Sutton Place (Sutton Place Trilogy Book 1)

by Deryn Lake

  ‘Melior Mary, wait for me.’

  ‘Then hurry, Sibella. We must find Brother Hyacinth.’

  The voices were echoing, faint. He rubbed his eyes and naturally the girls were not really there but his horse moved restlessly as if he, too, had sensed something. Francis spurred him forward. It was nearly midnight and as it was the whole household would be abed with only the sleepy lads who kept night watch to let him in.

  And so it was that he walked through the great slumbering house with no companion except the lighted taper in his hand and, on some strange impulse, crossed the length of the Long Gallery and stood gazing out of the windows at the far end before he turned back towards his bedchamber. And it was then that he heard the crying and knew that it was Giles. And though he had loved him in life he was afraid of him in death and stood transfixed, every hair on his scalp rising.

  ‘Why do you weep?’ he said out loud. ‘What is wrong?’

  There came a sob so sad in reply that Francis could only feel a frightening sense of impending disaster.

  ‘Dear Christ,’ he said, ‘I am afraid. Giles go away. In the name of our Holy Mother go.’

  The crying ceased so abruptly that Francis was shocked by the stillness and then he felt a presence beside him and knew that the Fool was trying to comfort him. To his shame he ran and did not look back.

  And that was how he arrived in the bedroom of the wife he had not seen for four months and to whom he had been wretchedly unfaithful — dripping with the sweat of panic and gasping for breath. And he had wanted to make such a sweet impression, to redeem himself in his own eyes as much as hers.

  She woke up very gently and said, ‘Who’s there?’

  Realizing that she was not afraid he said in the darkness, ‘It is Francis, sweetheart. I have come straight here from Greenwich. Her Grace gave me leave on the sudden.’

  Still not fully awake she answered, ‘But that was kind and thoughtful. Is it really you?’

  He laughed, the old easy feeling there had always been between them returning with such joyful simplicity.

  ‘Nay, ’tis your lover, Mistress Rose. Now let me in thy bed for I believe Giles is walking tonight and I am cold with fright.’

  In the flame of the candle she had lit he saw her eyes regarding him seriously.

  ‘He has been weeping a great deal of late.’

  ‘You have heard him?’

  ‘Aye, in the Long Gallery. For some reason his spirit is not quiet.’

  ‘Enough of it,’ he said. ‘I have come to see thee and my son and to tell thee of my love and fill your belly with another child. Will you have me?’

  She laughed with some secret amusement.

  ‘Art cured of all thy troubles Francis?’

  ‘What troubles?’ he said innocently.

  She gave him a mocking look and said pointedly, ‘I am glad that you have come back to me again.’

  Ignoring the underlying meaning Francis got in next to her, his mind going back to a conversation he had had only that morning and the almost identical phrase that the Queen had used to him — ‘It is time you went back to Rose again.’

  They had been standing in her apartments, neither of them attending the St George’s Day investiture at Windsor at which, markedly, her brother Rochford had been passed over as Knight of the Garter and in his place Nicholas Carew — a firm friend of the Seymour faction — was to be elected. The snub to the house of Boleyn had been obvious and Anne had stood moodily with her back turned, gazing out of a window, as Francis had come in. She had glanced over her shoulder to see who had entered but had returned to her listless contemplation of the gardens and the river.

  ‘Well?’ was all she had said.

  Francis had waited silently for a minute, looking at the droop of her shoulders and remembering that mad March morning so many years ago when she had picked up her skirts and run and run, her hair spinning out like a velvet web, her joyous laugh ringing over the daffodil fields. Now Anne of the million secret smiles had no lightheartedness left for him or anyone else; all merriment spent.

  ‘Your Grace,’ he said, ‘I came to see how you fare today.’

  She had turned to look at him then, her face tight with some barely controlled passion.

  ‘Only as well as any deserted wife,’ she said. ‘The cuckold’s horns are on my brow. Do you see them, Francis? I wonder how they sit on Rose.’

  He had stared in astonishment and repeated, ‘Rose?’

