Jane Seymour, the Haunted Queen

by Alison Weir

  “But I have no fever,” she panted. “And it’s getting worse!”

  He frowned. “The fever may come out presently. And being so afraid can only make things worse. Try to sleep, darling.”

  She caught his wrist. “Stay with me!” she pleaded.

  He nodded. “Of course. I will not leave you until you are amended.”

  * * *

  —

  She did manage to sleep, but when she woke, there was still a dull ache in her chest and that awful shortness of breath. Breathing shallowly helped, but not much.

  Henry could not hide his anxiety. He summoned his doctors back, and they examined Jane again, and conferred with him, looking perplexed. They don’t know what is wrong, she realized. Henry went into the outer chamber, but the door did not fully close behind him, and she heard him say, “Order all the London clergy, with the Mayor and aldermen and all the guilds, to make a solemn procession through London to St. Paul’s, to make intercession for the preservation of the welfare of the Prince and the health of the Queen.”

  At least he had mentioned Edward first, which suggested that he was not overly worried about her. But as Saturday passed, her symptoms worsened, and by Sunday night, she could not lie flat without the sensation that she was suffocating.

  “I must sit up!” she gasped, and they brought more pillows. The pain was a constant torment. Henry was distraught, her women were at a loss to know what to do to ease her suffering, and the physicians seemed to be able to do little beyond shaking their heads.

  Henry lay next to her all that night, keeping his distance, for she could not tolerate his leaning against her, and holding her hand. While he slept, she struggled to breathe, lying there wakeful in the cool draft from the window, which she had insisted on keeping open. Moonlight shone through it, illuminating a shadow on the wall. No! Not now! And then, for the first time, she could see clearly those unmistakable features: the narrow face, the pointed chin, the dark eyes flashing with menace, glaring at her malevolently. Now she could not doubt who it was who had visited her in the dark reaches of the night, or of what her appearance heralded. I am going to die, she thought desperately.

  * * *

  —

  Night thoughts, she said firmly to herself in the morning, but by now she was grasping at straws. Breathing was so difficult that she had to lean forward, with her arms braced on either side. She was unable to get comfortable, moving restlessly this way and that, and horribly anxious.

  “Open the window!” she gasped.

  “It is open, Madam,” Mary Monteagle replied, unable to hide her concern.

  “I must have air!” Jane whispered. “I am so cold.”

  “She is not making any sense.” That was Henry, fear evident in his voice. He had stayed with her throughout, his hunting plans abandoned.

  “Her ankles are swollen,” the midwife observed.

  “Dear God!” he cried. “Can’t somebody do something? Summon the doctors again!”

  “Air, please!” Jane begged, and Margery grabbed some sheets of music that Henry had left by his lute on the table, and began fanning her with them.

  * * *

  —

  The doctors came, and made a great bustle about her. After an hour or so, she felt her struggle for breath easing slightly, and the pains seemed a little less severe. “There is every hope of recovery,” Dr. Chamber pronounced when she whispered the good news. Jane saw the look of utter relief on Henry’s face, and the glint of a tear on his cheek. He left her for a moment to confer with the physicians, and came back beaming.

  “God willing, you will be better soon!” he said, taking her hands. “If so, I will go to Esher as planned, but if not, I could not find it in my heart to leave you until I know you are beyond danger.”

  She stared at him. “I have been in danger?”

  He nodded. “The doctors say so. But, thanked be God, you are somewhat amended, and Chamber and Butts tell me that if you remain stable through the night, they are in good hope that you will be past all danger.”

  * * *

  —

  She was breathless again at dusk, and could not face food, so Henry had hurried off to sup alone, promising to be back soon to wish her good night. He had been gone an hour when the pain returned with a vengeance and she could not get her breath.

  “She’s turning blue!” the midwife cried. “Call the doctors, quickly, and the King!”

