“I was sure you would be. It is amazing how these rumors start. One says, I think this, or I think that, and then someone else says it is … and it goes on from there.”

I agreed. I was thinking of Jane Rochford who, I knew, always had to embroider a tale.

“It was good of you to come and see me,” I told her.

“I wished you to hear this from my own lips. I do not need to ask if Your Majesty is in good health. I see you are.”

“And you also, my lady.”

“I am when there are no foolish rumors to upset me.”

“You have been indisposed, you say.”

“It is over. What do you call it? A little matter of the chest, which kept me to my bed—so starting this gossip, mayhap.”

“A rheum perhaps?” I suggested.

“But I am recovered completely.” She smiled at me. I believe she thought I was concerned because I had taken her place, for she went on: “I am happier than I ever have been in my life before.”

“I am so pleased to hear that.”

“I have my little Court at Richmond. The King has graciously given me other houses too. And I am rich. Life has become very good to me.”

“I am happy for you.”

She looked at me searchingly. Did I fancy I saw a shade of pity in her eyes? It might have been, for she had suffered great humiliation at the hands of the King when she had been Queen. And now I had stepped into her shoes.

I was so pleased that there was no child. I very much hoped that I should be the one to bring that joy to the King. I found I liked Anne of Cleves very much. There was something free and honest about her.

She asked me how the Court had seemed to me when I had first become her lady-in-waiting.

“I saw so little of you then,” she said.

“I was kept in the background. They thought I was such a novice … and it was true. I had to learn everything. It was all so different from my grandmother’s house in Lambeth. There was not the same order there.”

She told me a little about her childhood too. How different it was from mine! Her father was John II, Duke of Cleves, who, when he had married, had become Count of Ravensburgh through his wife’s inheritance. Anne had a sister, Sybilla. She wanted to know if I had any brothers and sisters.

“Several,” I told her. “But I was taken away when I was so young that I hardly knew them. Because we were poor, I was sent to my grandmother, the Dowager Duchess of Norfolk.”

Sybilla had married almost ten years before Anne came to England. It was a brilliant marriage to John Frederick, the great Duke of Saxony.

“It is good to remember the old days,” said Anne. “When I think of my childhood, I remember the two white swans. This was because of an old legend of the Rhine. The Rhine was our river, you know. We always sang of it, and the story was that one of our ancestors came to us from nowhere and then left us in the same mysterious manner. She just arrived and then later, after bearing children, disappeared. She was supposed to be some messenger from the gods come to bless our family. She came down the river in a boat drawn by two white swans, and the swans have been our emblem ever since. Why do I tell you this?”

“Because I can see that we are going to be friends. How glad I am of that rumor, because it brought you to see me.”

“I shall return, if permitted to do so.”

“You have not only my permission, but my command.”

Then she talked about the King’s daughters and little son. She had made their acquaintance and was looking forward to improving it.

“The Lady Mary is very sad,” she said. “I should like to see more of her and cheer her if possible.”

“I have not yet spoken to her.”

“She is not easy to talk to. She has—how do you say? She retires into herself.”

I nodded, guessing that to be true. Poor Mary, she had suffered much.

We were silent for a moment, then she said: “The Lady Elizabeth is an interesting girl. She seems to be very clever. Wise beyond her years. And the boy, too, is clever.”

So we passed an hour in talk and we parted on the best of terms, promising ourselves another meeting very soon.

I thought about her a good deal after she had left. What struck me most forcibly was that she by no means regretted the loss of her crown. In fact, she appeared to be remarkably relieved to have discarded it.

It had been a most pleasant morning, partly because I was so glad to hear that the rumor about the baby was unfounded.

It had made me think though that it was time I was pregnant, and then I began to wonder whether this rumor about Anne of Cleves had started because it seemed that the King might have married another barren wife.


* * *

I had a visit from my grandmother. I could see that she was distraught.

She said: “Manox is back.”

