I, Jane: In The Court of Henry VIII (21 page)

June 1526

Eltham Palace

I
t was as much common knowledge in the royal galleries as in the servants’ quarters below that the king meant not just to court Mistress Boleyn, but to win her completely. Yet competition loomed. The court poet, Thomas Wyatt, had begun a bold flirtation with the raven-haired beauty, whose skill at tying the king into romantic knots seemed unparalleled.

Jane knew about it mainly because the queen’s friends delighted in seeing His Highness’s pained fits of jealousy over such a handsome and talented young competitor. Since Wyatt had been commissioned to read one or two of his own poems during the last banquet, everyone was abuzz with the possibility of an impending clash between the rivals.

The banquet hall was decorated lavishly for the occasion and in a way to which Jane was certain she would never grow accustomed. The vast, vaulted chamber with its brightly painted beams was ablaze with torches and candles when she arrived in the queen’s train. She was walking beside Elizabeth Carew in front of Margaret Shelton and Anne Stanhope and behind the queen and Ambassador Chapuys. In
her dark dress, plain collar, and prominent crucifix, Queen Katherine made a poor comparison to the woman who emerged through the opposite archway, flanked by her uncle, the Duke of Norfolk, and Cardinal Wolsey, who had only just been in the queen’s company the evening before. Anne strode regally, like a queen herself, brilliant in a dazzling gown of gold cloth that was ornamented with sparkling precious stones. As usual, courtiers and ladies began gossiping and whispering beneath the strains of music sung by Mark Smeaton, another handsome young courtier, who was standing in the gallery above.

Just then the familiar trumpet blare sounded the king’s arrival as he entered the hall, along with his jester, Will Somers, and his entourage, Charles Brandon, Thomas Wyatt, William Compton, William Brereton, and Nicholas Carew. Francis Bryan was with them, now sporting a jaunty black eye patch bordered with tiny glittering jewels above a matching and luxurious velvet doublet encrusted with the same stones.

Jane smiled as she looked at him, her heart bursting with silent admiration. Ah, what a survivor he did seem! Adversity had not torn Francis down, only strengthened him, she thought, as the king draped an arm familiarly across his shoulder and leaned in as if they were sharing a great private joke. It was only a moment until she saw that they were both staring at Thomas Wyatt as they laughed. It was like three great factions coming together in one place. The king’s, the queen’s, and Anne’s. The atmosphere was certainly charged. It made Jane shiver as she watched all three powers converge on the head table beneath a ceremonial drape stamped with the Tudor rose. Beside the two thrones, a third heavily carved chair had been placed. She watched Mistress Boleyn bob a careless little curtsy to the queen and then nod to the king himself before she sank into the out-of-place third chair.

While the court had steadily grown accustomed these past months to Anne’s presence near the sovereign, her position and strength seemed to be increasing by the day. The king was obsessed with her. Fueling his passion was her open flirtation with Sir Thomas Wyatt. The king, after all, was married, Anne had blithely told Elizabeth Carew one afternoon at cards, so she had no intention of not proceeding with her own amours, unless, and until, those circumstances changed.

“This should be quite a performance,” John Fischer, the Bishop of Rochester, remarked to Maria de Salinas, both near enough for Jane to hear.

“Sir Thomas
is
a brilliant poet, his flowery verse well captured in cogent couplets,” Chapuys concurred.

“Oh, I meant not that. Only that Master Wyatt would do well to take care. As should Mistress Anne. The king is accustomed to winning what he desires, from the likes of Lady Hastings, Lady Carew, Mistress Blount—even Mistress Anne’s own sister. This is a train of victory never interrupted by failure. And if I know our sovereign, he does not plan to begin now,” the sage bishop observed.

After Will Somers dutifully brought the king to tears of laughter by ridiculing each of the men closest around them with pithy little barbs, the spindly court fool bowed to the king and made way for Thomas Wyatt to enter the center of the arranged banquet tables for his turn at the entertainment.

