by Deryn Lake
But Catherine was already at her cupboard and impatiently pulling out the velvet night gown. And instead of a formal headdress suddenly deciding to wear her hair loose to her shoulders adorned only by an ornament made of pearls. As she brushed the pale gold locks till they shone Meg kept her thoughts to herself. However, any musing by either of them was rudely interrupted by a sharp knock on the door and Joan— Lady Weston’s personal servant — walking in.
‘Oh, Mistress Catherine,’ she said. ‘You’re to go to your mother at once. She is most indisposed with an ague. I think we should send at once for the physician from Guildford.’
Catherine ran the length of the east wing from her own chamber — which had once belonged to Margaret and was quite large and grand — to that of the Master and Mistress. There she found her mother, colourless and covered with a cold, clammy sweat.
‘Dear God,’ she whispered clutching Joan’s arm, ‘’tis not the Sweat is it?’
‘Nay, for she has no pain at all, neither is she hot. This is an ague — a chill of the bones. But still we must fetch Dr Burton.’
‘Catherine, Catherine,’ her mother was calling feebly. ‘Yes, Mother, I’m here.’
She went to her and sat down on the bed. Lady Weston stopped short, ill as she felt, on seeing this vision in black velvet.
‘What? In mourning for me already? ’Tis only an ague, child. Why so sombre?’
‘I thought the dress more — stately.’
Lady Weston shook her head against the pillows.
‘All that to-do to get you three new gowns and now you wear one made two years ago. I don’t understand you, Catherine. You ...’
But her words were cut short by a violent fit of shaking. Catherine placed her hand on her mother’s forehead and felt the dampness for herself.
‘Mother,’ she said firmly. ‘I am sending for Dr Burton. Till he comes you must keep warm and still and Joan shall bring you a hot posset.’
Lady Weston struggled to sit up.
‘But what of Sir John Rogers? Oh, this couldn’t be worse. I shouldn’t have written that letter. ’Tis a judgement on me.’
Catherine suddenly found herself very strong.
‘Nonsense, Mother. You wrote out of kindness and nobody has a judgement against them for that. Sir John will be perfectly all right. With your permission I will adopt the role of hostess till your recovery.’
Lady Weston closed her eyes.
‘Yes, yes, you have my permission. Maybe it’s for the best. It will show him what a good daughter-in-law you will make.’
Catherine curtsied. It was not considered wise to kiss the sick for everyone knew that the mildest infection could grow more serious and spread like wildfire amongst a household. Even a cold could lead to a coffin if one did not take all precautions.
But this was not the moment for speculating for there were important matters at hand. First, she despatched Toby to Guildford to wait upon Dr Burton’s presence and then she sent Giles Coke to Sir John Rogers’s chamber to ask if he would attend her in the Long Gallery.
John Rogers — standing in the shadows of the entrance — watched her silently where she sat at the Gallery windows for a good five minutes before he spoke. For once his rascal’s face was set and serious as he looked at the gleaming head and delicately boned features; the small vulnerable body; the child-like hands plucking at the velvet night gown.
‘You shall not be hurt,’ he said silently.
From the gloom he called softly, ‘Mistress Catherine, you summoned me?’
She rose startled, and curtsied.
‘Oh, Sir John. I did not see you there. Forgive me.’
He walked towards her, the evening light shining into his face and into his light-coloured eyes so that they seemed to gleam. And tonight he wore a silver doublet encrusted with rhinestones. Nothing could have been more guaranteed to create an effect. Catherine, who had noticed a strange tightening in her chest and a numbness in her fingers ever since lunchtime, now felt her stomach lurch. She stared at him dumbly, admiration written plainly on her face for the world to see.
He laughed very quietly.
‘You look as if you’ve seen a ghost, Mistress.’
‘No ... I ... that is ... I was thinking how much my brother would admire your manner of dress,’ she said lamely.
‘If I said his good taste was echoed by his sister it would sound like conceit in myself. But it is true that your clothes enhance your beauty. First red and now black — dramatic choices indeed.’
