More’s head on a pike appeared in my mind.

“Is she in danger?” I asked.

Will inhaled deeply but didn’t flinch. “Not if a prince is born. Then she’ll be safe no matter what his feelings. In fact, I suspect his feelings for her will turn on the birth of a prince. Or not. But if a prince is not born….”

I grimaced. Neither of us needed to finish the sentence.

“And as for you…. what of Lady Jamison?” I asked. “It was only a few weeks ago that Rose introduced her to me. Said your father was negotiating your marriage with her. Rose implied that it was a marriage you wanted as well.”

He kissed me again, lightly this time. “There is only one woman I have ever wanted to marry, Meg. That is you.”

“But your father may not be amenable to that,” I said.

“You are right,” Will said. “And the negotiations with Lady Jamison continue apace. So I am here to ask you—can you leave court immediately if I were able to convince him?”

“I have no dowry,” I said. “Not even a small one.”

“I recall. It is a forbidding obstacle, that is true. I do not know a way round that.”

I saw one small flicker of hope. “If things go well for Anne and she births a son, Henry will give me a small dowry for her sake. He knows that we are like sisters. The birth of a prince is all that can save her now. I fear that if the child is not a boy, Henry will put her away, mayhap in an abbey. I have heard rumors of his infatuation with Lady Jane and seen his roving affections.”

“And if things go poorly for her?” Will asked.

“Then it would be best for you not to be associated with me at all. I am the closest to her and all know it. It may taint you and your house with the king. Your father would never allow shame to fall upon your house and likely would not even accept a small dowry. Mayhap it would be best for us to put aside the passions of youth and face the responsibilities of adulthood with cold resolve.”

Will remained silent for a moment before answering. “What if the passions of youth continued into adulthood? And still grow?”

Mine did too.

He knew it. “Could you leave now before Anne’s future is decided one way or another? She’s had her life, she’s made her choices. Now—before my father finalizes the arrangements with Lady Jamison. Which will be soon. Maybe your father—or Edmund—will pay a dowry.”

Lord Jesus, is he right? Am I released from my service to Anne? Have I served her well and now, the very last chance I have for a life, and a man, and a child of my own, may I take it?

The answer came immediately to my heart. No.

I didn’t pull my hands from his but shook my head. “Neither Edmund nor my father will help me and Thomas is in no position to help though I know he’d like to. And, my love, I have made a promise to Anne. I, too, have a call, to serve. I believe in his first epistle to the Corinthians, Saint Paul exhorts those of us who have been entrusted with a service to be found faithful.”

He sighed. “I regret handing Tyndale’s book to you.”

“No, you do not,” I said. “And besides the call to serve, she is my dearest, closest friend. I will not leave her in her hour of need.”

“No,” he said. “I knew you would not.”

“I love you, Will Ogilvy, soon to be Baron Ogilvy. You are the only man I have ever loved and I declare that I will ever love. If I were free, I would give you my oath now. But when my lady was being crowned queen in Westminster Abbey I felt drawn to the buttresses—yes, the buttresses—in that great building. And I know now why. The building is grand and majestic and able to appear thusly because of the buttresses, which remove weight from the load-bearing beams. I have been given a call to serve. ’Tis my duty.”

“I understand,” he said.

“I know that.” I let my tears flow and he did too.

“I will ever only love you,” he said.

“I know that too.” For the first time I took the initiative to kiss him. “To remember me by.”

“Nihilo quo tui meminerim mihi opus est,” he whispered before bowing, courteously, and left my chambers.

I need nothing to remember you by.

The first death came days after my conversation with Will and looked, at first, like something that Anne’s friends should rejoice over. Katherine of Aragon had taken ill just after Christmas. With her so near to death, Anne felt compelled to have Lady Shelton, Mary’s governess and Anne’s own relation, seek a truce between Anne and Mary. She instructed her, via letter, to suspend all pressure on Mary to conform and said that she herself had considered the Word of God’s injunction to do good to one’s enemy and hoped that Mary would submit to her father quickly whilst it would still do her good.

Mary, surrounded by the mounting strength of conservative courtiers longing for the old days and a return to the True Faith, and hoping for the passing of favor from Anne, refused the offer of friendship as well as the advice.