With the intensity of a student, Jane watched each of the players. She glanced at Anne, whose blithe expression had changed swiftly to one of coy flirtation with the handsome poet, who was now opening his book of verse. In the midst of this charged atmosphere, the poor queen sat like a quail on its nest, attempting to protect the fruits of her tenuous life.

The queen was to be pitied, Jane thought. She had thought that over and over, perhaps never so much as now. Quietly, her blood boiled like the contents of one of the great iron kettles bubbling in the hot royal kitchens directly beneath their feet—and this false amusement.

If it were Anne against me,
Jane thought,
I would be more wise, more cunning. More quiet and clever like my brother Tom. Because no one ever suspects the plain-faced, quiet ones.
Even a little country mouse like Jane could see that well enough.

As Wyatt began to read with a boastful tenor full of flourishes, boldly directing his words and gaze upon Anne, Jane caught a glimpse of Mary Boleyn, newly returned to court from her new husband’s family home in Hertfordshire in a show of family support for her sister. Mary was seated only a few chairs away at the same table. It was a surprise to see her here. She had grown stout in adulthood from childbirth. But on her face, as on her sister’s, that graceful Boleyn essence was unchanged. Mary’s discomfort as she watched her former lover and her own sister together on the dais was a palpable thing to Jane. It was obvious that it had not been her idea to return here.

There were crystal-bright tears in Mary’s eyes to make the point clearer. Her appointed husband, William Carey, took her hand atop the table, but Jane saw that Mary’s body went rigid at his touch. It seemed a move for show. As Wyatt and Anne gazed at each other and Wyatt droned on, Mary’s and Jane’s eyes met across the table and Mary’s face brightened with recognition. Mary nodded to her and smiled grimly in acknowledgment. When the reading was at an end and the dancing began, Mary came and embraced her.

“What a long time it has been, Jane. I had heard you were at court now. ’Tis a good thing to see a friendly face here.”

“I am heartened you remember me, Lady Carey. We were very young and our time together in France was so brief.”

“You must still call me Mary, and I was not so young then as to not remember you,” Mary replied.

Jane had heard the gossip from Thomas several years ago that Mary Boleyn had been pressured by her family to give herself not only to the King of France, but to two of his companions in hopes of advancing the family. She later heard about Mary and the English king, and that children had likely resulted from their union. Children he did not acknowledge, in spite of his acceptance of Bess Blount’s son, Henry Fitzroy.

The music from the gallery changed suddenly to a more somber pavane, and the king led Anne past the tables to the center of the other dancers. Wyatt had been dismissed while Jane and Mary spoke, and the king was not smiling as he held Anne’s hand through the dance steps.

“Ah, if only I had been as clever as my sister, I might still be there with him,” Mary said with a sigh, watching them dance more stiffly with each other than usual.

“You still love the king?” Jane was surprised.

“He is the father of my children.”

Jane’s smile fell as Mary’s husband excused himself from the table. She was shocked that Mary seemed so free to speak of such private matters. “But he does not acknowledge them as such, as he does the Duke of Richmond?”

Jane saw the flare of pain in Mary’s eyes, and she regretted saying it immediately.

“Because I am married, he says acknowledging them would be a messy business and cruel to my husband, whom he fancies. That, of course, was all very convenient, I see now. Even that vapid little
Blount tart was smarter than I in her dealings with him. ’Tis a game to him, with honor and virtue the pins to be knocked down by one of his great royal balls,” she said vulgarly.

“Pray, forgive me, but then is it not too painful to remain here for you now and equally distressing to speak of such things?” she asked as everyone watched the king dance and whispered privately about Mary’s younger, prettier sister, Anne.

