I ran down the hallway, seedy cloak pulled around me, and into my empty rooms. Once on my bed I began to shake. I quickly undressed myself and crawled under the linens, shivering and praying that Anne’s serving girl might live.

But she did not. Anne told me the next day that the girl had died, as had the lowly steed that Anne had been expected to ride. My fine horse had most likely saved me. It could not have been an accident—who besides Jane Rochford and her collaborators had known of Anne’s mission on an ignoble mount?

“Methinks that arrow was intended for me, and mayhap that they would expect to see herbs on me when the body was found, and charge me with witchcraft,” Anne said. She pulled me close. “I pity the girl who died, but selfishly, I am glad it was not you.”

I pitied us all: Anne, me, and the poor woman who had died. Would this be the end of the danger?

Jane Rochford did not let her surprise show, indeed, never again brought the topic up. All noticed that she took a special care to tutor Jane Seymour in the ways of the ladies-in-waiting. Anne never drew her near again.

She did drink the draught, though, and her bleeding did not come. By the first of November she was able to announce to the king that she carried his son. His joy in her restored, he drew her near and chose no favorite; they sparred and read aloud and flirted in chapel. All was well.

For now.

Christmas court in 1535 was held, as usual, at Greenwich Palace. ’Twas the favorite of the king, and the queen, too, and as she was with child the mood had been merry. Every reformer in the land prayed for the safe delivery of a son. Surely God would smile down this time and rest the realm in the womb of a woman who had done so much to establish the Church in the land. Anne herself had given me an overgenerous present of gold and jewels as a Christmas gift.

A new lady had joined the chamber, placed there at the request of Master Cromwell. “Her name is Lady Jamison,” Rose, Lady Blenheim, said, introducing her to the other ladies-in-waiting. “My father is even now conducting negotiations for her marriage with my brother here at court over Christmas, and both parties are eager for them to conclude.” She turned toward me. “I hadn’t expected him to marry, but as he will, I am glad it is to Lady Jamison. Mayhap you could help her find her place at court, Baroness.”

I restrained a comment about the place I’d like to find for Rose Ogilvy and instead graciously held out my hand to the young woman intended for Will. “How do you do?” I asked her. She curtseyed prettily and politely and when her gaze met mine I saw that she had not yet earned a single furrow on her brow nor crinkle in her smile. Her fine blond hair was modestly set off by a light blue French hood.

In his epistle unto the Galatians, Saint Paul had written that envying was a deed of the flesh. I regret to admit that deed of the flesh manifested itself at that moment till it near overcame me. I made some kindly small talk and took my leave, praying on my way down the hall back to my chamber. When I arrived, I was met at the door by Edithe.

“I have made it up to you, lady,” she said, thrusting a scroll in my hand.

It was inked in Will’s hand. “Have made what up to me?” I asked.

“I lost your other letters from Master Will. But his manservant delivered this some hours ago, and I guarded it till you arrived.”

“Thank you, dear Edithe,” I said. “But you have nothing to make up to me. You have always served me honorably and well and I wish that I could pay you more for your services to me.”

She blushed. “’Tis my honor. I shall take my leave now.” She got her wrap and linens and left the room.

I slid my finger under the seal and undid the scroll.

I should like to meet with you and talk in private, about myself, and about our friend. I am not sure if I am welcome, after our last meeting. Please return your sentiments via your lady servant.

Yours, Will.

TWENTY-TWO

Year of Our Lord 1536

Greenwich Palace

Hampton Court Palace

I wrote him a note telling him that I repented of my hasty words and if he’d forgive me I would be glad to speak with him whenever he would. I was then sorry that I had dismissed Edithe for the evening, for I was eager to return the letter to him and set things right between us.

The visitors to court would be leaving anon, I knew, as the Christmas celebrations concluded in early January and all but the customary courtiers returned to their homes and properties. I expected Will to find me soon. And he did.

At Greenwich he was familiar with which were my rooms—well-appointed apartments close to Anne’s, because we often cloaked ourselves and went between our rooms late at night to talk over the day’s events. Will knocked on the door and I opened it, preparing to offer a friendly greeting of welcome. Instead, he pushed the door closed behind him, took me firmly into his arms, and kissed me for nigh on a minute. My shock turned quickly to response. After a moment he held me far enough out to hold my gaze.

Libido.

“I have wanted to do that since Hever gardens and I gave myself leave to do so now. I’d like to do it again.”

I sat in a chair and he joined me nearby. “I too. But…. I’d told you I did not want you to kiss me thusly until you could make good on the promise behind it. Which would require marriage.”

“I can marry you,” he said. “I am no longer a priest. And”—he held his hand up—“’tis not for the reason you’ve accused me.”

I opened my mouth to repent, in person, of my tongue-lashing but he stilled me with a look.

“When we last talked I told you that I felt called, nay, required, to help Master Coverdale with his translation of the Old Testament, to complete what Tyndale had begun, and therefore present the entire Scripture in the English language. Late in the summer we completed the task. ’Tis done, Meg! The whole counsel of Scripture. In English!”

His eyes shone as they had when he were a boy and I was transported to that time with him. I grinned back.

“Thus my task was completed, and when my father approached me after Walter’s death I prayed and did feel a release of my call. Many reformed priests are marrying now anyway—did you know that Archbishop Cranmer has a secret wife?”

My astonishment must have shown. He grinned at me.

“And your nephew John Rogers is soon to marry, though he will remain a priest. Scripture does not enjoin a priest to remain unmarried. As for me, I am called to something else now—I know not what, as He has not disclosed it to me, but I am released from priesthood.”

I had longed for those words. Yearned for them. And now that they had come, I felt an unwelcome hesitancy. “In your note you mentioned Anne,” I said.

His face turned somber. “Yes. While here at the Christmas court Rose’s husband heard Cromwell speaking with the king. The king asked Cromwell if it should be necessary for him to remarry Katherine of Aragon if anything should…. happen…. to Anne.”

“Happen?” I pressed for more. “If she dies in childbirth?”

“Or any other way, I suspect,” Will said. “It was not made clear nor specific. Cromwell told him no, he would not be required to remarry Katherine—in fact, ’twould further free him. The king is not fearful of making whatever changes he requires to meet his desires. I would not be surprised if he set Cromwell’s fine legal mind to figuring out how to disentangle himself from Anne. His love for her seems to have run its course.”