Jane Seymour, the Haunted Queen

by Alison Weir

  “Very well, Jane. We will be discreet. I am yours to command. I will be in the chapel closet at eleven tonight. Please come, for I would talk to you privately.”

  There was a pause as they moved away from each other, then came back together again. “I will be there,” she murmured, praying that she was doing the right thing. Surely he would not try to compromise her honor in a holy place?

  * * *

  —

  He was waiting for her, tall, broad and bareheaded, in the dimly lit closet. He bowed to her, this big, powerful man who had a kingdom at his feet. She curtseyed, and he bade her sit with him on a bench.

  “I am so pleased that you have come.” He took her hand. “For such a favor, your humble suitor is filled with gratitude.”

  “Sir, I have not changed my mind. I cannot be your mistress. You are married, and it would be wrong. But I will be your friend.”

  “My friend?” Henry looked stricken. “Jane, I don’t think you understand. I would be your servant. I would make no dishonorable demands of you. My sweet lady, I love you!”

  Love? She had not dreamed of that!

  She looked into his eyes and could read nothing there but sincerity and longing. Yet she had heard that men often mistook lust for love, or made declarations of love in order to have their way with women. She must be careful.

  “Oh, Sir,” she breathed, bowing her head. “I am not worthy.”

  For answer, Henry took her hand and kissed it fervently. “No one is more worthy of being loved!” he declared. “It is I, Henry the man, not the King, who makes suit to you, all unworthy.”

  She was not sure how to answer him. She knew that whatever she agreed to this night, it must remain a secret. She could not risk Queen Katherine ever hearing that she had betrayed her with the King. Katherine might not fathom her true motives. Jane could barely fathom them herself. They were not entirely altruistic: she was not immune to the King’s charm, and she was aware of the benefits that would surely come to her family. And if she was completely honest, she relished having the power to put Anne’s nose so far out of joint.

  She returned Henry’s gaze. “Sir, if we could meet like this and continue our friendship in secret, without risk of my honor being stained, then yes, I will be your mistress. But it must be in name only.”

  Henry rested his hand on hers. “It is all I ask for, to be with you like this. Thank you, Jane.” And he bent forward and kissed her on the mouth, lightly at first, and then with passion. When she drew back, he was breathing heavily.

  “No one has ever kissed me like that,” she whispered.

  Henry was delighted. “It is rare to meet with such innocence at court, sweetheart.”

  “I am not naive, Sir!”

  He chuckled, and traced her cheek with his finger. “I meant it as a compliment. It comes as a refreshing change.” He kissed her again, folding his arms around her. She stiffened.

  “We should not get carried away, Sir.” She had heard women whisper that in love play there was a point of no return. She had no idea what that meant, but she was not going to take any risks. “I think I should go. The hour is late.”

  “Of course.” The King regarded her regretfully. “I am your servant, yours to command.”

  She took her leave of him, and he kissed her a third time. She wondered how long his restraint would last.

  * * *

  —

  They met regularly after that, usually in the chapel closet, sometimes in the wintry privy garden, and once in the chapel itself, although Jane felt uncomfortable there, and shrank from physical contact. There was no doubting or deterring the King’s ardor. To her, he revealed a gentleness and tenderness that few saw. He was avid for just a sight of her, he said; he sought her face everywhere. When she was not with him, he was half alive. Of course, he was never satisfied with snatched kisses and embraces, but Jane stayed firm. To her surprise he respected that. She was learning that he had a high opinion of himself as a knight, and that the habit of chivalry was deeply engrained in him.

  She wanted to raise the matter of Katherine and Mary, and ask Henry to look on them with kindness—but as yet she did not dare. Her mastery over him was too new, too untested. She must start with small things. She did not like to think that she was using him. She was beginning to feel affection for him, and what she suspected was desire, for he was a most handsome man, and he had never been anything but kind to her. It was Anne who brought out the worst in him. Hopefully she, Jane, could counter that.

