Chapter 1

The Letter

Sarah glanced at the two empty places at the end of the large table. Why weren’t Papa and Cousin Miles home yet? Their ship was supposed to come in today—Mama had said. The voyage to England and back across the North Sea with merchandise to sell should only take a week at most, unless . . .

"Miss Sarah!" boomed a voice. She looked up startled into the round face of Humphrey Monmouth, one of the English merchants who often stayed at her parents’ boarding house here in Antwerp, Belgium. Her face turned red, but he was smiling at her.

"You don’t have to worry about your father," Monmouth said, shaking his knife in her direction. "Thomas Poyntz is not only one of the best merchants England has the good fortune to call her own, but a smart seaman as well. He may have waited a day because of weather. Winds are a bit unpredictable in October. Or maybe business took longer than he expected."

"Or delayed by English customs?" suggested Mrs. Poyntz with a slight lift of her eyebrows. Sarah shot her mother a quick look. Customs? Had the searchers found the books that her father so carefully concealed in the barrels of grain and wine bound for English markets? Although her parents had never spoken of it, her cousin Miles had told her about the bundles of New Testaments Thomas Poyntz regularly smuggled from Belgium into his native England.

"New Testaments in English!" sixteen-year-old Miles had said gleefully. "Translated by Master Tyndale himself!"

Sarah had often heard about the man who had once been her cousin’s tutor back in England. She was glad when Miles had come to live with them here in Belgium to learn the merchant trade. When he wasn’t traveling with her father, Miles often spent time with Sarah, and didn’t seem to mind that she was three years younger. But where were her cousin and father now?

"Ah, customs," nodded Humphrey Monmouth. "A minor concern, Mrs. Poyntz. Thomas is a well-respected businessman on both sides of the strait with friends in high places. A minor concern." The stout merchant pushed back his empty plate and beamed at his hostess. "An excellent supper, Mrs. Poyntz! Excellent, indeed."

Just then Sarah heard the front door open and boots stamping. She turned excitedly toward the front hall.

"There, you see?" Monmouth exclaimed. "The seafarers have arrived!"

Sarah didn’t wait to be excused from the table but flew into the hall. "Papa!"

Thomas Poyntz wrapped his arms around his only child, then soundly kissed his wife who was close on Sarah’s heels. "Sorry we’re late, my dear," he said to his wife, shrugging off his cloak. "Business always takes longer than we expect, right Miles?"

Sarah smiled at her cousin who was also taking off his wraps. "Mama told Cook to keep supper hot. And Mr. Monmouth arrived yesterday."

"Humphrey!" Thomas walked with his wife back into the dining room with its wooden beams and inviting table. "Should have known you’d be here warming your britches at my table."

Sarah started to follow her parents, but Miles pulled at her sleeve. "Your father has a letter for you."

"A letter? For me?" Sarah stared at her cousin. "Don’t tease me, Miles."

"Honest! And it has the queen’s seal on it." With a grin Miles headed for the dining room.

A letter from the queen? Queen Anne? Sarah followed quickly, but Cook was already serving up the empty plates, and everyone was talking at once. She sat at her place and toyed with a half-eaten roll. Finally she could stand it no longer.

"Papa!" she interrupted. "Miles says you have a letter for me."

The voices suddenly were quiet. "Why, yes, I do," said her father, drawing a letter from the leather pouch he wore around his waist. He looked at his wife, then handed the letter to Sarah. "Why don’t you read it aloud?"

Sarah turned the folded parchment over. There was a red wax seal, with the queen’s crown in the center. Picking up her table knife, she gently loosened the seal and unfolded the page. The letter was dated September, 1534. She looked up at her mother who smiled encouragingly.

The letter was written in a beautiful flowing script, and the first thing Sarah looked for was the signture at the bottom. It said: "Your friend, Anne Boleyn." Sarah’s heart was thumping so loudly that she thought others could hear it as she began to read the letter.

My Dear Sarah,

I have often thought of you since our short visit at Little Sodbury Manor a few years ago. You must be a young lady now. And I am now Queen.

Now that you are older, I wonder if you and your parents will reconsider my invitation to come to Court and be one of my maids-in-waiting. There are several other young ladies your age. Please assure your parents that your education in music and literature will continue--I will see to it personally. And of course Court life is an excellent finishing school for young ladies.

I would very much like to see you again, Sarah. After all, you saved my life! But even more than that, you have a refreshing spirit that I value. I am sure we would be good friends. Give my highest regards to your parents. I hope to hear from you soon.

Your friend, Anne Boleyn

Sarah looked up. Mrs. Poyntz was smiling, but her father looked grave.

"How about that, Sarah!" Miles blurted. "A letter from the queen!" Humphrey Monmouth winked at Sarah, but then busied himself filling his pipe.

"Thomas?" Mrs. Poyntz said to her husband. "What do you think?"

Thomas Poyntz frowned. "The same thing I thought three years ago. It is a kind invitation, and I have no disrespect for the queen. She is a dear friend of my cousin, Miles’s mother. But I do not want my daughter exposed to all the shenanigans that pass for court life. Look at what happened to Queen Catherine! Look at how Anne herself became Queen!"

"True enough, Thomas!" Humphrey Monmouth lit his pipe, puffed a few times, then exhaled a fragrant cloud of smoke. "But in spite of its weaknesses, an invitation to court is a great opportunity for a young lady. She would meet everyone in English society sooner or later. I have sometimes wondered whether you do your wife and daughter a favor living here in Antwerp away from England for so many years."

Sarah rose, clutching the letter, and slipped out of the room as her father said, "Spoken by anyone else, Humphrey, I might take offense. But I know you are my friend and mean well. It is business only that brings me to Antwerp, and I want my wife and daughter by my side. Sarah is still young. . . ."

The voices in the dining room faded as Sarah ran up the stairs to her bedroom. She shut the door quietly, went over to the window seat and sank onto the cushion. Pressing her cheek against the cool window pane, she looked out into the dark city street. The lamplights were shrouded with an evening fog.

She had often thought of Anne Boleyn—she hadn’t been Queen then. But she’d never expected to receive a letter from her! After all, that was three years ago, when Sarah had only been ten years old. . . .