Jane the Confidant

by Leigh Jenkins

  “He did not ask it,” Charles said in a whisper.

  “No,” I responded. “He did not.”

  I smiled as I heard Cromwell approaching the bowing back of Sir Robert.

  “Sir Robert Aske,” Cromwell’s voice boomed out. “You are here by charged with treason and marching on his Majesty’s army.”

  The court turned to the noise outside, distracted from the cold by the guards.

  “I, I have a right to be here,” Sir Robert argued. “I have passage of safe clemency from his Majesty!”

  Through the doorway, I could barely see Sir Robert thrust a worn paper towards Cromwell. Taking it, Cromwell backed away, forcing Aske to follow him further into the room.

  “Clemency to come here, Sir Robert,” Cromwell said. Had my entire presence room not quieted, I never would have heard Cromwell’s words.

  “Not to leave.”

  Sir Robert continued to protest as chains could be heard locking around his wrists. A few moments of struggle and then the guards had him out the door. The silence permeated the room for only a moment. But then, seeing the excitement over, the court turned back to their idle conversations.

  “That went as expected,” Charles said. “And now that we have him, the rebels do not have any known leader of rank or nobility. We should be able to clear them out soon.” He bowed quickly before moving to speak with his wife. I nodded but, absent-mindedly, my eyes gazed upon something else.

  It was my wife, standing in the doorway from my side chamber. No one had yet noticed her entrance and she had yet to notice them, her eyes furrowed and staring where Sir Robert had been.

  ******

  “Your Majesty, I wished to speak with you about a matter of some importance.”

  I sighed, pulling my nightshirt back over my head. Jane’s tendency to become a courtier as soon as our lovemaking was complete still startled me.

  “Go ahead, Jane,” I responded, hoping my casual tone would cause her to relax as well. She turned to me, her night shift pulled down around her ankles and her back straight as she sat next to me in bed. Obviously my hopes were in vain.

  “I wished to inform your Majesty that I am with child.”

  I turned to look at her and after a moment became aware that I was gaping at her. Never had a woman told me this in such matter-of-fact terms; there had always been an air of pride or joy. Not with Jane.

  “Then perhaps we should have not —“ I gestured to the bed, still rumpled with evidence of our coupling.

  “Doctor Butts said there would be no such problems with that so early in the pregnancy.”

  “Doctor Butts?” I asked. “You approached my doctor before you approached me?”

  “Of course not,” Jane responded, a shocked look overtaking her features. “My father addressed him.”

  “Your father — Jane exactly how many people did you inform before me?”

  “My father, who informed the doctor and his staff, as well as my mother and two brothers.”

  I sighed, running a hand through my thinning hair. No wonder her brother Sir Thomas Seymour had been so irritatingly chipper the past few days, even being so bold as to once again suggest that I might provide him with a dukedom.

  My first instinct was to fly into a rage as I would have done with Catherine or Anne, but as I turned to look at the girl once again I felt my anger draining. She was nearing thirty years old; she had spent far too long as a maid. Her whole life had been guided by her family and though her mother had obviously taught her what she could, some lessons were slow to sink in.

  “Jane,” I said, gently taking her hands into mine. “I am your husband. You must always come to me first, not to your father or brothers. Your loyalty is to me now.”

  “Yes, Your Majesty,” she said, bowing her head. A deep blush overtook her cheeks and I could see she felt remorse for her error. That was my Jane, so eager to please even when trying to be strong. I smiled and took her into my arms.

  “I am so sorry, Henry,” she whispered against my collar, which I could feel growing wet with her warm tears. “I do not mean to forget.”

  I smiled and kissed her forehead.

  “Sweet Jane,” I said. “We will think no more of it.”

  She smiled and curled up against my side again.

  “But this is a happy occasion,” I continued. “When do you expect the baby to arrive?”

  “June,” she said, a hint of pride entering her voice. “In time for the summer progress.”

