Jane Seymour: The Haunted Queen

  * * *

  —

  The next morning, as she took her breakfast, she could hear that lady’s voice coming from the bedchamber. She could not make out all the words, but she heard Lady Rochford mention someone who had been hanged in chains. She exchanged glances with Mary Monteagle, who was in attendance. Mary looked uncomfortable.

  “Who has been hanged in chains?” Jane asked.

  “Madam, it was the rebel, Master Constable,” Mary faltered. “They caught him, and Master Aske. We thought it best not to upset you.” Evidently Henry had thought so too, since he had said nothing of this.

  “What do you mean, hanged in chains?”

  “The Duke of Suffolk, my father, told me that he was chained and suspended in a gibbet over the gate of Hull, where he was left to die.”

  Jane shuddered. How long had it taken him to die? “And Master Aske?”

  “A traitor’s death,” Mary whispered. Horrified, Jane grieved for that honest good man, butchered for his beliefs. She could not bear to think of his sufferings.

  “What of Lord Darcy?”

  “Madam, he was beheaded on Tower Hill last month. His head is even now on London Bridge.”

  She said nothing to Henry. To him, these men had been rebels and traitors, and he had dealt with them as the law demanded. She had not known Constable, or Darcy. But Aske, God rest him, had been acting on principle—a principle she shared. She could only pray that his hopes would come to fruition now that Henry had restored two of the dissolved houses. What would he not do for her if she bore him a son?

  * * *

  —

  As the balmy days passed, she was overcome by a pleasant euphoria, as if she and the child were cocooned in a safe little world of their own. She no longer feared the plague, which seemed to be abating a little and had crept nowhere near Windsor.

  Her peace was interrupted only by that hothead Surrey. Edward’s anger and resentment, together with Surrey’s hatred and disdain, had escalated into a bitter feud. Jane was shocked when Edward arrived in her chamber one afternoon, his face all bruised and bleeding, his rare temper aroused. She was glad that Henry was there.

  “Surrey punched me in the face,” Edward told them, as she sent her maids for water and a cloth.

  “By God, he shall hear about this!” Henry flared. “I will not have fighting within the verge of my court, and for those who draw blood, the penalty is the loss of their right hand.”

  “Sir, the Duke his father would never forgive it!” Jane cried.

  “The Duke cannot gainsay it! It is the law,” Henry countered. “Tell me, Lord Beauchamp, did you provoke this attack?”

  Edward flushed. “Sir, I suggested that my lord of Surrey was sympathetic to Aske and his rebels.”

  Jane shook her head furiously at Edward.

  Henry frowned. “And is he?”

  “I thought so, Sir. I expected him to refute it.”

  “Hmm. I will confer with Cromwell.”

  When Henry had gone, Jane turned to Edward. “If Surrey loses his hand, the Howards will be out for revenge. I pray the King shows mercy. There is enough enmity as it is.”

  Edward shrugged, dabbing his head. “I care not. It’s what he deserves.”

  Presently, Henry returned. “I have discussed the matter with Cromwell, and we feel there is no evidence that my lord of Surrey is disloyal, so I am inclined to be lenient. He shall be imprisoned here at Windsor for two weeks, in which time I hope he will have learned the folly of his action.”

  “I thank your Grace,” Edward said, brightening. But Jane remained pensive, nursing fears that this day’s quarrel had sowed the seeds of a bitter harvest.

  * * *

  —

  Jane summoned Margery Horsman, who, as Lady Lister, had been promoted to be a lady-in-waiting. For all their mutual goodwill, there was still a certain tension between Jane and Margery, and Jane still regretted the loss of their easy friendship. She was more confident now, more established in her role as queen, especially now that she was carrying the heir to England, and was sorry that she had felt the need to hold herself so aloof early on. She hoped that, now that Margery had been advanced in rank and position, they could be friends again.

  She smiled at Margery. “Do sit down. I would like you to write a letter for me, to Lady Lisle. I need a new maid-of-honor to replace you. Lady Lisle has been assiduous in sending me quails, and she keeps asking if I can take one of her daughters. I owe her a favor, so I would like you to extend an invitation to her daughters to present themselves at court. I wish to see them both before choosing the one I want to serve me.”

  “Very wise, Madam.” Margery smiled. “But what will happen to the one who is not chosen?”

  “The Duchess of Suffolk will take her. It is agreed. Tell Lady Lisle that her daughters must bring two changes of clothes, one of satin, the other of damask. I will provide wages and food, but she must see that the young lady I choose is properly kitted out, and impress upon her that she must be sober, wise and discreet, obedient above all things, and willing to be governed and ruled by my Lady Rutland and my Lady Sussex. She must serve God and be virtuous, for I hold that those things are more worthy of regard than any other.”

  She hesitated, shifting heavily in her cushioned chair. Her belly was now very large and she had unlaced her gowns to their fullest extent, wondering if her pregnancy was further advanced than she had reckoned. “I am always wary of young girls coming to the court. It is full of pride, envy, scorn and derision, and there are too many temptations. You might like to warn Lady Lisle of this, but do stress that my household is not like the previous Queen’s.” She paused, toying with her pearls. “Do you remember how unhappy I was serving her? You were a good friend to me.” She looked hopefully at Margery as she said this, and to her relief, Margery smiled.

