In case you're confused: Yes, Anne is still Queen. Elizabeth is still Princess. This is the second part of the prologue - I hope it'll clear things up. The prologue itself is just an introduction describing the situation in autumn 1537. The following chapters will deal with the interval from January 1536 (time of Henry's accident) up until Jane's death. Don't be put off, you'll understand what's going on sooner or later.

Prologue

Death of rival - Part two

It was grey and cold outside when Anne Boleyn, by the Grace of God, Queen of England, entirely beloved wife to his gracious Majesty, left Hampton Court on her way to the realm of Wiltshire on the early morning of 26 October 1537.

She was accompanied by her favourite ladies in waiting, Nan Saville and Margaret Shelton, and five members of the royal guard, riding in front and behind the coach of the ladies.

The leading rider was announcing the approach of her Majesty in his harsh, loud voice as they were making their way out of the palace's nearest surroundings, where normally many strollers and merry people could be found. Today, though, there were not many of them to be seen, for the weather was all too English. Nevertheless, those who caught sight of the royal carriage hurried to bow quickly, shouting "Vivat Anna! Vivat!", all the while trying to glance at the Queen, who did not lean out of the window to wave her beringed hand as she usually did.

"Bless you, Queen Anne!" A woman cried, sweeping a deep curtsy. Like everyone else, she wondered where her Majesty was going. This was no proper day for a jaunt. She hoped to get a last glimpse of her Majesty, who was always so elegantly attired, but only her ladies peeked out of the coach and greeted politely.

Leaning back in, Nan smiled at her mistress. "Your Highness is very popular among the English people."

Anne frowned, tearing her eyes away from the small window. "That may be true. And I'm deeply grateful therefore, for I know, too, what it means to be unloved by them."

An uncomfortable silence fell. Nan and Magde threw each other a knowing glance before looking down at their laps. The Queen was in a doleful mood today, and it bothered them, for over the last few months she had been entirely content and jovial. Secure in the knowledge of his Majesty's true affection, deprived of all worries, she had been the most gracious and generous of all women.

But now – now she seemed sombre and all too calm. They had last seen her like this when his Majesty had been chasing after another woman – when the lack of a son had threatened her position as the king's wife. She had been so frightened then.

But that was long past.

By now, Anne the Queen was more powerful, more beloved than ever before, more than anyone could ever have imagined. She was untouchable, invincible. Over the last 18 months, ever since the accident of the king in January 1536 and its aftermath, she had changed her own life and the history of England by reinstating a most beloved royal daughter, thus gaining the love of her people and the respect of her enemies. And finally, the blessed, long-awaited gift she had made her husband and England but a while ago, would immortalize her name for all centuries.

Yes, the Queen had every reason to be happy - but today, she was not.

As they struggled to avoid each other's eyes in the uncomfortable coach, Nan Saville thought of the Queen's sadness, for she, unlike Madge, knew what was happening. They were going to Wiltshire - the realm where, surrounded by deep woods, Wolfhall stood: an impressive mansion, home to Jane Seymour's family. The realm where, but two days ago, the knells of death had sounded. A herald of the Seymours' had broken the news to the Queen, who had showed compassion and grief at the passing of her former enemy.

Nan sighed inwardly. It was a well known tale: how Jane Seymour, lusting after another man, had betrayed the king, who had shown great interest in her - enough interest to plan raising her to Anne's throne. How the King's love of Jane had turned into hate and rejection. How Anne had saved Jane from the King's rage; how the two of them, the most bitter of enemies, had overcome their strife.

The news of their peace had secretly spread everywhere, but never in the presence of the King, for Jane Seymour had been persona non grata at court ever since he had fallen out of love with her. Everyone knew the story, and the merciful manner in which Anne had dealt with her rival had improved her reputation even more.

Nan knew all the details, and she knew of the fondness the Queen had borne in her heart towards Jane, but she had not been able to hide her surprise when her Majesty had told her this morning of her desire to visit the church where Jane's body had been laid out. She had been determined to go, charging Nan to be quiet about it, and to tell no one where they would be going. "A secret, Nan… nobody else need ever know," she had whispered. Not even the King knew of this. He was holding an important conference at Windsor castle, and had not seen the Queen for three days. It was not known whether or not he had heard of Jane Seymour's passing.

A fever had finally claimed her life after long weeks of illness, or so the herald had told them. Although Nan did not hate the Seymour girl, she did not understand why it was so important to the Queen to go all the way from London to Wiltshire, and under these circumstances. It was not fit for a royal lady to do something like this. But, looking at the Queen's stern face, she dared not say anything.

