by Deryn Lake
And it had come about just as Zachary had said. In almost exactly ten years from that night he had achieved the position of a Court favourite and it would bring a smile to Norfolk’s lips when he heard his bastard described as the greatest astrologer living.
Da Trevizi, watching Dr Zachary’s face, thought that perhaps he had gone into a trance but out of the gloom the sorcerer spoke. ‘No, you are not bewitched, my friend. Tell me the date, place and time of your birth and I will chart your life for you by the stars. It will take me many days, but it shall be done.’
Da Trevizi was seized with a strange idea.
‘Is it Sutton Place that is accursed?’
Dr Zachary hesitated.
‘Perhaps,’ he said.
5
In the silence of a summer evening, the rhythmic sound of oars pulling at a pace neither leisurely nor yet anxiously hurried, mingled with the cry of a heron, and in the garden of the Westons’ Chelsea home — which sloped gently down to the river — both Sir Richard and his wife moved very slightly, while Francis and Catherine shot a surreptitious glance at their sister Margaret.
It was a night made for lovers. The softness of the sunset throwing a beautifying light on the earth; the scent of flowers seducing the warm breeze; the rippling river turning to scarlet and gold as the boat bearing Sir William Dennys of Gloucester, his wife and son, came round the bend in the river and eased into the mooring alongside Sir Richard’s barge.
In the dew covered grass the Westons’ feet were silent as they walked forward to the jetty.
Margaret thought, ‘I cannot show my face for I am not as pretty as Catherine and Francis and he is bound to be handsome. I wish I could fall into the river and drown or become a nun or simply remain at home.’
And so it was standing thus, slightly breathless and quite definitely flushed with anxiety, she found herself face to face with Walter Dennys, the young man it was most earnestly hoped by her parents she would marry.
‘Oh dear!’ she said.
His only response was a strangled sound from somewhere deep within his throat. This so startled Margaret, who had sunk into a curtsey, that she looked up and saw to her amazement that the lanky young man in front of her was crimson with embarrassment and was bowing again and again, as if he could not stop.
Somewhere behind her she heard Francis give a muffled laugh and this made the situation worse. For Walter Dennys heard it too and blushed even more deeply so that Margaret, standing up, felt obliged to give her brother a kick on the ankle.
Naturally the noise caught the attention of both sets of parents and Margaret found herself the subject of a withering look from Lady Dennys.
‘Walter,’ she called sharply and Margaret saw him stiffen.
‘Y-y-yes, Mother?’
‘What are you doing?’
‘N-n-nothing, Mother.’
And much to her own surprise it was Margaret who spared him further agony by walking up to Lady Dennys, giving a most respectful curtsey, and saying, ‘Forgive me, I accidentally kicked my brother, Madam.’
Lady Dennys sniffed and Walter bowed again and this time he smiled and she noticed that his eyes, which were a most pleasant shade of green, crinkled at the corners when he did so.
And that night, as Margaret’s maid was brushing her hair before retiring, Lady Weston came to her. Dismissing the servant, she tucked her daughter into bed herself and then sat down.
‘Well, my child,’ she said, ‘what do you think of him?’
‘I think,’ answered Margaret quietly, ‘that he will be perfectly all right when he comes from beneath his mother’s thumb.’
‘You are quite correct of course,’ Anne said. ‘Because she is Lord Berkeley’s daughter the woman considers herself high ranking and it is my opinion that she has worried that boy into a state of over-stretched nerves.’
They kissed each other goodnight.
In the bedrooms set aside for guests a similar scene was being enacted. Sir William Dennys was sitting on his son’s bed and saying, ‘She’s a sweet-natured girl, Walter. If you weren’t so wretchedly nervous.’
‘I know, but I can’t help it.’
It was typical of the whole situation that Walter never stuttered when talking alone with his father.
‘Well, must she be wooed. Now go to it, boy. Go to it.’
‘But Father, how?’
Sir William twitched his shoulders irritably and went out muttering.
