A/N: Thank you for your comments everyone - I really appreciate them, and I'm so pleased that the updates are so welcome, Appirinia!
After such an upheaval, here's a bit of quiet while a few people take stock of the removal of the Norfolk faction, and just spend a bit of time interacting with one another, including a small spot of manoeuvring in the face of the changes...
The songs below are genuine, and are taken from one of the few possessions of hers that we still have today: a songbook that she compiled herself. Kind of like a Tudor mix tape. A selection of the songs have been recorded, and are available to listen to if people want to investigate them - and they're absolutely lovely.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Interlude
"Jouyssance vous donneray,
Mon amy, et vous meneray
La ou pretent vostre essperance.
Vivante ne vous lesseray;
Encore quant morte seray,
L'esprit en aura souvenance."
Anne's fingers pluck lightly at the strings of the lute, accompanying herself as she sings. She cannot remember how long it has been since last she did this - entertaining herself with music from one of her most treasured possessions, her songbook.
A chanson by Claudin de Sermisy, she collected it when she was still at Blois, loving its text and the simplicity of the tune. The trickling accompaniment requires dexterity to play, but she revels in doing so, and is absolutely absorbed in the process of music making.
"Si pour moi avez du souci
Pour vous n'en ai pas moins aussi,
Amour le vous doit faire entendre.
Mais s'il vous greve d'etre ainsi,
Apaisez votre ceour transi;
Tout vient a point, qui peut attendre."
Nearby, her ladies embroider quietly, while warm sunlight streams in through the great windows that look out across the formal gardens. A few doors away, Elizabeth is busy with her latin verbs, overseen by young Mistress Champernowne, and - for just a short while - Anne feels utterly free and at peace.
She can recall singing this very song for Henry, I will give you pleasure, my dear, and thus I will ensure that what you hope for ends well. I will not forsake you while I live, and even when I am dead, my spirit will still remember you.
If you worry about me I no less for you. Love must make you understand. But if it weighs you down, appease your hurting heart: everything will be good for those who wait.
Does it matter that everything was not?
She waited - Lord, she did. Waited for God to bless their union with the son that Henry craved, and that she was so convinced she could give him. But there had been no son - any more than her predecessor had been able to give - and his desire to wait until that blessing came faltered in the face of a Seymour.
No - she will not think of that. There is no need to now - for the Seymours are no longer able to come to Court, and thus they are far from her presence. That chit Jane is doubtless being touted to other high born women as a companion in hopes of marrying upwards, illuminated in the rays given off by a brighter star than she.
Irked at herself for her thoughts, she moves on instead to another, brighter chanson, which can be accompanied as easily by her lute as by the consort of viols for which it was written,
"Gentilz galans compaignons du raisin,
Beuvons d'aultant au soir et au matin
Jusqu'a cents soulz
Et ho!
A nostre hostess ne baillon point d'argent
Mais ung credo.
"Si nostre hostesse nous faysoit adjourner,
Nous luy diron qu'il fault laisser passer
Quasimodo,
Et ho!
Ne payeron point d'argent a nostre hostesse,
Fors ung credo."
She can hear the ladies chuckling as she sings with a deliberate lack of finesse - it is, after all a drinking song - but the need to hear laughter is suddenly strong, for fear that she might shed tears instead.
Her father departed a week ago, his face like thunder as he was forcibly removed from Court thanks to the most ridiculously weak of ruses. While he succeeded in casting a shadow of treachery over his brother-in-law - which has resulted in a more-or-less permanent ban from Court, and a firm warning that any further attempts to unseat the Regent shall lead him directly to the Tower - he found himself stymied by his own daughter. He should have realised that, while she no longer trusts him, she has other, better men to whom she can turn - and has done so. Thanks to their work, and her own wit, he must now spend the next half year or more traipsing from port to port, counting ships and crews. While it is, in itself, an excellent means of keeping him away from the centre for at least a short time, there is the reciprocal benefit of knowing exactly whether a navy can be commissioned should anyone view her daughter's kingdom with envious eyes.
Setting the lute aside, she turns to Margery, "Shall we walk in the gardens awhile, Madge? We have not done so in far too many days."
