by Deryn Lake
Everywhere there was moonshine playing amongst the May blossoms. It was irresistible. Feeling like a girl and smiling at herself, Lady Weston dressed and crept from the bedroom. All around her the Palace slept. Except for the softly murmured conversations of the guards, the clamour and bustle of the day was completely stilled. She walked through the long silent corridors, made magical by the moon reflecting the colours of the stained glass windows on to the walls and tapestries, and out into the formal knot garden that lay behind Hampton Court.
The night was enchanted; the sky so black, the moon so bright, that everything in the garden and beyond seemed transformed by a master confectioner’s hand. Each flower and tree was made of spun sugar, each blade of grass a delicate strand of icing. And to add to the spell came the heady scent of blossom — the bewitching aroma from a fairies’ summer banquet.
‘Foolish woman,’ said Anne to herself, but nonetheless she filled her lungs and stood still, enraptured, before finally making off in the direction of the river. Picking her way through the elaborate knot — tended so lovingly by the Cardinal’s gardeners — she came to a less formal part of the grounds. Here were green lawns and an abundance of trees, both blossom-heavy and leafed. So sure was she that she was alone on this glorious night that the sound of lowered voices, somewhere close by, frightened her beyond all reason. So much, in fact, that she actually stifled a scream and drew back into the shadow thrown by an apple tree, pressing herself against its rough bark.
After a moment she relaxed again, for clearly visible in the silver light were two lovers, their arms wound round each other, walking back to the palace. She recognized the tall body of Harry Percy and the slim shape of Anne Boleyn pressed close to his side. To her horror, for she had no wish to be an observer, they stopped right by her hiding place and Harry turned the girl towards him.
‘Anne, my love witch,’ he said and Lady Weston thought it a poetic turn of phrase for that great Northumberland creature whose ancestor and namesake had fought at Agincourt. He pulled the girl almost off her feet as he bent his head to kiss her. The rapturous way in which their bodies melded together told Anne Weston everything. This was no Court flirtation with games of lust as the play and bed as the prize — the couple genuinely loved.
A sense of relief filled her. Anne Boleyn had seemed to her a strange girl and it was reassuring to think of her safely married and bedded and out of the way in Northumberland. Embarrassed she saw Harry slip his hands intimately over the girl’s breasts. The expression of joy on both their faces was too intense to watch. Lady Weston turned her head away but she heard Anne Boleyn say, ‘No, Harry, no!’
‘But I love you so much,’ he answered.
Lady Weston looked up, startled. So the younger Boleyn girl was no Court whore like her sister. And Harry was no advantage taker, for he did not persist but simply kissed the dark hair that rippled like warm silk in his big hands. In that unearthly light Anne Boleyn, her eyes slanting and her face aglow with love, was beautified. Lady Weston was not surprised to see Harry Percy’s cheeks wet with tears. For all his strength, there obviously dwelt a sensitive creature within him, and this sprite of a girl had moved him deeply.
*
In August, Sir Richard sailed for France with a troop of several thousand soldiery under the command of the King’s brother-in-law, Charles Brandon, Duke of Suffolk and it was Anne who was left to supervise the laying of the foundations of Sutton Place. In September, as the leaves blazed, she went there accompanied by her elder daughter, Margaret, and two servants. The workmen were labouring under the personal supervision of da Trevizi who stood in his shirt sleeves, poring over his plans and swearing occasionally in Italian.
As he saw them ride up he attempted to struggle into his doublet but Lady Weston shook her head and so he greeted them dressed informally, kissing the women’s fingers and murmuring ‘Lady’ and ‘Bella Signorina’. He was small and black-bearded, with clever and beautiful hands. In one ear he wore a diamond. It occurred to Anne, without unduly flattering herself, that his Italian blood was stirred by both mother and daughter and, if they had been women of low birth, he would happily have tumbled them both. But as it was he had to content himself with shooting them as many meaningful glances from his brilliant dark eyes as propriety would allow. Though he had a reputation as a womanizer he was accepted by everyone at Court because of his great genius as a master builder.
