by Deryn Lake
Jane gaped aghast, saying idiotically, ‘But it’s daytime.’
He frowned, somewhat perturbed. ‘So I have noticed, sweetheart. Is it not permissible for me to visit you whilst it is light?’
Colouring violently, Jane curtsied. ‘Your Grace, I … I am sorry, I was just thinking …’
‘What?’ He walked over and stood looking down at her. ‘That I would creep below like a thief in the dark and rob you of your precious virtue?’
‘No, Sir. I …’
Henry turned abruptly away, gazing out of the window as she had done a moment earlier. ‘All that,’ he said savagely, ‘all that is mine. Look!’ He grabbed her by the shoulders and turned her round. ‘All of it. Tell me Jane, what do you see? What do you see of that great and mighty kingdom that has no prince to inherit it and no Queen worthy of the name?’
‘I see a bustling waterway, the River Thames,’ she answered slowly.
‘Yes, go on. What more? Tell me about this river.’
His tone was harsh and Jane felt that she was being put to some kind of test. Rather nervously she slipped her hand into his vast paw and, still not looking at him, started to speak.
‘I see that the Thames is calm and strong as its King, rolling through lush pasturelands green as parsley, though at dawn the water turns pink, the colour of a May Day garland or old man’s hawthorn. But as the sun rises in glory it changes and the river is golden.’ She stole a sideways look at him and saw that the King was smiling, his eyes fixed on the far distance.
‘But at noon, or so it is said, the river is full of rainbows and it is then that kingfishers sit beneath the willow trees and sing love songs to the breeze.’
Jane heard Henry laugh gently at such foolishness.
‘While in the evening as the day dies, the water is the colour of a gentian, reflecting a sky full of strange white, wheeling birds. But at night, when it is time for lovers to greet one another, the river is black as ink, full of mystery and secrets, dark as a Moor and just as exciting.’
‘Bravo.’ The King clapped his hands, his humour restored. ‘You are a poet, Jane. A weaver of dreams.’
She turned to face him. ‘And what is it, Sir, that you dream of?’ she asked defiantly.
He stared at her, his eyes hardening. ‘Of fathering a healthy boy, of loving a wholesome woman, not one diseased by evil and greed.’
Jane took a calculated risk. ‘And do you dream of me?’
Henry’s expression changed dramatically as he gathered her roughly into his arms. ‘I dream of nothing else and you know it, you capricious child. Why, I would lay myself at your feet if you would have me.’
‘I will have you,’ she answered quietly.
‘What did you say?’
‘I will have you, Sir.’
‘Do you mean …’
‘Yes, now, here, in the joyful afternoon. If you want me, I am yours, Your Grace.’
He could hardly comprehend what she was saying and it was Jane who actually took him by the hand and led the King towards the great draped bed in which once Anne Boleyn had slept.
‘Teach me everything, Sir,’ she said, both humbly and endearingly. ‘I know nothing of love though you will find me a willing pupil.’
But it was as if she had, in fact, always known; as if the appetites that had been there all along, masked by her prim appearance, quite naturally took over every other sense so that she moved in harmony with Henry’s great body, throbbing with pleasure as pain, the frightening feeling of being torn asunder within by something large and unyielding, finally gave way to an exquisite pulse, a paradise into whose realms she had never entered before. She was complete with him, overjoyed to hear him triumphantly exclaim as his moment finally came and the King’s leaping seed flowed within her.
Afterwards, of course, while Henry slept and she lay in the crook of his arm, Jane panicked. She had given him her much-prized virginity, she had shown him in the way she moved and shouted and pleaded, that she was wanton, as free and fierce as any courtesan. Every word of warning that had ever been said came back to Jane now with horrid clarity. She could almost see Nicholas Carew throwing his hands in the air and declaring her an utter numbskull.
And yet, she thought, looking at the huge figure slumbering beside her, its face relaxed and younger-looking in sleep, how could I say no to him when his every touch arouses me?
It occurred to Jane, for the first time, that she might actually be in love with Henry, that the vast physical attraction he held for her was in reality something even stronger. And the thought that she could well have ruined her future chances of ever becoming his wife now brought her to the edge of tears.
