Jane Seymour: The Haunted Queen by Alison Weir
When the tour was over, and the house and plans had been duly admired, he asked Jane and their brothers to join him in the parlor.
“I have news from Jersey,” he told them, his expression grave. “Sir Anthony Ughtred has died of a fever. He left our sister great with child, and she has just given birth to a daughter, whom she has named after Mother.”
“Oh, poor Lizzie!” Jane cried. “She is so young to be widowed. What will she do?”
“She cannot stay on at Mont Orgeuil,” Edward said. “She says that now the babe is born, she will return to Yorkshire with her children, for young Henry has inherited his father’s property.”
“She will be lonely,” Jane said.
“She has her son and daughter to think of,” Edward replied, making it sound like a reproof. “We must pray for her, and for the soul of Sir Anthony.” He paused. “How goes it with the King?”
Jane felt her cheeks growing warm. Thomas raised his eyebrows.
“If there is anything to tell, you will all be the first to hear it,” she said firmly.
* * *
—
At Elvetham, Jane realized that people were talking about her. She could not but be aware of the stares and the whispered asides. When she entered the guest bedchamber to help prepare the Queen for bed that night, Anne gave her a frosty stare and would not speak to her. Others followed her lead, but many people were suddenly friendly. She realized that they assumed she had influence and could procure favors for them. When they approached her, she put them off, feigning ignorance of why they thought she could help them.
This could not go on. She must speak to the King.
* * *
—
Toward the end of October, the court returned to Windsor, and the great progress came to an end.
Two days after they arrived, Jane received a summons to the royal library. Waiting for her there was Henry. He held out his hands to her before she could make her reverence.
“Jane! I promised I would show you this.” He led her to a table, on which lay a manuscript in red and black ink, with fine illuminated columns on either side of the page. It was Le Morte d’Arthur. She turned over the leaves, but could take no pleasure in it, for she knew that what she was about to say to Henry would anger or grieve him.
“Sir,” she ventured, suddenly resolved, “this is wondrous, and I thank your Grace for showing it to me. But there is something I must say. I have thought long and hard, and my conscience tells me that I cannot be your mistress, however sensible I am of your favor.”
He looked as if the roof had fallen in on him. “Jane, please…”
“Please do not press me, Sir. I value my honor beyond price, and I pray that your Grace will too.” She curtseyed and left him standing there, dismay and incomprehension on his face.
* * *
—
She waited for the sky to fall, to be dismissed, or worse still, to hear of her brothers’ fall from favor. Nothing happened. When the King visited the Queen’s chamber, he acted as if Jane were invisible. He did not seek her out. She concluded that he was doing as she had asked, that he respected her decision. He must have realized that it was for the best. By the end of November, she knew for a certainty that she had done the right thing. The world did not know it yet, but Anne was pregnant again.
* * *
—
In the middle of December, Jane went walking in the gardens at Greenwich, making the most of the sunny, crisp weather in her free time. Tonight there would be another feast, and the Queen must be splendidly arrayed, but she was resting now, as she had taken to doing in the afternoons.
Jane saw Edward and Thomas coming toward her, with Bryan and two other finely dressed gentlemen, all deep in conversation. She recognized the Imperial ambassador, Messire Chapuys, and Bryan’s brother-in-law, Sir Nicholas Carew, the King’s Master of Horse and a champion jouster, whom she had seen in action several times. Muscular and handsome, with a brown beard and a military bearing, he was as close to the King as Bryan was. Bryan had told Jane, grinning, that his sister, Elizabeth, Sir Nicholas’s wife, was close to the King too—and sometimes more than she should be!
“Mistress Jane!” Bryan called. “We were just talking about you.” Jane stopped in her tracks, startled.
“It’s all right, sister, we have told these gentleman about your friendship with the King,” Thomas blurted out.
“It is not all right,” she retorted. “It is my private business.”
“Mistress Jane, the whole court knows about it,” Bryan told her, “and these gentlemen are your friends. May I present Messire Chapuys?” The ambassador bowed. His shrewd eyes were appraising. She felt diffident in his presence.
“These gentlemen would like to talk to you,” Edward said. “You know Sir Nicholas Carew, of course.” Jane dipped a curtsey, wondering what this was about.
Carew’s gaze scanned the deserted garden. “I am glad we have found you here alone, Mistress Jane. Your brothers have confided to me and Messire Chapuys that you are a friend to the Queen and the Princess.”
“His Majesty the Emperor is working to have the Princess restored to her former position in the succession,” Chapuys said.
“We are hoping that you might kindly use any influence you have with the King on her behalf,” Carew added.
“I wish to do so, sirs,” Jane hastened to assure them. “It was the reason why I welcomed the King’s interest. But it was a passing fancy. I am not sure how much influence I actually have.”
“More than you think, I am sure, and deservedly,” Carew said, gallant as ever.
“Then I must choose my moment,” she replied, wondering how she might broach the subject with Henry, and if she would ever have the opportunity.
