King's Confidante

by Виктория Холт

  Mercy closed her eyes and prayed for guidance and, as if by some miracle, the door opened and there, seeming strong and all-powerful, was Dr. John Clement.

  “John!” she cried in delight. “You … here?”

  “Indeed yes, Mercy. The girls told me where you were, and I came to see if I could help.”

  “Thank God!” she said. “It is the answer to a prayer.”

  “And the patient?”

  He knelt in the rushes and looked into the sick man's face.

  “This place …” said Mercy, and John nodded. “If I could get him to the hospital,” she went on, “care for him there … I believe I could nurse him back to health.”

  John was silent for a while. Then he said: “I rode here. I tied my horse to a stake by the cottage. We could put him on the horse and get him to the hospital.”

  “Through the snow?”

  John's answer was to look round the room, at the foul rushes and the earthen walls, damp and noisome.

  “He cannot live if he stays here.”

  “Can he live if he is taken out into the cold?”

  “In a case like this, we have to take a chance.”

  “You would take this chance, then, John?”

  “I would. Would you?”

  “Yes,” she said. “I would do as you would.”

  Happiness came in strange places at strange times. The snow was blowing in Mercy's face; she was wet and numb with cold, yet warm with pleasure.

  She had rarely been so happy in her life as she was when she was walking through the snow with John Clement, the sick man, whom they held on John's horse, between them, while the pale-faced boy led the horse.

  * * *

  THERE WAS a double wedding that summer.

  The marriages of Elizabeth with William Dauncey and Cecily with Giles Heron were to be celebrated in the private chapel attached to one of the mansions belonging to the Allington family.

  Ailie—now Lady Allington—was delighted to have her family with her for this occasion.

  Ailie was a happy person. Her husband adored her; she had a child now, but that fact had changed her little; she was still the gay and fascinating Ailie.

  With great pleasure she showed her mother the kitchens of the house. They were older than those of Chelsea and far more grand.

  Alice sniffed her disapproval of this and that, trying hard to find fault while she congratulated herself that it was her daughter who had made the best match of all.

  “Look, Mother. Have you seen these ceilings? Giles is most proud of them. You see how cleverly they are painted. You'll find nothing like that in modern houses. Look at these painted cloths. They all represent scenes of some battles. Do not ask me which, I beg of you, for I do not know. In the great hall we have Flemish tapestry, which is every bit as fine as that which my Lord Cardinal has in Tittenhanger or Hampton Court.”

  “Tilly valley!” said Alice. “What happens in the kitchen is of more importance than painted hangings or Flemish tapestry, I tell you. That has to be tested yet.”

  Ailie kissed her mother; she loved to tease… to tease them all, her half-sisters, her stepfather, her mother and her husband. And it was very pleasant to have them all with her again.

  Margaret spoke to her of William Dauncey. “Elizabeth loves him, but does he love Elizabeth? Or is he thinking solely of what Father can do for him?”

  “Well,” said Ailie, confident in her own charms, “if he does not love her, then it is for her to make him do so. And if he will not…”

  Ailie shrugged her shoulders, but, glancing at Margaret, decided not to finish what she had begun to say. Instead, she added: “Why, they'll be happy enough, I doubt not. Master Dauncey is a young man who will go far and, believe me, my dear Margaret, it is by no means unpleasant to be the wife of a rising star.”

  “Is that so, then?” said Margaret. “I know what it is to be the daughter of one; and I would rather Father were less favorably looked upon at Court, so that his family might look upon him the more often.”

  “Father! Oh, Father is no ordinary man. Father is a saint!”

  Then Ailie left her sister; she was a busy hostess, and there was much to which she must attend, for her mansion at Willesden was filled with the most distinguished guests.

  Her glance had gone to my Lord of Norfolk, recently the Earl of Surrey, who had succeeded to the title on the death of his father a year or so before.

