The Unhappiest Lady in Christendom
Copyright © 2018 Alison Weir
The right of Alison Weir to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
First published in Great Britain in this Ebook edition in 2018 by
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All characters – apart from the obvious historical figures – in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
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Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
About Alison Weir
Also by Alison Weir
Praise for Alison Weir
About The Unhappiest Lady in Christendom
The Unhappiest Lady in Christendom
Read on for a glimpse of Jane Seymour: The Haunted Queen
About Alison Weir
Alison Weir is the top-selling female historian (and the fifth-bestselling historian overall) in the United Kingdom, and has sold over 2.7 million books worldwide. She has published eighteen history books, including her most recent non-fiction book, Queens of the Conquest , the first in her England’s Medieval Queens quartet. Alison has also published several historical novels, including Innocent Traitor and The Lady Elizabeth .
Jane Seymour: The Haunted Queen is Alison Weir’s eighth published novel and the third in the Six Tudor Queens series about the wives of Henry VIII, which was launched in 2016 to great critical acclaim. The series began with the Sunday Times bestsellers Katherine of Aragon: The True Queen and Anne Boleyn: A King’s Obsession .
Alison is an honorary life patron of Historic Royal Palaces.
Also by Alison Weir
The Six Tudor Queens series
Katherine of Aragon: The True Queen
Anne Boleyn: A King’s Obsession
Jane Seymour: The Haunted Queen
Arthur: Prince of the Roses (e-short)
The Blackened Heart (e-short)
The Tower is Full of Ghosts Today (e-short)
The Chateau of Briis: A Lesson in Love (e-short)
The Grandmother’s Tale (e-short)
Fiction
Innocent Traitor
The Lady Elizabeth
The Captive Queen
A Dangerous Inheritance
The Marriage Game
Quick Reads
Traitors of the Tower
Non-fiction
Britain’s Royal Families: The Complete Genealogy
The Six Wives of Henry VIII
The Princes in the Tower
Lancaster and York: The Wars of the Roses
Children of England: The Heirs of King Henry VIII 1547–1558
Elizabeth the Queen
Eleanor of Aquitaine
Henry VIII: King and Court
Mary Queen of Scots and the Murder of Lord Darnley
Isabella: She-Wolf of France, Queen of England
Katherine Swynford: The Story of John of Gaunt and His Scandalous Duchess
The Lady in the Tower: The Fall of Anne Boleyn
Mary Boleyn: ‘The Great and Infamous Whore’
Elizabeth of York: The First Tudor Queen
The Lost Tudor Princess
Queens of the Conquest
As co-author
The Ring and the Crown: A History of Royal Weddings, 1066–2011
Praise
Praise for JANE SEYMOUR: THE HAUNTED QUEEN
‘Alison Weir gives a fresh take on Jane Seymour’s life . . . A brilliant and engaging read’ Good Housekeeping
‘Gripping and utterly compelling . . . Henry VIII’s third and – allegedly – best-loved wife is brought vividly to life . . . Not to be missed’ Tracy Borman
‘Meticulous research is magically transformed into a riveting narrative which takes us into the places non-fiction history cannot reach. It’s what Alison Weir does better than anybody – and what historical fiction was created to do’ Sarah Gristwood
‘This brilliant book is a bombshell! Jane Seymour the shy mouse type? Think again! . . . She is vibrant, determined and she sets the King’s court on fire . . . A magnificent novel’ Kate Williams
Praise for ANNE BOLEYN: A KING’S OBSESSION
‘This is Anne Boleyn as you have never seen her before. I could not put it down’ Tracy Borman
‘An unforgettable portrait of the ambitious woman whose fate we know all too well, but whose true motivations may surprise you’ Telegraph
‘A triumph of fine detail . . . a complex depiction of an endlessly fascinating woman’ Elizabeth Fremantle
‘The story of Boleyn has been told many times, and from many angles, but this could be the best adaptation so far. A cracking read’ Lady
‘Detailed, immaculately researched and convincing’ The Times
‘Alison Weir’s wonderfully detailed novel offers a spellbinding solution to the mystery of Anne’s true nature . . . At once an enthralling read, and a real contribution to our sense of the sixteenth century’ Sarah Gristwood
‘Alison Weir has brought English history’s most famous “other woman” compellingly to life . . . A must for all lovers of historical fiction’ Linda Porter
‘Simply a masterpiece’ Susan Ronald
‘Not only a world apart from any other novel on Anne Boleyn, it is also an exquisite work of literary art’ Nicola Tallis
‘Anne comes alive and leaps from the page, fascinating, enthralling, full blooded . . . A brilliant evocation of the period . . . Wonderful’ Kate Williams
Praise for KATHERINE OF ARAGON: THE TRUE QUEEN
‘Well researched and engrossing’ Good Housekeeping
‘Weir is excellent on the little details that bring a world to life’ Guardian
‘Alison Weir brings Katherine of Aragon dazzlingly to life . . . A charismatic, indomitable and courageous heroine’ Tracy Borman
‘Yet again, Alison Weir has managed to intertwine profound historical knowledge with huge emotional intelligence, to compose a work that throws light on an endlessly fascinating historical figure. Yet her real gift in all of this is making it feel so fresh and alive’ Charles Spencer
‘Alison Weir is in command of her detail . . . her handling of Katherine’s misery and dignified response to her predicament is very touching’ Daily Mail
‘Weir’s undeniable strength is her immaculate description enabling the reader to be transported back to Tudor England’ Sun
‘[An] ambitious, engrossing novel . . . Fascinating’ Sunday Express S Magazine
About The Unhappiest Lady in Christendom
The Unhappiest Lady in Christendom by historian Alison Weir is a captivating e-short and companion piece to the third novel in the Six Tudor Queens series, Jane Seymour: The Haunted Queen .
