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HENRY FELT A SHIVER of excitement. The news that had come to him would be the beginning of a plan he had asked Thomas Cromwell to put into place. The minstrel had confessed, and he had named others, one of whom Henry loved more than he had ever loved his wife. But it had to be dealt with.
He sent for Sir Henry Norris to ride with him. That was nothing uncommon, they often rode together, but not alone, not like this.
They were a long way from the palace before the King spoke.
“I have been hearing things, Norris,” he said. “Things that give me disquiet.”
“Your Majesty?” said Norris. “Can I aid you?”
“You can indeed,” said the King. He drew rein and stopped beside him. “I have heard that you, my great friend, have had carnal knowledge of the Queen, my wife. Is it true?”
Norris’ heart almost sprang out of his throat, it beat so fast and so hard that it actually hurt and he could not speak.
“I suppose you know I have dallied with your betrothed,” said the King. “I wonder if you have acted in retaliation.”
“No, Your Majesty,” said Norris, his voice distorted with the trembling in his throat. “I am innocent. I have done nothing with the Queen save befriend and defend her.”
“Are you sure?” said the King. “You are my friend and it pains me to be asking you these things.”
He did not sound pained, not at all. In fact his voice sounded as calm as if he were but discussing the weather.
“Sire, I swear by Almighty God, I will make a sacred Oath, I have never known the Queen.”
“Come,” said the King. “If you confess, I will pardon you and no blame to be laid at your feet.”
Norris looked into the hard, cruel eyes of his sovereign and he knew he was doomed, no matter what he said. But despite his recent quarrel with Anne, he would not lie to save himself.
“May I ask, Your Grace,” he said, “where you have heard these things? Who has been lying about me, about her?”
“Her young musician, Mark Smeaton,” said the King. “He has confessed to bedding with the Queen himself and he has named others to whom she has given her favours. You are one of those named.”
“He lies,” cried Norris. “He lies and I know why.”
“You do? I would like to hear it.”
“Only recently the Queen reprimanded him, told him he was a lowly fellow who should not expect the same manners as she showed to her friends.”
“You think that enough to make him condemn her?”
“I do, Your Grace.” Norris paused to take a deep breath; his voice was shaking so much he could barely form the words. “He likely thinks he is avenging himself on her as well as his betters. What other reason can there possibly be?”
“Perhaps because it is the truth,” said the King.
He rode away, leaving Sir Henry to pray silently, but even as he did so he knew his prayers would go unanswered.
***
ANNE SEARCHED THE PALACE for the King, but he was nowhere to be found. She wanted to know what had caused him to leave her to close the lists, to go so abruptly, so out of character.
She slept badly that night, knowing he was displeased about something, but not knowing what. Perhaps his little Seymour had upset him somehow; perhaps the little mouse was not so compliant as at first appeared.
She had looked everywhere for Mark as well, and failed to find him. She must have offended him more than she realised, for he never missed an opportunity to follow her about, to be in her presence. It was odd to find that she missed him, though; well, not him so much as his music. She would make a point of being kind to him when he reappeared.
The following day she settled down to watch a tennis match. She enjoyed the game, enjoyed watching the interaction, the excitement of the players and the crowd, but she was interrupted by a man she thought of as one of her worst enemies, her uncle, the Duke of Norfolk.
He did not bow, made no attempt to show her the respect due to the Queen of England. That was nothing new; he had only ever paid her that homage when she was with the King, when it was impossible to tell which of them he was bowing to.
“You are called before the King’s council,” he said without preamble. “You are to answer certain charges.”
Her heart jumped and her first thought was that this was some dark game of the Duke’s, designed to frighten her. But no, he would not dare. She was still the Queen, whether he liked it or not.
“Charges?” she said. “What charges?”
She knew she had done nothing and a little voice at the back of her brain insisted that this was some scheme to frighten her. She had been too outspoken to the King in front of his courtiers, that was the cause of this. Katherine had always been subservient and meek, but Anne could never be like that, never be the obedient wife. Henry did not like it; this was his way of punishing her, his way of reminding her that he was the King, that he could destroy her with but one word.
“You are charged with having carnal relations with four men,” said the Duke. “And with plotting the death of His Grace, the King.”
Anne laughed; she could not help it. This was some jest.
“How ridiculous,” she said, and turned away with a wave of her hand. But three of Norfolk’s men blocked her path.
“The King does not think so,” said the Duke.