  “Your Grace was a good friend to me too,” she said.

  “And would be again. I was wrong to put a distance between us, but I was so conscious of my new dignity, so terrified lest people should look down on me, a country girl raised up to wear a crown, and so unsuited to it in many ways.”

  “I think I understood that, Madam, even as I sorrowed over the loss of your friendship. Nothing would please be more than to be honored with it again.”

  Jane held out her hand, took Margery’s and squeezed it. “Thank you, dear friend.”

  The Lady Mary arrived at court. “As an unmarried lady, I can’t be a gossip at your Grace’s confinement, but I can be one of the first to welcome my new brother,” she said, as Jane embraced her. Then, late in July, Lizzie made the long journey south from York. It was good to see this sister who was so much younger and had been through so much in her nineteen years, and to meet her boisterous young son, who had nevertheless had manners drilled into him. Lizzie had a becoming maturity about her these days; she was missing her daughter dreadfully, but Cromwell hastened to assure her that his agent in Yorkshire had just informed him the child was in good health.

  Cromwell was now a Knight of the Garter, the highest order of chivalry to which an Englishman could aspire. He was clearly delighted with his future daughter-in-law, and at pains to do her honor and make her welcome. He had made his house at Mortlake ready for her and Gregory, and early in August, Jane traveled there by barge to attend their wedding. Gregory seemed a pleasant young man, and she was confident that the couple would be happy.

  Lizzie thought so too. “It is good to have a husband near to my own age,” she told Jane when they made their farewells. “Anthony, good man that he was, was forty years my elder. And the thing that comforts me most in the world is that Lord Cromwell is contented with me, and says he will be my good lord and father.”

  “He has every reason to be pleased with you,” Jane said. She kissed Lizzie farewell and made her way between the avenue of torches to her barge.

&nbs
p; * * *

  —

  At the end of August, her ladies reported that wagers were being laid in the court as to the sex of her baby and the date of its birth.

  “The doctors are all saying it will be a boy,” Jane said, “as do the soothsayers and astrologers the King has consulted.” It disturbed her every time Henry told her he had seen a fortune teller or had his horoscope cast, for it brought home to her just how much was riding on the outcome of her pregnancy, and how high his hopes were. “I pray Jesus, if it be his will, to send us a prince!” she breathed.

  Edward was away at Elvetham, supervising the building works and enjoying some good sport with his hounds and hawks while he was about it. When September came in, he wrote to Jane, sending commendations to her and the King, and adding the fervent prayer that God would soon send him a nephew. So much was hanging on her bearing a boy. But there was nothing she could do save wait and pray. It would not be long now.

  Chapter 34

  1537

  Early in September, they returned to Hampton Court, where the child was to be born. Henry was tense with anticipation, fussing over Jane like a mother hen, and fearful lest she do anything to imperil the child, which was now very active, as if eager to be born.

  Jane thought she might be a month or less away from her time when, in the middle of September, she formally took to her chamber. She found the ceremony that marked the occasion daunting. Accompanied by her ladies, the officers of her household and a great company of courtiers, she attended Mass to pray for her safe delivery, then processed into the great hall, where she seated herself on her chair of estate and was offered spiced wine. As she sipped it, her chamberlain, in a very loud voice, asked everyone to pray that God would send her a good hour.

  She stood up then, handed the goblet to Eliza Darrell and formally bade farewell to the courtiers. Then the Lady Mary and the Duchess of Suffolk led her to her bedchamber, her ladies and gentlewomen following, and took their leave of her. As the damask curtain was drawn across the doorway, the world outside was shut off.

  She gazed around her bedchamber in astonishment, blinking in the dim light. She had known that she must go into seclusion for her confinement, and that no man save the King and her chaplain might see her, but she had not realized that while she had been in the chapel and the hall, the room had been transformed. New tapestries adorned the walls, the ceiling and even the windows. Only one window had been left uncovered, and although it was full day, the candles had been lit. It was also very warm in the room, for it was hot outside, and the first thing she did was ask them to open the window and let in some fresh air.

  New carpets had been laid on the floor, and next to her rich bed, where she would spend her lying-in period, there was a pallet bed, on which she would be delivered. Over its counterpane of scarlet furred with ermine and bordered with blue velvet, a sheet of fine lawn had been laid, and a mantle of crimson velvet and ermine, for her to wear after giving birth. An altar had been set up nearby, and holy relics set upon it, so that Jane could hear Mass and pray for the protection of God and His Holy Mother during her travail. Her court cupboard was laden with gold plate for the service of her meals. The midwife stood ready, a spotless white apron over her dark dress.

  Her male officers had been temporarily stood down. For the duration of her confinement, her ladies would serve in their place, as butlers, carvers and cupbearers. Every necessity would be brought to the chamber door.

