by Alison Weir
“Yes, your Grace,” Jane murmured, keeping her eyes lowered and wondering how it was possible that a woman like Anne Boleyn could be exhorting her to virtue.
“Mistress Marshall,” Anne said. A woman in dove gray stood up. “Take Mistress Jane to the dorter.”
Before Jane was out of earshot, she heard the Queen laugh. “She never did have anything to say for herself, the little mouse!”
Her resentment deepened. And then it was banished, for waiting in the maidens’ dorter to help her unpack was Margery Horsman. What a relief it was to see a friendly face among so many new ones.
* * *
—
“I was summoned home too,” Margery explained, as Jane sat down gratefully on the bed. It was the same one she had occupied when Katherine was queen, while the dorter looked no different; it was as if the past two years had never been. “My family did not want me serving the Princess Dowager. I look after the Queen’s wardrobe.”
“I loathe that title they have given our good mistress,” Jane said. “She is the true—”
“Hush!” Margery hissed. “As you value your position, never refer to her as queen. It is utterly forbidden.”
“Then I will say it and go home,” Jane retorted. “I did not want to come here.”
“And then your kinsfolk will suffer.” Margery took her hands. “Oh, Jane—who are we to question? Our families make our moral choices for us.”
“That’s true,” Jane said bitterly. “My family insisted I come to court. At least you are here, which will make it bearable. Tell me, what is Queen Anne like as a mistress? Does she always ridicule people in their hearing? She called me a little mouse!”
“She always has a jest on her lips,” Margery told her, “and often at someone’s expense. She tells us all we must be virtuous, but she flirts like mad with the gentlemen who frequent her chamber. I must say, though, I do enjoy the pastime there is to be had in her household. There is much dancing and music and pleasure, unlike how it was with the poor Princess Dowager. I am never bored. There is always some diversion.”
That, Jane found, was true. If the Queen’s ladies were not planning or ordering the latest fashions, they were dancing in her chamber, or reciting poetry, or putting on interludes, or playing at bowls or shooting at the butts. The afternoons and evenings were busy with courtiers visiting, there was much banter and love-play and the King sometimes joined in the revelry too. He was attentive to the Queen, but not in the way he had once been; of course the hunter had caught his prey, and no longer had need to exert himself.
He noticed Jane at once, the first time she was in attendance during one of his visits. It was what made people love him: he had the common touch.
“Mistress Seymour! It pleases us to see you back at court.” He must be over forty now, but he was still an overpowering presence, tall, broad and full of vitality, with fine features, a bullish neck and red hair combed over his ears; yet all too often, Jane saw, those narrow eyes and pursed mouth tightened in imperiousness or anger, and there was cruelty in his gaze. She found him terrifying, this man who was now king and pope in his own realm, who had the power of life and death over all his subjects—and who would, it seemed, take possession of their very souls.
She curtseyed low, but he raised her and smiled, and in that instant she could see the eager young man he must have been beneath the worldly, authoritative countenance. His eyes lingered on her for several heartbeats.
“Your Grace,” she whispered, bowing her head.
“I trust you will be happy here and serve the Queen well,” he said. “Your brothers are doing me excellent service. Pray send my good wishes to your parents.” And then he had moved on, and was greeting Anne’s sister, Mary, whom he evidently liked well.
* * *
—
Jane did her best to perform her duties efficiently. She did not want the Queen to take particular notice of her, so she was careful to conduct herself with circumspection and decorum, keeping her eyes downcast and her presence unobtrusive. Anne was friendly, but she soon stopped making an effort when she saw that Jane was not interested in cozening favor from her.
Jane quickly realized that if she was to have any sort of life in the Queen’s household, she must accept the fact that most of those who served in it were there because they were of the Boleyn faction and affinity and exulted in Anne’s advancement. She learned not to let the title of queen stick in her gullet when she addressed Anne or spoke of her, and to hide her affection for Queen Katherine. Once she had come to terms with all this, she began to make friends among the maids-of-honor. She grew fond of Anne Parr, the daughter of the Lady Parr who had served Katherine. Anne had been distraught at her mother’s death, and Jane was glad to see her looking so much happier now.
