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Welcome to Noble Blood, a production of iHeartRadio and Grim and Mild from Erin Menke. Listener discretion advised.

Dana Schwartz (0:40)

This is Dana Schwartz. I'm still on maternity leave, and so today we're going back to the archives, revisiting the series I did on Henry VIII's six wives. This episode is about Jane Seymour, the wife who gave Henry the son he so desperately wanted and the wife he would ultimately choose to be buried with. Hope you enjoy.

Narrator (1:09)

Henry viii died in 1547, obese and ulcered, one leg still rotting from a bad fall off a horse decades earlier. After his corpse was embalmed and spiced, it lay in state in the presence chamber of Whitehall, surrounded by burning taper candles. And then, two weeks later, the slow procession to his burial site began. A carriage followed by hundreds of men on horseback. The carriage itself was massive, elaborate and tall, pulled by eight horses, each ridden by a child. On top of the hearse, in full view of the public that had come out onto the streets to say goodbye to their king, was an effigy made of wax and wood, meant to resemble the king in his more handsome days. The effigy wore satin and velvet and jewels with rings dotting its gloved hands. It wore a crown. But when King Henry's procession finally reached its destination, St. George's Chapel at Windsor Castle. His tomb wasn't gilded or flanked by sculptures, the type of pomp you would expect for the final resting place of a man who saw himself as a dynastic hero, the champion of England, chosen by God to lead their church and their nation. That was the tomb he had wanted for himself, one he had described early in his life. A double tomb with effigies in marble, carved angels on the wall, and prophets perched on overlooking columns. But King Henry was not a man who wanted to acknowledge his own death, to spend thousands of pounds while he lived celebrating the idea that one day he would be gone. He never built his own tomb, and so instead he was interred simply in the vault beneath St. George's Chapel. Beneath a plain black marble slab, what was supposed to be his temporary resting place became the place that Henry viii, one of England's most famous monarchs remained permanently. But one of his wishes for burial was honored. Though at the time of his death, Henry VIII was on his sixth and final wife, Catherine Parr. He specified that he should be buried not next to her, but next to his third wife, Jane Seymour. He was married three times after her, but it was her memory that Henry clung to. The memory of the wife who had done what all of the others hadn't given him. A living son. The two of them side by side for history, for eternity. The man who had six wives choosing to be entwined forever with the one he idealized and romanticized and missed. Until finally he joined her in death. I'm Dana Schwartz, and this is noble blood. Jane Seymour was never going to make a very advantageous marriage. That's what she knew. Growing up in the Wiltshire countryside, her mother's seventh child with three surviving older brothers, she was still unmarried in her 20s, largely because her father wasn't wealthy enough to put up an attractive dowry. And so the family used what connections they had to send her to court, where she would be a lady to Catherine of Aragon, the Queen of England. Jane was blonde and fair, and while she wasn't unattractive, no one would ever call her a great beauty. The hope was that she would meet a nice man at court, maybe a knight banneret or the like, and that she would get married. Jane was raised Catholic and raised to be a dutiful wife above all else. She was only barely literate, but she was an expert at embroidery and housekeeping, and one day she would bear a brood of children like her mother. Everyone knew it. Her mother had given her father three living sons. There's no greater success than that. Good, sweet Jane went to court and watched as Catherine of Aragon was humiliated and banished and betrayed by her husband. Catherine was a devout Catholic, too. She prayed every day. She was a princess, daughter of a king and a queen, and she had loved her husband with her whole heart. Catherine never complained, never became angry when her husband flirted with other women, danced with other women, slept with other women. Catherine hadn't been able to give Henry a son, though. Just the little princess Mary, the girl with red blonde hair like her father and a dutiful Catholic heart like her mother. Princess Mary was only a few years younger than Jane herself, and Jane had watched Mary's life play out like some sort of Greek tragedy. The girl had been the pearl of court, beloved and doted on by her father until Catherine fell out of favor, until Henry fell in love with Anne Boleyn. And declared Mary illegitimate. Mary was stripped of her title, no longer a princess, just a lady now, and banished from court, doomed to teenage years of anguish, of begging her father for mercy, for a shred of love or even acknowledgment, all while being forbidden to see her mother ever again. When Anne Boleyn became queen and adopted the most happy as her motto, Anne pushed Henry to continue to ignore Mary and let Catherine suffer the misery of her own making. Jane didn't mind being Queen Anne's new lady, although, of course she would never admit out loud how she still had sympathy for the former queen and for the once princess Mary, still banished from court even after Catherine of Aragon eventually died. Jane was dutiful and disciplined and Queen Anne liked her plenty, mostly because Jane seemed to fade into the wallpaper. That is, until she didn't. As King Henry began to prickle against his impetuous, willful, stubborn new wife. And as the son she had promised him continued to elude her, his eye began to wander. In the fall, Henry and Queen Anne had taken a hunting trip and they had stopped at Wolf hall, where Jane Seymour's family lived. Of course, Jane wasn't there. She was back at court. But Henry had seen the domestic scene, the