I, Jane: In The Court of Henry VIII

by Diane Haeger

  “Mayhap you should retire for the moment, Mistress Seymour,” offered Lady Rochford, Anne Boleyn’s sister-in-law. “We want nothing to upset the queen.”

  A bit late for that, Jane thought uncharitably, but again she displayed her reverence with another deep curtsy. At that very moment, when she would have taken her leave, the double doors to the queen’s bedchamber slammed back on their hinges, and the king himself strutted toward them in black velvet mourning clothes.

  “I shall be the judge of who shall retire!” he bellowed as he advanced toward the grand canopied bed, followed by Nicholas Carew, Francis Bryan, Charles Brandon, and William Brereton. Thomas Cromwell entered with them in his own dark swirl of black velvet, but he wisely lingered near the door.

  “How are you, my dear?” Henry asked his wife perfunctorily, and it was obvious that he cared little what her answer might be.

  “You imagine I would be how precisely after last evening? And now I am forced to face your whore as well by morning’s light!”

  Jane stood motionless as Henry’s face filled with crimson fury. “You need not blame someone else for what you brought upon yourself, woman!”

  “Are you suggesting that it is my fault that our son is lost to us?”

  “The blame certainly does not belong to Mistress Seymour, or any of your other ladies. You alone were the vessel for that boy!”

  Jane could not quite believe it when she saw Anne’s eyes fill with tears, even though her expression was still dark with anger. “Your neglect these past weeks has taken a toll, Hal. You must accept your part of the blame. Even though we shall have another son soon enough, we both must learn from our mistakes.”

  “I see, madam, that God does not mean to give me a male heir through you, no matter whom we choose to blame,” he said more coolly, entirely disregarding her entreaty as he turned to leave the room. He paused for just a moment when his glance met Jane’s. She knew it was wrong to delight in hearing his angry tone with Anne, but she could not quite help herself after everything.

  “When you are out of bed, I will speak to you. Have someone call for me then,” Henry grumbled. Then, having done his duty to see her, as he had once done for Katherine after her own miscarriages, he unceremoniously left the room. It was to the dismay of some, and the fear of others, who had been left to watch the exchange and wonder who would be victorious in this newest wrinkle in the tumultuous royal marriage.

  It was Lady Margaret Douglas who approached Jane after the king had gone. The queen’s most important ladies had gathered around her bedside, but not this influential woman. The expression on her face was stony. They had been cordial once, but Lady Douglas’s loyalty was most definitely to Queen Anne.

  “’Twould be best, Mistress Seymour, if you took your leave from the queen’s sight for now,” she said coolly.

  Thinking then only of her brothers’ positions and power base, Jane said, “Has my service displeased Her Highness?”

  “’Tis not your service, Mistress Seymour, but rather your insolence that has displeased the queen.”

  “Mistress Seymour is the least arrogant person at this court,” Lady Rochford suddenly defended, and Jane could not contain her surprise. George Boleyn’s wife rarely spoke to her. “She cannot be blamed for her friendship with the king.”

  “If it were only friendship that she was after, perhaps you would be correct, but I have seen enough royal mistresses come and go in my time to know the difference.”

  Perhaps you were one of them once? Jane thought, surprised herself at her own growing callousness toward Anne Boleyn and her defenders, and the scandal she would be starting if she allowed things with the king to continue.

  It was surprising to Jane how little fear she felt at that prospect.

  It was no more than a few minutes later, as she lingered absently at a task designed to keep her nearby but out of sight, that Edward and Thomas approached her.

  “Come away with us, sister, at least for now,” Edward said smoothly. “There is a family matter with which we must contend.” Both brothers were gazing at her casually, as if this had nothing whatsoever to do with the queen’s displeasure. But there was no mistaking that they had meant to pluck her from the volatile scene.

  Jane was angry by the time they reached the first corridor beyond the queen’s presence chamber. “What in blazes were the two of you thinking?” she snapped as they walked swiftly, flanking her, passing guards and servants, tapestries, and blazing wall sconces. “I cannot concede my place to her now!”

