by G Lawrence
But we had been close on this progress, so I refrained from accosting him about his wandering eye. It pained me that he would always seek other women, but what threat was little Jane Seymour? I knew that she admired Katherine, but she had done well from me. Her brother, Edward, was rising in Henry’s estimations, and their family would do well at court, although I doubted they would ever reach the upper echelons … Not with the disgrace of their father’s scandalous affair with Edward’s wife never forgotten. In some ways, I thought I was coming to accept that Henry would always keep a mistress. He had been discreet with Mary, and since the parrot had flown there had been no trouble. What choice did I have but to accept? There was nowhere I could go. Nothing I could do.
No, I thought, looking on Jane as she smiled shyly in conversation with Cromwell. There is nothing to fear from such a simple flower.
And Henry had been attentive. As we rode into town and village, dined with our allies and drank as deep of their support as their wine, he saw me in a new light. Finally he understood I did have supporters. He saw that all I had told him was true and vindicated; there were many people in England who wanted reform. And as we rode west, and more and more people came out to cheer for us, he understood he was not alone, as once he had thought.
One day soon, I thought. Henry’s people will accept me.
It was important to show a united front, and this gown was but one of those ways. “We cannot do anything about it having been forgotten,” I said. “Lady Rochford, you will make for Greenwich, find the gown and return. You should be able to get there and back in a few days, which will leave us time to make any adjustments to the dress, if required.”
“As you wish, Majesty.” My sister-in-law looked unhappy about her mission, but what was I to do about that? Should I fetch the dress myself?
“I will let you choose one of my old gowns from my collection when you return,” I said kindly. “As a mark of gratitude.”
Jane’s mouth smiled, but neither her eyes nor, I suspected, her heart, joined in. She left that morning, bound for Greenwich.
Within days, we heard a strange report; my brother’s wife had been sent to the Tower.
And there, I thought as I heard what had happened, she can stay and rot.
Finally, and who could understand why, Jane had shown her colours. In a staggering turn of her fine coat, Jane was found amongst a group of ladies demonstrating in favour of the Lady Mary at Greenwich.
Father was black with anger when he stormed to my apartments with Mother scurrying behind. “What in all the seven Hells was she thinking?” he raged as he strode about. I had sent away my servants. This was not a time for more gossip to breed against us.
“Does Jane often think?” I asked. “If she is no friend to us, we are no friend to her. My brother’s wife has been arrested with the other ringleaders. Perhaps she relies on her connection with us to be released, but she will be disappointed. If she supports my enemies, I will be hers.”
“If she does get released I will get George to batter her skull like an apple,” my father hissed through gritted teeth. “Better yet, I may do it myself.”
“Peace, Father,” I said wearily. “And speak no more of beating her. There are other punishments. I will not ask the King to pardon her. She must face the Tower alone.”
My father chuckled. “I will ask the warden to remove her money and give her a poor cell. I will not protect a daughter who seeks to support that bastard.”
I nodded. “Do as you will. I do not care. She is no sister of mine.”
My mother looked at me sharply. “What?” I said. “Should I spend all my time worrying on traitors and deserters? Mary, Jane…who next? Tell me not to be soft-hearted to those who would disgrace me and support our enemies.”
“I would never do so, Your Majesty,” she said softly.
“Then cease to throw looks at me that suggest otherwise,” I said, rising. “Tell those guards they can do with Lady Rochester as they feel fit,” I said to my father. “I am weary of trying to reach people with reason, but perhaps they will hear us when they are left all alone.”
My father nodded. His face was grim, but a long, dark smile bearing no mirth moved along his mouth and cheeks.
I left the room, and did not, could not, look my mother in the face.
*
Despite what I had said, I petitioned for Jane’s release after a few days. Henry was not happy. “Why should she not stay where she is?” he asked.
“Her imprisonment brings scandal upon us,” I explained. “We need no more of that.”
Henry agreed to release her, and her imprisonment was wiped from the documents of the Tower upon my request. I sent a letter, telling Jane to remain in London and I would deal with her upon my return.
George was mortified. He refused to see her and swore he would find a way to finally part with her. Our aunt, Katherine Boughton, Lady William Howard, was also incarcerated in the Tower for taking part in the demonstration.
But it was not only my sister-in-law who found herself in trouble that summer. In a poorly thought-out jest, Will Somers, Henry’s fool, was plunged into disgrace after declaring I was a ribald and Elizabeth a bastard. It had been meant as a reflective jest on times and events, but Henry was in no humour to hear it. Threatened with death, Somers was screamed from court and took refuge with Carewe.
Henry became increasingly angry at his daughter Mary, thinking she had had something to do with the protest. He said if she did not take care she too would see the inside of a cell. But this demonstration was a symptom of a rising sickness. Dissent was rife. Whispers of rebellion came thick and fast, growing on the edge of our vision like a crawling winter mist.
