by Alison Weir
“But Henry, what she did was not then an offense.”
“It was offensive to me!” he snapped. “You and Cromwell seem to forget that the actions of those two not only deprived me of a valuable political asset, but also threatened my very life!”
She seized his hand and wrung it. “I know them, Henry. I cannot believe that Lord Thomas had designs on the throne.”
“He is a Howard!” Henry barked. “They all have designs on the throne in one way or another. Locusts, the lot of them! Darling, you are a sweet innocent with a kind heart.” He squeezed her hand. “To please you, and Cromwell, I will spare both their lives. But they must remain in the Tower for the present. I trust that satisfies you.”
It was enough, for now. Fervently she kissed his hand in gratitude. “You are the kindest, most gracious sovereign that ever lived,” she told him. He liked that, she could see, although he still seemed preoccupied and downcast.
“You couldn’t really have thought I would execute my own niece?” he murmured, nuzzling her throat. “I love her too dearly, even though she has behaved herself so lightly, to my great dishonor. And she is my only heir.” Suddenly, to her utter amazement, he was weeping.
“Henry, whatever is wrong?” she cried, folding her arms around his broad shoulders. Was he still grieving for their lost child?
“Oh, God, Jane, I can hardly bring myself to speak of it. I have just come from the doctors. My son is gravely ill.”
Jane had seen the Duke of Richmond in the court only two days before. She had noticed that the youth had been coughing and had a livid flush to his cheeks. But he had been laughing with his crony, Norfolk’s son, the volatile Earl of Surrey, and she had not been at all concerned. She did not much like Richmond, an arrogant young man with a ruthless streak, but he was the apple of the King’s eye.
Henry was weeping profusely against her breast. “A humor has fallen into his chest. There is no hope, they say. My boy, my precious boy! Oh, Jane, why does God punish me so? I am frustrated at every turn when I try to provide for the succession. I was going to name Richmond my heir and successor, and have him proclaimed by Parliament, though of course he would have ranked after any children we may have. But now there is no one to succeed me apart from that naughty girl in the Tower. You do see, do you not, why I am so grieved at her offense?”
“Oh, darling, I do see, and I am so very sorry about Richmond. Is there nothing the doctors can do?”
Henry mopped his eyes with a large white kerchief. “Nothing! He is in God’s hands now.”
* * *
—
That night, the shadow appeared again. Henry was snoring, having cried himself to sleep, and Jane was lying wakeful, cradling him in her arms. Suddenly it was there, stark and black, silhouetted against the wainscot.
She shrank back into the warmth of Henry’s body, shutting her eyes against the presence. Quaking, she wondered if the shadow was a harbinger of evil, and what its appearance tonight might presage.
She made herself open her eyes. It was gone, and again she thought perhaps she had dreamed or imagined it. Possibly it was a trick of the light after all.
But when the Duke of Richmond died four days later, she wondered.
* * *
—
Henry was devastated. “It was that cursed Anne and her brother—they poisoned him!” he burst out, as they stood looking down on the still white corpse, dressed in its ducal robes. “I knew it all along, what they intended!”
“But Henry,” Jane soothed, “they have been dead for two months. Surely no poison could be that slow to work?” There was no reasoning with him.
“What they gave him fatally undermined his health,” he insisted. “The doctors think he had been ailing for some weeks before he became really ill. No, Jane, this was the work of their malice!”
She thought of the shadow. Had Anne come to claim Richmond? If so, she could not have thought of a more deadly way to repay Henry for signing her death warrant. It stood to reason that she could not rest. She had scores to settle. Anne had every cause to haunt the woman who had supplanted her. It was easy to believe that she was having her revenge.
Richmond’s death was kept secret.
“I dare not raise fears over the succession,” Henry explained mournfully. He had aged this past week. At night, when he came to her bed, it was for comfort, not desire. There were new lines of grief etched into his face, and more gray in his red hair; Jane was already aware that he was overeating and putting on weight. His leg pained him from time to time, so he could not always enjoy the sporting pursuits he loved, nor get the exercise he needed.
