Jane Seymour, the Haunted Queen

by Alison Weir

  “Tomorrow is Ascension Day,” he said, “and I will be wearing white mourning out of respect for the late Queen. It is just a gesture, so if you hear of it, pay no mind. And I’m sending Elizabeth to Hatfield, where her lady governess will look after her. Anne saw her so rarely that I doubt Elizabeth will miss her. It is Lady Bryan she cleaves to.”

  He paused. “Today I have to arrange for the settlement of the Constable of the Tower’s account for money spent on Anne. I also have to redeem the jewels and clothing she wore yesterday.” Jane winced. It made it all too real. “Normally, all the Queen’s jewels are handed down, but I think I am right in assuming that you would not want these particular pieces.”

  “No, I would not,” she told him.

  “Then I shall send them to the Jewel House for safekeeping.”

  “Why do you have to redeem them?” she asked.

  “It is customary for the attire of a condemned criminal to be distributed to the Tower officials as perquisites,” Henry said. “The sumptuary laws prevent their wives from wearing Anne’s rich attire, so they would prefer their value in coin.”

  Jane shuddered inwardly at the thought of Anne’s clothing. It would surely be encrusted with her blood, and beyond recovery. Besides, who would want to wear it? “What will happen to her clothes?” she whispered.

  “They will be burned,” he said shortly. “I’ve had the rest sent to the Royal Wardrobe. They’ll take off the jewels and reuse them.”

  Just then, Jane noticed the vaulted ceiling of the gallery. There, untouched, were Anne’s initials, entwined with Henry’s, obviously overlooked in the hurry to erase all memory of her.

  “You should go,” Henry said, “much as I hate to part with you. Take this.” He pressed into her hand a heart-shaped brooch adorned with the jeweled motto “My heart is yours.” “Until next week,” he said, bending down and kissing her before she had a chance to thank him. “I will find your absence unbearable, I know it.”

  She clung to him, not caring who saw them. “Until next week!” she murmured, smiling through her tears.

  * * *

  —

  She kept busy, to stop herself brooding about Anne. Her brothers had all gone back to court, and Father was looking up old soldiering friends in London, so Mother had leisure to help her with her trousseau. They wrote to Lizzie in Yorkshire, to inform her in the strictest secrecy of Jane’s coming wedding. Lizzie was too far away to be able to travel to London in time for it, but there was a gown to be made up for Dorothy, who was to be a maid-of-honor. Mother thought the remaining bolt of crimson damask would do very well.

  “What does a royal bride wear on her head?” Jane asked.

  “A chaplet of flowers, much as any other bride, I should think,” Mother replied. “You put the crown on after you’re married!”

  Jane smiled, and went into the garden to select the flowers she would pluck at the last minute to make her chaplet. She picked some now, for the hall table, and went into the still room to find a vase and arrange them.

  As she was standing at the table, absorbed in her task, she heard voices coming from beyond the open door that led to the kitchens. Her own name was spoken. She realized that the servants were muttering about Anne’s fall.

  “You know, long before her death, there was some arrangement.” It was the royal chef himself speaking; she recognized his French accent. “It will not pacify the world when it is known what has passed, and is passing, between the King and Mistress Seymour. It is strange that, having suffered such ignominy, he has shown himself more glad than ever since the arrest.”

  “And we all know why!” someone said, as Jane’s heart began to thud in her chest.

  “I’ve never heard of a queen being thus handled!” another exclaimed.

  “But everybody is rejoicing at her execution,” a young man protested.

  “Mark me, there are some who murmur at the mode of procedure against her and the others, and people speak variously of the King.” The chef was clearly enjoying himself. “Think about it! They said she danced with her lovers, but it is no new thing for the King’s gentlemen to dance with the ladies in the Queen’s chamber. Nor can any proof of adultery be drawn from the fact that the Queen’s brother took her by the hand and led her into the dance among the other ladies. And you have this charming custom in England whereby ladies married and unmarried, even the most coy, kiss not only a brother, but anyone else they greet, even in public. They made much of her writing to inform her brother that she was enceinte, but I hear it is the custom with young women to write to their near relatives when they become pregnant, in order to receive their congratulations. From such arguments as these, no suspicion of adultery could reasonably be inferred. There must have been some other reason that moved the King.”

