The blush that stole upwards into her cheeks showed him that she was not a young woman, like so many others, who would fall at his feet so easily. Spirited and intelligent, how many hearts had she broken up in the north? he wondered. ‘I’m sure you can, mistress,’ he said, ‘if ever you stay silent for long enough.’
‘Long enough to what, Sir Jon?’
‘To allow your husband a word in edgeways, mistress.’
‘Husbands and their requirements are not on my mind, nor am I yet ready to saddle myself with a life of silent obedience. I’d have gone into a nunnery if I’d wanted that, sir.’
‘Then that would have been a great waste, Mistress D’Arvall, after all those years of training. Did they teach you anything else other than how to express yourself, and to sew, and to appreciate books?’
‘Many things. Including how to hold on to one’s conscience and not to confuse it with duty. ’Tis sometimes difficult to know the difference, Sir Jon. Have you not found it so?’
The twinkle of laughter in his brown eyes disappeared as he detected her disapproval of the work he was doing for his royal master. It was a brave man, these days, who could afford to heed his conscience on every matter. Brave men’s heads had rolled, including those of abbots and priors. ‘No, I have not. Not yet,’ he said softly. ‘I am quite clear about which is which. And if I may offer you a word of advice, Mistress D’Arvall?’
‘Certainly. Please do.’
‘Then I suggest you confine your opinions to what you understand best. Things are rarely as clear-cut as they seem to be.’
His words of advice were courteously spoken and Ginny had the sense to accept them without taking offence. ‘I shall take your advice, Sir Jon,’ she said. ‘Thank you. I tend to see things from one angle instead of from several.’
‘I did, too, at your age.’
Inwardly, Ginny smiled at this as though he exceeded her years by decades instead of a mere eight.
* * *
That same evening, at home, Ginny obeyed a summons to her father’s room where he and Lady Agnes D’Arvall sat beside a roaring fire, their faces flushed by good food, wine, and warmth. Here they told her that Father Spenney and young Ben had been offered the position of chaplain and assistant with them, since the office had been left vacant for a year after the death of the previous one. He and Ben would live with them as part of the household. Not only would it solve their problem, but it would look good for Sir Walter and Lady Agnes to have a properly staffed chapel once more, with perhaps a choir, too. Such details mattered in society.
Sir Walter had apparently discussed it with his wife, although the decision was his. Lady Agnes had never been required to agree with anything Sir Walter said, except as a formality. The next thing they told her, however, concerned Ginny even more personally than Ben being part of their household. It was to do with Sir Jon Raemon.
‘Sir Jon has agreed,’ said Sir Walter, ‘to consider my offer of your hand in marriage.’ He continued before she could make a sound. ‘He has also agreed to allow me possession of the priory library, for a considerable sum of money, I might add, so you’ll be pleased to hear that the books will be spared from destruction.’
Having one’s marriage prospects mixed up with a library of rare books was not something Ginny had ever anticipated, nor could she help wondering which was most important to him. ‘Marriage, Father? To Sir Jon? He favours the connection, then?’
‘He certainly favours it, in principle. Of course, there are things to be decided—property, dowry, jointures, that kind of thing. Financial details. He has promised me a firm answer as soon as he’s able. Maybe in a week or so.’
‘And me, Father? Shall I give him my answer as soon as I’m able?’
Both parents glared at her, detecting a certain facetiousness instead of the grateful excitement they thought due to them. ‘What on earth can you mean, Virginia?’ said her mother. ‘Sir Jon doesn’t need an answer from you. You will do as you’re instructed and think yourself fortunate. Your father has had this in mind for some time. You might thank him, instead of arguing.’
* * *
That night, Ginny had hardly slept for excitement. Sir Jon wished to make her his wife. It was two weeks before they had a message from Sir Jon to say that his father, a prisoner of war in France for the past three years, had died. It was another month before Ginny was told, almost casually by her father, that the hoped-for marriage would not now be going ahead. Sir Jon would be marrying a very wealthy woman, well known at court. Huge properties. Massive dowry. Beautiful wife with good connections, and older by some three years than an inexperienced sixteen-year-old. Sir Walter was disappointed but philosophical. ‘Politics,’ he said unhelpfully, in answer to Ginny’s question why.
