Thomas would know that right up to the time of his arrest there had been a glimmer of hope for me. It had been different with my cousin. She was utterly doomed, for the King wished to be rid of her. But he did not want to lose me. He was not tired of me. Had he not been preparing a thanksgiving service because of his satisfaction with our marriage? And when the blow had come, he had been deeply unhappy. I heard that he had called for his horse and had ridden for miles alone, so distressed was he. He had lost his desire for food: he had wept because I was not what he had believed me to be. Yes, there was a hope. But if he knew that while I was married to him I had taken a lover, his fury would be great. It was possible that he would want revenge.

In spite of Thomas’s refusal to admit that he had been my lover after my marriage, he had been condemned to death, and Derham was to die with him.

It was cold December. Christmas would be with us soon. I thought sadly of other Christmasses and the excitement of planning festivities. There would be no more such Christmasses. Even if I were to experience more, they would be haunted by memories of those two young men.

It was a long day and there was no sleep for me during the night which followed. I could think of nothing but those two young men, lying in their cells—guilty of no crime but of loving me.

They were taken to Tyburn, there to be hanged, cut down alive, disembowelled and their inner organs burned before their heads were cut off… the most agonizing departure from this life which could have been devised.

I was frantic with grief. Let them have my head if they must. I had been careless. I had been wanton. I found loving too easy. I was clever at nothing but that. Oh, if only I had known … if only I had been able to see into the future … if only I had not been the one to bring those two to this!

I was greatly relieved to hear that the sentence on Thomas had been modified. Because he had noble connections, he had been given a more dignified manner of execution and had been beheaded. Not so poor Derham. He had undergone the entire cruel sentence.

So they had died—those two men whom I had loved.

Thomas did not betray me even in the face of death. God would forgive him the lie, I knew. It was done for love and surely that cannot be a great sin in the eyes of a God who is said to be Love.

They told me that before he laid his head upon the block Thomas made a speech to the waiting crowd.

“Gentlemen,” he said. “Do not seek to know more than that the King deprived me of the thing I love best in the world and, though you may kill me for it, she loves me as well as I love her, though up to this hour no wrong has passed between us. Before the King married her, I thought to make her my wife, and when she was lost to me I was like unto death. The Queen saw my sorrow and spoke kindly to me. I was tempted to beg to see her. I did. That is all, my lords, on my honor as a gentleman.”

To the end his one thought had been to protect me. So, nobly he died.

Poor Derham suffered the greater torture. I rejoice that he, too, is now at rest.


* * *

Christmas had come and gone. The heads of Thomas Culpepper and Francis Derham were rotting on London Bridge. I saw them in my nightmares. I was a little quieter at this time. Hope came and went, but life no longer seemed desirable.

I wondered why they did not kill me. I supposed it was because the King had not chosen a new bride. He would in time, I was sure. Poor lady! The fate of Henry’s queens was not a happy one. I was sorry for her, whoever she should be, and there were times when I almost longed for the day when I should go to the block.

I wondered about the experience. What did it feel like, to walk out to the Green? First there would be the summons to the Tower, and then the waiting. But perhaps not for long. Sometimes the thought came to me that the King would not let me go. I had meant too much to him. I had been the wife whom he had been waiting for. I shall never forget him as he stood at the altar, thanking God for giving me to him.

Perhaps he was waiting for a time when he could forgive me. I believed he would have done so if Katherine Tylney and Margaret Morton had not told him of Thomas’s visits.

And still there was no decision. No sentence had been passed on me, though the fact that Thomas Culpepper had been executed must have meant that the charge of adultery had been accepted. There were times when I felt indifferent. Whatever happened, I could never be happy again. Always with me would be the memory of Thomas on the rack … taken to Tyburn, the axe descending on his once-proud head.

On the tenth of February, the deputation came to take me to the Tower, and I knew then that the end was near. My heart was sick and my fears had returned during the intervening weeks since the executions of Thomas and Francis Derham, and I had sunk into such deep melancholy that I could feel nothing but intense grief. I was at least relieved that Norfolk was not amongst those who had come to take me to the Tower.

A cold wind was blowing along the river. I thought, is this the last time I shall see it? How familiar it had been during those days at Lambeth. I kept thinking back to them, of Francis giving me the French fennel and my delight with it. I thought I had loved him then. I remembered my grandmother’s wrath when she had discovered what had happened. My poor grandmother! Still a prisoner, fearful of death, as I was.

London Bridge. I glanced up and wished I had not done so. It was all over in a matter of seconds, but I had seen those grisly relics … those decaying heads of the men I had once loved.

We had reached the grim fortress. It loomed up before us. What despair had beset those who had entered it, as I was doing, but there could be no more deep and bitter anguish than that which assailed me now.


* * *

The next day I was visited by Sir John Gages, the Constable of the Tower. He told me that the King had given his consent to the Bill of Attainder. The death sentence had been pronounced on me and my paramours Francis Derham and Thomas Culpepper. That sentence had already been carried out on the two men. Mine had yet to be.