Nor was the situation made any better when Henry woke abruptly, exclaimed that he was late, dressed himself in haste and hurried back to his apartments by way of the secret staircase. At this harsh leaving, Jane could have indulged in the luxury of sobbing but she, too, had little time. Tonight, Henry was to give a special banquet in honour of the Spanish Ambassador, Eustace Chapuys, until recently not popular at Court because of his loathing for Anne Boleyn — whom the Ambassador sneeringly referred to as the Concubine — but now markedly reinstated in the King’s favour.
With a shout, Jane called for Emma, sloe-eyed with suspicion for having been locked out of her mistress’s apartments all the afternoon.
‘Are you not well, my Lady?’
‘I am a little tired, that is all. Now help me dress. Ambassador Chapuys has probably arrived by now.’
‘Such a fuss,’ said Emma, peering into her mistress’s face closely. ‘Why, you’re quite flushed, my Lady. Nobody would think of you as pale any more.’
‘No, nor as maid any more,’ muttered Mistress Seymour under her breath.
‘What was that, my Lady?’
‘Nothing,’ answered Jane firmly, and refused to be drawn further.
*
‘An excellent repast, Your Grace, and such excellent company,’ said Chapuys, dabbing his small pointed beard with white napery. ‘Why, if I may make so bold, I have not seen you in such high spirits for an age, Sire.’
His pale blue eyes, rimmed with a faded ring of grey, twinkled innocently but behind them one of the shrewdest brains in Spain was working at twice its normal speed. It had been he, Eustace Chapuys, who had been sent by the Emperor Charles to handle the increasingly difficult situation in England, when the King seemed determined to divorce his Spanish Queen, apparently on the point of breaking with the Holy Roman Empire, the great-eyed daughter of a Kentish knight waiting ominously in the wings.
To report back faithfully all that had occurred had been Chapuys’ brief and this he had obeyed to the last word. Through thick and thin, when Katharine had been rejected and exiled from Court, when the Concubine had been raised up in triumph, the Spanish ambassador had written to his master and told him everything, be the news for good or for ill. And now, at last, the wheel of fortune was moving and it was the Concubine’s turn to go down. Chapuys’ nest of spies had told him everything. There was a brand new favourite and this one seemed destined for success. Mistress Seymour’s star was firmly in the ascendant.
Glancing at her down the table where she sat, rather pink in the cheeks and breathless, Chapuys could not think why. To him, Jane Seymour seemed rather a nondescript little person, quite mousy and frail. But then, of course, it never did to judge by appearances.
It was at precisely this moment, feeling somebody staring at her, that Jane raised her eyes and looked straight at Chapuys, who gazed back with some astonishment. The girl certainly had beautiful irises, a dark purplish blue, almost the colour of wild violets. And the expression in them. Catching her off guard like this it seemed as if, for a moment, Chapuys could read her.
She would make a wonderful mistress. Watch your future, Concubine. Retribution approaches.
And he chuckled silently before he saw something else which left him more astonished. The King, who had been concentrating on his other guests until that moment
, suddenly exchanged a glance with Jane, the meaning of which left the Spaniard in no doubt.
‘Well, well, well,’ thought Chapuys, ‘so she has not held him off after all.’
Chapuys’ spirits lowered a little as he remembered how Henry’s earlier indiscretions had been discarded and only the frigid Concubine had actually achieved marriage. Would Mistress Seymour end on the dung heap with all the others?
Trusting his fine judgement above all else, Chapuys leant forward. ‘Your Grace,’ he said smoothly, ‘I do hope that tonight we are going to be treated to one of your own compositions, and hopefully sung by yourself. I cannot remember when last I heard one of your love songs.’
Henry smiled graciously. ‘Of course, my dear Ambassador. Will you make a personal choice, or will you leave that to me?’
Chapuys waved an airy hand, leaning back in his seat. ‘To you, of course, Your Grace. Sing whatever song enhances your mood.’
