Welcome to new reviewer Miss Anthrope – and a slight misunderstanding on the Jane front; Jane Boleyn was the one who was with Anne when she was giving birth to Harry, Jane Seymour was off getting knocked up by Henry. It's so annoying that everybody had the same name back then. Makes things very confusing.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
8th October 1539
Henry had hurried through his morning's work, hoping to be able to finish in time to be able to go to Anne's apartment in time to be there to greet Elizabeth and Harry when they arrived but he was delayed and, when he reached the room, he caught a glimpse of Mary's retreating back as she hurried in the direction of her own chamber, running as though she was being pursued by demons.
He was angry at first, thinking that she had left without permission, and he was ready to call Mary back and to reprimand her sharply for daring to take it upon herself to leave Anne's apartment and her duties there but she was gone before he could say anything and he forbore to follow her, thinking that if a reprimand was called for, it could wait until after he had greeted his legitimate children. They came first, always. When he opened the door, he could hear the sounds of two childish voices, high-pitched with anger and excitement, and Anne's soothing tones as she tried to calm them down, reassuring them that everything was alright.
The children's attendants, together with Anne's ladies, held back, curtseying when they saw Henry but looking ill at ease and not saying a word.
"What's going on here?" He asked, raising his voice so that he could be heard above the din. He smiled, trying to lighten the atmosphere in the room a little. "Does Papa not get a 'hello' anymore?" He chided the children teasingly but his attempt at levity failed miserably.
Harry ignored him entirely, wrapping his arms around Anne's neck and clinging tightly to her, while Elizabeth approached him, looking up at him with a black scowl.
"You promised that you wouldn't let her come back, Papa, you promised!" Elizabeth complained, quivering slightly with anger. "You promised that you wouldn't ever let her hurt us again."
"Who, sweetheart?" Henry asked, although he already knew the answer, knowing that there was only one person who was likely to bring such a look to Elizabeth's face. "The Lady Mary?" Elizabeth nodded confirmation and Henry's face became as grim as his daughter's as he looked to Anne for answers. "What happened? Did Mary do something to upset them?" He asked urgently, inwardly resolving that if Mary had dared to upset or offend either of the children, he would march her to the Tower himself and never order her release.
"No," Anne shook her head decisively, not wanting Henry to get the wrong idea and to blame Mary for something that was not her fault. She rubbed Harry's back soothingly as she spoke, half her attention focused on calming her son and the other half on explaining to Henry what had happened. "Lady Bryan did not know that the Lady Mary was permitted to return to court, or to join my household." She explained. "Elizabeth and Harry weren't told that she would be here when they arrived, and Elizabeth recognized her." She didn't need to elaborate any further. She could tell from the expression on Henry's face that he was also remembering the conversation he had had with Elizabeth on the day of Harry's christening, explaining to her that Mary was banished from Hatfield because of her involvement in an attempt to hurt Anne and Harry, and promising that Mary would not be allowed to come near them again.
"I see." Henry said quietly, crouching down to Elizabeth's level and taking both her hands in his. "I should have made sure that you knew that Lady Mary was going to be here before you arrived, sweetheart – especially when you're coming to celebrate your birthday," he added, remembering that this was supposed to have been a happy day for Elizabeth, the finest birthday celebration they had ever had in her honour, even if it was a little late, and hoping that this would not spoil his child's pleasure in the day. Her real birthday was already marred when they weren't able to be with her for it. "I'm sorry about that, but you don't need to worry about the Lady Mary doing anything wicked. She has given her word that she will not, and sworn that she understands that you and Harry are the princess and the prince while she is illegitimate. We're going to make sure that she's watched, so she won't have a chance to try to hurt anybody."
If Henry realized that the fact that he was ensuring that Mary was closely watched at all times was tantamount to an admission that he still had some doubts about the sincerity of her capitulation and about whether or not she could be fully trusted, he didn't seem to realize it. Elizabeth considered his response carefully, studying his face with intelligent blue eyes.
"Do you really think that it's safe to have the Lady Mary at court, Papa?" She asked quietly.
"I do." Henry said, infusing his voice with all the confidence that he could muster.
"But why do you want her here?" Elizabeth asked, puzzled over this. "You told me that she's not a princess, like me, just a Lady." Although she would not have admitted it, to herself or to anybody else, part of Elizabeth was put out by the thought of her father inviting his other daughter to court, especially when Mary was not her mama's daughter too. Elizabeth was her papa's princess, his beautiful jewel of England, and she did not like the idea of her place being usurped, least of all by Mary, after what she had done.
"She's not, sweetheart." Henry assured her, reaching out to grasp Elizabeth around the waist and lift her up, so that her face was level with his. "Lady Mary is illegitimate, and no princess, even she has admitted this, but she is still a King's daughter – my daughter – and if she can behave herself, her place is here at court, with us."
"Not at Hatfield like last time?" Elizabeth tested him. She might have been only six years old but she was far shrewder than anybody would think somebody her age could be. Her Papa might not be willing to come out and say it but he must still have some worries about Lady Mary if he wasn't going to send her back to her old place as a maid-in-waiting at Hatfield. He mustn't think that it was safe to allow Lady Mary to live in the same household as she and Harry did, in case she tried to do something wicked to them... and if that was the case, how could he be so sure that Mama was safe if Mary was allowed to be one of her ladies?
"No." Henry confirmed. Even if Anne was not entirely opposed to the idea, refusing to even consider the suggestion, he would not be prepared to send Mary back to her place at Hatfield. Over the past few years, there had been more than a few times when he told himself that he must have been mad to consider the idea of allowing Mary to live so close to his precious Elizabeth, in a position where she would be able to interact with her on a daily basis and where she might find herself left alone to tend to the baby for short periods when he had known that the girl believed that her innocent little half-sister was usurping the titles and honours she stubbornly insisted were her rightful due, and that it was far from unlikely that she would resent Elizabeth for it, hating the baby who was the true Princess of England and perhaps even blaming her for the fact that she had been exposed as the bastard she was and sent to Hatfield to learn her place.
They were so lucky that she had not struck against Elizabeth when she had Brereton poised to murder Anne and Harry!
If Mary had harmed the child in any way, Henry would have strangled her with his own hands.
"What if she does something bad?" Harry asked. His face was buried in Anne's shoulder so his voice was slightly muffled.
"If Mary even thinks about doing something bad, I'll deal with her." Henry promised his son, before shifting his daughter into a more comfortable position in his arms and changing the subject to a more cheerful one. "In any case, we shouldn't be talking about Mary today, should we? Today is Elizabeth's special day. We should be thinking about how we're going to celebrate, shouldn't we?" He asked rhetorically, smiling when he saw Harry beam at him, nodding his head enthusiastically. The little boy was plainly delighted by the thought of a celebration and HeChapter Mary was all but forgotten now that there was the prospect of a party. He looked at Elizabeth, hoping to see a smile from her but the expression on her small face was serious. "What do you think, sweetheart?" He prompted her gently.
After a few moments' pause, Elizabeth finally nodded, giving him a small smile. "I'd like that Papa." She said, knowing that it would please him. However, she had no intention of forgetting about Mary.
If Mary tried to do anything wicked, Elizabeth would make sure that she was punished for it, even if she was Papa's daughter.
When her step-grandmother was outfitting her for court, the old woman had spent a great deal of time grumbling about the expense this represented, acidly commenting on the high prices paid for the material that was used for her new gowns but Kitty had paid little attention to her.
