The Queen shook her head and frowned. ‘Why should Parliament be recalled within two weeks of it being dissolved? If there are statutes to be repealed, then I should know of it.’
‘I think you will find that Henry intends to train Fitzroy into the workings of Parliament,’ Lord Rochford’s wife was quick to reply.
‘Whatever for?’ The Queen’s tone was defiant.
The musician’s gentle pulse fed the silence.
‘To be his heir, of course, until he gets his legitimate boy.’
Those two hours in January, waiting to discover whether King Henry was dead or alive had made everyone think the unthinkable. Everyone, the boys in the stable, the cooks in the kitchen, Mistress Pudding in the confectionary, Master Secretary in his office, the Duke of Norfolk, the Archbishop, the Queen, they must all have asked themselves the same question. Who will reign if the King dies? Even to think of the King’s demise was an act of treason, but we cannot prevent thoughts from slipping into our heads when we are sorely pressed and fearful. Even the King, it seemed, was facing his own mortality and making arrangements for the succession.
‘Princess Elizabeth is Henry’s only true, legitimate heir,’ the Queen said.
‘And who would be her regent? You, Anne? You have no friends at court these days. Excepting your father and your brother, you have bitten off all their heads, including your uncle, Norfolk, the foremost peer of this realm, whose support you would sorely need.’
Lord Rochford scowled at his wife. ‘Jane, hold your tongue. The King is recovered. There is no need for this conversation.’ He turned to his sister.
‘What of this other rumour I hear, of writs made today to establish courts of Oyer and Terminer for the trials of traitors?’
‘What rumour?’ The Queen frowned. ‘What traitors?’
‘You have no idea what is going on do you know that you have lost Cromwell’s friendship,’ he said angrily.
‘If you really wish to know, I will ask the King,’ the Queen said.
‘Aye, if he will speak with you after you have sought him out in the Seymour whore’s apartments, those that your erstwhile friend, Cromwell, has vacated for her.’
‘Be patient, George,’ Mistress Madge purred. ‘He will soon tire of that wilting rose. I see no prettiness in her at all.’
‘You are not a man,’ Lord Rochford snapped. ‘Forgive my ill temper, Nan,’ he said more kindly to the Queen, ‘I am poor company this eve for I am sorely grieved. I’ll depart and leave you to happier pastime with these good gentlemen present.’
‘Will Mistress Seymour be travelling with the court on our visit to Calais?’ Lady Rochford asked.
The Queen did not answer.
Mark Smeaton and the poet, Wyatt, were sitting slightly apart from the others composing a song. The young musician’s curly head moved from side to side in rhythm to the sad music of his lute while the poet’s long beard brushed the parchment upon which his quill had hurriedly scratched the words as he devised them.
‘Sir Francis, leave Mistress Shelton to the company of the other ladies and join our poet and our musician, for I would have you play your instrument while Mark sings,’ Queen Anne ordered, with a smile. ‘Sir Thomas composes the most beautiful poetry but I am sure he will agree that Mark’s sweet voice is more suited to the pathos of this song than his own.’
Weston took Mistress Madge’s hand and made a great show of lamenting his leaving of her by kissing her fingers and bowing low.
‘See how he behaves like a lover to Mistress Shelton when Norris is absent,’ Lady Rochford said.
Mistress Madge smiled, blushed a little and hastened to pull her hand from Weston’s hold. Weston reddened and glared at Lady Rochford.
‘A married gentleman with an infant son should not be paying court to the Queen’s maid-of-honour,’ Lady Rochford announced, like a preacher, for all to hear.
‘I do believe you are a little in love with my cousin,’ the Queen said teasingly to Weston. ‘I told you a year ago,’ she said more severely, ‘that this flirting must stop.’
She turned to Mistress Madge. ‘This is not the kind of behaviour that I expect in my chambers. I shall ask lady mistress to speak most severely with you. She has been lax, to say the least, in her duties as mother of my maids, to let this affair continue as it has. Sir Henry Norris is most earnest in his courtship of you and you have taken advantage of his being absent from court, attending his estates in Oxfordshire. My uncle Shelton hopes for a marriage settlement very soon.’
