by Deryn Lake
‘Giles, what are you doing?’ she had asked and had thought to herself that here was a treat for Robin Goodfellow.
‘It’s for a poor hedgehog, my Lady.’
‘Nay. You’ll not deceive me. ’Tis for one of your invisible friends.’
He had given her a strange look; half mocking, half reproving.
‘Only invisible to some, my Lady.’
‘Then do you see them, Giles?’
‘Would you believe me, whatever I answered?’
The reply had silenced her; at that moment Giles’s funny crinkled face had had an expression of great dignity. As she descended into the Great Hall an hour later she saw him just about to leave by the Middle Enter.
‘Giles,’ she called out, ‘I am going to London. Toby will accompany me and Meg, too, for Joan is ill. I shall leave the care of all in the hands of Giles Coke and yourself.’ Then she added, ‘Thank you for the good spell.’
He started guiltily and said, ‘How did you know, my Lady?’
‘I saw you from my window. What exactly were you doing?’
‘I was calling up the tutelaries.’
‘They are the fairies who guard families, are they not?’
‘Yes, my Lady.’
With the dream so fresh in her mind the answer was disquieting.
‘Do we need protection, Giles? Is there something you know?’
Again, that blankness in the tumbler’s eyes; the air of deliberate innocence.
‘I don’t understand, my Lady. I always ask the tutelaries for their care.’
Why the evasiveness? The man was being deliberately uncomprehending. And why this chill of fear in herself? When the dream had plagued her before, Dr Zachary had told her she was seeing the house as it would be in time to come. But now this explanation seemed incomplete. Anne Weston knew at that moment, standing in the Great Hall of her mansion, that there was something sinister hidden amongst its splendour.
*
Zachary Howard was sitting in his father’s sumptuous lodgings in Greenwich Palace, talking earnestly. It was not often they had time together as father and son, for the secret of their relationship had never been revealed and so the opportunity to converse closely was something they both relished. The Duke all the more so, for looking at his son as he moved and spoke he would see an expression or gesture to remind him of the boy’s mother — his true love who had died in agony. Sometimes it was so vivid — a look in the eye, a turn of the head — that his heart would constrict. After all these years the memory of her still moved him and there were nights when he would wake thinking he could hear a snatch of her strange, sad song. And then he would weep to know it was only a nightingale that called.
Of his three children Thomas Howard loved Zachary best. But there was more than love between them; there was respect. Norfolk the Kingmaker — leader of the great Howard clan — plotted his political course on a grand scale and feared no man except the King. And constantly behind him stood the tousle-haired figure of his natural son. For it was he who consulted the stars on the Duke’s behalf, read the ancient cards, looked at that strange crystal glass that always seemed blank when Norfolk picked it up and stared into it.
And today he was particularly glad that his ‘witch boy’, as he secretly thought of him, had come to see him. For the Duke was troubled by a persistent rumour that his spies were bringing him regarding his niece, Anne Boleyn. A rumour that — if it were true — might bode trouble on an unprecedented scale.
He hadn’t approved, of course, when his sister Lady Elizabeth had married Thomas Boleyn of Norfolk. A puny upstart — just a glorified merchant when all was said and done. And it was he — the Duke — who had obtained places for the two Boleyn girls at Court when they had returned from France. And fine thanks he’d received for his pains. Mary nothing but a great trollop lolloping in and out of the King’s bed and Anne dismissed over the Harry Percy affair. But they were his nieces and the fact that their mother had died and Thomas had re-married some Norfolk bumpkin couldn’t remove the fact that Howard blood ran in them — they were part of his mighty family. And now this disquieting murmur — that his younger niece, Anne, had the King so in love with her that he was beginning to question the legality of his marriage to Katharine. And it was to Zachary he had turned and for a week now his son had been closeted in that gaunt house in Cordwainer Street, consulting charts and setting out those frightening cards with one to represent Anne, another His Grace and yet another, the Queen.
‘And what did it all tell you, my son? Surely to God it is not as serious as they say.’
