by Deryn Lake
As he lay, now, constantly sipping the brew and remembering in his fever how his mother had wandered unconcerned amongst the sick and dying pouring her herbal remedies down their throats when the Sweat had come to their small village in Norfolk, he knew that he must go on drinking. Knew that even if his arm could scarcely lift the jug he must not let his body dehydrate, for that meant certain death.
And all that afternoon he had battled to live though at one point he had grown so feeble that he had lapsed into unconsciousness and his hand, reaching out to take some more fluid, fell limply over the edge of the bed. It was then that his mother came to him.
‘Zachary,’ she said. ‘Wake up!’
He opened his eyes and wasn’t at all surprised to see her. She had aged not at all and in her fair hair she had woven a garland — a little coronet — of forget-me-nots.
‘Zachary,’ she said again, ‘do you hear me?’
‘Yes, Mother.’
‘You must drink, little darling.’
She had called him that when he had been very young and he wondered if she knew that he was a full grown man now, knew that she was dead and had come from whatever place she rested because he was not far from death himself.
He felt her small hand, like the touch of winter, on the back of his neck as she raised his head and helped him to drink. The whole room seemed to be blurring now, closing in on him and growing darker. And then he floated up and looked down on his body which lay like an abandoned cloak on the bed.
‘Am I dead, Mother?’ he asked.
‘No. But you are near it. So you must fight to return to life. But first I will let you see something.’
And, as clearly as if he was in the room with him, Zachary saw his father, the Duke of Norfolk, drenched in sweat and panting for breath.
‘Oh my God,’ he said. ‘I must go to him.’
‘Zachary, this is two weeks hence. You will have time to get strong enough for the journey. But first you must conquer the space between you and your body. Go back!’
He tried but he was too weak to cross the distance.
‘I can’t.’
‘Zachary, you must.’
He looked at her and saw her blue eyes shining almost fiercely.
He placed his square, strong hand — so like his father’s — into her frozen fingers and was amazed by the strength of her grasp as she began to pull him down towards that shell of himself, that thing which had once been he and which he could see was already assuming the ghastly pallor of death.
‘I don’t want to,’ he said.
‘And let your father die without your help?’
Now there was a loud thudding and he realized that it was his heart pounding. His mother brushed her lips against his and was gone.
Two hours later Dr Zachary woke shivering. The fever had passed and the Sweat was over. Raising his head he finished the last of the brew then, pulling the blankets closely round him, he fell into a natural and peaceful sleep. He wondered, as he closed his eyes, if he had been delirious and dreamed of his mother but the next morning when, weak as a cat, he got out of bed to relieve himself and change his night shirt he found a single forget-me-not on the floor. So she had come!
From that moment Zachary set about the business of making himself strong enough to travel to Norfolk as quickly as possible. Even though he knew that his father could not die — for was he not destined to read the death sentence to Anne Boleyn? — nonetheless he could not let him suffer. He must make the journey to Kenninghall as soon as he was fit to mount a horse.
The wretched girl who worked for him had run out of the house the second she had seen the Sweating Sickness start and had obviously decided not to return. So he was hampered by having to look after himself, something he found difficult in his debilitated state. However, the old woman from The Holy Lamb, having heard a rumour that the ‘magician’ was sick with ‘the Sweat’ timidly knocked on his door — presumably to see whether he was dead or alive — and gave him a one-toothed smile of genuine gladness when, after much effort with the bolts, she saw him standing in the doorway pale and drawn but obviously cured.
That very day she sent him a coney pie and a steaming dish of roach, together with pigs’ pettie toes, cheese and wine. And though he could not eat much of it the next morning he found his appetite returned and breakfasted on salt herrings and ale. At midday he had oysters, ribs of beef and sheep’s feet and that night dined on capon. On the following day he paid her the bill and gave her good money to clean his house for him in his absence. Then, packing the herbs and medicaments he would need for his father into his saddle bag, he listened with an emotion approaching that of a released prisoner to the sound of his horse being led round by a lad from the stables nearby.