For one thing, she knew that, for all the Dowager Duchess' grumbling, she was not the one who was paying the bills for her new finery; her Uncle Norfolk was the one who provided the necessary funds so that she might be outfitted in a manner befitting a Howard girl, and the Queen's cousin and while, for all his wealth, he might resent having to foot the bills for her new finery, he would never dream of shaming the Howard family by sending her to court ill-provided for. In any case, regardless of who was paying for her new wardrobe, she was too excited over the prospect of being allowed to go to court and to be supplied with gowns far finer than anything she had possessed before to care too much about the cost or about her step-grandmother's grumblings.
Now that she was at court, in her cousin's household, she never wanted to leave.
It was not that there was no fun to be had in the Dowager Duchess' household – although Kitty suspected that the old lady would swoon, or worse, if she had any idea what the young women placed in her charge as maids-in-waiting got up to when her back was turned – but it was very rare that there were guests, and revels were even more infrequent. At court, it would be a different matter; important occasions for the royal family were celebrated, as were special holidays and Lady Shelton had told her that there were often lavish celebrations in honour of visiting ambassadors. Today's festivities might only be in honour of the birthday of a six year old girl but they were already looking to be lively. A masquerade ball was planned for tomorrow and two gentlemen had already asked if they might dance with her. Hopefully, there would be others.
Although her gowns were of rich material and fashionably cut, Kitty had not been supplied with many of them but, even so, the choice of which gown to wear proved to be a difficult one. At first she wanted to wear the green one, thinking that it would look best with her colouring and that it would be a pretty compliment to the King and Queen if she wore one of the Tudor colours but, once she had wriggled into the gown and glanced at her reflection in the mirror, she thought that she should wear the pink one she had worn for the morning instead.
Dereham once told her that she looked like a rose when she wore pink.
The other two young ladies who shared the large chamber with her were dressed long before she was ready, their hair combed and arranged under their hoods and they were impatient to get down to the great Hall in time for the banquet in Princess Elizabeth's honour, so much so that they became impatient with Kitty's indecisiveness regarding her attire and decided to go on without her, leaving the maid assigned to the three of them to provide her with any assistance that was necessary to ready herself.
Once she was laced into her pink gown again, Kitty fidgeted while the maid arranged her hood, anxious to be downstairs. She certainly did not want to be late; not only might it displease the Queen if she did not arrive in good time, it might also mean that she would find that there was no space for her at the tables closest to the dais, where the royal family would be seated, and she certainly did not want to be relegated to a seat at one of the tables at the far end of the Hall, closest to the common people who were to be allowed to enter to watch the royal family and their courtiers eating their meal, while helping themselves to the food set out for them on the trestle tables.
With her gown laced and brushed and her headdress straight, she was ready and might have run straight down to the Hall, had she not remembered the Lady Mary.
Anne had singled her out before she went down to the Hall herself, quietly asking her to let the Lady Mary know that, if she wished to attend the banquet and the other celebrations, she was more than welcome to do so. Kitty certainly didn't want to forget her errand; if she proved to be careless and forgetful now, when she was starting out as a lady-in-waiting, how could she expect the Queen to ever entrust her with a message of any kind in the future?
She would feel mortified if her cousin decided that she was too flighty to be trusted.
She did not know the way to the Lady Mary's chamber but she was able to find a page, a youth who blushed bright red when she addressed him and who stammered out directions to the room before remembering his manners and offering to escort her there, an offer that Kitty eagerly accepted, smiling her thanks.
When she knocked on the door, a maid opened it for her. Kitty felt a surge of envy towards Lady Mary, who might only be a lady-in-waiting, just as she was, but who was allowed a fine chamber of her own, one that she did not have to share with anybody, along with her own maid, by virtue of her status as the King's daughter. The maid bobbed a curtsey at the sight of Kitty's gown, knowing that she must be a highborn lady from the quality of the cloth. She looked at her expectantly, unable to ask a lady of the court her name or to address her until she was spoken to first but, at the same time, unwilling to allow anybody to enter her mistress' chamber until she knew who they were and why they had come to see her.
"My name is Kitty… I mean Mistress Catherine Howard." Kitty introduced herself, feeling flustered. "I am one of Her Majesty's ladies-in-waiting and I have a message for the Lady Mary."
"I see." The maid's expression was grim and, for a moment, Kitty wondered whether the other girl would want to shut the door in her face, if she had dared to do so, refusing to allow her entry. However, it would be unthinkable for any mere maidservant, even one who attended the King's daughter, to treat one of the ladies of the Queen's household so rudely, so she stepped aside to allow Kitty to enter the room, shutting the door behind her before announcing her to the young woman who stood by the fireplace, staring at the logs burning in the grate. "Mistress Howard has come to see you, my lady." She said, making a deep curtsey.
"Mistress Howard." Mary's voice was cool.
Kitty instinctively curtsied, feeling more overawed by Mary's manner than she did by her royal blood but she quickly pulled herself up, feeling her cheeks grow warm. She wasn't sure whether she was expected to curtsey or whether that was something that she should not do; nobody had explained to her what degree of deference was supposed to be accorded to the King's illegitimate daughter and, as she had not thought to pay any attention to how the other ladies behaved towards Mary, she wasn't sure whether she would be better off assuming that she was to honour the Lady Mary for her royal blood until she was told otherwise, or whether she ought to assume that there was no need for her to extend the same courtesies to Mary – who was, after all, just another lady-in-waiting, just like Kitty herself – as she would to the Princess Elizabeth unless the Queen made it known that she expected them to defer to her stepdaughter.
She certainly didn't want Anne to think that she was siding with Lady Mary rather than with her.
She could remember hearing her step-grandmother speaking of the way that it had taken some people – people the Dowager Duchess usually condemned as 'obstinate', 'ignorant' or just plain 'stupid' – a long time to accept the truth and that, years ago, when the King and Queen married and when Princess Elizabeth was born, they had called Lady Mary the true princess, refusing to admit that she was a bastard.
The Dowager Duchess used to threaten her household, telling them that if any of them dared to refer to the Lady Mary as Princess or, worse still, to slander her adored Anne by denying her title as Queen, she would see to it that their tongues were slit for it.
Kitty believed that the old lady would have been more than willing to carry out her threat.
"Her Majesty the Queen asked me to bring you a message, Lady Mary." She told the other girl, trying to sound solemn.
"Has she?" If Mary felt any apprehension about this, she did not allow any hint of her feelings to show on her face. "Then you'd better tell me what it is."
"The Queen asked me to tell you that if you want to come down to the Hall for the celebrations, you are welcome to." Kitty told her, giving her a smile and thinking that her cousin was very kind to remember her stepdaughter like that. When the royal children were so upset to see their half-sister, it was right for Anne to tell Mary to leave for the moment, until Princess Elizabeth and the little Prince of Wales were calmer, but it was good of her to make sure that Mary knew that she was allowed to attend the celebrations, in case she thought that when Anne sent her away, she meant for her to stay away for the rest of the day, not even allowed to attend the banquet.
"I see." Mary said quietly, wondering if Anne had intended to command her attendance or if the invitation was only made as a courtesy, with Anne and her father expecting that she would decline, to avoid upsetting Elizabeth and Harry any further. Under normal circumstances, one did not refuse the invitation of a King or a Queen but these were not normal circumstances. Would her father and Anne be offended by her refusal or would they be angry if she accepted?
She wished that somebody else had been chosen to deliver the message; Kitty was good-natured and well-meaning but even after such a short acquaintance, Mary knew that the younger girl could never be called one of the most intelligent people at court. If Anne charged her with delivering a message, she would accept that message at face value, never thinking to suspect that Anne might not mean what she had said and she would deliver the message faithfully, whereas another lady, one who knew Anne better, might suspect that her mistress would prefer that she didn't deliver it.
