by Deryn Lake
‘Madam,’ he said as he stooped to raise her up. ‘We await your return to Court with anxiety. Will you remain long at Wolff Hall?’
‘A few days only, Your Grace,’ Jane replied.
‘Until we meet again, then,’ Henry said, and it was difficult to gauge his mood as he turned from her and heaved his bulk into the saddle.
Jane merely bowed her head in acknowledgement as the hunting party, the King in the lead, turned away from Wolff Hall and clattered out of the courtyard. But just as they were almost out of sight, the enormous figure heading them turned back for a final look and, waving his hand, saw that Jane Seymour alone stood still watching and gave him an answering salute before she slowly turned back into the house.
Chapter Six
During that autumn of 1535 the dreaded illness known as the Sweat, which could claim its victims within two or three hours, emptied the city of London of those who could afford to travel to the country, only the poor and the foolhardy being left behind to face the risk. The King, worried as always for his safety, had removed both the Court and his pregnant wife out of harm’s way to Surrey, but finding that the plague had preceded him to Shalford and then Farnham, the royal party went on to Hampshire where they descended unexpectedly on Edward and Anne Seymour at Elvetham.
How wry, thought Sir Nicholas Carew, watching Henry and Anne, Edward and his wife, all sporting together, that he should bring his pregnant Queen to the brother of the woman he truly desires.
And Edward Seymour, seeing the royal couple go off together to hawk, thought that, after all, the King’s pursuit of Jane had been nothing more than a diversion to while away what could have been a rather boring stay in the company of the elder Seymours.
But when he said as much to Carew, the other shook his head. ‘If you believe that, Ned, you are not as shrewd as I thought. While the Queen is with child he will put on a show, but Henry’s heart is really set on Jane.’
‘But only as a mistress surely?’
Sir Nicholas smiled slowly. ‘That is up to her, I think.’
Edward would have discussed the matter further but Carew refused to be drawn and Seymour had to content himself with writing to Jane, still at Wolff Hall because of the dangers in London, and beg her in very veiled terms — for who knew where a spy might strike next? — not to take the King’s flirtation too seriously.
But while the Court and the Seymours stayed away from the city there were those who were glad to remain behind, able to move freely abroad without the fear of prying eyes and ears. So it was that, without even a glance over his shoulder, the President of the Council of England, Thomas Howard, the mighty Duke of Norfolk himself, rode with only one man as escort, to a house that stood barely two miles from Greenwich Palace, yet was as remote and secret as any dwelling in the realm, and bade his servant knock on the door. Then the Duke waited, a smile playing round his mouth, to see what would happen next.
First a serving girl came to the door to gape open-mouthed, but no sooner had she disappeared than two children, one a girl of five leading by the hand a staggering infant not yet two, hurried to meet him.
The Duke dismounted, picking up the little boy and stroking the girl’s hair. ‘Well, well, my jewels,’ he said. ‘And how is it with you?’
Though these, his first grandchildren, had the baton sinister running through their coat-of-arms he loved them dearly, always thinking of their grandmother when he looked at them, remembering her honeyed skin and wild-flower eyes and how much passion she had aroused in him; more than any other woman before or since.
‘We are in good health,’ said the girl. ‘And you Grandfather, are you not afeared of the Sweat?’
‘I have had that illness and now believe myself immune. It was your father cured me of it.’
‘Yes, so he told me,’ she answered nodding.
In some ways, Norfolk thought, his granddaughter was almost frightening. It was as if an adult lurked within her small compass and the Duke would never, and could never, forget how the child had persuaded the King to release her father from the Tower by what had appeared at the time to be the use of magic. Her grandmother had been burned by the people of Norfolk as a witch and Howard frequently wondered if some strange strain had been passed into her, as it had her father, his son.
‘Who stands waiting to greet you,’ said a voice, almost as if it had read the Duke’s thoughts.
‘Zachary,’ answered Howard, and opened his arms to his beloved son, patting the rough hair and kissing him on the cheek.
‘You are well, Lord Duke my father? It is not dread of the Sweat that has brought you to see me?’
