by Deryn Lake
Wolsey had once described her as a night crow but this morning she looked like a changeling. The dark clothes she wore made her seem thinner than ever and the bones of her chest and wrists were scantily covered by flesh. Her eyes were enormous and her hair, brushed as smooth and as shiny as raven’s feathers, hung loosely about her face and shoulders. She appeared such a will-o’-the-wisp, such a child, in the flickering and feeble candle light that it was difficult for Rose to imagine that a baby dwelt in that delicate body. In fact it was difficult to imagine Anne Boleyn even being subject to the moon’s monthly cycle let alone the intimacy of a man’s passion. Particularly that of the King. He towered over her and seemed to loom all round her and the thought of him overpowering Anne’s body in the act of lovemaking was revolting to Rose, who had never known anything but the suppleness of Francis in her bed.
But any doubts that anyone had voiced about the King’s love for the lady, any thoughts that he was buying her off with a peerage, could be firmly scotched. Despite his present disquiet he looked at her adoringly and said very simply, ‘You do me much honour in wedding me.’
In reply Anne curtsied but said nothing. Her face was enigmatic, unreadable. She could have been the most confident or the most frightened bride but no hint showed. It was only the enormously dilated pupils that betrayed her. She had reached her moment of ultimate triumph and was terrified at arriving there.
And it was into this extraordinary scene that the chaplain Dr Lee walked.
‘Your Grace, I ... I ... Forgive me, your Grace. I have just been aroused from my bed and told to come here,’ he stuttered, his eye running over the altar and wondering what he was meant to do at this unholy hour in this ridiculous attic.
‘Very good, Dr Lee. I am pleased to tell you that you are about to conduct the ceremony of marriage between the King of England and the Marquess of Pembroke.’
Rose watched Lee’s expression as it became frozen with disbelief. She could almost hear him praying, ‘Oh God, not me. Not me chosen to act against the Pope. God, can you hear me?’
His elongated face like that of a silly horse, complete with many teeth set in higgledy-piggledy style about his jaw, was growing longer by the second and his mud-coloured eyes were giving a plentiful showing of white. He opened his mouth to speak, thought better of it, closed it again, and ended up by saying, ‘Hum, hum’ and staring into space. On any other occasion this would have been enough to send Rose into convulsive giggling but the King’s flint-like stare stopped everyone in their tracks.
‘Did you not hear, Dr Lee?’ he said, his voice so gentle that it sent a shiver through the unfortunate chaplain’s skinny frame. ‘I am asking you to celebrate a nuptial Mass — now. There are four witnesses present, there is an altar and communion plate. What more do you require?’
There was a moment’s intense silence then Rowland Lee found his voice.
‘Your Grace, forgive me, but I am by the rule of my conscience as well as that of Mother Church forced to ask you this question. Has His Holiness granted you dispensation? Has your marriage to Queen ... I mean to Katharine your wife been dissolved?’
‘Yes,’ said Henry.
‘But the papers ...’ answered Lee agonizingly.
‘Are upon me.’
And Henry tapped his chest as if something were stored in an inner pocket of his doublet.
Dr Lee saw his way out of the dilemma and grabbed it with the determination of a doomed man sensing the chance of reprieve.
‘Then in that case, your Grace, I am allowed by the authority of the Holy Roman Church to perform the ceremony.’
Everyone looked at the King but he made no move to produce the papers, merely taking Anne by the hand and leading her forward to the altar.
‘Then begin, sir priest, begin,’ was all he said.
Dr Lee, mopping his brow surreptitiously, moved into the place of the officiant and there in the darkness of that comfortless attic Anne Boleyn became the wife of Henry VIII. The whole business contrasted so starkly with the richness and colour of their love affair that Rose was reminded of the final spark after an exuberant sheet of flame. It seemed that nobody in the room — not even the priest, bride or groom — could quite comprehend what was actually happening for, the ceremony over, the King rose to his feet and said in a business-like voice, ‘We must leave here separately. Too many people on the stairs at once would rouse attention. You are, by your fealty to us, to speak no word of this. Dr Lee you go first, then Her Grace the Queen, then Mistress Weston followed by Mistress Saville. You, Henry and Thomas, clear up here and depart. All of you are to walk in silence.’
