Author's Note: Thank you to everyone who has read and reviewed this story; your input is greatly appreciated. The usual disclaimers apply, and I own none of this. Please read and review, thank you!
Chapter Twenty-One: Open Season.
The crystal water caught the light as it trickled between the Bishop's fingers, and landed with an inaudible splash against the baby's forehead. It ran in little rivulets, like tears, through the sparse dark hair, and soaked the soft linen coif on his head. His bright blue eyes snapped wide open at the sudden sensations, but he did not cry. Not until he peered up into the face of his Uncle, King Henry, did he let fly a shrill wail. Inwardly, Arthur flinched against the piercing cry, and beside him, Henry suppressed a laugh. Catherine's smile began to look a little strained, but she kept her gaze fixed on the font. The look in her eye was that of a mother just waiting for the moment the other person accidentally dropped her baby. The Bishop, however, pressed on with the Baptism as though nothing had happened with a mere raise in pitch of his voice as he inducted a new soul into the Christian flock.
Once the ceremony was over, the congregation withdrew to the great hall where the servants had laid out a feast for the guests. Arthur and Catherine occupied the top table alongside Owen's godparents, King Henry and Mary, Duchess of Suffolk; baby Owen cradled in her lap as the guests found their places, and a toast was raised to his long life and good health. While Catherine and Mary lapsed into conversation about babies, Arthur watched Henry from the corner of his eye. Ever since the King had been introduced to Mistress Seymour, he had been behaving oddly. At that moment, Henry was sampling a sliver of fine Venison. Once done, he nodded his approval, and gestured to one of the servants.
"Send this down to Mistress Jane Seymour, and give her my compliments," he said.
At Arthur's side, Catherine fell silent. Momentarily distracted from her conversation with Mary, she turned to watch the servant making off with their best venison. She then shot him a loaded look. A look that said "say something." His stomach dropped; being the King's brother was always going to have its drawbacks.
Arthur cleared his throat. "A pity Her Majesty could not make it," he remarked, trying to sound casual. "But understandable, of course. Tell me, have you thought any more about going on Progress?"
For a moment Arthur thought that Henry hadn't heard him. But, after a thoughtful pause, Henry turned in his seat to face him. "If Anne gives me a son, then the Progress will be back on."
Arthur noted the small change of that oft-spoken sentence. It was now "if" Anne gave him a son, and not "when". Their conversation ground to an awkward halt as Arthur cast around for something suitable to say. Something that would both set the King's mind at ease, without being dismissive of the predicament he found himself in.
"The Princess Elizabeth is thriving," said Arthur, eventually. "Or so Lady Bryan was telling me when I saw her last. She is outgrowing her clothes almost daily."
That did the trick. Henry's face opened in a bright smile. Arthur just hoped he had made the connection between healthy daughters and healthy sons.
"You know, the Princess is already talking," said Henry, making an expansive gesture with his free arm towards the rest of the guests. "She is fierce, Arthur. Fierce. Like her mother!" He laughed heartily.
Arthur felt emboldened by Henry's sudden change of countenance. "Then if Anne can produce such a daughter," he said, "then it's only a matter of time – and effort – before such a son comes along."
For a moment Henry looked almost abashed. "I was simply paying Court to Mistress Seymour," he mumbled into his wine glass as he drained it dry. "I swear, I meant no harm."
Arthur knew better than to push the issue too far, and turned his attention to what his other siblings were up to. Mary was still deep in conversation. But, Margaret had set her knife and fork down, and was now teaching the elderly Earl of Shrewsbury to dance the Volta. The old man looked like he'd just had all his birthdays and new years come at once. Within a few minutes, people were clapping along to the music, egging them on. Henry snorted with hastily suppressed laughter, and the tension drained away as they all succumbed to the first of three days of celebrations.
Princess Elizabeth recognised her straight away. Even from her lofty perch in the arms of Lady Bryan, the first person her eyes alighted on was Queen Anne and immediately her pudgy arms were held out towards her. It was enough to finally lift Anne's spirits. She swooped across the floor of the Privy Chamber in a flash of heavy damask skirts that swept the flagstones as she went.
"Elizabeth!" cooed Anne as she settled the child in her arms. "My own heart, how I missed you."
