I, Jane: In The Court of Henry VIII (34 page)

After all, what sort of threat could little Jane Seymour pose?

But a son had yet to be born.

When the banquet concluded and the call was sounded for the guests to adjourn to the Great Hall for dancing, Jane heard a page whisper to the king that the queen had grown tired and wished to retire. The news received, Henry waved the servant away with a nod, then turned back to Jane.

“I find I am rather weary of all of this myself. Would you care to join me for a breath of fresh air?” he asked her casually.

She knew it was not an actual question but a royal edict. Yet a part of her actually did want to go outside with him, away from all this noise, abandoning the perfume and the pointed stares. Just being with the king after all these years, certainly since his illness at Wolf Hall, was easier than she dared believe. She felt girlishly hopeful for her future when he was near, although she would never admit that to anyone. It was something she had given up hope of ever feeling the day she had heard that William was married. When Jane looked one last time for William, she saw that he and his wife had already gone from the hall.
Just as well,
she thought, bitterness masking the pain of rejection for the one she truly loved.

Henry led her then, undetected, through a small rounded side door into the biting winter air as the last rays of the sun dipped, pale pink, below the horizon. Feeling the shock of the cold on her face, Jane clasped her hands and lifted them to her lips, intending the white puffs of her breath to warm her fingers as she began to shiver.

“Would that I were those hands,” he said as he gazed down at her, so much smaller and more fragile than the huge bear of a man before her.

His expression was deep and sensual, and it drew her, even in this cold.

“I want to show you something,” he declared a little drunkenly.

Henry drew off his velvet cloak then to sheath her, and she felt relief instantly. His hand, as he drew her own into his, was still warm, and the firmness of his grasp calmed her shivering. They strolled past the duck pond, where ice clung to the edges of the water, which gently lapped the shore in the winter wind. He did not speak as they crossed over the bridge, but she could hear the trusses give a little
creak with their joined weight. She felt him watch her, and she liked it.

A few steps more, and they were inside a round little building with a glass dome roof that let in the moonlight, and with it, the light from the deepening canvas of stars. Stoked by coal braziers and lit by candles tucked into wall sconces hidden by pretty screens, the place was a cozy little paradise, alive with plants, exotic trees, and the musical trill of dozens of birds. Jane chuckled in surprise as the king helped her off with his cloak.

“What is this place?”

“Do you like it?” he asked with a pleased tone.

“’Tis magical.”

He was gazing at her with a grand smile. “I have had these birds brought from all over the world. Only the rarest, most exotic, have found a home here with me.”

“I have been to Richmond many times, but I never knew this existed,” she said delightedly, gazing up at the branches and vines, where little dots of color nested and chirped.

“That is because there are few with whom I share it. I alone possess the key.”

To this, and the hearts of how many?
Jane thought.

“Your Majesty is a surprising man.”

“Verily, ’tis the reaction for which I most often aim,” he said, biting back a wry smile. There was a fair bit of mystery hidden behind his bold green eyes, Jane thought. “Keeps people on their toes.”

“I can imagine.”

“You remind me, Jane, of someone who was once very dear to me. Her name was Bess.”

He said it as if she had never heard the legendary tale of Bess
Blount, mother of the king’s son, who had been part of his life for more than twenty years. They said she remained a confidante, even now. She had never met Bess, but Jane knew the sacrifices she had made, as her friend Mary Boleyn had, and Jane had always felt certain she would like her.

“Bess was like that goldfinch over there, delicate, a bit flighty at times—if you will pardon the pun,” he said, clearly pleased with his own clever tongue.

Chuckling at himself, Henry picked up a bit of seed, and a small white bird landed in his palm as if it had been trained to do so.

“Do all the women you have known remind you of birds, and do they come when you call?” she asked, daring in that moment to try to sound as clever as he.

“Not all. But most.
You
do.”

Jane reddened beneath his gaze, which he held for a disconcertingly long time. “You see over there on that branch by itself? The one with the patch of yellow on its chest, the lark?”

