by Alison Weir
“That would not surprise me,” Lady Boleyn said. “Better to keep such things in the family, to avoid any malign influences.” She looked pointedly at Joan Ashley. “There are some whose sympathies lie where they should not.”
Jane looked down at her tambour, praying that no one had guessed where her own sympathies lay. Margery probably still shared them, but they did not speak of such things these days.
Anne was as friendly as ever to Madge, but it was easy to tell that she was miserable. When Frances de Vere, the young Countess of Surrey, was at last permitted to consummate her marriage to the Earl, and was full of the joys of the nuptial bed, Jane saw the Queen look away and bite her lip. But whatever had passed between the King and Madge Shelton, it did not last. And soon, other matters of greater moment seized everyone’s attention.
More brave souls had refused the oath. They had not only denied the royal supremacy, but also protested their allegiance to the Pope. They were either courageous or foolhardy, Jane thought, remembering the fate of the Nun of Kent and her associates.
In May, the Prior of the London Charterhouse, two Carthusian priors and a monk of Syon were hanged, drawn and quartered at Tyburn, as joyfully—word went around—as bridegrooms going to their marriages.
Anne, stabbing her needle into her embroidery frame, was merciless. “They got what they deserved!” she snarled. “Maybe Bishop Fisher and Sir Thomas More will learn a lesson from their fate and swear the oath.” She was determined that these two in particular would comply, and the King had the oath put to them once more in the Tower. Again they refused to take it.
“They are traitors and deserve death!” Anne raged. Her emotions were all over the place these days, veering from an almost desperate gaiety to seething anger. And then the reason for it became apparent. She was with child again.
The King’s joy at the news did not mitigate his wrath at those who defied him. As Anne presided over celebratory feasts and revelry, ten Carthusians monks were chained to posts, standing upright, and left to die of starvation. Among them, Jane heard, was Sebastian Newdigate. She spared a thought for his sister, the redoubtable, devout Lady Dormer, who would be grieving deeply, even as she exulted that her saintly brother had been vouchsafed a martyr’s death.
It was a terrible summer, full of horrors. In June, Bishop Fisher was condemned as a traitor and beheaded, and three more Carthusian monks were hanged, drawn and quartered at Tyburn. The execution of the Bishop was especially shocking, for he had just been made a cardinal by the Pope; it was a chance for the King to demonstrate his contempt for the Church of Rome.
With a prince in her belly—everyone said it would be a boy—Anne was invincible. Her every wish was the King’s command. Now—and she made no secret of it—she was urging him to send Thomas More to the block. Jane had barely known More, and then only by sight, but she was aware of his great reputation as a scholar and a man of faith and integrity. He was a champion of the true faith, and his opinions counted, so respected was he throughout Christendom. Moreover, he had been the King’s friend. Jane could not believe that Henry would ever put such a man to death.
She began seriously to think of resigning her post and going home.
She could always plead ill health; no one would guess the truth.
She arranged to meet her brothers down by the river, where they could be private, and told them what she was contemplating. Edward and Thomas thought it was folly. Only Harry was sympathetic.
“I wish I could go home too,” he said, “but alas, my living is here, and as it was Bishop Gardiner who secured it for me, he would think me ungrateful if I returned to his service.”
“Don’t brood so much on things, Jane,” Thomas advised. “Who cares who is queen or not, or about oaths and supremacy, so long as we can get on in the world?”
“There is such a thing as conscience,” she reminded him. “Every day I have to serve the woman who supplanted my good mistress, and I do not like myself for it.”
“We all have to dissemble in one way or another,” Edward said. “I don’t like her either, but queen she is, and we must make the best of it. If you go home, you can say goodbye to your chances of a good marriage and all that the court can offer. Nothing happens in Wiltshire.”
“I said goodbye to a good marriage long ago,” Jane retorted. “I’m twenty-seven, and no man has ever been seriously interested in me.” She thought of William Dormer and winced, and of Sir Francis Bryan, and how some men were just not made for marrying.
