The Deception of Consequences

by Barbara Gaskell Denvil

  The smell of fear crouched small and timid at her side. The stench now filled the chamber. Hatred, jealousy and spite flooded out the curiosity and the disbelief. Her own pride rose again. The queen turned, watching the stiff staring attendance of the jury. They had been carefully chosen, being royal officials or those who had served in government. They would each judge as ordered. She expected nothing else.

  Of the dates cited as those where the queen had blatantly seduced those named, several were days when in fact she had been recovering from the loss of a child whereas others, she believed were days of public duties. But she had been allowed no time to check such past dates, and was now given no opportunity for prolonged thought. Since she would assuredly be pronounced guilty, the verdict awaiting George was equally assured.

  The clouds closed in around her and the light went out.

  “Your verdict, sir?”

  Each juryman proclaimed her guilty. It was, naturally, a unanimous verdict.

  Anne sighed. She had expected no less.

  It was her uncle who then spoke, passing the sentence, that being found guilty of high treason, she would be either burned or beheaded at the king’s command.

  She asked only for time to prepare herself for death, and was escorted back to her apartments. The court remained, its next session beginning immediately as George, Lord Rochford was led in.

  Back in the royal bedchamber within the Langthorn Tower, the queen sat very still, twisting her fingers tightly in her lap and staring into the red glitter of coals in the brazier before her. It had been a mild day but the wind echoed down the long stone corridors, whistling around the battlements. Anne shivered and could not stop. The coals spat. Anne winced. She said nothing, since now none of her attendants were her friends. There was only the hope of sleep, which would be a small escape from the inescapable.

  She was, she knew, guilty of just one thing, and that had been confidence. She had believed herself capable of handling the love and lust of the greatest and most untrustworthy man in the country.

  Henry was, she now knew, more dangerous than she had supposed, and even more bitterly hate-filled than she could ever have imagined. She closed her eyes, hearing only the thin whine of the wind rattling at her window.

  Whether it was the king’s arrogance, or instead the vulnerability of being unworthy of the task thus requiring the arrogance to prove himself, she could not know. And now it no longer mattered.

  His voice echoed within the back of her mind. “My sweetest love, will you come to me? Wear my locket, sweetheart, to show me that you care. Allow me to kiss your precious cheek.” She remembered his hesitant fingers when he longed to caress her. And she remembered her own toss of the head when she had denied him. “I am no whore, sire. I am true to the scriptures. I can lie in bed only with my husband.” “Your future husband, sweetest. For I have promised marriage.” “But Queen Catherine stands in our way.” “Not for long, my love. I swear it. I want only you.”

  Anne, eyes firmly shut, tried to clock the whispers of memory. But she could not help wondering if Henry now said these same words to Jane Seymour.

  As night darkened, across the city on Holborn Hill, a tawny owl was preening feathers, preparing for the hunt. At the foot of the old oak tree, a man stood in a black velvet bedrobe, its laces tied tight against the wind. Above them both the stars were a stream of creamy dazzle spread across a rich black, as if spilled milk had been swept through the sky by the wind.

  “Cruelty,” said the man softly, “is a curious business. I cannot be sure whether it is inspired by some extra motivation, which the rest of humanity does not have. Or whether it is caused by the lack of something which the rest of us do indeed contain.”

  The owl’s huge round eyes glinted golden in the starlight. But it was another voice which answered, as the woman slipped her arms around the man’s waist from behind.

  “It is a lack of decency,” Jemima murmured. “Most people care. We do not wish to terrorise or hurt others, even those we dislike.”

  Richard took both her hands in his, warming them as she rested her cheek against his back. “He accuses her of carnal lust. An arrow, misdirected, since his own carnal lust was directed at her for some years. She denied him. When she finally accepted him, he discovered her lacking in a lust to match his own.” Leaning Jemima back against the tree trunk, Richard smiled through the shadows, leaned forwards and kissed her forehead. “Instead Anne made him feel a fool. More intelligent, more knowledgeable, more astute, less lustful. The charges against her now, are a lesson and a message. A cruel message.”

