Jane the Confidant Page 11

  It would be the first meal I had taken with my full family in years. It was high time Margery joined her brother Edward’s court at Richmond Palace, and rather than just send the child, Jane and I took the chance to visit my son as well. Elizabeth had joined the court from her establishment the previous day and traveled in Margery’s litter behind us with her nurse; Mary, whose establishment was closer to Richmond, would join us there and then travel back to Hampton Court with us.

  I turned behind me to glance at Jane who was riding with a groom, her billowing blue skirts trailing along the horse. True to queenly form, Jane did not seem to notice the smell and instead had a small wave for the few farmers who had put down their pitchforks and come to gawk at our passing train. Pulling their dirty caps from their head, they bowed as I rode past, but sank even deeper as Jane appeared, shouts of “God Save Your Majesty!” on their lips.

  Though the trail was rough, it was fortunately a short journey and we reached Richmond before the midday meal was to be served. As I was helped from my horse, I ordered my chamberlain to lay out a fresh pair of clothes to change into for the meal. The mud stuck to my stockings and coat and I feared the smell of the countryside would never leave these shoes. I turned, expecting to see Jane rush past me to our son, but instead noted that her ladies were pulling down a small traveling case.

  “I will change before the meal,” she said to her chief lady-in-waiting. “They may have the Prince presented to us before the food is served.” The thin woman rushed off to do her bidding and Jane turned to make sure Margery was safe with her wet nurse before following her ladies to the Queens’ chambers. Behind Margery, I noticed Kat Ashley lifting down Elizabeth in an attempt to keep the child’s dress from getting dirty.

  “But I want to see my brother now,” Elizabeth whined as Kat turned to pull her small traveling case out of the carriage.

  “You will see your brother soon enough,” the stout woman replied. “And it is not polite to speak like that, even to me. Besides, we must get you settled into your room.”

  “I am still clean,” Elizabeth insisted, putting her hands on her hips. I felt like she would stomp her foot except she was standing too near a puddle and knew that any mess would only cause her more trouble.

  “Yes, but I am not,” Kat responded, taking the six-year-old’s hand. “Now come along.” Elizabeth followed begrudgingly, looking longingly at the fields of mud.

  “Hurry up, my lady,” Kat insisted. “I am sure your sister, the Lady Mary, is waiting to see you.”

  This seemed to brighten Elizabeth up and she was now all but running for the entrance to the palace, pulling her nurse’s hand as if to make the older woman move faster.

  I laughed, glad to see this rare portrait of my daughter. She had not seen me much and was often muted in my presence. Shaking the mud from my boots, I followed the pair into the palace, thinking on a way to remedy Elizabeth’s fear of me.

  It would do no good to be overly familiar with the child; she was still a bastard daughter. However, I could remember the fear I had felt at my own father’s visits when I had still been in the nursery with my sisters. Arthur had taken up most of his time, but occasionally he would send word that he was coming to visit the rest of his children and the nursery would instantly be thrown into an uproar, my nurse pulling longer pants onto me and trying to brush my older sister Margaret’s hair down.

  One time a visit was so sudden my younger sister Mary became sick with fright and ruined the new dress my mother had made for her. I could still remember my father’s stern look as a frightened maid stuttered out what had happened and why Mary was not lined up with my sister and me. As usual, he merely glanced at Margaret and came to pat me on the head, before asking us both to recite from our studies. After five minutes of stuttering through Latin, he would turn and leave the nursery.

  Those experiences always led to the best suppers though, as my mother would invariably hear of my father’s visit and arrange to dine with the children that evening. Her musicians would then join us and we would practice our dancing, my mother calling out the steps as we whirled about the room. Many of my favorite memories of my mother came from nights such as those, her attempting to sooth the frightened mess my father had left behind.

  And when I had become a father I had promised that I would instill no such fear into my children. That there should be a balance between respect and comfort, that my children would be able to trust that I was a good man and loved them, even while knowing that I was still their king as well as their father. That promise had been made over twenty-five years ago, when Catherine had first given birth. Since then, heartache had entered my world, in the form of lost children and unfaithful wives. It seemed I had forgotten my promise.

  My musings and memories kept me occupied until I reached the great hall for dinner. Tomorrow the public would be invited to watch the royal family dine, but today I had insisted it be merely my wife and children who joined me for the meal.

  Elizabeth and Mary both already stood by the fire. Mary and Elizabeth’s red dresses were the only color in the room, a severe difference against the grey stones that made up the walls. The fireplace was smaller than what I was used to, and nothing grand, the mantle made of thin stone. Only a few windows lined the far wall; candlelight was necessary even in the day for me to see their faces.

  Once they noticed my presence I went to them, pulling my daughter Mary up from her curtsey to hug her. I had not seen my eldest child in over a month and was glad that she was once again joining the court.

  “Your Majesty,” Mary said, her voice muffled by my shoulder. I smiled and kissed her on the forehead.

  “My daughter, you are quite welcomed back to court,” I said, pulling away. She nodded and glanced down as I bent down in front of Elizabeth.

  “My daughter Elizabeth, it is quite a pleasure to see you again,” I said with a smile on my face.

