“I was given to believe that Surrey and Fitzroy were very thick,” said Mary.
Frances guffawed. “And so they are, but for Surrey that thickness does not extend to having his sister marry the bastard son of a king, let alone an obscure knight’s daughter.”
Mary shook her head. “What effect has this had on their poetry?”
“Oh, none,” said Frances. “Men seem blessedly able to box their prejudices and keep them in their proper place. Fitzroy knows what he is and who he is, I daresay. Although, strangely, something has caused a rift between Surrey and Wyatt. Wyatt pines the day away writing verse for Anne, whose cousin-by-marriage he is. Instead of this angering the king, he knights the blackguard!”
“Wyatt has always been a favorite of my father,” said Mary. “Mayhap he knows that this attachment to Anne is only courtly love, no more.”
“Are you defending her?”
“No, of course not,” Mary replied. “Noli me tangere, for Caesar’s I am,” she quoted from one of Wyatt’s poems. “Now that is in need of defense! Bold words for one who wishes to keep his head on his shoulders!”
The two cousins were quiet for a few moments, each lost in her own thoughts. Then Mary shifted her weight so that she could look directly at Frances. “You seem very sure about Anne being out of favor. Might one actually dare to hope?”
“Indeed one might,” replied Frances dryly. “For the king has taken a new mistress.”
Mary waved a hand. “He has taken mistresses before.”
“Ah,” said Frances. “He has indeed. But this is the first time history has repeated itself on that score. Oh!” Frances reached out and grabbed Mary’s hand, placing it on her belly. “Feel you that? The brute just kicked me!”
Mary reddened and let out a girlish giggle. “How extraordinary! Will he do it again, do you think?” She placed her head against her cousin’s stomach.
“That there is no telling,” said Frances.
Mary sat up. “What do you mean, Frances, about history repeating itself?”
“The king,” said Frances, “has taken a shine to Jane Seymour. And the lady is playing coy and refusing him his heart’s desire.”
“God be praised!” said Mary. “This is news indeed! Oh, my. There may be hope after all. Oh, Cousin, thank you! No one here would have dared to breath a word of this to me. Thank you for telling me.”
“It is the thin edge of the wedge,” said Frances. “A straw that shows which way the wind blows. All rests on the child the night crow carries.” Frances looked out the window. The plaintive sound of the Hatfield sheep met her ears. “The shadows grow long,” she said at last. “I must away. But be of good cheer, Cousin. There is much to hope for.”
Mary’s eyes filled with tears again, and she clutched at Frances’ sleeve as she arose and made ready to depart. “Dearest Cousin,” she said. “My mother…”
Frances stood up and taking Mary’s face in both her hands said, “I will look after everything. You may depend upon it.” With that she kissed Mary’s brow and left her sobbing quietly into her pillow.
Beddington Park, January 1536
“I like it not,” said Sir John. “He has already done away with one wife.” Sir John sat with his left fist on the arm of his chair, his right hand rubbing his beard. His bushy brows were knit into a fearful scowl. It was afternoon, but almost as dark as night. The firelight played on his face as he contemplated the enormity of the issue laid before him.
“But, Father,” said Edward, “this is the chance of a lifetime. Just think what this could mean, for us, for our family!”
“Yes, Father,” pleaded Thomas. “If the Boleyns could be raised to such heights on the backs of their daughters, just think to what lofty heights the Seymours might climb!”
Sir John glanced uneasily at Jane, of whom they were speaking as if the girl were not even in the room. Such filthy words were not for her hearing, but watching her, he noted that she did not flinch at her brother’s words.
“Oh, Father,” said Jane. “I have been at court, and in royal service, for nigh on one and twenty years. I am indeed innocent of the experience, but I am not ignorant of the nature of the relationship between men and women.” One would have to be deaf and blind not to know, she thought.
Sir John sat up and slapped the flat of his hand on the arm of his chair. “And that is just what I mean! Good Queen Katharine is dead and soon to be laid in an unworthy grave, and Anne Boleyn is hated and called whore. Shall you take such a risk? Do you want the same to befall you?”
