Strangely enough, I did not feel as guilty as I supposed I should. I had had no choice. I had been forced into this marriage. If I could have chosen between a comparatively humble life as Thomas’s wife at Hollingbourne and my royal state, I would not have hesitated for a moment. It would have been Hollingbourne for me.

But there had been no choice, and I had done the best I could. I had made the King happy. If it were ever known what had happened, I knew what my fate would be. Had I not seen it come to pass before? I did not really believe that my cousin had been guilty. It had never been proved. But the verdict the King wanted had been given, her fate decided; and I was guilty.

But who need ever know? Thomas would not tell. Nor would I.

If I had made the King happy, could I be blamed? I had certainly pleased him. I was pleasing him now. I tried even more than I had before because of what had happened. It was not in my nature to concern myself with trouble which had not yet come. I could be even more loving with Henry because I could delude myself into thinking he was Thomas; and Henry was more delighted than ever with his Queen.

We arrived in York, where Henry was to meet the King of the Scots, and, to his fury, a deputation arrived from Scotland with the news that the King would be unable to keep the appointment.

Henry’s rage was great. The journey had been arranged, in the first place, with the express purpose of this meeting, and now his Scottish nephew was acting in a very arrogant manner. It was most humiliating. He had a false notion of his own importance if he thought his petty little kingdom could so flout its mighty neighbor.

People were afraid to approach him. I was the only one for whom he had a gentle word; he needed a great deal of soothing, and I performed that duty admirably.

Perhaps it was inevitable that, having taken the first step, Thomas and I found the temptation to take more irresistible.

There were occasions when the King was away on state business and Thomas contrived that he stay behind, and it was only to be expected that we take advantage of this.

I realized, of course, that Jane Rochford knew what had happened in Lincoln, and there was no sense in trying to hide it—particularly as I needed her help.

Jane was very sympathetic.

“Indeed,” she said. “Thomas Culpepper loves you, and there is no doubt that you love him. He is young and handsome and you were betrothed to him once.”

“No, Jane, I was not really. There was only talk of it.”

“Well, there would have been a betrothal. I can see no harm … as long as no one knows.” Her eyes sparkled. “Now we shall have to go carefully. We do not want any of the women prying. And why should they? If we are careful, we shall outwit them. If you use my room, I shall remain in yours. If by any chance one of them should come to your chamber, I would be there and should be able to hold them off until I could reasonably bring you back to your chamber.”

“Do you think that could be done satisfactorily?”

“Your Majesty, we will make it so. It is a good plan. I will take a message to Master Culpepper. I will tell him how he can come up the backstairs where I shall be waiting for him. I shall bring him to you and there shall be none to see him but ourselves.”

We were excited by the plan. I was sure Thomas was too, and once it had been put to us, we would be ready to incur any risk, so anxious were we to be together.

Jane was such a ready conspirator, as anxious—or almost—to bring about the meetings as we were. It was the sort of adventure she loved to take part in.

I remember one occasion well. We were at Lincoln again, and the King was riding off to a nearby meeting at the house of one of his loyal friends some distance away, so that he would spend two nights there. For the first night the plan worked, but on the second, as I was going up to Jane Rochford’s room, two of the ladies-in-waiting came unexpectedly to my room. They were Katherine Tylney and another, called Margaret Morton.

They looked surprised, and I felt it would be wise to give them some explanation. I told them I was going to Lady Rochford. I should have dismissed them, but I hesitated and they came with me to Jane’s room.

Jane looked amazed to see them, but she could say nothing, and I knew that she was uneasy, for she was about to go and meet Thomas to bring him up to me.

She was flashing a signal to me to get rid of the women, so I told them that I should not need any of them as I was not quite ready to retire and just wished to have a little private conversation with Lady Rochford before doing so.

They immediately retired but probably thought it rather strange.

When they left, Jane laughed.

“I feared Your Majesty would keep them here to meet the gallant gentleman,” she said.

