Jane the Confidant

by Leigh Jenkins

  “She could be my lady-in-waiting,” Jane continued. “There is no woman of rank equal with me here at court. I shall be very lonely.”

  This reminded me that my daughter was only five years younger than Jane. It was high time she returned to court, so we could find her a husband, that she might contribute to the grandeur that surrounded me.

  “Very well, my love,” I said. “I shall think on it. There are considerations to be made. The Lady Mary has not yet signed the Act of Supremacy acknowledging that I am head of the Church of England. If she signs that, she would surely be welcomed back to court.”

  “And if she does not?” Jane asked carefully.

  “I cannot have anyone about me that would not sign,” I said firmly.

  “Your Majesty, please,” Jane begged, bending down so her dress gaped open low enough for me to see inside. Even she knew that Mary, so proudly Catholic like her mother, would never sign such a document. I waited to hear more from Jane, but I did not. She remained perfectly still with her gown open and her head bowed.

  “Very well,” I sighed. “We shall invite her out during progress. But she cannot formally join the court.”

  Jane’s smile at my answer was blinding and I was slightly taken aback; she had yet to smile at me like that before. Her eyes lifted and the lines around her mouth disappeared with her joy.

  “Thank you, Your Majesty — Henry,” she corrected, throwing her arms around me. “Thank you, Henry.”

  “Now,” I said, pulling her down with me. “Let us see what else we can accomplish this morning.”

  ******

  I had ordered that Jane’s family would accompany us for dinner that afternoon. Jane was whisked away by her ladies-in-waiting as my grooms entered my chambers to help me make ready.

  It took nearly thirty minutes for them to prepare me for the day. I watched in dismay as another of my doublets proved to be too small and was quickly taken away by a page boy. Having twelve young men watch the doublet split down the back proved humiliating and soured the good mood I had felt earlier that morning with Jane.

  The Seymours joined me in one of my inner chambers for dinner, Jane looking radiant in a fine blue dress to my right. Her aging father sat next to her, his stringy gray hair clutching at his bloated cheeks. As a sign of respect the seat next to him remained empty; Jane’s mother was still too ill to return to court.

  Across from Jane sat her brother Edward, the recently created Viscount Beauchamp. Edward was dressed sumptuously as befitted his stations; his blue robe matched his wife’s, who was seated on his left. Her forehead was high, her nose was long, and her gaze roamed across the silver plates as if calculating their worth.

  The final member of our party was Jane’s other brother Thomas, who with his thin nose and large eyes bore a striking resemblance to my new wife. I had yet to elevate his status among the court, and for good reason. Rumors of Thomas Seymour’s womanizing had spread around the court like wildfire; his visits to low-end brothels were numerous. While this behavior was typical of a young man who hung about the court, I had never seen someone so proud of his dealings with the whores of London. Save for one man – but George Boleyn had been beheaded with his sister Anne, and I refused to think of them again.

  “Your Majesty honors us with a private meal,” Sir John Seymour said, patting his daughter’s hand. I smiled at the elderly gentleman, fully aware that Jane’s sweet-natured temperament came from him.

  “I am only sorry your wife and other children could not join us,” I responded. “We will have to travel to your home of Wulfhall during this summer’s progress and dine with all of my wife’s family.”

  Jane smiled at me, placing her hand above mine.

  “And all of your family too, my lord,” she added.

  “And my family too,” I answered with a grimace, not pleased she had reminded me of my earlier promise. I glanced towards her brother, determined to change the subject.

  “A tennis match today, Sir Edward,” I said. “Who is it that you fancy to win?”

  “Ah, the Seymours always back Sir Nicholas Carew,” Edward responded with a grin. “He is a friend of our families and a mean player as well.”

  “Well, I have not backed him,” Thomas cut in, leaning across his sister-in-law, who backed away in disgust. “I have backed the Earl of Surrey for five pounds.”

  “Thomas,” Edward hissed, even as their father shot both boys a hard look.