In any case, whether Anne's invitation was sincere or not, Mary had no intention of accepting it.
She wasn't going to go down to the Great Hall, taking a seat at one of the lower tables, a place that would signal to all of the court, along with the common people who would be permitted to watch the festivities in Elizabeth's honour, that her status is her father's court was a low one – or, worse still, she might find herself summoned up to the dais where her father, her half-siblings and Anne would be dining but not so that she might sit with them.
She was realistic enough to know that she would inevitably be called upon to serve Anne when she dined in state as Queen, before the court and in view of the common people; all of the ladies of Anne's household took turns standing behind her at mealtimes, ready to serve her if she required anything and counting it an honour to be the one selected for the task. Mary knew that, sooner or later, she would be called upon to fulfil that task, obliged to publicly act as Anne's servant, ready to hand her a napkin or to refill her goblet or to perform any minor chores asked of her, just as her own maids in waiting once stood behind her at Ludlow Castle.
But today did not have to be the day.
Later, perhaps the idea of serving Anne, with the eyes of the whole court upon her, would be more bearable, even if only slightly, but today, her stomach churned at the thought.
"The Queen is kind to invite me," she said steadily, managing to hide the distress that referring to Anne as 'Queen' caused her. "But I will not be able to attend – I am feeling ill." She said firmly, before Kitty could object to the idea of her refusing Anne's invitation. "I have a headache."
"Oh." Kitty said doubtfully, scrutinizing Mary's face. It was true that she looked rather pale – but then, the sombre black gown she wore would make almost any woman look pale, even if she was in perfect health. Part of her longed to be able to speak to Lady Mary about clothes, recommending colours that would be particularly becoming for her but she didn't dare to say such a thing to the King's daughter, not when she barely knew her… just as she knew that she could never dare to call the King's daughter a liar or imply it by pressing her too much on the subject of her illness. "I will tell the Queen. Do you need me to fetch a physician?" She could have bitten her tongue as soon as she made the offer; she wasn't confident that she could find her way back to the Queen's apartment or to the Hall from here, so how was she supposed to locate a physician if the Lady Mary said that she wanted her to bring one?
Fortunately for her, Mary shook her head, declining the offer. "That won't be necessary, Mistress Howard, thank you. I often have these turns." This was true enough; since her adolescence… since she learned that her father intended to set her mother aside and name her a bastard, Mary's health had suffered and her years in exile at the More had not helped her constitution grow more robust. She might not have a headache now, but she could be reasonably certain that she would have one in the near future and part of her wanted to know how Anne planned to deal with them when they happened. Would she be prepared to allow Mary to absent herself from her tasks as lady-in-waiting or would she insist that she report for duty, as normal, regardless of how she was feeling? "I will rest and, in a day or two, I will be well again."
Kitty nodded comprehension. Not knowing what else to say, she excused herself, backing hastily out of the room.
Once outside the Lady Mary's chamber, however, she couldn't remember which corridor she had reached the room by, and she did not know which one would lead her to the Great Hall.
There was no page around, no servant that she could ask for directions from, and she didn't dare knock on the Lady Mary's door to find out where she ought to go.
"Lost again, sister?" A good-natured voice asked. "I might have guessed."
"Charles!" Kitty wrapped her arms around her brother in an impulsive hug. They had arrived at court together, she to serve the Queen and he to serve their uncle, but they knew that they were unlikely to see much of one another at court, as they would be absorbed with their respective duties. However, at least they were living under the same roof now, something they had not done since they were children, before their step-grandmother singled Catherine out as the girl to whom she would give a home at Lambeth, deeming her to be the prettiest of Lord Edmund Howard's daughters, even at her young age, and therefore the one most likely to benefit from the opportunities that would be afforded to her if she was placed in a great noble house.
"Uncle Norfolk sent me to fetch you," Charles explained with a wry grin. "The Queen told him that she had sent you on an errand to the Lady Mary, and when you did not come down to the Hall, he thought that you must be lost and sent me to fetch you. It looks like he was right."
Kitty pulled a face in response to his teasing but she did not argue. As one of the youngest members of a family of ten children, she was accustomed to being teased from her earliest years and knew better than to take offence over the good-natured ribbing of her elder brother. Instead, she slipped her arm through his, allowing him to lead her through the corridors to the stairs leading down to the Great Hall, chattering rapidly about how she had fared in the Queen's service so far, enthusiastically describing Anne as the kindest, loveliest and most gracious Queen imaginable, a lady she was delighted to be able to serve.
Much to her relief, she saw that quite a few of the places set at the tables were unoccupied. At least, if she was arriving late, she was not the last person to arrive – and, in any case, she had an excuse for her tardiness, something she suspected would not be true of some of those who were also late. Whispering to her brother to keep a place for her at his table, she approached the dais where the royal family were seated, curtseying deeply and waiting until Anne beckoned to her before she approached.
"The Lady Mary told me that she will not be able to attend – she asked me to apologize for her," she added hastily, seeing that the King could hear what she was saying and that his expression darkened at her words. She knew that she should not lie to Anne, under any circumstances, but she also did not want to see the Lady Mary get into trouble and thought that there was very little harm in her telling a white lie, even if Lady Mary had expressed no remorse for her inability to attend the festivities. Perhaps she would have if she thought of it and had just forgotten about it. "She said that she is feeling unwell."
"Does she need to see a physician?" Anne asked. Even if she was reasonably certain that Mary was suffering less from a physical ailment than from distress at both her position as lady-in-waiting and at the way the children had reacted to her, she could not forget that her stepdaughter was also known not to enjoy especially good health, or that Mary suffered from various chronic ailments. Now that Mary was one of her ladies, Anne bore some responsibility for her welfare and if she was truly ill, she had a duty to ensure that she was properly cared for, just as she would if it was one of her other ladies who was unwell.
"No, Your Majesty." Kitty responded. "She said that she just needed to rest and she'll be well again soon."
"Alright. Thank you, Kitty." Anne smiled at her young cousin, nodding to indicate that she might take a seat at one of the tables. "Enjoy the banquet."
"Yes, Your Majesty." Kitty nodded, curtseying a second time and withdrawing.
Henry's scowl was black. "She's pretending." He stated flatly, frowning. Mary might not enjoy the same vitality that Elizabeth and Harry did but Henry was sure that nobody could possibly be as ill as Mary claimed to be, or as often, without looking much frailer than his daughter did.
Illness was a convenient excuse, one that allowed her to escape tasks that she found unpleasant and to avoid things that she did not wish to do… even to try to manipulate him.
He could well remember the occasions when Chapuys came to him on his so-called missions of mercy, bringing him tidings of Mary's ill-health, sometimes daring to hint that her place in Elizabeth's household was having a detrimental effect on her spirits and her health, or even that her illnesses might be the result of an attempt made to poison her, with the unspoken implication that such an attempt was one that would have been made on Anne's orders, in the hopes that he could play on Henry's natural love and concern for his daughter and prompt him to allow her to leave Hatfield and her duties as one of Elizabeth's household, if he was made to fear that her health and even her life could be in jeopardy if he did not.
It would have suited Chapuys very well if Mary could be removed from Hatfield and sent to live in another of the royal residences, as he would be pleased to see Mary prevail where the issue of her service at Hatfield was concerned. As well as that, if Mary was to reside in a household of her own, she would have to have servants to tend to her needs and she would inevitably emulate Katherine. Lady Bryan was a sensible woman, one who knew better than to pay any attention to Mary's peevish insistence that she was the Princess of Wales and the rightful heir to the throne, save to rebuke her for her disobedience and obstinacy when she persisted in doing so, despite being made aware of her true status, but if Mary had a household of her own, it would be different.
