by Deryn Lake
Even now at this moment of supreme enjoyment, Henry thought to himself that his new Queen had not been equal to the great position to which he had so ruthlessly raised her — and most certainly had not fulfilled even half of what he had dreamed and hoped and believed she would be like in their marriage bed.
Or rather, he qualified, so she became after her coronation. It was as if, having achieved her heart’s desire, she had no longer needed to act a part — though at the time she had blamed her coldness on being pregnant.
Pregnant! All that he had been through and all that he had endured just to be fobbed off with another girl at the end of it all.
But now there was hope again, unless it was another false alarm, as there had been last year. He had been certain then, and still was, that Anne had made up the story of her condition just to keep him at her side, when all he had been longing for was to crawl into a soft bed with a willing warm-bodied woman and forget all the agonies he had suffered to make Anne his consort, and then see everything he had striven for go sour.
Disappointment suddenly raged within, driving away his mood of elation, as Henry reached the summit of Topenham Hill first, briefly wondering if the others had let him win the race, and saw spread below him on the sloping ground across the valley the gardens, fields and manor house that comprised Sir John Seymour’s beautiful estate of Wolff Hall.
‘Well, well,’ he said, his small eyes narrowing beneath their silly arched brows, ‘I had not expected anything quite so fine.’
At his elbow, Sir Nicholas Carew, one of the hunting party, asked, ‘Have you not visited Wolff Hall before, Your Grace?’
‘Strangely, no. Yet I like old Sir John and his sons, and I’m told the hunting is good, so I cannot think why not.’
‘They are a loyal family and very sound. I have known Edward for years; in fact I consider him one of my closest friends,’ Sir Nicholas answered somewhat irrelevantly. Then in a more casual tone added, ‘You will be acquainted with Jane of course, Your Grace.’
Henry looked slightly surprised. ‘Will I?’
‘She is one of Her Grace’s serving women.’
‘Jane Seymour?’ Henry said under his breath, then added, ‘Is she the little fair one, rather plain of feature?’
Nicholas gave a wry smile. ‘I suppose one could describe her so, though she has remarkable eyes. But you are right, Your Grace. Her main attraction lies in her quiet charm and intelligence.’
Henry frowned. ‘Was she not there when I met the French King in Calais three years ago?’
‘Yes. She was one of the attendants to the Marquess, as Her Grace then was.’
The King did not answer, merely nodding his head and screwing his eyes up to look at the flowing landscape, while Nicholas Carew took a calculated guess as to what his sovereign was thinking. The expensive charade at Calais at which Anne Boleyn was meant to be paraded before Francis of France in all her glory — yet, in fact, took three days to put in an appearance and, when she finally did so, came fully masked — had been a triumph. The French King had risen to the deception and been completely won over by the Lady’s teasing charm. And Henry had been so proud and happy, wooed and flattered by Anne’s brilliance, never suspecting that within that tempting mouth a shrew’s tongue might lie concealed.
Carew smiled grimly. He had had personal experience of Anne’s violent swings of mood, had been present when at a state ball given the previous year for a special embassy from King Francis, Anne had broken down on seeing Henry laughing with his current mistress. If he had not disliked her so much, been utterly opposed to the Boleyn faction and their influence on his king, Nicholas might almost have felt sorry for her, but having watched her climb to power from his place within the Court he could feel nothing but bitterness.
The King suddenly spoke, startling Carew from his thoughts. ‘I think they’ve seen us. There seems to be activity.’
From the distance that separated them, the inhabitants of Wolff Hall appeared as mere dots and Nicholas watched with amusement as one dot, obviously a look-out, scurried into the house, while several others ran about nervously, rather as if they did not know what they should do.
The King smiled, ‘I think we have taken them by surprise.’
He had done it deliberately, spending the night at Woodstock Palace in Oxfordshire, and now seemed gratified that the Seymours had been thrown into some confusion by the promptness of his arrival. He even chuckled aloud as a particular dot, very small and obviously female, went scurrying in from one of the gardens where it had, but a few moments before, been taking its leisure.
