Jane Boleyn: The True Story of the Infamous Lady Rochford

by Julia Fox

  Thus Jane settled back into her usual life, albeit with an alternative mistress. In public, Queen Jane lived up to her chosen motto, “Bound to Obey and Serve,” an attitude that gratified her husband, who wanted no more tantrums and interference from a wife. Subservience was a word that had never been in Anne’s vocabulary. Queen Jane appeared to do all the right things; she seemed sweet and kind to everyone. She had even kept her word to Chapuys and had indeed pleaded for Mary, so much so that the king had told her she was being short-sighted and should save her care for the children she might have herself. If she pressed too much, she ran the risk of being “rudely repulsed.” Few can have been more relieved than Queen Jane when Mary’s rustication ended. Relations between the two women were always respectful but affectionate, Mary writing to her as “the Queen’s Grace, my good mother.” The queen had not entirely learned her lesson, however. Conservative in matters of religion, she sank to her knees to beg the king to restore the monasteries, only to be told sharply to get up and not “meddle with his affairs.” Her predecessor had died, Henry warned, “in consequence of meddling too much with state affairs,” a threat that “was enough to frighten a woman who is not very secure,” reported Chapuys.

  Perhaps that was why Queen Jane’s sister, Elizabeth, Lady Ughtred, wrote to Cromwell when left in comparative poverty following the death of her husband. When William Carey had fallen victim to the sweat, Mary Carey had written first to her sister and Anne had gone straight to Henry on her behalf. Elizabeth did not approach Queen Jane. Clearly she felt that her sister either would not help her, an interesting reflection on Queen Jane’s studied kindness, or could not, which might illustrate the limited extent of her influence with Henry. Lady Ughtred wanted monastic land—she specified which—so that at least she could secure a house for herself. She had been “driven,” she said, “to be a sojourner” as her living was too poor for her to welcome her friends. Cromwell took the matter in hand, seizing the chance to marry off his own son, Gregory, to the grieving widow. Although Queen Jane’s influence might be weak, he was determined to increase his and a union with the Seymours could be of benefit.

  But there were areas in which Queen Jane maintained her authority with a quiet determination that belied her seeming diffidence, nowhere more so than on the vexed question of costume. Jane probably discovered that her wardrobe needed a few alterations to fit in with the queen’s dictates, for the queen had her own style, essentially a contrast to that of the elegant, chic Anne. No more French hoods, with their round shape that framed and flattered the face, were to be worn. Instead the much more severe, and old-fashioned, pointed-gable style was back in vogue, and eagle-eyed women spotted the odd difference in other areas of fashion too. Mr. Skut, Anne’s former dressmaker, found himself in demand, although Honor Lisle was “disappointed” with the outfit he completed for her, which he had promised “should be made like the Queen’s gowns.” Her daughter, Anne Basset, fell afoul of the queen’s antipathy to the French hood. After constant scheming, machinations, and outright bribery, the indefatigable Honor had managed to get her daughter Anne into the privy chamber, only to find that yet more money had to be spent on equipping the girl for her tasks. The queen graciously allowed Anne to “wear out her French apparel” but refused to countenance anything other than the correct headdress. Less than a month later, the queen changed her mind. The “French apparel” would be tolerated no longer. Anne was to have “a gown of black satin, and another of velvet.” She needed one or two bonnets, complete with a band of pearls.

  Such restrictions affected Jane as well. Although of a higher rank than Anne Basset, now one of her junior companions in the privy apartments, Jane understood how crucial it was to accede to the queen’s will on every issue. If Queen Jane wanted her ladies to sport the gable headdress, which had also been the favorite of Queen Katherine, then sport it they would. The queen had to be obeyed.

