George dined with Anne and me weeks later, the night after Henry responded to all of this with stunning force. “He brought himself to his full height, was dressed in his richest robes, and had a wondrous fury on his face,” George said. “He reminded all present that they had agreed, in principle, that a king has jurisdiction in his own realm. He recalled that he had proved his case for sovereignty, as well as against the legitimacy of his first marriage, legally and scripturally. And that they had agreed, in kind.”

“Who spoke against him?” Anne refilled George’s ale herself, though we knew as many maids as could stood just outside the chamber, listening.

“The Church in Rome elected the bishop of Winchester, Gardiner, to speak on its behalf. Before the assembled churchmen, courtiers, and government officials he told Henry, ‘We, your most humble subjects, may not subject the execution of our charges and duty, certainly prescribed by God, to Your Highness’s assent.’”

“In other words,” Anne said, “the pope, who has never been to England, and who is under the sway of Charles the Fifth, shall be the ultimate law in our land.”

George raised his eyebrows. “I’m not sure they would see it that way but…. yes.”

“Henry will not stand for it,” I said. “Will he?”

They both shook their heads. “Indeed, Henry unmanned Gardiner in front of all assembled, raging that he, too, had a God-given appointment as anointed king and that he would defend it afore all comers. Few looked ready to pick up a lance and meet him in the tiltyard.” He looked at Anne. “They blame you, you know.”

She nodded. “It’s not about me. It’s about sovereignty. But they find me to be an easy scapegoat. A sacrificial lamb. However,” she said, biting into a date, “I am safe. Henry’s promised me.”

It had come to a head. Within the month all had declared sides. Sir Thomas More, Henry’s friend and the writer of the hopeful Utopia, but also the author of half a million sharp words against Tyndale and church reform, threw his weight against the king and tendered his resignation as chancellor. Henry accepted his resignation with cool civility.

By the end of April Henry had decided that since the Church in Rome would not do things by halves, neither would he. He had a bill presented to Parliament that would strip the Church in Rome of all its powers in England.

By June, King Francis of France had allied himself with Henry. Now not even Charles would agree to come against England lest he fight France as well. All seemed settled.

Till July.

We ladies had gathered in the court gardens of a sticky summer evening to play cards. The woody freshness of rosemary mingled with the nectar of the roses and the slight salt of feminine sweat—hot months did not excuse us from the cumbersome number of layers required for us to be properly dressed. I reposed with the Duchess of Norfolk and her daughter Mary, who had caught the eye of the king’s baseborn son, at a table a few feet away from Anne. She sat with Lady Lisle and Lady Zouche. “Here comes the duke’s manservant,” Lady Norfolk’s daughter teased her mother. “Mayhap he is come to bring funds with which to pay your debt.”

The duchess, never known for a quick smile, puckered at her daughter, drawing her wrinkled skin round her mouth as purse strings. I grinned at Mary Howard and admired her wit. The duke’s manservant did not stop next to the duchess, however; he went directly to Anne and handed her a note. She read it, folded it, and made her excuses to leave. As soon as I could reasonably do so I followed her. Once in her chambers I saw that she had dismissed all of her ladies save Jane Rochford, who was not so easily put out.

“What is it?” I asked.

“Henry Percy,” she said.

“Henry Percy? Whatever can he want?”

“It’s not what he wants. It’s what his wife, Mary Talbot, wants. She claims that her marriage to Percy has been one sore grievance after the next and that the reason for that is that it is illegal and ill conceived. She claims that Percy and I were precontracted and therefore her own marriage is null and void.”

I opened my mouth to speak and just before I did, Jane Rochford’s utter stillness caught my attention. I gathered my thoughts and then responded, “What will you do?”

“I shall take this to the king,” she said, “and demand that he investigate it.”

The breathtaking audacity of the action caught us all unaware. What would Percy say? He, as Anne knew, was not a man of strong will, and he’d been further broken since their ephemeral romance by a wife as icy and depressive as the north lands he ruled over.

And yet, mayhap Mary Talbot had reason for her coldness.

Expectedly, within the month Henry Percy was to be questioned under oath. Unexpectedly, the few of us who knew Anne during that time were also to be deposed. Her family spoke freely, of course, knowing little, and after the Sweat there was only myself remaining of those who had served her during that time.

