The Favored Queen: A Novel of Henry VIII's Third Wife

by Carolly Erickson

  What if I married King Henry and then the kingdom was invaded? Or the people rebelled? But then I thought, Ned would protect me. He would foresee danger and make certain I stayed safe.

  As the king had predicted, when I went to talk to Ned he was full of praise.

  “Just think what this will mean for our family, Jane,” was his immediate response. “The Seymours will be raised high. The next king, your son, will bring the blood of the Seymours to the throne. Think how proud all our relatives will be—and how the king will enrich them with honors and offices.”

  “Including you.”

  “Especially me. Thank you a hundredfold for what this will mean to me.”

  “Of course I do not love him,” I put in, knowing this would have no effect on Ned, who regarded romantic love as an impediment to happiness rather than as a treasure worth all other treasures combined.

  He thought a moment. “You already have a partnership of sorts with the king,” he said after a pause. “He trusts you, as you often say. Believe me, trust is essential if two people are to live together and enhance one another’s lives instead of causing constant irritation and pain—as I know only too well.”

  I knew that Ned was referring to the old scandal in our family, our late father’s seduction of Ned’s wife Cat and Ned’s own cruel rejection of his wife and children.

  “There is one other thing to consider, Jane,” Ned said thoughtfully. “The old king, King Henry’s father.”

  “What about him?”

  “He grew—very violent, almost a madman, as he got older. People say our king is going to do the same.”

  “You imagine King Henry is going mad?”

  “Like father, like son.”

  “But you are nothing like our father, Ned. He was immoral, and did not manage his estates well. He cared nothing for his tenants—”

  “True enough, but—”

  I had a sudden thought. I interrupted my brother.

  “Ned,” I went on in a serious tone, “you must understand that if I decide to accept the king’s proposal and become queen, there can be no lingering scandal attached to the Seymour name. You will have to come to terms with the family you abandoned, with your wife Cat and your remaining son Henry.”

  Ned looked over at me, startled. “What do you mean, my remaining son? Not that I could ever be certain that Catherine Fillol’s children were mine, you understand—”

  “Catherine Fillol Seymour’s children,” I corrected him. “And what I mean, Ned, is that your two boys were stricken with the sweat eight years ago, and only Henry survived it.”

  I was amazed at the expression that came over my brother’s face. I had never before seen him sorrowful, or remorseful. When he spoke his voice was soft.

  “He was my favorite, little John,” he said.

  I waited, remembering John’s pitiable death, the children who had crowded around his bed as he died, the unbearable pathos of that scene, that loss.

  “I was there, with him. Will was there too. We did our best to see that both boys recovered, but only Henry was strong enough. Henry has grown into a fine boy, a boy who would do honor to any family. And a boy who resembles you, Ned. You are his father. You and no one else. If I decide to marry the king, will you agree to acknowledge him, and love him as your son?”

  My brother, usually so full of pride and confidence, now hung his head and nodded.

  “You have my word, Jane. Thank you.” And he enfolded me in a rare brotherly embrace.

  * * *

  There was one more visit I needed to make before I gave the king my answer. I rode to Kimbolton once again, bitterly cold though it was and along a road bounded on both sides by deep snowdrifts.

  I found the princess dowager very weak, but not too weak to receive me with a smile. Her physician, Michael de la Sa, was courteous but cautioned me that his patient tired very easily and that I must make my visit a short one.

  “Caterina,” I said, bending down to kiss her cheek, “I have come to ask your blessing. The king has asked me to become his wife.”

  The old woman gave a slight nod.

  “Yes, Jane. I will pray—” She paused for breath. I could tell that her every word was an effort. “I will pray that you give him the son I could not.”

  She beckoned to Maria de Salinas, and spoke a few halting words to her in Spanish. Maria went to where Catherine’s embroidered prie-dieu stood against the wall. She lifted the heavy piece and brought it to me.

  “She wants you to have this. She asks that you pray for her soul.”

