Sutton Place (Sutton Place Trilogy Book 1)

by Deryn Lake

  ‘Oh, you’ll be nice company for her then. No doubt she’s lonely in that great house.’

  Henry had felt his neck and cheeks growing uncomfortably hot.

  ‘Of course if Sir Richard and Lady Weston are not in residence ...’

  ‘Oh they’re there, master. But you’ll be a young person for her. I think it is your duty to go.’

  Poor Henry had given him a grateful look.

  ‘That is how I see it, Rob. As a friend of Master Francis I am obligated.’

  His servant had sighed.

  ‘It will be a Christian act of kindness, sir.’

  He had turned his back and bent over the tub, testing the water’s heat, so that his blushing master should not see his broad grin.

  And now Knyvett was in Sutton Forest and about to ride clear of the last of the trees and see Sutton Place come into view. In the crisp October air the motionless trails of smoke from the chimneys hung above the garden’s scarlet leaves like upward pointing pennants and the terra-cotta brickwork glowed with all the mellowness of an autumn field after the harvest was long gone. Knyvett fractionally slowed his mount. Could Sir Richard’s mansion ever fail to capture the imagination of even the dullest of mortals? For that was how he considered himself — stolid and boring above most men — and yet each time he saw Sutton Place his heart lifted a little. And that had started even before he had first seen Rose and fallen in love with her. But now the thought of her being in the house, forlorn and depressed, made him hurry on again, his heart thumping in his chest.

  He was received in the Great Hall by Lady Weston, Sir Richard being out riding. It struck Henry that she gave him an odd glance and when Rose came down the great stairs and offered him her hand to kiss he was quite certain that the older woman was staring at them strangely.

  Anne thought, ‘It is so like my dream. The two of them together without Francis. I wish he hadn’t visited her — somehow it frightens me.’

  But then her usual good sense prevailed. Of all the men on earth Henry Knyvett must surely be one of the least harmful and kindliest natured, quite incapable of betrayal or of wooing a friend’s wife ... The idea was out of the question.

  ‘You’ll dine with us, Henry?’ she said.

  ‘I would be delighted, Lady Weston. But, with your permission, may I take Rose riding? I thought the air might do her good and ...’

  His words vanished in a gulp and he knew that he was blushing again.

  ‘Yes. Yes, of course.’

  But there was hesitancy in her voice and a chill of fear in her blood. Henry picked up the intonation.

  ‘Of course, if you thought the exercise might be too much for her I ...’

  It was not like Anne Weston but she answered, with an edge in the sound that surprised even herself, ‘Yes, it probably would tire Rose too greatly. Dr Burton has instructed her to take life quietly.’

  Rose said, ‘Then Henry can walk with me in the Long Gallery. I promise you I shall sit down if I feel unwell.’

  Once out of earshot she said to Knyvett, ‘I think my mother-in-law is in the sullens over something. Perhaps she and Sir Richard have fallen out.’

  ‘Possibly it is my arrival. In truth she did not seem pleased to see me. I felt I had caused her annoyance.’ Rose laughed.

  ‘Oh, Henry, how could anybody be annoyed by you? Why you’re as amiable a fellow as ever breathed.’

  ‘How dull that makes me sound. I do not wish to be dull, Rose.’

  She wanted to say ‘You’re not’ but the words hung on her lips for, in truth, that was how she always thought of him — like a faithful but not over-bright hound. And now he was looking at her as if he were indeed a dog, his eyes anxious and earnest with the need for reassurance. Rose lied.

  ‘You could never be dull, Henry. Why, your kindness makes you sparkle. You are like a diamond in your friendship.’

  He suddenly raised her fingers to his lips and kissed them and in that split second Rose knew for certain that he was in love with her, knew why Lady Weston had been uneasy and knew in her heart that if she stayed away from Francis for any length of time it would be all too easy to bask in the great torrent of adoration that was now flowing towards her from this steadfast man, as different from his friend Francis as lead is to quicksilver. Gently she took her hand away.

  ‘I think I might return to Court soon,’ she said.