He was serious; he actually meant it. Anne could only stare in disbelief, her thoughts jumbled as she tried to tell herself that this was Norfolk’s doing, that he was trying to trick her into confessing to something of which she was innocent. It would be just like him; he had always hated her, although she never did quite understand why.
He was her uncle, her mother’s brother, and was always kind to her when she was a child. It was after the King noticed her that things changed; one would have thought it would have pleased him to have the Queen as his niece, but he was a staunch Catholic, a supporter of Katherine and the Church of Rome. He obviously blamed Anne for the divorce and the split with Rome, like many people. But it was not true. Henry did all that, all by himself. Why should she be blamed?
Years ago Anne suspected that Henry would not want his prize once he had tasted it, that he would find some excuse to rid himself of her as he had Katherine. Now it seemed her fears had come to pass; Henry had lost interest in her and this was his way of ridding himself of her. Well, she would not allow it! She was innocent and she knew it; she could defend herself.
She drew herself up to her most dignified position and followed the Duke to the council chambers. He should, of course, be following her, but two of his guards did that, which made her feel less confident.
She could hardly believe the charges, the ludicrous idea that she, Queen Anne, would have bedded with Mark Smeaton, a lowly minstrel. Why, it was but two days ago she was telling him she could not address him as an equal, and here they thought she might allow him to be intimate with her. They said Mark had confessed and perhaps that was why, because she had reprimanded him. Was it possible that he was trying to avenge himself on her, telling these lies? But it was far more likely that poor Mark had been tortured into giving a false confession.
Dates were read out, dates when Smeaton had confessed to bedding with the Queen.
“No!” cried Anne. “I was not at those places at those times. The King knows that, for I was with him.”
Nobody answered. Then more names were read out: “Sir William Brereton...”
“I hardly know him!” interrupted Anne.
The speaker carried on reading as though she had not spoken.
“Sir Henry Norris, with whom you plotted against the King’s person.”
Anne was shaking her head, searching her mind for anything that could have made the King think she might be guilty of any of these things. Of course; the argument with Norris about his marriage. She had known at the time that her words were dangerous, yet they meant nothing; they were said in anger.
“Sir Thomas Wyatt...”
“He is my friend, nothing more.”
“Viscount Rochford...”
Anne took a step back, clutched the cabinet beside her, her heart racing. Tears brimmed in her eyes now, but she found no sympathy in her uncle, nor did she expect any.
“He is my brother!” she cried. “My brother. How can I have committed adultery with him? That would be incest.”
Then she saw the faces of the men, saw one or two of them nodding. She was being charged with incest?
“What evil mind has reported such a thing?” said Anne. “Because I love my brother, because he is my best friend and confidante, some foul minded, jealous rival thinks there must be something unclean in it. Was this Mark, too?”
There were a few nods, involuntary nods as they had no real intention of replying, of satisfying her curiosity.
“All these men have been taken to the Tower,” said the Duke of Norfolk. “Now you are to join them to await your trial.”
She wanted to argue, wanted to give her side of things, but she was trembling, shaking so much she could not speak. Her teeth were chattering, although the May sunshine shone through the windows and warmed the chamber. She felt the dampness under her arms and beneath her bosom, she felt all colour drain from her face.
Anne wondered why this was happening, wondered what she had done that someone would tell such lies about her. She did not believe Mark had invented these tales; he was not bright enough. They must have hurt him, must have tortured him, promised him his freedom if he complied.
It was Cromwell, it had to be. But their argument about the funds from the monasteries was hardly enough to make him want to destroy her so utterly. It had to be the King, but did Henry really believe these terrible tales? Could he? Nothing happened without the King’s orders and consent, so he must do, he must believe these lies.
She had to see him; she had to convince him of her innocence. If he believed she had betrayed him with so many, even with her own brother, he must have been devastated. He needed her, needed her solace and her assurance.
“I want to see the King,” she said through an ache in her throat. “I want to see my husband.”
“The King will not see you,” said the Duke. “These are his orders.”
Of course he would not see her. Did he see Katherine once he had dismissed her from his sight, despite her pleas for an audience? Did he see Sir Thomas More once he had condemned him?
She knew Henry, knew him well, and she knew that if he really believed the things they were saying, he would hide himself away, bury his shame beneath his bedcovers and stay there. But he had gone out, she saw him go that very morning. So no, he did not believe these ludicrous tales; they were merely convenient.
She always suspected he would get rid of her one day; she never thought he would use such a craven method.
