by Deryn Lake
‘Christ help you, Dr Zachary,’ she hissed. ‘You know too much. You are condemned to the Tower pending trial. Let your sorcery save you — for nothing else will.’
He bowed his head. He had realized that morning the outcome of the interview for he had done something he rarely allowed, knowing the ill-fortune it could bring. He had drawn the Tarot on his own account. The answer had been plain enough. There was every possibility that he would meet death at the hands of the Queen.
He could have shirked the issue, told her a lie, not kept the appointment. But some inner pride in his own reputation had compelled him to be honest with her. Even as he had spoken he had known the possible consequences but could not help himself.
Now he said, ‘As your Grace commands. But know that once I loved you.’
She gave him a look that froze him to the heart.
‘Then you may take your love with you to the hell which conceived you.’
Zachary crossed himself.
‘No, madam, do not wish me there. My soul is pure as was my mother’s. God grant you mercy for your malediction.’
‘God grant me a son — that’s all I care about.’
Zachary’s last glimpse as he was taken away was of her stricken face as she stood with her arms clutched round herself like an abandoned child.
17
‘In the Tower?’ said Norfolk. ‘But on what charge?’
His daughter-in-law, Jane, looked at him dispassionately.
‘High treason.’
She had days ago cried herself out and now existed only from hour to hour. She had no smile, not even for her children, and merely stared blankly at the unfamiliar tears running down the weather-hardened cheeks of Thomas Howard.
‘But how?’ he said. ‘What was his fault?’
‘He predicted a girl for Her Grace.’
The Duke brushed his furred sleeve across his eyes. ‘And that was all?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then I must go at once to the King and secure his release. The charge is ridiculous.’
‘Do you think you will succeed?’
Suddenly very tired, Thomas sat down. He had been in France since just before Anne’s Coronation arguing interminably the cause of Henry’s divorce amongst the bishops and princes and now he was exhausted. He felt nothing any more about his tiresome niece and her brat which could be a prince, a girl or a bastard for all he cared.
‘Christ knows,’ he said. ‘Sometimes I wish Her Grace six feet below the earth.’
‘As she will be.’
‘Aye, Zachary’s prophecy, God help us. If that one were mooted publicly he would be dead a hundred times over.’
‘As he may yet be. My Lord, go to the King at once. He has no argument with Zachary. He will lend his ear to you.’
‘He must,’ said Norfolk darkly. ‘I have been his liege man, staunch and true and argued his cause with foreigners till I could scream at the sound of French and retch at over-blown scents. He is in my debt I assure you.’
His grandchild Sapphira who had come noiselessly into the room suddenly spoke behind him, making him jump.
‘Let me go with you, Thomas.’
Despite all correction she had always insisted on addressing him by his name. He turned to look at her, bending down so that his eyes were level with hers.
‘Nay, little maid. His Grace does not wish to see thee.’
The child’s blue eyes stared at him solemnly and he saw nothing but the face of his old love who had haunted the meadows of Norfolk and his dreams these past twenty years.
‘Lord Duke, I would do as she says,’ said Jane quietly.
Thomas stared at her.
‘But she is only three, mistress. I cannot go to His Grace with a babe clinging to my hand.’
His daughter-in-law stood up and crossing over to Sapphira put her hand on the fine blonde hair.
‘She is not an ordinary child.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘She has power.’
‘A gift like Zachary’s? Clear sight?’
‘More than that, sir.’
In his mind the Duke heard the sound of the mob crying out in superstitious fear, heard the voice of the judge saying, ‘Death by burning’, saw his innocent love turn her head away and felt again the rage of his own impotence, for even the Dukes of Norfolk were powerless to save a condemned witch.
‘Do you mean ...’ He could not bring himself to say the word.
Jane nodded.
‘Zachary says she is greater even than he.’
Norfolk shuddered.
‘Then she will need mighty protection.’
Jane looked at him squarely.
