorn under my nose.

“What… happened?”

“The Duke of Norfolk came and you fainted.”

“Oh…I remember. The King…”

“They have brought him in.”

“He is…”

“We don't know. Your Grace. But I think he is all right.”

“I must go to him.”

“Your Grace should rest. You have had a shock. Lie down and rest awhile. As soon as there is news, it will be brought to you.”

I felt dizzy. I lay on my couch and closed my eyes. What would happen to us if he were dead? What would happen to the realm? Who would be sovereign? Could it be…Mary? And then what of me? She would not tolerate me. She hated me as the one who was responsible for all the ills which had befallen her mother. And if not Mary…Elizabeth? A baby. They would prefer Mary.

I was very frightened.

I need not have been. Henry was soon up. The fall had been nothing, he said. No horse could get the better of him. All his life he had been an expert horseman.

I felt I should rest for a little as the shock could not have been good for the child.

And as I lay, my thoughts went to Jane Seymour, who had refused the sovereigns and talked of her honor.

It was the familiar pattern which had worked so well in my case. What if it worked for Jane Seymour?

How could it? I had been alert, clever, and Jane was a fool. She would never be able to plan as I did to hold him off.

I had many enemies at Court, and they would, of course, know of his feelings for Jane. They had always sought a way of being rid of me. What if they saw the answer in Jane? It suddenly struck me. She had two very ambitious brothers. I wanted to find out, if I could, all about those Sey-mour men.

I discovered that they claimed descent from a companion of William the Conqueror who took his name from St. Maur-sur-Loire in Touraine. The St. Maur had become Seymour. The two brothers, Edward the elder—he must have been about my age—and Thomas, a little younger, were eager to make their way at Court. I had no doubt that they had noted the spectacular rise of the Boleyns at Court—in a small way through Mary's liaison with the King and a much greater way through his marriage with me.

It must be that they were seeking advancement through their sister Jane.

The idea seemed quite preposterous, because she was such an insignificant little creature.

I did not think a great deal of the matter then, for I was now very preoccupied with my coming child.

Then came the day when I found them together. I had come into the room suddenly and there they were. She was seated on his knee; she was simpering and he was looking at her fondly. I saw that glazed expression which I remembered so well as it had been so frequently directed at me.

Jane Seymour sitting there on the King's knee! Where was the virginal young lady who had to guard her honor? She did not seem to be so very concerned with that at this moment.

I just stood for some seconds staring at them.

Jane Seymour saw me. She leaped to her feet. The King looked full at me, and there was anger in his eyes. He was caught, and he hated to be caught. He always looked then to blame someone else. He would blame me, of course. But I would not be humiliated before Jane Seymour.

I turned abruptly, and departed.

I felt sick and ill. How far had it gone? Was he trying to repeat what had happened to us? Who was behind her? Edward and Thomas Sey-mour, the ambitious brothers? Who else? How many enemies had I at Court? Too many to be counted.

I went to my chamber.

Nan Saville ran to me in alarm. “Your Grace…you are not well.”

“I think I will lie down.”

She helped me to my bed. That night my pains started. I was in agony. It was far too soon. I could not bear to be disappointed of my one great hope now.

They sent for the midwife and the doctors. I could imagine how the news was spreading around the palace.

“The Queen is in labor. But it is too soon.”

“Oh God,” I prayed. “You know how much I want this child. My future depends on it… perhaps my very life.”

But God did not answer my prayers. My child—a son—was born dead.

Henry came into my room. He looked down at me. I saw his clenched fists, his glittering eyes, his cruel mouth.

His disappointment was as bitter as my own.

“You cannot give me sons,” he said. “You are no better than that other.”

I hated him. If I had married Henry Percy, I thought now, I might have been a happy woman. But he had chosen to guide my life. He had robbed me of my lover and offered me a crown…and now he was threatening to snatch it away from me. I hated him—and I did not care that he knew it. I was finished. I knew that, as sure as I knew anything. I understood Katharine's feelings as never before. She had served him well for twenty years…I not yet three… but it was long enough for him to tire of me and want to be rid of me.

I said: “It is you who have done this. It is your infidelities… that have upset me so that our child is born dead. I saw you with that silly slut on your knees.” I laughed. “You might have chosen someone more worthy.”

He was furious. He hated me for having caught him in such a position.

He roared: “I see God does not wish to give me male children. And you…you will have no more sons by me.”

He was blaming me. I was speechless with indignation.

He murmured: “When you are on your feet, I will speak with you.”

Then he left me.

I lay numb with misery and fear. I had lost my last chance.

I wondered what would happen to me now.

I did not see him for several days.

I knew there was no way of luring him back to me for the time being. He seemed to be completely obsessed with Jane Seymour. His affair with her was common knowledge. But how far it had gone, I did not know.

He went on one of his journeys through the country. I did not accompany him. It was given out that I needed to rest to recover from my miscarriage.

I was in a precarious position.

I turned to George—the only one I felt I could trust.

I was resting in my bed when he came to me. It was a good place to talk because we could be quite alone.

He sat by the bed, looking grave.

He said: “I am worried about the Seymours.”

“You think they are plotting?”

“I know they are. There are not two more ambitious men at Court than Edward and Thomas Seymour. They look for great things through their sister Jane.”

“They profit from our example, George, I'm afraid.”

“You must try to get back to Henry.”

“He hates me, I believe.”

“Love and hate are said to be very close.”

“He has said I shall have no more boys from him.”

“When did he say this?”

“When I was lying exhausted after I lost my child because I was so upset when I came upon him with Jane Seymour on his knee.”

“He knows you saw him?”

“Yes, of course.”

“That would make him angry. He hates to be caught.”

I laughed bitterly. “There is little you can tell me about him, George.”

“You must get a boy. It is imperative.”

“A thought has come to me. Katharine had many miscarriages, did she not? And now … look at me. We have both had girls… but always if the child is a boy it miscarries. Why should that be?”

“Perhaps boys are more difficult to come by.”

“That does not seem to be the case. There are many of them about.”

“What are you thinking, Anne?”