  “And whom do you favor, sweetheart?” I asked Jane, who had turned to look down into her soup bowl.

  “I carry no opinion of the matter,” she breathed out.

  “You should back the Earl,” Thomas insisted, waving his finger at his younger sister.

  “Thomas, reign yourself in,” Edward muttered again. “You are dining with his Majesty the King.”

  “Ah,” Thomas said, looking to me startled, as if he had forgotten I was there. “My pardon, Your Majesty.”

  “And to the Queen,” I insisted, nodding towards his sister.

  “Many apologies,” he said before swallowing audibly. “Your Majesty.”

  Jane nodded but refused to look up. The entire table fell into an uncomfortable silence as the soup was taken away and the main course arrived.

  I began eating with gusto and used the messy business to better observe my new brothers. Edward remained stiffly seated in his seat, picking at his food as if he would find something rotten in it. Between bites, his hand would occasionally stray down to his money purse, which sat on the outside of his belt loop. Most men hid theirs, but not Edward Seymour.

  His wife, Anne, now seemed overwhelmed by the presence of the gold plate in front of her, her eyes darting about the room to take in every aspect of the riches. Her food had yet to be touched.

  And Thomas completed the odd trio, completely hunched over his dinner, reaching out for more food whenever he felt like it. His left hand twirled his personal knife that he used to cut his meat, his fingers fondling the jewel-encrusted handle.

  I was used to taking the measure of a man quickly, but the Seymour boys shocked me. Both were obviously greedy, and Edward’s wife possibly the most of all. Edward I could at least say was discreet, while Thomas was too young, too eager, and too jealous. I could recall his absence during the feast to celebrate Edward’s rise to viscount.

  I would have to watch these two men as they could both be powerful. They would be uncles to my son and could wield any amount of influence over the boy.

  “Your Majesty?” Jane questioned, reaching out to take my hand. I was pulled out of my study of the two young men, realizing I was the only one still eating. I quickly pushed my plate away and smiled at Jane.

  “Well, Thomas,” I said, addressing the sulky young man. “We have named your brother Viscount Beauchamp. I think it is high time you had a post.”

  I noticed Edward blanch pure white next to me, even as Jane squeezed my hand. A glance at her showed that she and her father wore identical strained smiles. With Thomas’ response, I understood their white-lipped fear.

  “The title Earl of Rochester is free, Your Majesty,” Thomas said eagerly.

  “That title reverted back to Thomas Boleyn, upon his son’s death,” I said stonily, shocked that the boy would not only suggest what title I give him but name one that was so recently distasteful to me.

  His lips sunk into a pout and I looked to Jane, taking in her distress at her younger brother’s faux pas.

  “Actually, I was thinking of another post,” I said, forcing my voice to relax and sound cordial.

  “Yes?” the boy asked eagerly, once again stretching over his sister-in-law.

  “Lord High Admiral,” I stated, enjoying both brothers’ simultaneous looks of horror.

  “But Your Majesty,” Edward said, recovering his power of speech first. “That is a position of great responsibility.”

  “Your Majesty could not expect me to belong with sailors!” Thomas cried out as soon as his brother had finished, spitting
out the word sailors as if it were dirty.

  “Yes,” I said, glancing at Jane whose small smile had come back into play. “Yes, Sir Thomas, I believe that is exactly where you belong.”

  Chapter Two

  October 1536

  Jane had been my wife for six months and yet there was no sign of a son. With each passing week, I could hear the whispers of the courtiers grow as we walked through a room and the tight feeling in my throat, that feeling of failure once again, was ever-present. I was certain there was no impediment this time; both Catherine and Anne were dead and could no longer claim to be my wife. Jane and I had been married; I had not even lain with her before the ceremony, as was quite common. There had been no mistresses, no evils in the kingdom, nothing to account for this disappointment.

