by Deryn Lake
‘No, only a nightmare. It’s the Tower. I don’t like it.’
Mordaunt stared at him blankly. He was a huge young man, as tall as the King but without the excess flesh that Henry was now gaining rapidly.
‘Really? I don’t agree. I’m enjoying myself — very much. I could do with a woman — I like a woman at night, you know — but other than that I find the whole occasion splendid. Have you any wine?’
Francis motioned to the table and Mordaunt crossed to pour himself a glass.
‘Do you want some?’
Francis nodded.
‘It might make me sleep.’
‘I never thought you would be the type for dreams, Weston. I don’t like men who dream. I always think they’re he-lovers; mince-walking pretties.’
It suddenly occurred to him that Francis was very fair-haired and long-lashed and he put one hand hastily over his genitals in such a protective manner that Francis grinned and said, ‘Don’t worry, John. I don’t find you appealing. I prefer someone less tall.’
He gave Mordaunt a simpering smile which had the other young man on his feet and hurrying rapidly out leaving Francis laughing alone in the stillness. But despite the drink and the sudden merriment he did not sleep again for an hour, his mind too full of the dream of he and Henry Norris falling down and down into an endless black night, eternally together in a terrifying oblivion.
But in the morning he was fast asleep and had to be shaken awake by his servant. A steaming tub had already been brought to his room and he shaved his face while sitting in the scented water before stepping out and dressing carefully in the violet robes of a Knight of the Bath. From the other chambers he could hear his companions calling out to one another in an atmosphere of excitement which, at last, caught him up. For the first time he was able to shake off the gloom of his surroundings and think of the day ahead with pleasure.
At exactly ten minutes to ten o’clock Francis walked with the other Knights to the banqueting hall which was now filling up fast with members of the Court coming to see the investiture, for over eighty men were to be knighted that day. Looking up to the two high chairs of state Francis saw that Rose stood already in position just behind the Queen’s, dressed in satin of a slightly paler colour than his robes. Francis smiled at her but she didn’t see him, too preoccupied with Anne’s imminent arrival. But as he knelt before Henry and was tapped with the ancient sword so that he might arise Sir Francis Weston, Francis felt her looking and was able to catch her eye.
At midday the great procession which had formed up at the gates of the Tower moved off to journey through the City of London to Westminster Hall. Glancing back over his shoulder Francis could just make out Rose over half a mile behind him, riding with thirteen other Court ladies behind the chariots of the old Duchess of Norfolk and the Marchioness of Dorset. He wondered briefly why Anne’s uncle of Norfolk had suddenly found it so vital to he abroad, though everybody knew why his unhappy wife refused adamantly to leave Kenninghall Castle to attend. She had openly declared her allegiance to Katharine of Aragon, regardless of the consequences. So the only senior representative of the Howard clan was the old Dowager, the Duke’s stepmother, sitting painted like a strumpet and pouter-puffed with pride.
All along the route were pageants of both adults and children acting out scenes to delight the new Queen but yet, despite the colourful displays and the fact that most of the fountains were running with red and white wine, the crowd was as sullen and as silent as it had been two days before when the Court had come up-river. Any doubt about Anne’s lack of popularity in the eyes of the common people could be at an end. The dark, thin Queen would never be forgiven for ousting kind Queen Katharine. Francis could not help but wonder how his friend felt riding in her cloth-of-gold litter, a circlet of glowing rubies about her head. Did the cold reception of London’s citizens wound her, did she really want to be a good Queen and popular, or was she so filled with triumph that she cared not a fig for the feelings of the English people who were now her subjects? But another quick glance only showed him her smile and the gleam of the black hair which was flowing down over her shoulders. As he turned back Francis saw John Mordaunt eyeing him suspiciously and could not resist giving the stalwart young man a wink.
It was a relief to leave the silent streets behind and arrive at last at Westminster Hall where the cavalcade dismounted and Anne was carried in on her litter. After being offered wine and refreshment she left for Whitehall Palace to join the King for the night.