And so they rode on, along the winding streets, through stretches of thick forest and across deserted fields. They passed but few people, mostly lonely wanderers and peasants on their way home. Seeing the royal standard and the men in their uniforms, they removed their caps and bowed low.

Anne was still looking out of the window. The sky was dark with moody clouds blocking the faint October sun from view. It was not a pleasant ride. Tearing her eyes away from the miserable sight, she glanced at her ladies. Under any other circumstances, she would have laughed at the faces of her maids, who were looking at her with a mixture of nervousness and barely hidden curiosity. But she was not in the mood for laughter.

"Madam, the Lady Seymour sends me to inform your Majesty of the death of her beloved daughter Jane."

Jane was dead. For some reason, it had hit her hard to hear of her passing, and she had decided to go to Wiltshire in order to say farewell. She knew that no one would understand, and so she had advised Nan and her guards to keep this visit secret. She had left it to Nan to inform Madge what was going on.

Henry himself would never know about it. Anne was still a little unsure whether he thought of Jane with hatred or not. Although all had been forgiven, she concluded that it was better if he did not know that she, his queen, was mourning a woman who had lost his favour only a couple of months ago.

They left a winding,sandy pathway, and the town of Marlborough came into view. It was a beautiful place, with its great market and more than one church, but they were heading for St. Mary's, a sacred house where, to Anne's distress, many Catholics still went to pray regularly. But that was another story. For now, it was simply the chapel were Jane's body had been laid out after her death.

Finally, they could see the chapel, a beautiful building made of grey and rain-washed stone. She had been here before, two or three times, when Court had moved from palace to palace, and she and Henry would stay at noble houses for the night. Once, they had visited this chapel together, and prayed before the altar. She remembered lying there on the cool marble, arms outstretched, beseeching God for help and protection. She was eager to cross the great hall again and marvel at its beauty – but she dreaded the sight of Jane's dead form that awaited her.

The carriage halted. Fortunately, Anne had warned the guards not to announce her loudly as Queen of England, and so they merely stopped in silence before the great western portal of the church, reigning in their horses. One of the young men dismounted his horse and came over to the coach. He opened the door and held his hand out to Anne. "My Queen," he bowed his head. She took the offered hand and descended the few steps. Turning to her ladies, she forced herself to smile. "Wait in the carriage. I shan't be long," she told them, before turning away from their incredulous faces.

Followed by three of the guards, even as the others remained behind to wait by the carriage, she walked across the pavement that led to the chapel's portal. She looked around, unwilling to be spotted by any curious strollers, but there was no one to be seen. A cool breeze stirred the fallen leaves on the pavement, making them dance in a swirling rhythm. Anne wrapped herself tightly in her beautiful, fur-lined coat, thankful for the long dark veil before her face that shielded her sensitive skin from the icy wind.

They reached the portal, and the guards knocked. During the ride, Anne had charged one of her them to ride on to the chapel and announce the Queen's visit to the warden but no one else. She was relieved when the heavy doors were opened quickly, revealing a young priest. "The Queen's Majesty wishes to mourn in this chapel," one of the guards spoke up, stepping aside to make way for Anne.

The priest bowed low before her as she entered the building. "Your Majesty. We're honoured to welcome you in this sacred house," he said in his deep, gentle voice.

Anne smiled. "Thank you, Father…?"

"Father James, your Grace."

He watched her curiously, taking in her striking appearance. He had seen her only once before, more than four years ago, at her coronation. He could not see much of her face, but her eyes, clever and cautious, seemed to be piercing him even through the dark material of her veil. She was clothed in a dark blue dress and a befitting mantle made of expensive velvet and fur. Her beringed hands were folded in her lap as she looked around to take in her surroundings.

She was regal, no doubt, and carried herself with great dignity. There was an air of absolute grandeur about her that drew him in. Her composure told of pride, perhaps even haughtiness, and yet, as she turned to him, telling him how beautiful she found this chapel, he thought that kindness and generosity also eluded from her. He remembered Jane's words on her deathbed, hailing this young woman, "A more gentle queen was there never…"

Who was Anne Boleyn, really? James mused. A gracious queen or an ambitious usurper? He was in no place to judge a crowned monarch, but still, he could not help wondering why she had come to this place where her enemy lay. Was it not Jane Seymour who should have been Queen instead of her? He did not know much of the outside world, and had no real knowledge of the events which had taken place over the last two years. His sole purpose in life was to be God's servant.