And then off to leave the stench of London behind heading for Chelmsford before nightfall, for he must cover forty miles a day to get to the Duke by the time the Sweat came upon him, and this over villainous roads, some little better than cart tracks. His few stops were to drink ale at midday and to pick from the meadows the fresh flowers and leaves he needed to complete his potion. Otherwise he rested himself and his horse at wayside inns only after the sun had gone down and he could no longer see his direction.
The stretch of Roman road beyond Chelmsford had helped him to speed up but the last twenty miles from Thetford to Kenninghall were over mud tracks, baked hard and cracked by the heatwave. The horse picked its way carefully and Zachary’s heart gave a lurch of fear, for the turrets of the castle were in sight and he knew he must brave his way past his father’s second wife, Elizabeth Stafford, daughter of the man whose death on the block had given Richard Weston the gift of Sutton — Wolsey’s old enemy, Stafford, Duke of Buckingham. Not only she but also the Duke’s twelve-year-old son — Zachary’s half-brother — had to be reckoned with.
And much to Zachary’s surprise it was the boy himself who came to the Gate House to see just exactly who this jackanapes was that demanded audience with his father so urgently, refusing to move and saying he was from Court. Yet as soon as he entered the room the twelve-year-old Earl of Surrey was stopped short for there, beneath a mop of hair as black as a raven, were the familiar Howard features; the broad nose, the pointed chin, the deep-set eyes that he himself bore. There was no doubt in Surrey’s mind that he was looking at a bastard of their family and, very probably, his own father’s son. Then the thought occurred to him that as this man was about ten years older than he, it would be he — the stranger — who would have been Earl of Surrey, had he not been fathered outside wedlock. All these ideas only pushed the boy — already precocious — into a more aggressive approach than he had originally planned.
‘Well?’ he said.
‘I have come to see the Duke of Norfolk,’ answered Zachary.
He thought, ‘If ever a wretched brat needed a beating, one stands before me now. No wonder the Duke is bedding down the laundry maid.’
For his father had admitted to him on the last occasion they were alone that he was seeking solace in the warm arms of the laundry girl.
‘Though she is simply to satisfy my body, Zachary — Elizabeth being such a cold creature. I have loved no woman with my heart except your mother.’
Zachary brought his mind back to the present.
‘My father is sick with the Sweat and cannot be disturbed. Who are you?’ Surrey was saying.
‘Dr Zachary, His Grace’s own physician. He sent me to attend the Duke.’
Surrey’s jaw dropped. This was an answer he had not expected.
‘Do you bear a letter from His Grace?’ he said.
Zachary drew himself up to his full height and glowered at his half-brother.
‘It is not customary for the King’s physicians to be doubted by anyone — particularly small boys. Now, my Lord of Surrey, permit me to pass — on the instant! Do you wish me to return to London and tell His Grace that the Duke of Norfolk died because his own son prevented my entering?’
Zachary made his fa
ce grow dark and his eyes gleam in his head — a trick he had learned when dealing with Court cynics who tried to deride his gifts. He bent down so that his eyeballs were on a direct level with Surrey’s.
‘Or do I smell a plot?’ he said suspiciously. ‘Perhaps it is your wish that your father should not recover? Perhaps you have mighty ambitions for one so young? Perhaps I should report to His Grace that the senior Duke of England’s life is threatened at the hands of his own son? Villainous wretch! Stand aside!’
And he shouted at the top of his voice, ‘Hold fast, Lord Duke! Help is at hand.’ And, swinging his saddlebag violently in the direction of Surrey and catching him a well placed blow in the ribs, he charged out of the Gate House and across the lowered drawbridge and into the castle itself.
There he bellowed at a frightened servant, ‘Dr Zachary — the King’s principal physician. Come to cure the Duke. Take me to him at once if you value your life.’
