by Fatal Throne- The Wives of Henry VIII Tell All (retail) (epub)
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 from 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.
Appear chaste and virtuous in all you do, I imagine Cromwell and my father whispering in my ear.
“Your Majesty,” I say softly.
“Mistress Jane,” he replies, his voice husky. “You are enchanting, as ever. You send a thrill straight to my heart.” Henry reaches for my hand and gently raises it to his lips, then drops a feather-light kiss on my fingers. Again my stomach turns slowly and warmth seems to travel from the spot where his lips met my hand straight through the core of me.
I know Henry flirts and I know I am far from the first. Still, I can’t help but think, this is different. Precious and pure. Yet I know I mustn’t let him sway me—I must resist his advances.
“Your Majesty,” I murmur again, then drop my gaze.
“Jane,” he repeats, his voice now a rumble that I feel all through my body. “I am in your thrall.” He backs me deeper into the corner and presses against me.
“Your Majesty, I am so deeply flattered by my lord’s attentions.” I strive to keep my voice even and calm. I remember the men’s instructions, again. “I could only wish for a husband to be so truly enthralled.”
Henry backs away ever so slightly, a new look of admiration in his eye. “Yes, of course, my dearest,” he says. “I should like to go for a stroll with you tomorrow, upon the noon hour. I shall summon you.” He kisses my hand once more. “Let us enjoy the dancing for now. I’m afraid my leg renders me no more than an observer these days.”
“I have always watched,” I say, unsure of where the thought sprang from.
The King looks at me curiously. “Yes, Jane, I dare say I know this about you.” He gives a small, funny smile, as though he is weighing this fact alongside another in his mind.
He takes my hand again and gives it a light squeeze. I lace my fingers through his and press back ever so slightly. It is even more surprising to consider how truly he has seen me, seen who I really am—how he knows me and still feels tenderly towards me. Once again hope fills my heart with joy.
GREENWICH PALACE
January 1536
Queen Katharine has died. My heart aches for her, but it breaks for Mary. The girl has taken so ill, with a terrible fever, we fear for her life as well. I tell Henry that he should write to her, allow her to come back to court. Henry wavers: At times he weeps for the loss of his first child, whom he once loved so dearly. But then he grows snappish and cruel, and reminds me of how she disobeys him, how she is a stubborn and selfish child, recalcitrant and, consequently, unwelcome. Mary, as I remember her, was always a sweet girl. Devout and unafraid to show off her intelligence. I admire her, even though she is seven years younger than I.
Sometimes it is hard to remember the coarse and quick-to-anger man and the tender one who showers gifts and sweets and loving words upon me are the same. I know his anxiety over not having a male heir troubles him deeply. But I am unable to understand why Mary could not inherit the throne. She is as learned as any man, thoughtful and wise. Whenever I think it is safe to broach the subject with Henry, I do. More often than not he changes the topic.
Now that I have learned of Mary’s terrible illness, I feel it necessary to raise the question once more. “Please, Your Majesty, won’t you make amends with your daughter? I know she loves you so,” I tell him one night, as I stroll alongside him after supper.
He changes the topic to the next week’s jousts, as though I did not ask. I sigh but link my arm through his, and do not mention Mary again. We have taken to sneaking away from the banquet hall for short periods, to walk through the gardens, much as we did that first night at Wulfhall.
* * *
—
Something terrible has happened. Henry has fallen from his horse during a jousting match. He has lost consciousness for nearly two hours. Everyone fears him dead. Cromwell keeps the knights calm as physicians bandage his wounded skull.
Mercifully, he awakens at last and the crowd around him begins to dispel. He looks all about, tearing the bandages from his head. “Cromwell!” he barks. Suddenly his gaze comes to rest on me, and it is as though a Heavenly hand clears a path between us. I fly to his side as soon as I can get past the ring of frightened dukes and lords.
He looks at me with twinkling eyes and winks. “You needn’t worry for me, dearest.” He takes up my hand and kisses it.
I heave such a sigh of relief in that moment. I curtsey and run inside, where I belong. Back in the Queen’s chambers, I am greeted by stony silence. Admittedly, these last four months have not been easy, as I am still a member of the Queen’s household. I believe she keeps me on so that she may hold me within her sharp gaze. She has not dared speak to me, although it seems everyone at court knows Henry fancies me, as he tires of her.