“That it is due to something in Henry. I begin to believe he will never have a healthy boy.”

“He had Elizabeth Blount's boy.”

“Yes… but that was long ago. And have you noticed young Richmond? There is a delicate look about him. I do not think he will live long.”

“But at least he was born.”

“Mary is delicate, but she lives. But she was born to Katharine after several miscarriages. Elizabeth was my firstborn and she is very healthy, but I think she gets that from me. I have these misgivings, George. And if I am right, it means that Henry will never beget a healthy boy.”

The horror of this dawned on him.

Then he said: “What hope is there then?”

“None. The more I consider it, the more I believe that the fault lies with him.”

“He would kill anyone who suggested it.”

“I know. Perhaps sometime I shall say it to him.”

“Anne, for God's sake have a care. Is there anything that might make you think…”

“That I am right? There is a sore on his leg which does not heal well. I wonder about it.”

“That sort of disease?”

I nodded. “Sometimes I believe it makes men and women unable to bear healthy children.”

“But there is Elizabeth.”

“I was fresh. I was healthy. And she is a girl.”

“I cannot believe you are right when you say the King is incapable of having healthy children.”

We did not notice that the door had opened and Jane Rochford stood there.

“Oh, Anne,” she cried, “I came to see how you were. Is there anything I could do…”

She looked at George eagerly, but he turned away.

I was thinking: How long has she been standing there? She moved so silently and came upon one unexpectedly. That could be disconcerting.

I said: “I want nothing, thank you.”

“And are you feeling better?”

“Thank you, yes.”

“The King will be pleased.” There was a touch of malice in her sly face. She hated to see George sitting close to me, deep in conversation.

George kissed me lightly. “You should rest a little longer,” he said and, taking Jane by the arm, he drew her from the room.

All through that terrible winter the sense of doom was with me.

I had so few friends and apart from George I was not sure whom I could trust. It seemed to me sometimes as though they were all watching… waiting for my fate to overtake me. Perhaps they were not entirely certain what it would be. On more than one occasion I had recovered a certain power over the King after having appeared to have lost it forever. Could I do it again? My rival was by no means the most attractive woman at Court. But it might be that she was not so simple as she appeared to be. She had managed so far to preserve her virtue, to cling to her “honor” and imply “A crown or nothing.”

It was a complete imitation of the method which I had used with him. I had blazed the trail, given the example, and they were following it slavishly. She was backed by her ambitious brothers—and she was winning.

Once again Henry was being challenged.

I found great relief from tension in my reading. It was mostly religion, and I was growing more and more interested in the new ideas. I read everything the reformers were writing that I could find. I could forget my troubles when I did that. My other source of comfort was my daughter. She was such a bright and intelligent child. I was often with her. I enjoyed going through her wardrobe, discussing it and planning it with Lady Bryan. I thought that surely such an attractive child must be a delight to her father.

As the weeks were passing, I grew more desperate. I tried to make him notice her, for naturally when he turned from me he turned from my daughter also. How could any father be so indifferent to such a child?

I was at that time overcome with melancholy, and after these bouts such was my nature that I would give myself up to wild gaiety.

I still had my admirers. They must have been genuinely attracted by me for my declining fortunes made no difference to their devotion. I wanted their company, their compliments, their looks of admiration; they made my spirits rise and gave me fresh hopes. I even looked for admiration from young Mark Smeaton. He was completely devoted to me. My ladies said that he never played so exquisitely as when I was present, and it was then that he played for me. He now looked very handsome in the new clothes which I had provided for him.

I told him that he must not expect too much attention from me, and he replied soulfully: “No, Madam. A look will suffice.”

Such complete and abject adoration, even from a humble musician, was balm to me at such a time.

I had some good friends among my ladies. Madge Shelton was as friendly as ever. Our little adventure with Henry had not changed us; rather it had bound us together, and she did not take it amiss that Henry Norris, who was supposed to be courting her, gave his attention to me. There was Margaret Lee, who served me well; and Mary Wyatt had always been close to me.

My sister Mary had come to Court. She had a great capacity for happiness. For the first time in my life I was envious of Mary, with her children and her happy marriage; she was serene and secure. She declared that Will Stafford was the perfect husband; he had made up for the loss of dear Will Carey. It seemed to me that Mary had found the right way to live. Perhaps I could have learned from her if it had not been too late.

It was part of my tempestuous nature that I could at times be hilariously merry. I still had the wits of the Court about me to help me construct amusing entertainments. I would sing, dance, indulge in flirtations with my admirers; and then afterward, alone, I would sink into melancholy.

I said to Mary Wyatt: “The King plans to be rid of me as he rid himself of Katharine. He thinks he will get sons by Jane Seymour. But I think the King will never get a son… because he cannot.”

Mary warned me that it was unwise to say such things.

Dear, calm, wise Mary. How right she was!

There were times when I knew such despair that I tried every means to touch his heart. Once I took Elizabeth and, with her, waited before the windows of his apartments for him to appear. After a long time he did. I made the child lift her hand and wave to him. He just stared at us stonily for a few moments and turned away.

I knew there was no moving him then. I saw that we had gone too far for him ever to turn back to me. My enemies were all watching, waiting for the moment when they could give vent to their hatred. They were unsure as yet… waiting for the King.

I knew that George was very worried. He saw what was happening, perhaps more clearly than I did.

A rumor was started about the Court that the King was lacking in the power to get children and that he was all but impotent.

This would madden Henry when it reached his ears. He would blame me as the one best qualified to set about such a rumor. Enemies everywhere. And so few friends.

When we heard that there was to be an alliance with the Emperor and that he had mentioned he was sending an ambassador to talk with the King and Queen, George's spirits rose.

He came to me that we might talk in private in my chamber.

“He has mentioned you,” he said. “That means he is accepting you as the Queen. It is a great step forward.”

I saw his point. Henry was wavering, but my fate did not rest on Henry's own subjects but those two powerful states of Europe—by necessity enemies of each other, and who were grappling for power. It was so important for France to accept me as Queen; and if the Emperor did also, I might be safe.

