The Rose Without a Thorn

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.

I fell into a frenzy, crying, laughing until I fell down in a faint.

When I opened my eyes they had gone. It was not true, I told myself. It was a hideous dream. Jane Rochford told me afterward that they thought I should lose my reason. She said I kept sobbing and calling out that it was not true. She sat with me all through that night, she said, although I was unaware of her. I kept shouting that the axe was not sharp enough. It would be with me as it had been with Lady Salisbury. I must have a sword from France, as my cousin had had. But I would not die yet, I was too young. I wanted to go away… right away… and never see the Court again. I had never wanted to be here.

“You were indeed near madness,” said Jane.

On the morning of the next day, Archbishop Cranmer came to see me again. He seemed less terrifying than on the previous day. But perhaps that was because he came alone.

He made me be seated, and he said quietly, almost gently, with a show of pity: “You must calm yourself. You do no good with these frenzies. The King will be merciful to you if you confess your sins.”

Of course he would be merciful. He loved me tenderly. The last time I had seen him, he had been going to arrange a thanksgiving to God for having given me to him. He was grateful for all the happiness I had brought him. It was those accusing men who had frightened me. The King would be kind, as he had always been. I would explain to him. I would tell him that I wanted to confess, and then all would be well. I was young and I was ignorant. I had been left to those wanton men and women. He would understand. I felt better.

The Archbishop said: “You must confess what you have done. If you insist on your innocence, it will go ill with you. We have proof of your behavior. I must tell you that we know all. It is true, is it not, that you were not a virgin when you came to the King? You have behaved in a licentious manner with a certain Francis Derham and Henry Manox. Do not attempt to deny it if you would have the King’s mercy.”

I tried to make my voice steady.

“I was very young,” I said. “I knew little of the ways of the world. I believed myself betrothed to Francis Derham and that that meant we could behave as husband and wife.”

“So you admit this?”

“With Francis Derham, yes.”

“And Henry Manox?”

“No.”

“But you have behaved in a wanton manner with him.”

“It was different. I was very young …”

“It is enough,” said the Archbishop.

“What will happen to me?”

“You know the law.”

I began to shiver. I saw myself there. Did they blindfold you that you might not see the block? Did they lead you there and help you lay your head on it? How long before the axe descended?

I began to cry and hardly recognized my own voice, shrill and uncontrollable.

“You must not go into another frenzy,” advised the Archbishop. “You must tell me all. It is the only way to save yourself.”

I thought: what will they do to Derham and Manox? And then, in horror, I thought of Thomas. They had not mentioned him yet. Oh, God, help me, I prayed. They must not know. I remembered those nights we had spent together such a short time ago. Derham was before my marriage. That might possibly be forgivable. But Thomas … oh, there was real danger there, from which we could never escape.

They must not know. Whatever happened, I must save Thomas.

I told Cranmer about Derham … all that I could remember. I had to stop them thinking of Thomas.

Cranmer seemed content to keep to Derham. I could see what it meant. It was that matter of divorce. My spirits rose. The King would divorce me so that he might marry again. It would be as it had been with my immediate predecessor. She was happy enough now. Why should I not get through to the same contentment … with Thomas?

“There was no contract with Derham,” the Archbishop was saying.

“No,” I replied. “There was no contract.”

“But carnal knowledge,” said the Archbishop.

I cannot recall exactly how everything happened. I had just been overwhelmed by a nightmare, from which there was no awakening. Events which followed now seem jumbled together. I had said this. I had done that. The brief calm which had come to me when the Archbishop had hinted that there was a possibility that I could receive mercy did not stay with me long, and it is only now, when I have moments of acceptance of my fate, that I can see how events fitted themselves together and brought me to where I am now.

If I had been a clever person, I should have seen it approaching long before it reached me. But I had never been shrewd and was particularly gullible. Simple myself, I judged others to be the same. I had not realized how I was watched and despised because I was unfit to fill the role which had been thrust upon me. People do not like to see those whom they consider below them raised above them; and they seek to bring the offender down. They were angry because of the King’s besotted devotion to this foolish girl, just because she had a pretty face, a seductive body and a sensual nature. Power-hungry men felt she might have some influence, which her ambitious relations might use to their advantage. And carefree, ignorant and unworldly as I was, I did not know that they were watching me, waiting for an opportunity to destroy me.

