Pour The Dark Wine

by Deryn Lake

  ‘My dear Friend,’ she read, ‘be advised that I have forgotten nothing of the matter and intend to pursue it further. Your servant and sovereign, H.R.’

  Jane stared at the paper blankly then, as something of its import began to dawn on her, folded it and did not open it again until she had reached the privacy of her own room where, with her thoughts running crazily, she read it once more. That the King was referring to their brief liaison was obvious; indeed he could be writing of nothing else. With a gratifyingly warm sensation, Jane read and re-read the words ‘intend to pursue it further’. So both she and Edward had been wrong; Henry Tudor had not been indulging in mere dalliance; he intended to continue the affair and pursue it to its inevitable conclusion. With a sigh of ecstasy, Jane fell back on her bed and allowed herself to think wicked thoughts until she slept.

  When she awoke it was growing dark and she rose at once and sending for her servant, Emma — a Wiltshire-born girl from the Wolff Hall estate — took great pains to make herself look as near to beautiful as Jane could ever get. Dressed in a soft shade like that of lilac blossom, a French hood trimmed with pearls on her head, Jane carefully painted her face with Cloverella’s preparations, rubbing on to her eyelids a liquid derived from the flower periwinkle, which served to enhance their natural brilliance.

  ‘You look pretty, my Lady,’ said the girl.

  ‘But still pale. Give me some of that rose petal powder.’ Determinedly Jane brushed it on and as her cheeks bloomed with colour was finally content.

  ‘That might well do,’ she said and, smiling to herself, made her way towards the Queen’s apartments.

  In the days of the King’s father it had been the custom for all men and women who lodged at Court to eat together in the Hall and it had been Henry himself who had started the fashion to do otherwise by dining privately in his privy chamber with only a few personal friends and attendants. This notion had been eagerly copied by Katharine of Aragon who had also allowed chosen companions to dance in her bedchamber, and then, of course, the new idea had been fastened on avidly by Anne Boleyn. Jane remembered, as she hurried along, how Anne’s apartments had buzzed with excitement when her star had been ascending, while those of Katharine had been dull and empty.

  ‘The heartless wretch,’ Jane found herself muttering, ‘if I am to be her retribution then so be it. There is nothing too bad for Anne Boleyn after all the pain and suffering she inflicted on the true Queen and her daughter.’

  She stopped in her tracks with that thought, wondering yet again what were Henry’s intentions towards her. If he were to divorce Anne, as some whispered behind their hands, then he would be obliged to return to Katharine — there could be no doubt about that. But then if Anne were to bear a son … With her mind in total confusion, Jane entered the Queen’s apartments to find most of the intimate circle of both Henry and Anne already arrived, dressed like peacocks and conversing noisily. Feeling dowdy in comparison, Jane looked round for an ally and at that moment heard a voice at her elbow and was relieved to see Nicholas Carew.

  ‘My dear Mistress Seymour,’ he said, giving her a secretive smile, ‘how very charming you look. Come …’ And with that he propelled her into a corner out of earshot. ‘Remember everything I say,’ he continued in a fierce whisper. ‘His Grace is enchanted with you but on no account must you ever become his mistress.’

  ‘But …’ Jane answered, perplexed by the suddenness of everything.

  ‘No buts. Come to my chamber tomorrow and we shall have further discussion. Now farewell.’ He laid his finger to his lips and hurried away, leaving Jane shaking her head in bewilderment.

  The arrival of the Queen from her bedchamber, splendidly arrayed in a flowing gown which Jane felt deliberately accentuated the fact that Anne was expecting a child, caused a much needed diversion. But as she curtsied respectfully, Jane felt herself being scrutinised and looked up to see Thomas Elyot, an old friend of Edward’s, watching her thoughtfully. Embarrassment fought with a certain pride as Jane realised that for the first time ever, in the eyes of one or two people, she was the focus of attention. Composing her small mouth into an enigmatic smile, she stared back and then graciously inclined her head.

  If Fate intends me to be a favourite at least let me act the part, she thought.

  But the arrival of Henry and his gentlemen, and the knowledge that he must by now realise that she had read his note, threw Jane into a total fluster. She shook when she made her curtsey, blushed an unbecoming shade of red, then slid her eyes away from those of the King when she saw them momentarily rest upon her.