“The attitude has changed now that Katharine is dead,” said George. “He could condemn your marriage only while she lived. Now it seems he is letting his political needs override his family feeling. He needs Henry as an ally against François.”

“François has been a good friend to us for most of the time while the divorce was pending.”

“He has shown himself to be completely unreliable. The Emperor would be more stable. Moreover, he is a great general. He is the wisest ruler in Europe and he would be a better ally.”

“Then there is a glimmer of hope?”

George nodded. “I cannot believe that the King wants to go through all the trouble of divorce again.”

“He will have to, if he wants to marry Jane Seymour.”

“He must tire of her soon. If only the silly little thing would sleep with him, it would be over in a matter of weeks.”

“She's set on a crown.”

“You mean her brothers are for her. She is of a nature to be pushed this way and that.”

“So different from me. I think he looks for change.”

“It may be. But we have to stop it, Anne. And if the Emperor shows he is ready to accept you, it might well be that the King would forget Jane Seymour.”

“What of the Pope? What of the break with Rome? The Emperor will never accept that.”

“Emperors and Kings accept whatever is expedient. I think the Emperor wants an alliance with England. Religion is used by rulers. That is why there is often conflict between Church and State.”

And so we hoped.

My spirits rose—as they could so easily. We prepared entertainments for the emissaries. I even became friendly with Chapuys. I think, as usual, I reacted too vehemently, and I have no doubt now that my actions were regarded with cynicism by that wily spy.

Then our spirits drooped, for when Charles's mission arrived, Henry made it clear that I was not to be included in the discussions. Moreover, they failed. Presumably Henry would not accept Charles's terms.

Gloom returned and I felt as though I were waiting for a terrible disaster to overtake me.

George was disturbed. “But,” he said, “there is one fact that must make us rejoice. Cromwell is the most powerful man in England. He is another Wolsey, which is understandable since he was taught by the great man. It is Cromwell who will decide foreign policy; and Cromwell brought about the divorce and the break with Rome. He must support you. He cannot give way. If he does the foundations on which he has built his fortunes will collapse.”

That was a comforting thought. Our hopes were based on Cromwell.

Cromwell was indeed a clever man. He was very busy with the monasteries. A new act had been brought in to dissolve all those which had not a revenue of £200 a year, and to grant their possessions to the King. Cromwell, under the King's orders, was selling them to the gentry, which, according to Cromwell, was a way of involving them in the operation. Those who had come by reasonably priced land and building would regard the Dissolution of the Monasteries as a very worthy act.

Wolsey had fallen through the King's desire to be rid of Katharine and marry me. Cromwell could fall through my removal in favor of Jane Seymour.

I remembered how incensed Henry had been with Wolsey because he could not procure the divorce from Katharine. Would he be equally angry with Cromwell because he could not devise a plan to be rid of me?

I could imagine Henry's irritation. He had always had an affection for Wolsey and never had for Cromwell. I was sure Cromwell had to face some humiliating moments with his master at this time.

But I saw the man as my savior. He could not desert me. My fate was too closely entwined with his.

How determined was the King to marry Jane Seymour? That was the vital question. I, who understood him well, guessed that it was not that he desired Jane intensely. There were far more attractive women at Court with whom he could have found satisfaction and who would have been only too ready to please him. It was the basic desire for a son which I had failed to give him. It was his determination, his lust for power rather than for the female body. When he became set on a purpose, it must be carried through, for if it were not, it was a denial of his strength.

That was what alarmed me. But I thought: While Cromwell is in charge, I am safe.

How wrong I was, I was to learn later.

Henry was badgering Cromwell. He must bring out some plan for ridding him of me, that he might marry Jane Seymour. They had already tried a pre-contract with Northumberland. When they had brought it up before, Henry had been determined to quash it, for then he had been desperately anxious to marry me. Could it be brought up again? Possibly. But they would need something stronger than that. I guessed Henry wished it had not been brought forward before. It would have been easier to have made it important now if it had not already been examined and dismissed.

Cromwell had to find a way.

Having been on several diplomatic missions during his life, George was well aware of what was going on politically and the manner in which diplomats worked. He now understood that Cromwell wanted an alliance with the Emperor.

George heard that the emissaries had left and that Henry had rejected their terms. Cromwell had had a heated discussion with the King. The King was against an alliance with the Emperor. The man was Katharine's nephew and he had been responsible for much of the anguish which Henry had suffered during those waiting years. Cromwell wanted to put aside all good allies. The Emperor wanted the alliance; he was a strong man. We should understand each other better than we ever could the French.

Henry hated to be contradicted; he stormed at Cromwell. Cromwell did nothing for him. He had saddled him with the Queen and he could find no release for him. He wanted a son. He had to have a son. And so on…

Cromwell staged a coughing fit and called for wine. He said he had a fever. The King dismissed him and he retired to Stepney.

There he remained in bed for a whole week. Whether he really had a fever or was weighing up the position, we did not know. George thought the latter, for when he emerged he had clearly made up his mind.

I was soon to learn with what disastrous effect on me, for Cromwell was no longer my friend. He had become my bitterest enemy—purely as a matter of necessity, for Cromwell's actions were not dictated by personal feelings.

He had learned that he could not keep the King's favor while I was Queen of England; he could not bring about the treaty of friendship with the Emperor, for, as I learned later, Charles had made it clear that he would not treat with Henry while I was accepted as his wife.

Cromwell would do anything—however ruthless—to save his own skin and keep that power which he was building up for himself.

The year was advancing. It would soon be May—a lovely month, with the flowers bursting forth—buttercups and dandelions in the fields, ladysmocks and cuckoo flowers on the river banks. One's spirits must rise with the May sunshine.

The first hint of alarm had come when May was almost on us and I noticed that Mark Smeaton was missing. I asked one of the women where he was. She replied that she did not know. She had seen him the previous day and he had seemed rather excited.

“Some secret,” I said. “Do you think he has a mistress?”

“Mark has no eyes for any but you, Madam,” was the reply.

I shrugged my shoulders. “That is just because I have favored him.”

“He has a romantic heart. He is Your Grace's slave.”

