Jane the Confidant Read online

  “Your Majesty, I believe that he simply wants to see you lead by worthy men,” Brandon responded.

  “And Aske knows who is worthy?”

  “I believe he considers himself worthy,” Brandon answered smoothly. “At least more worthy than some.”

  I look behind Brandon to Cromwell, whose pinched mouth betrayed his anger at the statement.

  “But, Your Majesty, that is not why I have come,” Brandon continued. “There has been another attack. The Pilgrimage has halted the advancement of Richard Rich and his men, who were traveling to the St. Stephen’s Priory.”

  I kept my gaze on Cromwell who had blanched slightly.

  “I had ordered that all inquiries should cease during Parliament’s session,” I said quietly.

  “Yes, Your Majesty,” Cromwell said quickly. “However, this inquiry was scheduled before the session. No new inquiries have been scheduled.”

  With two quick strides I reached Cromwell. In my anger, I pulled his cap off his head and reared back.

  “Knave!” I yelled, my anger boiling over. “You have had more than a week to cease this inquiry. Aske accuses me of breaking my promises! And here it is you that is the aggressor!”

  I felt my arm swinging without realizing my aim. I struck Cromwell with his own cap about the head; it wasn’t until he flinched that I felt vindicated.

  “Leave,” I said, turning my back on Cromwell. “And make sure that no inquiries are begun, no matter when they were planned.”

  Cromwell quickly scurried from the room, the door shutting behind him.

  “The man has made me into a liar,” I said, more to myself than to Brandon.

  Brandon said nothing about my recent outburst, other than a gesture for a page to bring two glasses of ale.

  I continued to pace, the rushes on the floor crunch beneath my feet.

  “His greed goes too far,” I muttered, accepting the warm cup of ale. Brandon nods and accepts his own glass. I continue my pacing until my cup is drained, collapsing into my chair.

  “I cannot see what to do about Aske,” I finally say. “Cromwell has done nothing but lie, assuring me that everything is being played to our favor. You tell me that the movement is gaining ground in Parliament, and now this attack on Sir Richard Rich. The Pilgrims demand a return to popish idolatry, something I could not stomach, and a removal of Cromwell.”

  Brandon arched his eyebrows, but says nothing.

  “He has contributed too much,” I responded. Brandon nodded; he understands what Cromwell has brought me. Since the dissolution of the monasteries four years prior, my coffers had been filled, the nobility and the state had not been richer since the death of my father. And there was no one who could not admit that this was thanks to Cromwell and his diligence to our cause.

  “Your Majesty, I do believe there is one thing that we can offer to Aske,” Brandon finally said.

  I gestured for him to continue, but say nothing.

  “I believe an invitation for him to join the court would ease his mind. Perhaps allow him to witness the Privy Council.”

  “Put a mere knight on the Privy Council?” I ask, incredulous.

  “It would show that you were dedicated to listening to his concerns. And it could be an unofficial post; he would not be allowed to contribute to the conversation, but to merely watch.”

  I nodded; it was not a bad plan. Giving the Pilgrims a voice would be foolish, but the appearance of a voice — that could be exactly what we needed.

  And giving a knight a place at court, allowing him to bring his wife and retainers — this would tempt any man. It could even silence him; one man’s voice at court could be drowned out by the hundreds of others who followed me, asking for favors and putting their own desires first. He would quickly see his place in the world, how insignificant he was.

  “Very well,” I say. “Charles, I will allow you to extend the invitation. Make sure he is given a room, and make it clear that he can bring no more than ten servants. It is his responsibility to clothe and feed these men. He will also be allowed one stable for his horse. Explain to him that he will be allowed to witness the Privy Council, but not speak.

  “Also, make sure a banquet is prepared to welcome him to court. This will take place once Parliament is over and we return to London.”

  “Yes, Your Majesty,” Charles responded, bowing slightly. He turned and quickly left. I knew that my orders would be carried out by the end of the day.

