by Deryn Lake
‘And you so respectable. It’s true about the poker. I was merely giving Rose a history lesson. Was I not, Rose?’
And she burst into fits of laughter. Margaret made her face very straight and said, ‘I’m surprised you’ve never been here, Rose. Why is that?’
‘Francis would never bring me. He says he doesn’t like it. That the place is haunted.’
Both sisters turned to stare at her.
‘Haunted? He’s never said that to me.’
‘Nor me.’
‘He just muttered something about the curse. He believes in it you see.’
Catherine and Margaret looked at one another in surprise.
‘You don’t?’ Rose went on.
‘I wouldn’t go that far,’ Margaret said. ‘I believe that some places can be unlucky. But in truth Sutton Place has never brought any of us ill fortune.’
‘Father hasn’t got his longed-for peerage.’
‘But Catherine, you could hardly say that that was due to a curse.’
They were walking forward as they talked and it was then that Rose saw the glint of water in the long grass.
‘Is that the old well? The one where the Viking Queen laid the spell?’
‘Yes, that’s it. It’s so overgrown that one could easily fall in. We should ask father to send a scyther down. Be careful.’
But Rose was hurrying forward apparently fascinated by the thought of a watering place so ancient that a kinswoman of the warrior Knut had probably trodden where she now stepped. And there it was, concealed by the long wild grass but still clearly a well. Kneeling down, she began to pull at the undergrowth with her hands and the cold clear water came into view, freshly gurgling up from the earth’s heart. Cupping her fingers she bent over to drink and was instantly swept by a bitter chill that engulfed her like a mist. With teeth chattering and body shaking she looked up to see that the day had grown dark. And then looming beside and yet over her, screening out the sun, stood a shape. A shape without form or definition. A grey, swirling nothing that somehow she knew was female. And as she looked at it, her body rigid with fear, it threw itself on the ground beside her, writhing and contorting, and from somewhere in its depths came a terrible cry.
Rose wanted to run, wanted to scream, but she was numb. Her body had ceased to obey her brain’s commands. She could only look on, sickened, as a featureless face turned towards hers and she found herself staring into completely hollow eye sockets. As she fainted she heard one coherent word, ‘Edward.’
She was only a few yards away from her sisters-in-law but they had turned back to observe a merry red deer that had jumped out into the clearing behind them. They both moved their heads together at the strange gurgling sound that came from the direction of the well.
‘Rose!’ shouted Catherine and started to run for Francis’s wife was lying waist deep in the water, her face submerged. Only the spread of her skirts — which had caught in the opening — stopping her from completely falling in.
‘Help,’ screamed Margaret. ‘Jacob, Will, quickly.’
Jacob, a great ox of a man with a diminutive reasoning power that prevented him from rising any higher than cleaning lad, passed them all as he sprinted forward and picked Rose up bodily. Her head hung backwards over his arm, her headdress drenched and hanging to one side, revealing wet strands of hair clinging round her face. Her eyes were closed and she seemed not to be breathing. He looked helplessly down at her, not sure what he should do.
It was Will, only fifteen years old but bright as gold, who tilted her right over and thumped her back till the water poured out of her lungs and on to the ground. And as she gave a frightening gasp and drew in a deep choking breath she coughed and spluttered as some more water spewed from her mouth.
But Margaret and Catherine had stopped where they stood, staring not at the girl’s struggle back to life but at the sinister red patch that was forming on her skirt between her thighs.
‘Dear God, Margaret, she’s aborting the babe. She’s bleeding.’
‘Straighten her up Jacob. Put her on the ground,’ Margaret called.
But even as she ran to her sister-in-law she knew that it was too late. The blood was beginning to gush forth, obscenely staining the delicate blue of Rose’s dress.
‘Oh God’s mercy, she’ll break her heart,’ said Catherine bitterly.
She watched with anguish as the life blood of her brother’s child drained like a sacrifice into the earth round the well.
