Between Two Kings (28 page)

Philippe de Chabot knew why he was ordered to attend a private audience with King Henry. The King of England wanted to know about the pamphlets issued in France, translated into English, and made public for the common people of England. He sighed heavily, preparing for the verbal battle with King Henry. King François had written to Chabot that he had to remain cool, showing no sign that he knew what was happening about Cromwell and that François had initiated the attacks at Henry’s chief minister. King François also assured Chabot that if King Henry ordered him to put under a home arrest at his chambers and if Henry sent an envoy to François asking for official permission to interrogate Chabot, François would never agree with the English king’s demands. Chabot only hoped that Henry was reasonable enough not to throw him into the Tower of London and execute him without François’ sanction. Henry had no proof that Chabot’s people had distributed the pamphlets through numerous hired mercenaries who had never learned the name of the person who really hired them.

After the job had been done, Chabot’s people departed to France, leaving their master to face the furious English king. Soon other mercenaries were supposed to arrive in England in order to distribute the critical book about Cromwell’s role in the Reformation, leaving immediately after the distribution of the book was finished. The worst thing that Chabot expected was his forced deportation from England back to France.

Philippe de Chabot was rather calm. When King François learned that King Henry had financed the emperor’s campaign against France in Italy in the 1520s, François needed his most entrusted person to be close to Henry. Chabot was an ideal candidate for that mission.

When King François made him the French ambassador to England in 1536, Chabot gladly accepted the position. He was in the King of France’s great favor and was proud of being charged with such confidential missions as he had in England. However, the recent orders from François had unnerved Chabot because he didn’t comprehend François’ sudden interest in Anne Boleyn and the French king’s willingness to slander the name of Thomas Cromwell. He knew that François had been using him as a pawn in a mysterious dark game. François was a spider, and Chabot helped him weave the cobweb.

King Henry stared at Philippe de Chabot, his eyes shooting daggers. “Your Excellency, we know that these scandalous pamphlets were issued in France and brought to England.” He narrowed his eyes. “How can you explain this? Does our 
brother
 François know about it?”

Philippe de Chabot shrugged nonchalantly. “Your Majesty, I beg your pardon, but I have no idea.” He shrugged again. “Like you, I had a chance to read the pamphlets only after they were distributed in England,” he replied politely. “Actually, I am not sure that the pamphlets were issued in France. Maybe it is just a vexatious mistake.” He was playing a hard game with the king.

Henry approached Chabot and grabbed the collar of his doublet. “Your Excellency, I order you to contact François and ask him whether the pamphlets were produced in France and why they were distributed in England. Notify François that we must have his answer immediately.”

Chabot didn’t blink at Henry’s violence. “His Majesty King François is still in Italy. As far as I know, not many people are allowed to see him because his life and the life of the new Queen of France must be preserved after several assassination attempts. Regular correspondence with King François is also rather limited at the moment. It may be very difficult to contact my king,” he elucidated.

King Henry stepped back from Chabot. “I don’t care how you contact him, Your Excellency. You must do what I order. Otherwise I will imprison you at the Tower, and you will be put to the rack.”

Chabot feigned an innocent expression on his face. “You Majesty, I beg your pardon, but I am a loyal subject of France, not of England. To arrest me and imprison me at the Tower, you must have the official permission of His Majesty King François, who is my lord and my sovereign.”

Henry felt anger running through his veins. The ambassador’s boldness enraged him. He again approached Chabot and gripped the collar of the man’s doublet. Chabot didn’t move. “Silence!” he thundered, his aquamarine eyes reduced to slits. “How dare you talk to me, the King of England, in such an impolite manner? When did France become a country of ill-mannered nobles?”

“Your Majesty, the most benevolent sovereign of England, I am truly sorry if you found something offensive in my words. I didn’t mean that,” Chabot said politely. Confidence never left his voice and his posture. He treated Henry with ceremoniousness and politeness, yet insisted on the impossibility of his arrest. “My words just follow the rules of international diplomacy.”