The Queen’s beautiful cousin Madge Shelton was rivals with pretty Anne Saville for the attentions of Sir Henry Norris, head of the King’s Privy Chamber and a frequent visitor to the Queen’s apartments. Yet the personable Norris, a widower whose daughter, Mary, also served the Queen as maid-of-honor, seemed to have eyes only for Anne, who either encouraged or put him off, according to her mood. The two Marys—Mary Norris and Mary Zouche—were amiable and friendly to Jane, as was another Mary, the Queen’s old nurse, Mrs. Orchard, who served her as a chamberer.
Jane could not help liking Elizabeth Holland, who had served Anne Boleyn as a maid for many years.
“It’s an open secret that Bess is the Duke of Norfolk’s mistress,” Margery informed Jane. “He’s uncle to her Grace, as you will know, but”—her voice sank to a whisper—“they don’t get on.” This had already become apparent to Jane, who had overheard the brusque, charmless Duke sparring with his niece. But Bess Holland was a cheerful soul, and popular. The only person she had a bad word for was the Duchess of Norfolk, who now lived apart from her husband on Bess’s account.
“She takes the greatest of pleasure in telling people that I was a washerwoman in her household,” Bess told Jane, as they laid out the Queen’s gown one evening. “But I was no washerwoman! I was put in her children’s nursery to teach them. My uncle is Lord Hussey! She says I sat on her chest till she spat blood, but that’s a wicked lie. She’ll say anything to discredit me. But my friends know the truth.”
Jane was glad to be included among Bess’s friends, even if she did have reservations about Bess’s anomalous position. Again, she had seen how infidelity could lead to trouble and conflict. Yet she could not but be drawn in by Bess’s warmth.
Madge Shelton, the object of so much male attention, was working on a book of poems with two of the Queen’s ladies. One was Lady Margaret Douglas, the King’s own niece, and daughter of his sister Margaret, who had married the King of Scots and then the Earl of Angus. Lady Margaret was the chief lady-of-honor, by virtue of her royal birth, and a great beauty, with red-gold hair and a soft loveliness about her. Jane soon learned that the softness belied a lively and headstrong spirit.
She was flattered when the Lady Margaret asked, in her pretty Scots accent, if she would like to contribute to the book.
“We write poems, and we collect them,” she explained. “There are some of these books already circulating in the court, but they are all by men. We thought it would be a novel thing if women were to express themselves in verse, or choose those verses that best please them. We have included some by Sir Thomas Wyatt and the Earl of Surrey.” Surrey was Norfolk’s son, a roistering young gallant who often joined the Queen’s gatherings, and was newly wed to one of her youngest ladies, Frances de Vere. “Tell me, Mistress Jane, do you write poetry?” Margaret asked.
“Alas, no, my lady,” Jane confessed. “I have never tried.”
“Then sit with us and see what you can do,” Mary Howard invited. This beautiful, dewy-eyed young woman was about to be married to Edward’s former master, the Duke of Richmond, and might yet be a very great lady ind
eed if the Queen bore no son, for there was still talk that the King meant to name Richmond his successor.
The three of them invited Jane to sit down with them at a table near the window, and Madge pushed a sheet of paper toward her. “Go on, try!”
Jane dipped a quill in the inkpot and thought for a few moments. She was overwhelmed at being asked to join such great ladies in their pastime, and daunted after reading some of their work. They were so accomplished! She could never hope to write verse of that standard.
Groping about in her mind for inspiration, she thought suddenly of William Dormer, and then found she was able to put pen to paper:
Fancy framed my heart first
To bear goodwill and seek the same,
I sought the best and found the worst,
Yet fancy…
* * *
—
At that point, inspiration dried up, and she could not think of anything that rhymed or scanned.
“It’s pathetic,” she said, and showed them. They began laughing, but not unkindly.