  “Good girl,” I said, pulling her even closer to place my hand on her stomach. She flinched away at first, not used to the close contact, but soon settled into my grasp.

  “And now you should have a present,” I said, talking into her hair. “It is almost the fortnight, when you should have your Christmas present anyhow. Can you think of anything you would want?”

  Jane grew quiet and began to play with the hem of my sleep shirt. I wondered what she would imagine; she received so many gifts as queen that there was no food or clothing or jewels that she could request that I had not already offered. I thought for a moment she might request to travel to Calais and into France as Anne had done after announcing she was pregnant, or a manor for one of her ladies as Catherine had.

  “I would like Robert Aske,” she said simply.

  “Pardon?” I asked, pulling away to look at her face. She remained with her head bent, her long blonde hair falling out of its braid to cover her face.

  “Sir Robert Aske,” she repeated. “I would like to ask for his release. And for his demands that Parliament meet in York to be met.”

  “Jane, that is a matter of policy,” I argued. “Surely there is a jewel you would prefer?”

  “I think not,” she answered, sounding a bit stronger. She squared her shoulders and looked me in the eye, her cold blue eyes boring into mine. “I think it would be wise to listen to him and his demands. You are merely agreeing to speak with him and the other leaders of the Pilgrimage of Grace, not agreeing to any of their other requests. And it will give you a better platform to express your wishes and the reasons of the church for the dissolution of the monasteries. And I believe it will prevent further civil war.”

  “It is not civil war,” I barked, pulling away from her to lean back into the bed. As quickly as I had felt joy at her pronouncement, I felt anger at her request.

  “Please, Henry,” she said, climbing over to place her small hand on my arm. “For me and for our child, I ask that you release Robert Aske, arrange for a Parliament to be held after the baby is born in York, and cease in the dissolution of monasteries until then.”

  I took a deep breath and looked into Jane’s eyes.

  “And this is all you wish?”

  “Yes, Henry.”

  I could hardly deny this woman anything. And reaching out once again to feel her stomach, where our child grew. My son, please be to God, my son. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath.

  “I will arrange for it in the morning,” I breathed out.

  “Thank you, Henry,” she replied sweetly, curling up against my side. I blew out the candle next to the bed and pulled Jane closer to me, resting my hand on her stomach. I fell asleep with my prayers for my son on my lips.

  Chapter Four

  June 1537

  “Your Majesty, we have word.”

  These were the words that greeted me upon arriving back at my hunting lodge. I nodded for my page boy to take the reins of my horse and shifted my weight to the side. A small stool was placed behind me as I dismounted, two stable hands on either side of me to help me down. Turning to face Edward Seymour, I pulled my cap from my head to wring out the sweat.

  Looking into his smiling face, hope surged inside of me.

  “Your Majesty, Queen Jane has given birth to a boy.”

  I felt the joy welling up inside my chest as I rushed forward to throw my arms around my brother-in-law. He stiffened at first, then pounded me on the back, obviously as happy as I was with the news he had bro
ught.

  Behind me, word spread quickly throughout the men who had made up my hunting party. Charles Brandon even let out a loud shout of excitement, then led the men in a cheer for their new heir to the throne.

  Leaving their hoorahs behind me, I strode into my hunting lodge, my arm still slung around Edward’s shoulder.

  “Prepare to join the Queen at Greenwich this afternoon!” I ordered to my chamberlain who had rushed to meet me in the hallway. The skinny man almost bowed completely over in his excitement and then swept away again to prepare for our rejoining of the court.

  I took my place at the head of the table and sat down, a page boy rushing to push in my chair. Edward was seated to my right and the rest of the men filled in the open seats as they came in. This was one of the many things I loved about visiting my hunting lodges: the informality of the court. Meals, so often a source of contention when at one of my palaces, were taken with ease. At court each guest was sat according to their station; I had to select which dishes went to which courtier, making sure that all were pleased and none offended. Here, we ate as men together in barracks, reaching for dishes without hesitation or glances among our neighbors.