  Jemima slipped her arms back around Richard’s waist, her fingertips soft into the thick velvet of his bedrobe. “But if the king hates to be crossed or refused, why did he want a woman who refused him so long?”

  “The reaction of a man who will not be denied, is to persist until he wins.”

  “And then, once he wins, is left resentful and angry. Because he finds whatever he’s finally won, doesn’t compare to the effort involved.”

  “Cruelty,” said Richard, kissing her again, “is not a lack. It is a red hot weight of revenge and the expression of power in the face of imagined defeat.”

  She leaned her head on his shoulder. “I feel so sorry for the queen. But must we talk about the king? You know them both. But I don’t. And I hope I never will.”

  “Many men are cruel. Many women are cruel.” Richard lifted her chin, gazing down into her eyes. “And fate can be cruel too. But this time the fates were kind. I’d never have known you, never even met you, my love, if not for the cruelty of one man who murdered and hid his crimes in the attic of your home.”

  Jemima looked down again, avoiding Richard’s eyes. “Do you think,” she asked, half in whisper, “that it might have been my father who did it? I was thinking about it when I was with him today.” She clutched a little tighter at Richard’s warmth through the velvet. “And now, talking of cruelty, I mean, Papa seemed like such a courageous man. I used to think he was a hero. But seeing him now, with all those silly, unhappy women, and him all smiles and thinking himself grand and handsome when all he really did was steal a lot of money and pretend he was dead. To save himself he left me distraught and in terrible poverty. And all those poor women trying to prove he was a brave and wonderful man who would never hurt anyone. But he hurt all of us. He was cruel too.”

  “You think your father guilty?” Richard shook his head. “I have long believed it was my own father. Before abandoning the quest for the murderer, I had a list of three suspects, and my father was one. What loyal children we are, my love.”

  “What dreadful fathers we must have.”

  “I see little reason for your father to have killed. It seems all the women adored him.”

  Jemima blinked, and nodded. “Alright. Perhaps. Was your Papa the same?”

  “No. Not in the slightest.” Richard paused, looking up into the darkness above and the star shine through the bluster of breeze blown leaves. “Such comparisons are useless, and all conjecture is pointless. My father is long dead, and I doubt we will ever know the answer. He was a cruel man, although unlike the king. His cruelty was cold, and almost distant. But he had mistresses, hiding them from my mother not because he cared for her, or for them, but for his own pride and status. I believe him capable of murder.”

  “I’m so sorry. It must have been a sad childhood.”

  Jemima still clung to him, and he looked back down at her. “I was taught many things beyond the efforts of my tutor. My father taught me more than he ever intended.”

  The interruption was sudden, with the spread of wings above them and the brush of feathers against the oak leaf. But Socrates’ flight was utterly silent, as both Richard and Jemima gazed up and blinked as the shadow crossed the moon’s reflection, and was gone.

  “It appears that Socrates has heard enough,” said Richard softly. “No doubt I have bored him.” He smiled at Jemima, pulling her closer. “I have probably bored you t
oo, my love. But whilst I am unclothed beneath this bedrobe, sadly you are fully dressed. I can only imagine, which I do frequently, the shape and the warmth of your body beneath the gown.” His palms traced the curve of her breasts, slipping slowly down her body and around again to the back of her waist. “And so it would seem the perfect time to talk a little less, and achieve a little more. My bedchamber, I believe, is ready warmed, the brick already removed from between the sheets, and a small fire set on the hearth. A candle will be lit, awaiting us. Will you come?”

  “I do. I will. I want to.” Jemima grinned into the shadows.

  “Do I sound a little like your so-desirable Papa, I wonder,” Richard grinned back. “I cannot pretend ever to have been as popular as it seems he is, even to the women he rejects.”

  “He’s a rascal. Some women love a rascal. He makes them laugh, and teases them, and calls outrageous invitations through keyholes and stairwells. He makes life seem exciting, when of course it isn’t really.” Jemima took the hand he held out to her as he led her back towards the house. “He finds his own excitement. But the women are soon left behind.”