They all stared at him owlishly and it took Rose a full minute to realize that ‘The Queen’ meant Anne Boleyn. With an effort at collecting herself she curtsied and kissed Anne’s thin white hand. Beside the gleaming gold wedding ring the deformed finger — not hidden for once, twitched with a life of its own. It fascinated Rose horribly and she was glad when Dr Lee took the hand in order to give his kiss of loyalty.
A few seconds later and it was all done. The chaplain had departed, Anne had followed him and now it was Rose’s turn to descend the winding spiral down to the main body of the palace. As she moved into a long corridor lit by flambeaux, which led her away from the west wing, she glimpsed Anne’s swiftly-moving figure just disappearing in front of her. And then she heard a sound which made the hairs prickle on her body. From the darkness before her came a laugh. A laugh so deep from the throat that there was nothing in it of purity or humour. It was a cry of malice, of victory, of vengeance. It was a sound not of the mortal world.
Rose was still shivering when she climbed back into bed beside Francis. He, half waking, turned and flung an arm across her, muttered ‘You’re cold’ and holding her against him, went back to sleep. But Rose lay awake until the first reassuring shafts of light fell on her face and the hours of the night stalkers were at an end.
*
Spring came late to Sutton Place that year and the great horde of daffodils that turned one of the many lawns behind the house into cloth-of-gold were slow to show their delicate faces. At night the wind howled down the Long Gallery and all four fires were needed to contrast the blistering conditions, while the logs in the fireplace in the Great Hall spat and crackled like gunshot. Reflecting the light of the flames as brightly as it had done on the day it was first painted, Katharine of Aragon’s emblem — the pomegranate — seemed to draw all eyes of the family, gathered together for the spring hunting, involuntarily towards it.
‘I sigh for the Queen,’ said Anne Weston. ‘What kind of existence can it be at The More? And they say that she is to be moved soon to the manor at Ampthill. Always a little less comfort if you notice.’
‘That is not all that is said,’ John Rogers answered. ‘At Court last week I was told, on the best authority, that His Grace has secretly married the Lady already.’
‘What!’ exclaimed Lady Weston. ‘But that would be bigamy. He is still husband to Her Grace.’
‘Not in his eyes,’ said Sir Richard drily. ‘It is rumoured that the Marquess’s brother Rochford has already been sent to France to inform King Francis of the match.’
Rose felt herself growing wretchedly hot as everyone turned to look at her.
‘But Rose you were at Court until a month ago. Did you hear anything of it?’
‘Surely it’s untrue,’ said Margaret. ‘Even His Grace would not dare marry without dispensation.’
‘Unless the Lady were p-p-pregnant,’ answered Walter.
‘Let Rose speak,’ said Sir Richard over the top of them.
‘I know nothing,’ she said far too hastily, more than aware of her father-in-law’s expressionless eyes appraising her.
‘Nothing?’ he repeated, smooth as an old panther that had not lost its skill to stalk. ‘How strange, sweetheart. Do you think the Lady was hiding anything from you? She can be quite a mistress of deception when she so chooses as all well know.’
Rose looke
d frantically from face to face. Sir Richard, as usual, was totally unreadable — he could have spoken in good faith; Lady Weston was aghast and anxious to hear anything that Rose could add; Sir John Rogers was cynical, amused — as if he thought Rose knew a great deal more than she was saying; Walter Dennys was his usual honest and perplexed self; Margaret seemed interested but, as always, had the slightly preoccupied air of one constantly planning a grand design in topiary or water garden; while Catherine’s eyes were as round and as china blue as they had been when she was a child listening to a tale from Giles the Fool.
‘Well?’ said Lady Weston impatiently.
‘I know nothing,’ repeated Rose nervously. ‘There are always rumours about the Court. You know that, Sir Richard.’
‘Aye, I do. But this one seems to have gained some substance. Perhaps through its very persistence.’
