by Deryn Lake
‘Dancing,’ the King was calling. ‘Let there be dancing.’
A dozen willing hands pushed the trestle tables back against the walls enlarging the square in their midst, and the King himself was on his feet, raising up Dame Margery and capering about with her, amidst cheers and laughs.
Without seeing him arrive, Edward heard Carew at his elbow. ‘This is going to be a rowdy night and His Grace has had plenty to drink. In some way or other he is bound to declare himself to Jane.’
Edward frowned. ‘I don’t like the thought of it. She must promise him nothing.’
‘Then warn her,’ hissed Carew — and vanished into the midst of the throng.
But Edward had no chance to seek out his sister, for a tug at his sleeve revealed Cloverella, her eyes full of laughter, her lips asking him to dance with her. Smiling, he gathered her into his arms, wondering, as he often did, what would become of such a delicious scrap of humanity with its incongruous mixture of both bad and royal blood.
‘You look serious,’ she said. ‘Are you disappointed that Anne did not have a son?’
‘Of course not,’ he answered, playfully tickling. ‘We have plenty of time yet.’ His voice changed and he added, ‘Anne told me that you predicted another girl. Did you really know, or was it just a lucky guess?’
Cloverella’s eyes softened to the texture of pansies as she answered, ‘I have the Romany gift, Ned. Long ago I wished for it to grow stronger — and it has. I truly believe I now have second sight.’
Thinking of the experience in Calais when a rumple-headed youth had, by what Edward could only call magic, let him see Katherine Filliol in bed with a gentleman of his acquaintance, Edward nodded. ‘Then you are fortunate.’ He smiled and added, ‘Will Anne and I have a son?’
‘More than one,’ she answered.
‘And the Queen?’
His cousin’s face went dark. ‘No more children.’
‘But she is pregnant now.’
‘I know. Yet I feel certain I am right. I do not believe Anne Boleyn will bear another living child.’
She felt Edward stiffen. ‘Then that could put a different slant to the whole thing,’ he murmured.
‘What whole thing?’
He smiled down at her, then kissed the tip of her nose. ‘If your gift has not told you, then I have no intention of doing so. Go and consult your cards or scrying glass or whatever it is you use for divination. And when you have found the answer come and tell me.’
Cloverella looked cross. ‘I think you are teasing me, Edward.’
‘Now what makes you say that?’ he said, and laughed, suddenly looking as young and charming as he had as a boy.
‘Oh you!’ answered Cloverella in a fury, yet half smiling as she pummelled Edward’s chest before whirling him off at double speed, so fast that they nearly fell over and thus created a diversion which hid the moment when Henry Tudor and Jane Seymour left the Great Barn.
‘May we walk outside? It is hot within,’ the King said as they slipped quietly through the door.
‘As you wish, Your Grace,’ answered Jane, putting a prudish expression on her face to hide the fact that her heart had started to thump hard at the very thought of being alone with him.
He nodded but said nothing, staring up to where the moon hung low above them, dark with the colour of harvest, lighting with an uneasy glow the outline of Wolff Hall and its many outbuildings.
‘I would be private with you,’ Henry said quietly. ‘Where may we walk that we will not be disturbed?’
‘Perhaps in the orchard. I doubt anyone will come there.’
Her voice was calm, clipped, almost icy, but in reality she was terrified. Tonight, she felt sure, the King would ask her to be his mistress when she returned to Court. Would tell her that his affair with Madge Shelton was over, his marriage empty, that only she could fill the space in his bed. And though many Court beauties would have thrilled to hear those words, Jane shrank from the very thought for reasons more complex than she would have dared admit.
She walked on nervously and as the couple drew away from the house, the noise of festivity grew less and other sounds drifted in: an owl, a nightjar, the leaves on the orchard trees, the silence of Wiltshire by night. Smells, too, filled the cool, sharp air. Ripened fruit, the ciderish tang of rotting apples, the keen sweetness of purple plums.
