by Alison Weir
“This must be an important visit,” Margery muttered. “She means to make an impression.”
“Hailes is a royal foundation,” Anne said, “and we are going to see its famous relic, a vial of the Holy Blood of our Savior.”
Jane had heard of it, of course, for Hailes Abbey was a renowned place of pilgrimage, but she had never visited, and was thrilled to have the chance to do so. To see the actual blood of Jesus, shed at Calvary and miraculously preserved over the centuries, would be a truly wonderful thing. Many miracles and cures had been attributed to it over the centuries, and even the very sight of it was said to put pilgrims in a blissful state of salvation.
It was not a long ride—about three or four miles—and presently they saw the great abbey in the distance. Waiting to receive the Queen’s party were Abbot Stephen and a tall, hook-nosed cleric in severe black robes, whom Anne greeted affectionately. Behind them stood a group of officers wearing the King’s badge.
A voice behind Jane murmured in her ear, “That’s Hugh Latimer, a fiery reformist. The Queen’s influence has just secured him the bishopric of Worcester.”
She turned to find Sir Francis Bryan grinning at her.
“They’re thick as thieves, those two,” he said. “Hailes is within his diocese, so it is only meet that he come to attend the Queen.” His tone was sarcastic. “And those black crows are Cromwell’s men, sent to find fault with the monasteries.”
Jane’s eyes widened. “I thought—”
“Later,” Bryan muttered. “We’re going in.”
Jane followed the Queen, troubled by what Bryan had said. Surely they could not be targeting the blessed abbey of Hailes?
As Abbot Stephen escorted them through the beautiful church to the ornate shrine where the precious Holy Blood was housed, Jane became aware of a certain tension between him, the Bishop and the King’s officers.
The shrine stood at the center of the apse, with five chapels surrounding it. A long queue of pilgrims was waiting in the side aisle, behind a rope barrier guarded by a monk holding a wooden money box.
“They flock here every day, your Grace,” the Abbot told Anne. “We have asked them to wait until you have worshipped at the shrine.”
Anne looked about her at the mighty pillars, the stone carvings, the tiled floor. “It has brought you great wealth,” she observed.
He nodded. “We charge pilgrims eighteen pence to see the Holy Blood. Some give more, of course. We are most fortunate to have such a miraculous relic.”
Anne nodded. She and Bishop Latimer exchanged glances. “We shall all see the Holy Blood,” she said.
“Gather round, good people.” The Bishop addressed the waiting queue. The Abbot opened his mouth to protest, but Latimer held up a hand. “Father, you can surely forego your eighteen pence for one day, in the Queen’s honor.” The Abbot bowed, his protest quelled.
The people came forward, bringing the odor of unwashed bodies. Jane found herself pushed against a pillar, but she had a good view. She folded her hands in prayer, holding her breath in awe as the elderly monk in charge of the relic parted the red curtains that concealed it to reveal the golden shrine, encrusted with jewels, containing a vessel of green beryl, shaped like an orb and banded with silver. The monk leaned in and opened it, as a collective sigh was offered up by the crowd. Jane saw a glister of red, thick and viscous. She could not take her eyes off it. The very blood of the Lamb, given for her, and for all mankind. Her heart sang as her soul rejoiced. She was lifted up, transcendent, lost in a rapture she had never before experienced, not even when she’d had that long-ago dream that she thought had been a calling to the religious life. Maybe this was the calling, and she should heed it. It might have been God’s purpose for her all along; it might be a miracle, worked by the Holy Blood.
Her thoughts were interrupted by the Queen’s voice. “Pray, Father Abbot, remove the vessel from the shrine and let us see it more closely.” There was a pause, then the Abbot nodded to the monk, who reached into the shrine again and brought out the relic. In the light, the blood appeared lighter, almost honey-colored.
Anne looked at the Bishop, then turned to the Abbot. “Father Abbot, my brother, Lord Rochford, who came to see you three days ago, has informed me that this is the blood of a duck, renewed regularly by this monk here. I was so shocked that I had to come and see it for myself.”
