Jane the Confidant Read online

  I sat back in my saddle, safe from the lines of battle. I was at the upmost crest of the hill, the captain of my guard at my side and alert. Charles had truly chosen my location well; here I could see the sprawling valley before me but was not threatened by any of the rebels, as they lacked any cannons or longbow men, no long-range weapons that could harm me.

  Charles watched me and with my nod kicked up his horse and cried out “For king and country!” The men knew their cue and began to run down the hill, a volley of arrows from our bowmen covering their advance.

  But rather than advance, the rebels merely stood where they were, many being struck by arrows. Only one young man broke cover and ran towards the tents.

  It was then that I noticed what was wrong.

  I was watching the one man run away when I realized how young he looked. With growing horror I watched him run through the tents and into the river as he began to swim away from the growing onslaught.

  “Weakling,” the captain of my guard scoffed and turned back to where my men were slaughtering those who stood before them.

  “He is but a boy,” I muttered, my eyes quickly scanning the lines.

  “Pardon, Your Majesty?” the captain asked, sitting up straighter in his saddle.

  “They are all but boys or old men,” I snapped quickly and turned to call up a page. The realization that this was not the army we had come to fight, but instead some kind of trick, was falling upon me all at once and I had trouble articulating what only I seemed to realize.

  “Your Majesty, the battle—“ my guard began, but I waved him off and instead turned to one of my pages who had ridden up on horseback.

  “Go to—“ But I broke off. Go to Charles, and tell him of what I had realized and have him reroute the men? Or warn Norfolk, which would give away his position, but who I now felt was in the most terrible danger?

  “Ride to the Duke of Suffolk,” I finally snapped. “Tell him this cannot be the troops we have heard about. Tell him to collect the men and take the remaining rebels as prisoners and to come here to me.”

  The boy nodded, his eyes wide, and quickly rode into the battle that was beginning to look more like a slaughter. I longed to call another page to deliver a message to Norfolk but could not think of how I would quickly explain why Norfolk, whom they all knew to be heading back to court, was instead hiding in the forest below.

  “Follow!” I cried to the captain who quickly gestured to his men. I began to push my horse Phillip down the hill as quickly as he could, heading not for the battle but for the trees. It was clear to me that our planning had gone to waste and that Norfolk would have to be exposed. I turned to look at where my page boy had now ridden up to Charles and was yelling at him over the fray of dying men.

  For the rest of my years I could remember the moment that followed next. A horrifying battle cry came from my left and I turned away from the fake battle to look towards the trees. Already I could feel the stiff leather of my captain’s gloves as they were suddenly upon my hands, jerking the reins and bringing Phillip to a halt. Two more guards fell in front of me and I could hear the captain’s sudden cry of “retreat men, bring back the king!” and felt Phillip being pulled back to the safety of the crest of the hill.

  Below, men began to pour from the woods; not the clean and tough faces of Norfolk’s men, but the weathered, beaten, dirty faces of the farmers and blacksmiths and common men who made up the Pilgrimage of Grace. At their head rode Robert Aske and their fearsome leader James Butler, whose sword was already bloodied.

  I looked down over these men, my subjects, who came in such large numbers, far exceeding our own. I knew there would be no surprise from Norfolk now; I was sure that it was his blood on Butler’s sword. My captain began to pull Phillip around, crying that we must away, but as I looked over the men, with their intense focus on the army before them, I looked right into the eyes of Robert Aske.

  He drew up his horse for a moment, allowing Butler and his fierce battle cry to pass him by, and held my gaze. I realized then what folly it was for me to be here; a dreadful fear began shaking through me. I would never be able to outrun these frenzied rebels, Philip’s hooves were scarcely able to find solid ground to climb on; the quick turn back uphill was causing him to slide. I lurched in my seat and pulled tightly on the reins as he slowly began back up the hill.

  I could not even breathe as I continued to look at Robert Aske. His hair had completely left his head and there was a scar on his skull that had not been there when he was at court. I waited for him to raise his hand and lead his men up the hill, towards me and my few guards.

