I was changing. That was inevitable. I excuse myself by stressing my youth. I was only twenty years old and not really as wise as I thought I was. Who is, at twenty? I thought, because I had been brought up in the sophisticated French Court, because I had a ready wit, because I was an accomplished musician, because I could thrust and parry in conversation and join in a discussion with the best of them, that I was wise.

If only I had been, my story might have been different.

Now my reluctance was slipping away from me. I now knew why it was that men risked everything for a crown; through the ages that had been so. They fought for it, sacrificed everything they had for it. I did not pause to think that often, when it came, it had brought only trouble, care and tragedy.

I wanted now, desperately, to be Queen of England; and only now, when the crown seemed to be within my grasp, did I realize how much.

I was sorry for the Queen but I told myself I was more suitable to share Henry's throne. She would have hidden herself completely away if that had been possible. Henry needed someone as lively as he was, someone who could share in the revelries, plan them, sing, dance, look the part of Queen just as he did that of King.

He had urged me to buy what materials I needed—velvets, brocades, cloth of gold and silver. The cost would be taken care of. He wanted to see me outshine them all, which he assured me I could do if I were dressed as a beggar; but that did not mean he wished me to have anything but the finest.

I gave way to my passion for clothes and he supplied the jewelry. Gifts came to me frequently; and they were usually priceless gems.

I was now learning the meaning of ambition.

The Queen was aware that something was very wrong. It was impossible to hide it from her. The King had not yet spoken to her as he intended to. He wanted the ecclesiastical court to have progressed a little farther in its findings. Then he would go to her, and I was sure he would put up a great show of melancholy which would appear all the more genuine since, while he was with her, he would be able to convince himself that he really felt it.

I think she was a very frightened woman.

She knew of his favor toward me, but she was not really concerned, for she did not realize what part I was to play in “the King's Secret Matter.” I was, she no doubt believed, his mistress as my sister had been before me.

That she would have liked to banish me from Court I was sure, but she would not run the risk of dismissing me any more than she had Mary, for she knew that, if she did, the King would call me back to Court, which would be humiliating for her; she did not want, at this stage, to irritate him.

There were only a few—my brother George, for instance, and my father, both on intimate terms with Henry—who knew of his plans for me. He was very anxious to keep me out of it, and I believe he was determined that Wolsey should not know. Though Wolsey was his servant, he was also a Cardinal and owed a certain allegiance to the Pope. I could not guess what Wolsey's reactions would have been had he known. I expected he would have done his best to dissuade the King from that course of action and tell him that the only thing he could do, when he was free from Katharine, was to marry a foreign princess.

Ambassadors were natural spies. I had always known that; and the Spanish ambassador was as skilled in the art as much as any, save only the French. They had to be because of the relationships between the countries. I do not know how many people Inigo de Mendoza had working for him in secret—although we did learn that he knew that Wolsey was promoting the divorce and that the King had assembled bishops and lawyers to prove that the marriage was illegal.

I believed at this time that everything was going well. Wolsey was about to proclaim the marriage invalid and then go to Rome to persuade Clement to give the final word, which would be easy with a sizeable bribe. Only when this had been accomplished did the King wish him to know that he intended to make me his Queen.

We anticipated no trouble, and the end seemed in sight.

Soon, I told myself, I should be going to my coronation.

An entertainment of rather special splendor was in progress. Since I had been of such importance at Court, I flattered myself that our masques and playlets were more cultivated, more witty. I was remembering so much of what I had learned in France.

On this occasion we were dancing. I was with the King as usual, and people had fallen away so that we could be almost alone as we danced. This often happened when the King performed. He liked it. It was an indication that when he danced people wanted to look at no others but him … and his partner.

I enjoyed it, too. I knew that my dancing was of the highest standard. I liked to be watched and admired—even as he did.

Then there was a clatter beyond the hall. A man appeared in the doorway. The ushers sought to hold him off, but he cried: “I must see the King. I have news.”

He was travelstained and muddy and looked as though he had ridden far.

Henry shouted: “How now. What means this? What news have you brought? Ill it would seem.”

“Your Grace, a most terrible tragedy. Rome has been overrun by the Constable de Bourbon's troops. The Constable has been killed. The troops have sacked Rome, and the Pope has escaped to the Castle of St. Angelo, where he is a prisoner.”

There was a deep silence throughout the hall. The King's face had turned ashen and then purple.

I knew what this meant. Bourbon had been an ally of the Emperor, and Clement was in truth the Emperor's prisoner.

What hope was there now of getting the necessary sanction to the divorce which we had so confidently expected?

There was no more dancing that night. The King summoned Wolsey and retired with him.

There were several versions of that catastrophic event. It was the work of the Constable de Bourbon who had deserted François and become the Emperor's ally. It was his troops who had captured François at Pavia and handed him over to the Emperor.

Charles had honored the Constable but some of the Spanish nobles had despised him as a traitor, and there was a story that when he arrived in Madrid and the Emperor had wished to do him great honor for the service he had rendered him, he asked the Marquis of Villena to give up his residence to be used by Bourbon while he was in the town, because it was one of the finest there. The Emperor called him the Hero of Pavia. The Marquis had replied that, since the Emperor asked it, he must indeed obey, but after the Constable had left he would set fire to it with his own hands, for he could not live in rooms which had been occupied by a traitor to his country.

I wondered about the Constable. I did not think he had been a very happy man, although he had been known as one of the greatest soldiers of our day and the Emperor, delighting to have him in his service, had made much of him. But Bourbon had been too proud to be happy serving any man. Charles had promised him Milan but he had cast covetous eyes on Naples. He had been a brave and audacious leader and had never hesitated to face danger; and the soldiery had been ready to follow him where he led.

He had gathered together a great army which included fifteen thousand landsknechts from Germany, many of whom had been deeply affected by the teachings of Martin Luther and regarded the Pope as the enemy of true religion. Bourbon had promised to make them rich from the treasure they would find in Rome. They would corner the Pope in his hideaway; they would help themselves to his riches… all the great fortune which had been milched from the poor in the sale of indulgences and suchlike anomalies.

They went through Italy past Bologna and Florence, resisting the temptation to plunder these rich cities because the march on Rome was all-important.

Outside the city they camped. The Constable made a moving speech, reminding them that they had come far, traveling through the bad weather of the winter; they had had several encounters with the enemy from which they had emerged at some cost; they had been hungry and thirsty; but now they had arrived at their goal. Now was the time to show their mettle. An astrologer had once told him that he would die in Rome, but he cared not. He knew what he must do. They were to attack in the early morning and if his men followed him they would take the city and be rich.

Clad in white so that his men should always see him, and to show the enemy that he feared them not, he led the assault. It was a foolhardy gesture. As soon as he started to scale the walls of the city, he was identified and hit by an arquebus shot which mortally wounded him.

His dying words were that an enterprise so well begun must be continued. Had he lived, it might have been a different story. He was a great soldier; he would have taken what he wanted from the town and made the Pope his prisoner, and the victory would have been conducted in accordance with the laws of warfare. But now Rome was at the mercy of rough, licentious and fanatical soldiery.

The Sack of Rome would surely be remembered as one of the most horrifying events of the century. Churches were desecrated; priests were murdered and nuns raped on altars. There was no end to the stories of horror, and for weeks people talked of nothing but the terrible events which had taken place in Rome.

But to us it had a special significance. For how could Clement give us the sanction we needed while he was virtually the prisoner of the Queen's nephew?

“This,” said the King, grinding his teeth, “is going to delay our matter.”