by Deryn Lake
‘A pleasant journey?’ he said in a tone that indicated he cared not a whit nor a jot what the answer might be.
‘What?’ said Zachary, feigning deafness.
Bryan was forced to repeat the question but Zachary merely touched his ear and shrugged his shoulders, rolling his eyes round at the same time so that he appeared totally imbecile. Gritting his teeth Bryan gave up and gestured towards the two horses that stood tethered nearby. But Zachary simply gave an idiotic grimace and went lolloping off in the opposite direction.
‘God damn you,’ said Bryan and rapidly mounting went in pursuit of the black cloaked figure who was by now striding purposefully towards the more evil-smelling and disreputable part of the harbour.
‘Dr Zachary,’ he bellowed, catching up with him. ‘You are going the wrong way. Will you please mount, sir, and follow me.’
He was rewarded with a beaming smile and a ‘You are addressing me, sir?’
‘Yes,’ said Bryan exasperatedly.
‘Do I know you, sir?’
‘God’s life, I am Francis Bryan. You have seen me at Court oft enough.’
Zachary peered at him shortsightedly.
‘Why, you are Francis Bryan,’ he said.
Bryan’s usually expressionless eyes were glinting. ‘Enough of this game, Dr Zachary. Remember that I have the ear of the Lady. She is my cousin.’
Zachary’s features transformed into a look that made Bryan go cold.
‘The Marquess has many cousins,’ he said.
For a second Bryan did not comprehend but then he remembered that Zachary was the natural son of Anne Boleyn’s most powerful uncle — Norfolk himself.
‘And one day,’ Zachary continued, ‘she will be betrayed by one of them who will be known for ever more as the Vicar of Hell for that very deed.’
‘You speak of me, astrologer? God’s mercy, if I had my way you’d be burned at the stake.’
But even as he finished speaking the blow to his stomach had knocked him from his horse and he lay gasping for breath amongst the filth of the Calais cobbles.
‘Never,’ hissed his assailant, his amber eyes frightening to see, ‘never say that again in my presence if you wish to live.’
And without another word or even a glance Zachary mounted Bryan’s horse and galloped off leaving Sir Francis to lie where he had fallen, blood gushing from the corner of his mouth.
It took Zachary only a few minutes to find the Lantern Gate — the principal entrance to the fortress town — and giving his name to the host of guards who protected it he found himself escorted to richly appointed quarters in the Beauchamp Tower. Obviously the French King must have spoken of him with enthusiasm to Henry for he was being treated as a man of rank and estates by being given such privileged lodging, for crammed within the houses and dwellings of the fortress were some 2,400 people and 2,000 horses. Zachary considered himself more than lucky not to find himself with the less fortunate members of the Court who were sharing over-crowded rooms with resident citizens.
Having visited the Tower jakes, washed the sea salt from his skin and allowed a servant to unpack his few clothes, Zachary lay on the bed and closed his eyes. He had left Dover — whence he had journeyed from Greenwich on the previous day — at dawn’s first light in order to catch the tide and now it was past noon. That, combined with the unusual exertion of a street brawl, was enough to make him feel suddenly lacking in energy.
He awoke to hear a gentle knocking on the door and to discover that it was already dusk. Guilty that he had slept longer than he should, Zachary called out to the visitor to enter and was pleased to see Francis Weston standing in the entrance to the bedchamber. Observing him closely Zachary wondered if there could be anyone in the Kingdom to rival this beloved plaything of Henry and Anne.
At twenty-one Francis was in the full glory of his physical development without any of the disfigurements that the passing years must inevitably inflict on him. His body was slender but strong with exercise, his hair gleamed like gold thread, his eyes were clear and unmarked — as yet — by his late night drinking and gambling activities. And marriage had matured him without making him old. He was lively and bright yet considerate. Small wonder that the King and the Lady Marquess treated him rather as one would a delightfully spoilt pet.