The sound of the Princess's voice filled the air; an exalted shriek of laughter as Anne rained kisses down on the her reddening curls. Elizabeth had her own establishment, as befitting a Princess. But protocol and a sense of propriety didn't necessarily make mother and daughter's separation any easier to bear. Added to that, Anne became more painfully aware of all that she was missing every time she and Elizabeth were re-united. The baby was a baby no more. She was speaking small, monosyllabic words. She was beginning to stand. She was developing a little personality. All of it away from the gaze of her parents; all mile stones reported back, second hand, like old news.
"Does the Princess continue to feed well, Lady Bryan?" asked Anne, as though the weight of the girl didn't already answer the question for her.
Lady Bryan smiled indulgently. "Constantly, Your Majesty," she replied. "She progresses magnificently, as one would expect and more."
Anne was satisfied of the Princess's progress, and wanted to waste no more precious time with her there. She balanced Elizabeth carefully on her hip, and strode over to the connecting gallery that led to the Queen's Apartments where they could be alone together, with just a few servants to wait on them. But as she was about to vacate the outer chamber, Lady Bryan cleared her throat, and addressed her formally.
"Your Majesty," she said, stepping closer to Anne. "If I could have a moment of your time."
"What is it, Lady Bryan?" Anne asked in reply.
A look of worry deepened the lines in Bryan's face. "Madam, there is a crowd at the gates of the Palace. A strange crowd."
"Are they looking for alms?" asked Anne, the first and most obvious explanation that came to her mind. "I could send to the kitchens and see them provided for." Her eye darted to the window, but her view was that of the Queen's Privy Gardens, not the front gates where the paupers gathered for their alms and royal blessings.
"I know not, Madam. But may I be so bold as to suggest the guards are sent out to investigate. While I was bringing in the Princess I thought some had tried to obstruct us. One looked through the window, saw that it was just an ageing woman and infant, and waved us through."
Instinctively Anne tightened her hold on Elizabeth, and clutched her a little closer as she nodded to her sister. "Mary, go and ask my Chamberlain to send out the guards and report back to me," she turned back to Lady Bryan. "You already have your lodgings prepared, Lady Bryan. Stay at least until the crowds are dispersed, and venture abroad tomorrow, perhaps?"
"Thank you, Your Grace," she replied, bobbing a curtsey to the Queen as she left.
A pensive silence had folded over the women as they entered the Queen's Privy Apartments. Anne could sense them exchanging dark looks behind her back. Even Elizabeth piped down, and lay herself flat against her mother's breast. Anne stroked her hair, cooing and shushing to soothe her. Once inside, she felt a little safer, but not enough. She glanced around for Mary, but she was still not back from delivering her message to the Chamberlain. Lady Rochford, however, was hovering in the archway between Privy and outer apartments.
"Jane, go out to the front gate for me and see if you can find out what's going on," she said. "Try and find out how many there are. Then send for Lord Rochford, I need him."
Jane curtseyed, and backed away. That left Anne alone with Elizabeth, with Lady Mary Howard in attendance. Her own guards were still stationed outside all doors to and from the Royal Apartments, but she still felt exposed. She looked again out beyond the windows. Dusk had fallen some time ago, and the sky had grown dark. Had they come because they knew the King was away from London? She remembered the Royal Standards being lowered to half-mast, signalling that the King was absent from the Palace. If the people had heard of her miscarriage, they would know that she, Anne, had been left behind to recuperate. Anne tried to dismiss it. She tried to rationalise and explain it, but a lead weight had settled in her stomach. I felt like dread.
It was nightfall by the time they made it to Leeds Castle, in Kent. Elizabeth Barton was no longer riding at the head of her army now, though. Their plans had been stepped up a notch, and it was the turn of the fighting men to take the helm. But still, she was considered to be deep enough in the army to warrant her own breast plate; just like Joan d'Arc. It was uncomfortable, but it made her feel like her Crusade against Heresy was a real one, and not just something she had been dreaming and prophesying about.
All around her her army rode sturdy chestnut horses. Hers, however, was a large palfrey; brilliant white, it's mane shone in the moonlight. At her side, as always, was Edward Bocking. He had been the one constant throughout her whole journey. He had found her, saved her, and made her into something special. She glanced to her right, where she could make out his profile by the light of the full moon, and smiled to herself.
"Is there any word from London, yet?" she asked. "They should be at the Palace, by now."
"None, Bess," he replied. "But don't fret. We know that the King is away from Court, and our people have things under control. Remember our source?"