“Tell him when he returns that I want to know the reason for his absence.”

Mark did not return.

It was another of the women who gave me the news; and I began to feel a faint alarm.

“He was very proud yesterday, Madam. He had an invitation to dine.”

“To dine? With whom?”

“With Master Cromwell, Madam.”

I was astounded. The great Cromwell inviting a humble musician to dine!

What could it mean? Mark should have told me. I wanted to see George at once to tell him what had happened.

It was the first of May—two days after the disappearance of Mark Smeaton. He had not returned to the Court and I was full of misgiving.

But this was May Day—a very special occasion, a Court festival which had always been observed with a spectacular show of jousting.

I had not been able to talk to George or tell him of Mark's disappearance but I should see him today, for he would be one of the chief challengers in the tournament; and Norris was to lead the defenders.

I was still the Queen and must be at the ceremony beside the King, so I took my place in the loge. As Henry was coming into the tiltyard, I saw Cromwell approach him and for some time they were in close conversation.

Henry was frowning deeply, so I guessed it was not good news Cromwell was imparting. I wanted to speak to Cromwell, to ask him why he had invited Mark Smeaton to dinner, and why it was we had not seen Mark since.

Henry took his place beside me. I turned to smile at him but he did not meet my gaze; he was staring straight ahead, his mouth tight and as cruel as I had ever seen it; his eyes were cold but there was a hot color in his cheeks.

Even when the jousting began, he continued to glower and I guessed he was thinking of the days when he had been the champion. He was too corpulent now. He still rode and hunted, priding himself on the number of horses he could tire out; but he was aging fast. I knew his leg troubled him. The ulcer would not heal and it could be painful. If he had entered a joust, it would have been difficult for his challenger to stage a defeat for himself. Perhaps Henry knew that, and it was why he sat there glowering.

But there was something else which angered him.

I could not concentrate on the joust. I was wondering about Mark … and I wished I knew what Henry was thinking.

George performed with skill. So did Norris. They looked extremely handsome, both of them. The King watched them sourly. I was suddenly overwhelmed by the heat and the desire to get away. It was more than the rays of the sun; I was filled with a premonition that evil was hovering very near me.

I took out my handkerchief to wipe my brow. My hand trembled and it fluttered to the ground. Norris happened to be just below. He picked up the handkerchief on the point of his lance and held it out to me. I took it, smiling while Norris bowed.

The King was watching us. I turned to him. He looked as though he were about to choke.

I said: “Are you unwell?”

He did not answer. He stood up. There seemed to be a long silence, but it could have lasted for only a few seconds. Then abruptly he left the loge.

It was the signal for the jousting to end.

There was a certain amount of confusion—a kind of stunned silence. Then the voices broke out. No one knew what was wrong.

There was nothing for me to do but leave.

I went back to my apartments in Greenwich Palace.

The brooding silence continued…a silence full of meaning. The storm was about to break and I knew that I was at the heart of it.

Norris did not appear.

I sent for Madge. “Madge,” I said, “where is Norris?”

“I have not seen him since the joust.”

“It ended so suddenly.”

“The King was tired of it, they said.”

“He was irritated because he can no longer compete with men like Norris and my brother.”

Madge did not answer. I guessed she was thinking that I said the most dangerous things.

“And there is Mark. What can have happened to Mark?”

Madge shook her head.

“There are wild rumors,” she said.

“What rumors?”

“That Norris was arrested and taken to the Tower.”

“Norris! For what reason?”

“He had offended the King.”

“Surely not? The King is very fond of Norris. He was very close to him.”

“Perhaps it is merely rumors,” said Madge.

“How could such rumors come about?”

“They say it was when he was leaving the tiltyard. Norris was with the King. They were riding side by side. The King accused him of something… and then he called for his arrest.”

“I don't believe it. On what charge?”

Madge shook her head.

“But they say he is in the Tower.”

“What is going on?” I demanded. “Norris arrested! Mark missing! What does it mean?”

No one could be sure. Or perhaps they were afraid to tell me. Was there something they were holding back?

I wanted to talk to someone. Where was George? I sent someone to find him, but he was not to be found.

I dreaded the night. I knew I should not sleep.

How right I was! I lay in bed, turning from one side to the other, constantly asking myself: What does all this mean?

At length the long night was over. I rose. There seemed to be a silence everywhere. I fancied my attendants did not want to meet my eyes. They were all afraid of something.

In the early morning I had visitors. I was surprised to see members of the Council led by the Duke of Norfolk.

I rose as they entered my apartment, for they came unbidden and should have asked for an audience.

I demanded: “What are you doing here?”

“We are here on the King's business,” replied Norfolk.

“What business?”

“Your music man is a prisoner in the Tower.”

“Mark, a prisoner! He is only a simple boy. On what charge?”

“Of adultery.”

“Adultery! With whom?”

Norfolk looked at me, smiling. “With you, Madam.”

“Mark! A humble musician! What nonsense is this?”

“He has admitted it.”

“Oh, my God!” I cried. And I thought: Dining with Cromwell. For what purpose would Cromwell invite a mere musician to his house? To bribe him? No, Mark would never take bribes. If it were true that he had said that, they must have tortured him to make him do so. What implacable enemies I was up against. Poor Mark! His slender body… those delicate hands… What had happened to Mark? What would happen to me?

“How dare you make such vile accusations?” I demanded.

Norfolk used that favorite expression of his which had always irritated me. “Tut, tut, tut,” he said, as though I were a willful child. He added: “Norris is in the Tower… another of your lovers.”

“What wicked lies.”

“And now, Madam, we are come to conduct you to the Tower.”

“I will not go.”

“It is the order of the King.”

“I must see the King. I must speak to him.”

“His Grace does not wish to see you. It is his order that you are to be taken to the Tower.”

I felt suddenly calm. The blow had fallen. Perhaps I had been waiting for it for so long that it was almost a relief that it had come at last.

I was in the hands of ruthless men who would stop at nothing to get what they wanted… and the most ruthless of them all was my husband, the King.

