by Deryn Lake
With this double entendre Chapuys was finally satisfied. Let the Emperor work it out for himself. After all, it would only be a matter of days before the Ambassador wrote again to give him the latest instalment.
With a small cynical smile upon his face, Chapuys blew out his candle and contentedly fell asleep.
Chapter Nine
The hunting party was over and the various participants had gone their diverse ways; Chapuys to his official London residence; Sir Nicholas Carew to his home seven miles downriver from the capital, where family business called for his attention; Jane and Henry, journeying separately, to the Palace of Whitehall, at which place she was caught up in a somewhat emotional family reunion. For though she kissed her sister-in-law sedately enough, and did the same to her brother, taking great care to avoid looking him directly in the eyes, Jane flew into Cloverella’s arms in a positive flurry, and when they finally stopped hugging one another it could be seen that the older girl wept. After this, however, formal behaviour became enforced as Edward was, yet again, summoned to the Privy Chamber by the Marquis of Exeter to be schooled in the most particular duties and standards of behaviour required by gentlemen who had been so fortunate as to be elevated to the chosen few who served His Grace in private.
Thus left alone, Anne Seymour spent the entire day on her toilette in preparation for making her curtsey to the King that evening and, having dispensed with Cloverella’s services, the two younger women were left to explore the Palace, Jane acting as guide to her wide-eyed cousin.
‘And was it exciting?’ asked Cloverella, ‘to hunt the beasts in Windsor Forest? Or did Herne the Hunter come for you and throw you over his saddle.’
Jane smiled thinly. ‘You have been listening to too many fairy stories, Cloverella. Herne the Hunter is a creature of legend.’
‘How do you know?’ came the immediate reply.
‘Because I do. He doesn’t exist.’
‘In a minute you will say the same of Merlin.’
Jane smiled, enchanted all over again with her tiny cousin who stood her ground like a defiant doll when it came to matters of the unseen.
‘I could never say that of Merlin. Nobody could who comes from Wiltshire.’
‘I am glad to hear it,’ answered Cloverella, adding firmly, ‘and I hope the ways of Court will never make you forget your heritage.’
‘Never, I promise.’
The March day had brought sunshine, bathing the earth with an intensity of light in which bulbs and buds seemed almost to grow visibly as its warmth engulfed them. The sky was the fine pale blue of early spring, filled with jolly, puff-cheeked clouds sailing nonchalantly across the heavens like coracles on a fresh tidal river. Everywhere, England was a pattern of varying shades of green and brown, like a higgledy patchwork, with occasional splashes of yellow from burgeoning fields and blobs of white where sheep, late to bear their lambs, grazed fatly.
The smell of earth and water and fleece was everywhere, as exciting in its way as a musky Arabian scent, while from the trees came great bursts of song as nests were built and feathered. It was no small wonder that those who walked beneath felt a fever, a wonderful sense of renewal, as the earth with an immense sigh of awakening, came back most pleasurably to life.
The two girls, walking together, both more than aware of the excited mood of nature, had by afternoon traversed almost the entire length of the enormous palace, passing by the great courtyard and the cockpit, then down the side of the bowling alley and through the yard behind the kitchens, skirting the edges of the small tennis court where Sir Francis Weston, supposedly the most handsome man in England, was thrashing another young courtier who poured sweat despite the fact that there was still an edge of chill in the air.
‘They are friends of the Queen,’ whispered Jane, and Cloverella stared.
Having left the players still lithely running, the cousins went through the ornate Cockpit Gate and at last found themselves in the Great Privy Garden, still being worked on by the master gardener and his men who had laid it out most formally, with neatly shaped beds divided into diamonds and squares, all surrounding central beds, perfectly rounded. In the middle of all dominated a fountain brought from Italy, consisting of a central pillar patterned with a twisting stone rope, down which were suspended four gushing dolphins, spewing forth sparkling water into a pretty bowl which bounced it out again, broadcasting droplets for some distance into the air.
