Jane Seymour, the Haunted Queen

by Alison Weir

  “We will have her here, darling, if she will make you merry,” Henry promised. He stood up, walked over to the window and stood there looking out, with his back to her. “God knows, we need some cheer. My councillors now speak as if there is no hope of an heir. It’s very depressing. But I hope, darling, that we will prove them wrong.” He turned and attempted a smile.

  “We have only been married for three months!” she reminded him.

  “Of course. I am being an old pessimist. Come, let us walk in the gardens. It’s a beautiful day.” He held out his hand.

  Chapter 30

  1536

  September was unseasonably hot. Jane sat fanning herself in the shade of an oak tree in Greenwich Park with Noble stretched out and panting on the ground beside her. Her flowers were a week late. It was what she had been longing for.

  A week later, she told Henry. “I think I am with child.”

  His face was transformed. “Darling! Thank God, thank God! You cannot know how I have prayed for this. I had almost given up hope.” He folded her in his arms, carefully, as if she were made of Venetian glass. “This is wonderful, wonderful news. Now, you must look after yourself. No more riding!”

  His spirits revived joyfully as he began to make plans for the Prince’s household and the tournaments there would be to mark his birth. He was even discussing suitable marriage alliances for his son.

  “And you must be crowned, Jane, as soon as it can be arranged. I promise you, I will perform wonders.” Immediately he instructed his councillors to put everything in place, and set carpenters to work preparing Westminster Hall for the coronation banquet. No expense was to be spared. Thanks to the work of Cromwell and the King’s commissioners, the royal coffers were now filled with wealth plundered from the monasteries. With that prim, disapproving look, Henry had read out to Jane some of the reports of the visitations. “I had never realized the scale of the corruption!” he growled. “Lechery, sodomy, over-luxurious living! Shrines exposed as fakes! I read these things again and again. I tell you, Jane, I am scandalized that the word of God was not being observed as it should have been in these houses.” His lips pursed in self-righteous indignation. “I was right to close them down! By God, I will purge my Church of all superstition and popery!”

  She did not want to believe the things he had told her, and indeed she could not believe them. They were all too timely, these shocking revelations. Maybe there had been some sinful things going on in the monasteries—but how much of it had been fabricated by the King’s commissioners?

  She said nothing. A lot of this money was being spent on her. It felt like the wages of sin.

  And then, suddenly, everything came to a halt.

  * * *

  —

  Plague! Jane heard her ladies uttering the word in panic, and her heart almost stopped. Dreadful memories of the sweating sickness surfaced; it had been eight years ago, but still they were vivid, and she thought immediately of Margery and Anthony, snatched away in the flower of youth. All that death, all that suffering…Nothing must threaten the precious burden she carried.

  And now here was Henry, crashing through the door, his face white with fear. “Darling, there is plague in London. In this hot weather, the contagion will spread like fire. We are removing to Windsor for safety. We must take no chances.”

  Not for years had there been such a hasty packing-up of household stuffs and furnishings, as courtiers raced about gathering their belongings and fetching their horses. The stables were mobbed. Henry was bawling orders, hurrying everyone up and growing furious in his impatience. Jane was glad she was not suffering from nausea as some ladies did. She felt well, physically, if a little tired. Yet she was troubled in her mind, and terrified of the plague. Desperately she needed this child to live. She could not get to Windsor fast enough.

  At last they were on the road. She lay in her litter, a kerchief tied around her mouth and nose to protect against infection, as Henry had ordered. It was hot, and the roads were dusty and rutted. She thought of what it must be like in the stifling, stinking city, where people were dying and the plague pits were being filled as fast as men could dig them. And the physicians could do nothing. People would be huddling indoors behind locked doors, sunk in fear, melancholy and grief, all mirth departed.

  The relief was overwhelming when the great round tower of Windsor came into view, and she saw the massive castle, dominating the landscape for miles around. She was glad to lie down in her lodgings, feeling rather lost in the vast bed with its gold-and-silver canopy and silken hangings. It had been made for his mother, Henry told her, when he came to her that night, in a much calmer mood.

  “Your coronation must be postponed, sweetheart,” he told her. “I’ve set it for the Sunday before All Hallows’ Day.”

  “Hopefully the plague will be gone by then,” she said.

  “I do pray so! Now, darling, get some rest.”

  She shut her eyes tightly, not daring to open them in case she was there. And when, finally, she slept, plague stalked her dreams.

  * * *

  —

  Chapuys asked to see her, and they walked along the North Terrace, admiring the spectacular view of the countryside for miles around, with the spires of Eton College rising in the near distance.

  “Something is troubling your Excellency,” Jane said.

  “It is indeed, Madam.” Chapuys’s kindly eyes were pained. “This closure of the monasteries is not only wicked, but disastrous for the people of England. There are hordes of monks and nuns being turned out into the world with only small pensions to live on. And they, who have succored the sick and the poor, are now dependent on their parishes or charitable persons. And whereas in the past the monks and nuns looked after vagrants, they themselves are now in many cases reduced to begging.”