  “And a pleasure to see you, Your Majesty,” she said, standing up straighter as I took her hand.

  “I am glad to see you have kept clean,” I teased her. “You did not need to change as Queen Jane and I both did.”

  “Yes,” she said, smiling at me proudly. “I was most careful on the way into the palace!”

  “Clever girl,” I said and motioned for a groom to help me back to my feet. When I was standing, I turned to my girls again.

  “I am sure the Queen will be here with us shortly. And I know you will both be pleased to see your brother, Prince Edward, again. I believe the queen plans to have Princess Margery brought in with us as well.” I noticed then that Elizabeth pulled on Mary’s hand to ask her a question and I turned slightly away so as to let the girls speak.

  “Mary, why is she bringing the baby in? She will not be able to eat!”

  “I think she just wants our sister near so that we will be able to spend time with her,” Mary whispered back, a smile in her voice. “It will be quite exciting to have the whole family together for a meal.”

  “Yes,” Elizabeth whispered back. “I will be glad to see Queen Jane again.”

  About that time, Jane’s herald stepped forward into the room, the doors behind him remaining open.

  “Queen Jane, with Prince Edward and Princess Margery!”

  So she had not been able to stay away from the nursery. My wife entered, a new dress of crushed red velvet swirling around her. She made a beautiful picture, holding the hand of our son, still in dresses. I had planned a joust for his second birthday and knew I would have to order a small suit made for him then; he should be in long pants by then. Behind them came Margery’s nurse, holding the purple blanket closely around Margery’s big frame. Beside me, both of my daughters dropped into a deep curtsey at the sight of their stepmother and her two children.

  “Let us be seated!” I cried out, opening my arms toward the table. I stepped to my chair where two servant boys were already pulling the heavy wooden chair away from the ancient table. Jane came to be seated to my right, settling E
dward in next to her. Margery’s nurse walked with her to the rocking chair next to the large fire and only then did Mary and Elizabeth step forward, Mary sitting to my left and instructing Elizabeth to sit next to her.

  I waved for the first course to be brought in; I knew the pastries here would be most excellent, as Edward’s cook was second only to the one I employed while in London. Sure enough, the intense smell of baked bread came wafting through the door, followed closely by the page boys with goblets of wine.

  “It has been much watered down,” my steward explained to Jane before pouring some into the silver cup in front of my son. She helped Edward take a sip and the whole table laughed at the face he made.

  “It is quite bitter, mother,” he said, his young voice squeaking through his twisted lips.

  “You will grow used to it,” she said with a laugh and smiled to Mary who had reached out to drink from her own cup.

  “You see, Edward,” Jane continued. “Your sisters enjoy the taste now.” Edward frowned at them, slightly distrusting.

  “I promise you will one day like it, Your Grace,” Elizabeth insisted, leaning across the table to smile at her brother.

  Jane smiled at her stepdaughter, the first true smile I had ever seen her offer Elizabeth.

  “And how have your studies been, Mary?” Jane asked, allowing herself to be served a spinach pastry by a page.

  “Very well, thank you,” Mary answered with a smile. “And I receive regular reports from court from Sir Nicholas Carew.”

  “I am pleased to hear you are taking an interest in government,” Jane said with a smile. “And what do you think of the reports you hear?”

  Mary colored slightly, glancing at me.

  “Speak your mind,” I insisted, curious as to what my daughter’s naïve reply might be. And I would gain insight into what Sir Nicholas Carew thought suitable to tell Mary. She was quiet for a few moments as she picked at her own pastry, obviously deciding what was best to say.

  “He writes much about the Pilgrimage of Grace,” Mary said, biting her lip. “And their successes in the field.”

  “Not many successes,” I argued, feeling the anger at her answer ride over me.

  “Not as of late,” Mary conceded. “But they do seem to be growing in numbers. And their demands have grown. Sir Nicholas informed me that the pilgrims —”

  “Rebels,” I interrupted. “They are not pilgrims, for they are marching against their king and the true religion. They are rebels against our crown.”

  “But Papa,” Mary countered, leaning closer to me over the second course that was now being brought out to us. “They have strong points and are merely expressing their desires for the Catholic religion to be brought back to England. Surely that is not a crime?”

  I glanced to Jane, who had once spoken such similar words, but she had her head down, gaze locked firmly on her hands that were clasped in her lap. Only for a moment did she break this pose, to swipe at Edward’s face when he spilled gravy on his face. My son, interested only in his meat, seemed oblivious to the conversation happening, but I noticed that Elizabeth, while continuing to eat her beef, was intently listening for my answer.

  “They have risen against the crown,” I answered quietly. “Killing the Duke of Norfolk in battle as well as injuring the Duke of Suffolk. He may never recover the use of his leg.” I let my hand travel down to my own injured leg, flinching slightly when the wound caused me pain.

  “But Papa —” Mary insisted, before quieting down at my glare. I reached to my plate, digging into my own plate of meat that had been served, content to eat in silence rather than hear Mary’s continued argument. She picked at her own meal for a moment before turning to me.

  “I beg your forgiveness. I should have addressed you as ‘Your Majesty,’” she said.

