The Curse of the Hungerfords

by Alison Weir

  John had no place in this fantasy.

  For answer, she twined her arms around Edward’s neck and kissed him soundly. ‘I want nothing more than to be your wife,’ she told him. ‘But there is one obstacle. There is John.’

  She had been exercising her mind on how to go about dissolving a marriage, and had a plan ready hatched. If John was amenable – and Edward might make it worth his while – they could go to a priest and say they had never consummated their marriage. That would be grounds enough, she was sure. It seemed the perfect solution.

  She outlined her plan to Edward, and was dismayed to see him frown. ‘Even if John agreed, our marriage would be invalid, founded upon a lie. Sweetheart, I have to think about safeguarding the family inheritance. Should – God forfend – Walter die, I would need a lawful heir to succeed me in his place. And John would know that no child born of our marriage was lawful. It would give him power over us. I would not put it past him to make demands.’

  Agnes knew he had good reason to be concerned. She knew John. ‘So, what are we to do?’

  John placed his hand on her breast and began to knead it. ‘I would do anything for you, my love,’ he murmured. ‘You can have no idea of how much I have already done to smooth the way for us.’

  Her eyes met his, understanding dawning. To her surprise, she was not horrified or repelled, but aroused.

  ‘To what lengths would you go to ensure that we can be together?’ he whispered, as he mounted her.

  From the darkest abyss of her mind, the idea came to her.

  For two months, she pondered how to go about it. And then Dame Fortune had favoured her. Out riding one day, she had come upon two men punching and robbing a man who was lying prone and moaning on the dirt track. The two archers who were escorting her had seized and bound them, and dragged them at the horse’s tail back to the castle, with their victim riding pillion.

  ‘My lord shall hear of your offence,’ Agnes told them when they arrived, and went off to find Sir Edward.

  ‘My love,’ she said, winding her arms about his neck, ‘I pray you, offer them their freedom in return for their performing one task for me in the strictest secrecy. Say that, if they speak a word of it, they shall, for a certainty, be hanged for their assault on that poor gentleman – and for libel!’

  Their eyes met in understanding. By now, she knew, Edward would have jumped out of a window for her, so she was not surprised when he agreed to do as she asked.

  The men stood before her. Despite the July heat, Agnes shivered inwardly, aware that she was about to cross a line and that there would be no returning. Yet John had to go. He had to pay for what he had done to her. And she must be free to attain her destiny.

  William Mathew and William Inges were watching her apprehensively. They were not common thugs, but yeomen of Edward’s manor of Heytesbury in Wiltshire. Both, she had learned, gratified, had a reputation for violence.

  ‘My husband, Master Cotell is the steward here,’ she told them. ‘He is an evil man, a bane on this household, and he has threatened to kill me. I have no redress in law, so I need your help. I want you to ensure that he threatens me no more.’ She fixed her gaze on them, at once – she hoped – appealing and challenging.

  ‘You want him dead?’ Mathew asked.

  ‘If that is the best remedy, yes,’ she replied. ‘If you do this for me, and swear to keep it a secret, my lord will let you go free immediately.’

  They looked at each other and nodded.

  ‘We’ll do it,’ said Inges.

  ‘Good,’ Agnes said, knowing that the line had been crossed.

  The bell chimed midnight. John had not come to bed. It was still hot, and the curtains were drawn to let in the gentle breeze. In the moonlight, Agnes got up, pulled on a night robe and tiptoed down the spiral stairs to the bailey. Opposite, she could see lights in the kitchen windows.

  As she made her way across the cobbles, she could smell roasting meat. The cook must be preparing ahead. They would have cold cuts tomorrow.

  She paused. A voice in her head was telling her to go back to bed. If Mathew and Inges were about their business, she should not be visible anywhere nearby. But, as she turned around, she saw she was not alone in the bailey. A dark figure was standing in the shadows below the Redcap Tower.

  No! It could not be! Had one wickedness begotten another? Had the redcap sensed blood? Atavistic fear engulfed her, and she ran back to the stairs. Lifting the door latch, she looked behind her fearfully, only to see that the figure had disappeared. She could not see it anywhere.

  Back in bed, she tried to still her racing heart. Had the men done as she had commanded? Had the dark deed really raised the dreadful redcap? If not, who had been standing in the shadows – and had they seen her?

  In the morning, John’s side of the bed remained empty. Dared she hope that he would trouble her no more, and that the path to happiness lay open before her?

  She got up, determined to act as if all was normal, and made her way to the kitchens, where the servants were busy preparing breakfast. The warm smell of new-baked bread filled the room.

  ‘Have you seen my husband?’ Agnes asked the cook.

  ‘No, mistress,’ he said. No one else had, either.

  ‘He did not come to bed last night,’ she elaborated. ‘Perchance he was detained somewhere on Sir Edward’s business.’

  ‘What’s this?’ a kitchen wench asked, bending down to pick up something from the floor. It was part of a necktie, ragged at one end, as if it had been ripped in half. Agnes recognized it at once.

  ‘It’s my husband’s,’ she said.

  ‘He were here last night,’ a scullion told her. ‘I saw him near the bakehouse.’

