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turned to his wife and ordered her loudly to send for Mistress Anne, and after dancing several measures with her he kept her by him for the rest of the evening.
    She made him laugh, Catherine thought bitterly, which she had never been able to do; she was witty and scintillating and impertinent, and the unhappy Queen used to pray earnestly for grace not to feel so jealous of her. But she never dared try to keep her from the King again, and when she asked to choose her costume for the masque Catherine wearily gave permission. Fire would suit her, she thought, watching her as she moved round the room. There was an aura of sensuousness about her which made the Queen uncomfortable. Standing, kneeling or sitting on a stool at her mistress’ feet sewing, she seemed to emanate seduction like a poison, and she reminded Catherine of a serpent when she walked. Often she ordered Anne out of the room, and then hurried into her oratory to weep and pray for help before the Blessed Sacrament.
    The day before the masque, Anne was in the maid of honor’s room alone, dressed in her red costume. She stood in front of a polished steel mirror, the headdress of scarlet points simulating flames, in her hand, the glittering mask sewn below it. She wondered whether he would recognize her quickly; originally, she planned to wear the gold pomander round her waist and then rejected it; the ruse was obvious, and the King loved subtlety. She smiled, thinking of him; he was a challenge that she never tired of meeting. His brilliance challenged hers when he was in a learned mood, and she delighted in trying to match it; his wit was keen and his sense of humor uproarious once it was aroused, and she knew instinctively what made him laugh.
    She loved her life at court, apart from her duties with the Queen—God, how could such a woman hope to keep a man of Henry’s make! She loved the admiration of the first personage in the kingdom, and the looks of friends and enemies watching them together; life was exciting and full of some strange promise which she sensed rather than understood. She lived from day to day, playing her extraordinary gamble with the King without knowing either the outcome or how long she could expect to win. But she had played the right moves, she thought triumphantly; had she yielded, he would have taken her for granted in a few weeks. Like this, he was fascinated. In her high spirits, she laughed aloud. God’s death, this was better than living at Hever, better even than Tom Wyatt and all his love.
    She put on the headdress and adjusted the elegant little mask; it was a striking costume, and the effect of the scarlet points suggested darting tongues of fire that rose round her head. But she frowned, considering for a moment. She was too well disguised; it might take even Henry a long time to recognize her, and her purpose was to catch and keep his eye in competition with the loveliest women at court. Then slowly she smiled; an idea had formed in the last seconds while she looked at her reflection. It was a breach of etiquette and might well cause trouble with the Queen. But it was worth it. A few moments later she had taken off her costume and was answering Catherine’s bell from the next room.
    The great hall at Greenwich had been decorated for the masque; wreaths of holly and ivy hung from the beamed roof, with the mistletoe plant, relic of pagan England, to ward off evil spirits from the feast.
    The tall bronze candleholders had been filled with thick wax tapers, as the King complained that the wall sconces smoked and would hide his view of the dancers. A gold and scarlet canopy was stretched above the royal dais, and pikemen of the King’s Guard stood beside the dais in their crimson doublets and polished breastplates. The King’s fool sat on the lowest step, his rattle held like the scepter. In their chairs of state, Henry and his Queen sat side by side waiting for the masque to begin.
    The great hall was filled with courtiers