December 22: Jane Seymour and Henry VIII
A big thank you to my dear friend, historical novelist Adrienne Dillard for sharing this excerpt from her work in progress.
Adrienne explains: "The Tudors meets Downton Abbey in "Keeper of the Queen’s Jewels", where the action “below stairs” is just as powerful and intriguing as the storm raging through the throne room.
No longer the meek and mild, ineffectual queen of the history books, Jane Seymour is reimagined as a woman on the precipice – one misplaced step away from oblivion.
Viewed through the lens of the #MeToo movement, her marriage to King Henry VIII is not the “love story” we have been led to believe, but a tale of domestic violence and emotional abuse. In the maid’s dormitory,
Margery Horsman struggles as she comes to terms with the fallout of her careless words, uttered recklessly in a fit of envy and greed. Surrounded, yet feeling alone and abandoned, she searches for her place in the world. When a young widower still grieving over the loss of his wife asks for her hand, she steps into a role she never imagined, that of mother to a half-orphaned boy.
An iron bond is forged between Queen and Maid, as they navigate a treacherous court still reeling from a season of blood and murder. Together, they will risk their own lives to protect a dangerous secret - one of the last surviving relics belonging to their former mistress: Anne Boleyn’s iconic necklace.
Here is the excerpt:
Back in the dormitory, the maids were giddy with the prospect of the revels to come. The sacrifices of advent could be challenging for those accustomed to the excesses at court, but I often felt renewed by the prayers and the fasting. Still, I joined in their excitement, thinking of all I had to celebrate.
An hour to midnight, the queen summoned me to her bedchamber to prepare for mass. I brought along a cloth of gold and silver tinsel gown, lined with the softest fur. Swirling loops of the tiniest seed pearls sprayed across the bodice in flourishes beneath a habiliment of diamonds. In it, the queen looked angelic, ethereal.
Once she was changed, she sent me to the jewel casket to select a few pieces to complete the ensemble. I labored over the decision, digging through the drawers for something perfect. At length, I decided the diamonds were sumptuous enough on their own and settled upon on a tablet of blue and green enameled gold. Paired with delicate matching bracelets, it was just enough; anything more would have appeared garish.
We processed to the chapel carrying lit tapers. Pinpricks of candlelight illuminated the dark corridors. It looked like the stars had fallen from the heavens, spilling across our path. The service was lengthy but beautiful and uplifting. The story of the Christ Child was one that never failed to move me, the savior of our kind, born in the humblest of circumstances. It was a miracle, the likes of which we would never see again. Singing Gloria in Excelsis Deo, our voices rang out in prayerful adoration.
After a few hours of much-needed rest and reflection, the festivities began in earnest. In the afternoon there were Morris Dancers and mummers with a visit from a troupe of actors. One of their number, a man dressed in blue and white motley with bells on his slippers, approached Mistress Norris with an open hand. “Alms for the poor?” he asked sweetly, a mischievous smirk teasing the corners of his mouth.
“You do not look impoverished to me, my good sir.” She regarded his costume appreciatively.
“Not I, not me!” The man howled with laughter. “I am Sir Peter, the richest man you see!”
Mistress Norris gestured at the men surrounding us. “Look around, Sir Peter, what do you see? Peers of the realm and nobility.”
Mary Arundell, trying desperately to keep her composure at this joust of wits, elbowed me. Biting her lip, she looked fit to burst.
The man made a show, taking in the crowd with an appraising eye. “Nothing but peasants,” he judged with an exaggerated flick of his wrist.
“Then what, pray tell, are you, Sir Peter? A worldly knight?”
He rocked back on his heel, extending one leg with a flourish. The bell on his toe tinkled with the movement. “I am a lord, simple girl – the Lord of Misrule. Can’t you tell by my suit?” Regarding her with pity, he pulled a coin from his hat. “Perhaps you need this more than the poor.” When Mistress Norris plucked it from his outstretched hand, he turned to me. “Alms for the half-wit?”
Finally, Mary Arundell could hide her amusement no longer. She bent over, clutching the fabric of her skirt, her body shaking with laughter.
“Fits! Fits! She is having fits!” the fool cried, pointing at her hunched form. “I think the lot of you belong in bedlam.”
“I couldn’t agree with you more, Sir Peter the Lord.” Mistress Ashley sniffed in mock contempt.
“Ah! Kindred spirit.” The man sidled up to her, a winsome smile revealing the chip in his front tooth. “Tell me, my lady, what is your tale?”
She threw her head back dramatically, hand by her brow. “Plagued by fools.”