“Get out! Get out!” Henry bellowed. He released the French ambassador and walked away. Then he swung around to face Chabot, pointing an index finger at him. “Remember, Your Excellency, that I need a quick answer from your master.”

Philippe de Chabot made a gallant bow to King Henry. Then he was gone.

November 1537, the Palace of Whitehall, London, England

Henry Percy, the Earl of Northumberland, was in his private chambers when the French ambassador Philippe de Chabot, Admiral de Brion, paid him a visit. Chabot handed Henry Percy the letter with a red seal. It was a letter from Anne Boleyn. The French ambassador told the Earl of Northumberland that King François would always be happy to provide refuge in France for him if he found his life or his freedom on English land in danger. When Henry Percy asked why King François was ready to give him possible refuge in France, the ambassador shrugged and said that he had been just an intermediary in communication.

Henry Percy decided that he would probably find an answer in the letter. He unfolded it and began to read. The handwriting was so familiar that his heart was ready to explode in excitement.

Dear Henry,

I am doing very well. I hope you can say the same about yourself.

I know that you have been trying to become closer to Thomas Cranmer, the Archbishop of Canterbury, in order to press him to report to King Henry my last confession when I swore my innocence of all the charges brought against me.

Henry, please don’t ask Archbishop Cranmer to talk to King Henry about my last confession right now. Not now. It is better to do it later. You probably know that the incriminating pamphlets against Thomas Cromwell were issued and distributed in England. Soon the critical book about Cromwell’s role in the Reformation will be published and distributed. It will produce a great scandal among the common people because the materials slander Cromwell’s name, stating that he designed my downfall and that I was innocent. Please wait for a couple of months after the distribution of the critical book, letting English people have time to read and think. Archbishop Cranmer will have a plausible reason to disclose to King Henry my last confession. I am sure that Archbishop Cranmer will want to ease his conscience, thinking that he may help an innocent woman to clear her name after her death.

Please be aware that it was Jane Boleyn, my brother’s widow, who accused me of incest with George. It came as an utter shock to me, but I have finally accepted it. I still don’t know why she betrayed the Boleyns in such a shameful way.

Thank you for helping my daughter Elizabeth financially after her father refused to acknowledge her as his own child. I don’t know how I will be able to repay you for everything you did for me. I am praying that God will protect you from all the dangers and threats on your way.

Please be aware that, in case of any danger for your life or freedom, you should contact the French ambassador Philippe de Chabot. He will organize your trip to France for refuge. Chabot knows nothing – he is just an intermediary.

Please burn this letter after you read it.

With all my love and devotion,

AB

The Earl of Northumberland put the parchment to the flame of the candle. For half a minute, he watched the sheet of paper burn in the flame. Then he turned to face Philippe de Chabot. “Monsieur de Chabot, thank you for delivering this letter to me,” Henry Percy said with gratitude.

The ambassador bowed. “You are welcome, your lordship.”

Henry Percy wasn’t a fool. He had one thought which he wanted to check, and he asked straightforwardly. “If I may ask, where is His Majesty King François currently?”

“His Majesty King François spent the whole summer in the Republic of Venice. Now His Majesty is in Piedmont,” Chabot replied politely.

After the French ambassador had left, Henry Percy poured himself a glass of wine. He had heard rumors that King François had married a brave noblewoman who had saved his life in the city of Venice. He was stunned about the secrecy surrounding the marriage and that the name of the bride wasn’t announced on the grounds it was to preserve the queen’s life. Then he was suddenly contacted by the French ambassador who brought to him a letter from Anne who had found refuge in Venice where King François had spent the summer. There were so many coincidences in that matter. Henry admitted that King François and Anne could have met each other in Venice and become allies. He remembered the pamphlets and decided to act in accordance with Anne’s recommendations.

