Betrayal (52 page)

             
Jane turned away from Cromwell.

             
“Jane,” he said laying his hand on her shoulder. “You know what I want.”

             
Jane shook her head.

             
“You need only say your husband has an un-natural desire for his sister’s company.”

             
“That is treason!” Jane cried.  “I do not seek his death!”

             
“We do not seek anyone’s death, my lady Rochford, only to depose an unpopular and dangerous Queen,” Cromwell cooed.

             
“She is my sister-in-law.”

             
“She is your rival,” Cromwell replied, reaching for Jane’s hand. She turned her back to him.

             
“It was the wench,” Jane said “and she is gone to Cornwall.”

             
“No Jane, she is in the Tower awaiting trial for witchcraft.”

             
“Witchcraft!” Jane cried, turning to face Cromwell.

             
“She procured the Queen’s miscarriage to protect her lover, the baby’s father.”

             
“What are you saying?” Jane demanded.

             
“Can you still not see what was happening?”

             
Jane Boleyn raised her hand to her mouth, her eyes wide with terror.  “You are mad if you think George fathered a child on Anne.”

             
“What I think does not matter. The Queen miscarried and your husband’s whore is charged with the crime of procuring it.” He paused as he rested his hands firmly on her shoulders. “Jane,” he began, “all I ask is that you say your husband has un-natural desires for his sister. The King will set her aside, the wench Elisabeth will burn for her sins against you and George will return to you safe and sound, if you want him, a timid and faithful husband. You have nothing to fear, nothing to lose. What say you, Jane, do we have a deal?”

             
Jane Boleyn raised her head to look into Cromwell’s face, his determination to convince her was clearly written in his cruel blue eyes. “And if I say no,” Jane asked.

             
“There are other witnesses to his frequent visits to the Queen’s bedchamber. They would not grieve if he were charged with treason and met a traitor’s death,” Cromwell threatened.

             
Jane cringed at the thought of George being hung, drawn and quartered for a crime he didn’t commit.  “And if I do as you ask,” she began timidly; “there will be no charge of treason?”

             
“There will be no need. The King simply desires to have his marriage to the Queen put aside. We are merely supplying him with the evidence he needs.”

             
“He has requested this?” Jane asked, shocked.

             
“No, my lady, I am simply doing my job and doing what I know he wants even if he doesn’t know it as yet.  Well, Jane, what say you?”

             
Jane raised her head to gaze into his face. He was offering her revenge. Did she want it? ‘Yes,’ she thought, ‘I want revenge for every slight and insult George and Anne ever gave me.’ She didn’t think of the girl Elisabeth, her fate was already decided. Jane nodded her head, took his extended hand and accepted Cromwell’s offer.

             
“Then I bid you good night, Lady Rochford, I am expected in the King’s Privy Chamber,” Cromwell said as he turned to walk back up the hill to the Palace.

             
“Your pardon, Thomas,” Jane said touching his arm, “When will …”

              Cromwell interrupted her. “Soon, Jane, it will all be over soon. Now, my lady, I really must go. Good night.”

             
“Good night,” Jane replied as she pulled her woolen cloak tight about her body. She watched Cromwell’s departing back until he was lost in the gathering gloom. After a few moments she followed him up the hill. Returning to her apartments she dismissed her maid, bolting the door behind the fleeing girl.

             
She sat down once more at the small desk, picked up the pen and began to write. When she had finished she looked at the neat page with pride, the letters were perfectly formed and she hadn’t needed to blot the paper once.  She read the letter, once silently and then again out loud.  Smiling, she laid the parchment down on the desk, sprinkled it with sand and neatly folded it.  The deed was done.  “
Exitus acta probat
,” she whispered “the outcome justifies the act. George will be mine again.”

             
She felt suddenly exhausted. Her eyes burned and her head ached. She felt terribly alone and frightened. Had she done the right thing? She must believe she had. Her fingers tore at her gown as she ripped it from her body and in desperation she sought her bed and the oblivion of sleep. Tomorrow would be another day and she would face what would come when she must.

***

             
Sarah de Roche, was mistress of her father’s house at twelve. As the King’s architect, John de Roche had a fine apartment in the block of buildings in the outer wall of the Tower of London, with a cook/housekeeper for meals and a skivvy named Jenny for the menial work.  This morning after she attended the Maundy Thursday services at the small chapel of St. Peter Ad Vincula, Sarah sent Jenny to the wash house with a bundle of her father’s shirts to wash them. When she did not return by early afternoon Sarah went looking for her. As she approached the wash house, Sarah heard women’s voices in conversation. She recognized Jenny’s high shrill voice and that of Mistress Stephens.

             
“His Majesty has a guest in the Salt Tower that might be of interest to your mistress,” the toothless old woman chided.  “Came in the dark of night, she did.”

             
“My mistress listens to no gossip. Get away with ye,” Jenny answered, leaning into the wash basin to scrub her master’s shirt collar. Sarah was turning to walk away when she heard the old woman speak again.

             
“She is a friend of your mistress, so I am told.  She would want to know.”

Sarah stopped; turning on her heel she entered the room. Several wash basins lined the small room. She was pleased to see that Jenny kept on about her business taking little notice of the old crone.

Seeing Sarah enter the old woman spoke up “Good day to you Mistress de Roche. I was just speaking about you to Jenny.”

“So I heard. I do not like to be the subject of gossip.” Sarah said testily.