  This was not the picture Henry had painted. Had he just fed her platitudes, or had he not foreseen the consequences of his actions? Or was Chapuys exaggerating because, like her, he was opposed to the Dissolution with every fiber of his being?

  “The parish officers will find it hard,” he said. “People say they are stretched as it is, supporting the poor.” Jane remembered seeing long queues of the destitute in Bedwyn Magna, waiting for alms.

  “Already it appears that in some places they cannot cope,” Chapuys informed her. “Your Grace, something must be done. The people are angry and resentful. They are protesting against these impositions, and against the loss of their abbeys and the banning of ancient religious traditions. Holy shrines are being desecrated! It is now forbidden to seek miracles, so the sick and the dying are deprived of all hope.” He was shaking his head in despair, the good, earnest man.

  “The King says that the monasteries are in decline.” She felt she had to make some show of loyalty to Henry. She did not wish to be drawn into discussions about religion or politics.

  “Your Grace, if that is so, then why are the people so appalled to see them destroyed? They are not fools. They know why this is being done. I have witnessed their horror as they watch the King’s men breaking up sacred images of the Madonna and saints, and smashing their axes through beautiful stained-glass windows. They see the treasures, the rich vestments and altar plate, the very stones and the lead from the roofs being carted away to enrich the King; and there is much murmuring against those who are buying up the lands and converting the abbeys into fine houses. The people see it as sacrilege! And on top of all that, they are taxed heavily to support Church reforms they do not want and have to succor the displaced monks and nuns! Madam, I flee to you in the hope that you can beg the King to see the error of his ways and put a stop to it all.”

  “Messire Chapuys, I have tried several times, and failed. The King knows my views.”

  “Warn him, Madam! Warn him of what might happen if he persists in this iniquitous folly. The people are outraged, and they are grieved.
They will tolerate only so much. I say this for the King’s own good.”

  “I know you do,” she said, pausing. “Believe me, I will try to make him listen. I promise. These are matters too weighty for me to discuss with you. For now, I must go and change, for I am to sit for Master Holbein. Farewell.” She left him with a sinking heart.

  * * *

  —

  Her ladies dressed her in a gorgeous gown of scarlet velvet, with a kirtle of damask and oversleeves embroidered in gold thread. The heavy pearl-and-ruby necklace matched the jeweled biliment on the neckline of the gown, and the great pendant ouche had been designed by Master Holbein himself. On her head they placed a gem-encrusted hood, with the veil folded over it in the fashionable whelk-shell style.

  Henry had decreed that Holbein should paint portraits of them both to mark Jane’s pregnancy. Her hands were to be folded over her stomach, as if cradling the child that lay within. By the time the portrait was finished, she would—God willing—have quickened, and all would understand the significance of the painting.

  Holbein had just been appointed King’s Painter. He had a studio in York Place, but had escaped from London with the rest of the court.

  “He is an exceptional artist, and worthy of my patronage,” Henry had said, “and Cromwell finds him very useful, for while he is working away on his portraits, he hears all kinds of things.”

  Jane had seen Holbein’s portrait of Henry, and been taken aback by its astonishing power and presence, highlighted in real gold leaf. She had been looking forward to seeing how he painted her. But during the sitting she was fretting about what Chapuys had said, and when she was shown the preliminary sketch, she saw that Holbein had captured her mood, for she looked tense and preoccupied, her lips unflatteringly pinched.

  She looked like a woman who was frightened of broaching a contentious subject with her husband.

  * * *

  —

  Henry had just arrived in Jane’s chamber for supper, and was washing his hands, when Cromwell’s secretary appeared.

  “A report from Lord Cromwell, your Grace,” he said, bowing, and waited patiently while the basin was removed and a hand towel presented to the King.

  Henry took the scroll. “Thank you, Ralph. You may leave us.” He sat down at the table. Jane watched his expression tauten as he read the report.

  “The plague has now spread beyond the City to Westminster,” he said. “It has struck down several in the Abbey itself. Darling, I think we should put off your coronation for a season.”

  “It is best to be safe,” she said. “We must think of the child.”

  “Indeed! I would not risk your life, or his, for the world.”

  “We are still safe here?”

  Henry patted her shoulder. “If we were not, I would have moved on long since.”

  * * *

  —

  On the last night of September, the specter manifested itself again. Cowering in fear, Jane asked herself what it could portend this time. Would the plague get them all? Or would she lose this child too? She was consumed by anxiety.

  Within days, she had the answer.

  * * *

  —

  The news came by fast messenger from London. There had been a riot in Louth, in faraway Lincolnshire.

  Stamping up and down Jane’s chamber, his staccato tones betraying his rage, Henry gave her the bare facts. “It was in protest against my religious reforms. In those parts, and especially in the north, the old ideas are much entrenched. But, Jane, this was no ordinary riot. It was well organized by men of substance—traitors, all of them!”

  It was what Chapuys had predicted. She wished she had spoken to Henry of the ambassador’s concerns, but she had been too faint-hearted, too preoccupied with her fears. And anyway, what could Henry have done? He would have had no time to take action. More to the point, would he have listened to her, or dismissed her fears and been angry at her interfering?

