The court and the ambassadors held their collective breath. Others, too far away to hear Jane’s soft voice, queried whisperingly what was going on.
The revulsion he felt at the sight of Jane at his feet begging brought back to him vividly another occasion when a queen had begged at his feet. Katharine…at Blackfriars. Jane looked up at him with pleading eyes. The urge to reach out and strike her he suppressed only with difficulty. It was strange that in all that he had been through with Anne, he had never struck her, never even thought of doing so.
“Get up,” he said in almost a whisper. His eyes searched the room and alighted upon Lady Rochford. A sensible woman, if a vindictive, spiteful one. The accusation of incest between Anne and George had not been trumped up; Lady Rochford had offered sworn evidence to that effect against her own husband. He owed her for that. Looking with loathing at his limp wife, he flicked an eye at Lady Rochford, who took charge of Jane and her flustered ladies with a firm hand. As Lady Rochford leaned over Jane and helped her back to her feet, Henry said very softly, “Jane, you must stop meddling. Remember the fate of your predecessors and be warned.” He cocked his head at Lady Rochford. She took a stunned Jane by the elbow and led her away.
Even through her disappointment she remembered that she was queen; Jane left the room with dry eyes and her head held high. But she was frightened to the very marrow of her bones. It was plain that she was to be given no credit against the day when she was able to inform the king that she carried the next king of England in her belly. Until then, she was on sufferance.
Chapter 11
“God give good life and long unto the right high, right noble, and right excellent Princess Mary of England, and daughter of our sovereign lord the king.”
– Style of the Princess Mary as proclaimed by the heralds at her christening
Windsor Castle, December 1536
Mary felt a tiny hand squeeze her own and she stole a quick glance at Elizabeth, so small and yet so regal as she walked by Mary’s side into the Great Hall at Windsor Castle. The castle was very old indeed, and the soaring ceilings and thick, stone walls of the hall made the great space seem even colder than it was. A fire blazed on a hearth tall enough for a man to stand up in, but unless one was near to it, it yielded little real warmth.
It had been a cold December; a welcome change because the unseasonably warm weather from October right through into November had caused the summer plague to linger over long. So when the weather made a volte face at the change of the month, the event had been met with relief by all except the poorest of the poor, who suffered the most from the cold in the long months of winter.
But for Mary, the change in the weather was a cause for dismay. Elizabeth was growing very fast and most of her winter wardrobe was now both threadbare and too small for her. The king had refused, through Cromwell, of course, to send the amount of household funds that Hatfield had been used to receiving when Elizabeth was a pampered princess; no new clothing was forthcoming. It was fortunate that Mary’s return to favor had coincided with Elizabeth’s falling star or both of them would have been in dire straits. It was ironic, though, that the king had, with the recent Second Succession Act, tarred both of his only living children with the brush of bastardy, and in Elizabeth’s case, used it as an excuse to be mean.
Mary, having perjured her soul to save her life, received a generous allowance, and the king funded her new household completely. Without a second thought she began to use these funds to support Elizabeth. Few except their householders at Hatfield and Hunsdon noticed; no one objected.
And so it was that at this grand reception, arranged specifically for Henry to formally welcome his daughters to his Christmas court, Elizabeth wore a splendid cloth of gold kirtle, embroidered with silver thread and trimmed with miniver, over a fine lawn gown. The snowy white of the gown emphasized her cherubic innocence, while the spectacular kirtle underscored her royalty. Her hair was fire red under a gold headband studded with pearls. Elizabeth shared Mary’s love of finery and jewels, and Mary knew that even at her young age, her sister had felt her recent lack deeply.
