I, Jane: In The Court of Henry VIII (41 page)

“I was mightily proud to be compared to the mother of the Duke of Richmond, sire.”

“Were you?”

“Who would not be?”

“I think not the current queen—my less than loyal wife.”

“Think you, sire, that she has actually been unfaithful?” Jane dared to ask.

“I am told to prepare myself for evidence to that effect. Men who have free access to her might well have enjoyed that liberty.” He ran a hand up the column of her neck and along her cheekbone tenderly then. The more she let go of her youthful fantasy of William, the more she liked the feel of Henry’s rough, masculine fingertips against her smooth skin, and she felt it ignite something within her again.

“There was more than one?” Jane asked with a convincing tone of innocence, thinking of how Anne had behaved publicly with both Smeaton and Norris, even Weston.

“So Cromwell reports. But he pleaded for time to find evidence before he takes part in destroying anyone’s life.”

“That seems just.”

“Oh, Jane,” he sighed, his hand falling away from her face as he laid his head wearily against the back of the chair like a man who had just fought in some great battle. “So few people around me seem to know what is just, much less how to act upon it. But you do, don’t you?”

“I like to believe that I do, sire.”

“Then what would you advise me to do?”

She was taken aback. “About the queen?”

“And about you. I love you, Jane. I know that I do. I feel it every time I look at you. But legally, for now, I am a married man, one who has struggled valiantly for years to tie myself to the one woman who might be bent on making me a laughingstock and a cuckold. God knows, she has not done her duty of making me a father. At least not one of a proper heir.” He drew in a calming breath, then exhaled.

“And here you are, so precious to me, with your honesty and innocence so tantalizingly near. And I am like a boy with a plate of warm, fresh, sweetly fragrant gingerbread before him, of which I am not allowed to partake.”

“Still, are you not a man who must lead his country first rather than follow his heart?”

He touched her throat again, but this time his hand slipped down to her cleavage and the place where the strip of lace met her warm, bare skin. His hand stilled there for a moment as he leaned over and very tenderly kissed her.

“I am a man of many loyalties and passions, Jane. ’Tis difficult for someone such as myself to give up one for the other.”

“You desire it all?”

His answer came as he kissed her again, more roughly this time,
and his fingers pressed their way beneath the lace and velvet onto the swell of her breasts, then found her warm, wide nipple. “Oh, yes, God help me, that I do. What do
you
desire, Jane? For I do believe I would give you the world if you asked me for it.”

She could feel him grow hard as he pressed his manhood against her, and she softly said, “To maintain my honor, so long as I am an unmarried woman, sire. That is
my
utmost desire.”

She knew she had hit the mark perfectly, which her brothers wanted of her, when his hand stilled, then fell away from her breast. There was compassion, not anger, in his tired green eyes.

“Oh, Jane. Forgive me. You have been such good counsel, and such comfort. You deserve only respect from me and the rest of my court. I want to lift you up…I want to
marry
you.”

“That is not a wish for Your Majesty rightly to have,” she said in a tone schooled by years of watching Anne Boleyn.

“Not now, perhaps,” he conceded on a weary sigh. “But there is nothing so constant in this world as change.”

She let a slim smile lengthen her lips, feeling for the first time in her life in control of something—even if it was only the art of seeming innocent.

“I am honored you wear my image still. It gives me hope,” he said and pressed a tender, more chaste kiss lightly onto her cheek. “Change
is
constant. But without hope there is nothing.”

“I suppose that is true,” she carefully conceded.

“Perhaps I should not tell you this, but Cromwell is working even now on a possible case for divorce.”

“With infidelity as the grounds?” she asked, now understanding how and why their conversation had begun as it had.

When he nodded his head affirmatively, she added, “Do you believe England would tolerate another marital fissure?”

“I am not fool enough to believe my people ever developed any sort of fondness for Anne. I would imagine most would be well-pleased to be rid of her.”

Jane only lowered her eyes. She did not dare to respond to that, because if she did, she knew he would hear pleasure in her voice, not compassion.

“Tell me only that if this divorce were to come to pass, you would look favorably upon my official overtures toward you.”

Jane felt the heat in her cheeks rise again at the mere thought of herself as Queen of England. When she lowered her gaze, Henry lifted her chin with a single steady finger—one that bore his onyx signet ring.

“Would you, then?” he pressed.

“’Twould be my great honor, sire.”

“Hal. Certainly my future wife must call me what my family always has.” He smiled at her. “I do believe we shall make a splendid match, Jane, and in it, pray God, I shall find a bit of peace, as well as a son or two.”

“I would hope to give you an army of them.” She felt herself smile in the radiant glow of his joy, if not yet quite her own.

He kissed her deeply then, pressing his tongue between her lips as only William had ever done and pushing his hardened manhood against her like a declaration. Then he wrapped his arms around her so tightly that she almost could not breathe. “If only we could set to work on that task right now,” he murmured hotly against her mouth and pressed her dress sensually against the place between her legs that already was stirring for him. For a moment he moved his fingers in a rhythm that mirrored what would one day happen between them, and Jane felt a rush of excitement as their rough kiss deepened.

“I fear I should not be the maiden you desire as your queen if we
did,” she replied, pulling away just enough to speak, and keeping in mind the map to success Anne Boleyn had left her.

“I suppose you’re right. For now at least,” he conceded with a sigh, straightening his codpiece. “But once the world knows of my intentions, you shall be mine, body and soul.”

“You speak as a warning that which to me shall be an honor,” she wisely said.

She saw by his pleased expression that she was playing the game exceedingly well.

An entire lifetime had led her here, and at this moment, Jane Seymour felt positively masterful.