  Jane was trembling. Was this the kind of evidence on which Anne had been condemned? Had they no stronger proofs? If so, they had built up a house of cards against her, and innocent blood had been shed. All along she had felt that there was something amiss somewhere. She tried to calm herself, remembering that four others beside Rochford had been accused with Anne, and what she herself had seen with her own eyes…and that Anne was no innocent. Even if she had not poisoned Katherine, she had hounded her to her death, and had probably tried to poison Bishop Fisher; and she would have had the Princess executed. No, Anne had deserved death!

  “It could have been the desire for an heir that led the King to proceed against her,” a rough voice said; it belonged to the gardener, who had shown himself very friendly to Jane. “And his desire for a new marriage.”

  “I think he got rid of her for fear that the Emperor, the Pope and the Catholic princes of Europe would band together against him,” someone else opined.

  “Very likely,” the chef agreed. “But remember, just as she enjoyed herself with others, or so we are told, he, while the Queen was being beheaded, was enjoying himself with another woman.”

  This was intolerable! Jane stepped into the kitchen. She had rarely felt so angry. “Hold your tongue!” she cried, as they all jumped and gaped at her in dismay. “You lie! You know nothing of what you speak, and no honest person would believe it! Some might construe it as treason.” She glared at them, one by one, wishing she could tell them that she was now betrothed to the King; but very soon they would hear her proclaimed queen, and then they would be sorry!

  * * *

  —

  Henry wrote with news. Cromwell’s man Thomas Heneage had filled Norris’s office of Groom of the Stool, and Bryan was now chief Gentleman of the Privy Chamber in Norris’s place. For him, preferment had come speedily. Jane was pleased. Bryan had long been her friend and one of her staunchest supporters, and had worked indefatigably to make her queen. She would probably never know how far he had undermined Anne’s position.

  She frowned when she read Henry’s next paragraph: “It will be impossible to keep news of our betrothal a secret for long. There is much talk here that by midsummer, there will be a new coronation.” Well, the gossips would not have long to wait. She was glad that Henry had mentioned her coronation. So far, he had said nothing about it. She rather dreaded it, knowing she would find it an ordeal, but it was her due.

  She felt she ought to try once more to heal the rift between Henry and his daughter. She wrote back to him, choosing her words carefully: “I have been thinking about the Lady Mary’s Grace, who must be relieved to know that the cause of her unhappiness is no more. If you could now receive her back into your fatherly embrace, I know that it would be a comfort for her, who loves you greatly.”

  Henry was touchy when it came to the subject of his elder daughter, but he surely could not object to that? He would know that it proceeded from kindness. A reconciliation was the first step; hopefully that would lead in time to Mary’s restoration to the succession.

  She was bitterly dismayed to receive an uneq
uivocal response: “Darling, you mean well, but Mary refuses to acknowledge my laws and statutes, and if she continues in her obstinacy, I will proceed against her. I will not be satisfied until she acknowledges that her mother’s marriage was incestuous and unlawful, and recognizes me as Supreme Head of the Church.” Jane must realize, he added, that if Mary persisted in her assertion that she was the King’s true daughter, she would remain a threat to their children. The way must be made clear for their undisputed succession.

  Reading this, Jane wept for Mary. Henry was asking the girl to go against all her deeply held convictions, and betray everything her mother had suffered and fought for; in fact, he was asking the impossible. This was not the Henry she knew. It was not the action of a loving father. Could he not find it in his heart to let bygones be bygones? She had expected better of him. She herself believed that Mary was legitimate, and wanted her restored to the succession; she accepted that Mary would take precedence over any daughters she bore the King; but even Mary would acknowledge that Jane’s son must succeed. Why must Henry be so unkind and unreasonable?