Cloverella looked on in frank amazement at it all as the two passed through the perfect rows of flowerbeds to reach the comparative wildness of the orchard which lay to the south of the Privy Gallery. At this time of year the trees were tightly budded but soon the place would be a mass of heady-scented blossom and zooming bees, and shade would be sought on the stone benches, scattered as if at random, but in actuality placed strategically so that beautiful blossom-filled avenues could be glimpsed from all directions. Some of the seats, however, were more discreetly positioned so that lovers might take advantage of the leafy arbours and hide themselves, and it was to one of these that Cloverella now firmly made her way and sat down.
Her look was very direct as she said, ‘Jane, you are transformed. Love has turned you into a rare beauty.’
Jane shot her a startled stare before she dropped her gaze to her lap. ‘How am I changed?’
‘You no longer believe you are plain and that in itself has made you beautiful. By loving you, a man has proved you are desirable. And not just any man, but the most important in the land.’
Jane said nothing, only her lips trembling slightly.
‘But it frightens you that you have given yourself to him completely,’ Cloverella went on without pausing, fixing her lilac eyes firmly on her cousin.
Still Jane made no answer but the trembling had now spread from her mouth to her entire frame and she pressed the back of one of her hands to the thin line which until a few minutes ago had been a smile.
‘Please,’ said Cloverella earnestly, ‘tell me why you are so unhappy.’
‘If I do,’ answered Jane in a tortured whisper, ‘do you swear upon your life that you will never tell the secret?’
‘Seven for a secret never to be told.’ Cloverella saw again the milk and pitch of the magpies as they swirled about her head. ‘I’ll never tell it,’ she said. ‘I swear upon Dame Margery’s life and upon your own, as well as mine.’
‘It is him; the King. I allowed him into my bed. All the time while we were at Windsor. Oh God, God’s blood. It is the very thing that they all warned me about …’
‘They?’
‘Edward and Nicholas Carew. They said if I gave into him without marriage he would see me as a hackney, like Mary Carey or Madge Shelton or Bessie Blount or any of those hideous creatures. Oh Cloverella, Cloverella, what shall I do?’
She flung herself, all pink nose and ashen face, into Cloverella’s lap where she sobbed without control.
‘Hold him off until he is promised to you,’ said her cousin into the tumult.
A watery eye turned in her direction. ‘What did you say?’
‘Now that he has tasted you, hold him at arm’s length until he has offered marriage.’
Jane straightened up. ‘How vulgar you can be sometimes.’
Cloverella grinned. ‘Half a gypsy always a gypsy, I suppose.’ Her voice changed and the little face was suddenly serious. ‘Jane, he will be yours. I told you once before at Topenham Lodge, you will sign yourself, “Jane the Queen”.’
Jane let out a gusty sigh. ‘You are not alone in your belief. I have been to consult Dr Zachary.’
Cloverella’s eyes glistened. ‘I thought I saw him the other night making his way to the Duke of Norfolk. All dark curls and dancing brows. A right rogue of a fellow. Would that have been he?’
‘Indeed it would,’ said Jane, nodding. ‘A pretty rascal if ever there was one. But clever, or so Edward thinks; and Zachary, too, said I would wed His Grace.’
‘Then why,’ asked Cloverella impatientl
y, ‘are you making such a spectacular fuss?’
‘Because of what the others say.’
‘The others, pooh!’ retorted Cloverella, standing up. ‘What do they know about it? The King has tasted the fruit and obviously found it delicious. Now keep him dangling until he must climb to pluck the lower branches.’
Jane’s eyebrows almost reached her hair. ‘Cloverella, I believed you to be a maid! How do you know all these things?’
‘I am a virgin still, Jane, in answer to that question. And as to the other, well, even a child listens to adults.’
‘And this is how the Romanies go on?’
‘Of course they do,’ said Cloverella, laughing. ‘Before my grandam handed me back to Dame Margery she told me the secret way of capturing any man I choose.’
And with that she was off, skipping lightly amongst the leafless trees, her dark hair escaping from its formal headdress, and the sound of her song drifting back to where Jane Seymour stood, slightly nonplussed.
