Chapter Nineteen
And thus behold my kinds, how that we differ far;
I seek my foes; and you your friends do threaten still with war.
~Henry Howard, Earl of Surrey
October 25, 1537
The mood throughout the castle was bleak.
Indeed, the whole of the kingdom was draped in dark melancholy, mourning the passing of a queen who’d promised so many great things, yet was ripped from this world before her time.
The king fared worst of all. While he was holed up in his room, occasional shouts and the shattering of furniture, porcelain and glass could be heard. Three children and no mothers to see about rearing them. He was alone in parentage once again. No wife to comfort him, sew his shirts, listen to him lament on his pillows, or to cry themselves to sleep as he diddled with some other woman.
Edward was frantic trying to pry His Majesty from hysteria while keeping our little nephew in good care. The king could not even see to the making of arrangements for his own son beyond the scrubbing and use of lye soap to make certain all disease was kept well away from the boy. His only thought was to keep the boy alive, but not who actually did it. Just that it was done. The rest fell to Edward. He hired the remaining staff that Jane had not seen to prior to the birthing.
The little prince was a strong and robust child. A plump, pink baby with a shock of reddish-blond hair atop his crown. He came into the world a true prince and plenty fine with making demands of his nursemaids and various other servants.
I walked numbly through the hallowed halls. When nothing but quiet echoes bounced off the ancient stonework, Jane’s voice called to me, or the tinkling of her laughter floated in the somber air.
Even Mother Nature mourned the passing of England’s pure and sweet queen. The sky was such a dark gray and filled with angry clouds that even mid-afternoon appeared to be night.
My heels clicked against the polished wood floor as I made my way to the queen’s presence chamber. Jane was laid out in state there, already embalmed this morning. She would lay here with three ladies always in attendance of her, the Lady Mary being chief mourner, until the first of November, when Jane would be moved to St. George’s Chapel. But I paused before the large wooden double doors. I gazed at them as I’d never gazed at them before. Taking in the reddish brown of the wood. The carvings at the corners, the planks across its middle and the black iron rings of its handles. Even the little iron plates underneath the handles were ornate in a swirling design.
Pretty.
What was I doing out here admiring the doors to her chambers? Why not open them and go inside? Pay respects to my Jane?
The reason why curled up inside my belly, making my fingers pull back and my heart clench, my breaths quick and shallow.
Fear, plain and simple. Entering the chamber, seeing Jane’s pale and thin body laid out in white linen and silk atop cloth of gold would only have been to admit that she was gone. That the little prince had no mother, England had no queen, and we Seymours were now connected to the throne only by a little baby asleep in his cradle, still so fragile in this world.
Entering would have been to acknowledge that the one innocent and joyful woman in my life was gone forever. I would never get her back, and would never meet another like her. No one was as pure and sweet as Jane had been. I did not know how it had happened, but she truly had been, even after being brought up at court.
“Are you going inside?” Edward’s voice startled me, and I jumped. I turned, nearly collapsing against him, but instead somehow pulled myself together enough to stand tall.
“Oh, thank the Lord, it is you.”
“Who else would it have been?” He looked around him. There was no one in sight. Most had come by earlier in the day, in the morning after Mass. But I could not. I waited until I could be alone with her. And now I found that I could not be alone, did not want to.
“No one. I…” I chewed on my lower lip. “I am having trouble going inside.”
“We shall do it together.” Edward’s voice was soft, filled with pain. How could I have forgotten that Jane was his little sister?
He reached for my hand, and I squeezed his grip into mine. Together we opened the large creaking doors, let the air from inside rush out to greet us, stirring my skirts around my legs. A shiver passed through me, as though the wind rustling my skirts were Jane’s spirit welcoming us, berating me for not coming sooner. We walked in.
Her chambers were quiet save for the choirboys in the corner, well hidden, who alternated between themselves so the queen had constant hymns sung for her soul before the king let her funeral take place—yet another reason we needed him calm and out of the fit of insanity that was currently taking over his mind.
It was dark inside, and the stained glass windows did not emit much light, especially with the sun being nearly hidden behind the mournful clouds. Candelabras were lined against the walls with thick white candles on them, the wax dripping down making hard white puddles on the floor.