‘We must proceed slowly, gentlemen,’ he called. ‘Otherwise I fear there might be scant reception for us.’
But there Henry Tudor was wrong, because as the cavalcade descended Topenham Hill and crossed the valley, they distinctly heard the ebullient note of the Esturmy horn — the ancient symbol which signified the badge of office of the Warden of Savernake, always blown when the monarch came to the forest — and saw the upright figure of Sir John Seymour, surrounded by an escort of hounds and horses, making his way on horseback towards them. And if Henry had indeed caught him unawares there was no sign of it as the Warden drew alongside the King’s party, blew the triumphant horn once more, slung as it was around his neck by an elaborately decorated strap, and drew to a halt.
‘Greetings, Sire,’ he called formally. ‘Welcome to Savernake Forest.’ And with that he leapt from his horse with a nimbleness that would not have been unbecoming in a man half his years, and made a reverential bow.
He was a reasonably tall figure, made to look older and more dignified by a long grey beard which hung well down his chest and belied the fact that he was only sixty-one years of age. Nicholas Carew suspected that somewhere behind Sir John’s mournful eyes must lurk a twinkle for the man had sired eleven children, one a bastard of his adventurous youth, and the others legally by Dame Margery. He had been a fighting man, too, and knighted in the field for his part in putting down the Cornishmen’s Rebellion at the Battle of Blackheath in 1497. He had also seen service in France before he retired from military life and became a respected figure around the Court, a friend to both the present king and his father, a quiet unassuming diplomat.
‘Rise up, Sir John,’ said Henry heartily, and Carew realised with a strange pricking of his spine that the sovereign with whom he had been on familiar terms for over twenty years was about to act a part for the benefit of his host — that of the bluff friendly king, approachable and human, abroad with no purpose other than to enjoy himself.
‘If only they could see him at the other end of the scale,’ thought Nicholas, remembering the vicious snarling figure, choking with rage whenever its desires were thwarted. And his mind went to Fisher, More and Wolsey, once beloved of the King and now dead as stones because they had dared put obstacles in Henry Tudor’s merciless path.
John Seymour straightened himself, smiling, and so did his escort who had bowed in their saddles.
‘And now, Your Grace, if you will be so kind as to accompany me to Wolff Hall, my home, I believe that you will find all in readiness.’
With a suspicion of a wink at his entourage, Henry fell into step beside Sir John and they rode side-by-side, leading the cavalcade of courtiers, huntsmen and Seymour retainers.
‘An interesting name, Wolff Hall. Is its origin taken from a pack of roving wolves in the forest?’ The King was obviously in conversational mood.
‘No, Your Grace. It comes from the Saxon name Ulf. It appears as such in the Domesday Book.’
‘Really?’ Henry seemed interested but Nicholas, riding directly behind the leaders, suspected that the King was already beginning to wonder how lavish the entertainment provided might be in such a remote spot, and in truth had very little concern in the manor’s history.
They were drawing nearer, the house growing larger by the second, and it could be seen that several figures already anxiously hovered in the great courtyard and that another was hurry
ing out of the entrance doorway to join them.
The troop of horsemen clattered over the cobbles and the servants rushed forward to hold the horses’ heads. Giving the smile that Henry knew full well could dazzle anyone, he dismounted and went to stand before his hosts, raising up first Dame Margery.
‘Welcome to my home, Your Grace,’ she said, her high round cheeks pink with a combination of strain and excitement.
‘May I present my wife, Margery?’ said Sir John, a fraction too late.
‘Indeed you may,’ answered Henry heartily, kissing her hand. God’s teeth, thought Carew, he’s set to charm the birds from the trees. If only Jane could do the same to him.
He had thought, even as they left London, that the Seymour daughter, with her quiet unassuming ways, might attract the King’s attention by her very contrast to Anne Boleyn. For no two women could be more unalike, one dark as night, the other pale as a flower; one taut, tense and nagging, her counterpart gentle and charming.