‘No, my boy, not at all. In fact I have come to bring you a present. My visit is purely social.’
Zachary smiled and the Duke was vividly reminded of the night, over twenty years ago, when the boy had first been brought to Kenninghall Castle after his mother had been burned to death.
‘You are pleased?’
‘I always enjoy presents, Lord Duke my father.’
They went into the house where Zachary’s wife, Jane Wyatt, bustled about her tasks.
A good enough woman, thought the Duke, but dull for my son. Too commonplace by half.
Yet Jane smiled and curtsied sweetly enough and the Duke nodded his head and called her daughter, wishing all the while that his son had chosen someone else to marry. But still he took ale from her before he went with Zachary up the steep stairs to the sloping room beneath the roof where his son said he always felt closest to the stars.
Though he had seen it many times before, this place always laid a finger of fear upon the Duke’s spine and now, as he looked at the strange symbols and charts, the table cluttered with measuring devices, cards, and a gleaming crystal, he shivered a little before, without saying anything, he drew from a deep pocket an object wrapped in a velvet cloth, and put it down on the table. ‘Here is the gift I spoke of. Open it my son,’ he said.
For a moment they looked terribly alike as they stared at the thing, the Duke relaxed and smiling now, Zachary eager and boyish, his teeth white in his dark, clever face.
‘You hesitate,’ continued Norfolk. ‘It will not bite you. Come now.’
‘I feel its wonder even before I have seen it,’ answered his son, and pulling off the velvet covering, revealed a dark crystal, gleaming black as quartz in the shadowy light.
‘Christ’s Book, but it is awesome, Lord Duke my father. Where did you get it?’
‘It comes from Venice, from the island on which glass is blown. I bought it off a trader recently. He told me that it was very powerful and should only be in the hands of a master.’
Zachary looked up from his contemplation of the glistening sphere. ‘And you think that of me? Thank you, Sir.’
‘It is not just I, as well you know. You have become something of a legend.’
Zachary smiled wryly. ‘Not always an easy thing.’ He picked up the crystal, bending close to it and then running his lips over its surface.
‘Why do you do that?’
‘I greet its spirit, the power that lies within its heart.’
‘Chuff,’ said the Duke, ‘such talk!’ But he was secretly more than a little gratified that his gift had been so well received.
‘So you are pleased with it?’ Zachary nodded and the Duke went on, ‘And what does it say to you about Anne the Queen? If she is to die, as you have so often assured me she must, who will come to replace her?’
Zachary put the crystal down. ‘When I first scry this, Father, I have to be alone. You must forgive me on this occasion. But I can tell you all you want to know without its mediumship.’
‘Yes?’ The Duke was suddenly agog.
‘Recently I was in a very ancient place, full of mysteries and magic. I wandered amongst the standing stones at Avebury …’
His eyes twinkled as the Duke said impatiently, ‘Get to the point, my boy.’
‘… and while there, happened to take ale at the Bear in the town of Marlb
orough. Do you know the place?’
‘You are perfectly aware that I do not,’ answered Norfolk, to which Zachary grinned openly.
‘A pity, you really should visit it.’ The Duke looked as if he were about to grow dark, and Zachary, thinking better of it, went on, ‘It was while there that I received two interesting pieces of information, one given to me as fact, the other guessed at. The first was that the King was hunting in Savernake Forest and was staying with Sir John Seymour, whose daughter Jane had returned from court especially to be present.’
The Duke was frowning. ‘Jane Seymour?’
‘I believe you might have seen her. She was serving woman to …’ Zachary hesitated over saying ‘Dowager Princess Katharine’ and instead said simply ‘Anne’s predecessor. She then followed the pack and is currently Maid-of-Honour to the Queen.’
Norfolk frowned all the more. ‘I can’t place her. What is she like?’
‘Small, fair, and very pale. She has no beauty except for her eyes.’
‘And are you trying to tell me that His Grace …?’
