The Mer- Lion

by Lee Arthur

  "That is an atrocious argument for making one man pay another's debts," he said. Even so, he tossed the innkeeper a gold coin. Catching it and biting it in one motion while he genuflected obsequiously bespoke great practice on the keeper's part. As he watched the elegantly dressed riders troop off, their liveried attendants in tow, he hawked and spat after diem, remarking to his gawking wife, "Did you see her? The one with the ribbon round her neck?" He spat again. "I knew her badge at once. The royal whore. Another visit from such as she and seven more guests like those stupid Scots we have housed within, and our fortune's made."

  "Think you so?" his wife retorted, her voice a perpetual whine. "The Scots're animals. Refused to sleep on the two beds I made up fresh. Instead all seven slept on the floor on bedding raided from our other rooms."

  "God's blood," the innkeeper swore, dropping his two coins into his purse with a satisfying clink and marching back into his inn prepared to do battle if necessary with the uncivilized but overpaying Scots upstairs.

  For the rest of the way, Anne rode in the vanguard and flirted with Suffolk, whom everyone knew was discreetly safe. Not till they reached the three-story-high gatehouse to Bushy Park at Teddington did they discover they did not know the password. Though Suffolk threatened, the gatekeeper refused them entry. When a crowd of gapers and gawkers gathered, Suffolk ordered the group to ride roundabout to the next gate, that at Hampton Wick. Approaching it, riding bard, they saw and were seen by the flotilla of wherries and barges, including the gilded royal one bearing the king and his sister, her ladies-in-waiting and Henry's cronies and staff. As the two groups exchanged merry waves and shouted greetings, Henry had, his leather-lunged herald shout "No entry" to the gatekeeper. Henry sailed on triumphantly, doubling his offer of reward to rowers and polesters.

  As the stymied riders milled about before the wall, de Wynter studied it closely. It was, he decided, designed more to keep deer in than horsemen out. Summoning Fionn, who rode always in earshot, he explained his plan: "Stand you up atop your saddle since your mount has the broadest back. If I climb up on your shoulders, I can easily reach the top of the wall. Once over, I open the gates."

  Fionn would have balked at being the one on top, but he was not loath to play the base to this two-man pyramid. "Anne," de Wynter admonished, "keep the gatekeeper and his man distracted." Without more ado, the plan was put into action.

  So shocked was Suffolk at the sight of these madmen from Scotland, one balancing on a horse while another clambered up his body as if on a ladder, that he went speechless. Not so Mistress Anne, who asked, "Know you not, gatekeeper, who I am? See, there is my badge, the white falcon, and here is my name: Anne Boleyn."

  "It's the king's whore," said one inside to another in a whisper never intended to travel so far.

  Anne's face turned white, her lips tightened, but her voice never faltered. In dulcet tones, she continued, "I who have the ear of Henry—"

  "And something else too," came that penetrating voice.

  "... suggest, nay, command you, open the gate!"

  Suffolk, sufficiently recovered from his stupor, added his harangue to hers, saying, "I, the Duke of Suffolk, husband to the Princess Mary Tudor, order you: Open the gate."

  "Nay, milords, saving Your Grace, I ha' me orders," the same voice retorted loudly.

  Suffolk shouted back, "And who might you be?"

  "May it please Your Grace, I be Dick Whiting, gatekeeper first to his Eminence the Cardinal Wolsey and now to the King's most excellent Majesty, Henry the Eighth, King of England." His fellows within the gate cheered at the name of their good King Hal. Bolstered by their response, Dick Whiting continued, "I ha' me orders. His Majesty said the gates shall not open."

  At that, the gates opened, gnashing and groaning and grating on ill-used hinges, to reveal a smiling de Wynter standing between. With a shout and a cheer, Suffolk's troop galloped through and on into Bushy Park. Hampton Court Palace lay but a mile and a half up ahead. Watching their dust billow, Fionn held de Wynter's horse as he mounted, "And without a thank-you or a by-your-leave."

  The two men silently agreed: the English were a sorry lot, not at all civilized like the Scots. They had not time for further reflection. They were hurried on their way by an enraged gatekeeper and the half dozen pikemen also on duty, who charged out of the gatehouse, threatening death or castration to any who came within range of their weapons—formidable twenty-two-foot-long staffs with cruel barbed points on the end and tasseled rain spouts in the middle.

