'Only because he knows you will be kind to him in return,' added Elizabeth crisply, with a self-assured little smile.
Edward was shocked — and hurt — that anyone could say such things about Uncle Tom.
'Come,' Elizabeth said. 'Let us play at imitations. 111 be Gardiner.'
Edward looked on with admiration as his sister adopted a stern expression and began to quote the scriptures. She moved about the garden with unhurried, pompous dignity, wagging a reproving finger at imaginary people as she droned on.
Jane considered the imitation fairly spiteful, but she had to admit that Elizabeth could act brilliantly.
A rustle in the grass made her twist round, and there was King Henry himself, in his wheeled chair. He was stroking his beard thoughtfully and appeared both amused and angry. The gentlemen in attendance seemed to cower, uncertain of his mood.
'You have a droll wit, my daughter.'
Elizabeth smiled in the way that sometimes dazzled him, and at others reminded him of her mother.
'Who were you mimicking, girl? ' This came in a mighty roar that startled all three children.
'Your Majesty ...' Elizabeth paused, noting the scowl which had swept across his face.
'Let be! Spare me your excuses. I fancy the Bishop of Winchester would prefer to hear them, but I'll not betray you.' Henry laughed benevolently, thinking that, whatever Anne Boleyn's sins, Elizabeth was certainly his. 'You're wise to venture forth into the evening air after a hard day in the schoolroom, but take care not to linger for you, my son, can't afford to catch another cold.'
Edward flushed and stammered something, frightened by the overpowering personality of his father. His attitude annoyed Henry. The boy had no courage, no spirit. Now had Elizabeth been born a boy...Why did all his children remind him of their mothers? Jane Seymour had been as meek and servile as this boy she had borne, yet he had been fond of her in his own peculiar way. She was the only one of his wives whose memory was cherished kindly by him. She was the only one who had done her duty.
King Henry VIII was a lonely man, despite his splendid Court and possessions. The people feared him, they respected him, but few really loved him. In all truth, Henry had done very little to make his people love him, but he wasn't sensitive enough or intuitive enough to understand this. He sometimes managed to deceive himself into thinking that he possessed all the qualities that he admired in men and bullied others into pretending that they were deceived. He wanted desperately to be perfect, all divine. He wanted never to be wrong, and he almost believed that he was these things. Knowing himself to be extremely forceful, he set himself dazzlingly high standards and he grew vicious and frustrated when he failed to keep pace with them.
Henry was brooding far too frequently these days. He was jerked back to reality by the sound of approaching footsteps. Sir Thomas Seymour came bounding towards them.
'Your Majesty,' he gasped, and knelt to kiss the King's hands.
'No ceremony, brother Thomas, no ceremony. What mischief are you plotting now?'
Tom looked astonished. 'Why, Your Majesty ...'
'Now, Thomas, you forget how well I know you,' the King teased. 'I truly believe you would have been a dangerous rival had I known you in my younger days.'
'Rival, Sire?'
'For the same ladies,' explained Henry. He narrowed his eyes shrewdly, and went on: 'I meant nothing else, so you may wipe the sweat from your brow.'
There was an uncomfortable silence, broken by the unabashed Seymour himself, who remarked casually, 'His Royal Highness is flushed with health today, is he not?'
'Aye,' growled the King.
'And the Lady Jane becomes prettier each day.'
Henry laughed good-naturedly, for he found his great-niece quaint and charming. He noticed that Elizabeth was eager to hear what praise would be showered upon her. She had inherited his conceit.
'And the Lady Elizabeth ...'
'What about the Lady Elizabeth?' snapped Henry.
'The Lady Elizabeth is a charming child. Sire,' said Seymour, his voice as soft as the ears of a spaniel.
'Royalty and charm always seem to walk arm in arm, Thomas. Come, we've tarried too long, my friends.'
Elizabeth managed to suppress her impudent sniggers as her mountainous father retreated.
'I am a clement King, a just King ...' his words floated back over the crisp evening air. The children could distinguish the flattering assent of the courtiers. They giggled mischievously, and felt better for it.