Catherine did not know where to look. Blood was pounding in her ears and her cheeks were flushed.
She muttered the well-worn phrase, ‘You do me too much honour,’ and then took to gazing out of the window, her attention apparently riveted on some unseen object beyond the trees.
The scamp’s face softened again, and he said matter-of-factly, ‘But you summoned me, Mistress Catherine. Is there anything of importance?’
‘Oh, yes. Of course. It is my mother, Sir John. She is sick with ague. I have sent for the physician from Guildford. She begs leave to be excused tonight.’
He looked concerned and thoughtful.
‘I think perhaps it would be best all round if I cut my visit short,’ he said. ‘I will only be an inconvenience to you. I shall leave tomorrow.’
Her eyes were glistening suspiciously as she answered, ‘Please do not, Sir John. My mother would be deeply distressed. She begged that your visit should not be interrupted. She implored me to ask you to stay.’
‘God forgive me for the lie,’ she thought. ‘But he mustn’t go yet.’
‘God forgive me for being what I am,’ thought John. ‘But if I don’t tread warily I shall seduce this girl.’
Now he bowed formally.
‘I shall do whatever Lady Weston commands,’ he said.
They smiled at one another.
‘Then farewell, Sir John, until we dine.’
It was two hours before Catherine joined him again and when she finally arrived he offered her his arm and escorted her down the stairs and into the Great Hall where Giles Coke, without so much as a flicker at the lateness of the meal, oversaw the serving of a great repast.
It rather amused him to note the way that Mistress Catherine sat at the head of the table, in her father’s place, and Sir John — defying convention — sat immediately beside her, leaving the rest of the great board empty and ignoring the place set for him at the foot. Yet, after dinner, Coke was surprised to see that Sir John begged forgiveness and retired immediately to his chamber.
For the next five days, Catherine was busy in and out of her mother’s sick room and it seemed to her, though surely she must be mistaken, that Sir John was avoiding her. He was there at mealtimes right enough, and spoke to her kindly and affably, but after that he would be gone, spending most of his time out riding or gambling with his manservants or playing the lute with Giles. Once, while her mother had been asleep, she had heard him singing — a light, pleasant voice — in the garden below and had crossed to the window to watch. The familiar lurch of her stomach that always accompanied a glimpse of him had taken place.
‘Dear Holy Mother forgive me,’ she had said silently, ‘because I am sure that I love him for he is not really old at all — I only said that out of foolishness. And now he is destined to be my father-in-law and I am in such agony of spirit.’
On the evening of the fifth day as Meg brushed her hair before dining she suddenly burst into tears.
‘Hey, Catherine’ — the old and familiar servants were excused from formality at certain moments — ‘what is the matter, pretty chuck? It’s that Sir John, isn’t it?’
The weeping girl nodded.
‘Dost love him?’
Catherine had flung her arms round the servant’s waist and buried her face in her apron. There was no need for reply.
‘Then tell him, sweetheart, tell him. He looks a pretty fellow to me. He may have a saucy face but there is no evil in it, do you understan
d me?’
She felt Catherine nod against her.
‘Then be brave. He will know the right thing to do. What’s the point of marrying the son if you love the father?’
‘Stepfather!’ came a muffled voice.
‘Well then.’
Catherine’s round blue eyes stared up at her and for a moment Meg saw a distinct look of Sir Richard in them.
‘I shall tell him this very night, Meg. It will be better than going on like this.’
Despite her determination, during the meal she was strangely quiet and after a few desultory questions and answers about Lady Weston’s health, they fell to eating in silence. It was as the fruit was being served at the end of the dinner that she said to him, ‘There is something I wish to say to you, Sir John. So tonight, unless it upsets you, I would prefer to let Giles the Fool sing to us and not dismiss him.’
