by Alison Weir
“What will people say of you if you do that? What of the Emperor and the new alliance?”
“What I do with my own daughter is my affair!” he snarled, his anger erupting. “And you, Madam, would do well not to meddle in matters that do not concern you.”
It was as if she had been slapped. Desperately, she tried not to cry.
“This is a fine way to end a special day,” Henry said, breathing heavily.
“It is,” she agreed. She would not apologize.
In the night, he took her again with no word of love, but with increased mastery, as if to show her where the power lay in their marriage. Afterward, she did weep, silently, into her pillow. But in the morning, he was his old loving self again, and with renewed hope in her heart, she told herself that, given time and careful handling, she would win him round.
* * *
—
Edward came to see her. They sat in her closet, for privacy.
“Cromwell is cajoling and bullying Mary to submit to the King’s will,” he told her.
“I know.” She related what Cromwell had said.
“Chapuys fears that Cromwell is working against your hopes of her being restored to the succession.”
“He shares those hopes, I assure you.”
“There will be no reconciliation with Rome.”
“I know,” she said sadly. “The removal of Anne has not changed the King’s opinions at all. And while that grieves me, I think you would not be sorry if England remained in schism?”
“I would not, personally, but we need the Imperial alliance. It’s good for trade, and the Emperor supports you as queen. It is an advantage to have powerful friends abroad. No, Jane, I am for reform, you know that; and I am also for us, the Seymours. Norfolk has left court under a cloud. With him gone, our star will be even more in the ascendant. We don’t need Cromwell!”
“We do, Edward. We need him to save the Princess from herself.”
Chapter 27
1536
Cromwell came to see her late that night. He looked tired, and wasted no time in getting to the point. “Your Grace will be comforted to know that the King’s justices are reluctant to proceed against the Lady Mary. They have suggested to his Grace that instead of being tried for treason, she be made to sign a paper of submission, recognizing him as head of the Church and her mother’s marriage as incestuous and unlawful. It is the best solution, and I have persuaded the King to agree. It was not easy.” He took out his kerchief and began mopping his brow. “His Grace was very angry. He told me that my birth made me unfit to meddle with the affairs of kings.” He smiled self-deprecatingly. “He also called me a villain and a knave, knocked me about the head, and thrust me from the Privy Chamber. Already, Madam, I am regretting lending the Lady Mary my support. I fear I have laid myself open to accusations of misprision of treason.”
Jane shook her head in sympathy. “I am sure the King will not go that far. He knows that you have his interests at heart—and he likes you.”
“I trust to that, Madam. One must deal with such trials with humor and patience. It is a small price to pay for a happy outcome.”
“Then you will not abandon Mary?” she asked anxiously.
He shook his head. “No, Madam. But I have today sent her the list of articles she is to sign, with a politic letter, written with a view to making her comply. If you read it, you would think the worst of me, and I would not incur the odium of such a gracious lady.” He sketched a courtly little bow. “That is why I have come to explain myself.”
“What have you written?” she wanted to know, intrigued.
He hesitated for a moment. “I deplored her unfilial stand against the King her father. I said I was as much ashamed of what I have said to her as a friend as afraid of what I have done for her. I told her that, with her folly, she will undo herself and all who have wished her well. I said—forgive me, Madam—that I think her the most obstinate and obdurate woman that ever was, and that I will only venture to intercede for her with the King if she signs the articles. I warned her I could not vouchsafe her any hope of escaping her father’s wrath, and would never think otherwise of her than as the most ungrateful daughter to her dear and benign father.” He paused. “You understand why I had to write thus. Not only must she be made to see the error of her ways, but the King will see the letter. I cannot be seen to be her friend.”
“Of course. I pray she will take heed. Thank you for coming to tell me this, Master Cromwell. I cannot say how much I appreciate your masterly efforts.”
Cromwell bowed. “I am always happy to be of service, Madam.”
* * *
—
At dinner the next day, Henry was in a foul temper. He came in limping and flung a piece of paper on the table. “Read that!” he commanded.
It was a letter from Mary.
I congratulate your Grace on the comfortable tidings of your marriage and beg leave to wait upon Queen Jane, or do her Grace such service as it shall please her to command me, which my heart shall be as ready and obedient to fulfill as the most humble servant that she has. I trust, by your Grace’s mercy, to come soon into your presence, which shall be the greatest comfort I can have in this world, having a great hope in your Grace’s natural pity. I pray that God will send your Grace shortly a prince, at which no creature living would more rejoice than I.
“She expresses all the right sentiments,” Jane observed. “I cannot doubt that she is sincere, and that she is longing to be forgiven by you.”
Henry snorted.
“What will you say to her?” she asked.
“I do not intend to reply,” he said. “I feel no natural pity for her, and I will not receive her again unless she puts her signature to the articles that have been sent her.”
Jane was silent. They had reached an impasse. Henry was determined to be obeyed. But, much as she craved his love, Mary was stubborn. She believed she would be risking her immortal soul by betraying her mother’s memory, and that was entirely understandable. Yet could she not see that she was on a headlong course to disaster?
