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.