*
Zachary thought, ‘I have never seen a woman look quite so ill. Whatever the Tarot tells me, whatever I see in the crystal, I must choose my words more carefully than I have ever done. I think this girl’s sanity lies in the balance.’
Across the table from him sat Rose Weston, her body thin, her face drawn, the cloud of hair that had once shone, dull and lifeless.
‘My mother-in-law told me that I must see you, Dr Zachary. She believes that you will be able to help me — if anyone can, that is.’
Even her voice had lost the light laughing sound that had once been one of its attractions.
‘Can you tell me all that is wrong, mistress?’
She smiled wryly.
‘You sound like Dr Burton but he treats bodies. What do you treat Dr Zachary?’
‘To say souls would be fanciful so I shall reply that I treat nothing. If by my gift of clear sight I am able to help those in need then I suppose you could say that I assist the human spirit. Does that answer you?’
‘I did not mean to give offence. It is just that I feel I have been to hell.’
Zachary took the scrying glass between his hands.
‘Lady Weston told me that your child aborted by the old well known as St Edward’s. A haunted place, I fear. Did you see anything?’
But already he knew that she had. His body was going as cold as hers had been on that morning two months ago when she had almost lost her life and vibrating from the crystal was a terror so great that Zachary muttered beneath his breath a spell to ward off the evil eye.
‘Yes, I saw something,’ she was answering. ‘And Francis did too, you know. Years ago when he was a child. It was the same thing. A woman — a terrible woman — a face without eyes. Is it she who laid the curse?’
‘Yes,’ said Zachary shortly. ‘I believe you saw what is left of the anguish of a long-dead queen.’
Beneath his touch the scrying glass was pulsating with life.
‘Am I now accursed, Dr Zachary? I nearly died of drowning. Will it happen again?’
‘No, madam.’ Now he picked carefully over what he had to say. ‘It is the land itself that is under evil influence.’
‘And those who own it?’
‘Obviously they must be involved.’
Rose looked at him, her eyes those of a fanatic in an unnaturally white face.
‘There is only one other thing I want to know. Will I ever bear a living child?’
He stared at her with a gaze that was already growing dreamy.
‘Put out the cards for me, mistress. I will tell you what they say.’
But he was hunching over the crystal, his wild hair drooping forward putting his face into half shadow. The visions that came to him as he sat transfixed were very much what he had expected. Violence, death and menace totally engulfing Francis Weston’s future. And the Tarot confirmed his fears — the Tower, the Reaper, the Moon. But still one thing eluded him. He was not sure exactly how Francis was to meet his death.
‘You will be with child four more times, Mistress Weston. And each time the child will live and grow to adult life. In two years’ time your first son will be born.’
‘So Francis will be safe.’ She sighed with relief and a very faint imitation of her once captivating smile appeared. ‘I can just see him with four children, Dr Zachary. He will cease to be a boy then I think.’
The flash of clairvoyance that had been escaping him suddenly blazed with unpleasant clarity. He saw Francis, a headless corpse, lying i
n the straw of the scaffold, saw him thrown into a communal grave with faithful Henry Norris. But on what charge? With a great effort he turned his concentration back to Rose who was saying, ‘Is it true? You are not just telling me this to please me?’
He managed a smile and said, ‘I assure you, you will bear four living children, mistress. Three boys and a girl.’
She got to her feet and he realized with relief that she was going to ask no more. She had heard all she wanted and was weaving for herself the strands of the future.
‘Mistress Weston,’ he said, also rising, ‘may I offer some advice? Forget the horror of what you saw and heartily enjoy this next year. Though you do not think it, it will be a very happy one if you decide to make it so. Do not shut yourself up in Sutton Place. Go to Court, take part in the Lady’s coronation. She will not spurn a loyal retainer in her moment of splendour. Be carefree and light-hearted, madam, I beg you. Time is flying for us all.’
