by Deryn Lake
‘Is everything all right?’
‘No, your mother has taken to her bed. She’s been there for the past three days.’
‘Is she ill?’
‘There is nothing wrong with her body. She’s taken leave of her senses! She has consulted some wretched astrologer in London and believes this house to be accursed. There has been nothing but weeping and wailing ever since. I could smite the fellow’s head from his body.’
Francis’s mind immediately leapt to Dr Zachary. He had no doubt whatever that his mother had consulted him on her last visit to Court. However, he decided to say nothing. The grim set to his father’s jaw convinced him that Sir Richard’s threats were real enough and that there might well be an argument of tremendous proportions brewing. He — Francis — knew Dr Zachary hardly at all, only noticing him as a tousle-headed figure who frequented Court from time to time. Nonetheless, he had come to the conclusion that he was the son of Norfolk himself, not merely a lowly bastard of the clan. Laughing at himself for displaying some of his father’s diplomacy Francis simply made a reproving sound and shook his head while Sir Richard made an irritable movement, kicking one of the hissing logs with his booted foot.
‘God’s head! Sometimes she sleeps and sometimes she lies awake without speaking. Go to her and see if you can get this rubbish from her head, Francis. A Viking curse! That sorcerer preaches Paganism!’
‘Viking?’
‘King Knut’s niece Edith is supposed to have cursed that disused well near the ruin of the hunting lodge.’
Instantly Francis felt a clammy sweat. Something he hadn’t thought about for months was there again, crystal clear in his mind. The apparition writhing on the ground, the hollow-eyed stare it had given him.
‘Christ!’ he said involuntarily.
His sudden pallor seemed to infuriate his father beyond all reason.
‘What!’ he bellowed. ‘You too! Have I sired an idiot? God’s mercy, Francis, if you encourage your mother in this I’ll beat you personally.’
Francis thought, ‘Nothing changes. He shouted and struck me all those years ago when I saw that dreadful thing. Now he is exactly the same.’
The gloom of the day seemed to have stolen into Lady Weston’s chamber for it was almost entirely in darkness. Francis, with great purpose in his footsteps, strode to the windows and drew back the hangings. In the grey light that crept in he saw that his mother was awake and peering over the counterpane to see who had entered.
‘Why Francis!’ she called. ‘How very glad I am to see you.’
With a great inner resolve to do his utmost to raise her spirits, Francis said, ‘Father tells me that Dr Zachary has upset you.’
Lady Weston fell straight into his trap.
‘Yes, my interview with him was disturbing.’
So Zachary was the culprit. Francis resolved to have words with him as he braced himself for a show of bravado.
‘He’s only young, Mother. Looked upon by many as a charlatan.’
‘I thought of him as highly regarded in Court circles.’
‘By the gullible, perhaps. Anyway, how could he know of a Viking curse? It was all so long ago.’
‘Apparently there is a tale written down by a chronicler of that time. A man who witnessed the event and entered a monastery through fear of what he had seen. It is still in existence in the Abbey’s papers.’
‘And Dr Zachary has actually seen it?’
‘Yes.’
Francis sat silently. It was difficult to think of an answer for, so far, there had been no mention of crystal or star gazing. Nothing that he could make fun of as a magician’s artifice.
His mother was speaking again.
‘Francis, Giles the Fool told us a little of the story when you were a child. This place wiped out the Bassett family but I thought at that time it was they who were cursed.’
‘Perhaps they were. Perhaps that is the explanation.’
‘I fear not. Dr Zachary told me the rest of the history. There is too much evidence.’
And then Francis sat in a state of mounting tension as Lady Weston spoke of a tale so bizarre that he found himself shaking. Again and again the vision of that spectral figure at the well came into his mind and the whole chamber seemed full of shadows as the story unfolded.
After the death of the homosexual Hugh Despenser on the gallows, the old manor house where he had once consorted with his lover King had fallen into disrepair and though Edward III had given the Manor of Sutton to the Woodstocks — the Earls of Kent — they had not chosen to take up residence there.