“Mayhap ’tis to be part of my punishment,” Mary said philosophically, though her voice broke with the words. “That, and my father insists I remain here as a show of family support along with our brother, George. There are few around her my sister can trust…as if I am actually one of them.” Mary caught the shocked expression on Jane’s face. “Oh yes, once, I would not have dreamed of speaking such thoughts aloud, but the life I have lived since last we met has made me care far less now what others think of me. I fear it has all come tumbling out now to a friendly face.”

As they conversed, suddenly from the corner of her eye, Jane could see that the king and Anne’s exchange was becoming heated. They stopped dancing then and were simply standing in the center of the room, openly arguing, his arms outstretched in a pleading gesture, his huge rings glinting in the torchlight. Anne began gesticulating wildly, but the king only shrugged and looked sheepish.

“My sister does have him by the nose. No other can quite compare.”

Jane suddenly thought of William Dormer again at the notion of being emotionally bound to someone. It was odd the way he still moved through her thoughts from time to time, the memory rekindling like a fire, then dying out into embers with a sudden distraction. The king had retreated to the dais, where the queen silently watched everything, and Anne stormed off in Mary and Jane’s
direction, her beautiful, flawless face red with rage, her lips twisted tightly into a pout.

“Come away with me this instant, Mary,” Anne said impatiently, ignoring Jane, whom she clearly did not recognize.

“I should wait for my husband,” Mary said in a surprisingly meek tone.

“Nonsense. Sir William waits on the king; you wait on me. You shall both serve the same master soon enough.”

Jane glanced at the dais again, where the king sat now, ramrod straight, his chin up, holding the queen’s hand and gazing out regally at the group of dancers who had assembled in his place, as if his open encounter with Anne had never even occurred. He was playing the game well and had clearly won the round.

“It seems you might be a bit too ambitious for your own good, sister,” Mary dared to say amid the safety of the music and the crowd milling around them.

Jane held her breath. She could feel their flaring sibling rivalry.

“Do not underestimate me, Mary. I learned well by your mistakes. Bessie Blount’s and the queen’s as well,” she said coldly. “Both of you were foolish. You know not how to actually love a man like that. There is no place in this game for surrender.”

Then, as an afterthought, Anne paused and looked directly at Jane. She tightened her spine, and her small mouth lengthened into a hard line. “Who the devil are
you
to listen to a conversation between sisters?”

Jane had no idea what made her do it, but she bobbed a small curtsy then and lowered her head, as if it were completely out of her power to do anything else.

She despised herself a little for the submissive reaction.

“Oh, you must be the one they are calling the little mouse,” Anne Boleyn said unkindly before she began to chuckle.

“I am Jane Seymour,” she heard herself say.

“ ‘Little mouse’ seems far more appropriate by the look of you. Come along, then, Mary. I need attending. You shall see to my packing tonight since I’ve a sudden desire to bathe.”

“But where are you going?” Mary asked in surprise.

“Home to Hever of course, you fool. ’Tis time the king realizes he cannot live without me.”

“You looked quite smitten with Master Wyatt. Is he not a more realistic alternative?”

Anne laughed harshly over the music, and the sound that came up from her throat was quite menacing, Jane thought. It certainly turned the skin beneath her heavy gown to gooseflesh.

“Wyatt is of no more consequence than that pup-eyed singer, Mark Smeaton. He is only meant to stir the king’s jealousy.”

Jane wanted to say that if tonight’s little drama was any indication, that pot was well stirred indeed; Anne ought to tread carefully lest it boil over and scald her. But she held her tongue.

Mary leaned toward her sister. “By the look of it tonight, His Majesty would give you nearly anything you desire if you would give him that one thing which he desires.”

“You truly are a dolt. I do wonder that we share a mother. No matter what
you
did, I am meant to be a queen, not a whore. Absence makes the heart grow fonder, so I need to be absent. For a time, at least. Just until I bring him to his knees.”

Mary glanced back at the king, still sitting with the queen, laughing and conversing as though Anne did not even exist. Jane followed her gaze.