by Deryn Lake
‘You may have your place, Mistress,’ she said to Rose. ‘You may return to Court with your husband as my maid-of-honour. I will speak to His Grace about your sharing apartments with Francis. I am sure he will be agreeable.’
So, her love of the country sacrificed for her other love, Rose had gone to live at Court and watched, with growing concern her husband’s ineffectual life style and incessant gambling.
‘It is too much,’ she had said after three months of silence. ‘What is the matter with you? Your gaming is like an illness.’
‘But, sweetheart,’ he had answered, ‘that and sporting pursuits are the only things I do well. I am no statesman like my father.’
‘But surely you could try.’
For the first time she had seen the obstinate streak that Francis kept well concealed.
‘Has it occurred to you, Mistress,’ he had said, ‘that I might enjoy these pursuits? And what harm do they do, pray?’
‘They are so useless.’
‘Is not your embroidery and your riding useless? What great matter lies in your activities? Put your house in order, Rose, before you start to rebuild mine. Good day to you.’
And he had gone off. She had not seen him again until dawn when he had come to bed flushed with triumph and wine.
‘God’s mercy, where have you been?’ she had asked.
‘Playing dice and beating the King,’ he had said shortly.
‘How much did you win?’
‘Forty-six pounds.’
Rose fell back on the pillows with shock. Her husband had just taken from the royal purse twenty-three times as much as his annual Easter and Christmas reward. And in one game!
‘Francis, you should not push His Grace so far.’ But Francis was already asleep.
After that she had decided to let the matter rest. It was the nearest they had come to an argument since their marriage and it was perfectly clear that nothing would change him. It was as he said. He was happy in his way of life and it seemed harmless enough. And she had to confess that she was proud of him as he ran nimbly round the tennis court, trouncing all challengers. Admitting defeat, Rose dropped the subject and they returned to their blissful and loving existence.
And now it was June, 1531, and they had come to Moresby to belatedly celebrate their first wedding anniversary.
‘Rose?’
She hadn’t realized, deep in her thoughts, that Francis had woken up.
‘Aye?’
‘Let me love you again.’
She raised her straw hat to look up at him impudently. ‘Do you never grow tired of it?’
‘Never. Do you?’
‘I’d be in a pitiable state if I did.’
And the thrust of his body seemed in her mind to become one with the sounds of the sea and the earth; the harmonious blending of everything that nature had ever intended.
That night in bed they held each other tenderly, too tired for any further love and yet still desiring to be close. And it was as they lay thus that she felt a stirring in her womb — as if a butterfly had opened its wings within her.
‘He stirs, Francis,’ she said. ‘The babe stirs.’
And in the darkness she heard him sob with joy and held him tightly against her. For what malice lay in such a man? Weakness and frivolity were diminished to their correct stature beside such goodness of heart.
*
‘I tell you,’ said the Duke of Norfolk to Zachary, ‘that this hypocritical situation in the Kingdom cannot go on much longer. Somebody or something will crack under the strain. Hey, hey, hey, my pretty beauty, thou wouldst not cry for thy grandfather?’
This last remark addressed to his granddaughter, Zachary’s child by his wife, Jane. After the Duke’s nocturnal visit to Allington Castle the wedding had proceeded with great despatch, so that a perfectly legitimate baby had been born six months later. And now here she was, nearly a year old, and bearing a most uncanny resemblance to Zachary’s mother.
‘It is sickening to behold,’ Zachary agreed, smiling fondly at his wife who was distracting the child with a toy of silver bells.
‘I don’t know how my niece has the gall to do it.’
‘Or the Queen the tenacity not to crumble.’
For all three — Henry, Katharine and Anne were still living under the same roof. Wherever the Court went, moving from one palace to another or on royal progress, so did both the women. Moreover the King and Queen visited one another every few days and on state occasions Katharine appeared as the ruling consort.
‘If only the work at York House was completed so that Anne could move in. That would be something. It is like some damnable farce being played out. I truly believe, Zachary, that public opinion is hard against the King and his ...’
He hesitated over the word. It would have given him the greatest satisfaction to say ‘great whore’ for his unnatural dislike of his niece grew with each passing month, and as for that crawling father of hers ... But he knew that Zachary still had a regard for her whilst Jane — now openly accepted as the Duke of Norfolk’s daughter-in-law — had once been one of Anne Boleyn’s ladies. Howard reflected briefly that the Lady had very few women friends, the two Wyatt sisters apparently the only exceptions.
Zachary ignored the incomplete sentence.
‘There will be a break very soon now. The situation is coming to its climax.’
‘Poor Katharine, poor Katharine,’ said the Duke shaking his head. Anyone else might have considered the possibility that it would be Anne who would go down but not so Howard. He believed only too well in his son’s prophecies and was certain that Boleyn’s daughter was destined to become Queen before she fell out of the King’s favour.
‘Zachary,’ he said suddenly, ‘will I outlive His Grace? Does danger lurk for me after the death of Anne?’
It was something he had never asked before and his son gave him a solemn look.