Was King François helping them to organize the downfall of Thomas Cromwell? Why was he doing that? And even more extraordinary, paradoxical question popped into his mind. Was Anne the same woman who saved King François in the cathedral and whom he married? It sounded like a mad, improbable thing, but Henry Percy didn’t know what to think. On top of that, the fact that Jane Boleyn had betrayed George and Anne was monstrous. Henry didn’t know what to think because the truth was too dreadful to believe. He was confused.

November 1537, the Palace of Whitehall, London, England

Despite Queen Jane’s confinement, King Henry wanted to entertain himself and organized grand festivities. While the courtiers enjoyed the evening, there was one woman who wanted to be far away from the palace. She was Lady Jane Parker Boleyn, Viscountess Rochford, the wife of George Boleyn who was executed for incest and treason in May 1536. Lady Jane Rochford was accepted in Queen Jane’s household in February 1537, a little less than a year after the execution of her husband. Queen Jane was kind enough not to blame Jane for her husband’s sins and easily accepted her back at the court, giving her a position as lady-in-waiting in her household.

As a lady-in-waiting to Queen Jane, Jane Boleyn spent much time in the queen’s chambers, which was especially important now when the Queen of England was supposed to give birth to her child any day. Jane often spent the whole day with the queen. Today was one of the few days when Jane wasn’t at the queen’s side and thus attended King Henry’s banquet. Unlike many other female courtiers, Jane Boleyn wasn’t dressed in fashionable clothes of luxurious fabrics and with elaborate designs. She wore an austere dark brown gown with tight sleeves and the front embroiled with some pears. However much like the majority of ladies at the court, Jane wore a classic English hood, and a string of pearls was woven into her loose blonde hair.

Jane was in the crowd of the courtiers in the grand hall, trying to find her way to a place where there were fewer dancing and laughing people. In the past months she had avoided gay company and the expression of her face was often gloomy and dark. She didn’t speak much and usually only answered if she was asked. When she falsely accused George and Anne of committing incest, Jane had taken a great gamble and had emerged triumphant after round one because she was free and her husband was dead. Yet the end result was no longer a foregone conclusion as the recent events at the court showed. She was very nervous and tongue-tied after the pamphlets against Thomas Cromwell had been circulated in England and especially after Cromwell had been banished from the court. Every day she questioned what would happen to Cromwell, realizing that the downfall of the king’s chief minister might also be her own downfall.

Continuing to walk in the crowded banqueting hall, Jane finally found an empty place. She leaned against the wall and stared ahead at the courtiers. Suddenly, she felt her knees trembling. She didn’t know why the French ambassador Philippe de Chabot looked at her so often. When he looked away, Jane sighed with relief. She had often caught his scrupulous, studying gaze on herself of late. It was the kind of gaze a cat gave a mouse gaze, as though the ambassador had been tracking her down as a criminal. She felt uncomfortable under that gaze. She had heard that Philippe de Chabot would go back to France soon after the New Year and a new French ambassador would succeed him. It would be a relief for her. If she had known what the French ambassador planned, she wouldn’t have been so calm.

Jane hurried to leave the overcrowded rooms and returned to her own small room. She left the grand party as she wanted to be as far from the dancing courtiers as possible. She didn’t want to witness the extravagant festivities. She wanted loneliness. Jane walked through the quiet corridors of the palace and made her way to her bedchamber.

As Jane lit the candles on the only desk in her bedchamber, she swept her eyes over the room, her gaze stopping at the desk near the window. She swallowed hard because she saw a letter there, which hadn’t been there before. She went to the table and took the parchment into her arms. It was neither stamped nor signed and included only one sentence – “
everybody pays for his crimes
”. She shuddered as she recognized the calligraphic handwriting of her deceased husband whom she had helped to execute – it was George Boleyn’s handwriting.

Jane wanted to scream in horror, but she was afraid that the courtiers would hear her cries. If she screamed, it would be a wild, violent cry. To suppress her desire to cry at the top of her lungs, she clenched her teeth and bit down on her tongue, tasting blood in her mouth. She moved back to the bed and laid there. She lay there for at least an hour before she was able to think clearly. Her right hand still held the dreadful letter.