by Deryn Lake
Not wanting to talk to Thomas but to think instead of what the ending of this particular year might bring, when Queen Anne Boleyn produced a daughter instead of the son the King so longed for, Cloverella rode on fast to where, standing it is own parkland and surrounded by three arboured and trellised gardens, Wolff Hall glowed mellow in the late afternoon.
The house, considerably altered and added to over the years, had originally been built in the thirteenth century by the Esturmys, from whose line a daughter had married Roger Seymour just over a hundred years before. Cloverella’s uncle and aunt — Sir John and Dame Margery — had inherited the property in their youth and it was they who had added a building known as the laundry, and outbuildings on the higher ground to the east. As a result of their endeavours Wolff Hall was now sprawling and spacious; an imposing half-timbered mansion with an impressive long gallery, a chapel — in which this night James, the family priest, would bless the newly-married couple — and an entrance courtyard. Nonetheless, it was to the Great Barn, set beyond the house, that Cloverella now followed the army of servants who were busily scurrying backward and forward, their arms full of goods and chattels, and their faces all agrin and agape.
Once in the barn’s entrance door, however, she stopped short, her breath quite gone with the surprise of the transformation that Dame Margery had brought about. Every wall of the thatched and boarded building had been hung with a tapestry, fastened on by tenter hooks, and down the centre ran a table — large enough to seat a hundred — already laid with plate and eating irons. Fresh garden flowers filled the empty corners and the smell of these in the confined space was overpowering.
‘Why, Aunt,’ Cloverella called, clapping her hands at the same time, ‘it is like a palace. I have never seen anything so splendid.’
Dame Margery Seymour spun round, her cheeks flushed and a wisp of hair descending from her cap. ‘Cloverella, you’ve come at last! Where have you been?’ Without waiting for an answer she went on, ‘Do you really think it looks fit for a wedding feast? You don’t think Anne Stanhope will think it beneath her?’
Cloverella walked slowly round the table, examining everything. ‘How could she? Why the King himself could dine in here.’
‘I hope you’re right. If only I had met her more often and knew her likes and dislikes.’
Her niece looked thoughtful. ‘It is strange that Edward brought her here so little. Why do you think that was?’
‘Because that woman’ — Dame Margery never mentioned the adulterous Katherine Filliol by name — ‘was still alive. Poor Ned! Why, Jane told me that he met and fell in love with Mistress Stanhope at Christmastime four years ago but hid all his feelings until she finally had the good grace to die.’
Cloverella smiled. Her aunt’s most endearing quality was her intense loyalty to her children who, in her eyes, could do no wrong whatsoever. She had given birth to ten, four now gone — one as a young man, one as a boy, and the other two of the Sweat — and adopted another. To Cloverella, Dame Margery was exactly what a mother should be, comfortable and round and rosy, a sweet loving bundle to cuddle up to on a winter’s night — so unlike the wayward slip who had made love to a stable boy and borne Cloverella as a result.
How her daughter wondered what she had been like, and how she dreamed of her! Her dead mother could come to her at night, wandering in a misty landscape, a will’o-the-wisp with laughter like music and eyes deeper than an unfathomed ocean; a sprite who should never have borne a child and who had died in agony when she did.
Cloverella collected herself as her aunt spoke again. ‘I do hope Edward will be happy this time. Why, my heart will break if he does not find contentment.’
‘I think he will — in his way,’ Cloverella answered slowly. But Dame Margery did not notice the hesitation and further conversation between them was halted by a small voice saying, ‘Cuckoo,’ from the doorway. Aunt and niece turned together and simultaneously let out a cry, for there stood the daughter of one, the cousin and friend of the other. Jane Seymour had returned to Wolff Hall.
After the initial kissing and hugging, Cloverella finally held her childhood’s companion at arm’s length to see the changes in her. And, indeed, there were some. It was true that Jane was no prettier than before, yet now she had a certain style, a certain elegance, brought about partly by the beautiful clothes she wore and partly by her manner. She had softened somehow, become more of a sympathetic listener, an intelligent foil. Standing in certain lights, talking with animation, one could almost believe she was beautiful — a trick that perhaps she had learned from Anne Boleyn.
