It was Jane, the Queen, who helped me through those days. There was something very gentle about her. I wondered if she ever considered the perilous nature of her position. Did she ever give a thought to what had happened to Anne Boleyn, so passionately loved at one time and, not so long after their marriage, sent to the block? If she did think of her, she gave no sign of it. She did give a good deal of thought to the comfort of others; she was far from clever; indeed, she was something of a simpleton, but she was able to understand how I was feeling, and she did everything possible to put me at my ease.

Now that I had begun to live a double life, as it were, hiding my true motives under a cloak of deceit, I felt a little ashamed in the company of Jane, who was so straightforward and guileless. But sometimes I asked myself whether she, too, was playing her own little game? How did it feel to be the third wife of a man who had destroyed the two who had gone before? Was Jane assuming the role of docile, loving wife? One might say: Why had she married? Poor girl, what chance had one of her temperament against two ambitious brothers and a monarch who desired her?

However, she did help me over those first difficult days at Court.

My father was tender with her, liking her submissiveness. What a contrast to Anne Boleyn! But I fancied there were times when I saw a little impatience creeping through, and I found myself guessing how long it would take him to tire of her.

I remember one occasion particularly. Jane was so eager to make our reconciliation complete and did everything to smooth things between us, and one day she remarked how pleased he must be to have me at Court: his own daughter, who was so beloved by the people and so important in their eyes.

He looked at her with faint contempt and said, “You are a fool, Jane. You should be thinking of the sons you will have… and not seeking to bring forward others.” He touched her stomach and went on with a touch of coarseness, “That is where your hopes should lie.”

Poor Jane looked abashed. Was she really beginning to suffer from that anxiety which had plagued the lives of both my mother and Anne Boleyn? Was it six months she had been married and no sign of pregnancy yet?

There were times when I gave myself up to the pleasures of being at Court. Jane saw that I had new gowns. I chose bright colors. I felt I needed to because, although I was not ill-favored, I was not startling in any way. My once fresh-colored complexion had grown pale—probably from the privation I had suffered. My features were regular. I suppose I should have been considered quite ordinary outside royal circles; but at least I was the King's daughter, and that set me apart—particularly as he had recognized me as such.

I encountered a certain amount of adulation and secret congratulations, for most knew that I had come through some hazardous times and still managed to survive.

I was twenty-one, so perhaps a little frivolity could be forgiven me. I danced—as I loved to—and I joined in the festivities with a gusto due to long abstinence. I was, in fact, delighted to be back at Court.

Jane noticed this, and it pleased her. “We shall see that it is just as it used to be long ago,” she told me. “I believe you were then the darling of the Court.”

“That was when I was a little girl … and all was well between my parents.”

Jane nodded and changed the subject. I noticed that she avoided any talk which might be controversial; so perhaps she was not quite so simple after all.

Secure in her friendship, I began to talk more freely.

I told her about my dear Lady Salisbury and how, since she had left me all those years ago, I had not seen her. I wished to hear of her and longed to see her.

Jane understood. “She is well, I think,” she said. “But she does not come to Court.”

“No. I suppose her friendship with me over all those years has debarred her.”

“The King is displeased with her son, Reginald Pole.”

“Yes, I know,” I said. “Do you think that, now all is well between us, my father might allow me to see the Countess?”

She said she would see what could be done.

Poor Jane. Her endeavors brought down the wrath of the King on her head.

She came to me in some distress. “He was quite angry. He shouted at me. Had he not warned me not to meddle? ‘No,' he said. ‘The Countess of Salisbury may not come to Court. Her son is a traitor. I'd have had his head if he had not been skulking abroad spreading malice about me. As for the lady in question, she would do well to take care.' He was really angry.”

I said, “I am sorry you did it for me.”

She said, “I know how one feels about the companions of our young days. They pass all too quickly, don't they, and then… one grows up.”

Poor Jane! She was striving so hard to be the docile wife, remembering no doubt the horrific fate of Anne Boleyn, perhaps giving a thought to the tribulations of my mother. She was in a position as dangerous as any in the country, without my mother's stern resolution and strong character and Anne Boleyn's fire and sharp wit to help her face the onslaught when it came.

Jane was already learning that—as with those two—everything depended on her ability to produce a son. I was indeed sorry that she had aroused the King's anger through me.

I did remember, though, Margaret Bryan's concern for Elizabeth, and I talked to Jane about the little girl.

“She is bright, intelligent and very attractive,” I told her.

Jane nodded. She would have liked to bring Elizabeth to Court. I was there, and Elizabeth should be. Jane longed for a happy family atmosphere. The little one was not responsible for her mother's misdeeds. Jane's eyes filled with tears when I told her how the child was being neglected, no money being sent for her clothes, and how Lady Bryan was at her wits' end wondering if in a few months' time she would have any clothes at all.

“There is a very small allowance for her food,” I said. “It is so sad. She is after all the King's daughter.”

Jane listened and sympathized.

“I shall bring her here,” she said. “It will be possible later but just now the King is so angry at the mention of her mother's name that I dare not.”

I understood, of course. She had risked his displeasure when she had talked to him of the Countess. She could not do it again by mentioning Elizabeth.

“It will change,” she assured me. “But as yet I dare not.”

I was liking her more every day.

She told me I must stay at Court. We had become such good friends that we should not be apart.

This was gratifying. Jane might be a mild creature but she was the Queen and might have a little influence on the King. It was an indication of how my character had changed that I could work out the advantages which could ensue from such a friendship. But on the other hand, I was fond of her. It was impossible not to be fond of Jane. I had a strong urge to protect her. She seemed to me like a lamb among wolves, unsuspicious of danger because, for the time being, they were not preparing to harm her.

So I did want her friendship and not only because of the advantages it might bring me. I even thought that at some stage I might be able to help her, for, one day, God knew, she might need any help she could get.

In the meantime she went on in her own sweet way and we were often together.

The King was pleased to see the friendship between us, though there were times when a tremor of fear ran through me because I thought I caught a gleam of suspicion in his eyes.

But Jane continued to delight in my company, and she confided to me that she very much wanted to bring Elizabeth to Court. “In time,” she assured me, “the King will forget her mother, and his attitude will change toward the child.”

I hoped so. But at the moment I must rejoice in my own return to favor.