Part Two
Lethal Struggles (1537-1541)
Chapter 17: The Queen's Disaster
May 15, 1537, Eltham Palace, Greenwich, Kent, England
The first fingers of dawn painted swirls of violet across the surface of the River Thames. Two months ago, the Tudor court had arrived at Eltham Palace by water. King Henry desired to reside at this memory-filled place, where he and his siblings, save Prince Arthur Tudor, had spent many blithesome days in childhood, blossoming in the care of their mother, Elizabeth of York.
"The queen has miscarried," Doctor Butts informed in a voice layered with compassion and sadness. "The child has the appearance of a male about four months in gestation."
The pinkish-gold hues of the light, streaming into the royal apartments through the windows, were incongruent with the blackest mood that reigned supreme inside. An ill-omened stillness percolated the walls, tapestried with biblical scenes and covered with creamy brocade, so full of all-encompassing consternation that everyone could almost taste and sense it.
Lady Dorothy Smith, Lady Elizabeth Cromwell, and Lady Jane Boleyn née Parker were all as silent and gloomy as the bleakest stars. They all comprehended that something sinister might happen as soon as the tidings of the queen's disaster circulated and reached the king's ears.
Queen Jane Seymour rested in an enormous walnut bed, canopied with masses of gorgeous immaculate white velvet. These fell in sumptuous folds from somewhere near the ceiling, as if swaddling the bed in a cocoon of purity. The queen used the color white in her clothing and in her rooms to highlight the goodness of her character and the innocence of her mind, body, and soul. Nevertheless, the bloody spots on the floor reminded everyone of the recent calamity.
Elizabeth pointed at the bloodstains on the carpet. "Lady Rochford, clean the floor."
"Of course, Lady Cromwell," Jane Boleyn obeyed.
In the tormenting silence that followed, the Viscountess Rochford washed the floor and hurriedly left. She was grateful to Queen Jane for having accepted her into the queen's household, despite her disgrace after her husband George Boleyn's execution. However, she despised the overbearing Elizabeth Seymour, who was tremendously proud of her position as the principal royal lady-in-waiting, but whose domineering tendencies appalled each maid of honor.
Gathering her strength, Jane mumbled, "Maybe you are mistaken, Doctor Butts."
Doctor Butts released a sigh. "I'm sorry, Your Majesty. We could not stop the bleeding once it started. All that remains of the child that you were carrying will be buried soon."
Her hope against all odds was now extinguished. Although her eyes were shut, the queen felt as if everything and everyone were leering at her, waiting to assail her like a pouncing predator. As the full impact of bereavement hit her, Jane dissolved into uninhibited sobs.
A dejected Dorothy approached the bed and settled herself on the edge. Stroking her sister's hair, she coaxed, "My dearest Janie, please calm down. It is not the end of your life."
At the opposite end of the chamber, Doctor Butts shuffled his feet. His wrinkled face was impenetrable, but an occasional twitch of his lips revealed his inner tension. Educated at Gonville Hall in Cambridge, he served at court for more than twenty years, and he had already seen the chains of Catherine of Aragon's and Anne Boleyn's miscarriages. Now Jane Seymour was experiencing the same frustration, and he pitied all the women who struggled to give his sovereign a son.
Elizabeth came to the physician. "Is Jane capable of producing male progeny?"
Butts flinched at her chilly voice. "Her Majesty is still young. Even the healthiest women might experience miscarriage sometimes. It is an emotionally and physically draining thing, but it does not mean that a woman cannot conceive again and carry the baby to term."
Elizabeth noted, "But she will have a higher risk for another miscarriage."
"Yes," the physician agreed. "Her Majesty will have to be more careful next time."
"You are dismissed," Elizabeth barked. The physician was glad to vacate the room.
Meanwhile, Dorothy was laboring to assuage the distressed queen's anguish. A cavalcade of apprehensive thoughts sent a shower of sparks through Jane's brain, but out of them all, one burned fiercer: I've failed Henry in the worst possible way. Now our love is in grave peril.
The queen had found out that she had been pregnant after the rebels' executions. King Henry had flourished in selfish joy, but Jane had basked in his affection, although he hadn't abandoned his paramours. When their gazes had locked, she had stared at him affectionately, for she had dreamed of their happiness, yet weeping when he had kissed her and then gone to Anne Bassett or another lover, although Henry had vowed to love his wife forever after Jane had conceived.
Jane's tearful eyes dashed to a window. The charming gold in the firmament painted the mist in the gardens in ethereal pastel shades, but she cursed the serene beauty of this hour. She wished her husband to be with her as gentle as a nun's tenderness, but her failure would sow the seeds of animosity in the monarch's soul, just as it had happened to his feelings for the exiled harlot.
Dorothy whispered, "You will get pregnant again, Jane."
"God!" The queen's voice was barely audible.
"Five months earlier, I had a miscarriage, so I know what you are feeling now, but I'm going to try and give my husband again. God is testing us so that we can grow in our Christian faith."
"Henry…" Jane broke off as a series of stronger sobs tore their way through her trembling form, nearly squeezing the breath from her lungs. Gulping for air like fish out of water, she clung to Dorothy's hand, as if it were her lifeline. "The king… will blame me for the loss of his son."
"All will be fine, Janie," Dorothy soothed, but her voice lacked conviction.
