Sutton Place (Sutton Place Trilogy Book 1)

by Deryn Lake

  ‘Surely he can’t be wrong,’ was the thought that came to Rose again and again. ‘He told me four children.’

  Aloud she said, ‘Francis, do you think the Queen will bear another living child?’

  He was wary at once.

  ‘Yes, I expect so,’ he said in an off-hand voice.

  ‘I hope for her sake she does. I believe that His Grace is growing tired of her.’

  ‘Rubbish. He will never tire of her. She has always fascinated him.’

  ‘Yes, but all the signs are there, Francis. He is looking at other women.’

  Guiltily Francis said, ‘That does not mean that he doesn’t still love his wife. A man likes diversion occasionally.’

  Rose sat up.

  ‘Do you?’

  ‘No, of course not.’

  ‘Hm,’ said Rose.

  ‘Anyway the King will never lose interest in Anne while there is a chance of her giving him a son.’

  ‘If he decides that she can only produce dead children she will be gone, mark my words.’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ said Francis.

  It was typical of him Rose thought. Everyone at Court with half an eye to see had noticed the King’s growing irritability with the Queen but Anne’s set of friends remained in their rose-coloured world, singing songs and acting masques and generally squandering life on trivialities. It seemed as if they would never learn.

  ‘Think what you will,’ she answered rather crossly and standing up began to pull her clothes on. It was then that she noticed the chain bearing the two amulets was missing from Francis’s neck.

  ‘The magic stones!’ she exclaimed. ‘Where are they?’

  Francis’s hand shot to his throat.

  ‘God’s mercy, they must have come off in the sea.’

  And he was off running to the shallows and searching among the debris of shells and seaweed. Rose continued to dress and then went to help him but though they wandered up and down for an hour there was no sign of the mysterious eye that had once belonged to Zachary’s mother and Giles’s carbuncle blessed by the wise woman of Salisbury. Francis shook his head disconsolately.

  ‘I would rather have lost a diamond than those.’

  ‘We must get new amulets,’ said Rose.

  ‘Bought from a beggar at a street corner? A deal of good they’ll do! Mine were powerful — they belonged to Giles and Zachary’s mother.’

  ‘We will see him when we return to Court. Perhaps he will help us.’

  And with that they had to console themselves. But the shadow of the amulets’ loss hung over the rest of their stay and made their journey back to Surrey an unusually quiet one. For though they rode side by side their conversation was sporadic and the usual games of horse racing forgotten. Rose thought that she had never seen Francis so pensive in all the years she had known him.

  They arrived at Sutton Place in the midst of an April shower.

  ‘Let’s race to see who is first out of the rain,’ she shouted, spurring her horse and looking back at her husband, desperate to raise his flagging spirits before they went into the house. She saw him begin to come after her and went at full flight towards the Gate-House arch, shooting straight through it towards the Middle Enter — which was already being opened by the Steward — and jumping off her horse and rushing into the Great Hall where she collapsed, breathless and a little faint. Francis, right behind her, caught her as she doubled up and was relieved to see that she was smiling.

  ‘I am only out of breath,’ she said. ‘’Tis naught but a stitch.’

  Nonetheless Lady Weston insisted that she go to bed and that Dr Burton should be sent for.

  ‘I have a feeling that Lady Weston the younger is with child,’ she told him.

  ‘And why is that, madam?’

  ‘I have an instinct for these things as I am sure you have. Let us put it down to a mother’s eye.’

  He laughed knowing exactly what she meant. Diagnosis was probably the most difficult problem facing him and his fellows in an age where one relied upon touching and looking as one’s only guide. And if one was blessed, as he was, with a retentive memory that stored up symptoms and could identify them, perhaps many years later, one became known as a good doctor, and could earn a fair living.

  Rose was lying fast asleep in the bed in which her marriage had been consummated. Looking down at her Burton thought, ‘Her mother-in-law is right. There is a certain bloom about her, a bloom I have seen from great ladies like she to the most wretched hedgerow dwellers. But this time the child must live. Not for the sake of the infant — for born untimely they are naught but a little heap of carrion flesh — but for her sake. She is a good young woman, loving that silly Francis with her whole heart, and deserves something for her to treasure when he goes a-wandering among the Court trollops.’