  “One skill my father did not teach me,” Richard told her, “was how to laugh. I fear you will find life as dull as I have myself, in the tedium of my past. It is you, my sweet, who brings excitement into my life.”

  Jemima hurried to keep up over the damp grass. “But I don’t believe Papa ever lived up to his promises.”

  Richard stopped suddenly, turned and took Jemima into his embrace. “I intend to promise many things, my beloved. And I swear, I shall keep every one.”

  Chapter Forty-Five

  “I’m back to Dover, my lovelies,” Edward Thripp declared, marching the width of the large solar, and grinning at his audience. “There is even greater treasure waiting for me there, and well hidden, ready for me to rediscover.”

  The eighteenth day of May, and the sun was shining. The solar was bathed in sunshine and the six women draped around the room, spread on chairs and settles, were dressed in the floating drifts of chiffon and silk, carefully leaving sufficient skin in bare evidence, their loose hair and carefully polished calves warmed in a golden sheen.

  Elisabeth sighed. “We are so comfortable now, my darling man. Could we not settle down a little, and enjoy that comfort before you go off travelling again?”

  Edward winked. “I’ll give you plenty of comfort as the days go on, my sweet,” he told her, but shook his head. “It’s the sea, you know my dear. I shall never give up those rolling dark waves. It’s a music far more haunting than any lute, with the crash of storm and the lullaby of sweet briney weather. A horizon barely visible between sky and ocean. The listing decks, the shudder of timbers as the wind catches the sails. It’s a thrill beyond most other things. Travels from your toes right up into the groin. Well, well, surely you know what I mean, m’dears. There’s no likelihood of me giving up the oceans till I’m nigh into my eighties.”

  “Pirates,” muttered Ruth, “rarely live into the fifties.”

  Alba, naked toes in a soft pink wriggle beneath her white gossamer bedrobe, smiled. “A rich and fascinating man indeed, my love. I am sure you will know just how to enjoy it.”

  “And share it,” added Ruth, pursing her rouged lips.

  In sun bursting contrast to Alba’s swan-white, Edward was stocky in scarlet, peacock greens and a flood of gold braid. He wore no sword but his baldric was embroidered in wilting crimson with a fringe of cascading unravelled thread. His boots gleamed with a crust of uncleaned sea-salt. Pushing back the uncombed tousle of hair from his forehead, he beamed at his attentive audience. The only woman who did not stare back with adoration, was Jemima, who stood quietly just inside the doorway. She was frowning. Edward did not appear to notice.

  Ysabel’s breast peeped from her floating silks, a soft nipple in candy pink reflecting the sunlight through the window. Philippa’s knees were uncovered in dimpled rose. Penelope stretched out her arms, yawning.

  The aroma of spice and lavender grew and waned as Edward moved. “My little dove’s gentleman friend, dear Richard Wolfdon, has given me the best news I’ve had this year,” he informed them all. “Now I know that greedy brute Staines is safe tucked away in the Tower, and likely to stay there until executed for high treason. Out of my way forever, and no chance of his reappearance to try and grab any of my hard-fought gold.”

  Jemima was still frowning. “Papa, he loaned you the money in the first place. You never payed him back.”

  “Wretched man offered an improper cargo, and paid me to break the law.” Edward glared at her, but the glare broke into a grin. “As if I had any intention of doing such dreadful things. Weapons to our enemies. Bribes for the Pope’s cause. As if I care for Roman Catholics and fanatics.”

  “And so, my precious love,” Elisabeth giggled, “there’s no more need for you to pretend to be dead.”

  “I am vibrantly alive,” Edward spread his arms and the scent of sweat and lavender swelled. “I swear I’ve never been more living. With Staines locked up and Babbington dead, I’m free to travel to Dover myself, claim what’s mine, and smile at the world again.”