  It could not last, she reminded herself. He would tire of her when he realized that she would never be his entirely. She had heard it said that he was fickle, and easily sated. She must never forget that few of his love affairs had endured for long.

  Chapter 16

  1536

  When Jane arrived for duty in the Queen’s chamber one bitter January morning, Anne was in tears. Lady Worcester and Lady Rutland were trying to comfort her. Lady Zouche turned and glared at Jane.

  “He never comes near me!” Anne wailed. “His unkindness grows. And it’s all your fault!” She flung a quill pen at Jane. The nib scratched Jane’s cheek as it hit her. She put her fingers to the place and found them streaked with blood and ink. She stood there frozen, horrified at the vehemence of Anne’s attack and the wound. All the women were looking at her.

  “Has the witch’s cat got your tongue?” Anne spat. “He’s fucking you, isn’t he?”

  The ladies bristled. No queen—no lady—should use such language!

  “No,” Jane said, her chin held high.

  “Lying little bitch!” Anne countered.

  “Madam, calm yourself,” exhorted Lady Worcester. “Think of the child!”

  “Does he think of the child when he tups that whore over there?” Anne was nearly hysterical.

  “Madam, I am no whore, and I resent my honor being impugned,” Jane said, mortified.

  “Oh, we’re so high and mighty now that we’re the King’s leman!”

  “You should know!” Jane retorted, before she could help herself. She was not having Anne, of all people, seizing the moral high ground.

  Anne got up and slapped her hard on her injured cheek. “I could have you dismissed for that.”

  The blow stung, but Jane would not let anyone see she was in pain. “I would go home willingly,” she said, “but I doubt his Grace will let me.”

  Anne stared at her, furious. “Get out!” she ordered. “I will speak to him, and then we shall see if you are going home or not!”

  * * *

  —

  “What’s that mark on your face?” Henry asked, as they strolled along his privy gallery the next day, admiring the paintings and maps that hung there.

  Jane hesitated. She wanted him to know how Anne’s jealousy was manifesting itself, yet she did not want to be seen as a tale-teller. “I scratched myself with my pen,” she said.

  Henry bent and gently kissed the place. “It will heal soon, darling. I want Master Horenbout to paint your likeness in a miniature, so that I can keep it with me at all times. And you shall have one of me.”

  Master Horenbout was one of the artists who worked for the King. The other, whom everyone thought superseded him in talent, was his former pupil, Master Holbein. But being painted by Horenbout was honor enough, for he usually only limned those of royal or noble blood.

  “Your Grace is so kind to me,” she said.

  “And means to be kinder!” he declared.

  * * *

  —

  Jane took her place with the other maids and ladies as Anne seated herself next to Henry on the dais in his presence chamber. He was receiving ambassadors and petitioners this morning, and the grand apartment was crammed with courtiers.

  Chapuys was announced. He came wearing unrelieved black, his face gray and solemn. The room began hummin
g with speculation.

  “Your Majesty,” he said, rising from his reverence, “I have great sorrow in telling you that the good Queen is dead.”

  Murdered. The word sprang immediately to Jane’s mind as she absorbed the shock. It was what she had feared—and it was what Anne had threatened. She wanted to weep, and struggled to control herself. Poor Katherine. Her life had been so unhappy. She had not deserved to die alone, done to death probably, abandoned by the man who should have cherished her, and without the consolation of the presence of the daughter she had not seen in four years.

  “Now I am indeed a queen!” Anne crowed triumphantly.

  Sickened to hear her, Jane looked at Henry to see how he was taking the news, searching his face for any sign of guilt, but to her dismay it was transfigured with joy.

  “God be praised that we are free from all suspicion of war!” he said loudly.

  Was that all he could say? Even Chapuys’s long experience in diplomacy could not conceal his disapproval. “I bring you this, her last letter,” he said stiffly, and handed over a folded paper sealed with the arms of England and Spain.

