When Anne revived on the following day we told her only that the baby had not lived. Thankfully she did not ask us anything more. It was as if she sensed that there was something terribly wrong, something best left unsaid. We four who had been present at the birth—Bridget, Anne Cavecant, the cook’s assistant and myself—were the only ones who knew the truth. We agreed among ourselves to say only that the baby had not lived.
That night, with Anne sleeping and the others at rest, I walked out alone into the dimness of the forest and thought about all that I had witnessed earlier. Twigs and fallen branches snapped under my feet as I went along, night birds called and I heard other sounds that vaguely frightened me. I knew that there was danger to be found in the forest, especially at night. Beasts walked abroad, wolves and bears and the human forest-dwellers who shunned the daylight and waylaid travelers and the unprotected.
But as I walked on, what kept my attention was not the sounds of the night or its menaces but the faint starlight that shone through the branches of the tall trees, starlight that glimmered on the fallen leaves and broken branches. I came to a clearing and stopped walking. Looking up, I was dazzled by the brightness of the stars. So many, many glowing stars, the familiar patterns I had known since childhood when Ned had taken me by the hand on summer nights and pointed them out to me.
As above, so below King Henry had said. Our fates are written in the skies. His astrologer was watching a long-tailed comet as it crossed the heavens. A comet he believed could predict disaster. And disaster had surely come to Lornford that day, and I had seen it. Yet the skies above me on that night seemed benign, not threatening. I saw no comet, no fiery portent of death. Only a boundless field of sparkling lights, shining down on us all, unreadable and indifferent to our fates.
Anne rested for two more days in the hunting lodge, then we all went back to Richmond, where the king was, and took up our familiar duties.
Anne was pale and quiet. There was none of her customary bluster, no arguments with the king—who, on seeing that she no longer had the belly of a pregnant woman, let loose a storm of anger and then stayed away.
In the quiet of the room where we maids of honor slept, those of us who knew the secret kept our bond of silence. When asked by the others in Anne’s household what had happened at Lornford, we said only what was obvious to all—that Anne was no longer carrying the king’s child. But we confided to one another, when we were certain no one else could overhear, that in our hearts we pondered the meaning of what we had seen—what Anne herself did not know. Which was that the monstrous thing she had birthed was an ominous sign, a sign sent from God—or from the devil—to warn us all of worse to come.
TWENTY
Nothing was ever the same after that. The royal marriage soured, the persecutions and executions increased. England lay under a pall. We dreaded the future. I attended Will’s wedding and Ned’s wedding and wished them and their wives well—but could not in good faith imagine that theirs would be long or happy lives. My own life seemed to lie in abeyance: I no longer had Galyon to love, and I mourned him; I was getting older—soon I would attain the advanced age of thirty—and the pleasures of youth no longer seemed within my grasp. Younger maids of honor joined Anne’s household, stayed for a few months, and then married. I watched this happen again and again, and still there was no one for me—nor could I imagine ever loving anyone as I had loved Galyon. Babies were born, some lived and some died. But would I ever be a mother? I thought not. There were times when I wept over my lost children, my drowned hopes. And at those times I blamed Anne. I blamed her, I savored her suffering. And I bided my time, waiting for my moment of revenge.
Meanwhile more and more victims of the king’s justice—many said the king’s injustice—lost their lives, their severed heads grinned down from London Bridge. More and more of the king’s spies were said to be watching us all, and listening to our every word, and sending in their reports to Cromwell and his minions. Arrests were made, people were taken from their homes and locked in the royal prisons, never to come out again. No one knew who would be next, for as Anne often said, there were eyes and ears everywhere.
Treason was the dreaded word. Traitors. Who could say what lies might be told, leading to false accusations of treachery, and to death? Who would be the next victim? No one was spared, not saintly clerics such as Bishop Fisher or sage men of law such as Thomas More or even pious monks, pure and chaste, who fell under the scrutiny of the royal spies.