‘By a cat’s whisker you will. But you have many enemies, Lord Duke my father. Be advised by me. As the King lies dying, have a fast horse at hand so that you may flee to Kenninghall. In that way you will survive.’
‘Ho hum,’ said Howard, but he had grown a little pale.
‘Will you dine with us, my Lord?’ asked Jane coming back into the room with the child Sapphira, who had been removed for making too much noise.
‘No, my dear. The Court moves to Windsor tomorrow and I have a great deal of preparation still to do. Come, let me kiss this poppet.’
The girl was handed to him and he lifted her high and then held her so that her small arms were round his neck. As he embraced her fondly she distinctly whispered ‘Thomas’ into his ear. It quite chilled him and he thought about it a great deal on the ride back to Greenwich Palace.
Having waved him out of sight the family turned back into their large and comfortable new house. Standing in the open country, it was still only a few miles from Greenwich Palace, which suited them well for Zachary could easily ride or go by water to Court. And those who wished to consult him privately could journey to him without difficulty. Rather to Jane’s surprise her father had given the house to them for a wedding gift. But then the whole business of her sudden marriage to Zachary had puzzled her. She could never understand why her father had given his consent at all. Sometimes she wondered if Zachary had put a spell on him.
‘Oh Sapphira,’ she said, putting her daughter in a tub of water for her wash — a job she loved doing herself — ‘what a strange, lovely man is your father!’
‘Oh indeed he is,’ said Zachary from the doorway.
Jane laughed and splashed water at him.
‘That will teach you to pry,’ she said, as a good handful wet his unkempt locks causing him to shake his head like a dog.
‘I’ll teach you manners tonight,’ he said. ‘Now hurry up. I’m hungry.’
Sapphira began to cry, standing up in her tub and holding the edge of it in her fists. Zachary went over to her and bent down so that his eyes were completely level wi
th hers.
‘Be gentle, sweetheart,’ he said, and she stopped at once.
‘You’ve a goodly way with the little maid,’ said Jane.
‘Well, I’ve known her a long time,’ he answered.
Jane shrugged her shoulders. As happened so often with her husband she had no idea at all what it was he was talking about.
It was their habit during the summer to walk about their gardens after they had dined and this particular evening, as they stood watching the sun descending into the river, the sound of oars came to them on the breeze.
‘A visitor?’ asked Jane.
‘Aye,’ said Zachary sighing.
And as they watched, the barge of the Lady Anne Rochford came into view.
‘Why, it is Anne! What can she want at this hour? A consultation with you, I suppose.’
‘I fear so. Yet it is not like her to ask for help. Something must have gone wrong.’
Jane stepped forward to greet her cousin with a kiss noticing, as she did so, how unusually pale Anne Boleyn was and how strained her expression.
‘Dr Zachary,’ said Anne without preamble, ‘I must speak with you urgently. Something very strange has taken place. I do not wish to offend you, Jane, but I can stop for no social chit chat until I have talked privately with your husband.’
Zachary made a small bow.
‘Then if my Lady would be good enough to follow me.’
And he led her to the top floor of the house. Just as in Cordwainer Street, he preferred to work in the attic for it was there, so he said, that he was nearest to the stars that ruled all their lives.
‘Well, Lady Anne,’ he said, ‘what is it that disturbs you so deeply?’
‘This,’ she replied, and from the depths of her cloak took a book and flung it on the table where lay his crystal scrying glass, his ancient cards and his astrologer’s charts. Zachary bent to examine it. It was a loathsome thing. There was no doubt in his mind that it was the product of a black coven for it prophesied the future in the most terrifying manner. One page, crudely marked with a handwritten H, showed the King looming mighty overall. Another, marked K, showed the Queen howling with despair and wringing her hands; and yet another — and by far the most sinister — depicted Anne herself, her bloodied head lying at her feet.
‘Where did you find this?’ he asked.
‘It was left in my bedchamber. By what agency I know not.’
‘Did anyone else see it?’
‘My principal maid-of-honour, Nan Saville. She was greatly afraid.’
‘And so should you be, Lady, for it is a wicked thing.’
He looked Anne straight in the eye but other than her unusually pale countenance she showed no fear. It ran through Zachary’s mind, not for the first time, that she might not be entirely unfamiliar with the dark power.
‘Why did you come to me?’ he said.
‘Because though I declared it to be just “a bauble” to Nan I am in truth affrighted. Zachary, am I to die? Can you do nothing to protect me?’
‘I can start by committing this to the fire to which it belongs.’
He picked the book up in one hand and took a candle in the other but before he could touch one of the pages with the flame it seemed as if the whole room started to vibrate. A cabinet containing glasses, jars of herbs and his pestle and mortar suddenly flew open and the contents began to crash upon the floor. The crystal hurled itself through the air and smashed through one of the windows and his cards hurtled round the room as if in the midst of a great wind.
Anne Boleyn cried out, ‘What is happening?’
But Zachary did not answer. White to the lips, he had snatched his dagger from his belt and was scratching a great circle on the floorboards and then another within it. As if in retaliation the big clock, which stood in the corner of the room, lifted up and propelled itself directly at him.
