by Julia Fox
We cannot be sure whether Jane was present or not as her niece was officially received into the church. She may have remained with the queen in her closed apartments, although many ladies of the court were definitely at the christening on that early autumn afternoon, just three days after the baby’s birth. If Anne wanted her sister-in-law at her side, they could both rely on George for a detailed description of everything that happened.
Sir Stephen Peacock was having a most exciting period as mayor. Hardly had his servants put away his best robes after the coronation than they were needed again, for he was a leading guest. After lunch, Peacock and his aldermen, dressed in crimson or scarlet velvet and with their golden chains gleaming once more on their breasts, took to their barge as their oarsmen rowed them back to Greenwich. A second barge, with forty of the city’s leading citizens on board, brought up the rear. Once they had arrived, a procession was assembled and the christening could commence.
Just as the streets had been decorated for Anne’s days of triumph, so the way from the palace to the church was decked with golden tapestries and cloth of gold hangings. The ground was covered with green rushes; it would not do for anyone to slip. Inside, the church was ablaze with light and glittering with cloth of gold. The font, of solid silver, stood railed off in the middle, underneath a crimson satin canopy and on a covered dais three steps high, so that everyone could see the proceedings very clearly.
The citizens of London, walking in pairs, formed the vanguard of the cavalcade. Various gentlemen, squires, and chaplains came next, followed by the aldermen, and Peacock, quite an old hand at parades by now, was allowed the honor of walking in alone. Henry’s council came in after the mayor, then the musicians of the Royal Chapel, the nobles, and the bishops. All were magnificently attired in deference to the new arrival. Jane may have had a chance later to have a word with her father, whose rank meant he was likely to be present. Some of the nobility were entrusted with specific tasks: the Earl of Essex was responsible for the gilt basins, the Marquess of Dorset held the golden salt that was used to protect the child from evil, Lady Mary Howard bore the christening cloth of pearls and precious stones. Then came little Elizabeth for her first public outing, carefully carried by the Dowager Duchess of Norfolk, on duty once more. The baby was wrapped up warmly in a purple velvet mantle, her ermine-trimmed train supported by the Countess of Essex, the Earl of Derby, and, in pride of place, Thomas Boleyn. Family prominence did not end with Thomas. One of the four lords holding a canopy over Elizabeth was her uncle, George. Her great-uncle, the Duke of Norfolk, walked solemnly on one side of her while the Duke of Suffolk was on the other.
The ceremonies, led by John Stokesley, bishop of London, began at the church door as was customary. Cranmer acted as godfather, and the godmothers were the Dowager Marchioness of Dorset, the Marchioness of Exeter, and the ever useful Dowager Duchess of Norfolk. Once the baby had been christened in that magnificent silver font, Garter King of Arms cried out, “God of his infinite goodness, send prosperous life and long, to the high and mighty Princess of England Elizabeth.” To a triumphant burst from the trumpeters, Elizabeth was carried to the altar where she was also confirmed by Cranmer; sometimes both christening and confirmation were completed on the same day. The services and prayers took some time—these things always did—so members of the congregation were grateful for the sweetmeats and spiced wine that servants brought them before they left the confines of the church.
As the joyous sound of Henry’s trumpeters burst forth, it was time for everyone to walk to the palace, their way lit by five hundred torches, some held by servants and others fixed into stands. Many guests remembered taking part in the somber procession escorting Prince Henry to his resting place more than two decades before, but today’s occasion was a happy one. If any had fleeting thoughts of Katherine or Mary, they wisely kept them private. Norfolk and Suffolk went straight in to the king’s rooms to reassure him that the proceedings had gone smoothly. It was they who came out to thank Peacock and his aldermen on the king’s behalf for their attendance and to offer them refreshment before the journey back to London.
