The Lady in the Tower

by Виктория Холт

  For the rest, I commend unto you Mary, our daughter, beseeching you to be a good father unto her, as I heretofore desired. I entreat you also on behalf of my maids to give them marriage portions, which is not much, there being but three. For all my servants I solicit a year's pay more than their due, lest they should be unprovided for.

  Lastly, do I vow that mine eyes desire you above all things.

  It was the letter of a dying woman. Henry was disturbed on reading it, but he could not bring himself to go and see her. He sent for Chapuys and told him to go at once to Katharine at Kimbolton and give her his good wishes.

  “Let Lady Willoughby go to her,” he said. Maria de Salinas, who had come with Katharine from Spain and had married Lord Willoughby, had been Katharine's dearest friend throughout her years in England. So although she was denied the presence of her daughter, she did see her friend.

  On 7 January she died in the presence of Lady Willoughby and Chapuys. So it had happened at last, and I am afraid I was impetuous enough to say in the hearing of several people: “Now I am indeed the Queen.”

  I was washing my hands when the news was brought to me, and so relieved was I that I gave the messenger the bowl and cover. He was delighted, for it was a costly bowl.

  In spite of his conscience, which had been aroused by Katharine's letter, Henry was elated.

  “Praise be to God,” he said. “We are delivered of all fear of war. Now I can handle the French. I can keep them wondering whether I will join forces with them or the Emperor. This is a day to praise God indeed. It is His way of showing He will look after me.”

  I wondered if Katharine could hear those words in Heaven. They were so typical of him. He did not see why God should not remove Katharine to show Henry how much He cherished him.

  He dressed in yellow that night. Why should he go into mourning? he asked. Katharine was never his wife.

  There was no absence of festivities. In sumptuous yellow—as I was, too,— a white plume in his cap, he sent for Elizabeth. She came, my little one—just past two years now, very bright, eager to learn about what was going on around her. I was proud as I watched her being carried by her great glittering yellow-clad father.

  It was a good omen, I told myself. This was going to be a happy year.

  Jane Rochford whispered to me that the King seemed mightily taken with Mistress Jane Seymour.

  “It must be a passing fancy,” I said. “She's such a mouse. I feel sure she could not interest him for long.”

  “She is not his mistress, you know,” Jane went on. “She is holding out against him … just like…”

  “How can you know so much?”

  “I keep my eyes open. I think it is important to the family.”

  I was angry. I hated gossiping with Jane. But I did want to know what was going on.

  “They say he sent a letter and a purse full of sovereigns. You can imagine what was in the letter. She sent the sovereigns back saying that her honor was her fortune and she could receive money only from the man she married.”

  Oh God! Familiar talk! Had she learned it from me? That silly little creature! One would never have thought she could learn anything.

  Still, I did not worry unduly.

  I was sitting with my ladies. We did a great deal of sewing for the poor. I was changing, finding less pleasure in the excitement of the Court. I thought often of the needy, and I wanted to better their lot. I think that had been inspired by my interest in the new religion.

  A tournament was taking place, and the King was riding that day. I had not attended. I should have to be there, of course, for the presentation of the prizes but that was not until tomorrow.

  Norfolk came bursting into the apartment.

  “The King has fallen,” he said. “His horse has thrown him.”

  I stood up. I felt the child move within me and I fainted.

  When I opened my eyes, Norfolk had gone and I was surrounded by my women who were pushing hartshorn under my nose.

  “What… happened?”

  “The Duke of Norfolk came and you fainted.”

  “Oh…I remember. The King…”

  “They have brought him in.”

  “He is…”

  “We don't know. Your Grace. But I think he is all right.”

  “I must go to him.”

  “Your Grace should rest. You have had a shock. Lie down and rest awhile. As soon as there is news, it will be brought to you.”

  I felt dizzy. I lay on my couch and closed my eyes. What would happen to us if he were dead? What would happen to the realm? Who would be sovereign? Could it be…Mary? And then what of me? She would not tolerate me. She hated me as the one who was responsible for all the ills which had befallen her mother. And if not Mary…Elizabeth? A baby. They would prefer Mary.

  I was very frightened.

  I need not have been. Henry was soon up. The fall had been nothing, he said. No horse could get the better of him. All his life he had been an expert horseman.

  I felt I should rest for a little as the shock could not have been good for the child.

  And as I lay, my thoughts went to Jane Seymour, who had refused the sovereigns and talked of her honor.

  It was the familiar pattern which had worked so well in my case. What if it worked for Jane Seymour?

  How could it? I had been alert, clever, and Jane was a fool. She would never be able to plan as I did to hold him off.

  I had many enemies at Court, and they would, of course, know of his feelings for Jane. They had always sought a way of being rid of me. What if they saw the answer in Jane? It suddenly struck me. She had two very ambitious brothers. I wanted to find out, if I could, all about those Sey-mour men.

