by Deryn Lake
And there was an element of truth in the answer. Sir John raised his eyebrows, unconvinced.
‘Go and wait for her with the porter. This is no way for the nuptials to begin.’
So, as Ann Pickering walked her horse through the Gate-House arch, to her astonishment a figure jumped out before her and brought her to a stop.
‘Please get down from the saddle, sweetheart,’ said Francis.
‘No I will not!’
‘Then, my darling, you force me to join you.’
And without further ado he jumped up behind her and, putting his arms round her, took the reins and turned the tired animal out towards the woods again.
‘Francis, what are you doing? Dismount at once.’
‘I cannot do that, Ann, because I must kiss away your anger with a foolish and jealous lover — as soon as we’re out of sight of all those eyes in Sutton Place.’
Ann went through the motions of struggling but, in truth, it was rather enjoyable to be pinioned by Francis’s arms and to be squashed against his chest. So much so that she turned her head to look at him and then they found that they could not wait to kiss one another. Gratefully the horse came to a stop and grazed.
The next few days were filled with what seemed like a non-stop procession of guests arriving for the wedding. Walter Dennys appeared from Oxfordshire on his own, for Margaret had become pregnant at Christmas and dare not risk the babe by travelling. Sir William Weston — Richard’s younger brother and Lord Prior of the knights of St John of Jerusalem in England — arrived with all due pomp for he was the premier Lay Baron in the House of Lords and acted accordingly. But for all his dignity he had been a tough and brilliant soldier and had been created a Turkopolier while still a young man — even before the Siege of Rhodes when the Knights had eventually capitulated with honour to the mighty Suleiman.
During the following day several other senior members of the Weston family arrived. First came Mabel Dingley, Sir Richard’s sister, accompanied by her husband, Sir John, and her son, Sir Thomas, with his wife Isabella. It seemed to Ann Pickering that she was suddenly surrounded by an enormous group of people — all related — and she would have felt small and isolated if it had not been for the constant presence of Francis by her side.
Early in the morning of the next day more of the Dingley family arrived, followed shortly by Anne, Lady Verney — Richard’s youngest sister, but already a widow. Her son Francis Verney — after whom Francis Weston had been named — joined her that evening accompanied by his tiny wife, Eleanor. Though barely five feet tall she was the mother of twin boys — lusty thirteen-year-olds — who had accompanied their parents in order to play their part in the wedding ceremonial. However, they, apart from seven-year-old Alice Rogers, were the youngest present. All the infants had been left behind. There was not a parent in the land not fully aware of the dangers of travelling and anyone under six was considered safer with his maid and wet nurse. So Lady Weston was deprived of the pleasure of seeing Catherine’s six-week-old son, Richard. And Giles Rogers, too, had stayed at home in Bryanston.
That night, at a banquet in the Great Hall — the conversation being shouted over the noise of the musicians — Francis said to his father, ‘Sir, Ann and I have been discussing something of import.’
‘Which is?’
‘That we feel it would be easier for all if we called her by her father’s private name for her — Rose. There are so many Annes in our family. Would you be disagreeable?’
Sir Richard was about to answer but his brother William’s voice boomed across, drowning even the sackbuts.
‘A splendid idea. I like to know who I’m talking about. It has always been my hobby. Talking — and thinking, of course — about people. And nothing spoils that more than not knowing who is who. Now at the Siege of Rhodes against Suleiman the Magnificent — what an incomparable warrior that man was! — there was a very beautiful girl called Rose. An infidel, of course, but very beautiful.’
And he stared into his glass, lost in reminiscences. Francis wondered if — holy knight though he was — the tent curtains had parted during that long hot siege and Sir William had seen the honey-skinned Rose standing there. And if he had felt those long shapely limbs wrap themselves round his as her soft laughter had rung out on the warm night air. Even old and revered uncles must have had their day.
‘You’re right, Francis,’ Sir Richard said, smiling indulgently at his brother who was still lost in pleasant thoughts. ‘Three Annes in Sutton Place are quite enough.’
He patted his widowed sister Anne Verney’s hand. ‘Shall we all drink to Rose Pickering?’