Once Elizabeth was sleeping in her cradle in Anne’s rooms, she and her ladies could admire the fabulous christening gifts that her godparents had presented. Cranmer gave a gold cup—no silver for him. The Dowager Duchess of Norfolk gave a similar cup, also of gold but studded with pearls. The Dowager Marchioness of Dorset’s offering was three beautifully worked gilt bowls, together with their covers, and the Marchioness of Exeter gave three more, despite her devoted support for Katherine and Princess Mary and her constant communication with Chapuys. Together with further gifts received from other guests, it was a most welcome haul. Proper respect had been paid to the latest Boleyn. Anne could not fail to be satisfied. Chapuys might sniffily report to his master that “the christening has been like her mother’s coronation, very cold and disagreeable both to the court and to the city,” but in fact the whole occasion had been a notable success.
As the Boleyns discussed the day, the name of Suffolk was bound to crop up and raise a smile. With his wife, Mary, the French queen, barely cold in her grave, the indomitable duke, now almost fifty, had usurped his son’s place and himself had married his ward, the fourteen-year-old heiress Katherine Willoughby, on the very day that Anne gave birth. For light entertainment it could hardly be bettered, although the worldly Boleyns would applaud his practical streak. He had not only lost the French queen, he had lost her French pension, and now in debt to the king, Katherine Willoughby was too good a prize to let slip. The situation so amused Chapuys that he could not resist informing the emperor. “In contracting such a marriage,” he wrote, “the duke will no doubt please the ladies of this country, who, imitating his example, will no doubt take their revenge, when accused of marrying again immediately after the death of their husbands, as they are in the habit of doing.” The demise of the French queen had little impact on the Boleyns, especially since she had never liked Anne and was not a frequent visitor to court. She would not be missed. Even Henry accepted his favorite sister’s death with surprising equanimity. Jane’s contact with her had been slight. Together they had performed in the masque for the French ambassadors, but that was a lifetime away. The innocent young Jane of those days was gone; in her stead, was a poised, mature woman, whose niece was in line to inherit the throne, a prospect that she could never have envisaged when she had donned her mask and danced amid the tapestries and flickering candles of Wolsey’s York Place. The world had moved on.
Jane had very little time to become acquainted with baby Elizabeth. By the end of 1533, Henry had provided the three-month-old child with her own household. From now on, Anne’s role as a mother was limited to visits rather than direct daily contact. All major decisions concerning the child would be taken by the king. He would even determine when Elizabeth should be weaned. Anne accepted her restricted role, but characteristically, she was deeply concerned that her daughter, a royal princess, should look the part. She bought her caps of purple and crimson, one of white satin “laid with a rich caul of gold,” and decorated her cradle with over two yards of crimson satin and crimson fringe. But purchasing pretty things and paying her brief visits were all she could do for her baby daughter. Breast-feeding, as Jane and every other woman of her time understood, was out of the question. At best a messy inconvenience, it was also a hindrance to conception. And that, as the Boleyns appreciated only too well, was the key to maintaining the position they had all fought so hard to attain and to which all of them, including Jane, had become accustomed. Anne simply had to become pregnant again.
CHAPTER 16
The Boleyns Rampant
“THE QUEEN HATH a goodly belly,” wrote George Taylor, Anne’s receiver-general, to Lady Lisle, the wife of the Deputy of Calais, adding that he was “praying our Lord to send us a prince.” Within three or four months after Jane’s niece first opened her eyes to the land she would one day rule, Anne was pregnant again. Her entire
family breathed a huge sigh of relief. This time, surely, she would produce the prince that George Taylor prayed for. Taylor was not the only supplicant. Jane was firmly settled at court, frequently at her sister-in-law’s side and very much in the heart of her country’s affairs. She did not want to give that up. It simply had to be a boy. And Henry was confident that it would be. He would soon have a son, he told Chapuys. Gloomily, the ambassador confided in Charles that Anne was “in a state of health and of an age to have many more children.” The Boleyns could only hope that his forebodings proved true.