  The first gate navigated, there was only one more to go—that at the entrance to the gardens just beyond the walled-in tennis court to the east of the tourney field. The "Flower Pot" gates opened with ease when the gatekeeper, not having been forewarned, knuckled under to Suffolk's first peremptory command. Through the garden they rode, taking care not to harm the topiary beasts that inhabited this make-believe wilderness.

  Around the tennis court, past the walled and towered Tilt Yard, turning south at the Royal Mews, they charged until, with a spray of stone, they stopped upon the moat-bridge lined with heraldic beasts. The doors to the five-story brick Great Gate House were closed fast; however, the face of a Yeoman of the Guard could be seen peering out. At Suffolk's hail, the face withdrew. The twenty-four-foot-high, linen-fold paneled oak doors beneath the oriel window opened slowly and majestically to frame the broad yet majestic figure of Henry VIII standing, feet spread, hands on hips, laugh on lips, upon the carefully manicured turf of the Green Base Court within.

  "Welcome," he roared. "Welcome to Hampton Court. Now, Suffolk, damn you, pay up."

  CHAPTER 13

  A lesser or greater man might have been nonplussed, not Suffolk; he shouted back as boisterously as he'd been addressed: "Pay what, sire? We never set the wager." Putting spurs to his horse, he led his troop across the bridge and through the deep gatehouse.

  Henry stared hard at the approaching man, his face turning red. Suddenly it cleared, and as Suffolk dismounted, the king was upon him. "Damme," he said, hugging the duke in a grip that would have crushed a smaller man, "You're right. We never did. You've ridden your butt off in vain."

  Suffolk hugged the man back, eliciting a "huuuuh" from the man-handled lungs of his monarch. "You've bribed your bargemen for naught!"

  "Have I?" Henry's piglike eyes narrowed under the folds of fat that formed his eyelids. Then, his eyes widened, his whole face suffused with joy: "You're wrong! That's your forfeit for the race. You pay the bargemen. And Suffolk, I promised them double!" Henry roared, it was the kind of joke he loved.

  Nothing daunted, Suffolk shouted right back, "With what? I still owe you 24,000 pounds for my wife. Release me from that and I'll pay the rowers triple." Henry stopped laughing. The court— sensitive to royal moods—ceased moving and talking immediately. All awaited his reaction. Only the horses dared breach the silence with an occasional stomp of hoof or slap of horsetail upon fly-bit rump, and one muffled nicker was echoed by a nervous twitter from an anonymous throat. Even the duke staring boldly at his king seemed frozen m space. Suffolk, privileged beyond most, had been shouted out of court before by his monarch and sent home to his wife in disgrace. Each time after suitable apology and waiting period, he was ordered back. Who knew better how chancy it was to brace Henry... especially during, before, or after an attack of gout.

  Almost in slow motion, Henry with one of those big, broad, leonine gestures he/loved, reared back and roared with laughter.

  "Damn you Suffolk, you've done it again. Gotten the best of me. I'll just have to lend you the money to pay off me, rowers." Falling upon Suffolk's shoulders, he hugged the man and the two pummeled each other and laughed until tears ran from their eyes.

  When a king laughs, his court laughs. At first only in sniggers and titters and hollow guffaws', but laughter has a way of being contagious and building upon itself.

  "You don't laugh?" said a quiet voice at de Wynter's side. Anne had taken advantage of the general hilarity to approach h
im again.

  "I find nothing humorous in a monarch's promising a man and a woman they might marry; then, when they do, beggaring them with ruinous fines."

  "Is that what they say in France?" She considered upon it. "Suffolk looks not like a beggar to me."

  "Because of his clothes? Look about you. Is there a man or woman here who actually owns the clothes on his back? It's all a brave show made on usurer's money. Tell me, Mistress Anne, does your gown belong to you?"

  Anne colored ever so slightly. Although possessed of a rare fashion sense enabling her to make do with simpler clothes, she, too, was hard put to maintain the gowns and jewels necessary to the image of promised consort to a man who spent 200,000 pounds a year on clothes alone, plus more on jewels. Anne, in the first few years of her waiting, had been financed by her Howard, relations, especially her uncle Norfolk in hopes of future advancement. When the divorce did not come through, and the wedding appeared not near, those funds invested in what might be a nonexistent future dried up. Only last week she had been forced to call upon the services of a money-lender. She endeavored to think of the fnghteningly strange man in the long black robes with oily black hair and the flat black bat as her financial advisor. He was, with his 50 percent interest rates—"Lower for you, my lady, out of love for His Majesty"—an out-and-out extortionist. However, to play out her game with Henry, she needed money.