  The Duke of Suffolk, Charles Brandon, had recently rejoined my court after we returned from our usual summer progress. His wife, my sister, had passed away recently, and he had taken a new wife, Catherine Willoughby. This has raised quite a scandal, as Charles was forty-seven and Catherine fourteen, and she had been betrothed to his son Henry Brandon. However, a few weeks after Mary had passed, Charles had broken off his son’s betrothal and taken Catherine as his wife instead. I heard that his son was wasting away over the loss.

  I had yet to see the man, as Jane and I had been dining alone more often than not. One brisk autumn morning, I had one of my page boys fetch him quietly to my chambers.

  “Your Majesty,” Brandon said with a deep bow, doffing his cap as he did so. I took a moment to study my friend, who I had not seen since my marriage to Jane — he had grown fatter. With his cap off, I could note that his hair had become thinner just as mine had over the past few years. Where mine had remained red, however, his had darkened to brown. I motioned for him to rise and was alarmed by the lines in his face; some I was sure mirrored my own. It was startling to see the changes in my friend and made me more aware of my own changes. Time halted for no man, not even a king.

  “Ah, Charles, it is good to see you once more,” I said, clasping his shoulder.

  “And you, Your Majesty,” he responded.

  “And how is your new wife?” I asked, allowing a smile to slip onto my face.

  “Young,” he answered with a laugh. “And sinful.”

  I felt a laugh escape me as well; only Brandon would be able to joke about the court’s whispers, something that had always impressed me about him. I gestured for us to take seats by the fire as a page brought us some mulled wine.

  “To the queen,” Charles said, raising his glass in a toast.

  “To the queen,” I echoed with a smile as I sipped the warm red liquid.

  “May I inquire after her majesty’s health?” Charles asked.

  “Excellent,” I responded. “Nothing to indicate any — problems.”

  “I am glad to hear of it,” Charles answered, but I knew he could hear what was unspoken in my answer — no pregnancy yet.

  “And your health?” he prompted after a moment.

  “Ah,” I said with a scoff as I gestured downward. “The same problems with the leg. If it gets any worse, the doctors will insist on bleeding. Again.”

  Charles grimaced but did not answer; doctors had worked on bleeding the ulcer in my leg for years without success. Over a year ago I had suffered a great blow at a joust, which resulted in a piece of the lance piercing my leg. At the time, doctors had assured me that all splinters had been removed and that the wound would heal. A year and a half later, I was still waiting for this to be true.

  “And your family, Sir Charles?” I asked after a moment of reflection. “How are they?”

  “I am sure you have heard about Henry,” Charles said, his voice darkening. “I thought at first it was merely a boy’s jealousy, but now — I fear it to be something much worse.”

  “Henry has always been strong,” I countered.

  “Yes, he takes after your family, in that way,” Charles answered. “And of course, the court seems to think he is dying of a broken heart. Very romantic.”

  I ignored the edge Charles’ voice had taken on; there was no need to state that I quite agreed with the court’s assessment of the situation.

  “They are even beginning to compare it to Henry the Second and his son Richard the Lionheart,” Charles continued, bitterness seeping into his words. “How Henry took his son’s betrothed to be his mistress while Richard was fighting in the crusades. And when Henry died, Richard refused to have anything to do with her and she was sent to a convent. People are saying that is what should be done with Catherine.”

  “However, you did marry Catherine,” I pointed out. “It makes the situations quite different.”

  “Quite,” he answered with a shadow in his voice.

  “And there have been no signs with her?” I asked, quick to get to the point of the matter.

  “None,” Charles said, the grin returning to his face. “But it has not been for lack of trying. And I do enjoy the trying.”

  “Amen,” I said, raising my glass.

  “And Your Majesty, if I may be so bold as to ask,” Charles said. “I have heard that the Lady Mary has been in contact with Cromwell. How does the lady fare?”

  “Stubborn,” I answered with a sign. “She still has not signed to the Act of Succession, admitting that her mother’s marriage to me was illegitimate, and therefore, she is illegitimate. I had thought now that her sister Elizabeth has also been declared a bastard, that things might have changed. She is in contact with the Queen however, and I can only hope that Jane will prove persuasive.”

