Mary, grief-stricken by the death of her mother, brokenhearted so that she cared not what became of her, sent back word that if being a good daughter to her father meant denying that for which martyrs’ blood had been shed, she could not accept Anne’s offer.

“The foolish girl!” said Anne. “What more can I do?”

Then she was angry, and at the root of her anger was the knowledge that she herself had helped to make this motherless girl’s unhappy lot harder than it need have been. She could not forget what she had heard of Katharine’s miserable death, and in her new and chastened mood she felt remorse as well as anger.

She tried again with Mary, but Mary was hard and stubborn, neither ready to forgive nor forget. Mary was fanatical; she would have all or nothing. She wanted recognition: Her mother to be recognized as the true Queen, Anne to be displaced, Elizabeth to be acknowledged a bastard. And on these terms only, would Mary come to court.

Anne shrugged impatient shoulders, really angry with the girl because she would not let her make amends. When my son is born, thought Anne, I shall be in such a strong position that she will do as I say. If I say she shall come to court, she shall come to court, and it will not be so easy for her to find favor with the King when she is forced to do that which she might have done more graciously.

The beginning of that year was disastrously eventful for Anne. The first disturbance was when Norfolk came hurrying into her chamber to tell that the King had taken such a toss from his horse that he feared he was killed. This upset Anne—not that the King, during their married life, had given her any reasons to love him—but in her condition she felt herself unable to cope adequately with the situation which must inevitably arise if he died. She had the interests of her daughter and the child as yet unborn to look to, and she was greatly disturbed. This however proved to be a minor accident; the King’s fall had done scarcely any harm, and he was too practiced a horseman to suffer much shock from such a fall.

After this escape, the King was in excellent spirits. He found Jane Seymour alone in one of the Queen’s apartments. People had a way of disappearing from Jane Seymour’s side when the King approached. Demure as she was, she had permitted certain liberties. He was somewhat enamored of the pretty, pale creature, and she was a pleasant diversion for a man who can scarcely wait to hear that his son is born.

“Come hither, Jane!” he said in the soft, slurred voice of a lover, made husky with good ale and wine. And she came to him most cautiously, until he, seizing her, pulled her on to his knee.

“Well, what did you think, Jane, when that fool Norfolk ran around telling the world I was done for, eh?”

Jane’s eyes filled with tears.

“There, there!” he said. “’Tis no matter for weeping. Here I am, hale and hearty as ever, except for a sore leg . . .”

He liked to talk of his leg; he spent a good deal of time thinking about it.

“Every physician in London has had a go at it, Jane! And to no avail. I’ve tried charms and potions . . . no avail . . . no avail.”

Jane was timidly sympathetic; he stroked her thighs caressingly.

He liked Jane; he could sit thus happily with her, feeling a mild pleasure in her, without that raging desire which must put a man in torment till it was slaked; it was just pleasant, stroking and patting and going so far and then drawing back.

The door opened, and Anne was watching them. All the fears which she had successfully pushed away came rushing back. She knew Jane Seymour . . . sly, waiting, watchful of her opportunities. Anne suddenly realized why they waited, why Henry could be content to wait. They were waiting to see whether she bore a son. If she did, then Jane Seymour would be the King’s mistress. If not . . .

Anne’s self-control broke. She began to storm and rage. She now said to the King all those things which had been in her mind and which, even in her most frank moments, she had never mentioned before. It was as though she dragged him away from that bright and pleasant picture he had made of himself, and held up her picture of him. She was laughing at his conscience, at his childish method of putting himself right. Did he not think she saw through that! Did he not think that the great men about him did not either!

She was maddened with rage and grief and terror, so that she knew not what she said.

Henry’s one idea was to calm her, for he must think of the son, whom she was so soon to bear.

“Be at peace, sweetheart,” he pleaded, “and all shall go well for thee.”

But Anne was not at peace. Jane Seymour ran and hid herself behind the hangings, covering her face with her hands and audibly murmuring: “Oh, what have I done!” while she rejoiced at what she had done.

For what could she have done to suit herself and her supporters more, since, after that sudden shock, prematurely Anne’s son was born dead!