  No glimmer of this graced her face. "Of course it does. Can you say as much?"

  "All mine, every stitch, every jewel. I owe no man nor woman... except you," he added, bowing slightly in her direction.

  "Me? For what?" She was genuinely bewildered. He'd borrowed no money nor owed her for gambling. Quite the contrary. She recalled having borrowed from him and lost on a throw of the dice.

  "For bringing me again to the good king's attention."

  Henry, in the middle of still another hearty laugh, had looked over Suffolk's shoulder and seen Anne and de Wynter in conversation. The laughter died in his throat. He stiffened and pulled back from Suffolk, who, noting the change in Henry, stopped laughing and turned to see what was amiss. Like dominoes falling one on the other, the court in progression ceased laughing and started staring. Anne and de Wynter seemed unaware, he keeping his gloved hand resting lightly on hers.

  But they were aware. The silence was too deafening. The unseen stares were too obvious. She was more concerned by the gradual tightening of his hand on hers. "Let go, you're hurting me," she said under her breath.

  "Why, if you care for me, do you keep including me in this game you play?"

  She did not answer immediately. The pressure on her hand increased inexorably. "I'll scream," she hissed through clenched teeth.

  "What? And let Henry know I'm no rival of his? Not likely. I suggest you talk before I crush all six of the fingers on this lovely hand. Why me?"

  "You're new to court." The pressure loosened ever so slightly; she could breathe again.

  "Go on."

  "Henry's coming this way."

  "Hurry then." The grip tightened again.

  Her chin went up, she held her breath. If only Henry would limp faster. But the pain in the vestigial sixth finger on her hand was too much. "Because you're beautiful enough for even the king to believe my interest real," she gasped. "And because you're safe from Henry."

  Shocked by such an unexpected response, his grip loosened involuntarily, and she pulled free. Flexing her fingers within her glove, she decided none were broken.

  "Safe?"

  "Safe! I want to be queen, not a murderess. You're Scots Herald Ross. He wouldn't dare kill a herald." Still she did not look at Henry, making his way slowly through horses turning every which way, their riders jostling one another to make way for the king.

  "Now, it's your turn to smile, milord, and mine to exact revenge. "Watch!" Her smile was not lovely. The king was upon them.

  "Mistress Anne, what do you here?" the king bellowed, his voice a mixture of anger and suspicion. Not at all discomfited, she smiled winningly down at her king, her eyes caressing him, "Sire, the Lord de Wynter here was just telling me the most fascinating news about yourself. Your songs—they are all the fashion at Francis's court."

  The king's little eyes shifted their stare sideways to de Wynter. Serenely the Scots earl returned the English king's glare, the two men taking the measure of each other. Henry decided this Scot must go. De Wynter came to a similar conclusion: Regardless what Anne says, the king will have my head—herald or no herald—unless I am gone shortly.

  "Oh?" grunted the monarch, veiling his thoughts as he continued staring up at the slender lordling, scarcely half his age.

  De Wynter's voice could not have been more sincere, his lie more straight-faced: "Indeed, Your Majesty, they are played constantly."

  Henry's songs, as Anne knew full well, were condemned to neglect at the French court on the general principle of Anglophobia. De Wynter had never heard one played; he knew not even what kind of songs the man wrote; they might even have been hymns. God damn Anne for getting him into this. But not by a muscle did his face betray his emotions. "Of course, both their Majesties have their own particular favorites."

  Henry, interested in spite of himself, never objected to a little, or even a lot, of ego-boosting; he even managed a semicivilized, "You must tell us more about it later."

  Anne added impishly, "And show us the dance, too!"

  Henry frowned; he hated all show-offs but himself. On the other hand, he was intrigued. "Dance?"

  "One of your songs has been made into a new dance," she explained. She was exacting the last inch of revenge for her hurt hand.

