The Rose Without a Thorn

Warning Signals

THEN CAME A RUMBLING OF DISASTER. I had been married not quite a month when it happened.

It was mid-morning when the King came bursting into the apartment. His face was flushed; his eyes had almost disappeared into his fleshy face so that they looked like glittering beacons seen through slits; his mouth was a thin straight line.

“What think you of this? By God’s blood, that priest shall suffer for this.”

I went to him, put my arms round him and attempted to soothe him.

“What mean you, my lord husband? You seem very angry today.”

He turned to me, his face softening at once. “I would never believe this of you. He shall suffer for this. Good Lord, spare me from priests!”

“What has he done to disturb you so? I cannot bear to see you thus. Is there aught I can do?”

He put his arms round me and looked into my face. “This dastardly priest has dared to utter words … words …” He spluttered. “Words against you.”

I felt myself begin to tremble.

“Against me!” I cried. “What could he say against me? I know him not. What has he said?”

“What has he said? By God, he has spoken against your virtue … that is what this scoundrel has done. He shall hang for it.”

Uneasiness was gripping me now. “What… what… has he said?” I murmured.

“What has he said indeed … this priest of Windsor?”

Windsor. I felt a little better. I knew no one at Windsor.

“What has he said? Please tell me. I must know. I beg you to tell me.”

“It is just tittle-tattle. ‘The Queen is guilty of conduct unbecoming to her rank. There have been whispers about her.’”

“Windsor?” I said. “But I was not at Windsor. How … ?”

“Sweetheart, you must not let this disturb you. I will not have it. The priest has been placed in Wriothesley’s care. He swore he did nothing but repeat what had been told him. The other … the one who, he declares, said this slanderous thing to him, is under arrest in Windsor keep. We will let them wait there while we decide what shall be done with these scoundrels.”

I was feeling a little easier. I knew no priest of Windsor. That was the fact I was clinging to.

“You do not believe them?” I asked.

“By God’s Grace, I know you for what you are. No one is going to say a word against my Queen in my hearing … nor that of any other … or it will be the worse for them. Nay, sweetheart, there are those who cannot abide the good fortunes of others. These priests, they would tutor us all. We must do this … they say … we must do that… if we would please them: and if we do not always follow them, they will stand up and slander us. Priests … monks … there are times when I have had my fill of them. They would have us all go the way they want. I do not like these self-righteous men. Depend upon it, they see how you have been honored, and they are filled with envy of you. I have raised you up, and, by God, it has pleased me to do so. And priests … and such … should keep their mouths shut. They should look to themselves.”

“This has caused you much sorrow, I fear,” I said in a low and trembling voice.

His eyes took on a misty look.

“Nay,” he cried. “You must not fret. It is slander, ill-founded lies.” He was fierce again. “And I will not have slander spoken against my Queen.”

I had been easily frightened. I waited for what would happen next. I started to think again of what had taken place at Lambeth. Why had these rumors come to the priest of Windsor? Who had spoken them in the first place? Derham? Not Derham. He was a man of breeding, an honorable man. He had really believed he was going to marry me: after all, he was one of the Howards. Nor would Thomas have betrayed me. He would die rather. Then I thought of Henry Manox. Could it have been Manox? He lacked the scruples of the others.

But Manox was not mentioned. And who would have gone to Windsor to whisper to the priest?

So my mind worked and during that week nothing further happened.

The King noticed my uneasiness and was eager to put an end to it.

“This foolish matter has disturbed you, sweetheart,” he said. “That must not be. I will teach these men a lesson. We shall let it be known that none speaks against the Queen.”

I thought about this a great deal and wondered what would happen to these men. Perhaps they would be put to the torture. That was something the King was not eager should be tried on them. He would not want them to produce lurid “confessions,” as people sometimes did to escape further torment. Yes, I was frightened. I supposed that, had I been the innocent girl Henry believed me to be, I should have felt differently. I tried to make myself act as such a girl would.

The King said that the sooner the men were brought to trial the better.

Trial! I could not bear that. I must do something. There was no one whose advice I could ask. I had to obey my own instincts.

It was true that I had always hated to hear of torture and executions. My whole nature shrank from it. Priests, not being of the nobility, were submitted to the horrific death of hanging, drawing and quartering. I could not bear to think of this.

It suddenly occurred to me that, if they were freed, they would no longer seek to harm me; and when they considered what terrible fate might have befallen them, they would be very careful of what they said in future.

I went to the King and, going on my knees to him—a gesture for which he chided me but with which, I sensed, he was rather pleased—I begged him to save the lives of the priest and his companion, to warn them to be careful of their words in future and go on their way.

He lifted me up so that my face was on a level with his.

“My sweet Katherine,” he said. “Your heart is indeed tender. These men had maligned you, and you would forgive them. You ask me to grant you this, and because you ask a boon of me … it is granted. It shall be as you wish. What a happy day it was when God gave you to me.”

I was indeed happy. I cast aside my anxieties as though they were a heavy and burdensome cloak; and I would not let myself brood any longer on those uneasy days. The men were freed with a warning of the dire consequences which would befall them if they ever uttered another word against the Queen’s Grace, and they must always remember it was due to her mercy that they were free men.

I had been right, I told myself.

Then the King and I set off for a voyage round the country. I was to be presented by the King to his people as the Queen who had, at last, brought him contentment.

The King seemed to have forgotten that unpleasant incident, and I had forced myself to do so too. He did not refer to it again. Now the matter was over.

