Sutton Place (Sutton Place Trilogy Book 1)

by Deryn Lake

  ‘But, darling ...’

  She must make one final attempt for once he had taken her virginity, crushed her frail body beneath his mighty frame, what power had she left? Her cherished mystique would be gone. She would cease to be an enigma and become an ordinary flesh and blood woman.

  He had turned to look at her with that eagerness which another woman with another man would have found touching and pleasing but which merely, because he was and always would be an oaf in her eyes, served to annoy.

  ‘Darling, if I should have a child. Let us face facts. Our marriage looks no nearer than it ever did. I do not wish to be another Bessie Blount.’

  He winced slightly. ‘Bessie Blount.’ The coarse name for Elizabeth Tailebois — mother of his bastard, Henry Fitzroy, Duke of Richmond.

  ‘I have already thought about that,’ he said, a fraction too eagerly. ‘I think, my sweetheart, that I owe you a great honour for your patience with me. I want to elevate you to the peerage — in your own right. Then if there should be a child ...’

  He did not complete the sentence. There was no need. He was telling her that any offspring of her body would be born to a title. She felt total desolation. He had no intention of marrying her. He was tired of the whole long dreary process. She was to be fobbed off with ennoblement.

  But then common sense prevailed. If that were the case why had he rid himself of Katharine? Why had he gone so far, suffered so much, in trying to obtain a divorce? Anne Boleyn had braced herself. She knew that her relationship with her sovereign was at a crossroads. She must grant him his victory or lose him for ever yet, in giving in, she may well forfeit the crown which now seemed the only thing worth going on for. With all her old charm she had managed her infectious laugh.

  ‘As my Lord wishes,’ she said. ‘On the night that I am elevated I shall also be elevated to your bed.’

  ‘I must wait till then?’ he had answered, but lightly with only the slightest suggestion of an edge in his voice. She had given him a flirtatious glance.

  ‘It would be the first time that His Grace would have taken a peer of the realm to his bed, would it not?’

  Her look was enough to set his blood pounding. He had crushed her in a wild kiss, his hands grabbing at her breasts, her thighs. Still laughing she had pushed him off and for what seemed like the millionth time he had accepted it. Rejection had become a habit with him now.

  ‘The date will be the first of September,’ he had said. ‘Mark it well, my Lady Anne.’

  And now it was here and she knew that the Court, already assembling in the Presence Chamber to witness the ceremony, was buzzing with gossip. Was the Lady’s supremacy over at last? Was the peerage the equivalent of a pension? Or was this yet another mark of the King’s besotted adoration? And at the centre of all these questions she stood in her apartments — a small, dark figure, clad in vivid red — and knew none of the answers herself.

  Rose Weston, Margaret Lee and Nan Saville were curtseying before her, their faces expectant.

  ‘Yes?’ she said absently.

  ‘Is my Lady satisfied with her appearance?’ ventured Nan.

  Anne Boleyn slowly turned to look at herself in the mirror. A sloe-eyed nymph, her hair sparkling with diamonds, gazed back at her. She and her reflection stared solemnly at one another.

  ‘No smile on such a great day, madam?’ said Lady Lee, who had known her longest.

  Anne pulled a wry face like that of a little girl’s, totally at odds with the splendour of her apparel.

  ‘No, no smile,’ she said.

  In the Presence Chamber Henry, attended by the Dukes of Norfolk and Suffolk, shifted impatiently in the chair of state. Today he was raising his love higher than than any other woman in the Kingdom — with the exception of one. That dowdy figure in The More still stood between him and his desire, and disgrace her and demean her as he might the fact remained that she still bore the title of Queen. He found himself wondering what she was doing now — sewing, no doubt. And for some ridiculous reason he remembered how she used to mend his shirts. Why think of that with the distant trumpets telling him that Anne was already approaching? He sniffed a little and Norfolk hearing the faint sound looked at him and thought, ‘God’s life, what a dance that vixen has led him. And yet for all her ill-temper she is now to receive this extraordinary honour. I don’t think I have ever disliked anyone so much in the whole of my life.’

