by Diane Haeger
He ran a hand down the front of his own velvet doublet admiringly. Still, had silly little Jane not at least carved out one unexpected niche? He had seen her strolling in the garden in the company of Elizabeth Carew and Anne Stanhope a number of times these past few days. For whatever inane reason, Mother wanted Jane to remain at court, so that was how it would be, and he must find some way to make use of her.
As they ambled along, Edward glanced ahead at the petite and alluring Anne Stanhope, her body poured so neatly into a tight blue velvet dress with a ribbon of lace at her breast to draw the eye. And it certainly did that. She could not be more different from his sister, Edward thought admiringly. Anne was a tart little thing, luscious enough to take the sting away from what his whore of a wife had done, if only he could get her to notice him.
It had been ages since he had been able to even think of a woman without wanting to murder his wife. That was the damage Catherine Filliol had done to him. She had stabbed him in the heart with his own father as the dagger. Bastard. Edward cleared his throat and shook his head to chase away the thought. He was not the most handsome man at this court, not by a fair distance, but unlike Jane, Edward knew how to utilize and enhance what assets he had been given, and he had risen here because of it. One of those assets was self-control.
Even if he did fancy Anne Stanhope, he would never allow himself to be reduced the way the king was, chasing after Anne Boleyn, nipping at her heels like one of her lapdogs for a bit of pleasure. His behavior was unseemly. If there was to be another romance for Edward Seymour, it would be calculated. He would have absolute dominance.
He found his younger brother, Thomas, in the library of his benefactor and Edward’s companion, Sir Francis Bryan, finishing the last of a stack of letters. The two had just returned from France, and there were thank-you notes to be written. Edward was happy to have a trustworthy family face back at court, especially with things so swiftly moving forward with Anne Boleyn.
There was a tidal wave of change and Edward could see how easy it might be to be swept up in it, and swallowed, if one were not careful. And very clever. Fortunately for the Seymour family, Edward fancied himself both of those things. His younger brother, Thomas, though far more handsome, had always been in awe of that.
Thomas stood with an expression of surprise as Edward swept confidently into the room, velvet cape swirling at his trim waist. “Brother, I thought you were attending Sir Francis and the king,” Thomas said as he looked up from his desk and the pale light played across his face in the small, stuffy mahogany library. It was furnished with only a chair, a shelf of books, and a desk littered with a pot of ink, a shaker of blotting sand, goose-quill pens, and stack of paper.
“That was then; this is now. We must discuss our sister.”
“Jane?”
“Have we another worth discussing now that Elizabeth is married to a useless land baron?” Edward snapped.
“You need not be petulant. Better you get right to the point.”
Edward glanced around the small room appraisingly, then helped himself to the single leather chair, from which Thomas had just risen. He glanced down at the unfinished letter on the writing desk. Thomas had been writing to someone on Francis Bryan’s behalf. The wording was full of flattery and the letter had been surprisingly well crafted. Edward’s sense of rivalry only increased on seeing it, and he struggled to maintain his composure.
“The point is, Sir Thomas Boleyn and George, that irritatingly smug son of his, are moving fast with the king now that His Majesty has abandoned all reserve with Mistress Anne.”
“That concerns us how, precisely?” Thomas asked with a tone of minimal interest.
“The Boleyns cannot be the only family who know how to utilize their daughter for gain.”
“But, by my lord, who here would want Jane?”
“You are handsome, Thomas, I shall give you that.” He shook his head disparagingly. “You have just never been clever enough to match that promise. Look not always to the likely path. Sometimes, brother, you must forge your own. Obviously Jane shall not do us any good in attracting a powerful husband. But our dutiful little sibling could help us to the king through his mistress.”
“I fail to see your point, brother,” Thomas said.
“If the whispers of divorce become a roar, and Jane is still seen in the queen’s camp, we are all doomed. But if Jane could find a reason to abandon that sinking ship and ingratiate herself with Mistress Boleyn, the future for all of us would be limitless.”