Jane was not the only one who gasped aloud. “No!” a woman screamed.
Anne nodded at the old monk, who was looking very distressed. “Is this not what you told Lord Rochford and the King’s commissioners over there?” she asked. He nodded, tears in his eyes. Jane was so appalled she did not know what to think. Could that long line of pilgrims, stretching back over the ages, have been hoodwinked, cheated?
The Abbot had gone pale. “Your Grace, I had no idea. Brother Thomas has been looking after the shrine for forty years, longer than I have been here.” He turned to the monk. “Is this true?” he barked.
“Father, may I speak with you in private?” Brother Thomas quavered.
“Is it true?” the Abbot repeated.
“That is what I said.” The old brother hung his head.
“Let’s have no equivocation. Is this relic here the Holy Blood of Christ, or is it the blood of a duck?”
Jane held her breath as the monk struggled with himself. “It is the blood of a duck,” he said at length, in a strangulated voice.
She did not, could not, believe it. They had put him up to it, put the words in his mouth. There was no end to their wickedness.
“So this is nothing but a vile fraud,” Anne pronounced. “Good people, you have seen here today how the godly are fleeced and deceived. Father Abbot, I shall be informing the King of this trickery. In the meantime, you will remove this false relic.”
The Abbot bowed his head. Behind her, Jane heard angry protests raised in the crowd.
Bishop Latimer’s voice rang out. “Go home, all of you. Tell everyone what you have witnessed here today. Pray that true religion will flourish.”
“Amen!” the Queen said.
* * *
—
As they rode back to Sudeley Castle, Jane was silent, thinking how Anne must have known beforehand what the monk had said to the King’s commissioners, and planned to humiliate the Abbot publicly. And that monk had clearly been coerced into denying that the blood was Christ’s. But how could such a holy and famous relic, revered for hundreds of years and seen by many wise and learned men, be a fake? She would not believe it. No one could have experienced such rapture as she had this day in the presence of the blood of a duck!
When they arrived at the castle, Sir Francis Bryan dismounted and handed her down from her saddle. “Well, that was timely!” he said, as they strolled back to the royal lodgings.
“How did they know it was a duck’s blood?”
“They didn’t. How could they? They just wanted to prove the relic a fake. It suits their purpose.”
“So this is what you meant about the commissioners being sent to find fault with the monasteries?”
“It is.”
Anne Parr and Mary Zouche had gone ahead to attend the Queen, so Jane leaned for a moment against the wall of the great banqueting hall. From the kitchens below, the smell of roasting meats wafted up. It would soon be dinner time.
Bryan lingered. “There is talk of the King closing down some of the smaller houses. Master Cromwell has been telling him that he will make him the richest sovereign on earth. The Church has untold wealth. It will be plundered to fill the empty treasury.”
Jane had rarely felt so angry. “But that’s wicked! They are God’s houses.”
Bryan shrugged. “Master Cromwell would have us all believe that they are either inefficient or too worldly, or that they are hotbeds of popery or bawdy houses—saving your presence, Jane. The commiss
ioners have their instructions.”
Jane was twisting her rings in distress. “I cannot believe that they would even contemplate such a thing. The King is a devout man. How can he sanction it?”
“The King will find a moral pretext for anything he wants to do, Jane. Believe me, I know him. Once the royal conscience has been outraged, it must be satisfied.”
“What of the consciences of the rest of us? There are several religious houses near where I live, and no scandal has ever touched them. Those who serve God in them are good people. They do no ill.” Then she remembered the Prioress of Amesbury and realized that was not quite true.
Bryan gave her a long look. “You’re an innocent, Jane, and that’s why people love you. Mark me, you’ll see this come to pass, and maybe, in time, the bigger houses will go too.”
“But that’s the worst kind of sacrilege. What of all those poor souls with vocations?”
“I think the plan is to pension them off or find places for them in larger monasteries.”
“The people will not stand for it!”
