by Deryn Lake
‘Probably the best looking courtier of all,’ he said, and he called out, ‘Hey, young Weston.’
Francis rose and bowed.
‘Yes, your Grace.’
‘Would you like to come to Court next year?’
‘Indeed I would,’ Francis answered and in that simple sentence took his first fateful step towards death.
But now the banquet was drawing to its end and a host of servants were removing the topcloths from the two big tables, baring the undercloths embroidered with lace and gleaming crisply beneath the bowls of fruit and nuts and flagons of burgundy. It was time for the entertainers and tonight was to be Giles’s great chance. On the previous night — the wedding eve — Will Somers had held his audience entranced by his brilliant chatter and Giles, listening in the background, had wisely decided that in this field the man was unbeatable. No, he would concentrate on something that Will could not do as well — singing and tumbling — for, though there were better singers, there were few acrobats in England as accomplished as Giles of Guildford.
But this night his voice sounded more clear and true than it ever had before. As he sang a Romany love song — for he knew the King’s weakness for sentimentality — he felt inspired; uplifted almost. It was a sweet melody of a knight and his beauteous dark lady of the forest, and watching the King’s face Giles saw that it had some special meaning for him, though he had no idea what. How could he know that the words transported Henry to Hever Castle and to his dark lady, Anne Boleyn.
Swept away by the words and the sound of the lute, Francis at last found the courage to do what he had wanted to all week. Beneath the table he took Ann Pickering’s small child-like hand in his and squeezed. He felt himself grow dizzy as she moved imperceptibly nearer to him.
The notes of the song soared up to the rafters of the Great Hall as Giles came to the last verse and for a moment all the beauty of the occasion seemed frozen into one jewelled droplet of time. All was still and at one, listening to the wild, haunting sound. Then the lute struck its final plaintive note and there was silence. The spell which had held them all was broken. It was never again to be repeated.
6
‘And this, young Weston, is where you will report each morning to learn what errands His Grace has for you.’
Francis and Sir Harry Norris were standing in the King’s private apartments in Greenwich Palace. These were the rooms known as the Privy Chamber and only the staff directly serving the King were allowed access to them; no other courtiers were even permitted to cross the threshold. Francis was trying hard not to show his excitement. At fifteen he had become one of the King’s personal retinue; the new Page of the Chamber and one of the favoured few allowed to enter the sacred precincts of His Grace’s rooms.
‘There are six gentlemen-in-waiting,’ Norris continued, ‘Sir William Taylor, Sir Thomas Cheyney, Sir Anthony Browne, Sir John Russell, William Carey and myself and we are the only ones allowed to sleep within the Chamber. However, I have a further post — Principal Esquire of the Body — and, as you know, this means I am the sole person permitted to attend His Grace in his bedchamber. I sleep in there to act as his guard. You are not allowed in, do you understand?’
‘Yes, Sir Henry.’
‘Now, you will share a room in another part of the palace with the Chamber grooms — they are the two Brereton brothers and Walter Welsh and John Carey. You will rise at six sharply each day and help the grooms clean the Privy Chamber and light the fire. At seven o’clock the Chamber ushers — Roger Ratcliffe and Anthony Knevett — will arrive to guard the door. Shortly after that the yeoman of the wardrobe will bring the King’s doublet, hose and shoes. He will hand these to one of the grooms and it will be your job to help warm them by the fire and take them to the gentlemen-in-waiting. You are at no time allowed to touch His Grace. Is that clear?’
Francis nodded. He was frankly overawed.
‘Your other duties will be to clear away after Penny the barber has trimmed His Grace’s beard and hair. Then you must make yourself useful to anyone who needs you, His Grace’s wishes always coming first of course.’
‘Of course,’ echoed Francis.
‘The Head of the Privy Chamber is the Marquess of Exeter and you will be directly responsible to him. Briefly, Francis, the rules are that we do not gossip about His Grace. If he goes to bed early, if he goes late or if he doesn’t go at all, it is not our affair. We don’t talk about his friends or what he does. In short, nothing that we see or hear must go beyond these walls. Can you keep a still tongue?’