Later, after Queen Katharine’s funeral, Henry calls me to him. He is sitting in the great hall, gnawing on a piece of meat. A platter piled high with candied fruits and nuts waits in front of him. When I come near, he grabs my wrist and pulls me down onto his lap. His arms encircle me and my body grows warm at his touch. He whispers in my ear that our time grows near. I squeeze his hand delicately but say nothing.
Suddenly, Anne stalks into the room, and when she sees us, she flies into a rage, her face growing stormy and dark as she howls, “You betray my heart!”
“Hush. Peace be, sweetheart. And all shall go well with thee.” He tries to calm Anne, yet holds me in place. I shift uncomfortably, wishing I could run from the room. I am reminded, too, that she is carrying his child. If it is a boy, I dare not even think what will happen to me. Cast aside again. That’s what.
Nothing will soothe Anne. Henry finally releases me, and I am allowed to flee. I hear her continuing to vent her fury, loud and shrill, before, I imagine, leaving in a whirl of black velvet.
That evening, Anne loses the baby. She wails from her bed, sticky with blood, “You have done this!” And I do not know if she is cursing Henry or me. “I have lost our boy!” she cries.
Henry enters her bedroom, and Anne resumes her furious shrieks, which I can hear through the walls from the outer room. “You have no one to blame but yourself!” she screams. “You have been so unkind to me!”
“Woman, you shall have no more boys by me,” Henry shouts back at her. “None!”
I can’t help but feel a flutter of hope. If he won’t go to her bed, then I needn’t worry.
“My King! Please! You have made this loss! You and that wench, Jane Seymour!”
The other maids of honour turn their stares on me from all around the presence chamber. I want to sink into the floor, but am rooted to the spot. The horror of the loss of Anne’s child sickens me. So, too, do my own selfish thoughts of abandonment. Tears well in my eyes as the gravity of all that is happening comes clear.
“You and that wench have caused me too great distress. It goes so hard for me.” Anne’s voice is muffled now as her weeping grows louder. “Because the love I bear you is so much greater! My heart broke when I saw you loved another.”
Henry has concealed his own anger within a quiet tone of contempt. “I shall speak with you again when you are feeling better.” He spins and storms through the bedroom door, stamping past me without a glance, then out of the Queen’s apartment.
Anne suddenly appears in the doorway, swaying, her hair wild and looking for all the world like some otherworldly demon. She looks straight at me and hisses, “I shall bear him another son, one whose legitimacy is not doubtful, like this one, for having been conceived during the life of the Princess Dowager.” She sends me daggers with her eyes as she spits out these words.
A part of me flutters with fear. Could she be right?
But little does she know, the King is making other plans for her. Surely, Henry’s and my love will win.
GREENWICH PALACE
February 1536
Henry prepares to leave for Shrovetide celebrations in London. He tells me it will be just for a few days, and then he will come back to me. “And,” he says meaningfully, “by then, the wheels shall have been set in motion.”
“My King,” I tell him, “I wish only for your safe and speedy return.” I twist around my finger the ring he gave me the week before; it bears Anne’s initials set in rubies, but Cromwell assures me they shall have the rubies replaced to spell out my own initials. “But will these wheels carry us down the path to marriage?” I ask.
“Yes, sweetheart. The witch, the enchantress who has used the black arts to ensnare me, shall not impede us for much longer.”
My heart skips a beat. Will he put Anne in a nunnery? Or lock her away in some godforsaken castle as he did Katharine? What will happen to her cherubic little daughter, I wonder. Will Elizabeth be packed off with her mother? A seed of pity takes root in my heart at the thought of her.
“Keep this token close to your heart and let it help you remember me tenderly,” Henry says as he presses a small velvet-wrapped present into my hands.
“Your Majesty,” I say, “you spoil me with too many presents.” But I flash him a smile so he knows I am grateful. As I pull back the sumptuous cloth, a golden locket bearing a miniature portrait of the King nearly spills out. “It is so beautiful. I will treasure it and keep it close to my heart, always.”
The King takes the chain from me, drapes it around my neck, then fastens the clasp. “You are divine,” he says, kissing my hand. He lifts one hand to my chest, allowing a single finger to brush the locket, brush my neck. My breath hitches.
“Thank you, my lord.” I close my eyes and pray for his speedy return. Who knows what awaits me in his absence?
