by Jane Feather
He helped himself and then left her in solitude, taking his own meal back outside. Guinevere wondered whether he was leaving her to her own reflections for her benefit or for his.
An hour after noon, they passed Hampton's great deer park that stretched along the banks of the Thames. In its midst could be seen the turrets and gabled roofs of the palace. The water steps were thronged with liveried ushers and boatmen. The musicians’ barge had just docked and their own barge waited in midstream until the players had disembarked and the barge moved away to give them space to tie up.
Guinevere stepped onto the landing stage of Hampton Court. It had started to drizzle, a wet English mizzle that seemed more as if the clouds sniveled than real rain. She drew the hood of her cloak over her head.
A crenellated arch surmounted the head of the stairs. Hugh behind her was giving instruction to Jack Stedman and the bargemen, then he stepped beside Guinevere and took her elbow.
He escorted her up the stairs. From the arch a redbrick path wound its way through the grounds before the palace. Neat hedges lined the path, enclosing small gardens and trellised arbors. Niched statues nestled on plinths. Through the hedges she caught glimpses of flower gardens, ornamental lakes pitted with raindrops, and orchards whose trees bent low with September fruit. The path widened, opening onto a massive square, parkland on three sides where deer cropped the grass beneath great oak trees dripping with rain. On the fourth side lay the great towered entrance to the palace.
“Where do we go?” Guinevere whispered, looking in bewilderment at the thronged and noisy scene. Horsemen, carriages, crowded the square. Liveried servants ran hither and thither; importantly dressed gentlemen ushers moved in stately fashion after the elaborately suited nobles they were designated to escort and take care of. No one seemed to notice the drizzle.
“We go to Privy Seal's antechamber,” Hugh told her. “ ’Twill be crowded with petitioners but keep your hand in my arm and I will make way for you.”
He pressed ahead through the throng and under the great arched gateway. A staircase rose to the left inside the gateway; ahead lay the base court; beyond that yet another arched gatehouse. Guinevere gazed around, fascinated despite herself.
Hugh bent his head to her ear and pointed to the staircase within the gatehouse. A wide set of shallow stairs disappeared into torchlit realms above. “That is the king's staircase,” he murmured. “It leads to his private apartments and presence chamber.”
Trumpets sounded from all four corners of the base court. Guinevere couldn’t distinguish one call from another but they all seemed to have a purpose. Men, pages, ushers seemed to move according to the messages the trumpets sounded. No one in this increasingly damp melee seemed confused.
Hugh moved across the cobbles of the base court, heading for the gatehouse immediately opposite. Guinevere's arm was firmly tucked into his. He walked with the assured step of one who knew exactly where he was going and as such drew no attention. They stepped beneath the arch of the gatehouse and Guinevere saw that the court that lay ahead was suddenly more tranquil.
They crossed the court in the increasingly heavy rain. Guinevere, despite her apprehension, was astounded by the gilded magnificence of the building that rose sheer and buttressed to the north side of the court. She stopped in the center, ignoring Hugh's imperative tug on her arm, and looked around. An exquisitely decorated astronomical clock graced the heights of the gatehouse behind her.
“Such splendor,” she murmured in awe.
“Aye,” said Hugh shortly. “ ’Tis said that Hampton is the king's favorite palace. Come, we must make haste.” He hurried her across the court and within the deep archway opposite.
There, Hugh turned aside down a long corridor. It was thronged, men and women pressing themselves against the walls, looking as if they had been there for so long they were rooted to the spot. When a man whose garments and demeanor seemed to denote importance passed among them a great clamor rose from the petitioners, hands grabbed at his sleeve as he swept by.
“What is it that they want?” Guinevere was both fascinated and repelled by the scene.
“This is the chancellor's antechamber. They are petitioning him … to right some wrong in the courts … to settle a dispute … to grant some boon,” replied Hugh.
“I wonder you didn’t petition the chancellor yourself,” Guinevere muttered, conscious of the parchment in the pocket of her cloak. The document that would deny Hugh's legal claim to her land. If they’d fought this battle in the chancellor's court, maybe she would not be here now, facing what she was facing.
