by Alison Weir
Jane laid down the letter. She was pleased for Lizzie, who had done so well for herself by this marriage, but the news brought home to her how much she did want a husband and babes of her own, and the kind of household in which she had grown up. To be another such as Mother would not be a bad way to spend one’s life.
What hurt most, though, was that Lizzie would be married first. She was not yet thirteen! It was as if Father had faced the fact that she, Jane, was unmarriageable, and given up on her. But then, she consoled herself, Sir Anthony had seen Lizzie and asked for her hand. What father would have refused such a good match?
She wrote sending her congratulations and wishing Lizzie every joy in the future.
The Queen gave her leave to attend the wedding, and she traveled home with her brothers for the festivities. The whole family and a host of Ughtred relations gathered in the great tithe barn for the bridal feast. Mother had excelled herself: among the dishes there were baked meats, raised pies, savory tarts, salmon in sauce, capons in wine, blancmanges and berries in season. And at the head table, presiding over all, sat the genial Sir Anthony and his little bride, who was wearing a yellow gown she had embroidered herself. Jane was happy for her sister, and joined in the laughter and banter, but she could not help feeling envious. It should have been her sitting there in her bridal finery. She was twenty-three now—almost an old maid.
There was dancing after the boards had been cleared and the candles lit. The minstrels struck up a brawl—or a branle, as Jane had learned to call it at court—and the newlyweds took to the floor as everyone clapped. Jane was on her feet for much of the evening, mostly dancing with her brothers, or John or four-year-old Ned; but none of the other young men who partnered her asked a second time.
She sat down for a space, drinking hot spiced wine to stay warm. The braziers in the barn did not quite dispel the January chill, and she was glad of her fur oversleeves and rabbit-lined gown.
Lizzie sat down beside her. “I’m so glad you were able to come home for the wedding, Jane,” she said, her pretty face flushed from exertion. “It seems strange that in a few days I will be going to live in Yorkshire…” Her voice faltered. “I shall miss you all, and Wulfhall.”
“Your husband seems a kind man,” Jane reassured her. “He looks so proud of you. I’m sure you will be happy. I was homesick when I went to court, but I got over it. There was so much to distract me. It’s Mother who will miss you dreadfully. With Edward, Thomas and me at court, and Harry in Taunton a lot of the time, she’ll have only Dorothy for company. The house will seem empty.”
“Can I ask you something?” Lizzie was blushing. She bent to Jane’s ear. “Mother said that on my wedding night, I must let Sir Anthony do whatever he pleases, so that we can have children. I asked her what she meant, and she said the man must put his member inside the woman to give her the seed from which life is made. She said it hurts a bit the first time, but that pleasure comes afterward. But one of the maids said it was really painful. Do you think that’s true?”
Jane swallowed. How could she know of such things? No man had shown enough interest to kiss her, let alone bed her. She shook her head. “I have no knowledge of men or love. One of the Queen’s ladies said her wedding night had been wonderful, but she did not elaborate. Why don’t you tell Sir Anthony of your fears? He looks kindly. I’m sure it will be all right.”
And it was, apparently. After being put to bed with her bridegroom with many jests by the company, and lying there looking petrified, Lizzie emerged the next morning with a broad smile on her face.
* * *
—
Before she returned to court, Jane made the journey to Amesbury, taking Harry and the boys with her. Harry had been once without her, taking a nursemaid to stay with the boys while he fetched their mother, but Catherine had been too ill with a fever to see him, the porteress had said.
Today Catherine was helping in the kitchens when they arrived. When she was brought to the porteress’s lodge, Jane was shocked by the change in her. She was gaunt, her skin stretched tight across her cheekbones, her eyes wild. Worst of all, she did not seem to know who Jane was.
“Catherine? It’s me, Jane! I’ve brought John and Ned. They’re in the market with Harry.”
“Who are John and Ned?” Catherine asked, her eyes vacant.
“Your sons.”
“I have no sons. They were taken away after they found us together.”
“Who found you?” But Jane already knew the answer.
Catherine’s voice was almost a whisper. “They found us in the Old Room. We were naked, for shame. I was in his arms.”
Jane did not want to hear more. Her cheeks were burning. “Your sons are here!” she repeated. “Come and see them.” She reached for her sister-in-law’s hand. It was thin, like a bird’s claw.
“No!” Catherine cried, pulling it away. “Let me alone!”
Jane turned to the porteress, who was hovering, praying she had not heard what Catherine had said. “What ails her?”
The nun shook her head. “I do not know. Would you like to speak to the Prioress?”
“Yes, indeed,” Jane answered.
They waited, and presently Prioress Florence’s hawklike face, much aged now, appeared at the grille between the parlor and the convent proper. “Jane Seymour!” she said. “How good to see you. I am sorry that you find Lady Seymour in a poor case. Alas, the physicians cannot say what is wrong. She has never been very happy here. She confided to us the reason for her coming, and even if she had not, we would have learned of it from her ramblings. We do not judge or condemn. God has forgiven her, for she has truly repented, but I fear that her sorrow was so great that she has retreated into madness.”
