Jane Seymour, the Haunted Queen

by Alison Weir

  “Well, husband, aren’t you going to reprove your son?” Mother demanded.

  “I don’t think Edward needs me to remind him of the shame and embarrassment to which he has subjected his wife and family,” Father said. “He has to live with himself. That’s punishment enough.” His mouth set in a grim line.

  * * *

  —

  The tower at Wulfhall was rarely used, except for storage. It was a relic from another age, a turning place from one wing to the next. But the children loved to play in the upper chambers, hiding and seeking each other amid the broken furniture and the detritus and dust of decades, if not centuries.

  On the day after the Fillols left, John went missing. He was a cheeky, fair boy with a fine sense of adventure, and they were all sure he was hiding somewhere. Father James was waiting impatiently for him, so that he could begin the morning’s lessons. But John did not like learning. Catherine, Jane and Margery went hurrying through the house calling for him.

  “He’ll be in the tower,” Mother said.

  “Just shout that I’ll give him a beating if he doesn’t show himself,” Father muttered, but he was chuckling. He adored his grandson, and admired his escapades.

  Jane checked the recess under the spiral staircase at the foot of the tower, then bunched up her skirts and ascended the stairs, calling for John as she went. He would not answer, she knew. She peered into the room on the first floor. It contained only a bed piled high with old bedding, and some ancient chests. John wasn’t under the bed, but there was perhaps room in the chests for a small, wiry boy to conceal himself. Jane opened the first. It contained some moth-eaten furs, a leather jerkin and a rubbed velvet gown with a high waist and a wide collar embroidered with silver thread that had gone black. No John. There were ancient documents and manor rolls in another chest, broken toys and household stuff in a third and more clothes in the fourth. An old portrait stood against the wall, its paint cracked and flaking. It was of a woman Jane did not know, wearing a steeple headdress in the style of seventy years ago. She pulled it forward, just in case the naughty boy was hiding behind it. He wasn’t. But there by the peeling wainscot was a handkerchief. Jane picked it up. It was embroidered with the letter C and an intricate design of knots, and blotched with yellow. She would have known it anywhere. It was Catherine’s.

  Jane pulled off the threadbare counterpane that covered the pile of bedclothes, half expecting to see John huddled beneath amid the bolsters and blankets. She stripped them from the bed too, just to make sure he wasn’t there. And then she noticed the stains on the mattress—stains similar to those on the handkerchief. She dropped the latter in distaste, guessing what those stains might be. Maybe Catherine was being unfaithful too. She had certainly been here—but not with Edward, surely? Jane’s mind reeled at the possibilities.

  She heard a noise above her. John! Racing up the stairs to catch him, she resolved that she would say nothing for now. “Speak no evil,” Scripture enjoined. Or, as Mother was fond of saying, “Least said, soonest mended…”

  * * *

  —

  Sir John was away at the assizes in Salisbury and an uneasy peace had settled on the household when, two days later, a letter came for Catherine, brought by one of her father’s servants. Jane, not far in her wake, recognized the livery, and waited as Catherine stood in the porch, breaking the seal and unfolding the paper. She heard the sharp intake of breath and saw her sister-in-law crumple, wailing, to her knees.

  “What is it?” she asked, sinking down and putting an arm around Catherine, as footsteps sounded behind them.

  Catherine was beyond speech; her mouth was working in distress. And then Edward was there, with Mother, Margery and the children behind him.

  “Give it to me!” he commanded, taking the letter. As he read it, his face darkened. “By God, he’ll answer for this!”

  “What has he written?” Jane asked.

  “Tell us!” Mother cried.

  “He says he has made a new will, and that, for various causes and considerations, he has provided that neither Catherine nor the heirs of her body, nor myself, shall in any wise inherit any part or parcel of his lands. All he will leave her is forty pounds a year as long as she agrees to live virtuously in an honest house of nuns.” As Catherine burst into fresh sobs, he recoiled from her. “It’s outrageous. By God, I’ll have this will set aside. None shall deprive me of what is rightfully mine.”