Elizabeth emerged in front of the royal bed. "Jane, His Majesty will be both heartbroken and furious. He does crave a son far more than anything else, and he has waited for decades to get it."
Gradually, the queen's sobs receded until she only had an occasional hiccup. "I would have given anything for a healthy son. I prayed fervently for a male child."
Lady Cromwell poured salt onto Jane's wounds. "But your boy is dead, just as the male children of Queen Catherine and the Boleyn harlot. His Majesty married you because of his hope for a son, but now you are no better than your predecessors in his eyes."
Dorothy castigated, "Elizabeth! Do not be so pitiless!"
"I cannot," Elizabeth countered. "Now our family might lose power."
Dorothy sniffed. "You are disgusting!" Elizabeth did not react at all.
"It is not my fault," Jane choked out.
Elizabeth's fingers brushed her temples. "That is what the harlot told the king when she had her last miscarriage. Do you remember how he dodged that accusation?"
The queen was now shaking with the force of her fast-rising sobs, which echoed around the room ominously. They were the most gut-wrenching cries her sisters had ever heard.
They remembered Anne's exchange with the monarch after the abortion caused by Jane's escapades on the king's knees. This infamous episode had traveled through the length and breadth of the Tudor court. Now this recital thundered through the minds of these three women.
You have lost my boy. I cannot speak of it. The loss is too great. But I see now that God will not grant me any male children. When you are up, I'll speak with you.
The Seymour sisters considered these words distasteful, but they had nevertheless thought that Anne had merited the suffering for her viciousness. Now the ruler might hurl a similar draconic accusation at Jane, and tongues of mortal terror were licking their earthly forms like flames.
Jane was wringing her hands. "He will not be as inhuman to me as he was to the whore!"
Elizabeth caught sight of her sister's countenance imbued with bottomless grief. "You are naïve, Jane. This disaster has besmirched your purity in the king's eyes. Your abortion happened on the Feast of the Ascension of Christ, and he will interpret it as a bad omen."
Dorothy hugged the queen, who was now wracked by uncontrollable sobs. "The whore's last miscarriage occurred on the very day when Catherine of Aragon was interred."
"Jane is in a worse position. Today is Ascension Day!" Elizabeth then exited.
Dorothy was tireless in her efforts to console Jane, who was crying on her shoulder for a long time. At noon, the sun reached the peak of its strength, but the queen felt as if the awful abode of lost souls awaited her after death. Eventually, Jane's sobs subsided into the drug-induced darkness after Doctor Butts had concocted some mixture of herbs to stop her hysteria.
§§§
"Jane's womb is cursed!" the Tudor monarch shrilled like a fiddle string wound too tight. He grabbed a vase and hurled it at the Seymour brothers. "She has lost my son! My heir!"
"Forgive us, sire!" Edward and Thomas Seymour chorused as they ducked.
Taking another vase, Henry shouted, "She owes me my boy!"
After the queen's miscarriage a couple of hours earlier, the Tudor temper had transmuted itself into a gale of perilous exasperation. Ire and pain vying in him, Henry had razed his grand presence chamber to the ground. Now everything was a chaotic shambles of cups, decanters, plates, candles, candelabra, as well as books, ledgers, parchments, and chairs shattered into pieces.
"She promised me a son!" yelled the ruler. A moment later, the last whole chair in the room landed on top of the other broken ones. "I wed her because I need sons!"
Edward and Thomas were terrified, as if they were in the presence of one-eyed Cyclopes. At the other end of the room, Charles Brandon, Duke of Suffolk, was shuddering inwardly.
Henry ran to the chair he had thrown moments earlier. "A queen's duty is to provide an heir for her husband." He grabbed the chair and slammed it through a nearby window, breaking the glass in the process. "She has failed me, just as that Boleyn whore and Catherine did!"
The Queen of France was expected to give birth to her child soon. The three men were afraid even to imagine how volatile Henry would become if Anne had given her French husband a son.
"All my wives have betrayed me!" King Henry threw a multitude of parchments to the floor and trampled them with his feet. "At least, Jane has not slept with other men!"
Damn Jane's sick womb! Edward cursed silently. How could she bring this disaster upon us? We might lose power and privileges, which His Majesty has granted us. He observed the king's temper spike to a new magnitude as Henry rammed his fists into the wall. A power-hungry, down-to-earth, and crafty man, Edward took more joy from meetings of Privy Council and state affairs than any time spent with his wife and relatives. Yet, at this moment, fear clouded his mind.
Edward articulated, "My sister loves Your Majesty. She has always been yours."
The monarch swiveled to his brother-in-law. "Jesus ascended into heaven on the Feast of the Ascension. However, my son died on such a holy day. Does it tell you something, Hertford?"
A wave of panic rushed over the Seymours, the same tide of fright that occasionally hit them in the past several months, turning their limbs to jelly and their voices to feeble croaks. After Jane's marriage to the ruler, Edward had been elevated to Earl of Hertford, and had also become Warden of the Scottish Marches. Thomas Seymour had been created Baron Seymour of Sudeley. It seemed that now the royal favor they had enjoyed so far could evaporate like fog.
Henry came to them and spat, "Has Jane sinned, and the Lord has punished us by taking our son on this holy day? Was she a virgin when I bedded her on the wedding night?"
Edward's expression was impassive, unlike Thomas. Charles observed them from a distance.