Lies were being told about me. Had Smeaton spoken against me? If he had, his “confession” must have been wrung from him with the greatest cruelty. And Norris? Norris was an honorable gentleman. But could he withstand the rack?

I entered the barge, and I felt doom all about me. It seemed such a short time ago that I had come down the river in glory.

Norfolk sat opposite me. There was a smile of triumph on his face. He had never liked me. In spite of the fact that he was a kinsman, I really believed he was delighted to see me thus. I realized I had been proud and overbearing. I had been haughty, thoughtless, quick to anger. I had not exactly endeared people to me. But I had a few faithful friends and on them I could rely completely.

He said to me almost complacently: “Your paramours have confessed their guilt.”

“My paramours?”

“Norris, Brereton, Weston… and of course the music boy.”

“I do not believe it.”

He lifted his shoulders to imply that what I believed was of no importance.

They were taking me to the Traitor's Gate.

In my wildest nightmares I had not thought of this. That he might be seeking means of getting rid of me, yes, but not this way.

I was told roughly to get out of the barge. I did so. I suddenly felt the need for prayer. I sank to my knees and prayed aloud. “Oh Lord God, help me. Thou knowest I am guiltless of that whereof I am accused.”

Sir William Kingston, the Lieutenant of the Tower, came out to receive me.

“Master Kingston,” I said, “do I go to a dungeon?”

“No, Madam,” he answered kindly. “To your lodging where you lay at your coronation.”

The irony of the situation came upon me afresh. Was it only three years ago? I thought of myself sitting proudly in my barge with my device of the white falcon and the red and white roses of York and Lancaster. I was then pregnant…never dreaming that I should not have boys. I laughed wildly and there were tears on my cheeks.

“Wherefore am I here, Master Kingston?” I asked.

He did not reply but there was compassion in his face, and that brought me a shred of comfort.

As I was taken to my chamber, I heard the clock striking five, and each stroke was like a funeral knell.

Norfolk with his company came with me into the chamber and, having seen me installed there, were ready to depart.

“I am innocent,” I said to them again. “I entreat you to beseech the King to be a good lord unto me.”

They bowed and left and I was alone with Kingston, who pitied me, I think.

“Do you know why I am here?” I asked again.

“Nay,” he replied.

“When did you last see the King?”

“I have not seen him since I saw him in the tiltyard.”

“Where is Lord Rochford?” I asked, dreading the answer.

“He was in the tiltyard also.”

A terrible fear came to me. I said to myself more than to him: “Oh, where is my sweet brother?”

“I saw him last at York Place.”

I covered my face with my hands.

“I hear say that I shall be accused with three men, and I can say no more than…nay. Oh Norris, hast thou accused me? Thou art in the Tower and thou and I shall die together.” I thought of my stepmother; her grief would be terrible. I murmured, “Oh, my mother, thou wilt die of sorrow. Master Kingston, do you think I shall die without justice?”

“Oh, Madam, the poorest subject of the King has that,” he said.

That set me laughing wildly. I could not shut out of my mind memories of that large face with the hard little eyes and the cruelest mouth in the world.

I threw myself onto my bed and laughed and wept until I was exhausted.

I had lost count of the days. I did not know how I lived through them. They were determined to discountenance me, to rob me of comfort.

If only they would let me have my friends about me, that would have helped me. Was it too much to ask? If I could only talk with Mary Wyatt, Margaret Lee, Madge or my sister Mary—that would have helped me through the dismal days. They had given me those who hated me. They sent my aunt, Lady Boleyn, wife of my father's brother Edward, who had always been jealous of me, and although in days past she had been afraid to speak against me, I had always been aware of her venom. Perhaps they chose her because they knew she hated me. And she brought with her a certain Mrs. Cosyns—a spy if ever there was one. Those two were certain, I was sure, that I was guilty of all of which I was accused.

They tried to trap me into saying something which they could report against me. They were there all the time; they never left me. They slept on pallets at the foot of my bed. Sometimes I would wake from a nightmare shouting. They were alert, listening, noting everything that I said, attaching great importance to anything that might be used against me.

They treated me with a studied lack of respect. I was not the Queen now, they were telling me.

Sometimes they would pretend to be sympathetic and try to get me to confide in them. They asked questions and they phrased them in a way designed to trap me.

“Oh, you were ever so beautiful in the Court. You were the brightest star. Everyone seemed commonplace beside you. It was small wonder that all those men were in love with you.”

The stupid women! Did they not understand that I saw through their probing?

“Norris was said to be courting Madge Shelton, but he came to see you. You were the one. It was obvious…”

“And Weston…he loved you better than he loved his wife. Well, it was understandable.”

I turned from them. I could live through these days only by ignoring them.

My moods changed. There were times when I just wanted to die and have done with the wearisome business of living; at others my anger overcame my sorrow.

I wanted to live and take my revenge on those people who had plotted against me and brought me to where I was.

It was a great joy to me when I was allowed to have two more ladies to be with me, and that these two should be my cousin Madge and my dear friend Mary Wyatt.

Lady Boleyn and Mrs. Cosyns were still there, but that was more bearable now that I had my friends as well.

Mary was very worried about her brother. He had not been arrested as everyone expected him to be, for he had been known as a great friend of mine and he had never hidden his love for me. Many of his poems had been written for me.

I would contrive to be alone with Mary so that we could talk, and she comforted me a great deal.

“It is only Smeaton who has lied about you,” she told me, “and that was under torture. Cromwell tortured him at the dinner table. His bullies put a rope around the poor creature's head and they tightened it so that he was fainting with the pain; then they made him say how you had favored him, given him fine clothes and a ring because he was your lover. He withstood the agony for a long time. Then they took him to the Tower and racked him most piteously. It was only then that he broke down and lied.”

“Poor Mark,” I said. “He is a tender boy… little more than a child. Always so gentle. He told me once that when beggars came to his father's door he wept for them; and when he came across a man hanging on a gibbet which others were looking at, he ran away, for he could not face violence of any kind. He loved beauty… And to come to this…”

“It was only at the end that he lied,” insisted Mary. “It was only when those wicked men tortured him beyond endurance. The others would not give way. There is not one, Anne, who has spoken against you… only poor Mark, and that under torture.”