‘Well?’ she said, for Cloverella’s approval.
‘You look transformed, quite wonderful! I suppose you have many suitors?’
Jane inclined her head to indicate that she would reveal nothing before her mother, who was fluttering over the table in the background but listening hard all the while. Loudly she said, ‘Mother, with your permission, may I rest for an hour? I have ridden hard today.’
Dame Margery clucked over her like a goose to its gosling. ‘Why, of course, my chuck. Cloverella, you go with Jane and see she is comfortable. She is to have her old room all to herself.’
The two girls smiled as they crossed the short distance to the house and went up the imposing stairway. But it was not until Jane had removed her travelling clothes and stood in her nether garments that she finally pulled a face and answered, ‘There are no suitors. Attending on the Queen’s Grace leaves little time for anything else.’
‘But surely you are surrounded by men?’ Cloverella said in surprise.
‘Yes, but the Queen is usually the centre of attention.’
Cloverella nodded. It was quite obvious already that her cousin had a hearty dislike of the woman she was sworn to serve.
‘Is she such a wretch?’ she asked.
‘She is,’ Jane answered fiercely. ‘Oh, Cloverella, if you had been at Court and seen the banishment of the old Queen — or the Dowager Princess as she is now called. It was pathetic.’ She turned to look at her cousin earnestly. ‘I am young and have no memory or allegiance to old times. And yet it tore my heart in shreds to see that poor worn face — a face that once belonged to a pretty Spanish princess, remember — crying silently, all beaten and done for. I think of it still.’
Cloverella shook her head wonderingly. ‘But the new Queen must have some redeeming feature.’
Jane sat down on her bed and her cousin felt she had never seen her more thoughtful. ‘Sometimes, just very occasionally, she looks quite defenceless. As if events ran away with her and she could not stop them. Do you understand what I mean?’
‘Very well,’ answered Cloverella softly. ‘I often wonder whether my own mother felt like that.’
Jane smiled. ‘You should not dwell on it. It is all in the past. Now, what of the future? How is your magic gift?’
She said it with amusement, rather as if she were mentioning some comfortable family joke. ‘It improves,’ replied Cloverella, catching her inference, ‘I will be ready soon.’
‘For what?’
‘To help people know the truth of things.’
Still smiling, Jane said, ‘And what do you predict for the Queen? I suppose another triumph and the birth of a son?’
‘On the contrary, it is a girl. It is also the beginning of her downfall.’
Jane’s face changed dramatically and just for a second there was a delighted gleam behind her eyes. ‘I hope so,’ she whispered. ‘She has dealt out enough blows and cost enough good men their lives, God knows.’
‘But we are not judge and jury,’ Cloverella answered. ‘That is for a greater power.’
‘Oh pooh,’ said Jane, only just joking. ‘If you go on like that I will have to box your ears. Now don’t speak of that woman any more. Instead tell me everything that has happened at Wolff Hall since I have been away.’
*
Ever afterwards, the residents of the manor house were to remember the day that Sir E
dward brought home his second wife. Not only because of the immense joy that this gave to his family but also because of news of a greater event, that indirectly was to effect the lives of every one of them, and of which they learned that night.
Just as Dame Margery had planned, a grand banquet followed the blessing of the marriage in the Seymours’ private chapel, the actual ceremony having taken place at the bride’s home. It was a banquet that would have been too large to encompass in the hall and so had been prepared in the Great Barn, used for celebrations when the number of guests was too great to be encompassed within the house. And what a success such a venture proved. The guests had packed in with a will and even though, much as Dame Margery had dreaded, Anne Stanhope’s haughty eyes had run over the place with an air of disparagement, even she had finally thawed out and allowed herself to have a good time.