  ‘Aye. Mince not your words with me, Sir Francis. You sported your lust for the great whore Shelton like a sleeve marker. Thought you then of your wife, cared you a sweat drop from a beggar for her? Mankind is a lowly thing indeed when all its old loyalties go under heel at an aching between the thighs.’

  ‘But I ...’

  ‘Give me no defences. Everything went for her; your love for your wife, your allegiance to me. Damn you — you are as base as the rest of your sex.’

  ‘But I do love you,’ he had answered and down the mill of destiny a pebble had begun its unremitting descent. ‘More than anyone in this house.’

  Her hand lashed out like a whip and caught him a smarting blow on the cheek.

  ‘What do you mean? More than Rose?’

  ‘No, no.’ He was wretched with his sudden lack of words. ‘I love Rose — the Shelton affair is over. I meant as my Queen I love you more than anyone else. Oh God help me. I cannot speak today.’

  Her glint-eyed stare softened a little but she said nothing.

  ‘Please try to understand,’ he went on miserably. ‘Madge is no longer my mistress. It ended overnight. I looked at her and suddenly she seemed so revolting that I could hardly force myself to speak. It was as if something that had possessed me was gone.’

  Briefly she smiled. ‘Perhaps it did,’ she said.

  ‘Anyway Sir Henry Norris has her now.’

  ‘Aye, they will be married soon.’

  She had turned back to the window again, her anger run out.

  ‘I think he loved me once, you know.’

  Francis remembering the strange attacks of weeping and paleness that had at one time beset the King’s Principal Gentleman said, ‘I think he still does. I don’t think he could ever stop. I do believe he still comes to your chamber just to get a glimpse of you.’

  Anne laughed though something inside her bruised soul stirred with an old thrill of vanity.

  ‘Well, whether he does or does not he will shortly have a young wife dragging him atween the sheets.’

  ‘Forgive me, your Grace, but I pray that God will grant him strength.’

  She pretended not to understand but she laughed once more and just for a moment the old Anne was back, filling the room with her fire and vitality.

  ‘On that note of married harmony I grant you immediate leave, Sir Francis. And it is my wish and command that you return on the instant to your home and your wife. It is time you went back to Rose again.’

  He bowed.

  ‘But you must return for the May Day tournament. I wish to see the friends of Boleyn well represented.’

  He raised her hand to his lips.

  ‘Be assured of my eternal devotion,’ he had said.

  And now the sun had run his course and by the light of his sister moon Francis and Rose were making love, enjoying the feel of skin upon skin, hardness and softness, the ever entrancing sensation of shared culmination. All was restored, Madge Shelton banished for ever as had been her waxen likeness.

  The days passed contentedly and idly, Sir Richard gazing from his window on the sight of Francis and Rose — heads gleaming like gold and autumn — walking amongst the daffodils, the baby hoisted high on Francis’s shoulder staring with ever learning eyes at the shapes and colours about him. There was nothing to mar that week. It stayed like a brilliant in their memories, every facet examined with joy, never dulling or growing tiresome in the continued looking. And when at last the time came for Francis to leave Sutton Place and return to the inevitable conclusi
on of all that had gone before, the final severance, none of them knew.

  The horse pawing at the cobbles of the quadrangle, the turn to wave in the Gate-House arch, the running to the Long Gallery to watch from the windows, the flourish of his hat in the distance and the moving of the baby’s arm up and down in silly, sweet imitation of the father’s salute — all were done with no more than the usual sadness of departure. And after he had gone from view Rose smiled at her son and said, ‘He will be back soon and then he will remark how you have grown,’ and the milky mouth smiled back as the eyes closed in unconcerned sleep.

  *

  It was the first of May and in every village in England that ancient symbol of fertility — the maypole bedecked with ribbons — had been hoisted at dawn and the festivities and processions were already forming up. It was Beltaine — the first hours of the Celtic summer — one of the most magic days of the year. Maidens were out washing their faces in the dew, the mystic order of Druids were donning their white robes and Zachary had returned to Norfolk to pick the wild flowers and herbs of his childhood wanderings and watch the children of the village which had burned his mother whirl through the intricacies of the ritual dance. There was even a hobby horse catching the young women and dragging them under his skirts in a symbolic gesture as pagan and primitive as any witchery.

