by Deryn Lake
Jane stood up, then kissed the letter before handing it back. ‘I pray God this tactic will work, Sir Nicholas.’
‘Unless he has truly tired of you and is turning his attention back to the Queen …’
‘May that day never come!’
‘Amen … he cannot help but be intrigued by such a show. But Jane’ — Sir Nicholas’s face took on almost a cruel look — ‘if you go back on your word and consort with His Grace once more, then look for no help from anyone, for I swear by God that even your own family will turn against you.’
‘I give you my word I will not do so.’ Jane suddenly looked frantic. ‘You are not going to tell Edward, are you Sir Nicholas?’
‘On this occasion, no. But if you dare …’
‘I swear, I swear,’ she answered hastily. ‘You have my oath.’
‘Then I’ll make haste. I shall send a servant back to you this very night with an account of what transpires.’
‘Then God speed you, Sir, for I shall be in an agony until I know.’
And so you should, thought Carew bitterly, so you should, who has brought all our plans to the brink of ruin.
*
Jane was never able to tell when she looked back on that extraordinary time in her life which emotion had been more intense; relief at the fact that Henry had no intention of disposing of her, or joy that the King had been truly in love with her all along. At the time the two things had fused into one enormous sense of respite from danger, of an unspoken threat hanging over her meek fair head, and she had fallen on to her bed and wept and laughed until she finally fell asleep from utter exhaustion.
Nicholas Carew had had his revenge, of course. He had not sent a messenger to Greenwich that night or even the next day, but two days later had appeared himself and been shown, unsmiling, into Jane’s apartments.
‘Well?’ She had stared at him white-faced.
Carew had shaken his head slowly. ‘His Grace was most astonished that you saw fit to return his gift. He simply could not understand your attitude.’
‘Did you give him the message exactly as we planned?’
‘Yes.’
‘And what did he say?’
‘He sighed and remarked that the world had come to a pretty pass when a lover could not send his lady money to buy pretties for her wardrobe without high-flown talk of virtue and marriage.’
Jane had sat down weakly. ‘So it was foolish to return it. I might have known. But Sir Nicholas, have you not the feeling that whatever decision we had reached would have been the wrong one?’
‘On the contrary,’ he had answered, his brilliant smile like sunshine after a downpour. ‘His Grace was so mortified that you could even consider his gift in such a light that he has forthwith decided to mend his ways. He has already seen Master Cromwell, who is to vacate his apartments in Whitehall at once, allowing your brother and his entourage to move in. You, Jane, are to keep your own rooms but are to be taken to Edward whenever His Grace wishes to call on you. In this way you will be constantly chaperoned.’
He did not add, ‘So now you simply won’t be able to fall into bed with him, you silly little wretch.’
But Jane had read his mind. ‘Then I am safe; safe from myself too.’
‘Yes.’
‘And all because he wanted to buy me clothes.’
‘Keep your head, young lady, and the King will be giving you a great deal more than paltry gowns. Now there is only one thing you must aim for, always remembering that the fate of an unhappy girl lies in your hands.’
Jane tilted her head back, almost as if the weight of a crown were already on it, her eyes glittering like opals and her sudden radiance almost tangible.
‘Sir Nicholas, am I going to be Queen?’
‘Yes, I now believe that you will, Mistress.’
‘But how?’
Carew ran his hand over his grizzled head. ‘I think we had better leave that to Master Cromwell, don’t you?’
Jane nodded slowly. ‘Yes, I suppose that he who saw off the Pope can just as easily cast aside a Queen.’
‘I should imagine,’ answered Nicholas carefully, ‘that to do so would be even simpler.’
*
‘April 1st, 1536,’ wrote Chapuys, his quill pen scratching over the parchment, ‘and my most respectful greetings …’ He hurried over the first part of the letter, anxious to get to the point which would please the Emperor more than anything his Ambassador had ever written to him before. And a few paragraphs later Chapuys arrived there, his face breaking into a smile as he put the words, ‘… he sent her a purse full of sovereigns, and with it a letter, and the young lady, after kissing the letter, returned it unopened to the messenger, and throwing herself on her knees before him, begged the said messenger that he would pray the King …’
He continued the tale, omitting to say that the envoy had been, in fact, Sir Nicholas Carew, arch-plotter extraordinary.