  “Nor can you miss an opportunity to closet with the king when he is alone and vulnerable, in need of a good friend’s private counsel,” said Thomas.

  “Where is he?” Jane asked as they descended the first flight of stairs along another vast, window-lined corridor.

  “At prayer in the Royal Chapel, not to be disturbed by anyone just now,” said Edward. “We took the liberty of following him after he left the queen.”

  “Then what would make you think he would wish me to disturb him?”

  “It is not a disturbance you will offer him but chaste female support, just as you have before. His Majesty is a vulnerable soul just now. Ambassador Chapuys’s spies said they thought they heard soft weeping, which was when we came to collect you.”

  Eustace Chapuys, the imperial ambassador to England, and Katherine of Aragon’s great and loyal friend, had been invited to return to court by Anne herself, who was still desperate to secure the emperor’s acknowledgment of her as queen. With his niece now deceased, the emperor, for his part, wanted an alliance with Henry badly enough to send Chapuys back into the fray. But the reality of the matter was that Chapuys did not like Anne, nor would he ever, and her camp realized that the ambassador would likely be working toward her downfall now that he was here. Jane’s brothers thus trusted Chapuys’s account of the king’s mood.

  When they came to the private door at the side of the chapel, Thomas carefully opened it. Then he turned back to his sister. “All that you have witnessed and endured has led you to this moment,” he said with quiet intensity. “We trust that you understand the vital importance of becoming indispensable to His Majesty, though not necessarily through your virtue.”

  Knowing her duty, she pressed rising questions from her mind and entered the small candlelit chapel. She saw Henry at the altar on his knees, his head lowered to his steepled, meaty hands. Filtered light poured over him in a kaleidoscope of color through the stained-glass oriel windows decorated with images of the saints. Jane was afraid to advance on him like this, but Edward nudged her forward, then closed the door on her. She stood motionless for a moment, listening to the king murmur. His words echoed through the small nave.

  “Forgive me. You were a good woman who deserved better than I gave you…I am still uncertain what came over me, or that I ever will know…By God’s grace, may you rest in peace, Katerina.”

  He sank back onto his heels as Jane approached him, and he looked up in surprise with tears brightening his moss green eyes.

  “Forgive me, Your Majesty.”

  “You must call me Henry. And there is nothing to forgive. I am glad you are here, Jane, though I know not how you passed beyond the guards.”

  “I took it upon myself to enter by the private door,” she lied because she did not want to implicate her brothers when she knew how much she would need their help in the coming days.

  “Resourceful as well.” He bit back the ghost of a smile and brushed his tears with the palms of his hands.

  “Are you all right?” she asked gently, almost caring.

  “Not at all, actually.” He took her hand and stood, then led her to the first pew behind them. The wood smelled strongly of beeswax, and the air was filled with incense and the prayers of ages. He sank back against the pew seat, still holding her hand. “I know not what happened to me, to my life, and the only thing that makes any sense to me now is that she is a witch who cast a spell upon me.” Jane knew he meant Anne. “Yet I can
not go back. I cannot change what I have done.”

  “’Tis true none of us can go back,” she said calmly, surprising herself with her tone, one that made her sound far more wise than she knew herself to be. “But we can all change the path we are on if we realize it is the wrong one.”

  “No one, it seems, but me has ever believed she was the true queen, which means with Katherine dead now, I am a widower. More appropriately, a never-married man. That is what I believe. But what do you believe, Jane?” His gaze was intense upon her and yet weary at the same time.

  “Oh, Your Majesty, surely I am not qualified to contemplate such things,” she demurred, lowering her eyes only slightly before she returned her gaze to his.

  “And yet I do very much want to know your thoughts, even so.”

  “You know well I was devoted to Queen Katherine, so perhaps I am not the most impartial voice on the matter.”

  He leaned nearer. His breath was warm and slightly spiced. “Please, Jane.”