Yellow, like the queen’s gown. Had she not seen Queen Anne tonight, Jane might have been flattered. Instead, she cringed at the connection.

“She is small and delicate, by no means the most striking bird, but her song is as sweet as it is gentle, and that draws me greatly.”

“Your Majesty.” Jane lowered her eyes with embarrassment. In spite of his reputation, she had not expected so bold a declaration.

He took a step nearer to her, closing the gap between them, and all Jane could think was,
I am nothing like the women you have loved and won. You are toying with me. You must be. What other earthly choice could there be?
He grazed her forehead then with a tender kiss, and Jane could no longer think for the foreign sensation it aroused. He had a musky scent, rich and masculine, tempered slightly with
sweat. The glitter of so many jewels on his broad doublet shone in the lamplight as the little collection of birds fluttered above them with sudden bursts of movement.

He touched the bit of hair peeking out from under her hood. “’Tis the very color of wheat, your hair,” he observed, as if that were a good thing. The admiration in his voice stunned her.

“You are unique, Jane,” he murmured then, and she could feel his warm, wine-scented breath on her face.

She felt a thrill so deep down inside of her that she forgot to breathe. It had been so long since a man had made her feel anything close to desirable. Out of habit, she cast her eyes downward again. He inched closer. She felt her knees go weak as he drew her chin up with a single finger. The power behind the movement blotted out the reality of his growing girth or the thick bandage on his calf.

“Jane…”

“Your Majesty.”
But it was not Jane who had answered. The tone was deep and reedy, a man’s timbre with a slight edge. “Forgive me, sire. But the matter is urgent. It concerns the queen.” Both turned then to see the portly, dough-faced Thomas Cromwell before them in his black cloak and hat.

Jane thought him an odd-looking man, slightly cadaverous, with cinder gray hair and a pronounced Adam’s apple that bobbed so visibly when he spoke that she could not look directly at him. His hands were like talons.

“What is it now, Cromwell?” Henry asked with an irritated sigh.

Cromwell cast a glance at Jane. His raised eyebrows were bushy and unkempt, not unlike his hair. “Should we not speak privately, sire?”

“Damn that woman and her infernal complaining! Out with it, Cromwell! I care not what Jane hears!”

Again Cromwell glanced at Jane, his irritation rising. “Your Majesty, I truly do not think—”

“As your sovereign king, Thomas, I command you to obey me! I do not suffer you to
think
as you do it! What trouble plagues the queen this time?”

“It is the child, sire. She has miscarried the child.”

“Impossible. I was only just with her at the banquet!”

“It was over an hour ago that she took her leave.” Cromwell’s tone was tentative. He paused before he continued. Jane could see him gauging whether or not he should continue. “Her sister-in-law, Lady Rochford, just sent word to be delivered to you.”

Jane watched the bold king, so tall and confident the moment before, fold in on himself, wilting in the echo of the news as his head dipped low against his chest.

“She promised me a son this time,” he said haltingly, though the words were not directed at anyone.

“’Tis truly a tragedy.”

“’Tis a
curse
! That woman is like a great plague upon the kingdom, and upon my life! Her raven hair and tender lies have blinded me!” He slammed both palms against his forehead as though he were holding a great rage back. “I have been so deceived! Tell me, was it a boy, Cromwell?”

“Oh, sire, I—”

“Was it my heir?” he raged.

“I am told the child was a male, Your Majesty. Shall I tell her you will come with haste?”

“I cannot look upon her right now. Tell her that, or any lie you wish,” he responded bitterly. Cromwell bowed to the king, then silently left them.

“Perhaps some good will come of it. Thomas à Kempis speaks
of the value of adversity so that we might not hope so much for worldly things,” Jane offered.

“You have read
The Imitation of Christ
?” His surprise seemed to calm him.

“The words within that volume brought me many hours of peace when I was growing up, Your Majesty, and since.”

“’Twas my own grandmother who personally translated book four, you know.”

“Aye, from the French. You and I spoke of it many years ago, but it would be easy to forget our conversation.”

The hint of a smile lengthened his lips. “I am unaware of a woman since my mother who has ever read it.” Astonishment highlighted his expression.

