It was only when she was lying in bed alone in the dark that a dreadful thought came to her.
Suppose Henry had determined to marry Jane Seymour? The Emperor would far prefer Jane, who was known to be a good Imperialist. Yet Henry, surely, would not want to go through another divorce. Could he be plotting some other way to get rid of her? Oh, God, had she and Norris been observed? Had it been a trap? And had her father been appointed to that jury to lull her into a false sense of security while her enemies plotted a case against her?
They were legion. Cromwell, the Seymours, Chapuys, the Papists, Francis Bryan, Nicholas Carew…A disparate group with one thing in common.
She must calm down. These were night thoughts. She would feel better in the morning. She must remember that Henry had shown no sign of displeasure toward her—rather the opposite.
But she did not feel better in the morning. She still had a terrible feeling of nameless dread, that something awful was about to happen. She wished that Henry was there so that she could unburden herself to him. If anyone could make her feel safe, he could. But Henry had not visited her bed for three nights now, and that in itself seemed ominous.
What if something evil befell her? It would leave Elizabeth so vulnerable. What could she do to protect her?
She sent for her chaplain, Matthew Parker, a good reformist and a great preacher. Henry liked him as much as she did, and would heed what he said.
“I am afraid!” she told him. “I hope I’m mistaken, but I fear I might be accused of treason.” She was weeping now. The young chaplain waited until she had composed herself, his blunt features creased in concern. He tried to reassure her, saying it was all in her imagination, but she would not be comforted.
“You must help me!” she insisted. “If the worst happens, will you look to the care of my child? There is no one I trust more.”
Father Parker regarded her with compassion. “Your Grace may count on me,” he vowed. “I give you my word.”
—
She sat with her women, trying to concentrate on her sewing, but hemming smocks for the poor did not offer much distraction. Furtively she glanced at Madge, and Mary Howard, and Margaret Douglas, and all the rest. Did they know what was going on? What about those unexplained absences? Dare she confront them? They might think she was mad. For the first time, she found herself missing her sister. There had been no letters exchanged between them in nearly two years. Mary was still in Calais. George kept in touch. He said she sounded very happy. Lucky Mary!
Still Henry had not visited Anne. He had been in Council every day until late in the evening.
Anxiously she asked George if there was anything afoot.
“There’s trouble with France, I think,” he said. “Certain letters have been brought by the French ambassador. There’s no need to look so worried.”
Maybe Fran?ois had threatened war. If so, Henry’s visit of inspection to Calais was timely. They were due to leave three days after the traditional May Day jousts. Anne distracted herself by planning her wardrobe, choosing her most flattering gowns. Maybe the passion Henry had shown during their first sojourn at the Exchequer Palace would be rekindled. And maybe she would send for Mary and forgive her.
Leaving her maids and chamberers to pack the gowns in her traveling chests, she returned to her presence chamber, where she found Weston playing on a lute, Margaret Douglas deep in conversation with Thomas Howard, and Mark Smeaton standing in the oriel window looking miserable.
“Why so sad, Mark?” she asked briskly, disliking the bold, haughty mien he always adopted. She had avoided him since he had stared at her too familiarly in Winchester.
“It is no matter,” he said, and leered at her. By God, he was trying to play the game of love with her—and he but a lowly musician.
Her voice was icy. “You may not look to have me speak to you as I should do to a nobleman, because you are my inferior.”
He was still smiling at her. “No, no,” he said, “a look suffices me.” He bowed. “Farewell, your Grace.” And he sauntered out of her chamber, the insolent knave.
Well! she said to herself. Any more of that kind of conduct and Henry would hear of it.
—
After Mass on the last Sunday morning in April, Anne took Urian for a walk in Greenwich Park and stopped to watch a dogfight. She laid and won wagers, and returned to the palace feeling a little more cheerful.
After dinner, she gathered her ladies and favored gentlemen and led them into her privy garden, to make the most of the sunshine. Norris was of the company, and she guessed he was trying as hard as she to make it appear that there was nothing more between them than friendship—not so easy now that they had declared their feelings.
She bade him sit next to her on the stone bench in the arbor, keeping a safe distance between them. A few feet away, well within sight, the others were strolling along paths, chattering away, laughing and even kissing.
“Why have you not gone through with your marriage to Madge?” Anne asked.
Norris paused. “I’ve decided to tarry a time.”
She lowered her voice. “You look for dead men’s shoes, for if anything evil befell the King, you would look to have me.”
There was another silence. “No,” Norris murmured. “If I had any such thought, I would wish my head off. Madam, this is dangerous talk. To speak of the King’s death, even in jest, is no light matter.”
She knew it. It was treason to imagine or plot the death of the sovereign, and probably even to speak of it.
“Yes, but I can trust you,” she said. “Remember, I can undo you if I so please!” It was said in jest, but Norris was looking at her in horror.
“Madam, I pray I can trust you too,” he said, standing up and bowing.
“Don’t go,” she whispered.
“I have duties to attend to in the King’s privy chamber,” he said. “Good day to your Grace.”
As he walked away, she saw Lady Worcester’s brother, Sir Anthony Browne, enter the garden. He bowed in her direction and went to speak to his sister. They were looking at her curiously. She realized with a shiver of fear that he would have approached her garden by the path that skirted the arbor. Oh, God—he hadn’t heard what she and Norris had said? Sir Anthony was close to Henry and much respected by him. If he told the King about their conversation, Henry might well believe him. She would be condemned out of her own mouth, and Norris too. It might be inferred, from what she had said, that they shared a guilty secret. Violating the King’s wife was high treason. Any man convicted of it would suffer the unthinkable horrors of hanging, drawing, and quartering.