‘My daughter Jane, Your Grace,’ Sir John was intoning even as the King jumped in with, ‘But we are old friends. Mistress Jane has served us at Court right well.’
He stooped to raise her from her respectful salute and for the first time since they had danced together at Greenwich, Jane felt the touch of his hand and all the great bulk of him hanging over her. For one terrible moment she thought she was going to faint at Henry’s feet as a frightening sense of suffocation engulfed her. As always, it was the very size and masculinity of him that she found so distressing, accentuated as it was by vastly padded shoulders and a curving codpiece.
‘I am honoured, Your Grace,’ she muttered, pulling herself up straight on his hand and still not daring to raise her eyes.
‘You have served us right well,’ he repeated and Jane received the vivid impression that he could think of nothing else to say. She had no choice but to glance at him then, and as she slowly raised her eyes she saw that he was staring at her in an odd manner. Knowing that the last thing her face could take was close scrutiny, Jane felt the blood rush to her cheeks in desperation. She withdrew her fingers hastily, muttered, ‘Your Grace’s unworthy servant,’ and half turned towards her mother, but there was no help at hand there.
‘Jane will take you to the great hall, Your Grace,’ Dame Margery was saying. ‘There you will find refreshment awaiting you and after that we await Your Grace’s instructions as to when you would like to dine.’
Henry paused. ‘We shall hunt for two hours, Dame Margery, and then return. There is something — restful — about Wolff Hall and we are anxious not to leave it for too long.’
‘At Your Grace’s pleasure,’ said Dame Margery and curtsied again.
Over her mother’s bent back, Jane Seymour at last looked the King full in the eye, drawing her courage up so hard that her heart began to race. ‘If Your Grace would be good enough to come with me.’
‘At any time, Mistress Seymour,’ he answered playfully.
And it was as well that all bowed as he walked through the great door into Wolff Hall, so that the slow smile which was spreading over the features of Sir Nicholas Carew was thus carefully concealed.
Chapter Four
The first evening had gone so unbelievably well that Dame Margery could hardly believe her eyes. Instead of a monarch drumming his fingers and casting his gaze about at the inferior size and fitments of the great hall, Henry Tudor had evinced every sign of enjoying himself enormously. Ignoring custom and at his own insistence he had sat at the head of the crowded table — the Great Barn being reserved until the King gave gracious permission for Wiltshire neighbours to join the throng — and had eaten and laughed his way through the entire meal. So that now, Jane’s mother — seated on Henry’s right while Jane occupied the space on his left — triumphantly smiled at her daughter and took another sip of wine, not caring that it was bringing a flush to her apple cheeks.
And it seemed to Jane, gazing at Dame Margery’s ample proportions and button face as if for inspiration, that she had the finest mother in the world. For though noble blood flowed in the lady’s veins, her great grandmother being a daughter of Harry Hotspur and a direct descendent of Edward III, Margery had the simplicity of a country woman, born and bred. She was wise; could heal a cut, wipe away a tear, cope with the deaths of four children, as easily as she could listen to problems. In Jane’s view, her mother was quite the most splendid creature in creation, her only fault that she had not passed on some of her early beauty to her eldest daughter.
Knowing herself watched, Dame Margery looked up again and caught the girl’s eye and they exchanged another brief smile before Jane once more dropped her gaze to her plate, where it had determinedly remained throughout the meal in a frantic effort to avoid the King’s twinkling glances. For Henry, for mysterious reasons of his own, was indulging in an obviously false and sickeningly roguish attempt to flirt with her. In fact, never in Jane’s life had she seen such a performance and all done, she felt sure, to prove to the King’s enormous ego that ugly women could fall in love with him just as easily as beautiful. Realising that he was leaning across her mother to talk to Sir John and that she was momentarily safe, Jane risked a swift glance at her sovereign lord.