The country might not have been able to afford to give me a coronation, but I had all the clothes I needed, which, after so much deprivation in the past, was very much appreciated. I was becoming accustomed to my condition and enjoying it more and more every day.

The King was certainly a good husband to me. He constantly marveled at my youth and energy. I never saw his leg without its dressing. When he came to me at night, it was always freshly bandaged. He was taking more exercise. People remarked on his healthy looks. I think his relationship with Anne of Cleves had had its effect on him, and there was no doubt that he was happy now.

He was almost always in a good temper and when his eyes alighted on me that soft and tender look would come into his face. I was becoming really fond of him and I often thought of the wonderful life he had given me.

Lady Margaret Douglas had ceased to be Anne’s chief lady-in-waiting, and had become mine. I was pleased at that. I think most of the ladies had found it difficult at first to take a subservient position to me. I could understand that. It took time to accept the fact that little Katherine Howard was now the Queen. I did not mind that. I was not one who wanted a great deal of ceremony.

In my entourage were also the Duchesses of Richmond and Suffolk with the Countess of Rutland and, of course, my old confidante Lady Rochford. She was the same as she had always been, reminding me that she was my very good friend. Mrs. Tyrwitt and Mrs. Leye were among the gentlewomen and Mrs. Tylney was one of the chamberers who, I remembered, had once been employed in the Duchess’s household. There were so many of them that I forget the number.

It was about this time that I heard what was happening to the Countess of Salisbury. She must have been seventy-three years old and she was a prisoner in the Tower. The very word “tower” sent a shiver through me, but that an old lady, used to the comforts she must have enjoyed until now, should suffer so, horrified me.

“Poor, poor lady,” I said. “How terrible for her!”

The Countess of Rutland glanced at me quickly. “She is the King’s enemy, Your Majesty.”

“What has she done?” I wanted to know.

I noticed that the Countess looked a little nonplussed.

“She … er … she has conspired against the King. She was in league with her son. Your Majesty will remember Cardinal Pole. He is the King’s enemy… although the King once gave him his affection.”

“But what were they quarrelling about, and do they need to keep that poor old lady in the Tower? She must be nearly frozen at night. It is very cold there, and does she get enough to eat?”

I saw that look on her face which she tried to disguise. She thought I was a little idiot who did not know when it was safer to leave things alone.

I could see I was not going to get very much information from those around me except from Jane Rochford, and, as I could not stop thinking of the poor lady’s discomfort, I went to Jane for information.

“That would be Margaret Pole, Countess of Salisbury,” said Jane. “It must be over a year since she was sent to the Tower.”

“So she has been there all through the winter! Oh poor, poor lady!”

“Indeed yes, but then she is the daughter of the Duke of Clarence, and you know who he was.”

I waited expectantly.

She raised her eyebrows, as though to express her amazement at my ignorance, and to remind me that, although I was the King’s wife now, the same intimacy remained between us as always had. I would not have had it otherwise. I did not want her to shield me from the truth, as the others tried to.

“The Duke of Clarence, Majesty”—she used the title with a certain levity—“was the brother of Edward IV and Richard III, so you see his daughter might be a little watchful of the throne. What do you think of that?”

“Go on,” I said.

“The real trouble is, of course, her son, the Cardinal Pole. There was a time when the King was quite fond of him. He paid for his education and looked after him generally. The Cardinal is a very clever man. It was the matter of the divorce from Queen Catherine of Aragon that came between them. Like Wolsey before him, Cardinal Pole did not see the matter as the King wished him to. So the rift began, and when the Pope made Reginald Pole a cardinal, there was real trouble. It would have been the Cardinal’s head that went … if he had been here. Tempers ran hot. The King was determined to wed Anne Boleyn.”

“And the Countess?”

“They say she was conspiring with her son, who was on the Continent.”

“Was she?”

“That is not for me to say. But the Poles are very close to the throne … too close for comfort.”

“I feel so much for her that I cannot forget her. Not so long ago, she was in her comfortable home, and suddenly there she is … in that place, with only jailers to attend her. She will suffer greatly from the cold … and does she get enough to eat, think you?”

“I doubt it. It is the lot of prisoners.”

“Jane, I know what I shall do. I shall have them make something for her … by the seamstresses. A nightgown furred against the cold … some shoes she will need. Stockings. They will help to keep her warm.”

“The King’s enemy …” began Jane.

“Need the King know?”

“What, deceive His Majesty so soon after the marriage!”

“Oh, Jane, do not be silly! It is not really deceiving. It is just not telling.”

“Well, all you have to do is smile sweetly, tell him how wonderful he is and that you adore him, and he will be at your feet.”

I smiled complacently.

“Send for the seamstresses,” I said. “We will begin at once. That poor lady shall no longer freeze in that dreadful Tower.”

Jane obeyed, and in a very short time I was able to send the Countess two nightdresses—one furred—together with hose and boots.

Jane entered into the scheme and was a great help. She was most excited and I wondered whether it was because she really cared about the comforts of the Countess, or because she felt it to be a rather dangerous undertaking, assisting a prisoner who was in the Tower by order of the King.

I was not afraid. If he heard of it, he would only smile, I was sure. Perhaps he would ask me jovially why I was sending comforts to his enemy, to which I would answer that I was so happy in the love of the King I could not bear to think that an old lady was in such discomfort.

Nevertheless, although it was probable that many knew what I had done—for the Queen’s actions, however small, were certain not to go unnoticed—nothing was said.

