by Alison Weir
Jane was barely listening. All she could think of was that Henry was going miles from her to face danger.
* * *
—
He was not going. She could not hide her relief.
Huffing with annoyance and disappointment, he sat down dejectedly in the window embrasure in her chamber. “The fact is that I cannot raise sufficient forces in the little time I have. So I am sending Norfolk and Suffolk north with those men I have mustered, and ordered them to use conciliatory measures before resorting to force. Scoundrel he may be, but Norfolk’s a fine general, and Suffolk is stoutly loyal. A rabble of peasants with scythes and billhooks will be no match for those two. I am confident that they will crush the rebels.”
“It rejoices me so much to hear that you are not going north,” Jane said, reaching out for his hand.
“I wanted to lead my men in person,” he scowled, “and teach those rebels a lesson. I will not have my laws subverted and mocked!”
* * *
—
She was returning to her apartments when a man stepped out of the shadows.
“Messire Chapuys!” she gasped. “You gave me a fright!”
“I am sorry, your Grace,” he said, bowing, “but this Pilgrimage of Grace is most worrying. It could cost the King his throne, you realize.”
Yes, that had occurred to her, in the darkest hours of the night. “He is taking strong measures to deal with it,” she said.
“I am aware of that. But Madam, the whole dangerous situation could be defused if only he would listen to reason. Has your Grace spoken to him, as you promised?”
“Not yet,” she admitted, forbearing to say that Henry had been so angry lately that she had feared to do so.
“Then I beg of you, speak now! Do it tomorrow, when everyone is listening.”
Tomorrow she would be enthroned beside Henry beneath the canopy of estate in his presence chamber. The whole court would be assembled to hear him declare how he meant to deal with the rebels.
Dared she do it? She trembled at the very idea.
Chapuys had noted her hesitation. “I will be there, Madam, and many who wish you well and would see the monasteries restored.”
He was surely exaggerating. She was aware of the stampede of courtiers clamoring to buy monastic estates and property. Yet there must be some, like herself, who secretly deplored the Dissolution. And she was really their last hope—unless the rebels prevailed.
“I will do it,” she said resolutely. Chapuys smiled.
* * *
—
She sat there, decked out in her finery, looking down on the sea of bared heads, and listening as Henry spoke from the throne, outlining the actions to be taken in his name by Norfolk and Suffolk. Her heart was thumping so loudly she was sure he could hear it, and her hands were clammy with sweat. In a moment, he would finish, and then she must make her plea. If she did not do it now, the moment would be lost.
They were applauding him, their cheers resounding around the ornate chamber. He sat there acknowledging them, hands firmly grasping the arms of his chair, determination in his face. She saw Chapuys watching her, smiling encouragement.
Now. As she stood up, a hush descended. Henry looked at her in surprise, then his brow furrowed as she fell on her knees before him. Not a whisper could be heard. As she took a deep breath, she could sense people leaning forward to hear what she had to say.
“Sir,” she said. “Sir…” The words would not come out. She cleared her throat. “Sir, I beg you, for the sake of peace and of those of your loving subjects who regret the passing of the old ways, please think kindly upon the monasteries. I urge you to restore those you have closed. It is wrong for subjects to rebel against their Prince, but perhaps God has permitted this rebellion as a punishment for the ruin of so many churches.”
She broke off, realizing that Henry was shaking with fury. “You forget yourself, Madam!” he snarled. “This has nothing to do with you. I might remind you that the last Queen died in consequence of meddling too much in state affairs. Go and attend to other things!” He pointed to the great doors.
She had gone too far. Mortified, her face flaming, and her heart juddering as if it were breaking, she rose unsteadily to her feet and curtseyed. Then she hastened through the throng, the ranks of courtiers parting for her, staring, smiling, murmuring behind their hands. Her ladies hastened after her, and she slowed her pace in an attempt to retrieve her dignity.
She had forfeited his love, she knew it. Back in her lodgings, she threw herself on her bed and wept. So much for Henry’s trust in her wisdom! He had put her down as he might swat a fly. That he could speak to the mother of his child so! She should have learned her lesson before, that his kingly authority meant more to him than anything, or anyone. It was Anne who had made him like this, and now he would no longer allow any woman to have it in her power to rule him. Well, never again would she interfere in politics. She would make that clear to Chapuys and everyone else. She would keep her head down, nurse her broken heart in silence, be adoring, respectful and submissive, and attend to domestic affairs. It was the only way to retain Henry’s favor.
Eleanor Rutland tapped on her door. “Your Grace, the Prioress of Clementhorpe is here to beg your aid in saving her convent.”
Jane dabbed at her eyes. “Tell her I can do nothing,” she called.
* * *
—
She was surprised to see Henry that night. She had gone to bed feeling fragile, with his words ringing in her ears, and was trying ineffectively to sleep. Then Mary Monteagle was at her bedside. “The King is here, Madam.”
Mary vanished as Henry entered. He was wearing his velvet night robe and cap, and a very mournful expression. He came and sat on the bed.