‘I shall,’ she said. ‘Now that I know I will safely have children I can be merry again. Francis is to be made a Knight of the Bath on Coronation Eve, you know. He is well-loved of the King and Queen.’
After Rose had gone he sat in silence for a long time, the room growing dark and the only sound coming from Sapphira who had entered and was quietly playing with his herbs and pestle and mortar.
‘A savage world, my daughter,’ he said eventually.
The three-year-old, without looking at him, answered, ‘But still with beauty. Despite the killings there are madrigals.’
As he so often did when his amazing child spoke, Zachary shivered.
16
Francis thought as he stepped aboard the barge that was to row him up the river to the Tower of London that the Thames had been transformed. The waterway used by the Court and the population as their main thoroughfare now looked like a painting of the city of Venice, for the river that was normally a workaday mixture of merchants, travellers and fishermen was as resplendent and crowded as the Grand Canal during a carnival.
At the head of it all, pulling on its moorings like an eager pup, rode the Queen’s barge — the arms of Katharine of Aragon which had once decorated it obliterated beneath the freshly painted emblem of Boleyn. And behind it, waiting expectantly for the moment when she would emerge from Greenwich Palace, an escort of barges rested on their oars forming part of a floating retinue that would escort Anne Boleyn into the city for her Coronation. Above each vessel the flag of the owner furled in the early summer breeze and every member of the Court vied with his neighbour in providing elaborate decorations of flowers, bunting and bells, and brightly coloured musicians. In fact the noise was dreadful for each barge had its own set of players all engaged on different tunes. Added to this the constant firing of gun salutes, the tinkling of bells as the swell lifted the ships where they rested mixed discordantly with the shouts of the Court one to the other. The only thing that was quiet was the crowd.
Francis found their silence almost unnerving as he leant over the rail of the barge especially set aside for those who were to receive knighthoods of the Bath on Coronation Eve. From the vast flotilla that lay behind the official procession — and he reckoned with his eye that there must be over two hundred assorted craft — there was hardly a sound except for the cry of a baby or shout of a child. The citizens of London had come to look at the woman who had usurped Katharine’s throne but not to cheer her on. It was an uneasy feeling to watch them as they sat in their overcrowded vessels, sullen and gaping. He thought that he had seen crowds at executions in a more cheerful frame of mind.
But for all their hostility nobody could detract from the sparkle of the water, the clearness of the sky or the brightness of the sun. Anne, in her usual extraordinary way, had managed to pick the finest day of the year for her water pageant. And at that moment Francis had no regrets about the enormous bill that he was running up with his tailor Bridges — though there was scant chance of paying it off unless he had an extremely lucky win — because it was good to stand in the sun and know that it was shining on his hair and his new silver doublet, picking up the gleam of the crystals and other brilliants that were embroidered in the fabric, and to catch the eye of a maiden recently arrived at Court and give her a wink that made her look away. And then still to be looking and give her a grin when she glanced back again. It was the stuff of which living was about and Francis was happy to be young and breathing in the strange dank smells of the river, drinking the wine that was passed to him, and feeling the warmth on his neck. He wished that he could ensnare the pleasure for ever and feed from it when he was old and dried out and beyond anything but mumbling.
But a fervent salvo of cannon brought his attention back to the present and the crowd of people gathered outside the palace. Looking carefully he saw that there was a stirring amongst them. Anne Boleyn was about to make one of her carefully timed entrances.
She had chosen cloth of gold for the occasion and her hair was straight and long, the blackness woven with cascading jewels — an old but attractive artifice of hers. Her train, as she walked slowly forward to embark, was carried by four of her ladies one of whom was Rose Weston. Francis had seen her briefly that morning as they had hurried round their shared apartments, anxious to get dressed and go their different ways. A quick kiss on the cheek had been their perfunctory greeting followed by a rapid conversation. But now he thought that his wife looked beautiful in the sunlight, her hair a cloud of red about her small, rather anxious face. It was sad that their second child had come to nothing, been aborted at that doleful place where he had been terrified as a child. One of his greatest desires now was to impregnate her and let the seed be successfully carried. But there was no sign of the longed-for happening as she escorted Anne on to the royal barge, in fact Rose looked thinner than usual. Whereas the Queen by contrast was blooming, the Prince of Wales well established and grown five months in her belly. Only the flowing swathes of gold hid the fact from the world that the monarch’s new consort was going brazenly pregnant to her Coronation.