"Your Majesty, I…." Thomas' words shuddered to a halt.
Edward garnered his courage. "My sister has never known carnally any man other than you, sire. She grew up at Wulfhall together with us and our other siblings. Our mother, Lady Margery, taught her that only her husband has the right to claim a woman's virtue as his."
Henry recalled, "She told me that her virtue was the most valuable thing for her."
Edward continued, "You must remember that Jane's virtue was carefully guarded during your courtship. We never left her alone with you, for neither our dearly departed father nor any of our relatives would have allowed her to have any affair, not even with a monarch."
The king dragged a tormenting breath. "I saw the bloodstained sheets on our first night. And yet…" His mind drifted to his first wife. "That Spanish woman lied to me about her virginity for years. God in His wrath punished her by taking away from us all of our children, except for Mary."
Charles Brandon cringed, for he respected the late Catherine of Aragon and considered her the true Queen of England. "Your Majesty, how is it related to Queen Jane?"
Their liege lord's roar cut like a whip. "The Almighty condemned Catherine to bareness for her lies. Now Jane has miscarried my son. What has she done that God punished her so?"
Suffolk strode to the monarch. "Miscarriages are common. My wife lost our child two months earlier." At his last words, his heart constricted in his chest. "The Lord will bless your marriage to Queen Jane with a robust Tudor prince in due time. We must all pray for this."
Thomas breathed out a sigh of relief. "The queen and Your Majesty are still young. You will have many children, both girls and boys, in years to come. Our mother is fertile: she gave birth to ten children, and most of them survived to adulthood. Jane must be fertile as well."
"I do not need girls!" Henry's voice echoed through the air, charged with his anger.
Propelled by insane rage, the King of England darted to a nearby wall hanging, depicting the painting 'The Deposition' by Raphael, where the well-dressed Mary Magdalene was clutching the hand of Christ's body as Jesus was carried to his tomb. With a howl of fury, the monarch ripped this tapestry from the wall and threw it to the floor, then stamped upon it with his feet.
"Catherine and Anne!" a belligent Henry hissed. "Arthur deflowered Catherine before I took her to bed! Anne had more than one hundred lovers! They were both whores, and neither of them regretted her transgressions. At least, Mary Magdalene was a repentant prostitute."
"Your Majesty, my sister was a maid," Edward reiterated.
The ruler flung back, "Jane must repent of the horrible sin she apparently committed, even if it was not some illicit affair. Tell her to take an example from Mary Magdalene."
Henry continued destroying the remainder of the room's luxury. The interior transformed into something akin to the ruins of imaginary ancient Greek cities, which could have been caused by the fierce struggle for supremacy between Zeus, King of Mount Olympus, and Cronus, Zeus' father and the leader of the preceding generation of Titans, had Cronus broken out of Tartarus. Henry paused only when he touched the tapestries portraying the Resurrection and Ascension of Christ.
At last, the king reined in his emotions. "It is as though God has now stopped me. He has spoken to me: I must pray harder for a son, and Jane must atone for her sin."
Henry stormed out. His subjects were dizzy with relief as the door slammed behind him.
§§§
The English monarch intended to celebrate the Feast of the Ascension of Christ in the Chapel Royal. It was well past midday, but he did not wish to forsake prayer on such an important day for every Christian just because his dreams of having a son had again been crushed.
Garbed in auburn silk attire wrought with gold, King Henry led his nobles through the splendid gardens. Everybody was already aware of what had transpired in the queen's chambers at dawn.
"The sun is high in the sky." Henry squinted his eyes. "I'm glad for the warmth after–" He abruptly trailed off, gulping for air like a dying man. "I'll not speak of it."
"As Your most magnificent Majesty commands," purred Lady Anne Bassett.
There was no official position of a chief royal mistress at the Tudor court. Nevertheless, today Lady Bassett walked several paces behind the monarch, together with the Duke of Suffolk and Sir Francis Bryan, as though the ruler was demonstrating Queen Jane's disfavor. Having not been invited to join the procession, the Seymours had retired to their quarters or the queen's.
"This place is so dear to me." The ruler surveyed the moated manor surrounded by acres of rolling green and bloom. "It is my boyhood home, such a sweet place for me."
At present, Brandon and Bryan were both in the monarch's highest favor. Charles had always been the ruler's close friend; Bryan had paved his path into the royal sanctum years ago. However, Suffolk's beliefs did not waver in the face of their sovereign's mood swings and radical changes in his opinions or policies. At the same time, Bryan was a crafty turncoat who had always kept himself in the king's good graces by manipulating Henry and dancing to his every whim.
"Your Majesty spent many gladsome days here," recalled the Duke of Suffolk.
Francis Bryan recollected, "Erasmus, a famed Dutch scholar and humanist, traveled to Eltham in 1499 to visit our future king. He remarked that Your Majesty 'had a vivid and active mind, above measure to execute whatever tasks you undertook'. He called you a genius!"
Suddenly, Henry halted. A twitch of his upper lip indicated his increasing perturbation. "I was a boy of seven summers back then. Sir Thomas More brought Erasmus to me."
"Yes, sire." Bryan figured out that these memories were unwelcome to his liege lord.
"That Boleyn witch!" The words were twisting the universe, bending it, reshaping it, as he attempted to persuade himself that Anne was the worst harpy on earth. "She killed More!"