Amid it all, the king neglected his wife and spent his time with his favorite Madge Shelton, dancing with her as he had once danced with Anne, wooing her, and taking counsel with his advisers about how he might rid himself of Anne and marry a woman such as Madge who could give him a strong living son. For baby Elizabeth, who continued to surprise everyone by surviving, was only a tiny girl and a girl whose birth many considered to be tainted by the king’s adultery. And Mary, fragile, blond Mary who was Catherine’s daughter though she was no longer called princess, was also only a girl and chronically ill. And Henry Fitzroy, small and weak and lacking in royal courage, was not likely to live long—or if he did, he was not likely to become a strong king.
Conspiracies were taking shape, and we all knew it, even Anne. There was treachery in the air. I trembled whenever King Henry summoned me into his presence and asked me to tell him what rumors I was hearing, who was spreading disloyal tales about him or Anne.
“Jane, there is something I must know for certain,” he asked me one morning when he was sure we were alone. “I know I can trust you to tell me the truth.”
“Yes, sire.”
“What really happened at the hunting lodge at Lornford?”
The question took me by surprise, and unnerved me. I took my time in replying. I had never confided to the king or anyone else (apart from the three other women who had been present) the truth about Anne’s horrifying delivery. The event was too fearsome. And I did not want to be blamed in any way for the outcome. Or defiled by it. I believed that in some way I could never explain, the creature Anne had birthed was bewitched.
Yet by keeping silence I felt that I was betraying King Henry’s trust in me, and this unnerved me. I wanted to be trustworthy—though trustworthiness was rare at court. But where Anne and her dead baby were concerned, I didn’t dare.
“Why do you ask?” I said at length, licking my lips nervously. “The child did not live.”
The king paced fretfully.
“Anne refuses to speak about it, and Norfolk says he was told by Bess Holland that there was no child—nothing at all. It was all an imagining in Anne’s mind. I know this can sometimes happen, women who desire a child very greatly can sometimes swell, and become ill, and even suffer the pains of birth. Only there is no child. Is that what happened to Anne? I rely on you to tell me the truth.”
I shook my head. “I cannot deceive you, sire—but I am heartily sorry you have asked me. I wish the truth could remain buried at Lornford.”
He stopped pacing, reached down and took my face between his two large rough hands, bringing his own face close to mine.
“Jane! This is as urgent a question as you will ever be asked! This is about the succession to the throne of England!”
We looked into each other’s eyes, and I felt myself growing warm. I was at once frightened, stirred by his power, and drawn to him, for the first time, both as a man and as my king, who I had known familiarly for years. I was weak as water in his strong hands.
He released me and I cleared my throat.
“If I could have some wine, sire—” He shouted for a servant and in no time a tray with goblet and cups was brought to us. I used the time while we waited to gather my thoughts.
“This is how it was, Your Majesty,” I began when I had drunk some of my wine. “We did not know, when it was going on, whether it was a thing of the devil or a mere accident, a mistake of nature that could happen to any woman at any time. We were very frightened. There were only four of us who
knew about the child. A midwife was found in Cheam but she was too frightened when she saw Anne’s hand with the extra finger and she ran away before the creature was born.”
“The creature?” Alarmed, Henry sat down beside me, intent on my face, my words.
“Anne was in terrible pain, you understand—so terrible that she fainted. She never saw her son—if it was a son.”
Now the king was incredulous. I went on.
“As I say, there were four of us, myself, Bridget, Bess Holland and a cook’s assistant who was very strong and brave. Afterwards we all swore to keep secret what we knew of Anne and the thing she bore.”
“But what was it?” the king demanded, a quiver in his voice. “Was it a demon?”
“It was a misshapen lump of flesh,” I managed to say, “that did not live.”
“Did it have the appearance of a child at least?”
“I can hardly bear to tell you.”
