by Deryn Lake
His answer was both apt and unusual.
‘Is the silence of Sutton Place beginning to murmur?’ he said.
8
It was a crystal morning, the sky unclouded and the March wind blowing the wild early daffodils. In the midst of their vivid carpet stood a contrastingly sombre beech tree, on a low bough of which, quite alone, sat Anne Boleyn. As always, her natural grace adapted to her surroundings; her green velvet skirt draped to the ground as if she had pre-arranged the folds, her black hair flew out loosely on the breeze. Her gaze was turned towards the Thames, breathing in the sweet river air, and on her lips was a smile of undisguised triumph for Mistress Anne had achieved her objective. After four years she had been reinstated at Court as one of Katharine’s ladies; four years which, at times, she had thought would never culminate as she wanted. For she would only return on her terms — with the monarch of all England begging and pleading for her to be at his side.
She thought, ‘If only I could have been Harry’s Countess. I loved him so greatly and I will never and can never love like that again. And Wolsey broke our match at Henry’s instigation. How much I despise the King and his man of God.’
And the expression of discomfiture on Henry’s big, bland face when she refused a gift or did not reply to a letter or was in a capricious mood, gave her pleasure. For had not he, through Wolsey, reduced Harry to tears? Harry, who had held her in his arms and kissed her and asked her to share his bed, even though she had timidly refused. And now people wondering why she constantly rejected the King, thought she did it to keep his interest sharp. If only they had known that to see the look of sorrowful disappointment in his eyes was the breath of life to her.
It had all started as a terrible game. Her first bitterness after she had been sent home in disgrace, separated for ever from the man she loved, had been against Wolsey. But it hadn’t taken her long to burrow out the truth. She may have been only sixteen years old but when the King had come calling at Hever, she had known. Everything — instinct, intuition, sixth sense — had pointed to Henry VIII wanting her for himself, tiring of her poor, silly sister and desiring another Boleyn girl for his bed, at the cruel expense of her love for Harry Percy. But the sport had begun; to see how far she could push the two most powerful men in the land. For what had she to lose?
And now sitting amongst the daffodils and feeling the wind blowing freshly against her skin she thought with supreme pleasure that her triumph had been far in excess of her original intention. The King had actually fallen in love with her and she was in the strongest position of all to inflict the little hurts that can make each day a misery to a lover. Not only that but her web was growing closer to Wolsey. He had described her as a ‘foolish girl’ to Harry.
‘We will see,’ she said aloud.
Only one thing troubled her. What move next? Her prime objective — to punish Henry and to be brought back to Court in triumph — had been achieved. But now she was at a crossroads. She could either become the King’s mistress or ... Or what? Fade into obscurity when Henry eventually grew tired? Or dare she go for the highest place in the land? Could she, dare she see if Henry would divorce Katharine and marry her?
The thought was so utterly stimulating that Anne threw back her head and the cloud of black hair flew as she laughed aloud. How wonderful at nineteen to be able to sit in a tree like a forest creature, and make decisions as to what scheme one would venture next with the King of England.
And that was how Francis Weston first saw her; glowing with pleasure and exuding the vitality of utter confidence. He thought that she was the most arresting girl he had ever come across. Almost unreal, an air of something like magic about her.
At that moment they were probably the two most self-assured people at Court. She for the sweet taste of power in the mouth of one so young, he for the knowledge that he was the most handsome man in the King’s service even, some said, in all England.
She laughed again as she saw him staring at her and called out, ‘Don’t be afraid, sir. I have not really lost my wits. It is the March wind that has made me into a March hare.’
Francis bowed.
‘Francis Weston, madam.’
She jumped down from the tree and stood facing him, her great dark eyes alive with some secret joke.
‘How very formal. Then I must be as well. Anne Boleyn, Viscount Rochford’s daughter,’ and she dropped a small curtsey.