He would not see Anne, and that fact told her that her end was in sight. She had always known that, like all bullies, the King was an emotional coward. Oh, he was brave enough on the battlefield; that was expected of him, but when it came to dealing with the pain he might have caused, he would give his orders then leave the dirty business of carrying them out to others, while he forgot those he had condemned. He was likely out hunting, or visiting with the Seymour trollop, while his wife, the woman to whom he had promised eternal devotion, the woman for whom he had torn the nation apart, was given no opportunity to even plead her case before him.
She was silent in the barge as it made its way from Greenwich to the Tower, her mind busy with ways she could persuade the King that he still loved her. And she was afraid that they would take her through that gate below St Thomas’ Tower, the one that people were calling ‘Traitors’ Gate’. But she was still a Queen and when they arrived, she took the hand of Sir William Kingston, the constable of the Tower, to help her onto dry land.
She wanted to ask him if she was going to a prison cell, but she was afraid of what he would say. She had her answer when they led her through to the private entrance and the royal apartments, the same apartments where she had been housed whilst awaiting her coronation, less than three years ago.
It was such a brief time. Anne had returned from France, fallen in love with Harry Percy, had her heart broken by powerful men, been pursued by the King of England and crowned Queen, all in the space of some eight years.
She recalled her first glimpse of Katherine, how she had pitied her, how it had occurred to her that she would never want to be in her place. Yet here she was, in that very place, but in more danger than Katherine could ever have been.
There were only three years since her marriage to Henry, since he had married her in secret because he could wait no longer, married her whilst still legally wed to Katherine. She wondered then if he would use it to break his vow when it suited him, had even challenged him with it.
Never, was what he had told her. Never would he betray her. He would love her forever, she had his word, he swore to it. She could remind him of that, if she were ever allowed to see him, to speak to him. But that was likely why that would not be allowed, because Henry did not like to be challenged, did not like to be reminded of his past promises. He would doubtless find some excuse to forsake those promises and he would be sure it was God’s will.
As the small party entered the royal apartments, several unfamiliar ladies curtsied. She knew none of them, none save one, her aunt, Lady Boleyn, another relative who despised her.
She spun around, glared at the Duke.
“Where are my ladies?” she demanded.
“Your household has been broken up,” he replied. “These are the attendants the King has approved.”
She turned away, sank down into a window seat and tried to concentrate on the view outside the window. Henry had chosen these women, or Cromwell had, to report back to him everything she did or said. There was no other explanation for him giving to attend her not only strangers, save an aunt who was almost as much of an enemy as the Duke himself.
Her household had been disassembled and that could only mean one thing; she had already been found guilty.
She would not look up until she heard the two men leave.
***
HARRY PERCY HEARD THE news from his servants; the Queen had been arrested for high treason. The details of the charges included adultery and incest, as well as plotting the death of the King.
Harry’s lip began to tremble as he dismissed his servant and turned away. His heart almost stopped, not only because of the ludicrous nature of the charges, but because he knew that, as the Earl of Northumberland, he would be called upon to sit on the jury that would condemn her. And condemn her they must, because that was what the King wanted and they all knew well what happened to people who defied the King.
Harry’s health had worsened greatly this past year and he could only hope to be too ill to have anything to do with the proceedings.
He lay down on his bed, stared up at the heavily embroidered canopy above his bed, and felt the tears gathering about his ears and soaking his hair at the nape. He could not help it; the idea of his beautiful Anne, locked up in the Tower, unfairly judged by a panel of her enemies, was just too much.
If only they had been left alone to marry, to build a household and a family, as they wanted, she would be safe now. If only that overweight, over-decorated, lecherous King, with more power than any one man should be allowed, had not taken a fancy to her, they could have led a happy life together, far from London and the interference of ambitious men.
Harry felt that if anyone would like to murder the King, it was him. Between the King and Wolsey, his life had been ruined and now he found that Anne’s, too, was left in tatters. He had drawn solace, all these years, from assuring himself that at least she was happy, even if he was not. Now even that small comfort was to be ripped away from him.
He did not expect to live for much longer; he was in so much pain most of the time, life was hardly worth living and he knew of one person who would celebrate on his death, his wife, Mary.
They had not met in years, but she was still his countess and would still have inherited a fortune on his death, which was one reason he had tied up his estate so that it all went to the King. There were other reasons, mainly his brothers. He wanted neither one of them to have the title and estate; he disliked them both but their adherence to the Pope and the old religion was enough to make him cut them out of his life.
