Sutton Place (Sutton Place Trilogy Book 1)

by Deryn Lake

  ‘Sometimes, madam. Sutton Place is supposedly cursed. Did you know that?’

  ‘Yes, Francis told me some years ago.’

  As always when Anne Boleyn mentioned Francis, Rose felt that strange stirring resentment that she could not control. His familiarity with the King’s love annoyed her. So she was none too pleased when Francis announced in bed that night, ‘The King leaves for hunting long before first light tomorrow and he has asked me and a few others to join him. I think we will be away several days.’

  ‘Is the Lady going?’

  ‘I suppose so. His Grace has not actually said much about it. He seemed — reserved.’

  ‘She has not mentioned anything to me.’

  ‘That reminds me. The King has written to my father and he wants you to deliver the letter to Sutton Place personally.’

  ‘Me? Why not send a rider?’

  ‘I don’t know, Rose. Something strange is afoot.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘I have no idea. Rose, I must sleep or I will never get up in time to leave.’

  She lay awake for a little while wondering about it all but was deeply asleep when Francis hauled himself out of bed and dressed by candlelight. He kissed her into half wakefulness.

  ‘Goodbye, sweetheart. I’ll join you in a few days. Perhaps at Sutton Place.’

  ‘Why there?’

  ‘You ask so many questions. Take the letter to my father. I’m sure that contains all the answers.’

  Rose went back to sleep and dreamed of Anne Boleyn’s Breton greyhound Urian — an animal she personally detested because of its evil nature — putting its head back and howling without stopping. But to her horror when she woke she found that the sound was real. From some distant chamber came a cry of such anguish that it seemed hardly human. Running into the corridor still in her night attire Rose met Margaret, Lady Lee, another of Anne’s maids.

  ‘In God’s name, Margaret, what is that dread noise? Is somebody dying?’

  Even Lady Lee, who as Thomas Wyatt’s other sister had been a childhood friend of Anne Boleyn, looked sickened as she said, ‘’Tis Her Grace.’

  ‘What ails her?’

  ‘The King left with great stealth in the early hours of this morning and the Lady Anne rode with him. He did not say farewell to the Queen and she says she knows certainly that he has left for good.’

  ‘How does she know?’

  ‘Intuition, I suppose.’

  ‘If she is right then it is scant thanks for twenty-two years of faithful marriage. My heart bleeds for her.’

  ‘Rose, how can you say that and still serve the Lady Anne?’

  ‘I can say it and I do. I would not abandon a beast thus.’

  And red in the face Rose stormed back into her chamber. It was only then that she saw the letter addressed to ‘Sir Richard Weston, Sutton Place’ and by it a note from Francis reading, ‘Dearest Wife, I love you. Remember to deliver this in person and immediately. Yours in good health but sleepy, Francis.’

  The letter seemed to be of such urgency that she forgot, temporarily, about the babe and had a horse prepared with her sidesaddle. The grooms hoisted her up and adjusted her foot in the stirrup then, with her long blue skirt flying out beyond the animal’s flank, she went off with all speed through Windsor Forest and Woking and on to Sutton Place.

  Sir Richard and Lady Weston were both in residence and the arrival of their daughter-in-law found them in the gardens where they were examining some new shrubs given to them during the previous autumn by Margaret and Walter to celebrate the birth of Margaret’s son — another Richard.

  ‘My dearest,’ said Anne. ‘What a wonderful surprise. What are you doing here? I thought you were with Francis at Windsor.’

  ‘I was until this morning but His Grace has written in urgency to Sir Richard and for some reason wished me to deliver the letter personally.’

  ‘Richard, you must open this letter at once,’ said Anne, as he approached them. ‘I burst to know its contents.’

  Muttering to himself about ‘confidential matters’, Richard nonetheless obliged.

  ‘It is quite straightforward,’ he said having scanned it. ‘The King is hunting round Windsor and wishes to make this his first stop. He will stay at his hunting lodge in the great forest tonight and will be here tomorrow — July 12.’

  ‘And how many people are with him and who are they?’ said Anne suspiciously.