“The people, may I remind you, sweet Jane, have stood for a good deal—for the putting away of the Princess Dowager, the disinheriting of her daughter, the King’s supremacy, the Act of Succession, the executions of good men—and Anne Boleyn, whom they have to thank for the loss of their lucrative trade with the Empire. I hardly think they will rise now, for the sake of monks and nuns.”
“All the same, it is utterly wrong and wicked,” Jane insisted. “The world, I think, has gone mad.”
In bed that night, in a room at the top of Sudeley’s tower, she lay wakeful. What Bryan had told her was preying heavily on her mind. It had brought home to her what she most disliked about the court—the sheer absence of morality, humanity and rightness. All was self-seeking and riding roughshod over the sensibilities and values of others. And it was dangerous to disagree or show any disapproval. Add to that the gossip, the backbiting, the intrigues and the perils of being at the center of events—and you could see the abyss opening up before you. Here, in the shires, news came late and sometimes garbled. Her father had rarely discussed political matters with his womenfolk. Jane had been amazed to discover that she had the ability to grasp them; she had grown up thinking it beyond her. But increasingly she wished she had remained in blissful ignorance.
* * *
—
In August, having traveled via Tewkesbury and Gloucester, they stayed for six days at Berkeley Castle, as guests of Lord and Lady Berkeley, who took great pleasure in showing them all the grim little cell where the deposed Edward II had been imprisoned and murdered two centuries before, on the orders of his wife and her lover.
The King frowned. “For that, they both deserved the severest punishment,” he said sternly. “For a queen to betray and murder her lord the King is the worst kind of treason.”
“Regrettably she died in her bed,” Lord Berkeley told him. “But her lover was hanged.”
“He deserved worse,” Henry declared, “especially considering what was done to the King.”
Jane winced as Lord Berkeley told everyone how Edward had been killed by a red-hot spit thrust into his bowels. “People say that his screams echoed beyond the castle walls,” he added darkly. After that, Jane was eager to leave Berkeley; she was convinced that the sufferings of poor King Edward were imprinted on its ancient stones, and fearful lest his soul might not be at rest.
But it was not the murdered King’s ghost that prowled the turrets and staircases at Berkeley by night. Coming up from the hall one evening, having retrieved a pearl the Queen had lost from her hood, Jane passed through the chapel, which was lit only by the lamp next to the altar; and there, in the shadows, she saw Thomas Howard and Margaret Douglas in a passionate embrace, oblivious to anything but themselves. She hurried on, thinking how unwise it was of Margaret to involve herself with a man who could offer her nothing. The King was hardly likely to approve their marriage, even if the Queen wanted it. She wondered if Anne knew how close the couple had become. But Anne was preoccupied, simmering after hearing from Master Cromwell that the monks of Hailes had restored their relic to its shrine, where the faithful were still flocking to see it.
* * *
—
Thornbury Castle, their next stop, seemed to be haunted too. It had belonged to the Duke of Buckingham, a distant cousin of the King, who had plotted to seize the throne and been beheaded some years before. All his property had been forfeited to the Crown. The Duke had left Thornbury unfinished, but enough had been completed to afford luxurious lodgings for the King and Queen and their attendants. The maids were accommodated in an attic up a steep stair, but the views from high up were glorious. Yet Jane could not stop thinking about the man who had planned the castle on such a dangerously grand and pretentious scale, how he had laid out the lovely gardens—and how he had met his end. How could he have borne to leave behind his beautiful house? Or had he never really left it? Was his spirit still here? There seemed to be shadows in every corner.
Two of them were Margaret Douglas and Thomas Howard, whom Jane glimpsed stealing into the Duchess of Richmond’s chamber. The door closed. As she passed, Jane heard the Duchess’s voice from within, and was relieved to know that the couple were not alone. It was no surprise that Mary Howard was encouraging the match: Thomas was her uncle.