  There was another reason why his letter had upset her. She, and all her friends and supporters, especially Chapuys and the Exeters, had believed that once Anne was removed, Mary would be restored and Henry might return to the Roman fold. But in a few lines, he had made it plain that there would be no going back. They had built their castles in the air, and all for nothing. The tasks she had set herself would be all the harder now.

  What would Henry do if Mary kept defying him? Would he use coercion or force, or worse? Mary was now twenty, but Jane remembered her as a young girl plagued by the emotional and physical consequences of the conflict between her parents. Mary had not enjoyed good health during her years of exile, and her life had been despaired of more than once. Was it fair to put intolerable pressure on one who was known to be weak and sickly, and still grieving for her mother?

  Mary should know that she could count on Jane to do everything in her power to help her. Jane knew she had a great ally in Chapuys, who had championed the Princess’s rights for years. Bryan had said that even Cromwell was secretly sympathetic toward Mary; he might also use his considerable influence on her behalf.

  She replied to Henry, asking him only to use kindness with Mary, for then he might be more likely to obtain what he desired. He answered in a slightly testy tone that he had sent Norfolk and a deputation of the Privy Council to see Mary and demand her submission in regard to her mother’s marriage and the royal supremacy. He was hoping that his daughter would come to her senses. Jane prayed that she would. It would make her own task so much the easier.

  * * *

  —

  It was now more than a week since Anne had died. Jane had struggled to put it out of her mind as she busied herself with preparations for her wedding, which afforded a welcome distraction, and Mother would not allow her leisure to brood. Jane had worried that the strain she had been under would affect the babe, but she felt well, with no hint of the kind of sickness Anne had suffered. Now Henry had sent for her, and tomorrow she was to leave this house for good and go to York Place, where they were to be married two days hence. It had come upon her so quickly, and she had felt uneasy about marrying him so soon after Anne’s death, but she understood the need for haste. She hoped that his subjects would too.

  She and Mother spent their last day at Chelsea making sure that everything was packed and ready for the morrow. Her wedding gown was folded away in a chest of its own. Father fell asleep in his chair after dinner, and Jane caught Mother looking at him with a worried frown on her face. She knew that both of them had put on a cheerful front for her benefit, and that something was very wrong, for Father had eaten little during the time they had been with her, and was looking grayer than ever. But he had made it plain that he did not want to discuss his health, and that he was determined to go on as normal. Yet it taxed him, she could see, and it troubled her deeply. She could not imagine a world without his solid presence.

  * * *

  —

  The Lord Chamberlain himself conducted Jane and her parents from the landing stage where they had disembarked, and through the spacious gardens. Ahead lay the vast, sprawling palace of York Place, said to be the largest in Europe. Henry had lavished a fortune on converting Wolsey’s former town house into the most sumptuous of royal residences, with walls painted with chequers and black-and-white decorative patterns. Jane had visited York Place before, of course, but now it was as if she were seeing it anew.

  The crenellated gatehouse ahead of them straddled the highway that passed right through the palace complex. Its checkered brickwork, oriel window, Tudor badges and terra-cotta roundels of Roman emperors bespoke the very latest in architectural style. Further down the road, toward Westminster, there was another gatehouse, in the classical style. She caught her breath as they passed into the great hall and then entered the King’s lodgings, where Henry was waiting to receive them. The ceiling of the long gallery was painted in the most vivid, intricate manner, and was unmistakably by Master Holbein. It was beautiful.

  From now on, her life would be lived in surroundings of similar splendor. Mother was speechless for once, her mouth gaping in an astonished O.