‘… that by this the King’s love and desire towards the said young lady was wonderfully increased, that he had said she had behaved most virtuously, and to show that he only loved her honourably, he did not intend henceforth to speak with her except in the presence of some of her kin; for which reason the King has caused Cromwell to remove from a chamber to which the King can go by certain galleries without being perceived, and has lodged there the eldest brother of the said lady with his wife …’
Chapuys stopped for a moment and allowed himself a chuckle. Somehow he did not quite believe the story that was circulating like wildfire in both Whitehall and Greenwich: that the King was so struck by Jane’s virtuous behaviour that he had moved Edward and Anne Seymour into Cromwell’s old apartments, that he might only meet Jane in the presence of chaperons.
More likely, thought the Ambassador, because the rooms are connected to the Privy Chamber by a secret passage and the King can come and go as he pleases.
He stroked his chin thoughtfully, convinced that there was more behind it than he was as yet aware. Yet be that as it may, it was now certain that Jane was playing for the highest stakes of all. He picked up his pen again.
‘… that she must by no means comply with the King’s wishes except by way of marriage; in which she is quite firm.’
‘I’m well sure of that!’ said Chapuys to himself.
Yet all this talk of virtue and honour did not quite fit the picture that had formed in the Ambassador’s mind; that of a passionate little woman who had been actually caught by the Concubine in the very act of embracing the King, and who had happily accepted all his other gifts bar this one. To Chapuys, Jane Seymour’s latest move, masterminded he had no doubt by Nicholas Carew, sounded more like a change of tactics.
‘But then I am an old cynic,’ the Ambassador said in Spanish. ‘I so rarely give anyone the benefit of the doubt!’
And he smiled again, wickedly, as he once more picked up his pen.
*
On the night of St George’s Day, the Duke of Norfolk, riding a black horse and wearing a cloak and hood that concealed his identity, made his way with only one bodyguard to a house in Stepney. At the same time, Lord Chancellor Audley, who had succeeded to his office when Sir Thomas More had been put to death, was making for the same destination, being rowed across the river by an anonymous wherryman, his own private barge still riding at its moorings; finally, the Duke of Suffolk, a hat of fur pulled well down about his features, and blowing into his beard, saying it was the coldest April he could remember, borrowed his steward’s horse and rode alone through the darkness, relying only on his dagger to protect him from any footpads that might assail him on his journey to Thomas Cromwell’s private residence.
The meeting of the four men began when most honest folk were taking to their beds and Norfolk, looking round the room grimly, was reminded of Zachary’s description of witches’ coven meetings, as the shadows distorted the features of his fellows, turning noses into hooks and eyes to burning pits of coal.
There was a sense of portent in t
he air, a feeling of high drama in which the opening players were already assembled, and for a moment not one of these great men dared speak, but sat, uncertainly, waiting for their cue. Finally it was Norfolk, the principal peer of the realm, who cleared his throat prior to saying, ‘Mr Secretary, you have called us here in the greatest secrecy. May we be told the nature of this meeting?’
Cromwell drew breath. ‘Gentlemen, we are here to discuss the future of the monarchy. It is the avowed intent of His Grace to end his marriage to the Queen.’
‘We all know that,’ boomed Suffolk. ‘I hope to God you’ve not kept me from my bed just to tell me old news.’
Cromwell put his fingers together, his blue ring reflecting the firelight. Ignoring the Duke he continued, ‘Tomorrow I shall present the King a document for signature. It is a patent appointing a commission to inquire into any treasonable action taken against His Grace.’
‘Treason!’ exclaimed Audley, ‘you speak of treason, Mr Secretary. How does this affect the matter of the Queen?’
‘Quite simply, my Lord. If she has taken a lover it would be an act of treason against His Grace’s person.’
There was an incredible silence. Then Norfolk said down his breath, ‘A lover! So that’s it!’