Jane raised her eyebrows. “Neither fate is likely to befall me, sir. The people hate the queen and would be glad to see her fall. And I have no intention of marrying the king while he has a wife still living, even if half Christendom doesn’t even recognize the union as legitimate.” Jane never raised her voice; in fact, she rarely spoke at all. Her voice was so soft that all four men leaned forward unconsciously, the better to hear what she said.
“Marry?” asked Sir John. “And has the king asked you to marry him?” It was a blunt question; Sir John was a blunt man. He, unlike many of his class, was content with his place and his lot. He had no aspirations to rise any further in the service of king and country than Sheriff of Wiltshire and Keeper of Savernake Forest. Contentment…that was the way to keep one’s head on one’s shoulders in England! But he could see that his children had been bitten by the snake of ambition; too young sent to court, and too long there. There was no way to unring that bell. He could sooner hold back the tide.
Jane raised her eyes calmly to her father’s. “Yes,” she said. “He has.”
Sir John shook his head. “For shame, for shame,” he said. “The king is a married man with a child on the way. You are wicked to encourage him. Have you learned nothing, Daughter? Where is your religion? Do you not recognize lust when you see it, then? You, who are so worldly wise for your years at court?”
Jane loved her father and had no wish to distress him; but the stakes were too high. Her brothers could see it plainly, but her father would deny it. She must make him see.
Just then the fourth man in the room spoke. Sir Nicholas Carew had been standing by the hearth and was so quiet they had almost forgotten his presence. “Lady Jane is right, Sir John. The king lusts after her, it is true, but he has no wish to make Mistress Seymour any other than his wife, and queen of England. That is why he asked that all of you repair here to Beddington. He wants to court Jane properly, in the presence of her male protectors. There must be no smirch upon her reputation.”
Sir John sputtered in his indignation and his face turned a dangerous crimson color. “God’s eyeballs, man, have you heard nothing I have said? Court Jane? Properly? How can he, when he is a married man?”
Sir Nicholas’ eyes narrowed. “The king does not believe himself to be married. He believes that Mistress Anne seduced him with witchcraft.”
Sir John made a face and expostulated, “That is utter twaddle and the king knows it!”
“Be careful,” said Sir Nicholas softly. “I know that you mean no disrespect to His Grace, but the walls have ears. Have a care.”
And that, thought Sir John, was exactly what he meant! If an honest man could not speak his mind… Very well then, every man…or woman…to the devil his own way. He turned to face Jane. “Daughter, if this is the path you intend to pursue, I wish you joy of it. I will not stop you. But I will not be party to these schemes. I am going back to Wolf Hall, where a simple man like me belongs. I leave you to the care of your brothers.” And that, he thought, was like leaving foxes to guard a hen! Alas, there was nothing he could do. If the king wanted Jane, and looking at her, it was God only who knew why, for he could not see it, then the best thing he could do was not get in the way. It was a pity, really; he loved the girl, loved all his children. But the court had a way of twisting people to its own ends. He had thought his family immune, but he was wrong.
Jane regarded her father with hooded, expressionless eyes. Yes,
she had learned in her years at court how to remain silent, even when one longed to rage; how to hide one’s feelings. She knew what people said of her. Mouse, they called her. Old maid. Yes, she had failed to marry. Nearing thirty and not even betrothed, her one chance at a betrothal having come to naught. Now she would have her revenge on them all, all who had called her hurtful names and made her life a misery. But she would not wreak her vengeance loudly, waving the banner of her hatred for all to see. That was where Anne had made her grievous error.
What luck that she, Jane, had been in just the right place at the right time. Finally, she had drawn a winning card, she who invariably lost at cards, and every other game she tried to play. In her mind, it was simple. Anne had been forward, aggressive, outspoken; and at first the king had found that attractive, and later, charming. But over time, he had come to regard Anne as obnoxious and insufferable, to the point that now, he found her presence intolerable.
Jane had learned many lessons from observing the behavior of the four queens she had served. Katharine, noble and dignified always in her conduct, had bent to the king in all things, and in the end he had despised her. Anne had been at first proud, arrogant, and haughty and her self-important attitude had been mistaken for regality. But when cornered, her true colors came out, and the opposite became evident; that she was a commoner made queen, ignoble and undignified. And the king despised her.