“Think about it for a space,” the Lady Margaret advised. “It’ll come to you.”
“We’ll include it anyway.” Madge Shelton smiled. “And if you like, we’ll help you to write more verses.”
Gradually, Jane realized, she was becoming accepted, and liked for her own sake.
Christmas was approaching. Jane noticed a new tenderness between the King and Anne when he came to visit her. The ladies-in-waiting were giving each other significant glances.
“She is with child, I’ll wager,” Margery murmured, as they sat in an alcove watching Henry and Anne having an animated conversation. Anne seemed her old witty self. She was flirting with her own husband!
“So soon?” Jane was astonished.
“It does not surprise me. He was back in her bedchamber as soon as she was churched. She wanted to feed the Princess herself, but he would not hear of it. He wants an heir, and he has no time to waste.”
Margery was right. Jane guessed that Anne was with child when she was deputed to attend the Queen in the mornings and witnessed her vomiting regularly. Pale and drained, she would rest on her bed, but be her normal self by afternoon.
One morning, as Anne lay on her rich counterpane, and Jane was tidying the bedchamber, Lady Worcester came to sit with her. They were close, those two, and Lady Worcester was well connected, being married to a cousin of the King, while her half-brother, Sir William FitzWilliam, was treasurer of the King’s household.
Jane heard Anne complaining bitterly—not for the first time—of the obstinacy of the Princess Dowager.
“Still she insists on calling herself Queen! Well, she shall suffer for it.” The venom in her voice was chilling. “As you know, she complained that Buckden was damp and unhealthy, and when the King commanded her to move to Somersham, she refused to go, saying it was an evil place. So he ordered her to go to Fotheringhay Castle instead, and—would you believe it?—still she refuses to budge, insisting it is an even unhealthier house!”
They were hounding her, Jane realized, to break her resolve. She was so appalled that for a moment she had to stop what she was doing. Then, fearing they might realize she was listening, she resumed folding the Queen’s clean towels, brought up by her washerwoman earlier.
“Madam, I think she is right, and that the King has been misinformed about the state of those houses,” Lady Worcester said, after a pause. “My husband says they are both in poor condition.”
Anne bridled. “I care not what state they are in! She is in no position to defy the King. If she is his true wife, as she claims, she is bound to obey him.”
Jane curtseyed and left the room, anger rising in her. She was in no doubt that those houses had been chosen on purpose to bring the good Queen to heel, or even—God forbid!—to make an end of her, which the damp at Buckden had failed to do. It was sheer wickedness, what they were doing. Had Katherine not suffered enough?
* * *
—
“Have you heard?” young Lady Zouche trilled, seating herself at the dinner table with the other ladies and maids. They were all eating together today, since the Queen could not face food and had kept to her bedchamber with only her sister for company.
“Heard what?” Lady Rutland asked.
“You all know that the Duke of Suffolk was sent to Buckden to convey the Princess Dowager to Somersham. Well, according to my husband, who had it from a servant of Ambassador Chapuys, she locked herself in her chamber and refused to leave it. Neither threats nor entreaties could persuade her. The Duke was reduced to standing outside her door and pleading with her to come out. But, against all reason, she refused, daring him to take her by violence.”
“She is the most obstinate woman that may be!” exclaimed Lady Boleyn, Anne’s aunt.
Jane said nothing; the maids-of-honor did not join in the conversations of the ladies-in-waiting unless they were invited. But she had lost all appetite for her food.
* * *
—
Anne was full of plans for the great household that was being set up at Hatfield for the Princess. Elizabeth was to be conveyed there in great state that month.
“She is being carried by a roundabout route so that more people can see her,” the Queen told her ladies. She did not seem upset at being parted from her daughter. To Jane, that seemed unnatural, but she knew it was no great matter for royalty or the aristocracy, whose children were raised by servants and wet nurses, and then sent away to some great household to learn manners and anything else that might befit them for a glorious future. It was the first step to preferment. Even so, Jane did not like the practice. She was profoundly grateful that she had been brought up in her family home, and had benefited from her mother’s example. And by that yardstick, she had no great opinion of Anne as a mother. Anne had kept her child by her in the few weeks since she had borne her, and showed her off almost defiantly, but Jane had not seen her display much tender motherly affection.
