by Alison Weir
“But he and the Queen are allies.”
Edward put a finger to his lips and led Jane toward a deserted aviary. Behind the lattices she could see the caged birds hopping from perch to perch or pecking at their food. “They disagree on practically everything these days. She is an impediment to England’s friendship with the Emperor, for which Cromwell and Chapuys are working hand-in-glove. Master Secretary is concerned about England’s trade with the Emperor’s dominions, for it has slumped since England and the Empire ceased to be friends.”
“How do you know all this?”
Edward smiled, a trifle smugly. “Because Cromwell himself told me. He has made several friendly overtures lately. I do believe he is seeking my favor. I told you that the King’s interest in you would bring advantages. Believe me, Jane, the reign of the Boleyns is coming to an end.”
“What do you think the King will do?”
“Why, divorce the Lady! It’s only a matter of time.”
“That isn’t the impression his Grace gave me. He spoke of getting an heir. And he did not speak to Archbishop Cranmer as he said he would.”
Edward seemed unbothered by this. “Jane, you have much to learn about the King. He often says one thing when he means another. He even shows favor to those he intends to destroy.”
Jane did not like hearing such things about Henry. “His concern about the succession is genuine. Maybe he has thought of marrying me,” she said slowly, remembering his words of love and what he had said wistfully about her calming presence. “But the fact that he hasn’t spoken of it makes me think he believes it isn’t possible.”
“Then we must make him believe that it is,” Edward said, taking her arm and steering her along the path that led to the Queen’s lodgings.
* * *
—
Two days later, Edward came to the Queen’s chamber. The room was packed with ladies and gentlemen chatting, gambling, making music or flirting. Jane pushed her way through the throng to greet her brother. She could tell by his expression that he had momentous news. He looked more excited than she could ever remember seeing him.
“I am promoted to be a groom of the Privy Chamber,” he told her proudly, “and it’s been intimated to me that I am being considered for the post of master of horse.” He lowered his voice. “And I have you to thank.”
“Not at all,” Jane said, impressed, for the office of master of horse was an important one. “You have achieved this by your own merits.”
“No, Jane. This is what comes of the King’s love for you. It’s largely because of that that I stand in high favor with him. Others of equal merit have been passed over.”
Jane saw that Anne was watching them malevolently, and guessed that she knew of Edward’s promotion. “Someone does not approve,” she murmured.
“She fears my having the King’s ear,” Edward said. “Jane, you cannot go on suffering her hatred. When we move to Greenwich and you lodge with Nan and me, you can resign from her service.”
“Oh, that would be such a relief,” Jane told him. “It has been a mortifying existence these past weeks.”
* * *
—
Jane wondered how to broach her resignation to Anne. Should she write a formal letter? Or dare she risk telling her face to face? She shrank from the prospect. As the women unpacked and laid everything away, she pondered her dilemma, until, kneeling in front of the linen chest, she became aware of Anne holding forth to her brother. “Wholesale dissolution, that’s what he’s planning.”
“It’s just the smaller religious houses that are to be closed,” Lord Rochford said, lounging on the window seat. He was a dark-haired fellow, handsome to some, Jane supposed, and he knew it.
“Mark me, Cromwell will close them all,” Anne predicted. “Has he not promised to make Henry rich? All their wealth will go into his coffers, when some should be spent on education and charity. But Master Secretary’s priority is to entrench himself in the King’s good graces. God, how I hate that man! He has got so above himself. Do you know what I found out, brother? Last year he discussed with Chapuys the desirability of restoring that brat Mary to the succession.”
Rochford raised his eyebrows. “Indeed.”
“I’ll see his head cut off first!” Anne fumed. “He thinks my teeth have been drawn, but I am more powerful than he thinks.” She glared at Jane. “Mistress Seymour, stop gawping and fetch me some wine.”
Jane stood up and poured some Rhenish into a glass goblet. She found she was shaking at Anne’s contempt. She would not put up with it a moment longer.
“Your Grace,” she said, handing the goblet to Anne, “I would like to resign from my post.”
Anne sniffed. “Nothing would please me more!” she declared. “And the sooner the better. In fact, get your things and go now.”
“With pleasure, Madam,” Jane retorted, and walked out, but not before she had had the satisfaction of seeing Anne’s jaw drop at her boldness. In the dorter, she dragged out her traveling chest, piled her clothes and possessions into it, and sent for a groom to see that it was carried to Edward’s apartment. On the way out, she met Margery Horsman, coming up the stairs.
“I’m leaving the Queen’s service,” Jane said. “I’m going to lodge with my brother. I can’t stand it here anymore.”
Margery hugged her. “I’m not surprised. But I will miss you.”
“And I you,” Jane said. “I value your friendship. If ever I’m in a position to reward it, I will do so.” She kissed Margery, then sped on down the stairs to freedom.
* * *
—
The apartment vacated by Cromwell was spacious and beautifully appointed, with painted friezes, gold battens on the ceilings, and a fine carved mantelpiece. There were three rooms and a privy, and Jane had a bedchamber all to herself. In it was a solid oak tester bed with embroidered hangings. She threw herself down on it, exulting at not being at the Queen’s beck and call any longer, and being free of her constant barbs.