  She pulled Jane forward by the arms. “Breathe, in and out, in and out!” she commanded. Jane struggled for breath. Her limbs felt dreadfully cold, and she saw that her hands were gray.

  “Help me!” she panted. “Can’t breathe.”

  The door was flung open and Henry crashed into the bedchamber. “Mother of God!” he cried when he saw her. “Jane! Jane!” The doctors came running in his wake.

  She could strive no more. Her lungs were giving up. She wanted to stay with Henry, she so wanted to stay, but she had no breath anymore, and no strength to fight for it. And she was cold, so cold. But there was one thing she must do. She must see her little boy, her precious one, one last time, and give him her blessing, a blessing that would have to last for all of his life.

  She sank back on the pillows, feeling as if she were fading into nothingness. “Edward,” she whispered. But then her breath failed her and she could speak no more.

  “Should I fetch the Prince?” It was the Lady Mary’s voice. She had come, God bless her, in her stepmother’s hour of need.

  “No, Madam, we dare not take the risk,” Dr. Chamber said.

  “There is no risk!” Henry countered. “I am here, and I would not be if there was any fear of infection. Bring the child.” His voice came out in a sob.

  “I will fetch him.” Was that Cromwell? Was even he here? It was like being in a dream, with faces and voices merging into a blur.

  “Hurry! There is no time.”

  “No!” That was Henry, crying out in anguish.

  She opened her eyes, knowing she must try to say goodbye. There was so much she wanted to say to Henry, that should be said. But she was beyond words, and she must conserve the little breath she had for Edward.

  She heard the bell in Base Court chime twice. The shadow was there on the wall, beckoning to her. She raised a hand weakly and pointed to it, shrinking in fear. If this was what awaited her in eternity, she was surely bound for Hell.

  “What is she doing?” Henry asked.

  “She is delirious, I think,” Mary said.

  She was aware of the Bishop of Carlisle kneeling beside her, giving her the Last Sacrament, anointing her with sacred oil and forgiving her sins. Inwardly she prayed that God would watch over Edward and Henry when she was no more, and absolve her of any guilt, hoping that the remorse she had suffered in this life, and her sincere repentance, would count in her favor when she came before Him for judgment. When she looked again, the shadow had gone. Had she dreamed it? Was she going to Heaven after all? And would Anthony and Margery and Father be there waiting for her? How she wished Mother was here with her.

  Henry was clutching her hand, his head bent over it, weeping inconsolably. She heard Cromwell speak. “They are crowding into the Chapel Royal. If prayer can save her Grace…” She did not hear the rest of what he said.

  “Never was lady more popular with every man, rich or poor,” Mary said.

  “Sir, I have sent for the Duke of Norfolk to come and help take charge while your Grace is occupied here,” Cromwell said. His voice fell to a murmur and she heard it break. She had not dreamed he was so fond of her.

  “God, I would I could do something for her!” Henry cried, his voice close beside her. “All my power is for nothing. My most precious jewel is slipping away, and I am helpless. Oh, darling, do not leave me!” He collapsed, sobbing, his arm stretching out toward her.

  She was di
mly aware of the child being laid beside her. She could hear him snuffling, feel his warmth against her icy skin. Gasping for breath, she tried to raise her hand in blessing, but she had not the strength, so she blessed him in her heart, her darling son, her little future king. She had given him life, and he gave her hope of redemption, and for the future. And as her life ebbed away, it was his heart-shaped face, innocent and beautiful like no other, that she took with her into the light.

  This book is dedicated to

  my three amazing editors

  (in alphabetical order)

  Mari Evans

  Susanna Porter and

  Flora Rees

  Author’s Note

  Jane Seymour’s career spanned three of the most tumultuous years in England’s history. She was at the center of the turbulent and dramatic events that marked the Reformation, a witness to the fall of Anne Boleyn, and an adherent of traditional religion at a time when seismic changes were taking place in the English Church. Had she left behind letters giving insights into her views on these events, we would know much more about the role she played in them—but she didn’t, and therefore she remains an enigma.