  He woke her very gently so that she would not be afraid.

  ‘Why, Dr Burton,’ she said, ‘this is all wrong. I am not ill, only tired. We have ridden from Cumberland in three days.’

  ‘Wouldst let me look at thy belly, Lady Weston?’

  ‘My belly!’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘But there is naught amiss. The moon’s cycle was upon me five weeks ago. Five weeks ...’

  Her voice turned into a question and she gave a delighted smile.

  ‘Do you think ...?’

  ‘Let me see, madam. You are not afraid?’

  ‘Of course not,’ and she had stripped off her nightdress like the unabashed country girl she was.

  The doctor rinsed his hands in her washing bowl. Though many of his fellow members of the College of Physicians laughed, he believed that dirt on the fingers could do a patient no good. He bent over her till he found what he was looking for. Pressing and prodding her stomach he had no further doubt — in her womb was a little ball not much bigger than a child’s marble.

  ‘Yes?’ she said. ‘Is it there?’

  ‘Aye, my Lady. And bigger than you think. I think the last flux was one of nature’s tricks.’

  She sat bolt upright and threw her arms over her head as she cheered.

  ‘I am the happiest woman in the world, Dr Burton.’

  ‘Yes, and so it must continue. Listen to me Lady Weston. You have aborted twice and this third time we must take no risks. I want you to remain in bed from now on.’

  ‘But …’

  ‘You want this child, do you not?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then you must do as I say. You must stay lying still for the full time. I don’t want you even in the gardens. In this manner we can hope for the child to be carried the proper term.’

  ‘It is the only way?’

  ‘I am afraid it is.’

  ‘Then of course I will do it. But Francis ...’

  ‘Sir Francis is quite old enough to look after himself,’ said Dr Burton firmly.

  *

  It was the change in the balance of sound that struck Francis as soon as he entered the royal apartments in Whitehall. From the Queen’s rooms came nothing but the sweet, sad notes of a lute — though whether played by Anne herself or by Mark Smeaton he was unable to tell. The busy hum of voices and the bursts of laughter that had filled the corridors a few months ago were silenced and he was uncomfortably reminded of the time, many years ago, when he had first come to Court as a boy and witnessed the same thing. The ever-growing stillness in the chambers of Queen Katharine; the merriment and activity increasing daily in the humbler rooms of Anne Boleyn.

  Just for a moment he was uneasy, remembering Rose’s words at Moresby and his own reply that Anne would never lose her popularity with the King. But then he shrugged it off. She was probably just taking her ease — perhaps there might even be another child on the way demanding the uttermost care lest she abort again. And this reminded him of Rose, sitting up in bed in their chamber at Sutton Place, red hair tumbling round her shoulders and pulling a great woeful face that she must remain thus for another seven months.

  ‘And you
are not to gamble too greatly or drink yourself into a sot,’ she had said as they parted.

  ‘How could you think it? Why, thou art the greatest shrew in the world.’

  ‘Nor go rolling in bed with the maids-of-honour.’

  ‘I?’

  He had opened his eyes wide feigning great innocence but the wicked thoughts he had been having recently were still there.

  ‘Aye, you. I’ve never known you to abstain for a month — let alone seven.’

  ‘I shall devote myself to the reading of learned books.’

  Rose had groaned.

  ‘God’s holy life but thou has a sickening look when lying. Now begone. I’ll torture myself no more with such thoughts.’

  But then she had smiled up at him in such a delightful way that he had said, ‘Rose, how could I take another into my bed when I love you?’ And he had really meant it. So they had left each other with fond kisses and promises of daily letters and constant devotion, and he had set out for Court full of good intent and had only winked at three of the farm girls who had called out ‘Hey, pretty fellow’ as he had passed — and had most certainly not stopped to dawdle with them.