“They know it is false.”

“They know … but they are determined to believe it.”

“Mary, what will become of me?”

She shook her head. Her tears unnerved me more than the brutal treatment of Norfolk had been able to, or the spying of my aunt and her familiar.

“Why is George in the Tower?”

Mary shook her head.

“And my father?”

“He has not been arrested.”

We could not go on talking because my jailers—those two hateful women—would not leave us alone for long.

The nights seemed endless. I would lie staring into the darkness.

He would be rid of me so that he could marry Jane Seymour, just as once he had wished to be rid of Katharine that he might marry me. Silly little Jane Seymour. How long did she think she would last? He would cast off wives as he did a garment he was tired of.

There were two counts on which I had thought he might be rid of me. One was of course his relationship with my sister Mary which would have made a close bond between us. He had thought of this before for there had been a time when he had sent to Rome for a dispensation. He would not have had to send to the Pope for that now. Obliging Cranmer would have done what was necessary. But he did not wish to stir up old scandals from which he would not emerge too well. I had dismissed Mary as a possible method. There was one other—my pre-contract with Northumberland. That I had thought was very possible. It could be said that I had been pre-contracted to Henry Percy and therefore my marriage to the King was no true one.

That would have been the most likely method if it had not been raised before and he had most definitely quashed it. Then he had wanted me passionately—now he wanted to be rid of me with equal passion.

I would not have believed he would have considered… death.

And yet why should he not? That would have been Katharine's fate but for her royal relations. I had no such assets. My relations held the power they did through me… and some from Mary, too, of course.

So, if it was not to be Mary or Northumberland, there was only one alternative.

I had sometimes wondered how people felt when Death looked them in the face. Sir Thomas More? Fisher? Those monks who had refused to take the Oath of Supremacy? “She will spurn our heads off like footballs, but 'twill not be long ere her head will dance the like dance.” More had said that. He was prophetic.

He had known the King as well as I knew him. He knew that mean, selfish nature, that determination to have his way, that ruthless destruction of all those who stood to prevent it. He knew of the conscience which worried Henry when he wished to be worried. It was worrying him now. He had been bewitched by a sorceress; he had discarded his first wife—he could safely regard her with affection now as there was no fear of having to take her back—and all because he had been the victim of a witch…as any man might be through no fault of his own. But God had opened his eyes now. He saw the way clear ahead. God had put Jane Sey-mour in his path to tell him that, if he escaped from the spell which had been put upon him and married this gentle, simple girl, Heaven would smile. He would have a succession of boys. God was showing him the way, and, as once before, God's instrument was Cromwell, who had prised the truth from the boy musician, and now it was known that the Queen had sinned against him with those whom he had called his friends.

I could well imagine how he would prepare his defense with God. What amazed me was that he thought he could deceive the Almighty as he thought he did his courtiers. They had to feign belief; God did not.

When I arose, I wrote him a letter, signing myself “The Lady in the Tower.”

“… if you have already determined of me, and that not only my death but an infamous slander must bring you to the joy of your desired happiness, then I desire of God that He will pardon your great sin…”

How I laughed. I could imagine his pallor as he read that. I hoped it would make him shiver. I hoped I would see that despised conscience of his on a course independent of its owner's control.

How did he think of me? I was sure he thought of me often. Did he think of the garden at Hever; that night when I had come to him in my black satin nightdress; of my coronation?

Or did he think of me as “The Lady in the Tower?”

It was 10 May—only eight days after I had been arrested. It seemed like years.

The Grand Jury at Westminster had issued an indictment against “Lady Anne, Queen of England, George Boleyn, Viscount Rochford, Sir Henry Norris, Groom of the Stole, and Sir Francis Weston and William Brereton, Gentlemen of the Privy Chamber, and Mark Smeaton, a performer on musical instruments, a person of low degree, promoted on account of his skill to be a Groom of the Chamber.”

George and I were to be tried on the 16th of May; the others on the 12th.

I waited for the verdict…I knew that Henry wanted to be rid of me, but surely he must have some compassion for his friends. He must know they were innocent. Or was he so determined to be rid of me that he would take any life which helped him to achieve that end?

The result of that trial was horrifying, although it was what I had expected. They had tried hard to make them all admit their guilt. None of them would, except Mark. In spite of the fact that he had lied to save himself and to destroy me, I could forgive him. I knew of his delicacy, his weakness. I could imagine how he had collapsed under extreme torture. His body had been broken and his mind distracted and when they told him that, if he signed a confession he would be free, the boy signed. Poor foolish Mark! He had bartered his honor, his pride, for the hope of saving his life. He was not wise enough to know that he would never have been allowed to live; he had perjured his soul for nothing. He was condemned to be hanged. What a sad end for a young man who had music in his soul and because of it believed that he had escaped from poverty to a pleasant life—when all he had escaped to was Death.

I wanted to see him, to comfort him, to make him look at me and see if then he would persist in his lies. Of course that would not be allowed. Mark would have broken down and told the truth when confronted by me—and they knew it.

What a sad end for a young man.

Norris, Weston and Brereton, though urged to confess, stoutly maintained their innocence. Henry had been very attached to Norris, and he sent word to him that if he would confess to adultery with me, he would be granted his life.

Norris's reply was that he would rather die a thousand deaths than accuse the Queen of that which he believed, in his conscience, she was innocent.

Mary Wyatt told me that when the King heard this he was so angry that his great friend had turned away from the hand stretched out to rescue him, he cried out in rage: “Hang him up then. Hang him up.”

Poor Mary Wyatt was in a state of anxiety. Thomas had remained in the background. He was expecting at any moment to join Norris and the rest in the Tower. His name had not been mentioned in connection with the charge—but it was in everyone's mind.

On the 16th George and I were brought to trial, and for this purpose a court had been set up in the great hall of the Tower.

George was the first to appear. I waited in trepidation, but after the result of the previous trial I was prepared for the worst.

George defended himself so well that, for a time, those who sat in judgment on him must have feared it was going to be difficult for them to bring in the sentence the King wished for.