“I am sorry for my anger today, Jane, but you should not have interfered in a political matter that does not concern you.”
She was about to explain her motives when she realized that she had best hold her tongue. He had apologized; she must show herself contrite. “I am truly sorry to have so offended you,” she said, feeling the tears welling up. “I thought I had forfeited your love, which means more to me than anything on this earth.”
“Darling, that could never be!” he said, grasping her hand. “I know you spoke out of sincere conviction, even if it was misguided, but I cannot have my Queen questioning my policies. St. Paul says a wife should keep silence and learn from her husband.”
“As I intend always to do,” she told him.
“Then we are friends again.” He smiled, shrugging off his robe and climbing into bed. “And to cheer you further, I have sent for Mary.”
“Nothing after our reconciliation tonight could give me more pleasure!” she declared, feeling infinitely relieved. It had been anger and embarrassment, nothing more, that had made him speak brutally to her, and it had been an error of judgment to make her plea in public. There had been no need for heartbreak. Now his hand was on her stomach.
“I hope the little one quickens soon,” he whispered.
Chapter 31
1536
As the dukes rode north, news of Mary’s imminent arrival at court spread, and crowds gathered at the gates of Windsor, where apartments were being prepared for her. When Henry summoned her old governess, Lady Salisbury, back to court, the people cheered her, and Jane made a point of inviting this venerable old lady to drink wine with her and tell her about the old days. She had been in awe of the Countess back then, for the former Margaret Pole had royal Plantagenet blood, and was a peer in her own right; but now she was glad of her very congenial and spirited company. Together they ensured that all was in place for Mary’s coming.
* * *
—
It had turned cold at last and the plague was mercifully abating. Jane stood with Henry by the roaring fire in the presence chamber, waiting to receive
Mary, their courtiers crammed into the vast apartment, all agog to see the King formally receive his daughter back into favor. Mary appeared in the doorway, dressed in the rich clothes he had provided; behind her was the train of gorgeously attired ladies he had appointed. She curtseyed twice, at the door and once in the middle of the chamber, and then fell to her knees before the King.
“Sir,” she said nervously, “I do crave your fatherly blessing.”
“And I do readily give it, my well-beloved daughter,” Henry replied, taking her hands, raising her and kissing her with evident affection.
Jane also embraced and kissed her, noting that Mary looked drained, and that she was trembling. “You are most welcome here!” she said.
Henry turned to the Privy councillors standing nearby. “Some of you were desirous that I should put this jewel to death!”
Jane cringed at his tactlessness. Mary should not be hearing this! “That would have been a great pity, to have lost your chief jewel in England,” she said quickly.
Henry smiled. “No, no!” he replied, and patted her belly in full view of everyone. “Edward!” He could not contain himself. “Edward!”
She felt herself blushing. She had not quickened yet, so he ought not to have revealed their secret. And they had not even discussed a name! She was aware of people staring at her, and the hubbub of murmuring.
Just then, her attention was caught by Mary, who was swaying on her feet, her face deathly pale. Before Jane could reach out to steady her, the Princess had collapsed in a faint. Uproar broke out. A worried Henry was on his knees, begging his daughter to come to her senses and patting her cheeks. “Send for the physicians!” he cried.
“And for a cool damp cloth and some wine!” Jane called. Mary opened her eyes and stared around, bewildered.
“Be of good cheer, daughter,” Henry said. “All is well, and nothing now will go against you.” Jane gently mopped Mary’s forehead with the cloth, and soon the color came back into her cheeks. Henry raised her to her feet, took her by the hand and walked up and down with her until she was herself again. Then he commanded her ladies to take her back to her lodgings.
After resting, Mary joined Henry and Jane for a private supper. She did not eat much, and seemed tense.
“Mary, there is no cause now to fear,” Henry reassured her. “She who did you so much harm and prevented me from seeing you for so long has paid the penalty.”
Mary looked at him uncertainly. He had conveniently forgotten how he had hounded her into submission after Anne’s death.
“To please you, I want you to have these,” he said, and handed over a small gold chest that had been sitting beside his plate. Mary opened it. “These were my mother’s personal jewels,” she said in wonder. She held up a thick strand of pearls. Then she frowned. “But this cross—this was hers.” She said the word with such venom that Jane was startled.
“So it is fitting that you should have it,” Henry said. “Compensation for what that woman made you suffer. I am giving half her jewels to you, and half to Elizabeth.”
“Thank you, Sir,” Mary said. “I am overjoyed to have my mother’s, but you will forgive me if I do not wear these.”
“We understand,” Jane said, before Henry could speak.
“Sell them, if you wish,” Henry added. “But you will need a goodly collection of jewels since, at your stepmother’s request, I am assigning you lodgings at Hampton Court and Greenwich and my other great houses.”
Jane extended a hand to Mary. “And we will be friends. You shall have precedence over all other ladies, being first after myself.”
Mary smiled back. There were tears in her eyes.
* * *
—
As the days passed, Henry grew tense waiting for news from the north. “The dukes should be there by now,” he said. “I would I knew what was happening.”