He would have staked his future that lovers and lasses and all that takes place in the springtime would have been the theme, and Chapuys was perfectly right. With his blue eyes soft with emotion, Henry — accompanying himself on the lute — sang of wooing and winning and love that lasted forever.
To watch Jane was an education in itself. She reacted to every word, at one moment shy, at another tremulous, at yet another bright with recent memories. Chapuys narrowed his eyes. I think that this one has Henry Tudor exactly where she wants him, he thought. But does she know it? That is the important question.
He decided there and then to try and give her some cryptic message during the course of the evening’s festivities. And the opportunity came as the assembled company made their way to dance and Jane, just for a moment, stood beside him.
‘Madam,’ said Chapuys, raising her hand to his lips, ‘I cannot remember when I last saw His Grace in such good humour. You are to be congratulated.’
The girl shot him a glance in which the Ambassador was convinced he saw fear. ‘What do you mean, Sir?’
‘Why, nothing untoward,’ he answered easily. ‘It is just that your friendship with the King is regarded by many as a Godsend.’
Jane seemed relieved. ‘I thank you, Sir.’
‘And, of course, it is obvious to me that you have great influence on His Grace.’
She looked thoroughly startled. ‘Then if that is so, let God be thanked.’
Chapuys stood silently a moment, wondering what it was that was troubling her and how he could possibly set her mind at rest, but before he could say anything further Sir Nicholas Carew came up and bowed to them both.
‘Ambassador Chapuys, Mistress Seymour, what pleasurable company we keep.’
‘Indeed, Sir Nicholas, indeed. I relish the rest of my stay at Windsor.’
Carew smiled. ‘You are joining the hunting party, Excellency?’
‘Yes, Sir Nicholas. I look forward immensely to the sport.’
The clever Spanish face was expressionless and the unusual blue eyes innocently bland.
‘I’m quite sure you do!’ said Carew grinning, and gave the Ambassador another small, almost imperceptible bow. ‘And now, if I may, I wonder if you would forgive me while I have a private word with Mistress Seymour.’
Both men were rather surprised by what happened next. Jane, her plain face transformed by a look of grim determination, said over-loudly, ‘I’m afraid I cannot speak with you tonight, Sir Nicholas. I have a headache and am about to ask His Grace’s permission to retire,’ and with that turned on her heel and left the two of them staring after her.
Chapuys raised his brows. ‘A formidable little creature, that one.’
Carew nodded slowly. ‘I’m beginning to think so, Excellency. I only hope she does nothing foolish.’
Chapuys’ expression became even blanker, if that were possible. ‘Who knows, Sir Nicholas, who knows? That is something one can never be sure of with women.’
*
The move to London was complete. Edward’s personal retinue — excluding of course his children who were at Wolff Hall in the charge of Dame Margery — had finally unpacked all their goods and chattels and settled into truly magnificent apartments within the Palace of Whitehall, with talk of grander yet awaiting them at Greenwich and Hampton Court. Even Anne, now fairly certain that she was expecting another child and consequently contributing very little to the effort of shifting homes, was content, and that evening allowed an intimate family supper to take place with both her personal servants and Cloverella in attendance. All was harmonious as they kept candles to the minimum and allowed the fire’s soft light to soothe away the weary day.
‘I really think,’ she said with a sigh, ‘that I shall enjoy London again. Why, what sport we had all those years ago.’
‘Not so long,’ answered Edward gently, watching the firelight echoed in his wife’s autumnal hair which, this night, she wore loose about her shoulders in preparation for retiring.
‘It seems an age,’ she answered, sighing once more.
‘Are you not happy with your lot, my dear?’
‘Of course I am,’ Anne smiled up at him and stretched out her hand. ‘It is just that I wish I had my youth back.’
‘You are not yet thirty,’ said Edward briskly. ‘It is I who am getting old.’
It was the pointless kind of discussion in which families engage when they are all weary and can think of nothing else to say and it was left to Cloverella to stand up, bob a small curtsey to her cousins and say, ‘Anne, Edward, with your permission I would like to retire. I’m afraid that my eyes are growing heavy.’
Anne’s servant, Agnes, also rose and begged to take her leave and so the Seymours were left alone, Cloverella gladly going to the small room, within the main apartments, which had been allotted to her as her bedroom.