  ‘He says about a dozen altogether.’

  ‘Who are they?’

  ‘His Grace, some courtiers, Francis — and the Lady Anne.’

  Rose thought that Lady Weston might explode with anger.

  ‘Then I shall not be in Sutton Place when they arrive,’ she said, her face scowling like a child’s. ‘While the Queen remains deserted at Windsor, I’ll be no party to it. If he wants to parade his trollop around he may do so but if she comes under my roof she will not find the mistress of the house here to welcome her.’

  Even Richard looked shocked. ‘Mind your tongue,’ he said.

  He could not have spoken worse. Anne stamped her foot and said, ‘I shall be gone within two hours. First to see Catherine and then on to visit Margaret. I do not know how long I shall be. Months, probably.’

  Sir Richard looked after her vanishing figure and shook his head as she ran into Sutton Place.

  ‘She has always been very devoted to Her Grace,’ he said, and it was the nearest tone to apology that Rose had ever heard him adopt. ‘She met her when Katharine first arrived in England, you know. While Queen Elizabeth of York was still alive. Anne was one of her ladies.’

  Rose said, ‘The Queen is very distressed, Sir Richard.’

  Richard said, ‘Life is greatly distressing, Rose. Often men and women can be grievously wronged through no fault of their own. The Queen’s fault is that she grows old and cannot give the King an heir and her second fault is that the King fell out of love with her. But those are not defects in themselves.’

  ‘Yes. But why is there no law of compensation?’

  ‘If I knew the answer to that, my dear, I would have solved the riddle of life’s essence. For we are all at the mercy of circumstance. I pity the Queen, of course I do. But there is nothing I can do to help her. No violent protestations on her behalf, no grand gestures like the one my wife has just made, will alter the facts. His Grace desires Anne Boleyn. And one day, I expect, he will grow tired of her too. And then the treadmill will start again and nothing any of us can do will help her.’

  ‘You will always weather the storm, Sir Richard,’ said Rose.

  ‘Only by sitting perpetually in the crow’s nest, my dear.’

  She laughed.

  ‘I wish I had your brains, Sir.’

  ‘I think in a way you have, Rose. I certainly feel happier about Francis since he married you.’

  ‘I love him.’

  ‘And he you, butterfly that he is. My dear, for his sake will you act as hostess when His Grace and the Lady arrive? It will not be a great number and Giles Coke will advise you.’

  ‘Of course, I will.’ She turned to go into the house to see if she could help Lady Weston but stopped short and turned back to Sir Richard. ‘Do you like the Lady?’ she said.

  ‘It is expedient to do so at this time.’

  ‘But really — in your heart?’

  ‘In my heart she does not exist, Rose.’

  She said, ‘I see,’ and went on her way into Sutton Place.

  By five o’clock Lady Weston, declaring loudly that she would rather spend the night at the Angel Inn in Guildford than another minute under ‘this wretched roof’, had departed. And Sir Richard and Rose dined alone in the small chamber.

  At about six o’clock the next day the royal party appeared, the grooms dragging two stags, three does and various hares, rabbits and smaller game. Rose rapidly had the lads remove the kill to the kitchens so that His Grace could dine off his own fresh meat that night.

  The King seemed in an extraordi
nary mood, veering from the over-hearty — laughing too loudly and slapping his male companions on the back — to the nervous; uneasily moving his shoulders and looking about him with an almost furtive expression on his face.

  The Lady Anne, on the other hand, appeared elated. Her dark eyes sparkled with inner excitement as if she had just won a round in a game of which she had been growing tired.

  And as Rose held the bowl and towel for the Lady to wash herself in the privacy of her chamber, Anne asked, ‘Can you keep a secret, Mistress Weston?’

  ‘I believe so, madam.’

  ‘Then hear this. When His Grace rode away from Windsor yesterday morning it was the end of his marriage. He plans to order the Queen out of her apartments before he will return to the Castle.’

  Rose tried to keep her face as impassive as Sir Richard’s as she answered, ‘Where will Her Grace go?’

  ‘I don’t know. Probably to one of Wolsey’s residences now that he is dead and gone.’