"Please wait for me here, and make sure that no one disturbs me." The Queen's voice pierced the silence, shaking him out of his reverie.

He nodded. "Majesty." The guards positioned themselves next to him, closing the great portal, ready to protect their Queen, who turned and walked away from them.

As she neared the great hall, Anne gazed up and beheld the beautiful design of gothic arches, frescoes carved in stone and marble figures lining the corridor. Then the hall opened before her, and she looked around, awe-stricken. This was a beautiful place, with its extravagant marble floors, stained-glass windows and tremendous chandeliers.

A small choir was singing in honour of the Queen's visit, the trained voices of great refinement ringing out to her ears.

De profundis clamavi ad te Domine. Domine exaudi vocem meam fiant aures tuae intendentes, in vocem deprecationis meae.

She passed the great altar, gazing up at the building's high ceiling, aware of the presence of God. She crossed the nave in the direction of the south aisle, walking along the row of great columns that framed the hall.

Then, turning to the right and mounting a few marble steps that led to a small private section, she caught sight of a bier, upon which Jane Seymour's body had been laid out for all to see. Four great candleholders had been put up, holding a hundred lights burning in the dead woman's honour, to brighten the deep cool darkness of the chapel and frame her gentle face in a soothing, warm glow.

A faint breeze stroked Anne's bare hands as she approached the bier, making her shiver. The echo of her own steps disturbed the peaceful serenity with its thudding rhythm, overpowering the soft voices of the choir, the singing of death and repentance. Of God and resurrection.

Convertere Domine, et eripe animam meam: salvum me fac propter misericordiam tuam.

Death was in the air, she recognized it clearly, the familiar, sweet smell of vanished life mingling with the odour of perfume and incense that had been sprayed to subdue the dreadful scent. And yet her feet walked as if by a will of their own, taking her closer and closer to the sight she had once desired more than anything else, and now only dreaded.

Finally, she reached the bier and halted in her step. Lowering her head, she lifted the long dark veil from her face. She stood there, motionless, looking down at the body of Jane clothed in virginal linen.

It was a lovely sight, despite the lack of all signs of life.

The waxen face was as sweet as it had been in life: pale of complexion, radiating a calm serenity, feminine and harmonious but for the slightly hooked nose. The thick lashes lay on her cheeks like two half moons, giving the beholder one last idea of what her eyes must have been like - those blue eyes that had enchanted a king and were now forever closed.

Her greatest jewel, the long golden hair, had been combed and arranged with care, surrounding her face in opulent curls, the ends hidden underneath the slim shoulders. Upon her breast, her trademark necklace with its diamond cross had been laid by gentle fingers, to rest there as a reminder of her piety. In her slender hands, the dead one held a single white lily. There was so content a look on her face that it seemed as if she was but sweetly sleeping.

Anne's gaze roamed down to the naked feet and back to the golden head, taking it all in with curious interest, and no hatred at all.

Here her rival lay, the one she had hated, fought and envied … dead and gone. The one she had despised with such cruel intensity it burned like a fire from within, poisoning her soul. She had done everything to bring her down, wielded all her powers to crush her life. Jane had been her sworn enemy, ever since that day she had caught Henry's eye at Wolfhall, and a second time, months after his accident… She had never spoken of her with anything but dislike and contempt.

But then… then, when everything had been on the edge, things had changed. When she, the Queen, had been in a most dangerous position, and Jane in jeopardy, they had come to a mutual understanding of each other. It was strange, unheard of, but God worked in mysterious ways, and sometimes even bitter rivals make peace. They had both experienced what it means to stand one's ground in a world of men, they had both loved and schemed, and, in the end, discovered that their paths were not all too different. Yes, time had changed them both, leaving them altered and grown. They had fought with all weapons and borne the consequences.

And yet, after all the anxiety and pain of the last months, Anne was still Queen, a woman in her prime, more powerful than ever before. She was the one standing alive and healthy in this chapel, beholding the body of the one who had striven to take her place and paid the price for it. For Jane had realized what all must learn who bath in the King's favour - that Henry's love was a burden, and to play with it was dangerous.

Her future had loomed brightly before her, a future on Anne's throne, but, when she had turned from the King to another man, the one she truly desired, Henry's cruelty hit her hard, changing forever the romantic picture she had created of him in her mind.

And it had been Anne, moved by pity, who had taken Jane's fate into her hands, preserving her, giving her a new life.