The progress afforded many opportunities for dalliance. Margaret and Thomas were not the only ones. Maybe it was the prevailing holiday mood, or the sense of freedom that travel induced, which gave impetus to snatched kisses and secret meetings. Jane heard the other maids whispering about their flirtations in the dorter at night. Her brother Thomas made no secret of his conquests. But no one had come seeking her favors, and she doubted they ever would.
Jane loved Acton Court, where Sir Nicholas Poyntz had built a fine new wing especially for the King’s visit. She marveled with everyone else at the antick friezes and murals in the royal lodgings—and that Sir Nicholas had gone to such trouble and expense for a visit that was to last for only two days. Henry and Anne were suitably impressed, not only by Sir Nicholas’s extravagance, but also by his overt loyalty, which to him was doubtless worth the outlay.
From there, the court moved on to Little Sodbury, and soon they were entering Wiltshire, to Jane’s joy and relief. Soon she would be home!
On the fourth day of September, they rode eastward from Bromham Hall to Wulfhall, where the King was to stay for three nights. Jane could hardly contain her excitement. She could only imagine what her mother was feeling.
Chapter 14
1535
The hunting horns had sounded their arrival, and Father and Mother were waiting in the Great Court, with their entire household gathered behind them. The cobbled enclosure was packed with men and horses, for the local gentry had come to pay their respects to their sovereign and make up the party for tomorrow’s hunt. Dorothy, who had blossomed into prettiness, waited beside her. Edward, having ridden ahead with Thomas and Harry, was standing, tall and elegant, beside Nan, whose low-bodiced gown was of tawny silk. With them was John, who had shot up in height and was now quite the young man at sixteen, and Ned, a robust eight-year-old, nearly jumping up and down with excitement. Sir John, resplendent in scarlet, with a sprightliness belying his sixty years, had a hand firmly clamped on the boy’s shoulder. Mother was stately in plum-colored damask and sable, with a startling yellow kirtle and matching hood. They looked so pleased and proud to be welcoming their King. You would never have thought that infidelity and scandal had nearly riven this family apart. But that had been eight years ago now. The wounds had healed, Jane hoped, and poor Catherine had atoned with her sanity and her early death.
“Welcome, Sir, to our humble home,” Father beamed, approaching his sovereign’s splendid black charger and handing the stirrup cup to the King. “It is a great honor to have your Graces here.”
&
nbsp; He knelt, and everyone else made deep reverences. The King and Queen dismounted. King Henry dominated the scene, seeming to dwarf every other man present. His doublet and gown were of green damask slashed with cloth of gold and a-glitter with gems. Costly furs lined his sleeves and an enormous ruby was pinned to his black velvet bonnet. His fingers were laden with rings. It struck Jane that he was still a handsome man, for all that he must be forty-four now; there was no gray in his red-gold hair, and his fair skin was tanned after weeks of hunting in the sunshine. Truly he was the epitome of a king—and he was smiling broadly.
“Sir John, we are well pleased to see you,” he declared, raising Father and clapping him on the back. “And Lady Seymour, we have heard that you keep a table unrivaled in Wiltshire!” He took Mother’s hand and kissed it jovially, and she blushed a deep red from her bosom to her hairline.
“It is a pleasure to entertain your Graces,” she stuttered. Then she caught sight of Jane and smiled a welcome.
Jane joined her family as the King greeted them. Henry’s gaze rested a second too long on Nan’s comely bosom, and he had Dorothy blushing when he praised her sweet face. Then he was standing in front of Jane. Instinctively she lowered her head, not wishing to appear bold, but he raised her chin with his finger and she was forced to look into those piercing blue eyes. She could read nothing in them but kingly interest.
“Mistress Jane.” He smiled. “Sir John, we shall have to find a husband for this fair young lady.”
Jane winced. But the King was passing on. She curtseyed low to the Queen, who had followed in his wake.
“Yes, we shall,” Anne said, inclining her head graciously.
Bryan, who was among the crowd of courtiers clustering behind her, winked at Jane. She smiled, appreciating his attempt at commiseration. She did not want a husband of Anne Boleyn’s choosing.
“Let me show your Graces to the lodging we have prepared for you,” Father said.