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My kisses fell on her face, hair, neck, breasts. I felt her tremble against me. I carried her over to the pillows and the fine furs heaped up against the wall near the fireplace. At once she was entirely mine.

I was not thinking at all; my mind had died and in itaited for her for over half a decade; I knew she was here tonight, and yielding to me. Beyond that I had no thoughts.

She was passive, yet not passive—a yielding sort of presence. She too knew what was coming, and yet could not resist it. She embraced it as she embraced me.

The coming together on the cushions before the fire was like a flame, a shaking of the soul. Even as it happened, in some far-off corner of myself I heard an inner voice saying, You will never be the same. It is all gone. Yet at that moment it felt as though all had just arrived. I burst upward into light, freedom, euphoria.

Afterwards ... there is always an afterwards. Yet this one was surprisingly gentle. I came back to earth to feel Anne next to me, Anne looking into my eyes. Her eyes seemed different from those of only a few minutes past. She stroked my face. Her naked body was half covered with the furs lying near the fireplace. Only her face was as before, with her long hair framing each side of her face and providing a modest cover for her breasts.

“Anne—I did—”

“Shhh.” Gently she laid her fingertips to my lips to silence me, then leaned over to kiss me. “Say naught.”

What a gift, to be allowed to say naught! To keep one’s feelings to oneself.

Together we lay for a long time, wordlessly, until it began to grow chill and the fire was almost down. I roused myself to get another log. She reached out a butterfly-like hand and stopped me.

“No,” she said. “Let it die. It is late.”

Wordlessly I dressed and left. I could not speak, nor were there any words I wished to say, even to myself,

XLVI

The next few days in France were taken up with petty business. I attended to it all, yet I was hardly there. I could not let myself forget the three hours in Anne’s apartment, yet I circled around them in my mind as something too terrifying and sacred to touch upon. Anne herself I saw not at all. Even on our voyage back to Calais she kept to her chambers below decks and sent me no message.

I did not see Anne for several days after our arrival back in England. She repaired to her quarters in the palace and seemed nunlike in her avoidance of company. I assumed she was ashamed and sensitive about her behaviour during our time in France, so I sought her out to reassure her that she had nothing to fear.

She looked more beautiful than ever when she opened the door and stared at me. I had almost forgotten her face, so jumbled up was it with my fantasies. In some demented way I wished I might never see her again. Yet at the same time I longed for her.

She stared at me, as at a stranger. “Yes?” she asked, politely.

“I wish to speak with you alone.”

It was early morning. She knew I meant truly to speak and nothing else.

I walked into her apartments. Here at Richmond they were rather sparsely furnished. She k/font>

“Like yourself and Katherine?” she laughed. Truly, that afternoon she seemed more like a schoolgirl than anything else. She seemed even younger than the Princess Mary.

“Yes. Not slender willows and daffodils like you.”

She threw back her head and laughed. “Then make me one, my love,” she said, first holding my hands and leaning back, so that her fine hair tossed and shone, then pulling me after her into her private chamber.

She was laughing; I was laughing; I had never been happier, nor loved her more. I believe we made Elizabeth on that drowsy, yet heightened afternoon.

New Year’s Day, 1533. My feet ached from standing in full state all day, both receiving and distributing the royal gifts in the new Great Hall of Hampton Court. Outside, the sky was a peculiar flat white, while inside all was red and gold and blue—fire and velvet and wine. I gave many spectacular presents—selected by Cromwell, as I no longer had the