  “But Catherine is Sir William’s co-heiress!” Mother protested, shocked. “Everything was to be divided between her and her sister. And when John was born, Sir William named him his co-executor with Catherine. Edward, I can perhaps understand why you have been excluded, but what of your wife and sons? It is John’s right to inherit her share! Catherine, why would your father disinherit you in this way? My dear girl, what is all this about? You must tell us.”

  Jane thought immediately of the stain on the mattress, the handkerchief by the wainscot.

  “Catherine?” Edward barked, glaring down at her. She was too distraught to answer.

  “I will find out, I promise you!” he spat, his face like fury, and stamped off, leaving the rest of them to comfort his wife. Mother sank down on her knees and drew her daughter-in-law into her arms.

  Thanking God that Thomas was away on estate business, and not here to make matters worse, Jane rose and went after Edward. She found him in the dining parlor, his back to her, staring out of the window. He was shaking with anger. She sat down at the table.

  “She has betrayed me, I’m sure of it,” Edward growled, “and it must have happened here in this house, on the day her parents left. They saw something. It couldn’t have been one of our brothers—they were all out hawking with us. God’s teeth, if I find that she’s been bedding one of the servants, I’ll carry her off to a nunnery myself, and be rid of her!”

  Jane wrestled with herself. Should she tell Edward what she had seen? It was not conclusive proof that Catherine had been unfaithful, not cause enough to risk hurting young John and the baby. Tears welled in her eyes. “Edward, what of those two innocent children? It would be terrible for them to lose their mother, and grow up in the knowledge that she was an adulteress. Talk to her reasonably. Get the truth out of her, and then think of your sons.”

  Edward turned to face her, his blue eyes blazing. “I am thinking of them! My concern is their moral welfare. If Catherine has been unfaithful, she is an unfit mother. And if so, are the children mine?” He was beside himself. Jane forbore to remind him that he was in no position to preach about morality.

  She stood up. “If, Edward. If! Talk to her. You’ve just been made a justice of the peace, so you, above anyone, should know that under the law, the accused is innocent until proved guilty. Talk to her, for the children’s sake—for Mother’s sake.”

  “Very well,” Edward muttered, and Jane followed him out of the parlor.

  They found Catherine still weeping in the hall, being comforted by Mother, and the children peering in at the door. Jane shooed them away.

  “Come,” Edward said, “I want to talk to you.” And he led his distraught wife upstairs to their chamber.

  * * *

  —

  Within the hour, Edward emerged to tell Jane and their mother that Catherine had assured him, with many tears, that she had not betrayed him, and their sons were indeed his.

  “But she will not agree to my contesting the will,” he went on, “and so I don’t believe her. I’m thinking of riding to Woodlands and demanding that Sir William tell me what happened that day.”

  “Is that wise?” Jane asked.

  “It’s the only thing I can do,” Edward insisted. Just then a groom knocked and entered the room.

  “Sir, my lady, a messenger from Cardinal Wolsey has arrived and is asking for Sir Edward.”

  They hastened to the hall. There stood a man in the
Cardinal’s livery. He bowed and held out a letter to Edward. “Sir, his Eminence requests that you make haste to Hampton Court, and attend him on an embassy to France.” It was a command, but Jane could see that it was a welcome one. Edward was always ready to accept any task that could lead to preferment; and both he and Father knew that many men had risen high in Wolsey’s service and gone on to serve the King.

  “I thank his Eminence,” Edward said. “If you will give me an hour’s grace, I will pack my travelling chest and return with you. I must write a letter to my lord of Richmond too.”

  “He has been informed, Sir.”

  “Very good,” Edward said. “My lady mother here will see that you are well refreshed.” Mother was already instructing the groom to see that a good meal and a flagon of ale were brought for the messenger.

  Jane ran upstairs with Edward.