I was called before one of the king’s chaplains, a priest of the age one expects to be tending to abbey physic gardens rather than deposing young widows. He sat me down in his office.

“My lady, I’ve heard that you are a woman of honor and valor.”

“Thank you, Father,” I said. “I strive to be.”

“I understand that you were a friend at court with Lady Anne during the time in question.”

“Yes,” I said. “I was here to serve her.” I hoped to deemphasize that I’d been her friend and therefore a repository to her secret thoughts.

“Do you recall her relationship with Henry Percy?” Father Peter asked.

“I recall that they were affectionate toward one another,” I said.

“Do you recall the moment that they became engaged? Surely that would stick out in your memory. Those kinds of things do, with young women.”

Is he trying to entrap me? “I was not privy to any of their private conversations.”

“So to the best of your knowledge, with all of your understanding, they were not precontracted. Nor had they pledged themselves to one another.”

My conversation in the litter with Anne that year was crystal-clear. She’d promised never again to pledge herself to a weak man. Was there a difference between a pledge and a precontract? I had thought not. But I was not sufficiently sure and I could see a way round this.

“No. They were not precontracted.”

“Nor pledged?”

I considered myself a poor liar. I had, I’d thought, little practice. So it was hard to keep my face from betraying me as I answered, “No.”

I was almost certain he knew that I was lying but he pressed no more and dismissed me.

I scurried to my room, burdened with shame. I recalled Edmund’s taunt about the court bending me to its will and my certainty that it would not happen. After the ladies’ gathering that evening I drew aside my sister, Alice.

“I have something I need to confess. A sin.”

She raised her eyebrows in question. “To me?”

I shook my head. “No. In fact, ’tis something I cannot confess to anyone. Not even a priest. And yet—my spirit within me needs relief.”

She drew me near her and kissed my temple. “Dear Meg. Only our Lord can forgive your sins, so ’tis to Him you should bring your transgressions. As Master Tyndale pointed out, Holy Writ teaches that there is forgiveness for all that repent and believe therein. See now. If you do some harm to me, you do not go to Margaret or John and ask them to ask me to forgive you. You come direct to me. There need not be intercession by anyone on your behalf except by Christ, the High Priest. ’Tis one great reason we push for church reform. So go and confess to Him who tells no secrets.”

“Just…. tell Him? And then what? How shall I know ’tis taken hold?”

She laughed. “’Twill take hold. But here’s how you’ll know. ’Twill be harder and harder to sin again likewise, of a willing spirit, and ’twill grow stronger and stronger in you to do right when tempted to wrong.”

After allowing Edithe to help me dress for the evening, I dismissed her but kept my candle burning and took Will’s New Testament out from the hiding place in the false bottom I’d fashioned in one of my drawers. I opened it up to read, looking for relief. I started at the beginning and kept reading through the Gospel of Saint Matthew. I admit to it: it was like hearing Him whisper in my ear, or shout in my chambers. I read till I reached the twenty-sixth chapter, wherein the Lord said, “For this is my blood of the new testament, that shall be shed for many, for the remission of sins.”

His blood and I met again.

I closed my eyes, confessed my wrongdoing, and asked forgiveness for my lie. I felt a gentle peace settle around me and as it did, I could breathe easily. As I went to slip the New Testament back into its hiding place, I noticed something strange. The wreath of daisies had been moved from the place I’d put it, near Romans 8. That was where I’d left it, for certes.

It more than unsettled me to know that someone had been in my chamber, searching through my things. I could do naught but ask Edithe if I had had visitors, though, because to ask if any had seen my Bible would be to train the eye upon myself. I could have moved it to a different hiding place, but I doubted that would have protected me. I could have disposed of the Holy Writ, but that I would not do.

Within the week Henry Percy had been questioned under oath before two archbishops and then again in the presence of the Duke of Norfolk and the king’s lawyer. He swore on the Blessed Sacrament that there had been no precontract with Anne. They did not ask him about a pledge and Anne was never questioned.

Henry set about refitting St. James’s Palace, which he had bought the year before with the intent of preparing it to be the residence for the Prince of Wales he expected shortly to arrive.