by G Lawrence
I stared at her in shock. Never had anyone said something so heartless to me, but I had no reason to think her wrong. “And she knew?” I breathed, so astonished I did not use proper terms of address. Jane did not seem to notice.
“Oh yes,” Jane said. “She never spoke of it, but she knew. Anne was crowned when with child, for the King believed in her and their love. Their child was a boy. He had no doubt, none at all. That was why the disappointment was so crushing when she birthed a girl. His fantasy was destroyed. And she was blamed…” Jane looked at the Queen “… it is the same now. The Queen is at fault for not being his dream. He was brought up to think what he wanted would become what was so. That is a dangerous thought.”
“Did you love her, your sister?” The question came out before I could stop it.
Jane let out a huff of breath through her nose as a mirthless laugh. “No doubt you have heard tales about me,” she said. “That I all but wielded the sword and axe when my family died… the truth is more complex.” She looked about and her voice dropped to a whisper.
“They were undone, and so fast we knew not what was happening until it was too late. Those caught in the tempest were gone long before they were dead. Those of us outside of the storm, we did what we had to, to survive.”
I saw tears in her eyes. “I was questioned. I told them things, nothing that meant anything. I meant to show how innocent it all was… I told them of light kisses and smiles, of the intense friendship between my husband and his sister. I spoke of dances and little flirtations, trying to show it was innocent, for what they said they suspected was vile. I said Anne and George had laughed at the King’s clothes, and once at his virility, and that was the only disrespect I had heard, for they were saying she was a traitor, plotting the death of the King, which was ridiculous. He was all she had, not only to protect her, but for her daughter and for her heart. She loved him, even after all the pain and shame, as I loved George.”
Jane’s eyes were fixed on London, clinging to the horizon. “Little things… that was all I spoke of. Nothing of importance, nothing of treason… but it was used. All of it. Perhaps they heard the jealousy in my voice, for I had always felt outside of their circle, but never did I think Anne would risk everything to bed all those men, and never that she and George would…”
Jane breathed in, air shaking in her lungs. “I spoke in fear, trying to defend them, but the King’s men took it all and twisted it. In the end the only one I could save was myself. I did not betray them, but I could not stand with them. I never did, in any case. They were tight, George and Anne. No one was allowed in. I was always just outside. And they mocked anyone who was not them. Anne could be cruel, sharp of tongue and cutting. George was the same. They loved one another for they were forged of the same soul. There was nothing improper between them, but they were bound in such a way that no one else stood a chance. Least of all me.”
She looked at the water and I saw the shadow in her eyes. It chased her too. Perhaps we were all haunted; the past always dogging our heels.
“I loved them,” she said. “They did not love me, but even knowing that I never would have seen them hurt. Yet I was part of what hurt them. I did not mean to be, but I was. That happens sometimes. Words leave your mouth with one purpose, and transform into something else, something darker.” She stared ahead. “My husband simply vanished. One minute he was there, and the next I was trying to hold on to our goods. The King took everything, every candlestick and pot. I was not supposed to mourn. There was no sympathy for me. I turned to Cromwell, the man who had destroyed my life, killed my family, because I had nowhere else to turn. I did as he asked. It was all I could do.”
She stared at the water for a moment and then looked sharply at me, as though just realising how dangerous all she had said was. “I will say nothing,” I said.
She smiled gently. “Oddly, I believe you. There is something about you, Catherine. In some ways, speaking to you is like talking to myself.”
“I, too, know what sorrow is, what it is to love someone who loves you not,” I said. “I will say nothing, Lady Rochford.”
“Jane,” she said. “When we are alone, I am Jane to you, Catherine.”
“Thank you,” I said. “And for all it is worth, whatever other people think of you, that is not what I think. You have been kind to me when you had no cause, and I know I am unimportant…”
“You are not. Not to me.” Jane pressed her hand upon mine and swallowed the last of her wine. “A strange day,” she said. “We look to the future, yet are lost in the past.”
“Perhaps the past should stay lost,” I said.
“Perhaps… if it would stay there.”
“We will make it.”
Jane laughed. “You are sometimes such a child for all that wisdom.”
“Children are happier than adults, my lady.”
At Westminster, the boats stopped. The King helped the Queen from her boat, extending his hand and guiding her gently to the steps. From there, we all walked to Whitehall Palace, just up the water a little, where we were to stay.
As we walked, a murmur rippled down the line of courtiers. Someone whispered to Anne, who turned to me. “The coronation is set for Whitsun,” she said. “So the King will go through with it after all.”
Jane glanced back at me from ahead. In her face, I saw the truth. The coronation would never happen.
*
“Your uncle is gone to France,” Thomas said, coming close as he had not for months as I stood in the great hall at Whitehall.
