Jane Seymour: The Haunted Queen by Alison Weir
As she sat on a bench, enjoying the night air, she thought how fortunate she was to have the most wonderful mother in the world. Lady Seymour was the heart of the household. For all Sir John’s masculine authority, Wulfhall revolved around her. Most mornings found Jane and Margery in the kitchens or the still room, where Mother gave them instruction in running a great establishment.
“It will serve you well against the time when it pleases God to send you husbands,” she had told them. Seeing Jane about to open her mouth, she had added, with a twinkle, “Nuns need to be good housekeepers too!”
Bustling about, she would be checking that the meats were being timely turned on the spits, and that the bread was risen for baking. For all her gentle birth—and she was descended from kings—Mother was not above attending to such duties or even carrying them out herself. She took her responsibility as mistress of a knightly household seriously. Her table was legendary in these parts, her reputation sterling. Woe betide any cook or kitchen wench—or any daughter, for that matter—whose work fell short of her expectations.
Not that the servants disliked or feared her. She was a humane lady, and kindly, but she would be respected and obeyed. Rarely did she have to raise her voice to anyone, or resort to the beatings so often meted out by others in authority. Even the unruly Thomas did her bidding without question. All her children adored her, and her servants blessed her for a godly and bountiful mistress. Few left her service through choice.
Mother strove unfailingly to instill in all her charges the moral virtues of chastity, honesty, humility and docility. Her girls were raised to be loyal and obedient to their parents and—when the time came—to their husbands, and to conduct themselves soberly as became Christian gentlewomen. Above all, she taught her children to love God, to respect their betters and to honor the King and the Lord Pope in Rome.
Often, as she stood at the large scrubbed table in the kitchen, or distilled perfumes and physick in the still room, Mother would reminisce, for she too believed that her children should be steeped in their family’s history. They could all recite that she had been born a Wentworth of Suffolk, and that she was descended from Edward III, the mighty House of Neville and Sir Henry “Hotspur” Percy, hero of the long-ago Battle of Shrewsbury. As a young girl she had been a celebrated beauty. Even now, at forty-one, she was smoothly plump as a partridge with a clear, rosy complexion and fair hair.
“When I was seventeen,” she liked to tell Jane and Margery, “I was maid to the Duchess of Norfolk in Yorkshire, and in Maytime they staged a pageant at Sheriff Hutton Castle, where a goodly laureate’s garland of silk, gold and pearls was presented to a young poet, Master Skelton, in honor of his talent. He wrote me a poem.” Her eyes would grow distant, as if she were seeing that long-ago summer and recalling how it had felt to be a young girl on the brink of life. “It was entitled ‘To Mistress Margery Wentworth.’ He called me a pretty primrose.” Jane thought it a description that was still apt. There was a copy of the poem, written in some spiky hand, among the family papers. It had been taken out for display on several occasions.
As Mother’s hands worked deftly at cutting pastry roses, she liked to reminisce on her courtship. “Two years after Master Skelton wrote that poem, I met your father. He had just been knighted, and he asked for my hand. Oh, he was a handsome swain, and I was smitten. He was accounted one of the new men, who were much favored by the old King; men who were making their way by loyalty, hard work and diligence, rather than by nobility of birth. Your Grandfather Wentworth perceived those qualities in him, and saw rightly that he would make me a good husband. For your father, of course, it was a highly advantageous match, much in the family tradition, for by marrying well, your Seymour ancestors increased their lands and wealth, and their standing in the world. But our marriage was the greatest of them all. And to be happy in it is the crowning blessing.” Mother would dimple and blush a little, for all her mature years. That her parents were happy anyone could see, but Jane had observed other married people together, and knew that not all got on so well. Marriage seemed to be as big a gamble as the games of chance they played on winter evenings.
* * *
—
The morning after the feast, nearly everyone slept late, many nursing sore heads. Jane arose from the bed she shared with Margery, hoping to snatch some time alone in the chapel before Mother emerged and summoned her to help in the kitchens.
The chapel was beyond the Broad Chamber. Beneath its traceried windows of stone and the stained glass depicting the Annunciation stood an altar adorned with an embroidered silk frontal, a jeweled crucifix and an old and much revered plaster statue of the Virgin and Child. Jane thought that the face of Mary was the most beautiful thing she had ever seen, so calm, demure and serene, as she herself must always try to be in emulation of the Holy Mother.
The air was redolent with the scent of the flowers Mother had arranged in honor of the newlyweds. Kneeling at a prayer desk before the altar was Father James, the family priest, who had tutored Jane and her brothers from their infancy. How well she remembered the horn book that had hung around her neck and the hard labor of learning her letters, her numbers and her catechism. When she grumbled, she had been told that she was lucky indeed to have forward-thinking parents who believed that little girls would benefit from learning their letters. She had far preferred the needlework her mother taught her. The embroidered caps and bodices she made as gifts were the pride of many of her friends. The altar frontal was also her work, and she trusted that her skill would be put to good use at Amesbury. In her mind, her future was settled.