Goblets were lifted as they chorused ‘Rose Pickering’. But Sir Richard’s words about three Annes might well have been an omen, for the next day the contingent from Court arrived and there in their midst, riding a jet black horse and dressed in shimmering gold — an exciting and dramatic choice — was the Lady Anne Boleyn herself.
Anne Weston gasped.
‘I cannot have that woman in my house, Richard. She has betrayed my friend, the Queen. I cannot speak to her.’
Her husband turned to her with a very straight face.
‘Anne, you must. She is a friend and guest of Francis’s but more than that — far, far more — she is the power that will be followed now that Wolsey has fallen.’
‘You sicken me, Richard. That is all you think of — power and which is the right camp to follow. Have you no thoughts of loyalty? You throw away Katharine and Wolsey as if they were wornout shoes.’
‘And that is precisely what they are,’ said Richard quietly. ‘Wife, you want a husband who keeps his head upon his shoulders, do you not?’
She nodded, dumb with chagrin.
‘Then listen to me. I know what I say.’
‘No doubt, no doubt! But none the less I hate this political chess. However as it is Francis’s wedding I shall receive her. But by the Holy Mother do not expect cringing and crawling from me. Mistress Anne — I mean the Lady Anne ...’, she made a contemptuous sound, ‘... and her brother the Viscount — prize parvenus that they are — will receive the minimum courtesy from me. But I am sure that you will more than make up for it!’
And with a great deal of rustling of her skirt and overloud footsteps she swept from the room.
The arrival of the Duke of Norfolk and Henry Knyvett completed the wedding party. And Anne Weston, looking round the Great Hall on the wedding eve, had to admit that, despite the ill-will she bore against some present, the company was more sparkling and elegantly arrayed than those invited for Margaret’s wedding.
Again and again she felt her gaze drawn to the Lady — Anne Boleyn — whom Sir Richard, with an eye to a new patron now that Wolsey was toppled, had put to sit in the place of honour. Observing her closely she saw that though her clothes and jewellery were now expensive and she had painted her face, yet those great dark eyes had an almost tired expression in them — as if she had travelled a million miles and was weary of all things. Just for a split second Anne Weston felt sorry for the woman who was rocking the monarchy to its foundations. It seemed to her that Anne Boleyn was no longer a free soul but driven by some relentless force.
Ann Pickering thought, ‘I don’t like her. Not at all. She is remorseless. And bitter too. A dangerous combination. I wish Francis were not so intimate with her.’
And she had such a strong feeling that Francis must be protected from the Lady that she shifted uncomfortably in her chair.
The wedding morning dawned brightly and quietly for everyone kept to their own apartments in company with their servants as they dressed themselves for the ceremony. A few people broke their fast early in the Great Hall but the majority ate in their own chambers. Only Walter Dennys, who had been up since before dawn with Sir Richard’s gardeners, was working hard. He had supervised the weaving of greenery into the musicians’ galleries with several devices of knotted flowers and down the walls of the Hall trailed garlands of roses, columbine, gillyflower an
d violets both wild and tended. With his own hands he had made a chaplet of white roses for the bride’s head.
In the darkness, Sir Richard’s cook and his lads and maids had been working all night long and now the sides of beef, whole sheep, geese, capons, swans, peacocks, herons and pheasant were ready. There were two dozen different kinds of pie, shrimps, oysters, salmon and a dozen other fish. But the finest work was the decorated boar’s head and the confectioner’s sugar love-tree from which hung delicacies shaped as hearts, rings and lovers’ knots.
‘And how many dishes for the first course, Barnard?’ asked Lady Weston.
‘Sixty, my Lady.’
And the second?’
‘Eighty.’
And the third?’
‘One hundred, my Lady. This is the finest feast we have ever prepared.’
‘And all to be served on our best crystal dishes.’
‘All but the boar’s head which is to be borne on the great silver platter.’
Anne Weston left the kitchens and went to her chambers to be dressed by Joan.