  She paused for a moment, considering whether or not to be truthful. “I do believe Queen Katherine was Your Majesty’s true and lawful wife until her final breath.”

  “Which would make me a sinner and a widower, yet now a free man, able to remarry.”

  “My judgment is not the one that matters.”

  “In my eyes, it has become so.”

  “I would not think England would tolerate you denying a second wife in order to take a third. That is what I think.”

  “I have spoken intensively of divorce with Master Cromwell and Master Carew, and my lord Norfolk as well,” he pondered. “All had long supported Anne and her brother, Lord Rochford, staunchly, but now, suddenly, they seem willing to counsel me in it.”

  So that was why she had seen less of them all in the queen’s apartments since her return to court. She was surprised to feel a small burst of sympathy for those seeking to find their way to safety, like rats fleeing a sinking ship. She knew how that felt and did not envy anyone close to the queen in these critical days. Jane alone believed herself to be safe for how carefully and patiently she had played the game.

  Henry extended his leg and grimaced. It was then that she noticed once again the thick bandage beneath his ecru-colored stocking. “Does it hurt?” she cautiously asked.

  “Mostly when I stand. Although I would deny that to Carew or Brandon with my dying breath because they would never let me hear the end of it.”

  “It sounds like a competition between my own brothers.”

  “Oh, yes. Edward. And the other?”

  “His name is Thomas.”

  “Oh, Thomas, yes, right, of course. I miss my own brother.” He sighed. “Speaking of The Imitation of Christ reminds me of him, as much as it does the rest of my family, so I thank you for that.”

  He tipped his head back and exhaled deeply. She could hear how troubled he was. Even so, he still had not let go of her hand. “I need to be away from her, away from here, find the uncomplicated life again. I need to ride, to hunt, to go hawking as I did when I was a youth. Not to feel so tethered as I do by her…by this leg, or by these infernal headaches that torment me.”

  He let go of her hand then and began to massage his temples with both hands. His moods changed so swiftly, Jane saw, and it was a little frightening, although she did not let it show on her face. She had become quite expert at never showing her emotions.

  “I am leaving for London by the morrow,” he told her as he dropped his hands into his lap. “There are the Shrovetide celebrations there to which I am committed, and a final session of Parliament I must attend. ’Twill be good, I think, for me to be apart from the queen for a while. But not so good on my heart that I shall be parted from you.”

  “Your Majesty,” Jane again demurred as he turned his eyes heavily upon her.

  He touched the back of her wrist seductively with his fingertips.

  “You mustn’t act as if you do not know I have feelings for you, Jane. Nor should you play too heartily that you feel nothing for me in response.”

  “You are a married man. I am afraid I must.”

  “You did not kiss me yesterday with the chaste heart you now profess.” He smiled devilishly.

  “’Tis virtuous to seek purity even if we fall short.”

  “Allow me to guess—Thomas à Kempis?”

  Jane colored at his amused tone and cast her eyes downward yet again, expert now at displaying the humility her mother had so long desired her to cultivate. It was a signature move that seemed to work to her benefit, as her mother had promised it would long ago.

  “I am only teasing you. I actually find your attempt at virtue incredibly seductive.”

  He drew closer then and very gently kissed her neck just below her earlobe, and Jane felt the heat from his touch race through her body as he moved his lips nearer her mouth. Then, as the last time, he stopped to kiss her cheek with the same tender, smoldering sensuality to which her body reacted. She did not love him as she did William. Too much of their lives and memories were still bound up in each other. But at least to herself, Jane could not deny that Henry had a seductive power that intrigued her, and she could see now how so many women had compromised themselves for him. Secretly, Jane had every intention of being one of them. Although more smartly and more carefully than they had. Life had shown her that there was really nothing else, nor any reason not to become one of his women, come what may. It was a good thing he did not suspect the experience her heart had gained. She would be too much like all the others if he did.