  A sudden roar of amusement brought his mind back to the present and for a moment he wondered if he had been mistaken, if the Queen were visiting her brother. For the sound came from Viscount Rochford’s apartment and he could hear several male voices and one female. But listening more carefully he realized that it was not Anne, for this was not a husky voice full of light and shade but a pertly sulky tone like that of a little girl demanding sweetmeats. Full of curiosity he knocked and was shown into an ante-room and then into George Boleyn’s receiving room where he stopped in his tracks, mouth agape at what he saw. Sitting on George’s knee in the most familiar manner and surrounded by an admiring circle of men including, of all unlikely people, the staid Sir Henry Norris was an exceptionally pretty girl. Long hair the colour of ash leaves surrounded a small pointed cat-like face complete with large green eyes and a feline’s secret smile. Furthermore, the cut of her gown revealed a full round bosom and pleasantly curving hips. It was second nature to Francis to bow and catch her eye as he kissed her hand.

  ‘George, you must present me,’ he said.

  ‘Of course.’ And Rochford stood up, popping the girl onto her feet. ‘Madge, may I present Sir Francis Weston, courtier extraordinary, gambler par excellence but, alas, a married man — not that that should bother you! Francis, this is my first cousin Margaret Shelton, new maid-of-honour to the Queen.’

  She dropped a well-rehearsed curtsey giving Francis a good glimpse of her breasts and said, ‘Sir Francis, I hope that we shall become friends,’ accompanied by a look that left him in no doubt as to her meaning. He raised her hand to his lips again allowing his tongue to stray over her knuckles for a second or two.

  ‘If my lady would but honour me,’ he said.

  ‘We shall see,’ she replied and turned her attention to Sir Henry Norris who was staring at her like a dog at a beef bone.

  ‘God a’mighty,’ said Francis to William Brereton, ‘how long has she been about?’

  ‘Since February but you will have to fight for your turn if you wish to dally there.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘His Grace heads the list. In fact he serves her daily and Anne but weekly if the rumour is to be believed.’

  Francis stared.

  ‘I pity Anne if it’s true.’

  Brereton gave a short laugh.

  ‘Pity her indeed! It was Anne’s own father and brother who brought Madge here. The Boleyns and their friends were so out of favour that they had to reinforce their influence. So they replaced one of their clan in the King’s bed with another. Very clever.’

  ‘You are sure of this.’

  ‘Unfortunately, yes. A cynical little plot — but effective.’

  ‘So she’s the King’s whore?’

  ‘She’s everybody’s,’ said Brereton raising his glass to her, happily aware that she could not hear a word he was saying.

  ‘I believe that George is favoured — Lady Rochford is spitting teeth with fury — and he is not alone.’

  ‘Not Norris?’ said Francis, doubling with a laugh.

  Brereton grinned.

  ‘I shouldn’t think so. He’s been a widower so long I believe he has forgotten its usage. But anyone who feels so inclined can spend a pleasant afternoon.’

  ‘You?’ Francis asked.

  Brereton winked.

  ‘Dear God. I can see that I am hopelessly out of date.’

  ‘I’ll wager you put that right in a week.’

  ‘How much?’

  ‘Ten crowns.’

  ‘Make it twenty that I do so by tomorrow night.’

  ‘Agreed,’ and they shook hands.

  ‘And the proof?’

  ‘Some lace from her pillow.’

  They were sniggering like schoolboys when a shift in the focus of attention told them that Henry had come into the room. His new mistress had obviously pleased him well for there was an air about him that Francis had not seen in a long while. His laughter boomed, he slapped backs, he even executed a nimble dance step or two.

  ‘God be praised,’ he said looking genially about him, ‘what pleasant company this is.’

  ‘You seem in good spirits, your Grace,’ said the impudent Madge. ‘May we know the secret?’

  ‘It’s the fine new mare I have to ride,’ he answered with a definite leer in her direction.

  ‘Aye, I’ve heard of her,’ said Madge. ‘Young but spirited they say.’

  ‘Holy Mother,’ muttered Francis to Brereton. ‘They are not trying to conceal a thing. I think I’ve lost my twenty crowns.’

  ‘Too late to withdraw, Weston. The wager stands.’

  ‘Indeed it does.’