I think even our greatest enemies must have been shocked when Jane Rochford came forward to give evidence against her husband. How she must have hated me! I knew she had loved George passionately, but his indifference to her had turned that love to hatred; and her hatred was especially for me because she knew of the close and loving relationship between my brother and me.

Her accusation of incest was so ridiculous that she could not in any reasonable way substantiate it…except to say that we were over-affectionate toward each other, and my brother sought every opportunity to be in my company. She had found him in my bedroom on one occasion. I was at the time in bed. He had leaned over the bed and kissed me—which she had seen as he came into the room.

They must have despised her; but they had not the courage to defy the King. He wanted me vilified as much as possible; and if it could be believed that my brother, as well as those other men, had been my lover, he could then feel completely justified in putting me from him in the most speedy and reliable way. It would ease his conscience considerably if I could be proved worthy of my intended fate; and the King's conscience must be eased, no matter at what cost. They knew this—and their future depended on the King's favor.

So George was found guilty.

As soon as he left the hall, I was taken there with my ladies in attendance, including Lady Kingston. Sir William conducted me to the bar.

I surprised myself by my calm. I felt rather as though I were outside this scene looking on. I knew that I should be condemned, because I knew Henry. Had I not been beside him during the years when he wished to rid himself of Katharine? So the outcome was clear. It was a waste of time to have a trial when the verdict was a foregone conclusion.

I pleaded Not Guilty to the charges and sat down in the chair which had been provided for me.

I listened to the evidence; the words I was alleged to have spoken. It was all so trivial, so obviously contrived. I answered these charges, which was not difficult because they were all so blatantly false. I could see some of the peers beginning to look uneasy. They believed me. In fact, there was little else they could logically have done.

From the fifty-three peers of England, twenty-six had been selected. These were the Lord Triers, with the Duke of Norfolk at their head. I was sure that he and my old enemy, the Duke of Suffolk, would make sure that the King had the verdict he required.

Northumberland, as one of the foremost peers of the country, would most certainly be there. I wondered what it would be like to see him after all these years. I had heard that he had changed a good deal. His disastrous marriage and his unhappy life must have had an effect on him. And now he would be one of those who had come to judge me. How strange it would be to see him there and to think back to those years when he and I had had those stolen moments together, when he came to Court in Wolsey's entourage and I slipped away from my duties with the Queen to be with him.

But I did not see him among the peers.

I said to Kingston: “Is not my lord of Northumberland here?”

Kingston murmured: “He came… but was taken ill. He has been forced to retire.”

I smiled. So he could not face it. He could not stand there and condemn me. Dear Henry Percy! What did he think of me now? At least he remembered enough to refuse to sit in judgment on me.

The coolness which had descended on me—that strange aloofness— was good for me. It enabled me to answer their questions with precision and to give them the answers which they found difficult to refute. They had, no doubt, expected me to be hysterical, which would have made their task much easier, and they were discountenanced to find me there aloof, so very calm.

Had it been a fair court, they would not have condemned me, though they did not have to have a unanimous vote; all they needed was a majority. All those accused with me—save Mark—had emphatically denied the charges. Could they condemn me on the evidence of a poor, racked boy?

Norfolk and Suffolk saw that they did.

Norfolk then pronounced the sentence. I was condemned to be burned or beheaded at the King's pleasure.

The numbness remained with me.

I clasped my hands together and, raising my eyes, I said: “Oh Father, O Creator, Thou who art the way, the life and the truth knowest whether I have deserved this death.”

I faced my judges. “My lords,” I said, “I will not say that your sentence is unjust, nor presume that my reasons can prevail against your convictions. I am willing to believe that you have sufficient reasons for what you have done, but they must be other than those which have been produced in this court, for I am clear of all the offenses which you have laid at my charge…”

I could see that many of them were ashamed and that my words would not be easily forgotten by some.

I went on to say that I had never been unfaithful to the King, though I admitted that I had not always shown him the humility which, as one who has been raised so high, I owed him. I said I was not afraid to die. I had faith in God, and He would show me the way. I added that I knew these words would avail me nothing, but I spoke them for the justification of my chastity and honor.

“As for my brother and those who are unjustly condemned, I would willingly suffer many deaths to deliver them, but since I see it so pleases the King, I shall willingly accompany them in death, with this assurance, that I shall lead an endless life with them in peace.”

Having spoken I turned and left them.

Cranmer came to see me. The King had sent him to receive my confession.

I was greatly comforted by his visit.

He begged me not to despair. It might well be that the sentence of death would be lifted. He implied that I might be expected to leave the country. Perhaps I should be sent to Antwerp, where I could live out my life in peace. I had given myself up to the study of religion and I had an interest in matters of the mind: reading, music and a growing understanding of the new religion of the reformation of the Church.

I should never regret leaving the Court. The emptiness of life there was very clear to me now. I never wanted to see Henry again. But there was one of whom I thought constantly: my daughter. What would become of her now? Who would care for her? Her mother disgraced, burned or beheaded, branded a harlot. What of my little baby?

Did she know of this? She would wonder why I had not been to see her. She was bright, full of questions. I could trust Lady Bryan. She loved the child and was a good, sensible woman. Why had I thought I wanted to die, when Elizabeth was there… needing me?

If I could take my child to Antwerp with me, perhaps we could live there simply… like an ordinary mother and daughter.

I was soon to discover the meaning of this hope and why it had been put to me.

The very next day I received a summons to appear at Lambeth to answer certain questions as to the validity of my marriage with the King.

The pattern was getting more and more like Katharine's—except, of course, that, being the aunt of the Emperor, she could not be condemned to death.

In a chapel in Cranmer's house in Lambeth I was confronted by Cranmer and others and urged to admit that there had been a contract of marriage between Henry Percy and me, before I married the King.

Cranmer had hinted that, if I agreed to this, not only could I save my life and leave the country with my daughter but the lives of the gentlemen might be saved.

How could I do anything but agree? We had talked of marriage, I said. If the King had not prevented us, we should have married and none of this would have happened.