Sir Francis approached the Queen looking like a whipped schoolboy with his sulky pout and his flushed cheeks.
‘You think, madam, that Norris comes to your chambers for Madge? Know you not that he comes more for yourself than to court your cousin.’
If Weston had spoken lightly, it would have been just another little bit of flirtation in the games of chivalry they played at court. But he spoke in anger and this gave credibility to his accusation of Norris. Weston had spoken as a jealous lover might. Was Weston, jealous of Norris? Was Weston in love with Madge or with the Queen?
‘I see you are ill disposed for pleasant company, Sir Francis. Perhaps you would prefer to join my brother and share your discontent. Pray, leave us to our pleasures. Mark will both play and sing for our entertainment.’
The beginnings of a smile at the corners of her mouth belied the Queen’s strong rebuke. She is flattered by the notion that Sir Henry Norris is in love with her, and perhaps Weston too, I thought, and cannot hide it. Of course she is. What woman would not welcome admiration from a man as kind hearted as Sir Henry Norris when she has to watch her husband daily paying court to another woman?
‘We will have your song now, if you please,’ the Queen said pleasantly to Smeaton and Wyatt. The poet stroked his silvered beard and sighed while the musician looked mournfully at the Queen as he played his lute and sang Wyatt’s doleful song of lovers parting.
And wilt thou leave me thus?
Say nay, say nay, for shame,
To save thee from the blame
Of all my grief and grame;
And wilt thou leave me thus?
Say nay, say nay!
I had to lead my mistress away, for she was weeping.
Chapter 31
April 1536
The next day, Lady Shelton came early to my mistress’s lodgings with one of Cromwell’s servants to conduct us to his office.
‘Answer Master Secretary’s questions truthfully,’ Lady Shelton told her daughter and put her arm about her. ‘There is nothing to fear if we play to Cromwell’s tune, and everything to lose if we don’t. The Boleyns are finished. Loyalty to Anne will be the ruin of our family. Cromwell is the King’s man these days: not Anne’s.’
She led me into the bedchamber upon the pretext of inspecting how well I had made up the bed.
‘I hope I can trust you, Avis,’ she said in a whisper. ‘Master Secretary seeks only knowledge of matters concerning the Queen. My daughter’s friendships are no concern of his.’
‘No, my lady, they are not,’ I said. But he knows all about them just the same, I said to myself.
‘I see Cromwell will have a hard task getting what he wants from you,’ she said with a wry smile.
‘Yes, my lady.’
‘You would do well to try to please Master Secretary. Tell him all that you have seen in the Queen’s chambers, of her gentlemen visitors and her brother.’
‘There is nothing much to tell, my lady.’
She grabbed my arm. ‘There is everything to tell, and you must tell all if you would remain at court in my daughter’s service.’
We waited outside Master Secretary’s office, my mistress and myself, in a little hall place. A guard stood by his door; a plaster-faced, stocky fellow. He beckoned to a boy who popped his head cheekily inside Cromwell’s door. ‘Master, a lady and her maid await,’ he called cheerfully and skipped away.
We waited. There was nowhere to sit. Normally, Mistress Madge would
make a great complaint at having to stand around like a page but there was no one to complain to. The servant might be a statue except that we had seen that he was able to move one of his arms. My mistress fiddled with the pomander that hung from her girdle and swung it a little. The sweet, familiar scent filled the silence.
Master Secretary’s door opened.
‘I thank you graciously, for your time, madam,’ he said to a lady who walked before him and I felt my heart begin to beat all the faster when I heard that gritty voice. The lady wore a veil over her hood to cover her face and glided out of the hall place without acknowledging Mistress Madge. Master Cromwell came to her, bowed with all courtesy and, smiling, took her arm and ushered her into his chamber just as he would if he had invited her to supper. Left alone with the guard, I paced around the small hall, treading the rushes. I dared not think what Cromwell would ask of me. I looked around the hall place wondering if there was a garderobe nearby. Suddenly, I needed one, but there was no one to ask.
