by Deryn Lake
*
In the cold light just before dawn Zachary stood at the Watergate of Greenwich Palace. He had ridden through the darkness, crossing the river by moonlight, and now he huddled in the sharp early breeze, his ears alert to every stirring, awaiting that first distant sound of oars pulling that would tell him the Duke of Norfolk’s barge was making its inexorable way from Whitehall, its owner aboard, frozen-faced with the import of judgement.
All the river noises abounded. Somewhere a heron stood, wings flapping over its nest; a cob called a secret dawn message to his pen and stretched his white neck up into the first primitive light; the river gurgled childlike as a fish stirred itself and jumped in driplets of luminescence. And Zachary thought of them all as parts of life, as incomprehensible particles of a galaxy so magnificent in scope that only a God amongst gods would even dare to grasp the key. And then he knew that to try and change the pre-determined course was to blaspheme — and yet he must endeavour. But who was he to interfere with that great march, the great sweep of events that led mankind to the stars?
‘Lord Duke my father!’
The hand on his shoulder was utterly familiar even in the gloom. He had heard nothing of the arrival of the ducal barge nor the stamp of landing feet.
‘Zachary, why are you here?’
He had never known his father’s voice so hard as it was in the streaking morn.
‘I have to speak to you, sir. It is imperative.’
Norfolk turned to look out over the river, his cloak billowing in the wind, his hand grasping the staff of office that showed him to be the premier peer of the realm.
‘My son, has it occurred to you that I am not meant to hear what you have to say?’
‘Yes, yes,’ said Zachary in torment. ‘But I must tell you the truth.’
The Duke turned back to look at him and his eyes were stony with the responsibility that lay before him.
‘Zachary, I do not wish to listen. Many years ago you told me that it was my destiny to sentence Anne the Queen to burn or to meet the blade. Then amen. But I must do what is decreed armed by what I believe. Do not try to tell me.’
‘Then God help me, Lord Duke.’
‘My son, it is difficult and sometimes dangerous to know too much. Go home and sleep. You pitted yourself like a child against ...’
But Zachary had interrupted. ‘The universe,’ he said.
‘Aye. Now farewell.’
And Norfolk had turned and walked, without looking back, into the sleeping palace.
*
In the silence of Sutton Place Anne Weston dreamed, only this time she was walking away from the mansion in the direction of the old well of St Edward. And walking was not the right description for she glided above the ground, her feet moving but not touching the earth. In this journey of her nocturnal mind it was daylight — bright and jolly — and she could hear the sound of laughter and music. She turned towards it out of a fearful curiosity. She would never, could never — even in sleep — understand who these people were who came to her house and treated it with such fond familiarity.
Rounding a corner she saw them; men and women in outlandish clothes and — surely not! — the game of tennis being played by both sexes. And a strange box with a horn blaring out the words ‘Bye, bye blackbird’ lying on the ground beside the court. She stood, mutely aghast, as one of the players looked up and straight into her eye. She recognized him from the dream in the moonlit apple loft. He had been called Alf then by his wife; Lord Northcliffe by a servant. And now it happened again. He went suddenly white and the woman facing him across the net said, ‘What is it, Alf? Are you all right?’ And a discreet man appeared from nowhere and said, ‘Is anything wrong, Lord Northcliffe?’
‘No, no,’ he said. ‘The weather, I expect. It’s damned hot today.’
‘Damned close,’ agreed the female voice which laughed and added, ‘God, I could do with a cigarette.’
Something about the way she spoke told Lady Weston she was a woman who strived for attention.
‘It is warm,’ answered Alf’s wife. ‘Shall we call it a draw and have some tea?’
‘Splendid idea,’ said the visiting man. ‘Come on, Elsie. Give it a rest.’
They all went off and Lord Northcliffe was left alone with his servant.
‘M’Lord, I’ll ask you again. Is everything all right?’
‘It’s her, James — that bloody White Lady of my waking hell. She’s standing there and she’s looking at me.’
The man stared over and straight through her and Anne Weston shook with dread fear of the inexplicable.
‘There’s nothing there sir, really. I do believe it’s this business of not sleeping that’s upsetting you. I honestly think you should have it out with your doctors once and for all.’
Lord Northcliffe sat down wearily and the box-like machine stopped playing its music and began to make a continual scratching sound.
‘You’re right, of course. It’s destroying me. I truly believe I shall go clean off my head if I don’t get something organized.’
‘We’ll see to it tomorrow. Now come indoors, sir, and have some tea.’
They disappeared in the direction of the house but not before Lord Northcliffe had given Anne one last look over his shoulder and that same dark, mutual terror had been struck between them. She hurried on and had only left him a few minutes when she passed the man called Getty. He walked with an instrument attached to his leg which was apparently registering how far he had gone for he was looking at it and saying, ‘Two miles already, George. What do you think of that?’
The man with him simply shook his head and said, ‘There’s no keeping up with you, Dad. You’ll outlive us all — you’re a health fanatic!’
Getty just gave a lop-sided grin and went lolloping off apparently quite unconscious of the fact that Lady Weston had walked right beside him. And now she had left all sight of the house behind and was in the open parkland.
