The Phantom Tree

by Nicola Cornick

I had not, however, foreseen the consequences of my words. There was uproar. The foresters were called out and word was sent to raise the villagers to arms. The whole of Savernake was scoured for these intruders who threatened the Queen’s peace.

  I knew they would not find them. I knew they had not been from our time. Like the nightmare vision of the galloping horse and its headless rider they were apparitions from another present, one that I could not explain, but no less dangerous for all that. Such spirits would have been sufficient, indeed, to set Dame Margery off crossing herself and muttering against the devil but fortunately she was occupied in making sure that there were sufficient provisions for the men hunting my ghosts.

  ‘There are no soldiers,’ one of the foresters groused as they came in late in the afternoon, hot, angry, spoiling for a fight. ‘The maid imagined it all. The kilns are all cold and there is no body of a dead man half burned.’

  I was in disgrace. I did not care as I wanted to be alone to talk to Darrell, but when I tried to find him he was not there. My call to him echoed emptily through my mind with no reply. Perhaps he thought I would nag him with questions, for there were so many things I wanted to ask; how had he known I was in trouble, had he seen what I had seen? Disconsolate, I put my head down on my pillow and closed my eyes.

  Thank you. I sent the message to him anyway and felt the faintest of acknowledgements, so brief it was like a flutter across my mind, yet as warm as an embrace the same. I had the sense not to ask for more. I smiled and fell asleep

  Chapter 5

  Alison, 1560

  She awoke to find Edward touching her. He insisted that she sleep naked for this very purpose, so that she was always available to him, even though sometimes she lay awake for hours shivering in the cold. Even when he did not come to her she was obliged to remain uncovered in case he should decide to visit her bed after a night spent carousing on the town. He would roll in, his breath smelling of wine, and demand that she open her thighs for him. No preamble, no words of love. At least when he was not drunk he made some pretence at arousing her first.

  His hands swept over her breasts and down across the curve of her stomach. She felt nothing, nothing but an anger that grew with each day. She wanted to go to the privy but she did not dare leave the bed.

  She had been such a fool. She should have run away when she had the chance that day in Marlborough. She would have survived somehow. At the time she had told herself it was all for the best; as Edward’s kept mistress she lacked for nothing. She had had the baby to consider as well. It was vital that she protected them both. She had thought Edward would do that.

  How she regretted her weakness now she was so demeaned, helpless, of no account. Edward rolled on top of her. It was all over quickly and clumsily. With the amount of wenching he indulged in, she would have expected him to be more proficient by now. Odd how it had all seemed so enchanting before Arthur had been born. She had been in love with him then though.

  He stood up, leaving her lying splayed on the bed, the cold air washing over her.

  ‘You return to Wolf Hall today,’ he said.

  She gaped at him.

  He shrugged on his robe and poured wine for himself, refusing to look at her. Outside, the chatter and clatter of London was all around but Alison heard nothing of it. Her head buzzed.

  ‘I am to wed.’ He was still avoiding her gaze. A line of colour stung his cheek beneath the beard.

  She felt as though she could not breathe. Had she really thought that he would marry her? Had she still dared to hope for it? How much more of a fool could she be, when he had refused to acknowledge her, hidden her away, bound her to silence, taken her son away?

  She dragged the covers over her, her entire body chilled. ‘Who is she?’

  He shook his head. ‘I cannot tell you. It is a secret.’

  More secrets. They ruled him. She wondered if he had asked the Queen’s permission or if that was where the difficulty lay.

  Stubborn hope lifted in her heart though. Perhaps this was a political match and after a little while he would send for her again. In the same moment she felt fury, with herself, with him. How much more misuse would she accept? She could no longer fool herself that this was best for her—or for her child.

  ‘In a few months I will find you a husband too, give you a dowry.’ He was looking eager now, almost pleading. ‘Someone who is…’ He stopped.

  Not too particular? Alison thought savagely. Prepared to accept his discarded mistress if the pill was sweetened with enough money? She could not pretend any longer. There was a bitter taste on her tongue. She had chosen this, humiliated herself for a security for herself and her son that had proved an illusion.