  All the principal rooms in Henry’s lodgings had high bay windows overlooking the Thames, and ceilings marvelously wrought in stone and gold leaf. The windows blazed with heraldic glass, and on one wall there was a great mural of Henry’s coronation. Jane noticed that Queen Katherine’s figure had been painted over.

  The first thing she saw on entering the privy chamber was an alabaster fountain. Only later did she notice the wainscots of carved wood, painted with a thousand beautiful figures, for now Henry was coming toward her. She sank into a deep curtsey.

  He raised her, and embraced and kissed her. “Welcome, Jane!” he said in a voice filled with emotion. “Welcome, darling!”

  He insisted on escorting her to the Queen’s apartments himself, and bade her parents come too. He was ebullient with excitement.

  Taking Jane by the hand, he led them through a little door in his privy chamber to a secret gallery. Its windows overlooked the privy gardens, which were a masterpiece of formal design. At the other end of the gallery, the door opened onto the Queen’s privy chamber, which was almost as lavishly adorned as the King’s.

  Jane hesitated. This place was familiar, and redolent of Anne. She could almost smell her perfume. This was where Anne had held court, had entertained, among the throng that had flocked around her, those unfortunate gentlemen who had died on her account.

  Henry was smiling at Jane, looking at her expectantly. He had given her paradise, and wanted her to be brimming with happiness.

  “I am so deeply honored,” she said, making herself smile, when all she wanted to do was be away from here.

  “I am so glad you like your lodging,” Henry beamed. “I spent a King’s ransom on these rooms.”

  He opened another door. Jane looked at Mother. There was no help to be had there. Mother was utterly overawed.

  Jane followed Henry into the bedchamber. It was as she remembered. There was the great French bed hung with curtains of cloth of gold, and the magnificent carved overmantel. No woman could have had a finer place to sleep, but Jane could only think that this room had been Anne’s, that it had witnessed her most intimate moments, as well as her fears and her despair. Henry had slept with her here.

  She had not the courage to ask him if there was another lodging—any lodging—she might occupy. She knew it would be the same at all the royal palaces. These were the Queen’s lodgings. The Queen must occupy them. Henry had beautified them all for Anne.

  He was now leading her into another chamber, in which there was a long dining table with a great chair upholstered in velvet at the head.

  “Your dining hall!” he announced. Her gaze took in the array of gold and silver plate on t
he oak buffet, the portrait of a younger Henry on the wall above the massive stone fireplace.

  “In truth, I am overwhelmed,” she told him. “Your goodness to me is boundless!”

  Henry smiled and squeezed her hand. “Come,” he commanded.

  When they returned to her privy chamber, she was astonished to find a host of ladies and servants waiting for them. As one, they all made the deepest reverence.

  “Jane, I have not quite finished drawing up your household,” Henry explained, “but these good people will serve you until all your officers are appointed, and then we’ll have everyone sworn in together. I am increasing the number to two hundred.” He smiled ruefully. “I would add that word of our betrothal has somehow been leaked, and there has been a great rush for places.” He leaned in closer. “You should tell them to rise.”

  Jane hurriedly collected herself. She had been thinking that from now on, she would not need to lift a finger to do anything for herself; always there would be someone to do it for her. She remembered wondering how she, a mere knight’s daughter, would ever find the courage to exert her authority over so great a personage as Lady Exeter. Now she stood before a household of Lady Exeters.

  She swallowed. “Please rise,” she said, in a voice that sounded hoarse. When they did so, she was relieved to see Margaret Douglas, Margery Horsman, Anne Parr and Mary Zouche, all familiar faces. Margery was smiling at her. Mary Norris was with them, but she was not smiling.

  She would be mourning her father. Jane hoped that Mary did not blame her for his death.

  “My good niece Margaret is to be your chief lady-of-honor,” Henry said, as Margaret stepped forward and curtseyed. Timidly, Jane extended her hand to be kissed, as she had seen Queen Anne do. She was glad she had donned her sumptuous black velvet gown.