  ‘But are you well enough? What of Dr Burton’s instructions?’

  ‘Dr Burton has already strengthened me with his physics. He is just being a little over cautious I think.’

  ‘You — miss Francis?’

  She turned to look at him.

  ‘Yes, Henry, I do. I think perhaps one doesn’t realize how deeply one loves a person until one is apart from them. Have you ever felt that?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said and turned to look out of the window at the end of the Gallery.

  ‘I think I behaved foolishly when I was at Court last. I should not dwell in the past. I will have other children.’

  ‘I am certain of it.’

  And what he would give to father them; he imagined a jolly little son, stocky like himself, and a daughter as pretty as Rose.

  ‘It was jealousy that caused it, Henry. I was jealous of the Lady.’

  He turned round from gazing out at the parkland. ‘God’s holy life, jealous of her? But compared with you she is ugly.’

  Rose laughed.

  ‘Now you are being polite. There is nothing ugly about the Lady. Men admire her I assure you.’

  ‘That is something else. She has a set of followers ...’

  ‘Of which Francis is one.’

  Knyvett thought, ‘Now I could sow a seed of doubt that would stay for ever in her mind and in that way I could win her — if not in marriage at least in the bliss of her bed.’

  But how could he put down all that was natural in him? His overwhelming honesty rose to the surface and he said, ‘Francis likes her, it is true. But you need have no thoughts of his loving her. Why, he would as soon lose his life as lose you.’

  ‘Is that really true?’

  ‘In the name of our Holy Mother, it is.’

  ‘But he was in a fury with me when I left Court and I haven’t seen him from that day to this.’

  ‘I saw him before he embarked for France and he was perfectly affable. You have nothing to fear.’

  She put her hand out and touched his arm.

  ‘Thank you, Henry,’ she said.

  ‘You know that you will always have a friend in me. Remember that, Rose. Whatever happens I will always be here if you should need me.’

  She smiled at him.

  ‘And if you take a wife would she be my friend too?’

  ‘Despite my parents’ anxiety I have no plans for marriage — unless she looks like you.’

  ‘Flatterer,’ she said and ran the length of the Long Gallery, the song that had been silent inside her for months suddenly rising to her lips.

  *

  It was three days since Zachary had arrived in Calais, three days during which he had worked hard and diligently. On the morning following the first of Henry Tudor’s banquets he had presented himself at the Exchequer — where the French King was in residence — and after a wait of only a few minutes had been shown into a chamber in which Francis was seated at a desk, working on state papers. He had looked up as Zachary had come in and then risen to greet him.

  ‘My dear young friend,’ he had said in French, ‘I welcome you with pleasure. The pursuit of learning — all kinds of learning — has always fascinated me.’

  Zachary had bowed and had been unable to resist a trick of léger-de-main which he had taught himself in order to impress the older ladies at Court — apparently of their own volition his crystal scrying glass and the mystic cards had appeared in his hands.

  Laughing, Francis had applauded.

  ‘Deep pockets in the cloak, no?’ he had said.

  Zachary had nodded and smiled.

  ‘But
I feel that the rest of your skills are a greater mystery to mankind. Tell me how you came to have these powers.’

  Zachary shook his head.

  ‘Majesty, I cannot answer. From the time that I first understood my mother would speak to me of the hidden secrets of life and because I was her son and she had passed on to me her gift of seeing clearly, I knew at once the things she told me. Then my father sent me to a learned man who not only taught me how to read and write and educated me in Latin and Greek but showed me how, as the mighty stars march their way through the heavens, they influence the lives of kings and men.’

  ‘So I could not learn your arts?’

  ‘After many years’ study, your Grace, you might well learn the secrets of the firmament but to be able to hold this scrying glass in your hand and to know by its very feel what inevitably must be played out, that I doubt.’

  Francis smiled and motioned Zachary to a chair.

  ‘And will you tell me my destiny?’

  ‘Certainly.’

  ‘Even if it be bad?’

  ‘By the rhythms surrounding you I know that nothing bad awaits your Grace. But let me look more deeply.’