While Audley came in with, ‘God’s life! Who would dare?’
‘There may be more than one,’ answered Cromwell smoothly, ‘but so far my information brings forth at least a name.’
He was playing with them, relishing the moment of suspense, but Suffolk ruined everything by crowing, ‘Smeaton, I’ll warrant. I never could abide that jackanapes musician. But she seems to dote on him, silly puff that he is.’
Norfolk and Audley stared at one another, the logic of the thing suddenly, frighteningly, clear. Anne’s over-familiarity with her special friends had often been remarked but now everything appeared in a new light; she had actually committed adultery with her lutanist, possibly with them all.
Suffolk rubbed his hands together. ‘She’s done for! Good for you, Tom. But are there others? Was she loose with the lot of ’em?’
‘That will be investigated by the commission,’ answered Cromwell.
‘And who is to be on this panel?’ asked Norfolk.
‘It will be headed by you and me, Sir, and will consist of peers and judges, in the main.’ He hesitated. ‘I am afraid that of those peers, Wiltshire is one.’
‘Oh dear,’ said Audley, and there was a short silence.
The Earl of Wiltshire was not only Anne Boleyn’s father but also the Duke of Norfolk’s brother-in-law. Or rather ex-brother-in-law, as the Duke preferred to think of it, disliking all the Boleyns as he did and having disapproved heartily when his sister, Lady Elizabeth Howard, had married a nobody from Norfolk of that name. But, even though Elizabeth was now dead, there was still a blood tie with her three children and, though it stuck in Norfolk’s craw to do so, he grudgingly had to admit that the youngest of them had done very well for herself to rise from nowhere to the status of Queen of England.
But how he hated her! Thomas Howard’s loathing for his niece was something spoken of in hushed tones in the corridors of the Court.
‘A pity about Wiltshire,’ he said now. ‘But he’d do anything to save his face; even condemn his own daughter if he thought it politic. The yellow-stomached dog.’
Despite the solemnity of the occasion, Audley allowed a wintery smile to cross his features, while Suffolk guffawed delightedly and slapped his thigh.
‘He’s all mouth and hands,’ he said. ‘Can’t stand the fellow.’
‘Nonetheless,’ Cromwell put in, ‘his presence on the commission is not one that I welcome.’
‘I imagine,’ answered the Lord Chancellor drily, ‘that he will say very little when it is pointed out to him that both his daughters have the moral standards of alley cats.’
They all sniggered at that, for Mary Boleyn, who had married the wretched William Carey, had been a plaything of the King’s until he had discarded her for her sister.
‘And where,’ Norfolk asked when calm was restored, ‘does Ambassador Chapuys stand in all this?’
‘The Ambassador has dined with me here,’ answered Cromwell, ‘and I put the entire situation to him and asked that he might assist my endeavour to have the Queen brought down. He agreed to do so, provided the Princess Mary concurred, which she did, saying that she had ceased to care whether her father had lawful heirs or not, and the Ambassador should do everything in his power to set aside the Concubine.’
‘So the Princess knows what is afoot?’
‘Indeed she does.’
‘Then it would seem,’ said Audley, ‘that we have little left to discuss until the commission is formally appointed.’
‘Except of course’ — this from Norfolk — ‘to ask you, Mr Secretary, who else you suspect?’
Cromwell looked thoughtful. ‘It isn’t easy, that. There are quite a few in her coterie and she certainly can’t be sharing her favours with them all.’
‘Why not?’ said Suffolk but Norfolk was already drowning him with, ‘Wyatt, Weston, Brereton? I wonder. Even Norris perhaps?’
‘No, no,’ said Audley. ‘He is His Grace’s Principal Gentleman. He would never betray the King’s trust.’
‘Don’t be too sure,’ answered Norfolk. ‘That wretched creature could sidle her way round anyone.’
‘Whatever, all will become clear within the next few days,’ said Cromwell. ‘My informers are well primed, there’ll scarcely be a conversation that isn’t noted down lest it contain something of interest.’
‘I can see,’ answered Norfolk, with only the merest hint of an undertone, ‘that you intend your case to contain no weaknesses, Mr Secretary.’