*
Exactly two months to the day after the Coronation the Court was disbanded at speed. An epidemic of that dreaded companion of summer, the Sweating Sickness, had broken out as virulently as it had in 1528, five years before.
The King hurried to Guildford secretly to convene a meeting of his council at Sutton Place, the Duke of Norfolk was sent for from Kenninghall, the Duke of Suffolk was already on his way. And it was not only the Sweat that forced the Councillors to meet so far from London for the Queen was now installed at Greenwich awaiting the birth of the Prince of Wales and His Grace was going to unprecedented lengths to shelter her from anything that could possibly upset or annoy. Council meetings were discreetly labelled ‘hunting trips’ and though it was true a certain amount of time was spent in the chase, no measure of sporting activity could take from the minds of those gathering at Sir Richard’s mansion the disturbing news that George Boleyn had brought with him from Europe only three days before. The Vatican had declared Henry’s marriage to Anne null and void. The Prince of Wales was destined for bastardy.
‘A complete break,’ said Suffolk hurrying his horse on so that he drew level with Richard Weston’s. ‘It’s the only way. The Pope’s a foreigner. He must not be allowed to meddle in English affairs. God’s blood, if a man can’t be allowed to wive with whom he chooses then we’re all prisoners of Rome.’
Weston’s face was implacable as he thought, ‘Wretched old hypocrite.’ His wife had not been two months in her grave when Suffolk had ordered his son to give up his betrothed so that he — Suffolk — might marry her himself.
And the girl was at Sutton Place — only fourteen years old and obviously still a virgin. A sorry sight indeed walking beside the grey-bearded old man that Suffolk had now become, despite the fact that he was considerably younger than Sir Richard.
‘Revolting!’ Anne Weston had not minced her words. ‘I pity that poor girl in the marriage bed. Such sweet flesh, Richard, to be jointed to that sagging creature.’
Sir Richard had looked at her impassively.
‘High influence can purchase almost anything, Anne. Even one’s son’s bride.’
‘Then he has bought resentment along with her.’
‘Oh indeed — and perhaps even hatred. But he won’t care. Charles has never let anything stand in his way. Not even His Grace.’
For Suffolk’s first wife had been the King’s sister, Mary Rose, and there had been royal fury when she — the young widow of the elderly King of France — had virtually eloped with the virile and dashing Duke. It had exercised Charles Brandon’s disarming manner to the full to talk his way back into Henry’s favour. But he had done it and had been a loyal King’s man ever since.
Now he wheeled his horse round so that he could look Weston straight in the face.
‘What do you think, Richard, eh? Don’t give me that blank stare of yours. Do you think we should be Popish puppets?’
Sir Richard looked non-committal.
‘We certainly can’t allow the legitimacy of the Heir to be questioned.’
‘Indeed not! A Prince for England at last. It has been worth all Henry’s struggle to marry her to see the Queen great with child. I should like more children you know.’
Richard shuddered inwardly. That poor girl — her only hope to be a wealthy young widow. Naturally considerable age gaps were not uncommon in the Tudor marriage game but this particular instance was raising eyebrows everywhere, the innocence of the girl making it all the m
ore sad.
To Suffolk Richard said, ‘Well, you’ve certainly picked a bride young enough.’
The Duke looked at him sharply. He knew full well the whispering that was going on behind his back but Weston wore his usual blank expression. Taken at face value the remark seemed innocent.
‘Yes, yes,’ he said into his beard. Let them think what they liked. He had wanted her ever since she’d been twelve but had resigned himself to merely eyeing her from afar as a father-in-law.
‘A Prince for England,’ he repeated.
Just for a second there was a spark of feeling in Sir Richard’s eye.
‘It seems to have occurred to no one,’ he said drily, ‘that it could be a girl.’
Suffolk gave him a furious glare.
‘By the Mass, it had better not be. Henry has staked everything — everything — for a son.’
His horse moved uneasily beneath him.
