by Deryn Lake
‘I don’t think I like this story,’ said Francis. Richard Weston hesitated. He was actually interested to hear the chronicles of his land, learn of the men and women who had lived out their lives on the Manor that was now his property and that of his heirs. On the other hand he could see that the imagined happening at the well had unnerved his son and that any account of battle or blood — and what place did not bear some reference to that in its annals? — would probably set the child weeping.
Looking rather crossly at Giles he said, ‘I think Toby should take Francis riding, Anne.’
Giles appeared decidedly miserable and thought, ‘This will be the hardest purse I’ve ever earned.’
Sir Richard, watching his son and the manservant departing said, ‘But King Harold lies buried in Waltham Abbey, fellow.’
‘They say not, my Lord. They say he was buried by Viking rite.’
And even as her husband made a snorting, scoffing sound Anne’s imagination was at work. She saw William Malet laying the last stone in place as the sun set over the stark cliffs; could smell the salt air; hear the scream of the wheeling gulls as they yelled Harold’s obituary into the darkening sky.
‘Of course, Sir Richard, you may be right. Who is to say? Indeed, there is another legend that King Harold lived on. Now that is a good tale ...’
His buffoon’s face was an anxious walnut as he willed them to ask to hear it. But once again Sir Richard — whom Giles considered a total and meddlesome nuisance — interposed.
‘So the Malet family built the manor house? I had been told it was the Bassetts.’
‘Yes, it was the Bassett family, my Lord.’
‘How did it come into their hands?’
‘Er ... I do believe, that Robert Malet and Henry I had some disagreement. Who knows what?’ He smiled thinly.
He looked at them but they still had not suspected. Had no inkling that Robert Malet had had to run for his life. ‘It was King John who granted the Manors of both Sutton and Woking to Gilbert Bassett.’
‘And was that his house?’
It was Catherine who spoke, her china blue eyes gazing at the ruin that lay to their right.
‘Aye, young Gilbert built that — not that he had long to enjoy it, God rest his soul.’
Giles hadn’t been able to help saying that. He knew the history of the Manor inside out and sideways. His father had been a player and tumbler before him and found it the best tale to tell, not only in the county of Surrey, but wherever he went. And Giles had learned it from him, word for word, and then added his own embellishments. Small wonder he had accidentally gone into the version reserved for open-mouthed bucolics who were always responsive, particularly of a winter’s night when the story was invariably accompanied by ale and the smell of roasting crabs.
Four pairs of eyes were regarding him.
‘He died young?’ asked Lady Weston.
‘A hunting accident, my Lady. Most unfortunate.’
‘But it passed to his son?’
Giles’s heart sank like a millstone.
‘Well, it was an ugly business all round. The baby boy died within a few days of his father. A tragedy.’
The assembled company had grown a little quiet, Anne Weston being most affected. She knew, as surely as if she had been there, what that dreadful funeral had been like; that the setting had been bleakest midwinter, the gravediggers’ shovels sparking against the frost, a solitary bell tolling and a black figure, ravaged with grief, following two coffins — one man-sized, one minute — through the biting cruel cold.
‘But it remained in the Bassett family?’
‘Yes, my Lady. Gilbert’s brothers inherited.’
‘Brothers?’
He had done it again.
‘It is not possible for more than one brother to inherit,’ said Sir Richard putting his know-all’s nose in again. The player suddenly lost his patience, if his purse was withheld, so be it.
‘I did know that, sir. What I meant was that the estate descended unusually fast through the Bassett family. Gilbert’s second brother was killed in battle, the third brother — Fulc, Bishop of London — died soon after inheriting and Philip, the last brother, was imprisoned for life.’
‘They seem to have been very unfortunate,’ said Lady Weston. ‘Were they accursed?’
‘I don’t know, my Lady.’
‘Then why was the Manor deserted?’
‘Begging your Ladyship’s pardon but I do not think this last part of the story suitable for the ears of the young ladies.’
