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“I shall take this to the king,” she said, “and demand that he investigate it.”

The breathtaking audacity of the action caught us all unaware. What would Percy say? He, as Anne knew, was not a man of strong will, and he’d been further broken since their ephemeral romance by a wife as icy and depressive as the north lands he ruled over.

And yet, mayhap Mary Talbot had reason for her coldness.

Expectedly, within the month Henry Percy was to be questioned under oath. Unexpectedly, the few of us who knew Anne during that time were also to be deposed. Her family spoke freely, of course, knowing little, and after the Sweat there was only myself remaining of those who had served her during that time.

I was called before one of the king’s chaplains, a priest of the age one expects to be tending to abbey physic gardens rather than deposing young widows. He sat me down in his office.

“My lady, I’ve heard that you are a woman of honor and valor.”

“Thank you, Father,” I said. “I strive to be.”

“I understand that you were a friend at court with Lady Anne during the time in question.”

“Yes,” I said. “I was here to serve her.” I hoped to deemphasize that I’d been her friend and therefore a repository to her secret thoughts.

“Do you recall her relationship with Henry Percy?” Father Peter asked.

“I recall that they were affectionate toward one another,” I said.

“Do you recall the moment that they became engaged? Surely that would stick out in your memory. Those kinds of things do, with young women.”

Is he trying to entrap me? “I was not privy to any of their private conversations.”

“So to the best of your knowledge, with all of your understanding, they were not precontracted. Nor had they pledged themselves to one another.”

My conversation in the litter with Anne that year was crystal-clear. She’d promised never again to pledge herself to a weak man. Was there a difference between a pledge and a precontract? I had thought not. But I was not sufficiently sure and I could see a way round this.

“No. They were not precontracted.”

“Nor pledged?”

I considered myself a poor liar. I had, I’d thought, little practice. So it was hard to keep my face from betraying me as I answered, “No.”

I was almost certain he knew that I was lying but he pressed no more and dismissed me.

I scurried to my room, burdened with shame. I recalled Edmund’s taunt about the court bending me to its will and my certainty that it would not happen. After the ladies’ gathering that evening I drew aside my sister, Alice.

“I have something I need to confess. A sin.”

She raised her eyebrows in question. “To me?”

I shook my head. “No. In fact, ’tis something I cannot confess to anyone. Not even a priest. And yet—my spirit within me needs relief.”

She drew me near her and kissed my temple. “Dear Meg. Only our Lord can forgive your sins, so ’tis to Him you should bring your transgressions. As Master Tyndale pointed out, Holy Writ teaches that there is forgiveness for all that repent and believe therein. See now. If you do some harm to me, you do not go to Margaret or John and ask them to ask me to forgive you. You come direct to me. There need not be intercession by anyone on your behalf except by Christ, the High Priest. ’Tis one great reason we push for church reform. So go and confess to Him who tells no secrets.”

“Just…. tell Him? And then what? How shall I know ’tis taken hold?”

She laughed. “’Twill take hold. But here’s how you’ll know. ’Twill be harder and harder to sin again likewise, of a willing spirit, and ’twill grow stronger and stronger in you to do right when tempted to wrong.”

After allowing Edithe to help me dress for the evening, I dismissed her but kept my candle burning and took Will’s New Testament out from the hiding place in the false bottom I’d fashioned in one of my drawers. I opened it up to read, looking for relief. I started at the beginning and kept reading through the Gospel of Saint Matthew. I admit to it: it was like hearing Him whisper in my ear, or shout in my chambers. I read till I reached the twenty-sixth chapter, wherein the Lord said, “For this is my blood of the new testament, that shall be shed for many, for the remission of sins.”

His blood and I met again.

I closed my eyes, confessed my wrongdoing, and asked forgiveness for my lie. I felt a gentle peace settle around me and as it did, I could breathe easily. As I went to slip the New Testament back into its hiding place, I noticed something strange. The wreath of daisies had been moved from the place I’d put it, near Romans 8. That was where I’d left it, for certes.

It more than unsettled me to know that someone had been in my chamber, searching through my things. I could do naught but ask Edithe if I had had visitors, though, because to ask if any had seen my Bible would be to train the eye upon myself. I could have moved it to a different hiding place, but I doubted that would have protected me. I could have disposed of the Holy Writ, but that I would not do.

Within the week Henry Percy had been questioned under oath before two archbishops and then again in the presence of the Duke of Norfolk and the king’s lawyer. He swore on the Blessed Sacrament that there had been no precontract with Anne. They did not ask him about a pledge and Anne was never questioned.

Henry set about refitting St. James’s Palace, which he had bought the year before with the intent of preparing it to be the residence for the Prince of Wales he expected shortly to arrive.

Within days of the closing of the Percy hearings Anne came to share joyous news. She took my hands in her own. “I am to be married.”

“Anne!” I said. “When and where?”

“In October. In France.”

Of course. Where else would Anne be married but in France?

Henry immediately set about raising Anne to the highest levels so that she would be a fitting bride for him. As mistress of her wardrobe I had the responsibility to see that her clothing was well kept at all times and that Anne was stunningly prepared and presented for every occasion.

“Look!” She lifted the lid on a box that held an open-sleeved cloak of black satin. Next was a black satin nightgown, one I was certain Henry had intended to see in private sometime. My favorite was a French-cut gown in green damask, a dress suitable for a queen. I suspected that green damask would be slipping its way through the hands of most fashionable seamstresses for months after Anne debuted it.

The king came by her chambers, as he often did, that afternoon. He took her in his arms. They kissed for so long that the rest of us ladies in the room busied ourselves and pretended not to see or hear. I felt a small seed of jealousy shoot roots into my heart. My own body ached with the desire for someone to hold it, my lips for someone to require them. Instead, I busied myself with cloth and gowns.

“I bring good tidings, sweetheart,” Henry said. “I have sent a request to Katherine to retrieve your jewels. I expect them to arrive ere long and then we will have them quickly reset afore your marquess ceremony next month.”

All knew that a “request” from Henry was no request at all.

Anne leaned over and kissed his small mouth. “Thank you, Your Majesty. I want to do well by you.” It may have looked like pure gratefulness, or even greediness, to an onlooker, but to me, who knew her heart, I knew it was a response of love. Anne remained deeply in love with the king. And he, apparently, with her.

“You will, sweetheart.” He caressed her shoulder and, as we ladies were present, limited it to that.

A week later he stormed into his great presence chamber and shouted for his chamberlain. When the poor man arrived, the king threw a stack of papers at him. “Once again, the dowager princess has been ill advised and acted upon it.” His manservant reached down to pick up the scattered papers and quickly scanned them. By now, Henry had stomped his way up the dais and had settled on his throne beneath a scarlet canopy. “Katherine informs me that, since the new year, she is forbidden from giving me anything. Giving me! They are not hers to give. They belonged to my lady mother and shall soon adorn my lawful queen.”