I, Jane: In The Court of Henry VIII Read online

  “But my lady mother can scarcely refuse a funeral Mass for departed children, can you?” William pressed as he took a small sip of Gascony wine from a crystal goblet emblazoned with the Dormer coat of arms. Candles glowed between them.

  William was taller now but still slim, with the same tousled, wheat-colored hair, darkened a shade since his childhood, but it was his magnificent eyes that had gained a weighty depth since his childhood.

  “The woman is shamelessly ambitious. Everyone from here back to Buckinghamshire knows it,” his mother scoffed.

  “And yet the village priest did make it clear that the Seymour family is aware that we are back in residence here at Idsworth House. We lost too many of our own babies on our way to William not to find some compassion for their family,” Dormer said.

  Sir Robert was a pious man with a round little paunch, a slow-eyed gaze, and the unlimited patience of a saint. A Dormer family steward leaned in then and placed a large platter of stewed partridge beside the roast stag, dates, figs, oranges, and sugared almonds between them, and another came forward to serve it.

  “I would like to go,” William dared to admit, carefully watching his mother’s eyes for the telltale narrowing, followed by the tightening in her jaw, both warning signs of an impending outburst.

  Ever since he had heard about the funeral Mass, William had been reminded of the little girl he had first met in Savernake Forest, and their last conversation on the choppy waters of the Narrow Sea on the voyage back from France. Jane…

  He had wondered about her from time to time when news or gossip of court was brought into the conversation. He’d heard that Jane’s elder brother, Edward Seymour, had begun to make something of a name for himself in royal circles and that he was currently in the employ of the king’s much favored little bastard son, Lord Henry Fitzroy, as Master of the Horse. Why that impressive elevation did not matter more to his mother, William was not certain. The Seymour family obviously had the court ties for which she so desperately longed. His mother liked to say it was because the Seymours had no great patrimony, not enough to make them suitable to advance a friendship. But William had come to believe that it was her envy rather than her sense of superiority that prevented her from associating with them. In France, he had heard Sir Francis boast that Jane’s mother was a relation of the Lord High Admiral himself, so that connection must have been what secured Jane’s place in the French delegation.

  Had his mother not forced him to keep his distance from Wolf Hall, through the years when his family came to Wiltshire to visit, he might have seen little Jane again, and not just the village children who circled as flies to honey around him. Like that overly flirtatious Lucy Hill, with whom he had nothing in common, and for whom he had certainly no interest.

  He had never forgotten Jane, and the memory of her awkward sweetness haunted him. He may be nearing seventeen, but William still lacked real friends.

  “I am old enough to go on my own to the Mass,” William calmly persisted, although he felt his heart beneath the elegant doublet beat very fast at his defiance. “I shall represent the family well.”

  As his mother’s eyes narrowed, they carried a potent mix of surprise and fury. He knew very well that she did not like being defied. But like a captive trying to negotiate his own release, William felt compelled to press through the danger.

  “Do not be impertinent, William. You are not to attend,” Lady Dormer declared, her fork clattering onto her plate dramatically.

  “Bollocks! Jane, you cannot keep the boy captive forever! ’Tis a funeral Mass after all, not a spritely dance around the Maypole.”

  “If it means steering our only child from the wrong sorts of influences, I certainly can keep him here forever,” she growled with an almost masculine determination.

  “The Seymours desire nothing from me, Mother. I wish only to make a show of honoring them as our neighbors in their time of great grief. ’Tis the proper thing to do.”

  “The boy is right, Jane.”

  “Lady Seymour is a dangerously competitive woman, William. I can smell that across the clover. Do you not recall what she did in order to see her son included in the royal entourage to France?”

  “And now that son is at court making quite an impression, and ours is not,” Dormer grumbled and lowered his head to his stew.

  Lady Dormer’s face flushed with anger. “She clearly has gifts of manipulation!”

  “Or perhaps young Master Seymour simply acquitted himself better than I did.”

  “Mind your tongue, William. I do not require you making excuses for them in my own dining hall.”

  “Yet is it not you who always says God will put each of us precisely where we can do our best work? The good Lord must have something in mind for Edward,” William muttered.

  She slapped down her napkin and bolted from her chair. Robert Dormer held his fork in midair. His mouth, already open to receive it, closed again.

  That was at the heart of the matter, and all three of them knew it. Families know the soft underbelly of each member as no one else does. The truth was that Lady Dormer had spent immeasurable hours, and massive resources from their sizable fortune, bribing anyone she could in order to find a way back to court for her son. But the effort had been to no avail, while their lowly neighbors saw their son hunting, dancing, dining, and thriving in the company of the king himself! The disparity between the two families was repugnant to a woman who had invested her entire existence in success.

  William stood slowly, meeting his mother’s gaze as he did. The bank of clouds outside the long dining hall windows broke, and a strong, silvery ray of sun shone through. William could feel it warm and sharp, heavy almost, on the back of his neck above his braided collar. Just then, he felt that it was God’s hand pressing him forward—giving him strength against his overbearing mother.

  “I am going to the Mass,” he announced, careful not to expose a hint of disrespect.

  “From impertinence to insolence all in one meal, William? I believe I have raised you better than that.”