subservient wife, the proud father, and the many, many healthy, living children. And Henry had remembered the shy smile of that blonde girl at court who came from such a fertile line. Anne had had another miscarriage earlier in the summer. She and Henry were polite but distant for most of their ride the next day. By winter, Henry's infatuation with the girl everyone else had seemed to ignore became the buzz of court. He gave Jane gifts, flirted with her in public, and of course, Anne Boleyn's enemies made sure to put Jane front and center in Henry's eyeline whenever they could. One queen had already been dislodged because the king had fallen in love with one of her ladies in waiting. The same thing could happen to the next queen. Jane was everything, Henry realized. He wanted a wife to be docile, sweet, humble, virtuous. There was no chance that once he got her to bed, she would be more experienced than he was, that she would be a seductress who exposed his own inadequacies. By contrast, the way his current Queen Anne did. Hello. Henry wanted to feel like a man again. His wife who insisted on arguing with him, having conversations, debating politics and winning those debates. Well, she did not make him feel like a man. Anne had gotten her reward. She was queen, for God's Sake. Where was his reward? Henry thought. Where was his son? In the spring, Henry propositioned Jane and asked her to be his mistress. She responded, I have no greater treasure in all the world than my honor, and I would rather die a thousand times than tarnish it. Jane dutifully returned the letters and expensive gifts that Henry had sent her. There was no game, no malice, no intrigue in her behavior. She asked nothing of him. And so Henry wanted her all the more desperately. Jane was Anne's opposite in temperament and personality and looks. But ironically, she used the same tact, distance, to make Henry fall in love with her. Here was the wife Henry should have married. He thought Anne was a witch. She had bewitched him. She was sinful and evil and she had led him astray. The day after Anne Boleyn was beheaded, King Henry announced his engagement to her 28 year old former lady, Jane Seymour. Ten days after that, on May 30, 1536, the two were wed. Catherine of Ergon had been raised as a princess, born and bred to be married to a king. Anne Boleyn had been cunning and spent her entire life at court. She knew how to play the game better than anyone. Jane seymour was a 28 year old virgin, completely new to the attention and the spectacle of which she was now at the center. She informally banned the French fashions that Anne Boleyn had popularized at court as her motto. She adopted the phrase bound to obey and serve. And as for her symbol, it would be a phoenix. The Tudor dynasty would be born anew after the disaster of Anne Boleyn. Henry was besotted. Jane was everything he wanted in a wife. He even took up embroidery poorly, just to spend time next to her, to watch her deft fingers maneuver their way between string and cotton, building something intricate and beautiful onto a fabric that would find its place somewhere in their home. Their home. Henry had a wife and soon he would have a son. He had to. The summer after Jane and Henry got married, Henry received terrible news. Back when he had been married to Catherine, he had had a son out of wedlock with a mistress, a bastard named Henry Fitzroy, now a teenager. In July of 1536, Henry FitzRoy, the Duke of Richmond and Somerset, had died, only 17 years old. They say it was consumption, something that had taken hold of his lungs. Yes, he had been illegitimate, but he was still Henry's son. And before his death, Henry had even been contemplating legitimizing him. Henry Fitzroy could have been his heir. Now that he was dead in the ground, it was all up to Jane. Seymour. Though a magnificent coronation for Jane, to introduce her to the people as their official queen, had been scheduled in October, uprisings all over England put those plans aside for the time being. The people were still protesting Henry's break from the Catholic Church, his dissolution of the monasteries and seizing their property to add to his own wealth. The largest protest, called the Pilgrimage of Grace, took months to quell entirely. Jane, who had been raised a devout Catholic, of course, quietly asked Henry if he might show mercy to the men involved. After all, they had only been attempting to be true to their faith. Henry spun his head around and snapped at his young wife, to whom he had been married for months and yet who still wasn't pregnant. You should hold your tongue when it comes to matters of the King, he spat. After all, you remember well the fate of your predecessors. Jane was left alone, shaking. She never contradicted or challenged Henry again. She learned quickly the way to persuade him of anything to achieve any change. Merely mention it. Allude to it once, casually. It seems such a shame your daughter Mary isn't here to enjoy the feast, Jane might say sweetly. Henry might murmur a response. Or he might not. Did your daughter Mary enjoy writing? She'd ask. How is Mary's embroidery? I heard her embroidery was beautiful and delicate, she might say. And so then, when, weeks later, Henry had the magnificent, magnificent idea to finally allow Mary, his daughter, back to court, Jane just had to smile and clap her hands and praise his wisdom. Mary, now 21, with a world weary darkness in her eyes, bowed deeply to her father and his new wife. Jane would become something of a big sister to her, a figure of kindness who shepherded her back into the fold. Jane's coronation was delayed again for good enough reasons. There was a plague in London, they said there were still aftershocks of rebellions about the monasteries around the country. But in the back of Jane's mind, she couldn't help but think that the true reason, the true reason she wasn't being celebrated out in the streets with the crown on her head and a king by her side, was because she hadn't done her duty yet. She wasn't pregnant. Why waste a