He looked at her curiously. His feelings about her — in one way so clear, in another so confused — had led him to keep out of her way as much as possible during the visit and he thought wryly about the nature of man and the division between love and lust. Was there ever true love between two adults, he wondered, or was it merely the call of the poor body glossed over to make it acceptable to the soul? He shook his head for he did not know the answer and Catherine mistook the action.
‘You would prefer otherwise, Sir John?’
‘No, no — let him sing.’
She lost courage a little when they were actually seated in the Gallery. She had had the fires lit and two chairs placed comfortably. Giles, on her instructions, had tucked himself discreetly away in the dimness so that only his voice could be heard. All other servants had been dismissed so it was Catherine herself who poured John Rogers’s wine. But she found herself unable to speak and they sat in silence again, listening to that melodious voice pouring out its heart with love. For had not the Fool always loved her and now he suffered sitting, as he was, in the half dark and seeing her with another man.
Every ounce of his melancholy was coming forth. His Romany heart wept for his ugliness and his age and his station in life which doomed him for ever to worship silently the ground upon which she walked. And to the couple before the fire the music was cajoling and pleading so that as Catherine’s hand stole out to take Sir John’s, his at the same time was reaching for hers. Her look of wonderment as this happened met that of such ardour in his eyes, that in a second he was kneeling at her feet. And then after showering her fingers with kisses he had pulled her to stand up and was holding her against his heart, which she could feel was suddenly beating fast.
And he had swept her up in his arms and was carrying her before she could say a word. Catherine knew that this was the moment when she should start protesting, beg him to put her down, call for Giles to help her, but instead she signalled him to stay where he was for a languorous feeling was affecting her limbs and she did not want it to stop. Worse still, she wanted to proceed, to be kissed on the lips by Sir John, and let him play the entire game of lovemaking with her.
And so it was that she found herself naked in his bed and felt the unkind pain of the loss of her maidenhood turn into a rhythm that finally erupted in a strange sensation. She lay in the darkness against his chest and he said, ‘I have broken all the laws of hospitality. I deserve death at your father’s hands.’
‘Oh Sir John, do not speak so. I love you. I wanted this.’
But he would not listen and in the darkness said, ‘Catherine, I must tell you the truth. Not only about myself but also about Arthur.’
Suddenly child-like she said, ‘Is it a good story?’
‘Aye, that it is. A tale for a winter’s night. Let me light the candle.’
And in the Long Gallery, curled like a dog before the remains of the fire, the Fool slept. And in his sleep he sobbed and in the firelight the marks left by the tears glistened on his cheeks. For he had seen his beloved go to womanhood and knowing that was what she desired, he had said nothing. And the walls absorbed the sound as he wept with the hopelessness of it all. And in centuries to come those sensitive enough could still hear him as he cried for the loss of his one true love.
7
It was the dream again only this time it was worse than ever. It began in exactly the same way with that agonizingly slow progress across the quadrangle, but on this occasion when the door of the Great Hall flew open and Mistress Anne Boleyn came into view the girl was dressed in deepest mourning and had a black veil draped over her, making her almost appear headless. The old woman in the Long Gallery was the same but it was in that strange banquet that things grew more sinister, for instead of letting the servants shut the door in her face Anne Weston walked into the room and up to the great chair at the head of the table.
‘Speak to me,’ she demanded of the man sitting there, the man they called Getty. ‘Where is Francis? You’ve hidden him, haven’t you?’
In the usual unnerving way all the guests looked through her as if she were not there, so she tapped the host on the shoulder but he seemed not to notice. Then, suddenly, Giles was in the room with her.
‘Don’t worry, Mistress,’ he said. ‘I’ll tumble for them.’
‘But will they look at you, Giles? They can’t see me.’
‘That’s because they don’t want to, my Lady.’
And then he began to dance round the room and she saw with horror that the little jester’s head on the end of his stick was not a replica of Giles’s face but of Francis’s. Furthermore it was alive because it was shouting ‘Help! Help!’ It was so revolting, seeing her own son as a doll, a miniature, that Anne Weston screamed herself into wakefulness.
