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of every rank and office; the bright red robes of Cardinal Wolsey and the purple and black of his clerical entourage mingled with the rich colors and jeweled costumes of the great lords and their wives. In the minstrels’ gallery the King’s musicians played softly; one of them prefaced the dancing with a song. Henry listened and smiled. The singer was Rochford’s minstrel, the same whose voice he had admired that night he stayed at Hever, waiting for a second sight of Anne Boleyn.
    He had the same feeling at that moment, the same irritable expectancy, as if he were about to see her for the first time, while the minutes lagged like hours. Was that her secret, he wondered, that gift of variety; never to do or say exactly the same things, to change from one mood to the next like quick-silver. To be gay and witty and sophisticated, and suddenly melt into gentle simplicity...From one day to the next, he never knew what to expect, whether she would respond to his mood, or force him to change his to suit her own. He had soon discovered that he even indulged her faults; his critical faculty, so sharp where others were concerned, and so blunt with regard to himself, was equally kind to Anne.
    She was inordinately vain; Catherine had remarked on it before she realized the position. The girl spent hours arranging her hair and experimenting with cosmetics; she was casual in her religious duties and incurably light-minded, and at the same time, she had a violent temper and an unbridled will above all. Catherine complained that she was openly restless in the company of women, a trait which the Queen especially disliked. Haughty, worldly, self-willed and vain...vain, yes. But Anne was easily the most striking woman at court, and even if she lacked the milkmaid skin and golden coloring of the acknowledged English beauties, she defied the convention of beauty. She was thin and supple, rather than voluptuous, dark and black-eyed and high-spirited instead of pale and meek, and she went to Henry’s head like a very strong wine.
    At times she had surprised him with stable-boy language, a habit he disliked in women, because like most dissolutes, he was a prude at heart, but that too he forgave her.
    It was the stimulus of her companionship that held him, and he admitted it; also admitting that his passion had increased under restraint. No woman had ever refused him before. They had all surrendered, and the excitement of pursuit was spoiled by the possession. Within a week or so he had grown used to them and restless—always restless and disappointed. But the more he thought of Anne and wanted her in vain, the more desirable she became. And his uncertainty about her body was matched by uncertainty about her feelings. He loved her, he insisted. This was no passing lust, but he had never wrung the admission from her which fell so easily from the lips of other women. And there was still the sight of Thomas Wyatt to torment him.
    The music composed for the masque was beginning; there was a fanfare and a troupe of dancers entered from the other end of the hall.
    Earth came toward him first, in a brown costume trailing with green silk leaves and a headdress decorated with real ivy; her four attendants held garlands of artificial flowers and corn, and the group swayed in front of the dais, curtsying.
    He stared at the figure in brown for a moment, and then looked away; the face was half hidden by a mask, but he knew by the height and plumpness that it was not Anne. He signaled his pleasure and then Air approached with her maids, and immediately he leaned forward.
    She was tall and slim enough to be Anne, and dressed in delicate shades of blue and white, with a headdress of silver stars topped by a crescent moon; a veil of palest blue floated from her shoulders. There was a murmur of admiration from the spectators as Air and her attendants, each symbolizing a planet, curtsied to the King and Queen. He watched the woman in the blue dress as she made