“Madness?” echoed Jane. She looked at Catherine, sitting there fiddling with her rosary, oblivious to what was being said.
“She has lucid periods, but remembering is too painful for her, so we lose her again.”
“I have brought her sons, so that she can see them,” Jane said.
“It’s probably best that she doesn’t,” the Prioress said. “We don’t want her upsetting herself. It’s all we can do to make her eat. She’s better off in her own world.”
“Mother Prioress, I am grieved to see her so,” Jane said, fighting tears. “This is a very sad situation. What can I do to help?”
“Pray for her, my child. She is in God’s hands. He will comfort her.”
“I will do that,” Jane promised. “Will you write to me if there is any change?”
“I will,” Prioress Florence promised. “It’s best to let her be, Jane. Any reminder of her old life can only cause distress.”
Jane understood that she was being warned not to come again. She felt in her purse and laid some coins on the ledge. “For her comforts,” she said. “I will send more when I get my next quarter’s wages.” Then she watched as Catherine was led out of the parlor by the porteress, wondering if she would ever see her again.
Five days later, she took the road that led to London, accompanied by a maid and a groom. Her first stop was at the church at Bedwyn Magna, where she knelt by little John’s brass to pray for her lost siblings. She knew she would always miss Margery’s gentle presence and Anthony’s learning and wisdom.
As she stood up, she saw that someone else was in the church. It was the priest, sitting in a pew with his head in his hands, his shoulders heaving.
“Father?” She hastened to him. “What is wrong?”
He raised a tearstained face. “Oh, my daughter, that I should see this day. We are all lost. Convocation has bowed to pressure and named the King Supreme Head of the Church of England. The Pope’s authority is swept aside. This kingdom is in schism, and our souls are all at risk of damnation.” He broke down afresh, as Jane sank to her knees beside him, unable to comprehend the enormity of what she had just heard.
The priest gripped her hand. “The King is to be Supreme Head so far as the law of Christ allows. Well, I say to you, kind mistress, it does not allow!”
It was as if the world she had known were crumbling about her. “His Holiness is Christ’s Vicar on Earth, the rightful successor to St. Peter,” the priest said. “Did not Our Lord himself address his disciple Peter, and tell him, ‘Thou art Peter, and upon this rock I will build my church; and the gates of Hell shall not prevail against it’? Only the Pope can be head of the Church; no king can usurp his power.”
We are at the gates of Hell, Jane thought wildly. No man, be he king or emperor, can abjure the authority bestowed by our Savior.
It was sheer wickedness and presumption, and it could never be lawful. “I am in dread to hear this,” she said. “I serve the Queen, and I know how greatly this will distress her.”
“She is a courageous lady, and much loved. I pray that the Pope speaks for her soon. It is the only remedy for this madness.”
A terrible thought struck Jane. “Will we all be excommunicated?”
“The King may well be, and those clergy who offer him their allegiance. And then where shall we be, cut off from the sacraments for no fault of our own?” It was a prospect to freeze the blood.
* * *
—
The talk in the abbey guest houses along the route was all of the King becoming head of the Church. Generally, people were disapproving and worried, but some thought it a good thing. “Why should we pay taxes to Rome?” they asked. “Why should the Pope interfere in English affairs?”
When Jane got back to court, she found Katherine calm, as usual. “The King will never break with Rome,” she assured her ladies. “At heart, he is a good son of the Church, but he is angry that his Holiness is taking so long to give sentence on his case. I know him well. This is mere defiance, a rattling of swords, as it were.”
Jane wished she could believe it.
There was also talk of a plot to poison the good Bishop Fisher, a stout supporter of the Queen. Some had died at his table, but he, being abstemious, had escaped. In most people’s opinion, the Lady Anne was responsible. Jane found that hard to believe too. Anne could be vicious, and she was certainly vengeful, but Jane could not see her stooping to murder.
* * *
—
Summer came, and the court was at Windsor again. Still there was no word from Rome, and even the Queen’s patience was wearing thin. At least the King had begrudgingly agreed to allow the Princess Mary to visit her again. Mary was fifteen now, a sad little figure who was still too small and thin for her age. She had been ill, and looked pale, and Katherine was assiduous in seeing that she ate well and got plenty of fresh air. Everyone was to be cheerful, for the Princess’s sake.
To the relief of all, the King took Anne Boleyn to Hampton Court for a few days. Katherine clearly enjoyed the respite from the tension. She went for longer and longer walks in the Great Park with her solemn-faced daughter, and tried to divert her with music and dancing in her chamber. Jane was becoming adept on the lute, and Mary, who had been an expert musician from childhood, taught her a more complicated piece.
“You have mastered that well, Mistress Jane,” she said in her gruff little voice, as a hint of a smile played about her buttoned-up mouth. “Shall we dance a pavane?”
“I should be honored, your Highness,” Jane said, rising, as the Queen signaled for the players to begin.
Jane had mastered most of the dances that were fashionable at court, but the pavane, with its two beats to a step, was challenging. Always she wanted to go faster.
“No!” the Princess cried, tossing back her long red hair. “You must stay in time!”