  “What will you do about Catherine?” she asked.

  “It will have to await my return,” he said.

  “But you could be gone for weeks…”

  “Thank God. I can’t wait to get away. I need time to think and decide what to do. Now, Jane, if you don’t mind, I need to prepare.”

  Jane left, feeling strangely unsettled, but her unease had little to do with the trouble between Edward and Catherine. No, it had been the unexpected excitement she had felt when she heard that Edward was to go to Hampton Court, mingled with disappointment at being left behind. It was the realization that the world was beckoning at last, and that she did, after all, want to experience every good thing it had to offer.

  But there still remained that pull toward the cloister, that yearning to immerse herself in the quiet observance of her faith. How torn she felt.

  Really, this indecision could not go on. If only she could find the answer in prayer.

  She slipped into the deserted chapel and knelt down, fixing her eyes on the beauteous Madonna. One could live in the world and still be devout. She could think of many who did. The Queen, for example, whose piety was legendary—and Mother also. They had the joys of marriage and motherhood and worldly pleasure, and the consolation of their faith. There was no question that she too would always be devoted to God, but there were other ways of serving Him than in a cloister. She did not have to commit herself to the religious life.

  She realized that her decision had been made.

  “Thank you,” she whispered. “Thank you for showing me the way.”

  * * *

  —

  Catherine did not come to the riding block to hand her husband the stirrup cup and say farewell. Mother had to perform that duty.

  “God keep you, my son,” she said, looking at him searchingly. “Write to us.”

  “I will,” Edward promised, and rode away with the messenger as they waved him goodbye.

  Wishing that she was riding up to Surrey with him, Jane returned to the house and knocked at Catherine’s door. Receiving no reply, she lifted the latch and went in. Catherine was sitting rocking Ned’s cradle, staring out of the window. Her cheeks were wet.

  “Will you not confide in me?” Jane asked, taking the other chair. “I would never divulge anything you tell me in confidence.”

  “I don’t want to talk about it,” Catherine said. “Please leave me alone.”

  “You can’t just stay in here moping,” Jane protested. “Think of the children, if of no one else. Wash your face and come downstairs. There are tasks to be done.”

  “I will come down in a little while,” Catherine promised.

  When she finally appeared, joining Mother, Jane and Elizabeth in the kitchen, where supper was being prepared, she looked wan and said little. Over the next day or so, she trailed around the house like a wraith, a ghost of her former self, or hugged her children possessively, ignoring John’s squirming. Even Harry’s well-meant jests did not rally her.

  “This can’t go on,” Mother said one evening, after Catherine had gone early to bed.

  “Have you tried talking to her?” Jane asked.

  “Of course I have. She will not open her heart to me, or to anyone. You’ve tried, haven’t you, Anthony?”

  “She told me it was none of my business,” he said.

  “I’ve tried too,” Harry chimed in. “I got short shrift as well.”

  “You know, I might ride to Woodlands myself and see Lady Fillol,” Mother said. “We have to know what has caused this.”

  “It’s fifty miles!” Harry reminded her. “And they wouldn’t tell us before.”

  “She may not even receive you,” Jane worried.

  “It’s worth trying.” Mother sighed. “We can’t continue like this.”

  “No, we can’t,” echoed Margery, looking distressed. “It’s making everyone unhappy.”

  “I will ride to Woodlands tomorrow,” Mother said.

  “Then I will go with you,” Harry promised.

  Chapter 4

  1527

  Mother had hardly begun to make ready for the journey when the messenger arrived from Woodlands. Sir William was dead.

  “He died of an apoplexy,” the man told them, as Catherine broke down in tears.

  They all made the sign of the Cross on their breasts. Jane wondered if Sir William’s death had been brought on by anger. What a horrible time this was! Trouble heaped upon trouble. She wished—and could not believe it—that she could be away from Wulfhall, even for a short time.

  “We will go to the funeral and pay our respects,” Mother announced.