  As fate would have it the King retired early that night so Francis was free to spend the rest of the evening as he pleased. There still being a short amount of daylight left he decided to stroll where the Privy Garden joined the Brake — the open tennis court. As he walked — for once alone and quiet — he found himself thinking not of Margaret Shelton nor even of Rose but of the Queen whom he had visited as soon as he had withdrawn from Lord Rochford’s assembly. He recalled vividly that wonderful creature of mystery sitting laughing in the tree, the wind whipping her hair, her thrilling voice raised in song — was it really only eight years ago? And now what had he just seen? A woman thin to the point of ugliness with a pinched mouth and frowning forehead. A snapping-eyed shrew worn out with worry, reduced to conniving in corners with her hated sister-in-law, Lady Rochford. Francis would almost rather she had died in childbed with Elizabeth than come to this. He had never thought that he could feel pity for the woman who had been the most brilliant creature of her time. But now he did. In place of all that vitality desperation had grown in her like a canker.

  He could hear the sound of a late tennis game as he approached the court and was not surprised to see Mistress Shelton firmly ensconced with her admirers, watching Henry Norris play Thomas Wyatt. Norris, only too aware that the eyes of the woman who had finally replaced Anne in his heart were fixed upon him was skipping about like a twenty-year-old, while Wyatt, as lackadaisical as ever, was scarcely bothering to play even adopting the pose of yawning between shots.

  ‘Thomas!’ shouted Francis over-loudly and was delighted to see the younger man lose what little concentration he had and drop a point so that Norris won the match.

  Everyone turned to see who had arrived and by the gleam in Madge’s eye Francis guessed that his stunning appearance all in black and sporting a diamond earring — a fashion he had copied from Sir John Rogers — was having the desired effect.

  ‘Well, you rogue,’ the poet shouted back, ‘where have you been? I haven’t clapped eyes on you these two months past.’

  ‘At my estates in the north,’ said Francis grandly, ‘Kendal and Moresby.’

  All the time he was watching Mistress Shelton to see h
ow she responded but it was obvious that she was not interested in his land ownership but only his appearance.

  ‘Young Weston,’ said Sir Henry Norris coming forward a trifle possessively, ‘I had no chance to speak to you this afternoon. How are things with you? How is your wife?’

  For all his experience and maturity it was obvious that this last question had a slight undertone.

  ‘She is with child,’ Francis answered, ‘and remaining at Sutton Place from now on. I have seen Her Grace and she has given permission for Rose to retire.’

  ‘Rose — that’s a pretty name and unusual too.’

  ‘Her real name is Ann, mistress. She changed it for clarity’s sake. There are so many Annes in my family.’

  ‘And in mine,’ and Madge laughed obviously referring to the Queen who, as Francis had already heard, detested her pretty cousin.

  ‘May I escort you on a short walk before nightfall, mistress? If you have no objection Sir Henry?’

  Norris huffed a little but had no excuse for stopping them so Madge gave her cat-like smile and curtseying said, ‘How very kind of you Sir Francis. The evenings can be lonely times when Her Grace retires early.’

  ‘And how about you?’ said Francis in an undertone, ‘do you ever retire early?’

  ‘As Their Graces command.’

  ‘And do you listen to any other commands?’

  ‘I prefer requests,’ she answered, coolly putting him in his place.

  They were now out of sight of the Brake behind a thick privet hedge so Francis raised her fingers to his lips saying, ‘Then I implore, madam. I desired you the moment I saw you.’

  She turned to him with the most extraordinary look in her eyes, her tongue licking at her lips and her cheeks a little flushed.

  ‘Well, you saucy fellow, here’s a turnabout. I heard that you were an admirer of Her Grace’s beauty.’

  ‘And so I am, mistress. But she is naught but a friend to me. With you I could wish for something — more.’

  She was pinker than ever as she answered, ‘Greater suitors than you Sir Francis have set their caps for me.’

  It struck him that she not only lusted for every man she met — something he had heard of but never come across — but desired to hurt and humiliate her cousin. A cat with claws indeed. For a moment he was ridden with guilt that he was betraying both Rose and Anne but what the eye could not see the heart would not grieve over. And if somebody had to satisfy him it might as well be a woman he could never love. In that way his marriage could not be harmed nor his loyalty to the Queen. And so, bolstered up by the easily-found comfort of a natural philanderer, he smiled and said, ‘Then if I am too lowly I must take my leave, mistress.’