Jane Seymour: The Haunted Queen

  “It’s beautiful, Sir.” Jane unclasped her single row of pearls and put on the locket. “I have never had such a fine piece of jewelry. Thank you! I will indeed think of you when I wear it, which will be often. I think of you often anyway—and I think of another too, but with sadness.”

  He was all concern. “Can I help?” he asked.

  Jane took a deep breath. “I grieve for the Lady Mary, who has just lost her mother,” she said, watching to see how her words were received.

  He frowned and sighed. “Jane, you have a kind heart, but you cannot know how deeply Mary has grieved me. She has opposed me in all things, and has stubbornly persisted in taking her mother’s part.”

  “I thought only of her sadness, Sir. She must be missing her mother desperately—and her father.”

  He leaned back, looking vexed. “You should know that the Queen has tried repeatedly to bring about a reconciliation, but Mary will have none of it. This week, when her Grace offered to receive her at court with all honor, as an equal, if she would recognize her as queen, she sent back to say that that would conflict with her conscience. Tell me, what would you have me do? If it were anyone else, I would send them to the Tower.” His mouth set in a prim line.

  “I pray that your Grace would not so punish your own daughter,” Jane cried.

  “No, Jane, I would not.” He sighed. “I have been truly forbearing, even though others would have me show severity to her.”

  That was reassuring. “Maybe, if you spoke to her yourself, you could bring about a reconciliation?” Jane suggested.

  “I will not see her while she persists in opposing me.” He was adamant. “If she wants my fatherly comfort, she knows what she must do.”

  Jane realized it was useless to persist further. All she could hope for was that the seed she had planted would grow and bear fruit.

  Henry changed the subject. “I’ve had my secretary arrange your sitting with Master Horenbout. It will be tomorrow at three o’clock, in the holyday closet. Wear my locket!”

  * * *

  —

  Jane went searching for Edward, whom she found playing dice with Thomas. She told them what the King had said.

  Edward looked grave. “I do not think his Grace told you everything. Messire Chapuys has had a letter from Lady Shelton.” Anne often spoke of her aunt, Madge Shelton’s mother, whom she had appointed as governess to Mary. “The Lady wrote to Lady Shelton that when she had a son, she knew what would come to the Princess,” Edward said. Jane trembled. It was exactly what she had heard Anne say to her ladies.

  “But why did Lady Shelton inform Messire Chapuys?” she asked, astonished. “You would have thought he’d be the last person the Boleyns would want to know that.”

  “My information is that Lady Shelton turned against the Lady after Anne pushed her daughter Madge into the King’s bed,” Edward confided. “She thinks her daughter dishonored, and is also unhappy about the treatment of the Princess. Messire Chapuys is greatly disturbed. He fears what the Lady might do, and with justification, I think.” He hesitated. “Is there somewhere we can talk privately?”

  “The little banqueting house is deserted,” Thomas said, pointing through the window at a small red-brick building on a hillock about a hundred yards from the palace. They walked there briskly in the cold breeze, and shut the door behind them. Inside, golden cherubs gamboled along a painted frieze, and two trestle tables were stacked against a wall. This was where the King privately entertained privileged guests. Their breath steamed in the biting chill as they huddled together on a window seat.

  “Messire Chapuys told us that an autopsy was performed on the body of the late Queen,” Edward revealed. “The findings were kept secret, which made him doubt that she had died of natural causes.”

  Jane was horrified to hear that others shared her suspicions. “You think she really was murdered?”

  He regarded her gravely. “We all do. Her confessor, the Bishop of Llandaff, told Messire Chapuys that those who performed the autopsy confided to him a great secret. They found the corpse of the Queen and all the internal organs as normal as possible—except the heart. It had a black growth, hideous to behold, which clung closely to the outside. They washed it in water, but it did not change color. They had never seen anything like it, and drew the obvious conclusion.”

  Jane’s hand flew to her mouth. “No!”