As he spoke of Sutton Place and how it would rise from his designs, majestic and noble, Anne listened enthralled.
‘It will be an innovation, m’Lady. One of the first manor houses to be built without fortifications. No moat — nothing. I am going to build for you a house that will last for ever; that will delight the eyes of all who gaze on it.’
He kissed his thumb and forefinger and gave Margaret a sideways glance.
‘A house should be like a woman’ — now he was bowing to Anne — ‘beautiful in all seasons. Exciting in its prime —’ he turned back to Margaret, ‘and in its first bloom.’
Lady Weston saw her daughter blush. She made a mental note to speak to Richard about young Walter Dennys. He would be a good match and she had almost forgotten the passing of time. Margaret was now sixteen and Walter two years older.
‘High time they met again,’ thought Anne. ‘As soon as Richard is returned from the French campaign there must be a meeting.’
But her train of thought was interrupted. Margaret, pink as a rose, was saying, ‘Oh Signor da Trevizi, I cannot wait to see it built. How long will it take?’
‘For full completion — two years.’
‘Could it not be sooner? Mother, are you not anxious to see it?’
Margaret, aware of those burning Italian eyes, was trying to draw her mother back into the conversation but Lady Weston hesitated and both the girl and da Trevizi noticed.
‘Is something wrong with my plans, m’Lady? You are silent. What displeases you, bella Signora? For you I would change a palace.’
Margaret said, ‘I know what it is. Mother had a fearful dream of the place and something in her is afrighted.’
Da Trevizi wiped his brow with his shirt sleeve.
‘I, too, have dreams of every house I build. I dream that they might fall down!’
Anne did not smile and the Italian immediately composed his features into a serious expression.
‘M’Lady, I take no notice of these things. Of the houses build, half have a story of a bad dream, or a curse, or a bewitchment. I built a castle on an island in Lake Como once. The Princess who owned it told me that she first of all dreamed of centaurs, then saw them, and finally that they owned the island. She made me build a special garden house for them — and went to live in it herself.’
‘What happened to her?’ asked Margaret.
‘She went mad.’
Da Trevizi laughed and Anne could have sworn that his hand shot out and squeezed Margaret’s, but on second glance it seemed merely that he was searching for his lace kerchief.
In October — on her fortnightly visit to Court — Lady Weston was shocked to hear that Mistress Anne Boleyn had been dismissed and sent home to Hever in Kent. Furthermore, the Earl of Northumberland himself had physically removed his son, Harry Percy, back to the wilds of Northumbria. The love affair was over and, according to gossip, Wolsey himself had intervened, haranguing Harry so cruelly that once again the youth had wept — though this time with despair.
A strange suspicion was growing in Lady Weston’s mind but she had no one to whom she could voice it until Richard returned from France — his force badly routed — in December. As soon as he recovered from his sullen mood at the Duke of Suffolk’s infamous defeat, they fell to discussing the Boleyn affair with vigour.
‘But why, Richard, why? She and Harry seemed so suited.’
‘It seems that he was betrothed as a child to Lady Mary Talbot — Shrewsbury’s daughter.’
‘But that kind of arrangement can be changed. It couldn’t just be that and, eve
n if it were, why should the Cardinal intervene personally?’
Richard’s expression was as impassive as ever, but in his mind’s eye he saw again the King’s big, handsome face as he partnered the girl in the role of Ardent Desire. How apt a name it seemed now.
‘Is it your belief, wife, that the King’s Highness asked the Cardinal to intervene?’
Anne nodded, looking very satisfied with herself.
‘It is, husband, it is.’
‘Then it would seem, even though he beds her sister, the King does not wish to see Anne Boleyn belong to anyone else.’
The Westons looked at one another. The full realization of the first step that England had taken towards its destiny — a step that would disrupt the world — had not yet dawned on them but they shared a sense of misgiving.
