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The next few days passed as in a phantasm. I was on earth, yet I was not. By day I signed papers and dressed as a King and behaved as a King. By night I was Anne’s husband, her secret husband.

January ended, February began. Still the Pope delayed. Nothing was forthcoming from Rome. To press further now might betray me. So I must wait—the thing I did least well.

Mid-February. The icicles hung long on eaves, the snow rose over boot-tops. Yet the sunset was coming later now, and I could see by the way the shadows fell that spring was not so far away. Ash Wednesday was almost upon us. And once Lent began ...

I gave a small dinner the Sunday before Lent. I would serve venison and wine and all those things forbidden for the next forty days. I invited only those I truly wished to see: Brandon, Carew, Ned Norris knew the contents of the “private” Papal letter.

“Does the Papal messenger know that I know he is here?”

“Of course not!” Cromwell was indignant. “That is the point. With your cooperation, we can make sure he never hands you the directive himself. Then neither he nor you need concern yourselves with its whereabouts thereafter. Clement will be relieved—to have spoken clearly without being heard by anyone.”

“Very neat.”

Cromwell permitted himself a slight smile.

I sent for Anne. I needed her to be my mirror.

Anne came straightway. She was as sweet as honey, yes, as soothing and easy as the melted honey-and-camphor concoctions my childhood nurse had dripped slowly down my throat when it was pained. “How goes the day for my love?” she asked.

“Not well,” I grunted, and told of the happenings thus far. She laughed at Katherine’s letter, especially at the news that she had ordered costumes with our initials entwined with love-knots. Then her laughter abruptly ceased, and pain crossed her face.

“Poor forsaken woman,” she said slowly. “ ’Tis hard past bearing to continue to love someone who will have none of you.” I looked at her sharply, but she seemed to be talking to herself. “The Irish have a triad. Three things that are worse than sorrow: to wait to die, and to die not; to try to please, and to please not; to wait for someone who comes not.”

“You are the cause of my not coming to her. Can you now pity her?” I wondered.

“Yes, and no. No, in that I would not undo it. Yes, in that I may someday be in her place.”

The idea was absurd. Anne, fat and fifty and spending her days in prayer and calling after a man who ignored her? Never. Anne would rather be dead.

“Enough of this talk,” I said. And I told her about the Papal order.

“So now we play hide-and-seek with him?” she asked gleefully.

“A game at which you excel. Now you shall teach me your tricks, my love.”

I looked forward to seeing her put someone else in the position where she had held me for so many years a prisoner—where I could admire and benefit from her prowess rather than being tortured by it.

Dusk was falling. Soon Norris brought in our supper and fresh wood for the fire. It was cosy and close. Anne smiled at Norris as he discreetly performed his duties. His presence did not intrude, yet he managed to make us aware that he was there, lest we say private things in front of him.

The fire crackled; the heat seeped through my veins. I was warmed inside and out, and discreet and functionary as he doubtlessly was, I was glad when Norris cleared away our dishes, added one or two fragrant logs to the fire, and pointedly retired for the night.

I took Anne to my bed, where yet another thoughtful servant had smoothed the fresh linen for us.

“Ah, wife,” I said, lying back in her ed ins soft as a maid’s breasts? It made no sense. My loins were throbbing, but flaccid.

I wrenched myself away, covering myself in an agony of embarrassment. But Anne knew; of course she did. If she spoke a word, it would hang between us forever.

“Go!” I said. “Go quickly.”

Alone in my chamber, I sat staring at the fire. Its jumping, fragrant flames mocked me.

My glance fell on the letter from Katherine, still lying on the chest-top. I picked it up and tossed