‘You are right,’ Cromwell replied calmly. ‘His Grace asked me to terminate his marriage and terminate it I will.’
‘I feel in my bones that when the lid comes off this particular pan there will be a mighty mess of pottage within,’ said Audley with a sigh.
‘So you believe that the Queen is to die for adultery?’
‘Yes, and in my view it will be a fitting end,’ said Suffolk. ‘She climbed high and now she’s fallen. Serve her right.’
And at that remark, thinking of all that lay ahead of them, Norfolk found that he did not know whether to laugh or to cry.
Chapter Eleven
Jane had never seen Savernake Forest so shrouded in mist nor realised that the undergrowth had grown so dense, curling and thorning around the trunks of trees and catching at her skirt like human fingers, as she walked past. Vapour was everywhere, sometimes in a sheer wall through which it was impossible to see, sometimes in strips which seemed to hang in the air like ribbons. Everywhere was the total and dense silence of fog, the only sound in that unnerving quiet the beating of Jane’s leaping, breathless heart.
The song when she first heard it was almost expected. She had half thought she could not be the only one abroad in that magic forest in which time appeared to have stood still. It was a sexless voice which rose into the air, not singing so much as chanting some air of mystic origin.
The sound sent a thrill of fear through Jane and she began to hurry, but whether towards or away from the singer she could not be certain. As she stumbled through the trees, branches tore at her and it seemed that she traversed a carpet of thorns which pricked her feet through her shoes. And then, quite suddenly, the trees were no more and Jane found herself in a misty clearing, peering through the veil-like vapour at a figure reclining on a tree stump. She had found the singer, for the chant continued, rising and falling in unearthly cadences, both beautiful and terrifying to hear.
Jane took a step forward and at that moment the haze seemed to dissolve magically and she found herself staring straight into the face of Anne Boleyn. But it was an Anne transformed, for though she was human to the waist, from there down she had become an enormous and terrible snake whose vast, obscene coils wrapped round the glade, writhing and undulating continuously.
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‘No!’ screamed Jane and turned to run, but a sinuous loop caught and held her fast.
‘Help me,’ she called frantically, her puny voice drowned by Anne’s terrible song.
This time, Jane caught some of the words. ‘For I am Eve and I’m the serpent, come lie with me, give me your life.’
The choking coil tightened its grip and Jane knew then that she would have been dead if the King had not appeared suddenly, rushing through the trees with his sword drawn from its scabbard. Without even looking at Jane he ran straight up to Anne and cut her head off neatly, with a single stroke. The head rolled towards Jane, then came to rest at her feet, and Anne’s midnight eyes looked up at her reproachfully before one of them slowly winked.
‘Christ have mercy upon me,’ screamed Mistress Seymour in dark fear and woke to find that a sheet had wound itself round her and that her head was hanging uncomfortably over the side of the bed.
Jane lay where she was for a moment, trying to compose herself and taking deep, gasping breaths, then a flash of lightning lit her bedchamber, followed by a huge clap of thunder directly overhead, and she realised that while she had dreamed a storm had come up over London which was now at its full ferocity. Very slowly, Jane got up, freeing herself from the encircling sheet and rubbing the back of her neck which felt wrenched and uncomfortable. Crossing to the window she managed to release the catch and cautiously peered out.
The sky was the colour of grapes, shot with trees of fork lightning which slashed through its fabric and cut into the dark earth below. Everywhere wailed a great wind, coming in up river, bearing drops of water on its breath, while from time to time, brilliant flashes of light suddenly illuminated the palace and houses, showing them unearthly, bleached of all colour by the screeching tempest.
‘God save us,’ said Jane, and, shutting the window tightly, crawled back into bed, listening from the safety of her coverlet to the discords in the sky and the gale’s wild, unnerving shrieks.
Eventually the rain came, torrents and gallons of it, hurtling, swelling the river to flood proportions, splintering boats and craft against their landing stages, setting some of the smaller vessels free to whirl out to sea. All the while, forks of light bombarded and thunder growled round heaven as if the Hound itself had broken free.