‘I feel in my heart that the King will not stop until he has her for himself,’ said Anne.
‘That should be easy enough,’ Richard answered.
How many times in the years to come was he to remember those words with bitterness.
4
The emptiness had gone and the house had taken its place. In the ‘meadow sweetness’ — as Richard Weston had described it — now stood one of the most beautiful dwellings in England. Da Trevizi had used moulded alabaster and rose-coloured bricks for its exterior, so that in the early morning sun Sutton Place still maintained the glow of dawn. There was no doubt that the Italian had been as good as his word — he had created a mansion to delight posterity.
On horseback, a quarter of a mile away, in a perfect position to see the whole structure and assess its overall design, were Richard Weston, Henry Norris and da Trevizi himself. The architect, especially clothed in plum-coloured velvet in honour of his patron’s visit, was listening to their praise with unabashed delight. In the two years since he had first put pen to paper and drawn the initial sketchy outline of a square manor house without a moat, Sutton Place had fired him with a strange joy. The combination of his Italian romanticism and the sturdy approach of his English workmen was producing something rare. He felt sure that this was the work by which he would be remembered. A nagging notion that the house would one day be far more famous than he, he dismissed. However he made a mental note to ensure that Sir Richard wrote down the name of his designer on some important document. The thought that people in the future might not be certain about the identity of the creator of Sutton Place was disturbing to say the least.
‘It is a masterwork,’ this from Norris. ‘Da Trevizi, you have excelled yourself.’
The Italian spread his small hands and bowed his head.
‘I would say you do me too much honour, Signor, but on this occasion I must agree. I believe Sutton Place to be my finest achievement — so far!’
Richard Weston smiled one of his rare smiles. He was pleased. The house was everything he had hoped it would be, combining a stately strength with a certain delicacy and beauty of thought; an intangible quality that set it apart. His wife called it ethereal, his daughter — Catherine — a fairy palace. Francis had said, ‘It suits you. It is noble.’
Now all that was needed was the status to go with it and that was rather a worry these days. Since his return from the unsuccessful campaign in France in December, 1523 — nearly eighteen months ago — there had been no advancement. He had worked hard at his various appointments, remained on most friendly and cordial terms with the King and Cardinal — but nothing. He had heard, as early as March, that there was to be an investiture in June at which Henry Fitzroy, the King’s illegitimate son by Elizabeth Tailebois, was to be made Duke of Richmond. And he knew that others were to be ennobled at the same time but no mention of his name going forward had reached his ever attentive ears. Surely he had not built a home fit for a man of great rank, for nothing?
Da Trevizi was saying, ‘Sir Richard, Sir Henry, may I show you more?’ and the three walked their horses forward to the Gate House.
Everywhere craftsmen were creating fascinating exterior carvings and mouldings. The Italian’s imagination had run riot — fruits and flowers abounded — whilst above the arch in the seventy-foot gate tower was a band of naked and grinning winged cupids holding rosaries. At first glance Norris was shocked. It seemed to him the height of vulgarity but on closer inspection he changed his mind — there was a certain charming innocence about the little figures — Sir Richard had wanted something original and he had most certainly got it.
By the time he had crossed the quadrangle and reached the huge door that led into the Great Hall, Norris was openly smiling. Not only were there more of those wicked little amorini but in moulded quoins round the door the initials R.W. above the design of a tun. He looked at Sir Richard sideways. The cunning old fox certainly wanted everyone to know who owned this dazzling display of Renaissance virtuosity — even down to the pun on his name. Wes-tun! He shook his head and laughed.
‘Well?’ Sir Richard was looking at him.
‘Most original, Richard. R.W. and a tun. I must confess I’ve never seen its like.’
‘And the house?’
‘Magnificent is the only word.’
