Keeper of the Queen's Jewels: a Novel of Jane Seymour

  Advanced Praise for

  Keeper of the Queen’s Jewels

  “Adrienne Dillard has crafted a story that captures the minutiae of life as a lady in waiting amid a story of friendship, faith, and heartbreak in a time of political brutality. This novel brings readers into the heart of Jane Seymour’s court, with an eye for detail that is a pleasure to read.”

  —Gareth Russell, author of Young and Damned and Fair: The Life of Catherine Howard

  “Adrienne Dillard’s talent lies in her ability to combine a scholarly approach to research with imaginative empathy, and Keeper of the Queen’s Jewels is her finest novel to date. In a sea awash with tired intrigue and scandal, Dillard’s characters shine with brilliant, authentic humanity. The story of Henry VIII’s third and most caricatured wife, the supposedly meek and colourless Jane Seymour, is woven with the little-known lady’s maid, Margery Horsman, who had a ‘great friendship’ with Jane’s predecessor, Anne Boleyn. The result is a gripping story, filled with natural uncontrived tension, a powerful narrative exploring love and hatred; a perfect balance of historical events informing a deeply human portrayal of two women who form a lasting bond in the fraught aftermath of Anne Boleyn’s execution. You may fall in love with Margery, but Jane is fire and ice. This is Jane Seymour as you have never seen her before.”

  —Olga Hughes, historian

  “Dillard crafts the complicated past relationship of Margery and Jane with the dead queen with immense skill. The living women, both perfectly depicted, carry the heavy guilt of her death, desperate, in their own ways, to come to terms with their actions that may have led to Anne’s bloody end. Dillard is an amazingly gifted writer—and this novel will not disappoint her many readers. It is her best work yet.”

  —Wendy J. Dunn, author of the Falling Pomegranate Seeds series

  Praise for

  The Raven’s Widow

  “Adrienne Dillard is a natural writer. What I mean is that she seamlessly mixes believable dialogue, dramatic story, and true emotions, all while incorporating actual Tudor history. I found myself immersed in the past and tied to the characters immediately. The time jumps added the perfect amount of suspense, and even though I knew how it would end, I found myself turning pages at a feverish rate to find out what would happen next.”

  —Kathryn Holeman, illustrator of Colouring History: Tudor Queens and Consorts

  “In this captivating novel, master storyteller Adrienne Dillard paints an entirely new portrait of Jane: one that is charming, sensitive, vulnerable, and altogether believable. Dillard’s representation of Jane Boleyn has forever changed my perception of her place in the world of the Henrician Tudor court.”

  —Sandra Vasoli, author of The Je Anne Boleyn Series

  Praise for

  Cor Rotto

  “Adrienne Dillard’s descriptions of childbirth, breastfeeding, loss, and the marital dynamic all evoke a powerful connection between the reader and protagonist, fostering a sense of relatability that is not often found in historical fiction. The author’s raw depictions of these experiences—and so much more—set Cor Rotto apart from other novels of the same genre and time-period.”

  —Olivia Castetter, reviewer—The Pensive Bookworm

  “Adrienne Dillard’s book is beautifully written and tells the story of such a remarkable woman. Dillard was able to portray the love that Catherine had as a mother and wife in a simple and humble way that it felt like Catherine could be a friend. She was able to bring the life of a royal and a mother of 14 to life in such a respectful and dignified way.”

  —Heidi Malagisi, reviewer—Adventures of a Tudor Nerd

  KEEPER OF THE QUEEN’S JEWELS

  Copyright © 2022 Adrienne Dillard

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means except as permitted by US copyright law, without the prior permission of the publisher.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  ISBN (print): 978-1-958725-00-9

  ISBN (ebook): 978-1-958725-01-6

  Book design and production by Domini Dragoone

  Cover image (jewel box) © Morgan Studio, Shutterstock

  Published by GreyLondon Press

  Gwynedd Valley, PA

  www.adrienne-dillard.com

  This book is dedicated to the wonderful people who picked me up when I fell. Without their support, encouragement, guidance, and love, I could never have finished telling this story. They gave me strength when I was weak. They gave me courage when I had none. They are the rocks upon which I’ve built my foundation:

  Catherine Brooks and David Ibbotson, Derek Gilbert and the entire D & S Crew, Olga Hughes, Elena Kuhnhenn, James Nutter, Christine Seabury, Sandra Vasoli, Jeff White, and my dearest family.