  ‘That’s strange,’ she answered. ‘When was that?’

  ‘About ten o’clock,’ he replied.

  ‘Then he must be around somewhere,’ she said. ‘I’ll go and look for him.’

  She searched, and when, of course, she could not find John, everyone else hastened to look for him. It was soon clear that he had simply disappeared.

  There was a lot of speculation about the necktie. Had he ripped it himself? Or had there been some sort of scuffle, or even violence done? But there was no indication that a struggle of any sort had taken place. The bailiff’s wife was weeping, Agnes saw, to her satisfaction.

  By now, Sir Edward had been informed of the mysterious absence of his steward, and had ordered a wider search of the countryside roundabouts. As soon as the horsemen had ridden off, he saw Agnes alone.

  ‘I have been told that the deed is done,’ he told her. ‘I will let it be known that the robbers promised to pay compensation to the poor wretch they ambushed, who was well enough to go home this morning. In truth, it will come from me. They have been sworn again to secrecy, in no uncertain terms, and offered positions here, in the stables, so that I can keep an eye on them. But I am sure they will not talk.’

  Agnes found that she was trembling. ‘How do we explain John’s disappearance?’

  He smiled at her. ‘Easily. If people ask, you can testify to his wanderlust, his discontent at being here, the coldness between you. You can say you think he’d been planning for some time to leave.’

  She let him take her in his arms. ‘What did they do with . . . it?’

  ‘I know not. They just said that no one would find any trace of it. Sweetheart, you must not fear. No one will point a finger at you, even if they had cause to. They would have me to reckon with. I am sheriff hereabouts, and responsible for law and order. I will protect you from calumny. And when we are married, no person will dare to spread wicked slanders about my Lady Hungerford.’

  Anne, 1533–1536

  Arthur continued to struggle with his responsibilities. He was honest and conscientious, but clearly not competent. You could sense the exasperation in Master Cromwell’s letters,
in which he complained about Arthur pestering the King with trifles and dispensing favours to all who begged them, and that people were laughing about his Majesty’s deputy being dominated by his wife. We all feared that Arthur might be relieved of his office, and I think Mother would have been delighted if he had, yet still a stream of orders arrived from London. It was obvious, though, that nothing too demanding was being asked of him. Heaven knows what would have befallen Calais if the French had decided to invade!

  Mother was preoccupied with what was happening at court, and at Umberleigh, where my stepsister Jane’s high-handedness had upset the servants. Jane, in turn, complained that, when she and Thomasine had arrived, they had found the priest’s whore living in the house and ruling it extravagantly. It was the whore’s fault that the servants were shirking their duties and defrauding Mother. Jane had kicked her out and set about imposing decent standards on the household. You could see why the servants were complaining.

  We heard regularly from John. He and his tutor sent Mother regular reports on the progress of his education. He was fifteen now, struggling with Latin, but otherwise doing well; and he was clearly impatient to come into control of his inheritance. Mother was grateful for the support given him by Master Husee, Arthur’s man in London, who was well known about the court and marvellous at dealing with the many practical tasks involved in looking after the Lisle interests in England.

  With John’s future assured, and Philippa soon to be wed, Mother began to nurture ambitions for me, Kat and Mary. We must be found places at court, preferably as maids-of-honour in Queen Anne’s household. It was the most prestigious career to which any young lady could aspire – and the best way to secure a good husband.

  With her usual zest and determination, Mother set to work, calling in favours and urging her friends to make representations on her behalf. None of it had the desired effect. She wrote directly, appealing to the Queen, but was rejected, to her mortification. Her Grace had a superfluity of maids-of-honour.

  Mother then remembered that Anne Boleyn had been educated at the French court, which had lent her such polish and so many accomplishments that she had shone like a star when she came to the English court. That was the way to get us noticed, Mother decided. We too should have French accomplishments, so that we, in our turn, could cause a stir at court.

  And so, in the November after the Princess Elizabeth was born, I was sent to Pont-Rémy near Abbeville, to be schooled in the household of the Sire de Riou, a great friend of my stepfather, and a renowned soldier who had distinguished himself in serving the French King. Mary was dispatched to the tutelage of his sister, the wife of the Sire de Bours, not far away. We were to learn French, and be taught to play the lute and virginals, as well as manners, deportment, dancing, embroidery and anything else that would get us noticed and befit us for serving at court.

  I missed Kat, who had stayed at home because a possible marriage was in the offing, and Mary too, but I had a happy time at Pont-Rémy. For all her aristocratic pedigree and patrician looks, Madame, the Sire de Riou’s second wife, treated me as tenderly as if I had been her daughter. Small wonder, as she had but one child living, a daughter from her first marriage. I flourished in her care, and under her instruction. Soon, I was writing letters in French to Mother, demonstrating my prowess and asking her to send me new attire, for I was growing fast. She, in turn, constantly exhorted me to please my loving hosts and keep myself a good and honest maiden.