‘It is said that she was secretly married to the King in the presence of two of his gentlemen and two of her ladies,’ John Rogers put in, the diamond in his ear sparkling as he turned to look at Rose even more squarely.
‘But if the marriage was so secret how do people know this?’ she countered.
‘Perhaps one of them talked,’ he said and leaned back in his chair.
‘But that’s impossible,’ came out of her mouth before she had time to think.
Rogers gave a short laugh.
‘They were all too trustworthy, were they?’
Rose fought back tears.
‘I don’t care for your manner, John. That is not what I meant. I meant ... well, yes in a way I did think that anyone who served the King or the Marquess could be trusted.’
Catherine entered the lists.
‘You are clever enough for two, Sir John! I’ll warrant if Francis was here he’d have you on the floor for the bully you are. Don’t address Rose in that jackanapes tone or by the Mass I’ll leave this house and you in it.’
‘Catherine, that will be enough,’ he snapped in reply.
‘Oh will it? I ...’
‘Please do not quarrel at my table,’ pleaded Lady Weston as the Rogers launched into a verbal battle of viperish content.
‘This is t-t-too bad!’ said Walter, his voice deafened by the shouts.
‘Catherine, remember where you are,’ tried Margaret, more loudly.
‘By the living Christ, you are the worst shrew in the Kingdom,’ bellowed John.
‘And you the most prancing, overblown peacock that ever thrust forth a shank. Aye, and a spindle shank at that!’
Rose burst into a spectacular fit of weeping and not to be outdone the Westons’ favourite hound put back its head and let out a blood-curdling howl.
‘God’s blood — silence!’ thundered Richard in a voice that would have been audible in Guildford. ‘You popinjays, you urchins! Do you think I fought at Bosworth before you were even born to have you air your paltry squabbles in my house? Be quiet John Rogers, and you Catherine. Rose, dry your eyes. Now listen to me you bunch of snivellers. It matters not a damn from a tinker whether the Lady is already married or whether she isn’t. The fact is that His Grace is determined to have her for wife regardless of the Queen, the Pope and the Devil. And when this is made public the country will divide and families will divide and heads will roll. And one family that will not divide is that of Richard Weston, Knight of the Manor of Sutton. We will stand united behind the King and whatever he chooses to do. I trust that my meaning is more than clear? And if there are those in this Hall who do not agree, then let them leave now.’
He stood with his fists on the table looking around him. Nobody moved even to breathe and after a full minute’s silence he seemed satisfied.
‘Very well. Sir John, Catherine — you will apologize to my wife. Rose, I think you are tired and Margaret will escort you to your bedchamber. And I will get on with my food. An excellent pie, Anne, excellent.’
And he tucked into a vast helping of mutton and pastry accompanied by a dish of shrimps.
The fire in the Great Hall grew low, the hounds lay sleeping, their heads between their paws, and softly Sir Richard’s Fool strummed his lute. Everything was very calm again as those in the mansion prepared for the night. Only Rose tossed uneasily in her bed, missing Francis’s presence and feeling the newly-awakened baby moving inside her.
The next day saw the wind dropped and the sunshine and freshness of late March at its most exciting. John Rogers and Walter Dennys rose soon after dawn to ride with their hounds and were amazed to see their father-in-law, as tough as old leather, already in the stables. The far apart eyes regarded them as brightly as ever, only a fainter tinge in the pigment giving away the passing of sixty-seven years. But his back was as straight as it had always been and his frame still lean. For his age — and he must have been one of the oldest men still serving the King actively — he was quite remarkable. The three of them were soon mounted and galloping away in the direction of Windsor accompanied by Sir Richard’s huntsmen, the two younger men knowing quite well that Sir Richard would probably be the least tired when they returned to Sutton Place after nightfall.
The women of the house, slightly subdued after the quarrel of the previous night, rose late and took a leisurely breakfast in a small chamber in the Gate-House wing and it was then that Catherine, gazing out of the window at the bright sky and small hurrying clouds, suggested a ride.
‘But I dare not,’ said Rose. ‘Last time it caused me to abort.’
