April came, and Latimer, the Bishop of Worcester, was at Greenwich for a time, and in the chapel preached a mighty sermon to the unhappy queen. The king was absent, and the suite of Anne Boleyn filled the space around the pulpit. The great bishop spoke in a clear voice, bearing fearless witness to the queen of the errors and the sins of a worldly life and the penitence by which alone she might hope to enter the Kingdom of Heaven, where her earthly majesty would be a shackle to her immortal soul. The preacher lifted his voice courageously to call an erring woman to repentance. Latimer saw the truth too plainly, and was too honest to bear false witness,—a great man whom the great cardinal plucked from the burning, seeing those qualities of soul which a strong mind recognizes even in a foe, and Wolsey saved him to be the martyr of bloody Mary.
Queen Anne left the chapel weeping, and going to her apartments, bade Mary Wyatt bring her Tyndale’s translation of the Bible, the book that her intercession with the king had saved from the fagots. About her stood her maids of honor, and while she sat thus with the open Testament before her, tears in her eyes and her whole manner full of agitation, the door opened to admit a young and beautiful woman. In contrast to the pale face of the queen, the luxuriant beauty of the new-comer seemed dazzling; her features were perfectly regular, while her eyes have been called “starry” in their luster. At the sight of her, Anne’s face changed instantly; she rose, and advancing to the center of the room, looked at her haughtily. The young woman was splendidly dressed, and wore a girdle of pearls at her waist, and on her neck a great jewel, which attracted the eye of the queen.
“What have you there, Mistress Seymour?” she exclaimed sharply, indicating the gem.
Jane Seymour drew back with a flush of mingled embarrassment and indignation.
“’Tis but a gift, madam,” she said, faltering under Anne’s searching glance; “’tis naught of importance. I—”
The blush, the stammering tone were alike fatal to an attempt at evasion; the queen snatched at the jewel and tore it from her rival’s throat with such vehemence that she cut her hand upon the clasp and the blood dropped on her dress. She took the ornament, and looking on the reverse side, found a curiously contrived spring, which opened to reveal a beautifully painted portrait of the king. For one moment she stood transfixed, such an expression on her haggard face that her attendants shrank back and the fair Seymour was covered with confusion. Then the furious nature of Anne Boleyn roused her from her womanly dismay; she turned upon the maid of honor like a lioness at bay, her wrath bringing a terrible beauty to her face and her eyes blazing with fury. She hurled the bauble at Jane Seymour with such force that it fell shattered at her feet.
“Go!” cried the queen, pointing to the door, “get from my sight, you accursed traitress, and take the image of your paramour away with you!”
“Madam, I pray you—” began Jane.
“Begone!” said Anne, her impassioned voice ringing through the room; “doubtless the king awaits thee. Lie not to me! let me not see thy face again!”
In her resistless fury the queen towered like an avenging spirit, and Jane Seymour could only gather up the fragments of her sovereign’s love token and retreat in deep confusion. Anne Boleyn watched her until the door closed behind her, her own pose full of queenly dignity and injured womanhood; but when the rival beauty had withdrawn, a great change swept over Anne’s features; she turned, and seeing her favorite friend near her with a face full of sympathy and indignation, she fell weeping on her neck.