  “I have no wish to disappoint you, Mother. I am simply attempting to follow the example of personal conviction which you so unfailingly set for me all of my life.”

  A quick sideways glance just then revealed his father’s slight, bitten-back smile, and William knew that he had cleverly maneuvered his mother into a corner. His father’s expression said he wished he had thought of it himself.

  The little parish church of gray stone sat starkly beneath a heavy and equally gray sky on the cold and wet morning of the Mass. William arrived with a groom from Idsworth House as companion, although he directed the slim, ebony-haired servant to wait for him outside with the drawn litters and saddled horses. One litter in particular was ornate and very costly. On the side, it bore a crest emblazoned in gold. It was very clearly the conveyance of someone important. What would his mother have made of that? William thought smugly.

  The family had already gathered inside at the front of the church as William drew off his gloves and entered. A few of them who were dressed in shades of gray and black were near the altar speaking with the village priest, so William hung back. Quietly, he slipped into a pew. There were fewer mourners than he had expected for a family of such prominence in the region as the Seymours. Perhaps it was due to the nature of the deaths, he thought, since the specter of the sweating sickness continued to terrify everyone even once it had passed.

  William had never had the opportunity to grieve the loss of his own siblings, as they were stillborn or had died before he was born. It would have been nice to have had a brother, he thought as he watched a pale, ginger-haired adolescent boy sling his arms supportively around the shoulders of two girls and walk with them into the first pew. He had known the Seymours had several children, and those must be some of them. He was not near enough to see whether one of those girls might be Jane. Would he even recognize her after all these years? William wondered then, feeling foolish for insisting on coming h
ere to pay homage to a faded childhood memory. Even if he did, would she remember him? Such a quiet girl. Not quite shy, but one who, back then, kept her thoughts and feelings well guarded.

  As the Mass began and the nave filled with the pungent aroma of incense and the low sound of a mournful dirge, William saw Sir Francis Bryan, whom he had met in France. Then he noticed two men behind Bryan dressed more brightly than the other guests. One wore russet-colored velvet slashed with brown, and the other was garbed in azure satin. Their caps were ornate, one dotted with beads, the other plumed with an ostrich feather. As the Mass progressed, William could see that they were whispering to each other. Their attention was clearly not focused on the sad circumstances that had brought them here. It was disrespectful, but they were not like any two men he had ever seen. At least not since he had been at the French court. His curiosity was piqued.

  Everyone gathered outside afterward as a low-lying fog swirled around their ankles. Once again William hung back, trying to take in the scene without feeling awkward for being here. As she emerged from the church, he easily recognized Lady Seymour. A strikingly attractive woman with few of the ordinary marks of age for a woman with grown children, she had changed little. The man beside her, against whom she leaned heavily, was less notable, with his thinning gray hair, high, shining forehead and kind blue eyes.

  Then he recognized Edward Seymour as one of the two well-dressed young men from the front of the church. The one wearing azure and the ostrich plumed cap. His companion was older than the Seymour heir, with thick hair that had begun to gray at the temples. His eyes were deep, hooded, and slightly brooding. William linked his hands behind his back to give himself courage and moved forward as he knew he must do.

  “My lady Seymour,” he said sincerely with a proper bow to her. “I know not if you will remember, but I am the son of your neighbor to the north, the Dormers, come to pay respects to your family at this time of great sorrow.”

  Her blue eyes lit magically with recognition like the flare of a sudden fire. “Of course I remember. Sir Robert’s eldest son.”

  “Their only son, my lady. I am William, charged with conveying to you and your family our deepest sympathy.”

  She drew in a discerning breath before she tipped her head and focused her eyes on him. “Your parents were unable to accompany you?”

  “I regret to say that is the case, yet both send their sympathies for your loss.”

  He could tell she knew he was not telling the truth by the way the corners of her mouth twitched just slightly, then lengthened into a cautious, knowing smile. He was not old enough yet to have become an accomplished liar.

  “Well, you must join us at the manor now in their place. There shall be food and wine to sustain you for your ride home. I insist. It really is the least I can do for your show of kindness. And you remember my daughters, who can, no doubt, keep you better company than I,” she said, eagerly glancing around for them. A moment later, she drew them both over with a firm tug.

  They turned at the same time. William was surprised that he knew Jane at once—her pale, smooth skin, close-set eyes, and still slightly round face. The girl next to her must be her younger sister. Her eyes, like their mother’s, were vivid, like blue glass reflecting the sun, he thought. They weren’t as deep as Jane’s searching eyes, yet still, he felt himself stir at the way her dress flared out at her hips and came to a tight pointed V at the bottom of her plastron. William swallowed and looked away, embarrassed at the effect of this ripening adolescent girl’s body on his own.

  “Master Dormer, allow me to present my daughter Elizabeth,” Lady Seymour declared proudly. “She has just mastered her lessons on the virginal. Perhaps while you are in residence here in Wiltshire, we can prevail upon you to come and hear her play.”

  “’Twould be my pleasure.” William nodded to the younger Seymour sister, yet fully aware of Jane still standing beside her, unannounced. He realized then that there would be no introduction.