Hugh glanced down at her. “Had I thought it would do any good, I would have done so. But since the death of Thomas More, the office of the chancellor has once more reverted to corruption.”
“Is that not treasonous talk?”
“Quite possibly.”
“You told me to be careful of such talk.”
“And I still say so. I tread less slippery ground than you, Guinevere.”
She said no more and walked beside him, clinging to his arm, as he carved a path for them through the press. Then he turned aside into a corridor, also lined with people. He marched past them right up to a set of closed double doors at the end of the corridor. Two ushers in red velvet gowns edged with dark fur stood at the door.
“Hugh of Beaucaire,” Hugh said curtly. “With the Lady Guinevere Mallory. In answer to a summons from the king and the Lord Privy Seal.”
For a minute it looked as if the usher would deny him.
His air of lofty superciliousness did not falter. Then he caught Hugh's eye and thought better of it.
He bowed, tapping his ceremonial staff on the flagstones, and opened the doors at his back. He stepped backwards and the doors closed again.
Guinevere felt sick. She clasped Hugh's arm tightly and tried to control the deep shivers in her belly. He put his own hand over hers as it rested on his arm.
The usher returned. “Lord Privy Seal will be pleased to see you at three o’clock. ’Tis now but two.”
“Then we will wait,” Hugh said equably. “You will show us to a privy chamber where we may do so out of this mob.”
The man sniffed, then gestured to a small door. “If you would wait in there, my lord, you will be sent for.”
“I thank you.” Hugh gave the man a polite nod and ushered Guinevere into a small quiet chamber. Envious eyes followed them.
They were left there for no more than fifteen minutes, however, before the usher reappeared from a door at the rear of the chamber. “If you will follow me, sir … madam.”
They followed him into a narrow passage, lit by pitch torches in sconces along the high stone walls. At an oak door, the usher knocked with his staff, then flung it open.
Guinevere stepped in ahead of Hugh as he stood back for her. The man she had seen on horseback the previous day sat behind a massive oak table in the window. He surveyed her through cold eyes in a hard round face.
She was in the presence of Thomas Cromwell, Lord Privy Seal. The most feared man in the land.
15
Guinevere held herself very still, determined that she would not show her fear of this man. “I give you good day, my Lord Cromwell,” she said with composure. Her eye took in the other occupant of the chamber. A man in the scarlet robes of a prelate.
“Bishop Gardiner,” Privy Seal said, gesturing to the man who stood in the window embrasure. “He has some interest in your case.”
“I am a case, my lord?”
“A woman who has seduced four husbands with witchcraft,” rasped the bishop. “You stand accused of such.”
“Who so accuses me, my lord bishop? Are there witnesses?”
The bishop's complexion took on a hue to match his robes. “Witchcraft requires no witnesses and the Church has no truck with lawyerly tricks, madam.”
Thomas Cromwell waved a hand at the bishop. “Come, my lord bishop, we run too far ahead of ourselves. Lady Mallory is here to answer some que
stions, that is all.”
If the statement was intended to calm Guinevere's fears it didn’t succeed. She felt like a fly in the spider's web, watching the measured approach of a predator who knew it could take its time. She shot an involuntary glance over her shoulder at Hugh, who stood a little behind her, his expression impassive.
Her glance served to direct Privy Seal's attention to Hugh. “Ah, Lord Hugh,” he said with a terrifying impression of good humor. “You have accomplished your long journey without mishap, I trust.”
“Without mishap, my lord,” Hugh agreed calmly.
“Good … good.” Privy Seal nodded with an absent air. He returned his gaze to Guinevere.
“So, my lady, let us discuss the will of your first husband, Roger Needham. Who was responsible for drawing up the marriage contracts?”
“My uncle.” As was her habit Guinevere clasped her hands lightly against her skirt and regarded her questioner steadily.