There was tension in the red brick palace of Whitehall on that bitter January night in 1547. People clustered together in corners to speak in hushed whispers. King Henry VIII was dying.
Many people suspected that he was already dead and the news was being procrastinated. Jane knew that this was untrue, when the Queen came from her husband's death-chamber, red-eyed with weeping.
'Lay the candles on my table,' she commanded her maid. 'And then leave me.'
The girl began to curtsy, but Catherine waved her away. She gazed wearily round the room and fixed her eyes on Jane.
'So, Jane, you are still here.' Her voice sounded dull and dead.
'Lady Herbert said you might have need of my company, madam, but if you wish it, I will go.'
'No,' said Catherine sharply, and became contrite at once. 'You must forgive me, Jane, my nerves are so knotted, I can't even think clearly.'
'Would Your Majesty care for a cup of Hippocras?'
Catherine nodded voicelessly, stretching her hands before the fire. She sipped the sweet, spiced wine thoughtfully, but shook her head at the saffron bun and caraway seed wafers which were anxiously proffered.
Jane sat on a low stool, near her mistress, her eyes glowing as she stared into the coppery firelight, and tried to recognize the various patterns that seemed to flicker there. Perhaps her fortune was depicted there in the flames. She leaned eagerly forward, but was disappointed because she saw no dramatic symbols.
'Our fate is in our own hands,' announced Catherine and Jane blushed guiltily. Had Catherine guessed her thoughts? Her face was inscrutable.
'He could have done so much good, for he was intelligent and enterprising, with a will of steel. But he worked his energy into the wrong channels.' Catherine's tears began to fall fast. 'I didn't love him,' she sobbed, 'God forgive my wickedness, but I can't mourn him in my heart, and when he is dead, I doubt not that I will feel nothing but relief, even though I'll wear all the outward signs of grief, for form's sake. He would have had my life, had he not had one of his extraordinary whims about saving me. But I pity him. As I saw him, lying there, so pain-racked and helpless, so angry with his helplessness, lifting his eyes to me for comfort, he was like a child. I never thought to see Henry Tudor, the erstwhile tower of might and vengeance, so utterly defenceless. I understood then why his first wife loved him through all those years of neglect. He thanked me for being so patient. He even joked about his testiness and impatience. How could he joke? And he said that I must keep the Crown jewels.'
Jane was not sure if a reply was expected of her. Should she congratulate her on her good fortune in being permitted to keep the jewels? No, that would be tasteless. She lowered her dark gold lashes and said nothing.
The Queen noticed that the little girl was paler than usual. Her face was set and strained, her eyes luminous.
'It is time you went to bed,' she said firmly, realizing how selfish she was in keeping the child with her.
'Your Majesty, I'm afraid to.'
'Nonsense! There is nothing to fear. Run along now. And, Jane, send Lady Herbert to me.'
Jane did not go directly to her room. Knowing that her nurse. Mistress Ellen, was at Bradgate, nursing baby Mary through one of her infant ailments, she took advantage of that good lady's absence and wandered about the galleries, pondering on the enigma of death. To Jane, death was a dark-cloaked, leering skeleton, lurking in the palace, waiting to reach out its bony hands, curl them around its victim's neck and squeeze, and squ
eeze ...
She was lonely, for Edward was away at Hertford and Elizabeth at Enfield. Naturally, it had been wise to send the Royal children away when the King's end was approaching, but Jane missed their companionship, though she would have confessed this to no one. She missed Edward's disarming confidences and the lively, quick-flashing boldness of Elizabeth. She wished that she, too, could be far away from the Court during this time of anxiety, but there was nowhere to go except Bradgate, and nothing would induce Jane to be with her parents.
She passed a group of serving-women, huddled together at the foot of the stairs, and caught a few vague shreds of their conversation.
'My Lord of Hertford ... Monks...unsurmounting grief.'
Their faces flushed crimson as Jane went by. So they were also thinking about Henry, and what his death signified. Jane pulled her green mantle tighter about her shoulders. Walking about would do no good: she must go to bed.