Over the past six weeks, Ginny had existed in an unreal world of make-believe, of elation and fright, of overwhelming emotions and mental preparation in readiness for the dream of all dreams, of being wedded to the only man ever to share her wildest fancies of love and possession, and a good many other things too vaguely intimate to dwell on for long. Brought up to regard herself as a good catch for any man, she had almost taken it as a matter of course that, once negotiations were complete, he would come to claim her in person and make himself just a little less forbidding than he had been at their first meeting when her father had talked to him of deals. But Ginny, in love for the first time and so full of hope, was hurt, insulted, and bitterly resentful to have been rejected for someone older, wealthier and more royally connected than herself. The humiliation would not be forgotten or forgiven, and if those were indeed his best reasons, she hoped his marriage would be a disaster and that his crops would all fail, year after year.
* * *
So for the following three years, while Ginny remained at home with her mother, saw her older sister married and bear a child—rather too soon to escape comments about dates—and heard about the death of Sir Jon’s wife in childbirth, her heart ached with a wound that was taking far too long to heal. Had it not been for Ben’s adoration and the chaotic housing of Sandrock Priory’s library, life might have been dull. And had it not been for her parents’ regular attempts to tempt her with possible suitors, much too soon after the first, she might have made more of an effort to recover.
Then the king had come to stay at D’Arvall Hall on a hunting trip and Ginny’s contact with the royal court first-hand had begun a chain of events that opened the old wound all over again. In that autumn of 1539, Ginny was six months past her nineteenth birthday, and if she had been considered lovely before, she was now stunningly beautiful and worthy of the king’s admiration. For him, the sight of the daughter of his cofferer at D’Arvall Hall seemed to soothe his heart as much as his sight, though at the time, Ginny thought nothing much of his interest. According to her information, the king was equally interested in every young woman at court, and flirting was part of normal court behaviour. She had, however, sadly underestimated the situation.
* * *
For reasons that she kept to herself, Ginny did not respond with the expected level of enthusiasm when, just after New Year in 1540, her father sent a message to say that she was to go to court. Immediately. ‘But I’d really rather not, Mother,’ Ginny said, putting down her basket of herbs on the table. ‘You know I have no wish to get involved with that crowd.’
Her mother rarely raised her voice, but this time she could not contain her annoyance. ‘For pity’s sake, Ginny! Will you but listen, for once? The king has a new wife now.’
‘Another one? Who is it this time?’
‘If you took more interest in your father’s news, you’d know. She is the Lady Anna of Cleves...’
‘Cleves?’ Ginny frowned.
‘In Flanders. A small duchy. The king needs an ally in Europe. It’s a good match, but the king wishes you to go and help with her wardrobe. She’s unf
ashionable. She needs help with her English, too. She has no music skills. No dancing. No card games. You should be flattered to be asked to help.’
‘Commanded, Mother.’
‘Whatever. And take that basket off the polished table.’
* * *
A week later, Ginny was at Hampton Court Palace, not far from London, with a court that contained Sir Jon Raemon, now aged twenty-seven, widowed, a father, and favourite of King Henry. Favourite of just about everyone except, that was, of Mistress Virginia D’Arvall.
Chapter One
1540
‘Yes, Father,’ Ginny murmured for the fourth time as Sir Walter D’Arvall checked every buckle and strap of the bay gelding’s harness. As the king’s cofferer, he lived his life by lists, weights, and proportions, payments, people and accounts, and his new day had begun even before it checked in over the stable roofs of Hampton Court Palace. Watching her father’s hands roam over the well-stuffed bags and pouches, Ginny caught the eye of the two young grooms who would be her escort, waiting patiently for the inevitable criticism.