‘I am sure of it. Convinced in fact. It came to me so strongly that when I returned I checked in every way I knew possible. Lord Duke my father, Jane Seymour will be the next Queen of England.’
‘God’s Wounds!’ exclaimed Norfolk, and in his astonishment shot to his feet. ‘It is scarcely credible. A woman of no influence nor beauty. Are you absolutely certain?’
‘Positive.’
The Duke sat down again, looking thoughtful. ‘This Seymour girl, she doesn’t by any chance have a brother called Edward who married Anne Stanhope?’
‘I believe so. Why?’
‘He is what is generally referred to as a coming man. Most tedious!’
Zachary laughed. ‘Well, he’ll be arrived if his sister marries the King.’
The Duke smiled despite himself. ‘These little self-seekers, they’re everywhere, like mushroom crops. No sooner do you see off one lot than there are more of them creeping up from nowhere.’
‘If the Seymours take the place of the Boleyns you will surely be pleased?’
The Duke of Norfolk’s dislike for his cousins, particularly Anne, was legendary.
Norfolk put his head on one side, the broad Howard nose falling into shadow like a beak. ‘I am never pleased when surrounded by parvenus. They are without fail inclined to be nuisances. But, Zachary, how soon will all this take place?’
‘In a way it has already started.’ Zachary’s expression became distant. ‘Already there is something between Jane and His Grace that is difficult to describe. A bond of some kind … I do not yet know quite what. But when the Sweat has passed she will return to Court and then there will be changes. Mark them well, Lord Duke my Father.’
‘Indeed I shall,’ said Norfolk nodding his head. ‘Indeed I shall.’
*
It was cold when the King finally left Hampshire and headed back for a London free of epidemic. Beside him in a litter rode his Queen, declaring that her pregnancy was now certain and established and she must take the greatest care of herself, for not one thing must jolt or shock the Prince who grew in her belly. Some who heard her say this were impressed and whispered amongst themselves that Her Grace was back in favour and that Henry must surely fall in love with her all over again. But others, not so kind, answered that he had tired of his consort utterly and only the birth of a son could save her from being finally discarded.
In the midst of all this gossip and conjecture, Jane — feeling small and ugly and demoralised — set off from Wolff Hall to join her royal mistress at the Palace of Whitehall, believing, yet not quite believing, that Henry Tudor had made a fool of her, and that she had made an even bigger fool of herself by allowing him to see the passion that smouldered beneath her apparently austere surface. Yet, there had been something so intensely enjoyable about those kisses in the gardens of Wolff Hall that it was hard to accept Henry had not experienced it as well. Jane supposed with a sigh that Edward had been right, that His Grace had been indulging in a flirtation and she must think no more of it.
It was with all these thoughts very much in the forefront of her mind that Mistress Seymour entered Anne’s apartments on the morning after her return, only to stop motionless where she stood; even at this early hour the King was not only up and dressed, washed and trimmed, but calling upon his wife. In a flurry of confusion, Jane curtsied, only to find as she rose that Henry’s eyes were fixed firmly upon her.
‘Ah Mistress Jane,’ he exclaimed jovially. ‘You have returned to us at last.’
‘I was delayed at Wolff Hall, Your Grace, by reason of the plague.’
‘Quite so, quite so. For the same cause I stayed with your brother in Hampshire.’
‘So I believe, Your Grace. I trust you had good sport.’
She said it in all innocence but the King at once lowered his voice, whispering, ‘Not as good as at Wolff Hall, Mistress.’
Jane looked up, startled, and understood at once what he meant. Rather than forgetting what had passed between them, it would seem that Henry Tudor wanted to remind her of that last scented night in the garden; the night when he had swept her off her feet in every sense, kissing her trembling mouth and running his hands over her body.
Suddenly at a loss, Jane turned away but a movement from the Queen’s bedchamber put an end to further conversation as the former Nan Saville, now Lady Berkeley and one of Anne’s most intimate friends and attendants, came out, curtsied to the King and said, ‘Her Grace is ready to receive you, Sir.’