Both Richard and Anne Weston were agog. Some mighty scandal had obviously taken place. They reacted just as Giles had envisaged and hopes of a good payment rose once more as the girls were despatched to walk with the serving woman.
‘Well?’
‘My Lady, Philip Bassett only had one surviving child — a daughter called Aliva.’
‘You say surviving. Did his other children die?’
‘Aye, they did. In your words, my Lady, they were very unfortunate. But be that as it may ... Anyway, Aliva Bassett married Hugh Despenser and she had a son also named Hugh. It was he who became the lover of Edward II. Hugh Despenser, the son, inherited the manor house and the King came to stay with him here.’
Giles had his audience now and nothing further to fear. The truth could not come out from this story of men in love. Skilfully, he painted a word picture. The high-pitched male laughter; the girlish rompings in the King’s bedchamber, the whiff of sweet scents as the two men chased each other through Sutton Forest, probably dropping down at the old well to drink — exhausted with play and passion. Then the merciless Isabella — Edward’s French wife — loathing her perverted husband and taking the lustiest man in England, Roger Mortimer — Earl of March — for her lover. The plot to rid themselves of the homosexual who stood in their way, for once and for all. The terrible end. Hugh Despenser, Lord of the Manor of Sutton, strung up on the gallows; his father beside him. Their bodies jerking together in the dance of death. And then the King, hunted down like an animal, and a red hot poker inserted into his rectum, searing his bowels to a cinder as he screamed his way to death.
Anne Weston shivered. ‘How unspeakable. For all he had done, no human being deserves to die like that.’
‘And that was the end of the manor house, my Lady. After this it fell into disrepair.’
‘And the ownership?’
Giles rose. He had said enough. He could tell them no more without betraying the secret.
‘I know no more, my Lord. With the fall of the house so falls too my knowledge. The story is at an end.’
He made a bow. ‘Have I pleased you, sir? And your good wife?’
Sir Richard nodded. ‘Aye, ’twas well told.’ He threw him a bag of money.
‘Why did the Bassetts have such ill fortune?’ said Lady Weston.
Giles shook his head.
‘I must be on my journey, Lady. I’ve to tumble in Woking this night. Only for the village people but it could earn me a farthing or two.’
He kissed Sir Richard’s hand. ‘I thank you for the purse, sir.’ And he was off, disappearing into the forest as abruptly as he had first arrived. Once out of sight he began to chant in a strange tongue. It was the Romany call to the ‘unseen people’ to ward off the evil eye. He had rather liked Lady Weston and the boy and as for Catherine, that delicious little woman child ... As far as Sir Richard was concerned, Giles did not care for him at all. The man would have to take his chance.
That night Anne Weston said to her husband, ‘Richard, I do not wish our manor house to be built on the site of the old one. I feel — laugh at me for a foolish hen-head if you will — that the Bassetts knew too much unhappiness there; too much of death and strangeness. I believe that these things can leave feelings behind. May we build in the parkland?’
Richard sat thoughtfully. He was remembering Francis’s face at the well, drawn and strained. He wondered if Anne could be right. He had found the place unsettling hi
mself.
‘I think we should start afresh,’ he said. ‘Let us build in the meadow sweetness. Let us build a house to delight posterity.’
Anne sighed, relieved. ‘And what shall we call it, husband?’
‘I think we should call it Sutton Place.’
3
King Henry was dancing. Dazzlingly dressed in bejewelled white, his strong legs elegantly gartered, he knew that he was the centre of attention and this night he felt eighteen again; the cares of monarchy lifted. He wasn’t quite sure why he felt so. Was it the extra fine wines he had drunk? Or was it that he was enjoying his role as Ardent Desire in the masque arranged by Cardinal Wolsey? Or was it that earlier in the evening he had raised his eyes to find his look returned by that of a thin delicate girl with hair as black as midnight, who moved amongst the dancers with such presence and a style all her own?