The answer, when it came, was so delightfully simple, that neither Margaret nor Walter could have guessed at it nor imagined the hours of infinite happiness that it would give them in the future. Up early, unable to sleep, and dejectedly wondering how a dullard like himself could set about pleasing such a kind and pretty girl as Margaret Weston, Walter almost fell over her, kneeling tending the herbs in the garden specially made for that purpose.
‘E-e-excuse me,’ he said, blushing miserably. ‘I didn’t s-s-see you.’
‘I shouldn’t really be here, this is gardener’s work. But I love it so much.’
Forgetting that he was betrothed to her she went on, ‘If ever I have a house of my own I want to design and plan a great garden all round it. Shady walks with willows and open walks planted with wild thyme and watermint. And of course, a maze. And a rose garden and a lake big enough to row upon between the shrubs.’
He squatted down beside her, his elbows resting on his knees and his big hands hanging relaxed.
‘But this is my very hobby,’ he said excitedly. ‘When I ... I mean i-i-if you are so good as to marry me, I am to have a h-home of my own and it is my w-w-wish to have the most beautiful garden in England.’
‘With fountains?’
‘Aye. And more than one labyrinth. And topiary. And I shall wish to oversee all.’
‘If we marry may I work alongside you?’
‘Oh, Margaret, w-would you really d-do so?’
Her eyes were bright.
‘I would like nothing better in the world.’
By the end of the week all was arranged. The wedding would take place in the autumn after the Westons had moved into Sutton Place; Sir Richard’s dowry for his daughter would be generous and in return Sir William guaranteed Margaret a liberal jointure, including property, in the event of Walter’s death. These important matters were negotiated by the fathers while Lady Weston was left with the more difficult task of trying to entertain the unbending Lady Dennys.
But in the knot garden, quite uncaring, their heads bent together, Walter and Margaret sat on the stone seat in the sunshine and his great hands — so delicate as they drew — sketched while she talked. And drawing after drawing of the garden they would make at Haseley Court in Oxfordshire emerged.
Her laughs of happiness and the shower of rose petals she threw at him set the seal on their future relationship and guaranteed for posterity one of the most exquisite gardens ever to be created.
*
Anne Weston knew that Richard was angry by the way he set his feet down loudly as soon as he was through the front door. The clumping as he came up the stairs and towards the room where she and Joan were putting valuables into chests, in preparation for the move to Sutton Place, confirmed her suspicions. Joan mouthed ‘Oh’ and Anne responded by rolling her eyes to heaven and sighing. She had no time for moods, with the move only a week away. But nonetheless Richard, after his terrible disappointment over the June investiture, could not have had an easy time at his interview with Cardinal Wolsey. She composed her features into an interested smile but her mind was wondering where she had packed a set of silver spoons that had been given to her by Elizabeth of York.
As he came in he slumped into a chair and shouted at Joan to pull off his boots.
‘The Cardinal was difficult I take it?’
‘No,’ answered Richard surprisingly. ‘No, he was not difficult. In fact I think he thought he was doing me a great service.’
‘Then why so gloomy?’
‘Anne, he has given
me the Treasurership of Calais.’
‘Oh, dear God, no.’
She sat down as abruptly as he had done.
The French town and its surrounding land still belonged to England, just as did the Channel Isles, and to become its Treasurer was honour indeed — but now, at this time, with Sutton Place just completed! Sir Richard had built his mansion only to be denied the privilege of living in it. Anne could have wept.
‘When do you go?’
‘In two months — when we have settled into Sutton Place.’
‘Settled in,’ said Anne bitterly. ‘You’ll no sooner be settled in than settled out again.’
‘But I shall return every month.’
‘Small consolation.’
‘Sweetheart, you could came with me.’
‘And leave the running of Sutton Place to servants? Richard, you know that could never be.’
But on their first night in their new home their minds were taken off the problem of Calais by the reappearance, after four years, of Giles of Guildford, the strolling player. He came through the Gate House arch with the same plodding gait, his back laden with his entire worldly goods. Sir Richard, in highly benevolent mood, sent him to eat with the kitchen lads and invited him to entertain them that evening after supper.