  I nodded through my tears, and looked back at the bed. But the princess dowager had fallen asleep before I could tell her goodbye.

  TWENTY-TWO

  “Jane, dear,” Henry said as we rode downriver in the royal barge, a sharp cold wind whipping up waves and rain beginning to pelt down around us, “now that we are agreed together, I want you to come and live in that house.” He pointed to an elegant old stone manor rising up on our left, with lawn and gardens stretching down to the riverside.

  “It was built by my grandmother,” he went on, “but she never lived there herself. It was always a place where visitors stayed, often foreign visitors. Cardinal Campeggio was lodged there when he came to preside over the legatine court. Come, I want to show it to you.”

  We disembarked at the river stairs and went up onto the lawn. Lights burned brightly inside the house, and servants came out to greet us formally, kneeling to the king and bowing to me. I knew that I had to become accustomed to this, but it seemed strange; I, Jane, was now a person of consequence. I was the lady who was going to marry the king.

  The house was spacious and pleasant, the furnishings much to my taste. Clearly Henry had gone to some trouble to make certain the arrangements would please me.

  “I want you to be comfortable and contented here,” he said, “and to stay in this refuge, away from court, until we are married.” I had left Anne’s household at Christmastide, as soon as I accepted the king’s proposal, and had been staying at Wulf Hall. But Henry wanted me closer at hand, close enough so that he could visit me whenever he chose. My new dwelling was perfectly situated to allow me quiet and privacy yet allow him to come and go with ease from Whitehall.

  The princess dowager had died peacefully only a few days earlier, just at the start of the new year, and I asked Henry if I might invite some of her former servants and officials to join my household. He was agreeable, and so I began by making Griffith Richards my gentleman usher. Others—gardeners, laundrywomen, ewerers and musicians, grooms and pastrycooks—were swiftly added.

  There was a great deal to do, and my days were full. I had never before had an entire large household of my own, and though I was familiar with how things were run in the palace, the responsibility for overseeing everything had never been mine. I relied on Griffith Richards and others he chose to appoint the necessary servants and arrange each of the household departments so that they would run smoothly.

  Almost from the day Catherine died I was besieged with letters, requests, visits from those eager to receive my favor. The ever-flowing undercurrents of power and influence were swift and efficient; it was apparent to all that with the princess dowager dead, Anne would soon be put aside and I would become the king’s wife. It was only a matter of time. I became the focus of attention and ambitious hopes on all sides. And while this did not surprise me, it burdened me. I was after all grieving for Catherine, whom I had loved. And part of me dreaded the new role I would soon be called upon to play.

  I dreaded, as well, the events that I knew must soon occur, for there was no doubt that my future husband’s purpose was to have Anne condemned and dishonored. How much further than that he intended to go I did not know, and did not want to know.

  I welcomed my new household tasks as a way to preoccupy myself so that I was not constantly ruminating on the gossip that came from the court; I tried to shield myself from the conversations of my servants as much as I could. But every ti
me a boat came downriver with supplies for the pantry, or bringing a letter or message or gift from the king, the latest news came with it. I could not even take refuge in the garden, as I hoped to do, for the gardeners exchanged news with the wherrymen and mudlarks and the river was the richest gossip stream of all.

  I learned that the king had fallen while riding recklessly in the tiltyard, at Greenwich, and that he had lain senseless for hours. That during those terrible hours all his advisers expected him to die, and made a pact that they would support Henry Fitzroy as his successor, and not Anne’s unborn child.

  I knew that a few days after the king’s remarkable recovery from his accident, Anne’s pains had begun, even though her baby was not expected for many months, and that the tiny unformed thing had not lived. I heard what was being said after that stillbirth, that the curse of the Nun of Kent still lay over Anne and would never leave her.

  Not long after Anne’s sad disappointment the king came to visit me, bringing me jewels and pouches of gold coins and almost an entire bargeload of silks and velvets, lengths of lace and gold and silver trimmings.