  I am a fool, she thought miserably. Now he will think I am displeased.

  Fortunately her place at the elaborately decorated table was at the opposite end from the royal couple, seated next to Sir Henry Norris on one hand and Thomas Elyot on the other. Thus situated, Jane had ample opportunity to study the inscrutable Norris, whom everyone said had only agreed to take Madge Shelton in betrothal in order to please his Queen. And, indeed, how the principal gentleman of the King’s bedchamber could bring himself to marry such a trollop, whom the King had used to serve daily or so rumour had it, was beyond Jane’s comprehension.

  An exciting train of thought started up; of the virility of the King; of how she might one day receive his favours; of how her passion could soon be satisfied. And then Jane’s speculations came to an abrupt halt as she remembered what both Edward and Sir Nicholas Carew had told her; that she must on no account give herself to the King unless she wanted to be thrown aside like Elizabeth Blount, Mary Boleyn and, now, Madge herself. Pursing her lips slightly, Jane looked up to see Henry Tudor watching her.

  His very glance told her everything. He had had no need to write a note, his eyes quite clearly announced that he wanted and would pursue her however hard she ran and in the first flirtatious moment of her modest life, Jane responded. Looking him straight in the eye she gave the King a naughty smile before she demurely lowered her gaze once more to the table.

  There was a slight quiver from Thomas Elyot before he cleared his throat and said, ‘Madam it would seem that all is well with you.’

  Jane looked at him innocently. ‘Sir?’

  ‘You know what I mean,’ he answered, lowering his voice.

  Despite the fact that he was her brother’s long-standing friend, Jane felt somewhat irritated. ‘Indeed I don’t, Sir,’ she answered, ‘but I take it that you refer to my recent escape from the Sweat and, if so, I thank you for your concern.’

  Elyot gulped. ‘I am sorry, Mistress Seymour, I believe we speak at cross purposes so I will say no more. But listen to Nicholas Carew,’ he added in a trenchant whisper and then looked away.

  Jane smiled to herself as the last course of jelly, blancmanges, pears with caraway, scraped cheese and clotted cream with sugar, and quince pie was cleared away. Now the wafers and hippocras, a cordial of spiced wine that heralded the end of the meal, would be served. Then the musicians would play music for dancing and the evening would finish with much laughter and amusement.

  As was customary when all was ready, the King offered his hand to his wife but Anne protested that she must do nothing to put the unborn baby at risk, defensively laying a hand upon her belly as she said so.

  ‘Dance with who you will, my Lord,’ she added, slanting her eyes at him. ‘For I know that you love the unborn Prince as much as I.’

  Henry smiled and took for partner Lady Berkeley, while Jane moved off with Thomas Elyot noticing that Mark Smeaton, Anne’s lutanist and personal favourite, had gone to sit beside his Queen at her smiling request.

  ‘Too familiar,’ muttered Elyot.

  ‘Who is?’ asked Jane, startled.

  ‘Her Grace should not be on such friendly terms with Smeaton. He is, after all, nothing but a carpenter’s son.’

  ‘Just as her enemy Cardinal Wolsey was a butcher’s.’

  Thomas Elyot looked at her in surprise. ‘Your brother had not told me you were a wit.’

  Jane s
miled as the music of the pavan continued its measure. ‘It is the dancing, Sir. I believe it makes me brighter.’

  ‘Then I look forward to stepping out with you again,’ said Thomas, and bowed as the music ended, to be followed by the lively tones of a galliard.

  Jane knew even before he spoke that Henry Tudor was making his way towards her; could see the little ripple amongst the courtiers as they parted ranks to let him through; felt the warmth of his presence as it approached hers; sniffed the arrogant male scent of him underlying the fine oils and spices in which he had bathed himself this night.

  ‘Mistress Jane,’ he said behind her and she spun round to curtsey low before him, her cheeks pink and her heart racing so that she was breathless.

  ‘Will you grant me the pleasure of this dance?’

  ‘I am Your Grace’s humble servant.’

  ‘In everything?’ he whispered as he raised her up.

  ‘In everything,’ she answered quietly.

