“I would beg her to let you stay.”

His eyes showed his alarm.

“You should not do that, Catherine!”

“But I should! I could not bear to have another teacher.”

“I have been turning over in my mind what I would say to you today. We must go cautiously, Catherine. Why, if Her Grace knew of our . . . our friendship . . .”

“Oh, we will be careful,” said Catherine.

“It is sad,” he said, “for only here do we meet, under the Duchess’s eyes.”

He would talk no more. When she would have spoken, he said: “Hush! Her Grace will awaken. In future, Catherine, I shall appear to be distant to you, but mistake me not, though I may seem merely your cold, hard master, my regard for you will be as deep as ever.”

Catherine felt unhappy; she thrived on caresses and demonstrations of affection, and so few came her way. When the Duchess dismissed her, she returned to the young ladies’ apartments feeling deflated and sad at heart. She lay on her bed and drew the curtains round it; she thought of Manox’s dark eyes and how on several occasions he had leaned close to her and kissed her swiftly.

In the dormitory she could hear the girls laughing together, preparing for tonight. She heard her own name mentioned amidst laughter.

“A surprise . . .”

“Why not . . .”

“Safer too . . .”

She did not care for their surprises; she cared only that Manox would kiss her no more. Then it occurred to her that he had merely liked her as a young and attractive man might like a little girl. It was not the same emotion as the older people felt for each other; that emotion of which Catherine thought a good deal, and longed to experience. She must live through the weary years of childhood before that could happen; the thought made her melancholy.

Through her curtains she listened to running footsteps. She heard a young man’s voice; he had brought sweetmeats and dainties for the party tonight, he said. There were exclamations of surprise and delight.

“But how lovely!”

“I declare I can scarce keep my hands off them.”

“Tonight is a special occasion, didst know? Catherine’s coming of age . . .”

What did they mean? They could laugh all they liked; she was not interested in their surprises.

Evening came. Isabel insisted on drawing back the curtains of Catherine’s bed.

“I am weary tonight,” said Catherine. “I wish to sleep.”

“Bah!” laughed Isabel. “I thought you would wish to join in the fun! Great pains have I taken to see that you should enjoy this night.”

“You are very kind, but really I would rather retire.”

“You know not what you say. Come, take a little wine.”

The guests began to arrive; they crept in, suppressing their laughter. The great room was filled with the erotic excitement which was always part of these entertainments. There were slapping and kisses and tickling and laughter; bed curtains pulled back and forth, entreaties for caution, entreaties for less noise.

“You’ll be the death of me, I declare!”

“Hush! Her Grace . . .”

“Her Grace is snoring most elegantly. I heard her.”

“People are often awakened by their snores!”

“The Duchess is. I’ve seen it happen.”

“So has Catherine, has she not, when she is having her lesson on the virginals with Henry Manox!”

That remark seemed to be the signal for great laughter, as though it were the most amusing thing possible.

Catherine said seriously: “That is so. Her snores do awaken her.”

The door opened. There was a moment’s silence. Catherine’s heart began to hammer with an odd mixture of fear and delight. Henry Manox came into the room.

“Welcome!” said Isabel. Then: “Catherine, here is your surprise!”

Catherine raised herself, and turned first red, then white. Manox went swiftly to her and sat on her bed.

“I had no notion . . .” began Catherine breathlessly.

“We decided it should be a secret. . . . You are not displeased to see me?”

“I . . . of course not!”

“Dare I hope that you are pleased?”

“Yes, I am pleased.”

His black eyes flashed. He said: “’Twas dangerous, little Catherine, to kiss you there before the Duchess. I did it because of my need to kiss you.”

She answered: “It is dangerous here.”

“Bah!” he said. “I would not fear the danger here . . . among so many. And I would have you know, Catherine, that no amount of danger would deter me.”

Isabel came over.

“Well, my children? You see how I think of your happiness!”

“This was your surprise, Isabel?” said Catherine.

“Indeed so. Are you not grateful, and is it not a pleasant one?”

“It is,” said Catherine.

One of the young gentlemen came over with a dish of sweetmeats, another with wine.

Catherine and Manox sat on the edge of Catherine’s bed, holding hands, and Catherine thought she had never been so excited nor so happy, for she knew that she had stepped right out of an irksome childhood into womanhood, where life was perpetually exciting and amusing.