So, after the family had dined in the Great Hall — Richard sitting in the master’s chair at the high table, happier than he had ever been before as he enjoyed the satisfaction of possessing and living in Sutton Place — they retired to the Long Gallery. Here Anne had had every candle lit and all four fires lit to welcome the Lord of the Manor on his first evening in his new home with his household.
Giles had an audience ready to be pleased as he leaped in with a great jump and traversed the Gallery’s considerable length with a series of cartwheels and somersaults that surprised even himself. Then, his belled cap ringing, the little head on the end of his jester’s stick grinning in a humorous copy of Giles’s own face, he burst into song. In a loud but tuneful voice the sound of ‘Pastime in Good Company’ — the words and music written by the King himself — echoed down the huge space. Then followed jokes and finally another song and display of acrobatic skills.
Exhausted, he knelt before his patron, the sweat streaming off him.
‘Well done, Giles.’
Sir Richard had forgotten all about his initial dislike of the player in the good atmosphere. He sat, leaning back in his chair, looking about him. Everything he could see was his; had been earned by his endeavours, kept by his side by his attention, or — in the case of his children — was actually part of him. And after all, to be Treasurer of Calais was almost on a level with a peerage.
‘Have I pleased you, my Lord?’ It was Giles speaking.
‘So well that I have an idea for you.’
Giles stood up but Sir Richard motioned him to a chair and a servant poured the player a glass of wine. He gulped it down as if it were ale.
‘And what is this idea, master?’
His face was a little anxious. He was in his usual impecunious state and he was hoping that he was not about to be offered a gift in place of money. That would mean the general time-wasting business of having to sell it and get the right price, whilst his stomach groaned for food.
‘Don’t frown, fellow ...’
Giles obediently turned his face into a grin, an action so idiotic that Francis and Catherine started to giggle without restraint.
‘... what I have to offer will please you I think.’
Through his fixed leer, Giles said, ‘Oh yes?’
Even Sir Richard was beginning to see the funny side of it. Poor Giles sitting on the edge of his chair, his face a mask of unfelt jollity, his jaw rigid as he spoke for fear of cracking his set grimace.
‘I am inviting you to become my Fool. Permanently. A wage, a bed in the kitchen lads’ chamber, free food. Now what do you say?’
Much to Richard’s surprise the grin, instead of becoming genuine, fell away entirely. Rather annoyed, Richard — unused to having offers of a place in his household met with such obvious lack of enthusiasm — said, ‘You are not interested?’
‘Oh, it’s not that, my Lord. Not that at all,’ Giles babbled. ‘’Tis just that I’m overwhelmed. Yes, that’s it — overwhelmed. Speechless, in fact. Yes, I’m speechless.’
To himself he thought, ‘Dear Christ — of all the ill fortune. The idea’s been going through my mind these six months past to find some permanent lodging. I’m getting too old for the outdoor life, though I can still tumble and jest with the best of them. But this! To live on cursed land.’
He knew they were waiting for his answer. His thoughts began to fall over themselves. Would his Romany blood protect him? If he wore the carbuncle blessed by the wise woman, who lived near the mystic monoliths of Stonehenge, would he be all right? Had his invocation to the ‘unseen people’ for Lady Weston been heard? A certain ritual he knew might do the trick. Oh God, should he risk all in return for the coveted position of Sir Richard Weston’s Fool?
Then something Lady Weston said decided him.
‘Why Giles, if you become our Fool you’ll have a chance to show your paces before the King’s Grace for he comes to Sutton Place to attend Margaret’s wedding in November. And you’ll be able to compete against Will Somers.’
Will Somers! There was a name to conjure with. The King’s new jester — new this very year but already with a formidable reputation. His repartee was even now spoken of as the wittiest in the land. To pit himself against such a giant; to have the opportunity — he, humble Giles — to perform for the King. Better learn some new songs. His Grace had an ear for a good tune.