Proceeding slowly down the length of the hall to the clarion call of the royal trumpets, Mary thought how narrowly Elizabeth had come to missing all of this. Mary had first written to Cromwell asking for permission for Elizabeth to attend the Christmas court. It was only right, only proper, she thought, that regardless of past circumstance, a family ought to be together at times of celebration. Mary was therefore not a little disturbed when Cromwell replied forbidding Elizabeth’s presence at court. He would not have dared to make such a decision on his own; there was nothing for it, then. She would have to write directly to her father. Not as king, but as father. She wrote a heartfelt letter describing her little sister’s intelligence, her accomplishments, her talents, and reminded Henry that it was from himself that all these desirable traits were forthcoming. He would have, she said, indeed, he had at this very moment, many reasons to be proud of his younger daughter. And in looks Elizabeth was all Henry, which was sure to please him. Mary reflected that had her younger sister been the boy everyone expected, things would have been very different indeed.
That Elizabeth was extraordinarily precocious none could deny. For one so young she had a profound sense of reality. She knew exactly who she was, but it remained to be seen whose personality would dominate her character. That she would have a formidable temper was already in evidence and inevitable considering who her parents were.
Henry had always been susceptible to flattery, and Mary’s letter struck just the right chord with him. Elizabeth was welcome at court after all. And so here they were, standing before their father, his new queen, and all the court.
Up to this moment Jane had evidenced no particular interest in the king’s youngest daughter. As usual, she was a will o’ the wisp, waiting to gauge Henry’s mood before evincing her own response.
Henry had not seen Elizabeth since Anne’s death; he had been unable to bring himself do so. Now here she was before him, meeting his assessing gaze without either fear or defiance. If anything, her manner seemed to evoke an impression of lively curiosity.
Several months is a long time in the life of a person not yet four years old. Elizabeth had missed seeing her father and her mother, and had been keenly aware of their absence. About her mother Elizabeth preferred not to think; she had been told only that her mother was dead and that she had died in disgrace. From eavesdropping others’ conversations she had learned a great deal more. She had developed a morbid fascination for this father, this king, who had killed her mother. She did not judge, indeed, was not capable of doing so; but she did wonder why these things had happened. That her own circumstances had been affected by the events of the past year she could not fail to know, but fortunately she was too young to conceive of a danger to herself in regard to it.
Elizabeth was just rising from a perfect curtsey to the king and queen when a collective gasp of surprise swept through the hall. The king spontaneously held out his arms. Elizabeth did not hesitate for a moment; she ran up the steps of the dais to the throne and up onto her father’s lap. Jane beamed and everyone smiled and clapped.
Henry held Elizabeth in the crook of his left arm and held his other hand out to Mary. “No ceremony,” he said in a booming voice. “It is only my beloved children come to court from Hatfield.” With that he nodded to the herald, who signaled the musicians in the gallery to play, and at once the hall was filled with the raucous strains of a lively galliard.
From her vantage point on the dais, perched on the king’s great knee, Elizabeth had a much better view of the hall. She marveled at the thick, green boughs of holly with the bright red berries, entwined with ivy and pearly mistletoe, looped and hanging slantwise from every beam and cascading elegantly down the walls. The hall was very brightly lit with ornate golden multi-branched candelabra, and a hundred torches lined the walls. The men and women swooped and swirled, soared and twirled in the dance; it see
med to Elizabeth’s lively imagination as if she had strayed into a room full of butterflies, with silks, satins, velvets and brocades in every color of the rainbow represented in the sumptuous clothing of the courtiers, and jewels of every sort winking in the firelight.
“Come,” said Henry above the din. “Let us go within.” The king and queen rose and went through a curtained archway that led to smaller, cozier room. The furnishings were comfortable rather than regal.
It was a small, intimate group that followed the king into the chamber. Henry truly meant this to be a family holiday. His uncle, Arthur Plantagenet, Lord Lisle, was there, and his aunt, Lady Lisle; Brandon and his formidable duchess, Lady Catherine; Norfolk and his daughter, Lady Mary Howard, and his son, the earl of Surrey; Henry’s nieces, Frances, Lady Grey, Eleanor, the Countess of Cumberland, and Lady Margaret Douglas; Frances’ husband, the marquis of Dorset; Jane, of course, and her brothers, and now his two daughters.
“Uncle,” said Henry. “Have you had plague at Calais?”