  Historians endlessly debate whether or not Jane was the demure and virtuous willing instrument of an ambitious family and an ardent and powerful king; or whether she was as ambitious as her relations and played a proactive part in bringing down the Queen she served. It is impossible, given the paucity of the evidence, to reach a conclusion. And yet a novelist approaching Jane Seymour must opt for one view or the other. For me, this posed a challenge, which set me poring once more over the historical evidence on which this book is closely based, looking for clues as to how to portray her.

  What do we know about Jane Seymour, apart from the bare facts of her story? We know that, at the outset of the Dissolution, she pleaded for the monasteries to be restored. This places her firmly in the traditionalist camp, as does the fact that she had served Katherine of Aragon for some years, and probably stayed with her for a time after Katherine had been banished from court.

  Jane was perhaps overshadowed, or even dominated, by her ambitious brothers. And yet while she was for the old faith, the eldest, Edward, the future Lord Protector of England, was a reformist, so obviously Jane had a mind of her own.

  In keeping with her reactionary views, and perhaps out of personal devotion, she took up the cause of Katherine of Aragon’s daughter, the Lady Mary (whom Jane, in the novel, always speaks of as the rightful Princess, despite her having been bastardized), and pleaded with Henry VIII to restore her to his affections and bring her to court.

  The fact that Jane asked this not only for Mary’s sake, but because she was lonely and needed a friend of similar status strongly suggests that when she became queen, she felt the need to pull rank and distance herself from those she called her inferiors. I don’t see this as snobbery, but as the action of a knight’s daughter who felt at a disadvantage, perhaps wanting in dignity and confidence, beside the great ladies of the court, and who felt the need to emphasize her exalted rank.

  One senses a certain gaucheness in her, inferred from her nervousness when officially receiving the Imperial ambassador Chapuys. She left barely a letter. We might detect an understandable triumph in the one she wrote, in formal terms, announcing her son’s birth, which suggests that by then she had gained in confidence. Her recorded utterances are few, but they suggest a humane and sympathetic personality. Her daring plea to Henry to save the monasteries speaks volumes for her moral courage, for this plea was made at a time when the Pilgrimage of Grace was on the march, and effectively she was siding in her opinion with the rebels who were opposing the King’s reforms and demanding that the Dissolution be halted. On this evidence, we see Jane as a thinking, caring woman who was not afraid to speak out on principle.

  Yet there are many who see her in a more sinister light. Some would agree with Jane’s Victorian biographer, Agnes Strickland, who thought her conduct “shameless,” asserting that her willingness to entertain Henry VIII’s courtship “was the commencement of the severe calamities that befell her mistress,” and thundered: “Scripture points out as an especial odium the circumstances of a handmaid taking the place of her mistress…a sickening sensation of horror must pervade every right-feeling mind, when the proceedings of the discreet Jane Seymour are considered. She received the addresses of her mistress’s husband…she passively beheld the mortal anguish of Anne Boleyn…she saw a series of murderous accusations got up against the queen, which finally brought her to the scaffold.” Strickland conveniently forgot that Anne, only a decade earlier, had begun scheming to supplant her royal mistress, and had later tried to compass that lady’s death. Moreover, her criticism was born of her religious and moral convictions, while that of Jane’s modern detractors is more likely to arise from their partisanship of Anne Boleyn.

  But the only evidence for Jane’s involvement in Anne’s fall is her agreeing to denigrate Anne in Henry’s ears. That isn’t the same as conniving in the plot to annihilate her. Anne’s arrest on May 2, 1536, came as a surprise, or shock, to most people; prior to that, the assumption was that if Henry got rid of her, it would be by annulment. Aside from Thomas Cromwell, who later attested that he had “thought up and plotted the affair of the Queen” after April 18, 1536, the coalition that formed against Anne early in 1536 can have had little idea of where their ambitions would lead. Nothing we know about Jane Seymour suggests that she tried to compass Anne’s death, as Strickland alleged.