The square face that turned to him suddenly seemed very like his own, the line of the jaw as hard and as tough as any of the Norfolks.
‘It is as serious and more, Lord Duke my father.’
For once Thomas failed to smile at the form of address that Zachary always used.
‘What is going to happen?’
‘My cousin Anne Boleyn is destined to become Queen. Nothing can stop her.’
‘But she is only a girl, Zachary. And not even pretty. Mary is the one with the good looks.’
‘Be she the ugliest hag in Christendom, her power is enormous. She could make any man she chose fall in love with her.’
‘Jesu, is she a witch?’
The words were out before the Duke had had time to think. He could see the glower on his favourite son’s face almost before it settled there.
Thomas thought, ‘He’s angry. He hates talk of sorcery.’
And Zachary, yet again, saw in his mind’s eye the fragile head of his mother dropping forward as the scarlet flames leapt at the great pile of wood and straw beneath her feet.
‘Forgive me.’ The Duke’s enemies would not have believed the gentleness of his expression. ‘Remember, I loved her too.’
Zachary smiled and patted his father’s hand. ‘I know, I know,’ he said. ‘You have proved that in your goodness to me, Lord Duke my father. But we speak of cousin Anne. I do not know if she is a mistress of Satan — that has not been revealed to me. But in everything I see her might. It is shown in her life chart, in the Tarot cards, in the crystal. Your niece will sit upon the throne of England, sir.’
‘But what of the Queen? Is she going to die?’
‘Her fate is terrible. Divorce, misery and exile. She will die alone and friendless.’
‘God’s head,’ said Thomas Howard. ‘You are sure?’
‘I swear it. I was given the meaning quite clearly. The most tremendous force in the Kingdom lies in the form of Anne Boleyn.’
The Duke of Norfolk sat shaking his head. If anyone else had told him this he would have laughed him out of the room. He did not see at all how it could come about — and yet to back up his son’s prediction were the facts that the King visited Hever frequently, that the upstart Boleyn had been created Viscount Rochford and that secretly it was said the King had raised the matter of the validity of his marriage to Katharine — for had she not been previously married to the King’s own brother?
‘But there is more,’ Zachary was saying.
‘More?’
‘Aye, because of Anne many men will die — great men some of them. Why this is not yet clear. But one thing is certain. She herself will meet a brutal death. She will plunge from the pinnacle to the depths that lie beneath.’
The Duke saw that his son was trembling and another wave of tenderness swept him. Because of his mystic gift he sometimes forgot that Zachary was still young; still vulnerable to fears and emotions that a man leaves behind when he passes forty.
‘Why do you shiver?’ he asked. ‘You don’t know Anne, do you? Surely she had left Court before you arrived.’
‘I saw her once when I was with my tutor. I looked particularly, for I knew her to be my cousin. You are right, Father, she is not pretty. She is beautiful. And as to her death, there is — oh merciful Christ — there is the possibility that it could be by fire.’
‘Dear God,’ thought the Duke. ‘I think the
boy has some feeling for her himself. And after seeing her only once! The wretched girl is a witch and will die as befits one.’
And at that moment a great dislike for his niece Anne Boleyn was born in Thomas Howard’s heart; a dislike that was never to leave him. To see his son disturbed, to hear that great men would lose their lives, to be told that Queen Katharine, a woman he had always liked and vaguely pitied, was to die in misery was too much for him to stomach. He made a resolve at that moment to oppose the climber Boleyn’s girl as best he could. But he must be subtle. He had no wish for his head to be one of those that rolled and this put a new thought into his mind.
‘Zachary, am I to die because of Mistress Anne? You may be honest with me.’
‘No, Lord Duke my father. That is not your fate.’
The amber eyes were staring into his fixedly and Thomas felt uncomfortable.
‘Do not gaze at me so. What is it you have to tell me?’
‘It is you, Father, who will pronounce sentence of death upon her.’
There was total silence in the room. With a shaking hand Norfolk poured wine.
‘It is you — who lost your love in the flames — who will condemn her to burn.’