‘She is your acknowledged grandchild, sir. Let us pray that that is enough. Now I will get her cloak. See, she has made a poppet.’
From behind her back Sapphira brought a doll crudely fashioned from straw. Yet despite the blobs that served for its nose and eyes and the crazy stitchery that suggested a grinning mouth there could be no mistaking its long cloak nor the mass of wildly cut black wool that crowned its straw head. The Duke’s eyes bulged as he saw it and for the first time Jane smiled.
‘’Tis naught but a child’s plaything, father-in-law.’
‘No, no — you are right. Dress her quickly then. My barge is at its mooring.’
The oars of his liveried rowers were raised as one and the crest of the Duke of Norfolk tugged at the masthead as he stepped aboard his vessel and heard his servant give a spontaneous cry as the breeze caught Sapphira’s hair, sending it flying like a sunflower about her head.
‘Why, she walks in beauty already, my Lord. But whom does she resemble? ’Tis not you nor your black-locked boy.’
‘’Tis someone from the past, Will. Someone from another time altogether.’
*
In the still dark waters of the Queen’s womb the child that was to be her ultimate death warrant stirred and prepared itself for its journey into life. And Anne Boleyn, sitting in her apartments, passing yet another interminable sun-filled day listening to the pleading of Mark Smeaton’s lute, moved uncomfortably as a strange sensation rippled over her. And as if there was a mental communication between them the carpenter’s son stopped his playing and stretched out his hand to take hers which lay, just for a second, quite small and still in the midst of his.
‘Is all well with you?’ he whispered.
Momentarily a frightened girl looked back at him and then she withdrew her fingers and it was the Queen of England who answered, ‘Play on, Mark. ’Tis naught for which you should concern yourself.’
*
‘ ... and in short, your Grace, you need not fear that you have lost the French King’s affection. As I told you on my return it is merely that King Francis has no wish to appear to be taking sides.’
‘Mmm!’ said Henry absently.
He was in a state bordering on the ecstatic; wild with joy that Anne had finally taken to the glorious bed that had once been part of the ransom for a French Prince and was now prepared especially for the birth. And his strange soul bounding like a schoolboy’s with sentiment because his brother-in-law and friend, the Duke of Suffolk, was to marry a child bride.
‘So, your Grace, I most humbly hope that your Grace feels that my mission was a successful one.’
Somewhere within his exhilarated brain it occurred to Henry that Norfolk was being unusually obsequious. He looked up sharply and caught Howard sighing — a habit which the Duke had fallen into more and more of late.
‘That remains to be seen, Tom,’ he said.
Norfolk looked anxious.
‘But, your Grace ...’
‘No buts, no buts. Time will prove all.’
‘Yes, your Grace. Of course.’
Henry half rose. He was not yet dressed for the wedding which was to take place within the hour. But to his astonishment Norfolk, who should have known better was continuing to speak.
‘So if your Grace considers it fit I would like t
o present my grandchild to you.’
Henry was so surprised that he said, ‘What?’
‘My granddaughter, your Grace. Poor, unfortunate Zachary’s child.’
‘What about her?’
‘She is here and wishing to be presented.’
And without further ado and not even waiting for the King’s permission Norfolk had hastily bowed his way out only to return a minute or two later with a very small and very beautiful child who clutched the Duke’s sleeve in one hand and a ramshackle doll in the other. Henry’s annoyance died on his lips. The little maid was advancing on him and handing him a single rose but when he looked down at his hands he saw that it was not a rose at all but the straw dolly.
‘Well, well, little girl,’ he said jovially, ‘is this a present for me? Have you made it for me?’
Instead of the hesitant childish speech he expected from such a mite a well-modulated little voice said, ‘No, your Grace. I just wanted you to touch him and then to set him free.’
It was a very odd choice of words. In fact the atmosphere in the room suddenly seemed fraught and Henry found difficulty in breathing. He longed to go but Norfolk was looking at him very directly and saying, ‘Your Grace, I have one further favour to ask you. A favour for which I would gladly give my life.’