  I discovered that they claimed descent from a companion of William the Conqueror who took his name from St. Maur-sur-Loire in Touraine. The St. Maur had become Seymour. The two brothers, Edward the elder—he must have been about my age—and Thomas, a little younger, were eager to make their way at Court. I had no doubt that they had noted the spectacular rise of the Boleyns at Court—in a small way through Mary's liaison with the King and a much greater way through his marriage with me.

  It must be that they were seeking advancement through their sister Jane.

  The idea seemed quite preposterous, because she was such an insignificant little creature.

  I did not think a great deal of the matter then, for I was now very preoccupied with my coming child.

  Then came the day when I found them together. I had come into the room suddenly and there they were. She was seated on his knee; she was simpering and he was looking at her fondly. I saw that glazed expression which I remembered so well as it had been so frequently directed at me.

  Jane Seymour sitting there on the King's knee! Where was the virginal young lady who had to guard her honor? She did not seem to be so very concerned with that at this moment.

  I just stood for some seconds staring at them.

  Jane Seymour saw me. She leaped to her feet. The King looked full at me, and there was anger in his eyes. He was caught, and he hated to be caught. He always looked then to blame someone else. He would blame me, of course. But I would not be humiliated before Jane Seymour.

  I turned abruptly, and departed.

  I felt sick and ill. How far had it gone? Was he trying to repeat what had happened to us? Who was behind her? Edward and Thomas Sey-mour, the ambitious brothers? Who else? How many enemies had I at Court? Too many to be counted.

  I went to my chamber.

  Nan Saville ran to me in alarm. “Your Grace…you are not well.”

  “I think I will lie down.”

  She helped me to my bed. That night my pains started. I was in agony. It was far too soon. I could not bear to be disappointed of my one great hope now.

  They sent for the midwife and the doctors. I could imagine how the news was spreading around the palace.

  “The Queen is in labor. But it is too soon.”

  “Oh God,” I pr
ayed. “You know how much I want this child. My future depends on it… perhaps my very life.”

  But God did not answer my prayers. My child—a son—was born dead.

  Henry came into my room. He looked down at me. I saw his clenched fists, his glittering eyes, his cruel mouth.

  His disappointment was as bitter as my own.

  “You cannot give me sons,” he said. “You are no better than that other.”

  I hated him. If I had married Henry Percy, I thought now, I might have been a happy woman. But he had chosen to guide my life. He had robbed me of my lover and offered me a crown…and now he was threatening to snatch it away from me. I hated him—and I did not care that he knew it. I was finished. I knew that, as sure as I knew anything. I understood Katharine's feelings as never before. She had served him well for twenty years…I not yet three… but it was long enough for him to tire of me and want to be rid of me.

  I said: “It is you who have done this. It is your infidelities… that have upset me so that our child is born dead. I saw you with that silly slut on your knees.” I laughed. “You might have chosen someone more worthy.”

  He was furious. He hated me for having caught him in such a position.

  He roared: “I see God does not wish to give me male children. And you…you will have no more sons by me.”

  He was blaming me. I was speechless with indignation.

  He murmured: “When you are on your feet, I will speak with you.”

  Then he left me.

  I lay numb with misery and fear. I had lost my last chance.

  I wondered what would happen to me now.

  I did not see him for several days.

  I knew there was no way of luring him back to me for the time being. He seemed to be completely obsessed with Jane Seymour. His affair with her was common knowledge. But how far it had gone, I did not know.

  He went on one of his journeys through the country. I did not accompany him. It was given out that I needed to rest to recover from my miscarriage.

  I was in a precarious position.

  I turned to George—the only one I felt I could trust.

  I was resting in my bed when he came to me. It was a good place to talk because we could be quite alone.

  He sat by the bed, looking grave.

  He said: “I am worried about the Seymours.”

  “You think they are plotting?”

  “I know they are. There are not two more ambitious men at Court than Edward and Thomas Seymour. They look for great things through their sister Jane.”

  “They profit from our example, George, I'm afraid.”

  “You must try to get back to Henry.”

  “He hates me, I believe.”

  “Love and hate are said to be very close.”

  “He has said I shall have no more boys from him.”

  “When did he say this?”

  “When I was lying exhausted after I lost my child because I was so upset when I came upon him with Jane Seymour on his knee.”

  “He knows you saw him?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “That would make him angry. He hates to be caught.”

  I laughed bitterly. “There is little you can tell me about him, George.”

  “You must get a boy. It is imperative.”

  “A thought has come to me. Katharine had many miscarriages, did she not? And now … look at me. We have both had girls… but always if the child is a boy it miscarries. Why should that be?”

  “Perhaps boys are more difficult to come by.”

  “That does not seem to be the case. There are many of them about.”

  “What are you thinking, Anne?”

  “That it is due to something in Henry. I begin to believe he will never have a healthy boy.”

  “He had Elizabeth Blount's boy.”

  “Yes… but that was long ago. And have you noticed young Richmond? There is a delicate look about him. I do not think he will live long.”

  “But at least he was born.”