  To Danielle and her darling little one for reminding me to believe in miracles.

  And to my beloved Logan: the prince who was promised.

  margery horsman

  York Place

  The trembling clerk clothed in the rumpled livery of Master Kingston thrust the gilded coffer into my hands. “The thing is cursed,” he whispered, his cracked lips puckering around the word, like poison to be spat out. I knew what was in the coffer before I even opened it: Nan Bullen’s most prized possession. On the night before her coronation, I had watched her wrap it in a swatch of silk embroidered with three bulls, the heraldry of her house.

  “Nan Bullen is gone,” she had intoned, carefully tucking the package beneath the ornately engraved lid. “A queen has arisen in her place. The bulls will always hold a special place in my heart, but from this day forward, I shall forever be the falcon, crowned.” Her remark had struck me as odd. I had never heard anyone refer to Anne Boleyn by that name. Who was Nan Bullen?

  Sensing my confusion, Anne had peered up at me through long, dark lashes. She fixed her black eyes on my own just long enough to make me uncomfortable, tracing her finger around the whorls of the letter carved atop the coffer. “Nan is my innocence,” she explained. “She is the girl I was before I knew I could be anyone else. Nan is my comfort, my protection. Nan is my heart.”

  “Please forgive my presumption, Your Grace, but how can your heart be gone?” I asked. “Does it not still beat within your chest?”

  Anne’s hand fell to the curve of her gravid belly, her face rising to meet the warm sunbeam streaming through the leaded window. “I have given my heart to our king,” she whispered, a smile playing across her lips. “From here on, he will be my comfort and my protection.”

  That warm summer day faded away long ago, and I had not seen Nan Bullen or the necklace inside her coffer since. “Why have you brought this to me?” I challenged the clerk, who stood, still quaking, before me in his leather riding boots. “This should go to the jewel house; the royal gems are not my duty.”

  “This piece belongs not to the Crown, but the lady herself.” His eyes grew wide; silver plates set in a blanched face. “She begged my master send it to you.”

  “Why me?”

  “She told him you would know what to do.” His hand twitched at his side.

  “I cannot take this! If the king were to discover it—”

  “You speak dangerous words,” the clerk hissed, eager to be quit of my company.

  I turned away before he could see my tears. Clutching the coffer to my chest, I fled from the corridor to the safety of the maiden’s dorm, throwing myself against the great oak door once inside. Fighting hard to catch my breath, I allowed sobs to overtake me. I slid to the floor. The usual twitter of the queen’s fledgling ladies had dissipated in the days following her arrest, all the little birds sent home to their mothers, to await a new mistress. I was left behind, my cries echoing in the hollow room, reminding me I was forever alone.

  Dejected, I conjured an image of my own mother. Nearly twenty summers had passed since her death. When she left, I was merely eight, and it seemed to me she had been sick for the entirety of my life. I didn’t know then how still the night could be without her barking coughs punctuating the dark hours. Looking back, I suspected her illness was far more fleeting than I remembered. I understand now that death never lingers longer than necessary, claiming what is his with stunning immediacy. Before you realize you have exhaled your last, rasping breath, you are gone.

  I took fright at the men who came to our home to prepare my mother’s soul for its ascension from the Earth and her body for its return to the same. Scrambling away at the earliest opportunity, I sought safety in a cramped, rarely used cupboard situated across the hall from her bedchamber. Burrowing deep beneath the linens stored inside, I inhaled the sweet, creamy scent that seemed to infuse everything my mother touched. The comforting familiarity of it held me in a warm embrace. I swam through the layers of fabric, my head bumping against something frigid and unyielding. When I reached for the offending object, my hands closed around a small metal box. My short-lived triumph at untangling it dissolved when I realized it was locked.