Father James crossed himself and rose to greet her, extending his hands in welcome.
“Jane, my daughter!”
He was a dear man, much beloved by his small flock, and to Jane a friend in whom she could confide.
“Father,” she said, “I came to pray, but now that I find you here, I would seek your help.”
“Sit down, my child,” Father James said, indicating Sir John’s leather-studded chair. “How can I help you?”
* * *
—
Mother was in the Broad Chamber, seeing to it that the servants restored it to normal after the feast.
“May I speak with you?” Jane asked.
“What’s the matter?” Mother asked, frowning at one of the maids. “Nell, please wipe that table properly!”
“Can we be private? Please, Mother.”
“Very well.” Lady Seymour beckoned to the steward. “See that the room is left tidy,” she commanded, then led Jane to her closet, the little room that was her personal domain, where all her papers and records were stored. From here, she ruled the household.
“Now,” she said, sitting down at the table. “What is troubling you, Jane?”
Jane took the stool that stood ready for anyone wanting a quiet word with the mistress. “Mother, I really mean this. I want to be a nun at Amesbury.”
Lady Seymour gave her a long look. “I know. But Jane, you are yet to see your eleventh birthday, and this is not a decision to be taken lightly. When you are older, some young man might ask for your hand, and all thoughts of being a nun might fly out of the window. I know, I have seen it happen—and too late, in one instance. The girl, a cousin of mine, met the youth when he came with her family to see her take her final vows. He was betrothed to her sister, but when she saw him after the ceremony, she was utterly smitten. It was the ruin of her. I would not have that happen to you.”
Jane felt tears of frustration welling. “But I know I have a vocation. I’ve just told Father James, and he did not try to put me off. He told me to talk to you, with his blessing. Mother, you know how I long to go to the good sisters and live in the peace of that beautiful priory. I do not want to marry.”
“Dear child, there is often no peace to be had in a convent, and inner peace is obtained only at very great cost. It is a
Jane sighed. “Why does everyone try to make it difficult for me?” Mother smiled. “If you truly have a vocation, God will wait for you. But you need to understand many things before you take that step, not least what you will be giving up. Child, do not look at me like that. All I ask is that you stay in the world and learn more of it before you decide to forsake it. If you still feel the same when you are eighteen, then I will speak to your father.”
“Eighteen?” Jane echoed. “That’s eight years away.”
“Jane, listen.” Mother’s voice was tender. “You will change in many ways over the coming years. At eighteen, you will be a different person, and much more mature. Bide your time in patience. Good things are worth waiting for.”
“But—”
“That’s my final word at this time. And don’t go running to Father. He and I are of one mind on this matter.”
Chapter 2
1526
Jane held fast to her conviction that she had a vocation. After her eighteenth birthday, seeing her so resolved, her parents finally gave her their blessing, and letters were exchanged with Florence Bonnewe, the Prioress of Amesbury. At length, the Prioress invited Sir John to bring his daughter to the convent.
As the family gathered in the Great Court to say farewell, Jane knew a moment’s hesitation. Of course she had understood that taking the veil meant leaving her family behind and renouncing the world; she had asked herself again and again if she could make that sacrifice, and felt certain that she could, if God asked it of her. But now, with all her loved ones crowding around, and Mother and her sisters openly weeping, she found herself doubting her resolve.
They needed her, an insidious voice whispered in her head. Edward and Catherine were clearly not happy, although it was hard to fathom why. What had gone wrong between them? They had seemed so joyous in the first months of their marriage. Catherine was lovely, with her honey-colored curls and dimpled smile, but that smile had been seen all too rarely after Edward had seemed to lose interest. It only appeared for their young son, John—the image of the grandfather in whose honor he had been named—who had been born a year after the wedding. He was seven now, the same age as his youngest aunt, Dorothy, whom Sir John always said should have been called The Little Surprise, for he and Lady Seymour had thought their family to have been complete with Elizabeth.
Her mother needed her especially. As Jane had grown into womanhood, Lady Seymour had come to rely on her more and more. And Mother seemed not quite her usual self these days. Something was preoccupying her. Even Father seemed concerned about her. Jane feared she might be concealing some worrying ailment. But when she pressed her, Mother always insisted she was perfectly well.
Catherine was crying now, her arms around a squirming John. She wept all too easily these days. Father put a comforting arm around her shoulders. It was touching, the affection he had for his daughter-in-law.
Jane embraced Edward, knowing that his stiff face masked the sorrow he was feeling at her going. Thomas was subdued as he bent to kiss her. Harry, blinking away tears, gave her a warm hug, and Anthony a blessing. How she would miss them all. She clung to her sisters, and then Mother clasped her tightly to her bosom.
“May God go with you, my darling child,” she wept. “I will come to see you very soon.”
* * *
—
The Prioress was a big-boned, formidable woman. Seated serenely in her parlor, her cheeks rosy under her snowy wimple, she made the very sensible suggestion that Jane live with the community for a few weeks, to test her vocation.
“We will not discuss a dowry until you have decided to stay with us, but a contribution toward your keep would be most welcome, since our order is vowed to poverty.”