She was her mother's daughter in many ways and, just as Katherine refused to accept the service of the servants Henry supplied to her because those servants addressed her by her proper title of Princess Dowager, forcing them to choose between disobeying the orders of their King by addressing her as Queen or leaving a royal lady unattended, Mary would be more than capable of insisting that she was addressed as Princess, blackmailing her household by refusing to eat food prepared for her by cooks who referred to her as Lady, or served to her by attendants who knew that she was a bastard.
Henry loved his daughter and it was not easy for him to know that his daughter was unhappy but he knew that he could not risk Elizabeth's position by giving Mary the opportunity to set herself up as a rival princess, laying claim to Elizabeth's rights as his legitimate heiress.
He had given in once, ordering that Mary should be removed to one of his manors for her comfort while she recuperated from one of her illnesses. He was alarmed by the physician's report and allowed Mary to be excused from her duties temporarily, little realizing that his daughter would repay his kindness and his fatherly concern for her welfare by trying to have her stepmother poisoned, but he knew that this would not have been what Chapuys hoped for when he made his appeals on Mary's behalf. He would have been glad to see Mary leave Hatfield but his definite preference was that she should leave to join her mother.
Chapuys persisted in troubling him with letters from Katherine, beseeching that she might be allowed to have Mary with her so that she could care for her while she was unwell, pretending that it was no more than the natural desire of a mother to nurse her ailing child – if Mary had truly been ill and not merely feigning it in order to escape Hatfield – as though he believed Henry to be so stupid that he did not realize that as soon as his former wife and his illegitimate daughter were allowed to be in the same household, they would conspire against him, seeking to either rally his own subjects against him or else to escape to Spain and to the Emperor, who would proclaim them Queen and Princess from the safety of his own dominion.
It hurt Henry to have to refuse these requests, knowing that there was some truth to the words of Katherine's letter, when she said that her presence would be a comfort to their daughter in itself, more of an aid to her recovery than the services of a physician could be, but he had had no alternative. He was aware of the risks that he would be taking if he allowed the two women to be together and he could not shut his eyes to those risks, even if part of him wanted to be able to grant Katherine's request for Mary's sake. He was worried about Mary's health, as any father would worry about a sick child, but he could not take the risk that together they would become a focal point for opposition and, until they yielded and accepted that his marriage to Katherine was invalid and showed themselves willing to acknowledge Anne as Queen, he could not allow them to meet, much less to reside in the same household.
Back then, Mary's illnesses had been part of a conspiracy to allow her mother and the Imperial ambassador to set her up as a pretender against her own father. Now, she was using them to ensure that she would not need to appear in public in her new role.
It was intolerable!
"Maybe she is," Anne agreed quietly, pitching her voice low so that only he could hear their words. "But maybe it's for the best if Mary isn't here today – we don't want to spoil Elizabeth's day." She nodded in the direction of the little girl, who was watching, entranced, as Henry's Fool turned somersaults, pretending to be clumsy and to fall, in order to entertain her.
Elizabeth was happy and distracted at the moment and Anne didn't want her to be upset again.
Henry nodded, knowing that she had a point. He caught her hand in his, lifting it so that he might kiss the tips of her fingers. "You're right, sweetheart – as always. It is Elizabeth's day."
Elizabeth looked up at the mention of her name, smiling at him, and Henry's anger towards Mary melted away. His elder daughter forgotten, he released Anne's hand, bending down to lift his younger daughter from her chair and scoop her up in his arms, holding her high so that everybody in the Hall could see his beautiful little girl, his jewel of England, and admire her.
Balancing Elizabeth in one arm, he picked up a gold goblet with his free hand, raising it high, an example that the rest of the court followed. "To Elizabeth!" He bellowed the toast, wanting to make sure that all present could hear his words. "A long, happy and prosperous life to the Princess of England!"
A ripple of applause broke out and Henry rejoiced to hear it, just as he rejoiced to hear the enthusiastic voices seconding his toast and to know that every man and woman present joined him in his good wishes for Princess Elizabeth… the only Princess of England.
12th October 1539
His father's funeral was a relatively simple affair, as he had wished, with only close family and friends in attendance, and without a lavish tomb supplied but even so, Edward Seymour couldn't help but feel dismayed by the costs associated with providing him with a burial worthy of a knight of the realm, one of the many costs encumbering his inheritance.
For many families, the fact that Sir John Seymour was the father of two sons and three daughters who had survived to adulthood was cause for envy, especially in families where prayers for a son and heir went unanswered and the family property would have to pass to a brother, nephew or cousin instead but there were drawbacks to that blessing, particularly when the family income was not sufficient to provide for them all in a manner befitting their rank… as Edward now had good cause to know.
He was the eldest son and, as such, he was the natural heir to the Seymour family estates. Upon his father's death, he became master of Wolf Hall, and owner of his father's lands but the expenses that family duty would demand of him would eat into his new income. He had three sisters who would need to be supplied with suitable marriage portions, and a brother who would have to be provided with the funds he would need to help him make his way in the world.
His wife, Anne Stanhope, had commented bitterly that by the time his siblings were supplied with their portions, there would be very little left for them and for their children.
If it was an exaggeration, it was not much of one.
Elizabeth was betrothed and their father had begun to put some money aside for the dowry he promised her future husband, managing to amass a little over half the agreed upon amount but there were still hundreds of pounds left for Edward to come up with in order to match the promised sum, and the last thing he wanted was for himself and his family to be put in the humiliating position of having to admit that they lacked the resources to fulfil their end of the bargain and supply the promised dowry. It was a disgrace that would be talked about among their neighbours, and jeered over at court whenever he visited.
When the time came, Dorothy would need to be supplied with a similar sum if she was to make a match worthy of her birth. Tom was at court and, as he did not have a position that would generate an income sufficient to meet his needs – and, to his dismay and Edward's, it seemed that of everybody at court, the Seymours were the least likely to obtain any posts that became available, as though the King feared that it would offend the Queen if they were shown even that much favour, despite the fact that they were uncles to his son – he would need to be provided with enough money to ensure that he lived in the manner his station required.
At least he did not have to worry about Jane.
Their father was soft, doting on his eldest daughter and refusing to consider the idea of pushing her into marriage when she was reluctant to take a husband, despite Edward's earnest efforts to convince him that, even if she was initially reluctant, it would be in Jane's best interests if they took advantage of the opportunity to find her a good husband when they had the chance to do so, when she was still young and pretty and when the King was sure to dower her well. They could find her a man who would be able to ensure that she was well cared for and who would render her respectable with the marriage, transforming her from a former mistress and the mother of a bastard child to a decent matron.
The longer they waited, the less generous the King would be inclined to be.
Edward's wife had made it plain to him that, once she became mistress of Wolf Hall, she did not want to have Jane continue to live under their roof. She never said so openly but Edward knew that she harboured resentment towards Jane over the fact that her affair with the King meant that the Seymours – who were, after all, distant kin to Queen Anne and who might otherwise have a tentative claim on her favour – were avoided by others of their class. Family duty was all well and good but as long as Jane continued to reside at Wolf Hall, the Seymour family could expect to be shunned by other families of their class, who would not want to associate with a woman of her reputation, something that would harm Dorothy's prospects, not to mention the prospects of any children that Edward and his wife would have.
That was something they could not allow.
