by Deryn Lake
Anne thought, ‘I wish I could say the same about you, dear friend.’ Poor Katharine’s many pregnancies had swollen her body and made her face puffy. She looked a great deal older than her thirty-seven years.
Anne curtsied to the floor and answered, ‘Thank you, your Grace. I trust that you too are in good health.’
‘Come, sit down.’ Katharine was patting a chair next to hers and the other ladies withdrew to a discreet distance.
‘Now, Anne, I hear that Sir Richard has been given the Manor of Sutton. I visited it once, many years ago. There were some ancient ruins there that I found interesting. Are you intending to build on that site? Or perhaps you have already started?’
‘We have had some plans drawn, your Grace, but no actual work has begun. We thought we would build a new manor house in the parkland rather than on the old situation. Richard thought of the name Sutton Place.’
‘I like that,’ said the Queen and for a second her familiar girlish smile flashed across her face.
‘We have seen some times,’ said Katharine. ‘Some happy, some sad. Come, Anne, you shall walk with me.’
And together they proceeded to the chamber where the investiture was to take place. The King, looking boyish and rather more cheerful than he had of late, stepped forward to greet them.
‘Lady Weston, how very fine you look.’ Yes, he was extremely jovial Anne decided as she curtsied. She thought she knew the cause. In a far corner of the chamber, standing with her ineffectual husband and another girl was ‘the Hackney’; Mary Carey had earned the nickname at the Court of France — and from the French King himself in return for distributing her favours amongst the Court gallants.
Anne watched her surreptitiously; the great trollop was following Henry’s every move with her round blue eyes, her tongue moistening her lips from time to time. She reminded Lady Weston of a well-fed cat. The King, however, was keeping his back turned and studiously ignoring her.
And then Anne’s attention was caught by the girl with the King’s paramour. A thin, young creature with flowing black hair and huge dark eyes that seemed to slant at the outer corners. She was not pretty, in fact she was plain, but yet so ... Anne struggled for the description and alighted on ‘enchanting’. And with the word came the quite absurd notion that the girl was, in fact, a woodland fairy and was weaving a spell now, here, in the antechamber at Greenwich. For as she moved away from Mary and walked amongst the courtiers, almost as if she was unaware of them, every head turned to look!
Anne was so startled by this impression that she forgot herself and said to the Queen, ‘Who is that?’ Then hastily added, ‘Pardon me, your Grace.’
But Katharine was oblivious of any impropriety for she was also watching the two young women.
‘That is Sir Thomas Boleyn’s other daughter, Anne. She has only recently returned from the French Court. She is not like her sister, is she?’
Anne Weston dropped her gaze. She was seeing too much in the Queen’s expression. As one, the two women looked again at Mary Carey, whose devouring eyes were still fastened on the King. Neither had the remotest idea that the cause of the downfall of them both was in the room and was not Mary at all but the dark-haired ondine who stood so quietly, her hands hidden in her sleeves, saying nothing, observing everything.
The simple ceremony over, Henry, with Katharine on his arm, led the company through to the banquet. Behind him, Sir Richard and the other newly-appointed Bearers bore his cups. Anne Weston walked with the wives and through the incessant burbling of Lady Herbert — who was deaf and untypically muttered as a result — she heard a beautifully pitched voice with a noticeable French accent. Glancing behind her she saw the dark girl again. Aware of someone’s gaze Anne Boleyn looked up and Anne Weston saw closely the velvet quality of her eyes and her thick jet lashes.
The young woman dropped a polite curtsey and looked demurely away but not before Lady Weston had an overwhelming impression that concealed in that slight form was a strength, a power and an iron determination far greater than any man’s.
That night in bed Anne broached the subject.
‘Richard, what are your thoughts on that young woman new to the Court?’
He knew at once who she meant, which struck her as significant.
‘Anne Boleyn?’
‘Yes.’
‘I do not find her pretty at all — all skin and bone — her eyes are very arresting, though.’
‘And her hair. But have you noticed something else?’
‘She has a deformed hand.’
