by Alison Weir
“I do not believe that,” Edward declared.
“How did she take the sentence?” Jane asked.
“Bravely. She said she had not always shown the dutifulness she ought toward the King, but she had never been unfaithful to him.”
“Of course she would say that,” Father put in.
“Then Rochford was tried, on many counts of incest, saving your presence, ladies. It was also objected against him that he had repeated that his sister had told his wife that the King has not the ability to copulate with a woman, for he has neither potency nor vigor.”
“What?” Jane was aghast. It was simply not true, but she could not tell them how she knew.
“He wasn’t openly charged with it, but it was shown him in writing, and he was warned by Master Cromwell not to repeat it aloud. But he did, showing great contempt for Cromwell and the King.”
“By God,” Edward fumed. “It sounds as if he said it more from envy and jealousy than out of love toward the King.”
“You know what they were implying,” Harry chimed in. “Witchcraft. In hinting that the King is impotent, they were implying that the Queen had worked some magic on him.”
“But that’s ridiculous!” Mother retorted. “I hold no brief for her, but why make him impotent when she was desperate for a son?”
Certainly it didn’t make sense, unless they had been trying to show that Henry couldn’t have fathered Anne’s children.
That was Father’s view. “I think they were offering a pretext for her infidelity. If the King could not give her a child, she had sought other men who could.”
“But then the King would have known that he wasn’t the father,” Mother pointed out.
“None of it makes sense,” Jane said, “unless they were just trying to demonstrate how Anne ridiculed him.”
“It came from Lady Rochford,” Bryan told them. “She deposed against her husband in regard to the incest. She hates him and his sister, and supports the Princess Mary. I very much doubt that Anne confided anything of the sort to her. It was said in pure malice, I’ll wager.”
His explanation was meant to reassure her, Jane knew, but he had not seen the flaw in it. This evidence had clearly been invented—so what of the rest? She began to wonder if the case against the Queen was as solid as Henry and everyone else had said. But she had herself seen Anne and Norris at the old tower. Could they have been there for an innocent purpose? What if this was merely a clever plot to remove the Queen so that the King could remarry and have a son?
Oh, God, she prayed silently, give me a sign that I am wrong. Let there be proof that she is guilty!
“What is it, Jane?” Father asked, regarding her with his weary eyes.
“Was it a just verdict?” she asked.
“Of course it was!” Edward and Bryan chorused.
“I’ve seen the indictment,” Bryan said. “I was with his Grace when it was brought to him. He wept with anger when he saw it, and showed it to me. The evidence itemized in it was overwhelming—and it made for sickening reading. Never doubt her guilt, Jane!”
She was somewhat reassured. She had been right all along about that furtive tryst in the tower. She must stop doubting everything!
“You’ll be pleased to hear that the King is coming to see you later tonight,” Bryan told her. “His master cooks are already on their way here, to prepare supper for you both. But first he is going to dine at the Bishop of Carlisle’s house.”
* * *
—
It was after ten o’clock when the King’s barge moored at Chelsea. From the house, Jane could see the twinkling lights of the torches that lighted its way, and hear the distant echoes of music. And soon, there he was, coming through the door and sweeping her into his arms. The first thing she noticed was that he had had his hair cropped and was growing a beard. It suited him. It was as if the cutting of his hair symbolized the severing of his marriage.
“Soon you will be mine,” he told her joyfully. “Nothing can prevent that now. I do long for the day.” There was about him an air of almost desperate gaiety.
“I was overjoyed to receive your news,” he told her. “Are you well? I trust you are looking after yourself—and our son.”
“I am very well,” she told him. She did feel all the better for seeing him. His presence, so vital and so commanding, reassured her. It was wonderful to be with him again after more than twelve days apart. She had put on her best new gown, of deep green damask, with oversleeves and a kirtle of white tissue, and left her hair loose, the way he liked it. His eyes roved over her appreciatively.
