I wait for the signal that the ladies are to withdraw, but the dancing goes on long into the night. Only after midnight does the queen rise from her chair under the cloth of estate and curtsey to the king. He bows to her, with every sign of respect. He takes her hand and he kisses her on both her cheeks. Her ladies and I rise from our stools or reluctantly trail away from the dancing and prepare to leave.
The queen says: “Good night, God bless you,” and smiles at her husband. Princess Mary, her daughter, comes to stand behind her; Mary Brandon, the Dowager Queen of France, comes behind her. I follow them, all the ladies in order of their precedence, we are all ready leave—but Anne Boleyn has not moved.
I feel a moment’s horrible embarrassment: she has made a mistake and I, or someone else, had better smooth it over. She has not noticed that we are leaving and she will look a fool, scampering behind us when the queen withdraws. It doesn’t matter much, but it’s awkward and stupid of her to be inattentive to the time-honored rituals of the court. I step forward to take her by the arm and curtsey to the queen and sweep her into the train of ladies, to do this young woman the favor of skimming over her error before she is embarrassed by her mistake. But then I see something in the tilt of her head and the gleaming challenge of her smile, and I hesitate.
She stands surrounded by a circle of the most handsome men of the court, the center of attention in the beautiful arched hall, her dark head crowned by a French hood of deep crimson set with rubies and gold thread. She does not look out of place, she does not look shamed as she should, a lady-in-waiting who has forgotten her place. Instead, she looks utterly triumphant. She sweeps a shallow curtsey, her red velvet gown spread wide, and she does not hurry to join the queen’s train, as she should.
There is a momentary pause, almost an intake of breath, and then the queen looks from her husband to the Boleyn girl as if she realizes that something new and strange is happening here. The young woman is not going to withdraw from the hall following the queen, walking behind the superior ladies in order of strict precedence—and since she was born the daughter of a simple knight there are very many of us to precede her. She is not coming at all. In this one act she has changed everything. And the queen is not ordering her. And the king is allowing this.
Katherine gives a little shrug, as if it does not much matter, turns on her heel, and walks from the great hall with her head held high. Led by the king’s own daughter the princess, the king’s sister—a princess by birth and a queen by marriage—his cousins like me born royal, all the other ladies of the court, we all follow the queen in deafening silence. But as we proceed up the broad stairs, we hear Anne’s seductive giggle.
I command Montague and Arthur to my rooms at dawn, before breakfast, before Prime, before anyone else in the royal household is stirring.
“You should have told me matters had gone so far,” I say sharply.
Montague checks that the door is tightly closed, and that his sleepy groom is standing outside. “I couldn’t write anything, and besides, I didn’t know.”
“You didn’t know?” I exclaim. “She serves as a lady-in-waiting but goes where she wants, dances with the king, and doesn’t leave when we do?”
“That’s the first time that has happened,” Arthur explains. “She’s never stayed behind before. Yes, she’s with him all the time; she goes alone to his rooms, they ride out just the two of them with the rest of us following behind, they sit together and talk or they gamble or they play and sing.” He makes an almost comical grimace. “Lady Mother, they read books of theology together! What sort of seduction is this? But she’s always been discreet before, she’s always been like all the others. She’s never stayed back like that.”
“So why now?” I demand. “In front of the French ambassador, and everyone?”
Montague nods at the question. He’s more of a politician than his brother. Arthur sees everything because he is all but inseparable from the king, one of the band of his close friends who go everywhere together; but Montague understands better what it means.
“Could it be for that very reason? Perhaps because this was the betrothal of Princess Mary to the French,” he suggests. “Anne favors the French, she spent years at the French court. She helped to bring this about and they know that. Henry doesn’t intend to befriend the Spanish again, they are to be our enemies. The queen—God bless her—is of the enemy. He feels free to offend her. Anne shows that it is her policy which will triumph.”
“What good does it do the king?” I ask crossly. “To insult the queen before the whole court does nothing but hurt her, and demean himself. And that young woman laughed as we left, I heard her.”
“If it wins him favor with the Lady, he’ll do it,” Arthur points out. “He’s beside himself. He’ll do anything.”
“What did you call her?”
“I called her the Lady. That’s what a lot of them are calling her.”
I could curse like a stable boy with rage. “For sure they can’t call her ‘Your Grace,’ ” I say sharply. “Or ‘Your Ladyship.’ She’s nothing more than a knight’s daughter. She wasn’t good enough for Henry Percy.”
“She likes anything that makes her stand out,” Arthur pursues. “She likes to be conspicuous. She likes the king to publicly acknowledge her. She’s terrified that everyone will think her nothing more than his whore, just like her sister, just like all the others. She makes him promise, all the time, that this will be different. She’s not to be another Bessie, she’s not to be another Mary. She’s not to be another laundry maid, or the French slut Jehanne. She’s got to be special, she’s got to be different. Everyone has to see that she is different.”
“The lead hackney,” I say vulgarly.
Montague looks at me. “No,” he says. “You have to see this, Lady Mother. It’s important. She’s more than his latest ride.”
“What more can she be?” I demand impatiently.
“If the queen should die . . .”
“God forbid,” I say instantly, crossing myself.
“Or say: if the queen should retire to live a religious life.”
“Oh, do you think she would?” Arthur asks, surprised.
“No, of course she wouldn’t!” I exclaim.
“She might,” Montague insists. “She might. And really—she should. She knows that Henry has to have a son. Fitzroy isn’t enough. Princess Mary isn’t enough. The king has to leave a legitimate male heir, not a bastard boy or a girl. The queen knows this, every princess knows this. If she could rise to greatness, if she could act with great generosity, she could retire from the marriage, take the veil, then Henry could be free to marry again. She should do that.”
“Oh, is this your opinion?” I ask bitingly. “The opinion of my son, who owes everything to the queen? Is this the opinion of the young men of the court who have sworn fealty to her?”
He looks awkward. “I’m not the only one saying it,” he says. “And many more think it.”
“Even so,” I say flatly. “Even if she were to choose to join a nunnery—and I swear she would not—that would make no difference to Anne Boleyn. If the queen stepped aside, it would only be for the king to marry a princess of Spain or France. The king’s whore would still be nothing but a whore.”