There were other matters to claim the King’s attention. A certain John Neville had started a rebellion in the North of England. I was with the King when the news of this was brought to him. I had never seen him in such an angry mood, since news of the slander the priest of Windsor was uttering against me had come.

He banged his fist on the table in an excess of fury. I cried out in alarm, but on this occasion he had no thought even for me.

“This,” he cried, “is that fellow Pole’s doing!”

He was on his feet, shouting. He strode to the door. He gave orders. There was an immediate Council.

I did not see Henry all that day, and when I did, he was preoccupied. I managed to soothe him a little. I listened to him. I sympathized with him while he shouted that he would subdue those Yorkshire oafs. It was of no great moment, but he was a sad man.

He was in a mood of self-pity.

“Katherine, I have given my life to this country. Is it not an amazing thing that there should be those of my subjects who can be so ungrateful?”

“It is,” I soothed. “When you have given your life to them.”

He took my hand and held it.

“You understand, do you not? You see how I suffer through these ungrateful people?”

“Oh I do, I do.” He kissed me.

“It was the happiest moment of my life when I looked across that table and heard you singing my song,” he said.

Sir John Neville was soon suppressed

“They had not a chance,” Jane told me. “They were defeated before they started. They will soon be wishing they had never been born.”

The King said: “I have an unhappy people to govern. I could reduce them to such poverty that they would not be able to rebel.” His face hardened and took on that cruel look which always made me uneasy.

I must see the parade of the prisoners with him. As they passed, I watched that cruel smile on his face. They were taken to the Tower from whence they would be taken to Tyburn, where they would be hanged and taken down before they were dead, to suffer that which I could not bear to contemplate.

It came to my mind to ask the King to spare them, but even I knew that would be folly. I must remember that I dare not go too far. So I saved myself in time from begging for their lives.

The King was happier that night. He was quite sentimental about his care for his people and how misguided they were to attempt this rising. It was all a matter of the Church again. He was the Head of the Church now, but there would always be those who would question it … until they saw the folly of it, as these men now did.

“It is this fellow Pole who is behind it,” he railed. “I was fond of him. I cared for him. I paid for his education.” There were tears in his eyes. “It was my conscience. His mother is the daughter of the Duke of Clarence, brother to Edward IV; and my mother, Elizabeth of York, was the daughter of that Edward, that King. You see how closely we are linked. It was the marriage between my mother and my father that united the Houses of York and Lancaster. Alas, men are ambitious. Reginald Pole could not forget that he was descended from Edward IV and Richard III. I even suspect him of having had his eyes on the throne. A King’s lot is not always a happy one, Katherine. I know you have thought it is. You have seen the pageantry, the pomp and the feasting. But it is not always so. Then I need my Katherine to soothe me … not a woman who will argue of this and that, but one who will be there to comfort me, to take my mind away from the wearisome matter of governing. Do you understand that, wife?”

I nestled against him. “I understand that I always want to give you what you want.”

He was happy then. The rebels of Yorkshire were all in the Tower. Tomorrow there would be the spectacle of their execution.

Neville would be taken back to York. He should perish where he had started the trouble, that the people might see the fate of those who turned traitor to the King.

There was a sequel to the Yorkshire rising. The Countess of Salisbury was sentenced to death.

I was horrified. I had thought of her comfortable in her furred nightdress, and considered how delighted she must have been to receive it. And now she was to die.

I was not so foolish as to think I could plead for her. I knew the King would give me a great deal if I asked it, but I had glimpsed his rage at the very mention of Reginald Pole, and I knew I must not stretch his indulgence too far.

As was my habit, I tried to forget what I did not want to hear, but it was difficult to banish thoughts of the Countess from my mind. I felt an urge to know what she felt about the manner in which she was being treated. I talked to Jane Rochford.

“It is reported that she has declared she has committed no crime,” she told me.

“Is it true that she was not involved in the Neville rebellion?”

“It is what she says. But many will tell you that the revolt was supported by Reginald Pole, and she is his mother, so it is very likely that she helped her son. Ever since the King broke with Rome, there have been those who are for the King and others who cling to the Pope, and Cardinal Reginald Pole most naturally supports the Pope.”

“Then she is guilty,” I said

“She declares she is not. But she would, would she not?”

“But if she is innocent, she must not be executed.”

“She is certainly guilty of being in the royal line.”

“Oh, Jane, you make the most daring statements!”

“I only say them to you. It is because I speak to you as I would to myself. You must forget what I have said as soon as I say it. It is because I am so close to you.” She added, with a grin: “Your Majesty.”

“Jane, I wonder how right you are.”

“We can only wait and see.”

“Be careful, Jane.”

“Your Majesty must be so, too. Remember, what a Majesty says can mean more than the words of a simple lady-in-waiting. Forget not who sent clothes to her. That could be a rash act … more than making a remark as to whether she is guilty or not.”

But Jane did look a little subdued. I think she was wondering whether she had gone too far.

The following day the Countess walked out from the Tower to Smithfield Green, which was close by.

The Lord Mayor, with several other prominent Londoners, came to witness the end of the Countess. The block was a low one and no scaffold had been erected. The Countess prayed for the King, the Queen and the young Prince Edward. She also spoke movingly of the Princess Mary, whose governess she had been, and whom she had openly supported when the King was trying to divorce her mother in order to marry Anne Boleyn. The poor Countess had not had a happy life since that time, and this was largely due to her opposition to the King’s wishes. And now … she had come to her death. Having said her prayers, she held her head high and, standing by the hastily erected scaffold, she announced to the watchers that she was condemned to die as was the fate of traitors.