He wanted to help Anne, but there was nothing he could do. He knew she was innocent; he had no evidence for that, none whatever, but he felt it. The crimes for which she would stand trial for her life were crimes which she could never have committed.
Harry was still grieving the injustice when he received a visit from a close and long standing acquaintance from the north of England, Sir Reynold Carnaby. Harry was surprised when his servant announced Sir Reynold; thinking quickly, he could find no reason for such a visit, unless the man was in London for some business of his own and thought to pay his respects.
He was soon to learn that he was not to be spared involvement in the King’s latest schemes.
The two men shook hands, wine was offered and they sat. All the time Sir Reynold showed hesitation in his expression and body language, but Harry was in no mood to placate him, to help him. If he had something specific to say, he needed to say it and be gone.
“I have come,” said Sir Reynold, “on the orders of Secretary Cromwell.”
“Ah,” said Harry. “And just what does Master Secretary want with me?”
“You have heard, of course, that Queen Anne has been arrested, that she resides in the Tower awaiting trial on charges of treason.”
“I would have to be deaf and blind not to have heard,” snapped Harry.
He was still churning inside about Anne’s present predicament and did not feel like discussing the subject with anyone, certainly not a man who came to him on orders from the King’s little puppy dog. If he broke down before this man, the whole of the court would know about by sunset and Harry would find himself charged with sympathising or some such rubbish. He might even join the other unfortunate and innocent men accused with Anne.
“The King wants his marriage to the Lady Anne annulled,” said Sir Reynold.
“Does he? Tis bewildering how marriages seem to be easily erased when they no longer suit.”
Sir Reynold must have sensed some deep feeling in Harry, for his tone lowered to one of empathy and he reached out a hand to cover that of his host. Harry made no move to withdraw, merely let his eyes settle on the hand that held his.
“If it can be proved that the marriage was never lawful, was no marriage, it could save the lady’s life.”
Harry stared at him in disbelief. He had always had a talent for sensing when someone was lying and that talent came to his aid now. He was being lied to and he knew it.
“Sir Reynold,” he said, “the Queen is under arrest for high treason; her so-called accomplices are under arrest with her. The King would look very silly now if he were to release her and declare he was never married to her. Just what do you want of me, Sir?”
“Secretary Cromwell thinks of the pre-contract you had with the Queen before she married King Henry. He needs your evidence to prove it.”
Harry rarely flew into a rage; such a thing used up too much energy. But now he slammed his goblet onto the side table, splashing red wine into the air and over his guest. He jumped to his feet, his cheeks growing a deep red with the fury which overcame him.
“Four years ago, my wife started a petition on the same grounds. There was an enquiry then, an enquiry ordered by the King himself, and I responded to that petition, before the Archbishops York and Canterbury, as well as the Duke of Norfolk. I swore on oath and took the sacrament to show that there was no such contract.” He paused to take a deep breath, to try to calm his temper. “It suited the King then to believe me. I cannot be held accountable if the same does not suit him now.”
He went to the door and called his servant.
“Please show Sir Reynold out,” he ordered. “And do not disturb me again.”
When his visitor had left, he sat at his desk with quill and ink and repeated his statement in a letter to Secretary Cromwell. He considered it prudent, however, to omit any reference to the King.
***
ANNE SAID LITTLE FOR the first day. Her mind was too busy for speech, too crowded with thoughts of how she came to be here and when she looked about the apartments, she remembered being here before, awaiting her coronation.
That was less than three years ago, when the King had loved her, or said he did. She was expecting their first child and he was ecstatic, so sure it would a son. But it was not a son, it was Elizabeth.
Anne’s heart skipped a beat as the image of that little girl crept into her mind, replacing all others. She was so pretty, so dear, the most important person in Anne’s life and she longed to hold her in her arms, to kiss her sweet cheeks, to hold her close. But she would never be allowed to do that again, and what would become of Elizabeth when her mother was no more? The memory of what happened to the Princess Mary, Henry’s elder daughter, was vivid. He had stripped her of her status, of her titles, disassembled her household and put her in Elizabeth’s, made her little more than a servant to her younger half sister. He had declared her to be illegitimate, having made much of her all her life. Anne could expect no better treatment for Elizabeth.
Henry might send his wife to a nunnery, but that would bring her no closer to her little daughter.
She caught back a sob. No, Henry would not want to do that. He would want to erase her altogether, pretend she never existed. That way he could salve his almighty conscience, would never have to think about his interference in her life, how he had pursued her, married her, torn her away from the man she really loved, just to satisfy his lust.