Trembling, they brought the news to the King. He clenched his hands; his eyes seemed to sink into the flesh about them, while the veins stood out knotted on his forehead. In uncontrollable rage he strode into Anne’s room. He stood over her as she lay limp, exhausted and defeated. Words flowed from that cruel little mouth. She had done this! She had humiliated him! She had deceived him into thinking she would give him sons! She was a witch, a sorceress . . .

Enfeebled as she was by hours of agony, yet she answered with spirit: “There was none to blame but yourself. This is due to the distress of mind you caused me through your philanderings with that sly Seymour wench!”

Henry roared back wrathfully: “You shall have no more sons by me!” And then, cunning and pious: “I see well that God does not wish to give me male childen.”

But he did not really believe this, not seeing how he himself could possibly be at fault in this matter.

“When you are on your feet, I will speak to you,” he said coldly.

Then he went from the room, his thoughts with Jane Seymour. It might well be that this marriage was a mistake, he was thinking. By God, I was forced into it by sorcery! She was irresistible, with her long hair and her wicked little pointed face. It was beyond the power of man to say nay to her. Sorcery! This is why God does not permit me to have male children. Might it not be that I should make a new match?

Jane Seymour sat in her apartments at the palace, awaiting the King. These apartments which were splendid and hung with rich arras and cloth of gold, had a short while before belonged to Thomas Cromwell, but he had vacated them that Jane might use them, because adjoining those of the King they could most easily and secretly be reached by His Majesty.

Jane was rather frightened by the great happenings which had come about ever since that day when the King had glanced in her direction. Her brothers, Thomas and Edward, had planned ambitiously, and their plans, they told their sister, were all for her. Edward was clever, subtle and ambitious; Thomas was fascinating, dashing and also ambitious. Look what came to Anne Boleyn! said these two. Why not to Jane Seymour? True, Jane had not the obvious attractions of Anne Boleyn, but men were strange in their fancies, and was it Anne’s beauty and wit that had charmed the King as much as her reluctance? If Jane had not beauty and wit, she could be as reluctant as Anne, and in all probability with more effect, for shyness would seem more natural in Jane than it ever could be in Anne.

So Jane must bow to the wishes of her family. Chapuys and the imperialists were with Jane too, eager to support any who would bring disfavor on the partisans of Martin Luther.

So here was Jane, meek and mild, yet not being entirely without ambition, feeling that it would be somewhat pleasant to wear a crown, and that to discountenance the haughty Anne Boleyn would be most gratifying. She was therefore ready enough to step into her mistress’s shoes, yet a little frightened, for she could not but be aware that this role which was being forced upon her—even though she was not altogether reluctant to take it—was a very dangerous one. Anne was losing her place; Anne who had wit and beauty; Anne who had kept the King for five long years after she had become his mistress; and when she remembered this, Jane dared not think more than a month or two ahead. Her brothers had assured her that all she need do was obey their orders. She admired her brothers; they were clever, which Jane had never been; they were men, whereas Jane was just a weak woman. She was afraid of the King; when he put his face near hers and she smelled the wine on his breath, when she looked at the great face with its purple veins, when the little bloodshot eyes twinkled at her, she did not have to feign a desire to run. Jane, without pity, thought of the Queen who would have to be displaced if she were to sit on the throne; it was not that Jane was cruel or hard-hearted, but merely that she was without imagination. Children could move her a little; they were small and helpless like Jane herself, and she understood their doubts, their fear of their elders, their gropings for enlightenment. She had wept a little for the Princess Mary, for surely that child had suffered a very hard fate; if Jane were ever Queen, she would do her best to see that even little Elizabeth was treated fairly, for bastard though she was, she was at least a child, and a little child at that.

Jane’s thoughts went back to that important day when the King’s messenger had come to her with a letter and purse of gold from the King. Her brothers had been expecting some such approach from the King, and had primed her as to what she must do. Jane was ever obedient; her nature demanded that she should be; so she obeyed her brothers. She kissed the letter to show how greatly she esteemed the King’s person, how if he were but free to pay honorable courtship to her, she would so willingly have linked her fortune with his. The purse she refused.