“Oh, forgive me … how remiss!” Privy Seal steepled his fingers. “Pray take a seat, madam.” He gestured to a low stool to one side of his table.
Guinevere knew that she would immediately be at a disadvantage sitting so low in front of Cromwell at his worktable and with the two other occupants of the room remaining on their feet.
“I am perfectly comfortable standing, my lord, although I thank you for the consideration,” she replied.
Privy Seal looked displeased but he said only, “How did it come about that Roger Needham bequeathed to you the estates claimed by Lord Hugh of Beaucaire? It appears that they belonged to Needham's first wife and were not his to cede.”
Guinevere drew the parchment from the pocket of her cloak. “I possess the premarriage contract between my late husband and his first wife,” she said. “It specifies that the land in dispute formed part of the marriage settlement. It was therefore Roger Needham's to dispose of.”
She heard Hugh's swift indrawn breath behind her but didn’t turn her head.
“May I see it?” Cromwell stretched out a hand. Rings bedecked his thick fingers.
Guinevere handed him the document and he opened it carefully, smoothing the folds with all the fussiness of a woman with a flatiron.
He read it in silence. Guinevere was acutely aware of Hugh behind her … of his stillness that was as eloquent as a tirade.
At last, Cromwell looked up. “Were you aware of this clause in the premarriage contract, Lord Hugh?”
“No,” Hugh said flatly. “Had I been, I would hardly have made my claim. This is the first time it's been mentioned. For some reason, Lady Guinevere chose to keep it to herself.”
“I doubt much would have been gained by my revealing it earlier, sir,” she said quietly, turning her head a fraction to see his face. It was tight and pale, his eyes bright with anger.
“I would have appreciated it, madam. If indeed this document would stand in a court of law?” he added.
“It would, sir,” she stated, her purple eyes regarding him steadily.
She turned back to Privy Seal. “My claim is indisputable, I believe, Lord Cromwell. Just as I believe you will find that I have legal title to all the lands I presently hold.”
“We will examine those titles anon, Lady Guinevere. I would ask you now a little about your husbands, their wills, and their untimely deaths.”
Thomas Cromwell's eyes flickered to the arras decorating the inner wall of his chamber. Hugh followed the glance and knew what it meant.
In a narrow passage beyond the arras a great figure dressed in black and purple pressed his eyes to a pair of peepholes. They looked directly into Cromwell's privy chamber, cunningly concealed in the design of the arras. A round hole, as neatly concealed, enabled him to hear everything that went on even as he watched.
“Body o’ God!” Henry murmured to his companion. “But she's more comely than the miniature. I’d not have thought it possible.”
“Comely and devious, Highness,” whispered Lord Dalgliesh, the king's personal attendant. A man not coincidentally in the pay of Privy Seal, charged with reporting every minute detail of the king's conversations, every event of his daily round.
“Mayhap … mayhap,” the king muttered. “She has a lawyer's head on her shoulders, I’ll grant you that. But ’tis hard to see witchcraft in such a countenance.”
“But therein lies the essence of witchcraft, Highness,” oozed Lord Dalgliesh.
Henry nodded and continued his observations.
Within the chamber Guinevere continued to answer the questions put to her with a calm steadfastness. She was careful not to make the mistake of offering a defense before it was called for. Privy Seal did not accuse her of anything, although the drift of his questions was clear. He expressed incredulity when she explained how she had drawn up her own marriage contracts, suggested that perhaps she was not being entirely truthful.
Guinevere merely repeated what she had said.
“But how could this be?” the bishop demanded. “ ’Tis unheard-of for a woman to have such knowledge.”
“I understand the Lady Mary is learned,” Guinevere said. She felt Hugh stir behind her and realized she had made her first mistake.
“Indeed, and what know you of the Lady Mary, madam? ” a great voice boomed from behind the arras. The tapestry was flung aside and the massive figure of King Henry barreled into the chamber. “What know you of the ingratitude of a baseborn daughter?”
