The Favored Queen: A Novel of Henry VIII's Third Wife

by Carolly Erickson

  Then I overheard a comment that stung.

  Ambassador Chapuys was walking past, close enough to me so that his words reached me. He was talking to a younger man, Charles Stansbie, one of the king’s new privy chamber gentlemen, a man I did not know, and they were laughing together. He spoke confidingly, in low tones, but there was a lull in the music at that moment and my hearing is keen. I was well able to hear what he was saying.

  “She’s nothing, raised from nothing,” he said. “She was just the first womb to come along.”

  Of course the ambassador was speaking about me. I was certain of it.

  Tears sprang to my eyes, though I swiftly brushed them away. Was this what the court thought of me? And much more important, was it true? Had Henry reached for me, once he was certain that Anne could not bear his son, simply because I was fertile, and safe, and convenient? Because he believed I would be—unlike Anne—submissive and loyal?

  The king was approaching, and I hastily dabbed at my eyes once again so that he would not see that I had been crying. Before he reached me he turned back to the two sisters.

  “Farewell, girls,” he called out cheerily. “I only wish I had met you before I chose Mistress Seymour to wed!” They laughed, and so did he, and I did my best to join in. I told myself he meant only to flatter the girls, not to belittle me. His tone was light and bantering, not at all lascivious.

  Yet I felt a pang. Somehow I knew that deep down, my husband-to-be meant what he said. Even now, on the night before our wedding, he was beginning to regret being caught in my web, and wanting to free himself from its choking toils.

  TWENTY-THREE

  Our wedding was a quiet one, held in the queen’s closet at Whitehall, very early in the morning. It was Maytime, and the small room was full of flowers and greenery, with leafy boughs adorning the walls and tall urns filled with sweet-smelling blossoms. Henry brought me a wreath of peach blossoms to wear in my hair, which I wore long and loose, falling to my waist, the way he liked it best.

  My wedding gown was much admired, as I was sure it would be, and the few guests and witnesses who attended the ceremony said kind things about my appearance although I was certain they would have been far more effusive had Madge Shelton been there in my place.

  “My sweet, shy girl,” was all Henry said as he kissed my cheek. “Now we are one, and we can look forward to having a large family.”

  Our own family relationship—our blood kinship—had been a last-minute problem before the ceremony. The royal genealogist had discovered that we were cousins, related in the third degree of affinity; had we still been under the authority of the Bishop of Rome we would have needed a papal dispensation in order to be married. But as the Bishop of Rome no longer had any authority in England, Henry dismissed this as a minor hindrance, and it was ignored.

  Out of all the women in my new royal household, I chose three to be my wedding attendants: Bridget Wingfield, Anne Cavecant and—after obtaining the king’s permission—my former sister-in-law Catherine Fillol Seymour. As it turned out, however, only Bridget was able to attend me, which she did, dutifully, a tight smile on her feral face. She did what I asked of her, loyally, but with misgivings. Anne Cavecant was too ill; the tumor in her side had grown larger and appeared to be sapping her strength and energy. And as for Cat, when I wrote to her asking her to join in my wedding she sent a message back to say that she would be prevented from attending me but needed to see me and hoped I would receive her. I agreed without hesitation.

  When she arrived I was surprised by her appearance. She was wearing the gown, wimple and veil of a novice. She was taking her vows at the convent of St. Agnes’s.

  She knelt and I raised her up and reached out to embrace her.

  “Cat, my dear Cat, let me look at you! I always thought you might take the veil. I hope you will be blessed in your vocation.”

  She kissed me and wished me happiness in my marriage to the king.

  “Our abbess has allowed me to leave the convent in order to come here and speak to you, Jane,” she said when we had settled ourselves. “I have come to appeal to your piety and goodness.” She paused, then went on. “We have learned that the king intends to close St. Agnes’s and sell the property. He believes the selling price will be high because of our sainted sister Elizabeth, known to all as the Nun of Kent, and the holy essence of her life and miracles that resides in the convent. It is truly a blessed place, a holy place. It must not fall into secular hands. It must not be defiled.