  “I’ve called an emergency meeting of the Council, and they will be waiting for me now,” Henry told her. “Fear not, darling. I will deal with these knaves as they deserve!”

  But as the days passed, and the October leaves turned red and gold, it became clear that the trouble was escalating. This was a revolt. A rebel army was gathering, and men were swarming to join it. News came that the men of Norfolk had swelled the insurgents’ ranks; then they heard that the rising had spread to Yorkshire.

  “The rebels have occupied York!” Henry thundered, beside himself with rage. Jane thought she could detect fear also in him. This was a serious rebellion. She trembled for them both, for the child beneath her girdle, and for her sister Lizzie too. Lizzie was living with young Henry and her infant daughter, Margery, in a house in York, struggling to survive on her widow’s funds. Jane had sent her money, and worried about her, and Lizzie’s last letter had given her cause to hope that matters were improving, for it seemed that her sister was being courted by Sir Arthur Darcy, the younger son of Lord Darcy, a northern peer. But now she was terrified lest Lizzie was in danger, for the rebels might not look kindly upon the Queen’s sister.

  “Were many killed or injured?” she asked, dreading the answer.

  “No,” Henry said. “It seems these northerners are all of one mind. A supposedly respectable burgher of York called Robert Aske has set himself up as the rebels’ leader. They have been joined by the men of Hull, led by a wretch called Robert Constable. Even Lord Darcy has declared for the insurgents, and surrendered Pontefract Castle to them, against his allegiance to his King! He always was a troublemaker. By God, when I get my hands on him, he shall pay for this with his head!”

  At his mention of the name Darcy, Jane stiffened. She could not have her sister implicated in this lord’s treason.

  “Henry, I must tell you. Sir Arthur Darcy is a suitor for the hand of my sister, Lady Ughtred.”

  Henry’s eyes narrowed. “Then write to her now. Tell her to have nothing more to do with him.”

  * * *

  —

  Everyone at court knew that the situation was serious. There was a hushed atmosphere of fear and feverish conjecture, and all entertainments were canceled. Henry spent long hours with his councillors, making plans to deal with the rebels. And when word spread that an army of forty thousand was marching south, panic broke out.

  “Calm yourself, Madam!” Henry commanded, after Jane had run in terror through the castle to find him, and had burst in on him as he sat in his closet in conference with Cromwell, who had risen to his feet on seeing her.

  “But people are saying that a rebel army is marching on us!”

  “It is true,” Henry said, looking as if he bore the weight of the world on his shoulders. “They are calling it the Pilgrimage of Grace. It is supposed to be a peaceful protest against my reforms.”

  “Nonetheless, it seems these traitors are prepared to back up their demands by armed force,” Cromwell said. “They carry banners showing the Five Wounds of Christ, and call their rebellion a crusade. They want the King to heal the breach with Rome and restore the monasteries and the old ways.” His tone betrayed his contempt.

  Jane sank down on a bench, her heart racing. Why, oh, why didn’t Henry give his people what they wanted? Then they would go home and there would be no more trouble. They would all be safe. Couldn’t he see that his policies were wrongheaded and sacrilegious, and that the rebels had good cause for their protest? For all her fear, she herself could only applaud them for it.

  “Madam, this rebellion is the most serious threat to the King’s authority we have faced,” Cromwell said, regarding her severely. She thought he must know where her sympathies lay. She wanted to tell him that her chief loyalty, despite everything, was to her lord and husband.

  “I am leading an army north against the rebels,” Henry told her.

  “No!” she cried
, springing up. “You might be killed!”

  “Darling, it will strike fear into these traitors to see their King at the head of a great army, come to mete out justice.” She could see the light of battle in his eyes, his elation at the prospect of a great victory. How all peoples would hold him in esteem and fear for stamping out the revolt!

  “Please don’t leave me!” she begged. “I am so frightened.”

  Henry seized her hands. “Think you Master Cromwell will not be zealous in ensuring your safety? I will be leaving many stout men to guard you. There is nothing to fear.”

  “But what if you are killed or taken prisoner?”

  Henry’s face darkened. “You must not entertain such doubts, for I assure you I do not. And darling, I need you here, to be regent in my absence.”

  She was astonished. She had not realized he had such trust in her. “But how will I know what to do?” she faltered.

  “Archbishop Cranmer and my Privy Council will act as your advisers,” Henry said. “You should have more confidence in your own wisdom and ability, Jane. And chiefly you will be a figurehead, presiding over the court in my absence.”

  She pulled herself together. She must show him that she was worthy of such an honor. She had often heard Queen Katherine recalling how she had acted as regent when Henry had been fighting in France, and how the Scots had invaded. Katherine had been active in dealing with that threat, and England had won a great victory. She must profit by Katherine’s example.

  “I am greatly honored that you should trust your kingdom to me,” she said. “I will not fail you.”

  She knew there was no gainsaying Henry. Cromwell had poured some wine to calm her, and she sat there sipping it as Henry planned his campaign and barked out orders, with Cromwell scribbling furiously. The tiltyard at Greenwich was to be converted into a workshop, so that the royal armorers could repair his old armor, which was being got out of storage at an inn in Southwark.