And Harry Norris was sincere. It was true that he had been brought up to admire a simpler form of design, yet this in no way detracted from his enjoyment of the ornate concept of Renaissance thought. He was, he admitted, rather too unadventurous a person anyway; partly by nature and partly encouraged to a deliberately blinkered outlook by the very essence of his situation at Court. And, though he longed in many ways to be a freer spirit, he knew that it was this very simplicity that had earned him one of the most coveted posts in the land. For it was he — and only he — who was allowed to attend the King in his bedchamber. Not only that, he slept in the same room; his bed between that of the monarch and the door. Literally the King’s bodyguard; he who, by ancient tradition, would die rather than let attackers molest Henry VIII at rest. But that was only the old custom. In reality he must be the totally trustworthy listener; the observer who saw nothing and everything; the perceiver who knew to the finest reckoning the time when he should absent himself so that the King might be free to roam at will.
At fourteen, Norris had gone into the King’s service as a page of the Chamber. Always a quiet young man, he had gone about his work steadily and conscientiously, not really looking for advancement. When it came he had been amazed.
‘Why me?’ he had said to William Carey, a fellow member of the King’s personal suite.
‘I think, Harry, because you can keep your mouth shut more firmly than anyone else,’ William had said.
Neither he nor Norris could have guessed that one day Harry would have to exercise that very discretion over Carey’s own wife, Mary.
Harry supposed that to a more volatile man his job would have presented enormous difficulties but he simply got on with it, without thinking too much. Henry frequently changed his loves though, admittedly, in all those years of marriage, only Elizabeth Tailebois — mother of Henry Fitzroy — and Mary Carey had been serious affairs. But recent events had been a little unsettling. All the visits to Hever ‘to hunt’. Yes, the King was hunting all right, Harry thought, but deer were not the quarry. If he was reading the signs aright it was that little dark thing that graced Tom Boleyn’s household with her presence — the youngest child, Anne. Anne of the exciting laugh; Anne of the million enchanting glances; Anne who went swirling through a man’s dreams like a midnight fairy.
‘Jesu,’ thought Harry, ‘insanity lies along this path. One day the King will offer her something she will not be able to resist and I’ll have to make myself scarce. God help me.’
He realized that Sir Richard was inviting him inside, pushing open the vast door. As he stepped into the sheer majesty of the Great Hall, Norris felt that he was entering a church. The vaulted roof soared above him; the stained glass windows — two with glaziers still securing the glass panels — glowed like a prism in a waterfall, whilst above the fireplace blazed the colour of the pomegranate. Richard We
ston had had Queen Katharine’s device moulded and painted round the mantelpiece.
As the tour of Sutton Place continued — da Trevizi now having joined them again, to point out the finer details of the interior carving and the use of terra cotta moulding — Norris grew more and more amazed. He had no doubt at all that he was seeing a man’s vision made reality; it seemed to him that da Trevizi must have had divine inspiration.
He was so bemused with the sheer size of the Long Gallery — something he had never seen before but which would be copied by every architect in England within a few years — that he was forced to sit down in gasping admiration on reaching the far end. As there were no chairs he sat on the floor and gazed round, totally lost for words.
Richard Weston laughed, his expressionless eyes for once animated.
‘I see you’re in favour.’
‘It is the most original thing I have ever come across. I believe you’ll start a fashion. Why, you can use it for dancing and music and mummery.’
‘And to walk in in the winter. Come, Harry, let me offer you some refreshment. I have had one little chamber in the north wing made ready. The rest is awaiting completion of work.’
‘When will it be finished?’
‘In the autumn.’
Leaving da Trevizi, the two men proceeded down a turreted spiral staircase and out into the quadrangle where, through a smaller doorway, they entered the Gate House wing. Here Sir Richard had had a room furnished and on the dresser Harry saw that two hogsheads of claret had been placed on supports.
‘The man intends to show his mansion to anyone who’ll come to see,’ he thought. But, God’s life, he had something to show!
Sir Richard was pouring wine and saying, ‘Tell me about the investiture in June.’
Norris sat down and took the proffered glass. ‘The main object seems to be to ennoble Henry Fitzroy. He is to become Duke of Richmond.’
