Jane Seymour, the Haunted Queen

by Alison Weir

  Here was evidence, if it were lacking, of why Anne and Norris had come here, and what they had been doing, and it plunged Jane into a dilemma. This was clearly of far more serious import than any evidence the Council seemed to have. Should she report what she had seen to Henry or Cromwell? Should she ask for Edward’s advice? Or should she keep silent?

  She did not want to stay in that room with its secrets and its air of illicit passion. As she hurried downstairs and out of the tower, she was realizing that if she said anything to anyone, Anne might well face death, and she, Jane, would have to live with the guilt. The prospect appalled her. No, she would say nothing.

  * * *

  —

  When she returned to the palace, the candles and torches had been lit, and she found groups of courtiers crowding the galleries and halls, talking animatedly and looking about them. She saw Thomas with Bryan and Carew, and went over to find out what was happening.

  “Why are all these people gathered here?”

  “Where have you been, Jane?” Thomas asked. “The Council is again in session. Everybody is wondering what is going on.”

  “There can be no doubt that some deep and difficult question is being discussed,” Bryan said, his saturnine features set in serious lines for once.

  They waited—and waited. Jane saw people staring at her, whispering to each other. She thought she might go to bed. She hated being the focus of public attention. It dawned on her that that would be her life if she became queen.

  She was about to leave when a distant clock chimed eleven, and suddenly word went round that the King had left the council chamber and the councillors were dispersing. Then one of the royal heralds came striding through the court, crying out that the King’s visit to Calais would be postponed for a week.

  “I wonder why,” Carew said.

  “They’re not telling us,” Thomas muttered.

  “I think all will become clear soon enough,” Bryan opined.

  Her heart pounding, Jane bade them good night and returned to the apartment. Edward and Nan were there. They had heard the news, but Jane said firmly that it was idle to speculate, and retired to her bedchamber. She had just taken off her locket, hood and veil and shaken her hair loose, and was about to remove her oversleeves and unhook her stomacher, when there was a tap at the outer door that led to the King’s gallery. There was no mistaking who it could be.

  “I’ll go,” she called out, for Edward and Nan had gone to bed. She opened the door. There stood Henry, looking pained and drawn. “Jane,” he said, “I have to talk to you.”

  * * *

  —

  She waited as he sank heavily into his chair, then poured wine for them both and drew up a stool facing him.

  “I apologize that I am not dressed to receive you,” she said, feeling a little guilty because of what she had resolved to conceal from him.

  “You look beautiful,” he said, distractedly. “Your hair is lovely.” He touched it gently, feeling its silkiness. “Oh, Jane! That we could just be two lovers, free to enjoy each other, without a care in the world.”

  “That would be bliss,” she agreed.

  “Alas, I am weighed down with cares,” Henry groaned, his eyes narrowing. “This matter of the Queen is serious. My Council has now questioned all her women and many other witnesses, and the matter now appears so evident that there can be no room for doubt.”

  “No!” Jane blurted out. She wondered if she alone knew how little doubt there was.

  “She conspired my death!” he growled, looking thunderous. “She has taken lovers, and plotted with them to murder me so that she can marry one of them and rule England in Elizabeth’s name. That is high treason, Jane, the most heinous of all crimes.” He was seething, his fair skin flushed. Jane could well imagine the kindly Sir Henry Norris making covert love to Anne in the tower, but it was impossible to envisage him conspiring to murder the King, his close friend.

  Henry’s mouth tightened. “Today, in Council, we had no choice but to conclude that the Queen is an adulteress and regicide, and deserves to be burned alive.”

  “Oh, but Henry, that is a terrible death!”

  “It is a terrible crime!” he snarled, and she recoiled, because this was not the Henry she normally saw. “Jane, you have a kind heart, but in this case your kindness is misplaced. Anne does not deserve your sympathy or anyone else’s.” He was implacable, and she found herself fighting back tears. “She has even betrayed me with a low-born musician.”

  “Mark Smeaton?”

  Henry’s eyes narrowed. “How do you know that?”

  She must not reveal what Lady Worcester had told her. “I assumed it, because he was often hanging around her chamber. I thought she had rebuffed him. She never spoke well of him.”

  “It was a pretense, I am certain of it. He was arrested today, and has been taken to Master Cromwell’s house for questioning, for it is believed he can tell us more.”

  Jane bit her lip. Even now, she was hoping that Mark would convince Cromwell that this was all a dreadful mistake. And yet, in her heart, she knew that it wasn’t, and that Anne must be guilty, although probably not with Smeaton. Maybe she should tell Henry what she had seen, but she feared to do so because it might be the one piece of evidence that would tip the scales against Anne and send her to her death. And people would say that Jane had spoken out because she wanted a crown.

  She took a gulp of her wine to steady herself. She felt she had to placate Henry, to let him know she was on his side. “I am more sorry than I can say that the Queen has committed these crimes,” she said, reaching out a hand and hoping he would take it. “It is so hard to credit that anyone, let alone the person who is supposed to love you the most, could stoop low enough to do such dreadful things.”

