“My father is sending me to Cambridge.”

“Ah.” I nodded. So now I knew why my brother Thomas was going to Cambridge. Not that my father couldn’t have thought of it on his own, but he admired the Ogilvys and Boleyns as his betters in many ways. Feeling unsure of himself, he often imitated their choices. If only he would send me to France!

“I’ll surely see you at pageants now and again,” Will said. “And at the Christmas celebration at court.”

“Surely,” I agreed, knowing that those pageants and jousts would be infrequent, that my mother was often ill and required my companionship, and that the studies at Cambridge were demanding and could take up to eight years to complete.

“There are so many different teachers there.” His voice rose with excitement. “I hope to learn more about our Lord too. What we have here is so….” He shrugged his shoulders. “Limited.”

I nodded, happy for him but envious of his opportunity. Anne and I had many rigorous debates about holy things, too, which would have horrified my father and even Will, had they known. “You’ll do well. I’m glad for you.” I echoed the sentiment I’d given Anne just an hour before, and the words, whilst well-intentioned, felt as dry in my mouth as my oft-prattled apologies to my father.

“There are fine days ahead for you, too, Meg.” Will rested his hand on the table near mine, not able to take mine in his while others were around but showing me what was in his heart by his gesture. “I know it. Omnino scire.” He used the Latin word that meant “to know something without doubt, to be certain.” Strangely enough, I believed he was right. I’d had the feeling that their ships were setting sail, leaving port perhaps a year or two afore my own, but that my ship would set sail, too, and it would be in the same direction. I looked at Will, suffused with happiness, and Anne, an already court-worthy hostess. Then I looked toward the sky, where the heavy gray clouds of late summer were already beginning to clot.

Lady Boleyn, ever the chaperone, made her way toward our table. As reluctant as I was to see her come, I understood she had my good name and Will’s in mind.

“I’ll send you a note sometimes through my sister, Rose,” Will said, and I nodded.

“Tui meminero,” I said. I will remember you.

Perhaps because he was leaving and felt free to be candid, he answered me back more strongly. “Te somniabo.” I will dream of you.

Later in the afternoon, when the others had mostly returned home, I stayed to say my final good-bye to Anne. We walked in the garden and sat on a bench, carved gargoyles expressing silent horror over her departure. “I’ll miss you,” I said. “Our constant companionship. Studying together.”

“I’ll be home soon. If Mary or George gets married or if someone dies….”

“Don’t say that!” I told her, aghast. Even my jesting wouldn’t go that far.

“No, no,” she reassured me. “And then, soon, I’ll be home to stay.”

“Yes,” I said. “And things will be as they ever were between us. We’ll marry rich, titled, wonderful men, and have renowned parties and beautiful children.” I looked at the gathering storm clouds and knew that if what I sensed was true then I was a liar and, worse, was breaking our friendship pledge of honesty. And yet I wasn’t sure my impressions were true. They were wobbly things, jellies to roll out from under my thumb as soon as I tried to pin them down.

To make things even, I offered another oath. “You know how the boys, ah, relieve themselves together when they make a promise?”

Anne, mannered and discreet, looked at me, shocked. “Surely you can’t be suggesting….”

I blushed. “No, no, I speak too fast.” Oh my, what would my father think if he could overhear me now? “I just meant we could plight an oath too. Afore you leave.”

She nodded and turned toward me on the bench before speaking. “A friendship oath. So you won’t choose Rose Ogilvy as your dearest friend in my absence.”

“As much as I like Rose, she’s not the Ogilvy I desire to pledge an oath with,” I teased, and we laughed. It was one of our friendship’s better qualities, the ability to laugh together in the most difficult moments. “And make sure you don’t find a French friend to replace me,” I said.

“Never.” She reached up and plucked one of the roses. She pricked her finger with its thorn till a little drop of blood oozed out. “It didn’t hurt much….”

I looked at her hard, reminding her of the difficulties I faced with my father. “A poke to the finger is not going to harm me,” I said, grinning. I pierced my finger too.

We held our fingers together and commingled our blood, friends to the end, never leaving one another’s side, loyalty firmly pledged, come what may.

TWO

Year of Our Lord 1520

Allington Castle, Kent, England

Two years had passed since my brother Thomas and Will had been sent to Cambridge to master rhetoric and Anne back to France to master the ways of their court.

But some things never change.

It began as it always did, Thomas begging me to do something against my better judgment, me wavering between my love for him and my misgivings toward the deed itself.

“Please, Meg.” He dipped to bended knee, the incongruity of which made me laugh out loud. “I’ll not ask you for anything else!”

Once again his charm pushed me toward an action I did not really want to take, though I teasingly waved him away like an errant bee.

“Just hand it to her privately. I cannot do so without drawing attention.” He held out the parchment scroll. I took it in my hand and turned it over. Mistress Anne was carefully inked along the other side in his long, poetic hand and it was sealed with wax.

“What about her?” I asked, glancing toward our new marble terrace where his future wife held court. My father had arranged for Thomas to marry Baron Cobham’s daughter, who, at twenty-one, was two years older than I. It was a great move forward for our family but would shackle Thomas to a woman he loathed. He’d already caught her in the arms of another man, and yet here she was, ready to celebrate Mary Boleyn’s hasty wedding with us as if she were already family. No matter. She pushed us Wyatts forward and that’s all that counted where my father was concerned.

“She’s mine in name only,” Thomas replied.

I nodded a grim agreement.

“I need my friends to keep my spirits up.” He clasped my hands, smiling winsomely. Anne, polished to high shine during her years at the French court, had come home to celebrate her sister safely wed to Sir William Carey, a rich and obedient privy companion of King Henry.

“If you simply wanted to be the kind of friend to Anne that she is to me, I’d have had no qualms. But I know better.”

“See, she likes me!”

“Her father has plans for her, Thomas, and now that her sister, Mary, has disgraced herself at the French court he’s pinned all of his hopes on Anne. He’s not likely to let her marry—nor dally—with the likes of you.”

“It’s only an innocent poem, Meg,” he said, “I promise.” He looked back over his shoulder at the grating sound of his future wife’s laugh. “And besides, mayhap we can arrange a trade of sorts.”

I spun around. “What do you mean?”