Jane the Confidant Page 12

  “Your Majesty,” he hissed through his teeth, bending as much as he could. I considered for a moment letting him stay there; his tone had been belligerent and though no trace of suspicion had been found to label him as the spy, I still had trouble trusting him. But then the wound in my own thigh gave a pinch and I waved for him to rise.

  “Thank you, Your Majesty,” he said, the relief in his voice evident.

  “You may sit,” I said, waving him towards the chair next to me that Jane had recently abandoned in favor of preparing for the supper that was to be served that evening. Her ladies had left with her and now only my page boys lounged around the tent, quietly watching this exchange between me and the Duke.

  “Again, I thank you, Your Majesty,” he repeated as one of his pages helped him down onto the chair. He landed in it suddenly and with a quiet exclamation of pain. Before us, the two young men crashed lances, Sir Knox almost losing his seat. I clapped for the points awarded as they lined up for one final charge.

  “And how is your wife, Lady Katherine?” I asked, inviting him to speak with me. Since his betrayal we had gone back to monarch and courtier, our earlier familiarity lost.

  “She is well, Your Majesty,” he answered. “Pleased to be back serving the Queen.”

  “She recently gave birth to a son?” I asked.

  “Yes, Your Majesty,” he responded, this time with pleasure. “He remains with his nurse at my estate.”

  “We both have growing families,” I said.

  “The Queen?” he asked, suddenly alert and smiling. The birth of another royal heir apparently transcends his anger at me.

  “Unfortunately not,” I answered, pleased to have him speaking in a normal tone. “However, there is much reason to hope. And Prince Edward and Princess Margery both flourish.”

  “I will be pleased to see them,” Charles said. I nodded as Sir Knox and Sir Steward barreled down the line. My attention was taken by the clash of one lance upon Sir Steward’s shield. In a quick motion Sir Steward was unhorsed, flying back off of his horse before hitting the dirt with a sickening thud. The stands erupted into a cheer for Sir Knox, who had won the match.

  “I do miss the joust,” Charles said quietly, almost in a whisper. He glanced at me, judging to see if this familiar talk will be allowed. I smiled. I had missed my oldest friend, no matter what had occurred. And he seemed to be the only one who could understand what it was like to be older.

  “I do as well,” I confided. “But there is no conceivable way —” I looked down to my injured leg.

  “Nor I,” he responded, his grip on his cane tightening as if he could will away his injury. “Sometimes I feel it is quite unbearable.”

  “You shall learn to live with it,” I answered, shifting in my seat. “I do speak from experience.”

  “Learning to live with it is what I am most afraid of,” he answered. “It means there is no hope for recovery.”

  I am silent then; there is little to say to that. Indeed, there was little hope for recovery, not only for me and Charles, but for the country. I looked across the jousting arena to see who the next match is to be and noticed that Sir Steward is preparing to ride again. There were so few men who are able to joust – most of the men who had competed on these fields just two years before were dead, or sitting along the sidelines as Charles and I were, the travesties of war keeping them from competing. And it seemed as if those who should have been taking their father’s places in the joust were unable to do so. The ravages of war had reached the next generation as well, carrying off what should have been this country’s future.

  Steward lined up against his next opponent, a lad whose name I did not even know. But that was the way of the court now, new faces replacing the beloved old ones. I settled deeper into my chair to watch as the two men charged at one another, Steward breaking his lance, his hapless opponent missing him entirely.

  “Your Majesty.”

  I turned my head toward the voice that had recently entered my tent. Immediately I recognized the boy as one of Cromwell’s messengers. With trepidation I waved the boy forward.

  “I believe I told Master Cromwell that I was not to be disturbed during the joust.”

  The boy bit his lower lip, unsure how to proceed against my exasperation.

  “Is it important?” I asked him, aware that the boy would have read what was inside the sealed letter.

  “Yes, Your Majesty,” the boy answered before realizing he had incriminated himself with his answer. “I mean, I do not believe my master would have interrupted you had it not been.”

  I glanced at Charles who raised his eyebrows comically; he had understood the boy’s slip up as well.

  “Very well,” I said with a sigh. There was no point in reprimanding the boy, I was sure that all of Cromwell’s messengers read the contents of their letters; my one hope is that they were not reporting what they found to our enemies. I reached out my hand, snatched the parchment from the boy and broke the seal as Steward unhorsed his opponent, winning yet another joust.

  I quickly read the letter, careful to mask my features. I was aware not only of the attention of my page boys, but of Charles’ curious face as well.

  It was good news, the first good news I had received in a long time. According to our ambassador, King Francis was not planning on renewing his attack on Calais; his loses had been too heavy from his last attempt. He had even been talking of reconciliation, of forgiveness. And my brother-in-law, Edward Seymour, had also reported winning a battle. The numbers were not large. I was sure he had not engaged the entirety of the rebels; however, a battle won was a battle won.

  I sank back into my chair, a smile on my face. I turned to Charles, who was carefully watching the next joust, anxious not to show any interest in my private mail. This time last year, he would have known the moment I had, my comrade in arms. Thinking for a moment, I realized that there was no reason to keep the news of the battle from him.