  Instead the man merely removed his cap, held it to his breast, and bowed slightly but elegantly in his saddle. I closed my eyes for a moment in response and when I had reopened them he was directing the men away from me and towards the battle.

  “Thank the Lord,” my captain breathed out when he saw we were safe, and finally convinced Phillip to start up the hill once again.

  “The men,” I said hoarsely, though only a few moments had passed I felt that I had not spoken in years.

  “They will have to attend to themselves,” the captain snapped, pulling along my reins. As we reached the top of the hill, he convinced Phillip to break out into a run even with my heavy girth.

  “I can’t imagine what they were playing at,” I heard the captain mutter, but I knew better. I knew exactly what the rebels had been doing; they had abandoned their village and set up a false army, full of their fathers and sons, men too old to hold an axe aloft or boys too young to wield death. Then they had carefully slaughtered Norfolk and his army before coming to surprise my men, who, exhilarated from a battle supposedly won, would not have the energy to fight off this fresh attack.

  As we rode far away, further and further form the sounds of battle I found that only one thought consumed me.

  How did they know?

  ******

  Cromwell was waiting at the tents our men had set up the evening before, only a mile from the battle that was quickly being concluded. When my men and I galloped up he exited through the tent flap and fell into a bow until I had been let down from my horse. He looked to me and I could tell he knew that things had not gone well. The king, arriving back earlier and alone, did not show a victory.

  I immediately brushed past Cromwell and strode into my tent, barking for a page to ride back to the scene. I wanted information on how my men were surviving. As I shouted I spared a glance for the captain of my guard, a burly man with a wild mustache who had served me faithfully for seventeen years. With a shake of his head I knew he would not allow me back towards the battlefield, where I felt I belonged.

  Pushing away the shame I felt descend upon my flight, I sat down at the small desk that resided in my tent. Cromwell pushed into my tent, which was crowded with only a few guards and two additional pages, who stood ready for my next order. I waved to dismiss everyone from my service and with a slight frown my captain followed the other men.

  “I will remain directly outside, Your Majesty,” the gruff man said. “And we will prepare to ride if necessary.”

  I sighed deeply but nodded. A year ago I would have considered this man overly careful. Now he simply seemed smart.

  “How did they know?” I asked, turning on Cromwell.

  “How did they know what, Your Majesty?” Cromwell asked, bewildered. It was only then that I recalled that I hadn’t let this man, the one I had trusted for so long with everything, in on this one crucial aspect of the battle.

  “The Dukes of Suffolk and Norfolk and I had planned for the Duke of Norfolk to be in the western forest and for him to ride out in a surprise attack against the rebels. However, the rebels knew of the plan, and arranged for a fake army to meet us in the field. While the bulk of my men were distracted by the fake battle, the true army went through the woods, butchering Norfolk’s men before arriving to destroy mine.

  “How could Aske have known about this plan?” I roared, my voice growing
in anger. “Not even you knew of it!”

  “Indeed, I did not,” Cromwell said, his face shocked. “I had no word, none had reported to me—“ He trailed off then, his face flushing in the humiliation I had caused him by not trusting him with the information.

  “The spy must be one of the dukes,” he said in a tight whisper after a moment. “Norfolk or Suffolk, if they are the only two others who knew of this plan.”

  “It could not be Norfolk,” I snapped. “His men were slaughtered; I saw their blood on the swords of our enemies. And I believe Norfolk himself to be dead; he never would have allowed for his men to die without fighting to his last breath. And had he lived, he would have warned me of the attack, or not had Brandon led to the slaughter. No, it could not be Norfolk.”

  Cromwell took a deep breath as I sank onto a stool, thinking of the gruff man who had died in my name. I could not imagine a world without his cool confidence, and his simple belief that might made right. He was truly the last of the old families of England, and with him died not only an era but a different way of thinking. Though his exterior had been rough, I knew I would miss the old man.