Nan was in her element. She had longed to come to court, but had never dreamed of doing so in such opulent fashion. She bullied their two servants into keeping the rooms in pristine splendor, ready for when the King should come. She was not a little jealous of Jane, but the prospect of entertaining her sovereign at her own table seemed to be ample compensation.
The first night Henry visited Jane, he gave no warning. The door leading from his gallery opened, and there he was, looking handsome in green and gold—and there was Nan, in her brown dress, with her hair uncovered and unbound, sinking into a flustered curtsey before flying off to change and bring out some cold meats and a raised pie from the court cupboard. Henry grinned after her. “I’ve heard she rules here,” he murmured.
Jane nodded, making a face. In anticipation of his coming, which she had expected for the last two days, she had worn a becoming gown the color of a dove’s breast, and left her fair hair loose. The locket with Henry’s portrait hung at her breast.
“I will eat here, just to please her,” Henry said, taking Jane’s hand and kissing it. “Then, I trust, she and your brother will retire to the next room, so that, if you scream that I am ravishing you, they will hear and come at once.” He chuckled.
“I hope that is not your purpose.” Jane smiled. “If so, I had better scream now.”
Nan came back then, looking more presentable, and full of apologies. “It is but a humble meal, your Grace. My husband will have finished his duties soon, and will join us.” As she spoke, she was serving the food on pewter plates.
“This looks good,” Henry said. “A feast, Lady Seymour!” He sat down and tucked in with relish, his knee pressing against Jane’s under the tablecloth. It was wonderful to be close to him again.
Edward returned, expressing pleasure at seeing his sovereign already arrived, and they passed a very merry hour together over th
e supper. But when the last crumb of apple tart had vanished, and Henry intimated that his hosts should leave the room, Edward demurred.
“Sir, I understood that this arrangement was made to protect Jane’s reputation. Maybe the door should be left open.”
Henry frowned. “Her reputation is safe with me, Sir Edward. I would do nothing to compromise her. You and your good lady being within earshot is protection enough. Am I not a knight who understands the rules of chivalry?”
“Oh, no, no, your Grace, I did not mean to imply otherwise,” Edward hastened to assure him.
Henry clapped him on the back. “I know that. You must forgive me for being an ardent swain. I’m sure you felt the same about the fair Nan here.” Nan preened herself at the compliment. Edward looked at her proudly.
“I still do,” he said gallantly. “Come, Nan, we will withdraw into the bedchamber. I wish your Grace good night.”
It was the first of many pleasant evenings Jane spent sitting with Henry in front of the fire, talking, listening to him playing on his lute or singing in his fine tenor voice, reading poetry, or doing what lovers do. Soon kisses would give way to caresses, and then he would pull her down on the hearthrug, where they lay together, giving and receiving pleasure, and Jane was enthralled by the miraculous new sensations in her body. Before long, they took to creeping into her bedchamber and making love on her bed. Again and again she set aside her fears of pregnancy. They had been lucky so far, which gave her courage. Besides, her feelings for Henry were deepening. Far from losing interest, he was growing ever more ardent. She felt they were friends as well as lovers.
There were times when the lover’s mask slipped and she caught glimpses of the tormented man beneath. His desperate need for an heir was eating away at him, and when he mentioned Anne, he was tight-lipped. Jane felt sorry for him. He had turned the world on its heels to have Anne, and now he was reaping a bitter harvest.
“I can see why he loves you, Jane,” Nan said. “After that shrew of a wife of his, you must seem like a lamb.”
* * *
—
Early March brought warm spring weather, and Edward asked Jane to join him for a walk in Greenwich Park. They climbed the hill behind the palace, on top of which stood an old tower with the pretty name of Mireflore, though it was long abandoned and had an air of decay and neglect about it. They did not go in, but sat on the grassy slope before it, gazing down on the impressive vista of the palace below, with the wide river beyond.
Edward looked around. “Thank God there is no one nearby,” he said. “I need to talk to you, Jane. There was a meeting last night, arranged by Messire Chapuys, at his house at the Austin Friars in London. He is drawing together all those who wish to see the Lady divorced.”
“You were there?” Jane asked.
“Yes, with our brothers. Chapuys has been showing himself increasingly friendly toward us since last year. Now he believes it is the time for action. The Lady is hated at court and in the kingdom at large. She and her followers are blamed for the radical laws that have been passed recently. Some resent her for promoting what they see as heresy and for being the cause of religious change, and while I myself cannot deplore that, certainly I agree that she is responsible for the slump in trade with the Empire.”
“I think she is unsuitable in every way to be a queen,” Jane said.
“Many of the King’s subjects would agree, especially the women, I hear. They hate her for usurping the place of the old Queen, who was much loved, and they hold her responsible for the executions of Sir Thomas More, Bishop Fisher and the Carthusians.”
Jane shrugged off her cloak. The sun was unseasonably warm. “She has managed to alienate several of the King’s friends and lords, and even her own uncle.”