  Ailie curtsied before him and told him how honored she was to see him at her house. Strange man! He was scarcely conscious of Ailie's charm. He looked grim, as though he had never given a thought to anything but matters of state. It was difficult to believe that his wife was giving him a lively time on account of her laundress, Bess Holland, for whom this grim man had a passion which he could not resist.

  Norfolk was aloof, believing that he greatly honored the Allington's by attending at their house, being conscious that he was a great nobleman, head of one of the highest families in the land, and—although he dared not say this to any—he could not help reminding himself that the Howards of Norfolk were as royal as the Tudors. The recent death of his father-in-law, Buckingham, was a terrible warning to him, a reminder that he must keep such thoughts to himself, but that did not prevent his private enjoyment of them.

  No; he would not be here this day but for his friendship with Sir Thomas More. There had occurred in the July of this year an incident which had startled all men who stood near the throne, and had set them pondering.

  The King had said to the Cardinal one day when they were in the grounds of that extravagant and most luxurious of country houses, Hampton Court: “Should a subject be so rich as to possess such a house?” And the Cardinal, that clever, most shrewd of statesmen, whose quick wits had lifted him from obscurity to a place in the sun, had thrown away the riches of Hampton Court in his answer: “A subject could only be justified in owning such a place, Sire, that he might give it to his King.”

  No more could people sing “Which Court? The King's Court or Hampton Court?” For now Hampton Court was the King's Court in very truth.

  Something was happening between the King and the Cardinal; it was something which put a belligerent light in the King's eyes, and a fearful one in those of the Cardinal.

  Norfolk, that ambitious man, that cold, hard schemer—soft only to Bessie Holland—believed that the favor so long enjoyed by the Cardinal was less bright than of yore. This delighted Norfolk, for he hated Wolsey. His father had instilled in him that hatred; it was not only brought about by envy of the favor Wolsey enjoyed; it was not only the resentment a nobleman might feel for an upstart from a humble stratum of society; it was because of the part this Duke's father had been forced to play in the trial of his friend, Buckingham. Buckingham, that nobleman and kinsman of the Howards, had been condemned to death because he had not shown enough respect to one whom Norfolk's father had called “A butchers cur.” And one of Buckingham's judges had been the old Duke of Norfolk who, with tears in his eyes, had condemned him to death, because he had known that had he done otherwise he would have lost his own head. This would never be forgiven. However long the waiting must be, Wolsey must suffer, not only for the execution of Buckingham, but for the fact that he had forced Norfolk to condemn his friend and kinsman.

  But, besides being a vengeful man, the Duke of Norfolk was an ambitious one. He did not lose sight of the fact that when Wolsey fell from grace there would be only one other clever enough to take his place. It would be well to be on terms of friendship with that man. Not that that in itself presented a hardship. If anyone, besides Bess Holland, could soften the heart of this hard man, it was Thomas More. I like him, thought Norfolk, puzzled by his own feelings. I really like him … for the man he is, not only for the greatness which may very well be his.

  So it was that Norfolk wished to be Mores friend. It was a strange matter—as strange as such a proud man's love for a humble laundress.

  Thus was the Duke of Norfolk attending th
e double wedding of the daughters of a mere knight and the sons of two more mere knights.

  Thomas was now approaching him. None would think, to look at him, that he was a brilliant scholar of world fame, and on the way to becoming one of the most important statesmen in the kingdom. He was more simply dressed than any man present, and it was clear to see that he thought little about his clothes. He walked with one shoulder higher than the other—an absurd habit, thought Norfolk, for it gave him an appearance of deformity.

  But now Thomas stood before him, and Norfolk felt that strange mixture of tenderness and exasperation.

  “I have never seen you so gay, Sir Thomas.”

  “I am a lucky man, my lord. My two daughters are marrying this day, and instead of losing them I am to gain two sons. They will live with me—these two new sons—when they are not at Court, in my house in Chelsea. All my own daughters are married now, and I have lost not one of them. Do you not think that is a matter for rejoicing, my lord?”

  “Much depends on whether you can live in amity with this large family of yours.”