“Has our poor, dear sister the ability to ingratiate herself with anyone? She seems not to have much of a voice. Certainly she has no presence,” Thomas observed.
“You might feel differently if you had earlier heard her with the king and Mistress Boleyn.”
“Jane spoke to them?”
“She did, rather boldly, I might say, for our ‘little mouse,’ as they are calling her, which is what gave me the idea in the first place.”
There was a small silence before Thomas spoke again. “So have you a plan in mind? Jane is such a loyal girl, I cannot imagine her abandoning the queen, especially for the rival.”
“She can complain all she wants, but Jane will do what is right for this family in the end,” said Edward. “We all will.”
That night, wanting a bit of naughty fun, a few of the king’s friends slipped away from the palace and rode into the village to find simpler women, a few more laughs, and a lot of ale. In the hot and smoky village inn, beneath the low-beamed ceiling and beside the huge, soot-stained fireplace, Edward waited for just the right moment. Through the candle smoke, the rousing music, and the raucous laughter, he could see that Francis Bryan was quite drunk.
“So will it be divorce for certain, or do you think it is just an idle threat?” Edward asked with a drunken smile, holding up a scratched pewter tankard as if he had asked the name of the tune rather than inquired pointedly about the future of the entire realm.
Edward watched his cousin take a thoughtful swallow of ale and gaze out across the crowded room, which was crowded with stout village women in simple dresses and white caps straddling men’s laps and kissing them playfully to the tune of a fiddle and pipe.
“’Tis not for popular consumption as yet, my good cousin, but I am to accompany His Grace, Cardinal Wolsey, to France in two days’ time to meet quietly with Pope Clement and the French sovereign, Francis I, about that very matter.”
Edward leaned back in his chair. “So the fat is truly in the fire, then?”
“For the queen, ’twould seem so, yes. The Duke of Norfolk boasts quite forcefully, when he is among friends, that his niece Mistress Boleyn refers privately to herself as ‘She Who Will Be Queen.’ I grant you, she has a long road ahead, but by the look of things, if there is a way to divorce, I do not doubt she will be just that.”
“Then I shall needs bite my tongue at George Boleyn’s pathetic humor, and you shall needs aid our Jane in securing a firm place with Mistress Anne. If you are correct about a divorce, that small bit of planning might one day save us all.”
“We are good by George Boleyn. He rather fancies me an elder statesman, or a kind of pleasant uncle since the Duke of Norfolk is such an insufferable cur. But I shall see to it that your brother, Thomas, accompanies me to France again, if ’twould soothe your worry about it.”
“I see it as a great favor to the family, cousin.” Edward nodded deferentially because he knew he was meant to. “And Jane, then?”
Francis adjusted the little strap for his eye patch, drained his tankard, and slapped it back onto the wet, rough-hewn tabletop covered in great plates of half-eaten food. Fat, unshaven village men in ragged work clothes, straight from the fields and stables, hunched over the table drunkenly.
“I shall put in a word for Jane as well with Mistress Boleyn’s brother, but I must wait for the right moment. The more astute women in the queen’s suite, as well as some of the more ambitious families, have already begun quietly to cla
mor in our direction since Mistress Boleyn last returned from Hever Castle. In the meantime, you would do well to advise your sister to stand out in any way she can, for there shall be a dozen others quite willing to press past her for a place in Mistress Boleyn’s retinue, and I know Jane is not, shall we say, well acquainted with ambition,” Francis said in a slightly drunken slur.
“I shall set my sister down the right path,” Edward promised, “if you make certain there is a place for her at the end when she gets there.”
“I favor Jane. I always have. I am not at all certain she is suited to tolerate Mistress Boleyn or her tirades, however. But for family, I shall do what I can.”
“For family,” Edward echoed as he raised his tankard again, this time in a toast to the Seymour family’s one real ally, who he was determined would make them all famous.