At exactly midday the wedding party assembled in the Long Gallery. This comprised Francis and his entire family except for his young twin cousins Nicholas and Charles Verney who had another role to play. As soon as the other guests from Court had joined them they set out to walk in a laughing, merry mob to Sir Richard’s chapel which lay in the west wing of the small inner court. And as soon as Francis, flanked on either side by his mother and sister, appeared at the top of the staircase, the musicians in their bright liveries of crimson and gold, jammed together in the two galleries above the Great Hall, burst forth with the most cheerful sound. A melodious blend of sackbuts, lutes, kytes, crumhorns and viols filled the air.
In her chamber Rose Pickering heard the music and her heart began to thud. She was already dressed in a gown of white satin, puffed with cloth of silver and trimmed with yards of lace into a crystal and pearl coronet. Now, on hearing the noise, Peg put the delicate chaplet of white roses round the headdress and stood back to admire her charge.
A knock came at the door — it was the bridegroom’s man come to take her to the chapel. And Francis had chosen Henry Knyvett. Rose saw that he was moist-eyed.
‘What Henry, tears?’ she said. ‘This is a day for rejoicing.’
‘Oh Ann — Rose,’ he answered, ‘It is you that has moved me. I shall always be your devoted friend.’
And making a great effort and rather unceremoniously wiping his eyes with his sleeve, Henry offered Rose his arm and led her towards the Great Hall. As they reached the staircase Nicholas and Charles Verney, her two ‘sweet boys’ clad in blue satin and with sprigs of rosemary tied round their sleeves, stepped forward to complete her escort. The musicians, pouring sweat, played as though their lives depended on it as the bride descended into the Great Hall and out through the Middle Enter towards the chapel.
Francis was already standing at the altar before Sir Richard’s priest, clad in gorgeous new vestments especially for the occasion, and as she walked slowly down the centre aisle through the dense crowd that packed the small building Rose saw him steal a surreptitious glance at her. She already cared for him so deeply that she dare not meet his gaze but lowered her eyes as they knelt together waiting for the long and exhausting ceremony to begin. But when at last it was over and they rose as man and wife Francis took her hand and led her, at the head of the whole procession, back to Sutton Place for their wedding feast.
It seemed to him that they would never be alone. That the moment that he had been waiting for since he first met her, would never come. The enormous banquet that his mother had so painstakingly planned was constantly interrupted by singers and musicians, to say nothing of Sir Richard’s new Fool — a thick-set Spaniard with a good singing voice but little else to commend him. He hovered round the bride rolling his dark eyes and making rather bawdy jokes which eventually could no longer be taken in good part.
‘Be gone,’ hissed Francis, ‘or God’s life, I’ll bloody your nose out of all nick.’
At last the moment came. Rose was led upstairs by the female guests. Then Francis was removed and amongst a welter of lewd jokes, digs in the ribs and nudges was undressed and put into his night shirt and led to the newly decorated chamber which he and his bride were to occupy.
She was waiting for him, sitting up in the big four poster, a demure white nightdress buttoned to her throat and a night cap on her head. With shouts of ‘Good Sport’ and ‘Go to it, lad’, Francis was put in beside her and Lady Weston herself drew the curtains round them. Everything appeared to become quiet but Rose saw Francis give her a wink and put his finger to his lips. Cautiously he put his head between the curtains and then there was a cry of ‘Out, Out,’ and a great deal of scuffling. Peeping, Rose saw that William Brereton and George Boleyn were the offenders but were leaving unceremoniously with Francis’s foot helping them on their way.
He locked the door and then quite unselfconsciously peeled off his shirt and stood naked before her in the candlelight. And to his great joy she responded by getting out of bed and removing first that silly lace cap, so that the magnificent red curls came tumbling down, and then her nightdress. At last he was able to see her as he had always wanted — without clothes to hide the sweetly-made body.
‘Does the stallion wish the mare?’ she said.
‘For the rest of his life,’ he said.
She laughed with pleasure and rolled into the middle of the great bed. And Francis, full of wine and lust, set about the joyful task of consummating his marriage.
12
The sound of the sea as it swayed its way back and forth across the silver sands of Moresby seemed like that of a pleasured cat to the almost sleeping Francis. He lay flat on his back, his shirt beneath his head for a pillow, his nakedness facing the sun. Beside him lay Rose in a similar posture though with a wide-brimmed hat — borrowed from one of her gardeners — covering her face, for the freckles that Francis found so endearing were considered ugly blemishes by a Court that had tended to worship the fair until the dark beauty of Anne Boleyn had arrived in its midst.
