There, next to my young, newlywed niece, waiting for my beautiful, fertile friend to be crowned, I felt the weight of the age that the word “dowager” implied, though I was but a few clock dials past thirty. Margery must have caught my cheerless look.

“Do you ever wish ’twas you?” she whispered to me, feeling safe, I suspect, because of the cover of the music.

“As queen?” I answered. “No, never.”

“And yet,” she pressed on in curiosity, “you who were her friend and equal now must serve her instead and have no family nor husband of your own. ’Tis not so beguiling.”

I did not chide her. I rather recognized myself in her, as a younger woman, asking impertinent questions of my sister, her mother, the lady Alice.

“A lady-in-waiting is a noble post,” I said. “A lady’s value is not vested in the work that she is called to do, but rather in the rank and position of the one she is called to serve.”

Margery nodded and returned to ogling the fine gowns and crowns around her.

I, though, was drawn to look at the crucifix with our Lord upon it, vaunted near the flying buttresses that quietly held up the abbey. As the trumpeters and minstrels came forth I knew I had an answer to the question I’d pressed upon our Lord again and again since coming to the passage in Master Tyndale’s translation of the Epistle of Saint Paul to the Romans, chapter 8. Had I been called of purpose?

In a moment as quick as lightning striking a stump I understood that my call was to serve them both. Margery was right. It was not so beguiling. For that flashing moment, I abided the pain of ever going unheralded. Always the setting, I’d said of myself as a child. Never the stone. And yet a stone wanted for a setting to vaunt its purpose and beauty, did it not? ’Twas the call of the setting not to draw attention to itself but to the stone. My eyes drew back to that stone.

Anne walked forward, majestically, regally, along the railed route of seven hundred yards between the dais of the hall and the high altar of the abbey. Over her head was carried a gold canopy and she was preceded by a scepter of gold and rod of ivory topped with the dove. After High Mass was sung Cranmer prayed over her and Anne prostrated herself before the altar, where he anointed her and then led her to St. Edward’s chair, where she was crowned.

I looked up as my dearest friend was crowned queen of England by the archbishop of Canterbury. Her years of patience, of obedience, of political savvy and personal achievement, her enduring affection, yea, even true love for the king had all been invested for this moment. And the fruit of it was the prince who grew within her.

Henry had planned days of celebration. I admit to it: I hadn’t bargained with the cloth merchant only on Anne’s behalf. I had purchased some fine materials for myself, my favorite a vibrant green taffeta to put all in mind of spring and new life with tiny pears embroidered with gold thread around the slightly daring neckline. I’d have gowns sewn which I hoped would entirely dismiss the “dowager” in my title from all who set eyes upon me.

EIGHTEEN

Year of Our Lord 1533

The Palace at Whitehall

The king had ordered jousts for June 2 that were full of shouting and sweat and spectacle, to be followed by a grand ball for the evening. Every person of consequence from the Welsh marches to the border with Scotland and even far-flung Calais arrived at the court, which gasped for air, it was so overburdened, to celebrate Anne’s coronation and the forthcoming birth of the Prince of Wales. I took care to ready Anne first and then stopped back at her apartments to check on her after being dressed myself in a gown that shimmered now azure, now jade, depending on the light and my own movement. My neckline was just north of daring, and though I’d privately bemoaned my childless state, it had allowed me to keep my figure intact. I wore a single large emerald set in gold round my neck and its accompanying bracelet, a gift from Anne the Christmas before. Edithe had becomingly twisted my golden-red hair and woven a thread of gold throughout it.

“You look like a peacock,” Jane Rochford pronounced as I arrived. The rest of the room laughed at her and I pursed my lips modestly to hold back a grin, for I knew she was wrong.

“’Tis in no way true,” Mary Howard said. “Her dress is second only to Her Majesty’s and you, Jane Rochford, are as jealous as an alehouse on Sunday morn.”

’Twas a pity, really. Anne sought to do well by her friends and ’twould not have taken too much for Jane to befriend Anne, who’d wanted that, for George’s sake, all along. Anne’s mother, as mistress of the privy chamber, took Jane aside for, presumably, a private instruction on decorum. Lady Boleyn was fighting a battle that could never be won.

We followed Anne down the long stone halls from her apartments to the Banqueting Hall and thence to the Long Chamber, which had been set up to accommodate dancing, celebrations, and conviviality all evening. Anne was lifted onto a dais near the king, and after we’d helped to serve her, we partook of the feast ourselves.

After the banquet the king had the musicians strike up to play and, to my surprise, danced first with some of Anne’s ladies. Including myself!

He held out his hand to me. “My lady?”

I curtseyed and took his hand. He swept me into his arms. Yea, his eyes were still a bit beady and his face was reddened under his great beard due to the effort of a day of jousting and an evening of dance. But his power and his wealth and his self-confidence and even his still-handsome face bonded together in an alchemy of presence that was visceral and undeniable and took even my breath away. He looked down at me and smiled. He knew he still had the genius of charm.

“You do not look of a dowager to me,” he teased, and I blushed. Did he truly know all? How could he have guessed what my intent was in dressing myself thusly? He seemed to repent of the tease. “But ’tis the prerogative of a beautiful lady and I would have it no other way at my court,” he said. “You have been a constant and true companion to the queen. I thank you for your friendship to her.”

“’Tis my pleasure, sire,” I said. And then he, like any other man present and yet not like any other man present, for certes, made pleasant conversation till the song was over. He bowed gallantly and went to sweep a young blond lady-in-waiting into his arms.

I had no lack of other dance partners waiting. Anthony Litton was there and we passed a friendly hour; Henry Percy danced with me. There were plenty of others. But there was only one I’d really come looking for.

I’d spied him across the room, of course. I knew that he would be the first person I would seek out with mine eyes, but neither my pride nor my reputation would allow me to approach him first, especially with the trace of gossip after Simon had refuted me still scenting the air. I caught his eyes upon me several times but his look was different from the last time he had looked upon me thus. It was not filled with repressed desire and emotional longing. It was somehow unsettling, though I could not clearly see how. My heart sank. Was my fine dress to catch the attention of all men, including the king, save the one I had it in mind to impress? And yet, mayhap he had moved on in heart and mind, as was well and right and as it should be.