At close quarters like this — closer than she had ever seen him before — every detail of his face could be observed and Jane’s eyes lingered on the red hair, almost hidden beneath the jewelled hat, and the scrubbish ginger beard growing outward from beneath his nostrils like a widely-spaced moustache. She thought she had never seen a face so huge, so moon-like, with no sign of cheekbones but instead a straight line from enormous chin to balding forehead; the whole thing made to look bigger by the King’s finely arched brows, which somehow seemed plucked and effeminate. The eyes above which these ridiculous brows danced were of a dark blue shade, very heavily-lidded, and had a marvellous way of going hard as pebbles, so that it was impossible to know what their owner was thinking.
From where she sat it was not easy for Jane to see more of the King’s body than his gigantic shoulders, rubbing against both those of her mother and herself whenever he turned in the confined space. Yet she knew that his stomach now had a coating of fat and that it would be essential for him to exercise long and hard if he wished to keep a reasonable physique. In a way she found Henry almost obscene, enormous in every respect, and yet, though she could hardly bear to admit it to herself, there was something about him that excited her. The very suffocating size of him aroused something base that she could not identify, nor had any desire to. The truth was that she was attracted to the King, frightened yet fascinated all at the same time.
Whether he had seen her watching him out of the corner of his eye Jane could not tell, but Henry suddenly switched his glance from her father to herself and stared at her boldly. To have dropped her eyes at once would have been tantamount to rudeness and Jane found herself forced to return his gaze without flinching, yet praying all the time that he would look elsewhere. But this he obviously had no intention of doing. Henry Tudor was going to make the most of the opportunity to stare Mistress Seymour out.
That the king was arrogant, considering every woman his prize by reason of droit de seigneur was blatant; the reasons for his teasing Jane were not quite so clear, though she was sure her guess was right, that he considered it good practice to charm any female, plain or fair. If he had been anyone other than her sovereign, Jane would have allowed herself the luxury of glaring. But as it was she gave a faint smile before she, yet again, lowered her gaze to her lap.
‘Mistress Jane, have I angered you?’ The tone was light, bantering, but she knew at once what it really meant. Henry was not going to let her get away with dropping her eyes.
Both Sir John and Dame Margery looked faintly uncomfortable as she answered, ‘Your Grace, how could you think such a thing? What have I done?’ and returned his move neatly.
He laughed, appreciating her response. ‘Madam, to make amends for my fault — though I can swear with hand on h
eart that I know not what it is — I shall sing you a song of my own composition. That is if it would please you?’
Sir Nicholas Carew, sitting to Jane’s left, inwardly cringed. He had never seen his friend and monarch play the coquet quite so hard, which he knew from past experience meant that Henry had no genuine interest whatsoever.
He allowed a small sigh to escape as she answered dully, ‘All Your Grace’s compositions are tuneful. It would be a pleasure to hear any one.’
Jane felt sickened even as she spoke. For all she really wanted to do was to make an excuse and leave for Topenham Lodge and the privacy of her bed, away from this stifling man who mocked her with his pretended overtures and made her a fool with every winking glance.
‘Then will you choose the song, gracious Jane?’
She thought she was going to scream as she answered, ‘To do so would be presumptuous, Your Grace. I leave the choice to you.’
He seemed content with that and called to one of his own musicians to bring him a lute. Whether Henry had not trusted Sir John Seymour’s minstrels to make a goodly enough sound was a moot point but the fact remained, he had brought six of his own best men and had added their number to Sir John’s troupe, the whole contingent having played throughout the evening from the gallery above the hall.
Now they were silent as the King’s great fingers, surprisingly delicate as they plucked the sensitive strings, sent the thrilling sound of a love lyric into the sudden hush. Carew thought afterwards that obviously this was the moment when everybody realised Henry was flirting with Jane, for he saw a pink Dame Margery stare round-eyed at her husband who, in his turn, shot a look of total astonishment in the direction of the King himself. And amongst the others at the table there seemed to run a cold chill, a tension, a silent yet somehow audible in-drawing of breath.