“Meg.” He took one look at my face and knew. “You cannot advise me to leave the priesthood,” he said, closing the door behind him.

We sat, side by side, nearly leg by leg, in front of the fire. “I must rather ask you questions,” I said. “Not advise.”

“Go on,” he replied.

“What will you do if you return to Antwerp?”

“Miles Coverdale is completing a copy of the entire Bible in English. Not just the New Testament! He draws from Tyndale, of course, who drew from Wycliffe, but also from the Latin Vulgate, and, well, he has asked me to be of assistance to him. De Keyser will publish it,” Will said. “Another bit of information is that de Keyser’s young sister-in-law, Adriana, is keen for your nephew, John Rogers.”

“No!” I said. I had heard nothing of it. “Poor girl.” I understood.

Will shook his head. “I don’t know. Mayhap John will leave the priesthood for her.”

I was tempted to ask what further complication could arise to make this conversation more difficult for me but, lest I entice some eavesdropping demon to creative action, I did not.

We remained quiet for a moment longer, our breathing in rhythm. I finally asked the question I knew I must. “When you chose this course of action so many years ago and told me, in the garden at Hever, you said you were called. Are you still? Or have you been released from that call?”

He closed his eyes and I waited, hoping with everything within me that he would say that he had run his race and was now released.

“I am not released,” he said.

I nodded. “I knew it as I said it.” I looked in his eyes, aching not only for himself but also for me.

“’Tis not always so beguiling to serve, is it?” I echoed Margery’s comment to me.

He smiled at the girlish phrasing. “No, ’tis not.” He looked at me for a moment longer. “And yet God is worthy of service we may deem as unlovely. As Christ demonstrated Himself.”

I nodded my agreement and let my tears fill my eyes afore blinking them away.

“Your eyes are deeper green when you cry.” He took my hand.

I smiled and then stood and kissed him on one cheek, and then on the other. “I’d best take my leave.” I handed him the silk bag with the daisy chain in it. “To remember me by,” I said.

He took it with his left hand but didn’t open it. He took my right hand into his own and kissed the back of it. “Nihilo quo tui meminerim mihi opus est.”

I need nothing to remember you by.

He returned to Antwerp, and I remained at the court, which was feverishly preparing for the birth of a prince.

NINETEEN

Years of Our Lord 1533 and 1534

Hampton Court Palace

Greenwich Palace

Whitehall Palace

We spent the summer at Hampton Court, cool and refreshed in Wolsey’s well-designed gardens of knots and herbs whilst mother ducks escorted their ducklings to the muddy Thames and the great wide-open. Anne was nigh on ready to deliver the babe and though she never indicated to anyone, not even to me, that she was concerned lest the baby not be a prince, I knew it was heavy upon her because I knew her mind.

One evening after dinner Anne retired to her rooms to rest and when she returned to the king’s chambers, where we’d all gathered of an evening to play cards, she found the king laughing and flirting with a pretty lady-in-waiting, the one he had partnered at dance immediately after me at Anne’s coronation banquet. I believe she was the niece of Lady Daughtry, who had fairly pushed her into the king’s view. The young woman didn’t seem to mind and didn’t seem to be as innocent as her laughter.

“What goes on here?” Anne said loudly enough for all present to hear. “I take my leave for a moment, to rest with your child, and when I return I find this strumpet”—she pointed at the young woman in question—“having taken my rightful place?”

Oh, Anne. No. No, dearest. Having grown up with a reasonable father she’d not had to learn to temper her tongue. I’d heard her argue with His Majesty in times past, but ever with an ear to her tone, to win him as a partner or spar with him as a friend. And in private. Henry was not a man to lightly brook being rebuked in public by his wife.

“Madam, you will contain yourself. And if I choose to dally of an hour with a young maiden, you shall shut your eyes and endure as your betters have done.” His face was mottled like an ale drinker’s nose and as red. “You ought to know that it is in my power to humble you again in a moment more than I have exalted you.”

Anne stood, mouth open and seemingly stunned. Then she wisely closed her mouth and said nothing further. She was not a woman to run from the room in a tantrum. Instead, by her manner, she dismissed the young woman, curtseyed to the king, and took her leave to sulk. In spite of my pleading, she refused to talk to him for a day, for two days. After the third, I’d convinced her to approach him soothingly, and she, finally seeing the wisdom in this, approached him to repent. He took her in his open arms. I hoped that she had learnt that lesson once and well. But I knew her better.

We moved to Greenwich, where the king and his beloved lady mother, Queen Elizabeth, had both been born, at the end of August. Henry set about making preparations for celebrations for the arrival of the prince, including jousts to observe the arrival of a new member to royal manhood. He had banners printed proclaiming the arrival of the prince. Edward was in favor for the prince’s name, and the date, of course, was unknown till the night of September 6, when Anne felt the first pains. We were cloistered with women, of course, as Anne had withdrawn for her lying and thus from male company till well after the birth. She was holding a reading, arguing spiritedly with dear Lady Zouche and me, and then of a sudden she grew quiet.

“’Tis time,” she said. “’Tis time.”

We hastily cleared the tables and helped her to her chamber, which was well prepared and waiting. After undoing her stays I helped her into the gown we’d chosen for the birthing and brought round thick stacks of linens needed for the birth. The midwife was there with her knives. By midnight we’d stoked the fire higher to bring the room to a fever, which would forestall one in the queen. Anne moaned lightly in pain as the contractions came and went.

Lady Boleyn took her daughter by the arm to attempt to comfort her and ease the pain. At dawn Anne’s waters streamed forth and I helped her walk about the room whilst the linens were changed, then helped her back to bed. By midday Anne was panting, sweating, calling out in long, drawn-out moans that clearly indicated her anguish but remained, nevertheless, in her control.

“Lord, Lord,” she cried out. “Assist me. And the prince!”

At three o’clock in the afternoon the midwife urged her, “Push, madam. Push again. There ya go, ’e’s coming now, ’e is. Push!” I prayed and willed the baby into the rank, stuffy room diffused with blood and tears and sweat.

As the baby’s head crowned I felt profoundly happy for Anne, and deeply sad for myself. A visceral ache heated my own legs and womanhood; I yearned with the desire to birth a child myself, something even the lowest-born woman could do but that seemed to have been denied me. I was drawn back to the moment, though, by a sharp cry. The baby’s cry. I looked as the midwife scooped the baby into linens and then handed him to me whilst she helped Anne expel the afterbirth and Lady Boleyn dabbed Anne’s brow. I wiped the blood from the baby’s face and limbs. I peeled the linen back long enough to look.