“I forbear to tell you what they say about her abroad,” Edward said. “Mostly it’s obscene. I tell you, Jane, there will be few to champion her if the King decides to put her away. Which brings me back to Chapuys and the reason he called us all together. He believes that the best hope of the Princess Mary being restored to the succession lies in your becoming queen. No, Jane, let me finish! You are known to love and reverence the Princess, and Chapuys knows you for a lady of great virtue and kindness.”
That was gratifying. “But the King has dropped no hint that he means to divorce the Queen. Why do you and Chapuys assume that he will do so?”
“It is not just me and Chapuys who are in this,” Edward replied, lying back on the grass. “There were several people at the meeting, all of whom are resolved to bring down Anne Boleyn and all her faction. Bryan and Carew were there, and Lord and Lady Exeter, with Lord Montagu and others of the Pole family.”
Jane gasped. “But they are the King’s own cousins!”
“Aye, and they all have claims to the throne, being of the old Plantagenet line. The King distrusts them, not only on account of their descent, but also because they are religious conservatives and supported the late Queen. They are reactionaries, but because of their royal blood they have influence.”
“They would support me, a knight’s daughter, becoming queen?” Jane could barely believe it. The Exeters and the Poles were haughty and grand, proud of their exalted descent.
“They were vociferous in your favor, believe me!” Edward assured her. “Lord Exeter said to Chapuys that he would not be among the laggards to shed his blood for the Princess.”
“Lady Exeter loved the old Queen. She used to smuggle messages from Chapuys to her.” Jane had been in awe of Lady Exeter, a spirited, resolute woman whose passionate nature reflected her Spanish blood, her father having married one of the maids-of-honor who had come with the late Queen from Spain.
“Carew is a friend of both her and her husband, as is Lady Salisbury, Lord Montagu’s mother.”
“Was she at the meeting?”
“Yes, she traveled up from her house in Hampshire to be there. She approves of you too.”
“And the Princess herself? Does she know of this meeting and its purpose?”
Edward smiled. “Chapuys assured us that she approves. He keeps her secretly informed of events. Believe me, she will sanction anything to get rid of the Lady. She loathes her—and she has expressed great love for us Seymours.” He looked at Jane intently. “It is clear that Anne’s position as queen is now untenable. The King will surely see that soon, if he has not already. And then—Jane, think of it! You can expect great things, and a glorious future. Because what I have not told you is that there was another person at the meeting last night, one more powerful than all the rest put together—Master Secretary Cromwell himself!”
“Cromwell?” Jane echoed. “By all the saints!”
“He is a friend and neighbor of Chapuys, and is determined on this alliance with Spain. The Lady is an impediment to that, and he knows she hates him.”
“I’ve heard her disparaging him to her brother,” Jane said.
Edward sat up. “I’m sympathetic to Mary, of course, and ready to stand up for her rights—and I know you are too. But if you marry the King, your sons will displace her from the succession. That must be our ultimate goal: a Seymour king on the throne of England.”
Jane knew she should have been jubilant at the prospect, but it unnerved her. It was not her brother’s naked ambition that was disconcerting, for it was no more than she would have expected from him. It was the images that had leapt into her head, of Anne screaming in labor; Anne distraught at the loss of each dead son; Anne desperate to bear a prince. She remembered how Katherine too had failed in that duty, and how it had blighted her life. If she married the King, that might be her lot too, and one day her enemies might plot to destroy her. It was the first time that the all-too-real possibility of this had occurred to her.
Edward was watching her. “Why so glum? Most women would be ecstatic at the prospect of becoming queen.”
“Supposi
ng I can’t bear him a son either?” she whispered.
“Nonsense! We Seymours are a prolific lot. Mother bore ten of us. Look at the family tree! We breed like rabbits. It’s one thing that must recommend you to the King as a bride.”
“You make me sound like a prize cow,” Jane retorted, but she felt better.
Edward shrugged. “It’s the way of the world,” he observed. “Even the lowest peasant wants a son to inherit his pig!”
* * *
—
Jane soon realized that she was being treated with a new deference by Henry’s courtiers. She felt her influence increasing daily. People came seeking favors from her, and several offered gifts as inducements, all of which she declined to accept. They must learn that she could not be bought, and anyway, she did not want Henry to think that she was using him to get privileges for her friends.
Lady Exeter smiled upon her whenever they passed each other in the court, and once she paused when they met in an otherwise empty gallery. “You are doing an excellent job, Mistress Jane,” she murmured. “Keep up the good work. We are all counting on you.” Then she swept on.
Her brothers also found themselves the focus of much interest. People gravitated toward them as the rising stars of the court, fawning upon them and craving their patronage. They were thriving upon it.
At night, Jane often lay wakeful, wondering where Henry stood in all this. He must be aware of public interest in her. Was he still contemplating ridding himself of Anne? He had said nothing more to Jane.
Edward and Thomas incessantly enjoined her to keep him at arm’s length, stress her virtue and hold out for the ultimate prize. “You must by no means comply with the King’s wishes except by way of marriage,” they commanded. What, she wondered, would they say if they knew what was going on nightly in Edward’s own apartment, or of how, in her own quiet way, she was binding Henry ever closer to her?