“It is not gossip I speak,” the old woman said defending herself.  “Do you love your friends so little that you have no interest in their welfare?  She is locked away on a charge of witchcraft and sure to burn for it on Smithfield’s plain.”

             
“Be quiet, old crone,” Sarah snapped.  “I do not know what you are talking about.”

             
“I would tell ye, if you would but listen.”

             
“All right,” Sarah sighed as she walked to the old woman’s side. “I am listening.”

             
“Last week a wench was brought by barge, charged with witchcraft, she is.”

“Why should that interest me? And why should a witch be brought here? This is no prison for the likes of that.”

“Oh,” sighed the old crone leaning closer to Sarah.  “This witch must be very powerful for she enchanted the Queen, causing the poor woman, our Queen Anne, to miscarry of a monster, so they say.”

  “What are you talking about?” Sarah snapped.

  “Didn’t know, did ye?”

“I haven’t been to Whitehall since Christmas,” Sarah said sadly. “But the Queen was healthy then and oh so happy” Sarah continued, sighing as she remembered the fun of Christmas at Court.

“The Queen miscarried in late January, though none thought it witchcraft until just last week, when her maid was charged with the crime.”

“Elisabeth?”  Sarah cried not believing her ears.

“Aye, that’s her name. She is your friend, isn’t she? I would be wary of such friends as that, if I were you, unless of course you are a witch too,” the old woman said pulling back from Sarah.

“I am no witch,” Sarah shot back “and neither is Elisabeth. This must be some mistake,” Sarah said, standing up.  “I must see Master Kingston,” she continued as she turned to leave the wash room.

“He is gone to Whitehall to seek permission to try the witch.”

“Then I must go to Whitehall too,” Sarah cried hurrying away.

“She’ll no save her. No smoke where there is no fire,” the old crone mumbled as she scrubbed away at the dirt on her chemise dunking it into the hot water in the stone basin.

Back at her rooms, Sarah scrubbed her face and hands before pulling on a clean gown. She thought of asking her father for advice, but he would only say “
Noli me tangere
” as he always did, but she must interfere if she was to save Elisabeth’s life.

“Where are you going?” John de Roche asked as he entered the small apartment.  “And where’s my lunch?”

“There by the fire, Father. Alice has it all ready for you,” Sarah said pointing to a bowl of gruel. “I have promised to look at fabrics for a gown for Mistress Symons’ daughter Maggie. I shan’t be long.”

John groaned heavily as he settled into the chair by the fire. “See that you are not.”

Sarah ran from the gate of the Tower of London as fast as her legs would carry her.  She arrived at Whitehall Palace breathless.  She begged an audience with the King, from the guard at the gate, sighing heavily when he told her the Court was at Windsor for the Easter holiday.  “When will they return?” she begged.

“When they likes,” he retorted, turning his back to her.

Sarah turned back to the street; gathering her skirts she retraced her steps to the Tower.  ‘Perhaps I could apply to Master Kingston for permission to visit Elisabeth?’ she thought as she walked. “Surely he would not refuse me,” she said as she crossed Byward Street to reenter the Tower complex.  It was already dark when she returned to their comfortable apartment opposite Broad Arrow Tower.

She would have to wait until the Easter holiday was over to see the King. Sarah hoped that with the Court away at Windsor there would be no one to grant permission for Elisabeth’s trial to proceed and it would be postponed.

‘If I can see Henry,’ the young girl thought as she stirred the coals to life “I know I can convince him of Elisabeth’s innocence. I know he will believe me. He must,” she said to the crackling flames.  

***

              It was morning again; Elisabeth could see the slender glimmer of light through the narrow arrow window overlooking Saint Katherine’s Way.  But what day was it? How long had she been here in this cold room?  Try as she might Elisabeth couldn’t reach the window to look out. She was trapped within the confines of these dark stone walls.

             
“What have I done to deserve this?” she wailed as she paced out the size of the room for the hundredth time.

             
Twice a day she saw a guard, once in the morning when he emptied her slop jar and again in late afternoon when he brought the greasy soup and hard bread that was her only meal.

             
Today she would try again. When she heard his heavy step on the stair Elisabeth smoothed her hair with her hands and straightened her dirty gown.

             
“Away from the door!” he shouted, banging on the oak door with his hand.

             
Elisabeth stepped back further as the heavy door creaked open grinding loudly on its rusty hinges.

             
“Stand away, girl,” he commanded as he moved towards the bucket that was her chamber pot.

             
Elisabeth nodded numbly backing to the far wall.  “Your pardon, sir,” she began, her voice cracking from non-use, “What day is it?”

“Good Friday, the Lord’s Day,” he snarled as he pointed to the furthest wall. “Back, girl, I will not have thee interfere with my work.”

“I will not interfere, good sir, only will you be going to Mass today?”

“Do I look like the Pope to you?” he snarled, spilling some slop on the dirty straw.

Elisabeth jumped back.  “Your pardon sir, I only meant to ask if you will attend services today.”

“Aye, I will do my Christian duty to honor my Lord’s sacrifice,” the guard growled backing his way towards the door.

“Do you know the girl Sarah de Roche?” Elisabeth asked hopefully.

“The mason’s girl, aye, I do.  A pretty little thing that, wasted on the old man she is,” he continued lecherously licking his lips.  “Keeps to herself, she does.”