Arthur Plantagenet was the illegitimate brother of Henry’s mother Elizabeth, a son of Edward IV by a mistress. Despite the difference in their ages, they had always got on well together, and Arthur had served the crown in one capacity or another all his life. “A bit, Your Grace,” he replied. “Though not as bad as here, I understand. We are plagued more with marsh fever than anything else, and that has no season.”
Henry nodded knowingly; he had encountered the tertiary fever on his campaigns in France. He thanked God he had never contracted it, for once one had it, it recurred periodically for the rest of one’s life. He had witnessed first hand its ravages amongst his soldiers. “Ah,” he said, reaching out an arm to detain a young woman passing by with a steaming tankard of mulled wine on which she was blowing. “Here is our dear Margaret.”
“How now, Uncle,” said Lady Margaret Douglas. She had been surprised by her summons to court for Christmas; technically she was still a prisoner, albeit under house arrest at Syon.
Henry drew her close, kissed her cheek and said, “There now, are you quite recovered from your folly with Lord Howard? If you were not my niece, I would marry you myself. I am quite jealous, you know.”
Margaret smiled her wan smile. It was true that even though she was melancholy over being parted from her paramour, there were days now when she went all day without thinking of him, and when she did think of him, she had difficulty recalling his face. That should not be. Perhaps she was forgetting him. Theirs had been an impossible dream; the king had no intention of allowing her to marry a Howard now that they were out of favor. All except for that phoenix of a man, the Duke of Norfolk; he found a way to rise from every pile of ashes he had ever been thrown upon, the latest being his niece Anne’s debacle. “Quite recovered, Your Grace,” Margaret replied. “But with your gracious permission I think I shall leave off marrying for a while. And you are already taken, I see.” She dimpled at him and offered him a sip of her wine.
Henry took a long pull from the tankard, handed it back to Margaret, and wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. He smacked his lips. “That was tasty,” he said. “You are not looking well, my lady. Is Dame Agnes seeing to you properly?”
“Yes, Your Grace,” Margaret replied. “The Dame is a saint.”
“Who is a saint?” said a sharp, staccato voice.
“Dame Agnes,” Margaret replied.
“I marvel much that you should think so,” said Frances, Lady Grey, Marchioness of Dorset. “I hear she has put you to work.”
“Indeed, she has,” said Margaret. “I have learnt me to make jellies, jams, and comfits, as well as bread and bread poultices.”
“All useful skills,” said Henry, “but do not get too much attached to the place. We want no nuns amongst you!”
“Fear not for me,” snorted Frances. “And I will see to this one!” She put her arm around her cousin’s shoulder and gave it a squeeze, but just at that moment her gaze shifted and her eyes went wide.
Henry was just turning to see what had caught Frances’ attention when he felt a pair of tiny hands clap over his eyes.
“Guess who!” said an imperious voice.
Henry was having a good time. He could not recall when he had passed such a pleasant evening. There were happy people all about him, his family, his friends. Why not, he thought? Perhaps happiness was like patience; it had to be learnt and it could only thrive in an accepting atmosphere. Here he could be “uncle”, he could be “Henry”, he could be…father.
“I am sure I do not know,” he said wonderingly. “Who, then?”
“It is I, Elizabeth,” said a firm but childish voice. She leant over his shoulder, her face very close to his. Henry noticed that she still had a baby smell about her, and his heart gave a twist.
Elizabeth was having a good time, too. The mood in the room was informal, and after so much ceremony in the hall, it was a relief to be able to enjoy pastime in a more relaxed atmosphere. There were no servants in the room, only those closest to the king and queen. Elizabeth somehow instinctively knew that it was all right to let down one’s guard.
Suddenly the commotion caught Mary’s eye, and she rushed over. “Oh, Sister,” she said in a pained voice, “no! You must come down from there at once!”
Elizabeth withdrew her arms from around her father’s neck and climbed down from the footstool she had used to sneak up on him from behind. But as she withdrew, Henry said, “It is all right, Daughter. It has been a long time since I made merry with a princess.”