‘I think so, sir.’
‘Well, it’s going to be essential if you want to keep your post.’
Francis gulped. It was only three days since he had left home and he had arrived at Greenwich on the previous afternoon. His father — on brief leave from Calais — had ridden with him but had, after a few hours’ sleep, taken his leave. Francis had watched that familiar back riding away with mixed feelings. It was the first time that he had ever been away from his parents and he was starting his career with one of the most difficult — and yet one of the most potentially rewarding — posts at Court. To be a member of the Privy Chamber meant that, for good or ill, one was always under the King’s eye. Tact, discretion, all those things were essential. As Sir Richard had disappeared from view Francis had felt the oddly mixed emotions of fear and gratification. Glad that he was now a man in a man’s world; apprehensive that he no longer had his family to turn to if anything should go wrong.
He had dined alone that night, feeling rather depressed, and had been asleep by the time the four Chamber grooms had come to bed after late-night gaming with the King. He shared with them a large, pleasantly furnished room on the first floor of the palace, overlooking the Thames. At six the general commotion as they rose had woken him but he had scarcely had time to exchange a word as they hurried off to clean the King’s apartments.
‘You are excused duties this morning,’ William Brereton had shouted over his shoulder. ‘Go to the Yeoman of the Wardrobe. He’ll fit you with a livery. At the end of the long corridor. Then Sir Henry Norris wants to see you in the Privy Chamber.’
Even at that early hour the palace had been bustling with activity which was just as well for Francis promptly got lost and found himself wandering in the general direction of Queen Katharine’s apartments.
‘What are you doing here, young man?’
Francis bowed.
‘Excuse me, madam, I arrived at Court yesterday and must confess that the Palace is still a labyrinth to me. I am trying to find the Yeoman of the Wardrobe.’
‘Well, well — you must be young Weston.’
He looked up to see a rather beautiful fair-haired girl of about twenty regarding him with a very bold look.
‘We had heard that you were coming and that you were the prettiest man in the Kingdom. It’s said you only got the post in the King’s Chamber because His Grace thought you would decorate it so nicely.’
Francis turned pink. Other than the one secret kiss he had managed to snatch from Ann Pickering before she left for Cumberland, this was the closest he had ever been to a woman.
‘What, blushing?’ said the girl. ‘I’ll warrant that won’t last long here. Anyway, I’m to Her Grace. As a maid-of-honour I must see to her morning clothes. I shall meet you at the sundial in the knot garden at two o’clock. Don’t be late.’
And she had turned and gone without even so much as telling him her name.
‘You understand your duties?’
Harry Norris’s voice jerked him back to the present — away from pleasant thoughts of this afternoon’s assignation.
‘Yes, sir. And what are my tasks today?’
He held his breath lest Norris should give him something to do after midday.
‘His Grace will be riding so you are excused until six. Then you must be present in the Chamber to await his return. I would advise you to find your way round the Palace. Get to know where everything is so that you can ma
ke your way about quickly.’
‘I certainly shall!’ said Francis.
‘It really is high time,’ he thought to himself, ‘that I learned to find my way round more than just a Palace. I shall be a laughing stock if I don’t. Anyway she called me the prettiest man in the Kingdom.’
And it was the word ‘man’ that pleased him, not the reference to his handsome appearance. However he spent a great deal of time, after he had dined, before a mirror in the Grooms’ chamber, brushing his hair and peering at his chin to see if it needed shaving.
Promptly at two he was at the appointed place but after half an hour the girl still had not appeared and Francis, rather tired of curious glances from fellow courtiers as he loitered ill-at-ease, was about to go when to his horror he saw Harry Norris himself coming towards him.
And as he drew nearer — Francis growing redder and redder — Norris thought that here he was, over twice young Weston’s age, a widower, uninvolved in Court intrigues, and yet he could blush as easily as the youth who stood in front of him. Last month when he had seen Anne Boleyn at Hever Castle he had made a conscious and deliberate effort to cast off her spell; he had avoided even so much as looking at her. Had gazed at the ceiling, the floor, out of the window, anywhere, rather than see her face. And yet the sweet, haunting smell of her had been in his nostrils, the musical voice in his ears, the captivating laugh echoing in every room of the castle.