  The door of the chamber was thrown open amidst another clarion burst of sound and the entire Court rose. Norfolk watched Suffolk, the King’s brother-in-law, as he heaved himself to his feet. Into that beard of his he was muttering and though the words were not audible it was not hard to guess his feelings. But the French Ambassador was smiling and the members of the Privy Council, although solemn as befitted their estate, were certainly not antipathetic. The Weston clan — Sir Richard, his two sons-in-law and that idle boy of his — were a mass of smiles. And small wonder, for the old man and the son were much in the Lady’s faction. Looking around him Norfolk played for a minute a guessing game of ‘They love her, they love her not’, all judged by the expression on faces.

  But his attention was drawn once more to the doorway where a magnificent procession was beginning to move slowly forward. First came Garter King-at-Arms holding the patent of nobility in his hand and immediately behind him came Norfolk’s own daughter, Lady Mary Howard, carrying a crimson robe of state over her left arm and a golden coronet in her right hand. Norfolk smiled. He could hardly credit that he had sired both this demure, neat-tressed girl, walking so beautifully and proudly, and the wild-locked Zachary. But the fact remained. They were both his. He saw Mary’s eyes flick up for a second and glance at Henry Fitzroy, the King’s bastard. He was unable to see the response for the young man was standing behind him, but he imagined — if the lad was anything like his father — he had given her an unabashed grin. He was right. The delicate skin had coloured a little and she was gazing firmly in front of her once more.

  But now it was the moment they were all waiting for. Anne Boleyn, walking between the Countesses of Rutland and Sussex, and followed by her attendants and many of the highest ranking women in the land, was making her slow progress towards the King’s chair. Even Norfolk drew in a breath. With her skin translucent, her eyes huge, her black hair flowing loose, it seemed as if a creature of legend had come into the room, as if a fairy maiden was amongst them. And vivid against her apparent fragility the voluptuous crimson of her gown was shocking. Mentally Norfolk bowed to his niece. Dislike her, hate her, do what you will, she had more grace and style and sense of occasion than any woman he had ever seen.

  As she approached the royal chair and even while she walked Anne made three deep curtsies and finally, arriving before Henry, knelt at his feet. Garter handed the patent to the King, who in turn gave it to his secretary, the Bishop of Winchester — none other than Dr Stephen Gardiner. Just as Richard Weston had thought, the man had climbed high since the disgrace of Wolsey. Clearing his throat the Bishop began to read the charter.

  At the appropriate moment the King rose most solemnly, wrapped the robe of state round Anne’s shoulders and placed the delicately wrought coronet on her brow. She remained kneeling before him while Gardiner droned on. But the Court was already crackling with a silent excitement. The words ‘lawfully begotten’ had been omitted from the ancient wording. If the Marquess of Pembroke — as the Lady had just been created — gave birth to a bastard it would be entitled to her dignity and estates.

  So that was it! Her enemies exchanged knowing glances. He would never marry her now. She was being cast off with second best and any child that His Grace might father was already being provided for. In the pro-Boleyn camp there was equal concern. Was this the end of the rise to power of their Lady? Or was it just another stepping stone?

  Anne, still kneeling like a postulant, was aware of it all. She summoned up every ounce of her mighty will. They would read nothing in her expression as she rose to face them. And now
the test had come for Secretary Gardiner was finally silent. The King himself was helping her to her feet, handing her both the patent of nobility and another granting her £1,000 a year for the rest of her life. It was done.

  Looking to neither right nor left but straight into Henry’s eyes she thanked him most humbly for the great honour he had done her. Then with her head held high and adorned with the gleaming circlet and the flashing brilliants, she backed, turned and left the room — her train carried by Nan Saville. The trumpets rang out again as she and her attendants departed, leaving the Court with no idea as to her innermost thoughts.

  ‘What does it mean?’ whispered Margaret Lee as they followed the new Marquess out.

  ‘I don’t know,’ answered Rose Weston. ‘I’ll see if Francis has any idea. He is ... close ... to her.’

  Margaret shot her a glance but made no comment.

  Inside the Presence Chamber the French Ambassador leaned over to Suffolk, the King being safely out of earshot, and asked precisely the same question.