I was to be chief mourner – I, for whom Queen Jane had done more than anyone. She could never have filled the shoes of my dear, sainted mother
– no one could – but she had done her very best to restore me to my rightful place in my father’s affections, and for that I shall always be grateful.
Henry VIII’s third queen is dead, leaving the King’s only son without a mother and the country without a queen. And as preparations are being made for Queen Jane’s funeral, her stepdaughter, the Lady Mary, laments the country’s loss.
But, only a month later, the King has begun his search for a new wife. Will Mary accept this new queen, or will she be forced to live in the shadows of Queen Katherine, Queen Anne Boleyn and Queen Jane for ever?
Features the first chapter of Jane Seymour: The Haunted Queen .
Oh, what lamentations were made for the death of my dear stepmother! Even at a distance of twenty years, I can still feel the reverberations from her loss. And although I and many others who knew her were stricken by the heart-rending sight of her body lying lifeless on the bed, her struggle over, no one took it more heavily than the King my father. I don’t remember ever seeing him so affected by anything. As soon as the Queen had breathed her last he stumbled from the room, tears streaming down his face, and withdrew to his apartments, refusing to see anyone.
My father could not bear anything to do with death, so I was not surprised to hear that, on the following morning, he had departed early for Windsor. I imagine he could not bear to stay in the same house as the cold corpse of the woman he had so loved. Locked in grief, he left us all to deal with the morbid aftermath. My lord of Norfolk was to be in charge of the funeral arrangements, with instructions that everything was to be done with the greatest magnificence. I was to be chief mourner – I, for whom Queen Jane had done more than anyone. She could never have filled the shoes of my dear, sainted mother – no one could – but she had done her very best to restore me to my rightful place in my father’s affections, and for that I shall always be grateful.
We ladies who had loved her took turns to keep watch over her body. She looked peaceful, almost as if she were sleeping, but when I touched her hand it was cold, and after some hours her face took on a purplish-grey hue. That morning the wax chandlers came and did their work on her. When we returned, dressed in the mourning habits that had hurriedly been made for us, she was lying on a bier covered with a rich pall of gold cloth, and dressed in a robe of gold tissue and some of her jewels, with the Queen’s crown on her head. Her fair hair lay loose like a cape of pale gold, her face was painted in an attempt to give a semblance of life, and there was a strong smell of herbs and spices in the bedchamber.
We followed in procession as the bier was reverently carried to the presence chamber, where her body would lie in state for a week. Tapers were lit around it, and a black-draped altar was set to the side and furnished with a jewelled crucifix, holy images and censers of gold.
As Masses were sung night and day for Queen Jane’s soul, we ladies kept vigil, ensuring that there were always some watching over her. The officers of the Royal Wardrobe gave us white kerchiefs for our heads and shoulders, to signify that our good mistress had died in childbed. We knelt there through all the services and Masses, lamenting and weeping, while I tried to ignore a raging toothache and the stiffness in my knees.
I had plenty of leisure to mourn my loss, and think back on the blows life had dealt me. My childhood had been so happy. The only one of six children to survive, I was cosseted and loved by my parents, both of whom I adored, and brought up to be courteous, decorous, learned and merry – merry, that is, until my father was led astray by Anne Boleyn. How I hated her, the source of all my mother’s woes and mine. Through those dreadful years, I could barely bring myself to utter her name, and never, ever would I acknowledge her as queen. How could I, when my mother was my father’s true, lawful wife? But Father had been seized with a temporary madness, so in thrall was he to his enchantress, and so my mother and I endured humiliation upon humiliation.
For four long, terrible years of exile from court we were kept cruelly apart, and I was often ill. Declared a bastard, to my shame and horror, I was made to wait upon my half-sister, the babe Elizabeth, although I would never call her princess, which riled Anne Boleyn still further. In spite of all, I came to love Elizabeth, since I was never likely to have babes of my own to cherish. For what prince would want me, disinherited and demeaned as I was? And I would not take any lesser man, for all the Lady Anne had threatened to marry me to some varlet. I did not put it past her to bring that to pass!
When my mother became gravely ill, I was desperate to see her. When she died it was as if the sun had fallen out of the sky and I was adrift in a black void of grief. And then Anne Boleyn’s wickedness was revealed, by a great stroke of providence and the perspicacity of Lord Cromwell – how she had betrayed my father with a string of lovers and plotted to kill him. She paid for it with her head. It was as if my mother had been vindicated, although there was no reversing of my bastardy. Instead, Elizabeth and I were now bastards together, and I did my best to take the place of the mother she had lost – even though I could not, and still cannot, believe that she is truly my sister. She has a look of Mark Smeaton, the lowly musician who confessed to adultery with that whore Boleyn.