I felt a shiver of alarm. I did not want to think of Manox. I was trying to pretend he had never existed.

“Back?” I said. “Where?”

“At Lambeth.”

“You have taken him into your household?”

“It seemed that I had no choice.”

“But … why?”

“Let me explain. He arrived and asked to see me. I was disturbed and acting on my first impulse refused. He went away, and I thought that was the end of him. I did not tell you then, because I thought it would disturb you. He came back next day and asked that a message might be delivered to me saying that, in view of the position he had once held in my household, he felt sure that I would grant him the honor of receiving him.”

“And you did?”

She lifted her shoulders. “What he craves is a place at Court—with the musicians.”

“Oh, no!”

She was frowning. “He heard that Joan Bulmer is back, and he said he was sure you would be as kind to him. You would remember how pleased you had been with his work when he was teaching you the virginals.”

I stared at her blankly, and she went on quickly: “So I said I would arrange it. It seemed all I could do. You will not have to see him if you prefer not to. He can simply join the musicians. I can arrange that. He means no harm, I am sure. He is just a little … insistent. He always was.”

“No,” I murmured. “I need not see him.”

“It is nothing to concern yourself with.”

“No,” I said. “That is so.”

We were alike in some ways, the Duchess and I. We both shut our eyes to unpleasant possibilities.

She said: “If your uncle had been on friendly terms, I might have asked him. He would doubtless have ways of removing …”

“It is of no account,” I said quickly. “Manox is only a humble musician.”

“There is a certain insolence about the man which displeases me,” went on the Duchess. “But then he always had that. The respect is so lightly applied that one can see through it. He has a great opinion of himself, our strutting little musician. He should be taught a little humility, and the Duke would have been the one to teach him. But I am not on the best of terms with my stepson; and I gather Your Majesty has offended him too.”

“He really is overbearing and arrogant. I’m afraid I was not in the mood to pander to his wishes.”

“Indeed not, and you Her Majesty! Who does he think he is? I will tell you. He is the premier peer of England. To tell the truth, I’d say he thinks he is as important as the King himself… or should be.”

“You should see them together! Then you would know who the master is.”

“Still, he has power, that one. It is well to be with him rather than against him.”

“He must make amends to me.”

“Well, little granddaughter, it is you who are the Queen. Tell me about last night’s banquet. What did you wear? They say the King is so enamored of you that he cannot take his eyes from you.”

And so we talked, and I fancied that she, as well as I, was all the time trying to believe that Manox’s return to London was of no importance.


* * *

When I was alone with the King a few days later, he took me on to his knee and said: “We are shortly to set out on our travels.”

I was excited. I enjoyed traveling through the towns and villages while people came out to cheer us, and Henry was so proud when they commented on my beauty. I could not help being enchanted by it all.

He stroked my hair and went on: “We will not have these risings every now and then on some small issue which some people think is their concern.” His face darkened. “This man Neville … he has paid the price of his folly and treachery, but you see, sweetheart, we have to make them see that we will have no more of it. That is why we shall go. We have to bring home to them what are the rewards of their conduct.”

My heart sank. This was not going to be one of those journeys during which everyone was merry. It would be a somber reminder of what happened to traitors.

“We shall drive through those counties which were involved in the trouble,” he was saying. “We shall make them understand that on no account shall they defy us.” His face was scarlet now, his mouth that straight line which I dreaded to see.

“It is one of the more unpleasant duties of the King,” he went on. “He must keep his realm safe.”

His mood changed and he was soft and sentimental again.

“It pleases me that I have my sweet little Queen to comfort me,” he said. “I plan, during this tour, to meet the King of the Scots. He can be a tiresome fellow, and I must make him see that he will come to no good if he would play his devilish games with me.”

His mood had changed again, but almost immediately he was once more the loving husband.

“Your brow is troubled,” he went on. “Why, sweetheart, these are not matters for you. Alas, my lot is not always a merry one. A crown is not an easy thing to carry. That is why you, little one, are such a joy to me.”