  “Good news,” I said, folding the letter and placing it into my breast pocket. “Sir Edward Seymour has won a great victory outside of Brayton.”

  A flush rose over Charles, and I saw him grip his cane tighter.

  “That is excellent news, Your Majesty,” he said, his voice as steady as possible.

  “Yes, we will have a thanksgiving said for him on Sunday,” I continued, nodding at Cromwell’s messenger, who was sure to relay my orders to Cromwell. “And tell your master that I will meet with him after dinner has been served to discuss with him the full contents of the message.”

  The boy nodded and stood, bowing as he walked backwards from my presence. I saw Charles grimace next to me, well aware that he had not been told everything.

  The final joust before supper began and, as the two men charged at one another, Charles leaned closer towards me.

  “Your Majesty, I wish to once more beg your forgiveness,” he whispered, careful not to draw the attention of my pages. “But I must insist that I had nothing to do with the rebels knowing of our plans. You have questioned my men, no messages have been found. Surely if Master Cromwell could find nothing, then there is no evidence that can be held against me. We both know that Master Cromwell has a way of finding proof.”

  I sucked in a deep breath at this accusation. Surely he would not be citing the old rumor that Anne Boleyn was innocent, that her entire trial had been staged by Cromwell. I had heard the servants gossiping of it often enough, but had thought the talk had lessened as we grew farther and farther away from her death.

  “Well what am I to think?” I snapped back, careful to keep my voice low. “It certainly was not I who has been writing to the rebels. And certainly not Norfolk.”

  “Your Majesty, I do not know who it could be,” he argued. “But certainly it was not me.”

  I squinted at the man, looking deep into his wrinkled face. Here was my oldest friend; he had joined my court when he was only a lad, being tutored with me, learning to joust with me. In youth we had looked so much
alike that we had often been mistaken for one another, as courtiers came to see me, and bowed before my friend instead. Years of playing cards and games with this man had taught me to read him like a book. He was a good liar, a good courtier – but still, I could tell with him.

  And now his face only looked honest. I could not see any sign of deceit in his face. Then again, I did not want to believe that his man could betray me. He had been my most trusted friend since before Arthur had died. One of the few men whom I had counted on and who had not let me down. I turned away from his earnest face to look back at the joust.

  “It is too soon,” I said simply, and let him turn away from me. The matter was dropped.

  ******

  “Your Majesty!”

  For the first time in years Cromwell met me with enthusiasm, dropping deep into a bow. When I waved for him to rise he came bobbing up with a smile stretched across his broad face, his dirty teeth shown off for all to see. I could not help but smile back, good news had been hard to come by recently. I sat down and told him to continue.

  “The report from Edward Stafford,” I said and waited while he shifted through the papers in front of him.

  “His force soundly defeated the grouping of rebels they found,” Cromwell said. “Over a thousand casualties to the enemy, less than a hundred for us.”

  “That is good,” I allowed. “However, those numbers are not what we need them to be.”

  “That is true,” Cromwell answered carefully. “But they are positive numbers. And there is one piece of news I did not trust to the messenger.”

  “What is that?” I asked, curious as to what Cromwell had saved.

  “James Butler was killed in action.”

  Cromwell paused for a moment, allowing the enormity of what he had said to sink in. I sat back in the chair, a wave of relief rushing through me. This was good news indeed.

  “Praise God,” I said after a moment. “This is a true victory for us.”

  “Aske has combat experience,” Cromwell continued. “But nothing like Butler had. And Aske has never been able to inspire men on the battlefield. I imagine more victories will follow for us now that Butler is dead.”

  “But the rebels will not desist?” I asked. “With Butler dead —” I trailed off. With Butler dead, they would be easier to beat. But Aske, while not a military leader, was a moral leader. It was him I needed.

  “Very well,” I said, determined to continue. “Now, King Francis.”

  “Sir John Hutton remains our ambassador to France,” Cromwell said quickly. “And writes that he has spoken with King Francis at length; the man has sworn that he will not attack again this season.”

  “And is there hope for reconciliation?” I asked. In truth I would wish my lands in France back, but fighting a war on two fronts had taken its toll. If I could find a way to sue for peace with Francis, then the men who had fought in Calais could be used here in England. Toughened warriors who had fought against the military might of France would be a welcomed addition to my army.

  “He believes there is every hope for peace,” Cromwell said, his face still smiling. I had never seen such a look of glee on the man’s face. “King Francis mentioned multiple times how he had enjoyed his time with your majesty at the Field of the Cloth of Gold, and wished to meet with you again.”

  I sighed. “That meeting was almost twenty years ago.”

  “If King Francis is looking for a meeting, then it would be wise to arrange it,” Cromwell counseled. “You have not seen him since you last traveled to France in 1533.”

  “Indeed it would be a wise move,” I agreed. It would be pleasing to meet with Francis again, as we had done in the old days. But now, with my new queen and my growing family at my side.

  It would be hard to give up the hope of recovering my lands in France. Losing even more of the hard-won English territory in France was heartbreaking to me and my fellow Englishmen. I closed my eyes and remembered the joust earlier that day. So few competitors, so few nobles left who could fight. This war had taken so much from my court; it had taken the very youth from us. Bracing my hands on either side of me, I stood.