“I have seen horses in foal that deliver legless brutes, litters of pups with one pup dead, malformed, dwarfish—”
“This was unlike any living thing I have ever seen.”
“So it was living, not dead.”
I drank more of the wine, then closed my eyes, trying in vain to remove the memory of the thing from my vision.
“It wriggled. Its ugly head waggled. Its twisted mouth gaped. Then it was still.”
I felt ill and hoped I would not disgrace myself by spewing. I went to the window and gulped the fresh air.
“All right, Jane,” the king said, his voice low. “That is enough. And you believe it was more male than female.”
I nodded.
“Was it baptized before it died?”
“No, sire. It was not—fit for baptism.”
In the silence that followed I could not weep, for I had felt no pity for the monstrous thing Anne bore. But the horror of the event affected me deeply nonetheless. It was as if I had come close to a mystery—not a wondrous spiritual mystery, but a thing of enchantment nonetheless. A rarity.
I felt the king’s arm around me.
“You must rest now, Jane. You have had a shock.”
“I have told no one else about this.”
“I believe you.” He stood as he was, with his arm encircling me comfortingly, for a few moments, lost in thought.
“You know what this means, don’t you, Jane?”
“That the Nun of Kent’s final prophecy has been fulfilled. That Anne’s firstborn son would die.”
“No doubt my people would say that, if they knew the truth. But I refer to something much more immediate. It means that I am married to a woman who cannot give me an heir to my throne. If she had another child—ten more children—they would all be freaks. I am cursed, Jane. God has cursed me for marrying this damnable woman. I must rid myself of her, before His curse falls on everyone in my court and kingdom!”
* * *
It was from then on, I believe, that my own destiny began to become clear.
The king had taken me into his confidence, as I had taken him into mine. We had forged a bond. From then on our purposes were joined, and we worked toward a joint outcome. We worked together to ensure the preservation of the throne.
But this happened over time, not all at once.
First King Henry sent me to Kimbolton Castle, where Catherine was lodged.
“She is said to be very ill,” the king told me. “She may soon die. I know you are fond of her. You have my permission to visit her. See how you find her. If she knows she has not long to live, she may be willing to forgive me, to do me one last favor.”
“And what is that?”
“She may be willing to agree, at last, to enter a convent. The ceremony can be performed quickly, if I so order it. All that is required is that a sister of the order be present, and a priest. Once she has taken the veil, she is no further hindrance to me.”
“But your marriage to her was declared null long ago.”
“Yes—but when my marriage to Anne is dissolved, as I am determined it will be, there must be no earlier union to hinder me from marrying yet again. I have taken counsel with Cromwell and other legal advisers on this.”
I made no effort to sift through these complications. The matter of the king’s marriage, that great and cloudy issue that had troubled the court and indeed much of Christendom for so long, was now, it seemed, to be revived. But I had only one task: to visit the ill, beleaguered Catherine in loving friendship and ask for her cooperation.
Catherine’s sadly decayed bedchamber at Kimbolton Castle was dark and small, the floor sagging and the old stone walls chinked by gaps that let in the wintry air. The light from the dying fire revealed a low bed, frayed bedcurtains and—the room’s single ornament—the former queen’s treasured prie-dieu, which she had embroidered herself as a girl and brought from Spain so many years earlier. The sickly smells of lavender and opium mingled with the odor of illness and decay, and as I watched Catherine’s gentleman usher Griffith Richards put a log on the fire from a small pile beside the hearth, my heart sank.
I knew then that the princess dowager, once Catherine of Aragon, proud and lovely daughter of the great Queen Isabella of Spain, was indeed in her last days.
I sat down on a bench beside the bed. As the room brightened from the leaping flames I saw that we were not alone. Catherine’s long time friend and waiting lady Maria de Salinas, much aged since I had seen her last, was sitting quietly in one corner and a young serving boy stood in another.
“How long has she been this way?” I asked Maria, looking down at the gaunt, ashen face asleep on the lace-trimmed pillow.