The Protestant faction, comprised of men like Cranmer and the King’s brother-in-law, Edward Seymour, Earl of Hertford, were suspicious of the Catholic Howards. As for my uncle, he might have warned me, helped me, at least prepared me in some way, but he had abandoned me as being too foolish to be of any use, and so he had ignored me. And thus I was left to those who would destroy me.

In my very household were Joan Bulmer and Katherine Tylney, and both were fully aware of my relationship with Francis Derham. How foolish I had been to allow them in. When I had been confronted by those men, I had realized at once what would happen to me, and the shock was so great that, as Jane said, it had almost robbed me of my reason; and it is only at this stage, by piecing together what I have heard and experienced, that I can see how it was all brought to a head, to that terrifying moment when they had all come to tell me of my fate.

It had started through John Lassells, who was the brother of Mary Lassells, one of the women who was with me in my grandmother’s house at Lambeth. She, like so many others, knew what had happened between Francis Derham and me.

John Lassells had some minor post at Court. He was a stern Protestant, a puritan, one of those men who are bent on preserving a place for themselves in Heaven and are certain that they are one of the few who know the way to achieve it. They are determined not to enjoy life and, even more so, that no one else shall.

His sister, Mary, needed to work, and he asked her why did she not try for a place at Court. Had she not once been acquainted with me when I was in a far less exalted position—just a young girl in the care of my grandmother?

Mary, in a state of great virtue, explained that nothing would induce her to take a place in my service. In fact, she was very sorry for me. Naturally her brother wished to know why.

“Because she is light in her behavior,” was Mary’s reply.

Such an accusation needed explanation, and John demanded one. I felt sure that Mary gave it with relish. She told her brother that Francis Derham had declared we were as good as married and behaved accordingly. Moreover, she added, Henry Manox had boasted that he knew of a private mark on my body.

The righteous John Lassells would have immediately persuaded himself that this knowledge must not remain solely in the Lassells’ household, and he went to his priest and told him what he had heard. The priest immediately communicated the information to Audley and Hertford. This must have seemed a heaven-sent opportunity to these men, who decided to lay the information before Archbishop Cranmer, with the suggestion that he should be the one to pass it on to the King.

As a result, John Lassells was brought to the Archbishop and a paper was produced and presented to the King for his private reading.

I tried to imagine what Henry would have said when he received this incriminating document. I believed it was true that he had been deeply shocked and refused to believe it, and that he had berated the Archbishop for daring to write such slander against his Queen. I believed he would, in his love for me, have accused the Archbishop of listening to the evil slander of rogues.

But, of course, doubts would beset him. It was only natural that they should. He might recall that I was no shrinking bride. I had thought then that my ready responses had surprised him, even though he was delighted with them. He must have convinced himself that they were due to my admiration for the glorious personage who had become my husband. After all, I had been raised up from a very lowly position.

So, when he read that account of my past, brought to him through the courtesy of the Archbishop and John and Mary Lassells, he might not believe it, but he would have to make sure.

I could see clearly how it had happened. He had ordered that John and Mary Lassells be held in London, and Sir Thomas Wriothesley be sent to question me.

Almost immediately, Derham was arrested, not in connection with me, but on a charge of piracy committed in Ireland. I suppose there were grounds for this, and I wondered whether the fortune of which he had talked so much was to be acquired in this way.

At this time, I was in a sorry state. I was kept confined to my apartments where I alternated between fits of terror and anguish and moods of optimism. These last were very brief, for I could not really believe in them. I had been very indiscreet with Derham, but that was before my marriage. That was not really criminal, was it? I had deceived no one. Most of the women knew what was happening.

I tried to shut out of my mind all thoughts about Thomas. Thomas must never be mentioned. It must seem as though I knew him only as some vague figure in the King’s household.

If only I could get to the King, talk to him! I promised myself that I would find some way of doing this. I would explain to him those misdemeanors of the days before I had married him. I would remind him how young I had been. I would explain how I had wanted to confess everything right from the beginning.

I saw very little of my ladies with the exception of Jane Rochford. She kept me from sinking into utter melancholy.

I was afraid to sleep, for sometimes dreams could be more frightening than reality. When I was awake I could persuade myself that the King would come to see me soon. I could imagine myself sitting on his knee, cajoling. I believed he must be hating this situation as much as I was. He would want to return to those comforting pleasures of the old days. I would force myself to picture the reconciliation. I would plan what I would say. I would delude myself into believing that it was real. And then I would see the utter absurdity of it and be plunged into despair.