And so within moments he was in his father’s bedchamber where to his horror he found that all the windows had been thrown open and the Duke was lying uncovered on his bed sweating profusely.
‘Close the windows and light a fire immediately!’ he said to the trembling servant; but before the man could move a cool voice spoke from the doorway.
‘Who are you and what are you doing?’
It was the Duchess of Norfolk staring at him icily. Zachary bowed low.
‘Your Grace, I am Dr Zachary. The King’s physician.’
‘Oh? I have not heard of you.’
‘I am recently appointed, madam. Perhaps since your last visit to Court.’
As the Duchess rarely went to London this lie was easy enough but still she looked at him with deep suspicion. Through her mind was going the idea that this man was a bastard of the clan for Zachary’s similarity to the Duke was growing more pronounced as he grew older.
From the bed the Duke’s breathing could be heard as an ugly rasp and without caring for the consequences Zachary rushed to his side.
‘Madam,’ he said, ‘you must let me care for him. I realize that it is difficult for you to entrust the life of your husband to a stranger but I promise you that if I fail to save him you may have me taken in chains to London. For God’s sake, your Grace, I am no poisoner!’
From the lower regions of the castle the Earl of Surrey’s voice could be heard shouting for his mother. Fortunately the words were indecipherable.
‘Your decision, madam?’ said Zachary urgently.
‘Oh, do what you will,’ she said impatiently. ‘But if he dies you will answer for it before His Grace.’
With a swirl of his cloak Zachary was on one knee before her, raising her hand to his lips. For no reason that she could ever fathom Elizabeth Howard put out her other hand and touched his head. If only she were able to feel the love that he obviously did for the man who lay dying on the bed; if only the bitterness caused by her father’s intolerable execution had not eaten her soul like a canker; if only all her future years were not doomed to be a sea of ‘if onlys’ as she progressed from resentful middle age to rancorous senility.
So a great roaring fire was lit in the hearth which, combined with the heat outside and the closure of the windows, turned the room into a veritable furnace. The Duke was wrapped in coverlet upon coverlet and as these became drenched in sweat they were changed for dry ones and throughout the night Dr Zachary, dressed only in shirt and hose, held the Duke in his arms and poured into his mouth some strange, sweet-smelling potion that he had prepared himself with pestle and mortar in the castle’s kitchens.
Elizabeth Howard, too, kept vigil. Sitting alone in the castle’s Great Hall, her hands working ceaselessly at her embroidery, stitching without really seeing. The stranger’s arrival had brought too many feelings, long suppressed, struggling to the surface of her mind. She knew that she could never love Thomas — the husband who lay upstairs fighting for his life; that she had been obsessional in her devotion to her father; that her relationship with her son was one of both love and hatred. Love, for producing a boy who could perhaps emulate his grandfather; hatred, because he was posturing and selfish and lacking in the qualities she held dear.
And as dawn came up throwing its grey pallor on to the stonework she faced the thing she dreaded most of all. Taking a mirror she stared joylessly at that which she detested — the onset of age. Bags of puffy skin were visible beneath her eyes and lines appeared when she smiled — though that was a rarity these days. The sad droop of disappointment had made its mark round her mouth and her skin had lost all its triumphant bloom looking pale in the cruel morning light. Elizabeth let out a great sigh which summed up all her life and expectations in one sound.
Then wearily she ascended the stone spiral and went into her husband’s vaulted chamber where the fire still blazed despite the mist that lay over the Norfolk land promising another day of scorching heat. On the bed she saw the Duke swathed in coverlets but breathing normally and sweating little and still holding him in his arms, though he was fast asleep, was Dr Zachary.