Coming towards her in a gown of mulberry velvet and a hat that trailed enormous black feathers from its brim was the woman that Anne had thought the most beautiful she had ever set eyes on. And now seeing her in the sunlight she was sure of it. The great nimbus of silver hair gleamed like a moonburst, the eyes were the colour of wild violets, the bones of the face placed there by a master sculptor. Even the movement of her body as she came towards Anne were pleasing to see. Behind her, running to catch up, his arms full of wild flowers, was the man who had shared the beauty’s bed in Anne’s earlier dream. The same delicate features, the heavily lidded eyes, the discontented mouth, all transformed now by his obvious adoration. He threw the flowers at the woman’s feet and then knelt amongst them, raising her skirt’s hem to his lips. But she was protesting, ‘Highness, it is I who should be kneeling to you. Please rise, sir.’
‘No, no — for you are my Princess, my Queen. Don’t you understand that I love you Melior Mary?’
Then Anne saw the most curious thing. Surrounded by mist as if they were cut off in some way from the beauty and her lover, a sad-faced young man and woman also observed. And the girl called out, ‘Melior Mary, we’re here. Why don’t you talk to me anymore?’ But the boy said nothing, merely shaking his thick red curls in a gesture reminiscent of Dr Zachary. Anne was painfully aware that neither couple could see her nor could Melior Mary see anyone but her lover. It was a frightening feeling, as if time had turned in on itself and had thrown them all together by accident.
With the girl’s voice still ringing out and Melior Mary’s joyful laughter drowning the plaintive sound, Anne Weston hurried on towards the well. And now she knew that time had truly gone out of step for from the sunshine of a second before she found herself in a damp and miserable downpour. And the sound of the thundering hooves of a hunting party and the sight a minute later of men dressed in the garments of England’s past, the hooded falcons clawing at their wrists, showed her something that she could at last recognize.
The clothes of Alf and of Getty a
nd of Melior Mary’s lover had all been different one from the other, and none familiar at all, but these men wore garments from an earlier time.
Without seeing her the hunters crashed past and were eventually lost to the eye and ear but she had, at last, come within sight of the well. And there a strange scene awaited her for a young woman lay on the ground, her body jerking in rending spasms. And out of her mouth was coming a terrible voice — hoarse and frightening. Anne could comprehend little of what the girl was saying but she knew that she — Anne — was in the presence of something dark and primitive. That some power from the dawn of time was being called up not only in the name of Odin — a word she did not understand — but in all that malevolently festered in the world that lay just beyond the fingertips of mankind. And that it was Sutton and the future of Sutton Place and all the heirs thereto who were being imperilled at this bleak and awesome moment.
‘Christ, protect us,’ she called out. ‘God the Father, God the Son — stop this malediction.’
But time had played its ultimate trick and nobody heard for as Richard Weston said to her a second or two later, ‘It’s only a dream, Anne. Why do you weep?’
*
Francis thought, ‘I must write to my father. He will advise me what to do because I can no longer think properly.’
The Palace of Whitehall to which he and his fellow courtiers had returned after the May Day tournament had become crypt-like in its silence. The buzz of everyday life had been reduced to hushed whispers and nobody dared sing or play a lute. Rumour chased rumour and the place seethed with unpleasant gossip.
Francis sat down and took up his pen, dating a piece of paper May 4, 1536.
Most trusty and well beloved Father,
I do beseech you and earnestly entreat you to reply to this letter forthwith as I am now in great puzzlement as how to best conduct myself. As you may know Mark Smeaton was arrested on April 30 and on May 1, Sir Henry Norris. And the next day the Queen appeared before the Council at Greenwich and her uncle of Norfolk placed her under guard and she was taken to the Tower at two o’clock at high tide. It is reported here that the child Elizabeth was snatched from her arms where Anne the Queen did fondle her and the Queen begged His Grace — who had come secretly to Greenwich — to show her mercy.
At the same time as this Lord Rochford was arrested from this palace (Whitehall) and also taken to the Tower where now languish all four. The charges are that the Queen did commit adultery with Mark Smeaton — who confessed to same under torture — and with Sir Henry Norris, who denies this vigorously. Rochford is accused of having connived with her wickedness.
All who were her friends are now treated most coldly and I am in a torment of ...
The knock at his chamber was gentle but persistent and after waiting for a moment to see if the unwanted caller would take his leave Francis reluctantly rose from his chair. The door was starting to open even as he got to it and he saw the face of Sir William Fitzwilliam — a man he had never liked owing to his annoying habit of sliding his pallid eyes off the person to whom he was speaking. He was doing it now, slewing his gaze into the corner and saying, ‘Sir Francis Weston.’
He had never noticed before that Sir William’s voice was slightly effeminate.
‘Yes?’
‘I have here a warrant for your arrest. And I would ask you to accompany me now to the Tower.’
The world which had begun to grow grey and cold went black for a second and Francis prayed that he wouldn’t lose consciousness in front of the band of men standing before him. He clung to the doorway to steady himself.
