In the Shadow of the Crown - By Jean Plaidy Page 0,94

of conscience, for what he had done to his once-loved Anne. He would be assuring himself: She was a witch. She set a spell on me, and I was not to blame.

God was confirming this. Had He not given him a son!

THE NEXT DAY Jane was very ill. The ceremony had completely exhausted her.

Her priests were at her bedside. She rallied a little but she had caught a bad chill on the night of the baptism and she could not recover from this, so weak was her state.

The King was to go to Esher. He always avoided being near the sick. Illness reminded him that he was not immune. He had never been the same since his fall, and the ulcer in his leg would not heal. It gave him great pain, and the doctors were reticent about it, as though they feared it might be a symptom of something else; so it must not be mentioned.

He was a little irritated. It was absurd that Jane, who had given the nation—and him—the most important gift of a son, should now be too ill to enjoy all the honors he had prepared for the occasion. She must make an effort to get well, he said.

Poor Jane was beyond making efforts. She grew worse, and the King finally decided that he must wait a while before leaving for Esher. He was now expressing concern for the Queen's health as she grew steadily worse.

On the 24th of October, twelve days after she had given birth to Edward, she became very gravely ill. Her confessor was with her. He administered Extreme Unction and at midnight she died.

So the rejoicing for the birth of a son was turned into mourning for the death of the Queen.

THE DAY AFTER Jane's death they embalmed her, and in her chamber Mass was said every day until they took her away. Tapers burned all through the night and ladies kept a watch. I was chief mourner, so I was present, and as I sat with others at the side of her dead body, I thought of her youth, her simplicity and her fears…Jane, who was the tool of ambitious men. I wondered if my father would ever have noticed her if her brothers had not thrust her forward. I was angry that women should be treated so… angry for my mother and myself… and yes, even Anne Boleyn.

And the nights passed thus in meditation and, in spite of the birth of the child, the feeling was strong within me that God had chosen me to work for Holy Church in my country.

It was on the 12th of November when we set out from Hampton for Windsor. In the hearse was Jane's coffin, and on it was a statue of her in wax, so lifelike that one could believe she was really there. The hair fell loose about the shoulders, and there was a crown on the head.

She was buried in St. George's Chapel.

I FELL ILL that winter. I suffered from acute headaches and dizziness and could not rise from my bed. My ladies rallied round me and served me well, and my father sent Dr. Butts to me. I recovered sufficiently to spend Christmas at Court. It was dismal. How could there be the usual feasting with the Queen so recently dead. My father wore black—a great concession. He had not worn it for his two previous wives. He was not his exuberant self, and I began to wonder whether he had cared for Jane. But I soon discovered that he was already putting out feelers to replace her.

His greatest joy was in his son. He would send for the child to be brought to him and hold him gently in his arms. He would look at him with wonder and talk to him. “You must get strong and big, my son. You have a realm to govern one day. A long time yet… but one day.” He would turn to those standing by. “See how he looks at me? He understands. Oh, he is a wonderful boy, this. He is the son I always wanted.”

He was almost boyish in his enthusiasm. Perhaps that was at the root of his charm. He seemed to be saying, “I did this…I murdered my wives… I have caused grievous suffering to monks…I have killed those who were my best servants…Wolsey…Sir Thomas More…Fisher… but I am only a boy really. My heart is warm and loving, and those barbarous acts… well, they were