His father's illness was a long one and, although Edward would never have dreamed of voicing his intentions for when he became head of the family while his father continued to draw breath, knowing that it would be unseemly for him to make reference to it, he was well aware that the day was fast approaching and he began to lay discreet plans, chief of which was the selection of a suitable gentleman to marry Jane, when the time came. He also contacted Master Cromwell, asking about what arrangements might be made to dower the mother of the King's son. The King had promised a dowry when little Edward was born, but that was almost three years ago and he might not be as inclined to be generous now.
The response did not come from Master Cromwell which, while unsurprising given that the affair of the religious houses had kept the man occupied, was disappointing. Instead of Jane's future being considered by no less a person than the Lord Chancellor of England, responsibility for dealing with the issue was to be delegated. Worse still was the identity of the man chosen to deal with the correspondence regarding the matter.
The Duke of Norfolk was not the worst man for the King to have chosen to entrust with the task, but he was not far from that. The Duke of Wiltshire or the Earl of Ormonde, as father and brother to the Queen, would be the worst men for the job, the ones who were all but guaranteed to ensure that only the most minimal provisions they could get away with were supplied for Jane and for little Edward but Norfolk, as the Queen's uncle, was also bound to be interested in promoting her interests and those of her children, which meant discouraging the King from taking an interest in his son and providing for him as he had for little Henry Fitzroy.
Norfolk certainly would not take it upon himself to encourage the King to be more generous if his inclination was to be stingy, quite the reverse.
The response to Edward's letter was courteously worded, expressing pleasure, on the King's behalf, that Jane had been able to find a suitable husband – Edward could imagine Norfolk's smugness as he wrote those words, undoubtedly thinking that any man who was prepared to take Jane as his wife would not be a husband worth having – and giving a figure for the dowry that she could expect to be provided with, once the marriage contract was signed.
Three thousand pounds.
It was a respectable sum, the kind of dowry that the daughter of a prosperous lord could expect to bring to her future husband, a welcome addition to the fortune of most bridegrooms. Edward was going to have to stretch his finances to ensure that Elizabeth would bring a third of that sum to her bridegroom and dreaded the day when Dorothy found a match and would need to be dowered.
It was not as though he was incapable of appreciating that the dowry promised for Jane was larger than any dowry he or his father had the means to supply her with, but he was still disappointed by the figure, thinking that it could have been much higher, especially if Jane had had the sense to marry as soon after the birth as possible, at a time when the King would have been at his most generous. She might even have found herself a baroness, or even a viscountess if the King wished to ennoble the husband of the mother of his son.
But she had not behaved sensibly, and he could not change that now.
Edward was a practical man. Wishing that Jane had acted differently would change nothing. He might as well wish that Anne had miscarried the little Prince of Wales, or that Jane had become the King's wife and Queen rather than his mistress, for all the good wishing would do him. He had to deal with the situation as it stood instead of wasting his time and his energy by wishing that things were different. A man could only work with what he had.
Fortunately, the man he had selected as a potential husband for his sister was not an avaricious man, so the promised dowry of three thousand pounds would be more than adequate.
He was an acquaintance of Edward's, a man who had spent his youth at court and who was knighted as a reward for his good service to the King but he had left the court to be married eight years ago, and never returned. He was content with life in the country, and his inherited estates ensured that he and his family would never want for anything. As a widower with three young children, the eldest not yet seven, he was eager to remarry, to provide his children with a stepmother, his household with a mistress and himself with a companion, and he was not a man who would be too proud to wed a woman who was once mistress to the King of England.
Edward thought that even his father would have welcomed the man as his son-in-law, had he known that his eldest son had begun tentative discussions with him about the possibility of a match being arranged between him and Jane.
He was poring over his father's account books, taking special note of the expenses relating to little Edward's upkeep and the wages of the servants needed to tend to the King's son, feeling relieved to confirm that the allowance for his nephew's upkeep was paid regularly, and that it was sufficient to meet his needs. Part of him had feared that, given the King's apparent lack of interest in his son, he might have supplied a lower allowance than the child's needs would demand, and that he would discover that his father had shouldered some of the costs himself rather than skimp on expenses in the little boy's nursery, costs that would now have to be met from Edward's purse as there could be no question of denying the King's son his due or neglecting to pay him the honour his royal blood demanded.
The allowance had covered mother and son, providing for their needs amply and, if Edward was fortunate, it would not be reduced now, even though there would no longer be a need to meet Jane's expenses from the sum. If that was the case, the excess income could prove very valuable to him when it came to running Wolf Hall.
He was almost finished when he was interrupted by a knock on the door, and one of the servants entered, sketching a bow. "Sir William Herbert is here to see you, Master." He said.
"Send him in." Edward rose to his feet, ready to greet his guest and knowing that, as an ordinary gentleman, he was expected to pay his respects to a knight of the realm. He felt a flash of irritation; had Jane played her cards better, he was sure that he would have been knighted by now, at the very least, and he would be greeting Sir William as his equal rather than his superior. He put a smile on his face, however, and when the other man was conducted into the room, he greeted him cordially, making solicitous enquiries about his journey and his health.
"A very pleasant journey, Master Seymour, very pleasant and I am in excellent health, Thank God." Sir William told him affably, shaking his hand warmly. He willingly allowed himself to be conducted over to a chair by the fireside, thanking Edward for the goblet of wine that was pressed into his hand. "I hope the same is true of yourself."
"I am well enough. As you may remember, Sir William," Edward began, pouring a goblet of wine for himself, though he had no intention of drinking it, "you and I discussed a matter – a personal matter – not long ago." Sir William nodded confirmation. "Due to my father's illness, and his sad demise, we were unable to conclude our discussions and…"
"I am still interested, Master Seymour, if that's what you wish to ask." Sir William interrupted, wanting to cut through the discomfort and to get straight to the point. "I've met Mistress Jane… before." Since she became pregnant with little Edward, few people outside the family had seen Jane, as she did not attend social events. On the rare occasions when visitors came to dine at Wolf Hall, she usually stayed away, for the sake of discretion. "She's a lovely lady, and a very kind and gentle one – a lady who'll be kind to my little ones." From Sir William's perspective, it was not good for a man in his prime to be without a wife for too long but it was worse still for children to be left without a mother to care for them. Even if his own inclination had been to remain a bachelor, he would have remarried to provide his children with a stepmother.
"I'm glad." Edward's voice was neutral but his relief was genuine.
It was not easy for him to find a suitable husband for his sister under the circumstances, and he was aware of how lucky he was that Sir William had professed himself willing to marry Jane when he first broached the issue. The man was a knight, which made him a suitable match in terms of his position, and he was financially comfortable. He was also not a courtier any longer, which was ideal; a man who hoped to make his fortune at court would never be prepared to take Jane on. It was too well known that the King had had little time for her or for her son since she first left court, shortly after Prince Harry's birth, and there was a risk that the man who took her as his wife might find himself at a disadvantage at court rather than the reverse, especially since the Howards and the Boleyns would have little cause to look favourably on Jane's husband.
"Have you told Mistress Jane yet? About my suit, I mean?" Sir William asked, feeling rather nervous. He prided himself on being an honest man, one who would be a good and considerate husband and who would make few demands on his wife, but he was aware of the fact that not even his dearest friend could not have called him a handsome man and he was Jane's senior by more than a few years.
"Not yet." Edward told him gravely. Had he mentioned the matter to Jane while their father still lived, he knew well that he could expect his sister to run to their father, appealing to him to prevent the marriage, and their father was likely to take her part, exacting a promise from Edward that he would not proceed with the matter without his sister's consent, a promise that filial duty would oblige him to keep, regardless of what he thought best. "With my father ill and with his death, it did not seem like a fit time to bring up the matter, not while we were still in mourning."
