Jane Boleyn: The True Story of the Infamous Lady Rochford (4 page)

Then, on Saturday, June 23, came the climax of the entire event, a great mass. Jane took her seat in the stands just before ten in the morning. Dressed in scarlet, the cardinals and legates of England and France made their way on to the platform. The French bishops and archbishops, who sat close to the altar, came next. Once all were ready, the joyous notes of Henry’s musicians of the Chapel Royal, a body of priests and singers whose task it was to serve his spiritual needs, rose to the heavens. Some of these were young boys with clear, pure, unbroken voices but there were adult singers too. Among them was Robert Fayrfax, who had performed so movingly at the funeral of Henry’s baby nine years earlier.

Jane sat with the other ladies of Katherine’s entourage in the same stands from which they had watched the jousts. The service was sung from a wooden chapel built overnight in those very tiltyards. Everyone who was anyone was there on that day, from the king’s sister, Mary, to various young gentlemen of the privy chamber such as William Carey and Henry Norris. Jane’s mother, Lady Morley, whose name, along with that of her husband, appears on the roll of those who were to be in Katherine’s retinue, sat close to her daughter. The Boleyns, Sir Thomas and his wife, Elizabeth, were nearby. So was their daughter, Mary, still a newlywed following her marriage to William Carey only a few months before. Mary Carey and Jane, both listed as “gentlewomen,” had time to become acquainted. No doubt Thomas and Elizabeth enjoyed chatting and reminiscing with Bridget, the wife of Sir Richard Wingfield who had grown up in Stone Castle in Kent, a few miles from the Boleyn estate at Hever. Her father still lived there. For the Boleyns, the event probably provided the chance of a family reunion. Their second daughter, Anne, was a member of the French queen’s household. While Anne is not mentioned in the roll of names on the English side, it is likely that she was present with her royal mistress. Perhaps Jane was able to meet, for the first time, the woman who was to become both her queen and her sister-in-law. It is also possible that Jane’s future husband, George Boleyn, was there, for knights were allowed to bring attendants and Sir Thomas may well have decided to give his only son the experience of a lifetime.

But the real star of the event was Cardinal Wolsey. Wearing jeweled vestments, perhaps of cloth of gold, brimming with confidence, and totally in charge, he dominated the proceedings just as he dominated Henry’s government. Everyone knew his story. An Oxford graduate in spite of being the son of a butcher, Thomas Wolsey had been chaplain to several officials before entering royal service as chaplain to Henry VII. From the employ of the father, he passed smoothly to that of the son. Once made a member of the Royal Council in 1510, he never looked back. He greedily collected church benefices, including the archbishopric of York, and became a cardinal and then papal legate, an office that made every other churchman in England subject to his authority. Despite being a newcomer to Henry’s court, even Jane was fully aware that Wolsey’s hold over the church was mirrored by his grip on the state. He “ruled all under the king,” wrote George Cavendish, his loyal servant and biographer. Nothing was beneath his notice or outside his sphere of influence. As lord chancellor, he controlled the legal system; as the king’s chief minister, he controlled everything else. In the process, he became incredibly rich, living in a manner similar to that of the king, his master. He epitomized magnificence on a major scale. His London residence of York Place, his by right as archbishop of York, was transformed by massive building works to make it a more suitable setting for the man who had become a prince of the church. His pride and joy was Hampton Court by the river Thames.

Jane knew from court gossip how he lived. She heard that in just one room at Hampton Court, he displayed astonishing quantities of plate of gilt, plate of pure gold, and silver and gilt candlesticks. When he dined, he sat in solitary splendor under a cloth of estate, the intricately worked canopy that marked out those of superlative rank and importance. When he rode his mule in public, the animal’s trappings were of crimson velvet, its stirrups were gold, and the cardinal was preceded by a procession of attendants and footmen, some of whom carried crosses of gold or silver. A nobleman “or some worthy gentleman” was required to carry the great seal and his cardinal’s hat before him. All for the son of a butcher. Indeed, no matter how far back any aristocrat could trace his ancestry, he would have to take second place to the cardinal who now, Cavendish tells us, “ruled all them that before ruled him.” Stories abounded of how Wolsey’s ostentation and arrogance so affronted the proud Duke of Buckingham that he had not been able to conceal his anger, but while it might rankle, as long as Wolsey remained in Henry’s “especial grace and favor,” no one dared to criticize him. And, on that June day in 1520, Wolsey basked in his own importance.