  He grasped her fingers. “You must forgive me, Jane, for speaking roughly. I came here wanting to kill her with my bare hands, and I took out my anger on you.” He downed the rest of his wine. “But I did not come here solely to rail against her. I had planned to come for another purpose entirely, though now is perhaps not the moment.” He looked at her intently, then drew her to him, holding her tightly and kissing the top of her head. She could sense his need of her. “Or perhaps it is the right time,” he murmured against her hair.

  He drew back, still with his arms about her, and looked her in the eye. “When this is over, Jane, will you marry me?”

  For all the speculation and predictions of the past weeks, it took her breath away. “Oh, Henry!” she gasped.

  “I love you, Jane,” he said, holding her gaze, “and this time it is a true, pure and honorable love, not the obsessive love I had for Anne. I was mad then, but I am older and wiser now. I know what is good and of value. I make suit to you not as your king, but as your humble suitor. Say you will have me!”

  Jane hesitated. Every part of her wanted to say yes, but she was being asked to fill the shoes of a woman who might shortly die horribly to make room for her. Then she thought of the child that might be growing under her girdle—and of all the people whose hopes were vested in her, who had worked for months to bring her to this moment. She thought of the Princess Mary, and what she might be able to do for her if she agreed to marry the King, and she thought of the Church, and how she could right the wrongs that had been done to it—and of how she could work for the greater good.

  The Queen was guilty, she was sure of it. She probably could not prevent Anne’s death, but she might be able to influence the manner of it.

  Henry was still holding her, still looking at her beseechingly.

  “I love you,” she said, and saw his eyes fill with tears. “And I will gladly marry you, but there is something I desire you to promise me first.”

  “What must I do?” he asked.

  “Swear to me, I beg of you, that you will not send Anne to the fire. I should feel that it
was on account of me, and whatever she has done, I could not live with myself knowing that her agony had made me queen.”

  Henry frowned, but his anger was dissipating. “Very well, Jane. Mercy is an admirable quality in a queen. I swear to you that she shall not be burned.”

  How terrible that they were having this conversation. It was coming to something when Jane was supposed to be pleased and grateful that Anne would not burn, for still she had to die to clear the way for Henry and Jane to marry. Did she really want to wed him on these terms?

  She thought of the new life that was almost certainly stirring under her girdle. The choice had been made for her. “Thank you, Henry,” she said quietly. “I will be your wife, and nothing could give me more joy.” He crushed her to his chest and his lips closed on hers. He kissed her with even more ardor than he had shown before. In that kiss there was passion and longing, but there was also pain. It had been a strange proposal, in grim circumstances, and whether she had made the right decision she did not know, but she dared to offer up a fervent prayer that God would bless this marriage, even if it was to be made in blood.

  “There could never have been a proposal more timely,” she said. Henry was puzzled, uncomprehending.

  “I believe I am with child,” she told him, and saw his face transfigured by hope and joy.

  “Are you indeed?” he asked in wonder.

  “I am almost certain. Another week, and I will know for sure.”

  “Heaven be praised!” he cried. “A son to crown our happiness. A blessing from God.” And he kissed her with renewed fervor.

  * * *

  —

  They sat up late, talking and planning for the future.

  “We must be wed as soon as possible,” Henry said. “I cannot say when, but it will not be long, and certainly before you quicken. A son! I cannot believe it.”

  “I am ready,” Jane said, realizing that the responsibility of bearing a prince was hers now. She felt a shiver of trepidation, and prayed again that God would smile on this marriage. “All I want is to make you happy. You deserve some happiness, Henry.” It would make him a kinder man, a better king.

  He kissed her. “You know, I can’t remember Anne ever saying that to me. Bless you, Jane, for your sweet heart.”

  He told her that their marriage plans, and the proceedings against Anne, must be kept secret for now. It must never be said that he had set aside Anne only so that he could take another wife. However, Jane might tell her family, in strict confidence. And, he added, grinning, he himself should really seek her father’s permission to wed her.

  “I doubt he will refuse you!” She laughed.

  He lay with her that night, but he did not love her. It might harm the child, he said, but there were other ways to be close. He caressed her and showed her how best to pleasure him. When he slept, she tried to calm her raging thoughts. He loved her, she could not doubt it now. He could have had his pick of all the princesses in Christendom, and yet he had chosen her. But she could not help tormenting herself with the suspicion that he had asked her in the heat of the moment, after hearing of Anne’s crimes; that he was not prepared to waste time in negotiating a royal marriage, so had turned to her in the hope that, coming from a fertile family, she would give him sons; or that she was a means of his saving face, for soon the world would know how humiliatingly he had been cuckolded. The news that he was to wed again would go a long way toward wiping out any embarrassment. Yet how could she doubt his feelings, his need for her?

  She had to admit that she too had a pragmatic reason for wanting to wed. Her fears about her condition had turned, in an instant, to happy anticipation. And yet that did not detract from how much she loved him.