Jane ascended a back flight of stairs up a rounded turret in the south wing of Richmond Palace. She was following a summons to attend Anne Boleyn at dressing. She had been given no choice by Edward, who, at last, had come to see her with the command. In spite of the momentary burst of anger she had felt against her indifferent brother in the king’s presence, she still felt meek with Edward.
Once, long ago, her brother had represented everything mysterious and exciting in the world. But she liked the queen as much as pitied her, and her heart was heavy with regret as she followed her brother’s orders to attend the queen’s rival.
Suddenly, as she turned into the corridor, a man sprinted toward Jane from the shadows.
He was moving so quickly that she did not know who it was until he was nearly upon her. She recognized Thomas Wyatt’s face, handsome in a feminine sort of way. He was smiling and chuckling to himself like an errant child. He was holding something gold suspended from a chain that flashed in the torchlight as they passed each other. For an instant, their eyes locked. Then, as always, Jane modestly dropped her gaze. Still, before she did, she saw that it was Anne Boleyn’s pendant from the king that he held.
From the childish delight in his eyes, she gathered it was stolen. The moment ended quickly as Wyatt passed her, and Jane moved through the next corridor toward Anne Boleyn’s small sitting room. She was surprised to see that the king’s guards were now posted there, as if she were already queen. The sound of Anne’s screeching, and the sight of her charging through the room, her face full of fury, took the moment over entirely. She was in a state of panic.
“I understand this not at all!” she bellowed. “I gave the pendant directly to you, Mary.”
“And I took it with great care, sister,” Mary Boleyn said, hands outstretched in a half-pleading gesture, her face white with panic.
Mary was standing with George Boleyn’s wife, Jane Parker, and Thomas Wyatt’s sister Margaret beneath a tapestry depicting the Annunciation as Anne charged at Mary. “I ask you to do one simple thing, only one, and you botch that! For all I know, you did it on purpose to make me look bad before the king! You would like that, would you not?”
“I have no wish at all to harm your position, sister.”
“As if you ever truly could!” Anne brayed. “Make no mistake, Mary, I will be queen and anyone who would undermine me shall rue the day! Even you!”
It was a wide-eyed threat, but Anne’s face was not mottled red now. Rather Jane saw that it was as white as alabaster and frighteningly cold with determination. The voice inside Jane’s head was loud and insistent. Speak out about Wyatt! Mary is your friend, or as close to one as you have ever had! But her throat took control, closing over. I cannot speak. I am no one. Who would believe me anyway in the shadow of a woman like her?
Jane despised Anne a little more with each incident, and as her gaze slid to Mary, who was a victim of a more powerful, dominant sibling, Jane thought how it was not so different from the way she felt about Edward. In that, she and Mary were kindred spirits, each a gentle cloud surviving in the shadow of a bold sun’s bright rays.
“If I discover that you have betrayed me, sister, perhaps hidden my pendant to make me look a fool, I do swear—”
“By my troth, I have not. You must move through your own course with the king and find your own way in it. With that, I shall not interfere.”
Sister versus sister. Different women in all ways, yet they had known the same goal. Then there was Bess Blount. Jane still marveled at how skillfully she had made her mark, then let him go when these two sisters had fought ardently for possession. One for his life, one for her memories of him. Skill seemed to Jane the key that had made the difference.
Hold not too tightly to that which you cannot truly possess.
The King of England seemed to Jane one of those things.
Later that day, she walked with Mary behind a group of Anne’s declared new ladies past the water gate and down to the mossy bank to ride along the river in the king’s grand, painted, banner-dotted barge. If it was possible, the king seemed to have dressed even more grandly today than the last time Jane had seen him. In magenta-colored satin with black velvet sashes, all of it jeweled, and wide fur-trimmed sleeves, he strode up to the rest of them, showing a slight limp. Still, Henry overshadowed everyone but Charles Brandon, who laughed with the king behind a raised hand.
