The Unhappiest Lady in Christendom Page 3

  Then, at eleven years old, I returned to court to find Anne Boleyn flaunting herself. Lady Salisbury did not like or approve of the Lady Anne, and so she was dismissed. In her place was a Boleyn aunt, who was instructed by the Boleyns to beat me for the cursed bastard I was. She did her best for me though, concealing her sympathy under a brusque manner and rough tongue, and protected me from the worst of her niece’s vindictiveness. How I missed Lady Salisbury in those bleak years when I was deprived of my mother’s company. And how overjoyed I was when, with the advent of the good Queen Jane, she was welcomed back to court. It was heartening to hear the people cheering when she arrived, and to be folded in those loving arms again.

  But now the taint of treason had infected the Pole family, and my beloved Lady Salisbury was in peril. Two years earlier, safely in Italy, Cardinal Pole had written a tract damning my father’s marriage to Anne Boleyn, and in such insulting terms that it was as well for him that he was out of reach in Rome. Had my father been able to arrest Reginald, he would surely have lost his head, for my father was no respecter of cardinals, as the execution of the venerable Cardinal Fisher had shown. Fisher, like the respected Sir Thomas More, had been among the few who had upheld my mother’s marriage. That was why they had to die.

  My father had exploded with rage on reading Reginald’s treatise. Hearing that made me uneasy, especially when I learned from Chapuys that Lady Salisbury had felt bound to distance herself from her beloved son, and had written a stern letter castigating him for his treacherous disloyalty.

  My father was never one to forgive and forget. Obsessively suspicious of his Plantagenet kinsfolk, he had convinced himself that the Poles were a pack of traitors. They had clearly been watched, and in August I was shocked to hear that Reginald’s younger brother Geoffrey had been imprisoned in the Tower for aiding and abetting him. I was even more appalled when, in December, the oldest brother, Lord Montagu, and a cousin, the Marquess of Exeter, had been executed for having plotted to assassinate the King. It was hard to believe that the Marquess, a kindly, good man of principle who had supported my mother and Queen Jane, could have been guilty of such a horrible crime. In fact, I could not believe it.

  I could not bear to think of how my dear Lady Salisbury was bearing the loss of her sons – one dead, one in prison and one in exile. Her grief must have been terrible, for they were everything to her. I prayed for them all, and for the sons of the executed lords, two little boys who remained prisoners in the Tower with the rest of their family, and with no hope of release, given my father’s temper. It seemed that he was determined to eliminate or neutralise every remaining member of the House of Plantagenet.

  The Christmas of 1538 was approaching, but I could take little pleasure in the preparations. Brooding on the recent grim events, I helped Elizabeth to make a cambric shirt to send as a New Year gift for Edward. I was secretly relieved that we had not been invited to court, as I knew I would find it hard to conceal my dismay over the fate of my kinsfolk. So we kept the Yuletide season as merrily as we could at Hunsdon.

  In the new year of 1539, I received the most unwelcome news. The Duke of Cleves had proposed a double alliance. My father should marry his daughter, and I should marry his son, the abominable Protestant William. Dear God, I prayed, deliver me from such a fate!

  The Duke had asked to be sent my portrait. Cromwell informed me that he had protested against that, since the Duke’s envoy could well testify to my beauty, my grace and my excellent virtues, which were in such number that, bastard though I was, it could not be doubted that any man would hesitate to hurry me to the altar. I knew he was flattering me, but I also think he meant to be kind. It was my father who saved me from my unwanted suitor, though. He had realised that my marriage to William of Cleves would preclude any that he himself might wish to make with Anna or Amalia, which would make him my brother-in-law as well as my father. Such a union would be incestuous, and my father would not risk that. His first two marriages had been annulled on the grounds that they were incestuous – though of course my mother’s wasn’t, not at all. But my father never would admit that he had been wrong.

  Soon afterwards came awful news from Rome – the thing I had been dreading for some years now. Aghast at the executions of Montagu and Exeter, the Pope had excommunicated my father.