“But,” she said in louder tones, “I am no traitor, and if you will have my head, you must win it.”

I could not believe this when Jane reported to me. She was romancing, as she could do at times.

“It was a moment of horror,” Jane went on. “The headsman caught her and dragged her to the block. He could do no other. Was he not acting on the King’s orders? He forced her down. She was weak. Do not forget, she had spent a year in the Tower. He struck. The first blow missed her neck. So he hacked again … and again and again … until he had her head from her shoulders.”

I covered my face with my hands. “It was not so! It was not so,” I cried. “I do not want to hear.”

“I was not present,” said Jane. “But that is the tale as I heard it.”

And if that account of the Countess’s death was not exactly accurate, there was no doubt that something similarly horrific had occurred. People crossed themselves when they spoke of it. The King would not have it mentioned in his presence. The woman might have been royal. Her son might be a traitor. But, for the comfort of all concerned, she was best forgotten.

The Duke of Norfolk was begging an audience with me. I liked that. The mighty one humbly begging to see me! Graciously I agreed to see him.

He was looking embarrassed and uneasy as he bowed, which I supposed was because he must show the necessary respect due to the Queen, who was, after all, only the silly little niece whom he had hitherto despised.

His first words were: “Your Majesty, I trust this is a time when you will remember that I am your uncle, who wishes you nothing but good fortune.”

“Your Grace is kind,” I said, rather flippantly.

“I would serve you well.”

“Your Grace has something to say to me?”

“That is so. We have just been made aware of the discord in the North.”

“I was of the opinion that the King had settled that matter.”

“Praise God, he has put down the revolt and punished those who have been responsible. But the King is uneasy.”

I looked surprised. “He has not told me.”

The faintly contemptuous lift of his lips was hardly perceptible, but it was there.

“The King, I know, is very concerned for your comfort. He would not wish you to be worried with such matters.”

“The King does confide his troubles to me, I should tell you.”

“Indeed he does. He often speaks to me of his growing love for our family, and he is grateful to the Howards for having given you to him.”

I did not like this reference to the magnanimity of the Howards. Previously they had always considered me unworthy of them. But I was the one who had captured the heart of the King. They seemed to forget that I had, without effort, done that which they had all spent their lives striving to do.

The Duke went on: “I was referring to this trouble in Yorkshire which, as Your Majesty says, the King has settled. The King fears there may be other insurrections, and that is something he greatly wishes to avoid.”

“Indeed he does. It is a most disturbing matter, with so many men going to their deaths.”

“Traitors,” said the Duke. “The King will not have traitors in his realm. There was the Countess of Salisbury.” He coughed slightly. “It came to my ears that Your Majesty had supplied the lady with garments—furred garments.”

“The nightdress was furred. She needed it against the cold. And there were hose and boots.”

“The Countess was the King’s prisoner.”

“She was a lady unused to the hardships of prison.”

“As she had been in the Tower for a year or more, it is to be presumed she was accustomed to them by that time.”

“My lord, such hardships are something to which one never grows accustomed.”

“It is the fate of prisoners. And this, Your Majesty, was the King’s prisoner. I must stress that point. Now, if you had consulted me …”

“Your Grace was not one I would consult regarding an errand of mercy.”

He flinched a little. I fancied he was growing angry. Oh, I had undoubtedly changed since I had become the Queen, beloved of the King.

He went on: “I should have warned you that it is a little unwise to … er … show friendship toward the King’s enemies.”

“The King has not mentioned this.”

“The King is indulgent … to some. Your Majesty has not, I dare swear, discussed the matter with him.”

“I had not thought it of any great importance.”

He forgot then that he was talking to the Queen, for he said sharply: “Then ’twas a pity you did not give the matter more thought.”

“I believe the Countess derived much pleasure from the gifts.”

“I doubt not that she did … in more ways than one. There is much trouble in the country. I would speak to you of that.”

“Pray do,” I said. We were indeed changing. It was the first time he had ever thought it necessary to talk to me of the country’s affairs.

“When the King removed the Church from Rome, there were many in the country who were deeply disturbed, and it is their intention to take it back. This the King will never allow.”

“I am aware of that.”

“It causes strife. There will be others like Neville. There is a division in the country. Times are dangerous. You are a great comfort to the King, and I rejoice in that, but do not try him too far. You must strive to remain as you are now. That brings good to the King … and our family. Your task is to soothe him. Never attempt to try his patience.”

“Do you suggest that this is what I have done?”

“Your Majesty,” he said, remembering who I was once more. “I am your uncle. I have always had your well-being and that of our family in mind. For the good of the family and the country, you must keep the King’s favor. I hope you will allow me to speak my mind.”

“I was under the impression, my Lord Duke, that you always did.”

“If, when Your Majesty decides to take some action … something which might be misconstrued by some as being a little rash … if you came to me, I could advise you as to its wisdom. Believe me, there are some matters so intricate … so open to misconstruction by one’s enemies, that they need the utmost care in handling.” He meant, of course, that they were beyond the understanding of simple people like myself. “For instance, the clothes you sent to the Tower.” He shook his head slowly. “If you had asked me, I should have advised against that.”

“It is a matter long forgotten, my lord. The lady is now dead … hacked to pieces, I hear.”