Our feet shuffled silently to where she lay. Her hair was silky-looking and styled properly for a queen. Her crown rested atop her head, hands folded over her heart. Her eyes were closed… sewn shut, I imagined, to keep them from popping open and scaring holy hell out of anyone who was near. Her mouth was closed in a peaceful smile. She looked so quiet, at peace, almost happy, like she was taking a snooze in a bed of daisies out in a field on a warm summer day.
Was she happy? She was no longer in physical pain, but did she want to be dead? I supposed it was a question not worth answering, since she had passed and I could not ask her.
Edward knelt beside me and began whispering his prayers. I gazed on Jane for a bit longer. This would be one of the last times I saw her, and I wanted to take her all in. Bask in the glory that was her before she was put to ground.
By the time I was ready to kneel and pay respects, Edward had finished.
“Shall I wait for you?” He stood, strong, ready to steady my arm should I need him. But I knew how many other things were in need of his attention, and so I bade him go.
“I shall see you for a private dinner in our chambers then?”
“Yes,” I whispered, and then bowed my head.
October 31, 1537
The king barreled out of the castle gates as though he were chased by ghosts. To Windsor Castle he went, unable to stay the entire mourning period for his beloved wife. Demons filled him. His face was covered in shadows. Dark, purple bruises stained beneath the haunted eyes of the king. Reddish-gray stubble covered his chin and cheeks. For a man who valued keeping his appearance in check, the king had truly let himself go in his mourning for Jane.
He ate, drank, slept and broke things. He refused to attend to state matters, which were left in the hands of Cromwell, all to the ire of the king’s council, who demanded Cromwell hand over any news and decisions to them. A fierce battle was beginning within the council chambers, and Edward was stuck in the middle of it.
Politics of the council were the least of my concern, even if they should have been at the forefront of my thoughts… for Mother, Page and, even the jackanapes, Surrey were now back at court, having felt it necessary to join the mourners.
I arranged for ’Nan Bassett to stick like honey to my sister, Lizzie. They now shared a room and ’Nan was, for better or worse, her constant chaperone. Even though ’Nan was only a few years older than Lizzie, I could not risk anyone else. I trusted ’Nan, and she knew to watch over Lizzie like a hawk, and keep all men away from her—especially Surrey.
Mother and Page requested an audience with me, which I granted, but they sought nothing more than to see how Lizzie’s fortunes were faring and how they might benefit from it. I dismissed them and, as soon as they were gone, threw a vase of flowers and stomped the pretty roses to a pulp.
My servants stayed clear the rest of the day, and I cursed my mother for making me lose my temper in such a way.
Why could I not mount my horse and race away? Would that I could go to Wulfhall and hold my own baby. Instead, I took a personal interest in my nephew—the future king.
As soon as my nerves calmed, I put on my black mourning choker and walked with my head held high from my chambers to where the prince was being cared for. Let all who saw me know that that precious baby, the future king, was of my blood.
November 13, 1537
The king had not yet returned when it was time for the mourning procession to begin, but we could not tarry. We left Hampton Court yesterday on our way to St. George’s Chapel at Windsor Castle. As our procession arranged itself, I proudly carried the tiny, squalling prince to his gilded litter. Every courtier bowed low as we passed. I knew it was for Prince Edward, but, I couldn’t help but believe it was also for me.
A journey that could have normally been made on horseback in only a few hours took nearly the entire day. The procession itself was long, appearing like the entire country followed us. Mourners walked, rode in wagons, rode horses. They sang psalms and prayed. We collected more as we went, with each village we passed.
Queen Jane was at the very front of the procession. The deep, cherry wood casket of the queen rode in a gilded chariot led by six white horses. Flowers were strewn atop.
Her three lady mourners of the day were her sister Beth, myself and the Lady Mary as her chief mourner. In the queen’s name, we tossed alms to the poor.
When we were only an hour’s ride from Windsor, a rumble sounded ahead, and the ground began to shake. It was Henry VIII and a score of his guards thundering toward us. We hauled up our lines and waited for him to reach us. Those of us on horseback bowed our heads, and those on foot knelt before him.
