I heard, too, about the passionate love between Anne and young Henry Percy, the eldest son of the Earl of Northumberland, and how they planned to marry. That would have been a very good match for Mistress Anne Boleyn, for although her father had received many honors, largely because of the favor the King showed to Mary Boleyn, and Anne's mother was a Howard of the great Norfolk family, her father had his roots in trade. There was some story of an ancestor's being a merchant. True, he had acquired a title and become Lord Mayor, but still trade.

Anne no doubt thought all was set fair. She had been so much in love with Percy, people said. As for Percy, he was besotted. People used to marvel at her devotion to him, because he was not a heroic sort of young man but rather weak. That he adored her was not surprising but her genuine love for him was amazing, for they said it was not due to the great title he would one day inherit.

I grew to hate her so much that I could not see any good in her; but later on, when her terrible fate overtook her, my bitterness diminished a little and I often thought that, if she had been allowed to marry Percy, she could have been a happy wife and mother and much anguish spared to many.

My father, by this time, was beginning to be deeply enamoured of her and ordered Wolsey to prevent the marriage with Percy going ahead. Young Henry Percy was humiliated by the Cardinal, and the Earl of Northumberland was sent for. He came to London and berated his son for his folly. Henry Percy was banished to Northumberland, and Anne Boleyn to Hever.

I could imagine her grief and anger. She would be passionate in her emotion, although at the time she would not have known that the breaking up of their match had been due to the effect she was having on the King and that he was forming plans for her. She thought it was because she was not considered of noble enough breeding to mate with the mighty House of Northumberland, which had deeply wounded her dignity.

The rest of the story is well known: her return to Court at the instigation of the King, a place in my mother's household as one of her ladies-inwaiting, where she could grace the Court with her special talents of dancing, singing and writing masques with the young poets of the Court, most of whom were her slaves.

She was one of those women who I believe are called a femme fatale. My father was not the only one who desired her.

I did not know—I am not sure even now after so many years have passed—whether she deliberately set out to wear the crown. She could not in the beginning have believed this possible—she, from a family associated with trade—and in any case the King already had a wife. It seemed quite preposterous. No, I think at that stage she might have been sincere.

When he made it clear that he wished to be her lover she told him that she would not be the mistress of any man and as, by reason of her unworthiness and the fact that he was married, she could not be his wife, that must be an end of his aspirations.

It was bold. But then, she lived by boldness. It had served her well in the beginning, but it was to be her downfall in the end.

My father could not bear to be crossed; in any case, he was obsessed by the woman. He wanted her so desperately that he contemplated drastic steps to get her.

We could not believe it at first—not even Wolsey, who knew the King as well as any of us. Wolsey was our enemy—my mother's and mine. He was a clever man who believed there was a need to produce a male heir, but for him there was a greater need than that, which was to placate the King. But he was an astute politician who would immediately see the folly in divorcing my mother in order to put Anne Boleyn on the throne. He had his eyes on an alliance with France. Divorce my mother, yes, but only in order to marry a princess, possibly of France.

I did not know how much the proposed divorce was due to the lack of a son and how much to the King's desire for Anne Boleyn. My father was adept at dissembling. He had the gift of being able to deceive himself in the face of logic, and he did it so effectively that one was inclined to believe him…as he believed himself.

He came to my mother one day and I was present. Looking back now, I think that made a turning point in our relationship.

My mother and I were embroidering together, which was something we often did. The Countess said it had a soothing effect and calmed the nerves. It did seem to do so, for my mother would become quite interested in the stitches and we would sometimes talk of happier subjects than that one which was uppermost in our minds.

When my father arrived, I rose and curtsied. He came toward us, smiling benignly.

“Well, Kate,” he said to my mother, “I would speak with you.”

He turned to me and laid a hand on my shoulders.

“So…you are keeping your mother company? Good. Very good. And getting on with your studies so that you do not disgrace us, eh?”

There was a faraway look in his eyes, and his mouth showed signs of tightening. They were aspects which always alarmed me as well as others because I was beginning to recognize what they meant.

His hand went to my head and he patted it.

“Growing up now. Well, well, I would speak with your mother. Go now. Go to your governess. Leave us…”

I curtsied and went, but on the other side of the door I paused. There was a small ante-room which led into the chamber in which they now were. I slipped into that room. I was going to commit the sin of eavesdropping. I could not restrain myself. So often I had felt I was groping in the dark, and how could I comfort my mother, how could I protect myself, if I did not know fully what against?

Shamelessly I hid myself and listened. The door was slightly ajar, and I could hear every word.

“It is time we discussed this matter which is causing me so much grief,” he said.

“I wish to do so with all my heart,” she replied. “Ah,” he went on. “How well I remember the time we went through the ceremony of marriage. Do you recall it? You were so desolate.”

“Yes, neglected by all…”

“I suffered with you…my brother's widow … unwanted in Spain and no place for you here. I shall never forget.”

“I also have good reason to remember.”

“Unhappy days… until I changed all that.”

“Yes, you changed it.”

“All seemed set fair. We were young. We were in love. I was a romantic boy. I wanted to do what was right. I wanted to help you.”

“You were pleased with my person, I believe.”