‘Good,’ answered Henry abruptly, and without another word strode off, the doors of the room closing behind him. Nan turned on Jane with a look of pure triumph. ‘You see,’ she murmured, ‘how he cossets her. Now that she is with child he cannot do enough for her. Her Grace has seen off the wretched Madge Shelton for once and for all.’
‘Is she no longer at Court?’ asked Jane, surprised.
‘Oh she is here all right but on the point of becoming betrothed to Henry Norris, though she still shares her bed with Francis Weston.’
Jane’s eyebrows rose. ‘So His Grace has tired of her?’
‘Indeed. These days he can’t be bothered even to look at her.’
Jane smiled and nodded. ‘Her Grace must be delighted.’
‘She is triumphant.’
She would be, thought Jane. Can nothing ever go wrong for her?
Then she remembered the birth of Elizabeth and how Anne’s power over Henry had diminished as a result, and almost felt a moment’s pity. And later that day as the Queen consulted her ladies about her plans to celebrate the Twelve Days of Christmas, Jane found herself watching Anne with an extraordinary mixture of emotions. Her dislike of the woman, ingrained over so many years, was now tempered with a certain guilt, a furtiveness, almost as if she had allowed the King the greatest intimacy of all, rather than just a few stolen midnight kisses. Added to this was an extraordinary sense of rivalry, a bristling as if the Queen was a much despised wife and she — Jane — the reigning mistress.
From beneath lowered lids, Mistress Seymour studied Anne carefully, taking in every detail of the Queen’s appearance and noticing things that she had never consciously observed before. As with all women — and men at that — there were divided opinions as to Anne’s attractiveness. In the past Jane had been bitterly jealous of the vivid dark eyes and tossing mane of black hair, coupled with Anne’s extraordinary ability to make any man fall in love with her. But today, perhaps because she had kissed the woman’s husband, Jane looked at her appraisingly, without envy, and was quite surprised to see that Anne was, after all, just an ordinary female, approaching thirty, rather sallow, very thin and flat chested, with a large mole on her neck which she hid with a band of ribbon, and a rudimentary sixth finger on her left hand.
Jane stared amazed. It was as if a blindfold had been removed from her eyes. Though she had never thought the Queen a true beauty she had always considered her stunningly attractive but no
w she saw that she was nothing of the kind.
Feeling someone’s eyes on her, Anne looked up and caught Jane in the very act of glancing away. The Queen smiled. ‘Mistress Seymour, I see you have returned to Court. When did you get back?’
Jane curtsied. ‘Yesterday, Your Grace.’
But Anne was already turning away, no longer interested in the boring little creature from Wiltshire who would find difficulty in booing a goose and whose face could crack a mirror. Without looking at Jane again Anne said loudly, ‘Ladies, His Grace has announced his intention of dining with us in the Chamber tonight and I intend to give him good company. Will all of you present please attend us at six that we may dine and dance and sing to amuse the King’s Majesty.’
Somebody whom Jane could not identify whispered behind her, ‘She is determined to woo him back.’
‘From whom?’ muttered another voice.
‘Who knows. He is finished with Madge Shelton …’
‘… the great whore.’
‘But it is murmured the King is in amorous mood and already has his sights set on someone else.’
‘God’s head, who can it be?’
‘There’s the mystery.’
The anonymous speakers drew to an abrupt halt as the Queen rose and, following suit, so did all present. As she curtsied, Jane twisted her head a little, trying to see on whom she had eavesdropped but with a room full of women it was difficult to pinpoint the culprits. Yet, whoever they were, their conversation was extraordinary and Jane felt her heart gain a little momentum. Could it possibly be … She shuddered from the idea that the subject of their conversation could possibly be herself, her lack of confidence making her grow cold at the thought.
But within a few minutes something was to happen that was to make her, at last, realise her own importance. For as she made her way to her own apartment to prepare herself for the evening’s festivities, not being required to serve the Queen that afternoon, somebody — she never had time to see who it was — accidentally bumped against her and when they were gone, the girl found a note had been put into her hand. Glancing round and seeing that she was alone, Jane opened it.