He held up his hand just like the uncle of old. I knew what it cost him to treat me with respect, and I was beginning to feel impatient with him. Did he intend to play the wise uncle of a stupid girl all my life?

“The King believed her to be a traitor,” he went on. “She was aiding her son, who was aiding Neville. She died for that reason. That is enough. I would ask you … I would pray you … to consider before you take such an action again. A word from you will bring me immediately to your side.”

“I suppose I might send for anyone if I needed them,” I retorted with a laugh which, to my annoyance, seemed to border on a giggle.

“This is a serious matter. You could very easily do that which would prove unseemly. You are not in your grandmother’s home now. You are in a dangerous place, niece. I am here … ready to help you. I will advise you on all occasions.”

“I have no doubt that you would do that, but let me tell you, Uncle, that I have done very well so far without your help, and I propose to go on doing so.”

He was really angry then. It was only because he was so accustomed to protocol that he could restrain himself from striking me, I was sure.

He stepped back a few paces and muttered: “I have done my best. I ask Your Majesty’s leave to retire.”

I gave it readily, fury raging within me.

It was some time after before I asked myself what I had done.

When I received the letter from Joan Bulmer, I read it with great concern: it was only after a closer perusal that I began to feel a qualm of uneasiness. It brought back memories I would rather suppress.

I had believed I had loved Francis Derham until I had met Thomas, then I had realized I had been overwhelmed until I came to know true love. I had indeed loved Thomas, and if events had turned out as we had hoped they would, I should have been very happy with him. But the King had seen me, and I had had no alternative but to go to him.

I was happy now. The King’s devotion was wonderful. I enjoyed seeing his face soften when he looked at me. It was easy to keep him happy. Love-making was so much a part of my life. I think it had been meant to be since the day when Manox had begun to initiate me. I can only believe that there are some people like that.

And now Joan Bulmer. She had married and acquired the name Bulmer since our acquaintance. I really did not want those people whom I had known in the past to be near me now. I had been a little uneasy when I had heard that Katherine Tylney was in the household. It was not important, I told myself. It was just that I would rather they were not there.

I looked back over parts of her letter. It was quite a long one.

If I could wish you all the honor and good fortune you could desire, you would never lack health, wealth, long life, nor yet prosperity.

There was nothing wrong with that. It appeared that her marriage was not a happy one, and she went on to ask for a place in my household, for she desperately needed to get away from her present circumstances.

I know no remedy without your goodness. You could find the means to get me to London. If you could write to my husband and command him to bring me to you, he would not dare disobey. I beseech you to find a place for me. The nearer I were to you, the gladder I would be of it. I would write more unto you, but I would not be so bold for considering the great honor you are toward, it did not become me to put myself in presence: but the remembrance of the perfect honesty that I have always known in you hath encouraged me to do this.

I know the Queen of Britain will not forget her secretary, and favor you will show.

Your humble servant with heart unfeigned,

Joan Bulmer

No, I did not like it. The reference to my honesty, my humble servant. I tried to thrust my misgivings aside.

I did not reply to the letter for a few days, and then I found myself watching for another letter from Joan Bulmer.

This was foolish. Joan and I had been on fairly friendly terms. She was now in dire straits, poor girl. Had I not always been ready to listen to the trials of others and help if I could? Not that I had had much chance of doing so in those days, but they had always known I was sympathetic and would help if I were able.

No, this was just the letter of a woman in distress. She was unhappy. She wanted to be away from her husband, and at Court. I could understand that.

I was not quite sure of my feelings. Perhaps I was too uneasy to look clearly at how I felt. I kept wondering what the King’s attitude would be if he knew that the Duchess had come into that room and had seen me rolling on the floor with Francis Derham. I pictured those little eyes sinking into his fleshy face with fury. I was wise enough to realize that by no stretch of the imagination could he picture himself in a similar position. His obesity … his bad leg … and I knew that thought would irritate him beyond control.

There was another matter which disturbed me, but only faintly.

I knew he longed for me to announce my pregnancy. There seemed no reason why I should not. But it was the familiar story. So far, there was no sign.

He was so enamoured of my youth and loving nature that he had not yet complained. But would he in time? My poor cousin had gone to the scaffold, many said, because she had only produced one child and that of the wrong sex; and when she might have given birth to a son, she had miscarried and he had lost his patience by that time.

I shut out all thoughts of such a thing happening to me. He adored me. But then he had adored Anne. He was an extraordinary mixture of ruthlessness and sentimentality. He always had a reason for his actions which made them right in his opinion. One could be in high office one day and in disgrace and disfavor the next.

Being light-hearted by nature, I did not dwell on these matters. The King loved me dearly. I was the wife for whom he had been searching all his life. I was safe.

Then I wrote to Joan Bulmer, offering her a place in my household.

When Joan arrived, I sent for her. She had changed a little. Her attitude toward me was different. But then, so was that of everyone—the outstanding example being that of my uncle, the Duke. I had seen little of him since my outburst, about which I was pleased. He must understand that he could not control my life.

Joan knelt and expressed her undying gratitude. I made her rise and told her that I hoped she would be happy at Court.

“I knew Your Majesty would help me,” she said. “You were always so kind … to everyone.”

There was a slight smile about her face as she said those words. I knew she was looking back, remembering.

“And now you are the Queen herself… and as kind as you ever were. Your Majesty, I shall always remember. I shall never forget.”

Why did it occur to me that it was not only my kindness she was remembering, but incidents from the past?