It was levelled at her instead. ‘It’s all very well you “Yes, Father”, my girl,’ he said with a last push at the bulging pack behind her saddle. ‘If things start to fall off, you’ll wish you’d listened to me. Now, don’t ride on after nightfall. You two hear me?’ he admonished the grooms. ‘Not a step. Get as far as Elvetham and stay overnight with Sir Edward Seymour’s lady. She’ll look after you. You should make D’Arvall Hall by tomorrow midmorning, with an early start. These days are so short. We could have done without the snow, too.’ Turning his lined face up to the grey sky, he blinked at the flurry of white settling on his eyelids. ‘I don’t suppose it will do much.’ He delved a hand into the leather pouch hanging from his belt and withdrew a folded parchment, passing it to Ginny with the command, ‘Take this to your mother. Keep it safe. In your pouch, close to your person. It’s important.’ A blob of green wax from the office glistened in the pale light.
‘Yes, Father. How important? About the boys, is it?’ Sir Walter was ambitious for his offspring. The message would surely be about her brothers.
‘Not about the boys, no. She’ll tell you. Time to be off, Virginia.’
She wished he might have taken her into his confidence, this once, as he did with Elion and Paul. At almost twenty years old, was it not time he could trust her with a verbal message? If Lady Agnes could tell her, then why could he not?
Not that she minded being back home for a while. Hampton Court Palace was a fine place to stay, even in winter, but the bewildering intrigues of the royal court demanded all one’s skills in diplomacy these days and, even with father and older brothers to lend advice, each day had been a challenge that made her glad of her temporary position. To leave, she had needed only the new queen’s permission, and the gentle Anna of Cleves was as easy to please as anyone could wish. What a pity, Ginny thought, that the lady had found so little favour in the eyes of her cantankerous husband, Henry.
At the back of Ginny’s mind was another reason for wanting to escape, for she had not been flattered by King Henry’s unwanted attentions that, instead of being focused on his fourth wife, were being directed at her in an embarrassing juvenile charade she found difficult to evade. Only a month ago, she had been summoned to go and assist the new Queen Anna, whose taste in the heavy German fashions was fast becoming the source of some comment, not to say amusement and scorn. Unable to see past the costume to the sensitive lady beneath, the king had sent for Ginny to educate and remodel his dowdy twenty-four-year-old bride in the English manner before he himself became a laughing stock. Ginny had found the task much to her liking, forming a friendship with Queen Anna to which their mime language added a piquancy.
But the king had had more than fashion in mind when he’d sent for her, and it was not long before Ginny realised that her father must have been aware of Henry’s interest even then, his easily wandering affections, his ruthless pursuit of passable young maids, his need to be surrounded by admiration, as he had once been. Sadly, Sir Walter’s personal ambition did not allow him to protect his daughter from the royal lust with the same concern he showed over her journey home in the snow on a February morning.
‘Yes, Father. Time to be away,’ she agreed, gathering her skirts for her father’s lift up into the saddle.
‘Allow me, Mistress D’Arvall.’ The deep musical voice behind her caused an uncomfortable flutter of annoyance, for she’d hoped to be away without notice, and now here was the man who had not until this moment offered her more than two words at a time, much less his assistance to mount. Her father was looking smug, as if he’d arranged it.
‘Thank you, Sir Jon,’ she said, taking hold of the stirrup, ‘but I can manage well enough with my father’s help.’
‘You’ll manage even better with me,’ Sir Jon replied. ‘Place your foot on my hands and hold the saddle. There... Up!’ In one effortless hoist, he propelled her upwards so fast that, had she not clung to the pommel, she might have gone over the other side.
Gathering the reins, she looked down on him with tight-lipped irritation, her legs half-bared by the impetus of the movement. ‘I cannot imagine how I managed before,’ she said, suspecting that this impromptu show of interest was more for her father’s sake than hers. Yet in her month at court, Sir Jon Raemon had done nothing to make her days more comfortable. A nod, a slight bow, or an impolite stare had been the sum total of his regard for her, though for others it was quite the opposite.
Too late to hide her legs from his gaze, her father drew Ginny’s skirts into place while she adjusted the other side, rattled by the man’s unwelcome closeness. He had changed since that first meeting when he’d been twenty-four and she a very opinionated sixteen. Now a trim dark beard outlined his square jaw, emulating the king’s own device for concealing fleshy jowls, though Sir Jon’s muscled neck was clearly visible above the white frill of his shirt collar. From above, she saw how closely his hair was cropped, fitting his head like a black velvet bonnet that joined the narrow beard in front of his ears, and the black brows that could lift with either disdain or mirth were now levelled at her, giving back stare for stare. She knew he was laughing at her discomfort, though the wide mouth gave nothing away.