She was very much as Tom had hinted; beautiful to look at, powerful as a tigress — and utterly domineering. Gazing at her beloved cousin Edward, Cloverella’s heart bled for him. He was obviously wildly in love, all his affections, sublimated while his erring wife Katherine Filliol eked out her last days in a convent — at last given full rein. He who was so serious and so honourable could hardly keep his hands off his bride and his eyes, whenever Anne looked at him, went bright with emotion.
She’ll be pregnant in a twelve-month, thought Cloverella, and for once needed no flash of second sight to know that she was right.
And Edward, already the nominal father of two boys, neither of whom he believed was his, looked good and ready to settle down to family life at last. His present position as a Squire of the Body — an appointment he had held for the last three years — involved him in daily personal attendance upon the King and it was obvious that Henry liked him. For Edward had not only good looks and courage but also the charm that was the gift of all the Seymour children. He was quite definitely one of those young men about the court who were destined to ride high — provided they made no important political enemies. He had also more than his share of integrity to help him; as if he had taken all of Tom’s and added it to his own.
Yet this night even the bridegroom’s attractive manner was nothing compared to that of his younger brother. For Tom, eyed by all the eligible females in the company, was in his element. And when the table was pushed back and the dancing, country-style, began, he seized women and girls by the waist and twirled them round until they were breathless and had no option but to seek his support. Finally he came to Cloverella and picked her up like thistledown, holding her with straight arms high over his head.
Enough wine had been drunk for no one to care and she could do nothing but laugh as he slid her down the length of his body and said, ‘Well, little cousin, what do you think of my new sister-in-law?’
Cloverella hesitated. ‘Edward must keep a tight rein on her, of that I am certain.’
‘Why, will she be unfaithful?’
‘No, not that. It isn’t that.’
‘What then?’
‘She is so powerful, stronger than he is. She could push him into all kinds of trouble.’
Tom grinned. ‘What are you talking about?’
‘I’m not certain — yet. It is just that I love Edward and want him to be happy.’
Tom pulled her close to him. ‘And do you love me?’
In a split second she was weak and trembling, longing to be his, yet knowing at the same time that Thomas could do this to all women, that there was nothing special about his feelings for her.
‘Well?’
She couldn’t answer, realising that both her parents must have lusted as she was doing now in order for her to be conceived. ‘You are silent,’ he persisted.
‘Because you give me little choice. How can I be expected to answer sensibly in all this heat and noise?’
‘Then step outside,’ he answered, close to her ear.
She would have done so. Would have gone with him into the forest and lain down naked beneath the stars had the most extraordinary thing not happened. Just as she stepped towards the door, Cloverella saw a reflection in the great punch bowl. She glimpsed a man’s face, saw the great mass of dark curls that surrounded it, the glowing amber eyes that seemed to look straight through her. Then the vision faded and with it her terrible passion. Cloverella was herself again, quite calm and composed, and looking at Tom as she had always done, like a dearly loved brother.
‘I might get cold,’ she said with a laugh, and then added, ‘You have not danced with Jane yet. Look, she is quite alone.’
And it was true. Tom’s sister sat rather sadly, isolated in all that merry dancing pack, her small hands folded in her lap and not speaking to a soul.
He shot Cloverella a penetrating look, saying, ‘Then can we step outside tomorrow?’
‘Who knows?’ she answered carelessly. ‘I doubt that I shall have the time.’
He would have retorted, said something quite sharp to her, had not there been a general call for the bedding to take place. Having been cheated of the merriment after the actual wedding, the guests were calling for a re-enactment to take place now, and Edward and Anne were laughingly giving consent. There was a general hurrying and scurrying as the female guests surrounded the bride and took her, smiling and flushed, her colourful hair escaping from her headdress, out of the barn and through the cool darkness of evening into Wolff Hall. Behind her, at a respectful distance, followed Edward and his supporters, and it was not until the couple were cheered into a bed blessed by James, Sir John’s priest, that some semblance of decorum returned to the guests who, certain that the bridegroom was doing his duty, returned to the barn to dance through the night.