At this, the assemblage stopped in their tracks. An icy shard of fear slashed through their fleeting remembrances of Thomas More's and Bishop Fisher's executions. Most of the Catholic courtiers blamed Anne for their deaths, for these two men had been condemned for their refusal to sign the Oath of Supremacy, and to acknowledge Elizabeth as the king's legitimate heir.
His eyes flashing with animosity, King Henry eyed his retinue. "There is something else you must all know. France defeated Spain, but that Valois peacock will not enjoy peace for long. In the future, I shall invade France and win a battle as legendary as Henry V's triumph at Agincourt."
Everyone blanched like a relic unearthed from a grave. The ruler's implacable hatred of Anne had long become known at court, but nobody wanted England to wage war against the House of Valois. After all, the mighty Emperor Charles had attempted to subjugate France, but he had failed, and his fate was still unknown after the Battle of Poitiers. In the past, English kings had endeavored to reclaim "their" lands in France, but all their attempts had ended in fiasco.
"Doubtless you will succeed, sire," chanted Bryan with a grin.
Nevertheless, Brandon noted, "Peace is necessary for survival in the disordered world."
Henry glowered at Suffolk. "You are my soldier, Charles! Do not embellish yourself with softness when we talk about enemies of England such as Anne and François."
"I apologize," Brandon intoned for appearance's sake. As visions of the butchered pilgrims, who had been murdered on his orders, blazed in his mind, the spear of his guilt shattered the shield of his conscience. Yet, he said, "I was born as your loyal subject, and will die as one."
The king's expression brightened. "That is why I love you, Charles."
"Where is the Duke of Norfolk?" inquired Bryan.
Henry apprised, "He went to his estates at Arundel."
Anne Bassett affirmed servilely, "Your Majesty is such a glorious warrior! You can conqueror France or any other land! After all, you subdued those revolting Catholic insurgents in the north. All others will bow to you as soon as they see your prodigious strength."
The mention of the revolt's suppression sent shivers down the spines of those Catholics who had signed the Oath for form's sake. The inhuman brutality with which the rebels and many of their families had been punished horrified them. Lady Mary Tudor brushed away a tear.
King Henry regarded his subjects, knitting his reddish brows forbiddingly. "I'm the King of England and the Supreme Head of the Church of England. Your sacred duty is to obey my wishes and commands. Anyone who dares rebel against me shall go to hell!"
A stab of dread ripped through the Catholics. Many paled to the grayness of death.
Through the maze of gardens, they strolled to the North Bridge above the moat and crossed it. Trumpets blared and kettledrums boomed as they entered the Chapel Royal.
When everyone gathered in the oratory, Thomas Cranmer, Archbishop of Canterbury, came to the altar, while the choir sang the Entrance Chant. The Archbishop venerated the altar with the cross and went to his ceremonial chair of state. The gathering crossed themselves.
Cranmer proclaimed, "In the name of the Father, of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit."
"Amen," answered the monarch; the congregation echoed him.
The Penitential Act followed, and the Archbishop promulgated, "Brethren, let us acknowledge our sins, and so prepare ourselves to celebrate the sacred mysteries."
The lords and ladies then recited together the general confession.
I confess to almighty God
and to you, my brothers and sisters,
that I have greatly sinned,
in my thoughts and in my words,
in what I've done and in what I've failed to do
through my fault, through my fault,
through my most grievous fault.
The king endeavored to find a reason why the Creator had not yet blessed him with a son. For years, he had implored God to give him a prince to carry on his legacy and create a new epoch in England. He had married the pure Jane! However, when the queen had not conceived for months, he had begun thinking more of frivolities of life. Henry had been back at his old merry time when he had slept with countless mistresses, his favorite concubine being Lady Anne Bassett.
The monarch's thoughts were interrupted by the people's voices.
Therefore, I ask blessed Mary ever-Virgin,
All the Angels and Saints,
And you, my brothers and sisters,
To pray for me to the Lord our God.
The absolution from the Archbishop of Canterbury was pronounced.
May almighty God have mercy on us!
Forgive us our sins, and bring us to everlasting life.
"Amen," everyone chorused.
After crossing himself, Henry eyed the oratory with its exquisitely carved stalls and frescoes depicting Christ walking on water, healing Mary Magdalene, his fructification and resurrection.
At the sight of Magdalene, the ruler's mind floated back to Jane. I've done nothing wrong. It is my right as king to have paramours. The Lord and the Virgin must have seen that Jane sinned somehow, so she miscarried. All of his accusations and his barely surpassed rage sharpened into a single point: Jane had lost his son because she had deceived him of something.
The Liturgy of the Word was sung. The choir's music was somber in comparison to the lofty church atmosphere, but it still dazzled everybody, bringing tears to eyes of pious women and men. Soft light filtered in through stained-glass windows, giving the chapel a celestial glow. It seemed that in these moments, divine energy filled the air with the pure vibration of love for Christ.
Prayers for the Day of Accession from the Book of Hours followed.
O God of earth and sky,
As Jesus came among us in Bethlehem to raise us up to heaven,
So today we recall his departing from us at Jerusalem to be in all places.
Though he is hidden from our sight,
Enable us to abide in him by the power and grace of the Holy Spirit,
Until his mercy and grace fill your whole creation.
Amen.