It is easy to be wise after the event. I agreed. And Cranmer pronounced the marriage between the King and myself null and void.

I felt a little better; the remoteness of reality was lifting. I could plan. If I had not been married to the King, the adultery of which I was accused could not be called treason. The men would be free. I should be free. I should still be an encumbrance but if I were out of the country I could be forgotten.

I slept a little better that night.

How could I have been so foolish? It seemed that even now I did not know my husband.

The lives of other people meant nothing to him. All those young men who had been his friends, who had joked and laughed and hawked and hunted with him, meant nothing to him, and if their death could help him to his goal, he would have no compunction in sweeping them aside.

What a terrible day that was! The most wretched of my life.

They had erected a scaffold on Tower Hill. My brother went first— my dear, sweet brother, whom I had loved so dearly, the one of all on Earth whom I trusted completely. They said he died calmly and most bravely.

Poor Francis Weston. His family was desolate. His wife and mother entreated the King to spare his life. They were rich and they offered 100,000 crowns for him. Henry rejected the offer.

And Weston, Norris and Brereton submitted their heads to the ax.

Mark Smeaton was hanged. I had hoped he would retract his admission of guilt on the scaffold.

“Has he cleared me?” I asked.

They told me he had not.

“His soul will suffer for the false witness he has borne,” I said.

Mary Wyatt laid a hand on my shoulder, and when I lifted my eyes, I saw tears on her cheeks.

“Do not weep, Mary,” I said. “My brother and the rest are now, I doubt not, before the great King, and I shall follow tomorrow.”

When death is close, one thinks back over the past, and what looms large in one's mind are the actions one regrets.

I wished that I had been a better person. I could see clearly now my folly at every turn. I am not sure whether any action of mine could have altered my fate. I was dealing with a man who was corrupted by the great power he possessed, a mean, selfish man, a monster of a man, a murderer.

I had never really wanted him. He had forced himself upon me. I had been enamored of pomp and power, I admit. I had grasped at those things in life which had seemed the greatest prizes, for I had been blinded by the glitter of all that had been laid before me. I had been tempted, as Christ was by Satan, but I had not had the good sense to turn away from temptation.

And I had done many cruel things.

I had hated Katharine. I had hated the Princess Mary. True, they had been no good friends to me. How could they be, when I was the one whom they accused of robbing them of their rights?

But I could have been kinder to Mary.

How I had disliked that girl. I had wanted to humiliate her. I wanted her out of the way because I wanted her position for my daughter.

I asked Lady Kingston to come to me.

I made her sit, which she was reluctant to do. She still regarded me as the Queen, and that was my chair in which nobody sat but myself.

I said: “My title has gone. I am condemned to death. All I wish now is to clear my conscience.”

So I forced her to sit and I knelt before her. I asked her, as in the presence of God and His angels, to go from me to the Princess Mary and to kneel before her as I now knelt before her, and ask her forgiveness for the wrongs I had done her.

“Until that is done, my conscience cannot be stilled,” I told her.

She promised me she would do this, and I knew she would, for Lady Kingston was a good woman.

This is my last day on Earth. Tomorrow I shall be gone. I am twenty-nine years of age. It is young to die.

I have lost my beloved brother. I shall never see my child again. I pray for her and I have exhorted Lady Bryan to care for her. She will know what to say when Elizabeth asks why I do not come to her.

A sword has arrived, especially for me. It comes from France. I did not want the ax. It is a last concession from the King.

Kingston came to see me.

I said to him: “I hear I shall die before noon tomorrow. I am sorry. I had hoped to be dead by this time and past my pain.”

“The pain is very little, Madam,” he told me. “It is over in an instant. The executioner is very good.”

I put my hands about my neck and laughed. “And I have a little neck,” I said.

He turned away. I think he was moved by my calm acceptance of death.

I wondered whether I should request to see Elizabeth. Would that request be granted? I wondered. Henry would have decided.

What should I say to her? How does one say goodbye to a child? “My darling, I shall not see you again. Tomorrow they are going to cut off my head. Your father, in the great goodness of his heart, has allowed me to escape the terrible death by fire. He will be content to have my head removed by a very fine sword which has been sent from France for the purpose.”

Now I was getting hysterical.

I must not see Elizabeth. I could trust Lady Bryan.

I wrote a letter—not to the King but to be shown to him. I would ask Mary to give it to one of the gentlemen of the Privy Chamber.

“Commend me to His Majesty and tell him that he hath been ever constant in his career of advancing me; from private gentlewoman he made me a marquess; from a marquess to a queen; and now he hath no higher honor of degree, he gives my innocency the crown of martyrdom.”

I hoped these words would make a mark on that conscience of his. I hoped they would be so telling that he would not be able to shrug them aside. I hoped he would be haunted by them for a long time to come.

There were moments when I longed to see him, that I might say to him what was in my mind, tell him that I saw clearly behind the mask of geniality—though that had been used less and less as time passed. Bluff King Hal was Henry the all-powerful, the selfish monster, the murderer.

I did not so much hate as despise him. He would be remembered throughout the ages to come as the King who, because of his carnal desires, had discarded the wife of twenty years on a trumped-up charge; and having succeeded in that he murdered his second. I wondered what would be the fate of the next… and the next… and the next…

But I must calm myself. I must prepare myself for departure.

I would dress with care. I should be elegant to the end. I should wear a robe of black damask with a white cape, and my hat with ornamental coifs under it.

I would calm myself. Indeed—but for leaving Elizabeth—I should have gone gratefully to my death. I would not want to live again through the last year of my life.

Perhaps I shall not be forgotten, but remembered as the Queen who was murdered because she stood in the way of one who had the power, cruelly and most unjustly, to murder those who were an encumbrance to him.

I did not retire that night. What use? Tomorrow I should no longer need sleep.

I was inspired to express my feelings in verse.

Oh, death rock me to sleep [I wrote]

Bring on my quiet rest,

Let pass my very guiltless ghost

Out of my careful breast.

The clocks have struck midnight. The new day has come.

Very soon now they will be leading me out to the Green. Before this day is over, my life will be no more.