  “Yes,” I agreed, taking a deep drink from my cup. “And if you have quite finished your meal then you may leave.”

  Mary nodded, recognizing the dismissal for what it was. She bowed to both me and Jane before looking to Elizabeth. I could see the order for her younger sister to accompany her begin to leave her lips when the jellied desert appeared. At Elizabeth’s bright look, Mary turned, defeated by mere jellied candies, and left the room.

  Sighing, I took a handful of the candies before Jane waved them down towards my two children. Elizabeth waited patiently for Edward to pick out his choice before selecting her own sweet and immediately popping it into her mouth.

  “Henry, perhaps you should not have been so hard on the Lady Mary,” Jane said, reaching out to me. “She is young and was only expressing her opinion.”

  “She is not so young,” I replied. “And it distresses me that she thinks so highly of the rebels. We must keep Mary close to us, and make sure she sees the errors in her thinking.”

  Jane hummed her agreement before turning to grab Edward’s hand.

  “No more sweets,” she said firmly. “Come, we must return you to your nursery.” She stood, bowing to me before bustling out with Edward, Margery and her nurse in tow.

  I leaned back into the chair, trying to take comfort from the feel of the soft cushion behind me. But there was little I could find comfort with as Mary’s disapproving frown replayed in my head. I considered ordering Edward back to me, but knew that would only make Jane unhappy; certainly she had put him down to sleep. If I was not careful, Edward would grow up just like his mother, the same as Mary had grown up into hers. I sighed and looked across the table.

  “Your Majesty?” little Elizabeth asked, looking at me with her head cocked to the side. “Might I assist you?”

  “No, child,” I answered, a smile coming to my face despite my gloomy mood.

  Elizabeth pursed her lips and looked over to the tray of candied sweets that had been left behind by the page boy. Seeming to be deep in thought, she stood and walked to the tray, selecting two pieces before walking back to me.

  She curtseyed for a moment and stood before I could ask her what she was doing. Taking the final two steps towards me, she lifted her arms.

  I laughed slightly, surprised by her action. I had not held this girl, nor shown her any affection since Anne had died.

  “I have brought you a sweet,” she said, as if this would be all that was needed to return to my arms. But truthfully, it was her childish smile, her belief that I was still strong enough to lift her that did me in. I held out my arms, allowing her to climb up into them.

  “Which would you like?” she asked, holding out her hands. I chose the sugared date, allowing her to place it into my hand before she bit into her own piece. With a contented sigh, she settled back against me.

  I ate my own sweet and then put my arms around her, drawing the child close.

  “Thank you, Elizabeth,” I said around the sugary taste.

  “You are welcome, Papa,” she answered. She turned to lay her head against my shoulder and I placed a smile kiss against the top of her head, the peace I had hoped to find with my family settling in.

  Chapter Eleven

  June 1539

  They were the first festivities at court in two years, since Edward had been born. To celebrate my son’s second birthday, I planned a masque as well as the joust that was happening before me. It was nothing as extravagant as when he had been born — my coffers could not afford such, and even London was rife with mourning; death having visited every part of my country.

  What I had told Mary earlier that summer had been true. It seemed the Pilgrimage of Grace had slowed; the leaders had lost much of the momentum from the previous year. I could imagine the butchering I had witnessed had much to do with their lower numbers and few attacks. I had been right in my assessment of the battle; the rebels had indeed put their fathers and sons in the field. It seems that finding their butchered bodies, their sacrifice, had taken the fight out of the men.

  And there was cheerful news from Calais. Lord Lisle had somehow defied the odds and held out against the French siege. The same famine that had starve
d English troops last winter had been even harsher in France, and King Francis’ troops had rebelled against their commanders. The French had retreated, and life in Calais was once again returning to normal; food was to be harvested, and these now battle-hardened men were ready if Francis chose to strike again this fall.

  And as there had been no strikes from the rebels this month, I had determined it safe to hold a celebration. Edward and Margery had both been brought to Richmond Palace; Elizabeth and Mary had remained with the court and had new dresses for the occasion. Most of the nobles had agreed to participate; only the Earl of Surrey, the eldest son of the Duke of Norfolk, was absent, as he led his army throughout the north in an attempt to encounter James Butler, the man who had slain his father.

  The day of the joust was warm, the heat baking the mud in the ring so that it flew into the air when a competitor urged his horse down the line. Even the common folk of London had come to watch the joust. Many of the ladies held scarves to their faces to block out the putrid smells that came from the stables. There had been no rain in the past week, and the dry air carried every scent into the tents that had been erected for us to watch from.

  Sir James Steward had just spurred his horse down to meet Sir Francis Knox when my herald stepped forward.

  “His Grace, the Duke of Suffolk!”

  A silence fell about those in my tent as Charles Brandon stepped forward. This was the first time I had seen him since he had ridden for his home after being released from confinement. There had been only a few tense meetings before he had gone, and during my progress earlier that summer, I had tried not to think of him.

  But here he was, his face grim, his left hand gripping a knobbed wooden cane. The breeches he wore hid the scar, but the pain from standing was apparent on his face and his left leg was twisted slightly.