  ‘Dead and gone! How sweet those words are,’ thought Anne. ‘And Fate played into my hands totally for when he was arrested last November it was Harry — Harry Percy — who went to take him. I wonder if he thought of me as he said the words “high treason”; if he remembered how that monstrous churchman killed our love?’

  Rose Weston was saying, ‘It is strange that the Cardinal died on his journey to the Tower. As if he was never meant to go to the block.’

  Anne gave her a chilling glance.

  ‘Yes, that was a pity,’ she said.

  And that night at dinner in the Great Hall — with Katharine of Aragon’s device still blazing defiantly from round the fireplace — Anne was indeed treated as if she were already the monarch’s wife. She was the first to tread upon the great red carpet laid down for Henry’s feet and she sat at the head of the table on the King’s right hand. Rose, sitting on his other side, was only thankful that Lady Weston was not present. Whether deliberately or otherwise, it was now openly flaunted that the King had left his wife for good and that the girl attendant to the King’s sister, Mary Rose, was set firmly on her course to the crown matrimonial.

  And how she was fawned upon. ‘Would my Lady like this? Would my Lady like that? Would my Lady sing for us?’ And Francis one of the worst offenders too. Rose wondered how much longer she could endure this never-ending meal watching her husband with eyes for nobody but the Lady and all the while this gnawing pain deep down inside her body. A pain that refused to be ignored and refused to go away however much she shifted position. And that she dared not do too much, for one did not move uneasily in one’s chair when acting as hostess to the King of England.

  At last it was over and it was time for the Fool. Pablo the Spaniard replaced the musicians who had been playing in the galleries throughout the feast. Rolling his dark eyes he went on one knee before the Lady and burst into a sensuous song from his native land; a song which conjured up pictures of vine-covered balconies, courtyards in which fountains played and lovers met in the half-dark. It must have been from just such a land that Princess Katharine had sailed to marry Prince Arthur of England. Had such a thought struck His Grace also for he was frowning slightly? Or was it that he disliked the swaggering Fool as much as Rose did? Whatever the reason he clapped his hands and called out, ‘Hey, fellow, let’s have a more cheerful air. This is no night for melancholy.’

  Bowing Pablo changed rapidly to one of His Grace’s own compositions. And his ploy proved right for now the King was smiling again and reaching out to take the Lady Anne’s hand.

  Rose, seeing the room through what seemed like a mist, was to have one last impression before she lost consciousness. She saw the satisfied smile that flickered slightly round Sir Richard’s lips and knew that he had decided on his new patron; she saw the King, his features blurred, his status reduced to that of an over-large schoolboy because of his obsession; she saw Francis, amused and adoring, gazing at the girl who was to hold sway over them all.

  It was as well that she found herself unable to speak as she lurched up from her chair or she might have cried out what she really felt, ‘Curse you, Anne Boleyn.’ But it was not to be for Rose, who had always thought of herself as one of the strongest people alive, country-bred and resilient, was swooning down and down into darkness. And the pain, which had turned into a searing agony, told her that the babe was going to leave her — that the child created in love by Francis was destined never to be born.

  13

  She was like a flame, shimmering from the top of her gleaming head to the satin shoes on her feet. Since first light Anne Boleyn’s ladies had been up and about her apartments at Windsor Castle preparing their mistress for the most important day, as yet, of her life. And now she stood before them clad in a short-sleeved surcoat of crimson velvet furred richly with ermine, her skin glowing from the scented oils they had rubbed into it, her hair glittering with a woven cascade of diamonds. It was the 1st day of September, 1532, and she was about to be created a peeress of the realm, the first time that such an honour had been bestowed upon a woman in England.

  *

  She was fat and puffy and middle-aged, unfashionably dressed from the threadbare headdress to the sensible, worn shoes on her feet. Since early morning Queen Katharine had been up at her pathetic little court at The More — a former residence of the dead Cardinal Wolsey. Two of her few serving women — by order of the King her establishment had been reduced to absolute minimum — had risen with her. They had done their best with her but no artifice could disguise the darned morning gown, the face pinched and lined by the yielding up of hope, the white straw-like hair straggling out from beneath her coif. It was the 1st day of September, 1532, and the Queen of Castile’s daughter had no honours left except her title and the goodness of her humbled spirit.

