He started a rumor that Anne had had an affair with Thomas Wyatt even while the King was showing his preference for her. There was real danger in this sort of rumor, as there was no one at court who had not witnessed Thomas’s loving attitude towards Anne; they had been seen by all, spending much time together, and it was possible that she had shown how she preferred the poet.

Anne, recklessly deciding that one rumor was as good as another, repeated something completely damaging to Suffolk. He had, she had heard, and she did not hesitate to say it in quarters where it would be quickly carried to Suffolk’s ears, more than a fatherly affection for his daughter, Frances Brandon, and his love for her was nothing less than incestuous. Suffolk was furious at the accusation; he confronted Anne; they quarreled; and the result of this quarrel was that Anne insisted he should absent himself from the court for a while.

This was open warfare with one who—with perhaps the exception of Norfolk—was the most powerful noble in the land, and the King’s brother-in-law to boot. Suffolk retired in smoldering anger; he would not, Anne knew, let such an accusation go unpaid for, and she had always been afraid of Suffolk.

She shut herself in her room, feeling depressed; she wept a little and told Anne Saville that whoever asked for her was not to be admitted, even should it be the King himself.

She lay on her bed, staring at the ornate ceiling, seeing Suffolk’s angry eyes wherever she looked; she pictured his talking over with his friends the arrogance of her who, momentarily, had the King’s ear. Momentarily! It was a hideous word. The influence of all failed sooner or later. Oh, my God, were I but Queen! she thought. Were I but Queen, how happy I should feel! It is this perpetual waiting, this delay. The Pope will never give in; he is afraid of the Emperor Charles! And how can I be Queen of England while Katharine lives!

There was a tap on the door, and Anne Saville’s head appeared.

“I told you I would see no one!” cried Anne impatiently. “I told you—no one! No one at all! Not the King himself . . .”

“It is not the King,” said Anne Saville, “but my Lord Rochford. I told him you might see him . . .”

“Bring him to me,” said Anne.

George came in, his handsome face set in a smile, but she knew him well enough to be able to see the worried look behind the smile.

“I had the devil’s own job to get them to tell you I was here, Anne.”

“I had said I would see no one.”

He sat on the bed and looked at her.

“I have been hearing about Suffolk, Anne,” he said, and she shivered. “It is a sorry business.”

“I fear so.”

“He is the King’s brother-in-law.”

“Well, what if that is so? I am to be the King’s wife!”

“You make too many enemies, Anne.”

“I do not make them! I fear they make themselves.”

“The higher you rise, sister, the more there will be, ready to pull you down.”

“You cannot tell me more than I know about that, George.”

He leaned towards her.

“When I saw Suffolk, when I heard the talk . . . I was afraid. I would you had been more reasonable, Anne.”

“Did you hear what he said of me? He said Wyatt and I were, or had been, lovers!”

“I understand your need to punish him, but not your method.”

“I have said he shall be banished from the court, and so he is. I have but to say one shall be banished, and it is done.”

“The King loves you deeply, Anne, but it is best to be wise. A queen will have more need of friends than Anne Rochford, and Anne Rochford could never have too many.”

“Ah, my wise brother! I have been foolish . . . that I well know.”

“He will not let the matter rest here, Anne; he will seek to work you some wrong.”

“There will always be those who seek to do me wrong, George, no matter what I do!”

“It is so senseless to make enemies.”

“Sometimes I am very weary of the court, George.”

“So you tell yourself, Anne. Were you banished to Hever, you would die of boredom.”

“That I declare I would, George!”

“If you were asked what was your dearest wish, and spoke truthfully, you would say ‘I would I were settled firmly on the throne of England.’ Would you not?”

“You know me better than I know myself, George. It is a glorious adventure. I am flying high, and it is a wonderful, exhilarating, joyous flight; but when I look down I am sometimes giddy; then I am afraid.” She held out a hand and he took it. “Sometimes I say to myself ‘There is no one I trust but George.’”