  “Your Majesty,” Cromwell whispered, looking at me through concerned eyes.

  “What is it?” I snapped, still in shock from the decisive battle I had just seen. If I was truthful it was not just Norfolk I mourned, but the idea that I would prevail over these rebels. It was not until today, when I saw their bloodthirsty faces and dark penetrating stares as they rushed towards my men in battle, that I knew how angry they were at me.

  “Your Majesty,” Cromwell continued. “If the spy was not the Duke of Norfolk then that leaves only one possibility.”

  I raised my hand for him not to say it, would have screamed a thousand orders for him to remain quiet, but he spoke despite what I did not want to hear.

  “Your Majesty, the spy must be Charles Brandon.”

  Chapter Ten

  May 1539

  “Henry, you must believe that we have done everything in our power.”

  I turned from my desk to look at Jane’s impassioned face and nodded briefly. She was correct; there was little more that I could do to make my country safe. The rebels had destroyed the force I had raised against them and turned the tide of battle. In their bloodlust they had taken York and murdered the Bishop of York, a good man whom I had recently appointed to that title.

  And we had no military leaders. The Duke of Norfolk had been murdered in the woods as he waited to surprise the rebels, he and 2,000 of his best men. They had been slaughtered from behind, so quickly that those who had noticed had no time to raise an alarm. Now his son, the Earl of Surrey, tried to lead a siege against York, but this immature boy held none of his father’s strength. Reports of their daily failures to take the city depressed me and further wounded the morale of my scant court.

  And the Duke of Suffolk, Charles Brandon. My oldest friend had only recently been released from his rooms where he had been kept under arrest during the past months. No evidence could be found of his betrayal against me and he naturally protested that he was innocent. I had refused to see him during his confinement. I knew that I would not be able to objectively listen to his pleas and judge his guilt or innocence. However, after months of questioning, Cromwell admitted he could find nothing against Charles. We had no way of knowing what the rebels possessed; any letters he had sent them would be safely in their keeping. Cromwell and I agreed that he would no longer be trusted with any secrets of government.

  But for now, Charles rejoined my court, and had dined with me the previous evening. Silence had hung heavy between us; there was little that I could say to this man whom I could no longer trust. And his anger at being accused remained with him even after these many weeks. We could still not speak about the loss, the great defeat at battle we had experienced together.

  The only talk there had been was of the physical manifestation of our loss, of Charles’ leg injury. In the resulting battle Charles’ left leg had been pierced through with a sword, his horse killed beneath him. After falling, he had managed to signal for a retreat and a singular brave lad, Edward Stafford, a member of my household, had managed to secure a horse and pull Charles’ bulk on before riding away to safety. Out of the thousands of men who had made up Charles’ troop, just three hundred and twelve had escaped to tell of the battle. The rest had been casualties, or had been taken prisoner and now fought for the rebels.

  I closed my eyes against this thought. It was hard to tell the numbers now supported by the Pilgrimage of Grace. The Earl of Surrey sent wild reports, claiming to be fighting hundreds of thousands of men. I could not see how so many men could have chosen to march against me, but there were no conflicting reports. Perhaps the lad was correct.

  “Your Majesty,” Jane said softly, dropping down beside me. In the past months she had been such a blessing, rarely speaking of the rebels, instead doing her best to distract me from the fight. “Your Majesty, Calais has been reinforced. There is no conceivable way that Francis will take it this season. And my brother Edward writes to me that he is calling for men from my county; he will lead the men north to fight for you. And even my brother Thomas is doing his part at the court of Emperor Charles, trying to convince him to speak with the Bishop of Rome and ask him to drop the excommunication. Then, surely, these troubles will end.”

  I smiled down at my wife and patted her hand. She made everything sound so easy and so sure. I wish I had her hope.

  “Ah, Jane, perhaps you are right,” I forced myself to say, putting on a brave face to fight her anxiety. “But surely you did not come to me just to make me feel better.”