It was as dawn came up over the Wiltshire landscape, suddenly cold and fierce, throwing pools of mist over the fields and wreathing clammy fingers around the ancient stones which stood so silent and mystic and totally puzzling, that the rider from London, the last guest to appear, came exhausted to the doorway of the barn, calling for ale.
The women had long since gone but old Sir John drank on, toasting his son’s happiness, while Tom still seemed bright as a button, as if drink and companionship were all he needed to keep him merry. He looked up as the newcomer crossed over to where he sat, then jumped to his feet and embraced his cousin, Francis Bryan.
The unblinking grey eyes looked into his unsmilingly as Francis said, ‘I could not get here before. As it is I’ve ridden all night. The Queen was in labour and I simply had to stay to see the outcome.’
The few remaining guests went silent; this was momentous news for them all. A prince at last to satisfy the wants of both King and commoners.
‘Well?’ It was Sir John, half rising to his feet, who spoke.
Sir Francis rubbed the back of his hand across his mouth, making a smear. He suddenly looked drained and colourless.
‘A girl,’ he said shortly. ‘The Queen’s Grace was delivered of a girl during the afternoon.’
‘God’s teeth,’ exclaimed someone, ‘how fares His Grace in all this?’
‘Cold as ice,’ answered Bryan, remembering only too vividly the frozen expression that had come over that great face as the physicians had broken their news. ‘But he is trying to remain calm. Already he speaks of the prince that is yet to come.’
‘She had better oblige,’ said Sir John, from his cups. ‘She had better oblige if she doesn’t want to suffer the same fate as the old Queen.’
‘Or worse,’ put in a voice from the shadows.
They all turned to look at the speaker but it was only old mad Will who had served Sir John since both had been young men, and was nowadays regarded by most to be simple.
‘Well, I’ll drink to the new Princess,’ said Tom, breaking the mood. ‘Come on, who’ll down a toast with me?’
The diminished wedding feast rose solemnly to its feet, some swaying more than others. ‘The Princess,’ they chorused, and drained their cups.
‘May she soon have a brother,’ added Francis Bryan.
> ‘Amen to that.’
‘And now to serenade Edward,’ said Tom. ‘He’s had long enough to complete his business. A song would not come amiss. Come on, wake up,’ he shouted to the minstrels who slumbered in a heap of humanity, some asleep on each other, others with their heads on the table, cradled by their forearms.
Blearily, they rose to do his bidding, staggering across the small courtyard to the house and slumping down again beneath the window behind which the newly-weds slept.
‘A dance,’ instructed Tom, leaping over the flagstones. ‘A dance for a new-born Princess.’
Ever afterwards he was to think of that. How he had danced, alone and tipsy, on hearing the news that the flame which was entirely to consume his heart, the only creature to stir his passion beyond endurance, had drawn her first breath in the world. That the glory which was to become Elizabeth had been born.
Chapter Three
It was a delicious awakening, at first abrupt and fearful, making the sleeper sit bolt upright, terrified that she was late for her duties; then, almost at once, followed a glorious sinking back on to her pillows and the realisation that she was at home, that no one was about to call her; the initial shock suddenly worth the suffering, by virtue of the pleasure which ensued. With a small sigh, Jane Seymour closed her eyes, and considered going back to sleep. But oblivion had no wish to come. Instead, through her mind raced all kinds of thoughts and memories, which seemed to Jane to take the form of a waking dream.
For no logical reason the girl found herself recalling her first meeting with Katharine of Aragon, when Jane had been barely twenty and the Queen over forty and threatened on every front by the power of the King’s dark lady. Yet despite all that turmoil, Katharine had managed a considerate smile for her shy young maid-of-honour and had helped her to rise from her curtsey with her own hand. It was something that Jane had never forgotten; the kind face, once pretty, looking at her so earnestly and smiling.