Smiling, Margery sets her embroidery hoop aside, "Of course Majesty. I shall fetch your cloak."
Their route to the Queen's Privy Garden is rather more circuitous than intended, but the passageways they are using are lightly travelled, and Anne is tired of being bowed to.
"How strange." She muses, as they walk slowly, arm in arm.
"Majesty?"
"There was a time when I loved to see men bow before me - I thought it to be a most delightful thing. Now, however, it seems to me to be a tiresome falsity, and I wish I could avoid it; for I am Queen - but I am also not Queen, for the true Queen is my daughter, so I feel now that, when I am granted obeisance, I am stealing it from her."
"Better that than thinking that she is stealing it from you, Majesty." Margery smiles.
"God forbid." Anne agrees, "I have found over the past weeks that I am looked upon with loathing, and most men would truly believe that I would do such a thing, for they could claim that I did it to the Dowager Princess of Wales."
"Despite the invalidity of her marriage." Margery adds, loyally.
They move out into an enclosed court, surrounded by high, red-brick walls rising upwards for three floors - undercroft, main chambers and attics - the undercroft is, of course lit only by small lights, while the floors above have wide, leaded windows. There, she thinks, are the offices of those who operate the Government, and she looks up to see that she is right, for one of the windows is wide open, and she can see the Lord High Treasurer leaning out and fanning himself with a sheaf of papers.
"Do you not think that to be most unseemly, Madge?" Anne asks, loudly, and with a cheerful smile, "One so high placed as our good Mr Cromwell affected by the warmth of the weather? But I thought him to be made wholly of ice!"
"With a heart of marble, Majesty!" Margery laughs in return, as they look up at Cromwell, who is entirely unembarrassed by both their scrutiny and their humour.
"If I did not know better, Majesty." He says, looking down at them, "I should think that you had become grievously lost."
"Ah. It is a short cut." She answers, cheerfully, "To whence, I know not; but I am convinced that it is so."
"Then I wish you good morning and I hope that you find your way." He is about to lean in again.
"If you are not busy this afternoon, my Lord Treasurer, perhaps a game of chess?"
He looks back down, "I should like that very much, Majesty."
Anne sets out the chess pieces, while Lady Rochford works her way through a pile of papers upon which are inscribed sets of chansons with notation. There is no need for her to play - but Anne has learned well the danger of appearing unchaperoned, and thus she has at least one of her ladies present at all times if there is a man in the Apartments. Even a man as high-placed, and of considerably greater age, as Mr Cromwell.
Jane has a rather triumphant air about her, for she knows now her power over her husband. He remains at Court solely because the Queen will not permit Jane to depart - and he has no allies now at the Council table. Thus he sulks, tantrums and behaves like an oaf. Not that either woman cares particularly. As long as he does no damage to anyone, then he can do as he likes. Hardly an overall change to his current manner, really.
She looks up as the door opens to admit Lady Bryan, "Majesty, her Majesty the Queen."
Smiling delightedly, Anne rises to her feet and curtseys to Elizabeth as she is ushered into the room by Mistress Champernowne, "My goodness, Majesty - a new dress! It does become you!"
It is indeed a work of art - a richly embroidered leaf-green kirtle under a darker green overgown of brocaded silk that shows off the girl's lustrous Tudor-red hair - still long tresses that are held from her face by a light headdress of gold cords joined together with lovers' knots. She is too young to coif it beneath a hood just yet.
"Thank you Mama!" As always, she seems utterly alive with joy - as though her morning of lessons has been a morning of play. Thanks be to God - she is such a bright child, "Kat wove the headdress for me, is it not wonderful?"
Anne smiles. It is no surprise to her that Mistress Champernowne has won the affection of her daughter, and performs the function of a trusted older sister. God forbid that she find herself ousted as a mother, "It is indeed, my darling. Mr Cromwell shall be visiting us this afternoon for some games of chess. Would you like to watch us play?"
"Shall you teach me how, Mama?" Elizabeth is, of course, immediately interested in the prospect of learning a complex game.