  “We cherish one special relic of the holy Elizabeth,” she went on. “A relic that has worked many miracles and continues to heal and restore the sick and dying even now, even though the blessed nun is no longer among the living. We believe that something of her power continues to reside in this relic. If it is moved or disturbed its powers may be diminished.”

  “Perhaps any new owner of the convent will respect the relic as you do,” I said, knowing full well how unlikely that was.

  “If only we could be certain of that,” Cat said. “If only we novices and sisters could continue to live in the convent and fulfill our vocations. I appeal to you, Jane, as the king loves you, convince him to keep our house open and not sacrifice it as he has so many others.”

  Cat’s plea struck a chord with me, for though I have no Romish tendencies and am a true daughter of the church in its new form, I regard the mysteries of the divine with awe. And among those mysteries are the miracles performed at sacred shrines.

  I was well aware that my husband was ordering the destruction of more and more religious houses and that many were being dismantled or converted to secular manors. Ned had described to me how the sales of these former church lands were enriching the royal treasury a hundredfold. The treasury clerks called the newfound riches “monks’ money,” Ned said with a smile.

  Ned himself had profited when King Henry gave him several former priories with many acres of farmland. My brother was not only richer than ever since my marriage, he had received the title of Viscount Beauchamp. He did not flaunt his newfound dignity, but I knew it made him proud. To his credit, he kept his word where his son Henry was concerned and took the boy into his household as he had promised me he would. In time, I hoped, the Seymour estates, honors and “monks’ money” would pass to my nephew.

  Though Cat’s message and the plight of the religious houses concerned me, I had to confess that I too had profited from the transfer of church lands into the royal coffers. On my marriage to the king he had greatly enriched me by granting me more than a hundred manors plus the wardship of five castles and much forest land as well. Among these properties were former monastic houses and estates. The scope of this gift was too great for me to comprehend at first, but over time I became accustomed to the fact that as queen I was a very wealthy woman and I set my almoners the happy task of distributing alms with lavish abandon.

  The beggars that gathered morning and evening at the palace gates, the poor of London that congregated in St. Paul’s churchyard, the needy in villages near the capital all came to expect generosity from “good Queen Jane,” as they began to call me, and it gladdened my heart to be able to ease their want, if only a little.

  But at the same time I knew, and greatly regretted, that more than a little of the wealth the king had bestowed on me was “monks’ money” and now I was learning from Cat that the convent of St. Agnes’s might soon be turned to profit and torn down along with so many other religious houses.

  “Dear Cat, I will do all I can,” I assured the anxious woman opposite me. Yet even as I said the words I felt my heart sink. All my instincts told me that to King Henry, St. Agnes’s was just another religious house to be closed up and sold to the highest bidder, the profits used to increase the royal treasury.

  Henry was drawing up plans for our summer progress. We would go where the game was abundant, for hunting was the king’s chief preoccupation during the summer season. But we would not go far, he assured me, as he did not want me to tire m
yself and he hoped that I would soon give him the good news that I was expecting a child.

  It was, of course, what I hoped as well. I wanted above all things to be able to give Henry a son—two sons, a whole quiverful of children if the Lord favored us. And in the earliest weeks of our marriage, the doubts I had had about the king’s ability to sire children began to dissolve. I remembered only too well what Anne had said about Henry’s lack of virility, but when he came to my bed he proved to be lusty and energetic in his lovemaking. To use one of his own favorite phrases, he entered the lists of love and conquered.

  “How like you this pastime, my shy Jane?” he asked me when he had satisfied himself and reached for his bedside goblet of wine.

  I always assured him that his love made me a happy and contented wife—and invariably added that I hoped to be a mother soon. This seemed to be what he needed to hear, and having heard it, he rolled his expanding girth away from me and was soon snoring.

