Fatal Throne: The Wives of Henry VIII Tell All

by M. T. Anderson

  “I am not so young anymore,” I say aloud, a bitter chuckle escaping my throat. But I am so happy to see my beautiful red blossoms, as rich and bountiful as they were in my youth, I practically dance down the path. Twenty-seven years old, I think, and what have I to show for it? “Not a thing,” I answer myself out loud.

  Suddenly, I hear a quiet cough and I spin around, embarrassment already colouring my cheeks the same scarlet as the roses.

  The King—he is here, sitting in my Young Lady Garden. He is looking at me with a strangely open and innocent expression on his face. He has such a morose look about him, so glum, the years seem to have fallen away, leaving a naïve young child where there was once a middle-aged man.

  “Your Majesty,” I whisper, sinking quickly into a deep curtsey.

  “Ah, Mistress Seymour,” he murmurs. I can feel his eyes sweep over me and I bow my head.

  “May I be of service, Your Majesty?” I say softly, not daring to raise my eyes.

  “Sweet Jane,” he says. His voice is soft and maybe a little bit sad. “Perhaps you will sit beside me for a spell.” He does not ask this of me; it is a command.

  I sit next to him on the small bench. The smells of woodsmoke and wine roll off him. He touches his left leg—the old injury still troubles him, I suppose—and winces slightly.

  “Are you quite all right, Your Majesty?” I ask him.

  “I shall be,” he answers grimly. After a pause, he says, “You are a good girl, kind and ever thinking of others, aren’t you, Jane?”

  I could almost feel sorry for him, he looks so lost. I know how desperately he wants to have a son to inherit his throne. I can only imagine how heavily it must weigh on him that he does not have this one thing. How could it not? I wonder what other burdens of kingship also trouble him. I wonder if he mourns the death of Sir Thomas More. I wonder if the break with Rome concerns him. I wonder if he misses his daughter Mary. I wonder if he is lonely.

  So many lives ravaged by Anne.

  “Mistress Jane?” he says again, interrupting my reverie.

  I had quite forgotten the King had asked me a question. Keeping my gaze lowered to the ground, I angle my body slightly towards him. “I try to be, Your Majesty. I try to be kind and good in all ways.”

  “I am sure you do,” he says. I steal a glance upwards and see a small smile lifting his lips. “You seem the loveliest and truest example of womanhood to me. I saw how you leapt to aid the old servant who dropped his parcels as we entered this house. I dare venture you did not intend to allow us such a clear window into your true nature. But there it was, and I was quite…moved by it.” Henry sighs. “Compassion seems long absent from court these days.”

  I am at a loss for how to answer the King. He seems wistful and full of regret. But I have seen his own lack of compassion. Still, I must remember, it is wrong to judge what might be in the heart of another.

  “I am sure we all strive to be humane, Your Majesty.”

  “I myself am not sure of that, Mistress Jane,” he says.

  “I suppose it is what I want to believe, so that I may continue to have faith in humanity. So that I can keep waking up in the morning and feeling that this daily mortal struggle is worthwhile.” I speak more fervently than I am used to.

  The King looks surprised. Likely, he did not expect so many words at once from me, or such a forceful delivery. “I do believe you are right, Jane.” Now his expression turns admiring. “I think you are well and right to look for the good in people. I…used to do this. Perhaps you will be able to help set me back on this path?”

  “I should like that, Your Majesty. However I may be of service,” I reply.

  Suddenly, Henry reaches for my hand. His touch delivers a very pleasant warmth that travels from my fingertips up my arm and straight to my belly. I could swear a butterfly dances in there. He holds my hand for a moment, brushing each of my fingers with his, running the pad of his thumb over my palm. I take this opportunity to study him; he is like a great golden bear, masculine and powerful. He straightens. “Would you do me the great honour of strolling with me?”

  Henry rises from the bench, drawing me up beside him, then tucks my hand in the crook of his arm. The solidity of his thick arm, muscled from years of riding and jousting, and the close heat of his body fan the flame that is rising inside me. From the way he looks at me, I think Henry must feel it, too.