“I look forward to serving Your Majesty … in whatever capacity you wish … as I always tried to do.”

There it was again … that covert smile. It would have worried me then if I had allowed it to.

I said: “I believe you were not very happy in your new life.”

“I was not, Your Majesty. Oh, it will be a great pleasure to serve you … just as I did in the old days at Lambeth.”

“Thank you,” I said.

“Mistress Tylney has promised to show me what will be expected of me.”

“You will find this different from the Duchess’s household.”

“Oh yes, Your Majesty.”

When she had gone, I sat thinking of her. She brought back memories which I would rather forget.

She settled in and was soon a close friend of Katherine Tylney and, in that light-hearted way, which was typical of me, I ceased to think about her.

Lady Rochford was the first to bring the news. I should soon have heard it, she said, for indeed the whole of London was talking about it.

“The Lady Anne of Cleves has been brought to bed of a fair boy,” she announced.

“The Lady Anne!” I cried. “A boy! No, it cannot be. It is false. I do not believe it.”

“’Tis bruited through the streets and they are saying it at Court.”

“How could there be? She is no longer the King’s wife.”

“People do have children in the most difficult circumstances,” said Jane with a laugh.

“Can it really be true?” I murmured.

“That we shall soon know.”

“If it is the King’s …”

“Ah,” cried Jane, speculation in her eyes. How she loved the excitement of prying into people’s lives. She was the sort of woman who would weave her own fantasy about people’s actions to make a more dramatic story. I thought fleetingly of her evidence of the relationship between Anne Boleyn and her brother which had been given in such a manner as to make it seem like truth, and had resulted in sending her husband George to his death, accused of incest. And when it was considered, it seemed that all that had happened was that once, when Anne was in bed, Jane had come into the bedchamber and seen her husband sitting beside the bed while his hand rested on the coverlet. I wondered if she ever felt remorse for what she had done. If she did, it had certainly not cured her of the habit.

“One of the King’s greatest desires is to have a healthy son,” she was saying. “He will be most eager to see this child whom the Lady Anne has produced.”

“Did no one know there was to be a child? It is strange that he is suddenly here.”

“The King is deeply enamoured of you. He would never leave you, even if the Lady Anne does have a child.” Her eyes were speculative again.

The courtiers were asking themselves which choice the King would make. It would be interesting to see which was more important to him: his healthy boy or his beautiful bride.

I think I never took the matter seriously. If I did, there was the fleeting thought that, if he divorced me, I could marry Thomas Culpepper after all.

I knew Thomas would want that. I had seen him only briefly since my marriage, although he was a Gentleman of the King’s Bedchamber. He had avoided me; he was very much afraid that our friendship might be remembered. But I had caught a glimpse of something in his eyes which told me that his feelings had not changed. No mention was made of our suggested betrothal.

I knew people often thought of what had happened to Henry’s wives, and it was not surprising that they might soon be wondering what my fate would be. Thomas must have realized how careful we had to be. More so than I did. And he still loved me.

And now it seemed that my future might be in jeopardy.

Then I had a visit from Anne of Cleves herself. She came without ceremony from Richmond, which was not very far from Hampton Court.

I received her at once, and she immediately told me that she had been extremely distressed by a certain rumor and wanted to tell me that there was no truth in it.

Her knowledge of our language had made great strides since her arrival. She was a clever woman and the first task she had set herself was to learn English. She was moderately fluent now and only occasionally did the pronunciation of a word betray her origins.

She said: “I have been confined to my bed for about ten days. Mother Lowe was mostly in attendance. She knows my needs better than anyone, for she has been with me, you know, since I was a child. Then these rumors started. It is quite ridiculous.”

“I was of that opinion at the time,” I told her.

“I was sure you would be. It is amazing how these rumors start. One says, I think this, or I think that, and then someone else says it is … and it goes on from there.”

I agreed. I was thinking of Jane Rochford who, I knew, always had to embroider a tale.

“It was good of you to come and see me,” I told her.

“I wished you to hear this from my own lips. I do not need to ask if Your Majesty is in good health. I see you are.”

“And you also, my lady.”

“I am when there are no foolish rumors to upset me.”

“You have been indisposed, you say.”

“It is over. What do you call it? A little matter of the chest, which kept me to my bed—so starting this gossip, mayhap.”

“A rheum perhaps?” I suggested.

“But I am recovered completely.” She smiled at me. I believe she thought I was concerned because I had taken her place, for she went on: “I am happier than I ever have been in my life before.”

“I am so pleased to hear that.”

“I have my little Court at Richmond. The King has graciously given me other houses too. And I am rich. Life has become very good to me.”

“I am happy for you.”

She looked at me searchingly. Did I fancy I saw a shade of pity in her eyes? It might have been, for she had suffered great humiliation at the hands of the King when she had been Queen. And now I had stepped into her shoes.

I was so pleased that there was no child. I very much hoped that I should be the one to bring that joy to the King. I found I liked Anne of Cleves very much. There was something free and honest about her.

She asked me how the Court had seemed to me when I had first become her lady-in-waiting.

“I saw so little of you then,” she said.

“I was kept in the background. They thought I was such a novice … and it was true. I had to learn everything. It was all so different from my grandmother’s house in Lambeth. There was not the same order there.”

She told me a little about her childhood too. How different it was from mine! Her father was John II, Duke of Cleves, who, when he had married, had become Count of Ravensburgh through his wife’s inheritance. Anne had a sister, Sybilla. She wanted to know if I had any brothers and sisters.