  To be sure, I cannot write here all that I truly felt. Having known the beauty and richness of Galyon’s love I found King Henry’s diligent but uninspired rutting (for that is what it was, pure animal lust) lacking in pleasure. And certainly lacking in wooing, affection, tenderness, the deep connection that makes two loving hearts and bodies one. I had known this—and having known it, no other man could ever offer it to me again. Or so I believed.

  The most I hoped for in my marriage to the king was that we could create an heir to the throne together, and then a brother for him, and then—whatever fortune sent us. I hoped the astrologers were right, and we would be favored.

  Our departure for the countryside was delayed so that a vital task could be begun: the intricate planning and arrangements for my coronation. Henry told me he wanted my coronation festivities to be the grandest spectacle offered to Londoners for many years.

  “Grander than Anne’s coronation?” I asked. I remembered Anne’s coronation festivities only too vividly, the elaborate pageants, the hundreds of boats on the river, the soldiers and musicians—and the near silent crowds along the roadsides, withholding their cheers of approbation because of their disapproval of Anne.

  “Far grander,” the king said. “And far more joyful. I want this to be the most splendid coronation of a queen ever, in fact. I will write the music myself. We will have—ten pageants, no, a dozen pageants. I have always wanted to design a grand pageant of the muses. The nine muses.” He stroked his chin thoughtfully. “Just imagine! Nine lovely women, each lovelier than the one before—”

  For a time he was lost in his imaginings.

  “You could be Calliope, Jane. The chief of the muses. Except that she was a singer and you can’t sing a note.”

  He was right, I had no singing voice. I tended rather to croak like a frog.

  “Never mind! We will find someone to sit near you and sing for you. And Madge can be Erato, the muse of love poetry—”

  “Why Madge? Why not Bridget? Or one of my other matrons of honor?” I did not want Madge Shelton, my husband’s former lover, brought to court to be near him again. Even though she was married, I could not be certain he would restrain his lust for her, and I had no illusions about his fidelity to me. We had not married for love, merely out of fondness, and I was all too aware that King Henry had never been faithful to any woman, certainly not his wives.

  “Very well then, Bridget. It hardly matters. And Frances, that pretty young daughter of Lord Wycherley, the one that dances so lightly on her feet, she would do very well for Terpsichore.” He went on, happily matching each of the muses with an attractive lady of the court, until I urged him to stop.

  “But don’t you see, this will be the finest display ever offered to the people of London. They will surely love it—and love me. You’ll see, Jane. I’ll bring in the King’s Works to build the nine stages. All my painters and craftsmen will be put to this one task. We’ll have children’s choirs and acrobats and players—”

  He broke off, and looked at me intently. “Jane, what do you think of this idea? Shall I present my play? My Jezebel? I haven’t finished it, of course. I would have to complete it, rehearse all the players, find the actors to play Anne’s hundred lovers—”

  I shook my head. “Better not include any reminders of the past.”

  “Yes, you are right. Of course. I’ll just ask Crum what he thinks.”

  I felt certain Master Cromwell would agree with me that to present a play about the late queen would be distasteful. I hoped the king would not pursue this ghoulish whim.

  At last the coronation arrangements were decided upon and set in motion, and toward the end of June we left on our journey, our progress slow because of the hundreds of carts and wagons, our large mounted escort, the heavy trunks and baskets and chests needed to transport and supply the royal household, which was immense—larger than at any time in my years at court. The king’s hunting tent alone, with its trappings and furnishings, took twenty carts to move from place to place, though he used it rarely.

  We traveled first to Dover Castle where Henry walked over every inch of the massive fortifications, making certain all was in good repair. Dover would be a natural landing point for an invading army, he wanted no fallen masonry or hidden tunnels underground to allow an enemy to seize the fortress and bring foreign soldiers onto English soil. After a few days of hunting we moved on, through pouring rain along flooded roads, to Rochester, then to a series of manor houses whose owners did their best to accommodate us all.