  “Thank heaven you are well recovered from your fall, sire,” I told him after he had kissed and embraced me, smiling happily. “Your recovery is a gift to your people.”

  He brushed aside my reference to his alarming accident. “As you may have noticed, I’m a tough old bird, and hard to kill. It would take more than a horse falling on top of me to send me out of this world.”

  “Is that so?” I teased. “I seem to recall you telling me just the opposite not long ago.”

  I saw that he enjoyed the teasing, though as we walked up to the house across the broad lawn I noticed that he was once again limping on his sore leg, and he seemed a bit unsteady, holding my arm as we went along.

  “Let us speak of happier things. Of our wedding, and the life we will share together. It is high time you ordered your wedding dress, and the gowns for your attendants. What say you to a wedding mass in church? Or would you rather a quiet ceremony at Whitehall, in the queen’s closet?”

  “Whatever would please you, sire.”

  “That’s my good girl.” He rubbed his hands together, always a sign that he was in good spirits, and ordered the barge of fine stuffs unloaded. It pleased him to lift the lengths of cloth and trim from their baskets and hold them up to the light so that their colors shone forth and the metallic trims shed tiny sparks of fire.

  “How lovely you will look as my bride, Jane,” he went on. “I will be very proud to stand beside you when we repeat our vows.”

  “Henry,” I began—but he put his large hand over my lips before I could go on.

  “I know what you want to say, my dearest Jane. It troubles you that Anne must soon face her accusers in court and be brought to justice. That our marriage must wait until she has paid for her treasons.”

  I almost blurted out what I was thinking, which was, at that moment, “This is a marriage that will be made in blood,” but I held my peace.

  I looked into Henry’s eyes, and saw there what I had always seen: high intelligence, slyness, warmth, self-satisfaction, and ruthlessness. We knew one another well enough to guess each other’s thoughts.

  “Is there no other way?” I finally asked.

  He looked down at the roll of silk in his hands.

  “No, Jane. There isn’t. She must meet her fate. But you need not witness it, or be a part of it. You are blameless. I want no shadows over our marriage.”

  “Nor do I.”

  He took both my hands in his, a gesture he often used when we were together.

  “Think of me, Jane, not of your former mistress with her many transgressions. Rejoice with me. I feel as if I have been freed from a dark enchantment. As if I have come out from hell into heaven. And you, my dear, are my good angel.”

  * * *

  On the morning that Mr. Skut came to measure me for my wedding dress the river was filled with boats and the roads were clogged with people.

  “They say she’s to die this morning,” Mr. Skut remarked. “The queen that was. I never thought ill of her, myself. But then, she liked my designs. She favored me.”

  I tried to shut out the sounds I was hearing, and did not encourage Mr. Skut to tell me any more. But the many voices, the galloping horses and drums beating, the noise of shouting and cheering that reached us faintly but unmistakably from upriver left me in no doubt about what was happening there, at the Tower. Every time I tried to speak of something other than the fate of Queen Anne Mr. Skut brought our conversation back to the dread topic.

  “I hear that many were suspected of having treasonable relations with her,” he said. “George Taylor, her receiver, and the sewer of her chamber, Henry Webb, and Thomas Wyatt and Richard Page. Imagine! There were said to be dozens of men, she even hid them in her sweetmeats closet.”

  I shook my head. “That is only gossip. I do believe she was guilty of crimes, but while I served as her maid of honor there were no men in her sweetmeats closet!”

  “None that you knew of, anyway,” said Mr. Skut. “They say she was clever. She probably hid them from you.”

  He held up a length of shimmering cloth.

  “What do you say to this pale peach satin for the bodice, and this darker rose damask for the skirt?” he asked after a time. “The king sent me a message to say that he prefers to see you in stuffs of pink or peach.”

  “I am happy to choose what my husband prefers.”

