I was happy now. The King’s devotion was wonderful. I enjoyed seeing his face soften when he looked at me. It was easy to keep him happy. Love-making was so much a part of my life. I think it had been meant to be since the day when Manox had begun to initiate me. I can only believe that there are some people like that.

And now Joan Bulmer. She had married and acquired the name Bulmer since our acquaintance. I really did not want those people whom I had known in the past to be near me now. I had been a little uneasy when I had heard that Katherine Tylney was in the household. It was not important, I told myself. It was just that I would rather they were not there.

I looked back over parts of her letter. It was quite a long one.

If I could wish you all the honor and good fortune you could desire, you would never lack health, wealth, long life, nor yet prosperity.

There was nothing wrong with that. It appeared that her marriage was not a happy one, and she went on to ask for a place in my household, for she desperately needed to get away from her present circumstances.

I know no remedy without your goodness. You could find the means to get me to London. If you could write to my husband and command him to bring me to you, he would not dare disobey. I beseech you to find a place for me. The nearer I were to you, the gladder I would be of it. I would write more unto you, but I would not be so bold for considering the great honor you are toward, it did not become me to put myself in presence: but the remembrance of the perfect honesty that I have always known in you hath encouraged me to do this.

I know the Queen of Britain will not forget her secretary, and favor you will show.

Your humble servant with heart unfeigned,


Joan Bulmer

No, I did not like it. The reference to my honesty, my humble servant. I tried to thrust my misgivings aside.

I did not reply to the letter for a few days, and then I found myself watching for another letter from Joan Bulmer.

This was foolish. Joan and I had been on fairly friendly terms. She was now in dire straits, poor girl. Had I not always been ready to listen to the trials of others and help if I could? Not that I had had much chance of doing so in those days, but they had always known I was sympathetic and would help if I were able.

No, this was just the letter of a woman in distress. She was unhappy. She wanted to be away from her husband, and at Court. I could understand that.

I was not quite sure of my feelings. Perhaps I was too uneasy to look clearly at how I felt. I kept wondering what the King’s attitude would be if he knew that the Duchess had come into that room and had seen me rolling on the floor with Francis Derham. I pictured those little eyes sinking into his fleshy face with fury. I was wise enough to realize that by no stretch of the imagination could he picture himself in a similar position. His obesity … his bad leg … and I knew that thought would irritate him beyond control.

There was another matter which disturbed me, but only faintly.

I knew he longed for me to announce my pregnancy. There seemed no reason why I should not. But it was the familiar story. So far, there was no sign.

He was so enamoured of my youth and loving nature that he had not yet complained. But would he in time? My poor cousin had gone to the scaffold, many said, because she had only produced one child and that of the wrong sex; and when she might have given birth to a son, she had miscarried and he had lost his patience by that time.

I shut out all thoughts of such a thing happening to me. He adored me. But then he had adored Anne. He was an extraordinary mixture of ruthlessness and sentimentality. He always had a reason for his actions which made them right in his opinion. One could be in high office one day and in disgrace and disfavor the next.

Being light-hearted by nature, I did not dwell on these matters. The King loved me dearly. I was the wife for whom he had been searching all his life. I was safe.

Then I wrote to Joan Bulmer, offering her a place in my household.


* * *

When Joan arrived, I sent for her. She had changed a little. Her attitude toward me was different. But then, so was that of everyone—the outstanding example being that of my uncle, the Duke. I had seen little of him since my outburst, about which I was pleased. He must understand that he could not control my life.

Joan knelt and expressed her undying gratitude. I made her rise and told her that I hoped she would be happy at Court.

“I knew Your Majesty would help me,” she said. “You were always so kind … to everyone.”

There was a slight smile about her face as she said those words. I knew she was looking back, remembering.

“And now you are the Queen herself… and as kind as you ever were. Your Majesty, I shall always remember. I shall never forget.”

Why did it occur to me that it was not only my kindness she was remembering, but incidents from the past?

“I look forward to serving Your Majesty … in whatever capacity you wish … as I always tried to do.”

There it was again … that covert smile. It would have worried me then if I had allowed it to.

I said: “I believe you were not very happy in your new life.”

“I was not, Your Majesty. Oh, it will be a great pleasure to serve you … just as I did in the old days at Lambeth.”

“Thank you,” I said.

“Mistress Tylney has promised to show me what will be expected of me.”

“You will find this different from the Duchess’s household.”

“Oh yes, Your Majesty.”

When she had gone, I sat thinking of her. She brought back memories which I would rather forget.

She settled in and was soon a close friend of Katherine Tylney and, in that light-hearted way, which was typical of me, I ceased to think about her.


* * *

Lady Rochford was the first to bring the news. I should soon have heard it, she said, for indeed the whole of London was talking about it.

“The Lady Anne of Cleves has been brought to bed of a fair boy,” she announced.

“The Lady Anne!” I cried. “A boy! No, it cannot be. It is false. I do not believe it.”

“’Tis bruited through the streets and they are saying it at Court.”

“How could there be? She is no longer the King’s wife.”

“People do have children in the most difficult circumstances,” said Jane with a laugh.

“Can it really be true?” I murmured.

“That we shall soon know.”

“If it is the King’s …”

“Ah,” cried Jane, speculation in her eyes. How she loved the excitement of prying into people’s lives. She was the sort of woman who would weave her own fantasy about people’s actions to make a more dramatic story. I thought fleetingly of her evidence of the relationship between Anne Boleyn and her brother which had been given in such a manner as to make it seem like truth, and had resulted in sending her husband George to his death, accused of incest. And when it was considered, it seemed that all that had happened was that once, when Anne was in bed, Jane had come into the bedchamber and seen her husband sitting beside the bed while his hand rested on the coverlet. I wondered if she ever felt remorse for what she had done. If she did, it had certainly not cured her of the habit.

“One of the King’s greatest desires is to have a healthy son,” she was saying. “He will be most eager to see this child whom the Lady Anne has produced.”

“Did no one know there was to be a child? It is strange that he is suddenly here.”

“The King is deeply enamoured of you. He would never leave you, even if the Lady Anne does have a child.” Her eyes were speculative again.

The courtiers were asking themselves which choice the King would make. It would be interesting to see which was more important to him: his healthy boy or his beautiful bride.

I think I never took the matter seriously. If I did, there was the fleeting thought that, if he divorced me, I could marry Thomas Culpepper after all.

I knew Thomas would want that. I had seen him only briefly since my marriage, although he was a Gentleman of the King’s Bedchamber. He had avoided me; he was very much afraid that our friendship might be remembered. But I had caught a glimpse of something in his eyes which told me that his feelings had not changed. No mention was made of our suggested betrothal.

I knew people often thought of what had happened to Henry’s wives, and it was not surprising that they might soon be wondering what my fate would be. Thomas must have realized how careful we had to be. More so than I did. And he still loved me.

And now it seemed that my future might be in jeopardy.

Then I had a visit from Anne of Cleves herself. She came without ceremony from Richmond, which was not very far from Hampton Court.

I received her at once, and she immediately told me that she had been extremely distressed by a certain rumor and wanted to tell me that there was no truth in it.

Her knowledge of our language had made great strides since her arrival. She was a clever woman and the first task she had set herself was to learn English. She was moderately fluent now and only occasionally did the pronunciation of a word betray her origins.

She said: “I have been confined to my bed for about ten days. Mother Lowe was mostly in attendance. She knows my needs better than anyone, for she has been with me, you know, since I was a child. Then these rumors started. It is quite ridiculous.”

“I was of that opinion at the time,” I told her.