“I do hope that she will sign,” she replied.
“She had best do so, if she has any sense,” Henry growled. “I have Chapuys badgering me night and day, bleating about the alliance and what the Emperor will say if she defies me and I punish her for it. I told him I will not have anyone interfering in what passes between me and my daughter, or undermining my laws. I recognize no superior, and I will not have anyone imagine that I can be led by force or fear.”
“I am sure that the Emperor must realize that, Henry. He has not made any threats, has he?”
“No. But I lived under the threat of war on Katherine’s account. I do not intend to have my daughter put me in the same case.”
* * *
—
After dinner, Henry suggested a walk in the privy garden. His anger had burned itself out, and Jane suspected he was regretting venting it on her. As they wandered along the gravel path between the rose bushes, he took her hand.
“You must forgive me, Jane. I am a rough man when I don’t mean to be, especially with you, darling.”
“I understand that you were upset about Mary,” she said, noticing again that he was limping. In bed, she had seen the old wound on his leg and not liked the look of it. “Are you in pain?”
“Yes,” he admitted. “My leg has been playing up lately. My physicians say it has become infected. I was going to play tennis this morning, but I was too lame. I’m sorry, it was that too which put me in a bad humor.”
“Do the physicians say how long it will take to heal?”
“Not long. They have put on a poultice and bound it up. At least I can walk.”
They sat in the shade of a mulberry tree, Jane with her embroidery and Henry with his book, a theological tome on transubstantiation.
“I
have always loved theology,” he told her. “There’s nothing better than a good debate. And now I am the spiritual father of my people, and ought to be conversant with doctrine.”
“I have heard that you know more than most doctors about Scripture,” Jane said.
“That may be so!” He looked pleased. “I could trounce several I could name in an argument!” His arm curled around her and she turned her face to his. They kissed, and then he resumed reading his book. They sat there in companionable silence.
* * *
—
The next day, Jane summoned her head gardener, Master Chapman, and asked him to escort her and her mother around her privy garden. It was laid out in the shape of a knot, with low box hedges in an intricate design around a fountain at the center, and colored railings in the Tudor colors of green and white marking the boundary. Jane’s panther emblem perched snarling on its hind legs atop a pole at the entrance.
“I would like more flower beds,” she told the gardener, “and some fragrant herbs. Maybe you could lay these out on the other side of the outer path.”
He looked at her with interest. “That would be a new idea, Madam.”
“It’s just that I love the scent of flowers.”
“You should see her garden at home,” Mother told him.
“I made it myself,” Jane said. Chapman looked impressed, and she sensed in him a kindred spirit. “I should like to work in this garden too, from time to time, if I would not be trespassing on your territory.”
He seemed surprised. “Whatever your Grace pleases.”
She was aware of Mother curtseying low. The King was approaching, not limping as badly as he had been. In his arms he carried a little white poodle wearing a velvet collar.
“For you,” he said, beaming at Jane.
“Oh, it’s adorable!” she cried, as he placed it in her embrace. The little thing nuzzled her hand as she petted it. “Your Grace spoils me.”
“It is my pleasure,” he declared.
She put the dog on the path and immediately it ran over to the hedge and lifted its leg. They all laughed.
“What will you call him?” Henry asked.
Jane thought for a while. “I rather like Noble, because he looks it.”
“Noble he is, then,” Henry said. “A most fitting name.”
* * *
—
Noble was sleeping on a cushion by the silk fire-screen in the empty hearth when Henry arrived for supper that evening. He bent down and fondled the dog’s silky ears before joining Jane at table. “I have another gift for you,” he said, and placed in her hands a magnificent ruby pendant in a setting of gold acanthus leaves. “Master Holbein designed it,” he told her. “I had it made specially for you.”
“It’s stunning,” she said, gazing at it in wonder. “How can I ever thank you for all the gifts and blessings you shower upon me? Truly, this is exquisite. Master Holbein is a most versatile artist.”
“There is nothing to which he cannot turn his hand,” Henry said. “Let me put it on for you.” He rose, draped Jane’s veil over her hood so that it lay in the fashionable whelk-shell manner, and did up the clasp of the pendant. His hand snaked down to where her breast rose plumply from her bodice, and briefly caressed it. A warm feeling crept through her. They would be lovers tonight, she knew. Perhaps, God willing, she would conceive another child.
“I want Holbein to paint you,” Henry said, resuming his seat. “A coronation portrait. I’ve started to make plans for your crowning. It is customary for kings and queens to lodge in the Tower before they are crowned, but the Queen’s lodgings there have been stripped of their contents.” They were both silent for a space, with the specter of Anne between them. Those rooms had been emptied after she left them for the last time. “I’m having an inventory of the furniture you will need drawn up,” Henry said.
Jane felt a tremor. She did not want to stay in those lodgings. Anne’s misery and terror would be imprinted on the walls. “You will be there with me?” she asked.