And with those words the great Dr Zachary put his head in his hands and wept. Howard sat motionless, stunned by what he had just heard. The incredible story was too much to comprehend. And then came the kind of thoughts that make born survivors the breed of people they are.
‘At least I’ll live through this. And if Boleyn’s daughter is to bring havoc in her train then I’ll not quibble if indeed I am he who dooms her.’
He saw Zachary wiping his eyes, noticed the whiteness of his face beneath the thick black curls.
‘My son,’ he said quietly. ‘If it is decreed that these things will happen, then we must bow to fate. I would not willingly condemn another to die but if it is writ that I shall be Anne’s judge then so be it. You must not torture yourself with this. It is already obvious to me that there is some strange attachment in your heart for Anne Boleyn. Therefore it follows that if I am to condemn her your hate will turn upon me. I want you to swear now that when the storm begins you will remain loyal to me regardless of what it is my destiny to do.’
‘Lord Duke my father,’ Zachary said. ‘I know that I wept like a child just now and it is true that the very sight of Anne stirred my soul but you have been good to me. I owe you my life in every way. I give you my oath, in my mother’s name, that if you should kill Anne the Queen with your bare hands I will still remain your liege man.’
‘Then there is love and peace between us?’
‘Always,’ said Zachary.
*
It took Anne Weston two days to reach the house in Cordwainer Street for she broke her journey overnight. And it was in the late afternoon of the second day that she finally arrived, only to be told by the girl who answered the door that Dr Zachary had gone. Anne could have wept. Long journeys were no joy to her and to find the man she most urgently desired to see not there was frustrating to say the least.
‘What are your instructions, my Lady?’ asked Toby. ‘Do we proceed to Greenwich now to see Master Francis?’
‘No, we’ll spend the night at The Holy Lamb and then if Dr Zachary has not returned in the morning, Meg and I will go to the Palace by water and you can bring the horses down and join us there.’
But persistent knocking at the door the next day only brought the slattern’s face to an upstairs window shouting that Dr Zachary had not come back. There was nothing for it but to make for Greenwich. Hiring a boatman at the reaches just beneath the Tower of London, Anne and Meg set off.
The Thames was in an exuberant mood. A light wind was ruffling the water and it seemed as if the whole population had turned out, either for business or pleasure, to make the most of the sunshine and the breeze. The river was crowded with skiffs and wherries and the privately-owned barges of the noble and wealthy. One such, covered with brightly coloured flags, proclaimed a bridegroom and his attendants making their way with much merriment to a church down stream. Alongside rowed another barge crowded with musicians blowing wind instruments with a goodly sound. In the midst of the confusion Anne Weston saw Thomas More in his black barge, deep in conversation with a companion and typically oblivious of the noise around him. She called to him for they had once lived near each other in the village of Chelsea, but her voice was lost in the wind and the general hullabaloo. A barge of the King’s household, clean and fresh with its crisp green and white Tudor colours, went past crowded with young retainers. They raised their caps to the bridegroom and some shouted ruderies were exchanged between the two vessels; all in good part, however. Anne suddenly felt how exciting it was to be alive.
At the water steps of Greenwich Palace she saw the barges of both the King and Queen riding at their moorings and also that of the Duke of Norfolk. So the royal household was in full complement and somewhere amongst them was Francis, no doubt enjoying himself to the full and quite forgetful of the fact that it was several months since he had seen his parents or Sutton Place. And she was proved quite right. For as she walked with Queen Katharine, after the midday repast, towards Tennis Court she quite distinctly heard his voice amongst the shouts and general clamour. But to her astonishment he was not one of the spectators but actually playing and his opponent was His Grace himself. And Francis, so fleet of foot at fifteen, was giving the King a hard game. Each point was being strongly fought for and the monarch was in a lather of sweat.
