Sutton Place (Sutton Place Trilogy Book 1)

by Deryn Lake

  Not many miles from where he sat chewing on a small piece of turbot and drinking some rough red wine — for his appetite had all but gone these days — dinner was being served in Sutton Place, though admittedly the high table was empty and it was the servants who sat in the Great Hall. Under the supervision of Giles Coke — and with the full permission of the absent Sir Richard — plates of pike, gurnard, tench, conger-eels, lampreys and chines of salmon were set down. For this was a fast day — on Christmas Eve no animal flesh was to be consumed. However, there was ale in abundance, and much raucous jollity; coarser language and jokes filling the air than would ever dare have been voiced had the Master and Mistress been present. And eventually it came round to the toasts. First — for it was as pleasant to draw the honourings out as long as possible as it was an insult not to drain one’s tankard — came the Master. Then, amidst a lot of cheering, the Mistress — Anne’s popularity with those who worked for her was heartily endorsed. Then the young Master. Mistress Margaret and her husband, and Mistress Catherine and her husband coupled with the names of baby Giles Rogers — for had he not been born within these walls? Finally the King and Queen. Tankards were raised and then a voice called out from the direction of the kitchen lads, ‘Aye, good Queen Katharine. We’ll have no Nan Bullen for England.’

  Giles Coke frowned as more voices joined in.

  ‘No upstart for us.’

  ‘Long life to Queen Katharine.’

  ‘May Nan Bullen rot.’

  ‘Silence,’ shouted Giles, standing up the better to be seen. ‘The toast of their Graces.’

  As the tankards were raised he remembered her coming to Sutton Place in the summer, two years ago. Recalled, by momentarily closing his eyes, that magical quality of hers, how she had made him cry when she sang with her cousin Thomas Wyatt. He hadn’t known then what he — what all of England — now knew; that His Grace was in love with her and wanted a divorce in order to marry her. But Giles was one of the few of the common people who could understand. Silken black hair and tilting eyes; a nightingale.

  In the Great Hall at Bryanston — decorated with boughs of holly, sprigs of mistletoe and garland upon garland of greenery, the meal was over and Sir John Rogers’s Fool was entertaining. At the top of the table sat Sir Richard, then Margaret, while Walter Dennys sat beside Lady Weston. John’s daughter, Alice, now nearly seven, sat open-mouthed on Margaret’s knee — overawed with the joy of Christmas Eve and the pleasure of twelve more days to come — while Master Giles, now two, sat on his mother’s lap and chortled at anyone who smiled at him.

  Margaret, her arms clasped tight round the little girl, glanced enviously at her sister’s belly which was for the second time growing great with child. Since her own miscarriage at the beginning of this year there had been no sign of a baby and the flux that followed the moon’s cycle had come upon her with infuriating regularity. But she had one ray of hope. She had visited Court that autumn, for her father was grooming Walter — now totally grown out of his spots and only stammering under extreme provocation — for state duties. Whilst there her mother had insisted that she see an extremely odd young man called Zachary.

  ‘Sweetheart, he is not only an astrologer but a herbalist. He may be able to give you something to help you.’

  And so he had — a bottle of clear liquid that smelt strongly of raspberries.

  ‘And when shall I take this?’

  ‘In the middle of your cycle — at Christmas time.’

  ‘At Christmas time?’

  Zachary’s eyes had crinkled.

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘Why then?’

  ‘Because everyone is relaxed with the great amounts of food and wine.’

  ‘And what has relaxation to do with it, Dr Zachary?’

  ‘A very great deal, Lady Dennys.’

  ‘But surely that is old wives’ talk?’

  Dr Zachary had laughed.

  ‘Do I look like an old wife?’ he said.

  So, not feeling too confident but prepared to try anything, Margaret had wrapped up the bottle well so that it should not break on the journey from Haseley Court to Bryanston. And Walter, catching her eye now over the dining table, knew what she was thinking and gave her a wink.

  Zachary, spending Christmas Eve with Jane Wyatt in his house in Cordwainer Street, also remembered it suddenly and smiled.