  ‘What about Arthur?’ She made herself ask although she already knew the answer. Arthur had been taken from her as soon as he had been born. For a little while, Edward had indulged the pretence that she would see him again when he was weaned. It was the way things were done, he said. She was a lady not a wet nurse.

  The truth was that he had wanted her all for himself. She had been his plaything and the child had been a nuisance. Now Edward no longer wanted either of them. So she had go.

  ‘Arthur stays with me,’ Edward said.

  Alison clutched the sheet a little tighter.

  ‘But I will see him?’ she said. She could hear the begging in her voice.

  ‘It’s better you do not.’

  Her fingers ached from her grip on the sheet. She did not notice. Her head ached too, a sharp stabbing pain behind the eyes, but she blinked it back trying to concentrate.

  ‘Better for whom?’

  Edward looked surprised. ‘For Arthur, of course. I will place him in a noble household when the time comes. He will want for nothing.’

  Except a name and a mother’s love, Alison thought. The pain had spread to her throat now. It felt like a blade that threatened to cut her if she swallowed. Her chest was too tight.

  ‘It will be better for you too.’ Edward refilled his cup. Some wine splashed, red as old blood. ‘It will be a new start.’

  Fury spurted up in her that he thought her memories, her love for her child, could be so easily discarded. The callous arrogance of it stole her breath.

  ‘You mean that my new husband would hardly want to be saddled with another man’s by-blow as a constant reminder of his wife’s lack of chastity,’ she said.

  Edward looked shocked, more so at her crudity than the sentiment. He did not reply.

  Alison sat up and reached for her robe, needing to protect herself against the thought, against her lover, against her own weakness. She felt powerless. If she went against Edward’s will he would throw her out onto the street as carelessly as a pile of rags, justifying his actions by accusing her of ingratitude. But she would never give Arthur up. As well rip her heart out. Nor would she marry a man of Edward’s choosing. She had absolutely no intention of being parcelled off to some yeoman farmer in order to tidy her away. She was a gentleman’s daughter even if he was long dead and she had come down in the world.

  Now was not the time to show defiance though. She would need to be cunning and bide her time. And she would need to be brave too and show more backbone than she had done so far.

  ‘It will be pleasant to see Wiltshire again, I suppose.’ She forced the words out. ‘Though I shall miss you, my love.’

  He looked gratified and bent to kiss her. The contempt rose in her throat. He was so gullible.

  ‘I shall need some new clothes.’ She pressed her advantage.

  ‘You will have a trousseau ere long.’ He was not as much of a fool as he looked.

  ‘Just one new gown for winter.’ She busied herself about the room, looking, planning. How much could she take with her to Wolf Hall? Edward would probably be quite generous if she were prepared to go quietly and would overlook the odd item that went missing, though her thefts would have to be small. A few silver dress pins, the pomander encrusted with emeralds, perhaps even his gold crucifix since
it was a sign of nothing but his hypocrisy. It was not as though he had ever been generous with gifts. He owed it to her. And one day soon it would enable her to make a new start.

  She had nothing. She felt her shoulders slump as despair took her. She was less than nothing. But this misery was why she had not had the courage to leave him before. It cast her down when she most needed to be strong. It would not win this time. She had had enough of being used and she wanted something better.

  ‘I shall be ready to leave within the week,’ she said, and was rewarded with another quick, clumsy kiss, the prize for being complaisant. When he took a purse out of his pocket and extracted a few gold coins, she felt a flash of triumph.

  This was where it began. This was where she started to take back.

  Mary, December 1560

  That winter, Alison came back. She had changed. I think perhaps I had imagined that she would not return. She had slipped from my mind like a wraith, lost beneath the detail of day-to-day life until suddenly one frosty morning she was standing by the bare hawthorn hedge, one hand on the gate, wearing a new woollen riding hood of orange tawny. She saw me and smiled, half raising a hand in greeting before she pushed open the gate and came up the path towards me.