Jane tried again, and still managed to stay ahead of everyone else. In the end, they all collapsed in giggles. It was heartening to see Mary’s serious young face crumple into laughter. The Queen was plainly overjoyed at the sight.
During the days that followed, the Princess began to relax more, and to revel in the company of the maids-of-honor, playing Hoodman Blind in the deserted galleries and tag in the gardens. But when the King returned with Anne Boleyn, Katherine forbade her daughter to leave her apartments. Yet Mary was all too aware of her father flaunting his mistress in the court beyond the door, and her face grew pinched again.
Preparations were in train for the King’s annual summer progress, and Jane expected Mary to be sent back to Hunsdon in Essex, where she usually resided, but no order came. They were due to leave Windsor for Woodstock in the middle of July, and she and the other maids and chamberers were busy packing.
On the morning they were to leave, Jane was up early. She attended the Queen at Mass, as usual, and helped serve her at breakfast.
The Queen laid down her knife. “Do you not think it is quiet here, ladies?” she asked. It was true. There was none of the commotion and bustle that was normal when the court departed on progress, no running feet or shouts from below. Katherine rose and looked out of the window. Jane heard her intake of breath.
“The wards are empty,” the Queen said. The women crowded around. There was no procession forming, and no sight of any carts or sumpter mules.
“Maybe I am mistaken, and it is not today,” Katherine said. “No one tells me anything these days.” She gave them a weak smile, and sent her chamberlain, Lord Mountjoy, to find out when the court was leaving.
He returned with a pained expression.
“Madam,” he said, “the King left for Woodstock early this morning.”
* * *
—
It took a while for them to understand the significance of what Henry had done. The Queen merely nodded and continued with her breakfast. Jane thought this must be some new ruse of Anne Boleyn’s, intended to slight and discourage Katherine; it was much the same trick she had played on Wolsey at Grafton. Because of it, the King had never seen Wolsey again. Jane caught her breath. What if Anne had a similar intention this time? No, surely even she would not go so far. The Pope had not yet given sentence.
Katherine was eating and conversing with her daughter. Jane glanced around at the ladies and maids standing in attendance. She caught Margery Horsman’s eye. Margery looked concerned too.
As Jane was helping to remove the silver-gilt plate used for the service of the Queen’s breakfast, a groom in the King’s livery was announced. He bowed to Katherine, but addressed a point beyond her shoulder.
“Your Grace, I am to inform you that it is the King’s pleasure that you vacate Windsor Castle within a month,” he said, and swallowed.
The King had left the Queen without saying goodbye; he had abandoned her without a word, the woman who had been his devoted wife these twenty-odd years and borne his children.
Jane watched Katherine struggling to preserve her composure. The Princess was looking at her, bewildered. Then Katherine spoke, her voice firm. “Go where I may, I remain his wife, and for him I will pray.”
* * *
—
“I am to be sent to Easthampstead,” the Queen informed her assembled household, one hot August afternoon. “It is a fair house, with space for everyone. You are all welcome to come with me. No one will be turned away. The King has most generously agreed to pay wages to everyone.”
Jane had already made up her mind to stay if she could. She had grown so devoted to the Queen that she could not bear the thought of leaving her. Evidently most of the others felt the same. Joan Champernowne left, but only because she was to be married soon.
Easthampstead Park was a hunting lodge in the middle of Windsor Forest, ten miles from the castle. On the way, the Queen told them she had stayed there several times in earlier years, and it was a fine house. Her smile was unfailing. Jane was moved to see how the people cheered her as their procession passed.
When they clattered through the twin gatehouses, cross
ing the drawbridge in between, Jane had the sense that they were entering a prison, but the mansion that stood before them looked more like a palace. Katherine’s small court was lodged in the central of the three wings that surrounded the courtyard; its dorter windows looked out onto the moat.
The King had indeed been generous. Soon after their arrival, two hundred and fifty new maids-of-honor were sent to attend the Queen, and she received such handsome provision that she was able to maintain the magnificence to which she was accustomed. Jane hoped that his Grace’s conscience was troubling him.
The new maids were accommodated in the other wings, and were strictly ruled by their own mistresses. They appeared only when the Queen received visitors, no doubt so that none should say that she kept less state now that she was separated from the King.
It was a comfortable existence, but to Jane it felt as if they had been exiled. The Princess Mary was forbidden to visit, as were the Queen’s staunch friends, Lady Exeter and the Duchess of Norfolk. The Duchess was estranged from the Duke, who was Anne Boleyn’s uncle. He supported his niece, and she the Queen. At least Lady Willoughby and Lady Parr had been allowed to remain, so Katherine did not lack for friends of rank. And Lady Exeter had sent her own maidservant, Eliza Darrell, to wait on the Queen as a maid-of-honor and act as go-between for them. Although they were cousins—Jane’s grandmother had been a Darrell—Jane had never met Eliza, but liked her on sight. She was nineteen, a beautiful girl with fair hair and green eyes, and she won the hearts of everyone but Nan Stanhope. Nan was in a foul mood these days. She hated being apart from Edward, and she was desperate to return to court.
* * *
—
Jane was present with Lady Willoughby that autumn when a deputation of lords of the Council came to Easthampstead to see the Queen.