King Henry was restless during the rest of the Mass. Archbishop Cranmer started the Liturgy of the Eucharist, and irritation festered in the pit of his stomach as the ruler watched Catholic rites performed. In spite of the break from Rome, the Church of England still remained largely Catholic. Cranmer's 'Ten Articles' had been crafted as a rushed interim compromise between conservatives and reformers, and it also kind of solidified the Catholic resistance to the religious reform.
Our Church is called the Henrician Church, mused the monarch. Was it a mistake not to go down the road towards Protestantism? Is God punishing me for that by denying me a son? Even François – a staunch Catholic – allied with Protestant countries. Henry failed to concentrate on the Mass, and thoughts of religious and international matters were whirling across his consciousness.
Cranmer took the chalice and the paten. Raising both, he ended the Mass.
Through Jesus Christ, and with him, and in him,
O God, almighty Father,
In the unity of the Holy Spirit,
All glory and honor.
The monarch then led the courtiers out of the oratory. As they promenaded through the park, the variegated clothes of the richly dressed nobles and their jewels gleamed in the sun.
King Henry stopped. "As your spiritual shepherd, I must establish Christian unity among my people. We shall continue giving the Bible in English to let everyone obtain the true understanding of the Christian theology, and to steer them away from the superstitious nonsense of the past."
"God Bless Your Majesty!" Archbishop Cranmer cried with a smile. He and other devout reformers broke into loud cheers, perceiving it as their victory.
Lady Mary Tudor came forward from the crowd. "Your Majesty, is it the right decision?" She ignored the admonishing glances of the Duke of Suffolk and many other Catholics.
The ruler's reply was laced with anger. "Lady Mary, you signed the Oath and payed homage to me, your sovereign and father. You have to atone for the stubbornness you displayed under your late mother's detrimental influence. You will help me make some political deals."
"As you wish, sire." Mary was hurting from the injuries inflicted upon her by her parent.
"Do not cross me, Mary." Henry deigned to grant her a haughty smile.
As the monarch strode away towards the palace, Mary remained rooted to the spot, her mind in turmoil. "What does my father mean? Which alliances?"
The Imperial ambassador Eustace Chapuys approached her. "I do not know, my lady." He would have addressed her as a princess, but they could be eavesdropped upon.
"I cannot tolerate it anymore, Your Excellency." Tears spilled over her eyes and down the side of her face, wetting the earth of the heretical land, as she called it silently.
Chapuys took Mary's hand and squeezed it to lend her his moral support. His eyes were shadowed with concern about her future in the wake of the king's words, but he said nothing. He regretted that Sir Nicholas Carew was still in Bologna, awaiting the man's return impatiently.
§§§
"Anne, where are you? Wife!" Edward Seymour called upon entering his quarters.
In a handful of heartbeats, his spouse appeared in the antechamber. Her brows arched, she glided to him, her hands resting on her swollen belly. "What do you need, husband?"
Some of his ire deflated at the sight of her smile. "You look radiant, wife."
"A woman glows when a new life is growing inside of her."
Edward crossed to his wife. "At least, you have not miscarried."
She sent him a look of disgust. "You are scum."
He broke into a cynical laughter. "But you married me!"
Edward winked at the Lady Anne Seymour née Stanhope, Countess of Hertford. A couple of years ago, he had wed this woman, the only child of Sir Edward Stanhope. She was an heiress to her father's wealth and had royal blood in her veins, for she was a direct descendant of Thomas of Woodstock, the youngest son of King Edward III of England. Nonetheless, it was not the main reason why she was his choice of a spouse – they just were alike in all practical ways.
"I did, and gladly." She burst out laughing. "When my father told me about our betrothal, I consented because it was obvious that you and I are both more presumptuous than Lucifer. We are ambitious and unscrupulous in the use of tools which we need to achieve what we want."
Edward's grin was conceited. "You and I have enough, but we are covetous of other' wealth."
They saw eye to eye on this point. "We will be more powerful, husband."
A sudden twinge of lust and tenderness passed through the Earl of Hertford, prompting him to approach his spouse. He gathered Anne into his arms and stroked her head, his fingers tangling into her silky golden hair. They froze in this position, as though they had stepped into the palatial building of their warped happiness after earning all the riches in the universe.
As they parted, Edward viewed his wife from top to toe. Anne Seymour was a wonderful creature: her hazel-green eyes glistened like leaves after the rain, nicely setting off her porcelain skin and her strong, attractive face. She was appareled in a silvery gray damask gown ornamented with gold; her long, curvy, brown hair was arranged in a chignon. Her baby bump was increasingly visible in the light leaking in through the windows and glinting along her soft curls.
Anne Seymour scrutinized him with equal intensity. A tall man of athletic build, Edward had a strict countenance, pleasing enough and full of calculative intelligence. His piercing eyes of ice blue color, deep and clear, as well as his prominent forehead, and his pointed chin attested to his fabulous intellect. His rich, doublet and hose of black satin, worked with threads of gold, added to the air of unprincipled severity about him. Anne was satisfied to have him as her husband.
"I see lust in your usually cold eyes," she observed carefully.
Indeed, his loins swelled with the memory of her naked in their bed. "If you were not with child, I would have taken you now with a passion that is a rarity for both of us."
Anne mocked, "You have become too soft and perhaps even weak, my dearest cunning Dolus, for that ancient Greek spirit of trickery and guile has long taken over you."