“Plague!” he yelped, bells ringing as he leaped aside. “Must go now, no time to waste!” he called over his shoulder, scurrying out of sight. Returning a few moments later, he made his bows. “Gracious ladies, I do thank you for humoring me. Happy Christmas to you all.”
Mistress Norris tossed back his coin, and I added a few more to his cupped hand. “Happy Christmas to you, Sir Peter.”
When the man smiled again, the chip was gone, his once jagged bite now perfectly straight. Noting my surprise, he shot me a wink. “Tis naught but a show, my lady.”
Mistress Ashley giggled, watching him dance away. “Did you see his dimples? We should have given him more coin.”
High above the crowd, a trill of music – light and airy – summoned us to the feast. The great hall was in its glory; lush boughs of evergreen and ivy draped in great swags from corner to corner. Golden tendrils of flame writhed in the torches, casting a soft glow over the rows of trestle tables loaded with silver platters of food. The table near the dais held all manner of sugar sculptures: St George and the dragon, a castle surrounded by dainty turrets, even a phoenix in honor of the queen. Mixed amongst the statues were candied almonds, comfits, and sweet dates.
Mistress Ashley shuddered when I pointed out the marchpane cakes. “Foul stuff,” she groaned.
“Ah, yes! Mistress Marchpane. I had almost forgotten the Boleyns called you that.” Spiteful and petty, I regretted the comment instantly, but part of me enjoyed the stricken look upon her face. Much as I hated to admit it, I still resented her act of betrayal, taking Anne Boleyn’s pearls from my trunk. Reminding her of the late queen’s taunt felt vindicating in some small way.
The clamor of voices rose all around me, but the chaos fell away when I saw Michael Lyster across the hall. He was standing on the fringes of a mob surrounding Thomas Seymour and Sir Francis Bryan, watching in bemusement as the two men brayed at some joke. Unobserved, I took him in. When he caught me staring, his face broke open with joy.
He disentangled himself from the group, easing away with a sheepish grin and promises to rejoin them before the night was over. Striding past, he gestured for me to follow. I glanced up at the dais, where the monarchs sat enthroned beneath the cloth of estate. Sitting beside them was a man I did not recognize. His dark hair was closely cropped, and he wore an ornately embroidered coat the deep scarlet of fresh blood. The king leaned in close, listening intently as the man spoke, oblivious to the servants bustling about the table. Queen Jane turned to say something to the Lady Mary and saw me floundering with uncertainty. She dismissed me with a smile. Released from my responsibilities, I ran after Michael, heartbeat pounding in my ears.
He awaited me in the deserted corridor, one foot propped against the wall, an arm slung low over his waist. I hesitated, wondering if I should have a chaperon. Was this proper? Quickly as the thought came, it faded away, leaving behind an acute desire; a hunger to be wanted, to be chosen, to be claimed as his own. I had been lonely for an eternity. “I waited so long for you, Michael.”
He moved closer, closing the distance between us effortlessly. “I was preparing our home for your arrival. If you want it? If you want me?” He looked nervous suddenly as if it had just occurred to him that I might have changed my mind.
“In truth, I have thought of almost nothing else.” I reached for him, my fingers finding the curve of his jawline.
Catching my hand, he gave it a gentle squeeze. “Wait, there is something I must say before you commit.”
“Nothing could dissuade me,” I assured him, despite the worry clawing at me. Had I made a mistake?
“I care for you, Margery – deeply. You have awakened within me emotions I believed long dead.” He was stalling, struggling to find the words.
“Just tell me, Michael. Whatever it is, it cannot be worse than what I have already endured.”
He swallowed hard, nodded. “Truth is that my first wife meant everything to me. She was my beloved, and I may never stop grieving her. I swear that I will always honor and cherish you, provide and care for you. However, I cannot promise to love you as you desire or deserve.”
“Ever?” The word was soil in my mouth, bitter and stale.
“Perhaps one day, but I do not know when, or if it is even possible.” He looked miserable as if this admission pained him much more than he could articulate. “If the burden is too great– “
I pressed my finger to his lips, stopping him. “Michael, I understand grief. It has been my constant companion for longer than I can remember. You never have to justify or excuse yourself to me. I only ask this: is there hope?”
Kissing the palm of my hand, he offered a mournful smile. “With you, there is always hope.”
“Then we shall take each day as it comes, whatever it may bring.” My mother said the same words when we learned her life was dwindling towards its end. The days that came after were often brutal and relentless, and yet she was worth every one of them. The anguish upon Michael’s face convinced me that he was too.