  Jane’s life, however, was quite a comfortable one. She was, after all, a viscountess; her rank had not been stripped from her, and that brought privileges. She was expected to have female servants, two above the number her mother could have, but six below that of a duchess. If there was a court procession, she had a set place in the line and so did each of her women. The precise number Jane employed eludes us but she did not have to worry about fending for herself. The hundred pounds she had maneuvered from a smarting Thomas would help pay for it. And as she served the queen, so she was served herself. Jane would have two main meals a day: dinner, which was taken toward midday, and supper in the evening. She would not go short. The menus for each meal, or mess, were carefully selected. There were two main courses of several dishes. She could choose among beef, mutton, veal, a capon, or coney (rabbit), possibly flavored with a popular herb, aloe. The second course could involve lamb, plovers, teal (a small duck), or various tarts. Fruit was plentiful and so were eggs. She could nibble at two kinds of bread: circular roll-like manchets, made from the finest wheat, or chunks off a slightly coarser cheate loaf. She could quench her thirst on beer or wine. And that was only dinner. At supper time, everything started all over again. Henry’s chefs did not cook meat on Fridays, of course, but the sheer number of fish options was staggering: ling, pike, whiting, bream, chub, trout, conger eels, perch, crayfish, crab, shrimp, and lamprey. Should Jane still feel peckish, there was always manchet and cheate loaf in her room, which she could wash down with a gallon of ale three times a day or a pitcher of wine in the evening. Nor would she shiver. Between October 31 and April 1, she was given two fires and plenty of fuel for her chamber. Wax candles ensured she need not sit in the dark. This, anyway, was what Jane had become used to as a Boleyn.

  The only slight anxiety for her concerned the Parker family. Jane’s brother, Henry, together with his relative, Sir John St. John, had somehow managed to become involved in a hunting dispute. Such things could often involve serious repercussions, so Jane would have every right to feel concerned. Lord Morley, appreciating the young men’s predicament, knew just what he had to do. There is no record of how much he had spent on Cromwell’s greyhound, but it was a sound investment, for Morley then contacted the minister to sort things out. And Cromwell did. In one of his lists of “Remembrances,” he reminded himself to “speak for” Henry and St. John. Morley thanked him profusely for his “favor” to the two men “in their trouble” and expressed his gratitude “for their deliverance.”

  With that potentially unpleasant scrape dealt with, Jane could enter into court life in a more relieved frame of mind. This was her present; it was pointless to dwell in the past, no matter how deep her sorrow for George’s untimely death might be. When Anne’s confidante, she had always enjoyed taking part in court processions, and with her new mistress she could do so again. None would match Anne’s coronation celebrations, when Jane had such a prominent role, but while on nowhere near the same scale, the journey to Greenwich for the Christmas celebrations could not but have brought back bitter memories. The winter was so very cold that the river Thames froze over. Barges could not negotiate the ice so the royal party had to ride from London to Greenwich. The citizens of London unpacked the cloth of gold and the arras to decorate the houses as the cavalcade rode through the graveled streets and past the cheering crowds, who were just as eager to catch a glimpse of Henry’s new queen as they had been to see Anne. The parade was led by Sir Ralph Warren, the new lord mayor, and the aldermen, all beautifully dressed in their ceremonial robes. The members of the city guilds and crafts, in their livery and with their hoods on their shoulders, were there too. Friars in their richly embroidered copes stood on one side of the narrow streets, holding candles, with crosses aloft and with censers at the ready. The choir of St. Paul’s stood by the west door of the great church, while two priests from every parish church in the city lined the route for some way onwards, each proudly carrying the very best cross and candlesticks and censers that their individual churches possessed. As a demonstration of monarchical power, and as an assertion
of the old faith to calm fears surfacing over monastic closures, it could not have been bettered. The king felt satisfied; Queen Jane no doubt felt at ease. The whole event was such a glittering spectacle and success that “it rejoiced every man wondrously,” Lord Lisle was informed.

  It was definitely impressive. As Jane could see for herself, recent events notwithstanding, royal pomp was just as it always had been. So was the court. Mary rode in the cavalcade, her years as a pariah blanked out. Blanked out too were Anne and George. As for Jane Rochford, she might be a lonely widow, her property and wealth considerably reduced, but she was back where she belonged.