Jane meant to strike a happy medium between these two extremes. She knew her limitations; to successfully navigate the dangerous waters that lay ahead she would need help. Her brothers would help her, and so would Sir Nicholas. These men thought to use her for their own ambitious ends; but she would be using them. But quietly, and so unobtrusively that they would, perhaps, never know. She was determined to become queen of England, and she would let nothing stop her.
“Father,” she said softy, placing her small, white hand over his enormous, rough, red one. “I appreciate your care for me. I will do nothing to shame you, on that you have my word. I have no intention of becoming a royal mistress, nor is that what the king wants of me. I believe in my heart that the king’s intentions are honorable. This must not leave this room,” she said, looking about her, deliberately meeting the eyes of each of them. Each man nodded his assent. “The king means to annul his marriage. His Grace has told me so.”
Sir John looked blank. “Annul? But what of the child the queen carries?”
“The king believes that even if the child is a son, there are many, especially abroad, who would question the child’s legitimacy. For reasons that we all know well. Do they not call Elizabeth bastard? And should the child be another girl…well, you can see what this means. The king wants no more of Anne’s offspring. He wants mine. He wants to make me queen and have unquestionably legitimate sons. Which,” she said, “I intend to give him.”
Sir Nicholas looked smug; this was no more than he already knew. Thomas and Edward Seymour looked triumphant; Sir John looked as if he had been pole-axed. He peered intently at Jane. What a dark horse the girl was! His daughter! Who would have suspected the depths?
“I carry proof of the king’s love,” said Jane solemnly. Slowly, she reached her small, white hand down into her bodice and drew out a chain sparkling with diamonds. From it dangled a locket, set with diamonds that winked and reflected rainbow colors in the firelight.
Sir Nicholas, who knew of the bauble, indeed, had presented it to Jane on the king’s behalf, sat back complacently.
Edward Seymour was at Jane’s chair in two quick strides.
Jane drew back the locket. “I will show it you,” she said softly. She opened the delicate clasp and inside was a tiny portrait of the king. But it was the back of the locket that held an even greater surprise. Inscribed in Latin was the one word, Saecula. Forever. “It is as you see,” said Jane. Thomas and Sir John each eyed the jewel in turn.
“Yes,” said Sir John. “Yes, I do see.”
Greenwich Palace, January 1536
Anne sat in the window seat with her head against the glass. It was cool against her cheek. The room was far too warm; an overzealous chamber man had stoked the fire and then laid on too many logs. The weather was pleasant for January. There had been neither rain nor snow, so the roads were very dry. Up until the day before, it had been so cold that the one could almost hear the ground ringing beneath one’s footsteps. And then today, a promise of spring. Beautiful, but a false promise all the same. It would get cold, and stay cold, again. She shuddered despite the warmth.
She was all too familiar with false promises. She had lived with them for years. Of all the people who had ever made a promise to her, only Harry had never broken one. He had remained faithful all these years. And now he was dying. He had a misery of the gut that no palliative could alleviate, let alone cure. George had confided that the pain was unbearable at times. Poor Harry. Had she done this to him, even indirectly? She banished that thought.
A pale, watery sun met her face when she looked up and out the window. The sky had not a cloud, but it was winter and the sun still seemed clouded over somehow, not as strong as at other times of the year. It was a frightening thought that perhaps the sun would die and then all would be rendered lifeless. No wonder the ancient peoples had revered evergreens and decorated their homes with them during the sterile months of winter. A supplication to God to bring life back again…
The sound from the tiltyard rose and ebbed, striking a jarring note for some reason. It was a human sound and yet inhuman; the cheers as the jousters flew down the barrier, their parti-colors blurring into an indefinable rainbow, then as they met, their lances shattering, the cheers would fuse into that collective groan, lower, almost a throb, when a knight fell from his charger and all wondered for a moment if they had witnessed a death. And then the knight would struggle up and the crowd would cheer again. For her, at the other end of the palace, it was just an unpleasant noise, echoing, thudding against her brain. Disembodied.