But as she lay trembling between the sheets, she knew she could never sleep. She missed Ellen, who was always so kind and sensible and cheerful. Tonight, she felt a desperate need for company but Angela, the tiring woman who was relieving Mistress Ellen in her duties, was not very consoling. The child drew the velvet counterpane up to her chin, and looked frantically round the room.
Angela had left the candles burning, knowing Jane's fear of the dark. Lady Dorset, deploring this unnecessary extravagance, had given the servants some very stern lectures on economy and forbidden them to indulge such childish whims, but Jane had a pretty way of persuading, so her mother's instructions were discreetly overlooked.
The candles wavered like long, elegant fingers, reaching into the chill of the night. Jane fervently hoped that they would burn on until the darkness fled and morning drifted across the Thames.
She was certain that the King was still alive. So vital was Henry Tudor that he infused his fierce spirit into the heart of the Realm. It seemed to Jane that, if Henry died, he would take England with him to the grave.
She wondered what Edward was thinking now. But there was no need to wonder. He would be afraid, terribly afraid, more afraid of his own inadequacy than the aggressive determination of his Council. He had no desire to govern a country that was ripped into two religious factions. His father had managed to balance the two powers, keeping one under each wing of the Faith he had invented for himself and which he found most convenient, for it was a comfortable mixture of the two - condemnation of Luther and allegiance to himself rather than the Pope, as Head of the Church in England.
'Edward the Sixth.' Jane tasted the disloyal words on her tongue, but they seemed unconvincing. For too long, Henry had imposed his terrible will on the nation. Henry was cruel. Henry was vengeful and bloody, but he was strong in an age that demanded strength. He loved England, for he was England, and he kept his England safe from enemies, both at home and abroad. He bullied, cheated and tyrannized over his people, but in times of stress he would fight for them. He had nourished and enriched the land that had been left to him by his father when he was a boy of eighteen. During his reign, England had achieved immense importance on the political horizon, whereas before it had been a dreary and insignificant little island.
But what kind of King would puny Edward be? She recalled his words: 'I dread the day when I must be King. What if the people won't obey me?' He was a pale, pathetic shadow of his august father. He would keep a very shaky grip on the government reins.
Jane knelt at the foot of the bed and, bowing her head, began to pray for her King, before it was too late. Nobody who followed her beliefs would ever think of praying for the dead.
Henry knew that he was lying at Death's friendless door. The thought of what lay beyond that door no longer gripped his heart with fear as it had in the old days, when he was a young man and eager to grab every fibre of living. His tired mind crept out of his diseased, corpulent body, and wandered through the garden of his youth. The garden was overgrown now, the brambles trampled by Time's uncaring feet. Morning puff-balls of bitter romance lay crushed on the ground.
He was a healthy, handsome youth of eighteen, spoilt but good-natured, riding as a newly-crowned King to the cheers of his people. And by his side rode Katherine, his brother's widow and now his wife. She had never been beautiful. Her skin was sallow, her grey eyes pale under sandy lashes, her body mature but bordering on stumpiness. In fact, her only true claim to beauty was her abundant hair that fell in a reddish, virginal veil to her knees. Yet she sat her horse proudly, and there was about her the look of unsurpassed nobility that was part of her inheritance.
Henry found her delightfully naive, a pleasing contrast to the brazen young women who flounced about the Court in bright taffeta dresses. Katherine dressed simply, unconsciously accentuating her nun-like grace. With Wolsey to govern the land, Henry and Katherine could play like irresponsible children, or rather Henry played while Katherine watched patiently, applauding him when he turned to her for admiration. But only a female child survived Katherine's painful pregnancies. Down the years he heard her mournful sobbing as each tiny corpse left her womb. There had been a boy who had brought them both undreamed-of joy, but he survived a mere two months, and then followed his brothers and sisters into eternity.
'Henry. Henry, my love, it was no fault of mine,' sobbed the distressed Queen. 'I have prayed. I have tormented my soul and my body in my efforts to give you an heir. It is God's will that our sons should die.'
Perhaps, more than anything else, Henry was irritated by her calm resignation to the will of the Almighty. Henry would never accept the will of God. He argued and questioned and fought tenaciously.