  I had been at Pont-Rémy for a few months when I learned that, through the good offices of Master Husee, John had entered Lincoln’s Inn to study law, and that Mother’s hopes of a marriage for Kat had fallen through. There was news of Thomasine too – startling news, for she had run away early one morning from Umberleigh to her sister Margery’s house. Mother thought an elopement had gone wrong, but I wondered if Thomasine had merely tried to escape the domineering Jane. Jane was furious, blaming the servants, of course, but even she could not complain when Thomasine fell ill and had to remain with Margery.

  By August 1535, I was settled in the Riou household. To my joy, John paid me a visit, charming Madame with his good looks, newly moulded into manliness. Two months later, Madame gave birth to her first baby by the Sire de Riou, a girl who she named in my honour. In the spring, she took me with her when she made the long journey to visit her daughter at Vendôme. Young Madame de Langey was expecting her first child, and Madame wanted to be there for the confinement. We visited many of her friends and relatives on the way, and coming back, and I was touched by their kindness.

  ‘It is good to see you so merry, Anne,’ Madame declared. ‘I rejoice that you are esteemed by all my kinsfolk. You are such a good girl, and you deserve to be cherished.’ Her words brought a tear to my eye. I knew myself truly happy then.

  I returned to the sad news that Thomasine had died on her way back to Umberleigh. It had happened on the Friday before Palm Sunday. Poor, gentle Thomasine, who had not lived to know the fulfilment of marriage and children: I missed her more than I could have imagined, and wished I had made more of a friend of her.

  Hers was not the only death that touched us that year. Easter had not long passed when there was other, even more shocking, news from England. Queen Anne had been arrested!

  Agnes, 1519–1522

  Agnes had hated being called ‘the widow Cotell’, but it was a small price to pay for staying on in her lodging at Farleigh Hungerford Castle. The two Williams had stayed too, giving no trouble, although she would have preferred not to have to see them every day, living reminders of her crime. But she had greater matters to occupy her now; and she was the widow Cotell no more. In the dark days of January, soon after Christmas, she and Edward had been quietly married.

  Tongues had wagged, she was sure of it. Walter was going around looking like thunder and would barely speak to her. People were still talking about John’s disappearance, and no doubt they thought it scandalous that she had remarried before a decent year of mourning was out. She did not care. She was my Lady Hungerford now, and mistress of the castle. Let one word of gossip come to her ears, and there would be trouble!

  She was beginning to feel invincible. She had done the deed – and got away with it. No one would dare accuse Edward of murder, or his lady.

  Life was good. They had gone up to court several times, and the King himself had congratulated her on her marriage. This year, they would be going to France for the great meeting of the kings of England and France. Edward was having a silk tent made for them, with carpets and a tester bed for their comfort. They could lie there and take joy in each other – and in their good fortune. Sometimes, Agnes reflected, you had to make your luck in this world.

  Anne, 1536–1537

  Each piece of news was more astonishing than the last. The Queen had been imprisoned in the Tower. Five men were being held there with her. It was said they had been her lovers, and had conspired with her to murder the King.

  Then we heard that her brother was one of those men. Her brother? It was unbelievable.

  When the sweet May blossom was out, they were all put on trial and condemned to death. A week later, Mother wrote to say that Queen Anne had been beheaded – with a sword, a last courtesy accorded by her husband.

  And then – as if that were not sensation enough – the King married again, almost immediately. Even Mother had never heard of Mistress Jane Seymour, or Queen Jane, as we must now call her. A jumped-up nobody, by all accounts. Yet people were clamouring to serve that nobody. When Master Husee told Mother that two of Mother’s own nieces had been appointed maids-of-honour, she was more determined than ever to find us places in her household.

  I was instantly summoned back to Calais, to be ready for my preferment. I was fifteen, and Mother was delighted with me.

  ‘I am pleased to find you so polished, Anne – and grown into such a beauty. I always knew you had a good wit, but you have mastered the art of co
nversation adroitly. You shall be the first of my daughters in line for a position at court. It will not be long coming, I am sure of it. If only we were not stuck out here in Calais!’

  Nine months later, Mother was beside herself with frustration, still desperately trying to secure places for me and Kat in the Queen’s household. Letter after letter had gone flying over the Channel, exhorting, wheedling and begging anyone with any influence to help. Master Husee had done his very best, making up to the Queen’s ladies and beseeching them for their help. He had bribed a gentleman of the King’s Privy Chamber to approach the Duchess of Suffolk, and Mother was almost speechless with elation when that lady hinted she might put in a good word for us. She and Arthur both wrote effusive letters to the Duchess, thanking her most lavishly, and trusting she would do them good service.

  To me, Mother confided that she had reservations about the Duchess, who was only eighteen years old and might not handle the matter properly; but Master Husee had insisted that, despite her youth, she was clever, wise and discreet.

  Success came in the most unexpected circumstances. We had shared in the general rejoicing in the news that Queen Jane was with child, and soon, Mother learned from one of her correspondents that the Queen had developed a craving for quail. There are more quail in the marshlands surrounding Calais than we knew what to do with, and they were often served at our table. Mother seized this golden opportunity to win favour with the Queen by sending her a generous supply. Arthur was sent out daily to snare the birds, which were sent by fast messenger. And what joy it was to Mother to hear how much the Queen had enjoyed them.