“Now you are mocking me,” she laughed. Inwardly, though, she was disturbed by what Bryan had said about Anne Boleyn. All this talk of change threatened the faith she held dear—and that was something worth fighting for.
* * *
—
On the tenth day, they arrived at Wulfhall under a lowering sky. As they rode, weary, dusty and saddle-sore, down the road that led to the house, Jane could smell smoke. A bonfire was burning in the Great Paled Garden, where her father’s groom was stoking it and throwing what looked like old clothes into the flames. Jane rejoiced to see her home looking as mellow and welcoming as she remembered it, if somewhat smaller in scale compared to the palaces she had grown used to.
Their arrival had been noticed. There was Lizzie, running out of the door to meet them, and there, not far behind, was Mother, with Father in her wake. They were all wearing black.
* * *
—
Jane slid down from her mount and ran toward them, her heart pounding in fear. Who had died? Pray God the sweat had not reached her beloved Wulfhall.
Mother and Lizzie clung to her as if they would never let her go, while Father shook Bryan’s hand and Bryan explained how they had come to be there.
Mother was crying on Jane’s shoulder. “Oh, my lamb, I am so pleased to see you! God has taken one daughter, but He sends me another. What a homecoming!” She was barely coherent, and when she finally disengaged herself, Jane saw that her face was ravaged with grief.
“Tell me it’s not Margery!” Jane cried, as Thomas and Harry emerged from the house, both wearing grave expressions.
“The sweat took her three days ago,” Mother blurted out, bursting into fresh weeping. Father left Bryan and cradled his wife in his arms. Shocked as she was by the news, Jane saw that it was as if nothing had ever gone wrong between them.
“No, no!” she protested, in tears herself. “Not Margery, please God. She was but sixteen.” She recalled Margery on the last occasion she had seen her, her pretty, sweet sister with green eyes and a kind heart. It could not be! To die so young, and in such a manner, was beyond dreadful.
Thomas held her tightly for a moment. She could tell that he was shaken by their loss. “It was very quick,” he said hoarsely.
“Frighteningly so,” Harry added, embracing Jane in his turn. Then Father came forward, his face bleak, tears in his eyes.
“Jane!” he said, in a broken voice, and clasped her to him. It was as if Catherine Fillol had never been. He was once more the father she had loved and revered, and she took comfort from his strength.
* * *
—
The clothes on the bonfire had been Margery’s. Mother had ordered that everything of hers should be burned, to limit the risk of infection. “All I have left of her is a gold locket that she had not worn since Christmas,” she sobbed, taking Jane’s arm and leading her into the house. Jane squeezed her hand, reflecting fearfully that she had fled the sickness only to find it in her own home.
They had sent a messenger north to tell Edward the news. “We wrote to you as well,” Harry told Jane, as he helped her upstairs with her bag, “but we did not know where the court was in residence, with the plague being so virulent.”
“The King is mortally terrified of the sweat,” she said. “He was going to Hunsdon, with a greatly reduced household, when I left.”
“We warned you not to come, but I am glad you are here.” He attempted a smile. Good, solid, dependable Harry—he was always such a comfort.
“I would not be anywhere else,” she assured him. “When was the funeral?”
“On the day after she died—of necessity. Father made the estate carpenter work all night making a coffin. She lies in the church at Bedwyn Magna.”
“I will ride there and pay my respects,” Jane promised, steeling herself to open the door to the bedchamber where she and Margery had slept, and blenching at the sight of the new bedclothes and curtains that had replaced those that had had to be destroyed. The windows were wide open, but there was still a strong smell of the vinegar and musk that had been used to purge the stench of the sweat from the room. She turned to Harry and hugged him. “I am so relieved that you are here.”
He held her tightly. “Bishop Foxe is aging and blind, and relies more and more on those who serve him, but when he heard of Margery’s death, he said that of course I must go home, and stay while I am needed—and until all risk of contagion is passed.”
“It must be, surely, by now,” Jane assured him, breaking away and opening her bag. “It strikes quickly.”
“In truth, I should go back. The Bishop has been a good master, but the Cardinal is putting pressure on him to retire, as he wants the see of Winchester for himself. Therefore we must not give him occasion to complain to the King that the Bishop is incompetent. So I can stay only a couple more days. How long are you here for?”
Jane sat down on the bed she had shared with Margery, trying not to cry. Their chamber seemed so empty now, denuded of her sister and her possessions. “In truth, I do not know. The Queen said she would write when it was safe for me to return to court. I hope she will spare me long enough to see Mother a little restored.”
“Margery’s death has hit her hard,” Harry reflected, “and indeed all of us. We sent to Anthony too, at Littlecote. Knowing him, he will come to us, despite the risk.”
Jane rose. “Tell me, how have things been here? Father writes to me sometimes, but he says nothing of what happened.”
“Much as usual. Mother and Father have put it behind them. They seem all the closer for it. But Edward has not been home since it happened.”
“Is there any word of Catherine?”
Harry shrugged. “None that I know of.”