‘And if it is female, the Queen must resign herself to a child a year until the King is satisfied.’
Sir Richard’s eyes were inscrutable once more.
‘But His Grace is getting no younger, Charles. It takes youth to sire a stable.’
Brandon received this remark badly thinking of the virgin bride shortly to lie beside him and hopefully to carry his seed.
‘By Christ, you speak treason, Sir Richard. Men have gone to the Tower for less. It is as well that we are alone. Guard your tongue!’
Weston remained calm. ‘You read too much into my words, Lord Duke. I merely hoped, for the happiness of the realm, that the Lady breeds fast and successfully.’
‘That is not how it sounded to me.’
‘Then forgive me. I would not offend against His Grace.’
Suffolk laughed shortly.
‘No, not you of all men. You tread too warily for that. Well, be careful old man. There will be rocks ahead if the Queen bears a daughter. We will all need our diplomatic skills to weather the aftermath.’
‘Yes,’ said Sir Richard, ‘it will not be easy.’
He turned his horse towards Sutton Place, the call of summer birds filling his ears as he headed home in the sweet pink of the evening. Behind him Brandon said more reasonably, ‘I envy you your house, Richard. A magnificent place.’
‘It is supposedly accursed.’
Suffolk snorted.
‘What patent rubbish! Surely you don’t believe that?’
Sir Richard said, ‘No, of course not.’
Suffolk was about to answer when he remembered the face of his betrothed as she had spoken to him earlier in the day.
‘Lord Duke, I don’t like this house. How much longer are we staying?’
‘A few days. Why?’
‘I heard such a weeping in the Long Gallery last night — but there was no one there. Nothing mortal that is. Yet in the darkness something sobbed alone. It frightened me.’
‘Silly girl,’ he had said. ‘Come here.’
And he had perched her on his knee and given her sweets and patted her head. And she had looked bewildered and wet-eyed, all the while her little pink tongue working a goody round in her cheek and the small hands clutching the fur of his collar. He had felt he would burst with the feelings she aroused in him. So much so that he had hardly heard what she was talking about.
But now he remembered. His sweetheart had been frightened by a ghost — or thought she had — and wanted to leave Sutton Place. The only way to calm her eventually had been to give her a trinket to put around her neck. It was as well for the Duke that he had not seen the look on her face as he had turned away. The babyish expression had become hardened by the pleasure of avarice. Fourteen-year-old Frances was going to make him pay for spoiling her life and the joyful path she had hoped to tread as the wife of his son.
*
It was quite obvious that the lute player was in love with the Queen. His whole manner with her, the open adoration in his expression, the way he trembled when she laid her hand on his arm or gave him a smile that tilted the corners of her eyes, revealed it for all the world to see. He was very handsome — tall and strong with thick curling brown hair and large dark-blue eyes. He rivalled Francis as the best-looking man at Court but did not quite succeed for his features lacked the fineness of good breeding. His were the physical attributes of the peasant class for his father’s hands had striven at saw and lathe, though nobody could have guessed from the delicacy of the young man’s touch on the lute. In fact it was considered by Anne’s set and by most of the Court that he was the finest lutanist that had ever been born.
He had joined them just after the Coronation found, of course, by the Queen herself with her talent for gathering about her all who were witty and gifted. The rest of her clique — Francis Weston, Wyatt, her brother George, Brereton, Francis Bryan, Henry Norris — thought him an upstart but pardoned him for the sake of his musicianship. Mark Smeaton had gained admittance to the Court’s most elite faction and, as a result, worshipped the woman who had rescued him from obscurity.
Now she sat trying to find a comfortable position, her huge belly throwing her slight frame totally off balance. As she fidgeted Mark watched her out of the corner of his eye wishing that she carried his child; wondering if he would ever get an opportunity even to kiss her and then explain it away as a joke, a game. He studied the small curving mouth, wanting so much to feel it beneath his own. His voice in the love song he had written specially for her was bright with the desire he could only just conceal.