At night — sleeping a few feet away from the King, the other man who loved her to distraction — he had dreamed of Anne. The ridiculous thought that they might both mention her name had occurred to him. And then he had met her in Hever’s rose garden, come across her unexpectedly, and gone as red — he a widower of thirty-two! — as young Weston was now. It had been his intention to tease Francis but the recollection of Anne Boleyn stopped him.
‘Looking at the gardens, Francis?’ he said instead.
‘Er-yes, sir. Very well kept, are they not?’
‘His Grace employs many gardeners,’ said Harry. Out of the corner of his eye he had spotted Lucy, one of the several daughters of the Countess of Shrewsbury, hurrying towards them. He wasn’t altogether surprised to see who it was. He would hardly have described her as a backward young woman and word had reached him that wagers were already being laid, amongst the younger and bolder of Katharine’s ladies, as to who would be the first to attract the attention of young Weston. News of the boy’s handsome appearance had preceded him to Court, probably brought in all innocence by the Queen herself.
‘Have a good afternoon,’ said Harry, with a very slight twinkle in his eye. ‘And remember that you are on duty at six this evening.’
‘Oh yes, Sir Henry,’ answered Francis rapidly. He had also seen the maid-of-honour approaching and was in an agony of embarrassment.
‘My betrothal to Ann Pickering really forbids this,’ he thought.
But a second later he had forgotten all about Ann as the maid-of-honour curtsied before him and said, ‘I didn’t introduce myself to you this morning. I am Lucy Talbot, daughter of the Countess of Shrewsbury.’
‘And I am Francis, son of Richard Weston. But you already know that.’
‘Oh yes. Gossip travels very quickly in this Court. It is a veritable whispering gallery, as you will discover.’
She stepped back a pace and scrutinized him from top to toe. Aware that the Tudor livery of green and white suited him well, Francis set his hat at a jaunty angle and said, ‘Do you approve, my Lady?’
‘Aye, you’re passing fair. You may walk with me in the gardens.’
He offered his arm and resting hers upon it, Lucy began to take him on a tour. Until this moment Francis had not quite realized the size and extent of Greenwich Palace. It was rather like three Sutton Places put together, with three quadrangles — known as courts — interconnecting each with the other. The last of these — Tennis Court — fascinated him.
‘Does His Grace play tennis?’
‘He loves the game.’
‘Then I must challenge him.’
‘Wait for him to challenge you, you forward creature! Just let it be known to him that you play. You’ve a great deal to learn.’
She smiled up at him and said, ‘You have, haven’t you?’
Francis felt that wretched, uncontrollable shaking that had seized him whenever Ann Pickering was near.
‘Why, you’re trembling,’ said Lucy. ‘Is it the heat?’
‘I think perhaps it is the after effects of riding. I came from Sutton Place only a day ago.’
‘Wouldst like to rest a while in my chamber? It will be empty at this hour of the day — the other maids are all in the garden with Her Grace.’
So this was his moment then. ‘I am being offered manhood,’ thought Francis. ‘Then for God’s sake let me act the part.’
With a tremendous effort he controlled himself. ‘Mistress Lucy, you are right,’ he said. ‘I do in truth have everything to learn.’
‘How exciting,’ she said and laughed so joyfully that it seemed to Francis the sound was taken up by all the gulls on the Thames as they hurried back to her apartments in the central block of the Palace, between Fountain Court and Cellar Court.
Just as she had predicted the room was empty.
‘Suppose someone should enter?’ said Francis.
‘Then they must make a hullabaloo.’
And she turned a large key in the lock and left it in there.
‘That is my bed,’ she said, pointing to one of the four that occupied the chamber. ‘Go and sit on it and I will bring you wine. Why, young Weston, you look doom-laden. This is an occasion for rejoicing.’