And what eyes she had; dark but filled with golden lights that spoke of mysteries and excitements that would entrance any man. Henry felt a rush of blood. He hurried forward to take her hand, for the moment had come for Ardent Desire to rescue the Fair Maidens. The long sleeves she always wore slipped back as he held her arm and he saw with amazement something that he had never noticed before on the few occasions he had seen her around the Court. Her left hand was malformed. From the little finger grew another tiny finger complete with nail. The witch’s mark! With deftness the girl slipped the hand back into the hanging sleeve. She looked up at the King and slowly she smiled. He thought that if this was her witchery, he would be a willing victim.
Standing as he was, near the dancers, Richard Weston noticed the exchange of glances between Henry and Thomas Boleyn’s daughter, Anne. And he also noticed something that he had seen before, and more and more frequently of late. There was, in the King, a restlessness; a seething discontent, a gnawing, so it would seem, at the man’s whole approach to life.
He had not been the only one to realize it, of course. In the Court’s innermost circle it was discussed — voices always discreetly low, hiding places examined first for any unwanted observer. They were sure, too, that they knew the cause. The King not only desired an heir for England but he was out of love with his Queen.
Richard, with his totally accurate instinct in matters of diplomacy, thought the situation highly charged, believing that a discontented monarch led to a discontented country. But his set of friends — with one or two exceptions — disagreed. The King was making the best of things; enjoying life as fully as he could; there was no danger lying ahead.
Richard looked at the dancers again and thought, ‘There’s certainly no danger in that little thing. Why, she’s all eyes — nothing to her. All the beauty in the family had gone to her sister.’
His watchful face did not change as, the dance done, the girl — who could not have been more than fifteen or sixteen — joined a group of her contemporaries without a backward glance at the King. Richard was aware — as he made it his business to be aware of everything — that the group consisted mainly of young men and that, as she joined them, there was what could only be described as a ripple amongst them. They eddied on a little tide of pleasure though, for the life of him, Richard couldn’t think why.
She certainly moved gracefully and her voice, with its distinctive French accent was melodious but as for looks — no. Strange, though, that she had returned from the Court of Queen Claude in France only a few weeks earlier and had already attracted a small coterie. Surely not because she was the sister of the King’s mistress; that would make no sense for Mary Carey, born Boleyn, was not the most popular girl at court.
Richard looked round and saw that another pair of eyes were following his — Sir Richard Jerningham, his friend and fellow member of the King’s Chamber, was also studying Mistress Boleyn.
‘Intriguing,’ said Jerningham.
‘Anne Boleyn?’ Richard was startled.
‘Her father, Tom, made sure I met her the other day.’
Richard knew exactly what Jerningham meant. What a pusher Boleyn was! Nosing in everywhere, ensuring that his daughters met the right people. He must be cock-a-hoop, thought Richard, that Mary Boleyn stepped straight from her marriage bed with William Carey into the King’s.
‘And what do you think of her?’
‘She is beautifully mannered — in the French way of course — and, more than that, she is good company. She made me laugh.’
Richard was astounded. That anyone could amuse the solemn Jerningham was unusual but that it should be that plain little bag of bones ...
*
Richard Weston’s duties at Court were heavy that spring of 1522. Within a few days of Wolsey’s imperial reception he was at Greenwich Palace, this time for a small investiture involving himself. In company with Jerningham and three others he was to be appointed the King’s cup bearer.
His wife, richly gowned in green and silver, was looking her best that evening and Richard was thinking to himself how pleasurable it would be to lie with her in their big bed, when his delightful train of ideas was interrupted by the Queen’s principal page bowing before them.
‘The Queen’s Grace requests your presence in her apartments, Lady Weston.’