  We set off down the path, and I reach with a free hand to graze the petals of a perfect rose. “I love this garden,” I tell the King softly. “I have always thought of it as my own sort of sanctuary.”

  “What do you love about it?” he asks, his brow wrinkling with curiosity.

  “The wildness, the way the roses have grown as they please. No one tames them. Yet they offer up their beauty and fragrance as gifts for the taking. When I was young I used to pretend that these Tudor roses loved me back,” I say, smiling.

  “Ah, an apt name for the species. Yes, there is something lovely about their wildness; yet, untamed as they may be, they stay within their bounds, offering their perfume as nurturance,” he says with an answering grin. “Well, I think it quite fortunate that this is where we have met. So we shall always have another reason to love this garden well.” He holds my gaze, before I blush and look down at the ground.

  This is all so unreal. A laugh at the madness of it rises up in my throat and bursts forth before I even realize it. The King stops and looks at me, his eyes clearly showing his offence.

  “Mistress Jane, is something I’ve said funny?” His voice has turned cold.

  “Oh, Your Majesty, no—not at all. It is just that I am unable to believe this is truly happening. That you are here. With me. That we are in my garden, strolling together, talking as dear friends might do. The wonder of it just struck me. I am so sorry—I did not mean any disrespect, Your Majesty.”

  The King smiles warmly and says, “Ah, I understand. I am marvelling at it myself.” He then begins to chatter about tomorrow’s hunt, and my mind is set reeling. The King has asked me to stroll through the garden with him. He has conversed with me in what feels a sincere and intimate manner. Me—Plain Jane? What could this possibly mean?

  I straighten and remind myself to act as a proper lady would.

  “Your Majesty, would you allow me to ride out after the hunting party?” I ask, keeping my voice demure. “I should like to see you hunt.”

  Henry stops suddenly, surprised. “Why, of course. I would quite like that, too—I should like to see you upon a horse.” Then his voice turns a bit sour. “I imagine the Queen shall ride out as well.”

  I glance at him quickly, admiring his golden-red hair, his tall stature. While he has grown portly with age, his eyes creased and rather smaller, he still cuts a handsome figure. He is still a lion. He catches my eye, any darkness the reminder of the Queen brought on now wiped clean away, and grins charmingly, then pats my hand. “Jane,” he says, “I am enjoying our walk immensely. I hope that we can repeat this happy occasion once again, sometime very soon.”

  He continues to pull me along beside him, and as we wind our way between the rosebushes, my steps begin to feel lighter. My voice soft and full of cheer, I say, “Yes, Your Majesty, I am very much enjoying this stroll with you, too.”

  “Are you, now?” he says thoughtfully. “Perhaps we might meet again tomorrow.”

  “I would like that.”

  I wonder what he sees as he observes me. Plain Jane, who blends into the wall hangings? Or perhaps…a kindred spirit? I wonder if he could actually feel as lonely as I do. Perhaps I can be his saviour from his loneliness? And he could be mine.

  WULFHALL

  September 1535

  At supper Henry sits at the head of our long dining table, while I am seated farther down. Anne has been seated even farther away, at the opposite end of the table. I cast my eyes about, wondering if anyone saw us come inside from the garden together, if anyone spotted him raising my hand to his lips. Could she have seen us? I
am certain that no one could have witnessed the way my heart fluttered and danced inside my chest.

  I feel safe; I do not think anyone particularly notices me, until I catch Thomas Cromwell, the King’s highest advisor, watching me as he chews on the end of a chicken leg. He raises his goblet of wine to me, then pours the ruby liquid down his throat.

  I swallow hard.

  I glance once towards Henry when I feel him staring at me. I raise my eyes briefly to meet his, as though I’m drawn to him; then I drop my gaze again. I feel a small smile spring to my lips; I press my napkin there, but cannot wipe it away. My ears feel as though they are on fire. And a giddiness overtakes me.

  Is this what love feels like?

