No, the King would show no favor to a Dudley; nor could he receive at Court the son of a traitor.

Jane’s first son was born; and John, who felt that the shame and humiliation of that day on Tower Hill were branded on him so deeply that only the dazzling accoutrements of dignity and great power could distract attention from the defect, determined that if he could not win favor at Court he would seek it on the field of battle.

Jane was tearful at the prospect of his departure for France.

“Why cannot you stay here?” she asked. “What do you want of fame? We have all we need. We have our little son, your namesake, and we will have more children.”

“Aye, we will have more,” said John. Of course he would have more. Children—even girls—were useful to men of power, for through them links with the great and rich were forged. Jane had her task; he had his. She must provide him with many sons and a few daughters; but he must bring power and fame to the name of Dudley.

He distinguished himself in the service of Charles Brandon, Duke of Suffolk, who had married the King’s sister Mary. John came back from the battlefield Sir John Dudley.

An important step forward had been taken.

Quickly the years passed whilst ambition smoldered. Jane was fulfilling her task more successfully than John fulfilled his.

She had given him four sons and three daughters; and she was about to bear another child.

Jane remembered the day long afterward. She was happy enough in the garden of their Chelsea manor house with the river lapping at its edge. She was thinking of her beloved children—and wondering whether the one she now carried would be a girl or a boy.

How blessed she was in her four handsome sons!

There were many rumors about the King at this time. How he would have envied her her four if he had seen them! It was said that his eyes first lighted up, then smoldered when he looked at other men’s sons.

Such excitements there had been of late! Such rumors! Would the King really take Anne Boleyn to wife? Would he make her his Queen? Jane had seen the lovely Anne pass along the river in her barge. The King was growing impatient, it was said; the air was thick with rumor; and here was little Jane Dudley, peacefully awaiting the birth of yet another child, living remote from the Court, though so near it—peaceful and contented with her family about her.

Of course she would have liked John to have his heart’s desire—a share in the affairs of the Court. Sometimes he frightened her. He seemed so fierce in his determination. She would watch him pacing their chamber, pacing the lawns, his eyes narrowing as he looked without seeing it at a barge on the river. Then she would be fiercely glad that he was outside Court matters. She often thought of that great man Cardinal Wolsey who had met his doom and died of a broken heart. She would not have her John become such a one as the great Cardinal. But what a ridiculous comparison! Her John and the great Cardinal! But Wolsey had been humble once, and so had John’s father.

She wished that he were not a Dudley, that he had some happier background, someone who had a humble father who had not risen to greatness but who had died peacefully in his bed.

And that day John came home in great excitement.

The King had decided to forgive him for being his father’s son. It was more than twenty years since Henry had beheaded Edmund Dudley; and after twenty years, the King evidently thought, he could forgive a man for reminding him of his own guilt.

Jane watched John alight from his barge, saw him hasten across the turf crying her name; and never had she heard his voice so joyous.

“Jane! Dear wife, I am appointed Master of the King’s Armory.”

She felt her heart fluttering uncomfortably. She must appear to be glad. She always took her cue from him; she must be what he expected her to be.

“What … does it mean, John?”

“What does it mean! It means that the King has decided that, if I am worthy of honors, they should not be denied me. It means that we are on the road, Jane, on the road.”

“Oh, John … on what road?”

But he did not answer. He was smiling as he looked along the river toward Westminster and Greenwich.

And it so happened that in her new apartments at the Tower of London, Jane gave birth to her fifth son.

She called him Robert.

He was the most handsome of all her boys. In the first few weeks of his life she knew that he would be the best beloved. He was lustier than all the others; he had been born with a thick down of hair; his eyes flashed more brightly than she believed eyes had ever flashed before; he demanded his own way from the beginning.

His father scarcely noticed him. Why should he? He was “on the road” now. He was preparing to march on to greatness.

Robert was all Jane’s in those first months of his life. No nurses should take him from her. He was her baby—her little Robin.