  ‘She’s done for,’ said Suffolk gleefully. ‘She’s probably pregnant and he’s paying her off. And I for one will be glad to see the back of her.’

  ‘Not so loud for God’s sake,’ said Norfolk intervening. ‘The place is ridden with spies. Anyway you’re wrong. That one will sit on the throne, mark my words.’

  Suffolk guffawed but admittedly lowered his voice.

  ‘The Duke has a bastard who reads the future in the stars, Excellency,’ he said. ‘I’ll swear he knows if a man breaks wind in the next county. Between them they’ve got us all mapped out. That’s right, isn’t it, Thomas?’

  Howard looked down his broad nose.

  ‘My son is not infallible,’ he said. ‘But he seems to have knowledge of what is to be and has been proved right in the past.’

  The Ambassador appeared interested.

  ‘I would very much like to visit him,’ he said. ‘I have always been rather fascinated by such things. Perhaps you would be so kind as to arrange for me to meet your son, Lord Duke.’

  Suffolk puffed a bit as he said, ‘It is all rubbish in my opinion. Scrying glasses and mystic cards! ’Tis for old women and goose girls. Begging your pardon, Ambassador.’

  De la Pommeraye raised his shoulders in a gesture so Gallic that it set Norfolk grinning.

  ‘Everyone is entitled to their view, my Lord of Suffolk. But I would be the last to poke fun at the unknown. And in truth my King has his own astrologer attached to the Court.’

  ‘Ah well, he’s French,’ said Suffolk, as if that explained everything, and went off muttering.

  ‘I think my boy will be present at the Marquess of Pembroke’s banquet, Excellency,’ said Norfolk. ‘I will perform the introduction there.’

  De la Pommeraye bowed.

  ‘Too kind, my Lord. I may probably ask him the future of England as well as my own.’

  He laughed but his eyes were alert, unjoking.

  ‘I doubt very much that he would tell you.’

  ‘But I take it, from what you have said, that Madame la Marquise will become Queen despite today’s strange ceremony.’

  ‘I only gave my opinion,’ answered Norfolk.

  But the Frenchman was too quick. It was not entirely for his diplomatic skills that the French King Francis had made him Ambassador to England at the time of the greatest upheaval the country had ever known.

  ‘Ah, but my Lord Duke,’ said de la Pommeraye bowing once more. ‘I am quite sure that your astrologer son has advised you. You would be foolish indeed if you had not asked him and that, sir, you are not. Good day to you. I must speak with Dr Gardiner — a man who progresses, no?’

  And he was gone in a whiff of perfume and flash of rings.

  By two o’clock that afternoon the Castle was quiet. Mass had been heard in St George’s Chapel in front of His Grace, the new Marquess, however, keeping discreetly to her apartments. And now both the King and his love were resting in their separate quarters; both aware of the night that lay before them and both, in their completely different ways, afraid.

  Henry thought, ‘God’s precious life! It must be six years since I have performed the act. Six long years.’

  And he remembered with a shudder how terrible it had been towards the end with Katharine. How humiliated he had felt, how emasculated, as that part of him, the stature and performance of which preoccupies the mind of all healthy males, had failed to respond at all. Jesu, how he had sweated with a dread of impotence. And then that whispered fearful consultation with his principal physician, Dr Cromer.

  ‘But, may your Grace forgive me, is all well with ... with ... any other lady?’

  ‘There is no other lady,’ he had answered shortly. ‘Only the Queen.’

  How could there be anyone else when he was already possessed utterly by that little dark daughter of a Kentish knight?

  ‘I see.’

  Dr Cromer had fingered his beard thoughtfully. He was in the most delicate situation of his life. One false move and he might end up in the Tower and yet his duty lay to his patient, be he King or ploughman.

  ‘Your Grace,’ he started again, ‘is all as it should be when your Grace is ... er ... perhaps ... er ... thinking?’

  ‘Thinking?’ repeated Henry.

  ‘Oh God, how can he be so obtuse?’ thought Cromer. ‘Thinking ... pleasant thoughts.’