“Stay, for my sake,” Harry pleaded. “Your presence at court lightens my days.”
“Aye,” Thomas agreed. Edward nodded.
“Very well,” she sighed. “But if things get any worse, I will think again.”
* * *
—
By the third week in June, Anne’s child had quickened and her gowns needed to be unlaced. She was feeling extraordinarily well, she said. It looked as if this pregnancy would have a successful outcome. But just three days after Fisher’s execution, she stood up after dinner and screamed suddenly, pointing speechlessly at blood on the floor, great clots of it. Sickened at what she had seen, Jane ran for the physicians, as the other ladies leapt to assist their mistress. The world seemed to be running with blood these days, and somehow Anne’s blood, which was no doubt that of her child also, seemed to be linked to that of the martyrs. For martyrs they were, Jane was in no doubt: they had died for a holy cause, and God was punishing Henry and Anne for it. Blood for blood: a life for those other lives.
It was all over very quickly. The Queen’s child was stillborn. It had been a boy. Again the King came, weeping and perplexed, to commiserate with her. This time, though, he was tight-lipped when he left.
* * *
—
Anne made a quick recovery, but she appeared pale and wan when she emerged from her chamber, and more highly strung than ever. It did not help that the King now rarely came near her. Once he had done nothing but what pleased her, or was to her comfort. Now there were rumors aplenty that her star was about to fall.
Convinced that she needed to make greater efforts to win God’s favor, she had all her ladies busier than ever, assisting her in good works. They made clothes, hemmed sheets, rode out with her when she dispensed alms, and made up baskets of food for the poor. Jane did not mind, for this was what a queen should be doing. Anne also believed that ridding the monasteries of corruption and having the Bible translated into English would be pleasing to the Almighty. Jane was weary of hearing how a reformer called Miles Coverdale was undertaking that task, and that his work was going to be dedicated to Anne and Henry. Jane and Margery had been ordered to make smocks for the poor.
They were sitting on a window seat in the Queen’s chamber at Windsor, bored with their task and distracted by the love play between Lady Margaret Douglas and Lord Thomas Howard, who were cosily ensconced in an alcove, oblivious to everyone else.
“There is no hope for them,” Margery murmured. “The Lady Margaret is third in line to the throne. One day the King will arrange a great marriage for her. Lord Thomas is a younger son with no fortune.”
“She is in love with him,” Jane said.
“She is a fool! Remember, Mary Carey was banished from court for marrying such a one.”
“The King loves the Lady Margaret like a daughter. He would not banish her.”
Margery shook her head. “He loved Mary Carey once,” she whispered.
“What?” Jane was astounded.
Margery kept her voice low. “Yes, some years before he courted the Queen. Didn’t you know? She bore him a daughter. Of course, it was all hushed up, and the child was passed off as her husband’s, but several people in this household know about it, and I’ve been told that the little girl is the very image of the King.”
Jane struggled to take it all in. “You are saying that the King h
ad a child by the Queen’s sister?”
Margery nodded, looking warily in the Queen’s direction, but Anne was laughing with Sir Henry Norris and some other gentlemen.
“Then,” Jane said slowly, “his marriage to the Queen must be as incestuous as his marriage to Queen Katherine.”
“How do you mean?” Margery asked, her eyes widening.
Jane lowered her voice to a whisper. “The Queen was married to Prince Arthur before she married his brother, the King, but her first marriage was not consummated, so the Pope allowed her a second. The King had a child with Mary Carey before he married her sister. There was no dispensation. If the King’s first marriage was invalid, as he says, then by the same token, his second must be too.” And he is either stupid or a hypocrite, Jane thought—but of course she did not say it aloud.
Margery drew in her breath. “I never thought of it in that way. But for God’s sake, Jane, never say that to anyone else. You know well it’s treason to deny the King’s marriage to Queen Anne.”