‘My speech is returned, my Lord,’ said Giles. ‘I thank you. It will be an honour to serve you and your Lady.’
*
It was Margaret and Walter’s wedding feast and the most sumptuous of banquets was being served. At the upper end of the Great Hall was set the high table beneath which lay a magnificent red carpet for the King’s feet. It had been woven in Turkey and brought to England by Sir Richard’s own trading ship and was, Anne Weston thought, quite the most exquisite floor covering she had ever seen in her life. Lower down, another huge table, with not quite such a good carpet beneath, was set for the Court.
The Hall was garlanded and decorated with as much greenery as the November garden would yield and, in the trailing branches, winter roses had been skilfully woven alongside early holly berries. Anne had wanted as glistening an effect as she could muster to honour Henry and Katharine and the bride and groom. The musicians — resplendent in doublets of crimson with gold slashed sleeves — were jammed together in the two musicians’ galleries above the Hall, bursting forth with the most cheerful sound.
In the Queen’s fireplace — as the family now called it because of Katharine’s device — a vast log fire was sending out a terrific heat and the light from this, and the hundred blazing candles, reflecting in the gleaming facets of the goblets and wine flagons, seemed almost as vivid and brilliant as the jewelled and glittering assembly itself.
Before the King — who sat with Katharine on one side of him and Anne Weston on the other — stood a concoction of iced sugar in the shape of a galleon, the strands as delicate as a cobweb, the sails sparkling frost. On the other side of the Queen sat Walter Dennys with his bride beside him. He had made the garland for her hair with his own hands and the flowers that lay before all the principal female guests he had fashioned the day before.
Lower down the table Francis sat between his sister Catherine and Ann Pickering, a girl he had not met since he was a child but to whom, his father had informed him, he was one day to be married.
On hearing the news a few days earlier, before she had arrived, he had said, ‘I’ll warrant she’s ugly.’
‘I’ll brook no insolence from you, Francis,’ Sir Richard had answered. ‘She is an orphan and my ward and she is also the richest heiress in Cumberland. Be civil, do you hear?’
So the
day after the King’s arrival Francis had stood in the Great Hall listening to the heiress of Cumberland’s escort jangling over the quadrangle and watching, with thudding heart, as the door of the middle entrance was thrown open and a small figure had been ushered in. He had dropped his gaze, wiped his damp palms surreptitiously on his doublet and made a bow. The figure curtsied before him and then did something that only somebody raised away from Court would have dared. She looked up and stared him straight in the eye.
Francis had looked and fallen madly in love. A mass of red curls, which simply refused to be constrained by a headdress, tumbled round a creamy skin that was only enhanced by the delightfully freckled nose. But it was her eyes that captured Francis and held him for the rest of his life; blue as meadow flowers, wide and with a twinkling in their depths that simply nobody could resist.
So for the last week he had been longing to touch her — just the merest meeting of hands would have been enough — but had been far too nervous, her very presence making him shake. And he was doing it now — here, at the high table, only a few feet away from the King — trembling so much that the wine glasses tinkled as they rattled together.
Hearing the noise, Lady Weston looked over and Queen Katharine, following her gaze said, ‘What beautiful children you have, Anne.’
A very small sigh escaped from her lips. Why had God turned his face against her and only allowed Mary to live? She would have given ten years of her life — twenty — to have Anne Weston’s three healthy offspring for her own.
‘Your Grace is very kind.’
‘It is true. Margaret makes a wonderful bride and as for Francis and Ann Pickering — why they are the prettiest couple in England. I have never seen a boy so handsome in all my life. If my son had lived he would be the same age, for were they not born within weeks of each other?’
Unable to take her eyes off him the Queen went on, ‘And his eyes, just like a lake. Anne, now that you and Richard are no longer at Court I think you should send Francis to us. Henry, wouldn’t he make a handsome page?’
Henry VIII looked down the table towards the boy.