Anne shook the feeling off and as she did so, her random thoughts all focused onto one recurrent and disturbing one. Katharine was dead. It was an occurrence that she had often fervently wished for, and yet now that it had happened, she was inexplicably afraid. She had been accused on numerous occasions of trying to poison Katharine; there were many times she had seriously contemplated doing so. She had certainly ill-wished Katharine. What nonsense, she thought. Superstition. No one had that kind of power. So where was this fear coming from? That overpowering sense of dread that froze one to the very marrow of one’s bones, and made the skin crawl with an icy cold that paralyzed all rational thought? From whence?
She thought at that moment that she knew. It was said that Hell is the perception of the absence of God by the immortal soul. That sad knowledge that God has turned his face from you, that He is no longer there, that you have been abandoned and cast into the void; that you would be there forever, yearning for the love that had been there and that had now turned, not to hatred, but to that most dreaded of emotions, indifference. He did not hate you; He could not, because for Him, you had ceased to exist.
Her immortal soul, she knew, was not blameless, but it was not guilty of anything worse than unkindness and spite, if one came down to it. But it was not yet time for God to judge her. This unfathomable fright, this cold fear, sprang from the fact that Henry had turned from her, had abandoned her, had become indifferent to her. What new unhappiness would be the result of that?
Anne smirked to herself as she recalled her hyperbole when she had expostulated one day to a crowd of sycophantic courtiers that she would be the death of Mary, and that Mary would be the death of her. She had been wrong all along, had not been able to see the truth. It was not Mary who would one day be the death of her; it was Katharine. Because now the full horror of the situation had become glaringly evident: Katharine, and Henry’s forlorn hope of a son, were all that stood between her and death. Henry could not put her away while Katharine lived. Having two wives living would effectively pre
vent him from taking a third. The political consequences would be dire, and God knew, those tolerances had already been stretched to their limit.
But now one of her saviors had gone. The other one lay sleeping in her belly. She had indeed become the undisputed queen with Katharine’s death, but the paradox was, the very thing that had removed all doubt might prove to be the death of her. The child had quickened, but the movements were few and far between, and far less lusty than when Elizabeth had lain in her womb. At the thought of losing her other savior, her blood turned to ice water and that glacial feeling of living death swept over her like a wave. Her nerves were taut. These dark thoughts and the cold, stark terror they produced made her tremble to her very fingertips.
She was removed from her thoughts and brought back to the window seat by another cacophonous sound. This one did not come from the direction of the tiltyard; or perhaps the wind had shifted, confusing the origin of the sound. But no! It was coming from inside the palace.
The clamor resolved itself into shouting voices and clanging spurs as the door suddenly crashed open and in strode her uncle, the Duke of Norfolk. Without preamble he cried, “His Grace has taken a fall. His horse fell on top of him. He is unconscious. He may be dead.”
For a moment Anne could not comprehend the words. It was as though they came to her from a great distance, from far away, and she could barely hear them. She saw her uncle’s lips moving but the sound did not seem connected to them. Then the silent mouthing became audible, the words coalesced into sense, and the message of them reached her brain. The king had fallen; he might die, might, in fact, be dead at this very moment.
Suddenly a great sun burst in her brain. She could see it all, in one blinding flash of light. She would be queen indeed. She would be regent for her small son from the day of his birth. Hah! From this moment forward! She would rule. She would be queen-regnant in all but name. She would make every man-jack of the legions of people whose malicious tongues had caused her misery and almost, right up to the very moment when her uncle had burst into the room, despair, she would make them all very sorry indeed. Her mind slowly began to retrieve that mental list that she had drawn up when she had become queen three years ago. Her work was not yet done, not by half. Oh, to have power again, real power! Whereas just moments before she had felt as if she had ice water in her veins, now she felt fire. Inexplicably, in the midst of that brilliant flash, she saw a laurel leaf, saw two young girls pricking them with the names of the hated ones, burning them, burying them by the dead light of a spring moon. She saw clearly the one with Henry’s name on it.
The Baker's Daughter Volume 1 Page 18