She was in the great four-poster with the sarsenet and tawny curtains, in the Master’s chamber of Sutton Place — and she was alone. Richard was in Calais, Margaret was with Walter at Haseley Court, Francis was at Greenwich, and Catherine ... Well, she had not seen her since the morning she had left Sutton Place with Sir John Rogers. To be strictly accurate she had not even seen her then for there had been nothing but a note lying by her — Anne’s — bed. The wretched girl must have crept in in the darkness and left it. Lying now on her fear-dampened pillow Anne could remember the words by heart.
My dearest Mother,
I will never forgive myself for leaving you while you are still ill and had not Dr Burton assured me that it was nothing serious, I would not be quitting Sutton Place. I know that you will find it hard to pardon me but I am going to Bryanston with Sir John, there to be married in his chapel to him and not to Arthur who was born lunatic and has grown worse with the passing of years and from which terrible fate he has delivered me. Always your loving daughter. At Sutton Place this second day of July, yours to command, Catherine.
Anne had sent a rider of course and he had come back with a long face. The few hours start they had on him had been enough. They had been married by Sir John Rogers’s own priest the previous day.
‘And has the marriage been consummated?’ asked Lady Weston, not feeling in the mood to beat about the bush.
‘Aye, my Lady, he bedded her forthwith as soon as the wedding feast was done.’
‘Then there’s scant chance of an annulment.’
‘My Lady ...’
The rider had hesitated. He was a leathery-looking young man, as if the saddles he constantly besat had become one with him.
‘Yes?’
‘My Lady, I do not know that you should press for it. Mistress Catherine seemed content and begged with me to plead on her behalf. She desires nothing more than the blessing of you and Sir Richard. And the story of Master Arthur Culpepper’s madness is terrible. The Steward told me all of it. It would seem that he enjoyed torturing things. Sir Richard would not have allowed Mistress Catherine to marry him, that’s certain.’
So Anne — after taking advice from Joan, Giles and Giles Coke — had written her daughter a cool note. Nothing more, naturally. It would not be fitting to pardon such a marriage too easily.
Unfortunat
ely her recent illness had left her weak for travel and therefore it was impossible for her to sail to Calais. So she was faced with the prospect of living alone and though, during the day it was enjoyable enough, it was at night that her torment started. For the recurring dream was becoming more and more frequent. As usual, when the master was absent, Joan had slept on a trussing bed in Anne’s room but this night — when the dream had been at its worst — she had slept in her own chamber for fear of giving her mistress the cold which was starting to form on her chest.
‘Oh God,’ Anne thought. ‘This dreadful nightmare. How it haunts and pursues me. There is something terribly wrong I know. But what is it? I must have help!’
It was already first light and a thrush sitting in the beautiful elm tree that grew near her bedroom window was beginning to call those first thrilling notes that would set the whole dawn chorus off into their pagan hymn to the unknown day. And, of a sudden and for certain, Anne knew what she must do. She must go immediately to the mysterious house in Cordwainer Street and seek the help of Dr Zachary. And then on to Greenwich Palace to see for herself that all was well with her son and at the same time to pay her respects to Her Grace.
Full of purpose now she rose from her bed and drew back the curtains. Pools of reassuring light formed on the bright Turkey carpet; the night of terrors almost vanquished. One more thing was to be done — the throwing open of the windows and the letting in of the clean morning air. And as she did this Anne noticed Giles on the distant lawn. Though he was far away she could see that he stood in one of those dark green circles that inexplicably formed in gardens and meadowlands. She knew it was widely believed that these were where the midnight fairies danced. There were those — intelligent people amongst them — who thought that the mortal world was shared by a whole host of unseen creatures; subjects of Oberon and Titania and the Elf King. And she, who most certainly believed in magic and spells, was inclined to feel there might be truth in it.
Giles, as a Romany, was quite definite in his views. To him they were always there, ever watchful. Ready to help or hinder the mortal in his predicament depending on how one had treated them. She had caught him one night putting milk outside the kitchens of Sutton Place.