The Queen’s barge was slipping its moorings as the musicians aboard it gave the loyal fanfare and, with this signal, the oarsmen of the whole small fleet stood by to row their occupants in progress to the Tower where Anne would rest for the night and the day to follow.
The players on board the barge of the Knights of the Bath struck up with a lively jig and Francis saw the shores of Greenwich begin to move away as he and his companions headed out for mid-river. Looking over his shoulder and accepting more wine from Lord Monteagle’s son William, Francis watched his father and mother — she very unsmiling — complete with their two daughters and sons-in-law, their Fool and their musicians, set out behind him in Sir Richard’s private barge, transformed into an arbour of fresh flowers by Walter Dennys. He raised his glass to them and called out a greeting to which they responded with waves and shouted messages. Further behind he saw the crafts of the Duke of Suffolk and Anne Boleyn’s father, the Earl of Wiltshire. Everybody fit to bear arms was present except for the Duke of Norfolk who had found it suddenly necessary to be abroad at this important time. But what matter? The Court had set forth and the Coronation had officially begun.
The light was just beginning to dim from the afternoon when they reached the Watergate of the Tower to the sound of booming salutes from its cannon. The Lord Mayor’s barge, which had led the floating cavalcade all the way, moored at the steps and he and the scarlet-clad city men alighted and stood at the top waiting to join the King. Here at London’s heart the river was packed almost solidly with boats and skiffs while up on the bridge the citizens were crammed together in a gawping, curious, noisome huddle.
The Knights of the Bath, jostled just as tightly in their barge, were rowed to the wharf immediately behind the royal vessel and stood waiting as Anne, with the slower gait of a woman half way through her expected time, went once more onto dry land amidst the shrill trumpet fanfare of the state heralds. Francis was overcome with admiration for her. As e
ver she dominated the scene; even the King — who had left the fortress and stood in attendance — was diminished to second place.
He watched as the royal procession moved solemnly into the fortress and he and his seventeen companions, followed by a few privileged members of the Court, were free to land and make their way in.
Despite the clarity of the evening and the resplendent capers of a fire-spitting dragon, despite the sweet sound of the players — synchronized now that they had lessened somewhat in number — Francis shivered. He had never before set foot in the Tower and he thought it a wretched place, too full of past anguish to be truly merry. And freshly decorated for the royal occasion though it might be it still had an air of chill that not even the roaring log fires in the banqueting hall could dispel.
And though he slept well enough that night — in a chamber next to those occupied by the other seventeen — it was on the following evening after a banquet given by Henry and Anne in honour of the eighteen Knights elect that he had a nightmare so vivid and frightening that he woke sweating and shouting, reaching for the candle and panicking like a child when he was unable to find it. And its light when he eventually managed to locate it brought him little comfort. For despite all the luxurious hangings and appointments he saw that he was still in the confines of the fortress that, for no logical reason, disturbed him. He even jumped violently and his hand flew in the direction of his sword as the door opened and John Mordaunt appeared saying, ‘What’s happening? Francis, are you attacked?’
Francis saw in the dim light that Lord Mordaunt’s son stood as naked as at the moment of his birth except for his sword belt which had obviously been buckled on in some haste.
‘No, no. I’m sorry, John. A pestilent dream, that’s all. Did I cry loudly?’
Mordaunt sat on the end of Francis’s bed ignoring his lack of clothes.
‘You screamed like a girl. I thought some assassin must be in the place.’
Francis shook his head.