‘Then we will walk,’ Margaret answered. ‘I am most anxious to study the trees. Where shall we go?’
‘To the old ruins. Where we first met Giles the Fool. Do you remember, Margaret? All those years ago! Poor Giles, I miss him when I stay here. Do you remember that day, Mother?’
Lady Weston sat in silence. Catherine was speaking of an incident that she could never forget. The moment when she had first heard the legend of the curse of Sutton. She could see him now striding towards them through the forest, his hair cut as round as a basin, his toothy grin visible from yards.
‘Dear Giles,’ she said. ‘He was a good servant.’
‘Joan was telling me that he haunts the Long Gallery. That those who are sensitive can hear him weep. Is it true?’
‘Joan is getting old, Catherine — as indeed are your father and I — and she dreams her dreams these days.’
‘Then it is her imagination?’
‘I have never heard him but then perhaps I am not receptive to such things. But I would like to think that part of Giles remains with Sutton Place — even if it is his tears.’
They all sat silently for a moment thinking of the little man who had meant so much to them in different ways. Then Margaret said, ‘Come, we shall be weeping if we think too much. Let us breathe the morning while it is still young.’
So the three young women set out alone except for Jacob and William — two of Sir Richard’s lads — who were to walk behind them and see that they came to no harm.
Leaving by the Gate-House they turned west and headed off through the meadowland to where the trees grew more thickly in that part of the forest where Edward the Confessor, a gaunt and desolate King, had ridden in the chase hoping, by the very speed of his mount, that he might forget he was nothing in the eyes of others — neither a proper male nor a lover of men.
‘Do you remember Giles’s story, Margaret?’ Catherine was speaking. ‘How this belonged to King Edward. His hunting lodge is still here, Rose. You can make out the shape of it even now.’
‘It was a great tale,’ said Margaret. ‘It is a pity that there is a notion of the land being accursed. That was wrong of Dr Zachary. He should not have told mother.’
‘But surely the architect da Trevizi was reputed to have seen a ghost. Isn’t that how it all started? Do you remember him, Margaret? I always thought his eye was at full gape for you.’
Margaret blushed and said, ‘His eye was at full gape for any woman — old or young. But I longed for him and there’s the truth of it. He held my hand once a
nd I thought I would faint. He had very beautiful fingers, you know.’
Catherine laughed aloud.
‘Such talk from a respectable woman whose life is devoted to gardens, children and curing Walter’s stammer! Wouldst take a lover, Margaret?’
‘Indeed not.’ Margaret’s cheeks were very red. ‘Walter is a very satisfactory husband.’
Catherine pursed her lips and shook her head.
‘Who would have thought it! Like the old adage, I suppose. Still waters running deepest. I personally would like to have a lover to see what it is like.’
‘But surely Sir John ...?’
‘Oh, he’s a lusty enough fellow. I’ve no complaints on that score. It’s simply that I would like to compare him with another. Don’t look so worried, Margaret, there’s scant chance. I am constantly with child.’
She patted her belly.
‘Not again!’ said Rose.
‘I think so.’
‘God-a-mercy, does the man never cease?’
‘No, never. It seems that my trollop’s nature combined with his lusts have turned me into a brood mare.’
And Catherine grinned, her eyes as wide and fresh-looking as ever greatly at odds with her self-confessed sensuality.
‘Lower your voices,’ said Margaret. ‘The lads are all ears.’
Catherine and Rose smiled but did as they were asked and after a few minutes more the party came within sight of the overgrown stones that had once been a saint’s hunting lodge.
‘And there beyond,’ said Catherine pointing, ‘are the ruins of the manor house. Look at that arched window. I wonder who stood there and gazed out. The house passed through many famous hands before it fell into decay.’
‘Why was it left to rot?’
‘I don’t know. I think there was a scandal. Probably Hugh Despenser and his lover King. The Despensers were the last to live there.’
‘My history is poor. Which King was that?’
‘Edward II. The one who had a red hot poker up his ...’
‘Catherine, please!’ said Margaret. ‘You have become so coarse.’