  ‘Why are you laughing?’ she said sharply.

  ‘About a potion I gave to a young woman to take at Christmas in order that she may conceive. I’ll warrant her husband will be wrecked by the end of the twelve days.’

  Uncharacteristically Jane burst into tears and said, ‘I wish you would give me something to abort, you damnable sorcerer.’

  Zachary looked at her in astonishment.

  ‘Sweetheart, what ails thee? You are not with child?’

  ‘I believe so. You have treated me as your wife ever since that wretched Romany wedding I was fool enough to enter into. And now that I am maid-of-honour to the Lady Anne and residing at Court you’ve had me in your bed at every opportunity. I hate you, Zachary. I’m not married in the eyes of the Church, state or my family and now my belly swells.’

  He was beside her in a second and holding her tightly.

  ‘Then we must journey to Kent as soon as the twelve days are past and gain your father’s consent to a marriage by priest.’

  ‘He will never give it. He wishes me to marry into the nobility.’

  Zachary laughed.

  ‘He will agree I promise you.’

  Jane wiped her tears on his handkerchief.

  ‘Will all be well, Zachary?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I hope Anne does not notice my swelling. She has become very proud since the King has given York House to her and they are totally refurbishing and extending it. They are even knocking down the neighbouring houses to give her a deer park. Did you know that?’

  Zachary nodded.

  ‘It is a great irony that it should be one of Wolsey’s dwellings. How sweet that must taste to her.’

  Jane looked at him blankly. Many of the things he said meant nothing to her and now he was muttering, ‘And Wolsey is but the first of many to fall. Anne, the Lady of bitterness.’

  Jane, misunderstanding, said, ‘Aye, I believe the King’s sister felt great bitterness when Anne sat above her in the Queen’s chair.’

  ‘This was at the banquet following Thomas Boleyn’s elevation to the Earldom of Wiltshire?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Zachary looked thoughtful. His father had been present and described the scene to him. On the day after the investiture which had raised Anne to the title of Lady Anne Rochford and George to that of Viscount Rochford — the King had given a banquet followed by a masque. And she had sat above the highest women in the land, including his father’s wife. It had not gone down well. Suffolk had quite literally muttered into his great beard that his wife was the King’s sister and should not be seated below ‘that arrogant Boleyn woman’. While Zachary’s father, Norfolk — though hardly in love with his wife — still considered that she took precedence over the daughter of a newly-created earl.

  Just down the river from Zachary’s home at Greenwich Palace the Lady Anne Rochford was holding her Christmas Eve in great pomp. Fast day it might be but she had contrived, with her usual style, to make every dish of fish look exciting and little delicacies of shrimps and oysters had been set at each place round her table. The King had left her now to do his duty and pay his respects to Katharine, who had her apartments on the floor below, and was stolidly chewing her way through her meal with the few courtiers who had remained faithful to her.

  ‘I shall be glad when York House — or Whitehall Palace as it is to be called — is ready’ said Anne to the many resplendent people gathered round her. ‘Greenwich is not really — convenient.’

  A ripple of laughter broke out for they all knew what she meant — Whitehall Palace was to have no apartments for Queen Katharine. It would be
the home, exclusively, of Henry and Anne.

  ‘I wonder if she’ll go to bed with him when they get there,’ thought Francis, for it was rumoured by all and sundry that the Lady Anne was still a virgin despite the gifts, money and, now, her own palace, that the King had bestowed on her.

  And Anne thought, ‘I have outrun the King until I am exhausted and the only weapon left in my armoury is my body. I am nearly defeated though none of these grinning dolts would credit it. I sit at the pinnacle of my power and I am no nearer marrying him than I was when he first fell in love with me. The Pope has almost beaten me. And now what options have I? To be his mistress all my life? Or worse, to be cast off when he grows bored with me? How easily that could happen! And now, I suppose, my original purpose is finally achieved for I have done what I set out to do. I have fully avenged Harry Percy and Anne Boleyn — or the poor shadows they once were — for Wolsey is struck low and will go even lower, and the King is tormented by love for me. So here I am with a cause with which I never started out — to become Queen of England. And I can see no clear way in which that is ever likely to happen. I am like a pet bird sitting in a cage of its own devising with the only way out blocked. And to think it all began as a girl’s game of revenge. Dear God, what have I done?’