  The table is piled high with roasted mutton and venison, pheasant and capon, meat pies and a pig’s stomach, and two peacocks, tail feathers fanned out over the platter. Wine and ale are flowing. As the meal goes on, this magnetism continues to connect me to Henry. My breath is racing with my heart, which could leap from my chest at any moment. But I do not want to act brazenly, I do not want to do anything that would scandalize my family.

  If he grows weary of Anne, then I must not act like Anne. If he is taken with Plain Jane, well, then I must act like myself. Who would have ever thought?

  After supper, my brother Thomas informs me that Master Cromwell did indeed notice that the King and I were strolling together in the garden. “He wishes to speak with you,” Thomas says gravely.

  “Surely he isn’t interested in our Jane,” I hear Edward saying incredulously as I re-enter the dining hall. My shoulders stoop a little bit. Is it so impossible to believe that someone could possibly find me desirable? Not even my favourite brother can conceive of it?

  Nevertheless, here I am, sitting at the table, watching as the servants clean up, listening to my father and brothers and Master Cromwell discuss me as though I do not exist. They argue over the likelihood of the King’s setting Anne aside, as he did Katharine. Even Sir Francis Bryan is here, encouraging them.

  “Anne is a vulgar, obscene witch,” my father spits. I marvel at his boldness and sheer defiance, remembering how he coerced me into taking the oath of service to her.

  “Indeed, Lord Seymour,” Master Cromwell says. “She has certainly bewitched our King.” His lined, grey face turns thoughtful. He is rumoured to be a great brute, to have lived the life of a ruffian, but he has always struck me as one of the most intelligent and perceptive men I’ve ever encountered.

  “But do you think we can…topple her?” Lord Bryan cuts in impatiently.

  Master Cromwell folds his hands, lacing his fingers together. He sits back in his chair and lets loose a long sigh. “I think that the King grows tired of her…ways.”

  I wonder just what that means, but as my father and brothers glance at me, then shift uncomfortably in their seats, the tips of their ears reddening almost in unison, I can guess at the meaning. Her ways of making love, I suppose.

  “Moreover, she has failed to produce a male heir,” Cromwell continues. “I do believe there is a chance.” He turns to me. “You, Jane, have caught his attention. Your modesty and virtue are what he needs now. You must not do anything to bring this into question.” And here he glances at Edward. “Her virtue is intact, is it not?”

  I want to fall through the floor, I could not possibly be more humiliated. I give the slightest nod of my head.

  “Of course it is, sir,” Edward answers sternly, looking at me askance.

  I cannot bring myself to lift my gaze from the scarred oak of the tabletop. I trace the grains with my finger, over and over. Where I felt giddy and excited earlier, now I feel deflated, as they treat me like no more than a head of cattle, trampling this seed of something fragile and precious into dust.

  “You must be modest, deferential, and submissive. You must be encouraging—but not overly so,” Cromwell’s voice intones. “You must keep your virtue intact, no matter what the King asks. If you do these things, if you are able to stay true to these instructions, I do think someday you could be Queen of England. But you must not reveal our plan to anyone. Not to your closest confidante, not to your dearest friend, not even to your sister.”

  “It is all right, Master Cromwell,” I say quietly. I do my best to inject strength into my voice, not to let in a tremble. “I understand. And I will do these things. For the good of the King, for the good of England.”

  They look around the table at one another and grin proudly. I suppose I’ve performed well, then. They think they are so clever, these pompous men. I will do the things I have said I would, and I will marry, and I will bear children. And I will become the next Queen of England. But I will not do these things for power or spite. I will do them for love. And just maybe, I will succeed.

  WULFHALL

  September 1535

  Henry has sent small tokens every day this week. Poems, a bowl of candied plums—never mind that he must have gotten them from my father’s kitchens. And now a letter.

  My dearest friend and mistress,

  These few lines from thy entirely devoted servant are but a token of my true affection for thee. Hoping you will hold me commended to your favour and forever in your heart. For I do surrender myself unto you.

  Your own loving servant and sovereign,

  H.R.

