Henry was still at my side. I told him that he was right in what he had done. Those who thought otherwise were ill advised. The Catholic Church had many faults. It had diverged from the teachings of Christ. I believed I was beginning to make him see that his escape from the bondage of Rome was the best thing that could have happened to him. Providence had set me in his path that it might be achieved. He only had to consider the wealth of the monasteries, much of which had found its way to Rome. Now it was his. He was no man's slave. When he considered all, he would see that he was the richest Prince in Christendom. Through him the Church was to be reformed. He had done a great service to himself and all Englishmen.

He listened and was comforted.

And once again I was pregnant. This time all must go well. I must have my son who would make me safe forever.

During the last months of that year England stood alone, fearing that at any time we might be invaded. I knew from what I gleaned from the spies that Katharine's hopes were high. I heard there was a plot to oust Henry from the throne, set Mary up in his place and marry her into France so that England would become a vassal of that country.

I pointed out to Henry that I had been right to recognize Katharine and Mary as enemies. It was true that they had never deceived him in their attitudes; they had remained staunchly Catholic and had never accepted me as the Queen. That was understandable; but nevertheless they were a danger and a threat to the throne and were plotting against him. He was turning over in his mind some way of ridding himself of them.

All through the autumn we waited for some attack from Rome. It did not come. Katharine was ill and frustrated. We understood that the Pope could not act without the Emperor, and the Emperor was at this time heavily engaged in Africa, where he was achieving some resounding victories.

Meanwhile Henry had instructed Cromwell to have an examination made of the monasteries; and according to Cromwell they were stews of iniquity. Rumors were circulating through the country concerning the life that went on behind monastery walls—orgies in which naked nuns danced before depraved priests. We heard of illegitimate children buried in monastic grounds, and obscenities of every kind.

The whole country was talking about the secret life of the nuns and monks.

Cromwell was eager for war to be avoided and was worried that if hostilities broke out this would have a disastrous effect on trade. The people would not tolerate that, and there would be insurrections.

Moreover, the autumn was particularly wet and that resulted in a bad harvest.

It seemed that everything was going against us.

Then our luck turned. Sforza, the Duke of Milan, died childless; and Milan had always been a matter of contention between François and the Emperor. While the Duke lived, their dispute had been suspended. Now he was dead, the question of who should succeed him in Milan had arisen again.

Whether François had ever intended to make war on England was questionable; but it would have suited him if the Emperor had, for then he could have given himself over to the conquest of Milan without interference. François made a complete turnabout. He needed Henry's support, so cynically he ceased to be concerned about the schism in the Church and sought England's friendship.

The Pope could do little without the joint help of François and the Emperor, and although Charles might have been ready to invade England, he was not going to leave himself open to attack by François, which would have meant having a war on two fronts. The Pope had to content himself with thundering out threats against Henry. He cursed him and all those who aided him. When he died, he was to be unburied and his soul lie in hell forever. He ordered the King's subjects to renounce their allegiance to Henry; they were to fall under the interdict of excommunication if they continued to obey him. No true son of the Church was to hold intercourse or alliance with him on pain of sharing his damnation. The princes and people of Europe must, as they owed allegiance to the Holy See, drive him from his throne.

The Pope's ranting made less impression on Henry now that François was seeking his friendship and the Emperor was showing less inclination to go to war with England. He believed that, providing he showed his strength to his people, they would obey him. The executions and the terrible and humiliating sufferings of those who refused to obey him must bring the people to obedience. It was only saints and martyrs who risked a death like that.

Henry would have his way and trample on all those who tried to prevent him—no matter how close to him they had once been.

It should have been a warning to me that he could even contemplate murdering Katharine and Mary, for during those months I came to believe that he would have done this if he could without dire results harmful to himself. But he had come too close to war to take such a risk.

That Christmas of the year 1535 must be a merry one. We must show the country and the world that we were unperturbed by the threats from the Continent. We stood in isolation, which made us greater than we had ever been. Henry, King of England, would bow to no one.

My kinsman Francis Bryan came to see me some weeks before Christmas. Francis was a close friend of the King. He was one of those witty lively young men whom Henry liked to gather around him. Francis was clever, something of a poet; he had wild ideas and he could be quite outrageous. Henry was amused by him. Cromwell had dubbed him “the Vicar of Hell.”

He told me that a week or so ago, when the King had been hunting, he had been a member of the party and they had stayed a night in Wilt-shire at Wolf Hall, the home of Sir John Seymour. Sir John had a daughter—a quiet, unassuming girl, and he was eager for her to have a place at Court.

“I promised,” said Francis, “that I would speak to you and ask if you would allow her to join your household.”

“But of course,” I said. “What is she like?”

“I would not presume to ask Your Grace if she were not a good and virtuous girl. As a matter of fact, she is rather shy and retiring. Her father thinks it would do her good to come out into the world.”

“Let her come then,” I said.

So she came. I took very little notice of her at first. She was rather insignificant—fair-headed, neither short nor tall, with eyes a nondescript shade of water which took their color from whatever she was wearing. When I addressed her, she spoke almost in a whisper.

For some days I forgot all about her. Then one evening, when we were dining, I realized that the King was watching her. I saw her meet his glance, blush and lower her eyes.

No, I thought, he cannot be interested in such an… insect!

I was alert though. And yes, he was interested in her. How strange! She was not the type I should have thought to attract him. Elizabeth Blount, Madge Shelton… they had all been exceptionally beautiful. But this girl looked dull; she was colorless, with hardly a word to say for herself.

I suppose he just wants a change, I thought. She is, I suppose, just about as different from me as a woman could be.

I did not expect the matter to go farther, but as the weeks passed he was still watching her. Then it occurred to me that he might have asked Francis Bryan to see that she was brought to Court. He had gone to Wolf Hall when out hunting. He must have noticed her then.

I laughed contemptuously. I had little to fear from her, I thought.

Christmas came. I tried to make it a merry one. Norris, Brereton, Wyatt, George, we all put our heads together to devise entertainments, and there were feasting and festivities as grand as any that had gone before.

I ceased to worry. I was pregnant. I felt sure that I could not be disappointed again. I was more like my old self. I looked attractive, I knew; I detected that serenity in my face which comes to some women when they are pregnant. I felt that we had come through the worst. I would have to accept Henry's infidelities. But did I care? If I had a son, he and Elizabeth would be the main care of my life. It would not matter much what Henry did as long as I and my children were safe. It was not as if I loved him. I knew him too well for that—though sometimes I felt a kind of contemptuous affection for him. He was such a strange man that one could not help marveling at him. It was that cruelty and selfishness alongside the sentimentality, the conscience which did in truth plague him, even though he manipulated it and set it going in the direction best suited to his needs. I feared him, yes. I knew how ruthless he could be. When I considered how passionately he had pursued me I could now only think that his persistence had been due largely to his need to prove to himself that he was omnipotent. I had been mistaken in thinking it was love for me. One could not love such a man; but one could live with him. I could accept his philandering. I had never had great sexual desires myself, and at this time they were nonexistent. That was why I could adopt a flirtatious manner toward the men about me, for I knew there could be no culmination. I merely liked to have them about me, admiring me.

I had a very talented musician in my household, Mark Smeaton, a pleasant young man who still could not believe in his good fortune in being employed at the Court. He was very good-looking and would have made a wonderful subject for one of our painters, with his small oval face, large dark eyes, and hair which curled about his head. He was delicate-looking, with the most beautiful hands and long, white, tapering fingers. He could dance gracefully. He was a charming boy.