I am seated with the ladies of the queen’s household. They chatter among themselves, their gaze always flicking over the king’s friends, their voices high and affected, their heads turning this way and that, always trying to exchange a glance with the king, to catch his eye. I want to grab hold of any one of them, shake her for her stupidity, say to her: “This is not an ordinary night. If you have influence with the king, you must use it for my boys. If you dance with him, you must tell him that my boys are innocent of anything. If you have been such a foolish slut as to sleep with him, then you must whisper to him in bed to spare my boys.”

I grit my teeth and swallow my anxiety. I look up at the king and when he glances towards me, I nod my head slightly, like a princess, and I smile at him warmly, full of confidence. His gaze rests on me, indifferently, for a moment, and then he looks away.

After dinner there is dancing, and a play. Someone has composed a masque and then there is a joust of poetry, with people turning lines one after another. It is a cultured, amusing evening, and usually I would frame a line or a rhyme to play my part in the court; but this evening I cannot muster my wits. I sit among it all as if I am mute. I am deafened by my fear. It feels like a lifetime before the queen smiles at the king, rises from her chair, curtseys formally to him, kisses him good night, and leaves the room, her ladies trailing behind her, one or two of them clearly leaving as a matter of form, but planning to sneak back later.

In her rooms, the queen sends everyone away but Mary Boleyn and Maud Parr, who take off her headdress and her rings. A maid unlaces her gown and sleeves and stomacher, another helps her into her embroidered linen night shift, and she pulls a warm robe around her shoulders and waves them away. She looks tired. I remember that she is no longer the girl who came to England to marry a prince. She is thirty-five years old, and the fairy-tale prince who rescued her from poverty and hardship is now a hardened man. She motions me to sit on a chair beside her at the fireside. We put up our feet on the fender like we used to do at Ludlow, and I wait for her to speak.

“He wouldn’t listen to me,” she says slowly. “You know, I’ve never seen him like this before.”

“Do you know where my son Arthur is?”

“Sent from court.”

“Not under arrest?”

“No.”

I nod. Please God he has gone to his home at Broadhurst, or to mine at Bisham. “And Montague?”

“It was as if Henry’s father was speaking all over again,” she says wonderingly. “It was as if his father was speaking through him, as if this Henry has not had years of love and honor and safety. I think he is becoming afraid, Margaret. He is afraid just like his father was always afraid.”

I keep my gaze on the red embers in the grate. I have lived under the rule of a fearful king and I know that fear is a contagion, just like the Sweat. A frightened king first fears his enemies and then his friends and then he cannot tell one from the other until every man and woman in the kingdom fears that they can trust no one. If the Tudors are returning to terror, then the years of happiness for me and for my family are over.

“He cannot fear Arthur,” I say flatly. “He cannot doubt Montague.”

She shakes her head. “It’s the duke,” she says. “Wolsey has convinced him that the Duke of Buckingham has foreseen our death, the end of our line. The duke’s confessor has broken his vow of silence and told of terrible things, predictions and manuscripts, prophesying and stars in the sky. He says that your cousin the duke spoke of the death of the Tudors and a curse laid on the line.”

“Not to me,” I say. “Never. And not to my sons.”

Gently, she puts her hand over mine. “The duke spoke with the Carthusians at Sheen. Everyone knows how close your family is to them. Reginald was brought up by them! And the duke is close to Montague, and he is your daughter’s father-in-law. I know that neither you nor yours would speak treason. I know. I told Henry so. And I will talk to him again. He will recover his courage, I know that he will. He will come to his senses. But the cardinal has told him of an old curse on the Tudors which said that the Prince of Wales would die—as Arthur died—and the prince who came after him would die, and the line would end with a girl, a virgin girl, and there would be no more Tudors and it would, after all this, all have been for nothing.”

I hear a version of the curse that my cousin Elizabeth the queen once made. I wonder if this is indeed the punishment laid on the murderers of the boys in the Tower. The Tudors killed my brother for sure, killed the pretender for sure, perhaps killed the princes of York. Shall they lose their sons and heirs as we did?

“Do you know of this curse?” my friend the queen asks me.

“No,” I lie.

I send a warning to Arthur by four of my most trusted guardsmen, to each of my three houses, and to Arthur’s wife, Jane, at Broadhurst. I tell him, wherever he is now, to go to Bisham and wait there with his brother Geoffrey. If he thinks there is any danger at all, if any Tudor soldiers arrive in the neighborhood, he is to send Geoffrey to Reginald in Padua and then escape himself. I say that I am doing everything I can for Montague. I say that Ursula is safe with me in London.

I write to my son Reginald. I tell him that suspicion has fallen on our family and that it is vital he tell everyone that we have never questioned the rule of the king and never doubted that he and the queen will have a son and heir who will in time become Prince of Wales. I add that he must not come home, even if he is invited by the king and offered safe conduct. Whatever is going to happen, it is safer for him to stay in Padua. He can be a refuge for my boy Geoffrey if nothing else.

I go to my bedroom and I pray before the little crucifix. The five wounds of the crucified Lord show brightly on His pale painted skin. I try to think of His sufferings, but all I can think is that Montague is in the Tower, Ursula’s husband and father-in-law imprisoned with him, my cousin George Neville in another cell, Arthur exiled from court, and my boy Geoffrey at Bisham. He will be frightened, not knowing what he should do.

There is a tap on my bedroom door in the cool grayness of a spring dawn. It is the queen, returning to her room after Lauds. She is terribly pale. “You are dismissed as Mary’s governess,” she says shortly. “The king told me as we prayed together. He would listen to no argument. He’s gone hunting with the Boleyns.”

“Dismissed?” I repeat, as if I don’t understand the word. “Dismissed from Princess Mary?”

I cannot possibly leave her; she is only five years old. I love her. I guided her first steps, I trimmed her curls. I am teaching her to read Latin, English, Spanish, and French. I kept her steady on her first pony and taught her to hold the reins, I sing with her and I sit beside her when her music master comes to teach her to play the virginal. She loves me, she expects me to be with her. She will be lost without me. Her father cannot, surely cannot, say that I am not to be with her?

The queen nods. “He would not listen to me,” she says wonderingly. “It was as if he could not hear me.”

I should have thought of this, but I did not. I never thought that he would take me from the care of his daughter. Katherine looks blankly at me.

“She is accustomed to me,” I say weakly. “Who will take my place?”

The queen shakes her head. She looks frozen with distress.

“I’d better go then,” I say uncertainly. “Am I to leave court?”

“Yes,” she says.

“I’ll go to Bisham, I’ll live quietly in the country.”

She nods, her lips trembling. Without another word we move into each other’s arms and we cling to each other. “You will come back,” she promises in a whisper. “I will see you soon. I will not allow us to be parted. I will get you back.”

“God bless and keep you,” I say, my voice choked up with tears. “And give my love to Princess Mary. Tell her I will pray for her and see her again. Tell her to practice her music every day. I will be her governess again, I know it. Tell her I will come back. This will all come right. It has to come right. It will be all right.”

It does not come right. The king executes my kinsman Edward Stafford, Duke of Buckingham, for treason, and my friend and kinsman old Thomas Howard, Duke of Norfolk, pronounces the sentence of death with the tears pouring down his face. Right up to the last moment we all expect Henry to grant a pardon, since the duke is his kinsman and was his constant companion; but he does not. He sends Edward Stafford to his death on the scaffold as if he were an enemy and not the greatest duke in the realm, the king’s grandmother’s favorite, and his own greatest courtier and supporter.