And with that she turned to face him so that he had no option but to kiss her as hard as he possibly could. However, he soon realized that there was more to it than he had imagined, for her tongue, like a naughty little serpent, crept between his lips and touched his own.
‘And that,’ she said when they drew apart, ‘is how they kiss at the Court of France. Do you like it?’
‘I do,’ said Francis and bent his head to practise this new-found art, while all the time aware that she was guiding him backwards till they both fell on the bed together. Then began such a tussle with laces and buttons and ribbons that Francis’s brief spell of bravado vanished again. In the end he gave up, shaking his head in despair.
‘Oh, you great fool, must I do everything for you?’ she said laughing. And jumping to her feet, she began to undress in front of him. By the time she had reached her petticoats, Francis’s doublet, hose and shoes were flying through the air in quite the most abandoned fashion for now there was to be no looking back. He had seen a woman naked for the first time in his life and if His Grace himself were to come through the door, he would have been unable to stop.
As she slithered on to the bed beside him he gave her another of the French Court kisses and then with her help was upon her and within her. As the world crashed and exploded round him he said goodbye to Francis Weston the boy for ever. Afterwards he said, ‘But sweetheart, I may know little yet I do know that there should have been pleasure for you also.’
‘Wait a while, young Weston,’ she had answered with a saucy grin. ‘We have the whole afternoon before us. Unless you are in a hurry.’
Years later, when he was condemned to die for a crime he had not committed — a crime involving just such a joy with a woman in bed — he thought back to that first day at Greenwich Palace and how he had straight away lost his virginity. He supposed if his judges had known that they would have called him even more lecherous and evil than they did already. And yet there had been nothing but sweetness about the whole occasion. Lucy, the artless slut, with the warm mouth and eager body; he, the virgin boy, so happy to learn, so anxious to please. They had been like two exultant children as they spent those hours together loving the pleasure they were giving to one another. When half past five came and they had to part they promised to meet on the morrow and exchanged many tender kisses before Francis wari
ly put his head round the door and then sped away, leaving his newfound mistress staring after him.
As he hurried along to the Privy Chamber he passed a prim looking young woman on her way to Lucy’s shared room. She shot him a knowing glance and Francis suddenly felt as if he owned the world. He was on an equal footing now with everyone from His Grace down; he could listen to men’s jokes in men’s company and laugh in a man’s world.
‘Well,’ said Mistress Elizabeth Burgavenny to Lucy, ‘did you win?’
Lucy looked up. Her naughty face was still for a minute and then it crinkled into a smile.
‘Aye,’ she said, ‘I did. And for proof here is a green ribbon from his livery. That will be five shillings for the wager, Bessie.’
‘Lucy of Shrewsbury! This day you will have made yourself ...’
She began to count on her fingers.
‘Forty-five shillings. And you can remove that sour expression from your face for if you had got to him first, then you would be the richer.’
Lucy stopped suddenly. Forty-five shillings was a very great deal of money, enough to buy fine material for at least one new gown but something within her was sickened. She remembered the look on Francis’s face; his trembling, his anxiety, his great delight in her. Momentarily she felt cheapened. Then she thought, ‘But I did him a great service. I have made a man from a boy and anyway he will admire me in the new gown that will come from my winnings!’ How simple it was to ease a conscience if one knew the way. She would ask him his favourite colour and the dress would be made in that. All was well again. She smiled a winner’s smile at Elizabeth and stretched out her hand for the money.
In the Privy Chamber the six gentlemen-in-waiting, the four grooms and the page were awaiting His Grace’s return. He had ridden with only a handful of courtiers that day, so his personal retinue were all there to greet him as he strode through the doors followed only by Henry Courtenay, the Marquess of Exeter, who was not only the King’s first cousin but also his boyhood companion.
Courtenay’s eyes swept briefly over the assembled men. They may well be the highest in the land — or the highest in favour — but they were responsible to him. He would not tolerate unkempt dressing, personal uncleanliness and, above all, any friction amongst them. The Gentlemen of the Privy Chamber were in a position of high privilege and the Marquess ruled with a fist of iron. One word from him to His Grace and a man could go out for ever.