  “Mary is delicate, but she lives. But she was born to Katharine after several miscarriages. Elizabeth was my firstborn and she is very healthy, but I think she gets that from me. I have these misgivings, George. And if I am right, it means that Henry will never beget a healthy boy.”

  The horror of this dawned on him.

  Then he said: “What hope is there then?”

  “None. The more I consider it, the more I believe that the fault lies with him.”

  “He would kill anyone who suggested it.”

  “I know. Perhaps sometime I shall say it to him.”

  “Anne, for God's sake have a care. Is there anything that might make you think…”

  “That I am right? There is a sore on his leg which does not heal well. I wonder about it.”

  “That sort of disease?”

  I nodded. “Sometimes I believe it makes men and women unable to bear healthy children.”

  “But there is Elizabeth.”

  “I was fresh. I was healthy. And she is a girl.”

  “I cannot believe you are right when you say the King is incapable of having healthy children.”

  We did not notice that the door had opened and Jane Rochford stood there.

  “Oh, Anne,” she cried, “I came to see how you were. Is there anything I could do…”

  She looked at George eagerly, but he turned away.

  I was thinking: How long has she been standing there? She moved so silently and came upon one unexpectedly. That could be disconcerting.

  I said: “I want nothing, thank you.”

  “And are you feeling better?”

  “Thank you, yes.”

  “The King will be pleased.” There was a touch of malice in her sly face. She hated to see George sitting close to me, deep in conversation.

  George kissed me lightly. “You should rest a little longer,” he said and, taking Jane by the arm, he drew her from the room.

  All through that terrible winter the sense of doom was with me.

  I had so few friends and apart from George I was not sure whom I could trust. It seemed to me sometimes as though they were all watching… waiting for my fate to overtake me. Perhaps they were not entirely certain what it would be. On more than one occasion I had recovered a certain power over the King after having appeared to have lost it forever. Could I do it again? My rival was by no means the most attractive woman at Court. But it might be that she was not so simple as she appeared to be. She had managed so far to preserve her virtue, to cling to her “honor” and imply “A crown or nothing.”

  It was a complete imitation of the method which I had used with him. I had blazed the trail, given the example, and they were following it slavishly. She was backed by her ambitious brothers—and she was winning.

  Once again Henry was being challenged.

  I found great relief from tension in my reading. It was mostly religion, and I was growing more and more interested in the new ideas. I read everything the reformers were writing that I could find. I could forget my troubles when I did that. My other source of comfort was my daughter. She was such a bright and intelligent child. I was often with her. I enjoyed going through her wardrobe, discussing it and planning it with Lady Bryan. I thought that surely such an attractive child must be a delight to her father.

  As the weeks were passing, I grew more desperate. I tried to make him notice her, for naturally when he turned from me he turned from my daughter also. How could any father be so indifferent to such a child?

  I was at that time overcome with melancholy, and after these bouts such was my nature that I would give myself up to wild gaiety.

  I still had my admirers. They must have been genuinely attracted by me for my declining fortunes made no difference to their devotion. I wanted their company, their compliments, their looks of admiration; they made my spirits rise and gave me fresh hopes. I even looked for admiration from young Mark Smeaton. He was completely devoted to me. My ladies said tha
t he never played so exquisitely as when I was present, and it was then that he played for me. He now looked very handsome in the new clothes which I had provided for him.

  I told him that he must not expect too much attention from me, and he replied soulfully: “No, Madam. A look will suffice.”

  Such complete and abject adoration, even from a humble musician, was balm to me at such a time.

  I had some good friends among my ladies. Madge Shelton was as friendly as ever. Our little adventure with Henry had not changed us; rather it had bound us together, and she did not take it amiss that Henry Norris, who was supposed to be courting her, gave his attention to me. There was Margaret Lee, who served me well; and Mary Wyatt had always been close to me.

  My sister Mary had come to Court. She had a great capacity for happiness. For the first time in my life I was envious of Mary, with her children and her happy marriage; she was serene and secure. She declared that Will Stafford was the perfect husband; he had made up for the loss of dear Will Carey. It seemed to me that Mary had found the right way to live. Perhaps I could have learned from her if it had not been too late.

  It was part of my tempestuous nature that I could at times be hilariously merry. I still had the wits of the Court about me to help me construct amusing entertainments. I would sing, dance, indulge in flirtations with my admirers; and then afterward, alone, I would sink into melancholy.

  I said to Mary Wyatt: “The King plans to be rid of me as he rid himself of Katharine. He thinks he will get sons by Jane Seymour. But I think the King will never get a son… because he cannot.”

  Mary warned me that it was unwise to say such things.

  Dear, calm, wise Mary. How right she was!

  There were times when I knew such despair that I tried every means to touch his heart. Once I took Elizabeth and, with her, waited before the windows of his apartments for him to appear. After a long time he did. I made the child lift her hand and wave to him. He just stared at us stonily for a few moments and turned away.

  I knew there was no moving him then. I saw that we had gone too far for him ever to turn back to me. My enemies were all watching, waiting for the moment when they could give vent to their hatred. They were unsure as yet… waiting for the King.