Jane told me what had happened to my grandmother, which added to my misery.

“Poor lady! It all happened under her roof. They have visited her.”

“Who?”

“Those who came to you—the Duke, her stepson, among them. She knew they would come. Derham had left some coffers in her house and she was afraid they might find in them something concerning you … letters or goods. She had the coffers opened. That is against her. And there was Damport. Do you remember Damport?”

“No.”

“He was a close friend of Derham’s.”

“Was he the young man with the beautiful teeth?”

“That is he.” Everyone knew Damport by his teeth. He was very proud of them and he smiled perpetually so that everyone could see them.

“Yes, I do remember now. I have seen him with Derham.”

“The Duchess gave him money.”

“Why?”

“Mayhap because she thought he might tell something which Derham had confided in him.”

“Tell me what you know about my grandmother.”

“It is only a rumor, but everyone is talking of it. They are amazed that the Duke should work against his own family. Some say he aims to show the King that he is his most loyal servant … even if it means working against his own flesh and blood.”

“He does not care for any but himself, I believe.”

Jane nodded. “Your uncle Lord William Howard has been arrested with his wife … and … I know how you will feel about this … and I hesitated before telling you … but the Duchess, she too has been arrested. She is in the Tower.”

“Oh no! That cannot be. Not the Duchess … oh, my poor, poor grandmother. And why Lord William?”

“Mayhap because he was at the Duchess’s house often when you were there. They are saying that he could not be unaware of what was going on … as the Duchess could not have been.”

“I cannot bear this. It is too much.”

“I can but tell you what I heard. It could be that it is only gossip.”

“I fear this is true. And Norfolk does nothing to help them.”

“All he does is hold up his hands in horror and distance himself from those who are in deep trouble.”

“My poor grandmother. She is old … she will die.”

“They say she is frantic with fear. She talked of the old Countess of Salisbury. She believes that what happened to the Countess will happen to her.”

“Oh, Jane, what will happen to us all?”

Jane could not answer that. There was fear in her own eyes. How far was she involved? They had arrested my grandmother and Damport. What of Jane Rochford?

There were some matters of which even she could not trust herself to speak. Thomas! That had happened after the marriage. That was the greatest sin of all. For that there could be no excuses.

We were both caught up in a terrible fear.

Derham was brave. They put him to the torture. They would be ruthless, I knew. The torture would not stop until they had the answers they wanted.

He had told the truth. He had admitted that he and I had regarded ourselves as husband and wife, and that we had lived as such. What they wanted him to admit also was that our relationship had been continued after the marriage.

Derham was indeed a brave man. He had lived an adventurous life. He would be fully aware that these men were bent on destroying me and wanted to bring a charge of treason against me.

Treason! I thought. Little Katherine Howard, who knew nothing of such things—a traitor! If I had been unfaithful to the King and there was a child, that child could be heir to the throne. It was the first time this thought had occurred to me.

I was horrified. I thought of those meetings with Thomas. What had I done?

This was the unforgivable crime. This was indeed treason.

I had not thought of it in that connection before. When did I ever think before I acted? Thomas had not thought either. Our emotions were too strong for us.

Of one thing I was more certain than ever: no one must ever know what happened during those nights on that journey. And now they were trying to force Derham to confess.

The rack was one of the most excruciating instruments ever devised by man; and Derham was its victim. He was in the hands of ruthless men who cared nothing for human suffering, human dignity and human life. All they wanted was to gain their own ends. What were they doing to Derham? He was jaunty, carefree, a pirate who had loved me. He still loved me. But surely even he could not stand out against the torture of the rack.

But when they took his poor broken body from that cruel instrument, he had said no more than that he had already told them. He regarded me as his wife and had acted accordingly. After he had returned from Ireland and I was the King’s wife, there had been no communication between us other than that which involved his work.

Damport was less brave. I saw him as a victim caught up with something with which he was not in any way concerned. He had merely had the misfortune to be a close friend of Derham. All they wanted him to do was betray some confidence which Derham had given him. I was sure there was nothing to betray, for Derham would only tell him what he had already confessed. Derham did not tell lies.