  Henry broke the seal and read, with all eyes upon him. Suddenly he was very still and a tear traced its way down his cheek. Jane heard him draw in his breath as he looked up. “God rest the Princess Dowager,” he said. “I thank your Excellency. If you would leave us, please.”

  Chapuys bowed and withdrew.

  “Thank God!” Henry said. “Thank God!”

  Jane felt dangerously near to bursting into tears. She lowered her eyes. Surely a man who had committed murder would not openly rejoice thus? Even so, his reaction shocked her.

  When he met her later in the holyday closet, he was in a testy mood. “Defiant to the last,” he growled. “See how she signs herself!” He thrust the letter under Jane’s nose and she saw, in the dear familiar handwriting, the words “Katherine the Queen.” Before he took it back, she also glimpsed what was written above them: “Lastly, I make this vow, that my eyes desire you above all things.” In the end, it had not mattered what he had done to Katherine; all the cruelties and the deprivations had counted for nothing: she had loved him till her dying breath. It was not often given to human beings to be the recipient of such selfless love and devotion—and he could not see it! He had thrown away a jewel for a gewgaw.

  Henry slid the letter inside his doublet. “Jane, you realize what this means? I am free at last. Now no one can challenge my marriage, nor Elizabeth’s right to be my heir. And I can make friends with the Emperor. There is nothing to stop me, for the cause of our enmity no longer exists. My subjects will be delighted.”

  He had overlooked one crucial thing, she realized. He was free! He was not lawfully married, since he had had a wife living when he had gone through that pretended ceremony with Anne, without even waiting for Cranmer to give judgment on his first marriage. And Cranmer’s decision had no force against the Pope’s dispensation.

  There was no doubting it. The King was a free man.

  * * *

  —

  “It’s a pity the Lady Mary did not keep company with her mother!” The Earl of Wiltshire sneered.

  Jane overheard him talking to Anne and Lord Rochford as she sat at the table sorting through poems with Margaret Douglas, Madge Shelton and Mary Howard; Thomas Howard was sitting on a window seat nearby, idly strumming a lute. Jane was appalled at the Boleyns’ callous disregard for the late Queen’s sufferings, for which they were largely responsible, and kept tormenting herself with fears that they were to blame for far worse than that.

  Why should I bow the knee to that woman? she asked herself, seething. Even if Anne was not a murderess, she was not the rightful Queen. She was a disgrace, and justifiably unpopular. Yet the King evidently did not see things that way, and if she bore him a son, no one could ever touch her. To ensure the child’s undisputed legitimacy, all Henry had to do was go through a proper ceremony of marriage with Anne. But would it ever occur to him that he ought to do so?

  No, of course not. He thought himself lawfully married in the eyes of this new Church of his, and he was of no mind to heed the Pope’s judgment, so far had he fallen from grace. Therefore he would not see any need for a second marriage ceremony, unless, of course, he wanted to appease the rest of Christendom. He might just do it if he thought it would smooth the path to friendship with the Emperor. Then again, he might not wish to lose face in the eyes of the world, for to marry Anne now would be to admit that his first marriage to her had been of questionable legitimacy. But would he want to wed her now, if he had the choice?

  Everything hinged upon Anne’s bearing a son. If she did that, she would be unchallengeable, and Jane knew that she herself would have to leave court. She could not bear to stay and see Anne triumphant and back in power.

  * * *

  —

  Jane could not bring herself to join in when Anne ordered dancing. This was a time of mourning! She was outraged when Anne bade them dress her all in yellow for the occasion. It was an insult to Katherine’s memory! The King even joined them, eager to celebrate England’s liberation from the threat of war, and he too was dressed entirely in yellow. How could they all rejoice so? Jane wondered. But Henry was in an ebullient mood, and had the Princess Elizabeth triumphantly conducted to Mass with the trumpets sounding, so that all should see his undoubted heir. After dinner, he joined Anne and her ladies in the hall and there was more dancing and demonstrations of joy. Jane had to join in, but she hotly resented being made to appear to condone the rejoicing.