  And with that they whirled away in lively fashion, Jane feeling small as a doll as the massive creature lifted her clean off her feet when the music increased its speed.

  ‘You are a dainty little thing,’ he said. ‘As well as beautiful.’

  Jane looked at her sovereign through narrowed eyes. ‘I could never be that, Your Grace.’

  ‘You are to me,’ he said, so simply that Jane at last realised he meant it.

  ‘You got my note?’ he added softly.

  ‘Yes, Your Grace.’

  ‘I meant what I said. I shall not rest until you are mine.’

  Jane longed to say, ‘That could be tonight for all I care,’ but remembering what she had been taught, answered, ‘That might be never, Your Grace. I value my virtue too highly.’

  ‘We shall see,’ Henry answered with a smile and, as the dance ended to the sound of laughter and applause, did not move from her side.

  ‘We must part company, Sir; before we are observed,’ whispered Jane frantically.

  ‘Indeed,’ he whispered back. ‘But at midnight I shall be on the river walk by the banqueting house. Meet me there.’

  ‘It would not be discreet, Your Grace,’ she mumbled nervously.

  The blue Tudor eyes became a little hard. ‘Be there at midnight,’ he said, and with that Henry turned on his heel and rejoined his Queen, leaving Jane attempting to control the attack of trembling which had so suddenly and violently seized her.

  How she survived the rest of the evening, she never afterwards knew. She felt that every eye was upon her, that every whispered conversation muttered scandals about herself and the King. And, in truth, several people did look Jane’s way and once she caught Anne’s great dark eyes running over her appraisingly. Then she saw the Queen’s lips twitch and her thin brows raise.

  She’s thinking, ‘Not that plain thing’, thought Jane wretchedly and looked away as Henry, suddenly announcing that he was tired, bade goodnight to the assembled company, and left the room accompanied by his gentlemen.

  Sir Nicholas Carew appeared as if from nowhere. ‘What did he say to you?’

  Jane longed to tell him to mind his own affairs yet at the same time was grateful for any advice that might come her way. ‘He wants to meet me at midnight.’

  Carew’s lips formed a soundless whistle. ‘Does he by God? Then you must go, Jane. But no over-familiarity remember.’

  ‘Why?’ said Jane crossly. ‘Why not, Sir Nicholas?’

  ‘Because,’ he answered, ‘we are playing for the highest stakes of all.’

  ‘We?’

  ‘Yes. All supporters of …’ His voice dropped so that it was scarcely audible, ‘… the Princess Mary and her mother are behind you in this. Their future lies in your hands, Mistress Seymour.’

  ‘What can you possibly mean?’

  ‘Marriage, Jane. You must hold out for marriage.’

  The room went black and spun and she clung to Carew to steady herself. ‘It isn’t credible,’ she said, and then remembered Cloverella’s words: ‘One day you will sign yourself, Jane the Queen.’

  ‘Why not? Another has done it before you.’

  ‘Please, no more,’ she answered, suddenly too frightened to think. ‘Please leave me, Sir Nicholas.’

  He bowed, raised her hand to his lips, then bowed again more formally as the Queen rose from her place at the table, Mark Smeaton helping her to get to her feet.

  ‘I bid you all goodnight,’ said Anne, allowing a moment’s pause before she dropped her eyes to her rounding belly. ‘For the sake of the Prince I must now take some rest.’

  There was some laughter, polite from the Queen’s enemies, sympathetic from her friends.

  ‘I’ll swear she has a cushion stuffed in there,’ said a whisperer hidden from Jane’s view, as Anne left the room with Smeaton.

  ‘Perhaps,’ came the murmured reply. ‘But who knows if there might not go the child’s father.’

  Realising that for the second time that day she was an eavesdropper, Jane strained her ears.

  ‘You mean …?’ said the first speaker.

  ‘But of course,’ came the reply, together with a light laugh. ‘They say there is no one better at siring a healthy son than a peasant lad.’

  ‘Christ’s Holy Blood!’ came the reply, followed by, ‘Someone is listening. Quickly!’