It was a week after we had floated down the Thames. Taking my grandmother’s advice, I had resolutely ignored Thomas and been friendly to Bess. She was astonished, but had told Thomas I was no longer her enemy. That he had come to talk to me the moment it was said about the maidens’ chamber I cared for him no more was telling. My grandmother was right. The moment you wanted them, men treated you with no respect. The instant they thought you uninterested was the first moment of the chase.
Perhaps, as my grandmother had said, there were more worthy men. But I had never met one, or one that was interested in me in any case. If I am to be chased by scoundrels, let it at least be one I want to be pursued by, was my thought.
“Has he?” I asked airily, smiling at Thomas Paston who was at my side, as always.
“It is a secret,” said Thomas.
“But you know, so it is not a very secret secret, is it?”
“If you do not wish to know, I will tell you nothing,” Thomas said.
I sighed and turned to him. “Very well. What is it you would tell me?”
“Your uncle has been sent to weaken the trust the King of France places in the Emperor,” he said, those blue eyes glittering. “He is to enlist the aid of the Queen of Navarre, and the King’s mistress the Duchesse d’Étampes, and they will work on the King. France will become England’s ally, then Cleves is needed no more.”
I must have looked sad, for he touched my sleeve. “Did I do wrong in telling you?”
The concern on his face seemed genuine. “I sorrow for my mistress, that is all.”
“But you must say nothing.”
“Of course, I am no fool.” I gazed into his eyes, wondering if he could feel my heart screaming for his, but I nodded curtly. “Thank you for telling me.”
“I did not want you to be unprepared if a change should come in your situation.”
“If there is no Queen, I will be sent home.”
“I would not wish that,” he said.
“Why? What care have you for me?” I affected astonishment and laughed. “You have other diversions, Master Culpepper, and I wish you well with them.” I turned back to Paston.
I did not look around as Thomas walked away, but I felt his eyes on me that night and went to my bed merry, hugging the memory of him saying he would not wish me to leave court tight to my breast.
Chapter Fifty-Five
Whitehall Palace
Spring 1540
&
nbsp; If tongues had wagged about the Queen and her mean, poor country, a rival wave was forming, speaking of her gentility, grace and regal bearing. About court even her enemies spoke of how she was good at heart.
She knew no dances, but loved to watch us. She played no instruments, and admitted herself ignorant of music, but it was clear it was something she was joyous to now have access to. She had even formed her own troop of musicians, including members of the Jewish Bassano family, brought from Venice for her by Cromwell. They had brought along a new instrument and shown it at court. It was called the violin.
Her English was progressing rapidly, and she only used her translator for long and difficult subjects now. Jane confirmed something I had long suspected, warning us to be careful with our whispers, “for the Queen understands more than she speaks.” I wondered if that was so with other matters, the affection of the King for one.
But if she understood much of some things, it appeared she was wholly ignorant of others. Or, appeared that way to some.
We were in her chambers, sitting about a bright fire, all with sewing in our hands. The Queen was making a new shirt for her husband. Exquisite, like all her work, the seams could barely be seen. As we worked, I saw a glance pass between the Countess of Rutland and Jane, and they launched into what clearly was a prepared conversation.
“I hope soon, Your Majesty, you will be turning that delicate needle to make other clothes,” said Jane, nodding to the widow of Edgecombe, also apparently in on this little pageant.
“Does my husband require more clothes than I make?” the Queen asked.
Jane smiled. “I meant clothes of a smaller kind. We all cherish hope that soon you will be with child, Majesty.”
“The country would rejoice for a Duke of York, Majesty,” added the Countess of Rutland.
“Then I sorrow,” said the Queen. “For I am sure I am not yet with child.”
“How can you be sure, Majesty?” asked the Dowager of Edgecombe.
“I am sure,” said the Queen.
“Unless still a maid, Majesty, you cannot be sure,” said Jane.
“I think I am not with child.”
“By Our Lady,” jested Jane, teasing. “I think Your Grace must be a maid still indeed to speak so sure!”
“How can I be a maid and sleep with the King every night?” the Queen asked, chuckling.
“A little more than sleep is required, for a prince to be born, Majesty,” said Jane, laughing.
“When he comes, he kisses me and takes me by the hand,” said the Queen, examining her work. “He biddeth me ‘goodnight, sweetheart’, and in the morning bids me ‘farewell, darling’.” She looked up, steady eyes on Jane. “Is this not enough?”
Smiles fell and the laughter stopped. I kept my eyes on the cloth in my hands. To me, it was clear she was jesting, or attempting to conceal the King’s inability in bed, a rather thoughtful gesture since he had slandered her about court as the reason he could not perform. But the other women thought her serious.