‘Dr Zachary,’ he said, smiling and bowing, ‘I am so glad that you have joined us. All is to-do in the fortress for His Grace and King Francis only arrived this morning from Boulogne. The cooks and lads have worked until they will sleep on their feet, I’ll swear. And tonight is the first of the great banquets to which I have come to invite you.’
Zachary sat up and stretched and then shook his head several times. He reminded Francis of a dog that had slept well but was now preparing itself for the chase. And he was obviously already alert for he said, ‘And how goes it with the great meeting? Is the Marquess pleased?’
Francis pulled a wry face.
‘In honesty not really,’ he answered. ‘None of the French royal ladies will meet her. They say her reputation ...’
‘So King Francis is alone?’
‘He is here with the King of Navarre and other nobles — but no women.’
‘And is the Lady hurt by this?’
Francis laughed.
‘God’s head, no. She is so strong I doubt that anything could disturb her.’
Zachary thought, ‘How little you know her! You live almost within her pocket, see her every day when you are at Court, and yet you have no idea what goes on behind those eyes. One quick laugh, a clap of the hands, and you are deceived.’
Noncommittally he said, ‘One can never tell with women.’
Francis smiled and said, ‘How is your wife?’
‘With child. As round in the belly as a rosebud.’
It was an unfortunate turn of phrase for Francis sighed deeply and answered, ‘I wish my Rose would bloom.’
Zachary said, ‘I feel sure that she will soon. But I shall read the ancient cards for you before I leave Calais. It is something I have always wanted to do.’
Rather to his surprise Francis said, ‘Why? Why me in particular? Is it because of Sutton Place?’
Zachary hesitated and in that revealed too much.
‘It is cursed, isn’t it?’ Francis went on and his hand touched the amulets that he wore beneath his shirt.
‘Yes, yes,’ Zachary answered, turning his head away. ‘It is evil land.’
‘And there is nothing that can be done?’
‘When my little maid — my daughter — is older we will attempt an exorcism.’
‘Your daughter?’
‘Aye. She is a great magician. I dare say no more and I beg you to keep a still tongue lest she be branded — witch.’
The word seemed torn out of him almost against his will.
‘But she is only a child of two,’ Zachary went on. ‘Her body could not sustain the onslaught. I must wait till the moon has started its mysterious cycle within her. Then her powers will be at their greatest.’
Francis stared at him.
‘But that could be another ten years or more.’
‘Yes. But listen to me — never take my mother’s amulet and Giles’s enchanted stone from round your neck. They have mighty strength.’
‘So I am in danger?’
‘They will protect you until Sapphira is ready. Now worry no more. Everything will be done to combat the spell. Think of the child that is to come. Here.’
And Zachary crossed to the small wooden chest that he had handled himself throughout the journey and, unlocking it, took out two bottles of the liquid that he had prepared in order that the Lady Marquess might conceive.
‘What is this?’
‘I gave some to your sister Lady Dennys, and did she not bear a son?’
Francis shook his head with amusement.
‘Dr Zachary, your doing is in everything.’
The familiar imp-like grin spread across the broad Howard features.
; ‘Hardly so. I believe your brother-in-law Walter played his part. As you must too.’
Francis was smiling.
‘I’ll have no patronizing from you, sir. I’ll warrant you’re not much older than I.’
‘Half a dozen years perhaps but I am old in wisdom.’
‘Well, Methuselah,’ answered Francis, ‘the message from His Grace that I was told especially to deliver is ... do you want the actual words?’
‘Yes.’
‘Tell that boy of Tom Howard’s not to wear a hideous cloak to the banquet and to get a brush through his hair.’ Zachary bowed his head.
‘Answer to His Grace that the cloak will be reluctantly discarded but the hair presents difficulties. On the rare occasions that my wife attacks it she meets with little success. Furthermore I have no brush.’
‘A servant will bring one,’ said Francis. ‘I will not offer to lend you mine! Farewell until eight o’clock.’