Thomas and Edward were waiting together for her beside the fireplace hearth in one of the grand apartment’s other rooms. Edward’s wife, Anne, had retired for the evening, which Jane regretted when she saw how Thomas anxiously paced the room. Edward pounced on her the moment she closed the door behind her.

“Did he propose?” Edward asked excitedly.

“Not in so many words.”

“Did he say he was going through with the divorce, at least?”

“He said he was exploring the option.”

Edward slammed his fist against the stone hearth. “’Tis not good enough! That will only give the Boleyns a chance to redouble their efforts!”

“He did declare his love,” Jane announced meekly, hoping to placate them.

“As I am certain he has done to a multitude of ladies whom he hoped to bed!” Edward said hotly.

Jane felt instantly reduced by the boundlessness of her brother’s ambition, which rose far beyond her own.

“Now, let us not be too hasty, brother,” Thomas offered in a more measured tone. “’Tis at least a step, and our Jane has gotten further than many.”

“What do
you
know!” Edward spat. “This court is littered with the footprints of other women who believed they were taking steps toward a crown!”

“Well, what have
you
gotten us?” Thomas countered.

“Whatever has been achieved so far was due to
my
standing at this court,
not yours
!” Edward countered.

“Always you, eldest brother, greatest son,” Thomas grumbled.

“When you see Anne Boleyn a divorced woman and our own sister Queen of England, then you may boast, Thomas, and not before!”

“Are you challenging me?” Thomas growled.

“Stop it, both of you!” Jane finally put in angrily. “You speak as though I were not even here. This is
my
life!”

“Where on earth would you have gotten that idea?” Edward asked snidely. “You are a marketable commodity in this family, the way Anne Boleyn was for hers. You shall do as you are bid, and you shall gracefully share the spoils, since without my connections to this court, you would not even be here, nor would you remain!”

“Edward, that is quite enough,” Anne Seymour interceded from the doorway. She was in her nightdress in her bare feet, her hair tousled and loose down her back. “If I can hear you down the corridor, so can the king. Keep that in mind.” She drew near and put her arm around Jane, who could feel herself trembling now from the weight of all that had happened to her that day.

“Are you all right?” Anne asked with sincere concern that touched Jane the more for how her brothers were fighting as if she
did not matter at all. But Jane could only nod for the enormity of it all.

She let Anne lead her to her own new bedchamber in the apartments then, too weary to argue. Besides, there was always that slight chance that the king might want to call upon her in the morning now that they had reached an understanding, so she must not come too fully undone and mar her face with the telltale stain of tears from continued arguments.

Jane slept a deep, dreamless sleep that night, and when she awoke, it was to the sound of horses’ hooves and the shouts of grooms from the cobblestones below her window. Jane stood at the stone window embrasure, unable, in some oddly perverse way, to tear her eyes from the scene below. The king and queen entered the courtyard together. They were dressed for riding, both in hunter green velvet, and they were holding hands as they neared two grand, sleek black horses, both caparisoned in tooled silver and held for them by liveried grooms.

It was neither disappointment nor even betrayal that seized Jane’s throat just then, making it almost impossible for her to catch her breath. Anne Boleyn was Henry’s wife, after all, or at least in the eyes of England, if not God. It was in that moment that Jane realized that she actually loved Henry—truly loved him, even if it was a love based on rivalry and duty. It was certainly not the same love she felt for William, yet there was physical pain now in watching him leave with another woman that confirmed it for her. No matter the promises, he was not to be hers. Anne Boleyn was still the victor.

She held that moment in her mind and cradled it against the pain of having lost William. She should not have let Henry touch her. She should not have allowed him to awaken her body the way
she had allowed William to do all those years ago. Jane felt wanton. Used. Not because she had done anything herself that crossed the line of virtue, but because she had refused to turn away from the temptations of a married man. No, Jane surely was not the girl people believed her to be. In the game of courtly love, she had played one hand too many, and now it seemed she had lost the contest altogether.

“It is said the queen told His Majesty last night that she is with child again. Naturally, that changes everything,” Anne Seymour somberly revealed.

“Yes,” Jane agreed. “Everything will be different now.”

“I am told since the queen never liked Princess Mary, the king wished her to visit his daughter as a condition of their renewed closeness, so they have gone together to Windsor to see her.”

Jane thought of Katherine’s sweet, shy child with a bittersweet mix of nostalgia and sadness. Poor Mary, stripped of her mother, her title, and her place in the succession, all to accommodate Anne Boleyn’s voracious ambition. It seemed fitting that, to keep her place, if she could, Anne must pay court to that same child whom she had rejected.

In that, Jane was almost happy to see them go together.
Almost.

“Will you be all right?” Anne asked. “I know you had hopes for a very different outcome.” They were both gazing out the window down at the king.

“I have had many hopes dashed through the years,” Jane replied stoically. “This is for the best. Particularly for little Princess Elizabeth, who shall benefit from her family remaining together.”

“I saw William Dormer at the banquet last evening. Curiously, he was not in the company of his wife. And I am told he is to remain
here at Greenwich with my lord Cromwell while his wife attends the queen at Windsor.”

“It seems you are told a great many things, sister,” Jane replied with little inflection.

“My family has been at court a long time, as you know. If one is privy to good fortune, one makes connections.”

“Good fortune, indeed,” Jane said blankly.

She had danced around the edges of good fortune herself for years now, never quite allowed to dive into the pool that might have brought her total fulfillment. Perhaps, Jane thought, as she continued to gaze upon the king and queen as they led their horses into the forest beyond the palace, it was time to take what small bit of comfort she could find with the man who had always held her heart. If, perhaps, he still wanted her.