  “I have no doubt in the abilities of Her Majesty. I am sure she will turn your daughter back to her father’s love,” Charles said prettily. I gave him a pointed look and he shrugged. “I do believe in the power of Queen Jane.”

  I nodded.

  “Would the Lady Mary be welcomed back at court?” Charles asked carefully.

  “Yes, as my daughter, she would rank second to Jane,” I answered. “She would have as much right to be here as — as Henry Fitzroy had.”

  I swallowed down the lump that had suddenly come to my throat. My son Henry Fitzroy, a bastard by my mistress Bessie Blount, had turned eighteen last year. He had been married to one of the Duke of Norfolk’s daughters for a mere six months before dying suddenly last summer. He had been my only living son; I had called him my jewel. While he lived there had always been hope, though a bastard had never been placed into the line of succession before, I was sure that Parliament could have been convinced. The boy had been bright and clever, an excellent courtier, and a wonderful son.

  “Your Majesty, has there been any word —“

  I shook my head to cut him off. Henry had died only three weeks after Anne had been beheaded and I had demanded an inquiry — I would not have put it past the witch to poison my other children. She had talked of ending the lives of Catherine and Mary enough; she could have tried for Henry’s as well. But the inquiry had come back negative; no evidence of foul play could be found.

  “My deepest sympathies, Your Majesty,” Charles said, allowing me to continue my silence.

  “And now there is only that damn boy James,” I said after a moment. “My sister Margaret’s child and king of Scotland to boot. He would never do.”

  “I could not imagine England and Scotland being ruled together,” Charles agreed. “And if he became king of both, England would become subservient to Scotland. He would place their interests above that of England.”

  “I know,” I said. “Queen Jane must give us issue soon. To be ruled by a Scotsman would be most unbearable.”

  ******

  “Your Majesty!” Cromwell burst into my chambers in a most undignified manner, barely managing to scrape together a bow. I glanced over at him from my chair where I was being shaved by my barber Thomas. I waved my hand for him to continue; the sharp cold metal of the razor was currently being dragged across my chin and I did not want to risk speaking.

  “Your Majesty, I ha
ve just received a letter of conciliation from the Lady Mary. She is ready to sign.”

  At this I did wave away Thomas and used my weight to swing the heavy wooden chair forward onto both legs.

  “The Act of Succession?” I asked breathlessly. “She is willing to admit that I am the ruler of the Church of England? Not the pope?”

  “Not the Archbishop of Rome,” Cromwell corrected gently, reminding me of England’s new name for the pope. “And yes, she says she is ready to sign, ‘as far as God and my conscience permit.’ Surely she can sign. It says as much in the document.”

  I hadn’t realized how anxious Cromwell, like Jane and Charles Brandon, was for the return of Mary to court. At twenty years old, she would be a great asset to me and to Jane. And I knew that despite her bastard status, many still saw her as the current heir to the throne.

  “Very well,” I said after a moment. “You and the Duke of Norfolk shall ride out to collect her signature. If she signs, you may convey my love and gratitude.”

  “And she shall join the court?” Cromwell asked.

  “When I believe her ready,” I countered.

  “Yes, Your Majesty,” Cromwell replied, bowing. I leaned back to allow Thomas to continue. I left Cromwell in his bow until my shave was finished. When I sat up once again, his knees were shaking with the strain.

  “As long as you are here, Cromwell,” I said when the razor blade had been safely put away and Thomas had exited. “You might as well tell me what the Privy Council is discussing this afternoon.”

  “Of course, the main issue will be the Lady Mary’s redemption and return to court,” Cromwell said, confident that Mary would not break her word. I, however, knew the stubbornness of my daughter; this could still be a play for sympathy.

  “And beyond that?” I prompted, taking a seat at my table.

  “Beyond that we must discuss the risings in the north.”

  I crinkled my nose at the subject but nodded for him to continue.

  “There has been another incident just outside of York,” Cromwell said rapidly, a bead of sweat dripping down his face to rest on the end of his pointed nose. He made no move to wipe it away.