Henry sought distraction. In an effort to appease the court’s conservative faction, he kept company with Carewe, Neville, Browne and Russell, all arch-traditionalists.
Henry also paid court to his ladies. In anger at me over Jane, he turned to them. About my forty-four-year-old husband flocked a veritable spring garden of pretty flowers, but whilst he was entertained by Mary Shelton, I saw his eyes turn more and more to Jane Seymour.
What does he see in her? I wondered. Perhaps he was seeking a blank slate; someone so unlike me. But I was affronted. Turning to such a colourless cloud of a woman in my place was surely an insult.
As we reached a point where we were hardly speaking, Tom came to me. He had a new poem, he said, one he thought I would like. When I read it, I could not help but laugh. Tom had a canny quill. I read it aloud to my women.
“In this also see you be not idle:
Thy niece, thy cousin, thy sister, or thy daughter,
If she be fair, if handsome be her middle,
If thy better hath her love besought her,
Advance this cause and he shall help thy need.
It is but love. Turn it to a laughter.
But ware, I say, so gold thee help and speed,
That in this case thou be not so unwise
As Pandar was in such a like deed;
For he, the fool, of conscience was so nice,
That he no gain would have for his pain.”
The poem was a rebuke to women who had thrown themselves at Henry, or been tripped into his bed by their families.
Mary Shelton was bright red as I finished reading, but I put my hand on her shoulder to show everyone I did not consider her one of these women. We laughed about the poem, but in truth, was I not one of those Tom censured? I would not deny my sins. I had sent Mary into my husband’s bed. But, I reasoned, others, who undertake such sins freely from greed have more reason to hang their heads than my sweet cousin or me.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Tewkesbury and Painswick Manor
Late July 1535
“Here my grandsire won his crown back,” Henry said, gazing upon the fields of Tewkesbury.
I smiled to see the fierce pride in my husband’s eyes. We had spent four days at Tewkesbury Abbey, in the company and care of the gracious
Abbot, John Wakeman. Despite, or perhaps because, the Abbey was due to come under investigation soon, we had been well cared for. The Abbot had spared no expense, and Henry had praised Wakeman’s Master of Spices for the delicate touch he showed with the dishes presented each night at dinner. Riding out to look upon the alleged field of battle where his grandfather had triumphed, Henry wore a wistful expression. He longed to be remembered for martial prowess, just as his Yorkist grandfather was.
“Men will remember you, my love, not only as a king of warfare in battle, but as a soldier of God,” I said. “Your fame in military matters is already well-known and admired, but your battle to restore and purify the Church will be remembered with as much acclaim.”
Henry smiled. His hand stole to mine and would not let go. Like a puff of winter mist, Jane was forgotten. We were close once more.
To further please Henry, and as a mark of friendship, I appointed Cromwell my High Steward with an income of twenty pounds a year. Although this sum was nothing to him, given his mighty array of titles and positions, I hoped this appointment would bring us back into harmony for good. Cromwell was richer than he had ever been, and not only in grants and appointments. Petitioners who waited for days at his Rolls House all carried gifts, and whether or not they got to see Cromwell, those presents went to him. Money, meat, fish, drink, potted pears and exotic fruits, along with cloth, coin, land and estates all flowed into his hands.
I had brought the mighty Cardinal down, only to replace him with a layman.
Cromwell seemed pleased at the appointment and Henry with him. Henry liked it when we loved the same people.
Cromwell came to me a few days after this was announced, finding me inspecting my bows before the hunt. “I wonder, Majesty, if you would consider lending your house at Havering to Chancellor Audley?”
“What need has he of it?”
“Plague has broken out in London, and he fears contamination. I am afraid the same sickness has been sighted in Bristol, and may impair the King’s plans to visit the city.”
I waved a hand. “Tell Audley he may use my house,” I said, then frowned. “Why did the Chancellor not ask me directly?”
“He did not want to trouble you, madam, with more petitions than you have already. He knows you are seeking rest, although with all we are achieving, that seems a distant goal.”
I smiled. This progress was indeed as much about politics as pleasure. We had visited many supporters, and were soon to see some of the religious houses under investigation.
Later that week, Cromwell sent a book of physic to my rooms, with a note to say he thought I might find it interesting. It was about fertility and conception. The message was discreet, and the gift thoughtful, therefore I was pleased. As I thought about his petition for Audley, however, I came to realise how deep and ingrained Cromwell’s influence had become. All petitions were now going through him. Anything men wanted from Henry, or from me, headed first for Cromwell’s ears, and only then to ours. In a short space of time, Cromwell had made himself indispensable. The thought made me wary.
That year Henry acquired new houses. His passion for property was rooted deep in his soul. There could never be enough houses, palaces and castles to satisfy my husband. Chobham Park in Surrey was purchased from Chertsey Abbey, and immediately extended. Manor houses at Hackney and Humberside were bought, some with coin and one by exchange with Percy. But Henry did not forget his old holdings. At Hampton Court, Wolsey’s dining hall was converted into the great watching chamber, and at Greenwich Henry’s privy chamber was transformed into a wealth of tapestry, sculptured decorations and every floor soft with carpet.