  CHAPTER 25

  A Prince at Last

  HOW LONG JANE WOULD LAST within the queen’s privy chamber depended very much on how long the queen herself lasted. Henry seemed to love her, but his fickle, changeable nature made him a most unreliable husband. Indeed, just over a week after the announcement of his wedding, the king confided to Chapuys that “having twice met two beautiful young ladies,” he was “somewhat sorry that he had not seen them before his marriage.” And there was no coronation. The idea was mooted, a possible date earmarked, but nothing happened, plague being given as the excuse to postpone it for the time being. In his report to the emperor, the ambassador conveyed the rumor circulating to the effect that the queen would not be crowned at all unless she became pregnant. As Jane, and virtually the entire court knew by now, that would not be easy.

  Miraculously, whether through Mary’s prayers, for she was always telling her father that she prayed that he and Queen Jane would have issue, or through his own gargantuan efforts, Henry managed it. Queen Jane, within about eight months or so of her marriage, became pregnant. It was a commendable achievement. Having got this far, all that she needed to do was to give Henry the longed-for son. Whatever gender the child proved to be, Jane realized that any distant dreams of the throne for her niece, Elizabeth, were receding further into the distance as every week passed. With both Katherine and Anne safely dead, the legitimacy of Queen Jane’s child would be beyond question and that child would take precedence over Henry’s previous offspring.

  The news of the royal pregnancy was greeted with delight in the city of London. It was officially announced on Trinity Sunday, May 27, 1537, almost a year to the day since Henry had ostentatiously acceded to the entreaties of his Council and married the woman for whom, in fact, he yearned. Audley and Cromwell, along with the mayor, the aldermen, and guild officials, were among the congregation who celebrated the tidings in a Te Deum held in St. Paul’s. Bishop Hugh Latimer, ironically one of Anne’s bishops, preached so effectively that his “oration was marvelous fruitful to the hearers.” The poor could join in the jubilation too, drinking themselves silly from the free wine that was provided at the side of every spluttering bonfire. Or at least they could as long as the wine lasted. And, not to be left out, the people of Calais were treated to sounds of gunshot at 4 p.m. that afternoon.

  Henry was overjoyed. Perhaps this time God would give him the heir he knew he deserved. The timing was particularly pleasing and opportune because the Pilgrimage of Grace, the rebellion that had greeted the monastic closures and had caused him tremendous concern and anger, was just being mopped up. London Bridge was decked with the boiled heads of some of those executed for questioning the royal will, and throughout the northern shires, a terrified populace could see the decaying bodies of those punished for similar presumption. Two of the leaders, Robert Aske and Sir Robert Constable, were hanged in chains until death mercifully claimed them. Since the list of the victims included Lord Darcy and Lord Hussey, the visible display of Henry’s justice once again sent shivers down the spines of his courtiers. Neither noble blood nor years of service were any safeguard against the executioner. Everyone understood very clearly that the king must always be obeyed. No one, he had told the rebels, could “rule” their prince.

  Jane knew that from bitter experience. When he had begun to tire of Anne, Henry had no qualms about asserting his authority with ruthless aggression, reminding her that he was the king and that she was only queen because he had made her so. And what he had made, so he had destroyed. Even Queen Jane had experienced the force of his anger. With the Pilgrimage crushed and Mary forgiven, however, life within the queen’s privy chamber settled back into a familiar routine. A more relaxed Henry was solicitous toward his pregnant wife; a thoughtful Mary sent her cucumbers several times to satisfy her cravings. And it was up to Queen Jane’s ladies to care for her and keep up her strength for the ordeal ahead. Jane, of course, had been there before. She was an old hand in the birth room by now; she had been there for Anne and was now to be there for her successor. She was not the only person who had made the transition from one queen to another, and Anne’s former vice-chamberlain, Sir Edward Baynton, made a similar switch when he accepted the same office under Queen Jane. He had ensured that the correct protocol had been followed for Anne; he would do so for Queen Jane as well. Established procedure would be followed to the letter.