  My hands tremble as I hold the paper, folding and unfolding it, bringing it close to my eyes to see the letters on the page. I cannot stop reading it, over and over again. Plain Jane has gotten a love letter. A true love letter. From the King of England. Henry loves me.

  I know that I must bring the letter to my father. He and Master Cromwell read it quickly. Father makes as though to fold the letter and slip it into his pocket, but I hold out my hand. “Please,” I say. “I should like to keep it. I will show it to no one.”

  He hesitates and looks questioningly at Cromwell.

  “It is mine,” I say pointedly. “Please.”

  Master Cromwell looks at me, cocking his head as though trying to get a clearer notion of who or what I am, as if I were some species of rare bird. I meet his eye, forcing myself to keep my spine straight, my gaze firm. Then he glances at my father and nods. “She may keep it.”

  His sharp scrutiny turns to land on me again. “But, Jane, remember to be a good girl. Keep the letter close. If the three of us know of the King’s interest in you, others will know, too. If not now, then soon enough. There will be eyes on you at all times—unfriendly ones, at that. You seem to have a sensible head on your shoulders; keep watch for attempts at foul play. And remember: Queen Anne is capable of a great many things. A great many things not in the least bit savoury.”

  This is true, I know it well. But I cannot say that what my father and Cromwell and the other men are attempting is by any stretch savoury, either.

  Yet there is something pure at the root of this. Love. I must hold on to that fact.

  After the hunt this afternoon, I spy Henry dismounting his horse with some difficulty. Anne comes towards him, as if to offer help. He manages to swing his bad leg down, and roughly brushes her off. “Away from me, woman,” he snaps. “Must you make me appear weak at every turn?” He turns and looks at me, his expression shifting and softening. He winks. I suck in a breath and stifle a laugh at his boldness.

  Anne shrinks back, as if he has slapped her. Her face looks stricken. She turns to him. “My King, I would never—” She stops and watches him carefully, then follows his gaze. My breath hitches as her razor eyes find my own. She squints and her expression hardens. “I see,” she says so softly I must read her lips to catch the meaning. “I see everything.”

  My heart skips a beat; my smile quickly falls away.

  Once Henry has gone on his way, Anne comes towards me and grabs my wrist. Her fingernails dig into my skin, scratching and burrowing, as though she endeavours to tear my flesh from my bones. “Do you really believe, you little witch, that he will love you any differently from all the rest? Do you think you are so different fr
om me? Do you think yourself better? Well, do not pretend. He will love you and tire of you just as he has done with the rest of us. Except, he made me his Queen. Do not presume to believe that he will treat a weak and ugly little milksop like you any better,” she hisses. Her face twists, ugly, and her eyes sear into my own. “I know what he wants, as I know men. You know nothing!”

  “I know that you have never loved him,” I whisper, unable to meet her gaze.

  “Fool!” she thunders. “You are a fool!” She whirls around and storms off after Henry.

  LONDON

  November 1535

  Thomas and Edward have accompanied me back to court. They will take no chances, leaving this matter in my hands alone. But they needn’t worry; all shall go according to their plan, and they will congratulate themselves, but I will know, it is because I love purely. This is my most precious secret.

  At night, there is a great feast, with dancing and merrymaking afterwards. As throngs of courtiers ring the room, I spy Henry across the way. He stands there, surrounded by a doting crowd, and I can practically feel his blue eyes on me. I am having difficulty keeping myself from meeting his wolfish stare. But when I do meet his eyes, a twinge in my belly practically sends me rocking on my feet. It dances up and down the length of me and I can feel my heartbeat quicken. The moments seem to stretch out and out and out, and I am caught in the web of his stare, unable to focus on the chatter around me.

  I am practically unaware of having drifted to a quiet corner, where at last I find myself alone. I cannot stop fidgeting, yet force myself to keep my gaze trained on the dancing slippers flitting across the floor in front of me. Then he is beside me. I feel him there, standing a hair’s breadth too close, raising the hair along my arms. My cheeks burning, I look down at the floor, then up at him from beneath my lashes.