“Saved!” I gasped. It was a mistake. I should have kept silent.
“What’s that, eh? What are you doing, child? Get on with the rubbing.”
You must not interrupt her, I admonished myself. She must forget that you are here. No talking then from me. Let her do it all.
I rubbed, gently, soothingly, and she was soon continuing.
“Poor child. So beautiful. There is no one to rival her. What if it is he who cannot get the boys? There is the Lady Mary and now the Princess Elizabeth … and all the boys Catherine had were born sickly and did not live. There is Richmond, of course, the King’s son. Did he not admit to it? Did he not rejoice in the boy? But a bastard. He can get bastards, but no heirs. It is as though God is against him. Can it be? That is what they say. Some of them are so bold … they risk their lives. They are like the saints. They do not care for the axe—and they are lucky if they get that. That’s for the nobility, but it’s hanging, drawing and quartering for some … and still they do not care. They will say what they believe to be the truth. The people don’t like it. They don’t like her. They are all envious of my beautiful granddaughter. Oh, what a lovely creature! When she came back from France, there was no one to touch her. And now … she is Queen indeed … but he begins to wander, they say. The Duke is worried …”
I wanted to ask if the Queen were worried too, but I stopped myself in time. It was an unnecessary question. Of course she must be worried. And my uncle was disturbed. There would be reason for that. The family had been greatly honored since one of its members had become the Queen.
My poor cousin Anne! I remembered the glimpse I had had of her at her coronation. So proud, so beautiful, the most powerful woman in the country; but even she had to remember that her power came through the King, and everything depended on her pleasing him.
The months passed. Often I thought of Francis Derham, and I wondered whether he would ever come back.
I saw Henry Manox now and then. He was still at Lord Beaumont’s. Whenever we met, he looked at me pleadingly, but I was not in the least tempted—perhaps because I carried the image of Francis Derham in my mind. He was so different.
I learned more of what was happening. It was well known now that all was not well between the King and the Queen, and throughout the house there was an air of impending doom.
On the rare occasions when I saw my uncle, the Duke, he was clearly disturbed; as for my grandmother, she was very obviously affected. Not so long ago, she could not have spoken of our kinswoman, the Queen, without glowing with pride; now she did so with apprehension.
Where would it end? He was married to her, but some said it was no true marriage. Had he not been married to Queen Catherine? But he had thrust her aside; and she was related to the great Emperor Charles, which was why the Pope could not accept a bribe from the King to agree to the divorce. And Anne … who was she? Who would defend her? The family of Howard? A great family, yes, but insignificant compared with such as the Emperor Charles, the most powerful ruler in Europe. And who were the Howards to set themselves against the King? A previous king had shown them how easily he could humble them.
I was indeed growing up, and learning something of the world, and I was deeply sorry for my brilliant cousin.
And well I might be! I often thought later what she must have suffered during those months, and then I understood it so well.
Everyone knows that story.
There was a time when I was aware of the lightening of my grandmother’s spirits. There was a definite new optimism. The Queen was pregnant.
The Duchess talked of it while I rubbed her legs.
“This could save everything. It is God’s answer to our prayers. True, it will not be the same … he is not a man to stay constant. His fancies stray and many are standing ready.” She laughed mirthlessly. “I think of those Seymour brothers … a fine pair they are. Mischief-makers, both of them. Edward is a rogue, and so is Thomas. They have always been enemies of the Howards. They are seeking advancement through this …”
It was all rather vague, and I dared not ask for clarification since this would be the quickest way to silence her. But there was a good deal of gossip going on, and I was able to glean something of the situation, so I soon learned that the King was enamoured of one of the Queen’s ladies-in-waiting. Mistress Jane Seymour was not of significantly high birth, but she had those two ambitious brothers. Anne Boleyn, lady-in-waiting to Queen Catherine, had ensnared the King. Now it seemed it was the turn of Jane Seymour, lady-in-waiting to Anne, to do the same.
My grandmother had gone back to Court to be near her granddaughter when she gave birth.
Oh, for a son, we prayed. Only God could give Anne that.
Alas, he did not listen to our prayers, or only partly. It was very dramatic, I understood. The Queen had burst in on her maid, Jane Seymour, and the King. They were in each other’s arms and certain familiarities were taking place. How Anne must have hated that woman and longed to be rid of her, but naturally, she could do nothing about the matter, for the King would not allow her to be dismissed: and Queen Anne, who once could have demanded anything from him, must now stand by and suffer the humiliation of seeing another preparing to take the place which had been hers—just as Queen Catherine had had to do before her.
Queen Anne was so angry that she gave vent to her rage and the King shouted at her that she must perforce endure what others had before her. Poor Anne, she must have seen the end in sight, and the only way she could avert the fate which had fallen to Queen Catherine was to have a son. And that was not in her power, except by prayer, which was not always reliable.
It was certainly not in her case. There was not even a daughter like the Princess Elizabeth. The shock of that encounter between herself, the King and Jane Seymour brought on a miscarriage. It was the end.
The Duchess returned to us, sad-hearted and defeated. She could no longer delude herself into thinking that all would come right. There was no son. The King was tired of her whom he had once desired sufficiently to defy the Pope and break with Rome; and now she was no more to him than poor, sick, tired Catherine of Aragon.
The Duchess had been with Anne when she lay in her bed, sick and frantic with worry, and during one of those sessions when I was rubbing her legs, she talked of the occasion.
“She was in need of comfort. She had lost her child … a sadness for a mother at any time, but when so much depends on it … Oh, he was cruel. The anger in his little eyes … his tight, straight mouth. And it was worse, because the child had been a boy. Oh, if only she had not come upon them … if only she had not lost what she so needed. But how could she help it, poor soul? She knew how he had behaved with Queen Catherine—and, alas, she had helped him in that, one could say. But he was cruel. He may be the King, but I will say it. He said, ‘You shall have no more boys by me.’ And there she lay, sick, deserted, my poor, poor child.”
Through the spring the gloom persisted. It was exactly three years since those glorious days when we were preparing for Anne’s coronation. I remembered my grandmother’s pride and joy because of our connection with the new Queen. The atmosphere had changed a great deal. It would have been better now if we were not related to the Queen. The Duke was very gloomy. He came to the house more frequently. I gathered that he was not as popular at Court as he had been, for the King no longer had the same welcome for members of the Howard family.