“Madam,” Lady Rutland said in a strangled voice. “There must be more than that, or it will be long ere we have a Duke of York.”
“I know no more, and am satisfied,” said the Queen, brushing a hand over her embroidery as though what had been said was of small importance.
“Perhaps Your Majesty should discuss the matter with Mother Lowe?” said Lady Rutland hesitantly, for from the Queen’s tone the matter was closed.
“Fie!” said the Queen, looking scandalised. “Marry, for shame. God forbid!”
Ladies exchanged glances, weighted with worry. They seemed to think the Queen completely ignorant about what was required to make a child. I did not think that was so.
It was understandable the women might suppose her an innocent. The Queen had been ignorant of what the English considered the necessities of life; music, dancing, celebration, learned discussion. She had been sheltered by her mother and father. It was not strange to think she knew nothing of sex, either. But the Queen was far from a fool, and her mother reportedly loved her, so would not have sent her to England without knowledge of her duties, otherwise what a shock a poor girl would get when a man mounted her! It was also a holy duty of mothers to inform daughters about the marriage bed. There was not a sinner’s chance in Hell the Duchess Maria would have neglected her duty.
And the Queen’s family were well aware of their duties. Her grandfather had been named The Baby Maker.
This was the Queen’s way of avoiding intense mortification. She was carefully informing us the King had not consummated the marriage. She was making herself appear innocent so he would not be disgraced, subtlety fit for a queen, but it was also for her protection. She was pointing out if he had not bedded her, she could not be blamed for failing to bear a child.
I said as much to Jane later and she became thoughtful. “That would make more sense,” she said. “I was so amazed I almost fell off my stool! But you are right; it could have been a way of letting us know without shaming the King.”
At the end of February we heard Marie de Guise had been crowned in Scotland. When the Queen was told, she frowned. “Are customs so different in that part of England?” she asked.
Jane pointed out Scotland was another country, and said things were indeed different there.
“All the same,” the Queen said. “I find it odd I have not been crowned. I mean to raise it with my husband and his men, for my brother will ask soon why it is not done. I will not know what to tell him.”
A reference to her brother’s power, I thought. My mistress was a master of subtleties.
There were other matters she must have been anxious about, although she said nothing. The King did not spend time with her unless forced to, and only came at night sporadically. She said she had as much of his attention as she wanted or needed when asked, but day by day I could see her anxiety growing. She was not unaware he had set aside one wife, beheaded another and the last had died, many said, of neglect.
She was the sister of a foreign duke, but Katherine of Aragon had been a princess, and she had been left to waste away in a castle whilst her husband took a second wife. Some still maintained Katherine had been poisoned. The thought of being cast off, disgraced or possibly even killed must have been on Queen Anne’s mind.
The Queen tried to make appointments to see her husband, at dinner and during the day. He was always welcome in her chambers she said, but of course she understood he had much to do, and would never bother him when he was busy. She tried to reach out to him, but gently, and with care. He was polite when they met, but that was as far as it went.
And if she was indeed not ignorant of the ways of the bedchamber, as I suspected, then the Queen knew that nonconsummation of a marriage meant she was not Queen. No crown on her head, no husband in her bed. She was not secure, and she knew it.
“I need your help,” Jane said to me and Anne one day. “Cromwell came to me and Lady Rutland, begging us to find ways to make the Queen more acceptable to the King.”
Anne nodded. “We will do all you suggest, my lady,”
“The Queen likes you two,” Jane said. “She praises you often. I will make sure we three are alone with her, and we will offer advice. She does not show it, but I think she is scared.”
Jane arranged the little meeting, and one day, by the fire, we advised our Queen. Although reluctant to show any interest in our talk of how English husbands liked to be treated, she listened. She did not join in, and I had the impression she did not want to say anything that would be reported to the King, but we talked for her.
“English women laugh at all their husbands say, Your Majesty,” I said. “Men like to know they are amusing.”
“Like to think they are, Mistress Howard,” Jane interjected, making me giggle.
The Queen smiled gently. “The King is witty. I have no need to pretend.”
“You are most fortune, Your Majesty,” I said.
“All Englishmen are little boys, inside, Your Maje
sty,” said Jane. “They want us to be as mothers, sisters and wives, all at the same time.”
“And they like to be praised, Majesty,” said Anne. “All men like to know they are noticed.”
We kept the conversation general, as though simply talking of all men, not just the King. The Queen listened, whilst maintaining a regal distance. As the bell sounded in the chapel for a feast that night, she smiled. “Your words are kindly meant, I think,” she said. “And will not be forgotten.”
They were not. She started laughing if the King made a jest, no matter how poor. Each time he entered a room, she told him how fine his clothes were and how handsome and young he looked. Although clearly still not pleased with her, he did seem a little happier in her company.