As she watched Anne’s stomach swell, Jane enjoyed her life behind the doors of the queen’s privy chamber. It was almost as if Anne needed to prove the aptness of her chosen motto, “the most happy.” There was gossip and fun and dancing and cards. There was music and song. There were the lilting notes of the queen’s linnet, a gift from Lady Lisle, in the background. There were visitors to chat with, men like Norris, so influential within the king’s privy chamber; Weston, knighted with Jane’s brother and a fellow guest at Anne’s coronation; and Richard Page, another of the king’s gentlemen. There was lively discussion on the important topics of clothes and fashion and what was chic and what was not and who was paying court to whom. It was a whirlwind of fun and laughter, repartee and wit. Then there was the frolicking of Anne’s little dog, Purquoy,*13 a creature of whom she was inordinately fond, and a further present from the solicitous Honor Lisle. Anne was so enchanted by Purquoy that when she heard that Honor had asked Sir Francis Bryan to deliver the animal, she “took it from him before it had been an hour in his hands.” The dog ran around happily, following his devoted mistress, among the ladies and their beaux, until a terrible fall cut short his life. Knowing how upset Anne would be, no one dared tell her what had happened, so the king, very sympathetic in circumstances like this, took the task upon himself. Henry loved his own dogs dearly enough to pay generous rewards to those who found his favorites, Ball and the spaniel Cut, when they got lost, so he quite understood his wife’s distress.
Jane, who had always delighted in masques and dancing, was very much at home with her current lifestyle. It was not all dalliance—many peaceful hours were given over to the serious business of embroidery and sewing—but to sit and work amid the tapestries and luxurious furnishings of Anne’s apartments was hardly taxing. She could not complain. By repute, Anne was a good needlewoman and expected high standards of craftsmanship from her ladies. Jane could take pride in helping to produce the “shirts and smocks for the poor,” which, according to Wyatt’s grandson, Anne insisted her “maids and those about her” turn out every day and which were “rich and precious” in God’s eyes.
And what was important in the eyes of God was, as Jane understood, fundamental to the Boleyns. Those early days, when Henry had felt so strongly about Luther’s doctrines that he had once written a book against them, earning himself the title of Defender of the Faith in the process, were long gone. So was his subservience to the pope. While still no Lutheran, the king was Supreme Head of the Church, a title that Parliament would confirm. It was wise to accept that. Jane, brought up with a Latin Bible, no doubt felt at ease when Anne studied the exquisitely illustrated fifteenth-century Book of Hours she had owned before her fate became linked to that of the king. But she also grew used to seeing her mistress poring intently over the superbly bound edition of a translation of the sacred text into French by Lefèvre d’Etaples that she and Henry shared and that had their initials engraved in gold on the cover. Or at least she did once the shock of seeing it had worn off. To possess a copy of the Bible in any language other than Latin had often been a shortcut to the stake when Jane was a girl. Now, it would be just a matter of time before the once-forbidden work was readily available in English, and with the king’s permission. It was all most confusing but Jane’s world was changing, and the family into which she had married were busily promoting that change. She knew that.
She also knew that George and Anne, together with Thomas, were marching further along a dangerous road. Even the clerics they patronized, men like Hugh Latimer, Thomas Cranmer, John Skip, William Barlow, and Matthew Parker, were all of avant-garde opinions. Around brother and sister particularly was a highly charged, exhilarating atmosphere as they debated and argued and deliberated on questions of faith, on what was wrong with the old ways and right with the new, and on how the gospel must be brought to everyone. Chapuys once said that George could never “refrain” from entering into Lutheran discussions whenever he saw him. It was probably George who gave Anne The Ecclesiaste, bound in black velvet and sporting the royal emblems in brass and enamel roundels. He was also an advocate of a further book, based on a set of gospel readings and epistles gathered by Lefèvre d’Etaples, one for each week of the year. Every passage is accompanied by a meaningful essay, which George translated from French into English. He then gave the entire volume, complete with an affectionate and fulsome dedication, to his sister. George inscribed it for her too, sending greetings from her “most loving and friendly brother.” That, though, was but one of several books and manuscripts that Jane saw in the queen’s privy apartments, some of outstanding beauty, most with bindings that were themselves works of art, and many of a tone that risked censure with the more conservative members of the court. What Jane really thought about this aspect of the life she led, we will never know; she kept her counsel.