  “If that is all I have done, then I consider this a day well spent,” Jane said, spreading out her skirts around her and sitting on a stool by my feet.

  “And perhaps we can soon hope for a son,” I said, peering at Jane’s face. With her slight blush and glance away from me, I realized that she had not yet conceived but knew that she had hopes. My earlier anger at her and our daughter, Margarey, had faded away during the spring. As I had paced the cold corridors of Hampton Court, it was only Jane who had sought me out and helped me plan defenses against the rebels. Only Jane who had a smile for me and words of comfort.

  “Perhaps, Your Majesty,” she said with a smile. “Although I would like to ask that the Lady Mary return to court.”

  “Ah, yes,” I said, remembering that my daughter had traveled back to her small home in the country after I had returned from the battle. In the depression that had followed, I had not even noticed her absence until Jane had told me she had fled, fearful I would be angry with her Catholic sympathies. At her home in the country she could hear mass as she wished and we could both pretend that I knew nothing of it.

  “Yes, write to her and invite her back,” I said, anxious to have my children near to me in these fearsome times. “We can make sure she observes the Sabbath in a way benefiting a royal.”

  Jane pursed her lips and glanced away. I recognized that she wished to argue with me, but for one reason or another held her tongue. I patted her hand in thanks before continuing.

  “And write to Kat Ashley and have the Lady Elizabeth brought as well,” I said, ignoring my wife’s look of distress. “We will have both girls here for Edward’s second birthday next month. And Margarey can be brought in with Edward. It’s time Elizabeth met her newest sister.”

  Jane gave a grim smile but nodded.

  “I will make the necessary arrangements, Your Majesty,” she said, her voice betraying her distaste for Elizabeth.

  “And you must write to Lord Lisle and assure him that further assistance will land in Calais at the first of the month,” I continued.

  “You would like for me to write to him, Your Majesty?” Jane asked, slightly shocked.

  I took a moment to consider it. It was true; I had not yet trusted Jane to act as my queen in every sense. She had little place in politics; until the past month she had rarely advised me or listened t
o the many issues that faced my government. But I looked down into her shining face and I realized that she was exactly what I needed. I had lost the Duke of Norfolk, my oldest courtier, and the Duke of Suffolk, my most trusted friend. Many of my men had perished or turned to the rebels as of late. The only other member of my court who knew everything was Cromwell and I did not want to add to his enormous workload; every order from me seemed to add a line to his face.

  “Yes, sweetheart,” I said, taking her hands. “I believe it is time for you to truly act as queen. You will write to Lord Lisle for me, assuring him that a fleet with five thousand additional men, as well as provisions for the month of June, will arrive on the first, barring any ill weather.”

  Jane beamed at me, and I watched in gentle fascination as her lips mouthed the instructions so as not to forget them.

  “And write to your brother Thomas. I wish for weekly reports from him,” I continued. “He must have the power to barter with the Emperor, if we are to win his support in a crusade against France.”

  Jane nodded again and stood, dropping my hands in her excitement. She began to silently repeat these further instructions and then quickly gasped, curtseying to me.

  “I am sorry, Your Majesty,” she said breathlessly. “I did not mean to stand in your presence without your permission.”

  “Forgiven, Jane,” I said with a laugh, my first in many months. “I am glad to see you so pleased. Now, can you remember all that?”

  “Yes Your Majesty,” she said with a smile, just for me. “And I will bring the letters here so that you may read them before they are sent.”

  “Good girl,” I said as she leaned down to kiss me on the cheek. “You may go.”

  ******

  The trail was muddy; a horrid thunderstorm had struck the countryside the previous evening, which meant our traveling party, along with all of the baggage needed for a princess’s court, moved slowly. I bit back my desire to simply ride ahead of my wife and daughters; the stench from the passing farms was at its height, the rain having soured the piles of manure to their ultimate smell. I could see the ushers around me lifting the ruffles on their sleeves to their noses, attempting not to gag at the smell as we rode past another barn.