  Many of Katherine of Aragon’s contemporaries—indeed, most of Christendom—held the view that her marriage to Henry VIII was valid, a view that an objective study of the relevant canon law supports. Jane clearly adhered to this opinion, and she must have regarded Anne Boleyn as no more than the “other woman” who had usurped Katherine’s place and been the cause of her troubles. She cannot have regarded Anne as Henry VIII’s lawful wife, and that view doubtless underpinned her encouragement of the King’s advances. As she did not recognize his marriage to Anne, this would not have seemed like adultery to her. In fact, as in the novel, she probably saw Anne as the author of many of the ills that were blighting the kingdom—the mistreatment of the rightful Queen and her daughter, reform that looked like heresy, and the shedding of the blood of good men.

  What did she expect—that the King would marry her? Probably not for some time, although her family may have hoped to profit by the affair. Both she and they must have been aware that Anne Boleyn in her day had been a mere maid-of-honor when the King had determined to marry her. But Jane had seen Henry pass from mistress to mistress, so maybe she meant to make the most of his interest while she could, and in this her relations, particularly her ambitious brothers, may have put pressure on her. Or maybe, as is entirely possible, she loved him. Anne knew about the affair, and was resentful. We hear (in the memoirs of Jane Dormer) that there were “scratchings and by-blows” between the Queen and her maid. It was a mistress’s privilege physically to chastise those who served her. I do not believe it was Jane who was doing the scratching and slapping.

  The situation changed in the early months of 1536, when that unlikely coalition of court conservatives and radicals united to bring Anne Boleyn down. Jane was asked to keep reminding the King of Anne’s failings whenever she could, and it seems she complied. Again, she would have seen this as an opportunity to rid Henry—and England—of a pernicious influence, though she could not have envisaged any worse consequence than an annulment.

  Maybe Jane found the charges believable, or was willing to. (The storyline involving Mireflore is pure fiction, and carries on the thread begun in my previous novel, Anne Boleyn, A King’s Obsession.) But why was she so anxious to be informed of the verdict at Anne’s trial? Was it because she was longing to be queen? Or was it because she was suffering from guilt and dreaded to hear that she would be queen, literally, over Anne’s dead body?

  We do no
t know the answers to these questions. We do know that Henry VIII expected obedience and conformity from Jane after they were married, and was protective toward her, being aware of her inexperience. She did not involve herself in politics, and Chapuys noted that she would not be drawn into a discussion about them. It is highly unlikely, therefore, that she was embroiled in the dramatic events of late April and May 1536, although she may have been privy to some of what was going on. Did she feel to some extent that she was responsible, because she had helped to poison Henry’s mind against Anne and encouraged his courtship? This theory underpins my portrayal of her.

  And did she preserve her virtue before marriage? Henry had begun courting her by October 1535, and their affair gathered momentum until February 1536, when Jane returned a purse of gold he had sent her, asking him to save it until such time as she made a good marriage.

  After that, in March, Henry installed her brother and his wife in apartments at Greenwich, where he could come by a secret gallery and visit her with her relatives as chaperones. Suddenly, five months after their relationship had begun, her virtue was to be protected.

  The previous year, Henry had considered ending his marriage to Anne, but had been deterred by advice that it would be an admission that he had been wrong to put away Katherine and would be expected to take her back. But now Katherine was dead and Anne had just miscarried of a son, and there could be no awkward consequences of an annulment. Yet Henry dithered. Ridding himself of Anne would still have looked like an admission that he had been wrong to marry her. It was not until late April, when shocking evidence was laid before him, that he was resolved to be free of her. And there was the seemingly virtuous Jane waiting in the wings. We know that he had broached the subject of marriage before Anne’s arrest on May 2. I suspect it was probably after he had read the evidence against Anne.