“Several,” I told her. “But I was taken away when I was so young that I hardly knew them. Because we were poor, I was sent to my grandmother, the Dowager Duchess of Norfolk.”

Sybilla had married almost ten years before Anne came to England. It was a brilliant marriage to John Frederick, the great Duke of Saxony.

“It is good to remember the old days,” said Anne. “When I think of my childhood, I remember the two white swans. This was because of an old legend of the Rhine. The Rhine was our river, you know. We always sang of it, and the story was that one of our ancestors came to us from nowhere and then left us in the same mysterious manner. She just arrived and then later, after bearing children, disappeared. She was supposed to be some messenger from the gods come to bless our family. She came down the river in a boat drawn by two white swans, and the swans have been our emblem ever since. Why do I tell you this?”

“Because I can see that we are going to be friends. How glad I am of that rumor, because it brought you to see me.”

“I shall return, if permitted to do so.”

“You have not only my permission, but my command.”

Then she talked about the King’s daughters and little son. She had made their acquaintance and was looking forward to improving it.

“The Lady Mary is very sad,” she said. “I should like to see more of her and cheer her if possible.”

“I have not yet spoken to her.”

“She is not easy to talk to. She has—how do you say? She retires into herself.”

I nodded, guessing that to be true. Poor Mary, she had suffered much.

We were silent for a moment, then she said: “The Lady Elizabeth is an interesting girl. She seems to be very clever. Wise beyond her years. And the boy, too, is clever.”

So we passed an hour in talk and we parted on the best of terms, promising ourselves another meeting very soon.

I thought about her a good deal after she had left. What struck me most forcibly was that she by no means regretted the loss of her crown. In fact, she appeared to be remarkably relieved to have discarded it.

It had been a most pleasant morning, partly because I was so glad to hear that the rumor about the baby was unfounded.

It had made me think though that it was time I was pregnant, and then I began to wonder whether this rumor about Anne of Cleves had started because it seemed that the King might have married another barren wife.

I had a visit from my grandmother. I could see that she was distraught.

She said: “Manox is back.”

I felt a shiver of alarm. I did not want to think of Manox. I was trying to pretend he had never existed.

“Back?” I said. “Where?”

“At Lambeth.”

“You have taken him into your household?”

“It seemed that I had no choice.”

“But … why?”

“Let me explain. He arrived and asked to see me. I was disturbed and acting on my first impulse refused. He went away, and I thought that was the end of him. I did not tell you then, because I thought it would disturb you. He came back next day and asked that a message might be delivered to me saying that, in view of the position he had once held in my household, he felt sure that I would grant him the honor of receiving him.”

“And you did?”

She lifted her shoulders. “What he craves is a place at Court—with the musicians.”

“Oh, no!”

She was frowning. “He heard that Joan Bulmer is back, and he said he was sure you would be as kind to him. You would remember how pleased you had been with his work when he was teaching you the virginals.”

I stared at her blankly, and she went on quickly: “So I said I would arrange it. It seemed all I could do. You will not have to see him if you prefer not to. He can simply join the musicians. I can arrange that. He means no harm, I am sure. He is just a little … insistent. He always was.”

“No,” I murmured. “I need not see him.”

“It is nothing to concern yourself with.”

“No,” I said. “That is so.”

We were alike in some ways, the Duchess and I. We both shut our eyes to unpleasant possibilities.

She said: “If your uncle had been on friendly terms, I might have asked him. He would doubtless have ways of removing …”

“It is of no account,” I said quickly. “Manox is only a humble musician.”

“There is a certain insolence about the man which displeases me,” went on the Duchess. “But then he always had that. The respect is so lightly applied that one can see through it. He has a great opinion of himself, our strutting little musician. He should be taught a little humility, and the Duke would have been the one to teach him. But I am not on the best of terms with my stepson; and I gather Your Majesty has offended him too.”

“He really is overbearing and arrogant. I’m afraid I was not in the mood to pander to his wishes.”

“Indeed not, and you Her Majesty! Who does he think he is? I will tell you. He is the premier peer of England. To tell the truth, I’d say he thinks he is as important as the King himself… or should be.”

“You should see them together! Then you would know who the master is.”

“Still, he has power, that one. It is well to be with him rather than against him.”

“He must make amends to me.”

“Well, little granddaughter, it is you who are the Queen. Tell me about last night’s banquet. What did you wear? They say the King is so enamored of you that he cannot take his eyes from you.”

And so we talked, and I fancied that she, as well as I, was all the time trying to believe that Manox’s return to London was of no importance.

When I was alone with the King a few days later, he took me on to his knee and said: “We are shortly to set out on our travels.”

I was excited. I enjoyed traveling through the towns and villages while people came out to cheer us, and Henry was so proud when they commented on my beauty. I could not help being enchanted by it all.

He stroked my hair and went on: “We will not have these risings every now and then on some small issue which some people think is their concern.” His face darkened. “This man Neville … he has paid the price of his folly and treachery, but you see, sweetheart, we have to make them see that we will have no more of it. That is why we shall go. We have to bring home to them what are the rewards of their conduct.”

My heart sank. This was not going to be one of those journeys during which everyone was merry. It would be a somber reminder of what happened to traitors.

“We shall drive through those counties which were involved in the trouble,” he was saying. “We shall make them understand that on no account shall they defy us.” His face was scarlet now, his mouth that straight line which I dreaded to see.