“We all support the true Queen,” Bryan declared. “I think you know, Jane, that my sympathies have secretly been with her and the Princess for a long time. Since I realized how far short of Katherine’s example the Lady falls as queen, I have distanced myself from her faction.”
“He even picked a quarrel with Lord Rochford, to make that point,” Carew said.
“Mistress Jane, you are in a position to do much for so many,” Chapuys said gravely. “Through your influence, the Lady’s position may be undermined.”
“But she may soon bear a son,” Jane pointed out.
“Then she will be invincible, more’s the pity,” Bryan fumed. “For my money, the odds are against it. Two boys she’s lost. Jane, you have your foot in the stirrup now. Ride the King to your advantage!”
Jane bridled. “What are you suggesting, Francis?”
Bryan made a self-deprecating gesture. “Forgive me! I did not mean it in that way. I know you for a virtuous lady—none better.” He winked at her. “I think you have no idea of how important you’ve become. The King’s interest in you has opened up all kinds of possibilities. The petitioners will be queuing at your door before you know it.”
Jane suspected that Bryan, like her brothers, was looking to her to obtain favors for him. He was calling in their debts, and it was true, there were many. But she was in no position to seek favors for others.
“I too have privately adhered to the Queen and the Princess, ever since the legatine court six years ago,” Carew told Jane. “My wife has for some time secretly been in touch with the Princess, assuring her of our support and keeping her informed.” He emitted a sigh of exasperation. “I bitterly regret now that I once encouraged the Lady, but she is my cousin, and I thought she would make a good queen. I was wrong. I soon came to deplore her overbearing ways, especially her appalling treatment of my friend, the Duke of Suffolk, and others. I am of the old faith, and I cannot countenance the religious changes she has brought about.”
They were speaking treason. It was the truth, but they could all die for uttering it. Jane was profoundly thankful
“I am for reform,” Edward said, “but I have never liked Queen Anne, and she certainly doesn’t like us Seymours. Jane, we are all united in our resolve to join Messire Chapuys in working for the restoration of the true Queen and the Princess Mary. Will you help us?”
They were all looking at her hopefully. “If the Lady fails to give the King a son, he may be convinced that his so-called marriage is in error, and may even be persuaded to take back his lawful wife and daughter,” Chapuys said.
If Katherine lives so long, Jane thought.
“Will you assist us by interceding with the King for them?” Carew asked.
“I will try, I promise,” she said doubtfully.
Bryan was eyeing a point beyond her. “We are being watched,” he muttered. “The Lady has seen us from her window.”
“She knows us for her enemies,” Carew said.
“She certainly thinks I am one,” Jane offered. “She barely speaks to me, and reproves me for the slightest fault.”
“She’s jealous,” Thomas observed.
“I had better go,” Jane said. “Now she’s up, she will expect me to be in attendance.”
“I think you should stay,” Bryan said. “Look who draws near.”
Jane turned and saw the King coming toward them, wrapped in furs against the cold, his gentlemen following.
“We will leave you now,” Carew said, and bowed.
“She’s still watching,” Edward warned. “Be careful.”
The men all bowed low in the King’s direction and withdrew as Henry approached. Aware of Anne’s eyes on her, Jane curtseyed, but he raised her, took her hand and kissed it heartily. Jane almost snatched it away.
“Your Grace, the Queen is at the window,” she hissed. “I must go.” She curtseyed again, and hastened back toward the palace, fearing that she might have offended him but aware that she could have done nothing else. Oh, why did she always feel that she had to be weighing everything she did?
* * *
—
With the interests of her coming child to protect, Anne grew vehement against the Princess Mary. For a long time, she had wished her and Katherine dead. Jane was present when she railed against Mary to the King, not caring who heard.
“I cannot tell you how it terrifies me to think that, if we are invaded, our children might be excluded from the throne for the sake of the Lady Mary,” she cried, as he sat there glowering. “Because, if the Emperor has his way, that is what will happen.”
“You must stop worrying, Anne,” Henry comforted her. “If he invades these shores, we will be ready for him.” Jane, her head bent over her sewing, thought his bravado sounded a little forced.
“Sir!” Anne sounded desperate. “The Lady Mary will never cease to trouble us. Her defiance of your just laws has only given courage to our enemies. I pray you, let the law take its course with her! It’s the only way to avert war.”
Jane held her breath. She was aware of Henry hesitating. “You are asking me to send my own daughter to the scaffold.”
“She is a traitor, and a danger to you,” Anne persisted. “While she lives, our son will never be safe!”
“Maybe my threatening to have her executed would serve as an effective warning to the Emperor,” he said heavily. He paused, then spoke again. “You’re right. I am resolved. It shall be done!”
Jane stifled a gasp, and the other ladies exchanged horrified glances. Surely the King would not sanction the execution of his own daughter? That poor, sweet girl, who had suffered so much on account of her father’s actions, and committed no worse crime than supporting her mother…it was horrible. Jane did not sleep that night for worrying. She lay awake, resolved to get a warning to Chapuys.
* * *
—
The next day, the King visited Anne before dinner.