Her family having discreetly retired to bed, Jane shared a late supper with the King, dining in the parlor on salmon and pork in delicious sauces. She had recovered her appetite a little, and was glad of the food, for she had begun to feel rather faint at the lack of it; and the good red wine heartened her.
“Are you comfortable here?” he wanted to know. “Do you lack for anything?” She marveled that he could think of domestic details on such a momentous day.
“It is a beautiful house,” she said. “Thank you for lodging me here.”
It was not until after a great bowl of fruit had been served that he brought up the subject of Anne’s condemnation. “I have not forgotten my promise,” he said suddenly. “I intend to commute the sentence to beheading, and I have sent for the executioner of Calais, out of pity. He is a renowned swordsman, and highly skilled. It will be very quick.”
“Thank you!” Jane cried, thinking this was the strangest conversation she had ever had.
“Anne is lucky that you are so tender in your concern for her,” Henry remarked. “I now believe that upward of a hundred men have had dealings with her. I had my suspicions; for a long time I expected something like this. Even before Cromwell alerted me to her crimes, I had composed a tragedy.” Jane looked on, astonished, as he drew from his bosom a little book and opened it. There was the title, The Tragedy about Anne, written in his own hand. Jane thought he would give it to her to read, but he slid it back inside his doublet. “She only kept my love through practicing her enchantments,” he said, his tone bitter. “She bewitched me. It’s the only way I can explain my foolish passion for her.”
He was a little drunk, Jane realized, and when he was drunk he always became garrulous. Surely he did not really believe that Anne had betrayed him with more than a hundred men? And if he had long suspected her of being unfaithful, why had he not acted on his suspicions before? No, he was blustering, to save face.
“You did not deserve it,” she told him. “You made her a queen and honored her with your love; it was a treacherous way to repay you.”
He stayed the night. Staggering from the effects of the wine he had consumed, he had to be helped to Jane’s chamber, where his gentlemen, fetched from the barge where they had been idling away the hours playing dice, put him to bed. No other chambers being made up, Jane slept with the ladies who attended her, creeping into their room in the other wing and making herself as comfortable as possible on a pallet bed. They were shocked to see her there in the morning, but she explained that the King had been tired and she had felt obliged to give him her bed.
He emerged looking somewhat pale, but otherwise in command of himself, and apologized shamefacedly for putting her out of her room. She passed it off with a smile.
“And now I must see your father, to ask him formally for your hand,” Henry said.
She loved him for his courtesy. He was the King, no common suitor. Father was summoned, and came hurrying downstairs, his bonnet askew, his gown looking as if it had been thrown on. He bowed low to Henry, who stared at his appearance for a moment, then threw an arm around his shoulders and led him to the parlor. “Sir John, I have a request to make of you,” Jane heard him say. The door closed behind them.
Mother followed, in high excitement. “The King is still here? Wha
t did he want with your father?”
“He is asking for my hand in marriage,” Jane told her.
“By all the saints!” Mother exclaimed.
Jane nodded. They waited. Mother fidgeted, looking very fine in her silk gown. Presently the door opened and Henry emerged, walking toward Jane with his hands held out. “Darling, your father has given us his blessing.” He paused before Mother, as she bent low in a curtsey.
“Why, Lady Seymour, greetings!” he said, raising her to her feet. “Or should I call you my lady mother?”
“Oh, your Grace!” she fluttered. “This is such an honor. Jane is a good girl. She will make you an excellent wife.” Jane blushed. Mother was babbling.
“I know that well,” Henry said.
“We are all delighted, Sir,” Father said. “I speak for my other children as well.”
“Can I offer your Grace something to break your fast?” Mother asked.
“No thank you, my lady. I have some pain in my head.” Henry smiled ruefully. “I must be away to York Place, for there are matters requiring my attention.” His smile slipped. He had reminded himself of the grim matter of the Queen. “I bid you farewell.” Jane walked down to the jetty with him.
“When is it to be?” she ventured.