Francis thought, ‘Smeaton’s not concentrating. He’s playing well enough but his thoughts are elsewhere. He’s in love with her of course.’
But then he thought that the King’s gaze had been wandering as well recently. He would not have believed it possible but the fact was now quite clear. The old pattern of flirtatious glances, little squeezes of the hand, over-familiar pats, was starting up again just as it had when Katharine held sway and Anne Boleyn had never been heard of. He presumed that it was the natural reaction of any robust male having a wife great with child and temporarily unavailable but nevertheless it seemed odd. That Anne could lose even a fraction of her power was inconceivable to him.
Mark finished his song and the small group listening applauded enthusiastically. The Court was diminished because of the Sweat and in her present condition the Queen had just a few of her favourites to attend her. So only Francis, Rose and William Brereton were there to help her as she got to her feet. All three of them noticed how strained she looked, how little lines round her eyes that had never been visible before showed quite clearly in the bright summer light.
‘Are you well, your Grace?’
‘Yes, Rose, yes. But anxious to discharge myself of this burden.’
She put her hand to her stomach.
‘Not much longer to wait.’
‘About two weeks, I think. Now I must ask you all to leave as Dr Zachary has arrived and I wish to consult him privately.’
They bowed their way out, Mark Smeaton raising her hand to his lips as he did so.
‘I hope to God he tells her what she wants to hear,’ said Brereton.
‘But every astrologer in the land predicts a boy,’ Smeaton answered.
‘You are new to Court, Mark,’ Francis said with just the merest hint of an undertone. ‘Dr Zachary is not “every astrologer”. He is a very clever young man. And what is more he will tell her what he sees.’
‘Why hasn’t she consulted him before?’ Smeaton asked.
‘I believe he has been in Calais and at the French Court. He has a great following in France.’
‘I should like to see him.’
‘You can pick him out by his hair and his colourful garb.’
But for once Zachary was soberly dressed in black and the expression on his face matched his sombre appearance. As he kissed Anne Boleyn’s hand his eyes were unsmiling.
‘Why have you been avoiding me?’ she said directly.
‘I have been with the French King, Majesty. And also in Ca
lais.’
‘Where you keep a mistress ...’
‘Your Grace is very well informed.’
‘ ... who is with child.’
‘Yes.’
‘And these were your only reasons for not answering my letters?’
‘My mistress is near her time, madam. I should have stayed with her longer.’
Anne moved irritably in her chair.
‘It’s as well for you that you did not. I wrote three times, Zachary Howard. I am not used to being ignored.’
Zachary raised his shoulders.
‘No, you, have come a long way, your Grace.’
Anne’s fine dark brows creased with annoyance.
‘Remember to whom you speak, astrologer. I’m not one of your giggling maids-of-honour. Don’t try my patience too far.’
‘Forgive me, Majesty, how can I help you?’
‘God’s blood and body, you know how you can help me! Consult your stars and your glass. Am I to have a son? Does a Prince leap in my belly?’
Zachary hesitated.
‘Well?’
‘No, your Grace,’ his voice was a whisper in the quiet room.
Anne stared at him blankly.
‘What are you saying?’
‘I am saying, Majesty, that you will bear a girl. A girl so mighty that she will become the greatest Queen this country will ever know.’
But Anne was not listening. Her eyes were dilated in a face drawn and haggard.
‘You lie! Every other astrologer says a boy. You have not even looked at a chart, studied your crystal. How can you know?’
‘I have always known,’ he said humbly. ‘Forgive me — I hate to bring such bitter news.’
‘God damn you,’ she said, ‘you cannot understand what this means.’
‘I do, your Grace, I do. The King has done the impossible. He is losing interest. You desperately need a son to strengthen your position.’
He had gone too far. The Queen stood trembling from head to foot. She seemed to have shrunk into herself, the only large thing about her belly which she now beat with a clenched fist. Down her contorted face poured tears but no sound came from the mouth which was drawn back from her teeth in a wicked snarl.