Two rivals had become allies, if not friends, or something similar - as impossible as it sounded. The Queen had seen a different side of this placid, calm girl, who was more than the eyes could see… and Jane, on the other hand, had realized that the queen she had hated was but a woman as every other, full of doubt, full of fear, capable of great kindness.

But then, just when Jane had found happiness, secure in the knowledge of the King's forgiveness and the Queen's protection, death in its bitter ferocity had taken away the light of her days, leaving her here in this sacred place, laid out for all to see. Here she would soon be put into a silent grave, to sleep for all eternity.

Anne's fingers grazed the fabric of Jane's white dress, wondering again how it had all come about: her friendship with this woman, whom she had hated so desperately before things had taken a strange turn. This unfair death was a symbol, a symbol for the harshness of life, the tricks and cruel jokes of fate. One could not trust in health and happiness. Life could be over in a minute, vanishing like a faint breeze over the ocean. Nothing was forever.

And so there was nothing but compassion in her heart as she stood next to the bier, next to death, next to the end of all things.

The choir's tone rose to a mystic hymn, touching Anne's heart.

Deus meus, credo in te, spero in te, amo te super omnia ex tota anima mea, ex toto corde meo, ex totis viribus meis.

Yes, to love God and trust in Him – that was the essence of human existence.

And in this rapt sensation, this sweet melancholy the music conveyed, it was to her as if from the darkness, she heard Jane's pleading voice again, edged with fear, muttering of her secrets and the King's resentment. She saw herself, there in the gloom, giving comfort to her own rival, promising to help her. She saw herself, bringing good news, a message from the King – the granting of his forgiveness.

"There, there…" she whispered into nothingness, smiling in spite of herself, remembering the words she had spoken to Jane on that fateful day. "All is well again."

She looked up from the woman's still form, up to the frescoes on the opposite wall and the giant oil painting of a consecrating Jesus. She crossed herself, speaking a short prayer, beseeching God in His infinite grace to have pity on the dead woman's soul. It was the last thing she could do for Jane.

Still the choir was singing, high and low voices lamenting the deceased, praising the Lord of Heaven, beseeching Him for mercy.

Gloria Patri, et Filio, et Spiritui Sancto.

Sicut erat in principio, et nunc, et semper, et in saecula saeculorum.

A sadness took hold of Anne, a grief that went deeper than the loss of a companion she had barely known, deeper than mourning – a general despair that threatened to pull her down, for she knew now, as never before, that life was not endless, and a human being's existence just a small light that could easily be quenched. It was in God she must trust, the almighty Keeper, who would one day open the gates of heaven to bid her in. She lifted her eyes to the picture of Jesus and felt some tranquil grace, some soothing calmness return to her body, giving her strength.

She turned around, and walked to the marble steps.

Before she moved to descend them, she looked back one last time at the slender body in its chaste attire, lifeless and beautiful. Jane Seymour's striking profile illuminated by candle light, the glow of her waxen skin, the wave of golden hair. She beheld once more the white lily resting there on white cloth, a pretty flower that would wither soon, just like Jane herself.

And as this sight was being branded into her memory forever, never to be forgotten, it was to her as if she could hear the faint response of Jane, a silver voice, a silent whisper from the dark.

"Yes, all is well again… All is mended."

The choir's lament died down as Anne left the south aisle behind. She walked across the nave, past the altar and to the oaken portal, where she halted before the young priest, who bowed low. "For the maintenance of your chapel," she said, pressing some coins into his hand.

Father James rose, kissing her hand and looking into her sparkling eyes. "Thank you, most gracious Highness. May God keep you." She had not yet draped the veil across her face, and now he could see its beauty which was far from classic. Heart-shaped features, perfectly formed nose and mouth, carefully plucked eyebrows, long thick hair as dark as the midnight sky. Expensive diamond earrings, a matching collier around her slender neck. She was enchanting.

The Queen nodded, and turned to leave as the guards opened the door for her, then halted abruptly in her step and looked Father James in the eye. "Tell those at Wolfhall… I, Queen Anne, mourn Jane's death… and offer them my sincere condolences." And thus she left him alone in the cool corridor.

As she walked out the door, the fresh English air breathed life into her tired limbs, and her steps became lighter. She gave her ladies a smile as she entered the coach, taking pleasure in the kind and gentle eyes they turned upon her.

For the rest of the ride back to Hampton Court, she sat in silence, wondering how it had all come about – how one day of jousting, nineteen months ago, had changed her life and the life of others forever, leading them to times of both happiness and sadness.

How, on the wings of fortune and her own strength, she had become the most powerful woman ever to have been Queen consort of England.