She was awakened by Urian barking and the acrid smell of burning. The Turkey rug in front of the hearth was afire. She leapt up and ran into the outer chamber, yelling for help. Her grooms and ushers came running, and smothered the flames before they could spread.
No harm had been done. The floor had been scorched, nothing more, and the room needed a thorough airing. She sat in her presence chamber, cuddling the dog, shuddering at the thought of what might have befallen her. She could not get out of her head one of the seditious prophecies that had been reported to the Council: “When the Tower is white, and another place green, then shall be burned two or three bishops and a queen.” It was a prediction that had been openly—and hopefully—recited by her detractors, and now it had so nearly come true. She was badly shaken. It had been Katherine who was meant to suffer martyrdom, not herself. She remembered that other prophecy, which had accompanied the horrible drawing of herself with her head cut off. It was frightening to think that there were those who sought her death.
A few days later, she received another nasty jolt. Uncle Norfolk came to her—a rare occurrence these days, for they did not speak to each other—and, in as gentle a manner as that brusque martinet was capable of, informed her that the King had taken a fall in the lists. “He fell so heavily that everyone thought it a miracle he was not killed, but mercifully he sustained no injury. Even so, madam, he gave us all a fright, for those of us who saw it thought his fall would prove fatal.”
Again she found herself trembling, and even Norfolk looked concerned.
“Niece, are you all right?” he barked.
“Yes, Uncle. I am just so relieved. It is dreadful to think of what might have happened.” For an instant she had glimpsed the fearful prospect of a future without Henry there to protect her from a hostile world; of herself and Elizabeth cast adrift, swept up in the maelstrom of civil war, and worse…
“I must go to the King,” she said, standing up on legs that threatened to buckle beneath her.
“There’s no need,” Norfolk said. “He doesn’t want a fuss. He’s quite cheerful and is being divested of his armor right now. Then he is going in to dinner.”
“I thank God to hear it,” Anne replied, calmer now, the specter of a sudden violent widowhood receding.
—
Henry had decided that Katherine should be buried in Peterborough Abbey with all the honors due to her as Princess Dowager of Wales. He spared no effort to afford her a magnificent state funeral, at which a great train of ladies was to follow the coffin, and provided black cloth for their apparel.
Chapuys suggested that it would well become his greatness to rear a stately monument to her memory, at which he declared that he would build Katherine one of the goodliest monuments in Christendom. Now that she was dead, he could afford to be generous, and gave the command for a tomb and effigy to be made. But he confiscated all Katherine’s personal effects to meet her funeral expenses.
“I’ve ordered a day of solemn obsequies,” he told Anne. “I and all my servants will attend, wearing mourning. It is fitting that I pay tribute to the memory of my sister-in-law.” It was a sentiment with which she could fully agree.
On the morning of the funeral, Anne had an impulse to accompany Henry to the obsequies. It would give her credit in the eyes of the Imperialists and smooth the path to friendship with the Emperor. She had her ladies dress her in black, but when she arrived at the King’s apartments, the presence chamber was deserted. The guards saluted her as she walked through to the privy chamber. Not a gentleman to be seen. They must all be in chapel already. Then she heard a woman giggle in a nearby closet, the one Henry used as a study. With every sense on high alert, Anne strode over and opened the door. There was her husband, in mourning attire, with Jane Seymour on his knee, his hand on her breast.
Of all the shocks she had received lately, this was the worst. It was one thing to know he was being unfaithful, another entirely to catch him in the act.
“How could you?” she screamed, almost hysterical, all her worst fears coming to the fore. Jane was herself, nine years before, and she, by some diabolical alchemy, was in Katherine’s place. Fortune’s wheel had turned completely.
Henry pushed Jane, none too gently, off his knee and leapt up.
“Go,” he said to her, and she scuttled away, smirking at Anne, who would have smacked her had she not disappeared so quickly.
“Darling, I am sorry,” Henry said, spreading his hands helplessly.
Anne was crying uncontrollably now. “Have you any idea how you have hurt me?” she sobbed. “The love I bear you is greater than Katherine’s ever was, and my heart breaks when I see that you love another.”
He had the grace to look abashed. “It meant nothing,” he said.
“Nothing? I saw you with my own eyes.” Suddenly she felt a cramping pain in her womb. Her hands flew to her belly, as if to protect the child.
Henry looked alarmed. “What is it?”
The pain had ceased. “It is the distress you have caused me!” she cried.
“Just be at peace, sweetheart, and all will go well with you,” he soothed. “Think of our son.”
“It’s a pity you didn’t!” she flung back, and left him standing there, open-mouthed.
No sooner had she reached her apartments than the pain came again.
—
Henry loomed over her. In his face she could read bitter disappointment and grief.
“A boy!” he wept. “A stillborn fetus of fifteen weeks’ growth, they tell me. This will be the greatest discomfort to all my realm.” He was in agony.
“I was in peril of my life,” Anne murmured, remembering the pain and the blood. I have miscarried of my savior, she thought. Never had she felt such extreme misery.
“And I have lost my boy!” Henry wailed.
“It was because of your unkindness!” she burst out. “You have no one to blame but yourself, for it was caused by my distress of mind over that wench Seymour.”
Henry stood up. “I will have no more boys by you,” he said icily.
“What do you mean?” she cried.
His look silenced her. “I see clearly that God does not mean to give me male children. I do not wish to discuss it now. I will speak to you when you are up.” And he left, glowering, looking very ill-done-by.
His words had struck fear into her, and it took all her courage to smile at her weeping ladies. “It is for the best,” she told them, “because I will be the sooner with child again, and the son I will bear shall not be doubtful like this one, which was conceived during the life of the Princess Dowager.” Nan Saville took her hand and squeezed it.