parade on a woman who was still as disposable as all the rest? Finally, it came. Her miracle, her savior. In February of 1537, Jane's period stopped. Her appetite changed. She had done it all. The soothsayers said it would be a boy. Henry would stroke her belly, putting his face against her skin and cooing into her flesh. Edward, Edward, he whispered. When Jane first felt the baby kick. In May, there was a massive celebration with Jane wearing a gown open at the belly and lined with lace beneath. The quickening, they believed, was the infant's soul entering its body. Here was the prince who would secure the Tudor dynasty. He was on his way. Throughout the country, there were bonfires and parties where wine flowed and singing filled the air. With Jane's belly expanding, she mentioned that she had a craving for quail. Bring my wife quail. Henry bellowed. Though quail was out of season in England, he ordered that it be brought specially from Calais with orders to expand, expand the search and go even further afield. If enough quail couldn't be found, Jane would have everything she wanted while she was carrying all of Henry's hopes in her belly. In September, she was put on bed rest, confined to her chamber and not permitted to leave to prevent any trouble with the pregnancy. Henry could not lose another son. And this was going to be a son. Everyone knew it. Finally, it had been long enough. Enough waiting, enough maneuvering, enough plotting and marrying and beheading. Henry finally had a wife and Henry was about to have a legitimate son. A month later, the labor began. Henry took as many precautions as physically possible to ensure the survival of his child. Most births at the time would be attended to by a midwife. Henry insisted instead on a team of all male doctors. When the labor began, it quickly became apparent that the infant was in a breech position for two days and three nights. Jane did her best to follow her doctor's instructions, to shut out the pain and to think of nothing but how happy Henry would be when he finally met his son. And then, finally, with a final scream of pain and a whimper, it was over. She had done it the day before St. Edward's Day, on October 12, Prince Edward was born, a healthy, living, legitimate male child. Jane wept with relief. A few days after the birth, the baby was made Duke of Cornwall and Earl of Chester. Jane's brother got promoted to Earl and Jane was well enough to dress and sit in the receiving room for Edward's christening, greeting the well wishers who congratulated her on achieving what the two women before her had been unable to do. Mary, the boy's half sister, was the godmother. But a week later, Jane felt woozy and light headed. Within the hour, her fever spiked. She was delirious and sweating. By the time she awoke early the next morning, it was obvious that a priest would need to be summoned. Jane Seymour died at noon that day in a rush of fever and blood. Just after she had given Henry everything he wanted after she had just ensured that her position as queen was secure. It's difficult to know exactly why Jane died 12 days after childbirth, whether it was childbed fever, a pulmonary embolism, hemorrhaging. It also seemed possible, even likely, that Jane hadn't fully expelled the placenta after giving birth. Left in her body, the placenta became infected. Ironically, male doctors at the time had far less experience when it came to childbirth than midwives. If Jane had been attended to by a midwife who had been through hundreds of births, the midwife would have known exactly what to do and could have solved the problem. After Jane's death, King Henry was so depressed that he could barely speak. He left the funeral arrangements to two of his advisors and went off to mourn in isolation. Jane Seymour's body was brought to a wax chandler, who removed her entrails and embalmed her body with spices before she was passed off to a lead plumber who soldered her into place. She lay in state then at Hampton Court, surrounded by candles with a nightly watch to prevent any more harm from coming to her. Jane is the only one of Henry's six wives who received an official queen's funeral. The route for her casket to get to Windsor, where she would be buried, was hung with black cloth out nearly every window. Her wax effigy atop the casket rested on a golden pillow. It wore golden shoes and rings on its finger, and it was dressed in beautifully embroidered stockings. The carriage was trailed by 29 wailing mourners, one for each year of Jane's life. Young Mary was Jane's chief mourner. Stories would come out later, ballads martyring Jane, saying that she had chosen to get a cesarean section, or that she was given the option to either save her own life or save the life of her child. And she had chosen the latter. It's pleasant to imagine her heroic to give agency to the woman who was most often characterized in history books as just the opposite of Anne. A pendulum swing from raven haired and witty to blonde and docile. A phoenix dies to bring new life. That was Jane Seal the phoenix. Death turns to new life. Henry finally got his son, but he would spend the rest of his life mourning and yearning for the wife he lost too soon. Because now that she was gone, in her memory, she would always be perfect. Eight years after losing Jane, Henry VIII commissioned a family portrait. By this time, he had already gone through two more wives and had finally landed on his sixth and final wife, Catherine Parr. In the family portrait, Henry sits at the center with his son Edward. Directly to his right, on either far side of the frame stands Princess Mary and Princess Elizabeth, daughters respectively of Catherine of Aragon and Anne Boleyn. And to King Henry's left standing, is his queen. Not the woman he was married to at the time, no. Nearly a decade after her death, Henry insisted that the family portrait be painted to feature his queen as Jane Seymour. That's the short life of Jane Seymour. But stick around after a brief sponsor break to hear a bit more about little baby Edward.