He looked wild, his eyes wide, stubble still on his cheeks, red hair sticking out in odd angles beneath his cap. He was dressed in all black velvet, his mourning clothes. I had the sudden vision of his guilt at having left his beloved to escape his grief, and then the realization hitting him as he left Windsor to find her, just as abruptly as he’d left Hampton Court.
“Good people!” he shouted, his hand up in the air as he greeted us. “I thank you for attending my—your queen—on her journey to Windsor and her final resting place. Allow me to now lead the procession beside this woman, this saint, an example of purity we should all strive to follow.”
We all nodded and offered murmurings of prayers and condolence. Our ride continued, but this time the singing voices rang out higher, and when I looked, I could even see the king himself, lips moving as he silently sang along.
As we walked, he turned to face me. “Where is the prince?” he asked, his eyebrows drawn together, lips pursed.
It struck me how odd it was that he did not even know the whereabouts of his long-wished-for son.
“Majesty, he travels with us.” I pointed to the gilded purple carriage just behind Jane’s chariot.
“My son…” he whispered. The king appeared lost. Almost childlike. My heart went out to him. It was an odd transformation from a man who commanded countries. A man who changed the way we prayed, and named himself Supreme Head of the Church. For him to be lost made me feel vulnerable. What was to happen to England if this strong and able ruler came crumbling down?
I would have to see to it that he did not. Our very lives depended on it. Jane would have wished me to make certain the man snapped back.
When we reached St. George’s Chapel, the retinue placed Jane at the head of the church, and we all lined up to mourn. There was not a break for food or drink or to relieve ourselves. King Henry made it plain that we were all to do penance today, in hopes that when Jane was buried, some of her goodness would light a spark in our own hearts and minds.
I did not think it would happen, but whatever made His Majesty feel better.
The funeral Mass was more than two hours long, and my knees, which had long since gone numb, would surely have permanent bruises on them.
I thought all this time that while King Henry was at Windsor, he’d locked himself up in his chambers as he’d done at Hampton Court. While the groomsmen who attended him said as much, he had also been at work on preparing his lady’s plaque and tomb, which graced the center aisle of the church, so all who passed it from this day forth could look upon their queen.
She was interred, and we all silently and politely ignored the shouts of pain from Henry. Charles Brandon stood by his side, hand on the king’s shoulder offering him comfort.
For a moment I could see the human side of the king, the side that hurt. But I had to wonder, with one who suffered such pain, would he not retaliate in some way to make himself feel better?
I turned my eyes from the shaking, sob-riddled shoulders of the king to gaze upon the tomb of Jane.
A great marble sarcophagus had been designed for the queen as her eternal resting place. The stone cutters and painters had been hired to work around the clock to complete it in time. A carving of her likeness graced the top. It was painted richly in color. Robes of state covered the body, a royal crown on her head, scepter and orb in hand, painted fingers covered with jewels. She was given the coronation in death that she never received in life.
The artwork was exquisite, lifelike. She would forever remain young and beautiful, laid here for all to see and worship her. Indeed, like the saint that Henry thought her to be.
Engraved on the sides of the marble tomb, it read:
Here a phoenix lieth, whose death
To another phoenix gave breath:
It is to be lamented much,
The world at once ne’er knew two such
No truer words had I ever seen.
When the service was over, King Henry turned to us all and softly proclaimed, “I will be buried with my one true love, my one true wife, Queen Jane. Whomsoever I take to wife hereafter matters not, for my heart and soul belong to her, and when the time comes for the good Lord above to take me up into the heavens, it shall be by Queen Jane’s side that I spend my eternal life.”
Heavy words. Strong words.
But the words, nonetheless, jarred me back to reality. He would want a new wife, and I would be damned if I was going to let the Howards get there first. When others would whisper of a new queen, we would encourage the king’s grief. Remind him of his love of Jane, of how he had his long sought after prince. And all the while, I’d proudly continue carrying the little prince through the great halls to greet his courtiers—so they could see that I held the future king in my arms.