I took to the castle as quickly as I could. Another woman I knew I would not lose to; no other woman could take my place with Will, of that I was as certain as I was that no other man could take his place with me. But God? How could I compete with God? I could not and therefore it was unjust of him to set up such a contest at all.
When I entered the room I saw my brother Edmund and he tipped his head toward me and smiled, if one could call it that.
He knew. And Thomas knew, too, which is why he’d told me earlier I wanted a man I could not have. Thomas had had too much to drink and was slumped in a chair in one far corner.
“Good-bye, Margaret,” Rose Ogilvy called to me as she headed toward her fine litter. No one called me Margaret—it was my mother’s name. They called me Meg to distinguish me from her.
I nodded politely, tears blinding my path, and hurried to Anne’s chamber ere the tears spilled down my cheeks.
I didn’t have to wait long. Anne arrived, dismissed her servants, and closed the door behind her.
“What ails you?” she asked, sitting beside me.
I fell into her arms and she held me as I poured out my story about Cardinal Wolsey and Lord Ogilvy and King Henry—the king who had his eyes and hands on the bride all evening!—talking about holy service.
“And so now Will’s studying for the priesthood of his own accord, and then he’ll take vows,” I said. Anne picked up a brush and began to brush my hair, and I finally calmed.
She began to tell me tales of the French court, and how exciting it was, and what her life was like. I stilled then, listening to her, glad to discuss something new.
After a bit I stood up, and as I did, the daisy fell from my hair.
“What’s this?”
I shook my head and let it fall to the ground. “Nothing important.”
I went to the trunk I had brought with my nightshift and a few personal items for spending the night. I withdrew a small, well-worn book and walked back to Anne.
“I want you to have this—a souvenir to take with you as you return to France.”
She held out her hand and took the book, then opened it and began to read a page here and there. “Meg, not your prayer book, your book of hours. Look here—you’ve added personal prayers and notes.”
“Take it,” I said.
“Surely it must be important to you—or you’d not have brought it tonight.”
She was right. I’d read from or written in or prayed from it every night.
No longer.
“I don’t need it anymore. I have no intention of praying to a God who has put me in the bloody hands of an evil father, who robs my kindhearted mother of her every breath, and who has stolen from me the only man I’ll ever love as well as my hope.”
Anne shook her head. “It’s not like that. You don’t know how this will end. Mayhap you and Will are not done yet.”
I sensed that there were things ahead that I did not yet understand nor could I foresee. I knew that feeling was meant to be comforting.
I did not want this comfort. I pushed the thought, and him, far away, and fast-locked the gate behind them.
“And you’ve written in your beautifully rendered Latin,” she said softly after reading a few pages, knowing that’s how I often spoke with God, and with Will. She tried to hand the book to me.
I firmly pushed the book back into her hands. “I will never speak Latin again.”
FOUR
Year of Our Lord 1522
Blickenham Manor, London, England
My mother had arranged for me to spend the months following the Christmas celebrations with my sister, Alice, at her home in Chelsea. So it was with some surprise that, one evening whilst we dined, a messenger arrived with a letter to my sister from our father. She nodded to the servant to set it aside till the meal was over, but her concern showed in her face. Had my mother passed away? Was my father in some kind of trouble? It was rare for him to have a care for me, so I wouldn’t have suspected that it involved me at all except for the burning feeling deep beneath my corset that warned me, preternaturally, that the tide was about to shift.
My nephew John Rogers was Alice’s oldest son, home from Cambridge; he paid no mind at all to the messenger. Rather he kept talking even whilst the serving girl ladled out his soup. “So Cranmer, of course, began to gather a group of us for late-night debates. He said he had been mightily troubled by the discourse that Luther had started and the longer he dwelled on the matter the more troubled his spirit became. Perhaps, he thought, Luther may be right on some points.”
Because Alice was the daughter of my father’s first wife she was much older than I, which meant that John and I were of an age, more like brother and sister than aunt and nephew. He turned directly toward me.
“A friend of yours was invited to the discussions,” he said to me. “Will Ogilvy. Do you remember him?”
Alice shifted in her seat and sent a confidence-inspiring smile in my direction. She often nurtured me when my own mother slipped under the horizon and was unable to attend to the questions and concerns of young womanhood. Alice had mended my broken wings as best she could after Will’s announcement that he would be a priest, reassuring me that she hadn’t married for affection, either, but had grown to love Master Rogers well.
Amenable Alice. Always compliant, making the best of things, peaceful and settled. I could see why my father found me a grave disappointment.
“I do remember Sir William,” I said. “Well.”
“He’s got quite a talent for languages,” John continued, sensing nothing amiss, I was sure, as men often do not. “And for debate. I’m not sure with whom he’s been sparring at rhetoric all of these years because it certainly wasn’t his brother Walter.” He turned to his mother. “I’d like to have Ogilvy to Blickenham sometime. You’ll not mind?”
“Of course he’s welcome,” Alice murmured. I made my way through the soup course as, thankfully, the conversation turned to other matters, and then excused myself from the meal as soon as decently possible.
I wasn’t in my room for long before there was a short knock on the door. “Come in,” I called out, expecting it to be my servant, Edithe. Instead it was my sister. She had a letter in her hand and she came and sat next to me on the bed.
“It’s from Father, as you know,” she began. “He’d like for you to pack your things and return to Allington. He’ll send a cart for you the day after tomorrow.”
I abruptly stood up. “What? Why? I’ve only just arrived.”
She reached up and folded my hand into her own. “It seems he’s found a potential husband for you and they’re coming to visit.”
I arrived home two days hence to find my father in high spirits and my mother aright on her own two feet, which was rare. I knew she meant to wring every last bit of vitality out of her bones to ensure that this meeting went well for my sake and for Father’s.
“Don’t overextend yourself, Lady Wyatt,” my father said, gesturing roughly for a manservant to bring a cushioned chair to the portico so my mother could sit in the sun whilst we waited for our guests to arrive. The manservant hefted a chair and my father had it arranged in the best possible spot before easing my mother into it. I had never seen my father be gentle with anyone or anything other than my mother and his horses. Alice never spoke of her mother; she’d died when Alice was young and Alice had been married off at fifteen—as soon as my own mother arrived at Allington. But I’d overheard the kitchen servants speak of my father’s first wife and he had treated her as rudely as he’d treated me, so I suspected that when he’d given her his hand in marriage it had been often and with blunt force.
Not so with my mother. If I’d been in the frame of mind to thank God for small favors this was one I could have thanked Him for. But I didn’t.