  It all felt somewhat stifling and oppressive, and she was glad of her married ladies, and her sister Lizzie, who, as gossips, would sit and make merry with her, and cheer her through her travail. She had written to ask Mother to come, but Mother was recovering from a summer ague, and was not up to making the long journey from Wiltshire. Jane would have given anything to have her there, for Mother had borne ten children, and was very experienced. Her presence would have been a great comfort. For as the weeks had passed inexorably, the euphoria that had distanced Jane from her fears seemed to sustain her less and less. She knew that childbirth was a hazardous event, and that she or her baby—or, God forfend, both—might die. Many women did, having suffered who knew what horrors, and others—she had heard it whispered—had been left damaged. She clung to the knowledge that her midwife was highly experienced and expert at her craft—and a very amiable and capable woman. She made Jane take herbal baths to relax her, and taught her how to breathe so that she could ward off the worst of the pains of labor.

  “It is best to give birth in a sitting or squatting position,” she told her, “because if you lie down, you are pushing the babe upward, rather than down, and it is harder work.”

  “Is it very painful?” Jane asked, dreading it.

  “Every mother has a different experience, Madam, but yes, it can be. But it isn’t a frightening pain, and it is all worth it in the end, for when you hold your son in your arms, you will forget it.” Jane fervently hoped so.

  * * *

  —

  She was sitting up, resting in her chair, and wishing that she could go out into the garden, when Margery brought Lady Lisle’s daughters to see her, newly arrived from Calais. Interviewing them both, Jane immediately took to the elder, Anne Bassett, a pretty young creature, fair of face and hair, and well mannered.

  Asking them to wait outside, she turned to Margery. “I like Anne best. What do you think?”

  “She has good qualities, Madam. She has been educated in France and is highly accomplished. But her attire is not up to standard.”

  “I agree. That French hood will have to go, and I’d be grateful if a gown of crimson damask and a gable hood could be found for her to wear in my presence until she has proper attire of her own. What was her mother thinking of?”

  Margery set about finding what was necessary, as Jane recalled Anne Bassett and welcomed her to her household. “But,” she told the delighted young lady, “you must obtain two new gable hoods and two good gowns of black velvet and black satin. Lift your skirt a little. No, that linen shift is too coarse. You need fine lawn. In the meantime, suitable clothing will be lent to you.” Her eye alighted on Anne’s girdle. “How many pearls does that have?”

  “A hundred and twenty, I think, Madam,” replied the maid, looking increasingly perplexed.

  Jane sighed. “Not enough, I fear. Write to your mother and ask for another girdle. And tell her that if you do not appear at court in the proper clothes, you will not be allowed to attend the christening.”

  “Yes, Madam.”

  Seeing Anne Bassett’s bewildered face, Jane pulled herself up. She was doing it again, compensating for her knightly birth by emphasising the magnificence of her estate as queen. She reminded herself that she had every right to do so, on account of the precious burden she carried—and yet she must not lose sight of her humanity. She smiled at Anne. “I hope you will be very happy at court,” she said.

  * * *

  —

  As Jane heaved her swollen body over in bed that night, she thought she caught a glimpse of the shadow out of the corner of her eye. When she made herself look again, there was nothing to see, but the notion that it had been there struck terror into her. It was the last thing she wanted to see at this time. But if it was Anne—and by now she had convinced herself that it was—she would have good cause to manifest herself, for Anne would be jealous of Jane bearing a son. She would not want Jane to accomplish what she had failed to do. Jane trembled for the safety of her baby. She wished she had the comforting presence of Henry beside her in the bed. But that was not allowed during her confinement.

  There was cause to fear, for with the hot weather, the plague had returned, and London was suffering horrors. Henry came, limping, to see her, to assure her that they were safe at Hampton Court. “Darling, there is no need to be afraid. As before, I’ve ordered that no one from the city is to approach the court, and I’ve warned Cranmer not to leave Lambeth P
alace until the pestilence has died down.”

  His assurances did not dispel Jane’s anxiety. She was full of fears. Had it been the shadow she had seen? And if so, had its appearance presaged something awful?

  Henry was watching her with concern. He raised a heavily beringed hand and caressed her cheek. “Stop worrying, sweetheart. No harm shall come to you.”

  She put on a brave smile. “Is your leg hurting you?”

  He sighed. “A little. Norfolk wants me to ride north. He says my presence there will quell any last vestiges of rebellion.”

  “You will not leave me?” she cried, filled with foreboding.

  “No, Jane. Both legs are inflamed, and my physicians advise me not to go far in the heat of the year. And I would not go anyway, because of your being close to your time, for which I give most humble thanks to Almighty God. But you must stop fretting. It will upset the child.”

  “I will try, Henry,” she promised. “You always give me wise advice.”

  “I am pleased to see you so loving and conformable that you are ready in all things to content yourself with what I think expedient,” he said, “especially considering that, being a woman, you take to heart every unpleasant report or rumor that foolish persons blow abroad.”

  She bowed her head. She knew she must be strong for the child.

  “As soon as my legs stop playing up, I am going on my usual hunting progress,” he told her. “Never fear, I have agreed with my Council that I should not ride far from you. I will stay within sixty miles from here at the furthest, especially as you think you might be further gone than you thought at the quickening. Believe me, I never forget what depends upon the prospering of our hopes, both for our own quiet, and for the welfare of my realm.”