This surprised Anne who had not seen it.
‘How is it deformed?’
‘She has six fingers on one.’
Lady Weston drew a breath.
‘The devil’s mark.’
Richard laughed in the darkness.
‘Aye, maybe she’s a sorceress come amongst us.’
For no particular reason Anne trembled and at that minute Francis screamed in his sleep. It was a moment that Lady Weston would remember for the rest of her life.
*
She did not see Mistress Boleyn again until the Christmas celebrations. Joining Richard at Greenwich Palace for the Twelve Days she experienced amusement tinged with the faint unease that the girl seemed to arouse in her. It was obvious that Anne’s star was now in the ascendant, her clothes and manners copied by all the other young women — long sleeves being quite the height of fashion — and in watching the turn of Mistress Boleyn’s head, the extension of a hand in a formal dance, she saw great beauty.
Her thoughts were interrupted by the call for all to step forth. No refusals were allowed for this was the Eve of the New Year. Lady Weston stifled a laugh. Richard’s jaw was like an outcrop of rock as he gritted his teeth for the ordeal. He detested dancing above all else but Queen Katharine herself was before him, as the viols and sack-buts burst forth in a great cheerful chord.
Anne Weston found herself partnered by young Harry Percy, the Earl of Northumberland’s son, presently attached to Cardinal Wolsey’s household.
‘What a vast shambling boy he is,’ she thought.
He was extremely tall with huge hands — and feet too — for one crunched down on to Lady Weston’s toe making her wince with pain.
‘Harry!’ she said sharply.
He jerked round mumbling apologies and going red, the epitome of love-lorn youth. It was little surprise to Lady Weston to see that his worshipping eyes had been fixed on none other than Anne Boleyn. It was then that the observant Anne Weston noticed something else. The subject of Harry’s passion was dancing with the King, her dark eyes laughing, her hair reflecting blue beneath a pearl headdress. And on the King’s face was a look vaguely reminiscent of Harry Percy’s. Not blatant adoration, but interest and ...
‘Desire,’ thought Lady Weston. And it occurred to her that the Boleyns played a great part in the King’s life. She looked to see if Richard had noticed and sure enough she was just in time to see her husband’s widely spaced eyes — as expressionless as ever — flick over the couple and then look away.
She had no opportunity to ask him about it then and was on the brink of doing so the following morning when a knock came on the door of their apartments. Toby answered and Anne saw standing there two of the King’s pages and one of the Queen’s. On being bidden to enter, the boys placed twelve boxes before Richard and one before Lady Weston. They were New Year gifts from Henry and Katharine.
Anne’s box contained a beautifully worked headdress — blue velvet with small sapphire encrustations. With it was a note in the Queen’s own hand.
‘It would please us greatly if you were more at Court.’
Though discreetly worded it was a royal command.
Richard’s boxes contained twelve pairs of shoes. The King could not have chosen better. Though not a vain man and caring little for fashion, Sir Richard had a weakness for good shoes. As merry as a child he pulled on a pair of fine red leather and stood up to admire them.
‘Hey h
o,’ said Anne. ‘I see I must call thee gander feet.’
‘Thou wilt not,’ he retorted and chased her round the room calling, ‘Come, old goose, let me pluck thy feathers!’
Anne saw Toby, crimson with mirth, vanishing through the door eager to spread the news of Sir Richard’s lusty intent.
‘Richard, no,’ she called but he had caught her up and had her held firmly on the bed, tickling her ribs. Then he kissed her.
Will you love me, wife?’
She shook her head laughing.
‘’Tis the morning.’
‘I care not,’ he said and kicked off his new red shoes.
Lying in his arms later, Anne said, ‘You still desire the old goose, then?’
‘Aye.’
The reply was brief but there was a kiss on the nose to accompany it.
‘More than Mistress Boleyn?’
‘The Hackney?’
‘Nay, she is Mistress Carey. I mean Mistress Anne Boleyn.’