At once the name was familiar to Francis. Had he not overheard his parents discussing her some years ago? Yet all he could recollect of their conversation was that she had six fingers on one hand. Without deliberate intention his eyes swept downwards and he saw, for a split second, a protuberance growing from the little finger of the left before the girl tucked it into her long sleeve. Knowing that she had seen him looking he felt embarrassed but Mistress Anne went on talking as if nothing had occurred.
‘And what are you doing out so early, Master Weston? Should you not be attending His Grace in the Privy Chamber?’
How did she know his position at Court, he wondered?
‘His Grace rode at dawn, madam. I have already waited upon him.’
‘Then you are free to talk to me?’
Francis bowed.
‘I am at my Lady’s command.’
For some reason he was not at ease with this young woman. Usually he was at his best in female company, more than aware of the effect of a glance from his vivid eyes, but this girl was different. He sensed a power and determination that would be utterly unswayed by a look from a saucy courtier.
‘You have not told me why you are abroad at this time. I’ll wager half the Court is still asleep.’
He wanted to say, ‘And what of you? What kind of woman sits in a tree and laughs at the world an hour after first light? Or at any hour for that matter?’
But he was too well schooled in courtly behaviour to voice such a thought and answered, ‘I came here to run, madam.’
‘Run?’
‘Aye. His Grace often chooses me to oppose him at tennis play but I have yet to win a match.’
‘So how does running feature, Master Weston?’
‘The King is a better player than I, my Lady. But he is not nearly so fast. Therefore it seems to beat him I must outrun him.’
He felt the brilliant eyes turn on him and looking at her saw a thoughtful expression on her face.
‘To beat him I must outrun him,’ she repeated quietly.
‘That is what I believe.’
Once again he heard her extraordinarily exuberant laugh.
‘Why, Master Weston, I’ll warrant you’re right,’ she said. ‘Come, I’ll race with you. Let us each pretend that the other is His Grace.’
She picked up her skirts in one hand, shouted ‘Go’ and was off towards the river before he could collect his wits. And that was the picture of her he was often to see through the years to come — hair streaming and skirts flying as she sped through the daffodils, the sound of her voice echoing back on the wind. It was only by pushing himself to the limits that Francis managed to pass her, for she had made a good start and was extremely light and swift on her feet. As she breathlessly came into second place she held out her right hand to him.
‘A bold victory, Master Francis,’ she said, ‘but as you said, the King is not so fast.’
Francis thought, ‘There is some hidden meaning in this. What does she really think?’
But she was an enigma and her face unreadable. Suddenly very curious, Francis asked, ‘Will you be staying at Court, Mistress Anne?’
‘Aye, for a long time,’ she answered and her small white teeth showed as she smiled at him. ‘I think you have helped me decide that.’
‘I, madam?’
‘You have just given me some very good advice.’
Francis gave up completely trying to understand. The girl obviously delighted in speaking riddles which were impossible to fathom. What he was thinking must have shown in his expression for impulsively Anne put
her hand in his and said, ‘I shall need friends at Court, Master Weston. I was there some years ago but I — left. Will you be one of them? I would be so glad of your help.’
She was instantly transformed from a rather vexing creature in to a nymph of charm and sincerity — a changeability that was to grow more and more pronounced in later years. Warm and friendly like this she was irresistible. Francis raised her hand to his lips.
‘It will be an honour, madam.’
‘Good. Now go to your running. I shall sit in the tree again and play the lute.’
And as he ran to and fro, sometimes imitating the quick moves made on a tennis court, he heard behind him notes of music and a voice full of sparkling cadences, yet husky and thrilling. He turned and waved his hat to her, because, for all her strangeness, he liked her though he found it difficult to decide whether she was plain-featured or uniquely beautiful.
Eventually he grew tired and, returning to the tree, his face streaked with sweat and out of breath, he said, ‘I will bid you adieu, Mistress Boleyn. Unless you wish me to walk with you back to the Palace.’