  Tears were a luxury that Anne Boleyn rarely allowed herself but now the sheer magnitude of what lay before her, together with the realization that she had gone too far to turn back combined to make a solitary trickle run down her cheeks. Seeing that Francis Weston had noticed it she dashed it away.

  ‘And what of you, young Weston?’ she said, for she had long ago learned that in order to defend oneself one must attack first. ‘What of your betrothed? I hear it is over a year since you have seen her. And did I not spy you sporting with a maid-of-honour the other day?’

  Francis looked sheepish.

  ‘Yes ... no.’

  ‘And what does that mean?’

  ‘I have not seen Ann since the summer of last year but she was ill on one of the occasions when I was to visit her and on the other bad weather stopped me leaving Court.’

  ‘Bad weather?’ said Anne, innocently widening her eyes.

  ‘And no, I was not sporting with a maid-of-honour. We were discussing a wager that we had had on a certain hound.’

  ‘And the hound’s name would not have been Francis Weston?’

  ‘Indeed not,’ he said, all righteous indignation. ‘I have missed Ann greatly and we are to be married in May next year.’

  ‘Married,’ said Anne Boleyn and Francis thought he could hear a slight sigh in her tone.

  And far away in Westmorland Ann Pickering sighed too. Killington, her manor house, was colder than most, set bleakly as it was in the land of towering peaks and mighty lakes. But she had chosen to winter there for her Cumberland estate — inherited from her mother — was at Moresby and exposed to the cruel winds of the Irish Sea. In summer one could ride one’s horses across mile upon mile of white sand all belonging to her, and this was where she intended to bring Francis after they were married — if she could get him away from Court long enough! It was like a paradise in the warm months but now she had shut the house up — with only a handful of servants to weather the bitter chill.

  But it was freezing at Killington too and after a brief meal in a small private chamber with her Steward, her butler and her two personal maids, Ann retired to bed early, leaving instructions that some of the kitchen lads must sleep in the Great Hall to make sure that the fires stayed in all night. For on Christmas Day she always gave a banquet for everyone from the estate and all must be warm and comfortable. She wondered how it would be possible for her to keep up this tradition after she had married.

  In fact she had been giving a lot of consideration lately to her future life in general and Francis in particular. Her sixteen-month parting from him had not helped her peace of mind at all. It was unfortunate that she had been sick with a fever on one of the occasions when Francis had been due to come to Cumberland but the tale of bad weather precluding him during his other leave she had thought flimsy. And because he had asked her always to be free with him she had written and told him so. After a long while a letter had returned and he had admitted the truth. He had been so involved in so many various gaming sessions — dice, cards, bowls and tennis — and with so much money at stake that he simply could not afford to leave Court. It was then that she had realized that, beautiful and kind though he was, he was also a compulsive gambler. But that he loved her she had no doubt. His letters — scarce though they were — were always full of tender phrases and reassurances. And yet could a man like that remain faithful? She thought of his hot pursual of herself and was sure that in sixteen months total celibacy would have been impossible. The stallion would undoubtedly have found a mare — or two! Ah well, as soon as winter released its grip and the weather made it feasible for the arduous journey to be undertaken, she would leave in her bridal entourage. And then, Master Weston, watch out! She may be no Court lady but she was capable of feminine trickery.

  Ann Pickering smiled to herself as her maid helped her into bed on that bleak Christmas Eve, drawing the coverlets up round her mistress and then kissing her on the forehead, for the girl had been her own jewel ever since she had been born. She bent to throw more logs on the great fire and said, ‘Why do you smile, chuck?’

  ‘Because tomorrow we start our twelve days of merriment. And when that is over all we have to do is wait. And then one day, you know how it is Peg, we will hear the earth tremble with spring.’

  ‘Hear it? Nay, you can’t hear it.’