Anne was surprised and yet not, in the way of all mothers, at the change in her son. He had left home a boy and now she saw a young man — taller, more firm of muscle and with the childishness gone from his face. Looking at him objectively she felt sure that some girl must have succumbed to his charms for he truly was the most handsome creature; so beautiful in bone structure and colouring that it seemed impossible that half the female Court was not in love with him. And a certain change in his bearing, even while he played tennis, told her that her son’s innocence was a thing of the past. She wondered who it was who shared a bed with him. Or perhaps it was more than one. Her mind shuddered away. A part of her still wanted him to be her sweet, untainted boy.
Feeling someone gazing at him he looked up and was so surprised to see his mother that he missed the next ball and the King, with a slashing stroke, won the match.
‘Well done, young Weston,’ His Grace was shouting.
As Francis ran towards Anne she hoped that he wasn’t being too familiar with the King but was reassured by the fact that Henry himself joined them, wiping his face on a towel.
‘You have a fine son, Lady Weston. The most amusing Page of the Chamber ever to serve. Why this imp has taken money off me at dice and cards already.’
And Henry was laughing in the hail-fellow-well-met way of his that Anne never quite liked. She dropped a curtsey and said, ‘I hope that my son is doing nothing to annoy your Grace.’
‘On the contrary, madam, I envy you your boy.’
And just for a brief minute the King’s eyes filled with tears and Anne remembered that had Henry, Prince of Wales, lived he would have been exactly the same age as Francis.
And she felt a warm feeling of reassurance. His Grace was looking on Francis as if he was that long dead infant come to life. How wonderful indeed that her son should have found such great favour at Court.
That evening, playing cards with the Queen in Katharine’s apartments, she said, ‘I am so happy, your Grace, that Francis has settled in well. He seems to have become quite a man. I hardly recognized him.’
From behind them there came a muffled but quite distinct giggle. Katharine raised reproving eyes and Anne looked round. Working on their embroidery with an air of studied innocence were maids-of-honour, apparently not listening to the conversation of the two older women. But Katharine was too quick for them and shot them both a freezing glance.
‘Who are they, your Grace?’ asked Anne in a lowered voice.
&nb
sp; ‘One is Elizabeth Burgavenny and the pretty one is Lucy Talbot, daughter of the Countess of Shrewsbury.’ A smile played round Katharine’s lips. ‘She is quite friendly with Francis, I believe.’
Anne gave the young woman another, more scrutinizing glance.
‘Talbot, Talbot,’ she said aloud. ‘Was it not Lady Mary Talbot that young Harry Percy married?’
‘Yes, one of her elder sisters. It was said that he was pre-contracted to her and that was why he could not marry Mistress Anne Boleyn. Do you remember the younger Boleyn girl?’
‘Distinctly,’ said Anne.
Later that night, she was escorted to a bedchamber — the evening’s card play done — by Lady Lucy, the picture of demure goodness. But the downcast eyes and folded hands did not deceive Anne Weston for a second. Here was a born seductress — little wonder that Francis had changed! She only hoped that he would form no foolish attachments — that there would be no repetition of the Harry Percy affair. She had just heard from the Queen that the couple were already separated; that Lady Mary had returned to her father in a wild fury and had declared herself her husband’s bitter enemy. Remembering Harry Percy’s face as he held Anne Boleyn in his arms that night three years ago, in the gardens of Hampton Court it went through Anne Weston’s mind that perhaps the marriage had never been consummated. That perhaps his love for Anne had been so strong that it had rendered him incapable of ever taking another woman. Or perhaps, if that was far-fetched, Mary Talbot had found it impossible to live with Anne’s ghost, for ever haunting her husband in his waking, in his sleeping and in the marriage bed. Whatever it was, it must have been a most daunting experience for the bride to have left, expressing loathing, within three years.
And it was with her thoughts totally engrossed with the intangible Anne Boleyn that Lady Weston rounded a corner in Greenwich Palace and ran straight into the dark figure of Dr Zachary. To say that she was startled was to minimize her emotions. She could only think that it was pre-destined that they should meet at that moment and she said without preamble, ‘Oh, Dr Zachary I must speak to you; I have so much on my mind.’
