May 1527
I could barely breathe, or speak, or live for bile.
Bitter, bitter, bile.
I was green, green as the grass in spring, green as a sick goblin, green with envy.
I could almost choke on food as I forced it down my throat. My stomach turned at the very sight of wine. Even water sickened me.
Life itself sickened me.
The King intended to leave his lawful wife for the Boleyn whore.
I loathed her. Anne Boleyn, the homewrecker, the passionate reformer, the cleverest, loveliest, most beloved woman at court, had taken the King so much that he would divorce his own wife, a Princess of the blood, and marry her! A girl from a little castle in Kent!
She had bewitched him, I was sure. Sorcery and whores' tricks, which they must teach all the Howard girls from the cradle. Otherwise how could she be so enticing, more enticing than even me? Than Queen Mary of France, the King's sister? Than Queen Catherine herself?
The previous day, I had walked into the Queen's chambers to sit with her. All of her maids and ladies in waiting had gone to the garden, where there was a game of archery. I would have joined in it had I not heard Anne Boleyn had organised it. I would not glorify that whore like the rest of the court appeared to do.
The Queen's rooms were empty, and rather dark, as it was late in the afternoon, almost evening, so I went and sat near the window with my sewing so I could use the little light from the setting sun. I assumed the Queen was probably praying in her private chapel; in recent months she has spent so much time on her knees, begging God to perform miracles which would surely be impossible to carry out.
She prayed that he left the Boleyn whore and returned to her.
He would never return to her while Anne Boleyn still lived. It was obvious now. He was madly in love with her.
I sewed slowly, since no one was there to set a pace. Suddenly, there was a great cry from the Queen's privy chamber, a great howl, like an animal being put to slaughter. I dropped my sewing and ran to the chamber's door, to see if the queen had a problem, then I saw the king. His back was turned to me, he was facing the Queen, who thumped his chest with her arms, crying in frustration.
"What are you doing, Henry?" She cried. "What are you doing to us?"
"Like I said, for a while now I have been having doubts as to the validity of our marriage..." He began.
"You've waited all these years to voice your doubts?"
The King was visibly uncomfortable. "Catherine, please, I need an heir..."
"We have Mary." Her accent was thick, as it always got whenever she was distressed.
"A male heir."
The Queen scoffed. "I am the daughter of Isabella of Castille, the greatest queen Christendom has ever known, who ruled in her own right!"
"This is England, not Spain," the king pleaded. "The last time a woman, Empress Matilda, tried to rule, there was a civil war. England cannot handle another war, not so soon after the Cousins' War."
"You think to push me aside, and disinherit my daughter, for a Boleyn whore!" She shrieked.
"Catherine, please be reasonable. If you were to go quietly to a nunnery..."
The Queen burst out laughing, a raucous cackle that made me think, for just a second, that she had gone mad. That the King, in his madness for Anne Boleyn, had driven his own wife mad. Then she spoke.