  ‘But you can. It is a whisper somehow amongst the hills and the valleys listen and shoot up their flowers. And then on the wind you can smell it and one’s blood gets a wild fever. Has your blood never been wild, Peg?’

  ‘Aye, aye, when I was young. It is good that you are to be married soon for only a man can cure that wildness.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Ann, ‘and I have the most handsome man in England.’

  ‘Oh, he’ll cure you all right,’ said Peg softly as she left the room.

  *

  Christmas was over; the plays and masques for Twelfth Night done, the last of the revellers abed. The usual hustle of Greenwich Palace was somewhat subdued that morning of the 7 January, 1530, but already on his way there, sitting in the cabin of his barge and wearing a fur-lined cloak to protect him from the snowstorm that was hurling into the Thames’ grey water, was the outlandish figure of Zachary Howard. On his head he wore a hat entirely made of fur which he had bought from Sir Richard Weston’s trading ship and which had come from some wild place beyond the sea. For covering his hose he had donned a pair of purple stockings to keep his legs warm. To make the extraordinary picture complete he carried a woman’s fur muff over the top of his gloves. As a man of fashion Dr Zachary was a Court joke. But he rather played on this knowing that his swirling cloak and generally eccentric appearance enhanced his reputation as a mystic and astrologer.

  But to the Duke of Norfolk, waking with the effects of wine-supping still pounding behind his eyes, an apparition like a grizzly bear standing at the foot of his bed and saying, ‘Lord Duke my father, wake up!’, in an urgent tone of voice, was not at all amusing.

  ‘Zachary,’ he said irritably, ‘what in God’s name are you doing here? Go away!’

  And he turned his head back into the pillow. But to his annoyance Zachary sat down in a chair by the window and the Duke could feel, even though his eyes were closed, that amber gaze boring into him. In the end he gave up and raised himself into a sitting position, groaning very gently as he did so.

  ‘Well, what is it?’ he said. ‘Zachary, I do not care to be disturbed like this. What do you want with me?’

  His son’s eyes were fixed on him and Thomas Howard was reminded of the time — so many years ago now — when he had placed the box containing the boy’s mother’s ashes in the Norfolk family vault. Then he had felt reluctant and now he knew that, once again, his
bastard was about to persuade him to some course of action in which he would have no real desire to participate.

  ‘Go on,’ he said wearily.

  ‘My wife is pregnant,’ said Zachary flatly.

  ‘Wife?’ exclaimed the Duke. ‘Oh, that Wyatt girl. But Zachary, she is naught but a mistress. Romany weddings are not legally binding.’

  Zachary got up, his cloak dropping to the floor, and stood with his back to his father. Anyone else would have looked ludicrous in such bizarre clothing but there was something about the astrologer that defied laughter. He had an inner dignity that rivalled that of any statesman of the day.

  Norfolk said, ‘Come, come, Zachary. Those words tumbled out more cruelly than were meant. So Jane carries your child?’

  Still without turning Zachary said, ‘Lord Duke my father, I wish to marry her according to the rites of the Church. And her father will not consider me a suitable match. It is imperative that you tell him who I am.’

  Now the Duke sat up sharply.

  ‘But that is a secret that we agreed should never be spoken. Anyway there is old, bad blood between Wyatt and myself.’

  For at Bosworth the Howards and the Wyatts had fought on opposing sides. The Duke’s father had supported Richard III and Howard’s grandfather had fallen in the battle; disgrace and the Tower had been the Howard reward and it was only the brilliance of Thomas’s father as an administrator that had won him his freedom and restored the family to its former splendour. Sir Henry Wyatt, on the other hand, had been imprisoned for calling Richard III pretender. And old memories still cast their shadows.

  ‘Father, for once the truth must be said. And now that Wolsey has gone you are, next to His Grace, the highest ranking man in the Kingdom. Sir Henry Wyatt will not readily oppose you.’

  ‘It is not easy to speak of one’s bastards to an enemy.’

  It was a rare occurrence for Zachary to lose his temper but now he did. He turned from gazing out of the window and his eyes were wild with anger.