  And the King of France watched as Zachary’s face softened into a dreamy stillness, the crystal glowing against the blackness of his cloak. Eventually he spoke.

  ‘Your Grace, you will be remembered for ever not for your brilliance in war — for the suffering of war is rapidly forgotten — but for what you give the world through your love of the arts. You have already encouraged and invited to France one called Leonardo ...’

  ‘Da Vinci?’

  ‘Who has gifts beyond the understanding of ordinary men and two mighty painters, known as Raphael and Titian, will fulfil their greatness through your patronage. Because of this, mankind will be for ever in your debt. And by the great laws of reward your own life will always be colourful and exciting and you are, and will be, the lover of many women. In fact one of them is the most beautiful woman in the world — although she never smiles.’

  Francis laughed. His exquisite mistress Diane de Poitiers — also destined to be the lover of his son — not only never smiled but made a point of showing no emotion whatsoever.

  ‘To smile or frown, laugh or cry, makes lines appear on the face,’ she had said to him once, gazing at the flawless reflection in the mirror before her. ‘You, Francis, have altogether too cynical an expression. You are becoming wrinkled and will die young. I intend to stay looking as I do at this moment.’

  And she did. There were rumours at the French Court that she practised magic in order to achieve the miracle but all she did was stare at those who said it with her wide blue eyes, giving no hint of what she thought. Somehow Diane de Poitiers had discovered the secret of eternal youth and she kept it, whatever it was, hidden behind a closed and mask-like expression.

  Thinking of her words Francis said, ‘Will I die young?’

  ‘No, your Grace. Nor will you be extremely old. You will go at the average age for such things.’

  ‘And what of my destiny here in Calais? My Royal Brother Henry wishes me to approve his marriage to Madame la Marquise but something in me hesitates. Will she become Queen, Zachary? Where will it lead?’

  For the first time Norfolk’s bastard raised his eyes and looked at the French King. His face still bore the same faraway look but something in his manner had sharpened.

  ‘Majesty, I made a vow on the ship as I crossed to Calais that I would not discuss the future of England with you.’

  ‘But I only wish to know about the Lady. If I tell Henry to marry her and take his joy while he can will I be committing a sin in the eyes of God and Church?’

  ‘Your Grace, I will say this much. Whatever you advise our King to do the course of events will be the same. The Marquess will wear the crown of the English Queens and there’s an end to it. You must advise what you feel is right in your heart.’

  ‘Then I will tell him to marry her. No man — particularly a King — should be deprived of sons.’

  ‘So be it.’

  ‘But why does she avoid me? I have not seen her since I arrived. Why does she keep to her apartments?’

  Zachary’s face transformed from that of a mystic and wore instead the look of a naughty schoolboy. He put the scrying glass down on the table.

  ‘Your Grace, I do not need the aid of divining instruments to answer you that. The Lady is quite capable of not appearing at all. She plays games with men — all men. Even mighty Princes. She will greet you when she deems fit.’

  Thinking of Diane de Poitiers, Francis sighed.

  ‘Why are women so strange, Zachary?’

  ‘If I knew that, Majesty, then I would be the most powerful magician on earth.’

  They laughed together and the Frenchman said, ‘How lucky Norfolk is to have a son such as yourself. I have not enjoyed the company of another man so much since ... I cannot remember when. Will you spend the day here so that we can converse longer? Or are you busy with your own affairs?’

  Zachary bowed.

  ‘I would be privileged, your Grace. My natural conceit always relishes speaking with one who appreciates what I do.’

  And so they had spent the time discussing every subject, the French King himself throwing logs on the crackling fire that combated the chill late October wind of Calais so that they would not be bothered by the plod of ministering servants. And just as it had been on the previous day it was dusk when Zachary went out into the streets of the fortress and made his way back to the Beauchamp Tower. But this time he did not attend King Henry’s banquet but instead stayed up all night studying, by the light of as many candles as he could find, the life chart of Francis I. The long and complicated process was made no easier by the fact that all his learned books, with the exception of one, had been left at home in Greenwich. So it was from this one tattered volume that he had worked until it was broad daylight again and he had finally fallen asleep, long after the clock had struck the hour of noon, his head on the table in front of him, resting amongst the papers that showed that the great constellation of Virgo had been ruling the heavens when the son of an obscure cousin of Louis XII had struggled into the world at Cognac and had, by virtue of his determined personality, become King of France. The life pattern of Francis I was complete. All that was left to do was to copy it out in neat hand.