Elizabeth stood in the doorway and looked at them. There could be no doubt. The two faces so close together were conclusive proof. She wondered who the mother had been and momentarily envied her. She, who had gained Thomas’s love while he had been young and eager and had produced a child so lively and so colourful; while her own destiny lay bound up with a husband who had probably never loved her, a son headstrong beyond his years and a daughter ambitious beyond reason. And at the end of it all — what? How pointless the brief span seemed. Elizabeth Howard turned away and went to her chamber to weep for the futility of her life.
Somewhere in the depth of sleep Zachary heard her go for he woke startled. In the silence of the chamber he heard his father’s regular breathing and, placing his hand on his forehead, felt only the minimal dampness that meant the crisis of the illness was past. Putting his head on the Duke’s chest he listened to the lungs and heard no ominous sound of stored fluid. So fate had fulfilled itself. The Duke of Norfolk would live to play his part in the great destiny of England.
Quietly, Zachary prepared to leave and the morning haze still lay over the land as he took his last glimpse of Kenninghall Castle, the turrets bright in the still-hidden sun, the smoke from the Duke’s solitary fire hanging motionless in the air. Everything pointed to it being another glorious day.
*
‘And it is said the Lady Anne lies within an inch of her life though her father is over the worst and George Boleyn, when I left him, had certainly recovered.’
Henry Knyvett, on leave from the King’s temporary Court at Hunsdon Manor, was staying at Sutton Place. A close friend of Francis’s, he had made the Sweating Sickness an excuse for not travelling as far as Norfolk to stay with his family whom he found staid and too restrictive for his liking.
‘Then let us hope the inch shortens,’ said Anne Weston.
Nobody answered her and the silence grew uncomfortable. Yet in houses all over the land, belonging to both the nobility and the ordinary people, sentiments like hers were being expressed by those who had heard the news that Anne Boleyn was near to death. For the truth was out. The King may speak of an uneasy conscience, say that he questioned the legality of his marriage but nobody was deceived. He wanted to marry Thomas Boleyn’s black-haired daughter and discard Katharine like a worn-out garment.
‘And worn-out she is,’ said those who were young and cruel and followed the rising star of the house of Boleyn.
‘But that’s no excuse,’ answered Katharine’s supporters. ‘Her Grace has been a good Queen to us and suffered much. It would be a wicked thing to do this to her now. Let him take the whore for his mistress, just as he did her sister.’
And of those who remained silent and held their peace the great majority, from Cardinal Wolsey down, hoped in their secret hearts that the wretched girl would not recover and that there would be an end for ever to this terrible fevered longing that held the King in such torment. For surely such a
n agony of love could not be bringing him any happiness?
Now Francis said, ‘I pray that Anne lives, Mother. She is a good friend to me and I am fond of her. You like her, Henry, I know.’
He turned to Knyvett, who had no intention whatsoever of being drawn into a family argument and mumbled, ‘I — er — have formed no opinion of the lady.’
Francis snorted and it was at this point that Sir Richard came in.
‘Whether Mistress Boleyn lives or dies is not our concern. And you, Francis, should not speak to your mother in that manner.’
‘But I merely pointed out that I liked Anne. Where’s the harm in that?’
The logic of this seemed to pass clean over Richard’s head for he answered, more loudly, ‘Look to your behaviour, Francis. You will not think yourself so grand if you end up with a whipping.’
‘God’s head,’ said Francis. ‘I am seventeen years old and have been at Court for three years. Grant me, please, the honour of thinking I have some intelligence.’
Henry Knyvett was now staring fixedly into his wine glass and it was Anne Weston who tried to put an end to the argument.
‘Please, Richard, Francis. We have a guest. Let us speak of pleasant things.’
But Francis was in a ridiculously stubborn mood and seemed determined to swim against the tide.
‘Well, you started it, Mother, if I may say so,’ he answered.
‘You may not,’ said Sir Richard and his hand shot out across the table and hit Francis round the ear. Without another word his son rose and stormed from the Great Hall. Henry Knyvett thought, ‘Jesus, I came here to get away from this sort of thing. And here they are going at one another like tom cats in an alley.’