  I wallowed within the comfort of my cocoon while
the voices of the local priest and physician droned together outside the door; the sound of their shuffling footsteps seemed like the wind, growing higher and dropping lower with each pass they made down the corridor. Eventually, I drifted off to sleep. My father discovered me hours later with the box clasped in my hands, a crust of tears on my face.

  “My darling Margery.” He heaved a great sigh of relief. “We have been looking everywhere for you.”

  The years separating me from that wretched day dissolved into the shadows as I considered this new coffer resting in my lap. I thought again of my father. He had offered me a sad smile when he discovered me in that closet, clutching at my mother’s jewel box. “Have I told you about the girl named Pandora?” he had asked, slipping his arms beneath me to pull me close. “She had a chest just like this one.” I closed my eyes, revelling in his memory. Foolish Pandora—Oh, how she had defied the gods! I was no better. I had allowed hatred and envy into the world as well. Yet somehow, Pandora managed to save hope in her box. Now, I was tasked with protecting the hope remaining in mine: the one possession that belonged to the copper-haired child Anne left behind.

  When I lifted the lid, the gold letter at the centre of the string of alabaster pearls winked in the dancing candlelight. B for Bullen—I thought to myself—pearls for innocence. Caressing them, I felt the heat of Anne’s skin. I had to save this treasure for her daughter, Princess Elizabeth. Only then could I right my wrongs against her mother; only then would my guilt be satisfied. Could I be brave like Pandora?

  jane seymour

  Chelsea

  I awoke at dawn to an insistent prodding. “Jane, it’s time to prepare. The king will be here soon,” my brother’s wife urged, tugging on the thick damask counterpane. As the weight of it slid away, a new heaviness settled deep within my bones. Doom clouded the air.

  “Not yet, Anne.” Anne. Her name tasted so bitter on my tongue that I practically spat it out, though the woman I called to was nothing at all like the late queen. No, not queen—she was never Henry’s true wife. She had been a usurper. People were beginning to call me the usurper. Perhaps they were right. Anne Boleyn had been a queen not merely in name only; she was properly anointed, touched by God. The legality of her marriage was inconsequential against the blessing of the Almighty. Today was not meant for those musings, though. His Grace would soon arrive, pink-cheeked and jubilant. I must rise to the occasion.

  “The water will get cold if you don’t hurry,” Lady Anne insisted. “Sybil’s had it carried up from the kitchens, so the heat is not likely to last much longer.”

  “Of course,” I agreed, reluctantly. Sir William Paulet’s home was luxurious and inviting, but it was also large and draughty. It would not do to catch ill mere weeks before I was to marry the King of England.

  I pulled myself up against the bedstead, swinging my legs off the edge. My feet were greeted by the caress of a soft Turkish carpet, laid down purely for my enjoyment and pleasure—a far cry from the scratchy plaited rush mats I was accustomed to, living as Sir John Seymour’s plainest daughter at Wulfhall. Yet here I was: the pinnacle of success. At this very moment, it felt more like a precipice. One mislaid step, and I could tumble—a falling star expelled from the sky. No, she’s not yet dead—His Grace could still show mercy. If he did not, the world as we knew it would be forever changed. If he could kill one queen, who could stop him from killing another?

  “Jane!” Lady Anne called again with more urgency—this time hidden beyond sight in the corridor. I sucked in a lungful of air, then levered myself out of bed.

  A wooden bayne lined with white linen had been set up in a room at the end of the hall, where my lady’s maid met me with a cheery smile. “Good morning, Mistress Jane. I hope you slept well?”

  “How could one not when treated to such comforts?” It wasn’t a lie in so many words. Nor was it the truth. Sumptuous though my accommodations were, they provided few assurances. It had not been a restful night.