  Henry carried Elizabeth over to show her off to the ladies. He paused before Jane, who took the child’s tiny hand and kissed it.

  “Do you have a present for me?” demanded the two-year-old. She had a sharp little face and an imperious manner. They all laughed.

  Jane felt in her pocket and drew out an embroidered handkerchief. “Would your Grace like this?” she asked, offering it to Elizabeth. The little hand reached out and took it; the sharp eyes regarded it with interest.

  “What do we say?” Henry prompted.

  “Thank you,” Elizabeth responded. She gave Jane an engaging smile. Then the King set her on the ground so that she could join in the dancing. Already she was accomplished at it, and kept up very well.

  Jane noticed that while the ladies made much of Elizabeth, Anne was more interested in socializing with the King’s gentlemen. She rarely saw her child. Jane knew that her visits to the nursery household at Hatfield or Hunsdon or Ashridge were infrequent. Again it struck her that Anne seemed not to have deep maternal feelings. She was too focused on herself! If I had a little girl like that, Jane vowed, I would see her as often as I could.

  * * *

  —

  That night, as they prepared the Queen for bed, she insisted that Jane comb her hair. Jane wondered why she would want her attentions, of all people, but Anne’s manner made it clear that Jane was being put firmly in her place. Jane could not help feeling pleased to see one or two gray hairs in the long dark tresses.

  Without warning, Anne burst into tears.

  The women tried to soothe her, begging her to tell them what was wrong. Jane feared that her name might be mentioned. The King had danced with her four times.

  “I am so frightened!” Anne blurted out. “Living, the Princess Dowager was my surety. I see that now. But she is gone, and if this child does not live, or is a girl, I fear they might do to me as they did to her.”

  “They?” Margaret Douglas echoed.

  “Master Cromwell hates me. He is not the only one.” Jane felt a frisson of trepidation: did Anne know that her enemies were uniting to restore the Princess Mary to the succession?

  “But the King loves you!” Mary Howard reassured her.

  Anne cried out, “You think so? Not in private. He hardly speaks to me. You know how rarely he comes here. In public, he m
akes a good show of affection, because he can never admit he was wrong to marry me. While Katherine lived, he would not have contemplated putting me away, for that would have been tantamount to admitting that she was his true wife. But now…” Lady Worcester put an arm around her heaving shoulders. “Oh, God,” Anne wailed, “I fear that his rejoicing this week has been for more than one reason.”

  “Madam, calm yourself. You are with child. There is every chance that it will be a son. Then you will see how much the King loves you.” But Anne was inconsolable. Lady Worcester looked at the other ladies and shook her head despairingly.

  “All that stands between me and ruin is this child!” Anne sobbed.

  And she would not be comforted.

  Her deep distress, which manifested itself again and again in the days that followed, made Jane uncomfortable. She could not but be moved by it. What must it be like constantly to be bearing children in fear that they would be lost or of the wrong sex, knowing that your happiness depended on having a son?

  Was Anne suffering remorse for the way she had supplanted and hounded Katherine? Did she have an even worse sin on her conscience? Already there were rumors in the court that Katherine had been poisoned. Some blamed the King. Others said the old Queen had died of a broken heart.

  Jane’s thoughts were often with the Lady Mary, who must be bitterly grieving for the mother whose cause she had stoutly upheld. She wished she could comfort the girl and tell her how much Katherine had loved her and spoken of her in the years in which they had been apart.

  Now was her chance to speak for Mary. She seized it one evening when the King summoned her to the chapel and bade her sit beside him in the Queen’s chair in the royal pew. She knew Anne would be furious if she could see her.

  “I thought you would like this, sweetheart,” he said, and gave her a little velvet pouch. Inside was a gold locket, encrusted with jewels, which opened to reveal a miniature of him. “I hope that you will wear it and that, when you do, you will think of me,” he said humbly.