It seemed rather amusing, although it had given me an uneasy moment. I am afraid I was not good at thinking quickly in such a dilemma. But when Thomas arrived, the little mishap was quickly forgotten.

The next night that the King was absent, I made sure the ladies were dismissed early.

Despair

IT WAS OCTOBER before we arrived at Windsor, and at the end of that month we were back at Hampton Court. Henry expressed his great pleasure in being in one of his favorite palaces.

“It was tiresome that His Majesty of Scotland should have seen fit to disappoint us,” he said. “But, I promise, he shall be the one to feel that disappointment and learn that he should have given a little thought to the matter before behaving in such a fashion. The rest was well enough. I’ll swear that there were many who were inclined to play the rebel who will think now very seriously before they attempt it. And here I am, back in Hampton Court with my sweet young wife. At least I am blessed in her.”

It was at such moments that I experienced a twinge of conscience. But all would be well, I assured myself. Thomas and I would be very careful, and in fact I made a special effort to be even more loving toward the King—if that were possible. It was no use being remorseful. I could not have resisted Thomas however much I had tried. I now felt that, from the first moment I had met him when we were children, we were meant for each other.

On the day of our arrival, the King and I received the sacrament together, and there was one moment when I was deeply moved. It was while the King knelt at the altar, and, folding his hands together as though in prayer, he lifted his eyes and said with great feeling: “I render thanks to Heaven and to Thee, O Lord, that, after I have suffered so much tribulation in my marriages, Thou has seen fit to give me a wife so entirely conformed to my inclinations as her I have now.”

There were tears in my eyes. I had made him happy. No one could blame me if I had stolen a little happiness for myself.

As we were leaving the chapel, Henry called to the Bishop of Lincoln, who was his confessor.

“You heard my words at the altar, Bishop,” he said.

“I did, Sire,” replied the Bishop. “You are indeed blessed in the Queen, and she in you.”

“That is true, and the whole country should thank God with us. I would have a public service of thanksgiving, which the Queen and I shall attend.”

“I am sure the people will rejoice in Your Majesty’s good fortune. The happiness of the King is that of the entire country.”

“Pray acquaint Archbishop Cranmer of my wishes.”

“I will do so without delay, Your Majesty.”

That service never took place, because on the morning following that when the King made his declaration at the altar the Archbishop handed him a piece of paper with the request that he would take it to his private closet and read it … alone.


* * *

I did not see the King once during the next day, which surprised me. I had expected to hear of the thanksgiving service that was to be arranged.

Another day passed. I heard he was not in the palace and I thought it strange that he had left without advising me of his going. I presumed it was some important business which had demanded immediate attention. It was, of course, but I did not know of what nature.

For the next few days the King did not return and I was surprised when Lady Margaret Douglas told me that a Council of the King’s ministers had arrived at the palace and was demanding it should see me.

It was customary for people to request an audience, and I was surprised that they should express themselves in such an authoritative manner.

I was more than surprised, and decidedly startled, to be confronted by such important men as the Archbishop of Canterbury, Bishop Gardiner, the Duke of Sussex and, to my extreme discomfiture, my uncle, the Duke of Norfolk.

They showed none of the respect to which I had grown accustomed, but surveyed me with expressions of great severity.

Then the horror of the visit dawned on me when the Archbishop solemnly informed me that I was accused of having lived an immoral life before I had led the King, by word and gesture, to love me. I was guilty of treason.

I could only stare at them in blank dismay. I was numb with fear. I began to cry out: “No … no … I am innocent!”

They continued to regard me somberly and I saw the contempt in my uncle’s face. I was terribly afraid then. I could think only of my cousin, laying her head on the block, and that a similar fate awaited me.

I went on screaming: “No … no!”

The Archbishop was reading out the sins I had committed.

They knew about Derham. I was finished. It was the end. It had caught up with me. I had refused to see it coming until it was right upon me. They would cut off my head, as they had my cousin’s.