I took her face in my hands and stared in her eyes. “He is not yet dead, madam. He has lost his senses, but he may yet regain them.”

She looked at me, eyes going from wild to guarded. “Is it true?”

“Yes, dearest,” I said. “He is fine. Now calm yourself for the babe’s sake, if not for your own.”

She breathed heavily for another few minutes whilst Lady Zouche rushed Norfolk from the room. Anne settled and within hours someone had sent word that the king was now conscious and speaking but badly bruised.

I spent the night in Anne’s chambers, brushing her hair, whispering about light topics to bring a smile to her face. It was first light when she called to me. “Meg.”

I awoke from my chair near her bed and came to her side. “Yes, Anne?”

“I feel a trickle of blood down the inside of my thigh,” she whispered. “’Tis yet only a trickle. I need linen. And prayer.”

For whatever reason, it seemed as though the Lord Jesus had stoppered His ears against our many entreaties, because soon thereafter the trickle turned into an ooze and by the fourth day, it was clear that the queen was going to have to do the mighty, sorrowful travail of delivering a child which would not live to take a breath. Our king was delivered from death just afore his child was ushered into it.

The midwife had been called. After the baby’s body had been delivered Anne called out, “Was it a boy?”

The midwife looked at the tiny child, crossed herself, and then said, “Yes, madam. A son.”

The second death of the new year.

Anne burst out in tears, long jagged sobs from which she would not be pulled back. Four days of weariness and birth work coupled with the certain knowledge of how her husband would take the news fused into an animal-like wail. I sat on one side of her and my sister, Alice, on her other. After some time she looked up at us, composed herself, and said, “I have miscarried of my savior.”

Henry was well enough to come to visit her within days. We had her made up to look as lovely as could be, but she was still wan from the delivery. She dismissed us, but I and my sister remained, unseen, in her closet nearby. I wanted to be at hand should she need me when the king took his leave.

He came into the room, dismissed his men, and, from the foot of her bed, said, “I see that God does not wish to give me male children. At least, not by you.”

“I am sorry, sire. It was my worry for you, my worry for your well-being when you had been unhorsed.”

“You would have done better by me to have kept your peace and nurtured my son rather than let your emotions run untamed and cause his certain death.”

I held my breath. Anne—causing the child’s death? Could he not find it possible to offer her a word of comfort or hope as he had before?

“I do keep my peace, sire. But ’tis hard to do when I see how you favor others with that which rightfully belongs to me.”

She spoke of Mistress Seymour, of course, and all the others that had come before her.

“Nothing belongs to you, madam, you understand, except for what I give you. You would do well, as I once warned you, to shut your eyes and ignore, as your betters did.”

I could hear Anne sit up in bed. “Katherine shut her eyes because she loved you not. Yea, she may have served you. She was obedient. She did as she was told and as was expected. Because she did not love you, Henry, as I do, she could afford to shut her eyes; it pained her not to shut her eyes. But when I shut my eyes I see my husband in bed with another woman and I cannot bear it!” By now she was shrieking.

Please, Lord Jesus, close her mouth. Close it. Henry hated a scene unless he was throwing it.

She quieted herself and finished softly, “My heart breaks when I see you with others.”

Henry stood for a moment, shocked, I was sure, that anyone was speaking to him thusly. If her words moved him, he didn’t show it in his response. “I will see you when you are well,” was his reply. Within minutes the door to her chamber closed and I went to her. She accepted my arms and words with nary a response.

By March my sister told me that the king had sent a purse of gold to Jane Seymour, along with a sealed letter. An invitation, all were certain, to join him in his chamber.

Mistress Seymour returned the letter to him unopened—thereby deftly sidestepping a direct answer to his invitation—but did reply that as a gentlewoman born of good and honorable parents, and she with an unsullied reputation, she must refuse His Majesty’s gift. She would be prepared, however, to accept a gift from him upon her marriage. She withdrew from court to stay at the home of Sir Nicolas Carewe, who had turned into one of Anne’s deadliest enemies.

Henry was noted to be moping about at Jane’s absence.

And then it was April, not March, that was in like a lamb, out like a lion.

TWENTY-THREE

Year of Our Lord 1536

Greenwich Palace

In early April, afore the Easter celebrations, Anne held a quiet dinner in His Majesty’s chambers with some intimate courtiers and noblemen. Subdued laughter and talk wound quietly through the dolorous Lenten evening as we mingled while waiting for the king to arrive; he had been called into a last-minute discussion with his chamberlain. Anne made sure all were comfortable with sugared plums and sweetmeats and wine before seating herself next to Cromwell. ’Twas clear to me that their once-warm friendship had suffered a draft of some sort and I sorrowed it because she needed his protection. I chatted with my brother Thomas, with one ear to Anne in case she needed assistance.

And she did. Though in this matter, I could not help.

“So, Master Cromwell, I understand that the dismantling of the monasteries is well under way. I’d heard that more than half have already been turned over to the crown,” she said, ensuring that he knew she was kept informed. Her voice was light and she kept a smile on her face, but all who knew Anne could tell the difference between her light court banter and her prose with a purpose. I admired the fact that she consistently upheld her causes but wondered if, in light of her not-yet-mended relationship with the king, it might not have been wiser to keep the conversation to lighter matters and win some allies.

“Yes, madam, ’tis true,” Cromwell replied. “And as we share a faith, for certes you are glad that good English money no longer flows to Italy to support His Majesty’s enemies.”

“I am very pleased of that indeed,” Anne said. “Of course the monasteries and other religious houses were intended to help the poor and educate the people. Am I to understand that will continue to be their purpose under the Church in England? I have of late appointed my chaplain, Matthew Parker, to oversee education at Stoke-by-Claire. I endeavor to see the monies from these houses, as they become available, do good to the people of His Grace’s realm.”

Cromwell shifted in his seat but he did not retreat from his position. I suspect he knew he had the king’s approval for the direction he was taking. “We all seek the best possible outcome for the king, madam. At present, I believe that will be found by shoring up His Majesty’s coffers and winning and retaining the goodwill and support of the noblemen—especially those in the north.”