  *

  It seemed to Rose Weston as she stood and surveyed Lady Anne that she had never disliked the woman quite so much as she did at this moment. Everything about her was too triumphant, too radiant, too gloriously illusory. She longed to smack that clever, dark face saying, ‘Here! This is for Queen Katharine, and this is for my dead babe, and this is for my husband who wastes his life under your spell. And this is because you are too proud by half for anyone’s good.’

  But such thoughts — and there had been a lot of them since the child had miscarried — must be dispelled. If Francis were to be protected — and it appeared to Rose that he grew more indolent with each passing day — then she must play the game of double face. After the loss of the child, over a year ago now, she had returned to Anne’s service as soon as Dr Burton had agreed. But in some totally illogical way — and she knew deep within herself that it was unjust — Rose had blamed the Lady for the aborting of the babe.

  Dr Burton had looked at her rather narrow-eyed when she had persisted about the cause of the baby’s loss.

  ‘Who is to know, Mistress Weston, exactly what determines these things? The hard ride probably did not help but yet we cannot lay the blame entirely at its door. But why don’t you retire from Court life, reside at Sutton Place? You will soon conceive another child, I’m sure.’

  ‘Then there is nothing permanently wrong?’

  ‘Nothing, I assure you.’

  ‘And I may rejoin Francis at Court?’

  ‘Yes — but why, madam?’

  ‘He needs my company,’ Rose had answered vaguely.

  ‘He’ll tire of it fast if you stifle him,’ Dr Burton had thought as he had turned and wiped his hands on a towel. But he had kept his ideas to himself. A determined young woman, that. Why waste one’s breath?

  And, sure enough, Francis had resisted Rose’s tightening yoke and she, aware of the cooling of their bond, found Anne Boleyn a most convenient figure to carry the blame for all. But now she smiled a sycophant’s smile and murmured complimentary remarks in chorus with the other maids-of-honour.

  Yet even while they looked at her Anne’s mind went back precisely one month to an evening in August when she had walked wi
th the King alone in the gardens of Hampton Court.

  ‘I will go on no longer like this,’ he had said abruptly, his voice suddenly different from the usual gentle tone he used to her. She had roused herself from a dream-like state for it seemed to her that somewhere a blackbird was singing ‘Harry, Harry’ and in her mind she was walking again with her lover ... oh God, could it really be eight years ago? ... beneath these very trees, smelling these very flowers.

  ‘Henry?’

  She had turned to look at him genuinely unsure of his meaning but something at the back of that cold, blue Tudor eye had sounded an alarm in her brain. She, who could do anything ... anything ... with him, was in danger.

  ‘Don’t pretend not to understand me,’ and his tone had contained the same harsh quality, ‘or have you forgotten that I am a man as well as your King?’

  And that turn of phrase had frightened her as well. ‘Your King.’ Only once before had he spoken to her in such a manner and that had been when she screamed at him that they would never marry, that she had sacrificed her youth for nothing. He had suddenly, then, told her to he silent and the next day her uncle of Norfolk had come to her privately and advised her to watch her tongue, that His Grace had complained that Queen Katharine would not have spoken to him with such impudence.

  ‘I warn you, niece,’ Howard had said, ‘that you do not lead a charmed life.’

  And something in the way he spoke had sent the same thrill of unease through her as she was feeling now.

  Instinctively she had done the right thing. She had put her right hand with its long delicate fingers on the King’s arm and said, ‘Your Grace, have I displeased you?’

  As always he had capitulated.

  ‘No, sweetheart, no. I realize that you are a virtuous woman ... a good woman ...’

  And then he had gone rambling on about his age, about sexual frustration, about his desire for her being a constant torture. And something within her told her that this was the end of her carefully guarded virtue, that the trump card which she had waited to play so long, which had gained her so many points in the royal marriage game, was about to become the joker of the pack if she did not use it soon.