  “What else could it have been?” Edward said. “It must have been poison.”

  Jane frowned. “The Lady made several threats during the weeks preceding the Queen’s death. She was determined to do away with her, and the Princess.”

  “I can believe it of her,” Edward stated. “What worries Messire Chapuys is that the Princess will be next.”

  “Heaven forbid!” Jane cried.

  “We must all be on our guard,” he enjoined. “The Emperor, thank God, is Mary’s champion. He has deputed Messire Chapuys to watch over her, although that will not be easy, for he is not allowed to see her or communicate with her.”

  “But he says there are ways,” Thomas added.

  Jane stifled a sob. “It is terrible to think that the good Queen was murdered.”

  Edward’s expression was grim. “Should they open her again, the traces will be seen.”

  * * *

  —

  Jane sat as still as she could for Master Horenbout, a grizzled Fleming with beetling brows and paint-stained fingers, who spoke in heavily accented English and carried himself as regally as the sitters he had painted. She had put on her best black gown with a neat gable hood, donned a single row of pearls and pinned Henry’s locket to her bodice. She could not stop thinking about Chapuys’s revelations. If he was right, Anne was dangerous. She might act on her threats to do away with Mary. Oh, blessed Mother of God, she might try to get rid of Jane as well! And if she bore a son, there would be no stopping her wickedness. For all her burgeoning feelings for the King, Jane began again to wish herself at home at Wulfhall, away from the perilous tumults of the court. If Henry persisted in his pursuit of her, Anne’s wrath would only increase, and who knew then what she might do?

  Chapter 17

  1536

  Jane had been keeping her head down for a week, trying to avoid the King and being noticed by Anne, when the Duke of Norfolk was ushered into the Queen’s privy chamber.

  “Good day, Uncle,” Anne said, none too warmly, for they had fallen out and were not above trading insults. He had once called her a great whore, in Jane’s hearing. But today he appeared agitated. “Madam, you should know that the King has taken a fall while jousting. He fell so heavily that everyone thought it a miracle he was not killed.”

  As Jane stifled a gasp, Anne’s hand flew to her mouth. Her eyes registered terror. “Is he injured?”

  “No, just a little shaken up,” Norfolk assured her, as Jane sagged in relief. “He will live to joust another day.”

  “Not if I have anything to do with it,” Anne said. “It’s too risky.” She was shaking, no doubt thinking of what might have become of her had Henry died and left her to fend for herself in a hostile realm, with a succession that would almost certainly be disputed and fought over.

  Henry summoned Jane to his gallery that evening.

  “Sir, I am so glad to see you unharmed,” she said. “You gave us all a fright.”

  “It was nothing.” His tone was dismissive. “Unfortunately the old wound on my leg has reopened and my doctors fear that an ulcer may develop. It’s painful, but I’m not going to let it stop me riding or hunting—or doing anything else for my pleasure. Come, let me kiss you!” He held out his arms.

  * * *

  —

  The whole court was to wear mourning on the day Queen Katherine was buried, by the King’s order. Jane had been surprised to hear it, but Anne enlightened them all, sounding none too pleased.

>   “The late Princess Dowager was his Grace’s sister-in-law. That is why the King is wearing mourning today. But it would be hypocritical of me to mourn one who was my great enemy. I am grieved, not that she is dead, but for the flaunting of the good end she made. I’m sick of hearing about it. Nothing is talked of but the Christian deathbed of Katherine! But we must perforce put on mourning, although I had rather wear yellow.”

  Jane stiffened. How dare Anne show such disrespect! No one had moved. She could sense that the others felt as she did.

  “What are you waiting for?” Anne snapped. “Fetch my blue gown. I have a mind to accompany the King to the solemn obsequies that are to be performed today. It will give me credit in the eyes of the Imperialists and smooth the path to friendship with the Emperor.”

  Jane could not believe her ears. Margery Horsman beckoned her, and they hastened away to the wardrobe.