‘Despite this,’ said Lady Weston, ‘an immediate evil fell upon their line. Both the Earl of Kent and his brother died without leaving a living heir and Sutton passed to their sister, Joan.’
But though Joan, the Fair Maid of Kent, lived on and married three times her eldest son Thomas was beheaded, leaving no children, and his brother died shortly after inheriting the estate.
‘It is always the heir who is in danger, Francis.’
With two brothers dead and childless the estate now passed to Joan’s daughter who had married into the Beaufort family. Immediately a sinister destiny enveloped them. John Beaufort, the Earl of Somerset, died young after inheriting Sutton and then his eldest and his second son followed him. His third son Edmund was killed at the Battle of St Albans shortly after inheriting the estate. Edmund’s closest son, the new Lord of the Manor of Sutton, was promptly beheaded on the battlefield after the Battle of Hexham and his two younger brothers were both killed at Tewkesbury. There was no male heir. It had happened again. Death and destruction, childlessness and the fall of another mighty house.
‘Do you realize, Francis, that this land has destroyed four great families — the Bassetts, the Despensers, the Woodstocks and the Beauforts? It could destroy the Westons too.’
‘I hope to God not. Did Zachary offer you no advice? Surely something can be done to ward off this malevolence?’
For the first time Anne Weston smiled.
‘Yes, he gave me amulets for all of us — even for Margaret and Catherine. But for you he sent something most special. A charm that came from his mother which is most powerfully protective. Pass me that wooden box.’
From it she took a golden chain on which hung a strange blue stone, the like of which Francis had never seen before. And in the stone, carved by what means he could not imagine, was a symbol vaguely resembling an eye.
‘How much did he charge you for this?’ Francis asked, taking it in his fingers.
His mother looked at him reprovingly.
‘He charged me nothing for the amulets — even yours, which was precious to him.’
Francis immediately felt ashamed of himself. Norfolk’s dark-haired bastard had done him no harm and yet he had tried to demean him. And as Francis held the ancient talisman into his mind flashed a strange picture of a fair-haired girl wandering through a cornflower field and at her side a dark child, picking a posy for her and running; running with his bare feet, feeling the freedom of the wind blowing through his black curls.
‘Romanies,’ he said aloud.
Lady Weston looked at him curiously but Francis said no more. He slipped the chain around his neck and against his skin the gemstone felt warm and vibrant, not cold as he had expected. With a great sigh of relief Anne Weston jumped from her bed.
‘Now you are safe,’ she said.
Francis smiled.
‘Mother, was all this moaning in the darkness a ploy? Was it done to make me wear this amulet?’
The blue eyes, so like his own, gave him a knowing glance.
‘It wasn’t making you do so that worried me most. But to get your father to put one on was hard work indeed.’
Francis’s infectious laugh filled the room. The thought of impassive Sir Richard, the seasoned political campaigner and climber, actually agreeing to wear an amulet to ward off the evil eye struck him as comical. And he was still smiling as he descended the staircase to the Great H
all where Sir Richard was hunched before the miserable fire. He looked up as he heard Francis approaching.
‘Well, how is your mother?’
‘Greatly recovered, sir.’
Francis’s eyes began to crease at the edges but his face had an innocent air as he said, ‘It seemed she wished me to wear a talisman to protect me from the curse and that was at the root of her distress. Of course, I agreed. I realize, Father, that you do not approve of such foolishness and would not consider such action yourself but I trust you will forgive me.’
Sir Richard shifted uncomfortably in his chair and his eyes looked directly into Francis’s. Under scrutiny his son felt his lips begin to twitch.
‘God’s head!’ roared Sir Richard.
Francis collapsed into a laughing heap. And then he was off at great speed with Sir Richard in full pursuit, up the stairs and down the Long Gallery, too fleet of foot for the heavier built man to catch him up. By the time his father had panted into the Gallery, Francis appeared to have vanished into the air and look as he might Sir Richard could not find him anywhere.