A pause; a heartbeat. “On Thursday, I think. Cranmer has to deal with the formalities of the annulment first.”
Thursday. The day after tomorrow. She did not know how she would bear the waiting, and dreaded how she would feel afterward. As for how Anne was coping, it was unimaginable.
They were nearing the barge now. The boatmen had raised their oars in readiness for departure. Henry turned to Jane. “Do not brood, darling. This will all be over soon. I will return tonight, and we shall make merry. We need not waste any grief on that whore.”
That afternoon, Jane was surprised to receive a visit from Lord and Lady Exeter and Sir Anthony Browne of the Privy Chamber.
“We are hoping that congratulations will soon be in order,” Lady Exeter said, sweeping in grandly and looking impressed at the vastness of the hall. Jane curtseyed, wondering how she would ever be able to wield place over great ladies like this. She smiled and invited the visitors into the parlor, sending for wine and some marchpane delicacies she had baked herself.
“So, how are you enjoying Chelsea?” Lord Exeter enquired. Soon it became clear that they had come to ingratiate themselves with the woman whom they believed would be their queen, and to pump her for confirmation of that, but she gave nothing away.
“The Lady Mary must feel vindicated by the verdict,” Sir Anthony said.
“By all accounts, she has escaped great danger,” Lady Exeter remarked.
“She must be feeling great relief,” Jane replied. “My hope is that the King will now restore her to the succession, and I shall not cease to work for that.”
“Then we shall all be indebted to you,” Lord Exeter told her.
* * *
—
“I know you will not forget your friends, my dear,” Lady Exeter said to her on parting. Her meaning was clear. You owe us favors in return for supporting you.
When they had gone, Jane leaned back against the door, mentally exhausted, and made a face at her mother.
She was grateful for the peace of the gardens. A brisk walk into the park would do her good. But when she got there and rounded the corner of a path, she saw that there was a crowd of people at the gate, presumably hoping to catch a glimpse of her. She smiled uncertainly, reminding herself that very soon, and for the rest of her life, the whole world would be watching her, but she was dismayed to see some hostile faces among the curious or eager ones. A man shouted out something; it sounded like abuse. Another threw a crumpled paper at her, which landed on the path. She picked it up and walked away, acutely aware of them watching her go. On the paper, verses had been crudely printed. It was headed: “A new ballad about our sovereign lord.” Her face flamed as she read how she and Henry were supposedly wallowing in their swill, making the beast with two backs, while his wronged wife languished in the Tower awaiting death.
“It’s horrible!” she whispered, screwing it up. “How could they?”
* * *
—
No sooner had she returned and shown her angry mother the verse than the doorbell rang again. She was relieved to see Carew and Bryan, come to inquire how she was settling in, and to ask after her health. Hard on their heels—to her astonishment—came Master Secretary Cromwell with Sir William FitzWilliam, all smiles and courtesy now. “We wish to pay our respects,” they told her.
She invited them in, and they gratefully accepted refreshments. “This must have been a trying week for you, Mistress Seymour,” Cromwell said.
“It has,” Jane admitted.
“It has been no less grievous for those of us on the King’s Council, who have had to deal with these treasons,” FitzWilliam replied, looking pained. “Fortunately, justice has been well served, and will soon be meted out. Then we can all look to the future.”
“Amen to that, Sir,” she agreed.
“I understand that Lord and Lady Exeter were here earlier,” Cromwell said, almost casually.
“Yes. They have been most kind to me.”
He nodded, smiling. “And why should they not be? You are full of goodness. Tell me, do you know if they are in contact with the Lady Mary?”
A faint alarm sounded in Jane’s head. “They mentioned her only in passing. They said she must feel vindicated by the verdict.” Had she been right to tell him that?
“I imagine she does,” he said, still smiling.
“Master Cromwell,” Jane said, “this was thrown at me when I was walking in the park this morning.” She handed him the scurrilous verse.