Safer by far was to give serious consideration to the tricky business of New Year’s gifts, always a minor but obligatory distraction for those in Henry’s circle. Anne was lucky: Henry would provide hers and Cromwell was on hand to remind him to actually pay in case it slipped his mind. Jane was lucky too, for among Anne’s gifts for 1534 were “palfreys and saddles for her ladies.” So another horse joined Jane’s stable, this one with a finely worked saddle. Proximity to royalty remained profitable. It also brought responsibilities. Henry took a particular interest in what he was given, frequently accepting his presents personally and sometimes with a gracious comment, but with Brian Tuke, treasurer of the chamber, sitting in the background calmly “penning all things that were presented” (and no doubt noting their value). Fully aware of the system, Jane’s offering to Henry was a shirt with silver decoration on the collar. Then, as now, a shirt was always safe. Not, of course, that it could compete in any way with Anne’s gift to her husband. She gave him a gilt basin with a fountain inside it, water issuing from the nipples of the three naked women standing at the fountain’s base. Since the entire item was studded with rubies, pearls, and diamonds, Tuke had a good deal to write down. No one else could match that, but for any courtier short of ideas and who did not want to follow Jane and resort to a shirt, Henry’s love for his animals offered other possibilities: dog collars were always most welcome, particularly if they were of silver gilt or gold damask, like those from the Earl of Huntingdon or Lady Bryan.
These few months of Anne’s latest pregnancy were spent largely around London, often at Greenwich or at Westminster. When they were in London, Jane and George already had rooms at York Place, and could always stay at Durham House if they wanted a change, but George also had his own quarters inside the palace at Greenwich. This was not out of the ordinary—he did need to be always on hand—but for Henry to pay for various alterations to courtiers’ rooms was extremely rare and the king paid for the installation of a mullioned window for George at Greenwich. Just as no expense was too great for Anne’s comfort, the same was true for her brother, and as most royal residences had plenty of distractions, there would have been no excuse to be bored. Hunting was a perennial interest, especially for Henry, and there were sometimes opportunities for George to fly his rather expensive hawks, a pastime his sister relished as well. Anne liked archery too, but while Henry had bought her bows in the past, it was hardly an advisable activity for the woman carrying his son. Jane, though, could have taken part. Then there was bowling, at which both George and his father were expert, although Anne’s condition again made her a spect
ator not a participant. Still, they could all enjoy the excitement of the cockfights held in the newly built cockpit at Greenwich, and bet on the result, and they could do so with a perfect view of the action from their seats in the stands around the arena.
So, superficially at least, the days passed very easily. But as Jane could see, life for Anne was not trouble free. The continued defiance of Katherine and Mary was a definite thorn in Boleyn flesh. No matter how much she was coerced and despite the pressure put upon her servants, the former queen still refused to acknowledge her redefined rank of princess dowager, which she saw as a wrongful and wicked demotion. Her scornful replies to such demands were faithfully conveyed to Charles by an admiring Chapuys. “Knowing for certain that she is the true and legitimate wife of the king,” he reported, “she will never as long as she lives, on any consideration, take any other title but that of queen, and, if addressed by any other will not answer to it.” She would not “consent to damn her soul, or that of the king, her lord and husband” for “a thousand deaths.” It was an impasse. It might be perilous as well. Chapuys was truly anxious about poison, as was Katherine herself. “The little food she takes in this time of tribulation is prepared by her maids-in-waiting within her own bedroom,” he wrote.