  I prayed for him as I had never prayed before. What must it feel like to be cut off from God and Christian fellowship and the sacraments of the Church? How dreadful to know that your soul is in mortal peril. But, of course, my father was adamant that the sentence of the Bishop of Rome – as he liked to call the Pope – had no force in England. It would make no difference. Yet it was clear from Chapuys’ tactfully worded letters that France and the Empire were now hostile towards him. Daily, the prospect of an alliance with Cleves grew more attractive. Its Duke could be counted upon to remain friendly in the face of the Papal anathema.

  As the March winds shrilled around Hunsdon, there came another letter from Chapuys. Lady Salisbury’s house had been searched by the King’s officers. They had found a banner embroidered with the royal arms of England, as used by the sovereign alone. It looked damningly as if my dear old governess had been plotting to seize the crown.

  ‘It’s ludicrous!’ I cried to my dear friend and lady-in-waiting, Susan Clarencieux. ‘Lady Salisbury is sixty-six, far too old to be plotting rebellion! There is not a disloyal bone in her body.’ Yet she had been sent to the Tower all the same. I wept when I read how rigorous her imprisonment was, how she was being kept in a cold cell without adequate food or clothing. I despaired of my father. Where was his humanity? Clearly he wanted her out of the way like the rest of her kinsfolk. That was made plain in May, when Parliament passed an Act of Attainder against her, depriving her of her life, title, estates and goods.

  ‘No!’ I wailed, when the news came. ‘Not dear Lady Salisbury!’ Surely my father would not have her head?

  I waited, tremulous, for news. I heard that he had seized all her property, but there was no word of his ordering her execution. As the weeks went by, I began to relax, anticipating that he would leave her to languish in prison, or even release her. I prayed that that day would come soon.

  That he took her so-called treason seriously was evident in the new security measures he put in place to safeguard the Prince. Edward now had a greater household than before, and no effort or expense was spared to protect the most precious jewel in England’s crown. I think everyone realised that the sooner Edward was provided with a brother the better.

  The coldness between England and the two allies, France and the Empire, grew, to my distress. Like my mother, I had always wished to see England and the Empire bound in eternal amity. But when the Emperor and King Francis signed a new treaty pledging not to make any fresh alliances without the consent of the other, my father finally resolved to press ahead with the Cleves marriage. He sent envoys to Germany, followed by Master Holbein with instructions to paint the likenesses of the princesses Anna and Amalia for my father’s inspection. Then he would decide which young lady pleased him the more.

  Cromwell wrote to me. He seemed eager for the alliance. ‘Every man praises the beauty of the Lady Anna. She excels the Duchess of Milan as the golden sun excels the silver moon. Every man praises her virtues.’

  Chapuys wrote, with a touch of his wry wit, that my father already fancied himself in love with the lady. He had even said he would take the Lady Anna without a dowry if her portrait pleased him. And please him it did.

  I own that portrait today. It’s a little miniature in a carved ivory frame, which opens to reveal Anna smiling demurely. Her complexion is clear, her gaze steady, her face delicately attractive. Her Dutch head-dress conceals her hair. It’s a good likeness – to a point. And the whole world knows that, when my father saw it, he made up his mind at once that he wanted to marry Anna.

  I had very mixed feelings. I wanted to see him happy and contented again, as he had been with Queen Jane. And yet I feared that the Prot
estant cause would be greatly advanced if Anna of Cleves became Queen. Brought up a Catholic she might have been, but her brother, who now ruled Cleves, was a Lutheran, and might have infected her with his heresies. God forbid, she could turn out to be another Anne Boleyn, which was what the reformers were all hoping for.

  Elizabeth, at six, was most curious about her future stepmother. ‘Do you think she will invite me to court and let me wear pretty gowns and dance?’ she asked hopefully.

  ‘I’m not sure that she likes dancing,’ I said. By all reports, Anna had had a very strict upbringing. Apparently even music was frowned upon at the court of Cleves. I was praying she would not be a dragon, frowning on frivolous pleasures. I did so enjoy dancing and music and gambling. After all, what other pleasures did I have?

  ‘I will make her like it!’ Elizabeth declared, tossing back her long red hair and skipping a few dance steps. What a wilful and enchanting child she was!