“Since All Soul’s,” came the answer. “It is the dropsy—and her broken heart.”
A rustling of the bedclothes drew my attention to the princess dowager’s wrinkled, blue-veined hands, which were clutching at a rosary of ivory beads.
I heard her softly say my name.
“Jane.”
“Yes, milady princess.”
She beckoned to me to come closer.
“Caterina. My mother’s name for me.” She smiled wanly. “Please.”
“Caterina then.” She reached for my hand, and pulled it toward her head.
“Brush my hair, Jane.”
I looked over at Maria de Salinas, who took a silver-backed brush from a wooden chest and brought it to me. I began to brush Catherine’s sparse grey-white hair. She closed her eyes in pleasure.
“You were always a good girl,” she said. “A kind girl to me.”
I went on brushing. Presently I said, “The king sent me to see you, with a message.”
Her grey eyes grew wide. I could tell that, weary as she was, and ill, her mind was spinning.
“He is going to take me back then? He is going to make me queen again?”
Her words were pitiable, but I tried not to let them unnerve me.
“He is concerned for your health. He asks that you do him the great favor of agreeing to enter a convent.”
She stiffened, and I drew back the brush at once.
“Never,” she said simply.
I could tell by the finality of her tone that it would be useless to try to persuade her.
“He will be disappointed,” I said.
She made a faint sound. I realized that she was laughing.
“I’m sure he will,” she said. “And how is he?”
I resumed my brushing.
“Bald. Bad-tempered. Hoarse from shouting. His head hurts and his leg hurts. He walks with a golden walking stick.”
“Does he still wear that foolish pouch of spiders around his neck?”
I nodded.
“Ah. He fears the sweat.”
“And that is not all he fears,” I said, incautiously.
Catherine had become much more alert as I spoke of the king. She tried to lift herself up, but then fell back onto her pillows. Her eyes were bright and fixed on me.
“Oh?”
“He is ill at ease—about his marr
iage to Anne.”
“So that’s why he wants me out of the way! I am an obstacle to him. He means to put Anne aside and marry again. But I am a hindrance.”
Maria de Salinas stood and approached the bed.
“I think, Mistress Seymour, that Her Highness is very tired. You should leave her in peace.”
I noticed that the Spaniard continued to speak of Catherine as if she were still queen.
“Of course.” I got up from my bench.
“You will come tomorrow, Jane?”
“I will if you wish it, dear Lady Caterina.”
Catherine called for her gentleman usher and ordered him to have a room prepared for me.
“And be sure she has enough logs to last her through the night.”
“But Your Highness, we have so few,” Griffith Richards began.
“Have you no sense of hospitality, old man? We must take care of our guest first, then see to ourselves.”
My room was icy cold, my blankets thin. Griffith Richards was apologetic.
“Our supplies are scant,” he began. “We are sent very little from the court in London. The king—has not been generous. He says the queen is contrary and will not obey him as she ought. He expects her to provide for her own household, but she has no more money of her own—”
I drew out my purse of coins and gave some to Richards. The silver overflowed in his hands.
“There must be firewood in plenty in the village. And whatever food and wine you need. Go quickly!”
He could barely utter his thanks, he was so overcome. But I hurried him on his way, before calling for a servant to make up my own meager fire and climbing gratefully into bed.
* * *
My fire had nearly gone out the following morning, as the grey dawn was breaking. The cold woke me. But I had hardly begun to wash and dress when new logs were brought in and a fresh blazing fire laid. Soon afterward Griffith Richards knocked on my door and told me that the queen would like me to share her bread and tea. His manner was grave, as always, but as he led me to the princess dowager’s bedchamber his movements seemed brisk and spry, and a new liveliness shone on his face. A fresh wind of hope was sweeping through Kimbolton, despite the grave illness of its most important inhabitant.
The Favored Queen: A Novel of Henry VIII's Third Wife Page 20
