Russell House, London, December, 1541
Russell House, London, December
I LIVE A SOLITARY life in Russell House. I only see his lordship at midday on Sunday when we all attend chapel, and he comes to my rooms after divine service and asks me: am I well?
‘Yes, I thank you,’ I say cautiously, for I think it safest to be mad until I receive a written pardon or the king is dead – whichever comes sooner.
‘Can you tell me any more about the queen?’ he asks.
‘I can tell you about all of them. There have been many, and I have served them all.’
He looks at me, his brow a little furrowed. ‘Be careful what you say,’ he warns me.
‘Superfluous,’ I remark. ‘We are always careful what we say.’
‘Tell me about Katheryn Howard? Did she plan the death of the king?’
It is against the law to speak of the death of the king. ‘Shush,’ I say to him. ‘Don’t say that. Remember – never say that.’
He flinches. ‘Jane, if you would hold on to what is real and give evidence against her, you would be pardoned,’ he says. ‘Do you understand that, Jane? Say that she was adulterous and hoping for the king’s death, and you can go free.’
‘Oh, certainly!’ I say helpfully. ‘Tell me! I will say anything! Anything the king wants me to say. I cannot imagine my own death, you know. It is impossible to imagine your own death.’
‘You must tell the truth,’ he says. ‘A lie won’t save you. You must tell me truly – did she bed Thomas Culpeper?’
‘I don’t know,’ I say simply. ‘They kissed and said they would die for love of each other.’ I smile at him. ‘Are they going to die for love?’ I ask. ‘Can I go to court for Christmas now?’
CHRISTMAS IS AT Greenwich this year, but although I told Lord Russell what he said he wanted, I am not invited. Nor are Lady Russell and her husband, and she tells me that the king wants no company and no celebrations of the season.
‘But he will want gifts,’ I caution her. ‘He can live without dancing but not without gifts. He needs sacrifices. Human sacrifice.’
She looks oddly at me and says: ‘Thomas Culpeper and Francis Dereham have been executed.’
‘See?’ I say.
She says gently: ‘Jane, if you are pretending madness to escape trial and execution, it’s doing you no good. Come back to your wits if you can.’
I laugh. ‘I am the best educated woman in England but for Thomas More’s daughter,’ I tell her. ‘I could not lose my wits; they are all I am. I could not be a courtier without them, and if I were not a courtier, I would be nothing at all.’
‘Jane, I must warn you, we won’t house you forever. You don’t want to be begged as a fool, and go and live in a strange household as their idiot, do you?’
‘No,’ I agree. ‘But I was sent to live in a strange household as an idiot when I was a little girl of just eleven. It’s all I know, really.’
She shakes her head, and I think: but I know, and you do not, that the king will die in four and a half months’ time. ‘Will you keep me until May Day? I think I will be well by May Day.’
‘I don’t know,’ she says. ‘It’s not my choice. Go to chapel and pray for your wits to come back to you, Jane.’
‘I am pretending nothing,’ I assure her. ‘For the first time in my life, I have stopped pretending. I am in my right mind for the first time ever.’
She shakes her head. ‘He won’t let you stay with us, Jane, mad or not.’
‘Oh no,’ I assure her. ‘I shall be back at court when he chooses his next wife. I always serve the Queen of England. He’s never had a queen but I’ve been her lady, teaching her never to say “no” – whether it’s a baby that he wants, or a divorce.
He will choose another wife, and when he wants her to confess to a precontract or accuses her of treason or heresy, I will make up the evidence against her. Do you know yet who it will be?’
She looks deeply shocked. ‘Silence! Madness does not excuse you! Go to your rooms!’
I really don’t know what has upset her – the certainty of my return to court, or the certainty of another queen.
‘I’m not mad to say the king will marry again,’ I say quietly, as I go.
‘I know his mind as well as I know my own. He cannot live without a woman far superior to him, a woman to humiliate. He cannot bear his impotence without a beautiful woman to blame. He cannot bear his own rot without a healthy body beside him.’
She claps her hands over her ears and shouts at her lady-in-waiting: ‘See Lady Rochford back to her room! I won’t hear this.’
I curtsey to her and smile at them all. ‘Good day,’ I say.