Guinevere fell to her knees. It seemed the only possible salutation to this astounding mass of humanity all aglitter with gold, a shimmer with jewels. His curly reddish-brown hair was cropped close beneath his velvet cap and his bright eyes glared at her from his huge face.
Hugh had snatched off his cap and was bowing low. Privy Seal rose from his chair, the bishop bowed. Guinevere remained on her knees.
“Well, madam?” demanded the king, making no attempt to raise her up. “You would bandy the name of the most ungrateful bastard in Christendom, would you?”
“Forgive me, Highness,” Guinevere said simply although she had no idea what she had done to cause this terrifying reaction.
The king paused, then with one of his startling changes of mood he threw back his head and gave a great shout of laughter. “Well, maybe I will. ’Tis a fair maid y’are, I’ll say that for you.” He took her hand and drew her to her feet.
“No maid, Highness,” Guinevere said, trying to control the violent trembling of her legs caused by this amazing presence.
Henry's laugh bellowed again. “A woman of wit,” he declared. “Of course, were you a maid you would hardly be here to answer our charges, is that not so?” And suddenly there was something sinister in the malicious glimmer of his eye.
“I have as yet heard no charges, Highness,” Guinevere said steadily.
Henry grunted. “You shall hear them soon enough, madam. And you will answer them before our council in the Star Chamber.”
“As Your Highness decrees,” she said softly.
“Until then you will lodge under Lord Hugh's roof,” the king announced. “He will be responsible for you.” He glanced at Hugh, acknowledging him with a nod.
Hugh had told her to bring the matter of her lodging up with the king, so now was the moment. Guinevere raised her head, and said quietly, courteously, “If Your Highness pleases, I would prefer not to remain under Lord Hugh's roof. I feel sure he finds it an imposition and I would make other arrangements. I have coin to pay my way.”
Immediately she knew she’d made yet another mistake. She again felt the air stir in the chamber, and she sensed Hugh move behind her. The king stared at her as if she had taken leave of her senses.
“Pay your way!” he exclaimed. “What manner of woman is this? Body of God! Rejecting the kindness we offer her. By God, madam, you are too hot,” he declared. “An intemperate wench indeed. You would dare to question my decree? You would dare to think your arrangements better than mine?”
Too late, Guinevere tried to rectify the damage. “I me
ant no disrespect, Highness, indeed not.”
But Henry swept on on his own tide of indignation. “So you would prefer not to lodge under Lord Hugh's roof? Then, madam, you may lodge in the Tower.”
Again she heard Hugh's quick intake of breath behind her. She searched desperately for words that would alter the king's decree, that would soften the ruthless expression, the eyes that glared at her with capricious rage. But before she could formulate any words, the king was striding heavily to the hidden door from which he’d entered. She glanced at Privy Seal and saw no mercy there in the cold eyes, the harsh mouth.
“So, madam, you have chosen your lodging,” Privy
Seal said. “It seems, Lord Hugh, that your guest is an ungrateful one. In addition to being somewhat secretive,” he added maliciously. “What say you, Hugh?”
“The Tower is hardly suitable lodging for the lady,” Hugh said. “As yet she stands accused of nothing.”
“Your defense astonishes me,” Cromwell said. “Lady Guinevere insults you, destroys your claim, outwits you, and you defend her.” He gave an exaggerated shrug and glanced at the bishop. “Such charity, my lord bishop, can only be commended.”
“Surely you would not also question the king's decree, Lord Hugh?” Bishop Gardiner demanded.
“Hardly,” Hugh said with a tiny shrug of his powerful shoulders.
“Then pray escort the lady to the guardhouse.” Cromwell drew a sheet of parchment towards him and took up a quill. “There she will find escort to her new lodging. We will notify her of the date of her trial when we have consulted with the other members of the king's council.” He looked coldly at Guinevere as he sanded the sheet he had been writing upon. “Until we meet again, madam.” He stamped his great seal on the parchment and handed it to Hugh.
Hugh glanced at it, his expression grim, then rolled it and tucked it into an inside pocket of his gown.