  The venue was different, though. Anne had given birth to Elizabeth at Greenwich but Queen Jane’s confinement took place at Wolsey’s former palace of Hampton Court. The court moved there from Esher and Stoke in the middle of September so there was time for the queen to rest and prepare herself. Henry wanted both his wife and his new child to have the very best accommodations, so he had already ordered alterations and improvements to be made in readiness. The bay windows in the queen’s bedchamber were fitted with thick, no doubt richly embellished, curtains to protect her from any drafts and the dangers that lurked in fresh air, and a screen was provided to shield her bed. Other arrangements for Queen Jane’s comfort and security could be left to Baynton and her ladies, so she was given the same prescribed bedding and hangings that Anne had received not so long ago, with perhaps a card table to help while away the hours of waiting. For the child, there was a new nursery already prepared.

  The queen retired to the female world of her chamber, away from public gaze, on Sunday, September 16. Now it was just a case of waiting for the onset of labor. Jane, as one of the privy chamber, accompanied her mistress, but if she was able to take a little time off from her duties to rest and relax, her quarters at Hampton Court were particularly fine. She was entitled to double lodgings there, which meant that she was allocated two large rooms for her own use. There was a fireplace in each room, which was probably a great boon even in October, and she had the luxury of her own lavatory. It was all most satisfactory; she could start to put the weeks of anxiety and grief associated with the deaths of George and Anne behind her. She had the chance to start again, but she was not starting at square one.

  However, caring for the queen was her main job. The birth of the baby and Queen Jane’s recovery were paramount. On Thursday, October 11, the queen’s labor began. With Jane amid the ladies at her side, and the midwife encouraging her and mopping her forehead, Queen Jane tossed on her lavishly furnished bed, her newly acquired royal status no defense against the intense pain. The moment news of her contractions was announced, the mayor of London, the aldermen, and guild members, all wearing their liveries, joined in prayers for her safe delivery. Perhaps their supplications were heard, for her child was born at about 2 a.m. on Friday morning. To the joy of her ladies, and the ecstatic relief of Henry, the baby was a boy. He was to be called Edward, because he was born on the eve of St. Edward’s Day. Even the day seemed special, a clear indication that Henry’s heir was linked to England’s royal saint, whose jeweled shrine was so close to the resting place of Henry’s firstborn son, the little prince Henry who had died so tragically over twenty years previously.

  Within the queen’s bedchamber, there was still work to be done. Some cared for the exhausted but happy mother, while others turned to their new prince. The procedure was standard: the infant’s navel was gently dabbed with a cooling powder of aloes and frankincense, any blood washed away, and the swaddled child lovingly placed in his cradle, the midwife making the sign
of the cross upon him. It was never too soon to seek the sheltering power of the church. Luckily, both mother and child were doing well. The baby was healthy and the queen had survived her travail. Now she needed rest. And the ladies of her privy chamber were there to see that she got it.

  Rest was the last thing on other minds, though. As Jane attended her mistress in that quiet darkened room, the court sprang into action. Letters announcing the birth of the king’s son, “conceived in lawful matrimony,” were sent out, courtiers not at Hampton Court hurriedly wrote to congratulate the king, and even the emperor was pleasant. Charles was “as rejoiced as if it had been by his aunt,” or so he said. London erupted with excitement. There was yet another Te Deum, this time sung in all of the parish churches throughout the city, and every bell in every church was rung for hours on end until the aching bell ringers must have dropped from tiredness. London’s mayor and aldermen hastily donned their robes again, the best crosses and candlesticks were brought out by the various parish priests, and in front of the French ambassador, Cromwell, Audley, the Marquess of Dorset, and all of the judges, there was another service held at St. Paul’s. The noise was soon deafening. The pealing of the bells, the sounds of Henry’s musicians, and the gun salute from the Tower combined together in a cacophony of joy. The celebrations continued until late evening. There were bonfires, a further gun salute from the Tower, and free wine for the poor who surely wished that queens gave birth to sons more often.