  The hunting was poor, and the king was in a sour mood. Yet I approached him in hopes he would divert our journey and allow me to visit St. Agnes’s.

  “Sire, I would like to ask whether, of your goodness, you would allow me to go to the convent of St. Agnes’s, where there is a wonder-working relic of Elizabeth Barton. I should like to make a pilgrimage there to ask the Lord to make me fruitful.”

  “Elizabeth Barton? The damnable Nun of Kent?”

  “Many women who are barren say that after a visit to her shrine they bear fine sons.”

  Henry looked skeptical. “The Nun of Kent was a creature of the imperialists. She was wicked.”

  “Nonetheless, if you will grant me this favor, I would also like to take my maid of honor Anne Cavecant, who suffers greatly from the swelling in her side.”

  His eyes glazed over. He was tired. He started to say no, then gave in to weariness.

  “If you must, Jane,” he said with a wave of his hand. “But I do not like you paying tribute to this false prophetess. You are queen now, what you do and say is watched and heard. Your every word and deed ought to do honor to the throne, not appear to oppose it. And everyone knows I had the Nun of Kent put to death for her treasons.”

  I was warned, nevertheless I went ahead, aware that I took pleasure in doing what I chose despite my husband’s objection. Aided by my servants I bundled Anne Cavecant into a wagon and made the short journey to the convent.

  * * *

  I found the courtyard of St. Agnes’s crowded with pilgrims, all hoping to touch the golden reliquary that held a bloody rag torn from the linen shift worn by the nun on the day she was executed. In that rag, I was assured, lay a wondrous divine power.

  My arrival caused a commotion. People swarmed around me, calling out “Good Queen Jane!” and wanting favors, asking for alms, or begging me to speak to the king on their behalf. I was becoming accustomed to these pleas and requests, and to having people thrust written petitions in front of me. I acknowledged the petitioners as graciously as I could, but tried not to let myself be distracted. I had come to the convent to see Cat—and also in hopes that my maid of honor would benefit from the healing power of the shrine.

  I entered the convent and made my way to the room that held the golden reliquary, ordering my servants to bring Anne in after me and put her down on a pallet beside the shrine. She was pale and still, her eyes closed, her breathing shallow. For weeks I had had the feeling that she did not have long to live, though the royal physician, wh
en he examined her, would say only that she was dropsical and that he had no medicine to give her.

  A peaceful, serene feeling came over me as I sat in the small room. I felt my muscles relax and my worries fall away. A sweet sense of repose and a stirring of hope began to envelop me. Around me, others came and went—a young mother with a crying baby, a woman leading a blind man, couples leaning on each other, one poor soul who crawled on his knees slowly and painfully up to the reliquary—but I remained quietly undisturbed. Only when I heard my name whispered and saw Cat, her grey nun’s habit enveloping her, kneeling respectfully beside me did I awaken from my welcome restfulness.

  I was quick to embrace her.

  “Dearest Jane—I mean Your Highness—”

  “Please, Cat, let us be sisters, as in the past, with no formalities between us.”

  She smiled. “Then, sister dear, will you come with me to the arbor, where we can talk?”

  She led me into a small garden where the quietude was interrupted only by the coming and going of other nuns. I told her about her son Henry, how Ned had taken him into his household and was doing his best to be a benevolent guardian to him.

  “We owe you a great deal, Jane,” Cat said. “If it weren’t for you, I would still be locked in a cell, and who knows what sort of life Henry would have had?” Neither of us mentioned John, but I felt sure we were both thinking of him.

  Cat paused a moment, then took a deep breath.

  “Jane,” she said earnestly, “can you save our convent? Can you save St. Agnes’s?”

  “I don’t know. I haven’t yet spoken to the king about it. I must tread carefully, and choose the right time to approach him. He has convinced himself that all monasteries and convents are dens of vice, and deserve to be destroyed. That he profits from their destruction seems to him almost a virtue.” I sighed. “He is clever at logic. He can argue that a sunny day is a thunderstorm, and be convincing.”