Jane was staggered. To think that this Great Matter, all these religious changes, even the King’s supremacy, had been built upon a lie. It did not matter whether the old Queen had been fully Prince Arthur’s wife or not—Anne had been forbidden to Henry on account of his fruitful liaison with her sister. But people had died bloodily in the interests of perpetrating that lie. It was sheer wickedness. No wonder the King had tried to keep his affair with Mary Carey a secret. And no wonder God had denied him sons.
Again, Jane thought she should go home. She wanted no part in the whole evil business. In serving Anne as queen, she was effectively condoning it. She did not think her conscience could bear it any longer. She was almost resolved upon leaving Anne’s service when it was announced that the court was shortly to go on a great progress to the West Country.
“We will be visiting Berkeley Castle,” Anne told a delighted Lady Berkeley, “and staying at Wulfhall and Elvetham.” She smiled at Jane. Those two visits would be a signal mark of royal favor toward the Seymours, but they put paid to Jane’s plans. If she resigned her post now, it might jeopardize the royal visits to her family, and she would not for the world deprive her mother of the chance of entertaining the King. How proud she would be at the prospect!
Moreover, during the royal visit, she, Jane, would be able to seek the advice of her parents and Father James as to what she should do. At Wulfhall, her future would be decided.
* * *
—
They were plunged into a flurry of preparations. The Queen’s rich gowns had to be folded and laid carefully in her great iron-bound traveling chests; her hoods went on wooden stands in boxes; her linen was packed in cloth bags. Jane herself had six gowns now with as many kirtles, and she decided she would need them all.
Finally, everything was ready: the royal furnishings, the rolled-up tapestries and carpets and the chests of plate were all stowed on carts or sumpter mules, and on 5 July, the King and Queen mounted their horses and the long procession set off for Reading. Jane, riding behind with Anne’s other attendants, could see that his Grace was in an unusually good mood, laughing and jesting with Francis Bryan and his other gentlemen. It was well known that he enjoyed touring his realm and being seen by his subjects. They came running to hail him as he passed, with their shouts of praise and their grievances, and from time to time he would pause to talk to them.
At Reading Abbey, where Jane was one of the ladies who stood unobtrusively in attendance while the King and Queen dined, Henry was full of the good hunting he expected to have on the morrow. But there was an edginess to him that belied the holiday mood. It was clear from what he said that this progress was intended to drum up support for his religious reforms.
“I mean to honor both those who have supported me and those I need to win over with visits,” he said, breaking apart the manchet bread that lay by his plate. “Fear not, Anne, we will have everyone on our side in the end.”
Anne smiled. There was a new kindness between them. Maybe it was the prevailing holiday mood. Yet Jane could sense an uneasiness too, and it was not all on Anne’s part.
* * *
—
The King went hunting on the way to Ewelme Palace, while the Queen traveled there by litter and the court made its leisurely, cumbersome progress through the pleasant Oxfordshire countryside. The next night they stayed at Abingdon Abbey, and it was while they were unpacking that Lady Boleyn came in and announced, with some satisfaction, that Sir Thomas More had been beheaded the day before.
Now Jane knew why the King had been on edge. He had known that while he was out hunting, his old friend would go to the block. She found herself trembling, shaken by the news. She bit her lip and kept her eyes downcast, then worried in case that gave offense. Lady Boleyn had an eagle eye, and if she thought that a lack of positive response to the news signified disapproval, she might pounce. Fortunately, several other ladies were saying that it served Sir Thomas right and he had only got what he deserved, so Jane’s silence went unnoticed—she hoped.
She longed to be at Wulfhall, back with her family, and comforted herself with fantasies of staying there when the court moved on. But they would not be there for several weeks yet.