‘What is it?’
He moved irritably in his chair but the feeling of the child standing so close to him that he could literally sense her breathing made him experience a totally unreasonable clutch of fear.
‘Well?’
‘My son, your Grace ... my bastard, Zachary. He is in the Tower. I beg his release. His crime is some prediction to Her Grace. Such foolishness.’
Norfolk sighed again deeply.
‘What did he predict?’
The Duke looked vague and slightly reminiscent of an old ruffled eagle. In fact he cocked his head to one side rather like a bird as he pondered his reply to his sovereign.
‘He said that the Queen might bear a girl,’ said Sapphira, in such an adult way that Henry felt completely unnerved. ‘But ’tis well known how much your Grace loves all children.’
‘I beg you to release him, sire.’
Norfolk was on one knee before him, head bent. So it was full into the eyes of the child that the King’s ruthless Tudor gaze found itself drawn. And it was then that he felt himself fall down a million stars and swim the depths of every ocean in the world.
‘Who are you?’ he heard himself saying.
Without speaking at all she answered, ‘I am the eternal secret.’
Henry closed his eyes. He could not bear to look for one second more. But when he opened them again all he could see was Norfolk making obeisance before him and a very pretty, quite normal little girl standing quietly beside her grandfather. Abruptly he rose from his chair and crossing to his desk scratched some words on a paper, gave his great flourishing signature and pressed his seal into the wax.
‘Here,’ he said thrusting it under Norfolk’s nose. ‘Here is your son’s release. Now go. I am to dance at my brother Suffolk’s wedding.’
But the Duke needed no hastening. He was already bowing in the doorway with the child bobbing beside him as ordinary and as every day as you please. Without understanding why Henry VIII gave a violent shudder.
*
The draperies of the French Prince’s bed were drawn against the bright September sun, muffling the far distant sound of the musicians playing for the Duke of Suffolk’s wedding. But in the room itself nobody spoke, the atmosphere heavy with the press of humanity as the physicians, midwives and ladies of the Court jostled each other in their frantic sole purpose — to deliver the Prince of Wales alive and safely into the world.
Dwarfed by the mighty hangings and gilt carvings Anne Boleyn lay amidst the splendour, her head lolling back on the pillows, her hair sticking damply to her face, her features strained and drawn. Occasionally she licked her parched lips and then Rose Weston would put a silver goblet to Anne’s mouth and let her take a few drops of the spring water that lay within. She was stationed on the left hand side of the Queen, up by her pillows, her task to wipe the sweat from the royal brow.
Despite the rigours of labour — for it seemed possible to no one present that such delicate, thin hips could produce a full term babe — she made no sound. The iron will that had brought her the throne would not allow a whimper and an unearthly silence prevailed, interrupted only by a particularly loud blow on a far away crumhorn or a shout of laughter from the revellers, though even these had grown less in the last hour as word had swept the palace that the Queen was advanced in labour and more and more courtiers had left the wedding feast and gone to wait in the ante-room with the King.
In fact now very few guests remained so that Suffolk found himself virtually alone with his fourteen-year-old bride and his young son Henry, Earl of Lincoln. And despite all the drink he had taken to try and lift himself above the knowledge that his body was old and tired and unable to satisfy, he could not help but notice the way that the two of them looked at each other and then at him. Warm glances turned to winter’s chill. Was it his imagination that his half Spanish bride — for her mother was one of Queen Katharine’s most loyal attendants — whispered to his son, ‘There will be time enough for us’?
The Duke experienced a pang of self-pity. He had stolen his son’s betrothed and now, like a judgement, his wedding was over-shadowed by the great events in the Queen’s apartments. He felt very old indeed as his shaking hand spilled wine upon the tablecloth.
