’Twas a girl.

Lord Jesus, no. Lord Jesus, please do not do this to Anne. She has been your champion.

Both Lady Boleyn and Anne glanced at me and I shook my head, just a little, to indicate that it was not the hoped-for prince after all. Anne fell back into her bedding; her black eyes sank deeper yet into their sockets. I handed the baby over to Lady Boleyn to be cleaned and went to comfort my friend. The look on Anne’s mother’s face was one of dread.

His Majesty came in later, presumably to fawn over his daughter and encourage his wife. He did neither. Although both king and queen put a good show on for observers, all knew that it had not been for another daughter that Henry had challenged the world. Although he commented politely on the babe’s coloring—his coloring—the celebratory jousts were canceled.

Three days hence the baby was christened Elizabeth after both Anne’s and Henry’s mothers. Every noble in the realm save Anne, who was recovering, was present. The Dowager Duchess of Norfolk bore the baby into the hall, in the center of which stood the great silver baptismal font which had been specially brought from Canterbury and filled with warm water. The church blazed with light: five hundred torches carried by the king’s guards were lit as it was proclaimed, “God, of His infinite goodness, send prosperous life and long to the high and mighty Princess of England, Elizabeth.”

I was vexed. This was not the son Anne needed. What would God offer through this tiny pink princess with Anne’s slender fingers and Henry’s red hair?

And yet, I loved her deeply from first sight.

Most of the courtiers kept their heads down and their comments pleasing. But I saw the glance that coursed from Sir Carewe to Suffolk and back again. It was one of delight, and mayhap victory.

In December the princess Elizabeth was moved to her own household at nearby Hatfield, to protect her health and demonstrate her status. I encouraged Anne, who missed the princess’s daily visits, to cheer herself for the Christmas court.

“Why?” she asked, her voice laced with melancholy.

Recalling our vow to honesty, I replied, “The king already has a daughter, lady. Your well-being depends upon your ability to bring forth life again, and quickly, dearest. A son.”

In February we went to visit Princess Elizabeth, who was sharing a household with Henry’s older daughter, Mary. Our royal entourage, large and befitting of the newborn princess, arrived at the redbrick residence, which was tall and stout in the middle and yet had wings flung on either side like open arms. Henry had permanently separated Mary from her mother, Katherine of Aragon. After having a daughter of her own Anne said to me, “’Tis a sorrowful thing for a mother to be separated from her daughter. I shall try to make a peace between us so Mary has a place at court, which may, at least, soften things a little.”

Lady Bryan, who was Anne’s cousin, had been Mary’s governess and was in charge of the princess Elizabeth’s household now. As she cared for both girls she could, mayhap, see a way to bring peace.

“If Mary will only acknowledge me as queen and Elizabeth as princess,” Anne told Lady Bryan, “I shall see to it that all goes well for her. That she is well married, well provided for; I shall bridge a peace between Mary and His Majesty. ’Tis so little to ask.” We had only rare contact with Mary and did not know what to expect. The look on Lady Bryan’s face told us what we could expect, though: we would not be warmly received. She came back shortly thereafter. Her face looked as though she now regarded this royal appointment with regret.

“Mary refuses to leave her chambers but has sent a message.” She looked directly at Anne. “She shall not call Elizabeth ‘princess,’ as she claims there is only one princess, herself. But out of courtesy, she calls the Duke of Richmond, her father’s bastard son, ‘brother,’ and as her father acknowledges Elizabeth as his own she is prepared to address her as ‘sister.’”

Anne said nothing but sat down in the nicest of the nearby chairs. “And me?” Anne asked in a tight but quiet voice.

“She will not see you. She knows no queen in England save her mother. She refers to you as ‘my lady Pembroke,’” Lady Bryan said.

The next day after a bracing, refreshing ride out in the forest park around Hatfield, Anne tried again. “I understand that Mary may reserve some ill will for me, but mayhap we shall find peace if we each yield some to one another.”

Lady Bryan returned. “She will not see you, madam.”

“Then I shall not seek her goodwill again, nor offer mine!” Anne shouted, her voice shrilly bouncing off the stone walls, as of yet unhung with royal tapestry. “Rather I shall work to bring down the pride of this unbridled Spanish blood!”