  De Wynter mentally condemned all trouble-making women, especially Anne Boleyn, to perdition, but not by a raised eyebrow did he betray that he had no idea of what she spoke. However, two could play tins game as well. "I should be delighted to demonstrate at Your Majesty's pleasure. Especially if Mistress Anne will partner me." That, he thought, should get him off the hook. But Henry said neither yea or nay, only a noncommittal "Harumph," as egotism and jealousy warred within him.

  Recognizing a dismissal when he saw one, de Wynter removed his hat with a flourish, bowed low over his saddle, and one-handedly set his horse to backing straight away as if the animal had eyes on its rump. It was an exquisite display of horsemanship, even Henry would concede that. It also elicited an appreciative impulsive response elsewhere. Jane, Lady Rochford, clapped. Just once, before her husband stilled her. She might be empty-headed, but he was not. It was courting disaster to champion one of Henry's rivals, especially if one were a member of the staunchly Catholic Howard family, even if only by marriage. Hiding her head in confusion, Jane could only hope the king had not heard. And if he had, had not seen.

  But Anne Boleyn had both heard and seen. And as she gracefully dismounted into Henry's arms, in the process letting the whole of her body run the length of his, she smiled with almost evil delight, for there was no love lost between these two sisters-in-law, one quick-witted, the other slow. "Oh, I agree, Lady Rochford. The Scots do have a way with horses. And women, too, I hear. What do you think, sire?"

  What Henry thought was both unspeakable and unprintable. But if thought could kill, Lady Rochford, de Wynter, and the horse would find themselves all in a common grave.

  Anne continued to lean against him, her pelvis moving slowly to and fro, so daringly in public only because she was sure the court couldn't see. He stifled a groan; he was beginning to respond. Although the thick padding of his codpiece would prevent disclosure, inspecting the palace was going to be damned uncomfortable with one of his members swollen by gout, the other by lust.

  "Tonight, Anne?" he begged.

  "We'll see," she replied demurely. "Now, show me this magnificent Great Hall you are a-building," she commanded. Henry, proud builder that he was, was happy to oblige. With his Anne clinging to his arm, they made their way slowly—to allow for his sore foot— across the lush green turf toward the inner gatehouse. Anne look
ed up to check the time and stopped, shocked. There, below the oriel windows, below the astrological clock, below the bell which antedated Wolsey, was an undeniable reminder of the former owner. Defaced, but still recognizable, were Wolsey's arms in terra-cotta affixed to an archepiscopal cross, surmounted by a likeness of his red hat and supported by putti.

  "Sire, I thought you intended replacing those?"

  "What, the medallions? Never. I have always had a fondness for those roundels with their royal heads."

  She thought him teasing her but was not absolutely sure. "Nay, not those. They are magnificent, especially the one of Augustus. It reminds me much of another wise king, I know." Her flattery, although obvious, was most pleasing. "Nay, sire, I refer to the panel above the gateway."

  Although he knew well what she meant, he pretended ignorance, drawing her instead closer to the gatehouse and squinting up to where she pointed. "Oh, that. Yes, yes, indeed, I see what you mean. That does mar the facade, indeed. Yes, those arms should be replaced. But by whose? Mine are already in place on the outer gatehouse. By all rights, there should go the arms of the Queen of England. What do you think?" He studied her carefully, but Anne Boleyn's face was as well-schooled as that of any courtier, maybe better. Not by a quiver of her chin or a twitch of the cheek did she show that she seethed within. How dare he think that? Catherine of Aragon's arms up there? Never. Better to keep Wolsey's own than those of that Spanish prune. Even as she forced a smile to her lips, that she let him think hers were words of passion rather than ambition. So pleased was he with those meager crumbs from her, that he too made a decision. "Then, my dear, in honor of her whose arms.shall soon go up there, we'll call this the Anne Boleyn Gateway." At her real surprise and expression of genuine delight, Henry grew more pleased with himself. Let de Wynter equal that, he thought.

  Restored to a good mood, he placed her arm on his and led her within the gateway and under its vaulted fan roof. Then, leaning himself on the sturdy arm of his chamberlain, he mounted the stairs leading to the source of all the hammering, the Great Hall. As the court entered, chattering gaily, the noise ceased and the workmen perching on scaffolds a full fifty feet above them peered down curiously at a court staring up at them. John Molton, the Master Mason, sensed the silence, turned from arguing with an ill-dressed workman at the other end of the hall, 106 feet away, and trotted forward to greet his king fearfully. The workman followed behind.