*
Within one of Whitehall Palace’s many beautifully appointed rooms, staring momentarily out of the window with more than just a tinge of envy, a man sat behind a desk on that fine March afternoon when Cloverella and, later, Jane skipped in the orchard; a man who by his very dress and bearing could be recognised as one of the most important people in the land, and whose white broad hands, the index finger of the left bearing a blue ring large as an eye, worked constantly over the sea of papers which swarmed the desk before him, even while he looked beyond.
For him there was to be none of the joy of sunshine and fine air but instead documents to sign and learned books to consult and a day that might end some time around midnight before he could finally lock away in drawers his more secret and confidential work and make his way wearily to his house in Stepney or, if it was too late for that, his private apartments in the palace.
But then, even then, for Thomas Cromwell, principal Secretary of State to Henry VIII, who had started his career as Cardinal Wolsey’s steward and climbed a ladder of people ever since, it could not be entirely guaranteed that his leisure time would pass without interruption. On many occasions he had just kicked off his shoes and changed his clothes for a loose-fitting robe, when a messenger had come to summon him urgently back to whichever palace the King’s Grace was residing in at that time. And there had even been one occasion when he had been about most private business with his wife, only to hear a thundering on his bedroom door and a shouted voice telling him that the King awaited him below. Henry’s eyes and his had met man-to-man as he had descended the stairs, and there had been a great deal of bluff laughter from the King in which he had been forced to join, but Thomas Cromwell in truth had resented the intrusion, while his wife had hardly spoken to him for a month following.
Yet, despite that, despite all the inconvenience which being one of the principal men in the kingdom involved, Cromwell enjoyed the sense of power; enjoyed the moment when the anointed King turned to him for advice and he, Thomas, would lean forward, his fingertips together, his eyes partially closed, and carefully weigh his reply.
When the King had decided to rid England of the Pope it had been Thomas Cromwell’s visionary tactics which had brought about the final break and there could be little doubt that he, and he alone, had altered the face of kingship, bringing England’s government out of medieval darkness and into the brightness of modern administration.
Smiling a little at this memory of achievement, Cromwell ceased to look out at the sunshine and bent over his work once more, his eye running over pages and pages of royal accounts, his brain sifting and sorting them, even while his ears took in all the extraneous sounds of palace life; a shout from the tennis court, a roar of laughter from the bowling alley, somebody sneezing repeatedly and heavy footsteps in the corridor. Even while adding up figures, Cromwell’s agile mind took in the fact that the sound was heading straight towards his room and his left hand, the blue ring catching the light as it moved, rapidly hid some confidential papers beneath a book.
The footsteps stopped outside the room. ‘Come in,’ called Cromwell, but the door was already being flung open without ceremony and the Secretary, raising his head to shout his annoyance, saw that the King himself stood there, straddling the entrance like a colossus, looking in some way that Cromwell could not possibly have defined, both more arrogant and overtly masculine than usual.
‘Your Grace,’ said Thomas, jumping up and bowing silently, refusing to mutter pleasantries when the King was in such an obviously distraught mood.
‘I’ve come to a decision,’ answered Henry without preamble and lowered himself, groaning a little, into a chair. Looking at him narrowly, Thomas observed that Henry was putting on weight and knowing that his fall in the lists in January had seriously curtailed the royal exercise, said, in all innocence, ‘Did you have good hunting at Windsor, Your Grace?’
The answer was something of a surprise. ‘I expect you know that already, you dog.’ And a blue eye winked.
Cromwell stared at his sovereign blankly, wondering what that remark could possibly mean. Then daylight dawned. The Seymour girl had been at Windsor too and no doubt had leapt into bed with him, as easy-virtued as most of the sluts at Court.
‘Well, that will be the end of her,’ thought Thomas. ‘Henry never bothers about women who give in too easily.’
With this in the back of his mind, the King’s next remark rocked Cromwell to the soles of his feet. ‘Mr Secretary, I want a divorce from the Queen. I told you in January that I was almost certain she had used witchcraft to ensnare me. Now I am positive of it. I want an annulment.’