Jane smiled softly, trying to hide her delight. “I am surprised by that since the work is so grand.”

“I am surprised by
you
.”

Again she lowered her eyes, finding his gaze too powerful. Once again, he lifted her chin. “You are a gentle girl, Jane. I suppose I had forgotten what it was like to be in that sort of company.”

“Bess?” she gently asked, knowing she was pushing the boundaries.

“She was the last, but yes, gentle to the core, like you.”

He drew nearer to her again, and Jane felt with everything inside of her that he meant to kiss her. As much as that prospect filled her with excitement, there was also dread. “Should you not go to the queen?” she murmured as he tipped his head, leaned in, and grazed the column of her neck seductively with his moist lips.

His warm breath on her skin was like a balm for the wounds of her past. He reached up and anchored her jaw very gently with both of his hands, never breaking the seductive nearness between them
as he brought her face to meet his own and settled his gaze on hers so powerfully that she felt weak.

“I want to kiss you, Jane, not chastely nor tenderly, but as a man kisses a woman when he is full of carnal passion.” His lips grazed the apple of her cheek, first one, and then the other, with taunting restraint. “I am not a casual man when there is something worth truly possessing. But I believe with all of my heart in the value of resisting temptation. Just as Thomas à Kempis reminds us.”

Jane’s thoughts were fluttering randomly, desperately now, like moths to a flame.
Why the parade of mistresses if you truly mean that?
she wondered. But he still had command of her body; he was still holding her face, still murmuring seductively against her neck so that she could gather neither her thoughts nor her resistance against him.

Then suddenly, she felt tears blurring her eyes as she whispered, “Pray, what does Your Majesty want with me?”

“What I want with you, Jane, is everything. All that we both long for and deserve.”

“Does Your Majesty seek a mistress, then?”

“I have never sought that, Jane. But I am a man of bold passion. A man who craves giving love nearly more than receiving it.”

Again he kissed her cheek, but he barely brushed his lips against her skin this time. She could feel his desire beneath the restraint.

“Then what is it Your Majesty will have of me?”

Suddenly, he smiled and drew back. “Patience, my lark, is a great virtue. There is a plan for the two of us in God’s eyes. You must only wait for it to be fully revealed.”

“And you, sire, know of the Maker’s plan?” she asked, her eyes wide and her voice rich with sincerity as he brushed away her tears, clearly pleased by the humility behind them.

“The Lord has surely led me to you, Jane. That much I know
without doubt. So I trust that His plan for us is as pure and true as what I see in your eyes.”

She did not say that he already had a wife. Two daughters and a son as well in the Duke of Richmond. She did not say that he barely knew her. It seemed to Jane that God had long ago decided on a plan for King Henry’s heart, and that could not possibly include Jane. Still, Katherine was dead and Anne had miscarried a son.

The world, her world, was changing again. Where long ago it had been closed by William Dormer, it seemed open again suddenly, and she was curious to see what was ahead.

That much she could not deny.

Mary sat at her dressing table rubbing milk of roses onto her hands and along her fingers as he watched her. It was a nightly ritual. Her golden hair fell long down her back over her ivory and lace dressing gown. William watched her, hoping to feel something—at least enough to make a child with her.
A child.
A Dormer heir. It was the one thing that would heal the wounds of the many disappointments life had cast upon him. In that, he did not feel so separate from the king or his lifelong, elusive goal. God knew leaving Wiltshire to come to court had not accomplished that.

The king…William’s blood ran cold at the memory of the way the monarch had looked at Jane earlier that evening. Hungry eyes, not appreciative ones, had taken her in as something to be possessed, then devoured. He had seen that for himself and felt sick. He still did.

Mary turned around on the fringed stool, an ivory-handled hairbrush in her hand and an open invitation in her eyes. He buried his gaze quickly in the pages of the volume on his lap. He could feel his young wife’s expectation, trying to call him so that she would not
have to plead again for the affection she had every right to desire. But after catching a glimpse of Jane tonight, he knew true intimacy with his wife was impossible.