Frances and Margaret disappeared as if they had been made of marsh mist, while Mary’s eyes went wide with surprise and she fought to keep her jaw from dropping. Elizabeth seemed not to have heard, as she was intent on gaining back Henry’s attention. He had said that it was all right, after all…
So he still thought of them as princesses. That was something, Mary supposed. But it was best to do as Frances and Margaret had done; ignore it for the slip it was, pretend she had not heard, never speak of it. But cherish the thought…
Henry turned without a word, leant down and swooped Elizabeth up into the air and cried, “And now, Miss!” He held her in the crook of his arm and swayed back and forth with her, making her laugh.
All of a sudden the room became very quiet. Henry swung around with Elizabeth still perched on his great arm and came face to face with Cromwell and a gentleman whose acquaintance he had not yet made.
Cromwell inclined his head. “Your Grace,” he said. “May I present Mr. Robert Aske?”
Henry had purposely asked Cromwell to bring Aske to court in secrecy, into this family gathering, rather than have the man air his grievances before an avid crowd in the Presence Chamber. Let him have his say privately. No grandstanding. And for a common man of virtually no account other than his fame for defying his king, a personal audience with the king was a signal honor, regardless of the circumstances.
Henry set Elizabeth down and Mary, who had been standing nervously by, took the child’s hand and led her away.
“Mr. Aske,” said Henry. “I am pleased that you were able to accept our invitation to Christmas at court. Your family was loath to spare you, I trow.”
Aske bowed deeply, sweeping his cap to the floor. “It is most kind of Your Grace to inquire,” he said. “But having been a while at the Inns of Court here in London, I have many acquaintances in town. My family are abiding with a dear friend of mine and we will be able to Christmas together, when I am not called to wait upon Your Grace’s pleasure.”
Resourceful; he liked that. Henry placed an arm around Aske’s shoulders. He was a slight, diminutive man, and Henry seemed to engulf him. “Let us sit a while,” Henry said, drawing Aske aside to a window seat so wide and deep it had its own curtains. Henry preferred the window seat as it gave him a comfortable place to rest his leg. He lounged against the wall, a soft cushion at his back to shield him from the cold, hard stone. “We have much to discuss.”
Aske was in two minds about
this unexpectedly intimate treatment by the king. He was not blind to the fact that not being granted a public audience curtailed his lawyer’s ability to persuade more than just the king of his arguments, the arguments of the people he represented. On the other hand, such intimacy could have positive results; men were apt to be more forthcoming, and more reasonable, when they had nothing to prove to anyone. The king alone might be more willing to listen to what he had to say than a king surrounded by courtiers in front of whom he was unlikely to be little more than civil to the commoner who had bested him. For Aske believed he held the whip hand; they had won; the king had agreed to all their demands. It never occurred to him that a king might break his word.
# # #
Henry studied Aske for a few moments before speaking. Aske had a very pleasant countenance. His hair looked to be prematurely gray; in fact, it was snowy white. His eyes were a milky blue and wore a serene, trusting look, but held a sadness that suggested he knew more than he wanted to…or should. Almost like a goat’s eyes. Henry detested goats; smelly creatures. Most of all he hated their eyes because their eyes made them seem almost human, as if they incarnated the souls of the misbegotten. He suppressed a shudder.
The silence was, for Henry, just becoming uncomfortable, but it was for the king to speak first. Aske seemed content to sit and wait for his sovereign to address him, indeed, his calm demeanor suggested that he would sit all night waiting if needs be. A strange man, thought Henry. Anyone else would have been shifting in his seat, rubbing a nervous chin, glancing about the room.
What was it about this man, he wondered, that so many people had followed him and his cause, even after the men of Lincoln had been defeated and punished so severely? Henry resented mightily having to give in to the rebels’ demands. For they were rebels, not pilgrims, despite their pretty words. And their requests were not requests; they were demands. Anyone making a request backed by forty thousand armed insurgents is not asking, they are demanding.
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