Norfolk, as Richmond’s father-in-law, had been commanded by Henry to have the late Duke’s body wrapped in lead and conveyed in a farm wagon to Thetford Priory in Norfolk for a private burial.
Immediately, Henry regretted it. Norfolk was summoned, and Jane was astonished to see the King erupt in fury.
“Why did you not bury my son with the honors due to him?” he shouted. “I’ll have you in the Tower for this!”
“I was but obeying your Grace’s own orders,” Norfolk replied, in his choleric way. “And when I deserve to be in the Tower, Tottenham shall turn French!”
Henry glared at him. “You will build him a proper tomb, in the church at Framlingham, so that he can lie in suitable state!”
Norfolk bowed, full of chagrin. “Your Grace may rest assured that it will be done. May I ask what is to happen to my daughter now that she is widowed?”
“Find her another husband!” Henry snapped, still angry. “The marriage wasn’t consummated, so she is still a maid.”
“But your Grace, she is your daughter-in-law.”
“And your daughter! Take her home with you, and don’t show your face here again. I have not forgotten the treason of your villainous niece and nephew!”
Norfolk scuttled away, plainly mortified. Jane felt a pang for the young Duchess of Richmond. She had not liked her, for Mary Howard had been a friend of Anne Boleyn, and hostile, but to be widowed so young, and consigned to the protection of that martinet of a father of hers, was a bleak fate. God send that Norfolk found her a husband before too long.
As Jane and Henry rode side by side along the leafy lanes of Kent, she reflected that it was to have been Anne accompanying him on this trip to Dover to inspect England’s defenses. She recalled the night when it had been canceled. No one had guessed then that Anne was about to be arrested.
She felt so depressed about the burden of guilt she bore that the magnificent cathedrals of Rochester and Canterbury passed her by in a haze of towers, spires and stained glass. When they arrived at Dover Castle, she could take no pleasure in seeing her phoenix badge in the jewel-colored windows newly installed by the King’s master glazier. But that night, she and Henry were lovers again, and after that her mood gradually lifted. The King roused himself from his grief, and there was a hint of a holiday spirit.
From London, Cromwell kept Henry informed of all the news, with messengers racing to and fro.
“Elizabeth is outgrowing her clothes,” the King remarked, looking up from the latest letter. They were standing on the battlements of the Great Tower at Dover, high on the magnificent cliffs, with the English Channel spread out before them.
Jane was standing away from the parapet, holding on to her hood, for the wind was strong here, whipping her veil about her face. “She must be growing fast,” she said. The thought of Anne Boleyn’s motherless child was even more unsettling than thinking of Anne herself.
“Cromwell is attending to it. Apparently Elizabeth’s governor is allowing her to dine and sup every day at the board of estate, and Lady Bryan does not approve. But I commanded it. Bastard she may be, but she is still my daughter.”
“I’m told she is a very intelligent child.”
“Too intelligent by far!
” Henry observed. “On the day after her mother died, she was asking her governor why it was that she was now being called the Lady Elizabeth instead of Lady Princess. And she not yet three!”
Jane’s heart bled for the little girl. “And what did he answer?”
“He instructed Lady Bryan, on my orders, to tell Elizabeth that her mother has gone to Heaven. She is too young to be burdened with the details. She will find out soon enough, poor child. Anne should have thought of that.”
Jane could not imagine how Elizabeth would feel when she learned of her mother’s fate.
“Fortunately Mary has conceived a special affection for Elizabeth,” Henry was saying. “It seems that forcing her to serve Elizabeth was a sound idea after all, for who could not but love such a goodly, gentle child?” That sisterly love had flourished against all the odds seemed incredible. “Mary’s health has improved sufficiently for her to go to Hatfield this week. She writes that her sister is in good health and that I will have cause to rejoice in her in time to come. She sent us both her best wishes for our health, and called you her good mother.”