Richard gave her a curious look. With everyone else his eyes were always expressionless for it was only in this way that he had perfected the art of close scrutiny — a trick that Lady Weston had learned from him. But with his wife he was not so careful.
‘Why do you mention her?’ he said.
‘I saw you watching her last night.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘His secrecy is becoming a habit,’ she thought.
Impatiently she said, ‘Richard do not play cat’s feet with me. You noticed how the King looked at her. I saw you.’
‘’Tis not the first time,’ he said and he recounted Henry’s behaviour at Wolsey’s masque the year before.
‘How old is she?’ said Anne.
‘Nearly sixteen, I’m told.’
‘Too young for the King?’
It was said as a question not a statement.
‘Let us hope so,’ said Richard grimly.
*
In accordance with the Queen’s wishes, during that year of 1523 Anne Weston adopted the custom of spending two weeks with her children in Chelsea and two at Court. Everywhere there was talk of the impending war with France and Richard was preparing to raise a contingent to cross the Channel.
The building of Sutton Place was proceeding at a snail’s pace. Of the many Italian architects at work in England Richard had chosen one of the King’s own — Girolamo da Trevizi. But though the man had visited the site frequently and embellished and revised his designs, the actual clearing and brick laying had been delayed by Sir Richard’s preoccupation with the war. So much so that Anne found herself increasingly in charge of the project.
One day she walked in the parkland alone except for Toby and her serving woman. Holding da Trevizi’s plans in her hand, they actually trod step by step through each place where the great chambers and halls would be situated. It was the sheer enormity of the future mansion house that daunted Anne. It would be larger than Thomas Boleyn’s home in Kent — and he called that a castle! And it would be greater too than Penshurst Place. She was to be mistress of a dwelling suitable for a peer of the realm.
‘I don’t really understand these drawings, mam,’ said Joan, peering over Anne’s shoulder and screwing up her eyes for she was not the most intelligent creature in the world. Anne had found her begging in the streets when she had been newly wed to Richard, the girl little more than eleven, and had taken her in out of pity. The resulting relationship had been gratifying for the child had grown more comely and presentable under Anne’s care. And in return Anne had won herself a love and loyalty that had been a great comfort to her through the years.
‘It’s the writing,’ Joan continued. ‘I think he writes very odd.’
Anne looked at da Trevizi’s exquisite Italianate script and inwardly sighed. She had worked very hard with Joan’s reading and writing but she had to admit with only limited success.
‘Let me explain. Where we are standing now there will be chambers for the family and on the floor above them Signor da Trevizi plans to build a Long Gallery where we may exercise on wet and dreary days.’
‘That’s a new notion.’
‘Aye. There will be a lot of original things in Sutton Place.’
‘But won’t we shiver in that Gallery in winter, mam?’
‘We are going to have four fireplaces.’
Joan clapped her hands in delight.
‘’Twill be a merry sight when they’re all ablazing. Why, we could run from one to the other. There’ll be some high jinks with the children, I reckon.’
Anne smiled to herself. Joan’s simplicity was refreshing after the whispered cruelties of Court chit-chat. Yet that night, as she helped Lady Weston undress in the principal bedroom of the Angel Inn at Guildford, the servant said, ‘I still can’t think of that great big house somehow, my Lady.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘It’s all so bare now, trees and grass and emptiness. Did you notice the emptiness, mam? It’s hard to think of a house in its place.’
As she got into bed Anne thought of Joan’s words. What strange things servants came out with. Emptiness!
She fell asleep almost at once but the night was not destined to be restful. She dreamed that she was standing outside Sutton Place completely built and magnificent, but in some way menacing. Etched sharp black against a setting blood-red sun, the huge tower of the Gate House loomed above her like the entrance to a grim castle. The feeling of fear was sharpened by the knowledge in her dream that she had lost Francis.
The Gate House keeper was not a man but Joan and to Lady Weston’s frantic enquiries as to Francis’s whereabouts, she answered, ‘You won’t find him in there, mam, it’s all emptiness.’
‘But it isn’t,’ Anne had protested. ‘Look it’s lit up.’