A glance around the Prioress’s parlor with its Turkey rug, carved oak furniture and silverware rather belied that statement, but Sir John promptly handed over a heavy purse. Then he squeezed Jane’s hand, gave her his blessing and left.
Under the Prioress’s strict rule, she quickly came to realize how much freedom she had enjoyed at home, and how indulgent her parents were. Coming from a noisy household, full of bustle, she found the silence of the nunnery hard to bear. The food was plain, and nowhere near the quality and abundance of Mother’s; the mattress in her cell was thin and lumpy, and the black habit she was given to wear was scratchy against her skin. But she had known not to expect worldly comforts in the religious life. She had known that she would have to get up in the night to attend the holy offices, although she had not anticipated how draining the constant interruptions to her sleep would be. She had known that chastity would be required of her, but she had not realized that she would never again be allowed to touch another human, unless there was urgent need. She had expected to mortify the flesh, but she was freezing cold most of the time, apart from the one hour a day that the nuns were allowed to spend in the warming chamber, the only room with a fire.
She persevered. The glorious singing of the choir nuns sent her spirits soaring heavenward. She prayed for hours in the chapel, communing with God and striving to find the inner silence that enabled her to hear His voice. She reverently adored the statues of the saints and came to feel that, like Mary in the chapel at home, they were her friends. She grew fond of the sisters, with whom she became acquainted during their daily period of recreation. She was pleased when they praised her embroidery.
But at the end of her probationary time at Amesbury, she went home. The peace she had expected to find there had proved elusive. Always, it seemed, there was some worldly desire against which she must strive. She felt she did not have the stamina for it.
And there had been another thing, a disturbing thing. If the nuns were vowed to poverty, why was it that Prioress Florence wore a habit of good silk and was served choice fare in her own comfortable parlor? And why was she permitted a lap dog, a nasty, yappy little brute that showed its fangs whenever anyone dared approach it, yet suffered its mistress to take it on her knee and fondle it?
“I do not know if I have a vocation,” Jane confessed on that last morning. What she had really wanted to say was that Amesbury was not as she had envisaged it.
“This life needs commitment,” the Prioress said. “I had rather have a nun who knew she had a calling than one who doubted. Go home and think again, with my blessing.”
So Jane had come home, in something of a turmoil. The further she traveled along the sixteen miles to Wulfhall, the more certain she became that Amesbury was not for her. There were things about it that she would miss, of course, but others she was relieved to leave firmly behind her.
Her family were all jubilant to see her.
“We have missed you!” Harry said, hugging her warmly. “Wulfhall isn’t the same without you.”
“You never were cut out to be a nun.” Anthony smiled.
Mother was shaking her head as she embraced Jane. “I suspected you would have second thoughts.” She smiled.
Jane kissed her, hiding her irritation. “I don’t know. Maybe my future lies in some other nunnery. I will tell you about Amesbury. It is not perhaps the best place to test a vocation. I still want to become a nun.” She would be glad to prove them all wrong.
Chapter 3
1527
Wrapped in a fur-lined cloak, Jane watched from the saddle as her hawk swooped on a doomed partridge. They would have a fine bag of birds for Mother’s game pie. It was good to be out hawking, surrounded by the merry companionship of her grown-up brothers and fifteen-year-old Margery. She loved to watch her bird soar up high in the azure sky, then dive suddenly. The freedom of being on horseback in the fresh air was exhilarating, as was the thrill of a good catch.
As Anthony raced to retrieve the prey, Edward cantered down the hill toward them. He was Sir Edward now, having been knighted by the Duke of Suffolk, under whose command he
“Bravo!” he called. “But we should go home now.”
“Let’s give it another half-hour,” Thomas challenged. They still could never agree on anything.
“Mother will be waiting,” Edward said, in a tone that brooked no argument.
“Then I suppose we must call it a day,” Harry said. The brothers reined in their horses, Thomas scowling.
“Come, Margery!” Jane cried. Then they were off, galloping across the sweeping Wiltshire countryside toward Wulfhall.
As the house came into view, they slowed to a trot, and Jane moved ahead to ride beside Edward.
“I must speak with you,” she said. “Catherine was in tears again this morning. I couldn’t get any sense out of her. Edward, what is wrong with her?”
Her brother’s mouth tightened. “It’s a private matter.”
Thomas was suddenly there beside them. “It’s because of Joan Baker. Don’t bother trying to look virtuous, brother. And I’ll wager she’s not the first.”
Edward flushed. It took Jane a moment to understand Thomas’s meaning. Joan Baker was a laundress at Wulfhall, a merry maid with blonde plaits and a plump bosom. If Mother got to hear of this, she would send her packing, there was no doubt of it.
“I’ll thank you to mind your own business,” Edward hissed. Thomas grinned.
“But Edward, it becomes our business when we have to comfort your wife,” Jane said evenly. “It’s been plain to us all for a long time that she is unhappy. And she’s not long out of childbed. This is when she should be especially cherished. Please show her some affection.”