Elizabeth turned her face away and nodded. The Source. How could she ever forget the source.
"What about these people?" she asked with a nod towards Leeds Castle. "Do you think they'll put up much resistance?" She had wanted to be at Pontefract Castle, but Edward had deemed it too dangerous. That, too, was being taken by their men.
"I doubt it, the Earl is at the Baptism," Edward explained. "They're all at this Christening. All we have to do is march our men in there and take control. Occupy. Let them know we're in control now. We only surrender once Arthur agrees to be King."
The idea had come from a man who'd fought in King Henry's army in France. In the short space of time that they had, they needed stealth and deception to pull off the perfect insurrection. Parcels of men, fighters from all walks of life, were taking over various strategic Castles up and down the country. Even Hampton Court was coming under siege; the reason Elizabeth was so eager to hear news from London.
Before much longer their army were skirting the walls of the castle Keep. If the constable was away, they would be taking on servants. Elizabeth thought it almost too easy. But a hush descended over the company as they formed up on enemy territory. Weapons were drawn, and horses left behind. The rest of the journey would be made on foot, to the portcullis, to storm the Castle; the first of several all over England. By dawn, the Country would be theirs.
Henry gave his guards the slip, and stole through the More; his footsteps muffled by velvet slippers. He paused by the doorway of the Great Hall, where inside Arthur sat in vigil on behalf of his infant son, who would be invested with the Earldom of Warwick the following morning. He was probably asleep, anyway. God knows, these vigils were deadly boring, even for the most devout nobility.
Somewhere, deeper in the Castle, a door shut with a sharp snap that carried in the stillness. Henry smiled, and made for the entrance. They were due to meet in the gardens; her idea since the summer was on its way and the air was warm. By the time he was on the front lawns, he could hear her footsteps treading close behind his. He turned to face her. She was pale in the moonlight. Even more pale than normal. She looked like a ghost.
"Your Majesty," she said, sinking to the grass in a deep curtsey.
Henry grinned brightly, "Jane."
He raised her from her curtsey by the hands. "Thank you for coming to meet me," he said, looking her up and down. She was still dressed in her day clothes. Not that he expected her outside, meeting him, in nothing but her shift.
The soft breeze made her hair flutter and fan out around her impossibly small shoulders. It made her look even more like something from the ether. He had seen her countless times around Court, where she was over-shadowed and submerged in a wash of other women. It was only when she was alone, taken on her own merits, that he could see her qualities, and her unique beauty. So quiet, too. Rarely did she speak a word; less still a word out of turn.
Henry reached behind him, to one of Arthur's rose bushes, and plucked a fat blossom from the stem with his knife.
"For you," he said,wrapping a silk handkerchief around it's thorns, and handing it over to her.
She smiled, dropping her gaze from his face to the rose, and lifted it to her nose. She bit back a modest laugh. "Thank you, Your Grace," she said.
"Let me speak frankly with you, Lady Jane," said Henry. "When we return to the Palace, I want nothing more than to pay Court to you. Do I have your permission?"
Jane did not reply immediately. She seemed to be trying to remember something. "I would be the most honoured woman in England, Your Grace," she eventually replied. Almost as an after-thought, she dipped another curtsey; clumsy this time. Henry beamed.
"We should get back indoors before anyone realises I am gone," he said, and planted a soft kiss against her cheek. He almost surprised to find such pale flesh so warm. "All I needed was your answer to my suit. I will speak to you again soon, I promise. Until then, take this as a token of my devotion."
Henry struggled to remove a small gold ring from his finger, and pressed it into Jane's flower free hand. She was about to protest, until Henry stilled her with a kiss. "No arguments," he said as he drew away. "Just accept it, and pray for me."
The gold ring was cold and heavy in her hands. It was the only thing that kept Jane weighted to the earth as she watched the King melt into the shadows cast by the moon. Her heart was beating, and butterflies fluttered in her stomach. All the time she had to keep telling herself that he was a married man. She could not love him. She would not let it happen. And not just because of his marital state.
"He's gone now, Lady Exeter," she said aloud, still looking at the spot where the King had vanished.
From somewhere close to the walls of the Castle, a bush rustled, as though a sudden wind had whipped up. But it was only Gertrude Courtenay revealing herself from her hiding place. Her dark hair looked like a sooty smudge against her skin in the poor light. But her eyes were bright; eager.
