“Do you want to reprove her for letting me in?” asked Jane maliciously. “Marry! I thought when my husband came into a lady’s chamber, there should I follow him!”
“How are you, Jane?” said Anne.
“Very well, I thank you. You do not look so, sister. This affair of Suffolk must have upset you. I hear he is raging. You accused him of incest, so I heard.”
Anne flushed hotly. There was that in her sister-in-law to anger her even when she felt most kindly towards the world; now, the woman was maddening.
Jane went on: “The King’s sister will be most put about. She retains her fiery temper. . . . And what Frances will say I cannot think!”
“One would not expect you to think about any matter!” said Anne cuttingly. “And I do not wish you to enter my apartment without announcement.”
“Indeed, Anne, I am sorry. I thought there would be no need to stand on ceremony with your brother’s wife.”
“Let us go, Jane,” said George wearily; and she was aware that he had not looked at her since that one first glance of distaste when she entered the room.
“Oh, very well. I am sure I know when I am not wanted; but do not let me disturb your pleasant conversation —I am sure it was most pleasant . . . and loving.”
“Farewell, Anne,” said George. He stood by the bed, smiling at her, his eyes flashing a message: “Be of good cheer. All will be well. The King adores you. Hast forgotten he would make you Queen? What of Suffolk! What of any, while the King loves you!”
She said: “You have done me so much good, George. You always do.”
He stooped and kissed her forehead. Jane watched jealously. When had he last kissed her—kissed her voluntarily, that was—a year ago, or more? I hate Anne, she thought, reclining there as though she were a queen already; her gowns beautifully furred—paid for by the King doubtless! Herself bejeweled as though for a state function, here in her private apartments. I hope she is never Queen! Katharine is Queen. Why should a man put away his wife because he is tired of her? Why should Anne Boleyn take the place of the true Queen, just because she is young and sparkling and vivacious and witty and beautifully dressed, and makes people believe she is more handsome than anyone at court? Everyone speaks of her; everywhere one goes one hears her name!
And he loves her . . . as he never loved me! And am I not his wife?
“Come, Jane!” he said, and his voice was different now that he spoke to her and not to his sister.
He led her out, and they walked silently through the corridors to their apartments in the palace.
She faced him and would not let him walk past her.
“You are as foolish about her as is the King!”
He sighed that weary sigh which always made her all but want to kill him, but not quite, because she loved him, and to kill him would be to kill her hopes of happiness.
“You will talk such nonsense, Jane!”
“Nonsense!” she cried shrilly, and then burst into weeping, covering her face with her hands; and waited for him to take her hands, plead with her to control herself. She wept noisily, but nothing happened; and taking down her hands, she saw that he had left her.
Then did she tremble with cold rage against him and against his sister.
“I would they were dead, both of them! They deserve to die; she for what she has done to the Queen; he for what he has done to me! One day . . .” She stopped, and ran to her mirror, saw her face blotched with tears and grief, thought of the cool, lovely face of the girl on the bed, and the long black hair which looked more beautiful in its disorder than it did when neatly tied. “One day,” she went on muttering to herself, “I believe I shall kill one of them . . . both of them, mayhap.”
They were foolish thoughts, which George might say were worthy of her, but nevertheless she found in them an outlet for her violent feelings, and they brought her an odd comfort.
A barge passed along the river. People on the banks turned to stare after it. In it sat the most beautiful lady of the King’s court. People saw how the fading sunlight caught her bejeweled person. Her hair was caught up in a gold coif that sat elegantly on her shapely head.
“Nan Bullen!” The words were like a rumble of thunder among the crowd.
“They say the poor Queen, the true Queen, is dying of a broken heart . . .”
“As is her daughter Mary.”
“They say Nan Bullen has bribed the Queen’s cook to administer poison unto Her Most Gracious Majesty . . .”
“They say she has threatened to poison the Princess Mary.”
“What of the King?”
“The King is the King. It is no fault of his. He is bewitched by this whore.”
“She is very lovely!”
“Bah! That is her witchery.”
“’Tis right. A witch may come in any guise . . .”
Women in tattered rags drew their garments about them and thought angrily of the satins and velvets and cloth of gold worn by the Lady Anne Rochford . . . who was really plain Nan Bullen.