"Of course, of course."
"But I am sure that she will be delighted when she learns of it, and grateful for her good fortune." Edward assured his future brother-in-law solemnly. Before Sir William could ask about whether or not he could see Jane, whose disposition was bound to make it clear that she most certainly did not welcome the idea of marriage if she saw her bridegroom before she had had a chance to become accustomed to the news, he continued. "Out of respect for my father, the wedding cannot take place straight away, not while we are in mourning for him, but I believe that a ceremony could be arranged for next month, if that suits you."
"It does." Sir William said with a smile.
"Then I will make the necessary arrangements." Edward said, rising from his chair to indicate that the interview was at an end. It was not that he meant to be discourteous but he had many things to do today, especially if he was to make arrangements for a wedding next month. Even if the circumstances demanded a quiet wedding, it would still require a great deal of organization... though, under the circumstances, he imagined that his wife would be more willing to lend her assistance than she usually was to help Jane in any way.
Sir William rose too. "If you will forgive me, Master Seymour... Edward," he amended, thinking that as the other man was soon to be his brother-in-law, they should begin to speak to one another as brothers would, "I cannot stay long." He said tactfully, sparing Edward the discomfort of having to make more overt hints that he wished to end their interview. "There is one more matter, however... a delicate one." He said, lowering his voice slightly, even though there was nobody within earshot. "Mistress Jane's little lad..."
"The King's son." Edward said firmly. Bastard or not, there was no shame in little Edward being an acknowledged son of the King and they always referred to him as such. "Lord Edward Fitzroy."
"Yes." Sir William agreed. "I'm sure that Mistress Jane would be happier if she had little Lord Edward with her when we marry, and I wanted you to know that I would have no objection to it if she wished to bring him with her when she comes to live at my place. I have a boy of my own, as you know, and the two girls. There's always room for one more in the nursery, and I would welcome Lord Edward, and treat him as my own son." It was no more than he would have done had he married a widow with a child, and he saw no need to behave differently with Jane, even under the circumstances.
Had another man been the one speaking, Edward would have thought that he was attempting to wrest guardianship of the King's son from him so that he might reap the benefits of being the one who would rear a royal bastard, the one who would enjoy the income supplied for little Edward's care and who might even be rewarded by the King for his care of his son. Sir William, however, was not an ambitious man and it was very likely that he was sincere when he said that he would welcome the little boy and treat him as his own but, regardless of his intentions, this was not something that he could allow.
Although he did not deny that he had his own reasons for wishing to see Jane safely settled and away from Wolf Hall, he also believed that it would be in his nephew's best interests if he was to be removed from his mother's care, not because Jane was an uncaring mother, unfit to tend to a child but because the King was unlikely to take more of an interest in his son as long as Jane still lived under the same roof as little Edward.
The King's feelings towards Jane had not thawed and it was not fair that little Edward should suffer because his father did not wish to see his mother. He was the King's son and he deserved to benefit from the royal blood flowing through his veins, just as Edward himself deserved to be honoured as his uncle, now his guardian. After the way he had suffered when the existence of his sister's child became known, mocked as the man who hoped to see his sister sit on the throne and to rise to glory clutching to her petticoats, only to have to content himself with being the uncle of a bastard the King barely deigned to notice, he felt that he was owed a title at the very least.
It was fortunate that he had continued to attend court, despite his embarrassment, as he would now be in a position to make it known that Jane was safely married and away from Wolf Hall, and that the King's son lived under his roof and under his care. If they were fortunate, the King would decide to pay his child a visit now that he could do so without encountering Jane and rousing the Queen's jealousy, and when he saw how well little Edward was growing, he would be generous.
To some, it might seem cold but Edward truly believed that this was in his nephew's best interests.
Sir William was waiting for him to respond.
"It is very kind of you to make that offer, Sir William, and I wish that I could accept." He said, infusing his tone with regret, wanting the other man to believe that, under other circumstances, he would have been only too pleased to turn his nephew over to his care. "But I'm afraid that it is impossible. His Majesty the King indicated that, when my sister married, Lord Edward should continue to reside here at Wolf Hall, as my father's ward – or mine, in this case. Naturally we must honour the King's wishes." He lied, knowing that the other man would not think to question his honesty, particularly when he was invoking the King's name. He would take him at his word.
"Naturally." Sir William echoed, trying to hide his disappointment. He wanted his future wife to be happy and he believed that she would settle into her new home more easily if she could have her little son with her and know that they would both be welcome into the bosom of the Herbert family but, as Edward said, they had to follow the King's wishes in this regard.
"You will both be welcome to visit here of course, as often as you like." Edward offered. "And, if I may, Sir William, I would ask that you do not mention your generous offer to my sister, before your marriage or after. She will be reluctant to leave Lord Edward, and I think that it would be best if she is not given false hope that she may keep him with her. His Majesty seemed determined that the boy should remain here and he would not be pleased if she sought to change his mind."
"I understand." Sir William responded. "Will you give my regards to Mistress Jane?"
"Of course, Sir William." Edward agreed, walking to the door with the other man. Once Sir William was gone, he breathed a sigh of relief.
His sister was settled now, or would be within the month. He would have the guardianship of her son – of the King's son – and he would be able to show the King how well he was caring for the child, and how concerned he was with the little boy's future. If they were fortunate, everything would be different now.
Perhaps the Seymour family had been given a second chance.
15th October 1539
Cromwell had taken Anne's advice, waiting until after the royal children had left Whitehall to return to their own establishment at Hatfield before he approached the King to offer him his resignation.
He had rehearsed the speech he intended to make countless times before he sought an audience with the King, putting a great deal of thought into what it was he was going to say and knowing that the speech could either sway the King in his favour or else destroy any chance that he might have of being restored to his good graces if he offended him in any way.
When he planned what it was he intended to say, he knew that he would have to be humble, and he would have to acknowledge responsibility for what had happened with the uprising, even if he did not believe himself to be at fault in this matter, even if he believed that the decisions he made were made in the best interests of his King and his country. What he believed did not matter. Even the truth did not matter. What mattered was that the King blamed him and he would have scant patience with any attempts Cromwell made to excuse his decisions or to absolve himself of responsibility for what had happened. The only thing that had a chance of softening his anger was a humble admission of guilt and an apology for the trouble his errors in judgement had caused.
After that, all he could do was hope that he would be shown mercy... the kind of mercy that neither Wolsey nor More, both of whom had been more dearly loved by Henry than he was, were not shown when they fell from favour.
It was strange.
He had practiced his speech so often but the words that sounded so sincere and so unrehearsed when he spoke them in his rooms came out as stiff and unnatural as soon as he was in his King's presence, and no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't make it sound anything else.
Fortune smiled on him today, at least a little, and Henry did not seem to be paying much attention to what he was saying, nodding distractedly as he spoke and only giving Cromwell his full attention when his chancellor knelt before him, offering up the great seal of his office and beseeching to be allowed to resign his position.
Time slowed to a crawl for Cromwell as he knelt in supplication, the velvet bag containing the seal feeling heavy in his hands as he held it out, waiting to see if Henry would accept it.
As Anne had said, once he offered up the seal, Henry's response would show him where he stood. He would either refuse to accept it, insisting that Cromwell retain his position, a command he would be only too pleased to obey, or he would accept the seal and his resignation, saying something courteous about how much he valued his service but, at the same time, making it plain that he had neither the intention nor the inclination to retain that service.
Henry's expression was unreadable. He did not respond straight away and his silence gave Cromwell hope, hope that he might be allowed a second chance, hope that his previous years of service had pleased his master enough to ensure that he would not want to lose him over one matter, even if that matter was a serious one, but as soon as Henry rose from his throne, bending to pluck the seal from Cromwell's outstretched hands, that hope was dashed.