I don’t know how long I waited before Master Secretary’s door opened and my mistress came to me. She took my hand and guided me through Cromwell’s door without a word, and then she was gone. Master Secretary was seated at his desk reading a paper, his quill raised in his hand.
‘Come, come,’ he bid me, as if I were a dog in training.
I approached his desk and stared at his inky cuticles. He began to write upon a paper. Oh, how speedily he wrote with his chunky hands, like a scribe, dipping his quill into his inkhorn again and again so that I thought he had forgotten me. He must have been pleased with what he had written because he smiled as he scattered sand upon his paper. Did he write of what Mistress Madge had told him? I saw that the writing was small and the paper filled.
‘Mistress Shelton has been most helpful,’ he said. ‘There is just a little more I need to ask of you.’
I had not thought Master Cromwell’s desk would have been so cluttered. There were papers scattered everywhere upon the green, fringed cloth, some in piles that looked as if they would fall if Master Secretary should sneeze.
‘I have seen you sitting with your sewing in a corner of the Queen’s privy chambers. You have also attended the Queen in her bedchamber, I am told.’
He raised his eyebrows. I knew that this was a question and he expected a reply, but I didn’t know how to answer. His office was plainer than I had expected. The oak wainscot had no carving. A simple, leafy design wove through the blue tapestry that hung behind him. Only his emerald ring and his golden chain of office glistening against his dark gown showed how important he was to the King.
First, he asked me about my sewing.
‘The Queen is pleased with Mistress Shelton for teaching me so well. She has asked Mistress Shelton to show me how to work some of the stitches that the Queen’s ladies sew upon their sleeves; just the simplest stitches, of course, perhaps a few forget-me-nots,’ I told him.
He smiled but his eyes were cold, like steel, even though they were brown. He didn’t blink, not once while he stared into my eyes. I could look down, I told myself, this will stop his staring. Why dare I not look away?
Next, he asked about music.
‘The musician, Smeaton, plays often in the Queen’s chamber?’
I told him the truth. That I had seen him once or twice playing or singing in the Queen’s apartments to entertain the Queen and her ladies.
‘The young musician is indeed very talented.’
‘My mistress sometimes finds his singing more than a little tedious,’ I said, to fill the silence. It was meant as a sort of joke but came out more as a criticism of my mistress and I hoped that Master Secretary would not tell Lady Shelton what I had said.
‘I imagine she does,’ Cromwell said. ‘Once he is in full flow, the boy does not know when to stop warbling.’ He rubbed his emerald ring. ‘The Queen likes to hear him sing, yes?’
I was unsure how Cromwell wanted me to answer this so I said nothing. He leaned forward, pushing his great hands on the green cloth so that it shifted and a paper fell to the floor. ‘I ask you again, Avis, does the Queen enjoy Smeaton’s singing?’
‘I believe many ladies enjoy his singing, I know I do, sire,’ I said.
‘He’s a pretty boy,’ Cromwell said. How strange to hear those words from a man like Cromwell. Girls talked like that about a boy. ‘Where, does he look, when he sings, this pretty boy? Does he look to the Queen while he sings his endless songs of love, these songs that wax Mistress Shelton weary?’
‘It is usual for the gentlemen to look towards a lady while they sing or read their poetry.’
‘Ah, poetry,’ Cromwell sighed, as if to imitate a lovesick bard. ‘Thomas Wyatt, there’s another one who, I dare say, bores your mistress to tedium with his lengthy verses, but not the Queen, I hear.’
He stared but I refused to answer. He left his seat, picked up the paper from the floor and came close to me.
‘There is nothing to fear, Avis,’ he said but he did not smile and his sharp, flinty tone told me that there was everything to fear although I knew not what.
‘Does she call for him when she cannot sleep?’ he snapped so sharply that I jumped and had to pull myself in quickly before my bladder let go.
‘Who, sire? Mistress Shelton?’
‘The Queen. When she cannot sleep, does she call for Smeaton in the night?’
‘How should I know?’ I stammered. ‘No, no, the Queen would not do that. She is always saying that she will not have unchaste behaviour in her apartments.’