She had been more preoccupied with wreaking vengeance on her stepdaughter, the Princess Mary. At Anne’s insistence, Mary was to go to Hatfield too, to wait upon her half sister, Elizabeth. It shocked Jane that such humiliation should be heaped upon that unhappy girl, who had been forbidden to see her mother for nearly two years now. But Mary had made her support for Katherine clear, and now she was being punished for it.
“I marvel that the King allows it,” Jane murmured to Margery one day, when, with Christmas nearly upon them, they were out in the park hunting for sprigs of holly. “To treat his own natural daughter thus!”
“He will have her bend to his will, come what may,” Margery said, stamping her feet in the cold. “And he will deny the Queen nothing while she is carrying his child.”
“I cannot bear to think how the Qu—the Princess Dowager will feel when she hears of it,” Jane said. “My heart bleeds for them both.”
“And mine,” Margery agreed, pulling a branch off a holly bush. “But we must not think or speak of it.”
* * *
—
Thanks to Ambassador Chapuys, it was known all around the court that a hostile crowd of farmers and yokels, armed with scythes and billhooks, had encircled Buckden and stood there, watching menacingly, lest the Duke of Suffolk attempt to take the good Queen by force. Jane silently cheered them, as she prepared for Christmas. Anne was determined that her first Yuletide as queen should be celebrated magnificently, and her women were busy making wreaths and garlands of holly, bay and mistletoe to decorate her apartments. Jane could not help comparing the warmth and festive splendor of the court with the bleakness of Buckden, where the poor Queen huddled behind her locked door. She could take no pleasure in the revelry, and she took even less when Mary Howard, now Duchess of Richmond, told them all how her father, the Duke of Norfolk, had threatened violence to the Princess Mary
when she refused to go to Hatfield.
“He said that if she were his daughter, he would knock her head against the wall until it was as soft as a baked apple,” she said, grimacing. “But I think he only said it to stay in good credit with the King. He was strict with us, but never cruel.”
Yes, Jane thought, but how terrifying for poor Mary, being spoken to like that.
Margaret Douglas looked sad. “I served the Princess,” she said. “She is a sweet lady and does not deserve to be unhappy.” Jane wondered how Margaret must feel, serving the woman who was the cause of Mary’s troubles. She too must be finding her loyalties cruelly divided. She guessed that Margaret was as grieved as she herself was when word spread that, on Christmas Day itself, Mary had been forced to go to Hatfield. But Margaret said nothing; she remained tight-lipped, though her eyes were bright with unshed tears. That is the trouble, Jane thought; we all stand by and do nothing. Even the feisty Margaret, the King’s own niece, whom he loved like a daughter, dared not speak out.
She was pleased to see the Duke of Suffolk back at court before New Year, and to hear that Katherine had been left in peace at Buckden.
“Probably the King fears that the Emperor will declare war if his aunt is mistreated,” Margery said, as they were getting undressed one night. Jane was aware that the Emperor was the most powerful sovereign in Christendom. Surely, she thought, as she got into bed, he would do something to protect the rights of the Queen and her daughter?
Chapter 12
1534
On New Year’s Day, the traditional exchange of gifts took place in a glittering ceremony in the presence chamber. It was customary for every courtier and servant to give the King a present, and if they were lucky, they might receive one in return. Jane had agonized over what to offer his Grace. What would he like? More to the point, what could she afford? She had other people to buy for, and she had already sent home gifts—a leather belt for Father, some velvet slippers for Mother and a pretty silver ring for Dorothy. Above all, did she want to buy Henry a gift, after the way he had treated poor Queen Katherine? Yet what choice did she have? All the other maids-of-honor would be giving him something, and there was much competition to outdo each other.