It was dark by the time Zachary left the Beauchamp Tower and took to the cobbled streets of that extraordinary citadel — the walled and apparently impregnable fortress town of Calais. He had never in his life seen anything quite like it. Within the great outer bulwark of bastions and towers were row upon row of narrow streets in which lay houses, churches, shops, a Guildhall, an Exchequer, a large market, a castle and the usual collection of inns and brothels. But all encased in a mighty stone embrace. As his horse walked slowly forward towards the Staple Guildhall where Henry VIII was in residence and the banquet was to be held, Zachary stared about him in amazement.
It seemed that from every window of every house there hung a flag for the night was alive with swirling pennants depicting the lions of England and the fleur-de-lys. And at regular distances along the walls of the sloping and strangely-shaped buildings lighted flambeaux had been placed, so that the many members of the Court swarming forth from their various lodgings to attend upon the King’s Highness and his Royal Brother of France, could see their way clearly in the October darkness to the Guildhall which stood, like a medieval merchant’s palace, festooned with banners and ornamented outside with a great carpet which had been woven by that very Staple of which the Guildhall was the hub.
And once within, Zachary felt that surely he had stepped into a dream for no artifice of craftsmanship or design had been spared in order to seduce Francis of France into accepting — perhaps even adoring — the King’s most precious jewel, Anne Boleyn. The walls of the banqueting hall were completely covered with silver patterned tissue and in order to disguise the joins a master goldsmith had created waterfalls of gold filigree encrusted with brilliants and pearls. Light was thrown on to the great dining table by twenty branches of candles — ten of gilt and ten of silver — suspended from the ceiling by chains worked in the same metal. The effect was devastating. Zachary, raised in the hedgerows until he was ten and after that leading a relatively simple life, was overwhelmed. And with the human quality that stopped him from being in any way a frightening figure, he was glad that his wife Jane had insisted upon him taking a new, though rather violently coloured doublet to France and that he had obeyed the King’s request and left his cloak behind. To be eccentrically dressed at the Court in London was one thing but here, amidst so much splendour, it would have been ridiculous.
Charles Brandon, Duke of Suffolk, watching Zachary come in turned to Norfolk and said, ‘God’s precious blood, Tom, here comes your bastard looking for all the world like a quince. And why is his hair so strange?’
‘I believe he has been fighting with a brush,’ said Norfolk, laughing despite himself. ‘But say nothing to him, Charles. By his standards he is cutting a fair figure.’
Brandon guffawed into his beard.
‘God preserve us all. Look at these preening peacocks. And for what? Just so that Henry can flaunt his ...’
‘If I’ve told you a thousand times,’ hissed Norfolk, ‘keep your voice down.’
‘I said it to him in England,’ answered Brandon. ‘It is costing too much and might involve us in God knows what kind of treaty with France. And he sent me packing then. Because it’s all to please her. She was determined on this meeting. And being given Katharine’s jewels for the occasion. I assure you, Tom, my stomach is a-heave over the whole affair.’
‘It is outrageous,’ agreed Norfolk. ‘But she’s kept quiet; stayed here in Calais while His Grace went to Boulogne. You must admit, Charles, that she is behaving well.’
‘Aye, well and furious no doubt. And she’s not coming tonight either. God knows when she’s going to meet King Francis. I wonder what game she’s playing with us all now.’
And he stumped off irritably leaving Norfolk free to go and speak to Zachary who was advancing towards him in a doublet and hose of such vivid yellow that Howard’s eyes jumped in his head through looking at them.
‘Lord Duke my father,’ said Zachary, bowing.
‘My dear boy. You had a safe crossing?’
‘Very fair, my Lord, very fair.’
‘But already in trouble I hear. Sir Francis Bryan makes loud complaint to all who care to listen that you gave him a mighty blow in the stomach and then stole his horse.’
Zachary grinned delightedly.
‘Aye, ’twas a wonderful moment to see him lying on the ground — all his puff blown out.’
‘And what quarrel has he with you, pray?’
‘None to speak of but I care very little for his manner. He is a friend to no one but himself, mark my words.’ Norfolk sighed.
‘Is he to be avoided, Zachary?’
‘As much as possible.’