  At Greenwich the sun gleamed on the armour of the challengers who waited ready to tilt for the King’s pleasure picking out the emblazoning of their shields and devices. Sir Henry Norris sitting astride his heavily protected mount, his visor pushed back, watched the stands as Henry and Anne made their entrance amidst a clarion from the royal trumpets and thought that despite the really extraordinary atmosphere at Court during the last week there was no visible sign of bad feeling between them, for they smiled at one another as they took their seats. He was too far away to see that the King’s lips curled back from his teeth in something more like a snarl and that Anne’s response was the quick, nervous grimace of a child that fears it may have caused offence.

  Sir Henry, who had loved Anne for so long and had only now become betrothed to Madge Shelton in the strange hope that it might please the Queen if her amorous cousin was settled as a wife, mentally shook his head. He knew there was something badly wrong but could not put into words, let alone coherent thought, what it might be. First of all there had been the odd conversation that he had shared with Anne a few days before. Laughing and flirtatious, she had asked why he did not marry sooner and when he had told her there was no hurry she had made the tantalizing remark that perhaps he was waiting for her, hoping that the King might meet with an accident. He had stared aghast. His little love of Hever, his idée fixe, must have taken leave of her wits for high treason was babbling out of her mouth.

  ‘No, no,’ he said wildly. ‘I would not dare look so high. Please, your Grace.’

  ‘Francis Weston thinks otherwise,’ she said still in the same teasing manner. ‘He says you come to my apartments just to get a glimpse of me.’

  The fact that it was true had made him gulp with nerves.

  ‘Please don’t speak like this. It’s dangerous,’ he had said.

  She had given him a stony stare.

  ‘So you don’t love me?’

  ‘I didn’t say that. I just implore you to watch your speech. Master Cromwell has his spies abounding. It would not do either of us any good if word of this should be repeated.’

  She had seemed to calm down then.

  ‘Yes, you’re right. I am being foolish. My tongue runs away with me when I am alone too much. But really I am what is called honourable.’ She laughed humourlessly. ‘So if you ever hear rumours to the contrary you can deny them with impunity.’

  ‘You know I would,’ he had said hotly. ‘I would die for you if need be.’

  Again that humourless laugh.

  ‘Let us hope that will not be necessary.’

  It had all been very disturbing and the King’s manner had not helped Harry Norris’s growing sense of alarm. He had never known Henry so quiet, so restrained and so consistently preoccupied. Norris, who had been beside his royal master through so many differing situations and had seen the entire range of his moods, had not come across this one before. There was something almost sinister about the King’s stillness.

  And the third thing — though of no importance at all — was that Mark Smeaton had gone missing the night before and when they had looked for him everything, including his lute, had been found lying casually around as if he were due back at any moment. Norris supposed that the musician had had some secret assignation and would return in the morning but looking up into the stands he could see no sign of him. Young Weston, however, was back from his leave and looking well pleased with life. Seeing Harry gazing over he gave a cheerful wave and grin and Norris smiled back before lowering his visor and walking his horse to where his squire stood ready with his lance. The tournament was about to begin and his opponent, Lord Rochford, was already in his place.

  Norris never knew why he should glance up at the Queen as he crossed beneath the stand. Perhaps it was the habit of a lifetime — to steal a look at the object of his love — a habit that his betrothal to Mistress Shelton had changed not at all. But he did so now and through the slit of his visor he saw that she was looking at him and was smiling and was dropping her handkerchief for him to wear as his favour. And then he saw the expression on the King’s face — goat-like and leering and sharp with cruelty and looking at him — Norris — with something bordering on hatred. The kerchief was on the point of his lance before he realized that it was this old and traditional gesture which had infuriated Henry Tudor.