  It was an odd moment. I felt an impulse to run to her and embrace her though I had no notion why. She dispelled that quickly enough, however, offering a cool cheek for my kiss, in the French fashion. She was seventeen years old now to my thirteen and I felt gauche in the face of such elegance.

  ‘You are home!’ I said, although I doubted that Alison any more than I thought of Wolf Hall as her home.

  ‘Only until I wed.’ She was examining the stitching on her gloves, not meeting my eyes. ‘Lord Seymour has found me a husband.’

  Our cousin Edward had been restored to his earldom the year before and was even more grand now and further beyond our reach. He had been building a new house a few miles distant at Tottenham; Wolf Hall being too old and inconvenient for him. I wondered if the new house, and his plans for Alison, meant that he would be spending more time at Savernake.

  ‘You’re to wed.’ I parroted her words, knowing I sounded simple. There was so much I wanted to ask her but could not. She did not have a child with her. I wondered what had happened to it. Was it a boy or a girl? Where had she been, and with whom? Who had paid for the beautiful orange tawny? Cousin Edward, perhaps, since it appeared he wanted her well turned out for her marriage. Alison’s silence prevented me from blurting out any questions though. There was a wall of reserve about her and she had withdrawn behind it.

  There was no suggestion this time that Alison and I should share a chamber. Suddenly she had become an adult, elevated above me. She was excused any work and spent much of her time in a huddle with the other women, talking about mysterious matters ranging from the assembly of a trousseau to the management of a household. Perhaps Liz might have thought it would be useful for me to listen and learn but, often as not, I was not invited. Dame Margery and Alison were still close as two peas in the pod and since neither of them liked me much, I was left out. I did see some of Alison’s new clothes: the scarlet wool petticoats, soft and warm, which I envied, and the fragile silk-lined slippers, which seemed a pointless extravagance. Alison’s future husband was a well-to-do yeoman but there was no question that she would need practical clothing in which to work.

  ‘Do you like Master Whitney?’ I asked her one day. We were in the solar and it was raining, the water running down the diamond panes like tears. For once, I had been included in the group. We were trying to embroider in the dim grey light of winter, with only one sputtering candle to aid us. My eyes smarted.

  Alison let her hands rest in her lap as she looked up. ‘He is well enough. Liking has nothing to do with marriage.’

  ‘He likes you.’ Dame Margery dug her in the ribs, letting loose a raucous laugh. Alison gave a pale smile in return. It did not seem to please her that her future husband lusted after her but Dame Margery was right. Even I had noticed the hungriness in his eyes when he watched her. I could not have borne for him to touch me. There was something perpetually angry about him and it felt dangerous. I’d heard he had an uncertain temper and I thought Alison was making a mistake. Not that she had a choice.

  ‘He is wealthy and of good standing,’ Alison said. ‘I could not hope for better.’

  There was an odd silence. She had sounded almost wistful.

  ‘But you are a gentleman’s daughter,’ I said. ‘Surely…’

  She looked at me hard, though she said nothing, and I knew that she was thinking of the scandal of her pregnancy. Yes, I had been tactless. Not many men would have been prepared to wed her when her chastity was so clearly compromised. I wondered if Edward had paid Whitney handsomely to overlook it.

  ‘You will find,’ she said, after a moment, ‘when it is your turn, that being the daughter of a queen and a gentleman avails you nothing if you have no fortune or… beauty… to speak of. You will take what is on offer and be glad of it.’

  I knew I would not.

  ‘I do not wish to wed,’ I said hotly. ‘I cannot see that it makes anyone very happy, so why do it?’

  Dame Margery’s mouth fell open in shock at such heresy but Alison simply shook her head. ‘You are so determined to be naïve, Mary Seymour,’ she said. ‘Can you truly be in such ignorance of how the world works?’

  I was not, of course. I observed the lives of others even if nothing happened to me. Yet it was true that I could see little benefit for a woman in marriage. If it were a love match, it would end in betrayal or death or both. One only needed to look at the example of my parents, or old Queen Mary, to see that. If it was a marriage for profit, then it seemed to me the advantage was usually on the man’s side for the price exacted on the woman was very high.