  ‘He must understand me now, he simply must!’

  ‘Oh, I see.’

  Henry grinned at him. He could be very charming, very boyish when he chose to be.

  ‘Yes, Dr Cromer. All is well with me at those times. And also when I kiss ... a certain person.’

  ‘Then, your Grace, I fear the fault lies with Her Grace. Forgive me, Majesty, but I must speak the truth.’

  What a relief to be able to say those words and what an even greater relief to see the King smile.

  ‘Then I shall not fail when the “certain person” consents?’

  ‘You need have no fear, your Grace.’

  But how could Henry have known that the ‘certain person’ would keep him waiting year in and year out. So that now he would lie in his huge bed and pray that tonight when she was finally beside him he would be capable of doing what he had so often dreamed about. Taking her — and roughly too — repaying her for the thousand times she had refused him. If he had been a less sensitive creature than he was, he would have begged a physic from Dr Cromer or even from that quack Zachary — Howard’s natural son. But had he done so he would have announced to the world that the consummation of his love for Anne was near. And she was too beloved, too cherished, to be subjected to even a breath more gossip. He must put his trust in everything he held sacred paramount of which, may God forgive him, was his love for Anne.

  She, when the ceremony was done, had asked her maids to strip her of the heavy garments of state and now lay upon her bed in naught but her white petticoats, the crimson robes so beautiful and yet so burdensome hung away out of sight. She longed to blurt out, ‘What is it like to lie naked with a man? Come tell me the truth?’

  But how could she? She who represented the future of England — God willing and if her nerve held out and if today’s ceremony did not herald utter rejection — speak thus to any of her women? But as Rose Weston drew the heavy curtains over the windows of her bedchamber she forced herself to an intimacy entirely against her nature.

  ‘Mistress Weston, you once told me that you loved Francis dearly.’

  ‘Yes, my Lady Marquess?’

  She sensed the stiffness in the reply and wondered, yet again, at her inability to make friends with her own sex. ‘Tell me ...’

  ‘Yes, madam ...?’

  Rose wasn’t making it at all easy for her.

  ‘Is there beauty in married life?’

  ‘Yes, madam,’ came the reply, and now she sensed the iciness in the voice and wondered what she had done to give ill-humour. She sat up on the bed and looked at her maid-of-honour.

  ‘I
meant no offence,’ Anne said — humbly for her.

  ‘No, my Lady!’

  The curtains were almost drawn now.

  ‘Will that be all, my Lady?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Anne, suddenly bone-weary of everything. ‘Yes, that will be all.’

  How pleasant it was to sink back into her pillow and by the very act of closing her eyes shut out the entire world. If only she need never more open them. How much easier for all the mummers in her particular drama if she could step out now. Katharine could have her beloved Henry, the wrangle with Rome could end honourably, the people of England could cease their muttered hatred. Nan Bullen, Marquess of Pembroke, could slip quietly into the earth which made her.

  ‘Go,’ she said aloud but it was not to Rose Weston — it was to herself.

  ‘As madam commands.’

  Anne was too beyond hurt to hear the bitterness in the reply.

  *

  Francis did not become consciously aware that Rose was nowhere about the Castle until much later that afternoon. Having met Nan Saville and learned that the Lady had long since retired and the maids-of-honour dismissed he began, in a half-hearted way, to look for her. But during his search he ran into his brother-in-law Walter Dennys and challenged him to a game of chess — sporting pursuits being forbidden on the Sabbath — and this whiled away another hour or so. By this time it was too late to seek Rose out for he was on duty to attend His Grace at supper.

  ‘Tell Rose I sought her,’ he called to Walter as they parted company.

  Honour had been satisfied — he had gone through the motions of trying to find his wife. With rather a heavy heart he set out for his chamber to change his clothes for the evening and it was there that he found her lying in the darkness, awake but unspeaking, curled round like a babe her knees to her chin.

  ‘Ann,’ he said, so startled that he called her by her proper name.

  ‘If you look for your mistress,’ she answered, ‘she rests in her own apartments. Why not go to her? She speaks of the beauty of marriage!’