  “Hello, Jane,” he said anyway, surprising himself, drawing her eyes and holding her gaze with his own. “Do you remember me?”

  “How could I ever forget you, Master Dormer?” she coyly replied.

  She did not quite blush as she spoke his name, yet William saw a sudden shade of rose. The blush defined the soft bones of her cheeks before fading.

  Lady Seymour looked back and forth between them discerningly. “Ah, yes. Indeed. Jane. The two of you would have met in France. That’s right.” Her bland tone made the sentence sound like an afterthought and not a particularly pleasant one. “Since Elizabeth did not go to France, perhaps, Master Dormer, you shall be kind enough to tell her all about it while we dine,” Jane’s mother suggested, stepping between him and Elizabeth.

  “’Twould of course be my pleasure as well,” he said with well-schooled grace and a perfunctory nod.

  Then Lady Seymour’s eyes lit again. It reminded him of a wildcat seizing prey. “Oh, there he is. Come along, Elizabeth; there is someone else to whom you must be introduced.” She quite suddenly and firmly clutched her daughter’s arm above the wrist and twisted it, drawing her forward just before they disappeared into the crowd of guests waiting for their horses or litters in front of the little stone church.

  When William glanced back, Jane had turned and stepped away from him as well.

  “Wait!” He heard the desperation in his own voice as he reached out to grab her arm. He did not quite catch her, but his fingers brushed her arm and he felt her warm, pliant skin beneath the thin layer of her satin sleeve. She looked at him with slight surprise, eyes wide and, as always, impossible to decipher. “I was hoping to see you here,” he confessed awkwardly, surprising himself.

  “You have not been back in Wiltshire for a long time,” she said suddenly, studying him.

  “We’ve spent most of our time at Eythrope. But when I have been here it seems you are not, at least not at any of the celebrations, like May Day or New Year in the village. I confess, I have looked for you.”

  “I am always here. I have not left Wolf Hall since I returned from France.”

  “You sound as if you like it that way.”

  “I believed that I did. For a while.”

  He tipped his head. “And now?”

  “Well, there were the children to look after before. But now—”

  “Ah, there you are!” The female voice coming between them then was sudden but familiar. It was Lucy Hill, her face and smile as bright as if she had just come from running through a field. William had seen her from time to time since the incident in the forest when they were younger, so he knew her well enough. She always seemed to appear out of nowhere, as she had done just now, always smiling, always wanting to stay by his side. Her ruddy-cheeked expression held an open invitation, although to what, William was never quite certain.

  “May I ride with you back to Wolf Hall?” Lucy asked him flirtatiously. “’Tis a rather long walk this time of day, so I would be grateful for the courtesy of a companion.”

  “Well, I have my horse…”

  “Thank you, Master Dormer,” she said without skipping a beat. “A ride with you on the back of your horse would be a grand adventure. I saw him when you arrived. He is a beauty.”

  William glanced at Jane, but she had looked away, the moment between them extinguished. They could not be more different from one another, he thought. Jane, Elizabeth, and Lucy, these three girls from Wiltshire. But only one of them made him wonder what was going on behind the deep pools of her indecipherable eyes. And to William Dormer, that made all the difference in the world.

  He was just as she remembered.

  Jane had few things of her own, but the childhood memory of the golden-haired boy and those startling eyes belonged only to her.

  After dinner, Jane watched how her mother honed in with razor-sharp precision on the guest who had accompanied their brother from court. Elegant Sir Anthony Ughtred had been the impressively important captain of the king’s ship
Mary James and Marshall of Tournai. He also looked as old as their father. He had a neat graying triangular beard and dark rings beneath his eyes, probably from too much war. His teeth were yellow and there was hair in his nostrils, but he was distinguished beyond measure. A wealthy man, with no wife, Ughtred had met Edward during a skirmish with the Scottish at the border town of Berwick, and they had become fast friends, particularly when Ughtred discovered his new friend had a beautiful and very young sister. By the time the marzipan and hippocras were served, Jane saw that all thought of William Dormer had vanished from Margery Seymour’s mind in favor of a bigger, more rare fish that had suddenly landed on her little Wiltshire shore.

  “Will she be forced to marry someone so old, do you think?” William asked Jane, who was standing near the fire as two boys from Marlborough played a gentle duet on a flute and recorder to entertain them. The afternoon had turned chilly in spite of the fire, and Jane held her hands up to the glow from the warming flames.

  “There shall be little choice when she comes of age, if Mother decides. Which is how it is for nearly everything.”

  He bit back a smile. As the musicians played, Sir Anthony was regaling the collected guests with the story of how he had once been forced by orders to refuse the king’s own pregnant sister, Margaret, safe passage to Berwick back from Scotland. The power of it, he told them pompously, was as enormous as the burden on his conscience. The guests sat in rapt attention, no one noticing William and Jane, especially not Elizabeth, who was gazing up at Sir Ughtred with what looked like childish adoration.

  “I fear our mothers are no different,” William said quietly. “Mine fancies the king’s own daughter, the little princess Mary, is going to be brought to me like a Christmas goose one day. Rather like your very young sister has been paraded out for Sir Anthony.”