She had to see him! That was the only way out of this. He had done all those things for her, he must have loved her. It was not merely lust, not just a petulant child wanting his own way at all costs, surely not.
If she could see him, talk to him, tell him she loved him, his ego would not be able to resist. She had never told him she loved him, never once, not even in the throes of the passion that he was able to ignite on rare occasions. She never told him because it was not true; she had no love for him, but there was no need for him to know that.
She sent for Master Kingston.
“I wish to see the King, my husband,” she said. “Will you send a message for me?”
He made no reply for a few seconds, then he gave her a quick bow.
“I will do my best, Your Grace,” he said quietly.
That did not sound very encouraging, Anne thought. But perhaps he had no authority and had to go through other channels, Cromwell probably. Was her future now in the hands of a man who was once her friend? Or a man who was once her lover?
She turned back to glance around the chamber at the ladies who sat at their embroidery, all except one. Lady Boleyn, her hated aunt, who sat with a prayer book, muttering beneath her breath, as though her display of piety might make Anne believe she was here to comfort her.
Images filled Anne’s mind, images of the last three years and how she had been the centre of court life, how she had flirted with every man, as was her way. It was a trait Henry had loved about her once, a trait that had attracted him. But what he loved in a mistress, he disliked in a wife.
It was with the King’s approval that she had given money to his courtiers, and now he would use that generosity against her, he would say she must be intimate with men to give them money. He knew that was a lie, he just knew it.
“You know what I told Sir Francis Weston,” she said suddenly. “I told him he was spending more time with my cousin, with Madge, that he was with his wife. And do you know what he said?” Her voice had risen hysterically, but no one tried to stop her. Of course not; they were here to report her words to Cromwell. “He said there was one whom he cared for more than either of those ladies, and that was me!” She laughed wildly. “Can you imagine that? They all loved me, you know, every single one of them. They were all madly in love with me, including the King.” She turned to stare at the grey towers outside the window. “I shall soon be released. What can happen to someone who is so well loved?”
hat very day, Sir Francis Weston was arrested.
***
SIR WILLIAM KINGSTON wore an embarrassed expression when he arrived in the royal apartments that morning, a look that told Anne he would rather not be the one to convey this message.
“I am sorry, Your Majesty,” he said. “His Grace refuses to see you.”
“His Grace, the King?” she snapped. “Or His Grace, Thomas Cromwell?”
Kingston flushed, reached out a hand to her, but stopped before he made contact. He wanted to stop her tongue, before she said too much, but he had no right to touch her, no right at all. She was still the Queen, though not for long. Her words were treason and they would soon be relayed to Master Cromwell.
“Your Majesty, please, be careful,” he said quietly, too quietly for her ladies to hear.
“I knew it,” said Anne. “He does this; have you noticed? Once he has decided he is right, he has finished with someone, he will never give them the opportunity to change his mind.”
She turned to the narrow window, stared out once more at those grey and dismal towers, and she wondered why she was here, wondered what she had done to deserve this. Nothing, that was what, and the charges against her, against her friends were ludicrous. She knew it and the King knew it and likely more importantly, Cromwell knew it. She fervently prayed that one day, that scheming upstart would feel the axe upon his own neck.
But he dared do nothing without the King’s consent, so Henry must be behind this offence to justice. It was only last year that he had sobbed in her arms when his sister, Mary, had died. He turned to Anne then for comfort, but there was no comfort for her now, no one who might be on her side.
The truth of it occurred to her then and she wondered why it had taken so long to do so. She spun around, her eyes wide as they met those of Master Kingston who stood in the same place.
“I know what he is doing!” she declared. “This is because we fought, because I yelled at him in front of his trollop, Seymour. He is doing this to teach me a lesson, that is all. He is doing all this just to frighten me into behaving like a meek simpleton.”
She sighed deeply, a little smile crept over her mouth and she nodded as she sank down into the window seat.
“I can play his game,” she said. “I’ll write to him, that’s what I’ll do. Bring me a quill and some paper.”
Anne sat at the little desk in the corner of her chamber, straightened the paper and took up the quill, dipped it in the ink, then she realised that the eyes of everyone here were on her, boring into her like demons wanting a part of her soul.
She trusted none of them; they were not her friends, not her ladies, and this letter was private, between a husband and wife. But would an ordinary wife be writing to her husband to beg for her life? She would not.
Had she married Harry Percy, she would not now be trying to justify crimes that had never been committed. No, she would be that ordinary wife, a wife who was well loved and happy, prepared to grow old with a man she adored.