The Lady Anne did repent of her cruelty to me at the last. She went on her knees to my friend, Lady Kingston, wife of the Constable of the Tower, and begged my forgiveness by proxy. Lady Kingston recited her message, word for word, kneeling before me in turn, but I did not know how I should feel. Jesus exhorted us to forgive seventy times seven, but it was a struggle. How can you forgive the person who ruined your life and robbed you of your future?
We took it in turns to rest from our vigils by the Queen’s bier. I could not stop thinking of the poor babe who was now motherless, and as soon as I was free for a short time, I would hasten to his nursery to see that he was thriving, and watch him as he lay in his cradle swaddled up snuggly and making little snuffling noises as he slept. All I could think of was how tragic it was that he would never know his mother.
One night, as I emerged from the presence chamber, swaying with weariness, I saw someone waiting for me. It was Lord Cromwell, who had turned out to be an unlikely friend in my great troubles. I had never trusted him, but last year, when the King my father demanded I sign that dreadful declaration acknowledging that his marriage to my beloved mother had been incestuous and unlawful, and I had shrunk, horrified, from doing so, Lord Cromwell had given me wise counsel and tried to protect me from my father’s wrath. It had been a hard lesson in pragmatism, and I cannot bear even now to recall that I did sign, in the end – and I doubt I will ever forgive myself. But I can see that my father wanted to ensure an undisputed succession for his children by Queen Jane.
Cromwell looked anxious. He lowered his voice. ‘Madam, I am worried about the King. I hear that he is keeping himself too close and secret,’ he confided. ‘Bishop Tunstall has tried to rally him, but in vain. He has taken his loss very hard.’
‘And no wonder,’ I said, feeling tears welling again. ‘We all miss the Queen terribly. It is a great tragedy.’
‘Almighty God has taken to Himself a most blessed and virtuous lady,’ said Archbishop Cranmer, joining us. ‘But consider what He has given to us, to the comfort of us all – our most noble Prince, to whom God hath ordained your Highness to be a mother. God gave us that noble lady, and God has taken her away, as pleased Him.’
I did not want Cranmer’s comfort. How could I? It was he who broke my mother’s marriage, and for that I could never like or approve of him. (And in the end I punished him as he deserved, the great heretic.)
I turned back to Lord Cromwell. ‘Maybe it is best to leave the King’s Grace in peace for now.’
He regarded me sadly. ‘And maybe we should not. Some of his councillors think he should be urged to marry again for the sake of his realm. He has his son at last, after waiting all these long years, but the Prince is but an infant and might at any time succumb to some childhood ailment.’
I was shocked. ‘But the Queen is not y
et buried! For decency’s sake, my lord, let it alone for now.’
‘Some feel that the matter is pressing, my lady.’
We left it there, and I took myself off to bed, shaking my head. But a few days later, Cromwell was waiting again as I emerged from the presence chamber to seek a clove for my worsening toothache. ‘I have word from Windsor,’ he said. ‘The King is now taking his loss reasonably. A deputation of councillors has visited him and laid their concerns before him. He is, of course, little disposed to marry again, but he has framed his mind to be impartial to whatever they think best. His tender zeal towards his subjects has overcome his sad disposition.’
‘I pray he will not be manoeuvred into a fourth marriage too soon,’ I said, severe.
‘Has your ladyship ever known the King to do anything he does not want to do?’ Cromwell asked with a wry smile.
‘Of your charity, pray for the soul of the Queen!’ Lancaster Herald cried, as the court assembled in silence to pay its respects. After a week, we were relieved when the funeral obsequies began, for not all the spices in the world could mask the stink from the body, and we were glad to see it coffined and moved to a catafalque set up in the Chapel Royal, where we were to keep vigil beside it for a further week.
I had done what I could. I paid for Masses to be sung for Jane’s soul, and took charge of her household, which would shortly be disbanded. I distributed her jewels, as she had directed, to those she had favoured with bequests, and delivered the rest – the Queen’s jewels, those same ones that my dear mother had been forced to surrender to that witch Boleyn – to the Master of the Jewel House.
It was as well that etiquette precluded kings from attending the funerals of their consorts, for I do not think my father could have borne it. Lord Cromwell told me that he was in good health and as merry as a widower might be, which probably wasn’t saying much, but he was at least attending to state business again.
There was a great public outpouring of grief. By order of the Lord Mayor, twelve hundred Masses were sung in the City of London for the Queen’s soul, and a solemn service was held in St Paul’s. That day, my stepmother’s coffin was carried with great solemnity to Windsor, where my father had decreed that she should be buried. Riding on a palfrey caparisoned in black velvet, I followed the hearse, which was drawn by six horses similarly trapped. On the coffin lay a wooden effigy of the Queen in her robes of state, with false fair hair loose under a rich crown of gold, a sceptre of gold in her right hand, rings set with precious stones on her fingers, and a jewelled necklace around the neck.