Eventually he gave up and went to his wife’s chamber to find her dressed and Joan attending to her. Francis, after listening to the quiet for a long time, lowered himself out of the largest chimney breast, somewhat darkened by soot and grinning like a blackamoor.
*
A few days later Sir Richard and Lady Weston left Sutton Place for Calais though Sir Richard was opposed to leaving Francis as master of the house.
‘But truly, Master,’ said Giles Coke, ‘what mischief can he get up to on his own?’
But they were all to be surprised for on the afternoon of the third day after his parents’ departure, a message came through from the Gate House that four visitors had arrived. Francis, who had been practising tennis strokes in the garden, hurried to wash the sweat off and change his shirt, and by the time he descended into the Great Hall, he could hear the laughter and chatter of three men and a woman. Even before he turned the bend in the stair and could actually see them, he knew who the girl was. The melodious voice of Anne Boleyn was unmistakable.
The afternoon sun was pouring through the stained glass windows and a nimbus of rose was around that black, silky head as she turned to greet her host. Francis often thought about her looking as she did at that moment, glowing in the reflected light and with some inner lustre of her own.
Standing with her and all looking towards him were her brother George, her cousin Thomas Wyatt, the courtier poet, and another of her cousins — Sir Francis Bryan.
‘My parents are not here,’ said Francis and then felt foolish and boy-like, for he had spoken too quickly, had blurted almost.
‘We know,’ Anne answered and she gave him a slow, sweet smile. ‘We came to see you. We have ridden from Hever this very day.’
That evening they dined in the Great Hall very resplendently. Giles Coke as Steward, standing in watchful attendance, could not help but admire his young master for the skill with which he played host. But it was the girl who really caught and held his attention. Frankly, he thought her ugly, preferring plump, soft women. To his way of thinking her chest was too flat, her neck too long, her nose too sharp. Admittedly she had a fine pair of dark eyes and thick hair but that wasn’t enough to warrant the amount of admiration she was receiving.
Looking from face to face of the four men present Giles could see that they were all entranced with her. Even her own brother obviously found her amusing and interesting, though he was the only one who was not sitting forward in his chair hanging on her every word as she chattered away.
But then as he silently observed her, Giles quite suddenly saw her fascination. It was her very animation, her sheer vitality, that was so captivating. To his mind she looked as if she would always be able to amuse, to cheer a man if he came home exhausted. And there was something else — but he could not grasp it. It was too intangible a quality. The only way that he could think about it was as a kind of mysteriousness. She looked as if she knew things that ordinary people might not be able to comprehend. And when he saw her in this light, Sir Richard’s Steward understood that she could be mistaken for beautiful because she dazzled the eye so much that it was impossible to see what she really looked like at all.
And after dinner when the company had retired to the Long Gallery where, good servant that he was, he stood partly in the shadows so that his presence should not be obtrusive and she took up her lute and sang, he, too, felt her power creep over him. It was during the lyrical love duet that she sang with her cousin Thomas that Coke had the strange experience of stinging behind his eyes. Why, he had not wept since he was a boy and now here was this girl making unknown emotions rise in him and choke in his throat. Small wonder then that Francis was gazing at her in wonderment, that Wyatt was obviously in love with her, that Sir Francis Bryan shot her brilliant glances from his grey unblinking eyes.
Francis, flushed with wine and a certain self-importance, was speaking ‘... but the house is supposedly built on accursed land.’
Four pairs of eyes fixed themselves upon him.
‘Sutton Place cursed?’ said Wyatt.
‘So it’s said. And the old manor house before it. Edward the Confessor’s wife laid a spell of evil at a well which is on our property.’
‘An intriguing thought,’ answered Thomas, his poet’s imagination captured by the idea of pale queens long dead uttering words that could reverberate long after the speaker had crumbled to dust.
‘And is it true?’
Beneath his shirt Francis felt the amulet warm against his chest. Unconsciously his hand stole up to touch it.
‘I don’t know,’ he said.
Anne shivered despite the heat of the fires.
‘Who knows what destiny has in store for us?’ she said.
Bryan’s voice, so quiet that it was unnerving, was speaking. ‘Who indeed.’