‘I will add him to the list,’ said Norfolk, a trifle wryly.
But the voice of Thomas Wyatt — Anne Boleyn’s poetic cousin and Zachary’s brother-in-law — was interrupting their conversation.
‘The heart doth fear, the eye doth wince. Is’t mortal man or is’t a quince?’
‘Exquisite,’ said Norfolk gazing down his nose. ‘Very clever, Thomas.’
Out of the corner of his eye he could see his son beginning to scowl and knowing His Grace’s stringent views on unruly behaviour, he hastily added, ‘We greatly appreciate your couplet to Zachary’s clothes. It is to Zachary’s clothes, is it not? To be honest I find your verse so witty that I sometimes cannot understand it at all. Farewell.’
And taking his bastard by the elbow he led him away before any further exchange could take place. It was a relief to hear the English trumpeters blare out the call that meant King Henry was approaching, and an answering call from their French counterpart sent the monarch striding directly to the door of the Guildhall to greet King Francis. As the minstrels struck up in the large, decorated gallery the French King and his entourage came into the room and the Duke saw Francis I’s eye flit quickly over the gathering, presumably to catch a glimpse of the Lady Marquess. But he was to be disappointed. Anne was being as good as her word. There was no sign of her and no place had been laid for her between those of the two monarchs at the glittering banquet table. Instead of trying to make her presence felt the woman for whom all this magnificence, this conferring of sovereigns, had been designed, appeared to be content to keep quietly to her apartments, her beautiful dresses and Queen Katharine’s jewels lying unused.
Norfolk observed as Francis of France whispered something into the ear of the King of England and then he saw them both look across in the direction of his son. He saw, too, the look of amused incredulity that spread over the face of the world-weary Frenchman. No doubt his Ambassador had described an oddity but he still had not been prepared for anything quite like Zachary. The Duke caught himself wishing that dreadful doublet and hose at the bottom of Calais harbour. And now to make matters worse the two Kings were walking towards them and, very slightly, Francis’s lips were twitching. Every protective instinct in Norfolk flew to the surface but there was little he could do. The entire Court was looking on for they had all heard of the interest shown by the French monarch in the renowned astrologer from England.
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Yet it was with an extraordinary dignity that Zachary bent to kiss Francis’s hand and, as he stood up, look directly into the French King’s face. Just as many years before the architect da Trevizi had felt energy and power emanate from the rumple-headed figure before him, so now did Francis. For to stare deeply into Zachary’s eyes was to sense the presence of things unseen, figures swathed in mist, shadows that moved silently, the distant murmur of voices from an empty church.
‘You have great knowledge,’ said Francis slowly. ‘Will you share some of it with me?’
Zachary dropped on one knee.
‘My knowledge is there for all that genuinely seek, Majesty.’
Francis nodded his head.
‘Thank you, astrologer,’ he said.
*
As he rode towards Sutton Place from his home in East Horsely, Henry Knyvett thought, ‘You are a fool to yourself. She is a married woman — has been for two years now — and yet you cannot resist the flimsiest chance to seek out her company. This obsessive love is good for nobody.’
But even as these ideas were going through his head he was, quite unconsciously, pushing his horse on even harder, for news that Rose Weston had left Court and was living at Sutton Place in poor health had reached him only the day before, on his return from visiting his father’s estates in Norfolk. It had come, of course, from his principal servant.
‘They do say, master, that she is badly sick with the mopes and has been ever since she lost her babe!’
‘But that was over a year ago, wasn’t it?’ Henry had answered, starting to remove his travel-stained clothes in readiness for the great pitchers of hot water and wooden tub that had been brought into his bedchamber.
‘Aye, master, aye. But women are funny creatures. Some can go quite strange in their minds with that sort of thing.’
Henry had paused in the middle of taking off his shirt. ‘In that case I’d better visit Sutton Place tomorrow,’ he had said and then realizing that his servant was giving him a look that could only be described as knowing he had added making, as was usual with him, the matter far worse, ‘Her husband would expect it of me. He is with the King in Calais at the moment.’