  “She thinks the Emperor will be her friend?”

  “She is deluding herself,” Margery said, unlocking the door.

  “And she’s asked for a blue gown.” It was a color Anne never wore.

  “Blue is the color of royal mourning,” Margery explained.

  “She had done better to wear black, like the King,” Jane retorted. Little conversation was exchanged after the gown was brought and Anne was attired in it. Already the swell of her pregnancy was evident, and they had to unlace the stomacher a little.

  “I have a fancy to eat fish,” Anne said. “Jane, go and inform the privy kitchen.”

  As Jane sped on her way, she passed the door to the Chapel Royal, through which she could hear chanting in Latin; it would be the early Mass for the good Queen, the first of several that were to be said that day. Further down the gallery, she nearly ran into Chapuys, who bowed slightly. He was talking to a tall man with a grim face.

  “I thought you would be at Peterborough for the Princess Dowager’s burial,” Jane heard the man say as she passed.

  “No, Sir William, I am staying away, since they do not mean to bury her as queen,” Chapuys said. Jane hurried on, wishing she could have congratulated him on standing up for his principles.

  Her errand completed, she was returning along the gallery when the chapel doors were thrown open and the King emerged at the head of a procession of clergy, lords, officers and courtiers, all in black. He cut an impressive figure in his velvet robes, unrelieved by any color. Jane curtseyed low. He bent down and murmured in her ear. “I must see you. Come to my privy chamber at eleven.” He straightened and walked on. Those following stared at Jane as she went on her way, her cheeks flaming.

  * * *

  —

  The ushers and the King’s guard stood impassively at their posts as Henry received Jane at the door of his privy chamber. It was deserted, he explained, for his gentlemen and grooms were all in the chapel, by his command.

  “We safely have half an hour,” he said. “The queen is at Mass.” He led her into a small closet, furnished as a study. Books were piled on the desk, and there were scientific instruments on a shelf, next to a collection of physick bottles and a jumble of scrolls that looked like maps. Having closed the door, Henry clasped Jane to him and kissed her fervently. “I think I am in Heaven when I am alone with you,” he whispered, and pressed his lips to hers again. She responded cautiously, fearful of inflaming his ardor too greatly. He could so easily get carried away and overpower her. She trusted that he would not, and that the chivalrous side of him would always conquer his carnal instincts, yet she did not want him thinking her light in conduct in consenting to be alone with him, and when his hand strayed to her breast, she removed it firmly.

  “Oh, Jane, you are cruel!” His voice was plaintive, but he released her, and they sat down, he on his big oak chair and she on a cushioned stool that he had pulled out for her. As they talked, he held her hand and gazed into her eyes.

  “I wish I could see you more often,” he said.

  “I would not upset the Queen,” Jane murmured.

  “That is wise,” he sighed. “Much hangs on this pregnancy. I am counting down the weeks until the child is born.”

  “I pray it will be a son for your Grace,” Jane said.

  “By God, we’ll have cause for celebration when he arrives!” Henry declared. “I’ve waited twenty-seven years for him. And I want everyone to see that God smiles on my actions.”

  Jane said nothing, and he went on to speak of other things, and then talk led to touching, and touching led to kissing…The minutes were ticking by, and all too soon the clock on the cupboard showed that it wanted but ten minutes to noon.

  “I should go, Sir,” Jane said, rising. Henry caught her hand and pulled her down on his lap.

  “Stay a few moments more!” he begged, holding her tightly.

  She giggled as he began kissing her once more. Again his hand closed over her breast, and she was just about to push it away when the door opened and Anne stood there, her eyes wide in shock.

  “How could you?” she screamed.

  Henry pushed Jane off his knee and leapt up.

  “Go!” he said, and she fled without even curtseying.

  “Darling, I am sorry,” she heard Henry say to Anne as she left.