They drifted apart. She consoled herself with her religion and her little daughter Mary, and he turned to sport and feasting and the pursuit of women. He took blonde Elizabeth Blount as a mistress and she bore him a son. Delighted, he had the boy christened Henry Fitzroy (Henry, son of the King) and, with not a thought to Katherine's humiliation, honoured the babe with the Dukedom of Richmond.
Poor Katherine! She was obstinate, she was self-righteous, but nothing could rob her of her brave majesty. Poverty, damp lodgings, humiliation and degradation, continual badgering from her husband to cease to call herself Queen, none of these blows shattered her resistance. To the end of her days, she was a Queen, and perhaps a more noble one never lived. Of all the women Henry had known, quarrelled and slept with, she alone had loved him with a steadfast devotion that never wilted. And when he and Anne Boleyn drowned their bodies in yellow silk and danced on the day of her death, she shamed him. Before she died, she wrote him a letter, advising him not to value the needs of his body any higher than those of his soul. It was the letter of a wise and compassionate woman to a spoilt schoolboy: kindly, tolerant, slightly mocking, yet loving.
'Lastly I do vow that mine eyes do desire the sight of you above all things,' were the unashamedly yearning words that drew her letter to a close. That touched him, in spite of his jaunty carelessness, but he was angry because those last words would make it impossible for him ever to forget her, though he had long since ceased to desire her.
There were others too...ghosts he tried so hard to forget — More, Fisher, Buckingham ...
'All traitors must perish,' he shouted, feverish and alarmed.
His ministers were swarming about the room. Fools, all of them. There had been no great statesmen in England since Wolsey's decline. Even that cold-eyed knave, Cromwell, had never won Henry's entire trust.
'Monks, monks,' he muttered, stirring.
'Your Majesty?'
'Think nothing of it, man. Tell them I want Cranmer. Cranmer is the only man I can trust now. No, not Tom Wolsey, he is dead and gone ... a pox on all men who think they can rule their King! I'll show them who is Ruler here.'
Henry fell back, exhausted. His ministers breathed more freely. The Lady Mary was brought to the death-chamber. Mary, Katherine's girl. There was too much of Katherine in her, and too little Tudor. God help England if this stubborn, tearful wo
man ever mounted the throne! But that need not happen. Edward would marry and have children of his own. It was a shame that the plan to marry his son to the little Queen of Scots had fallen through, but there were others. Perhaps he'd marry his clever little cousin, Jane. It was doubtful, thought Henry, with a silent chuckle, whether Edward would ever enjoy as many honeymoons as his father had done. He focused his gaze with difficulty on Mary, whose head was bent in the soft candlelight.
'Mary, my daughter, you and I have had our differences, but I have always loved you. I would never have harmed you, child.'
The King was breathless now. Mary's beaded hood sank lower. He knew he should have found the girl a husband long ago, instead of keeping her as a bait for foreign Princes. But he had made it impossible for her to make a really brilliant match by branding her with illegitimacy.
He felt impatient. There, she was just like her mother, always making him feel guilty. He was a King first, a father second. Mary, being of Royal blood, would understand that. She was a good girl, even if she was a little too stubborn.
He remembered his uncles, the two little Princes who had disappeared so mysteriously, and were thought to have been murdered. He tried to explain to Mary how he dreaded the same fate befalling his own little son.
*You must be a mother to Edward for, you see, he is so very little.'
Mary burst into tears and knelt, sobbing brokenly, by the bed. 'Don't leave me, Father,' she pleaded. 'I have so many enemies and without your protection I am lost.'
She went on crying, but he seemed not to hear her. His eyes were fixed steadfastly on the dark hangings and, when he spoke, his voice was charged with fear and regret.
'Send that woman away. She laughs at me, Mary. She dares to laugh at her King.'
'There is nobody there, Father,' said Mary, the tears still wet on her face.
'Don't contradict your King, girl.' This was bellowed with a return of the old ferocity that used to frighten her into obedience.
A crown in darkness : a novel about Lady Jane Grey Page 7