  The messenger’s cheeks flushed. “I beg your pardon, my lady, but my mistress would be grateful if you all stayed away.”

  “Well!” Mother spluttered. “I was only trying to do the decent thing, and I think that was a generous gesture, in the circumstances. But to have it thrown back in my face…It’s an insult.”

  The man’s face reddened further. “My apologies, my lady. I am only repeating what I was told to say.”

  “I’m aware of that,” Mother replied. “Now you may go.”

  Her children stared at one another. Never had they seen her send a visitor away without refreshment. It was a measure of her rare anger.

  Thomas came home, with Father hard on his heels, weary after a week spent convicting murderers and thieves. Sir John seemed more shocked when Mother told him about Sir William’s will than at the news of his death.

  “Edward is determined to contest it,” Mother said, as they sat up later after supper in the parlor. Catherine had long since excused herself and retired, a sad little figure in her mourning gown.

  “He must not! It would cause a scandal,” Father said. “I have to think of my position.”

  Mother banged down her goblet. “Will you see Edward done out of his wife’s inheritance? You ought to be thinking of those poor lambs asleep upstairs. Why should those innocent souls be cheated of their birthright?”

  Father placed his hand on hers, looking chastened. “I think it is a case he cannot hope to win.”

  “But there is no proof or admission of any misconduct,” Anthony pointed out. “What if Sir William misunderstood the situation? Should blameless children be made to suffer for it?”

  Jane bit her tongue. Would what she had seen in the tower constitute proof? Ought she to say something? And what would happen if she did? It was probably best to keep silent. Again, she wished she could be away from all this unpleasantness.

  “Husband,” Mother asked, “why don’t you ride to Woodlands and insist that Lady Fillol tells you what happened that day?”

  “I doubt she would, and I would not wish to intrude on a grieving widow. I think the best course is for me to talk to Catherine. Until I have done so, let us speak of more pleasant matters.”

  “Father, I would appreciate your help,” Jane said quickly, seizing her moment. “I have decided that, if it could be arranged, I wou
ld like to go to court and serve the Queen or the Princess Mary.”

  Father looked visibly relieved, and everyone spoke at once. “You, little mouse?” Thomas laughed.

  “Oh, my dear child!” That was Mother. “How you do surprise me!”

  “I would miss you!” cried Margery.

  “The court is an envious place,” Anthony observed. “You’d be a lamb among wolves.”

  “I can’t understand why you want to leave Wulfhall,” Harry said.

  “I can,” Thomas muttered.

  “It’s not that I want to leave you all,” Jane assured them, aware that it was not entirely the truth. “But I felt envious when Edward went to serve the Cardinal, and it made me realize that I should like to go to court too, if it could be arranged. The Queen, as Father and Edward have often said, is a kind and virtuous princess, and the Princess is known for her learning and beauty. If there is a position, however humble, I would gladly fill it.”

  Father had heard her out, looking thoughtful. “So you’re not going to be a nun, I take it?”

  “No, Father. I think I knew that last year. Now I know for certain.”

  “Hmm.” He stroked his beard. “There is much competition for positions in the royal households. Securing one is not a thing easily accomplished. You need to know the right people, and they may want a handsome consideration.”

  Jane sighed. Was the court now to be barred to her?

  “Daughter, do not look so disheartened.” Father smiled. “It might be contrived somehow. Young ladies in the Queen’s service are well placed to find good husbands, and it’s about time you were wed. I have long wanted to arrange a marriage for you, but you were set on the religious life. I need not say how pleased we are that you have reached this decision, eh, Margery?”

  Mother nodded. “I’ve prayed that you would marry one day and have a family of your own.”

  Father thought for a few moments. “I think I know just the person who might bring this to pass. When I was at court, I became friendly with a distant cousin of ours, Sir Francis Bryan. You have heard me speak of him. He is vice-chamberlain to the Queen, and must have some influence. Leave this with me, Jane. I will write a letter to him.”