  “Write to Sir Hutton,” I said. “Tell him to attempt to arrange a meeting with Sir Francis to sue for peace.”

  “As Your Majesty commands it.”

  Chapter Twelve

  October 1539

  It smelled the same. A forest had been destroyed on one side and three farms had shown up on the horizon. Yet the field where I had met Francis almost twenty years ago still smelled the same, a fresh scent that could not be found in England. And, like before, the same biting wind from the nearby channel cut across my face, and the sky was a perfect blue, just like it had been so many years before.

  But that was where the similarities ended. Now, instead of a retinue of thousands, I had a following of a mere five hundred. Jane had accompanied me, along with her ladies who now included both Mary and Elizabeth, the youngest member of our party. I could not spare many men from the field and had brought only a small cadre of knights along with the Duke of Suffolk, who I was determined to keep close to me. Cromwell remained in England; he was no Wolsey, whose only desire was to be seen. This leader of my government wished only to be allowed to continue to work.

  And this time there was to be no suddenly built castles, no flowing fountains of wine. A large tent had been constructed for our meetings, but I would travel to Calais during the evenings and Francis would be staying in one of his nearby homes. Before, thousands had flocked to see the meeting, the great and wealthy nobles of our two countries coming together. Now a mere hundred peasants had turned out to watch us trot by before returning to their farms, no doubt complaining about the cost of having us.

  Even our meeting only six years ago had something grandiose about it, a tournament and masques. But of course that was when Anne had run the court and would not have the French besting us.

  I turned to Lord Lisle, who had accompanied the court, once we had reached Calais.

  “Lord Lisle, will the banquets be provided by the nearby farms?” I asked, for once curious about the minute details.

  “Alas, no, Your Majesty,” he said with a frown. “These areas have been hit hardest by the famine. Sir John Hutton informed me that King Francis had ordered food brought up from the southern regions. And food for the English court will be coming from our stores in Calais.”

  I nodded, glad that these stony faced peasants would not be required to provide for us. I knew that angry peasants were never a joy to have around the court, having experienced so much of that unrest in the past few years. I was glad to not have that here.

  I turned my horse toward the large tent that had been erected for Francis and me to meet in. I hoped that dinner would be served soon; the ride from Calais had tired me and sparked my hunger.

  However, before we could fully approach, Lord Lisle motioned for our men to pull up.

  “Do we have word on when the French will arrive?” Charles Brandon asked from behind me.

  “They should be here shortly,” Lord Lisle responded swiftly and sat up in his horse to look across the horizon. Surely Francis’ men would have been visible by now.

  I sank back into the saddle with a sigh, realizing now that we would be waiting here for a while. Though I had arrived first, it would be a diplomatic faux pas to enter the tent before Francis arrived. Last time we had met across a great field, riding down into a valley to embrace before riding together into the village that had been sat up. Our queens had even refused to follow one another through a doorway, instead traveling everywhere perfectly side by side.

  I saw now that would not be the case here. I could not enter the tent before Francis and now the arrogant French king would make me and my men wait. Why he saw further need to punish us beyond the land of mine he had already captured, I was unsure. He must realize how humiliating this had been for me.

  But of course he had. As the horses began to grow restless and men sought to wrap thei
r furs tighter around themselves against the growing wind, I recalled the battles I had fought against this French king so many years before. Emperor Charles’ men, supported by English money, had captured Francis and held him prisoner. It had been my last moment of joy with Catherine; her nephew had provided such a horrific defeat against the French, I felt as if I could give the woman anything.

  But before Catherine could use my good mood against me, her nephew had done the unimaginable. He ransomed Francis back to his country, allowed this leader and my enemy to return home to his people where he could raise an army and cause any amount of trouble for me. Had Catherine done her duty and insisted that Charles keep Francis captive, I could have been king of France in deed as well as in title. But instead, the boy had been a fool and I had been left with a hostile king across the channel, one who had been able to use his armies to support the rebels in my own country. And now, here I was, waiting in the cold wind for this proud French king to ride down and grace me with his presence.

  In the end Francis kept us waiting only an hour. Charles Brandon bristled at this insult but I accepted it; he could have made us wait longer. After Francis had pulled up his men, the same distance away from the tent that we sat, I nodded to him and kicked my horse, pushing him towards the French. I held up my hand to keep anyone from accompanying me and was pleased when Francis mimicked my actions.

  “Your Majesty,” I said in French as I approached, inclining my head slightly. Francis repeated the greeting before pulling his horse up alongside mine.

  “Forgive me if I do not embrace you as a brother,” Francis said. “But it is now difficult for me to unhorse.”

  I smiled down at my hands, relieved he has taken away this embarrassment from me, as I too would not be able to dismount without considerable assistance.

  “It is the same for us all these days,” I answer, gesturing to my injured leg.

  “Ah, if only it was so simple for me,” Francis answered with a shake of his head. I almost snapped at him that I could imagine nothing worse than the pain my leg had brought me but refrained. There had been rumors that Francis was treated for syphilis, his sins against God now being repaid.