by Fatal Throne- The Wives of Henry VIII Tell All (retail) (epub)
All my life I have striven to be good. Virtuous, chaste, and devout. I do not know how to bear this stain of disgrace. And then I wonder, will my father and brothers, Master Cromwell, and myself—England—shall we all fall down into the dark depths of the underworld when everything is said and done, for following our blessed King into sin?
WULFHALL
April 1536
My dear friend and mistress,
The bearer of these few lines from thy entirely devoted servant will deliver into thy fair hands a token of my true affection for thee, praying you will keep it forever. Hoping shortly to receive you in these arms, I end for the present, your own loving servant and sovereign,
H.R.
“There is a case being built against Anne Boleyn!” My brother Thomas rushes into the house out of breath. He has been running. “I have heard it myself, straight from the old man’s mouth,” he says of Cromwell. “They will have a trial—she is to be charged with adultery and conspiracy to murder!” Thomas stops suddenly and his ears redden. “And, er, other things…,” he says, his voice trailing off. Edward looks up and nods brusquely.
Now my curiosity is piqued. What other things?
Then all that Thomas has recounted begins to register. “Conspiracy to murder?” I echo softly. “But that means…” I cannot finish the sentence. It means she will be put to death.
All this time, as I blithely went along with the plan to unseat Anne, I imagined she would be exiled to some cold, damp abbey to live out her days in silent solitude. I never once imagined…“Oh, no,” I moan. I feel sick and wrap my arms around my middle. I swore an oath to serve Anne Boleyn, and now…now it seems I have been made a party to her execution. “No, no—”
Suddenly the hot sourness of bile rises up my throat. I run outside and vomit in the yard.
Bess has run out after me. “Darling,” she says softly, handing me a cloth with which to wipe my mouth, “are you all right?”
“No,” I say. And I burst into tears. I try to explain everything to her. She knew the King favoured me, but she did not know how we plotted—all of us, our father and brothers and Sir Francis—to overthrow the Queen. “I am now responsible for her death. How can that be?”
I sit down on a step leading into the house and hold my face in my hands. “I never imagined it would come to this. All this time, I thought Anne was horrible and had done such wretched things to Mary and Katharine, to the country, to everyone and everything around her, but I never thought she deserved death. What of her daughter? Oh, how can I ever live with this?”
I look up at Bess. Her blue eyes are sombre, and though she has thrown her arm around my shoulders, she does not meet my gaze.
“What did you think would happen?” she asks. “Truly, how could you have thought otherwise? If Anne were to live, she could reveal all of Henry’s secrets. She could concoct further reasons to hold on to her position—a baby, a boy, perhaps, whether it was got by Henry or some other.” Bess stops. “Don’t you understand? It truly is the only way Henry can marry again.”
“But…isn’t this…murder?” I say. The sick feeling returns as the word “murder” takes form in my mouth.
“I don’t pretend to know,” Bess says. “Is it, when it is ordered by the King?”
I look out over the fields and rolling hills. All this land that once gave me such comfort, where everything seemed right and true—now it all looks wrong. “I do believe it is a sin. And I have sinned with them. I was vain and all too eager to drink in the attention. I craved the affections of the King. This makes me a sinner. But whatever happens next, I shall henceforth endeavour to be as good as God would want me to be.”
“As a queen should be,” Bess adds.
I look up at her sharply. “I can’t—”
“Yes. Yes, you can,” Bess says sternly. “At least do not let her death be in vain. Perhaps, once you are the Queen by Henry’s side, we will be able to look forwards to some good.”
I sigh and drop my head into my arms.
WULFHALL
May 1536
Anne is arrested and called to trial. I remain ensconced at Wulfhall, safe amongst my family, until Sir Nicholas Carew comes to fetch me. The King wishes me to take up residence temporarily in Sir Nicholas’s house in Surrey. At least Edward and my parents may accompany me this time. I bid farewell to Bess, tears streaming down my face.
“Sister dearest, use your position. Use it well, and use it wisely,” Bess says. She gives me a final hug.
“Bess, I know I have been selfish. Please forgive me, and remember me fondly,” I say. “I love you.”
“I love you, darling Jane. Be brave.”
No one has ever told me to be brave before. But I shall.
* * *
—
My brothers ride regularly to London to witness the proceedings; they are eager for Anne’s end. It makes me ill. I cannot eat, and I cannot sleep. I wait for news, my heart brimming with dread.
The King shall come calling tomorrow. I know he will expect to see me as I used to be, vibrant and of the living. Though I only want to pick at my food, I force myself to eat. Then I retire to my bedchamber and try to sleep.
Thoughts tumble through my head, however, and sleep will not come. I must find a way to make amends for this terrible crime. I shall endeavour to reunite the Princess Mary, who is the rightful heir to the throne, with her father. I shall endeavour to reunite Henry with Rome. I shall endeavour to do all I can for the sake of good.
* * *
—
“Darling Jane,” Henry says, stroking my hand. We sit together in the parlour of Sir Nicholas’s home. He is rather too close. “I cannot live without you. I cannot bear to be so far from you. Do come back to London.”