Jane thought for a moment. “She must have suffered. Will you come with me if I visit her? I could take the boys.” John had come dancing to meet her, his joy belying his black attire, and Ned was now an engaging toddler. Jane could only begin to imagine how their mother must be missing them, and she had not forgotten her promise.
Harry’s blunt features creased in a frown. “Would that be wise?”
“She is their mother.”
“Let’s see what our mother says. If she agrees, I will accompany you.”
Downstairs, Father was pressing Sir Francis to stay.
Bryan drained the cup of wine he was holding. “Sir, I thank you, but this is a house of mourning, and it would not be right for me to intrude.”
“She was your cousin,” Father said, “and for what you have done for Jane alone, you are most welcome. You have come so far out of your way.”
“Well, I must confess, a night’s rest and some of Lady Seymour’s excellent food would be welcome after days on the road,” Bryan said. “I thank you.”
* * *
—
“By the north wall,” Mother had said, “near your brother’s brass.”
Jane found the place easily, for it was marked by a large sheaf of fading roses. She knelt in the ancient church, still hardly able to believe that sweet Margery was here below her, buried with young John and the dust of their forefathers. She tried to pray, but the words would not come. All she could feel was anger that an innocent life had been cut off in its prime—the kind of anger that many people, across all England, must be feeling now. She wished, how she wished, that she had told Margery how much she had loved her, and often. Now it was too late.
But it was not too late for Catherine to see her sons, or for her to let them know how much they meant to her, and she should have the opportunity. Thus resolved, Jane rode the five miles back to Wulfhall.
* * *
—
“No,” Mother said firmly, kneading the dough for the pastry as if it needed punishing. “It will only unsettle those boys. John knows that his mother did something wicked and has to stay a
t Amesbury to repent her great sin. Little Ned has no memory of her. Leave them be.”
Jane tried again. “I did say to her that I would do my best to let her see them, if she promised to stay silent about what happened.”
Mother sighed. “I am thinking of the boys, not trying to punish her. Maybe there is a way for her to see them without their being aware of it.”
“That may depend on whether Catherine can leave the abbey. Is she to enter the cloister?”
“No. It was arranged that she would board there and pay for her keep with her father’s allowance, which was to be paid on condition that she entered a nunnery. She can go out if she wishes.”
“Then,” Jane declared, “I have the perfect solution.”
* * *
—
Of course, it was unwise to go into Amesbury while the pestilence was still raging, as it continued to do all summer. During that time, Jane and her family stayed at Wulfhall, largely cut off from the world, and praying that the sweat would pass the rest of them by.
With the onset of autumn came colder weather, and reports reached them that the plague was at last abating in Wiltshire. Jane wondered if she should return to court, but there was no knowing if there was sickness further afield, and she felt that she should stay at home for a little longer, for Mother had taken Margery’s loss very hard and needed her there. Queen Katherine would understand, she was sure.
Soon she and Harry judged it safe to go into Amesbury, where no cases had been heard of for some weeks. When they arrived, it was market day, although the crowd was much thinner than usual on account of the plague. While Harry took the boys off to look around the stalls, promising that they could watch the acrobats and jugglers later if they were good, Jane sped to the abbey and asked the porteress if she might see Lady Seymour. The porteress’s face remained impassive. She rang a bell and a lay sister was sent to summon Catherine. Jane was asked to wait in a bare little parlor.
Five minutes later, Catherine appeared. She had lost weight in the past year, and her gray wool dress hung on her. A white coif covered her hair, and beneath it her pretty face bore faint lines, the scars of her sorrow. She stared at Jane as if she were an apparition.
Jane rose and took her hands. “I came to see how you are faring,” she said. “I have been away at court this past year, serving the Queen, or I would have come before.”
“How do you think I am faring?” Catherine’s voice was bitter. “Does it please you to see how I suffer?”
“It was not me who forced you to come here,” Jane reminded her. “I am sorry for you. I have thought of you often.”
“I hate it here,” Catherine muttered. “Edward strayed too, but he is not immured in a monastery. Have I not paid enough for my sin?”
“It was your father who laid that condition on you.”
“It was Edward who ordered me out of the house! I had nowhere else to go, for I had no other means of support. Jane, can you speak to him? Ask him to take me back? I miss my children so much, it is torture.”
“They are here,” Jane said gently.
Catherine’s face was transformed. “Really? Where? Can I see them?”
“Yes, that is why I brought them. They’re at the market with Harry. But they must not see you. It would only upset them, and they have had much to cope with. Margery died in June, of the sweating sickness.”
It was as if Catherine had not heard her. “But I am their mother! You’ll never know how I have longed to hold them!”
“I’m sorry,” Jane said, moved by her distress. “We all think it is for the best. It’s either that, or not seeing them at all.”
“I must see them!” Catherine cried. “Where are they?”
“Come with me.” Jane led the way out of the porteress’s lodge and they walked to the market, Catherine nearly running in her desperation to catch sight of her sons. Jane grabbed her arm and pulled her to a halt behind a stall selling hot pies. “Over there,” she said, pointing to where Harry stood with Ned perched on his shoulders and John by his side, all laughing at the antics of a juggler.