  The joust went splendidly, Norris unseating Rochford with no ill effects. And after them came other competitors who crashed at each other with sparkling lances and ringing swords. The King seemed quite restored in spirits and laughed and clapped his hands affably enough but at the end he stood up abruptly, simply said one word — ‘Farewell’ — to Anne and mounted his horse. The Gentlemen of his household also took to the saddle as the cavalcade prepared to move off towards the Palace of Whitehall.

  Riding near the back Francis could not help but observe the King draw Henry Norris to one side and the two horses stop beneath a tree. As he passed he gave them a casual glance and saw to his amazement that Norris had gone the white of ash. In fact he looked as if he might vomit. The King leant forward speaking in a low voice, his hand holding Harry’s elbow, his eyes like agates. Though unable to hear a word Francis felt his stomach lurch with unease. There was something about the attitude of the two men, the way their heads were held, the rigidity of their backs, that showed that this was no ordinary disagreement between the sovereign and one of his household. At the risk of incurring royal displeasure he craned his neck for another look and to his amazement saw Norris was now surrounded by a group of men — just as if he were being arrested — and Henry was galloping off, spurring his horse with vicious satisfaction as he passed his startled followers bellowing, ‘Come gentlemen, let us make haste to London.’

  *

  In the woods of Norfolk Zachary picked up the bags of herbs and flowers that he had collected and quite suddenly slung them over his saddle. The glory of the afternoon was just beginning to fade and he knew that at Greenwich the light, too, was starting to dim on the life of Anne Boleyn. If he rode through the night he could reach the palace by morning and play his part in the final savage episode.

  *

  Francis stared at William Brereton in horror.

  ‘I can’t believe you,’ he said.

  ‘Keep your voice down, for the love of Christ. I tell you it’s true. Norris was taken to the Tower straight from the tilt and Smeaton is already there.’

  They stood in a gallery at Whitehall having both excused themselves briefly from the May Day Banquet to visit the jakes.

  ‘Your informant must be wrong.’

  ‘I think not. He has excellent connections. Anyway if not there where are the
y? Smeaton’s been gone two nights and you must have seen Norris go off under escort.’

  ‘Yes, I did. But what is the charge?’

  ‘Nobody seems sure but that it is something quite gross is the rumour.’

  Francis looked at him disbelievingly.

  ‘I can credit that Smeaton might well offend His Grace but Norris — never.’

  Brereton pursed his lips.

  ‘Norris has always been a supporter of the Boleyns. And it is the house of Seymour that holds sway now. Think about it.’

  ‘You believe this is some move against the Queen?’

  ‘Anything is possible. But say nothing, Francis. I believe idle chatter could be dangerous to all concerned.’

  Francis felt his heart thump in his chest as the full portent of the words became clear.

  *

  It was midnight and there was no sound anywhere. Anne, Queen of England, lay fully-clothed on her bed and thought, ‘This is what it will be like. This quiet is a foretaste of the death that inevitably waits. God help me the soaring bird of my life has broken its wing at last; all fallen to earth and done for.’

  At ten o’clock a messenger had come to her with the news that Mark Smeaton had been taken to the Tower and an hour later the same man, even more grim-faced, informed her that Sir Henry Norris was also under arrest. The charges had not, as yet, been made public. She had known then that the forces were massing against her, that Henry’s fury was about to be unleashed. Yet she could not understand the means. The connection between herself and two of her loyal friends was, in this context, difficult to fathom. Perhaps they were all to be accused of a plot to kill the King.

  She thought of her conversation with Norris and her coquettish behaviour. If that had been overheard and the wrong construction put on her words ... Her brain felt as if it would burst with stress. If only her brother or Thomas Wyatt or Francis Weston were there to help her. But they were all at Whitehall with Henry. The single companion she had nearby was a daughter, not yet three, on one of her rare visits from her own household at Hatfield. A wild notion of snatching the child and leaving Greenwich by means of the river went through Anne’s mind. But she knew the hopelessness of it even before the idea was cold. Even if she could struggle her way across the Channel nobody would pity her. The monarchs of Europe would send her back to the King with murder in his heart. All she could do was wait to see what charge would be brought and then pray that the inflexible determination and natural brilliance which had given her the crown could combine to save the head that wore it.