And he smiled though Francis saw that the grey eyes never moved. He wondered if the man had something wrong with him that he blinked so little.
Anne rose to her feet.
‘Gentlemen, I beg your forgiveness. I am tired after so much travelling. I bid you goodnight.’ And she was gone before anyone could answer.
In the sudden silence Francis Bryan turned his unnerving gaze on George Boleyn and Thomas Wyatt.
‘I am told that we are away from Court at a stirring time. It would seem that His Grace is most seriously considering whether his marriage to Her Grace is truly legal.’
‘Oh!’
George’s closed face, rather like Anne’s in its dark quality, did not alter. But Francis, too young yet to have learned the art of dissembling, stared open mouthed.
‘But that is ridiculous,’ he said. ‘They have been married for years.’
‘Eighteen to be precise,’ answered Bryan drily. ‘Longer than you have lived, Francis. And long enough for a man — even a King — to grow bored.’
He looked directly at George who remained impassive and merely raised his shoulders slightly in reply. It was Thomas Wyatt who said, ‘Yes, it’s true. It is a tightly kept secret but His Grace was called to trial at York House on May 17 to answer the validity of his marriage.’
‘But who would dare do such a thing?’ said Francis.
The other three burst out laughing, though not unkindly.
‘Listen, Holy Innocent, nobody would. Therefore it’s obvious that His Grace himself is behind the whole thing. He wants to be free of Katharine.’
Francis sat with his mind in turmoil. He remembered the looks he had observed passing between the King and Anne; thought of the way Henry sang while she played the lute; remembered how his fellow courtiers had stirred when His Grace, in full public gaze, had selected Anne for his partner at the May masque for the French ambassadors. God’s life, he had been slow witted! He had realized that the King was infatuated but that it should be more serious than that he had not even considered.
Despite the four fires it seemed to grow s
uddenly cold in the Gallery.
‘How strange that the King should choose May 17,’ he said. ‘That was the day on which my father was granted the Manor of Sutton.’
George appeared to have been affected by the chill too, for he trembled.
‘I feel as if that date reminds me of something,’ he said.
It suddenly seemed to Francis that a black spiral was whirling towards him down the length of the Gallery. Something terrible and formless and — inescapable.
9
The Holy Lamb in Cordwainer Street was, considering both the time of day and the temperature outside, practically deserted. Two old men sat supping in one corner, so bored with each other after all their years of companionship that they could no longer be bothered to speak and they, apart from one young farmer come to the City to sell produce, composed the entire custom.
Outside, the almost empty midday street was vile with the smell of rotting garbage and filth, for no efforts had been made of late to do anything about clearing it. It was the summer of 1528 and the heatwave had brought in its wake an evil epidemic of the Sweating Sickness. With the knowledge that one could wake in the morning apparently quite well and be dead by evening, so quickly and violently did the symptoms appear, many of the citizens had left London and those that could not remained in their houses.
The King had sped from Greenwich to Waltham and Anne Boleyn had left for her father’s home, Hever. She had more reason than most to be afraid, for one of her own servants had indeed caught the illness. Cardinal Wolsey had left York House for The More and the Duke of Norfolk had gone to Kenninghall Castle. Francis Weston, seeing the Court breaking up and going out of London, had thought it expedient to head for Sutton Place.
But there were some who had not been able to make their escape in time. Sir William Compton and Sir Edward Poyntz, old established friends of the King, were dead and William Carey, husband of Anne Boleyn’s promiscuous sister, was at this very moment gasping his way out of life. And in the forbidding house next door to The Holy Lamb, Zachary Howard lay alone in a dark room, wrapped in as many blankets as he had been able to find, pouring sweat from every part of his body. His dark hair normally so wild clung to his head damply, his eyes were closed with exhaustion, but before he had been forced to take to his own bed he had made up a huge pitcher full of sweet-smelling liquid, following a remedy taught to him by his mother. The only thing missing was fresh raspberry leaves but in their place he had substituted honey, roses and foxgloves.