‘No, I will stay here and enjoy the morning.’
‘Then I hope to have the pleasure of seeing you very soon.’
He bowed and walked some distance away. When he was sure that she could no longer see him he stripped off his clothes and dived into the river for the smell of his exertions was about him and no member of the Privy Chamber must be in the least unclean and unpleasant. The Marquess of Exeter had personally thrown poor William Carey out to wash only a few days before.
The water was cold and he stayed in for only a few minutes, drying himself with his shirt and rubbing some wild lavender into his skin. Anne, who had climbed one branch higher in order to get a finer view of the landscape stared at him in fascination. She had never before seen a man naked. Once, when she had been very young and both nursemaids ill, she remembered her mother — Lady Elizabeth — washing herself and Mary and George together. She had looked at her brother in awe, thunderstruck by the difference between him and herself, and had received a blow on the ear for doing so. And now here was this beautiful young man — blissfully unaware that she could see him.
She thought, ‘Harry would have been like that; firm of flesh and hard of muscle. If only I had gone into his bed, even once. Just to have known the feel of his body, skin against skin.’
But too late for regrets. They had married Harry to Mary Talbot with disastrous results and now it was up to her to take revenge for his and her own ruined life. She thought of the King’s body — the first signs of corpulence just appearing, despite all the hard exercise he took. And as her dark eyes steadily watched Francis dressing she thought of his words. ‘To beat him you must outrun him.’ Yes, she’d do that all right. She would run and run until the Queen’s crown was put on her head and Henry Tudor would know — if he didn’t already — what it was like to physically ache with frustrated longing.
Half an hour later — very much as she had expected — she heard a voice behind her say, ‘Oh, my little love, what are you doing? You could fall. Why have you climbed so high?’
Without turning round she replied, ‘From here I can see from the Palace to the Tower. Climb up, Henry. Climb and look at your kingdom.’
And as she heard his heavy frame heave on to the lower branch she picked up her lute and strummed the strains of a Norfolk air — a harvesters’ song of thanks for the grain. She thought how apt it was, for was not she beginning to reap her own particular crop? As she felt the King’s lips on her neck she still did not turn and it was as well for him that he could not see the cruelty of her smile.
*
For once Harry Norris was alone. The King’s Esquire of the Body sat in his little-used apartments more than a little drunk and intending to get fully so. For what he had feared had finally happened. Anne Boleyn had returned to Court and now it must surely be only a matter of days before she granted the King the ultimate favour. And the very thought of it made the man considered rather dull and boring by many of his fellow courtiers rise to his feet and begin to pace the room, silent tears running down his face. It was precisely at this desolate moment that a knock came on his door; nothing, he thought, could have been timed worse.
‘Wait,’ he called out but his voice was muffled and Francis Weston, standing on the other side, misheard and walked straight in.
‘Good God, Sir Henry! Are you ill?’
‘Yes,’ said Harry wildly. ‘I have the ague. I am sweating.’
‘The strangest sweat I’ve ever seen,’ thought Francis. ‘The man’s in tears.’
‘Let me help you to your bed,’ he said aloud.
It suddenly seemed to Harry that all he wanted in the world was for someone to care how he was feeling.
‘It’s this damnable ague. Oh dear Christ!’ he muttered.
And then, standing there, in front of a sixteen-year-old boy, Harry — to his bitter shame — burst into uncontrollable weeping. It was a wretched moment for them both. The older man disgusted with his lack of control; Francis embarrassed to see someone, whom he had always looked upon as middle-aged, in such a pitiable state.
‘Yes, Sir Harry,’ he said awkwardly. ‘Ague can play the devil’s own tricks. Perhaps you should rest.’
And he took the older man by the arm and laid him on his bed, drawing the coverlet up over him. Then just as he left the room he heard it. There was no doubt in his mind at all. Into his pillow Harry Norris groaned one word — ‘Anne.’ For no reason — for it was a most common name — Francis was certain that Sir Harry was referring to the strange creature he had met that morning. She of the black hair and eyes and unconventional ways.