  I was staying at Hertford Castle in October, when word reached me that the marriage treaty was signed. We heard that the ambassadors from Cleves had been royally entertained by the King. Truth to tell, I was more concerned about my dwindling funds. Christmas loomed ahead, the money my father had given me had run out, and I realised I had not the wherewithal to buy gifts or keep the season properly. Again, Cromwell came to my rescue and persuaded the King to make good the deficit. He himself sent me a beautiful horse as a gift. It set me wondering whether Cromwell, like Chapuys, had deeper feelings for me than he could ever admit to. Why else would he have been such a friend to me in my troubles?

  Chapuys reported that great preparations had been set in train for the reception of the Princess Anna. No doubt I would soon be summoned to court to meet my new stepmother. Fervently I prayed that she would be as kind and well disposed to me as Queen Jane.

  There had been much jostling for places in the new Queen’s household. My father was planning a Christmas wedding at Greenwich, to be followed by twelve days of festivities and Anna’s coronation on Candlemas Day. I was gratified to hear that he was in exuberant spirits, and that his leg was troubling him less. He sounded impatient to meet his bride!

  We all waited expectantly. It had been two years since the death of Queen Jane. Now England was ready for its new Queen and the benefits she would bring. Setting aside my reservations, I resolved to welcome her warmly and make a friend of her, if I could. She would have need of it, I was sure.

  Discover

  The woman haunted by the fate of her predecessor.

  Eleven days after the death of Anne Boleyn, Jane is dressing for her wedding to the King.

  She has witnessed at first hand how courtly play can quickly turn to danger and knows she must bear a son . . . or face ruin.

  This new queen must therefore step out from the shadows cast by Katherine and Anne. In doing so, can she expose a gentler side to the brutal King?

  Jane Seymour. The third of Henry’s queens.

  Her story.

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  Chapter 1

  1518

  ‘A health to the bride!’ Sir John Seymour smiled and raised his goblet as the company echoed his toast.

  Jane sipped her wine, watching as her new sister-in-law blushed prettily. Edward seemed besotted with his new wife. At seventeen, Catherine was a very comely girl, a year younger than he. Jane had been surprised at how practised she was at the art of coquetry, and how warmly the men were looking at her. Even Father seemed to be under her spell. Catherine’s father, Sir William Fillol, was leaning back in his chair replete, looking well pleased with the match – as he should be, for Edward, being Father’s heir, had good prospects and the determination to do well. Even at the age of ten, Jane knew that for an ambitious young man, marriage to the well-bred co-heiress of a wealthy landowner would be a great advantage.

  Sir William had been boasting of how the Fillols could trace their ancestry back to one of the companions of the Conqueror.

  ‘And we Seymours too!’ Father had countered smugly, sure of his own exalted place in the world.

  All in all, it was a most satisfactory union, and worthy of this great feast. The long tables in the Broad Chamber of Wulfhall were laden with extravagant dishes, all prepared under the watchful eye of Lady Seymour herself. Meat and fowl of every kind graced the board, the centrepiece being a magnificent roasted peacock re-dressed in all its glorious plumage. Sir John had provided the best wine from Bordeaux, and everyone was attired in the new finery they had worn for the wedding.

  Sir William normally resided less than fifty miles away from Wulfhall, at Woodlands, near Wimborne, but he had opened up Fillol’s Hall for the wedding, and Jane’s whole family – her mother and father, and all their seven children – had travelled to Essex to be present. Father was so delighted with his new daughter-in-law that he had insisted that Sir William and Lady Dorothy accompany Catherine when Edward brought her back to Wulfhall to continue their celebrations. That had sent Mother into a flurry of preparation, and everyone agreed that she had risen to the occasion splendidly.

  It was dusk now, and candles were being lit on the mantelpiece and windowsills, their flickering, dancing flames reflected in the diamond-paned glass in the stone windows. As Jane observed Edward and Catherine conversing together and stealing the odd kiss, it came to her that in a little over eighteen months she herself would be of an age to be wed. Fortunately, there was no sign that Father had any plans as yet.