Brandon was dressed in the same ornamented satin, which favored both himself and the king beneath the warm, gleaming sunshine. As little waves slapped gently at the stone pediment below their feet, Jane saw Thomas Wyatt casually approach Anne. He had timed it perfectly, waiting until the precise moment when Brandon and William Compton had the king in a jolly fit of laughter. When Wyatt turned to her, Jane saw, along with Anne, her pendant from the king around the poet’s neck. The gold, a high contrast to his unadorned black silk doublet, glittered in the sunlight. Her haughty smile quickly fell, and a shocked flush took its place.
“Give it back!” Jane heard Anne say.
“I’ll not,” he replied flirtatiously. “I rather like it.”
“’Twas a gift from the king,” she whispered urgently. “He shall have your head!”
“His Majesty loves these little court games and admires a skilled challenger.”
“Yes, but he loves me. I am no longer yours for the taking, nor are my gifts.”
“Ah, what a different tune you did sing but a month ago.”
“It might as well have been a lifetime! He cannot know about us. Those days are gone now. They must be!”
“I shall wager he will find amusement in the challenge. Especially since to do otherwise might incite the wrath of his wife and even his people,” he said.
“That would suppose his people would ever know the means by which you suddenly met your death, or left England.”
To Jane’s surprise, Wyatt chuckled, undaunted by Anne’s anger, seeing not danger but the game he was intentionally creating.
“Please, Thomas,” Anne urged in a throaty whisper. “I have nearly got him where I want him. Can you not understand?”
Pleading did not at all suit her, Jane thought a little mischievously as she casually scanned the group. Then the boatman had arrived and they prepared to cross the crimson carpet that led the way onto the barge. She saw then that the king noticed Anne talking clandestinely with Wyatt. The predicament seemed sinfully delicious to Jane, who could not wait to see what would happen next.
In a swirl of his jeweled, open-sleeved black satin cloak, the king was at Anne’s side. “Your pendant looks familiar, Wyatt,” the king said with a smile.
“I am humbled Your Majesty would find it remarkable.”
“It quite resembles one with which I am familiar.”
Their eyes met. Combatants. The king seemed at the moment to find humor in the game rather than an outright challenge.
“If it brings Your Highness pleasure, I would be honored to share.”
“There are some things, Wyatt, a man does not share,” the king declared on a pompous note, but his tone had sharpened slightly.
All eyes turned upon the encounter then as the king
’s reply settled on everyone. It felt to Jane like some great staged drama where the character of the king might at any moment lash out with a prop dagger and slash the contender to death as the audience cried out in mock terror. Breaking the intensity of the moment, Brandon signaled with a nod to the king that the barge had been opened and that the line of livery-clad oarsmen awaited their embarkation.
“Ah yes, time to depart. Everyone should know when something is at an end,” the king declared, leveling his incisive green-eyed gaze directly on Thomas Wyatt. He then wound Anne’s arm through his own and led the way cheerfully onto his barge, with Charles Brandon at his heels.
Thomas Wyatt, Nicholas Carew, and Francis Bryan were left standing beside Mary and Jane as the others began to follow Anne Boleyn and the king. They all heard William Compton’s quick exchange with the poet next.
“Do not be a fool, Wyatt,” Compton warned in a low voice. “You shall not win this one.”
“Nor shall she. He has a wife.”
“As do you.”
“I am not a king.”
“Precisely, my good man, precisely,” said Compton, the all-important Groom of the Stool.
Jane sat beside Mary on one of the long benches that ran the length of the barge and was cushioned in rich, Tudor green velvet stamped in gold fleur-de-lis, watching the king and Anne as they sat closely together in front. The oars rhythmically slapped the water, propelling them smoothly down the river as Jane tried to make sense of what had just happened back on the shore.
“Forgive me, but I saw that Master Wyatt took the pendant,” she quietly confessed to Mary Boleyn as Mary sat gazing straight ahead, seemingly a bit shaken. “I meant to defend you to her, but I simply could not find my voice.”
“Not many can when faced with my sister. She is like a force of nature.”
The breeze gently blew their richly decorated sleeves and the white gauze veils behind their French hoods.