‘Jane,’ said the King urgently, drawing her to a halt beneath a tree laden with low hanging fruit. ‘Why are you still so formal. We have walked together every night this week. Could you not call me by my name?’
‘But you are my sovereign,’ she said, turning away, her face harsh and stiff-looking. ‘I could not presume such familiarity.’
‘Jane, Jane, Jane,’ Henry answered, taking her by the shoulders and turning her to face him. ‘I give you permission. You are to call me Henry when we are private together. You need only be formal in front of others.’
‘When you would be ashamed to admit we were on first name terms.’
The words were out before she had had time to think about them and she dropped her eyes, her usual ploy, not wishing to see the thundercloud on his face.
But strangely he answered mildly enough. ‘It is not that. It is just that I like to keep my private business to myself.’
Jane looked up. ‘What private business, Your Grace? There is nothing of that nature between us.’
‘No,’ he answered, tightening his grip and pulling her roughly towards him, ‘there is not. But I would wish it otherwise, Jane. I would wish that we were close friends.’
‘Close?’ The word hung in the air like a sword.
‘You know perfectly well what I mean. I want you, Jane.’
She was frighteningly near him, in such proximity that she could scarcely draw breath. Much as she had feared, the extraordinary size of him had its usual effect. Her unsteady heart beat even more quickly, her legs grew weak and the divine sensation that she associated with passion shot through her and would not go away. She fought to draw back, struggling in his embrace regardless of the fact that he was King of England.
‘Don’t, please let me go,’ she gasped.
‘Why? Do you find me distasteful? Is that it?’
Jane stood stock still, shocking him by her sudden rigidity. ‘No, no, it’s not that.’
‘Then what, you capricious creature? What is wrong?’
He had half released his grip on her and Jane turned away, her face hidden in shadow. ‘It is something that I would rather not put into words.’
Inwardly Henry groaned, wondering why it was always his fate to encounter difficult women. If it had not been for their utter disparity it could have been Anne Boleyn who spoke to him out of the gloom. He released his hold on Jane and shook his head. ‘As you will. I’ll question you no further.’
His indifferent manner had its effect and the girl looked up at him. ‘Your Grace, I owe you some kind of explanation.’
The massive shoulders shrugged. ‘Yes, but being a woman it is unlikely you will give it.’
She gave a careful smile. ‘In that you are wrong. I was afraid because I am still inexperienced. I have no knowledge of men for the simple reason that it is my wish to be taught the art of love by my husband, whoever he will be and when I finally meet him. I have seen enough of those who give their favours freely to conclude that they are thrown out like old shoes when their purpose is served.’
Henry closed his eyes. Once before, in the gardens of Hever Castle, he had heard an almost identical speech.
‘God protect me from virtuous women!’ he said, only just under his breath.
If Jane heard she gave no sign. ‘I am sure you will understand, Your Grace.’
‘Yes, I understand,’ he answered bitterly. ‘And some of what you say is true. Though it is not my custom to ill-use the women I have loved.’
It was on the tip of Jane’s tongue to ask him how he would describe his treatment of Katharine of Aragon but she trembled at the thought of such t
reason.
‘So if Your Grace will excuse me, I am afraid I must decline what you suggest.’
‘By God,’ he shouted, suddenly furious. ‘I’ve suggested nothing — yet!’
And with that he abruptly snatched her into his arms, right off her feet and suspended her in the air like a helpless child before he finally lowered her to a level with his demanding mouth and swept her lips to his. Every sense, every nerve, every beat of life, seemed to stop in Jane as she strained against him, unable to help herself. It was all as she had feared it would be; she was on fire; a grasping greedy sensualist, prepared to experience every sensation in the universe and then demand more.
He knew, of course; knew by the way she responded exactly what she was. And as he lowered her to the ground there was a smile of pure pleasure on the face of Henry Tudor, and he gave the laugh of a child on seeing a present still unwrapped, or that of a navigator glimpsing an island, as yet uncharted.