"If you like." Anne laughs, "Perhaps, between us, we shall trounce him!"
Cromwell seems quite unperturbed by the additional audience as he seats himself at the table, having selected white this time round. There were times when Anne and Grace would sit at his side while he played, and Anne in particular was most keen upon his strategies when he did so. That Elizabeth seems eager to do likewise is no surprise to him, and he is pleased to see her there. It is as though his beloved girls are with him again.
As he moves his Queen's Knight's pawn forth two squares, Anne watches him. The look upon his face at the sight of Elizabeth seated nearby was remarkably benign, and kindly, too. Indeed, if she did not know better, she would think that her daughter views the older man as some sort of vaguely related uncle. Already, she is moving forward a little, to sit alongside him and watch what he does. While it stings her pride a little, it also gives her cause to smile - for she is learning to trust this man just as her mother is.
God help him if he betrays it.
Before long, the two of them are whispering to one another, sharing strategies and thoughts sotto voce, and she doesn't mind at all that they are beating her hands down. She has never seen him like this: relaxed, open, cheerful. Even before their falling out, he had maintained that stiff aura of courtesy - almost a mask to hide behind: to protect himself from the scorn and condescension of those of higher state than his. To see him without it is quite a revelation - transforming him from an aloof politician into something close to a paternal figure to whom she can look for friendship and support. More, even, than her own father.
How strange to think that. Her hand pauses over her King's Bishop, and she looks carefully across the remaining pieces on the board; but her thoughts are not on strategy. Instead, they are upon the growing realisation that there is no one for her now - not husband, not family. A crushing weight that causes her to pull back and stare through misted eyes at the chessboard.
"Majesty, are you unwell?" At once, Cromwell's question is concerned, and she vaguely sees Elizabeth rising to her feet.
"No - I am quite alright. Elizabeth, would you be so kind as to fetch in Mistress Horsman? I think my stays must be too tight."
"Of course, Mama." She is too young to object that, as Queen of England, it is not for her to go on errands.
"Tell me the truth, Majesty." He says, as soon as the girl is gone. While he has not gained Anne's degree of trust in Lady Rochford, who remains at the virginals and attempts to look in any direction but at the two people opposite, he appreciates that she is not going to be dismissed - for his safety as much as anything else.
"Forgive me." Anne says, quietly, "For a moment, I thought of how things are - and I was struck by a most terrible sense of loneliness."
Rather than dismiss her words, he looks at her kindly, "It is hard to bear a burden such as yours - and to be in circumstances such as these. There is no shame in feeling alone."
She smiles at him, and sets her hand upon his, briefly, "Thank you. I thought we could never be friends again, after such bitter arguments. Now, I know that I was wrong."
He shakes his head, his smile now amused, "Ah, Majesty - I do not think that we are free from the possibility of arguments - even bitter ones. You and I are two people, with our own minds and opinions. I promised you that I would always be truthful, and frank. If I am to keep that promise, then be assured there shall be many arguments in the years to come, for I know that you are well educated, and have strong views of your own - which are certain on occasion not likely to coincide with mine."
Her expression changes to earnest sincerity, "Then I give you my word, sir, that I shall not view our disagreements as personal criticism, nor shall I see them as disagreements on principle. You promised me honesty and frankness, thus I promise you equal courtesy. The world is ranged against us, Thomas Cromwell - and if I am to survive, and my daughter to win her inheritance, we must face that world together."
She withdraws her hand, and he rises to his feet, and bows, "Thank you, in return."
His expression is quite paternal, as though he approves of a favoured daughter. There was a time when her father did so - tender feelings long buried deep in a grave that seems to contain all of him other than his ambition and craving for power. Now, however, she looks up at the tall man forever dressed in black, and wonders if she might have lost one father, only to gain a new one.
And, in that moment, she feels safe again.
Lord Rochford has had too much claret; Jane can see it in his flushed face and bitter expression. In spite of his inability to be discreet over showing his tempers to all and sundry, that failure of talent is all the greater when he is in his cups.