As he left the room and walked slowly along the corridor his face bore a puzzled look. He was sure that there was something going on — and all connected with the girl — but he could not imagine what it was. He pondered about it all day. Throughout a desultory game of tennis with William Brereton and still while he hurriedly changed his clothes in preparation for the evening’s activities.
‘Be sure you’re on duty in good time,’ Brereton had shouted as they ended their game. ‘His Grace has guests for an informal supper.’
‘Who are they?’
‘I don’t know.’
But even though he arrived punctually at five o’clock, Francis found the place already in uproar. The barber was at work on His Grace’s beard and Henry Norris, looking pale and dreadful, was supervising preparations for the King’s bath.
‘Francis, pour in these oils!’ he called.
Without thinking, Francis exclaimed, ‘God’s head, this is a great to-do,’ only to be rewarded with a black look from that raven of a man, Exeter.
‘Hold your tongue, young Weston.’
But as he and Francis collected the King’s glittering doublet of red jewel-encrusted velvet from the Yeoman of the Wardrobe, William Carey whispered to him, ‘It is only my sister-in-law and her brother.’
Francis gaped.
‘I would have believed it royalty from the preparations.’ William smiled a little sadly and shook his head.
‘They haven’t a title between them,’ he said.
The King’s musicians had already arrived and were playing one of His Grace’s own love songs by the time Henry was satisfied with his appearance. He emerged from his bedchamber, perfumed and sweet smelling, and stood before the great fire that had been built to combat the March night. Yet within all that splendid apparel there was only a mortal man Francis thought. For the King’s hands were trembling and the diamonds and emeralds on his fingers flashed a million anxious reflections as he toyed with his glass.
From the door Roger Ratcliffe announced, ‘Mistress Anne Boleyn and Master George Boleyn’ and Francis, as he bowed, thought, ‘So it is the girl.’
If she had bribed the Yeoman of the Wardrobe, she could not have chosen an outfit more cleverly designed to blend with that of the King’s. From top to toe she shimmered in cloth of gol
d but in the slashes of the long sleeves glowed crimson — an exact replica of the colour and stuff of His Grace’s doublet. The effect was breathtaking as she slowly curtseyed before him and then let him raise her and move her to stand by his side.
At last Francis knew the answer to the mystery. He may yet be young but he could recognize blatant adoration when he saw it and the King’s features almost seemed to burn with joy as he looked at the girl. And glancing swiftly at Norris — in control now but still white lipped — Francis caught a fleeting glimpse of the same look.
‘Gentlemen,’ said the King, ‘may I present Lord Rochford’s daughter Anne and her brother, George. They will be joining us at Court. I ask that you make them heartily welcome.’
Mistress Anne curtsied most prettily and said, ‘I look forward to friendship with you all.’
It was a friendship destined to kill four of the men who stood in that room and who paid their respects to her.
*
It occurred to Francis as he cantered through the last of the trees and caught his first view of Sutton Place that he had never seen the house so sombre. A pall of grey cloud hung over it, giving it a desolate appearance and the tower of the Gate House was swathed in mist. He had never thought of the mansion as an unhappy place but it struck him now that it had a decidedly menacing appearance.
Inside, the atmosphere was no better. His father stood in the Great Hall staring into a dismal fire, the only sound that of wet, spitting logs and the rain beating against the windows. On hearing Francis enter he looked up and even the pleasure of seeing his son again could not remove the gloomy aspect from his usually expressionless face.
‘Well, my boy, well,’ he said, attempting a smile. ‘How is life at Court? You have grown taller.’
Francis went to embrace him and for once Sir Richard did not move quickly from the contact but held his son tightly for a moment or two. This, in itself, was enough to convince Francis that something was wrong.