“Kate…I have always been pleased with your person. It is this question which they are raising. It gives me sleepless nights. I cannot rest. It is on my mind … on my conscience. I feel a great anger against these probing churchmen who have raised this question. They believe ours is no true marriage. Think what that means, Kate.”

“I do not have to. It is untrue.”

“They quote the scriptures. That cannot be ignored. I vow my desire is to tell them to hold their peace … to leave us … but I cannot do that, Kate. My conscience…it plagues me… night and day it asks me to stop and consider. I am committing a sin in the eyes of God.”

“Your conscience must have been troubling you for some time,” said my mother coldly, “regarding Bessie Blount and Mary Boleyn.”

“Oh come, come, such talk does no good. It was that fellow Tarbes… that monstrous suggestion about our daughter.”

“It is unforgivable.”

“Unforgivable… but is it true, Kate? Think of what has happened to us. We have been denied that which we most desire…a son, Kate. God has made it clear that He is displeased. Every time…every time…”

“We have our dear daughter.”

“Yes…yes… and none dearer…a cherished child, but a girl, Kate. A girl… when the country needs a man to follow me.”

“There have been worthy queens.”

“A queen cannot lead an army.”

“I was your regent while you were in France.”

“My mother did, and a good one, too. Ah, Kate, if only this man had not raised that question! It is too late now for us to get sons. My concern for your health…”

“And your desire for a new wife.”

“You joke. You know that is not my desire… though I could be forced to it… for the people, Kate, for the sake of the country… for the hope of a son.”

“And to satisfy your own desire.”

“For a son, Kate, only for a son. By God's Holy Blood, I would He had granted us a son… just one healthy son… and I would shake my fist at this Tarbes and anyone who dares raise such a question. I would not have it.”

“Yet you will,” said my mother softly.

“If I could quieten my conscience…if I could turn my face from the truth…I would be the happiest man on Earth.”

“You need not concern yourself, for it is lies. I was never Arthur's wife.”

“If I could but ease my conscience…”

I was almost on the point of dashing into the room and shouting at him, “Stop it. Stop talking of your conscience. We know too much. It is not your conscience you must appease but your desire for a new wife.”

I stood uncertain for a moment but I knew I must not betray my presence. I wondered what would happen if he knew that I had listened to their conversation, that I knew he was living a lie, that he wanted this divorce. He wanted to be rid of my mother even though I should be proclaimed illegitimate.

He was untrue to us and to himself.

I could not bear to hear him mention his conscience once more. I crept silently out of the ante-room and made my way to my bedchamber.


* * *

NOW THAT I SAW my father afresh, I placed myself firmly on my mother's side. My father had said they should no longer live together, for he feared it was sin in the eyes of Heaven. His talk about his conscience had seemed to me so blatantly insincere; and I had heard the whispers about Anne Boleyn. As she was at Court, one of my mother's women, I saw her now and then. She fascinated me. She scintillated and dazzled all those about her. She was surrounded by the wittiest of the young men, all the poets and the musicians; she planned the masques; laughter rang out round her; and the King wanted all the time to be close to her.

I was deeply aware of her blinding brilliance, her quick wits, her sharp, clever face. It frightened me. My tenderness for my mother was almost painful. I would sit and watch her sad, sad face and feel sick at heart. I longed beyond everything to comfort her.

Once she caught me looking at her and, taking my hand, she smiled at me.

“You must not grieve, dearest child,” she said. “It may not come to pass, you know. He cannot put me away from him. I am his true wife. Moreover I am the daughter of a great King and Queen. They are both dead now, it is true, but I am still a Princess of Spain as well as a Queen of England.”

“The Emperor would not allow it to happen,” I said confidently.

“I think you are right.”

“Does he know of it? It is called the King's Secret Matter, so it must be secret to some.”

“It is not easy to keep such secrets. The Court knows what is happening. In the streets they are talking of it. The Emperor would never allow the King to harm me, and the Emperor is more powerful than ever since he defeated the French. Your father has tried to get the Pope's sanction to a divorce but, as you know, the Pope is now virtually a prisoner in Castel Sant' Angelo. One could say he is the Emperor's prisoner. Your father is very angry about that.”

“His conscience worries him, he says.”

My mother smiled wanly, then she said, “This is too much to burden you with, dear child. You are too young fully to grasp the significance of this.”

“I do grasp it,” I said.

“Perhaps you should, for it could be vital to your future.”

“I know that, my lady.”

“Then listen. I will tell you a secret. I have sent one of my servants to Spain. He has taken a letter from me to the Emperor in which I have told him exactly what is happening.”

I clasped my hands together in relief.

“Everything will be well now,” I said with conviction. I still remembered the hero of my youth.


* * *

MY MOTHER WAS JUBILANT, for she had received an answer from the Emperor, brought to her through the ambassador Mendoza.

She called me to her, for she knew what my feeling for the Emperor had been.

“Here is his reply,” she said.

“He is deeply shocked. He says that, because I have been married to him for so long, the King has forgotten that I am a Princess of Spain, and the Emperor will not allow a member of his family to be treated thus. He is sending Cardinal Quiñones, General of the Franciscans, to Rome without delay. He will be in charge of the affair there. He writes, ‘My dear Aunt…' Yes, he calls me his dear Aunt. ‘You can be assured that Clement, still in Castel Sant' Angelo, will not be in a position to flout my wishes.'”