He is not aware that she has seen - and read - the letter that arrived from the Earl of Wiltshire this morning, and she knows that her father-in-law's exhortations to his son on myriad topics are the cause of her husband's poor mood. Being so far from Court, and having no access to the intelligence networks that Cromwell can command, he has no idea what is happening - but assumes that, in the absence of Norfolk and himself, the Regent operates in a vacuum of inertia. Thus his letters are full of invective and conflicting advice that suggests his son act in a certain way, then, in the next paragraph, urges against it. Above all, he seems to demand that George undermine all that the Regent attempts to implement, but to do so in such fashion that he cannot be seen to be responsible. Knowing her husband as she does, Jane appreciates that such subtlety is quite impossible. George is many things, witty, intelligent and charming to name but three qualities - but he is not at all devious: his father is the one with that particular talent. Besides, surely even he has worked out by now that Anne no longer trusts him.
As though he has not had enough already, he slops more claret into his cup and gulps at it with an almost vicious determination. There was a time when she would have dreaded his getting into such a state as this, as drink seems to unleash a far darker side to him than is ever present when he is sober. It seems to her that there have always been two George Boleyns - one who is personable and friendly, and another who is unpleasant and cruel. The former seems able to quell the latter for much of the time, unless in drink - or not particularly interested in doing so. Unlike some, she is one of those to whom that restraint is not granted. Though Anne sees it now, too; and no longer defends him. On the contrary, she has made it abundantly clear that it is Jane who has her protection now, not Rochford. He threw that privilege away when he decided to stand with Norfolk in hopes of deposing her.
She continues to work upon her embroidery, this time a gift for the Queen Elizabeth. Her husband is most certainly in an unenviable position, as the hopes of his faction were to install Richmond, in further hopes of gaining high Court positions as a reward - but then the youth died, and the only other truly viable heir is Mary - who would throw herself onto an open fire before she accepted their fealty.
Now there is an unknown quantity. What is happening with Mary? Certainly she has been given an excellent house, an extraordinarily generous pension for her own use, and she is not even required to pay for her household expenses. Such largesse is unlikely to inspire love for the Regent from that benighted girl - though even Anne knows that Mary never once blamed Elizabeth for her reversal of fortune. But would that stop her from attempting to oust the child that now wears the Crown? The law prevents it, for Mary is still barred from the succession on account of her bastardy, and the invalidity of her mother's marriage to the King. He was, however, still her father - and only a fool would believe that Anne has ever won the love of the people of England. Anne might have done, but only because she made herself believe it and was shielded from any evidence to the contrary. Even when she went on Progress with her husband only last year, the presence of people cheering the King was overwhelming - but who amongst them cheered for her? Mary, on the other hand, would win such cheers - for she is the daughter of Katherine, and even now there are many in England who would consider her blood to be the truer. The only way to prevent Mary from stealing the crown is to steal the hearts of Englishmen from her. While Elizabeth is lauded as 'King Harry's Bairn', that is tempered by the belief that the whore who supplanted England's True Queen governs England in her stead. It shall take a great deal of concerted effort to overcome that particular stain - and Jane is glad that she is not the one tasked with such an enterprise.
Rochford shifts from his chair and crosses to the window to look out. Looking up from her embroidery, Jane wonders what he is thinking. Perhaps he is realising that he does not have the same degree of ambition as his father - and that his wish is to work with his sister, not against her. Freed from the influence of those who would overturn everything in pursuit of their own power, perhaps he might reconsider his loyalties.
"George." Her voice is tentative; she knows that it takes little for her to provoke him these days.
To her relief, he turns slowly to look at her, "Jane."
"Forgive me; but - what troubles you? You seem most perturbed."
He pauses, then crosses back to sit before her, "I am being asked to act against my conscience, I think. And the more that I think it, the more convinced I am that I have chosen wrongly in tying my loyalties to those who oppose the Regent."
"In what way?"
"I have received a letter from my father: one in which he all but orders me to destroy the Regent." Rochford looks strained, "I am being asked to harm my sister, and my niece; worse, that destruction is at the instigation of our father. I cannot understand how that should be."
"She has claimed the crown in place of a Lord Protector, George." Jane reminds him, gently, "In doing so, she dashed the hopes of ambitious men who had expected to rule in her stead."