Henry understood her reluctance, she was sure of it. “You may sleep in my chamber, in the King’s lodgings,” he told her. Then abruptly he changed the subject. “Parliament meets next month. Its chief business will be to settle the succession on our children.”
“I am praying daily that God will send us a son,” Jane said, thinking of that lost little one with a pang.
“He will,” Henry assured her. “He smiles on this marriage, I feel certain.”
“I do hope so,” she murmured.
* * *
—
The next day was one of glorious sunshine, and Henry woke early. “Fine weather for hawking!” he declared, eager to be up and ready for sport.
“I will ride out with you, if it pleases you,” Jane said. The prospect of a day in the saddle was enticing. She could almost feel the wind in her hair.
“No, darling,” Henry said. “It is too soon after your miscarriage.”
She subsided back on the pillow in dismay, foreseeing that she might never get on a horse again. Henry bent over and kissed her. “Why not go for a trip along the river?” he suggested. “Or take some food into the park with your ladies?”
That brought back the uncomfortable memory of the last time she had been in Greenwich Park, and what she had seen there.
“I might go on the river,” she said.
“Then I wish you a good day,” he said, eager to be gone. “I will send your women in to you.”
“I think I will have a bath,” she declared, but he had gone.
When the door closed behind him, Noble scrambled onto her bed, and she lay there cuddling him while her bath was prepared. Bored, she jumped up and opened the window, letting the morning breeze stream in with the sun’s rays. Below, in the garden, Lady Rutland was sitting on a bench with Bess Holland. Their voices drifted upward.
“And do you know what I heard the King say, before he left this morning?” Eleanor said. “I was giving instruction to two of the new chambers and he saw us and said this was the second time he had met them, and that he was sorry that he had not seen them before he was married. He said it in jest, of course, but I did wonder.”
Jane swallowed. It would have been in jest, surely. It was the kind of thing Henry would say.
“You know the old adage, though,” Bess replied. “Marry in haste—”
“And it was in haste!” Eleanor interrupted. “People are saying that the King caused his wife and the others to be executed only for his pleasure, and that he was made sure to the Queen’s Grace six months before.”
“Don’t listen to them,” said a voice in Jane’s ear. It was Mother, come up behind her to say her bath was ready.
“And I was trying to make friends with Lady Rutland,” Jane said bitterly.
“I wouldn’t waste time on her,” Mother retorted.
“But it’s sedition.”
“Report her to the King then, child, or deal with her yourself.”
That decided Jane. “Will you ask someone to send her up to me?”
“With pleasure,” Mother declared.
The bath could wait. Jane put her night robe on and sat down in the high-backed chair by the hearth. Mother seated herself firmly on the smaller chair on the other side. “Countess or not, I’ll see she shows you proper respect,” she stated.
“You sent for me, your Grace?” Lady Rutland sank into a curtsey.
“Yes.” Jane was deliberately cool. “Could you explain to me why you spread unseemly gossip and sedition against the King and me?”
Lady Rutland colored. “I do not understand what you mean, Madam.”
“I heard your conversation with Bess Holland just now. I do not appreciate such vile insinuations, and I doubt that the King would. I have tried to be your friend, but I see I have troubled myself for
nothing.”
The Countess looked afraid. “I am sorry, your Grace. It was but idle gossip.”
“People have been locked up for less. And it was all lies.”
Mother nodded severely.
Eleanor Rutland fell to her knees. “Please do not dismiss me, Madam. It would bring great shame on my husband.”
Jane sighed. Her anger was abating, and she did not want an unpleasant atmosphere in her household. “I do not intend to dismiss you, my lady. God knows I have few enough with whom I can be friends. The Lady Margaret and Lady Monteagle are congenial company. Why not let us all be merry together, and loyal? Do you think you can manage that?”
Eleanor seized her hands and kissed them. “Oh, Madam, I will try. I have listened to too much gossip, and I am truly sorry for it. I too am of the old faith. I rejoiced when you became queen, really I did, but when you made it clear there was to be a distance between you and those who serve you, unlike with Queen Anne, I heeded those who were put out by it. They called you haughty and arrogant.”
“The very idea!” Mother snorted. “She is the Queen now. What did they expect?”
“I know,” Jane said, loosening Eleanor’s hands. “I regret that distance, but it exists, and Queen Katherine observed it without attracting any criticism. But I was not born royal, as she was, and I fear that the late Queen’s lax ways did me no favors. Now, let us put this behind us. My bath is waiting.”
Eleanor rose and curtseyed low. “Thank you, Madam,” she said fervently, and left.
“You won’t have any more trouble with that one,” Mother said. “And I’m relieved, because I have to tell you that Father and I are returning to Wulfhall. He is not well, as you know.”
Jane faced her. “I do. Try to get him to see a doctor, Mother. I am worried about him, and so is the King. He has offered the services of his own physician.”
“Bless him. I am worried too,” Mother admitted. “I am hoping that, with a rest in the country, and lots of healthy air, your father will amend.”