Damport thought he was safe. He had done nothing wrong. But they insisted that there must be something Derham had confided in him, and if he would not tell them willingly, they must force him to do so.

I wondered what the poor young man felt when he heard those sinister words. They had noticed his beautiful teeth, and he had betrayed his pride in them.

He had remarkable teeth, they told him. He was naturally very proud of them. It would be a pity if anything happened to spoil them. Now they must ask him what it was that Derham had confided in him.

There was nothing, he insisted.

Did not Derham say that the King was an old man and, when he died, he, Derham, would marry Katherine Howard?

No, Derham had said no such thing. Would he think again? It was very important. Derham had said that, had he not? No, no. I could imagine his voice—high-pitched, insistent—Damport would not lie on such a matter.

I could picture those cruel men admiring his teeth. Such a great pity. How often did one see such teeth?

I was horrified when I heard what they did to Damport. They took out those beautiful teeth with an ugly instrument and reduced his mouth to a bleeding mass.

I could imagine his agony.

“Yes, yes!” he cried. “He said that to me. When the King, who was an old man, died, he would marry Katherine Howard.”

It was too late. He had lied to them for no purpose. And it had not saved his beautiful teeth—for they were already ruined.

They had taken Manox too. Merely a humble musician, he had not been seen in my presence since he arrived at Court. He immediately admitted to a certain intimacy a long time ago. There was no evidence that he had even spoken to me since.

He was not a man of good character. They questioned him and did not feel that it was necessary to apply the torture.

All their hopes were fixed on Derham.

My Uncle Norfolk came to see me. My hopes rose slightly. It was true I had known little kindness from the Duke, but I deluded myself into thinking that he might help me—for he was, after all, my uncle. I was of his blood. He must in all reasonableness do what he could to save me. He had some influence with the King. He was one of the foremost men in the land. I was in such an abject state of misery that I clung to any hope.

That was soon dispelled when he stood regarding me with scorn and obvious dislike. There was no trace of pity.

He began by upbraiding me.

“You wicked creature! Do you realize how the King is suffering because of your lewd conduct?”

I began to stammer that I knew he would be grieved, and I was sorry for it. I had wanted to tell the King what had happened right at the beginning, but had been prevented from doing so.

He waved an impatient hand.

“Have done with your babbling. You have brought shame on your family. You have disgraced us all. A curse on the day you were born.”

“Please … please,” I cried, feeling the hysteria rising within me. “I am sorry … I am …”

“Sorry! You will be sorry, without doubt. The King is sunk deep in sorrow. He gave you much and how did you repay him?”

“I did all I could to please him.”

“God help me to endure this,” he murmured. “You graceless girl! The King wept … wept indeed … tears of anguish … when he heard the truth. He says he will never marry again. You are a wicked, lewd girl … to have brought him to this. You are a disgrace to your family.”

I was feeling angry now. It helped soothe my wretchedness a little. I whipped it up, for I did not want to break into one of those fits of madness which had beset me since I had feared what my fate would be; and because I was as terrified of living as much as dying, I did not know which way to turn. I was like a trapped animal. I was a fool to have thought that Norfolk would have brought a spark of hope to my desperate plight. So I fanned my anger against him.

I cried: “Should you condemn the rest of us?”

He stared at me. “What mean you, insolent girl?”

“I am aware of your friendship with your laundress. Can you really be so very shocked by me?”

He stared at me, and I was pleased to see he was taken aback.

He stammered slightly: “I am not the wife of the King.”

I laughed sardonically.

“Pray do not seek with insolence to excuse your loathsome faults.”

“You can add hypocrisy to yours, my lord.”

I thought he was going to strike me, for he came toward me, hand raised. But doubtless he thought I was a pitiful creature, not worth his venom.

“I’ll have none of your insolence,” he said. “Do not attempt to prattle of what is beyond your understanding.”

“That is not beyond my understanding. It is, after all, a simple enough matter. I may be a foolish girl, but you, a man of rank and mature age, are an adulterer.”

His face was suffused with purple color. I did not care. I was too much afraid of death to be afraid of him; and I knew by now that he would have done nothing to help me. Indeed, he was on the side of those who would destroy me.

I said: “Then does it depend on who commits the act whether it is a sin or not? What of the King himself? The Duke of Richmond was his natural son.”