  Henry pulled back then to collect himself. Jane reveled in the power she felt at seeing him excited. That she had done that to a man, much less the king, was like a potent drug, and already she wanted more of it. But she must remain patient. There was a role for her to play, and to win the prize she must continue to play it flawlessly.

  Henry gently lifted her chin again, as she knew he would. “Do not be embarrassed, my little love, by what we do when we are alone.”

  She heard the word but assumed it was a mistake. He could not be in love already.

  “Yet we are never truly alone. Our God is with us, always judging our every move.”

  “I shall not ever make you do anything you feel goes against God, Jane.” He kissed her lips this time and held it, but she could feel he did not mean to push her in the shadow of the powerful God they shared and were both bound to. “Ah, but how you do stir my soul! I cannot promise I will not try to convince you that the act of love between us would not be right someday.”

  “It never shall be so long as Anne is your queen,” she said so haltingly that he stopped, gazing at her deeply then, the green of his eyes completely mesmerizing her.

  “That is one of the reasons I must leave here for a few days. I must have time to think, Jane, to be certain how to proceed. When I return, we will speak again.”

  “Unfortunately, I do not believe I shall be here when you return,” she revealed.

  “How can that be?”

  “The queen does not like me and I am certain she will have me sent away in Your Majesty’s absence.”

  She watched him stiffen. “That shall not happen. I will not allow it.”

  “It might be difficult to prevent what you are not here to see.”

  “Yet to be forewarned is to be forearmed. Your relation Francis Bryan is to go to France, and Brandon has gone to see to his estates, or I would have him look after you. Anne would never dare to go against Charles. But in his absence, Carew will be a sufficient protector. No one would cavil with him.”

  “’Tis true enough,” Jane conceded. She did not want to feel the sudden fear she felt at the prospect of his departure, no matter who was left behind to keep her safe.

  “I have something for you I have wanted to give you for a time now,” he said. He reached up to his own neck then and unclasped something on a heavy gold chain that had been hidden beneath the collar of his broad black silk doublet.

  He did not hand it to her but rath
er removed it from his own neck and placed it around hers. He leaned in as he hooked the chain beneath the fall of her headdress, and the musky scent of him—along with the power of who he was—became intoxicating. To Jane’s surprise, she felt that private part of her beneath her gown stir hotly when he touched her. She shifted against it, then held up the pendant at the end of the chain. When she saw that it bore a small painted image of the king himself, she was stunned to see that it was eerily similar to the one he had once given Anne when he was married to Katherine. Jane shivered at the memory, but that only made the stirring inside of her that much more powerful.

  “This is so you shall never be able to forget he who loves you. Although now it seems even more essential that you wear it so that you are reminded that no harm can come to you, so long as you hold me next to your heart,” he declared, pressing the image against her chest with his own fingers, then meeting her gaze again. “Can you not say that you love me just a little in return, Jane?”

  “If Your Majesty is free to love one day, it shall be you who will have my heart.”

  He clasped a hand to his own chest and gasped as though he had been struck. “Ah, she doth wound me, and yet I love best what I work for most heartily.”

  Jane knew her brothers would be proud of how well she was playing the game. Yet a part of her truly had begun to hope that one day Henry might wrest himself free of Anne Boleyn. No matter how unlikely that seemed for how many times Anne had drawn him back into her web, Jane was beginning to think she might actually want him even more than Anne Boleyn ever had.

  The portion of the court that had stayed behind at Richmond after the king left for London had their own Shrovetide celebrations. Anne, who had recovered from her miscarriage, presided over a banquet the size and grandeur of which rivaled anything the king himself would have designed. Jane, Edward, Thomas, and Nicholas Carew sat across from the queen as the handsome young musician Mark Smeaton serenaded Anne with a tune called “By My Heart.” Even those who favored the queen whispered how the mice did play when the cat was away. As her insufferably haughty brother, Lord Rochford, preened beside her on the dais, as though he, not Henry, were king, Anne batted her eyes and smiled girlishly at Smeaton. As she did, Carew whispered to Jane behind his hand.