On January seventh, shortly after having received extreme unction, Katherine of Aragon died, nearly alone, at cold Kimbolton Castle. Henry could not have behaved with less decorum. He dressed in his finest yellow clothes and kissed Anne often and with great passion in front of all. He sent for the princess Elizabeth and showed her off to the court, loudly proclaiming that she would soon be joined by a brother, the prince. He robbed Katherine of what little remained of her earthly goods, setting one of Cromwell’s minions to finesse the legalities so that Mary, and Katherine’s charities, received naught. She had asked to be buried in a Carthusian monastery, but ’twas not to be; Cromwell had already begun to dismantle as many Church of Rome properties as possible. She was buried at Peterborough Castle, and although he, shockingly, allowed “Queen of England” to be inscribed on her tomb, Henry, for his part, ordered a celebratory joust to be held on the day of her funeral.

“I love Queen Anne with all my heart, but ’tis a shame, Katherine dying alone an all tha’,” Edithe said as she prepared me for bed that night.

“’Tis,” I said, wondering if I, too, were destined to die alone.

“My cousin’s a maid for Lady Shelton, Mary’s gov’ness. She said that Katherine had asked her confessor if she’d done wrong, afore she died. Asked if by her stubbornness in not giving His Grace a divorce, or hieing her to an abbey, she’d brought heresy to England.”

I’d not thought of that. “I do suppose that her refusal forced the king to move against the queen,” I said, “and toward reform. For that, we may be glad.”

“Yes, ma’am. I am, for certes. Also…. is it wrong, mistress, to pay attention to those who say deaths happen in threes? ’Tis all the maids can talk of these days.”

“’Tis superstitious nonsense, Edithe, and you should know better!” I snapped.

She nodded. “You’re right, ma’am,” she said. “I’ll be taking your mending and leaving now.”

“Thank you,” I said, my tone softened. She left and I rolled over in the linens and stared at the cold winter moon. I was at least honest enough with myself to recognize why I had snapped. It was myself I was irritated with. I had not been able to exorcise every superstitious thought from my heart, either, and the worry had crossed my mind about death happening in threes too.

Henry’s joust had been planned for January 24, and that morn I arrived in my lady’s chamber to help her dress for the event. The king would be wearing one of her favors, and I’d had a dress made of similar fabric, fashioned so it was clear to all present whose favor the king rode under.

When I arrived in her apartments, though, she was still in bed. “I am afraid I am unwell,” she said.

“But, lady—the king’s joust!” I insisted. Nan Zouche looked at me, urging me on. The king did not like to perform without an audience; he played to the ladies, of whom his wife was foremost.

“’Tis all the activity and chatter round Katherine’s death,” Anne said. “I shall send my regrets to the king, with a note, and hope to lie here and recover my health before the dinner tonight.”

She sent her secretary with the note, and I and many of the other ladies followed to the jousting arena shortly thereafter. The king did not have Anne’s favor on his lance. ’Twas not certain whose favor he rode under, but the plain fabric looked distressingly like the light brown gown on Jane Seymour.

He turned back to the field, ready to meet his challenger at the lists, when all of a sudden his great horse stumbled. The crowd let out a collective gasp and then many screamed as both Henry, wearing over one hundred pounds of armor, and his horse fell heavily to the ground. Shockingly, the horse fell partly on top of His Majesty.

“Help us, help now!” one of the noblemen near the field called out. Several men threw off their own armor and ran to the king’s side and many others streamed from the arena to the field. They lifted the horse, who was frothing at his bit with his eyes rolling back into his head, and pulled the king out from under him. Tearing off Henry’s armor, one checked for a pulse.

“Someone tell the queen!” a call went out, and I saw Norfolk dash back toward the palace. I stood of a moment, looking at His Grace, willing him to stand up, to sit up, to call out. He did none of them, rather continued to lay without consciousness.

“Come.” Nan Zouche grabbed my arm. “We must to Anne!”

I picked up my skirts and we ran toward Anne’s rooms. We were still well down the hall when we heard her wailing. I pushed open the door to see Norfolk trying to talk sense to her.

“He’s dead! Dead!” Anne cried out, and held her hands in her hair, clutching great clumps of it but not tearing it. The tactless Norfolk, always ready to crow bad news, had told her the king was dead!