Anne Boleyn mouthed the word ‘Water’ and obediently Rose passed the chalice only to have it knocked flying as the Queen seemed to go suddenly into a spasm, letting out a great cry as she did so. The longed-for child was near at last.
And so Rose held Anne Boleyn in her arms as she heaved and sweated in the final moments of labour. Then Anne, eyes closed and body exhausted, gave the ultimate effort and the baby, eased by sturdy hands, lay on the bed before them all.
Margaret Lee and Rose Weston stared at each other in horror as the new born infant girl was cut from its mother’s cord and handed in silence to the King’s chief physician. And outside the King turned his head away so that his uncontrollable tears should not be seen as the physician gave him the news. Was it for this that he had defied Rome, the Pope and perhaps even God Himself?
‘Come, your Grace, come,’ muttered Dr Butts in his ear. ‘The child is one of the strongest I have ever seen. In three months Her Grace could be pregnant again — and next time a Prince. Take consolation in this.’
With a tremendous effort Henry rallied and called for a great celebration throughout the land. The Queen was safely delivered of a Princess who would be named Elizabeth after the King’s own mother. There would be rejoicing.
*
It is a strange day at Moresby. The sun so bright on the white sands that it was impossible to see where the sea and sky joined each other. Lying on his side looking out into the shimmer, Francis felt that he was living in a bubble cut off from the rest of time — a stand-still world only inhabited by he and Rose who was just visible in the distance, riding naked on her horse. It had always been their custom to remove their clothes on this particular part of the beach but he had no recollection of her riding like that before and, despite the fact that they had been married nearly five years, he caught himself watching her through half-closed eyes and thinking that he would give her a tumble in the sand when she drew close enough. He had almost forgotten, in fact, just how desirable she was and wondered if there were truth in the adage about familiarity breeding contempt. Recently, though he would have admitted it to no one, he had considered bedding a maid-of-honour — any maid-of-honour — just to bring a little change and colour into his activities. After all, was he not still called the most handsome man in England and probably, he thought wryly, the most faithful! It would be pleasant indeed to pursue another woman just to prove that he was capable of attracting someone other than his wife.
; Nonetheless Rose looked very beautiful as she drew nearer, the warm April sun reflecting on her skin and her hair a mass of flying red.
‘Come here,’ he called, as soon as she was within earshot.
‘Why?’ she answered back.
‘What? So innocent?’
But ignoring him she slipped out of the saddle and ran into the sea throwing some sand at him as she went. He realized at once the meaning of the game and ran after her, enjoying the feel of the still cold spring ocean on his body. Rose was just in front of him swimming strongly into the tide and laughing with the excitement of the love chase.
‘You are like a little girl,’ he shouted.
For all the calmness of the day the sea was unusually strong; quite high, with heavy breakers rolling into the shore. Rose leapt over one and then paused, daunted, before the sheet of water that the next presented. But she timed her jump well and the sea lifted her up so that she appeared briefly on the crest, an emerald mermaid shrieking to the sun. Francis was too late. The thunderous wall of foam descended on top of him and he was swept beneath the clamorous tide. He regained the surface gasping for breath and dashing the water from his eyes to find that Rose had been placed at his feet by the gurgling currents.
‘I’ll have thee,’ he said and fell down beside her in the shallows. And it was so harmonious to lift her a little, so that she would not be bothered by the undertow, and make her body one with his and love her so that she could never forget him — all the carnal lust and gentleness that combined to make him for ever irreplaceable.
They lay for a long time afterwards in the warmth of the dunes, sleeping a little and chatting of this and that. But one subject that neither of them would mention was the child they both wanted. Dr Zachary had promised Rose a son within two years but that time was almost up and there was still no sign of him. Yet the astrologer’s reputation had become legendary since the prediction of Elizabeth’s birth. It was said in Court gossip that even the Queen — who had fallen out with him so badly — was considering consulting him again. For since the birth of her daughter eighteen months ago there had been nothing but two miscarriages.