"What am I to do, Jane?" He asks, his eyes full of appeal. There are times when he recognises that she is his wife, and that she matters to him in some way; it is the memories of those times that sustain her in those other times when he does not.
"What do you want to do, George?" please let him choose to reconcile with his sister…please…
"I want Anne to look at me, and smile again, Jane." He admits, painfully, "I want to be her brother - and I want her to be my sister. I want to laugh with her, argue with her…all that we did before all of this began. I allowed myself to become blind to all but the ambition for power - but it is only now that I truly see it. I let my father and uncle lead the way - and followed like a useless, hopeless sheep. What kind of man does that make me?"
She does not answer, instead, she grasps his hand in both of hers, "Reconcile with her Majesty the Regent, George - as I did. If we are to keep England together, so that Elizabeth may rule it as Queen when she is of age, then we must be united, must we not? Would not the Council benefit from your presence as a loyal member?"
Finally, he smiles, "I think that has been in my mind for some days, Jane. I could not bring myself to accept that I had chosen wrongly. Pride has always been something of a thorn in my side, I fear. To hear it spoken to me by another voice has served only to make that conviction stronger."
Surely it is not his drunkenness that is making him speak so? Jane looks at him more closely, and frowns a little; no, it is not. Yes, he has imbibed rather more claret than he should have done - but not so much that he is in that uncontrolled state that she fears. Instead, it has - rather perversely - cut through his uncertainty and inhibition, and he has come to a firm conclusion. Ironically, it has also ensured that any attempt at falsehood would be utterly obvious.
"I think her Majesty shall be most pleased to welcome you into her close circle of friends and advisers again, George. In spite of all, I think that she misses you."
"I have missed her." He agrees, looking rather sad.
"Would you like me to speak to her this evening? I am to attend her in the hall this evening; the Ambassadors are presenting their credentials to Queen Elizabeth in recognition of the new reign. I am sure you would like more to attend as her brother than as a mere member of her council, is that not so?"
"Most assuredly." Rochford sits back, and sighs, "Lord - I shall have much work to do if I am to win her round. Anne is not a woman who forgives easily. I have learned that from long experience."
Jane smiles again, "Then we shall begin that work tonight."
The hall is packed with bodies - people who are essential, people who are not, people who have no apparent purpose in being there at all other than to occupy space. Above, a consort of musicians plays in the gallery under Mark Smeaton's direction from his lute, while below, two lines of dancers are engaged in a slow pavane.
Chapuys watches all around him with narrowed eyes; taking in those of note who are present. The Concubine, of course, sits alongside the empty throne of the King - for her bastard brat is far too young to preside over such gatherings - and has accepted the credentials of all the ambassadors who have approached to present them. He has not yet been called, and waits with ever decreasing patience for someone to fetch him.
The feast that they have been served was indeed magnificent - though the number of dishes seemed reduced from the scandalous levels that once graced the King's table. The banquet served while they waited for that feast to be voided was also notable for its quantities - though the quality was as excellent as ever. It seems that, despite her reputation, the woman is not quite so wedded to the requirement for show as the late King.
He has attempted, on several occasions, to communicate with the young woman whom he considers to be the true Queen of England, but she is close guarded at Hunsdon, though she lives in luxury and with a degree of freedom that surprises him under the circumstances. So far each attempt has failed - and the most recent came horribly close to being discovered. Had that happened, then Chapuys has no doubt that he would have been firmly escorted from Court - and equally firmly invited to depart aboard the next available ship.
His attention moves on to the men of the Council, all of whom are present and gathered near to the throne. That raven Cromwell, of course, is never far from her side - whispering sedition and heresy in her ungodly ear, no doubt - while those men who have received favour stand around in equally close proximity. Sussex is closest, of course; he is the Lord Chancellor in place of the lesser man Audley, who is sitting some distance away. While Southampton and that rodent Rich are talking to Cromwell, though their expressions are too cheerful to be talking of matters of State.