  ******

  Aske agreed with Charles’ offer embarrassingly quickly. My experience had taught me that any man would set aside his morals for a small amount of power. With Robert Aske appeased and planning his move to court, Parliament quickly came to a close, with few matters brought forth by the Pilgrimage of Grace being settled.

  Jane’s anxiety at being away from our son Edward soon showed and we returned to Hampton Court swiftly where she could be near our son. We had been at court a week when I realized that Mary had returned with us as well.

  “Cromwell,” I called, stopping by the man as I passed him in the hallway. “I did not authorize for the Lady Mary to return with us to London.”

  “No, sire,” he answered, his head still bowed. “Queen Jane ordered it. As I had never consulted with Your Majesty on the Queen’s ladies before, I did not think to do so at this time.”

  I pursed my lips, aware that we were blocking the narrow stone corridor. Though no other courtiers dared to approach and try to inch by me, I knew we could still be easily overheard.

  “The Queen has made Mary one of her ladies-in-waiting?” I asked.

  “Her chief lady-in-waiting, Your Majesty.”

  I closed my eyes and sighed, waving for Cromwell to continue on his way. In truth there was no reason that Jane should not have Mary as a companion. Except for the fact Mary still regarded herself as Catholic, just as Robert Aske and his followers did. Having them at court together could be a dangerous combination.

  And reigning over a divided people was no simple matter. I no longer possessed the easy power that I had enjoyed earlier in my reign, where no member of the nobility, much less an army of angry peasants, could stand in my way. Before, any man who had stood up against me had been an isolated incident, and easily taken care of. I thought momentarily of the scared faces that had condemned Anne Boleyn to be beheaded, of the efficiency with which Thomas More was removed when he became too vocal against me. What had changed?

  I continued my way to the great hall; everyone I met swept into a deep curtsy once my herald announced my arrival. We made a small procession but a beautiful sight, the herald and my two page boys who follow me dressed in crisp white and green tunics, no smudge of dirt upon their young faces. I, myself, cut a fine figure in an emerald green tunic, freshly tailored for me after my last tunic proved to be too tight.

  “His Majesty, the King!”

  Those words have preceded me for the past twenty-one years, and I still feel a slight rush of anxiety when they are uttered. That small voice that still speaks to me, telling me to turn and bow; for the real king, my father, will be here any moment. As always, I push the voice away and move to take my seat at the top of the dais where my dinner has been prepared.

  As we sit, Jane turns and smiles at me with a slight bow of her head. I return a tight smile, and look beside her. As expected, Mary was taking a seat on Jane’s left and cast me a small smile. I let my gaze fall around the room, but no one seemed especially angry or upset with Mary’s presence next to her stepmother. Indeed, they have probably witnessed this scene every day this week, when Jane had dined before the public alone. I had hoped our return to London would lessen some of my duties but had been disappointed. I had been forced to take every meal in my private quarters this week, eating with little ceremony as I was briefed on another movement by the Pilgrimage.

  I smiled for real when our first course was brought out, an arrangement of animal meat pastries set in front of me. I had missed the good food of London during our s
tay in York and quickly consumed three duck pastries in a row, barely tasting them as I reveled in how good it felt to simply eat. To my left, Jane pulled apart the slightly slippery eel she had been served. I smiled as she took her first bite; for the last two months of her pregnancy she had been made sick at the site of eels, normally a favorite food of hers. It pleased me to see her enjoying the dish again.

  Reaching for my last duck pastry, I gestured for the remainder of the dish to be sent to the Duke of Norfolk, who had returned this very morning to the court. This was one act of patronage I truly enjoyed, a tradition that had been held by the court for many generations. While meals were served to my courtiers as well, the choicest bits of food were served to me and those who graced my table on the dais. To show honor to a courtier who was not seated with me, I would send what was left of my dish to them, allowing him to eat from the same plate that I had. To my delight, Jane enjoyed this as well, often sending her meals down to a particular lady-in-waiting.