How sorry she was for poor Queen Katharine, living out her lonely life in the Castle of Kimbolton. A boy like Robin would have made all the difference in the world to her happiness, poor lady. As if a baby like Robin would not make all the difference to any woman! But poor Queen Katharine desperately needed a son.

And now another Queen was praying for a son.

Queen Anne was lying-in at Greenwich, and the country was waiting for the birth of a prince to be proclaimed.

When the King passed along the river, Jane watched him from the shelter of an arbor—seeing but unseen—and she held up the little boy, murmuring: “Look, Robin. There goes a king. They say he would give half his kingdom for a boy like you. But then who would not give all the world for you!”

There was a mist on the river during those September days, and the trees of the orchards were heavy with ripening fruit.

“May the Queen be fruitful,” prayed Jane; for, sorry as she was for the displaced Queen, yet she wished joy to the new one. “May the Queen give birth to a prince as bonny—nay, that were impossible—almost as bonny as my Robin.”

The bells rang out in the City. A child was born to the King and Queen.

A prince! said the people. It is sure to be a prince. Nothing but a prince would please the King.

Ah, thought Jane, the King needs a son. It will be God’s way of telling him that he was right to break from an incestuous union and set a new Queen on the throne.

John came home from the Court, sober and unsmiling.

“What news, John? What news of the prince?” asked Jane.

And he answered: “’Twas not a prince that was born this day at Greenwich. ’Twas a girl.” Then he gave that short hard laugh which, she had noticed, had developed lately. “It will not do, Queen Anne Boleyn,” he muttered. “The King married you for sons … and you give him a girl!”

“Poor lady!” murmured Jane. “Poor lady!” And she thought: Oh dear, she is gay and wicked, they say; but I would not wish to see her suffer as poor Queen Katharine did.

Suffer? How could she suffer? She was young; she was the most attractive of women; she was not the sort to despair because her first-born was a daughter. The King was deeply enamored of her; for her sake he had broken with Rome. Who was Jane Dudley to be sorry for such as Queen Anne Boleyn!

She whispered to Robert: “It is because we are both mothers, my love. But she has a daughter and she longed for a son. And I have you—the most handsome baby in the world.”

She kissed him and he wriggled away. He was nearly a year old and only wished for kisses when he was in the mood for them.

“But what does Robert Dudley care for the new Princess Elizabeth?” crooned Jane.

In the next three years Jane often thought of the little Princess. So much honor was done to her at one time. The King himself delighted to have her dressed in finery that he might carry her round and show her to the ladies of the Court, insisting that they admire his daughter, his little Elizabeth.

But the King still wished for sons; and Queen Anne, it seemed, could no more satisfy his wishes than his previous Queen had done.

Such rumors there were of quarrels between the King and Queen—and she was not humble as her predecessor had been, but fiery and haughty. “The Queen is riding for trouble,” said John.

There was talk of the lady Jane Seymour and the King’s interest in this pale, quiet girl. The King’s conscience, like a monster drugged by the sweet intoxication of Anne Boleyn, was throwing off its stupor. Was Anne really his wife? he was asking now. Had she not betrothed herself to another before she had gone through the ceremony with the King? Was she the virtuous wife he had believed her to be?

If there were no longer a Queen Anne Boleyn there might be a Queen Jane Seymour.

But Jane Dudley’s thoughts were for the little Princess—the once fêted and the honored. What would become of her? Those about the King were already wondering whether she would be designated Bastard, as her half-sister Mary had been.

“Poor little Princess!” said Jane.

But she had her own family to occupy her mind.

A new son was born to her. This son was called Guildford, after her father. Guildford Dudley. That pleased Sir Richard.

And one day on Tower Green Queen Anne lost her head, and with unbecoming haste the King made Jane Seymour his Queen.

Jane wept when she heard the news. Robert and Guildford watched her for a few seconds before four-year-old Robert asked: “Mother, why do you cry?” He was precocious beyond the others. He listened to gossip and his eyes flashed as his father’s did. “Is it because they have cut off Queen Anne’s head?”