He asked about Wyatt. ‘Everyone knows he is in love with the Queen,’ he said, matter of fact, as if it were unimportant. If everyone knows it, why ask me? I thought, and said nothing. What was there to say?
Master Secretary returned to his desk, leaned back in his chair and read his paper, the one he was writing after my mistress left his chamber. Behind him I spied a door in the corner that was ajar and I thought perhaps it was his garderobe. I wanted to ask him if I might use it while he read but I was embarrassed and he looked up before I had plucked up the courage.
‘The Queen’s brother visits her in her bedchamber?’
I shrugged my shoulders. What was wrong with that? ‘The archbishop has visited her when she is in bed,’ I said, ‘after her miscarriages. He stands behind a screen and says his prayers.’
‘And Sir Henry Norris and Sir William Brereton? Do they visit the Queen when she is abed? And what of Sir Richard Page?’
‘Who’s he?’
‘Leave him aside,’ he said almost to himself. ‘Norris and Brereton?’ he asked, ‘Why do they come so often into the Queen’s chambers?’
‘Sir Henry Norris is courting Mistress Shelton.’
‘Brereton isn’t. What does he do in the Queen’s apartments? He should be about his business in Wales.’
‘He talks. Queen Anne likes his wit. They banter together.’
I glanced desperately towards the door in the corner. Finally, I plucked up the courage to ask. ‘Please sire, give me leave to ...’
He ignored me. He left his desk again and this time he came so close I could smell his meaty dinner on his breath.
‘Sir Francis Weston is a handsome young man,’ he hissed into my ear, and my bladder burst all over my soft, court slippers and Master Secretary’s big square-toed shoes. He stared at the puddle.
‘There is a garderobe in the corner there. You should have begged leave,’ he said and the wet rushes squeaked when he stepped aside.
‘So, Weston?’
I was sobbing. What would my mistress say when I returned all wet and with my shoes spoiled, like a little child?
‘Weston?’ he repeated. ‘He is a handsome young man. He plays tennis, he plays music, he likes the ladies and the ladies like him too; you, Mistress Shelton, the Queen.’
‘I do not like him.’
The words gushed out of me amongst the tears and snot. I had to wipe my nose with my sleeve.
‘Ah, he has pulled up you
r skirts and you did not like it.’ He stroked the brown fur about his neck. ‘You wanted to save yourself for your rat boy.’
‘He did not have his way,’ I was quick to retort.
‘With you, no?’ He sounded surprised. ‘With your mistress and the Queen, maybe... but wait.’
He pushed aside some papers on his desk, grabbed my wrist with his big hand, the one with the emerald ring, and held my hand fast upon the black, gilded cover of his Bible. ‘Swear that Sir Francis Weston has not bedded Mistress Shelton or the Queen.’
He had caught me like a coney in a snare. If I did not swear, I would be giving away my mistress’s secrets, but he knew them already, he had more than hinted as much to me. I must swear, of course I knew that I must, because if I did not, I would accuse the Queen of adultery. She was only flirting, I wanted to tell Cromwell, just flirting to make the King jealous, and to flatter her vanity, nothing more. The Queen would never go so far; she is always talking to her maids about chastity. So, I would swear. I took a breath and saw Cromwell frown.
‘Would you lie to God, Avis,’ he said, keeping his gritty voice very low.
After he said that, all I could think was that if I lied to God I would not go to heaven and I would never see father again.
‘Sire, I cannot,’ I sobbed. He let go my hand and I ran to the door.
‘Your friend, the rat boy,’ he said, in a voice as dry and runny as sand. ‘I have sought him out. He is with Sir Nicholas Carew’s household but I imagine this you have discovered for yourself.’
Sir Nicholas Carew was no friend of the Boleyns. I had heard Lady Shelton say so.
I turned to see Cromwell still resting his hand upon his Bible.
‘Fear no more for your rat boy, Avis; he is no longer in danger,’ he said.
I wasn’t sure that I wanted Thomas for my friend anymore.
Chapter 32
Mayflowers for November Page 27