‘That’s only the sun shining through the windows,’ and Joan had vanished back into the Gate House refusing to believe her.
In the terrible way that nightmares have, it seemed to take Anne hours to run across the quadrangle. It was as if her legs refused to obey her will and she remained constantly in one spot. Eventually though, she reached the door that led to the Great Hall. She pounded on it shrieking, ‘Where is Francis? Richard, help me!’
In the dream, the last rays of the sun were lighting the courtyard, turning it into a fantastic pit of crimson and indigo. Anne was still beating on the door when, to her surprise, it opened so suddenly that she almost fell inside. Mistress Boleyn stood there.
‘Where is Francis?’ Lady Weston repeated but the girl only smiled and shook her head, raising one hand to show the sinister deformity. As if it had a life apart, the extra little finger began to squirm back and forth and turned into a minute serpent.
Screaming, Anne Weston fled across the length of the Hall and up a staircase at the far end. She found herself in the Long Gallery. It was almost pitch black, the only light coming from two candles at the far end. In the gloom she stumbled forward, straining her eyes to see what object it was that stood there. As she drew nearer she was amazed to find that it was an altar and before it knelt a figure in prayer.
‘Francis!’ she called.
The black figure did not move. Anne was suddenly so afraid that she stopped dead — but too late. She had been heard. Very slowly it turned its head and she saw the wild, sad face of a woman peering out from a great bush of unbrushed silver hair.
‘Who’s there?’ said the creature. ‘Oh my darling, have you come back to me?’
And she rose from her knees and began to creep towards Anne who noticed that her dress was most eccentric — not of any fashion that she knew.
‘You are not he,’ the old woman was shouting. ‘Get out of my house! Help! Intruders!’
Once again Lady Weston was running, the old woman panting after her. But Anne was too fast for her and the noise of pursuit ceased halfway down the Gallery. This time she turned left at the bottom of the stairs and searched the rooms of the east wing but they were all empty, some of them not even furnis
hed. There was no alternative but to cross the Great Hall once more. Mistress Boleyn, however, had vanished.
Standing still to catch her breath, Anne heard the hum of voices. Men and women were talking and laughing. She followed the sound into the west wing where it grew louder and louder. Throwing open a door Anne found herself in a panelled and tapestry-hung dining room. She stopped still in amazement for seated at an extremely long table were the strangest collection of people she had ever seen. The men all wore black jackets and white shirts, with little black bows at their throats — the women were shamelessly bare-armed — some even bare-shouldered.
Despite being startled she spoke. ‘I am looking for my son,’ she said and then added with dignity, ‘What are you doing in my house? Are you guests of my husband?’
To her surprise they all ignored her. Then from a vast chair at the head of the table came a strange drawling voice.
‘That door has opened again. I gotta get it fixed.’
‘I’ll shut it, Mr Getty,’ said a man dressed in black who seemed to be a servant, and he advanced towards her.
Horror-stricken, Anne realized that he couldn’t see her.
‘I’m dead!’ she thought and she began to scream ...
‘What is it, mistress?’
Anne awoke to see Joan leaning over her anxiously. ‘You’ve had a nightmare, mam. You’ve been shouting and bellowing this last few minutes.’
Lady Weston clutched at her.
‘Oh, Joan! It was so terrible. I dreamed of the house. It was full of strangers. And Francis was lost — in danger somehow.’
‘There, there, my Lady. Master Francis is safe in London. It was just a nightmare.’
But it depressed Anne all that day. The dream had been so vivid that she felt it must have some significance. And when a few weeks later she started to dream again, she deliberately woke herself up. After that she became more wakeful, afraid that it should come once more to torment her.
Thoughts as to the meaning of the nightmare were going through Anne’s mind, as they often did in the darkness while Richard slept beside her. It was May and they were guests of Cardinal Wolsey at Hampton Court Palace. From their apartments she could hear the soft sounds of the Thames flowing close by and, wide awake, she rose and went to the windows. Opening them she leant out and breathed in the gentle air of early summer.