That was heartening, and it was heartening too to see that Henry’s affection for his younger daughter had been in no way undermined by Anne Boleyn’s fall.
Henry was looking down on the massive ramparts of the castle, his brow furrowed. “I’ve had to order that Elizabeth must keep to her chamber and not come abroad. There is much gossip and speculation that she is not my child, and that Norris was her father. I do not want it reaching her ears, or talk of what happened to her mother. So it is best she remains in her apartments, with supervised time in her privy garden.”
“That is very wise,” Jane observed.
He nodded. “And I’ve ensured that her household is staffed by older and sober persons. There were too many young people around her.”
“You think they were light of morals?”
A pause; a heartbeat. “I am remembering the young people who laughed and flirted with Anne in her privy chamber. Look what that led to! Elizabeth is her mother’s daughter as well as mine. Already she’s a little coquette. It must be schooled out of her, which is why I want mature servants attending her. She must be constrained to virtue.”
Jane felt yet more sorrow for Elizabeth. She would always bear the stigma of being Anne Boleyn’s child.
When Jane’s flowers appeared in August, Henry sighed and looked downcast.
“At least you can join me for the hunt,” he said.
They spent most of that month out in the fresh air, chasing across the broad meadows and sun-dappled woodland of the Thames valley, enjoying good sport. On a single day, they brought down twenty stags. It should have restored Henry’s good spirits, but he was still mourning Richmond, despondent at his hopes of an heir being dashed, and still vexed with Margaret Douglas. One night, he flung himself into Jane’s chair and regarded her with eyes full of self-pity.
“What is wrong?” she asked, hastening to embrace him.
“Oh, Jane!” he groaned. “I am weary of the burdens I bear. I feel myself growing old. I doubt now that we shall have any children.”
“Nonsense!” Fear made her sharp. “You’re in the vigor of your age, as I well know! Try to be cheerful. Take a little wine—and come to bed.” It was the most daring thing she had ever said to him, for no virtuous wife initiated lovemaking, and he commanded her as her king as well as her husband, but it worked marvels. Soon they were rolling on top of the counterpane, fumbling with laces and garters, and coming together in a breathtaking climax. And afterward, Henry lay there with a broad smile on his face at last.
* * *
—
Later that month they visited Mary at Hunsdon, and Jane was delighted to see her stepdaughter looking a healthier color, although she was still thin and confessed to being plagued by headaches. As they talked, a small red head and curious eyes came peeking around a pillar.
“There you are!” came Lady Bryan’s voice, and then she saw who was present and dropped a hurried curtsey.
“Come here, you little minx!” Henry cried, and Elizabeth ran to him, to be scooped up in his arms. “Say hello to Queen Jane, your new stepmother.”
Jane marveled how Elizabeth had grown since she had last seen her. The plump contours of infancy had all but disappeared, and now she was a sturdy little girl. Henry kissed her heartily and told her how pretty she was, while Mary looked on tenderly, if somewhat wistfully. Mary was still nervous in Henry’s presence, and probably a touch resentful, if the truth be known, for Elizabeth was too young ever to have offended him, and it was obvious that his love for her was uncomplicated. Certainly the child knew well how to work her wiles on him. Stroking his beard, and planting little kisses on his cheek, she regarded Jane speculatively, then put out an imperious hand to be kissed. They all laughed.
“No, sweeting, it is you who must kiss the Queen’s hand, as you should know,” Henry reproved. Jane gave Elizabeth her hand and received a rather haughty peck, then, impulsively—for she must be worthy of the name of stepmother, and make up in some small way to Elizabeth for what she had lost—she reached out her arms and took the child; she was heavy and not at all sure that she wanted to be held by her stepmother, but when Jane smiled and spoke gently to her, telling her that they were going to be firm friends, she relented a little, and soon she was telling Jane that she knew all her alphabet and her numbers up to twenty. Then she was clamoring to be put down, and climbing on Henry’s knee as he sat talking to Mary. He did not object to being interrupted, and was very affectionate to her. It came to Jane forcibly that they looked like an ordinary happy family: father, mother and two daughters. Who, watching them, could have guessed at the tragedies and dramas that lay behind this touching tableau? She realized that she herself was in no small way responsible for restoring harmony, and that made her feel infinitely better. Good had come out of bad, and that was something to thank God for.