"Beguile him all you like, Jane," she said. "But you must realise that this doesn't change anything."
"I think I love him," she whispered; like it was a confession to her Priest.
Gertrude grabbed her wrist, knocking the rose out of her hand as she did so. "You cannot back out now," she hissed low, directly into Jane's ear. "You have been feeding us information from Anne's Chambers from the moment she became Queen-"
"But I don't want to be Queen myself," she protested, fighting to regain control of her arm. "Maybe, if I speak to him -"
"It's too late for that, you fool of a girl! The plan is coming into effect tonight. Thanks to your information Hampton Court will be surrounded already, or did you just forget that?"
Jane felt her whole body tremble. She knew that she was in over her head, and she couldn't even remember how she had got there. The task seemed so simple. Just tell Lady Exeter what the Queen was doing. That was all. But she was caught in a rip-tide, and before she knew it, she was being dragged down into a world of lies, deceit and deception. She felt sick to the stomach when she thought of some of the things she had done. Now, the man she had spent years betraying, was the same man she was falling hopelessly in love with.
Finally, Jane jerked her hand free of Gertrude's pincer like grip. "I understand, Lady Exeter," she spoke through clenched teeth.
Anne found her path blocked by Thomas Cromwell. His head buried in a sheaf of papers; he hadn't seen her coming. They bounced off each other in a shower of dropped scrolls of parchment.
"Forgive me, Majesty, I didn't see," he spluttered as he scooped up the fallen documents.
Anne waved his apologies away. "Thomas, what is happening out there?" she asked. "Is that mob still building up?"
The look of disappointment in his eyes was clear to see. He was hoping she hadn't been told. "Majesty, please, return to your Chambers and wait for news there," he said, trying for all he was worth to sound reassuring. "The crowd is calm, so no need to panic."
Anne raised a pained smile, and threw up her hands in a gesture of defeat. "You know best, Thomas," she said, retreating back a few steps.
He gave her a bow, and carried on his way; head submerged once again in the documents. She is no fool, and she knows he is as worried as she is. Once Cromwell has vanished around a corner, she headed straight to the entrance of the Palace. The people around her seemed calm. Pensive, but calm. She tried to draw strength from that, but to little effect. When Lady Rochford returned from her errands, she had said that the crowds were steadily swelling, and murmuring hostility. George was out there, trying to find out what they wanted, and so could not come to her Chambers.
So now she was seeing for herself. She paused in the archway that led out onto the forecourt. What few guards were left were now ringing the boundary fence, keeping the mob back. But only just. One chink in their formation, and the whole Palace could be taken. Although she could see clearly in the light of the numerous torches, she could not process it.
Dazed, she moved forwards, getting a closer look. The mobs were ringing the Palace, face to face with guards, staring like dumb animals in a menagerie. But when they saw her, they burst into life. Insults were hurled, and something large and heavy smacked her square in the face. A cabbage had been thrown over the perimeter fence. She collapsed, almost to the grounds, before someone caught her fall.
"Anne, get back inside," George hissed low in her ear. "Please, leave now."
Anne massaged the pain that now throbbed at her temple. But still she could not take it in. She couldn't even find it in her to be angry. She was just confused.
"What is happening?" she asked, feebly resisting his efforts to remove her back indoors. "George, please, tell me!"
"We don't know, Anne," he replied patiently. "But it seems to be some sort of protest. Please, go back inside, and we'll hang the cur who threw that at you. You can come and watch us in the morning, when this is over."
He was trying to make light of the situation; to diffuse the fear. God knows she was used to hostility. But this was on another level. This was an open season of loathing, and it was going to take more than George's feeble jests to make her feel better.
"George, you have to get to the More as soon as possible," she said, "Henry won't know about this. Dress yourself in servant's clothes, and go out through the cellar entrance. Take a plain barge, and waste no time. Henry must get back-"
"I am not leaving you!" he protested hotly, grabbing her by the shoulders.
She shrugged him off easily. "Do it, George!" she commanded. "I am your Queen, and tonight you are my servant. Go."
He looked doubtful, but realised she was actually talking sense. As a compromise, she let herself be led back into the Palace. But from there, she was on her own again. Elizabeth was under guard, and her Ladies were mustering her various kinsmen that were still at the Palace. But already she was resolved that no angry rabble would take her Palace by storm.