As he began the High Mass at noon, all eyes were upon the area around the altar. In front of the cardinal were the two kings and their queens. Jane, like the rest of the English contingent, looked with pride upon her sovereign. At roughly six feet tall, Francis did indeed match Henry for height, both men towering over most of their contemporaries; it was also true that Francis enjoyed a reputation as a poet and sportsman. But for the English, no one could surpass Henry. Almost thirty, three years older than Francis, he was very much in his prime. His reddish hair shone in the sun like the gold that surrounded him and his muscular, athletic body, honed through physical sports, was still as impressive as when he had become king at just under eighteen years of age. Then, this beautiful young man, with his chivalrous demeanor, affability, approachability, and love of learning, had appeared like a god to a country used to his avaricious father, Henry VII, who had given the impression of being born middle-aged and cunning.

When he first tried to describe the new king, the chronicler Edward Hall was uncharacteristically lost for words. He felt unable to “express the gifts of grace and of nature, that God hath endowed him with all.” There was nothing in which Henry did not excel. He danced; he sang; he played the lute, the virginals, and possibly the harp; he composed. Clearly, he entranced the Venetian ambassador, Sebastian Giustinian. Watching Henry play tennis was “the prettiest thing in the world,” he wrote, with Henry’s “fair skin glowing through a shirt of the finest texture.” He spent hours in the saddle hunting, managing to “tire eight or ten horses” stationed along his route; he took part in tournaments as the queen’s loyal knight. And he combined all of this with a deep and genuine interest in theology and devout religious observance, hearing Mass several times a day. At first, no one could believe their luck in having such a ruler, and even by 1520, nine years later, there was still no reason for anyone to think otherwise.

Of course, it was true that Henry relied greatly on Cardinal Wolsey, whose wealth and flamboyance appeared to be growing with every day that passed, but after all, the king was God’s representative on earth and his wishes were supreme. It was common knowledge that Henry despised the dreary grind of mundane affairs of state and loathed those councilors who tried to persuade him to attend to them. He expected to be able to enjoy being king and “loved nothing worse than to be constrained to do anything contrary to his royal will and pleasure.” It was hardly surprising that he felt “affection and love” for Wolsey. The cardinal’s tireless labor left the king freer to pursue his own interests, many of which, like hunting and jousting, were the interests of his nobles too. There were times when he and his favorite courtiers were simply all young men together. Provided his position was never forgotten, Henry could be both convivial and engaging.

Certainly the women of the court found him so. Who would not be flattered by the attentions of such a monarch? Jane was an adolescent, too immature for Henry. But when he started to register their existence, he realized that the court abounded with ladies only too willing to catch his eye and respond to his charms. He found a kindred spirit in the entrancing, vivacious Elizabeth Blount, one of his wife’s maids of honor. Like him, she enjoyed music and dancing and was his partner in the New Year revels of 1514. The couple soon became partners in other areas too. Five years later, Elizabeth presented her royal lover with a son, Henry Fitzroy. Elizabeth was not present at the Field of Cloth of Gold, since the affair was over by then. Perhaps the king was ready to look elsewhere?

It was obvious, even to Jane, that Henry’s attention was no longer focused on his wife. Conjugal bliss had definitely ebbed. Jane watched as Katherine knelt with her husband at the start of the Mass. The queen was much loved and respected for her virtue and piety but she was no longer the shy, delicately featured girl who had arrived from Spain to marry Henry’s elder brother, Arthur, then Prince of Wales and Henry VII’s heir. The marriage, designed to cement Anglo-Spanish amity, lasted only five months before Arthur died. His brother’s premature demise meant that Henry had succeeded to his offices, titles, and, eventually, to their father’s throne. He had also replaced his brother in Katherine’s bed, marrying the widowed princess within two months of his own accession. The idealistic young Henry had been a devoted husband who delighted in his attractive and accomplished bride, for Katherine was very well educated and was probably a better Latin scholar than Henry himself. He had trusted her judgment; he had confidently left her in charge of the country as regent while he went to fight the French. In those early years, Henry and Katherine had looked good together, Katherine’s graceful figure a perfect foil to the ebullient physical specimen that was her husband. But all of that was a long time ago. The Katherine who had so enchanted Henry was now portly, her soft prettiness a thing of the past. And the difference was noticed. Francis called her “old and deformed”—by which he meant fat—in sharp contrast to Henry who was “young and handsome.” A root cause of the change was her frequent pregnancies.

