He was not dead and very soon recovered but this incident did stress the need for the King to live a good many more years until a healthy son could appear to take over from him. At such a time as this, his death would cause great trouble in the country.

No one would have thought that my father could be near to death. He was strong and could still outride all his friends; he was always the champion of the games—though perhaps there was a little contriving to reach that result, and the most agile always managed to fall in just behind him. To win in a paltry game would be foolish if by doing so the winner risked the King's displeasure. But this did bring home the fact that even one as hale and hearty as my father could be struck down at a moment's notice.

There had been the usual murmurings. This was God's revenge for the manner in which he had treated his wife. This was his punishment for raising up his harlot and living in sin with her while his poor wife was neglected and left to die.

But that was soon over. Within a day or so he was his exuberant self again.

My mother was given a dignified funeral. My father dared not further offend the Emperor by giving her anything less. It had to be remembered that after all she was the daughter of the late King Ferdinand and Queen Isabella.

I longed to go, though I knew it would be a harrowing experience; but that was not permitted.

She was to be buried at Peterborough, in the abbey church there, and three weeks after her death her body was conveyed there by two stages. I should have been there. I was the one who mourned her more than any. I wished that I could have shared my grief with the Countess of Salisbury, but I was denied that comfort. The daughter of Mary Tudor and the Duke of Suffolk were the chief mourners in my place. The King's sister had always been a friend to my mother and had deplored the manner in which my father had put her from him. It seemed fitting therefore, that if I could not be there, her daughter should take my place. The procession rested for a night at Sawtry Abbey before proceeding to Peterborough; and there my mother was solemnly laid to rest.

Perhaps it was better that I should not be there, for the bishop who delivered the funeral sermon stated that on her deathbed my mother had admitted that her marriage to the King was no true marriage.

All those who had been close to her were shocked by this, for they knew it was a lie. I was deeply hurt that my father could do this. Was it not enough that she was dead, brought to an early grave through his cruelty?

It was almost like a sign from Heaven. First my father had his accident, which some would say was a warning to him; and on the very day of my mother's funeral Anne Boleyn miscarried. And to make matters worse, the three-month fetus was proved to be a boy.

How did she feel, I wondered, lying there? All her hopes had been on this boy. And it had happened again. It was a sign of Heaven's displeasure, I was sure. Anne Boleyn was doomed from that moment.

There were many to report the King's reception of the news that he had lost his longed-for son. He had not been able to hide his fury and disgust. He blamed her, of course. That was because now he wanted to be rid of her, as once before he had wanted to be rid of my mother.

It was emerging as a terrifying pattern. I exulted. The concubine would be put from him… just as my mother had been.

He had told Anne Boleyn, as she lay there exhausted from her ordeal, weighed down as she must have been with anxiety and fear of the future, “You will get no more boys from me.”

Everyone knew we were on the edge of great events and were waiting to see what would happen next.

LADY SHELTON WAS no longer insolent but mildly placating. I treated her coolly but I was not so foolish as to reject my new concessions. Her attitude told me a great deal about the rapidly declining importance of Anne Boleyn.

Eustace Chapuys came to see me. I was amazed that he had been allowed to do so, and my delight was profound.

He told me that there would almost certainly be a change in my position. He understood my deep sorrow at the death of my mother, but that event had made my position safer. There were rumors about Anne Boleyn. She would be removed in some way, there was no doubt of that. The King was working toward it.

“We do not know,” went on Chapuys, “what method the King will choose. Anne Boleyn has no royal relations to make things difficult for him. Her family owe their elevated position to the King's favors through Anne and her sister Mary before her. They will be put down as easily as they have been raised up. Her fall is imminent. The Seymours are promoting their sister. Edward and Thomas are a pair of very ambitious gentlemen, and Jane is a quiet, pale creature … a marked change from Anne Boleyn. But rest assured, events will move fast and we must be prepared.”

“Yes,” I answered.

“If the King puts Anne Boleyn from him, his next move will be to marry again. If his plan is to declare the marriage to Anne invalid, then his marriage to Queen Katharine was a true one and you are his legitimate daughter. We cannot guess how he will do it, but in any case it seems your status must change. There is a rumor that he had been seduced by witchcraft and now is free from it. We must hold ourselves in readiness for whichever way he turns.”

The intrigue was helpful to me in a way. It lifted me out of my overwhelming sorrow and imposed itself on the despondency which had enveloped me.

It was action … and whatever happened seemed preferable to sitting alone in my room brooding on the death of my mother.

I was now hearing more because I could have visitors

Anne Boleyn blamed her miscarriage on her uncle, the Duke of Norfolk, because he had broken the news of the King's accident to her too suddenly. She had been so worried about the King that the shock had brought on the premature birth of her child.

It did not help her. Nothing could help her now. The King was as determined to be rid of her as he had once been to possess her.

I had thought the last two years, when I had been more or less a prisoner, were the two most eventful through which I had lived. But there was more to come.

It was a relief to me to be able to talk to Chapuys and to learn that the Emperor's concern for me had been great and that he had always been eager to seize an opportunity to help me.

Now it seemed there was a chance.

“If you were out of this country, in Spain or Flanders … under the Emperor's care, he would be happier,” said Chapuys. “The King, your father, has shown himself to be capable of any rash act which momentarily serves his purpose. He broke with Rome so that he might marry Anne Boleyn. To take such an unprecedented step for such a reason must give us all some concern. Whether Queen Katharine was poisoned—and poisoned at his command, we cannot be sure, but it is a possibility which we must not lose sight of. The Emperor would feel happier if you were out of the country.”

“My father would never let me go.”

“Certainly he would not. It would be a great blow to him if he thought you were with the Emperor, for if he declared his marriage to Anne Boleyn nall and void, you are the heir to the throne.”

“But he has declared his marriage to my mother was no true one, and it was said by the bishop at her funeral service that she admitted it, which was a lie, I know … but it was all done at my father's command.”

“That was before he knew that Anne Boleyn had lost the child. All is different now. Her reign is over.”

“They say that he plans to put another in her place.”

He nodded. “We cannot be sure which way events will turn but you must be prepared.”

“What do you suggest?”

“This is highly secret. If it were mentioned outside these walls, it could cause trouble…great trouble. It would cost you your life and there would be little I could do to save it. I should immediately be sent back to Spain. You understand the importance of secrecy?”