He frowned. “I have seen this, and I fear there are other copies in circulation. But do not fret. I intend to speak to the King and get them suppressed.”
“I pray you do!” she cried. “I can never show my face in London if people think me so lewd!”
“Rest assured, we will find the culprits,” he promised her.
* * *
—
Henry arrived at eight o’clock, in a barge festooned with streamers, with musicians playing in the gilded stern of the vessel. He himself came up to the house and invited Jane and her ladies to join him on board. In the cabin, there was a banquet laid out, with sweetmeats, sugared fruits, wafers and deliciously spiced hippocras. As they ate, they were entertained by the singers of the King’s chamber.
Jane decided not to mention the ballad. She did not want to spoil the evening. Yet she was brooding about it all the same. She could imagine people she knew reading it, and laughing behind her back. What shameful images it would conjure up in their minds! She felt horribly embarrassed at the thought.
They were rowed upstream beyond Richmond, past the palace that soared above the river with its pinnacles and onion domes, to Syon Abbey at Isleworth, then on to Windsor.
Resting back on the cushioned bench, Henry told Jane of the preparations he had put in train for their marriage. “Anne’s initials and badges are being replaced in all my palaces,” he revealed. That would be no mean task, for they were everywhere. Jane imagined a small army of stonemasons, carpenters, painters, glaziers, embroiderers and seamstresses, all setting to work with a vengeance. “You need to choose a badge to use as your personal emblem when you are queen,” Henry added.
Jane sipped her hippocras, thinking. “I have always liked the image of the phoenix rising from the ashes,” she said. “Just now, it seems a symbol of hope and renewal.” As a child, she had loved the tale of the magical bird, radiant and shining, setting its nest on fire and being consumed by flames every five hundred years, only to rise anew.
“The phoenix is also a symbol of Christ and His Resurrection, and of overcoming death,” Henry add
ed. “Might I suggest a badge showing a phoenix arising from a castle amid flames, with Tudor roses painted in red and white, surmounting a motto?”
“I like that.”
“Then you shall have it. You need to think of a motto too.”
Jane thought again. She wanted something that would distance her from Anne, whose motto, “The Most Happy,” she had always felt to be rather self-centred. “ ‘Bound to obey and serve,’ ” she said. “Do you like that? It is how I see myself as your Queen.”
Henry’s broad smile proclaimed his approval. “It is perfect,” he said. Then he bade her choose a heraldic beast, and suggested she opt for a white panther, because it could be easily overlaid on Anne’s leopard. She liked the idea, for the panther represented procreation and rebirth, and it had long been accounted a royal beast.
It was midnight before they got back to Chelsea, and still there were a few people loitering by her gate. She watched them uneasily. Fortunately Cromwell had left a couple of stout fellows in livery, bearing cudgels, to guard it, which was comforting.
Henry was drunk again. Seeing her and the other ladies to the door, he stumbled through it and sat down heavily on a bench. The women looked at him uncertainly, and Jane waved them away.
“I signed the men’s death warrants today,” he said.
She did not know how to answer. What must it feel like, to have such power that, with a few strokes of your pen, you could condemn someone to execution?
“The traitors die tomorrow, on Tower Hill. I have commuted all the sentences to beheading.”
“Even Smeaton?” she asked, amazed that his mercy should extend thus far.
“Even Smeaton. I knew that you would wish it.”
“And what of the Queen?” she asked.
“They have drawn up the warrant. I will sign it tomorrow. She will die the day after. I’ve been thinking,” he went on, his voice slightly slurred. “Anne was not only lecherous, she was cruel. She hounded Wolsey to his death; she was constantly demanding that I send the Princess Dowager and Mary, my own daughter, to the scaffold; she was ruthless against her enemies. I have no doubt that she was behind that attempt to poison Bishop Fisher. She made me send More to his death–and she plotted to do away with me too! She is a monster, and the world will be well rid of her. When I think of how narrow an escape I had…” A tear trickled down his cheek.