Cromwell sat down heavily, putting his fingertips together. ‘Your Grace, I …’
Henry’s expression hardened. ‘I will not take no for an answer, Thomas.’
The lawyer in Cromwell rose to defend himself. ‘Your Grace, it is not going to be easy. I do not believe that the charge of witchcraft will be taken seriously and to claim that your second marriage was as illegal as your first will hardly appear valid. At the time your marriage to the Queen was regarded as perfectly legal.’
‘Then find another way,’ said the King harshly.
Cromwell sat in silence, his narrow brown eyes reflective. ‘I take it that Your Grace would wish to marry again, should your present marriage be annulled, for the sake of the succession.’
‘Yes. And don’t beat about the bush. With your vast network of spies I expect you know everything about my relations with Mistress Seymour.’
Cromwell smiled knowingly and nodded his head, making a mental note to speak at once to his principal informer at Windsor Castle.
The King leant forward, lowering his voice to conspirator’s level. ‘She is remarkable, Mr Secretary, in every way.’ To his alarm, Cromwell saw the man-to-man look reappearing in the small glinting eye opposite his and attempted to adopt a similar twinkle. ‘I want to marry her, Tom. Though you moot that abroad at this stage on pain of death.’
Cromwell nodded briskly, everything now being abundantly clear to him. ‘Your Grace, give me a few weeks, eight at the most.’
‘No sooner?’
‘No, Your Grace,’ he answered firmly. ‘The reason for ending your marriage to the Queen must be seen in the eyes of the whole world as valid. There must be no shadow of doubt, even in the minds of your adversaries, that you had no choice but to put her to one side. I cannot find such a case in a matter of days.’
Henry stood up. ‘Well said, Mr Secretary, well said,’ he answered gruffly. ‘You lawyers know best, as always. But free me of that evil woman, Thomas, I beg you. I was blinded and seduced but now at last my vision is clear and I know I must marry sweet Jane.’
Hmm, thought Cromwell with asperity, but aloud said, ‘I will do everything in my power to bring about such a splendid outcome, Your Grace.’
‘Make sure you do,’ answered Henry with that edge in his voice which always made Cromwell shiver. ‘Make sure you do.’
And wit
h that he stumped from the room leaving the principal Secretary to wrestle with a problem to which, at that particular moment, there seemed absolutely no solution whatsoever.
*
It was evening, that eventful March day finally drawing to a close, and Chapuys, as often present at Court as he could manage in these highly charged times, thought to himself that all the chief players in the drama were present. For on one side of the table — the King for once dining in his Hall with as many courtiers as could attend him — sat the Queen, sallow and shrunken, with eyes that burned with hatred and pain, flanked by her brother Rochford and all her intimate set of friends. While opposite them, like an opposing army drawn up for battle, was the Seymour contingent, gaudy with triumph; even the shy daughter of the house tonight wearing a tantalising smile which reminded the Ambassador of that of Anne Boleyn in the distant days.
Adopting the blank expression which always meant he was thinking furiously, Chapuys studied Jane Seymour. To him she seemed suddenly assured, full of new confidence.
Like someone with a plan, thought Chapuys.
Phrases from the letter he would write to the Emperor when he returned home that night, began to drift through his head. ‘The King has put into his chamber the young lady’s brother, to the intense rage of the Concubine.’
He glanced at Anne Boleyn now, the loathing he felt for her concealed by his empty face.
How true, he thought, the adage that pride comes before a fall. You were the proudest in the kingdom and look at you now. God’s justice is at work.
Mentally, Chapuys crossed himself before turning his attention elsewhere. But all present, and some a great deal less observant than the Ambassador, sensed the atmosphere in the Hall, alive with unspoken threats and curses and on a knife’s edge, most felt, of actual violence. So in a way it was no surprise when the Queen rose, even in the middle of a love song, passionately sung by the King’s favourite musician, James Hill. As etiquette demanded, everyone else stood too and watched, almost in a frozen manner, as Anne slowly made her way down the length of the table until she came to stand beside Jane Seymour.