Henry spoke but Cromwell didn't hear him. He wasn't frowning, so the former chancellor knew that his anger was mollified by his resignation and by his apology. He might have been saying anything; thanking Cromwell for his years of service, or telling him what he might expect by way of a pension or honours as a reward for his past good service. Cromwell took in none of it.
When the interview concluded, there was part of him, a large part, that deeply regretted leaving the King's presence, knowing that there was a good chance that he might never be permitted to come into his presence again but another part of him knew that he was lucky to be walking away from him, more or less of his own free will and with his head held high, instead of being banished in disgrace or, worse still, being arrested as two of his predecessors were.
He might have to leave the court, abdicating the power he had wielded for so long but he was a luckier man than Wolsey or More, and that was something to be thankful for.
16th October 1539
Henry had no idea who he would choose to fill Cromwell's vacated position. There was no doubt in his mind that there would be many men at court who would be all too eager to be granted the position, knowing that as chancellor they would wield more power and influence than virtually any other man in England, save the King himself did, but that did not mean that any of them were actually suitable for the position or deserving of it.
Whoever was granted the position would have big shoes to fill.
For all his faults, Cromwell had done well as Lord Chancellor, especially when one considered the circumstances that he had worked in. There were few men who would have been able to handle such delicate issues as Henry's Great Matter as ably as Cromwell had and, in a way, Henry would miss him.
There could be no question of him staying on in his post, of course. After what had happened with the religious houses, that would be unthinkable. The people would never have stood for Cromwell being permitted to retain his position of power after that disaster and Henry was thankful that Cromwell had realized that, at least, and that he had had the sense to offer his resignation himself, instead of waiting for Henry to have to perform the uncomfortable task of dismissing him.
As angry as he had been with the other man, his feelings softened somewhat when he saw that, whatever his mistakes, at least Cromwell was able to recognize them and to acknowledge that, in this situation, the best thing that he could do if he hoped to serve his country was to step down.
In time, when things were a little more settled, he would be able to properly reward Cromwell for his past service. He intended to see to it that he was supplied with an adequate pension and he was even going to ennoble him, making him a baron to signal to his court that, although Cromwell was no longer chancellor, Henry did not forget his past service.
But he still needed a new chancellor, and he had no idea who it should be. Anne might have some ideas about who he could pick, she had proven to be better able to think up solutions to problems than he would ever have credited her with, spotting answers that eluded him and quickly getting to the heart of the matter.
A slow smile spread across his face as an idea struck him.
Finishing his breakfast, he dabbed his mouth with his napkin and rose to his feet, extending a hand to Anne. "I hope that you don't have anything important planned for this morning, my darling. Because if you do, it's going to have to wait a couple of hours." He told her, helping her to her feet and guiding her out of her apartment, answering her questions about where they were going and what he was doing with smiles and slight shakes of the head, indicating that she would have to be patient and wait and see.
He didn't need to look back to know that Anne's ladies were astonished by this. He could imagine that, as soon as he and Anne were safely out of earshot, there would be rampant speculation about what this could mean.
They had lingered longer than usual over breakfast this morning and the members of his Privy Council were already assembled and waiting for him when he entered the chamber where their meetings took place, Anne on his arm. To a man, their wide eyes and open mouths spoke of their utter astonishment when Henry escorted Anne into the room, instructing the servants in the chamber to have a chair brought for Anne, and placed to the right of his chair – though, to do him justice, Norfolk recovered from his surprise more quickly than the others did, giving Anne a smile of welcome and moving his chair further down the table to make room for hers when the servants brought it.
Aside from the brief period when Katherine had acted as Regent on his behalf, no woman had ever attended a meeting of the Privy Council... but then, a time might come when Anne would be Regent. Henry had every intention of living many years more, until Harry was a grown man with children of his own, but such things were in God's hands and, if he died before his son reached his majority, it would fall to Anne to rule on Harry's behalf, keeping the country safe and prosperous until Harry was ready for the responsibility to be turned over to him.
It was best that she was prepared for that task, just in case, and Henry didn't see any harm in having her input beforehand.
If she was able to help him come up with solutions to his problems, solutions that might not occur to the men on his Privy Council, what did her sex matter? An idea did not become more or less valuable, depending on whether the one who thought of it was male or female. The men on his Privy Council were not the ones who devised the means to bring an end to the uprisings, after all. Anne was, and she had rightly won the respect of the people as a result.
Once they were seated, Henry reached over to squeeze Anne's hand gently.
He didn't need to ask her whether or not she minded being brought to attend the meeting, or if she was happy that he had made his respect for her and for her intelligence known to his council by bringing her here today.
Her smile told him all he needed to know.
The men on his Privy Council took their seats, rifling through the documents in front of them, each with his own opinion about what it was they should focus on today. Henry nodded to Norfolk, inviting him to be the first to raise an issue, and the meeting began.
30th November 1539
Her new husband was a good man.
As much as she resented the fact that her brother had pressed her to marry, selecting a man he deemed to be a suitable match for her before their father was cold, she could not deny that. She didn't care too much about his status as a knight, or even about his fortune. she was just relieved to see that he was a kind man, one who treated her respectfully, seeming almost shy in her presence at times, and who would not reproach her for her past.
Edward made it plain that she could not expect him to house her under his roof forever and that, as a good man had been found for her, one who was willing to marry her and who would care for her, it was her duty to accept him and to do so with a smile on her face. With her reputation, she was fortunate to find so good a man as Sir William and, if she was foolish enough to refuse to recognize her good fortune and to be thankful for it, he hinted that other arrangements would have to be made for her, perhaps a convent, as she could not reside with him and with his family indefinitely.
His eyes were so cold when he pointed out that, based on how little attention the King had paid to her or even to her little son since the day the child was born, it was unlikely that he would raise any objection if he was asked to supply a dowry so that she could enter a convent instead of so that she could marry. In fact, it was likely that he would be more than willing to do so.
As a married woman, she would still be able to visit Wolf Hall from time to time, with her husband's permission, and when she did, she would be able to see her son. If she was sent to a convent, a closed order, then she would never be able to see him again.
Put like that, her choice was an easy one.
Doing something that would completely cut off her contact with her precious little son was simply not an option. It would never be an option.
She would have married a far worse man than William Herbert if the alternative was that she would never be able to see Edward again.
The marriage ceremony was a quiet one, attended only by her family and a couple of close friends of Sir William's. Under the circumstances, her brother – who, as head of the family, now had the authority to dictate such things – believed that it would be better if they erred on the side of discretion, dispensing with the lavish celebrations that usually accompanied a wedding.
Little Edward, not yet three years old, was too young to be able to attend the nuptial Mass but his nursemaid was under strict instructions to bring him down before Jane and her husband departed, so that she could say goodbye to him, explaining to him that she had to go away.
Her brother's tone was so cold and so matter of fact when he told her that, naturally, he would now act as little Edward's guardian, with Jane's precious little boy residing at Wolf Hall rather than travelling with her to her new home, where he could have lived and played with his new stepbrother and stepsisters. It was as though neither he nor her husband were able to see that there was anything wrong or even unusual about expecting her to stand in a mother's place to her three new stepchildren but, at the same time, to leave her own little boy in the care of others, moving to a home far away where she would be fortunate if she was able to come back to see him more than once a month.
William was a kind man, and his eagerness to please her gave Jane hope that, if she asked him, he would be prepared to consent to allow her to bring Edward with her but when she suggested the possibility to her brother, as she was bidding him goodbye before setting off in a carriage to her new home, he came closer to losing his temper than she had ever heard him.