  Norfolk's eyes were narrowed; he was remembering his own stormy family life with its recriminations and quarrels.

  “We live in amity at Chelsea. You should come to see us one day my lord, when your barge takes you that way.”

  “I will… I will. I have heard of your household. It is said: ‘Vis nunquam tristis esse? Recte vive!’ Is that how you achieve your happiness, Master More?”

  “Perhaps we strive to live rightly in Chelsea. That may be why we are such a happy family.”

  Norfolk's eyes were brooding. He changed the subject abruptly. “There is something brewing at the Court.”

  “My lord?”

  “The King has created his bastard Fitzroy, Duke of Richmond and Somerset.”

  “He loves the boy.”

  “But such great titles … for a bastard! Might it not be that His Grace feels he may never have a legitimate son?”

  “The Queen has been many times disappointed; poor lady, she feels this sorely.”

  Norfolk came close and whispered: “And will feel it more sorely still, I doubt not.”

  They went together to the great table on which was laid out a feast so magnificent that it was said it might have graced the tables of the King or the Cardinal.

  There was beef, mutton, pork; there was roasted boar and many kinds of fish, with venison and pies of all sorts. There was even turkey—that newest of delicacies imported into the country for the first time that year.

  There was drink of all sorts—wine, red and white; malmsey, muscatel and romney; there was metheglin and mead.

  And while the company feasted, minstrels played merry tunes in the gallery.

  It was after the banquet and during the ball that followed it, that Mercy, standing aside to watch the dancers, found Dr. Clement beside her.

  “Well, Mercy,” he said, “this is a merry day indeed. And right glad you must be that, although your sisters are marrying, like Margaret, they are not leaving the family roof.”

  “That is indeed a blessing. I think it would have broken Father's heart if any of them had wanted to leave home. It was bad enough when Ailie went.”

  “How would he feel if you went, Mercy?”

  “D” She blushed. “Oh … as he did when Ailie went, I suppose.

  She is a stepdaughter; I am a foster daughter. He is so good that he will have us believe that he loves us all as his own.”

  “I think he would be unhappy if you left, Mercy. But… why should you leave? You could stay there … with your hospital, and I should be at Court…. Like your father, I should seize every opportunity to be with you.”

  She dared not look at him. She did not believe that she had heard him correctly. There could not be all that happiness in the world. Surely she could not have her beloved father, her family, her hospital an I John Clement!

  He was close to her, slipping his arm through hers.

  “What say you, Mercy? What say you?”

  “John…”

  “You seem surprised. Did you not then know that I love you? Have I presumed too much in letting myself believe that you love me too?”

  “Oh John,” she said, “do you mean… do you really mean … that you love me?”

  “When you say you, you say it as though I were the King; and when you say me, you say it as though you were the humblest serving girl. Why, Mercy, you are clever; you are good, and I love you. I beg of you, cast aside your humility and tell me you will marry me.”

  “I am so happy,” she said, “that I cannot find the words.”

  “Then there must soon be another marriage in this family.”

  What a happy day that was! Thomas smiled at each member of his family in turn. Would he rather have had the celebrations in his own home? Not when he looked at the proud smiles of Alice and her daughter. And as for Elizabeth and Cecily, they would have been equally happy wherever the ceremony had taken place.

  It was not the banquet with its turkeys, the rich apartments with their painted hangings nor the distinguished guests that were important; it was the blissful happiness of each member of his family. And here was Mercy, as happy as any of them, and John Clement beside her, which could mean only one thing.

  The merriment continued. There were morris dancers with bells on their legs; there were riders on hobby horses and there was the more stately dancing of the guests. Ailie was anxious to show that her attendance at Court had not been wasted, and the entertainment she could give her friends—if less luxurious than that given at the King's Court—was such to which the King himself could have come and found pleasure.

  And later, Ailie, in her own chamber, surrounded by her sisters, who had gone thither to rest awhile, allowed them to examine her dress, which was of blue velvet and made in the very latest fashion. The velvet overdress was cut away to show a petticoat of pale pink satin; the lacing across the bodice was of gold-colored ribbons.