  Sometimes I had used this to woo a particular lady; I could remember that Bessie Blount, the duchess who had later given birth to my son, had been particularly susceptible to this. I looked at her now as she sat next to her husband, picking apart pieces of her meal to pass on to him.

  As I turned my hands out to be washed before the second course, I noticed that an unusual quiet fell over the room. While never boisterously loud, there was the general commotion of over a hundred people eating at once and quiet meant that something significant had happened.

  I turned back in my chair to look around and followed the curious gazes of the courtiers towards the back of the room. There, sitting mostly alone and shunned, was Sir Robert Aske.

  And before him was Queen Jane’s eel.

  Chapter Six

  December 1537

  “Your Majesty, there was another attack.”

  I groaned, sinking deeper into my chair, the wooden frame creaking around me. To my right, Charles Brandon dropped his head into his hands with a sigh, the furs that covered his body seeming to sink with him.

  Crowell did not change his posture at all, instead turning to the page boy who had interrupted our meeting. With a wave of his hand, he called the boy to him and took the dispatch.

  “Who did they attack this time?” Charles asked, his voiced muffled by his hands.

  “It was not a fact-finding mission,” Cromwell answered. “They attacked the Duke of Norfolk.”

  “Norfolk?” I asked, sitting up and reaching for the dispatch. Cromwell handed it to me before he finished reading and I immediately took in the words.

  It was true. Three weeks earlier the Duke of Norfolk had come to me, begging to be allowed to raise an army to fight the growing rabble. After a short discussion in the Privy Council, it was agreed — Norfolk raised an army and marched north with the intentions of routing the Pilgrimage of Grace. Robert Aske had left court two months ago after a challenge by Charles which quickly broke down into name calling. Since his departure the movement had been gaining support and becoming bolder in their attacks against my commissioners.

  Norfolk had yet to engage with the enemy; indeed, I did not think they knew he was there. The army he had raised had come from the south and had not been overly large. Cromwell had assured me that Robert Aske could not have gotten wind of our intentions.

  “Perhaps I would not call it a battle,” I finally said, finishing the letter. “A skirmish. We lost only fifty men.”

  I passed the letter to Brandon and he took it. Like me, he had been in battle before and knew that fifty casualties was a low number. Cromwell, who had never experienced battle, seemed more alarmed at the number.

  “Your Majesty, I must remind you that the numbers with Norfolk are not large.”

  “No,” Brandon responded. “But they are trained. And against farmers, blacksmiths, dairy men. They cannot hope to stand against the disciplined forces of Norfolk.”

  “And yet they did,” Cromwell argued. “Losing only five men by this estimate.”

  Brandon shoved the paper back across the table to Cromwell, who began to read it again.

  “Only because they were surprised,” Brandon argued. “Obviously Norfolk’s army was not as secretive as you had promised us.”

  “It could not be helped,” I responded, holding my hands out for Brandon to keep his peace. “Raising an army is no quiet matter. A cousin writes from Kent, a traveler opens his mouth. There are many ways that word could have spread.”

  “But they knew Norfolk’s location,” Brandon continued, pointing at the dispatch. “Only we knew that he was traveling to St. James, to secure the desolation of that monastery and not marching out to meet the Pilgrims where they stood near York. And for them to move that quickly and that precisely? They had to have been given information.”

  “From who?” I asked, disbelieving. “Norfolk’s orders were sealed and were contrived by us. Not even the Privy Council knew his full orders.”

  “Your Majesty, we have a further problem,” Cromwell said with a sigh. “They knew our position, yes. But they also moved and acted like an army. We have never seen this kind of discipline from them before. James Butler, one of Robert Aske’s men, led this charge with a ferocity we had not yet seen. Something with the Pilgrimage has changed.”

  “Do you think they could have military backing?” I asked. “Perhaps from France or Spain?”

  “It pains me to say it, but I believe so. At the very least, a noble with military training is supporting them.”

  “That could be our spy,” I said, reaching up to stroke my beard.