  As ale filled my cup, I sank back into my chair and allowed the greatest relief to overtake me. I had spent so many times outside the door of my wife’s chambers or pacing the great hallways while she labored, giving birth to what had always proved to be a disappointment. Jane had taken to her lying in chamber four weeks before; it was customary for her to be secluded from the court and all men for a month before the baby was due. I had spent one day pacing the corridors of Greenwich before changing my mind. I would not simply wait for my child to be born. This was a new court, free of the vices that had gripped us during Anne’s queenship or the stiff-neck propriety of Catherine’s Spanish ways. For the first time, I felt that I was master of my own domain. I had ordered the horses prepared and set out for my nearest hunting lodge the next day.

  And instead of waiting for weeks, with my shoulders hunched and my back aching, I had instead enjoyed good hunting and excellent company. There had been so many distractions that I had not even had time to listen for the footfalls of the unlucky page who was sent to say “A princess for Your Majesty,” or worse yet, to look at me with fear and a shake of the head as another dead baby was taken out of the palace.

  But now there was a reason to return — a live boy, a prince, ready to continue my line. I knew that a live baby did not guarantee a grown child; Catherine had lost two boys after they had been born healthy. But for the first time in twenty years, I was given the ability to hope, to feel that this time I had succeeded.

  My hand gripped around my warm tin mug as I thrust it out to a page boy. Such was my joy that I did not even reprimand him when some of the amber-colored liquid spilled out over my hand before being wiped away by a nearby steward, who cleaned my hand while shooting the boy a fearsome look. I waved for the stern man to leave the boy alone; I wanted everyone to be as happy as I was at that moment.

  “Now, Your Majesty!” Brandon called out from where he had ended up at the end of the table across from Sir Nicholas Carew. “What will you name the boy? Charles, perhaps?”

  The table laughed uproariously at Brandon, Carew going as far as to throw a slice of bread at the Duke’s head. Charles ducked it with ease, but soon turned back to me.

  I smiled slightly, thinking it through. Traditionally children would be named for a saint, especially if they were born on that saint’s feast day.

  “It is St. Cummian’s day,” Carew offered up with a laugh.

  “An Irishman?” Sir John Howard roared. “There will be no such name on a prince of England!”

  The table burst into an upheaval again and it wasn’t until Charles stepped in with cries of “peace, gentlemen, for his Majesty and for my supper!” that an outright brawl was avoided.

  “I think not after a saint,” my brother-in-law put in, and indeed he was right; the future head of the Church of England could not be named for a saint.

  I shied away from the name Henry for obvious reasons; it seemed as if that name had cursed enough boys into the ground. For the first time it occurred to me that the name Arthur could have been appropriate, but with a surge of sibling jealousy, I pushed the title away.

  My gaze swept over the table, men still grabbing at the food that had been placed in front of them, turning to their neighbors to speak even as their mouths were full. The common use of napkins had been abandoned; men were using sleeves to clean themselves, and I had noticed that more than one man spit upon the floor. My eyes finally settled on the man to my right, his proud manners not abandoning him even in this time of camaraderie, his napkin tucked gently around his left hand.

  “Ah, well there’s the name!” I cried out, letting all talk along the table silence. I kept my gaze on the man as I grinned.

  “He will be called Edward!”

  ******

  “I won’t hear any more of those damned lies!”

  “And you will not raise your voice in the presence of His Majesty the King!” Brandon’s voice rang louder than any of the rebel’s voices, and certainly drowned out James Butler who was on his feet, a filthy finger pointed at Cromwell.

  “The findings on the monasteries were made by honest men, men educated at Oxford,” Cromwell repeated softly after the room had quieted down. “The blood was gathered from a slaughtered pig every Tuesday night. We have many confessions.”

