I had been a fool to let her come to Court. Yet it is difficult to refuse one's own sister-in-law.

But it did seem that she was trying to help in her clumsy way.

She picked a quarrel with Henry's mistress and they were quite abusive to each other. The matter was talked of: the Queen's sister-in-law and the King's mistress. An interesting combination.

It was an opportunity for me. I sent for the woman.

I said: “I will not have brawling in my Court. You will leave immediately.”

I was foolish. But then I did act foolishly. My path was strewn with foolish acts. In my mind I was still living in the days when Henry had adored me to such an extent that I could act rashly and no harm come of it.

I was the Queen, I kept telling myself. I was the most powerful person at Court … under Henry.

The woman did as I knew she would do. She went to Henry.

Of course he would not allow her to be dismissed from Court. She must have told him of the quarrel with Jane Rochford, and being Jane, I was sure it had been provoked in the most heavy-handed manner.

It was not Henry's favorite who was to leave Court. It was Jane. Jane had always been stupid, and not long ago, when her hatred of me had been so strong, she could not contain it and had talked of her loyalty to Katharine—indiscreetly, of course. This was now brought against her and, as a result of her scheming, Jane was sent to the Tower.

Discontent was growing. It was hardly likely that a monarch, even one as powerful as Henry, could make such drastic changes to the religion of the country without repercussions.

People were afraid of Henry. The bluff, genial man they had known in his youth was changing. They had seen how determined he could be when something was denied him. Surely no other sovereign in Europe would have had the temerity to break with Rome?

But not all the nobles would bow to his will; this was particularly so with those in the North, who were a law unto themselves and, I knew from Henry Percy, considered themselves the rulers of the North. They were too far away to be so much in awe of the King as those who spent their lives close to him and therefore had to fawn on him and tremble at his frowns.

One of these was Lord Dacre of Naworth. He had always been one of Katharine's most staunch supporters. He was a firm Catholic, and Chapuys, the Spanish ambassador, who was on the alert for some means of getting rid of me and reinstating Katharine, was a friend of his.

Chapuys and he had been in close communication apparently. Dacre in his border territory had been dealing with the Scots, and he, with Chapuys and others, planned to persuade the Scots to invade England when men such as Dacre would join them and force the King to give me up, take Katharine back and return to Rome.

Cromwell had his spies everywhere and by means of intercepting letters learned what was going on. Dacre was forthwith arrested, charged with treason and sent to the Tower to await trial.

The case looked black against him. He was tried before his peers. It was an indication of how the King's popularity had fallen when Dacre was not condemned.

There were some members of the peerage who regarded Cromwell as a common creature who was worming his way into the King's confidence. It was Cromwell's zeal which had brought Dacre to face his judges. Dacre had spoken so strongly against me that they believed—and correctly— that I would wish to see an end of him. Dacre was a clever man; he addressed the court and spoke for seven hours in such a manner as to carry the peers along with him. He thought that some of inferior blood— meaning Cromwell and myself—were seeking to rule the country, with what results we had seen. He was no traitor. He was a loyal Englishman aghast at the way in which his country was going.

To the amazement of all, and the fury of the King and Cromwell, Dacre was acquitted.

It was an indication of the danger into which we were heading.

There was worse to come. When news of the acquittal was released, the people of London came out into the streets to light bonfires, to dance and sing; they wanted to show their delight that a man who had dared to speak his mind and say what so many of them were feeling was found not guilty.

There was a rumor going about that Cromwell had said that it would be easier if Queen Katharine would pass away and take her daughter with her. This was construed as a threat to their lives, and as usual the blame was laid at my door.

No one in the country had more enemies than I; everything that could be brought against me, was. My slightest remarks were misconstrued.

It was now freely said that I was planning to have Katharine poisoned. I knew I was surrounded by spies. Jane Rochford had been released from the Tower; her sojourn there had been just to frighten her and punish her for daring to attempt to get the King's mistress banished from Court. One would have thought she would have become wiser through such an experience, but that was hoping for too much from Jane.

I was growing more and more nervous; my temper could be easily provoked at the slightest upset; this did not endear me to those around me. I had few friends—and I did know then how much I needed friends.

Here I was at the pinnacle of my ambition, and what an uneasy place it was proving to be! My only real pleasure was in my daughter, whom I could visit only at intervals, and when I was with her I had to be under the same roof as Mary, who showed clearly her contempt for me. I noticed, too, how the conduct of those who accompanied me was changing. Many of them slipped away to pay their respects to Mary. This could mean only one thing: my power was waning and they knew it. What was in the future they could only guess; but they wished to show Mary that they respected her… just in case she should be of importance later on.

The King had been fond of Mary. She had been for so long his only child. It was only when she had stood so resolutely beside her mother and refused to obey him that he had turned against her.

News came to Court that she was ill. I could not help being pleased, and people noticed it. Naturally I should feel much more secure if Mary died. While she lived, she was a threat to Elizabeth, and one of my greatest desires was for Elizabeth—if I could get no sons—to be the heir to the throne. Perhaps in an impetuous moment I said this. Katharine was dropsical, and her health was precarious. Well, the situation would ease considerably if neither she nor her daughter was there.

This was logical, and many people must agree with it.

What was so disturbing was the King's concern when he heard of his daughter's sickness. He immediately sent his physicians to her.

Jane Rochford told me she had overheard Cromwell say that the King loved the Princess Mary a hundred times more than he did his latest born.

“I don't believe it!” I cried.

“It was what Cromwell said. But of course it isn't true.”

I knew it was true. Elizabeth was too young to interest him. Moreover, she was my child—and he was fast becoming tired of me.

Henry certainly showed a great deal of solicitude for Mary; he said that if he heard of any showing harsh treatment toward her they would have to answer to him.

I could see that his conscience was beginning to worry him, and that boded no good for me.

Clement died. There was no cause for rejoicing in this. Pope Paul III, who was elected to follow him, was quite different from his vacillating predecessor. He was firm in his resolution to bring Henry back to Rome and showed a certain friendliness toward him. This might have been a good thing if there had not been a shift in the attitude of France toward us. François had been a good friend during the divorce controversy and had helped us considerably to the marriage. I liked to believe that he was kindly disposed toward me because of memories from the past. But, of course, rulers feel no such sentiments, and their actions are invariably dictated by experience.

He now offered to renew negotiations for a marriage between Mary and the Dauphin. This shattered me. It was tantamount to saying that Mary was legitimate—and if she were, what of my position? What of Elizabeth's?

Admiral Chabot de Brion arrived in England to discuss the possibility of the match. I was very tense. I felt that so much hung on the decision. The fact that François could suggest it was significant. What was going on behind my back? I was so nervous I felt ready to burst into tears at any moment. There were times, though, when the humor of the situation forced itself upon me. Throughout all those years I had been so passionately sought and had eluded capture. Suppose I had relented early in the chase, would I have been dismissed long ago? When I thought of it, I wanted to laugh… not the laughter of happiness but something near hysteria.

I had to be careful. I had to control myself.

But if François was seeking the hand of Mary for the Dauphin, it must mean that he considered her legitimate. There was no other answer to that.

I thought I might have an opportunity of speaking with the Admiral. He had been an admirer of mine in the old days at the French Court. He had flirted pleasantly and he had expressed a great admiration for me. I felt I could ask him to enlighten me as to François's motives. But he did not seek a meeting with me, which was strange; in fact, it was not very good manners, on which the French so prided themselves.

I could, therefore, discover nothing of the negotiations, and Henry made it quite clear that he had no intention of telling me anything. My behavior to his daughter Mary had been such that I was the last person with whom he would want to discuss her future.