Yes - Audley does look out of sorts; any hope of preferment having been banished with Norfolk and Wiltshire. For a moment, Chapuys's lip curls in disdain - the act that toppled them was so simplistic - so…so…childish, that he wonders how it is that either of them could have allowed themselves to be so easily snared. It can only have been complacency; a mistake that her late Majesty Queen Katherine equally made, in assuming her duplicitous lady in waiting to be just another mistress who would be taken up in a heartbeat, and discarded just as quickly.
Now the former Lord Chancellor sits at a lower table with Wingfield and Bishop Tunstall - the only men left at that table who are not in thrall to that woman. God have mercy, surely she has not bought them all with the same coin as that which won the King? But she is a whore, is she not - so why would she be choosy over the one who tups her if they give her what she wishes for in return?
He is roused from his contemplations by Suffolk, who approaches him in the midst of a lively galliard that fills the hall with noise as people speak more loudly over the music. Presuming that he is to be summoned to face That Woman, he bows formally, "Your Grace."
"Excellency - a word?" Looking about carefully, Suffolk turns and leads Chapuys off to a small alcove some way from the throng.
"How can I be of assistance?" Chapuys looks intrigued - he knows that Suffolk was for the late Queen as others were not.
"Speak softly, your Excellency - what I wish to discuss would be considered treason in some quarters."
The Ambassador's ears prick up at once: there is only one subject that would require such care, and he seats himself nonchalantly upon a bench, as though they are discussing nothing of substance.
"I have been in communication with Queen Mary." Suffolk begins, talking in a very low voice, "I have a man in her retinue, and a woman in her train. Between them, they are able to circumvent the strictures placed upon her Majesty by the usurper Anne."
Chapuys nods, and smiles as though he has been told something of supreme amusement - which, in some ways, he has. Does Suffolk really think he does not know that Edward Seymour and his sister Jane are at Hunsdon? Queen Mary would welcome Jane, as she is both a goodly Catholic, and had come very close to driving a wedge between the King and his whore that might well have become permanent. In the girl's mind, to remove the Concubine would be to regain her father's love - which would be as strong as it has always been, but for its being poisoned by the filthy venom of that paike.
"It would be helpful to know whether his Imperial Majesty would support her in her claim to the throne of England." Suffolk continues, "France is likely to declare for the Regent - assuming that de Castelnau has set aside the insult she threw at him on Lady Day."
"He has already done so." Chapuys advises, "She summoned him not three days ago and spoke honeyed words to him, blaming all upon the ambition of her father, and promising alliances and treaties to favour King Francis's interests. He was won over in less than ten minutes. Thus France is less likely to declare against her than was once the case - believe me, he is a fearful gossip when enough wine has been consumed."
"I have no doubt that his Holiness would issue a Bull in support of her Majesty's claim - but for the Emperor to also support her would be our greatest hope. She has the love of all true Englishmen - a love that the usurper cannot hope to grasp - and thus they would certainly rise to her banner. Once that vile reformer Cromwell begins to reinstate his actions against the Holy Church, it is but a matter of time before those who see their faith under threat shall turn upon him. If they have a worthy figurehead - a true Queen to rally them - then who shall stop them? Her Majesty shall receive her just rights and inheritances, while those who denied her shall be seen by all - their heads atop spikes upon London Bridge."
Chapuys laughs uproariously, "God's blood, your Grace! And to think I have never seen such an act of mummery as that - dressing in green branches and dancing to drums! Why, in some parts of his Imperial Majesty's realm, there are people who celebrate saints days by enclosing cats in pots, suspending the pots from ropes and stoning them until they break and the cats fall to earth. What strange customs we seem to have!"
Suffolk frowns, but does not object - for he can guess why the Ambassador's behaviour has changed. Someone is behind him.
"Your Excellency." Rich is there, his expression bland, but his eyes rather narrow, "Her Majesty the Queen Regent shall see you now."
"Of course." Chapuys rises, then turns to Suffolk, "Thank you for a most interesting discussion. I shall consider that which you have told me - most interesting! We shall speak anon." Still chuckling, he departs to approach the throne.
Sitting in the alcove, Suffolk allows himself a sense of hope. If Chapuys is with them, then perhaps the Emperor shall be, too.