She made a point of sitting close to Mary and asking whether she had all she needed. Mary seemed pathetically grateful.
“It is good to have your Grace as a friend,” she said. “I cannot say how much I appreciate all you have done for me.”
“I longed for years to help you,” Jane told her, taking her hand. “I was glad to be able to do so.”
“My health is wonderfully improved,” Mary said.
“Then you will soon be ready to come to court,” Henry said. “We will have a public reunion for all the world to see.”
Mary looked a little daunted at the prospect.
“And Elizabeth must visit court too,” Jane said, trying to extricate Noble from Elizabeth’s none-too-gentle clutches. “Would you like that, Elizabeth?”
“Yes,” Elizabeth said, letting go of the little dog and twirling around in a fair imitation of an almain, a dance greatly favored at court.
“She is her mother’s daughter,” Mary murmured, as Henry got up and showed Elizabeth how to do the steps properly. “Your Grace should keep an eye on her. I cannot help but love her, for she is so endearing, and yet I fear she is no blood kin to me.”
Jane stared at her. “I beg your pardon?”
“She is Mark Smeaton’s child,” Mary muttered low. “Can’t you see the likeness?”
“Not at all.” Mary must be disabused of this silly idea at once. “You only have to look at her to see who her father is—and he himself, who has most cause, has never expressed a single doubt!”
Mary looked unconvinced, but then Henry came back, carrying a squealing Elizabeth under his arm, and there was no chance to say anything more. When Mary bade them farewell, she embraced Jane warmly, so clearly she had not taken offense at their disagreement.
* * *
—
Seeing Henry with his daughters, and how loving a father he could be, had brought home to Jane his desperate need for a son. She could not b
ear to think of the child she had lost, and how she had failed him. It seemed cruel that she, the child of such fecund parents, had not immediately proved fruitful.
She was worrying too about her father’s health. He wrote rarely these days, which seemed ominous in itself. Mother’s infrequent letters were always relentlessly cheerful, yet Jane feared that the truth was being kept from her. Edward had said that Father was no better, and even the normally flippant Thomas was concerned.
As they rode away from Hunsdon, Jane began to feel overburdened. There were things she could not discuss with Henry, who was dealing with his own demons, and there was no one else in whom to confide. Margaret Douglas was in prison. Eleanor Rutland had been making an effort to be amiable, and Mary Monteagle was friendly enough, but Jane did not know either of them well, which was probably her own fault because, being constantly aware of the need to be on her dignity, she had not encouraged the intimacies of normal friendships. And easy camaraderie with her maids was now forever barred to her.
Henry leaned over from his saddle. “You’re quiet this evening, darling. Are you well?”
“I am just tired,” she prevaricated.
“We’ll soon be at Waltham,” he said. “The harbingers have gone ahead. Supper will be ready for us.”
She made herself smile at him.
* * *
—
“Why, darling, how happens it you are no merrier?” Henry asked, coming into her chamber the next morning to find her staring into space while her women bent over their embroidery. “Leave us,” he ordered them.
“I’m lonely,” Jane said, when they had gone. “I feel all over the place.”
Henry’s eyes brightened. “Could you be with child?”
She wondered. She had felt overemotional lately, but had put it down to worry and guilt, and shadows in the dark. “Not that I know of,” she said. “But now it has pleased you to make me your wife, there are none but my inferiors with whom to make merry, your Grace excepted—unless it would please you that we might now enjoy the company of the Lady Mary at court. Surely she is well enough now.”