“Be silent! Do not add idiocy to your immorality. If you talk thus, there will be short shrift for you. I told you that when the King heard of your conduct, he wept … yes, bitter tears. Think what a future you could have had. The King believed in you. You deceived him completely.”

“I did not. I did not. I was myself… all the time.”

“You … a low wanton, sporting with a servant!”

“A higher rank than a laundress, and he is a Howard.”

He glared at me, ignoring the reference to his Bess Holland.

Then he said: “There are more than one claiming the name who are unworthy to do so. Your grandmother, the Dowager Duchess, has with her son behaved in a most unseemly manner. What a sad day for the family when they joined it. You have spurned my help, as has your grandmother. She is a foolish old woman. She is in the Tower now and this could cost her her head.”

“Oh no. She has done nothing … nothing.”

“She is a traitor. She knew of this … this intrigue between you and Derham and she accepted it. She allowed you to marry the King, when she knew full well that you were unworthy to do so.”

I was silent. It was true, in a way. She had known what had taken place between Derham and me. She had not allowed me to mention it. Then she had shown her guilt by opening Derham’s coffers, for fear something incriminating might be found there. She had given Damport money to persuade him not to reveal anything he might know against Derham. I could see that she had behaved in a very guilty manner. But she was old and tired and frightened. And the Duke would do nothing to help her—any more than he would for me. He would show himself to be against us more vehemently, in order to ingratiate himself with the King.

I could see that he was indeed our enemy.

There was only one who would help me: and that was the King himself.

I cried out: “I will speak to the King. I can explain to him. He will understand. He will listen to me. He will not be cruel … as you are.”

“You talk like a fool. Do you think the King will see you now that he knows you for the slut you are?”

“He will … he will. I know he will.”

“You have done enough harm already. Why am I plagued with such a family? And you are worse than any. To think that you are a niece of mine! There was that other niece. You know what happened to her, do you not? And here you are, proving to be such another. Your Uncle William and his wife! We have always been a great family … and these intruders!”

I wanted to tell him that the family had not always held high honors, even before his father married a second wife, who was his own stepmother. I felt wretched, thinking of her in that cold prison—she who had always felt the cold so keenly, and now she was old, infirm and very, very worried.

I wanted to shout at him, to tell him how heartless he was, how he cared only for himself, but what was the use? I was terrified that I would fall into one of my wild moods, when I became hysterical and in an even worse state than I was now.

I was greatly relieved when he went. He left me with a firm resolve. I had been right when I had said I must see the King.

I must. He was the only one who could save me. A word from him and everything would be well. I believed he would help me, if I could only talk to him.

I was obsessed with one thought. I had to find a way of seeing the King. I realized that no one would help me reach him. I had to find my own way to him. I would kneel to him. I would beg. Did I not know how to enchant him? I would appeal to him, remind him of what we had been to each other. Had he not said he had never had such pleasure in a woman as he had had in me?

I knew how to cajole and caress. I knew what pleased him. I would enchant him again, just as I had when we were first married.

I could do it. I knew it. The most difficult part was to reach him.

Although I did not see most of my ladies-in-waiting now, and Jane was the only one who talked with me, they were still in the household. They must not know what I intended to do.

Jane had said: “You know the King still loves you. They say he is very melancholy. He does not take pleasure in his food, as was his wont. They are saying he would have you back if it were not for his ministers. That is what he really wants.”

“I’m sure … if I could only speak with him …”

“They have sent messengers to France informing King Francis of all that has happened, and Francis has sent his condolences and sympathy. If only they had not done that.”

“What then?” I asked eagerly.

“The King would not want King Francis to think that the King of England could keep a wife who behaved as they say you have and then mildly forgive her. That is why they sent those messages to France, before the King could make some excuse for having you back.”

“Oh, no … no,” I said.

“But yes. It would destroy the King’s dignity … his standing. It would show him to be too dependent on you. Oh, they have made it difficult for him, but the fact that he wants you back should put heart into you.”

“It does. It does indeed, for, if he wants to … surely he will.”

“Well, you see, these people who are responsible for putting you where you are now … well, it would go ill with them if you were taken back to favor. They would think you would have your revenge.”

“Oh, I would not. I would not. I would be only too happy to forget.”

“Poor Derham. He will never be the same again. He is destroyed. Innocent Damport … you see, you could not forget.”