“It is one of the more unpleasant duties of the King,” he went on. “He must keep his realm safe.”

His mood changed and he was soft and sentimental again.

“It pleases me that I have my sweet little Queen to comfort me,” he said. “I plan, during this tour, to meet the King of the Scots. He can be a tiresome fellow, and I must make him see that he will come to no good if he would play his devilish games with me.”

His mood had changed again, but almost immediately he was once more the loving husband.

“Your brow is troubled,” he went on. “Why, sweetheart, these are not matters for you. Alas, my lot is not always a merry one. A crown is not an easy thing to carry. That is why you, little one, are such a joy to me.”

I saw less of Henry during the short time before our journey began. He was busy with his ministers and plans for the journey. It was not a happy time for me. He began a fierce attack on those he suspected of working against him. The John Neville affair had affected him more deeply than I had at first imagined.

All the cases of those imprisoned in the Tower were examined, and, if the King’s suspicions were strong, ended in execution. Even those who had not been found guilty of treason, if the suspicion was strong enough, were dispatched.

I was very uneasy. I could not stop thinking of those people lying in that gloomy place, waiting to be summoned to the block or the hangman’s noose. I had once or twice attempted to beg for their release, but Henry had made it very clear that he had not come to me to be reminded of his enemies.

I was horrified to hear of the case of Thomas Fiennes, Lord Dacre, who was at that time a prisoner in the Tower, although there was no reason why he should be there.

Jane Rochford told me there was quite an outcry over the matter, and that, if there had not been so much trouble over John Neville’s rising, when many had been under suspicion, something might have been done about the case.

I always liked to understand these things, and particularly this matter of a man who was facing death for something he had not done.

“Then why is he in the Tower?” I demanded.

“I have heard,” said Jane, “that one night he left his castle of Hurstmonceux with a party of friends. He is a youngish man … some twenty years old … and such can be high-spirited. He was only eighteen when he came into the title. You know what young men are. Well, he and his friends found themselves on a gentleman’s estate nearby and decided to indulge in a little poaching for fun. The party then split up and one of the groups was confronted by a gamekeeper. There was a fight, during which the gamekeeper was killed.”

“How terrible! That was murder.”

“When it was discovered who the young men were, it seemed doubly shocking. They were not even hungry men, desperate for food. It was all amusement for them. Lord Dacre was especially singled out, although he was not with the group who had killed the gamekeeper. There was a great outcry over the matter, as you can imagine, and Lord Dacre was sent to the Tower. They were there when the King decided that he did not want to leave his enemies in London while he was traveling North. The Dacre family were not in favor with the King, who suspected them of disloyalty, and when Lord Dacre’s name was put before him, the King ordered that he should be one of those who were executed.”

“But all he had done was go out with this wild party! And he was not even with the group who killed the gamekeeper!”

“The King was in no mood for trials. The Dacres had offended him. And so … His Majesty decided to be rid of this one. Dacre was not the only one, I swear. There were others.”

I was very distressed. I said: “I do not wish to hear of them.”

Jane nodded. She knew me well. It had ever been my way to put aside that which disturbed me.

It was just before we left on our journey that the Duchess came to me.

“I have to tell you,” she said, “that Francis Derham is back in England.”

I must have shown how shocked I was.

She went on: “He has been to see me. What a handsome young man he is! He is more handsome than ever. A real man. He was such a delightful boy.”

“He is back in your household?” I asked fearfully.

“No. He has had adventures. What he was doing in Ireland, I can only guess. He was determined to make a fortune and come back and marry you.”

I was trembling and desperately trying to forget that part of my life, and now it seemed that it was coming back to haunt me. Henry Manox was now one of my musicians. I had seen him from afar, and I had felt a twinge of disquiet, although his manner had appeared to be most respectful.

Derham was a different matter. I remembered his passionate insistence that he would come back and marry me. He had said we were husband and wife. He called me wife; I called him husband: and we were as such.

I experienced a moment of horror. They were all coming back: Manox, Joan Bulmer, Katherine Tylney and now … Derham.

My grandmother could guess at my fear.

She said: “Derham is a gentleman. He would never harm you. He would protect you if the need arose. You must have no fear of Derham.”

I clutched at that belief. It was true. He had genuinely loved me. I knew in my heart that he would never harm me. I had nothing to fear from him. A great relief swept over me at the thought.

“Why did he come to see you?” I asked.

“Because he knew me for a friend. He is a good young man, he has done well in Ireland. Oh, what a reckless fellow! There is something of the pirate in him. Indeed, I fancy he might well have been engaged in something just outside the law.”

“Piracy?” I said.

“I know nothing.” She laughed. She had always had a weakness for handsome young men, especially those who flattered her.

“He talked of you,” she went on.

“What said he?”

“That you were beautiful and that he knew of none to compare with you. He said you had had some regard for him. The King is not a young man. He thought that, if the King died, it would be his turn, and it could be just as you and he had once planned.”

I had grown up a little and I realized, if she did not, the importance of what she was saying. I looked at her in horror.

“You have not said that in the hearing of anyone, I hope.”

“Do you think I should be so foolish as that? I am telling you … and you only.”

“It could cost him his head,” I cried, thinking fleetingly of Lord Dacre, who had lost his for a murder he had not committed.

“You can be assured I shall say nothing of the sort to any. One must never mention that a king could go the way the rest of us do.”

She laughed. She was reckless, I thought. God preserve her. I had been reckless, too, but how was I to have known that I should one day be Queen of England?