‘Sator arepo tenet opera rotas,’ he began to chant and threw himself down as the clock landed on top of him.
‘Get into the circle,’ he shouted to Anne. ‘For Christ’s sake get in!’
Like one in a trance, she obeyed. Struggling out from beneath the clock’s weight, Zachary snatched up some vervain and dill from the mess of broken herb jars that lay on the floor. Then screaming at the top of his voice, ‘Salom arepo lemel opera molas’, he fought his way to stand beside her.
‘Draw the pentagrams,’ he commanded passing her his knife, and saw that she knew at once what he meant. He had no time to ponder the significance of this for between the two circles, struggling all the time as if he was buffeted by a gale, he was spreading the herbs.
‘Sator arepo tenet opera rotas,’ he repeated again, but to no avail. The maelstrom continued as he sought sanctuary beside the half-fainting Anne in the very centre of the four pentagrams. Standing there, supporting her in his arms, he was aware that he was witnessing demonic frenzy of the most unbridled force and knew that if either of them dared move out of the protection he had made they would be as good as dead. And powerful though he might be he had no idea as to what he should do. His magic was not strong enough to combat the fury that had been unleashed.
Chairs were smashing themselves against the walls and his table was lifted up and then dropped thunderously on to the floor. Zachary had never tasted terror before but now it was like salt in his mouth. He had closed the circle with his dagger after he had gone in and knew that nothing, however strong, could touch them there but he could only watch impotently as the violence threatened to consume the entire room.
‘Salom arepo lemel opera molas,’ he said again desperately and then — to his horror — he saw the door begin to open.
‘Jane, keep out!’ he yelled. ‘Don’t come in for the love of God.’
But it was too late. His wife stood in the doorway, her eyes wide with fear and disbelief, and struggling and screaming in her arms was Sapphira.
‘Take the babe out. Go away!’ he shouted again as a great cloud of evil sulphur filled the room. But Jane stood transfixed, her mouth open to shriek but the sound caught in her throat somewhere. Her arms must have lost their strength for the child slithered down to the floor and began to crawl amongst the broken glass and spilled herbs that by now were littering the entire room. Seemingly unafraid of the objects flying past her Zachary saw his daughter stretch out her tiny hands and begin to play with the herbs.
‘Sapphira,’ he called out.
She looked across at him standing helplessly in the magic circle and it seemed that those eyes were so familiar. She gave him a little smile and said, to no one in particular, ‘Begone’. And then she put one small finger in the dill and wrote ‘+ JHS +’. There was a sudden and total silence and, lying where it was on the floor, the evil book burst into flames and was no more. In the amazing stillness that followed Zachary looked at his daughter and bowed. It was the bow of an acolyte to a master, the acknowledgement of superiority. He knew that he stood in the presence of the greatest power of them all.
*
Because of Rose’s condition Francis insisted that she made her journey from Moresby back to Windsor — where the Court had moved for the summer hunting — in a litter, with him riding beside her. She grumbled a little, for she was an excellent horsewoman, but his look of genuine anxiety as he said, ‘But, sweetheart, it is for the sake of the babe’, so touched her heart that she gave in and they left two days earlier than they would have normally done.
‘And we will tell the Lady Anne that you wish to retire at once from her household.’
But at that Rose’s face took on a determined expression that Francis knew only too well.
‘Not yet, darling, the rounding is still very small. I shall stay at Court until it grows unsightly.’
‘But why? You like Sutton Place. Why not rest there till the child is born?’
‘Because I enjoy the Court in summer; the hunting and the progresses. I shall retire in the autumn.’
‘I don’t understand,’ said Francis.
; They arrived at Windsor Castle to find yet again the situation that had made not only the English Court a veritable swarm of gossip but had also set those of Europe chattering. Queen Katharine was established in her apartments with her retinue; the Lady Anne in hers; the King, looking more strained than even his oldest servants could remember, strode between the two sets of lodgings.
But it was in Anne Boleyn herself that Rose at once noticed a difference. Those deep, mysterious eyes carried a new expression — defiance, coupled with something else. As she got out the Lady’s velvet hunting gown on the first morning after her return from Moresby, she puzzled about it.
‘Did you enjoy your leave, Mistress Weston?’ Anne was asking, as one of the maids brushed the thick, lively hair that hung down the length of her back and which made Rose think of a black waterfall.
‘Yes, my Lady. It was very pleasurable,’ and she walked up behind Anne, the gown draped over her arms, and stood looking at her in the mirror. Anne caught her gaze and it was then that Rose decided what this new quality was in the Lady’s eyes. She looked haunted. As if she had been to hell and back but had emerged from the ordeal with a grim determination to proceed at all costs.
‘Why do you stare so?’ said Anne. ‘It is supposed to be unlucky to gaze upon another in a mirror.’
‘Nay, madam, that is for old wives,’ Rose answered. ‘I was thinking how beautiful your hair looked.’
It was a half-truth but it seemed to satisfy the Lady well enough.
‘Aye,’ she answered, ‘fear of the unknown is for fools and old women. Are you superstitious, Rose?’