Despite this, she ran from him. The daughter of the house at which the monarch of the realm was being entertained, turned on her heel and without so much as a perfunctory salute, sped away. Tears of shame stung Jane’s bitter cheeks as she hurried through the sweet-smelling darkness and a great sob escaped from her bruised and trembling mouth; and there was no peace until she entered the dim and kindly darkness of the confines of a deserted Wolff Hall and, eventually, passing beside the house, the cloistered tranquillity of the family chapel.
Yet there was no frown of anger on the face of the King who had been left thus abruptly. On the contrary he grinned, boyish and excited, his blood stirring as it had done once before, long ago, when the dark daughter of a Kentish knight, little more than a girl, had first come to his Court and cast her lovely eyes on him. With a whistle, Henry Tudor straightened his attire and strode off towards the Great Barn and the revels that had continued most merrily despite his absence.
*
It was Cloverella who found her cousin, asleep and lying at full stretch on one of the pews. The last of the revellers was making his way to bed, the King had long since retired, the dawn was up and spicing the sky above the Great Barn, when Cloverella crept into the aromatic darkness and not altogether to her surprise caught a glimpse of Jane’s bejewelled headdress.
So the girl had not left for Topenham Lodge, a victim of yet another headache, as Henry Tudor had so stoutly maintained. A question mark formed in Cloverella’s mind and after a while, standing alone in the reverential silence, the answer came to her. With a very serious expression, Cloverella went to sit beside her cousin and relentlessly woke her up.
‘Good gracious,’ said Jane, obviously amazed to see her surroundings. ‘I must have come here to rest and instead fallen asleep. What time is it?’
‘Daybreak, and the King will leave in a few hours. Perhaps you should go to Topenham Lodge and change,’ Cloverella answered quietly.
Jane sat upright, looking guilty. ‘What happened when I did not return to the banquet? Was Mother angry?’
Cloverella grinned. ‘No, your fellow conspirator covered up for you. We all thought you had long since ridden home.’
Jane stared at her. ‘My fellow …? Oh you mean His Grace. I see.’ And she had the good grace to blush.
‘Dearest cousin,’ said Cloverella, more directly than she had ever spoken to Jane before. ‘I came on this visit because I dreamed that you were weeping and needed me close at hand. And now that I am here I find I am right. Do not be afraid to answer me because it is the Romany part of me that speaks to you now. Is the situation between you and the King as dangerous as I think it is?’
Jane turned away, her pale face so ashen that she looked only one breath away from death. ‘I believe it is,’ she said.
‘He wants you for his mistress, of course.’
It was a statement not a question and beneath Cloverella’s shrewd glance, Jane had no option but to silently nod her head.
‘I see. Listen, we must both go at once to Topenham Lodge. I have the magic cards there and we can learn much from them. Then we can return here to wave His Grace farewell and no one need suspect that you haven’t been there all night.’
Jane looked dubious. ‘Cloverella, I don’t think I want to be involved with witchcraft.’
‘It is not evil to consult the cards. All Romanies do it. Really, you are quite foolish sometimes.’
‘Yes, I suppose so. Nearly everyone at Court confers with astrologers and soothsayers, after all.’
‘Even the King did so before Elizabeth was born.’
Jane nodded. ‘Yes, and they all got it wrong. With one exception.’
‘Who was that?’
‘Dr Zachary. A very odd young man. And he was imprisoned in the Tower for his pains.’
‘Was he executed?’
‘No, later the King had him released. Apparently he is a bastard child of that old fox Norfolk and the Duke exerted his influence on his son’s behalf. I believe these days he lives in Greenwich.’
‘A bastard!’ repeated Cloverella, her eyes shining. ‘So he is very much like me?’
‘Yes,’ Jane answered thoughtfully. ‘There is a similarity, now I come to think of it.’
‘Then let us see if I have half his wisdom.’
‘I think perhaps that might be rather hard,’ Jane said with a smile.