A memory of his dear face crept into her mind, his kind, loving eyes, his playful smile and that slim, tempting body. She wondered how he looked today after all the illnesses she had heard tell of.
But she must not think of him now. She must think of that other Henry, that royal Henry, her husband, who had gone to great lengths to intimidate her, make her believe she was in danger so that she would be forced to beg for her life.
But if that were true, he would have given her a chance to beg for her life, would he not? If her subservience was his aim, he would not have refused to see her.
Tears filled her eyes as she began to write, but her hand shook so much she could not form the letters. She looked up at the ladies who witnessed her every move.
“Leave me, please,” she said evenly. “I wish some privacy.”
Some of the ladies dropped their eyes to their feet, all except one.
“We are not permitted to leave you alone, Your Grace,” said Lady Boleyn. “It is the King’s order.”
“It is Cromwell’s order!” snapped Anne. She drew a deep breath. “Very well.”
She bent her head low and covered the paper with her hand, a hand that still shook.
Your grace’s displeasure and my imprisonment are things so strange to me, that what to write, or what to excuse, I am altogether ignorant.
That was as far as she got. Her hand was shaking so much, her heart beating so wildly, her pulse bouncing so that she could almost see it beneath the skin in her wrist. She gathered up the paper, flung the quill so that it pierced the wooden surface.
“Find me a scribe,” she said, standing up. “And quickly.”
***
THE LETTER THE SCRIBE finally produced was lengthy and, after declaring Anne’s innocence, begged the King not to allow to suffer those innocent men who were arrested with her.
By declaring the innocence of those men, Anne was effectively telling the King that she knew he was taking some revenge on her alone, that he knew well she was innocent of the charges. But she doubted he would listen.
She spent many days in silence, saying nothing to anyone and eating nothing. She would watch from the window, think about the poor souls imprisoned in less luxurious surroundings behind those tiny windows, and know that from this place there was no escape.
She was satisfied with the letter and if Henry ever saw it, it might just be enough to touch his heart. It might be enough to remind him of what she had once meant to him, when he was prepared to go to any lengths to have her, when he would give her anything, except her freedom. Anne had no idea when Henry first noticed her, when he first decided he wanted her, but she knew only too well that, from that moment, she was captured and could never escape, never be free again.
But he might never see her letter. She was sure Thomas Cromwell would receive it, would read it, would decide whether the King should see it. It was a risk; if Henry ever discovered that Cromwell was keeping things from him he would not be best pleased. Cromwell might tell himself it was to save the King more heartache, but Anne knew what it really was. Among those innocent men were those whom Secretary Cromwell had made an enemy of, would value the opportunity to rid himself of.
Poor Mark did not stand a chance. He was a fragile soul, humble and besotted. She could not fathom why he had confessed as he had, possibly because he liked the idea that someone might think him dear enough to the Queen to share her bed. It would be like him and he would never realise the danger such a confession would cause to both him and her.
She was most surprised that Sir Henry Norris was here, accused with her. She knew it was because of that argument she had so carelessly had with him, but he had known the King since childhood. They had always been close friends; surely he would not take Norris’ life, surely not.
But there had been other close friends. Sir Thomas More was one. He and the King had always been close, had dined together, talked together till long into the night. It had not stopped him from separating More’s head from his body and again, once he had decided on a trial for Sir Thomas, he had refused to see him again.
Even his own daughter, the Princess Mary, he had banished from court. Anne disliked Mary with all her soul, as Mary disliked her, and had never regretted anything that happened to her. Now she realised for the first time just how cruelly her father had treated her. She had been Princess of Wales, the only girl ever to wear the title in her own right; she had been the heir to the throne, feted all over Europe by important princes wanting to join with her in marriage.
Then one day she had lost her title, her status and been forced to serve her half sister, recognise Elizabeth as the true heir to the throne. And no matter how she begged in many letters, Henry would not allow her to return to court. He needed her to sign the Oath of Supremacy, to recognise him as the head of the church in England, and that was something the fiercely Catholic Mary could never do.
If Anne failed to survive this crisis, her little Princess Elizabeth would be treated the same, because she was a girl, because her father wanted sons, not useless girls.
But he did not mean it! He intended this only to frighten her, nothing more. She knew it! Henry loved her; such a great love as his for Anne could not simply turn to hatred overnight. Surely she was right.
She lay down on her bed, turned her back to the curious eyes that never gave her a moment’s solitude, and quietly wept.