  “Papa,” Jemima murmured, “I hope you remember how much Richard has helped in everything. But also remember, we’re going away. He wants to be as far away from the king and court as possible. And his estate in Wiltshire is the most beautiful place I’ve ever seen. I’m sure it’s more glorious than any palace.”

  “Not caring for kings nor palaces,” Edward assured her, “I wish you happiness, my little dove. But I wish myself happiness too, and my pretty birds here, every one of them. So to the devil with Babbington and Staines, and to Hell with the morals of a lost cause and to anyone who wants me to lose the riches I’ve earned.”

  Jemima looked from her father’s glowing self-satisfaction and around to the complacent contentment of the women spread part-dressed around the room. She said, “All of them, Papa?”

  “But of course, my love.” He stretched his beribboned back, grinning around at his attentive audience. “Do I ever fail in gratitude? Do I ever miss the chance to thank those who help me? Young Richard, now. I could not have found a better husband for you had I negotiated the terms and arranged it all myself.” He hesitated, seeing Jemima’s expression, and smiled again. “Well, well, alright. I could not ever have managed such a thing nor even considered it. But let us be kind. Richard is a blessing for us all. A gentleman of means and influence.”

  “Considerable wealth,” mumbled Elisabeth, “but means to escape court and settle down. Wed and worthy. He and our dear Jemima will be respectable and resilient.”

  “Humph,” said Edward. “Those as have no sense of adventure – well – let us say no more. Jemima, my precious, no doubt you’ll be as happy as a bumble bee in a primrose.”

  A circle of beaming faces nodded from their sun kissed corners. But Alba said, “My own sweet Edward, have I ever troubled you to stay at my side and give up sailing and trading? No indeed, I have always encouraged my dearest master to do as he wishes.”

  “You,” Ruth pointed out, “had the advantage of a pleasant home and a living allowance.”

  Jemima once again turned to her father, “Papa, will you settle all these adoring mistresses in their own homes now you can afford it? Or share this house with all six?”

  The concentrated focus of every face increased. Edward paused. Then he cleared his throat. “As it happens,” he said with some care, “this was something I had rather intended to discuss later. Well, now’s a time as good as any. So yes, yes. Indeed I shall endow each of you gorgeous darlings with a little cottage somewhere. Not in the Strand, you understand. Hammersmith, perhaps, A village nearby or somewhere beyond the Tower.”

  Penelope stared. “In the filth and stench of the tanneries?”

  “Well, no, not exactly. Nice little homes with an upstairs and a downstairs and space for a fire and a trivet and room to hang a cooking pot. Even a window, if that can be arranged. A
respectable home in a respectable quarter.” He turned, smiling into the shocked silence. “Except for my little Elisabeth. My pretty raven will stay here, with me.”

  Alba blinked, appearing confused. She said, half hiccup, “And me, my dear. You have not said it, but I must assume it. I shall, of course, retain my own bedchamber here on the upper level?”

  He breathed deeply and said in a rush, “Afraid not, m’dear. Every intention of being faithful to my black haired raven, you see. But will supply, send coin, visit on occasion, and open to invitations on special occasions. Christmas season. Saint’s Days. Easter. Will certainly keep an open door.”

  “Although,” added Elisabeth with a dimple of satisfaction, “the door will usually be kept firmly closed. My dearest and I have discussed this. We are now a pair. Not a stable of mistresses.”

  It was in graceful but awful silence that Alba stood, pulling the ties of gossamer tightly around her waist. Without speaking, she walked from the solar. Closed the door quietly behind her, and pattered, footsteps a soft echo, up the main staircase.

  “She has very little to pack and take with her,” said Jemima. “Will she leave immediately? If so, I must say something. I must try and help her.” She was already standing and frowning, then hurried to the door. “I always thought of her as my mother, you see. She cradled me as a young child. She was kind to me.”

  Ruth said, “An arrogant and foolish woman, in fact.”

  “A kind one.” Jemima followed Alba from the room.

  Her foot was on the lower step when she heard the crash and the first yell from below. “Bastard. You throw me from your home a second time?”