  She must face the unpalatable fact that Anne’s removal was imminent and necessary. Jane had done what she could for her. She thought again of Anne’s futile attempts to bear a son, and all for nothing. She had not needed to turn to other men in the hope of getting pregnant, for Henry was a virile and potent lover, as Jane herself well knew. No, if Anne had strayed, she had done it for her own gratification and ambition. Had it been Norris she had intended to marry after the King was dead? Jane could not think of anyone else it might be. Maybe Anne had sinned only with Norris—and perhaps Smeaton, although she was far from convinced of this. If so, she feared greatly for Norris. The penalty for men who committed treason was hanging, drawing and quartering; only in the case of noblemen was it commuted to beheading, and only then if the King was inclined to be merciful. She shuddered.

  When she did sleep, she was troubled by a nightmare in which she was chained to a stake, watching with horror as the faggots were lit at her feet. Then the flames crept upward, and her gown was alight…She woke up, panting in terror, to see the sun shining in at the window. It was May Day.

  * * *

  —

  That morning, she emerged from her room to find Edward and Nan in the outer chamber, both in their nightgowns, breaking bread and drinking ale. She sat down and helped herself to some breakfast, but she was so churned up with excitement and dread that she could barely eat. “I have something important to tell you,” she said. “The King proposed marriage last night, and I have accepted.”

  Edward’s eyes gleamed exultantly; Nan looked triumphant.

  “By God, Jane, you did it, you clever girl!” Edward exclaimed, getting up and hugging her in an uncharacteristically exuberant way. “Our future is assured! We Seymours can now show the world a thing or two!”

  Jane smiled at him, hardly believing it all. To think that she was to be the means by which her family prospered! She would not tell them yet of her hopes of a child. She would wait until she was certain, and safely wed.

  Thomas and Harry were sent for at once. Thomas whooped jubilantly when told the news, although Harry was more cautious. “Are you very sure you want this, Jane?” he asked. “Don’t feel you have to accept the King for our sake.” Jane stared at him. She had thought him as avid for the marriage as the rest of her family. She should have realized that he was the one person who would never push her.

  “Of course she wants it!” Thomas interrupted.

  “I do,” Jane assured them. “I love the King. He has always been so good to me. I just wish that I could be marrying him in happier circumstances.”

  “Jane, you have not betrayed the King or conspired against his life. It is Anne who has brought this upon herself,” Edward said firmly. “The King has to have an heir. He will get rid of her and marry again, whether it is to you or someone else. Rest easy in your conscience about this. You have nothing for which to reproach yourself!”

  “That’s true,” Harry said.

  “Very well, I shall try not to feel guilty,” Jane agreed. “But in common humanity, I cannot but pity her. Had his Grace merely had their marriage declared invalid, I would not have had a qualm. But I never anticipated anything like this.”

  “You mustn’t brood on it,” Nan insisted. “It’s nothing to do with you.”

  “You have much to thank God for,” Edward said, “and we must tell our parents the wonderful news. I shall send for them today.”

  “I would like to tell them myself,” Jane insisted.

  Edward nodded. “Then I will simply tell them that they should come to court for there is a matter here that will interest and rejoice them greatly.”

  “They’ll guess!” Thomas sniffed. Edward frowned.

  “Just say that I would appreciate their company and counsel at this time,” Jane said.

  “That’s a good idea,” Edward agreed. “We all want to see their faces when they hear the news. I’ll get a messenger dispatched today. They should be with us in ten or eleven days.”

  Nan stood up. “It’s growing late. We should get ready for the jousts,” she said.

  Chapter 23

  1536

  Jane sat in the stand
with her brothers and Nan. Today’s tournament was taking place in the tiltyard at Greenwich. She loved May Day, which this year had dawned warm and pleasant, and she had donned her damask rose gown for the occasion and left her hair loose. Pennants fluttered in the breeze as everyone crowded into their seats or behind the barriers. At the appointed time, Jane saw the King take his place at the front of the royal stand, which stood between the twin towers of the tiltyard. She thought how impressive he looked, tall and magnificent in black and gold, exuding power, his handsome face flushed in keen anticipation of the contest.

  Anne sat down next to him, gorgeously gowned in cloth of silver. Jane could hardly bear to look at her, knowing what was in store. Again she was overwhelmed by a rush of guilt and dread.

  When the jousts began, Henry and Anne gave every appearance of enjoying them, but Jane found it hard to focus on the knightly contestants running their courses, lances couched, armor gleaming. Lord Rochford was the leading challenger, while Sir Henry Norris led the defenders. At one point, Norris’s mount became uncontrollable, refusing to enter the lists and neighing furiously. Henry leaned forward and called out to Norris, and minutes later Norris returned to the tiltyard on the King’s own horse, the famous Governatore. The crowd leapt to its feet when Sir Thomas Wyatt won his course, displaying great dexterity, but all the knights, including Francis Weston, did great feats of arms, and the King cheered them on while Anne sat smiling encouragement.