Her father’s smugness had vanished. ‘Mend your manners while you’re at home, Virginia, if you please,’ he said sternly.
That stung. ‘There’s little wrong with my manners, Father, I thank you. Had it not been for all this baggage, I could have managed by myself. I’ve been riding since I was three, remember. Sir Jon is confusing me with those of his friends who like to pretend a little maidenly helplessness. Easily done. They’re thick on the ground here at court, are they not, sir?’
Her horse threw up its head at Sir Jon’s roar of laughter that Ginny usually heard from a safe distance. Close to, she could see the white evenness of his teeth smiling at her prickly retort. ‘Correction, Mistress D’Arvall. I could no more confuse you with another woman than forget my name,’ he said. ‘And that’s the most I’ve heard you speak since you came to court. Even an attempted put-down is better than nothing, I suppose. The manners will come eventually.’
‘Then I hope they’ll never be as selective as yours, Sir Jon,’ she said, easing her mount round to present its wide rump to him. ‘Farewell, Father. We cannot waste any more time.’
‘Virginia! Do you forget who you’re speaking to?’ he scolded, holding the bridle. ‘Sir Jon is—’
‘Yes, I know who Sir Jon is, Father. They’re all the same, these gentlemen of the bedchamber. They rate themselves highly. Too highly.’ Her words were almost lost beneath the hard clatter of hooves on the cobbled yard as she and the two grooms moved off and Sir Walter let go, sliding his hand over the gelding’s back and pulling gently at its tail, fanning it out.
Recently elevated to being one of the king’s
gentlemen of the bedchamber, Sir Jon was rather higher up the social ladder than Sir Walter, to whom he showed every respect. A great well-built handsome creature of the kind King Henry liked to have about him, his excellence at jousting, hunting, dancing, and music was well known to all at court, and wherever the king was, there also was Sir Jon Raemon in attendance. But although Ginny had never been short of company or admiration, Sir Jon and she had exchanged no pleasantries or conversation since their first tense meeting at Sandrock Priory, not even when they had met in the dance. Other young women she knew would have rectified that situation within days, but Ginny saw no reason to, and many reasons why she should not. The man had plenty of worshippers and she would not be one of them.
Sir Walter shook his head, sighed and turned back to his friend, whose expression was much less serious and far more admiring, his eyes following the trio out of the gates and along the track that ran alongside the River Thames. In the weak light of early morning, Sir Jon could see only Ginny’s slender figure swathed in furs, riding astride in the manner made fashionable by the king’s second wife. Enclosed by a headdress and hood, her lovely face had been the only part of her visible, except for the brief glimpse of shapely ankles, but he knew from oft-recalled memory how her glorious ash-blonde hair framed her face and could sometimes be seen in a heavy jewelled caul behind her head. He had not exaggerated when he’d said she was impossible to confuse with others. She was, in fact, the most distinctive and desirable woman at court, and if she thought her absence would not be noted, then she was much mistaken.
Well able to understand and even to sympathise with her coldness during her month at court, Sir Jon would entertain no doubts about his ability to bring about a change in her attitude, for their first meeting at Sandrock was still as fresh in his mind as yesterday. She had been caught on the wrong foot even then and had given him back word for word the reproofs he’d offered, just to provoke her, to make her rise to his bait. Sharp-tongued and courageous, she had fenced verbally with him as few women did at court where their flattery and simpering helplessness was, as she had said, thick on the ground. None of them was worth the chase. Since that meeting, however, so much had changed for him, not all of it for the best, and now, although he was sure of her interest while she tried to hide it, the situation would require some careful handling and patience on his part. The lady’s strong opinions were deeply rooted in so many misconceptions that it was hard to see how best to proceed. Only time would tell. Perhaps, he thought as he turned away, a certain firmness of manner might be best, in the circumstances.
Betrayed, Betrothed and Bedded Page 2
