Not really.

No, not really.

I suppose sometimes I thought that she would be killed and it would be her deserts for the scheming whore she was, and that he would die too and it would be her fault, and he would realise on the gallows that he should have left her and loved me. That I had always been his true wife and she was always a bad sister. I suppose I thought that if it took him to get to the very steps of the gallows to see what a false friend she was, then it was worth doing. I never really believed that they would die and I would never see them again. I never really believed that they could disappear from my life, from this life, and I would never see them again. How could one think that? That there could be a day when they would never stroll through the door, arm in arm, laughing at some private joke, her hood as high as his dark curly head, her hand on his arm, equally assured, equally beautiful, equally regal. The cleverest, wittiest, most glamorous couple at court. What woman, married to him, and looking at her, would not wish them both dead rather than walking forever, arm in arm, in their beauty and their pride?

Oh, God, I hope that spring comes early this year, the dark afternoons are like a nightmare that goes on forever in this little room. It is dark till eight in the morning and then dusk by three. Sometimes they forget to replace the candles and I have to sit by the fire for light. I am cold all the time. If spring comes early and I can see the morning light coming up golden over the stone windowsill then I will have lived through these dark days, and I can be sure that I will live to see others. By my reckoning—and who knows the king better than I?—if he does not have her beheaded by Easter, then he will not have it done at all.

If he does not have her beheaded by Easter then I will escape, because why would he spare her and kill me who is accused with her? If she keeps her wits about her and denies everything then she could live. I hope that someone has told her that if she denies Culpepper but says that she was married in the sight of God to Dereham then she can live. If she declares herself Dereham’s wife then she has not then cuckolded the king but only Dereham; and since his head is on London Bridge he is in no position to complain. I could laugh, it is such an obvious escape for her, but if no-one tells her of it then she might die for the lack of wit.

Dear God, why would I, who was sister to Anne Boleyn, ever plot with such a half-wit as that slut Katherine?

I was wrong to put my faith in the Duke of Norfolk. I thought that we were working together, I thought that he would find me a husband and that I would have a great match. I know now that he is not to be trusted. I should have known that before. He used me to keep Katherine in check, and then he used me again to put her in the way of Culpepper. And now he has gone to the country and his own stepmother, her son, and his wife are here in the Tower somewhere, and they will all die for their parts in entrapping the king. He will not lift a finger to save his stepmother, he will not lift a finger to save his little niece; God knows, he will not lift a finger to save me.