“I have just come from the Privy Council,” he announced. “I declared to them that I would no longer remain in the trouble, fear and suspicion that Katherine and Mary are causing. I said the next Parliament must release me by passing Acts of Attainder against them or, by God, I will not wait any longer to make an end of them myself!”
Anne’s eyes gleamed. “What did they say?”
“They looked shocked, but I told them it was nothing to cry or make wry faces about. I said that, even if I lose my crown for it, I would do what I have set out to do.”
Would he? Jane was in an agony of apprehension.
“It was well done, Henry,” Anne was congratulating him. “It is the only way to secure the future of our children.”
“Yes, but, by God, at what a price!” he cried, turning away. As he did so, his eye caught Jane’s. He looked anguished, and she guessed that already he was wavering in his resolve. But she glanced away in disgust. How could she ever have contemplated becoming his mistress?
When he had gone, Anne sat there brooding. “He said it only to placate me,” she murmured. “I know him. But if he does not make an end of that cursed bastard, I will. If I have a son, as I hope shortly, I know what will become of her.”
She meant it, Jane could see. In the days that followed, Anne became obsessed with the perceived threat from Katherine and Mary, and seemed to think of nothing but of how she might have them dispatched. It chilled Jane to the bone. Now that she might be carrying the heir to the throne, the Queen had recovered her ascendancy; her wish was law. It seemed that she ordered and governed everything, and that the King did not dare oppose her lest she become overwrought and lose the child. And yet, in private, Jane knew, he rarely saw her. He had the perfect excuse now for not visiting her bed.
* * *
—
Anne had been right. The King did not keep his promise. Parliament showed no sign of moving against Katherine and her daughter. But early in December, the news flew around the court: the Princess Dowager was gravely ill. A great sadness descended on Jane, for she had come to look upon Katherine as a second mother.
Anne was triumphant. “Now I shall soon be queen in the eyes of all,” she crowed. But there was fear in her voice, and in charity, Jane could only conclude that her inhumanity masked insecurity. Anne was vulnerable, and she knew it. Everything—the King’s love, her future as his consort—might rest on her bearing a son. For all her disapproval, Jane could not help pitying her.
A disturbing suspicion kept nagging at her. The old Queen had been ailing for some time, yet it seemed all too timely that she had taken a serious turn for the worse just after it became clear that neither the King nor Parliament would move against her and her daughter. Had Anne taken matters into her own hands? Was she really capable of that? Again Jane recalled the plot to poison Bishop Fisher.
She dared not speak of her fears to anyone. It would be treason. But she held her breath, waiting to hear the news she dreaded, and daily, in the chapel, she begged God to watch over the good Queen.
* * *
—
Christmas Eve was upon them when Edward came looking for Jane. He seemed unusually animated when he found her in the great hall with the other ladies, watching the Yule log being dragged to the hearth.
He pulled her aside. “I have some good news. The King has just given Dorothy a substantial dowry, with fair lands. It’s double what Father could provide.” He smiled at her. “I wonder why he should do that?”
Jane knew very well. By being generous to her family, Henry hoped to win her love, or at least to soften her resolve.
She thought of Katherine, and of Mary. Now, more than ever, they needed someone to protect them. If the King really was infatuated with her, perhaps he would listen to her pleas.
She looked up at Edward. “Will you tell his Grace that I, in particular, am deeply appreciative of his kindness?”
“You may be sure of it,” he said.
Edward looked vexed. “Just after Christmas, which means that none of us at court can attend.”
“Oh, I do hate to be missing it!” Jane cried, suddenly homesick for Christmas at Wulfhall and galled at the prospect of missing the excitement of the nuptial celebrations afterward. “Can we not ask for leave?”
Edward sighed. “I doubt it will be granted at this late stage, and those who have obtained permission to go home have already departed.”
“Nonetheless, I will ask,” Jane said.
But Anne took the greatest of pleasure in refusing.
* * *
—
At Midnight Mass, the Chapel Royal blazed with candlelight. The King and Queen descended from the royal pew that overlooked the nave, and made their offerings at the altar. Jane watched them as she knelt with the other maids-of-honor. On his way back, Henry paused for a second and gazed tenderly down at her. A hint of a smile played about his lips. She bent her head, but not before she had seen Anne’s eyes flash with anger.
He danced with her during the Christmas revels, in front of the whole court, while the Queen glowered from her seat of estate; he had forbidden Anne to dance, lest she harm the child. Jane imagined that tongues would be wagging furiously. Certainly all eyes were on her, as she trod a stately pavane in her white gown edged with pearls.
“You look beautiful tonight,” Henry said. He had not taken his eyes off her. “Tell me, has my fair ice maiden thawed a little?”
“A little, your Grace.” Jane smiled. “But I must beg you not to dance with me more than once. The Queen is watching us, and so is everybody else. Already there is gossip.”
“There is always gossip,” he said dismissively. “Pay no heed to it.”
“Yes, Sir, but it can damage reputations. And for your Grace to associate with a lady of dubious virtue would reflect badly on you.”