"Dolus! You call me so in bed."
"Cunning, deception, and craft – these words sum up this Greek mythological deity."
Edward kissed her on the mouth. "Dolus' female counterpart is Apate, the Greek goddess of fraud and deceit." He hugged her briefly, whispering into her ear, "You are my Apate."
Anne appreciated their common traits. "Love is a missing factor for us. Because we lack that affection, that gentleness, that contentment, we escape into plotting, which produces further desire for privileges and simultaneously deepens our relationship based on ambition and greed."
He admired his wife's character. "What a perfect summation!"
She put her hand on her enlarged stomach. "But you must be a good husband to me, for I'm carrying our babe. Any nobleman, especially an arrogant earl such as yourself, needs an heir."
"A male heir." His hand flew to her belly.
Discomfited, she refused to continue their banter. "Edward, a woman is not a sorceress who can bewitch the male seed spilled in her into becoming a boy."
The Earl of Herford grinned as the child moved inside of her. "Be at ease, I know this. If it is not a boy this time, we will try again. The next time, we will have a son."
The countess smiled merrily. "I feel it will be a boy."
"Me too," he shortly.
They headed to their bedchamber, and the Countess of Hertford broached another subject. "I pity Queen Jane. It is not her fault that she lost her child. It can happen to any woman."
Edward paced their bedroom swathed in blue silks. "The angry king resembles an enraged Minotaur. He thinks Jane could have feigned her virginity. I fear he might annul their marriage."
Anne eased herself into an azure-brocaded chair. "What will we do?"
Pausing next to her, her husband murmured, "Anne, will you help me?"
She read his thoughts with ease. "As always. Do you want me to seduce King Henry so that I can control his mind? I can do this for the family after our baby is born in October."
"Yes. Just as I seduced Anne Bassett when Thomas failed to do that."
The Hertford spouses discussed his plan. Their minds worked as quickly and whimsically as a witch's spell, and no courtier would want to encounter the demons of their craft at the doorstep.
Edward ceased pacing. "I'll make Jane understand that she must stop weeping like a sultry wench abandoned by a lover. Now she must recover to later conceive again."
"She will accede to your commands in order to keep her weakening hold on His Majesty."
"That stupid ninny must obey me, or everything will be lost."
Anne Seymour hugged her own abdomen fondly. "There are thunderstorms in any marriage. But no one can guarantee that the queen will be able to birth the king a healthy son."
"Why?" Edward's anxiety was mounting. He seated himself in a chair beside her.
She held out her hand, which dropped before it could touch his. It irked her that men never held themselves responsible for their own mistakes. "Men, especially narcissistic kings, blame their wives for the lack of male issue or children at all. Sleeping with their spouses whenever they want, wishing more, refusing to love and respect them, yelling and complaining about trifles. Such are nearly all of the men I have met! Yet, maybe not a woman but a man is guilty: perhaps his seed is contaminated with some disease, preventing them from having his much-desired sons."
Edward tensed. "Do you mean that the king is incapable of fathering boys?"
"Given Catherine's and Anne's histories of miscarriages, this seems plausible."
"I pray you are wrong, wife." Yet, he admitted to himself that it was a real possibility.
The Countess of Hertford stood up and climbed into a canopied bed, hung with cloth of silver. "I wonder whether Anne Boleyn will give King François a son. Even if it happens not in her first pregnancy, then something must be wrong not with King Henry's wives, but with him."
Dismay flashed in his eyes. "I do not want to think about it."
Interested in foreign ways of life, Anne Seymour knew a lot about European courts. "The King of France had many children with Queen Claude, but some are no longer alive. His escapades are infamous, and he is rumored to be so male that any woman feels all the rewards of being his lover." A titter fled her lips. "I'm sure Anne Boleyn will find herself pregnant many times."
Edward eased himself onto the bed. "I've never seen King François, but I heard the same. He seems to be somewhat healthier than our sovereign, even though they are both virile. At least, that Valois mate does not have ulcerated legs because of falls on tournaments."
"If we play our cards well, a smile will spread across the devious face of Dame Fortune."
§§§
On his way to the queen's apartments, guileful ideas took shape in Edward's brain. His spouse would captivate the king after their child's birth, making Henry a clay in her vulpine hands. He would continue his clandestine liaison with the Lady Bassett. Everything will go well, and Jane will get another chance. But if the king's seed is defective, we will all fall, he ruminated bitterly.
A familiar voice halted him in the corridor. "Lord Hertford, where are you going? The queen is sleeping after Doctor Butts gave her a lot of sleeping draught."
Pivoting to face her, Edward smiled. He despised the king's mistress, but he could not deny that she was beautiful. Over her gown of caramel brocade embroidered with pearls and triangles of bronze damask, Anne Bassett wore a surcoat of violet tissue, and a short mantle of the same material lined with sable. A diamond necklace adorned her bosom, from which also dangled a golden cross. Her toque of black velvet was festooned with tulle and an affiquet.
Edward's gaze fell upon her head. "Now you wear even an affiquet, Madame."
"I love French fashions." Lady Bassett moved towards him, her hips swaying like a bed of reeds in the confines of her gown. "They are seductive. His Majesty appreciates them.'
"I like them, too." Now it was a matter of paramount importance to drive this whore further from the monarch so that Henry could still visit Jane's bed after her recovery.