  Before them all Ailie turned and twisted.

  “You like it, then? It is the very latest fashion, I do assure you. It is cut in the French manner. Do you like my shoes?” She extended a dainty foot for them to see. “Look at the silver star on them. That is most fashionable. And you should all be wearing bands of velvet or gold about your necks. That is the very latest fashion. And see the sleeves! They fall over the hands. They are graceful, are they not?”

  “Graceful?” said Elizabeth. “But are they comfortable? It would seem to me that they might get in the way.”

  “Mistress Dauncey,” cried Ailie, looking severely at her half-sister, “do we wear our clothes to be comfortable? And what matters it if the sleeves, as you say, get in the way? They are graceful, and it is the only way a sleeve should hang.”

  “I care not,” said Elizabeth, “whether it is the latest thing from France or not. I should find it most uncomfortable.”

  Ailie was conspiratorial. “You know who started this fashion, do you not? But of course you do not. How could you? It was one of the maids of honor. It seems that she decides what we shall and what we shall not wear.”

  “Then more fool you,” said Cecily, “to let one woman decide what you should and should not wear.”

  “Let her decide! We can do no other. She wears this sleeve because of a deformity on one of her fingers. Then it must seem that all other sleeves are ugly. She has a wart on her neck … a birthmark, some say; so she wears a band about it; and all see that such bands are so becoming that any without are quite unfashionable. She is lately come from France, and she is Anne… the daughter of Sir Thomas Boleyn. She is Mary's sister; and all the men admire her, and all the women are envious, for when she is there, though she may have an ugly finger and a wen on her neck, it seems that everyone else appears plain and insignificant.”

  Margaret interrupted with a laugh: “Oh, have done, Ailie! Have done with your frivolous maids of honor. Have done with your Frenchified Anne Boleyn, and let us talk of something that really
matters.”

  5

  THERE WERE SEVERAL CHILDREN IN THE HOUSE NOW. Margaret had a little girl, and Cecily and Elizabeth both had babies. If Elizabeth had not found complete happiness in her marriage, she had great hopes of finding it in her children.

  In the streets the people were singing:

  “Turkeys, carps, bops, pippins and beer

  Came into England all in one year.”

  And that year was the one of the great frost and the marriages of Elizabeth and Cecily.

  Margaret thought of that year and the year that followed it as the happy years. So much seemed to happen in the family circle that they were all blinded to what was happening outside … all except Thomas.

  There were times when, with his family about him, Margaret would notice that he stared beyond them with a strangely remote look on his face. It might be that they were in the orchards gathering the fruit, or sitting at table, talking, laughing together.

  Once she slipped her arm through his and whispered: “Father, of what do you think?”

  His answer was: “Of all this, Meg, of this family of mine … this perfect contentment. On the day I die—no matter how I die—I shall remember this moment and say that my life brought me much joy.”

  Then their eyes had met, and for a moment there was understanding between them as there never was between him and any other.

  “Father,” she had cried out in panic, “I like it not when you talk of death. You frighten me.”

  “Fear not, Meg,” he had answered, “for who knows when death will come? Rejoice, Meg, in that uncertainty. You would be weeping if you knew I had a month to live. You were laughing a moment ago, though I might not have a day.”

  “Father, I long for the time when you will leave the Court.”

  Then he had smiled his sweet smile and had said: “Let us be happy in this moment, Meg. Is it not as happy a moment as any could ask?”

  There was so much to think about, so much to talk about during those two years. One child was having difficulty with her teeth; another cried too much; another had too many colds. These were such important matters. How could they stop for a moment to consider what was happening in the Courts of Europe? The King of France had been taken prisoner at Pavia and carried to Madrid; Cardinal Wolsey's foreign policy was less successful than it had previously been. There was a certain subject about which there was much whispering in Court circles, and it was known as the King's Secret Matter.