“Oh yes, poor Derham. He was so handsome. Oh, Jane, what can he be like now?”

“It is for you to think of getting back. If the King loves you enough … it could be so. They are saying he is more unhappy now than when he was ridding himself of Anne Boleyn, and that his feelings were no stronger for her than they were for you … in the beginning.”

“Oh, Jane, if only I could speak to him.”

“If the opportunity should come, you must be ready.”

“I swear I will, Jane. I swear it.”

I looked for it. I waited for it, and it came at length.

The King was at Hampton Court. My spirits rose at the thought of that. If it were going to happen, it would be now.

I realized that, although I was not in a cell, I was to a certain extent a prisoner.

My ladies were there, as they had been, although apart. They were, in a sense, my jailers. I had never attempted to break free from them, having no inclination to walk out. I could not face anyone at Court in my present situation. I was in no mood or any state to do so. All I wanted was to hide myself.

But now I must leave my apartments and get to that section of the palace where the King might be. I knew at what hour he would be attending Mass in the chapel, where I had often been with him. If I could reach him while he was there, I could be certain of seeing him, and that was what I proposed to do. To reach the chapel, I must traverse the long gallery which led to it, and this entailed descending the backstairs from my apartment before I came to the gallery: then I could hurry along it to the chapel.

I had only a vague idea how I should act when I saw Henry. My hair was flowing about my shoulders in the style he most liked. I would throw myself at his knees and I would sob out my misery. I should tell him that I only wished to live if he and I could be happy again as we had been when we were first married.

I pictured him as I had seen him so many times, his face creasing into tenderness, the slackness of his mouth, which could look so cruel and yet be gentle for me; I could see the tears of sentiment in the little eyes. I knew exactly how to make him look like that, and all I needed was to be with him.

I left my bedchamber and went quietly to the adjoining room. There was no one there. Cautiously I opened the door which led to the ladies’ quarters. I paused and listened. I heard the sound of voices. Some of them were there.

I hesitated. Jane had said that they would try to prevent my leaving. I dared not wait too long or Mass would be over and the King gone. I should have to chance being seen. In any case, who were they to prevent my going where I wished? I was not their prisoner … or was I?

I glanced into the room. A group of them were seated at the far end. I did not have to pass them—just slip quietly to a door and out to the stairs.

I was half-way to it when one of the ladies looked up. She exclaimed with surprise and stood up. I saw that it was Margaret Morton.

“Your Majesty…” she began, but I took no notice and sped toward the door.

They were all on their feet now.

“Your Majesty, what is it you require?”

I did not answer. I was through the door and starting down the stairs.

“Your Majesty! Your Majesty!” They were coming after me. I knew they would try to stop my reaching the King, as Jane had warned me they would. I felt the hysteria rising in me. I must see him. I must. Everything depended on it. They were close to me now … not just one of them, but at least half a dozen.

“Where are you going?” I thought that was Katherine Tylney.

“Your Majesty! Come back. We are here to serve you.”

I thought: you are here to prevent my reaching the King.

I was in the gallery now. I ran as fast as I could. I was breathless … and they were very close to me. One of them reached out and caught my gown. I snatched it away. I had reached the chapel, but they were surrounding me.

I saw Katherine Tylney, Margaret Morton and Joan Bulmer among them. There was fear on their faces. They were as determined not to allow me to see the King as I was to see him. But I was one and they were so many.

They were all round me. They laid their hands on me.

“Leave me,” I commanded. “Leave me.”

They did not answer. They looked sly and triumphant as they pulled me away from the chapel door.

“Take your hands from me,” I cried.

“Your Majesty is unwell. We are going to look after you. Come … let us take you back to your apartment.”

I kept crying out to them to leave me, to take their hands from me, but they dragged me away, nearer and nearer to the stairs. I was sobbing, cursing them, screaming with fury. Perhaps he would hear. But perhaps he did not want to hear. I must make him look at me. Only my presence could do that.

I could hear that wild hysterical voice, and realized it was my own. I was bereft of all hope as they dragged me up the stairs. I was back in my chamber … in prison. I could hear them talking of me.

The Queen had had another of her mad turns.

I lay still while the wildness passed away. I felt limp, exhausted, saying to myself, I can never escape. It is coming to me as surely as it came to my cousin.

I was sunk in utter melancholy and despair.