Catherine clapped a hand to her mouth. “Oh, my sweetings,” she wept. “Oh, they are so grown. I cannot believe it. Please, let me speak to them. Please!”
“Hush!” Jane bade her, wondering if this was as good an idea as it had seemed. “You’ll attract attention to yourself. Think of them! They should not have you snatched from them all over again, just when John especially has grown used to being without you.”
“You have no idea how cruel you are,” Catherine flung back. “They are my children!”
Jane had to be firm. “In law, they are your husband’s,” she reminded her, “and Edward wants you to have nothing to do with them. I will speak to him, if I see him, but he is in Yorkshire.” He had still not come home. “Mother, Harry and I have gone behind his back bringing the boys here so that you can see them. Please do not compromise us.”
Catherine subsided and argued no more. She stood there a long time, gazing at her sons, yearning in her eyes. At length, the juggler ceased his play, and Jane saw Harry looking about him to see if it was safe to move from the spot. John was clamoring for something, jumping up and down. “Uncle Harry! Uncle Harry!”
“We must go now,” Jane said. Reluctantly, Catherine tore herself away, and on the way back to the abbey she cried so hard that Jane felt choked herself.
“I will bring them again,” she promised.
“But you will go back to court,” Catherine wailed. “When will I see them?”
“I will come whenever I can, that’s all I can say,” Jane tried to reassure her.
* * *
—
They had not been home for an hour when one of the Littlecote grooms came riding into the Great Court with a letter for Sir John from Sir Edward Darrell.
Anthony was dead of the sweating sickness.
This time, Edward did come home, arriving two weeks later. A devastated Mother threw her arms around him and would not let him go, until Father stepped forward and gently disengaged her.
“It is the will of God,” he said, his voice tremulous. “His soul is with the saints in Heaven. Take comfort in that, as I do.”
Jane watched as Edward knelt for Father’s blessing. His eyes were cold, and Father looked abashed as he placed his hand on his son’s head and croaked the words. Never again would the two of them have the easy, congenial relationship they had enjoyed before the affair of Catherine had come to light.
After all the subdued greetings and expressions of grief were behind them, the family gathered at the supper table in the Broad Chamber, which had been rendered gloomy with black hangings. Over cold beef cuts, they reminisced about Anthony: how brilliant he had been, how kind, and what a promising future he had had, now never to be realized; then they wept again, for the tragic loss of two of their own.
“I think I will never be merry again,” Mother sobbed.
Father tried to lighten the mood, telling them how a woman brought before him on a charge of theft had pleaded her belly. “She was seventy at the least!” he added.
“Why did she plead her belly?” John asked, his eyes wide with curiosity.
“A woman who is with child cannot hang for her crime, my boy, because the child is innocent.”
The talk drifted to the King’s Great Matter. “The whole country is talking of little else,” Edward said.
Mother snorted. “It’s a disgrace when a man thinks he can just set aside his old wife for a young chit of a thing!” She glanced at Father.
He swallowed. “I think there is much more to it than that, my dear. And the King is not just any man. He needs an heir.”
“He should wait until the Pope speaks before going chasing after Mistress Anne Boleyn! Jane doesn’t think much of her.”
“I hardly know her,” Jane
said. “I keep out of her way. But it grieves me to see her lack of love and respect for the Queen. She seems not to care how much she is hurting her.”
She felt Edward tense beside her. This was too close a subject for comfort. While the others voiced their opinions, she bent close to his ear. “I have seen Catherine,” she said.
He stiffened. “I want nothing to do with her,” he muttered. He had changed in the past year; there was about him a hauteur and reserve that had not been there before.
“She is desperate to see the boys.”
“She should have thought of that before she played the whore,” he whispered. “I will not allow it.”
“Edward, she has changed. She is a husk of her former self. I truly believe she has repented.”
“I care not, and I’ll thank you not to interfere.”
Jane clutched his arm. “It will kill her, not seeing her children. It’s all she lives for. Please reconsider of your charity.”
“No.” He drained his cup. “I’m coming home,” he said suddenly.
“You are?” They all turned to look at him.
“That was why I was delayed in coming south. As soon as I heard about Margery, I wrote to the King and asked if, in the circumstances, I could be assigned a post locally, and his secretary responded, appointing me to offices in Dorset.” He grimaced. “The Duke of Richmond was not pleased. He’s nine now, and likes his own way. He wanted me to stay, but my place is here.”
“I am right glad to hear it,” Sir John declared. Edward nodded, unsmiling.
“Oh, my son!” Mother cried.
“Will Dorset be enough for you?” Thomas almost sneered. Clearly it peeved him that Edward had simply asked the King for something and been granted it, while he, who was desperate to enter royal service, had so far been—as he saw it—snubbed.
“I am content,” Edward said, not rising to the bait. “I shall be able to read all the books I’ve not had time for. I’ve not even read Sir Thomas More’s Utopia.”