We remained for another day or two, Anne holding and rocking Elizabeth and leaving instructions for her wardrobe, her household, and her diet. I mainly swaddled the baby close to me and breathed deeply of her tiny, perfect head and little mouth, puckered like a purse. My sorrow over my childlessness was provoked anew at least twice a day; a tide of grief flowed forward, then resignation pulled it back.

Sir Nicolas Carewe did not participate in the dining celebrations Anne had planned for Elizabeth. Notably, he took his meal in Mary’s chambers.

As we rode home to Greenwich in the fine chariot King Francis had sent in advance to celebrate the birth of Henry’s prince, I asked her, “My lady, I understand that Mary is right vexing and I commend you for not demanding her presence. But you were of a temper that is mayhap not becoming of a queen. Is it because you are ill?” I’d noticed that she’d eaten little and lightly and was often at the close stool.

She sighed. “I know. I am ill but ’tis for a good cause. I am with child.”

I reached to pull her near. “’Tis marvelous news! Mary will come round,” I said, hoping to keep her calm till the child was born, which would be a sizable task indeed.

“No,” Anne said. “No, she won’t. She’s her mother’s daughter.”

In spite of her ill health and weariness in carrying the child and her distress over the spat with Mary, Anne entertained her ladies that night. The courses were delivered to her apartments and we spent the evening passing time with court chatter and games of dice. Anne took an especial interest in the new Duchess of Suffolk, the naive fourteen-year-old bride of the Duke of Suffolk, who had, indeed, right quickly married his son’s betrothed afore his old wife, the king’s sister Mary Rose, was in her grave a week.

Mary Rose, once the celebrated Queen of France, once married to her dashing lover, Suffolk, was now gone. Her bed was warmed by the girl her husband had lusted after afore his wife was even dead. How much this world offered, how little it surrendered. I prayed fervently and often for my lady to be delivered of a son.

Late May was a delightful time for a picnic and Anne sought to bring some merriment to the court and to Henry. Henry, always at his happiest with his friends about him and good times pressing in on him, was delighted with the picnic Anne had planned in the park near St. James Palace, home of the future Prince of Wales.

“Come, Majesty, let us walk,” she said as she tucked her arm into Henry’s, and they strolled the grounds, which had been carefully groomed to look natural and untouched. I busied myself with her other ladies and then took part in a tournament of rook with several of Anne’s ladies and some of the gentlemen of the privy chamber.

“Do you have a partner, lady?” one of them charmingly asked me, the double entendre causing a spray of laughter among the listeners. It had been a bit tense at court, awaiting the birth of the babe, and I welcomed the change and courtly flirtation.

“Not presently, Sir Thomas,” I responded. “I find myself quite unpartnered at the moment. And you?”

“Alas, I remain happily unmatched,” he said, blinking his deep blue eyes in my direction. Thomas Seymour was a few years younger and just approaching the power and charm of a man come into his own. “Though as I should not care to see a woman as beautiful as you without a rook partner, mayhap I could advise your moves.”

I laughed aloud. “I have done quite well at rook without your advice, sir, but your company would be most welcome.”

He pulled up a chair beside me and kept pleasant company whilst I beat Lord Lisle handily. I turned around—Madge Shelton, the queen’s cousin, was to be the next partner in the game, but she was not to be seen. Earlier I had watched as she cornered Sir Henry Norris, a handsome, titled man in want of a wife. He had respectfully disengaged himself from her. Mayhap she was looking for him again?

“Looking for Mistress Shelton?” Jane Rochford’s voice was in my ear ere I even saw her approach.

“Indeed I am,” I said. “We were to be partnered at rook next. Have you seen her?”

Jane nodded in the direction of the king, who sat beneath the spreading canopy of a contorted oak tree. On his lap—his lap!—sat Madge Shelton.

“Where is the queen?” I hissed to Jane.

“She went for a walk with her father, but look, she approaches now.” Jane pointed toward the wooded area on the outskirts of the park, where the queen had suddenly appeared.

I watched her as she watched them. I held my breath, expecting an angry outburst or a slap to Madge. Neither happened. Anne smiled serenely and nodded to Madge. “Cousin?”

Madge bowed her head. “My queen.”

“Yes, she is your cousin, sweetheart, I’d near forgotten,” Henry said in what seemed to be an effort to make light conversation. “She does resemble your sister, Mary.”

Anne smiled. “The resemblance is in all ways remarkable.” And then she joined Henry Norris and the others at the rook tables.