Whitehall Palace had once been York Place, a mansion house owned by Cardinal Wolsey, but when the disgraced churchman had hurriedly left London, Henry had given the property to Anne Boleyn and extensive alterations and enlargements had subsequently been carried out, so that now the massive building and its lands extended over some twenty-three acres. Many of the courtiers’ lodgings were situated round the various courtyards with which the Palace was amply supplied, and it was over one of these that Cloverella’s bedroom window looked. Now she stood peering through the leaded glass, down into the winter darkness, wondering what turn of events would beset the Seymours next.
It was a brilliant night, the moon full and frosty, throwing a vivid beam of light everywhere, so that only the corners in deepest shadow remained unilluminated. It was from one of these that the watching girl saw a man step out, before making his way across the quadrangle, heading for a massively studded door that led to the grandiose apartments of the Duke of Norfolk. As the moonshine fell full on him, Cloverella saw a broad nose and alert face, full of interesting quirks and hollows, all set beneath a tangled mass of black curling hair. The eyes, shadowed by his dark curving brows, were hidden from her but suddenly, just as he drew in direct line with where she stood and observed, the man stopped and glanced up, as if he knew that somebody unseen was watching him. Cloverella drew back but not before she saw the brilliance of the gaze that swept over the silvered stone. Hardly daring to breathe she watched the man stare round, unsure that he was indeed alone, before he went to the door and gave it a gentle rap. She heard murmured voices.
‘Zachary, is that you?’
‘Yes, Lord Duke my Father.’
The door opened and the man went inside, and though she strained her ears, further conversation was lost to her. Cloverella left the window and drew the curtain, undressing rapidly and jumping into bed in a state of joyous excitement. So she had actually seen the great Dr Zachary, the man who, like herself, was half Romany, and whose knowledge of the stars was greater than that of anyone living, or so it was said.
She closed her eyes but could not sleep, instead wondering how Jane — who disappointingly had not been there to meet them — was faring on the hunti
ng trip. Then, as her mind began to concentrate hard on her cousin, a certain conviction came to Cloverella, a conviction that could not but make her smile naughtily as she finally drifted off into unconsciousness.
*
‘But it is only natural to love like this,’ murmured Henry in the darkness as Jane, quivering with a mixture of dread and desire, felt yet again the glorious sensation of his hardness pounding within her.
An hour after the castle had finally grown quiet, he had come down the secret staircase, waking her up and putting round her neck a jewelled locket, hidden in which was a miniature portrait of himself. And she, despite all her fear and resolution, had let him into her bed and kissed him until they had made love.
Even in the act, Jane knew that she would regret everything at some later stage, knew that she was putting her whole future in jeopardy. Yet, she could not stop herself.
Had I been born to a lower station, she thought, I might well have walked the streets.
So what hope for one whose uncontrollable passion for the King was leading her into deep and frightening waters?
‘But Sir,’ she whispered fearfully, ‘do you not think the less of me for this?’
His answer was not reassuring. ‘You are one of the best lovers I have ever had, Jane.’
‘But …’
‘No buts, sweetheart. Just let us enjoy each other while we can.’
The words hung in the air, frightening Jane witless, until Henry pulled her close to him, so that she could think of nothing else and further conversation turned to the pleasures of love and she did not dwell at all upon the future.
*
In the silent castle one candle, at least, was still lit. At a small table beside his bed, Edward Chapuys the faithful correspondent, was writing to his royal master.
‘March 6, 1536,’ he began. ‘I can report that the King’s amours with the young lady, of which I have already informed you, are proceeding well and that her brother will shortly be arriving at Court; this appointment, I believe, made to please her. It would seem that the Concubine’s days are numbered and that in some way she will be brought down.’ Chapuys paused, not wanting to say yet whether Henry was Jane’s lover, not wanting to say anything that was not strictly true. Nonetheless, the Ambassador could not resist a final touch. ‘Though the young lady is, as I have reported, of no great beauty it would seem that this is no deterrent to His Grace, who I feel certain would be glad to serve her in every way.’