She giggled. "You can strip me of this dress."
"Gladly." Daggers of desire slashed through him, carving a trail to his loins.
Anne extended her hand to Edward. As he took it, she ascended the stairs, pulling him along behind her. It was obvious what she planned, and exactly what he hankered at this moment. Edward suspected that this woman could have other lovers in secret, and he craved to learn their names so as to blackmail her. Yet, now Edward surrendered to his primitive male needs.
§§§
"For pity's sake!" Gregory Cromwell bemoaned. "At least, pretend that we are married!"
His wife didn't respond. The walls draped in arrases of religious scenes were pressuring her into obeying her husband, but she resisted with all her might. The room was still, he could hear her breathing quicken, an additional distressing counterpoint to the sound of the opening door.
"All out!" He was uncharacteristically rude.
The footsteps receded, and Elizabeth assumed, "You have frightened my maids."
"They are used to you being alone here. But it will not always be so, my darling wife."
Elizabeth Seymour was a remarkable sight in a gown of beige and emerald silk, with a cap of red brocade rounded with ribbon and sprigs of orange blossoms. Her features were attractive: eyes cerulean like blue seawater, peach-tinged lips, wide brown brows sharply penciled as if for drama, full lips, and satiny skin with just enough freckles to hint at a sharp-tongued nature. The incongruous blend of feminity and a harshness in her countenance produced an intoxicating effect.
"Why did you arrive at court, Gregory? Definitely, not to ask after my family."
"I'm here to be your husband, as it should have been from the beginning."
With a sigh, Elizabeth plodded over to a canopied bed, which was swathed in burgundy velvet. Even in the dimness of the candlelight, a welter of emotion in her face was apparent, but it was not happiness to see her spouse. Perplexion, fear, and, most of all, anger.
"Be more specific. What do you wish to do?"
Gregory stepped to the bed. "We have not consummated our marriage."
Elizabeth's first husband – Sir Anthony Ughtred of Kexby – had passed away in 1534. The last thing a widowed Elizabeth wanted was to wed Cromwell's son, but their now dead father, Sir John Seymour, had forced her into his marriage. Gregory and Elizabeth had married a month after Jane's wedding to King Henry, but Gregory had been gallant to postpone the consummation.
She jeered, "Are you seducing me, Gregory? Acting like a beast such as your father is?"
"Enough," he growled, stepping closer to the bed. "I did not want to make you my wife, but my father compelled me to create an alliance between our families."
"As we both dislike each other, let us live separately."
His patience was at an end. "Damnation, I shall not continue this sham of a marriage. My father demands that I give him heirs because I am his only surviving son. And I shall no longer be the laughingstock of the whole court as they watch you live alone in your rooms."
His wife gaped at him. "Gregory, you will not–"
His voice and features softened. "Elizabeth, I want us to find common ground. No one knows that we have never been intimate. You had enough time to get to know me, but I had to depart from court until the Pilgrimage of Grace was not squashed, so we had little time together."
Elizabeth stood up to face him like a tigress. "When you left for your father's estates, you did not think that those insurgents could reach London and kill us all. You were kind to me on our wedding night, and I am grateful for the charade you have played. My relatives would have forced me to be with you, if they had learned the truth. Nevertheless, later you displayed such selfishness that it negated the noble image of you which I formed in my head."
"Sorry." However, his guilty look was fleeting. "My father advised me to act so. If the rebels had won or if the king had punished him unjustly, then I would have been in peril."
She settled herself back on the bed. "Why the bloody hell do you want us to be a couple when all you care about is Cromwell's advancement in politics?" Her acrimonious laugh hit his ears like barbs. "As your father's lapdog, you married me. Why are you playing the role of a perfect knight now? Go seek for intimacy elsewhere; there are many loose women at court."
"Our marriage is not a bliss," he observed dryly. "But I'm not like other men."
She misunderstood the meaning of his words. "You are not as bad as Cromwell?"
"I will not have mistresses." Gregory took a seat on the other side of the bed. "My father was always faithful to my mother. I think it is the right thing to do for a man."
"So, I'm stuck with you for years, while you will live in celibacy."
"If you keep showering me with your disdain, it will change nothing."
"Gregory, leave," his wife pleaded. "Do not complicate my life with your snooping about the Seymours' affairs. I've got enough troubles on my plate after Jane's miscarriage."
His gut tightened. "What would I be looking for? I'm not your enemy!"
She stiffened. "You are clearly intent on watching my every step."
"Mere expedience. So that you don't make others laugh at me more than they already do."
"What else did you expect to feel? Did you anticipate me to fall for you?"
Elizabeth was so caught up in reprimanding him that she had missed his impetuous movement. A moment later, she was in his arms, and they were rolling over together on the bed. As Gregory was on top of her, she clutched his shoulders and pushed him away, but unsuccessfully.
"You are beautiful, Lisbeth," Gregory whispered while removing her cap. Her hair tousled on the pillow, and he entangled his fingers into her tresses. "Let's become a little happier."
Gregory kissed her like a man deprived of tenderness for years, hot and deep, his hands sliding down her body. For a short time, his mouth left hers, and they froze in an embrace that no longer repelled Elizabeth. The softness mingled with melancholy in his eyes made his wife quiver with guilt that she had ignored him for so long. Her lips parted, and, at this encouragement, his tongue met hers, and he did not stop until he reduced her to a boneless mass of jelly.