* * *
—
Sure enough, early the next morning, as I am sitting hunched over my needlework, I cannot help but reach for the locket. I open it to gaze at my King’s portrait.
I did not realize I was being observed.
“You dare!” Anne flies at me, shrieking and waving her arms. “You dare to flaunt one of the King’s trinkets here, in front of me? You wicked little mouse! I shall trample you!
“I am powerful,” she wails pathetically. “You are—you are nothing! I shall be rid of you, you wretched wench!” She runs at me and slaps me. Hard. Then she scratches my face, my shoulders, like some wild beast with claws, tearing at the necklace. She finally grabs hold of the chain and rips it from my neck, howling all the while. I am breathing heavily, horrified and shocked.
“You have no more power!” I shout at her, jumping up from my seat. “You are the wicked one! You never loved him! I love him truly!” I clamp my hand over my mouth, unable to believe the words that have just escaped.
“Get out of my sight,” Anne snarls. “I do not want to see you again.”
I run from the chamber and find my way out to the garden. I must think what to do next, for I shall not return to Anne’s service.
When at last I locate my brothers, they bring me to their apartment and sit me down on a chaise.
“Here is a cup of water, sister,” Thomas says, thrusting it before me. “Drink.”
I take a sip and try to calm myself. I cannot stop my chest from heaving with breaths I can’t catch.
“Where shall I go?” I ask. “What will become of me?”
“The King is at work to set Anne aside,” Edward says, kneeling down to look straight into my eyes. “What will become of you? You will become the next Queen of England.”
* * *
—
That afternoon, Sir Nicholas Carew appears, sent directly from London by Henry to deliver a token to me. “The King cannot bear to be parted from his dearest one,” Sir Nicholas says. “He bade me bring you this.” A purse filled with gold coins.
Oh, Lord, this I cannot accept. Something about taking money smacks of the unsavoury. Jewellery and trinkets, fine cloth and other presents have seemed so harmless.
I fall to my knees and kiss the letter Sir Nicholas has brought to me. “Please, Sir Nicholas,” I begin, holding out the purse, “please beg the King on my behalf to consider that I am a prudent gentlewoman of good and honourable family. I am a woman without reproach, who has no greater treasure in this world than my honour, which I would not harm for a thousand deaths. If my Lord, the King, wishes to send a present of money to me, I pray him to do so when God might send me a husband to marry.”
* * *
—
When Henry returns to Greenwich he shoves old Cromwell out of his apartments in the palace and lets Edward and my sister-in-law move into the suite of rooms so that I can stay with them. A secret gallery connects their rooms to Henry’s, and now he can come to visit me without the eyes of so many upon us. Cert
ainly this arrangement shall shield me from Anne’s wrath. But it is isolating and lonesome, for my brother and sister-in-law go out during the daytime, and I am left alone to wait. And wait. And wait. For something to happen, for someone to come. It is terribly dull. And I am left with so much time to just…think.
Henry says he loves me. But surely it is not the same way he loved Anne. He loved her with a burning, ferocious passion. I think he loves me more quietly. But then, what does this love actually mean? Does he only think about what is not Anne-like? Does he only think about what is best for the kingdom? Does he only think about what is best for him? Someone obedient and submissive, too timid to make much trouble?
Or is it a wiser love?
Well, it seems there are those who will make trouble enough for us all. If not Anne, then there are plenty of others. I hear things, still, even at such a remove. I heard Edward talking about the rumblings throughout the land. The people are unhappy with Henry’s move to empty out the abbeys and monasteries: the Reformist wickedness that Henry’s divide with Rome has elicited.
I have felt myself so enthralled with this great romance, I have forgotten to worry for our eternal souls. I have neglected to think on this schism with our mother Church—how, under Anne’s influence, Henry divided England—all of England—from Rome. Oh, the blasphemy. In the quiet, lonely moments when there is enough silence around me and inside me, I remember, and a sick feeling knots itself around my belly.
Moreover, I have caught wind that the people have started to mock me. I have heard the whispers of bawdy ballads, and I am ashamed. There is a pamphlet travelling about London bearing a lewd song deriding me, and while I have neither seen nor heard it, Henry saw fit to write and let me know of it. I chew on my nails as I pace the boundaries of this apartment. Does the whole of England hate me, I wonder?