‘May I see the document?’ he said.
‘Yes, Sir Francis, you may.’
The eyes went off at a tangent again and a parchment was thrust within a few inches of his nose. The King’s signature and the opening words were enough to confirm his fears.
‘The charge?’ he said, in what he hoped was a calm reasonable voice.
‘Adultery with the Queen’s Grace.’
‘I would like you to note, Sir William, that I deny this completely. It is a falsehood. Are you listening?’
‘Yes,’ said Sir William, staring at the ceiling.
‘Then with your leave, I will fetch my things.’
‘Very well.’
‘And I would like this letter taken to my father.’
Just for a second the watery eyes met his before they went wavering off. ‘And that, sir, you cannot have. No prisoner may make communication with his family.’
And he took the paper from Francis’s fingers and rolled it into a ball which he threw away.
‘Now conduct yourself like a man, Sir Francis. Your every move will be watched. And you will be accompanied by William Brereton who has also been placed under arrest. There is to be no conversation between you incidentally.’
‘Brereton!’ said Francis. ‘Then, God help us, the world has gone mad.’
The skewing eyes went down to the floor.
‘I would not worry about the world, Sir Francis. Think more of your neck, sir.’
Into the small silence that followed Francis said, ‘There is nothing I can do but pray God that innocence will prevail. And if it does then I have no fear for head nor neck.’
‘Take him away,’ said Sir William his eyes on the tips of his shoes. ‘He always did talk too much. Fools and blabbermouths. Well, they’ve chattered themselves into a sweet fish kettle now.’
The last Francis saw of him was playing a child’s game of football with the letter that had been destined for Sutton Place.
20
Sir Richard was breaking the seal of the letter and, even though he held the paper a fair distance away, was reading the contents without difficulty. He stood like that — reading and re-reading it without saying anything — for quite a long time and then he finally sat down. Or rather he creaked down and the rider from London noticed for the first time that it really was an old man he was dealing with and not someone reputed to be nearly seventy yet whose grasp on life and vigorous manner gave the lie to the passing of time.
‘Do you know what is in here?’ Weston said eventually.
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Tell me everything you have heard.’
‘Simply that this afternoon Sir Francis and William Brereton were taken to the Tower to join Lord Rochford, Sir Henry Norris, Mark Smeaton — and the Queen.’
‘And the charge?’
‘It is not made public yet but on challenging the arresting party Sir Francis was told that it was for ...’
‘Adultery with the Queen?’
‘Yes — and conspiracy to kill the King.’
An unaskable question hung in the air between them till Sir Richard finally said, ‘No, there’ll be little truth in it. Francis could not conspire to kill a dog and as for adultery — apart from one little indiscretion his mistress has always been gambling. For the others — Henry Norris has been the King’s man all his life, Brereton is a likeable idiot, Rochford is too clever by half to put a foot wrong. Smeaton — perhaps.’
‘Sir?’
‘A commoner made good, in love with the Queen beyond doubt. She might have used him. Peasants make good breeding stock you know.’
Aware that the old man was speaking high treason but aware also that his paymaster was Sir Richard’s agent and therefore he was in a position of trust, the messenger merely stared.
‘Those sons of the soil can sire boys, think on it.’
‘I am, Sir Richard. I am also thinking that if the King is determined to make such a case as this then there is little hope.’
Sir Richard’s shoulders straightened.
‘We are running too eager,’ he said. ‘The indictments have not been drawn yet. And the accused must be tried by jury. I intend to fight for my boy’s life. Now get to bed. You have ridden hard and tomorrow you must return with various letters. Be so good as to ask my Steward to send my wife and daughter-in-law to me at once. Do not tell him the reason.’
&nb
sp; Anne came into the room first, an unmistakable resemblance to Francis seeming clearer than ever in the candlelight.
‘What is it?’ she said, sensing bad news by her husband’s straight expression.
‘Wait,’ he answered. ‘Please wait until Rose arrives. I have no wish to say it all twice.’
But she persisted with ‘What is wrong?’ and he was only saved by his daughter-in-law whirling into the room in a flurry of flying curls and rolled-up sleeves gasping, ‘I cannot stay for long for Henry is screaming fit to wake the dead and his nurse is already a-weeping.’
Then she grew quiet as she sensed the stillness about her.
‘What is it? Has ill befallen Francis?’ she whispered.
Sir Richard who had been casting round desperately as to how to tell them simply said, ‘Yes.’
Anne Weston dropped into a chair but Rose stood absolutely still and said, ‘Is he dead?’
‘No, he has been taken to the Tower.’
‘On what accusation?’
‘He is charged with adultery with the Queen. But remember the indictments have not yet been drawn.’
Anne Weston said, ‘I knew that woman would cause trouble from the second my eyes were laid on her. She always seemed so — unreal.’
Rose answered, ‘Real enough to take men into her bed, it would appear.’
Sir Richard said very loudly, ‘Do you really believe that? Do you honestly think that she — the cleverest woman in the kingdom — would risk her neck for excitement between the sheets? Think again Rose, I beg you. Do you or do you not believe Francis to be innocent?’