As she followed him Anne Weston thought, ‘How like Katharine. She never forgets a friend!’ And she recalled the times they had shared together; in fact, at most of the great events of Katharine’s life, Anne had been present. She remembered their first meeting. She had been plain Mrs Anne Weston then, a twenty-five-year-old lady-in-waiting to Queen Elizabeth of York; Katharine had been fifteen, the pretty Princess sent from Spain to marry Prince Arthur. How formidable it must have been for her. The Yorkist Queen, blonde and austere, seated on her dais — her ladies grouped round her — watching the plump little Spanish girl walk the length of the room and make her curtsey. Frozen faced, Elizabeth of the White Rose had received the kiss of welcome. Katharine had searched round frantically for a friendly look and had caught Anne Weston’s eye. The liking had been mutual and instantaneous and the lady-in-waiting had been rewarded by a sweet smile from the daughter of the Queen of Castile.
Within a few days Katharine had been married and Richard and Anne had been present as she had walked to St Paul’s, holding the hand of Prince Henry, but taking in marriage that of Henry VII’s elder son, Arthur. It seemed but a blink of an eye before the bridal white had been exchanged for widow’s black; the loving Princess into a small, desolate figure.
Then Anne had not seen her. The girl had been away from Court during her mourning. The next occasion, she remembered, had been at the death of Queen Elizabeth in childbed. As she thought of it now, Anne could recall the hushed voices, the subdued light, the grave expressions of the physicians, but above all the Queen’s face — whiter than the whitest rose of York — and the frail hand patting the head of her sobbing young daughter-in-law, who was whispering in her broken English, ‘Do not die — you must not die — it is your birthday.’
It had been a pathetic, almost ridiculous remark but the Queen had died and it had been her birthday. She would have been thirty-seven years old. The baby girl — named Catherine after the Spanish Princess the Queen had grown to love — was already dead.
After that the Princess — uncertain of her future in England — had lived humbly on a meagre stipend, eking out a boring existence in Durham House and wondering if she would ever marry Prince Henry, to whom she had been betrothed on his twelfth birthday. And Anne had been away from Court. Three depressing miscarriages had followed one another until, in 1507, Margaret Weston had been born safely.
Then in April, 1509, Henry VII had died. Within six weeks Henry VIII had married Katharine and Anne Weston had named her newborn daughter Catherine — the English version of her name — in the young Queen’s honour.
Vividly she recalled the Coronation. Anne, up only a few days from her lying-in, had been grateful to sit during the double crowning. But Richard, liege man of the old monarch, had stood with pride. His fears that the new King m
ight turn against him, think him past good service because Henry was barely eighteen and Richard forty-three, had been totally allayed. Within two days he had received three honours — Keeper of Hanworth Park; Steward of Marlow, Cokeham and Bray; Governor of Guernsey, Alderney and Sark.
Anne thought how happy the reign would have been for them all if it had only been blessed with a Prince. As a Queen’s Gentlewoman she would normally have been in attendance when Katharine’s second child — the first had been stillborn — had struggled into the world on the first day of January, 1511, but Anne herself was expecting a child in February and was awaiting the event at home.
Richard had not told her of the tragedy that followed until Francis was born, healthy and well, at the end of the month. His imperturbable face was unusually grave as he said to her, ‘The Prince of Wales is dead. He only lived a few weeks.’
Weeping, Anne had held Francis to her heart, almost guilty that her son was alive whilst Katharine’s lay like a wax doll in a tiny coffin.
And now it was over. At the age of thirty-one, as Anne Weston wiped her brow and rubbed her hands, Katharine of Aragon had finally given birth to a child that lived — Mary. Then in 1518 one final confinement — a stillbirth to add to all the other dead royal babies. She had whispered to Anne, ‘I have failed England.’
Anne had replied, ‘Nobody who could produce a daughter as clever as the Princess could be said to fail, your Grace. But there may still be a Prince. Give nature time.’
But now, as she stood outside the doors of the Queen’s apartments, Anne reflected that six years had passed since Mary’s arrival and it was obvious to all that there would be no more children for the Queen.
The page, bowing in the entrance, called out clearly, ‘Lady Weston, your Grace’ and Katharine rose from her chair, crossed over to Anne and took both her hands in her own.
‘My dear Anne,’ she said. ‘It is such a long time since we last met. How well you are looking.’