"Are you mad, sister?" Edward demanded sharply. "How can you even think of asking a gentleman like Sir William to welcome your bastard son into his household? Do you think that he wants to be reminded of the fact that you were a mother long before you became a wife? It's out of the question – and you need to think of my nephew, as well." He added, before she could protest that there was no harm in asking, even if the answer would be 'no'. "The King has never come to visit young Edward and you and I both know that he will not, not as long as he knows that you will be here too if he comes. If there is to be any hope of your son being honoured by the King, then you will have to let him go and leave him to my care. He will be safe here, sister, I give you my word, and I will do all I can to encourage the King to take an interest in him and to think kindly of him. if we are fortunate, we may one day see him raised to the peerage."
He expected her to thank him, his tone made that clear, but Jane could not force her tongue to voice the words of gratitude that Edward expected from her.
It was true that she would have dearly loved to see her son ennobled, recognized by the King as his own son, a boy of royal blood who should be honoured as such, even if his illegitimacy meant that he could not lay claim to the title of Prince. She would have loved to see him take his place alongside the other peers of the realm, to know that his future was a secure one and that he would be provided for the rest of his life and she would have loved to see some sign from the King that he truly rejoiced over the fact that she had made him the father of such a beautiful, clever little boy, a boy that any father should be proud to own as his son. However, even if it was selfish, she wanted that less than she wanted to have her son with her always, for her to be the one who played with him and who cared for him when he was ill and who watched him while he learned to read and to write and to ride his first pony.
Now, Edward's nursemaid would care for him instead, perhaps even coming to fill the place in his heart that his mother should fill.
She was realistic enough to know that, if she had become Queen and her son was a Prince, she would not have been able to spend as much time with him in his whole childhood as she had in the few years they had had together. Queen Anne loved her children dearly, even her worst enemy could not have denied that, but she would have had to watch while they were taken from her and sent away to their own establishment, as befitted a royal prince and princess, as Jane would have if she was the King's wife. If she was the wife of another man, she would have nursemaids and wetnurses to tend to her babies, women who would rear them while her duties as mistress of a household kept her busy and while her husband sought to sire another child on her before the last had cut its first tooth.
She had been blessed to have as much time with Edward as she had but she could have had more time with him, should have had more time with him.
Even if her son was made a duke, she didn't think that she would ever be able to thank her brother for taking that time from her.
There was no point in arguing with him, however.
What was done was done and it could not be undone.
There wedding ceremony was over and Mistress Jane Seymour had become Lady Herbert.
Her belongings had been packed into trunks and loaded on top of the carriage that would bring her to her new home. She had said her goodbyes to her sisters and to her sister-in-law, to her brothers and even to some of the servants, those who had tended to the family for so long that she could scarcely imagine Wolf Hall without them. Now there was only one more person left for her to bid farewell to, the one person that she would miss more than everybody else combined.
Little Edward's nursemaid held him by the hand as she brought him down the stairs to the hall where his mother was waiting, bobbing a curtsey before releasing her little charge and watching, with an indulgent smile on her face, as he ran towards Jane, his arms outstretched.
Jane bent down, lifting her child up and holding him close, kissing his soft cheeks and resting her chin on his fair head. "Hello, my darling." She said.
"Hello, Mama." He looked up at her with wide blue eyes. "Nurse said that you had a husband and you were going away." He told her solemnly, regarding her curiously. "Are you?" Jane nodded, feeling unable to speak. "Will I be coming with you?" Although he asked the question, the little boy didn't expect any answer other than 'yes'. He had never been away from his mother for even a day since he was born and he didn't see why this should change, even if, as his nurse had said, his mother had a husband now. He was still her little boy and he knew that his mother loved him best of all. She often said so.
Jane shook her head, biting her lip to keep the tears from flowing. She set him down on the floor, stroking his hair. "No, dearest, you're not. You're going to stay here, with your Uncle Edward." For the little boy's sake, she tried to sound cheerful about this, not wanting to upset him, but she could feel a lump in her throat as she spoke, one that would not go away.
"Why?" Her son asked, dismayed by the prospect of her leaving him.
"Because your father, the King, would wish for you to live at Wolf Hall, with me." His Uncle Edward told him before his mother could answer his question. "His Majesty wishes for me to take care of you while your mother goes to live with Sir William, her new husband." Edward smiled at his nephew, crouching down to child level.
He would never be called a warm man, or an affectionate one but he was fond of the little boy, in his way, and he wanted what was best for him. As long as he remained in Jane's care, little Edward's chances of securing his father's favour would be slim. He would be provided with all he needed materially but no more than that, and there would be no question of him bearing a grand title. He could have let the child leave with his mother and his new stepfather, knowing that he would be treated kindly there and that his childhood would be a happy one but the damage to his chances of being favoured by his royal father would be immeasurable. They would grow more remote as soon as he left Wolf Hall.
One day, he believed that both his sister and his nephew would understand why he had not taken Sir William up on his offer to welcome his new stepson as well as his wife, and that they would even thank him for being far-sighted enough to be able to see what was best for them all.
"Why?" Edward asked again, pouting. He knew that his father was the King, and that little boys had to obey their fathers and their King, which meant that he had to be extra careful to do whatever his father commanded of him, but he had never even seen his father before, except when he was a baby and much too little to remember, so he couldn't understand why his father wouldn't want him to stay with his mother. If he left her, he wouldn't have any parent!
That thought was dreadful enough to bring to tears to his eyes, tears that ran down his face until his mother bent down to gently wipe them away with a handkerchief.
"Come now," Edward chided his nephew, albeit mildly. "A King's son must not be a cry-baby! The King would want his son to be a brave boy, a boy he could be proud of! He would want you to stay here at Wolf Hall and, when you are a little older, to work hard at your lessons and to learn how to ride a horse and to shoot and fence. Then he will be pleased with you."
Little Edward nodded half-heartedly, obediently doing his best to stop crying, but it was very difficult. He knew that he should want to be a good boy and for his father to be proud of him but all he could think about was how much he was going to miss his mother. She knelt down in front of him, putting her arms around him and hugging him close, kissing him over and over.
"It's alright, dearest, I promise." She told him gently, forcing herself to smile for his sake. "Uncle Edward will take good care of you and I'll come and see you as often as I can, I promise."
Her brother laid a hand on her shoulder, reaching down with his other hand to grasp little Edward's. "I think it would be better for him if you don't drag this out, sister." He said quietly but very firmly. "Just say goodbye quickly."
Jane nodded tearfully, kissing Edward once more before releasing him, allowing her brother to pick him up. "Goodbye, my precious boy." She told him. "I'll see you soon – very soon." Even if Sir William objected to her visiting, something she deemed unlikely, she would saddle a horse and ride back to Wolf Hall without his permission if that was what it took.
Her husband was waiting for her, hovering near the door while she bid her son goodbye, and he approached her now, offering her his arm, his brown eyes soft with sympathy and concern. He said something to little Edward, though she couldn't register what it was, and then guided her out to the carriage, murmuring promises that he would bring her back for a visit soon.
She turned as she left, watching her brother hold her son in his arms and praying that Edward would fulfil his promise and that he would care for her son well, treating him kindly, and that he would allow her to visit Wolf Hall as often as she liked, instead of fobbing her off with excuses.
She had to believe that he would, or she would never be able to walk away.
Little Edward watched her leave, biting his lower lip to keep from crying again. He was the King's son, and he had to be a brave boy now... a brave boy without his mother.
TBC.