  For Jane had no desire to be married. She wanted to be a nun. Everyone teased her for it, not taking her seriously. Let them. Soon they would find out that she was as determined as her brother Edward when it came to getting what she wanted in life. She could not imagine her hearty, jovial father objecting, nor her adored mother. They knew of the dream she had had of herself wearing a nun’s veil, kneeling before Our Lady. It had visited her a year before, on the night after her parents had taken them all to visit the shrine of St Melor at Amesbury Priory. She had been overawed by the great church with its soaring octagonal steeple, and had prayed devoutly at the altar of the murdered boy-prince, kneeling beside her siblings with her hands pressed together, as she had been taught from infancy.

  Since then, she had been certain that her future lay within those twelve holy acres. She could see herself singing the offices in the choir with the sisters, gathering apples in the orchard or fishing in the ponds, dedicated to God and manual labour for all her life. Next year she would be old enough to enter Amesbury as a novice.

  For now, she was content to be with her family, laughing at the jests at table, enjoying the good fare spread out before her and sparring with her brother Thomas, less than a year her junior, who was at this moment throwing sugar plums at the newly-weds. Mother frowned.

  ‘Catherine, you must forgive my youngest son,’ she said. ‘He never knows when to desist. Tom, stop that.’

  ‘Such high spirits will take the lad far,’ Sir William observed indulgently. His wife sniffed.

  ‘He’s a menace,’ Edward said, not smiling. Jane heard her mother sigh. Edward had no time for his youngest brother, and always treated him as a nuisance. And Thomas was adept at riling him, utterly resolved never to be outshone by Edward. It was an unequal struggle, for Edward was the heir and Thomas’s senior by eight years. He would always have first bite of the apple. When Jane was six, he had been sent to France as a page of honour in the train of the King’s sister, the Princess Mary, when she married King Louis, and the following year he had gone up to university at both Oxford and Cambridge, and thence to court, making himself useful to King Henry and his chief minister, Cardinal Wolsey, whom many asserted was the true ruler of the realm.

  It was hot in the Broad Chamber. Despite it being high summer, Mother had insisted on having the fire in the hearth kindled, in case anyone felt a chill. Jane pulled off the floral chaplet she was wearing, for the blooms were wilting, and smoothed down her long tresses. They were the colour of pale straw, rippling like fine silk over
her shoulders. Edward, Thomas, Anthony and the baby Elizabeth were dark haired, having inherited Father’s colouring, but Jane, Harry and Margery took after Mother.

  For a moment Jane felt sad that her beautiful hair would be cut off when she took the veil. It was her only claim to loveliness. Her cheekbones were too rounded, her nose too big, her chin too pointed, her mouth too small, her skin too whitish. Looking around the room at her brothers and her pretty little sister Margery, it came to her, without envy or rancour, that they were all more attractive, more jolly – more vital.

  In bearing children, Mother had done her duty as efficiently as she accomplished all her other domestic responsibilities. Before Jane had come along, she had borne five sons, although the eldest, John, whom Jane could barely remember, had died when he was eleven, and another John had died young. Harry and Anthony were cut from different cloth to their brothers: Harry was easy-going and had no ambitions beyond the Wulfhall estate, while Anthony was studious; he would be following Edward to university soon, and there was talk of his pursuing a career in the Church. Jane felt encouraged by that. If her parents could lay up treasure in Heaven by giving a son to God, how much more store they would have in giving a daughter too.

  Six-year-old Margery had been allowed to sit up for the feast, but tiny Elizabeth, having been brought in by her nurse to be admired by the guests, was now sound asleep upstairs in what was called the Babies’ Chamber.

  It was a teeming household, and a happy one. As Jane looked about her at the large room filled with her merry, feasting family, a sense of well-being and contentment stole over her. Whatever the future brought, she was proud to be a Seymour of Wulfhall.

  When Jane was little, she had thought that there must be wolves somewhere at Wulfhall. She had peered around corners and opened closets and cupboards in trepidation, lest one leap out at her. She had lain awake at night fretting about what she would do if she ever encountered one of the beasts. But hearing her screams one day when Thomas had sprung out from the dry larder shouting, ‘I’m a wolf!’ Father, having clouted him for it, had reassured her that the name Wulfhall had nothing to do with wolves.