Henry was spending more than ever, and when I looked at the lists of work, tools, goods and ornamentation purchased, I wondered how he was able to afford this. I had been told all money was urgently required to fortify England.
It seemed Henry was confident that soon enough more money would be his than he had ever dreamed.
*
We rode on to Gloucester, and made a ceremonial entrance to the city. Welcomed by the Mayor and local dignitaries, we passed three days at the Abbey, surrounded by cool walkways, gracious gardens and heavenly ponds. We took time to visit the shrine of Edward II. I spent time in the Lady Chapel, a place known to pilgrims as a place where women might go to ask for intercession for fertility. I went to the altar each day we were there, to bow my head and ask for aid. Henry spent his time hunting at Coberley and Miserdon, but each night returned to ask of my prayers.
In the third week of July, we arrived at Winchcombe in Gloucestershire. Here was the seat of Hailes Abbey, a famous pilgrim centre. Whilst Cromwell was with us one night, we talked of the Abbey, upon which a cloud of superstition and suspicion had fallen. The Abbey had a relic, a vial of blood, which the monks claimed was the Holy Blood of Christ. It had brought them great wealth and influence.
“And think you this relic is false?” Henry asked Cromwell.
Cromwell smiled. “Your Majesty, should this prove to indeed be the Holy Blood of Our Lord Jesus, it should be a miraculous wonder, but…”
“But what, Cromwell?” I asked, running my finger about the rim of my silver goblet. The crowned falcon on the cup seemed to wink in the guttering light.
The shadows and flames of candles danced around the room and lit briefly on Cromwell’s face. For a moment, he was revealed as a creature of both shadow and light. We are all such beings. The darkness within is matched, twinned with the light. It is rare to see both at the same time, however, for within us, one element reigns usually stronger than the other.
“During my time on the Continent,” he said carefully, “and especially during my service as a soldier in the wars in Italy, I saw no fewer than fifteen such relics, each claiming to be the blood of our Lord.” He sighed with unfeigned weariness, his eyes steady on Henry’s. “At the same time, Majesty, I counted twelve fingers the clergy claimed to be from the hands of St Peter, and two heads, both apparently belonging to Saint Catherine. I am sorry to say this, Majesty, but for every real and holy relic there are a dozen fakes set up by men to make money from the faith of others. And even if all these relics were real, would God not be more pleased to find us worshipping His Word and truth, rather than idols?”
I nodded. “This surely bears investigation, my lord,” I said. “It makes a mockery of faith if men worship the bones and blood of common people, more likely than not pilfered from consecrated ground.”
Henry looked away, staring into the golden flames. “Investigate this claim,” he said. “I will not have my people duped. If it be a holy relic, it may stay and do glory to our kingdom. If false, we will suffer no more of our people to be fooled.”
“I will send my men with yours,” I said to Cromwell.
Cromwell agreed, and Henry was excited that I would take so vested an interest, but I sent my men for another reason. I wanted my chaplains to keep an eye on Cromwell and his men.
Soon, it was found that the blood was indeed false; a strange, gummy substance crafted from the blood of a duck and melted wax, made fresh by the monks each week to run red and slick. I went to Henry and the false relic was taken from display. It was not a permanent removal. The monks were granted time to protest their case and produce the true relic, which they claimed they had hidden somewhere safe. They said they had displayed the false idol because of fear of what might happen to the real one.
“They say that they grew afeared about the rise of iconoclasm, madam,” said John Skip, one of my men. “And hid the relic to save it from harm.”
“But they could not produce it?”
“They said only two men knew where it was hidden,” he said and frowned. “The monks were unwilling to bring it out whilst Cromwell’s men were there. They feared that surrendering the vial would lead to its destruction.”
“You will take a personal interest in this, Skip,” I commanded. “Keep in contact with the Abbey. I want to hear when they have found the true relic, if it exists,
but you will also tell them that if it is proved true, I will protect their Abbey.” I paused. “And say nothing to Cromwell or his agents.”
“I will do all you command, Majesty.”
I liked Skip. He had a plain face but a worthy heart. He was passionate and devoted to his God, but was wise to the ways of man, too. I knew I could trust him. He had found nothing untoward about Cromwell’s men, but also said he thought they had restrained themselves in his presence.
Henry was pleased to discover that the false idol was proved so. “This will be the start of a great wave of change,” he declared.
“As I have yearned for,” I replied.
But when account books and inventories of the religious house were delivered, his eyes lit up, not with the zeal of faith, but with the contemplation of coin. I murmured to him, as I looked at the figures over his shoulder, that I would be pleased to see such wealth redistributed to make good religious houses greater, create university places, and help the poor.