He kissed her hand. “George you can always trust,” he said. “Others too, I’ll warrant; but always George.” Suddenly his reserve broke down, and he was talking as freely as she did. “Anne, Anne, sometimes I too am afraid. Whither are we going, you and I? From simple folk we have become great folk; and yet . . . and yet . . . Dost remember how we scorned poor Mary? And yet . . . Anne, whither are we going, you and I? Are you happy? Am I? I am married to the most vindictive of women; you contemplate marrying the most dangerous of men. Anne, Anne, we have to tread warily, both of us.”

“You frighten me, George.”

“I did not come to frighten you, Anne.”

“You came to reprove me for my conduct towards Suffolk. And I have always hated the man.”

“When you hate, Anne, it is better to hide your hatred. It is only love that should be shown.”

“There is nothing to be done about Suffolk now, George. In future I shall remember your words. I shall remember you coming to my room with a worried frown looking out from behind your smiles.”

The door opened and Lady Rochford came in. Her eyes darted to the bed.

“I thought to find you here.”

“Where is Anne Saville?” said Anne coldly, for she hated to have this tâte-à-tâte disturbed; there was much yet that she wished to say to her brother.

“Do you want to reprove her for letting me in?” asked Jane maliciously. “Marry! I thought when my husband came into a lady’s chamber, there should I follow him!”

“How are you, Jane?” said Anne.

“Very well, I thank you. You do not look so, sister. This affair of Suffolk must have upset you. I hear he is raging. You accused him of incest, so I heard.”

Anne flushed hotly. There was that in her sister-in-law to anger her even when she felt most kindly towards the world; now, the woman was maddening.

Jane went on: “The King’s sister will be most put about. She retains her fiery temper. . . . And what Frances will say I cannot think!”

“One would not expect you to think about any matter!” said Anne cuttingly. “And I do not wish you to enter my apartment without announcement.”

“Indeed, Anne, I am sorry. I thought there would be no need to stand on ceremony with your brother’s wife.”

“Let us go, Jane,” said George wearily; and she was aware that he had not looked at her since that one first glance of distaste when she entered the room.

“Oh, very well. I am sure I know when I am not wanted; but do not let me disturb your pleasant conversation—I am sure it was most pleasant . . . and loving.”

“Farewell, Anne,” said George. He stood by the bed, smiling at her, his eyes flashing a message: “Be of good cheer. All will be well. The King adores you. Hast forgotten he would make you Queen? What of Suffolk! What of any, while the King loves you!”

She said: “You have done me so much good, George. You always do.”

He stooped and kissed her forehead. Jane watched jealously. When had he last kissed her—kissed her voluntarily, that was—a year ago, or more? I hate Anne, she thought, reclining there as though she were a queen already; her gowns beautifully furred—paid for by the King doubtless! Herself bejeweled as though for a state function, here in her private apartments. I hope she is never Queen! Katharine is Queen. Why should a man put away his wife because he is tired of her? Why should Anne Boleyn take the place of the true Queen, just because she is young and sparkling and vivacious and witty and beautifully dressed, and makes people believe she is more handsome than anyone at court? Everyone speaks of her; everywhere one goes one hears her name!

And he loves her . . . as he never loved me! And am I not his wife?

“Come, Jane!” he said, and his voice was different now that he spoke to her and not to his sister.

He led her out, and they walked silently through the corridors to their apartments in the palace.

She faced him and would not let him walk past her.

“You are as foolish about her as is the King!”

He sighed that weary sigh which always made her all but want to kill him, but not quite, because she loved him, and to kill him would be to kill her hopes of happiness.

“You will talk such nonsense, Jane!”

“Nonsense!” she cried shrilly, and then burst into weeping, covering her face with her hands; and waited for him to take her hands, plead with her to control herself. She wept noisily, but nothing happened; and taking down her hands, she saw that he had left her.

Then did she tremble with cold rage against him and against his sister.

“I would they were dead, both of them! They deserve to die; she for what she has done to the Queen; he for what he has done to me! One day . . .” She stopped, and ran to her mirror, saw her face blotched with tears and grief, thought of the cool, lovely face of the girl on the bed, and the long black hair which looked more beautiful in its disorder than it did when neatly tied. “One day,” she went on muttering to herself, “I believe I shall kill one of them . . . both of them, mayhap.”

They were foolish thoughts, which George might say were worthy of her, but nevertheless she found in them an outlet for her violent feelings, and they brought her an odd comfort.