  Sybil gestured towards the tub. “I hope it’s warm enough still. I’ve asked the boy to bring more logs. Once you are settled, I shall bring your gown. Would you prefer the crimson or the white?”

  “The white,” Lady Anne barked, cutting off my reply. “The better to remind His Grace of your innocence. The better to remind him of your purity.” A chamberer bustled in behind her, arms loaded with wood for the fire.

  Sybil scurried from the room.

  “Imagine it!” Lady Anne crowed. “Crimson on today, of all days. How foolish. You’ll be leaving her behind.” A constant tutor, humming in my ear since the earliest days of my courtship with the king, the woman had been loath to relinquish the position.

  “But Sybil has been with me since Wulfhall.” My voice cracked on the last word, my beloved childhood home seeming a world away.

  “That life is over, Jane. Remember? Besides, you will have new maids after the wedding.” Her voice dipped low, “Hopefully, ones with a bit more discretion.”

  “She meant no harm,” I insisted, keen to defend a servant who had shown nothing but loyalty since the days when I was nothing, nobody.

  “They never mean any harm.” Avoiding my gaze, she busied herself with a stack of washcloths.

  “I am sorry for Sir Richard. How fares your mother?” I gnawed at the inside of my cheek. The skin was tender, puckered from so much chewing. “She must suffer with her husband in the Tower. Is there anything I can do?”

  “She is tolerable,” Lady Anne clipped. “I am sure his arrest meant nothing. A mere feint to disarm the people. Richard Page would never be disloyal to my mother with that harlot.” The word fired out like a shot, ricocheting off the limewashed walls.

  “The king’s letter said there was unrest over our relationship. A ballad was made to mock me.” My brother Tom had played the cloyingly sweet melody after supper one night. I wanted to bash his lute against the footstool.

  “There is always a ballad.” She sighed, turning back to me. “My mother’s husband is in the Tower because of you, not Anne Boleyn. Imprisoning one of your connections makes it look as though they carried out a proper investigation, rather than wiping out your rival’s supporters. He will be out soon enough. Along with that dreadful poet, Thomas Wyatt. Now, get in.”

  I pulled the satin nightgown—a gift from the king—over my head, tossing it to the floor. Lady Anne furrowed her brow at this small act of defiance before crouching down to rescue it. Just as she had warned, the water had grown tepid. I slipped into its embrace without flinching, the heat from my contempt enough to warm me. Lady Anne dipped a finger into the tub. She gave me a look of exasperation. “Maid!” she bellowed. “Bring more hot water.

  Sybil scrubbed until my skin felt raw, then left me to stew while she set out my clothing in the next room. I stared silently at the river outside the window, my insides pitching and churning like the tide rocking against the shore. Anne Boleyn would be mounting the scaffold now; death was close at hand. Had I brought about her undoing? In the distance, a cannon boomed. When the ordnance sounded a second time, my belly clenched against the roar. A gush of scarlet bloomed in the water around me.

  Lady Anne paled when she spied the bloodstains on the cloth that lined the tub. Having gone down to the kitchens during my washing, she had only just returned to inform me everything was ready for our celebratory feast. “What’s this? What have you done?” Her voice trembled. “This is an ill-omen.”

  “Never mind, it is just my courses. There could be no better proof of my fertility.” My reply rang dismissive, but the words scorched the back of my throat. Contrived confidence belied the bitterness behind them. “Instruct Sybil to put away the white. I prefer green, like the king’s livery.”

  His Grace arrived arrayed in his finest, crowned with a blue velvet cap. A jaunty white feather tucked into the brim lent a festive air. Never had I seen a man who revelled so much in his cuckoldry. My brother, Edward, would have rather died than admit his former wife’s adultery. He shipped the lovely Katherine Filliol off to a nunnery where she withered away, alone and abandoned. Only after her body was stiff in the ground did he turn to Anne Stanhope. Henry Tudor’s wife should have gone to a nunnery. I savoured the thought in my mind, letting it drop away unsaid, then turned my attention to the king.