Katherine’s gynecological history was a nightmare. Every woman worshipping with her at the Mass on that June day sympathized. The loss of little Prince Henry was not her only tragedy, nor was it her last. Her situation following the sudden death of Arthur had been difficult enough for several years, as it was uncertain whether her marriage to his brother would actually take place. Once it did, she miscarried a daughter within months of the wedding. Then, after the anguish of losing the son they both wanted so badly, she lost in quick succession three more babies in miscarriages or stillbirths. Finally, in 1516, Princess Mary was born safely and, much to her parents’ relief, survived. Katherine doted on the child, whom she had left in the tender care of nurses and attendants during this visit to Francis, but no one could get away from the fact that the infant was a princess and not a prince. The queen’s final pregnancy, a couple of years later, ended in the usual disaster with yet another dead daughter. Since then, despite Henry’s best efforts and her own increasingly desperate prayers, she failed to conceive. Still, miracles did happen; the Bible was littered with examples of postmenopausal women who, at God’s will, became mothers. Henry might yet gain the heir he needed. Like all loyal English subjects, Jane hoped so.

Meanwhile, it was time for her to concentrate on the ritual of the Mass. Like everything else at the Field of Cloth of Gold, it was an example of Wolsey’s exemplary planning at its very best. Although he officiated, it was important for reasons of prestige that both countries played an equal part in the ceremony. Thus, there were both French and English musicians who took it in turns to sing the sacred words, each group accompanied by the organist of the other nationality. Then, suddenly, as Jane followed the familiar words of the liturgy, there was an enormous crash. At first, no one was sure what it was. Some feared it was a “comet” or even a “monster,” but such was the underlying Anglo-French distrust that thoughts of treachery flashed through the minds of many spectators. But then Jane, like everyone else, looked upward. A massive firework, in the shape of a dragon or perhaps the salamander that was Francis’s emblem, streaked across the sky. It had come from the English encampment and had probably been intended to be let off later in the evening during the masques and entertainments. Quite what had gone wrong is uncertain; we only know that a certain Thomas Wright was paid twenty shillings and four pence for the “canvas for the dragon.” If the English had wanted to flaunt their superior expertise in firework manufacture by producing one to dumbfound the French, their wish was definitely granted. It was one for all to remember. However, once the fuss had died down and everyone was settled again, Wolsey calmly returned to the matter in hand and the service resumed. The pax, or gospel, was taken to the two kings to kiss by Cardinal de Bourbon. Slightly bemused as to the correct etiquette, Henry politely offered it to Francis first but he charmingly “refused the offer.” When Cardinal de Bourbon moved on to Katherine and Claude, neither queen knew what to do either so, to great delight, “kissed each other instead.” Finally, following a Latin discourse on the merits of peace proposed by William Pace, one of Henry’s secretaries, a papal indulgence, useful for reducing the time that souls spent in purgatory, was proclaimed and all was over.

At least, it was over for the moment. There was just about enough time for Jane and the other courtiers to prepare for that night’s frivolities. By now, she was becoming used to the “rich attires” and “sumptuous jewels” she needed to wear in order to uphold her country’s honor and to the vast menus of delicacies produced by the legions of cooks to tempt even the poorest appetite. As she watched the bonfires and heard the gunfire that rounded off the final evening’s entertainments, those years at Great Hallingbury really seemed a lifetime away.

But all this could not go on forever. Tournament prizes were awarded to the bravest and best of the sportsmen: naturally, Henry and Francis were winners but so was Mary Boleyn’s husband, William Carey, clearly an up-and-coming young man within the royal circle. Then, after an exchange of presents—Henry gave Francis a jeweled collar and received a bracelet of precious stones in return—promises of peace were made and affectionate farewells said. Jane, her parents, and the members of the court had to return home. All had gone so well. Everything had glittered and gleamed. There was peace between the old enemies and England was safe and secure under the wise government of its most bountiful king. And, as the hordes of weary servants set about packing up and clearing away all that remained of the Field of Cloth of Gold, Jane’s own chance to glitter and gleam was about to come.