To lie thus, naked with one another on an open beach — albeit Rose’s property so there could be no fear of prying eyes — was an act that would have horrified the majority of married people. But to this couple, who had sworn always to be free together, it was a natural part of their life. In fact they had just made love, not bothering even to hide behind the rocks and revelling in the freedom of sun and sand. And now they dozed, side by side, Francis’s hand gently stroking the very slight rounding of Rose’s belly.
The marriage had been an unqualified success — in fact Francis had surprised himself at what a good husband he had made. It had never occurred to him for a second that any part of the perfect relationship he enjoyed with his wife had been entirely due to her efforts and, in some ways, sacrifice. If anyone had told him so he would have looked first astonished and then angry. He sincerely believed that he had been blessed by Heaven — that the wife chosen for him by his parents was that magical thing known to only a fortunate few, his soulmate.
And now that sweetly growing stomach! Had there ever been a man more fortunate? Raising himself on one elbow, he gently leant over and kissed it. Beneath her straw hat Rose stirred lazily. Francis tickled her slightly and then went back to sleep. Looking at him through the holes in the straw Rose thought, ‘The most handsome man in England! And how very much I love him. But what will he do without me when this babe comes? He is so good-natured that he could be led into any mischief.’
She had always known that he was weak, of course. Known almost from the first time she had seen him when she had been a very young girl. And during their summer courtship in the year of the Sweating Sickness she had decided that, however much she disliked it, she must stay by his side at Court if their marriage was to be the experience of joy that she desired so much. And in order to do this she must get a place, for there was no room in the royal residences for
wives and husbands who were not attached to one of the retinues.
So, when her marriage had been only one day old and before the Lady Anne Rochford had had time to depart from Sutton Place, Rose had been to see her. She could remember the occasion vividly. Anne Boleyn, as most people still thought of her, was seated alone at the far end of the Long Gallery gazing distantly out of the window. She had looked up as she had heard the approaching footsteps.
‘Ah, Mistress Weston,’ she had said — and Rose had had a slightly pleasurable sensation at being addressed by her married name — ‘how goes it with the bride?’
‘Well, my Lady,’ Rose had answered, dropping a polite curtsey.
Now she must dissemble in order to secure her future happiness for once again the dislike of Anne was welling within her. Those strange dark eyes that could smile till the moon turned blue but would always bear resentment in their depths; that disfigured hand which she concealed so cleverly; the mystical power she had over men. For a second Rose had examined her conscience. Was it jealousy that made her dislike the Lady so? But she had no time to think it out for Anne Boleyn was looking at her with a question in her eyes.
‘Madam,’ Rose had said, ‘I have to come to ask you a great favour. I would like a position in your household.’
Anne Boleyn had not replied, merely looking at the girl in an oddly blank manner.
‘The point is,’ Rose had continued, ‘I love Francis very dearly and I do not wish to be parted from him. As a Gentleman of the Chamber he must stay with His Grace so, therefore, my Lady it is up to me to obtain a position at Court.’
‘How old are you?’ Anne Boleyn had asked.
Rose had thought it a curious question but had answered, ‘Seventeen, my Lady.’
‘Seventeen,’ thought Anne. ‘I was sixteen when they took me from Harry.’ She smelt again the heavy blooms of that midnight garden at Hampton Court, heard Harry Percy murmur, ‘Anne, my love witch’, felt the big, gentle hands hold her against him. Would he never leave her? Must he always haunt her as she did him? Would it always be he who kissed her and caressed her when it was, in fact, the King? And when she finally yielded up her body — as one day she must — would it be Harry Percy who would slip between the sheets with her and take away her virginity? If she convinced herself hard enough could she step into the realm of fantasy and even enjoy the lovemaking of Henry Tudor? For if she were to cry ‘Harry’ at the height of her pleasure His Grace would not suspect — would never know that he was but a substitute for the man she had once desired and would always love.