Manox said: “We can be prim now before Her Grace, and what care I! I shall be cold and aloof, and all the time you will know that I long to kiss you.” Thereupon he kissed her and she kissed him. The wine was potent; the sweetmeats pleasant. Manox put an arm about Catherine’s waist.

Darkness came to the room, as on these occasions lights were never used for fear they should be detected in their revels.

Manox said: “Catherine, I would be alone with you completely. . . . Let us draw these curtains.” And so saying he drew the curtains, and they were shut in, away from the others.

October mists hung over Calais. Anne was reminded of long ago feasting at Ardres and Guisnes, for then, as now, Francis and Henry had met and expressed their friendship; then Queen Katharine had been his Queen; now the chief lady from England was the Marchioness of Pembroke, Anne herself. Anne felt more at ease than she had for four years. Never had she felt this same certainty that her ambition would be realized. The King was ardent as ever, impatient with the long delay; Thomas Cromwell had wily schemes to present to His Majesty; there was something ruthless about the man; he was the sort one would employ to do any deed, however dangerous, however murky—and, provided the reward was great enough, one felt the deed would be done.

So, at the highest peak of glory she had so far reached, she could enjoy the pomp and ceremony of this visit to France, which was being conducted as a visit of a king and his queen. The King was ready to commit to the Tower any who did not pay her full honor. When, a month ago, she had been created Marchioness of Pembroke she had acquired with this high honor the establishment of a queen. She must have her train-bearer, her ladies of the bedchamber, her maids of honor, her gentlemen-in-waiting, her officers, and at least thirty domestics for her own use. What Henry wished the world to know was that the only thing that kept the Marchioness from being Queen in name was the marriage ceremony. “By God!” said Henry to Anne. “That shall take place before you are much older, sweetheart!”

They had stayed four days at Boulogne, and there Anne had met with some slight rebuff, being unable to attend the festivities which the French arranged for Henry, as the French ladies had not come with Francis. It was understandable that Francis’s wife should not come, for on the death of Claude he had married Charles’s sister Eleanor, and Henry was known to have said, when the visit was being discussed, that he would rather see a devil than a lady in Spanish dress. The Queen of France therefore could not come. There remained Francis’s sister, the Queen of Navarre, but she had pleaded illness. Consequently there were no ladies of the French court to greet Henry and his Marchioness. Doubtless it was a slight, but such slights would be quickly remedied once Anne wore a crown.

Now they were back at Calais and very soon, with her ladies, Anne would go down to the great hall for the masked ball; she must however wait until supper was concluded, since the banquet was attended only by men. Contentedly she browsed, thinking of the past months, thinking of that state ceremony at Windsor, when the King had made her Marchioness of Pembroke—the first woman ever to be created a peer of the realm. What a triumph that had been! And how she, with her love of admiration and pomp, of which she was the center, had enjoyed every minute of it! Ladies of noble birth, who previously had thought themselves so far above her, had been forced to attend her in all humility; Lady Mary Howard to carry her state robes; the Countesses of Rutland and Sussex to conduct her to the King; my lords of Norfolk and Suffolk with the French ambassador to attend the King in the state apartments. And all this ceremony that they might do honor to Anne Boleyn. She pictured herself afresh, in her surcoat of crimson velvet that was lined with ermine, her lovely hair flowing; herself kneeling before the King while he very lovingly and tenderly placed the coronet on the brow of his much loved Marchioness.

And then to France, with Wyatt in their train, and her uncle Norfolk and, best of all, George. With George and Wyatt there, she had felt secure and happy. Wyatt loved her as he ever did, though now he dared not show his love. He poured it out in his poetry.

“Forget not! O, forget not this!—

How long ago hath been, and is,

The mind that never meant amiss—

Forget not yet!

Forget not then thine own approved,

The which so long hath thee so loved,

Whose steadfast faith yet never moved:

Forget not this!”

She quoted those words as her ladies helped to dress her. Wyatt would never forget; he asked her not to. She smiled happily. No, she would not forget Wyatt; but she was happy tonight for she was assured of the King’s steadfastness in his intention to marry her. He had declared this, but actions speak so much louder than words; would he have created her Marchioness of Pembroke, would he have brought her to France if he were not even more determined to make her his Queen than he had been two years ago? She felt strong and full of power, able to bind him to her, able to keep him. How could she help but be happy, knowing herself so loved! George was her friend; Wyatt had said he would never forget. Poor Wyatt! And the King had met the disapproval of his people, even faced the possibility of a tottering throne, rather than relinquish her.