  And this he did when he awoke again at six o’clock, before shaving his face, washing himself and putting on a fine doublet of black embroidered with sparkling silver threads — an unexpected gift from his father, Norfolk, which had been waiting for him on the previous evening with a note begging him to wear it to further state banquets ‘if you would show your father love and respect’. Zachary was only too pleased to do so for it was made of choice stuff though the colour he considered very dull.

  ‘And what of the Marquess of Pembroke?’ he asked the servant who was helping him, ‘Did she attend upon the King last night?’

  ‘No, Dr Zachary. They say she won’t appear at all. That she smokes with fury.’

  ‘Because of the French Queen?’

  ‘Her and the other great ladies of France. None of them would shift to meet her.’

  ‘Yes, I know.’

  ‘Do you think she’ll come out of her apartments?’

  Zachary’s smile beamed at him.

  ‘I don’t think she would miss the opportunity for a cage of apes.’

  But when he arrived at the banqueting hall he saw that once again the royal cup bearers of both England and France stood side by side behind the two chairs of state — no place had been prepared for the Lady.

  ‘Well?’ said his father, apparently appearing from nowhere and muttering right into his ear.

  ‘She will come tonight.’

  ‘You’re certain?’

  ‘Absolutely. It is the third evening.’

  ‘So?’

  Zachary patted Howard’s arm.

  ‘Three is a very important number in magic, Lord Duk
e my father.’

  ‘And what does the Marquess know of magic?’

  Zachary pulled a face and shrugged his shoulders.

  ‘Enough to bewitch a King.’

  ‘Are you saying she is a mistress of Satan?’

  His son was suddenly very straight-faced.

  ‘No, I am not. She is a mistress of subtlety and charm and cleverness. That is all.’

  ‘But would you swear that she is not familiar with the black arts?’

  In Zachary’s mind he was back in the mayhem of his room in Greenwich, saw again the evil book depicting Anne Boleyn with her head at her feet, envisaged the terror that raged when he tried to destroy it. He had thought then that Anne knew more than she had said, had cut the pentagrams into the floor rather too readily for a novice.

  ‘Well, would you?’ the Duke repeated, looking closely into Zachary’s face.

  ‘Father, do not press me. I know not and that is the truth.’

  Norfolk pursed his lips and nodded apparently satisfied with the reply and further conversation was halted by the call to dine. Zachary found himself seated next to a very pert young woman who gave her name as Rosamund Banastre and informed him that she was a daughter of Lady Banastre.

  ‘And you are the famous astrologer from England, are you not? Do not look surprised. Everyone has heard of you, even us poor bumpkins whose fate is to dwell in this benighted town.’

  ‘You find Calais boring? I would have thought it quite the hub of activity.’

  ‘Aye at times like this it is exciting enough. But can you imagine living here. Everybody knows the business of everybody and there is nobody to meet unless there be important visitors from England. I swear by God’s holy blood that I am destined for an early grave through sheer despair. Wilt read my future Dr Zachary and see if I am doomed to die a maid?’

  And with this she gave him a most unmaidenly glance that for no reason made him feel exceedingly hot. He looked away hastily and found himself the subject of four hostile stares. His father’s legitimate children — Lady Mary Howard, soon to be married to the King’s bastard, and the Earl of Surrey, only sixteen years old but already a married man — together with their respective partners, were subjecting him to an ice-like scrutiny. In fact his half-brother Surrey’s wife Frances, only sixteen herself, went so far as to poke the tip of her tongue out at him. Henry Fitzroy, Duke of Richmond, due to marry Zachary’s half-sister before the year was out, contented himself with an unblinking glare.