I thought his touch would cause me revulsion. But while the pleasure I used to find in his caresses has gone, I am relieved that I do not recoil from him.
“As you wish, my lord,” I say softly, eyes to the ground.
“Jane, are you all right?” Henry asks worriedly.
I look up at him, surprised. “I—” I stop myself. I do not think he would like to hear of my inner struggles, my sense of horror at what awaits Anne and the men accused with her. I force a small smile to my lips and say, “Yes, my lord. I am quite well, thank you. You are so kind to ask.”
“You are my very heart,” Henry says grandly. “Of course I ask.”
I allow him to kiss my hand, then wait for him to rise. But he doesn’t. He stays in place.
“Jane,” he says, “are you troubled by something, by the unfolding of events?” He looks at me carefully.
This is a test, I think. And I must pass it if I hope to achieve anything. If I hope to spare Anne a meaningless death.
“I am only troubled by how all these matters upset you, my lord,” I answer. “I wish only to aid and serve you in whatever way I may.”
“You already do, my sweetest. But I know these are troubling times. Have faith, my darling; it is your essential kindness and compassion that wed you to my heart. I know you are strong enough to weather any upset. We shall navigate these times and troubles together.” Henry takes up my hand once more and holds it to his chest.
Perhaps our love can be as it was once more. Someday. “Yes, let us navigate them together,” I intone, tightening my grip on his hand.
LONDON
May 1536
We have been granted dispensation by Archbishop Cranmer to marry. And tomorrow Anne Boleyn goes to her death. I prepare my wedding clothes as Anne prepares her speech before the executioner’s sword shall take away her words.
And when Anne draws her final breaths, Henry announces our betrothal to his Privy Council.
After, Henry stays with me through the evening; we don’t speak much. Henry dons a white robe to mark his st
ate of mourning, and we have supper together. He is placid, introspective, and I am grateful for the quiet.
When we have finished eating, he takes his barge back to Hampton Court. My family and I shall join him there in the morning for our betrothal. Before he leaves, Henry comes to me and gathers both my hands in his.
“My darling Jane, I love you. We shall be married!” he proclaims jovially. Then he turns before I can even respond, and is rowed swiftly away, the lanterns swinging gaily from his barge.
The next morning, our betrothal ceremony is brief, with only my family in attendance, and when it ends I bid Henry farewell. My parents and I shall remove to Wulfhall, to await my wedding day.
When I am home, I try not to think about what reflections and prayers must have run through Anne’s head as she waited for the executioner’s blade to bite her neck. I try not to wonder if she blames me from wherever she is—Heaven or Hell, I know not. I try not to think about her blood on my hands. But it is impossible to keep these thoughts from my mind. And every time I remember to stop them, I cry. Then pull myself up and ply my mind with new questions and ideas.
I do try to think of what my emblem as Queen might be. Anne’s was a falcon, which—while I do not want to speak ill of the dead—seems rather fitting, a swift and cunning carnivore that preys upon smaller birds.
For me, something different. The phoenix rising from the ashes. This shall be my badge. I will be born anew when I become Queen, and all the bad deeds, the selfishness and foolishness, will be burned away, and from those ashes, I shall rise, ready to bring more light and more love into this sometimes benighted world.
May 30, Whitehall Palace
Henry and I both arrived here yesterday. And truly, I was so happy to see him. He looked, for the first time in many years, at peace. Today, we married.
The ceremony was a marvel. It was held in the Queen’s Closet and my whole family was in attendance. I wore a sumptuous gown trimmed in ermine—never have I seen such finery. A great train of ladies followed after me, as we walked in procession, and though Henry looked older and fatter, he was still dashing in his way. Above all, he looked happy. The glow of joy on his face, I think, suffused mine, too. Yellow-golden flames of a thousand candles cast a glow about the hall, and I think even my overly pale skin must have appeared luminous in that light. Bess walked just behind me and she squeezed my hand before I met the King. I turned to look at her, and her eyes shone with joy. As the bishop spoke, I felt my heart racing as though it would fly from my chest. This was it. The moment I had waited for all my days.
Then I was enthroned in the Queen’s chair in the great hall under my own canopy of estate.
Life is truly beginning. I shall have my family and babies and all I ever wanted. I shall bring this King and his kingdom to peace; this is my mission.
None of it seems quite real. I am holding court; so many gentlepersons have come to pay respects. I do not believe I have ever spoken to so many people. I do not believe I have ever felt so many eyes upon me at once.
Henry presents me with a golden cup, designed by Hans Holbein and engraved with our initials entwined in a love-knot. It is beautiful. Master Holbein has also engraved on the cup my motto, working it flawlessly into the design: “Bound to Obey and Serve.”
After the festivities and endless feasting wind down, Henry rises from his seat, offering his hand to me. “And now, the wedding night!” guests shout.
If the floor would swallow me in this instant, I would feel no regret. Humiliation sends a fiery warmth over my face; I am sure my cheeks are as red as cherries. Henry waves his free hand and calls on his subjects to hush. “Can you not see, my virtuous and beautiful wife is too chaste for you lot?” he cries gleefully. Then he whisks me from the hall.