From Abingdon, they traveled to the ancient palace at Woodstock, and sojourned there for a time. Jane was intrigued by a local legend about Fair Rosamund. Anne Parr’s mother had told her the tale, and she recounted it to the maids-of-honor as they took the air with the Queen in the great park that surrounded the palace.
“Fair Rosamund was the mistress of a king who lived long ago,” she related. “He built a bower for her, where he could visit her and keep her safe from his evil Queen. But the Queen—I think her name was Eleanor—discovered where she was, so he built an intricate maze around the bower to prevent her from finding Rosamund. But Eleanor was so wily that she found out the way, and left a trail of thread so that she could make her escape afterward. She murdered Rosamund by giving her a poisoned cup to drink from. The King was so angry that he shut Eleanor up in a castle for as long as he lived.”
“Weren’t all those stone crosses built for Queen Eleanor by her husband after she died?” Mary Zouche asked.
“That was another Eleanor,” Queen Anne told them. “Her husband loved her dearly, and was so grieved at her death that he built a cross everywhere her body rested on the way to Westminster Abbey. I’ve seen her tomb there.” She looked wistful. Jane doubted that the King would ever be building crosses for Anne; he no longer loved her enough.
“Is the bower still here?” she asked.
“I don’t think so,” Anne Parr said. They returned to the palace and found the steward. He didn’t know either, so they went searching, walking for what seemed like miles before they found the remains of a little stone house and cloister set in a ruined garden.
“This may be the place,” the Queen said.
“It’s eerie,” Lady Rutland commented. Jane shivered. She felt it too. She could almost sense the shade of Rosamund crying out to be avenged. Maybe she really had been murdered here in this isolated spot.
“Poisoning is a horrible way to kill someone,” Mary Norris said.
“Women use it because they don’t have the strength of a man,” Lady Boleyn answered.
Jane stole a glance at the Queen, who was gazing at what was left of the house, as if imagining the long hours Rosamund had spent alone there, waiting for her King, perhaps terrified that the Queen would find her. Anne’s face gave nothing away. Jane thought of her threats against the Princess Mary. She had repeated them more than once, and there had been a time when they could have had no more import than someone saying, “I could kill you!” But in the wake of the summer’s executions, Anne had grown more vehement in her hatred of Mary and Katherine. If she had persuaded the King to send More to the scaffold, as everyone believed, what else might she demand of him? Or would she stoop
to more underhand means of ridding herself of her enemies? It was not such a far-fetched notion as some might think, Jane reflected, as she wandered around the ruins. She remembered people blaming Anne for that attempt to poison Bishop Fisher. The Bishop had been more vociferous than most in opposing the King’s divorce. Certainly someone had wanted to silence him. Jane looked across at the Queen, who was making her way along the crumbling cloister, her black veil flapping in the breeze. Anne could be ruthless when provoked; and she had been unmoved when told of the suffering of the Carthusians.
Yet was she capable of murder? It worried Jane that she could not answer that question. But who knew the secrets of people’s hearts?
They gathered in what had once been the garden. None of them wanted to linger for long, and Jane was glad when they got back to the palace.
* * *
—
From Woodstock they moved to Langley, and from there progressed to the pretty town of Winchcombe in Gloucestershire. Just beyond it lay the King’s castle of Sudeley, where Henry and Anne were to stay for a week, with their households. Everyone else was accommodated at nearby Winchcombe Abbey.
The King spent a lot of the time at the abbey in conference with Master Secretary Cromwell, who had just arrived from London. Jane was concerned to hear the Queen telling her ladies that Cromwell had come to arrange for the King’s commissioners to visit and report on all the religious houses in the West Country.
Disquieted though she was, Jane loved Sudeley. Its soaring royal apartments boasted magnificent chambers, tall windows and a fine banqueting hall, all set amid glorious countryside. She took pleasure in exploring its gardens and courts. But then Anne announced that, first thing on the morrow, she would be riding to Hailes Abbey, and all her officers, ladies and maids were to attend her.