  * * *

  —

  As she walked back to the Queen’s apartments, her heart was thudding. This could mean dismissal—or worse. She wondered if she ought to flee now, before she had to face Anne’s wrath.

  But when Anne returned, she was in no state to censure Jane. She was doubling up with pain, and there was blood on her skirts. The ladies helped her to bed, asking each other where a midwife might be found, or whether they should send for the physicians. In the end, after much toing and froing, a competent woman who lived near the palace was procured through the good offices of Sir Henry Norris. By then, it was apparent that Anne was miscarrying. Jane sat in the outer chamber with the other maids, listening to the screams from beyond the door.

  “It’s enough to put you off ever getting married,” said Margery.

  “Indeed,” Jane nodded fervently.

  “It makes no difference who you are, queen or peasant,” Margaret Douglas observed. “Childbirth is a hazardous business. Just listen to her, poor soul. It’s like a wounded animal.”

  In the early evening, the screaming ceased, to be replaced by bitter sobbing. Presently the door opened and Lady Worcester emerged. She was crying—she who was normally so composed. “She has lost a boy,” she told them, her voice breaking. “The midwife says it was of about fifteen weeks’ growth.”

  Jane found herself pitying Anne, whose sufferings had ended in this tragedy, and whose future now looked perilously uncertain. She could not help wondering, though, if this was a judgment from God for Anne’s part in the death of the Queen.

  Her heart bled for the King and the death of his hopes. It would be a searing disappointment. But perhaps he would now see that this pretended marriage was cursed by God, and put Anne away. Jane was not cruel; she imagined a fine house somewhere far from court, in which Anne could live with her bastard, comfortably pensioned off and served with honor…

  The King arrived, his face a mask of grief. He stumped into the bedchamber and closed the door. They could hear muffled shouts and Anne shrieking. When Henry emerged, only a few minutes later, he was weeping. Jane would have gone to him, to offer some comfort, but he departed before she had risen from her curtsey.

  The young Duchess of Richmond came hurrying after. “He’s gone? He cannot leave her like this! She is in the most extreme grief. She was crying her heart out when the King came to her, and he was relentless, bewailing and complaining about his loss—his loss, never mind hers! She was hysterical—she blamed his unkindness, which he took badly.” The Duchess looked pointedly at Jane. “Do you know what he said to her? He said that she should have no more boys by him. He was implacable
. And Mistress Jane, she told him he had no one to blame but himself for this disappointment, for it had been caused by her distress of mind over you!”

  “I did nothing,” Jane protested, feeling her cheeks burning. They were all staring at her, and many eyes were hostile.

  The Duchess flared. “Then how come she said her heart was broken because he loved others? And how come his Grace looked chastened and begged her to pardon him?”

  “I have done nothing wrong,” Jane insisted.

  “You are stealing the Queen’s husband!” Madge Shelton cried. “Because of you, she is terrified that he will put her away, as he did the Princess Dowager!”

  Jane bit her lip. She dared not say that Henry was not Anne’s husband, and therefore it was no sin to accept his courtship. Nor could she say that Anne, in her day, had stolen another queen’s husband.

  “I have no desire to hurt her,” she declared.

  “You expect us to believe that?” Madge countered.

  “Don’t you care that she has lost this child on your account?” Lady Worcester asked angrily.

  “I am sorry she has lost it,” Jane said, “but I cannot think I caused it. This is the third son her Grace has miscarried. Maybe her constitution is not apt for bearing boys.” And maybe God was showing His displeasure. “I am no threat to her Grace.”

  “You should be ashamed of yourself,” the Duchess spat, and disappeared through the door to the bedchamber. Jane bent her head to her sewing, mortified. Margery came and sat next to her.

  “Don’t fret, Jane. She lost the child because she has been in a frenzy for most of her pregnancy, and not just about you. I don’t think any of us are surprised. She has been living at the sword’s edge. She knew how much rested on this child being a boy, and she agonized over it. Don’t listen to them. They are her creatures, and they fear for the future.”