  ‘Her Majesty the Queen has not wed,’ I pointed out.

  ‘She will,’ Dame Margery said. She cut her thread neatly with a little pair of silver scissors. ‘She needs an heir.’

  Queen Elizabeth, I realised, was exactly like a man in that respect.

  ‘Perhaps Lord Seymour will find you a husband at the hunting party,’ Alison said. ‘It is not just about my betrothal; there is business to be conducted.’

  Thus I learned something else new. Events that were called one thing so often had a quite different purpose. I had heard that there was to be a grand celebration of Alison’s betrothal, a week of feasting and hunting in the forest. The household was already buzzing with the preparations. Yet it seemed it was not about Alison, or even about her forthcoming marriage.

  ‘I am too young,’ I said, to offset the chill of disquiet that touched me. ‘I am not yet fourteen.’

  ‘Old enough to be promised,’ Dame Margery opined. She stood up, wincing a little. ‘Ach, I’m aching all over.’

  ‘Take some of my juniper oil,’ Alison said. ‘It will ease your bones.’ She smiled at Dame Margery and I saw with surprise that there was genuine affection between them. I had never seen Alison offer kindness to anyone before. Nor had I thought of Dame Margery as anything other than an old woman given to small spites. Alison was right; life was not always the way I saw it.

  Once Dame Margery had left the room and Alison and I were alone, I expected more of her provocation but instead we sat in silence for a while as we worked. Or rather I did. Looking at Alison, I realised that her hands were resting on the material in her lap again and she was staring into space.

  ‘I haven’t seen my son since he was a few weeks old,’ she said, suddenly. ‘They took him away and gave him to a wet nurse.’ She looked at me and her eyes were such a bright blue with unshed tears that I felt shocked. ‘His name is Arthur.’

  I stared at her, uncomprehending. Why was she telling me this? Why now, when she had not spoken of the baby at all since her return to Wolf Hall? I could sense pain in her: huge, ungovernable pain, but I did not understand why she felt it. I had not known my mother at all but even had she lived I would have been
consigned to the care of servants. She would not have raised me herself. My father had taken me to London with him as though I were just another piece of luggage, left in the hallway of his house for someone else to find and deal with. Why should Alison’s son be different?

  She had seen the blankness in my eyes.

  ‘I would not expect you to understand,’ she said bitterly.

  ‘I…’ I grasped after something to say. ‘Surely when he is older you will see him again? It’s only whilst he is nursing—’

  She gripped my wrist so suddenly and so sharply that I winced.

  ‘No,’ she said harshly. ‘I do not even know where he is. They will not give me any news. They say it is better I know nothing of him and he knows nothing of me and so it will remain for ever.’

  I understood now and was struck dumb by the finality of it. She had lost her child or rather he had been stolen from her. I wanted to lie to comfort her, but the words would not come and anyway there was no comfort in lies. We both knew that her fate was to wed and provide lawful heirs for her husband. No one would speak of Arthur again. Her future children would not even know their half-brother existed.

  Alison stood up, made clumsy by her tears, and the embroidery fell unheeded to the ground. I picked it up when the door had closed behind her. It was exquisite; a piece of pure white linen with a perfect rose embroidered on it in white thread that glowed with all the beauty of the flower itself. She was a very talented seamstress. I folded it carefully and put it in the wooden box where she kept her needles and thread. There was a very fine gold crucifix in there as well, and some silver pins and her pomander, smelling faintly of orange and cloves.

  I had a dream that night. It was not a vision in the sense I normally saw them though it was no less vivid for that. I was outside, in a landscape quite different from the woods and fields of Savernake. This was high country with a wide blue bowl of a sky and tracks as white as bone. I could feel the sun beating down on my head. In my hand was Alison’s box. The shining walnut was dazzlingly bright, the initials AB bold and black. The sun-warmed wood felt hot against my palm.