So here I was—a prisoner in the Tower. This is how it had happened to my cousin. I thought of her so often, and now here I was, living out the story for myself.

It was uncanny. There were times when I could not believe it; but now the end was near, I felt calmer than I ever had since I had first become aware of the terrible fate which was looming before me.

I was told that Thomas Cranmer, Archbishop of Canterbury, was at the Tower and would like to speak to me.

When he was brought to me, I thought he looked very sad.

“Your Majesty,” he said. “I am very concerned. You know there is a Bill of Attainder against you, and you know what this means?”

“Yes, I know,” I replied. “And I have been expecting it for a long time.”

He nodded. “I have come to tell you that there may be an escape from your tragic situation.”

An escape? Could I be hearing correctly? What escape could there be? Was he suggesting I could step out of the Tower to where a barge would be waiting to take me away—to France perhaps? It was to France most people usually escaped. I must be dreaming. The Archbishop could not be suggesting such a wild plan.

“If you would agree that there had been a precontract between you and Francis Derham, then it could be said that you were never married to the King.”

I stared at him, trying to assess the meaning of this. So, if it were agreed that there were a precontract, it would be as in the case of Catherine of Aragon. I would never have been married to him. Henry could go ahead and marry someone else when he wished. I could see it might be a way of saving my life.

There was a kindness in this Archbishop. He was trying to show me a way of escaping the axe, for, if I would not agree, there was only one way for Henry to marry again. This was my death—as in the case of my cousin.

Betrothed to Derham! It was what we had said, but there had been no betrothal. Was I going to buy a possible reprieve in such a way?

I said slowly: “My Lord Archbishop, I was never betrothed to Francis Derham. It was talked of, but there was no true betrothal.”

He shook his head sadly. “’Tis a pity. If it were so, there might be a way.”

He was looking at me almost appealingly. He wanted me to tell him I had been betrothed.

All kinds of thoughts were rushing through my head. Did the King want it? It must be so, or it would not have been suggested. Was it because he could not bear to think of the head he had so often caressed falling to the executioner’s axe?

There was another thought. Two Queens beheaded in a few short years! Two divorces … or as good as! And the other dead in childbirth! There had once been a rumor that, at the time of Jane’s death, there had been a chance to save either her life or that of the newly born Prince, and when the King had been asked to decide, he had replied that, while it was hard for him to get a son, wives were easily come by. That may not have been true, but the fact that there had been a rumor meant that the thought must have been in someone’s mind. People were already whispering about the unfortunate lives of Henry’s queens. Was that the reason why he was not eager to behead another of them? Would some people call it murder?

But there had been no betrothal, and I had done with lies. I did not want to live … without Thomas. So I said: “It is not true. I was never betrothed to Francis Derham.”

“My lady, Your Majesty, I am sure that if you agreed, there might be a way out of your trials.”

“There may or may not. I do not know. But I cannot say there was a betrothal between myself and Francis Derham.”

He looked at me mournfully and went away.

The Last Day

I HAD ASKED that my good friend, the scribe, might come to me and that I might be alone with her. Close by, Jane Rochford was sleeping. They had given her something to quieten her, for a wild mood was on her.

She came and we talked in the way we had done while I told her the story of my life and relived all that had led me to this room in the Tower.

I said to her: “My dear friend, you have listened and you have written it down, as I could not have done. Thus I have lived it all again. This is the last time we two shall be together, for tomorrow I shall be no more.

“They have sent Jane to me. She is in the cell nearby. Tomorrow she is to lead me to the scaffold, and when they have cut off my head, they will do the same to her.

“Poor Jane! She is in a sorry state. It is the guilt, you see. Perhaps I should feel guilty, but strangely enough, I cannot. I loved too readily. There are some of us who are like that. They call it sin. Yet it was love. I loved them both. Francis cared for me. We had beautiful moments together. He went to Ireland to make a fortune, and it was all that he might marry me. His face was soft and gentle when he gave me the French fennel and other gifts. But Thomas was my true love. We would have been happy together. I even thought Manox was handsome once, and he was a beguiling musician. And the King … he was old and not handsome when I knew him, but he was so powerful, and power is such that it can have an effect on a woman’s senses. I loved them all. I wonder who decided that love was a sin?

“But enough of this. There is little time left. This will be my last day on Earth, for tomorrow I shall be with my Maker. It is strange that I can say that with a certain calm. I could not have done so two months ago.

“It all changed when Thomas and Francis died.”


* * *

Jane came to me during the day. There was a certain madness in her eyes. She was fearful of death; she thought it was retribution for what she had done. How terrible for Jane to have that on her conscience, but it had worried her very little until she was facing death. I suppose she was thinking that it might have been so different. If George Boleyn had been her devoted husband, he would not have ended his days on the scaffold. What she had implied about the relationship between brother and sister would not have affected Anne. The King had wanted Anne out of the way so that he might many Jane Seymour—so she was doomed.

I wondered who would be the next wife when I had gone. But there was no time to waste in such speculation.