  Robert Aske held out his hand for Butler to be silenced. The man scoffed but sat down, his mouth shut. Taking in the three leaders of the Pilgrimage of Grace, my mind wondered as to how they had so many followers. Aske, at the very least, was clean and gave off a respectable air. James Butler was certainly the worst, his nails covered with grime and he had worn the same pair of breeches for the past three days, despite them being covered with mud. What struck me as odd was how much younger he was than the other two, his hair dark and traces of acne still about his skin.

  Sir Robert Constable seemed scared and often quailed in front of Butler’s anger and Aske’s cool logic. He had failed to make any significant points himself, instead bowing feebly to either man’s will, his thinning gray hair matted to his head and around his rather large ears.

  “Your Majesty, not all of the monasteries could be found to be using pig’s blood. That is only one instance of misbehavior. And perhaps instead of closing down the monastery, the monks should have been reeducated so to better serve our Lord God.”

  Aske’s response chilled me, and I burrowed deeper into my chair. His words echoed perfectly those of my one-time mentor, Sir Thomas More, and his determination to return lost sheep to the church. If I closed my eyes long enough I could still hear Anne’s voice, her poisonous tone, telling me of the danger More brought with him, his power. The letters he had sent me from his jail, never accusing, only questioning. And the final cannons that had told me the man was truly dead.

  “The monks were purposefully leading hundreds of people astray,” Cromwell argued. “Should there not be retribution?”

  “But within the church,” Aske stressed.

  “And is His Majesty not within the church?”

  Aske fell silent at this; to say otherwise would mean his immediate arrest and execution. After a moment of deafening silence, he held out his hand to Constable who, his hand shaking, gave Aske a small list.

  “We wish to discuss the Ten Articles and the sacraments that have been omitted from those,” Aske said, his voice dull.

  “And what are your concerns?” Cromwell asked, as he motioned for a secretary to take notes as Aske’s grievances. Throughout the proceedings, Cromwell had used the same tone, sounding as if he was doing nothing more than selecting a choice of beef from the butcher. Even when words had become heated, it had been Charles Brandon, and on one memorable occasion, the Duke of Norfolk, who had leapt to their feet, reminding these men whose presence they were in.

  I stopped listening to the list o
f Aske’s concerns over the Ten Articles. We already knew what they requested, and this was one point Cromwell had said we should be willing to concede — enough of the clergy were upset as well and Archbishop Cranmer had already written to learned men, planning a Bishop’s Book that could argue more details of faith. Cromwell had planned every inch of these meetings out, though, from his bored tone of voice to requiring Aske to repeat every request he had ever made. It was all part of making them seem insignificant and to protect me.

  Protect me indeed. I had yet to say a word at these meetings, except to open and close the debating. I had been amused the day that Cromwell had approached me, telling me of his plans for this York summit. Laughter had erupted from me when he told me how he had already plotted to use Charles’ usual outbursts to our advantage; he had even taken what food would be served for dinner into account.

  But now boredom plagued my brain, listening but not participating in arguments I had heard before. Even the food had held little taste, York being ill-equipped to handle the entire court. I longed to return south, back to Greenwich, with its warm air, good food, and my son Edward.

  As Cromwell continued to droll on about the baptismal, I allowed my mind to wander to my son. At only six weeks, he was strong and still residing at the court with his governess. When I returned south in three weeks he would be sent to Richmond, a palace close to London but far enough to be safe from the plague. Jane had cried when I had told her but soon accepted that was the fate of princes.

  My thoughts turned to my wife who had been so sick after the birth. A few days after Edward had been born, Jane had become delirious and called out for all sorts of delicacies. Her mother, sick herself, had traveled to court for the first time since Jane had become queen. The thin and aging woman had taken over her daughter’s rooms and ordered Jane’s midwife out. I had complained to Sir John Seymour about his wife’s behavior, but he merely shook his head and advised me to leave women’s work to the women. I followed his sound advice and allowed Lady Seymour to deny her daughter’s cravings as she fed the queen simple broth and called for a bath to clean the bedraggled Jane.