* * *
—
Henry is gentle as he undresses and strokes me, telling me softly how beautiful I am, how innocent. And I do feel these things. But mostly I am scared.
A grown woman should know about the marriage bed, but I have never been touched so by a man. And while my sister explained the rudiments, somehow, the knowing from her telling does not seem quite the same as knowing from doing.
But Henry guides me tenderly, with loving words, and our first night together as man and wife is surprisingly sweet. The magnetic attraction I once felt for him has faded, but there is an underlying affection.
As we lie in bed together, my legs wrapped around his good, right leg, my head resting on his chest, I run my fingers up and down his arm slowly. He sighs contentedly and kisses me softly on the lips. “This is as a marriage should be,” he says.
“Is it, my lord?” I ask.
“Do you not feel it, sweetheart?”
I look up at him and smile. “You know, I think I do.”
* * *
—
We journey by barge to Greenwich, where we spend our honeymoon, a blissful week, during which we talk of small and happy things; how we will celebrate Christmas, what we shall name our son, when he comes. Henry boasts to all who will listen that we shall have a son by next year. I am anxious; I know how much it means to him. And I know what has happened to the women who came before me who failed to give him this one thing his heart so desires. And of course, I want a baby, someone to cherish and love with all my heart. A baby I shall teach to be kind and just and true. So that when he becomes King, he shall rule like a lion. Like a phoenix rising from the ashes. And I shall reunite Henry with Mary; she deserves this kindness. And the little baby I hope to have someday—he should know his sister. And Elizabeth, Anne’s daughter, too. We are all God’s creatures.
WINDSOR CASTLE
October 1537
I know my subjects say I am distant and cold. But I feel just as strongly as I did before I ascended the throne. Now, though, the question of whom to trust is ever more present. I talk to Princess Mary most of all. I have succeeded in reuniting her with her father. And Henry was so happy, when Mary submitted to him, to assume once again the role of loving father. She is very grateful and remains at court, constantly by my side.
Christmas 1536 brought such joy to our household, as Henry summoned Mary to court. Oh, how full of love and happiness was their reunion. I have done one good thing, I think. One very good thing.
And even gladder are we, now that I am with child. Nothing in the world could bring either the King or myself greater joy than the prospect of a new babe.
All I want to do is eat quail, and Henry indulges me. He is so jovial, every little wish or want I have, he is only too happy to grant.
* * *
—
This autumn, after a terrible labour, I bring my son into the world. Edward. Three days and nights, the labour pains go on and on and on, until I am certain my body will simply break. Still, my darling Prince seems content to stay inside my womb. The waves of pain creep up on me with all the stealth of a bear, throbbing and thrashing and causing me to scream until my throat goes raw; then they tiptoe away as quickly as they came.
I am ravaged, splitting apart, it seems. I do not think I can possibly endure. Then, finally, wrapped in a great ribbon of blood, my most beloved, perfect little boy bursts into the world.
Silence. My heart stops, my chest heaves. Three days. Three nights. And there is only silence. Anna, the maid who has dutifully wiped my brow with cool, wet cloths, looks at me, her face ashen.
Then.
A mewling cry fills my sore and exhausted body with relief and joy such as I have never known. He lives!
I shall love you forever, I think as I hold my beautiful baby boy in my arms, stroking his soft golden-red hair, so like his father’s. But all of a sudden a blinding wave of pain takes hold of me. The nurse grabs the baby away, and a wet cloth is brought for my forehead. Henry comes to see us, and he is overjoyed. He snatches our boy from the nurse’s arms and dances around the room with h
im.
“Edward!” he cries, beaming with pride and unadulterated happiness. My own heart swells at the sight of my two Princes, until another spear of pain stabs my belly. I fall back into the pillows and stifle the soft cry at my lips.
Edward’s christening is to be held two weeks hence. I try to help with the planning and preparations from my bed, but I cannot seem to gain my strength back. Terrible waves of pain grip me at regular intervals. And when they ease, I just want to sleep. I am not well, but I cannot miss this celebration. I cannot miss one moment with my son. Yet something is not right. I am not well, I know it.
HAMPTON COURT
24 October 1537
I am so thirsty. A single droplet of water would suffice. No, this isn’t true. I could drink the River Thames for want of a drop of water. “Please,” I murmur, unable to find the strength to speak above a whisper. This fever now steals my voice. My mind, too, for in the nighttime, when the chills and pain overtake me, I feel I am somewhere else, long ago. Perhaps in the gardens of my childhood home, my precious Young Lady Garden. I’m not quite sure where real and unreal begin and end. The pain begins as a sudden throb in my womb, then radiates throughout my body, and I cannot stop shivering.
I will never see my darling boy again. This I know. And when that thought enters my mind, I know I’ve fully returned to what is real and true. I sinned against Anne Boleyn, and now it is my turn to die. I tried to make up for what we did with better deeds. To no avail.