  “That would make the most sense,” Brandon said. “They are organized but we have fought France before. These military advances do not look anything like the French.”

  “Could it be Spain?” Cromwell asked.

  “Not with their current political climate,” I responded. “They are too caught up in their own war for the Turkish crown; they would never risk supporting a group of rebels in England at this time.”

  Cromwell nodded. “Then it is most likely that we are working with an English nobleman, one who is close enough to hear plans and pass them along. It will also be one with military training and combat experience.”

  “That hardly narrows down the candidates,” Brandon said. “That could be any man who sits on the Privy Council. Not to mention the sons of these men, or the petty nobles who have joined us in battle before and know our weaknesses. Half the men at court have marched with Norfolk, they will know how he acts.

  “And we can keep as quiet as we wish, but there will always be rumors and spies here at court. As long as we allow any man to apply for a place, for knights to bring retainers, and for squires to have servants, there will be those looking to make an extra shilling.”

  Cromwell, who boasted the largest spy ring in England, nodded. “The court must be reduced. If there is a spy, they must be found. If there are men here backing the Pilgrims, they must be driven away.”

  “Very well,” I agreed. “The court moves to Greenwich at the end of the holiday season. Cromwell, you will draw up new orders — there is no need to make it obvious. Simply implement what we can call cost-cutting measurements; further limit the number of servants and retainers that can be brought to court. Some of the smaller knights can be denied rooms. “

  “It may help to rent out some of the establishments nearby,” Brandon suggested. “It will be expensive, but if we know that the room is being rented by the crown and is empty, that is one less man to hang around the court.”

  I nodded and Cromwell wrote this down as well.

  “Also, the Bishop of York was seen leading the Pilgrims through a Catholic Mass,” Cromwell added. “Before the skirmish.”

  I sighed and gestured for a page boy to bring me another layer of fur. The frost that had settled over the land seemed to permeate the walls and chilled me to the bone. A cloak trimmed with rabbit’s fur was brought to me and laid about my shoulders.

  “Have Archbishop
Cranmer write to him, reminding him of his place and his duties,” I instructed.

  “Your Majesty,” Cromwell began. “Perhaps it would be best to publicly reprimand him, or instill a type of fine —“

  “No,” I interrupted. “There is no need to agitate the rebels further. Let us see if we can persuade the Bishop with words.”

  Cromwell frowned but wrote down my command.

  “Is there anything else?” Brandon asked wearily, his fingers drumming along the edge of his mug. I could see the exhaustion in his face, lines around his eyes that weren’t present even a year before. And I knew these lines to be mirrored in my own face. We were not the young men we once were.

  “I have here a letter from the Duke of Cleaves,” Cromwell replied. “Offering friendship and signs of support against the rebels.”

  “The Duke of Cleaves?” I asked. “A Lutheran?”

  “Not quite a Lutheran,” Cromwell responded. “His court has broken with the Roman Catholic Church. His primary influence is Erasmus.”

  “I have heard that John the Third has not been fit to rule for some time,” Brandon argued. “That his son William has taken over the court. And William is a Lutheran.”

  “Well — yes,” Cromwell admitted. “But this letter is signed by his father, John the Third. This man could lend us great support. Like Your Majesty, he has seen the error of the Roman Catholic Church. And Erasmus was a great friend of Your Majesty’s.”

  “Yes,” I agreed, not bothering to point out that Erasmus was from a different time. It had been years ago that the celebrated humanist had visited my court. I remembered his visits as I remembered times from my childhood — far away memories that sometimes seemed unreal. Erasmus had been brought to my court by Thomas More, who had since betrayed me. He had corresponded regularly with Catherine, who had proved herself disloyal and left me with nothing but a daughter and years wasted. He came from a time before, an age where everything had seemed golden and alight with possibilities. Not today, where I merely felt trapped.

  “However,” I countered. “The court is run by William. And that man is a Lutheran. No help can come from Cleaves, or any of the duchies that have turned. To do so would be to support Lutherans and their heretical leader Martin Luther.”