  Mr. Skut sighed. “In that you are certainly unlike the queen that was. Whenever I made a gown for her, she always chose the colors the king liked least. Just to spite him, I always thought.”

  I had nothing to say to that.

  “You’d do well not to cross him, you know,” the dressmaker added. “He greatly dislikes women who cross him.”

  “Yes, I know.”

  He worked on in silence for a time. At length he said, “It was her uncle, you realize. His Grace the Duke of Norfolk, who presided at her trial. They say he shed tears when she was condemned, but I don’t believe it. After all, he knew she was guilty. There were even stories from the French court to say she had lovers there too. Do you suppose she did?”

  “I can’t say.” I was thinking of Galyon. She had certainly wanted him—though whether she lusted after him or merely believed he could give her a child who had the same coloring as King Henry I would never know.

  Galyon! Surely she deserved to die for what she had done to him. She was paying the price of killing him, or of forcing him to jump to his death. Anne dies this day for killing my beloved, I said to myself. Her death is a just punishment.

  “What do you say to gold tassels from Flanders, to trim the hem of the skirt?” Mr. Skut was asking. “I have some very handsome ones, very costly. The king told me I was to spare no expense in the making of this gown.”

  I nodded. “Then let us have the gold tassels, by all means. After all, this is my one and only wedding day.”

  Hearing this, Mr. Skut suddenly stopped what he was doing and smiled at me.

  “May I say, Mistress Seymour, how very glad I am that your joyous wedding day is coming at last. I could never have imagined, when you asked me to put away the gown I was making for you years ago—the blue and cream one, you remember—I could never have imagined that one day I would be creating a wedding gown for your marriage to the king. It is a very great pleasure for me, as well as an honor.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Skut. I could never have imagined this either. But let us hope and pray it is for the best. I will certainly have the finest and most beautiful wedding dress ever seen at this court.”

  * * *

  The king sent at least a dozen midwives to examine me, and all judged me to be fit to carry the next heir to the throne. He also sent astrologers to cast my horoscope, and they concluded that my future held nothing but favorable events.

  There was only one shadow across the sunny slope of our forthcoming marriage, and at the time I thought little o
f it.

  On the night before our wedding the king held a banquet, joking with me that it was in celebration of his “last night of freedom.”

  I felt a sliver of fear enter my heart at those words.

  “What do you mean, my lord?” I asked him as gently as I could. “Are you thinking you are about to be ensnared?” I remembered what he had said when I told him I needed to talk to Ned. He had said that Ned would congratulate me for having ensnared him.

  “Only entangled in your golden web, my Jane,” was his light answer, but I sensed a faint edge of rancor that troubled me.

  “If you like,” I went on, “we can wait to marry until the harvest season. You can enjoy your freedom all summer long.”

  But he only pulled me to him with a friendly hug, holding me so tightly against him that the large jeweled pendant I wore around my neck felt as if it were boring into my flesh.

  “I will wed you now,” he said with force. “Not later. And I will have no other.”

  Yet at the banquet, I saw that he singled out two very pretty young girls, sisters, and paid them very marked attention. They were the daughters of Sir Richard Wigmore, blond and dimpled like Madge Shelton, but far younger and more slender, with a shyness that I knew appealed to the king.

  He flirted with both girls and danced with them. (I am a poor dancer, as I am quick to admit, and prefer not to display my clumsiness in front of the court; the king spares me this embarrassment.) But he continued to laugh and joke with them, standing not far from me all the while, until I began to feel left out. I had often seen him do this with Anne, deliberately ignoring and snubbing her while he was entirely preoccupied with another woman. I had seen him do the same thing with Catherine when I first came to court. In those instances his purpose was clear: he meant to wound, and to indicate his displeasure.

  I wondered, was I mistaken? Was I misinterpreting his attentions to the girls? Was it possible he meant no insult to me at all, but was merely in high spirits and demonstrating his excess of delight by carrying on a mock wooing? Was he eager to show the court how lusty he was, not only with his bride-to-be but with young girls?