§§§
From a window, Jane Boleyn watched a rainstorm unfold over the park. After Jane Seymour's awakening, the king had visited her, and now there was no calm soul in the queen's household.
Lady Mary Zouch shook her head in shock. "His Majesty said such dreadful things."
"Poor Queen Jane!" lamented Elizabeth Somerset, Countess of Worcester.
"Once the king threatened Anne Boleyn!" cried Anne Parr, Countess of Pembroke.
Dorothy Seymour barked, "Don't blabber! Keep sewing clothes for the poor!"
They occupied themselves with embroidery. Yet, these threats echoed through their heads.
I married you to beget heirs! Baby boys! You have disappointed me so! Remember the fates of your predecessors! Every day! If you fail me again, your punishment will be worse than theirs!
Jane Boleyn eased herself in a chair and picked up her embroidery. Nevertheless, she could not sew and studied the queen's ladies. Dorothy's hands trembled as she was making stitches. Lady Pembroke and Lady Worcester wore looks of anxiety, blinking at every flash and rattle of lightning and thunder outside. Lady Zouch and other maids were better at masking their emotions.
The raindrops pelted the windows. Lady Rochford believed that nature was crying for the dead child. She had grown fond of Queen Jane thanks to the kindness from the king's wife after her return to court. She could not help but think that Jane Seymour would fail to give the monarch a son, like his previous wives. Is the king cursed to never have a son? Jane Boleyn wondered.
As she glanced askance at Lady Worcester, white-hot rage boiled in Lady Rochford's veins. The Countess of Worcester was the chief informant against Anne Boleyn, so her lies had sent Anne into exile and annihilated her brother George. The Rochford spouses had not selected one another, but they had gotten along amicably, even though George's infidelities had irked her. However, Jane had never wanted George dead, having been powerless to save him after the Boleyn siblings' arrests. I'm yearning to see George's and Anne's foes pay for their crimes, George's widow dreamed.
"No! My baby!" the queen's desperate shout resonated.
"She needs us." Dorothy jolted to her feet, so did Lady Worcester and Lady Pembroke.
These three women darted to the bedroom. The others remained in the antechamber, except for Lady Boleyn who stood up and followed them, but paused in the doorway.
"Drink some of this, Janie," urged Dorothy, whose arm was about her sister's recumbent form. "Doctor Butts left these herbs for you. You will be asleep in a few minutes."
"God bless Your Majesty." The Countess of Worcester brought a cup to the queen's lips.
Jane Seymour was slowly drinking the medicine. "He hates me so."
"Don't think of him," Dorothy instructed. "You must recuperate."
Anne Parr stood near the bed. "We will pray for you, Madame!"
Needless to say, Jane Boleyn emphasized with the queen. Yet, she was angry that those who had harmed Anne and George were now taking care of the very woman who was the reason for the tragedies which had beset the Boleyns. Remembrances of her spouse's execution were so painful that they could pulpify her bones. Unable to watch the scene in the bedchamber, Jane walked away. Her way forward was to lie low at court; solitude offered her a refuge from her sorrows.
The Viscountess Rochford returned to her place; there was no more talk between the ladies. The rain intensified to an extent that the windowpanes seemed to be quivering in the frames. There was something different from ordinary storm in this tempest. The tumult of rain and wind linked together, producing a wild roar, as if prophets were predicting something sinister.
I hope you liked this chapter. Let me know what you think, and thank you very much in advance.
New characters were introduced: Sir Francis Bryan, as well as Lady Anne Seymour née Stanhope, Countess of Hertford, and Lady Jane Boleyn née Parker, Viscountess Rochford. They are not main characters, but they will appear in the story from time to time. Jane Boleyn will appear very rarely until King Henry is willing to launch a new investigation into Anne's case.
Those who dislike Jane Seymour can be happy now. Jane had a miscarriage in this chapter, and Henry is not only upset, but also extremely angry with her. The king thinks that Jane's miscarriage on a holy day (the Feast of the Ascension is celebrated on the 15th of May) might be a sign that their marriage is cursed. I cannot tell you whether Jane will have a son or not; perhaps her second pregnant, if she conceives, will be successful, and Edward will be born. Hopefully, fans of Anne who loathe Jane will find in their hearts sympathy for Jane after this chapter.
Perhaps Henry cannot father healthy sons, as Jane Boleyn and Anne Seymour hypothesize; or perhaps he could. Anyway, it seems that Henry could have blood incompatibility with his wives or even blood disorder. The latest diagnoses for Henry are the coexistence of both Kell blood group antigenicity (possibly inherited from Jacquetta Woodville, Henry's maternal great grandmother), causing related impaired fertility, and McLeod syndrome, resulting in psychotic changes. I'm sure that you can google these illnesses, so I will not describe them in this note.
In ancient Greek mythology, the Cyclopes were gigantic, one-eyed monsters. At first, there were three of them: Arges, Steropes, and Brontes – they were supposedly the sons of Uranus and Gaea and the brothers of the Hecatoncheires and the Titans. Cronus imprisoned them in Tartarus, and upon being freed by Zeus, they pledged their fealty to him and fought for him against the Titans.
I have a poll about Edward Seymour's future. Please answer to the pool on my profile.
Yours sincerely,
Athenais Penelope Clemence