But there Mistress Seymour was not right for, having ridden nervously through the whispering forest and begged the porter at Topenham Lodge to keep secret their late return, she was amazed at the skill with which — having first made Jane shuffle them — Cloverella laid out the magic cards in the shape of a great tree.
‘Where did you learn that?’ she asked, smiling a little but for all that amazed.
‘From my grandmother. These are hers. I kept them hidden until a few years ago.’
‘Well, well,’ said Jane. ‘And what do you see?’
Cloverella made no answer, an extraordinary expression crossing her face. She seemed to her cousin to have gone deathly white and her eyes had grown both large and dreamy. She bent over the cards, caressing them like children, and her voice, when it finally came, was little above a whisper.
‘He is drawn to you, Jane. There is something about you that fascinates him.’ Cloverella glanced up and Jane saw that the girl looked astonished. ‘In some way, though it is quite extraordinary, you have something in common.’ She gave a low laugh. ‘And I believe it to be physical passion.’
Jane was glad that she sat in shadow and Cloverella could not see her face growing ever pinker. She made no reply and her cousin went on, ‘Do you know, I think the King is about to fall in love with you.’
Jane gulped. ‘Surely not!’
‘I mean it. And there’s something else here too.’ There was a long silence then Cloverella said, ‘God’s blood. I don’t believe this,’ and sat back hard in her chair.
‘What is it? What do you see?’
Cloverella shot her a look of shocked surprise. ‘These cards tell me that you will one day sign yourself “Jane the Queen”.’
‘As a joke? Does it mean that I will do it for a joke?’
‘No,’ said Cloverella, shaking her head. ‘If I am to believe what I see here, you are destined to be Queen of England.’
They stared at each other in horror and it was difficult to say which was the paler of the two.
‘They must be wrong,’ said Jane eventually.
Cloverella shook her head, the dark hair flying. ‘That is not so. It is not possible for these cards to lie. They are of ancient wisdom and can tell nothing but the truth.’
‘But what of the Queen?’ asked Jane in a whisper.
‘It does not say and I am not skilled enough to know. All I can tell you is that you will wear her crown.’
Jane stood up. ‘I cannot listen to any more. It is too much for me to grasp. How could such things be?’
‘His Grace will love you — and you will love him. And he will be determined to make you his consort once that has happe
ned.’
Jane shook her head in bewilderment. ‘You are quite sure?’
‘I am positive,’ said Cloverella. ‘But perhaps you should consult one more knowledgeable than I in order to learn more.’
‘But who?’ said Jane, shivering with fright.
‘Why, obviously, Dr Zachary.’
‘Yes,’ Jane’s voice was the merest whisper. ‘You are right. I must go to him. Soon.’
*
In the brightness of morning it could be seen that the great courtyard in front of Wolff Hall was packed with horsemen, while its corners rang with the shouts of departing guests, their cries mingling with a strange cacophony of neighing animals, barking hounds, excited yells and, drowning all, a series of blasts upon the Esturmy horn. The King was taking his leave after a visit that had lasted two days more than originally intended.
Cloverella had never seen such a colourful throng. Henry’s fellow guests, each one a trusted member of his personal retinue, swung into their saddles one after the other, while Robert Cheseman, the King’s falconer, his bony face dominated by his long hard nose so that he resembled a bird of prey himself, held Henry’s best bird on his wrist, the tinkling of the creature’s bells adding to the general uproar.
‘A triumph, Sir John,’ Henry was saying enthusiastically. ‘I cannot remember so successful a hunt.’
He was brimming with unspoken thoughts which obviously were of a highly gratifying nature, for his eyes sparkled and his small, full mouth beamed. And though he bade farewell to everyone with extreme courtesy it was for Jane that he reserved his greatest charm, leaping out of the saddle with alacrity at his first glimpse of her.
But by way of response Mistress Seymour merely lowered her eyes demurely, put on her most prudish expression, and dropped an impeccable curtsey at the King’s well-shod feet.