Jane was worrying about her sister. Lizzie had not replied to her letter; maybe she had not even received it. And if Mother and Father, down at Wulfhall, were aware of the threat from the Pilgrimage of Grace, they would be fretting too—and for Jane’s safety. For if the worst happened, and Henry was overthrown, what would happen to her?
To divert herself from her fears, she asked Henry if Elizabeth might be brought to court, and he agreed. Elizabeth would be safer in Windsor than north of London at Hatfield or Ashridge. The child arrived accompanied by Lady Bryan and a new gentlewoman, Kate Champernowne, whose beautiful sister Joan had served alongside Jane in Queen Katherine’s household. Kate was round-faced and snub-nosed, nowhere near as lovely as Joan, but she was kindly and exceptionally well educated—and good with Elizabeth.
They were to dine with Henry’s daughters today. Jane took Mary by the hand, walking alongside her as an equal. At the door to the presence chamber, Mary stood back to let Jane go first.
Jane shook her head. “No,” she said, “we will go in together.”
Mary waited behind Jane’s chair as they all stood for the fanfare announcing the arrival of the King, and remained standing until he was seated. Basins were brought so that Henry and Jane could wash their hands, and Mary performed the duty of presenting napkins, so that they could dry them. Then she seated herself at the high table, a little lower down than Jane. Elizabeth, placed at a table set at right angles to the dais, demonstrated perfect manners, but showed off from time to time, with Henry looking on indulgently.
Most of the time, Elizabeth remained in her apartments, where Jane sometimes visited her and played with her, as did Mary and Lady Salisbury, whom Mary regarded almost as a second mother. It was wonderful to see Mary rejoicing at the reversal in her fortunes, delighting in the fine clothes that had replaced her old, worn gowns, and the money she now had to lavish on her charities and reward those who had done her kindnesses. At last she was living as a young royal lady of twenty should, hunting, gambling, dancing, playing music and laughing at the antics of Janie, her new woman fool.
Henry enjoyed Janie’s jests too. One evening she had him nearly crying with mirth.
“God, that woman’s jokes are priceless!” He chuckled.
“What do you get when you cross an owl and a rooster?” Janie asked, reveling in her sovereign’s admiration.
“Tell us!” he commanded.
“A cock that stays up all night long!” She grinned archly. That set them all giggling again, but Mary looked puzzled.
“I don’t think she understands it,” Jane murmured. “She seems to be innocent of men. She knows no foul or unclean speech.”
“I don’t believe it,” Henry replied. When Janie the Fool had finished, and the servants were making ready for the masque that was to follow, he beckoned Francis Bryan over. Bryan was dressed up as Theseus, bracing himself to slay the Minotaur. He looked even more like a satyr. “Francis, the Queen says my daughter is an innocent, but I cannot credit it,” Henry said. “Dance with her. Test her virtue for me. Use a word that might make her blush.”
“Sir, that is unkind!” Jane reproved gently.
“It will do her no harm,” Henry said. “Don’t be too rude, Francis.”
Bryan grinned and went away to take his place, ready for the masque. When the dancing began, Jane watched him bow to Mary and lead her out to the floor. Mary was smiling and gracious. She did not look offended by anything he said.
Soon afterward, Bryan returned to the King. “I don’t believe it,” he muttered. “I asked the Lady Mary if she would like to see my yard, as it was very impressive. She said, with perfect guilelessness, that she had not known that any courtier lodgings had yards, and that she would like to see it but it would be more proper if she brought her ladies with her. I don’t know how I stopped myself from laughing.”
“Francis, you are a villain!” Jane exclaimed.
“By God, she is innocent!” Henry declared.
She was not only
innocent, but damaged. The torments occasioned by the Great Matter, the loss of her beloved mother and her forced submission had taken their toll. Jane knew that all Mary longed for, more even than being restored to the succession, was a husband and children; yet Henry had so far failed to arrange a marriage for her. Jane was of the opinion that all these factors accounted for Mary’s various vague but debilitating illnesses and her women’s problems, about which she could not speak without blushing furiously. She even blushed when Jane asked if she would like her to press the King to find her a suitable match.
“I am a bastard, Madam!” she cried, with tears in her eyes. “No prince will want me, and there is little likelihood that my father will allow me to marry a commoner. I must face the fact that while he lives, I will only be the Lady Mary, the unhappiest lady in Christendom.” And nothing Jane said could comfort her.
She spoke to Henry about it.
“I will think on the matter,” he said. “But let’s wait until after young Edward is born. Then I will feel happier about Mary marrying, because her husband could not have designs on my throne.”
* * *
—
Jane was feeling well, if a little tired, so she was appalled, at dinner one day early in November, to feel a stickiness between her legs.
“If you will excuse me, I feel a little faint,” she told Henry.
He was all concern. “Go and lie down, darling. Ladies, look to the Queen!”
It was as she had feared. The babe was bleeding away from her. Mary Monteagle, who was attending her at the close stool, brought cloths and comforted her as she sat there, weeping inconsolably.