  Jane realised that she must have made a small movement of some kind for the speakers sped away before she could get a glimpse of them. In a certain amount of growing excitement she considered what she had just overheard, admitting to herself that it was true enough. Cloverella, fathered by a gypsy stable boy had always been the healthiest of all the Seymour children, despite her diminutive stature. Could it be possible that Anne Boleyn in her desperation to produce a son had allowed Mark Smeaton into her bed? After all, Jane thought wryly, the King had been so busy serving Madge Shelton he would hardly have had time to notice if his place had been usurped. Feeling that she had a great deal to consider, Jane asked Lady Berkeley’s permission to withdraw, and left for her own chamber.

  As a serving woman of long standing Jane was lucky enough to have private quarters, unlike the younger women, and she had never been more grateful for the privacy than now when, realising that there were only a few minutes left before midnight, she changed into a warmer cloak and hurried out again, slipping quietly through one of the side doors that led to the river walk.

  A cold wind blew from the Thames, a wind full of smells of tide and salt and wooden hulks; a wind that spoke of snow to come, of hanging icicles and logs pulled into halls. There were sounds in the wind too: of gulls wheeling in the darkness, swooping to pull out fish and causing showers of luminous drops as they disturbed the flatness of the river’s snake-like skin; of a solitary heron stretching its neck and opening its wings before it slept; of the distant song of a boat-load of homeward bound revellers.

  Jane was vividly reminded of the night six years before when she had stood almost in the same spot outside Greenwich Palace and first set eyes on the strange young man who had later been pointed out to her as Dr Zachary. The urgent need to consult him had never been more apparent than now and Jane determined that somehow in the next few days she must beg leave of absence and go upriver to his home.

  ‘Yes,’ she said out loud and jumped as a huge shadow detached itself from all the others. ‘Is that word for me?’ it asked and, without waiting for a reply, bent to kiss her.

  It was Henry Tudor, sensual and magnificent, caressing her with lips, hands and body.

  ‘I knew,’ he breathed against her, ‘I knew that night at Wolff Hall that at last I had found a woman to match me. That the little fair mouse was merely a disguise for a full-blooded nymph.’

  ‘You think of me as that?’ she said, struggling. ‘It is not so. I have never given myself to anyone.’

  In the darkness the King smiled. ‘But soon you will to me,’ he said.

  ‘No, no …’ answered Jane, and then gave up the uneven contest as all the want coursed b
etween them like a stream and they became lost in one another’s kisses, two very different beings drawn together by an attraction that knew no boundaries.

  ‘I have got to possess you,’ he gasped as they finally separated. ‘Jane, will you have me?’

  A certain dignity restored itself to her and she answered gravely, ‘If I do, Sir, it must be with honour.’

  ‘So be it,’ he answered and drew her into his arms again, feeling himself utterly bewitched by this funny little girl whose primness concealed such a wealth of ardour, and whose plain face glowed with so much endearing charm.

  ‘Oh Jane, Jane, it would be so easy to love you,’ whispered Henry Tudor into the winter night, unaware that a shadow had slipped away from a concealing wall even as he spoke, and was making its way in haste towards the apartments in which Eustace Chapuys, the Spanish Ambassador and enemy of Queen Anne Boleyn, resided at Greenwich that night.

  Chapter Seven

  It seemed to the two people leaning over the dark crystal that for a moment it glowed red. But then, as they stared at one another in surprise, their heads — one pale as flowers, the other dark as a rook’s — close together, they thought they must have been mistaken, for it had at once resumed its usual glittering form, with no sign of a crimson pulse.

  Nonetheless, Jane Seymour looked at Zachary Howard hard and said, ‘I thought the sphere changed colour. Is that possible?’

  He shook his head. ‘Perhaps. It is still new to me and its mysteries have yet to be revealed. But I too believed it glowed.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  Zachary frowned. ‘It could be one of several things, Mistress, but as to which I am not sure. Now, in what way can my scrying be of service to you?’

  Jane hesitated, her delicate skin colouring a little. ‘I am still a maid, Dr Zachary, but the years romp on regardless. I have come to you to know if I will ever be a wife.’

  It was true enough and there was no reason for her to blush further but as Zachary shot her a sideways glance, Jane felt her cheeks deepen. Was it possible, she wondered, that this rough-haired rascal had read her thoughts and knew perfectly well why she had come through the bitter January weather, rowed up the Thames by a solitary wherryman despite the ominous threat of snow.