Pour The Dark Wine

by Deryn Lake

  *

  ‘Victims,’ he had said to Eve on his return home that evening. ‘Today I believe I witnessed four lambs go to the slaughter.’

  ‘Four?’

  ‘I am sure that Smeaton was tortured.’ Sir Nicholas had suddenly buried his head in his hands. ‘Oh, God’s blood and wounds, I hate the Concubine and all her wicked deeds, yet who am I to judge these men? There was a look of innocence to them all, only Smeaton confessed and it was he who named the others.’

  Eve had stood up and come to him, putting her arm about his shoulders. ‘These are hard times, husband. Men will be sacrificed and Queens brought down before order can be restored.’

  ‘And she,’ asked Carew, jerking his head in the direction of the chamber in which Jane Seymour slept, ‘will she bring peace in her train?’

  ‘Who knows? But at least she is malleable. She will do all she can for Mary.’

  ‘Has the King been to visit her today?’

  ‘No, and he has given Jane instructions to move within a day or two to a house only a mile from Whitehall. He wants her to be close at hand if the Queen is condemned.’

  ‘If?’ said Carew, and in his laugh there was the sound of bitterness as well as that of jubilation.

  *

  Up to this day Norfolk had believed himself beyond tears, sincerely thought that life in the service of his monarch had hardened him to a point where public displays of emotion were no longer possible. But now, standing beneath the canopy of state, facing the dark girl from Hever whom he would have sworn, even to himself, was his avowed adversary, he felt his eyes grow suddenly wet. The moment had come, the peers of the realm had found the Queen guilty by unanimous vote, and now it was the duty of the Duke of Norfolk, Lord President of the Council and High Steward of England, to pronounce sentence upon her.

  They stared at each other, uncle and niece, and he thought how pale and thin she was, her eyes so enormous and dark that they seemed to fill her face with shadows. Horribly unbidden, a memory came: Anne as a small girl, all elfin and fine, a magical little creature, feeling in his pocket for where the Duke had hidden sweetmeats.

  Norfolk swallowed hard and the tears fell faster, and then he saw that Anne, who up till now had seemed almost unnaturally still and frozen, was watching him cry and was about to lose her nerve. In a moment of enormous compassion, Thomas Howard dropped his eyes and stared at the papers in his hand.

  ‘Madam,’ he said, his voice ringing unnaturally loud in a hall completely hushed and still, ‘you are sentenced to be burned …’

  He paused and cleared his throat, glancing up as he did so, and seeing that she was gazing at him like a stricken deer, her eyes afraid and haunted. At that moment he would have changed places with any man in the room rather than go on. There was a tremendous silence before the Duke finally found his voice and continued, ‘… or beheaded at the pleasure of the King’s Highness.’

  She looked away from him, down into the body of the hall, and Norfolk found himself wondering if she had seen the King’s messenger, Sir Francis Bryan, standing in the doorway ready to go the moment he heard those words. But whether she had or not he never afterwards knew for his attention was caught by the fact that somebody was leaving the room, ill and retching. The Duke vaguely perceived the shambling figure of Harry Percy, the Earl of Northumberland, rushing blindly through the door.

  ‘Once Harry loved me,’ Anne whispered to herself, so low that only Norfolk heard. Then he saw the Queen brace up and turn back to him, her face completely white. ‘Goodbye, my uncle,’ she said quietly then, utterly calm and composed once more, began her final speech, never realising that her kinsman Bryan had already left the hall and was, at that precise moment, mounting the fastest horse from the King’s stable, to ride at full pelt to where Henry Tudor awaited the verdict in the Palace of Whitehall.

  *

  That day, the day that Anne Boleyn so courageously faced her judges, had not started well for Jane Seymour. At once, even on waking, disruptive thoughts had returned to her, thoughts that a woman could be facing trial only because of herself and that she, plain little Jane, might after all be an angel of death. It had taken a great deal of effort to put herself into another frame of mind. Only by repeating over and over again that Henry believed it all and that she must too if they were to find lasting happiness together, did she finally bring herself round to any sort of humour. And then, even though it sickened her, a frenzied kind of excitement entered the proceedings.

  Almost as soon as Jane was dressed, a messenger had come the short mile from Whitehall Palace with a note from Henry.

  ‘My own dear Mistress, You know that you, and you alone, are uppermost in my heart and affection this day and I greet you. I will send you word of all that transpires in the Tower by three o’clock and, if it is God’s will that you and I be united, not only in thought and love but also in marriage, then I will sup with you this evening that we may set down what is to be done.

  Hoping shortly to receive you in these arms, I end for the present, your own loving servant and sovereign, H. R.’

  After reading this, the awful waiting had been tempered with frantic preparations for a banquet. Since Jane had moved from the Carews’ home to the house near Whitehall, Henry had sent her not only beautiful gowns and jewels but also his own cook and kitchen lads, servants and grooms, to ensure that she should live as comfortably and well as befitted the future bride of a King.

  In a bizarre fashion the day of Anne Boleyn’s trial had about it the extraordinary atmosphere of a grotesque festival, the feeling in the air so electric that Jane was glad she had left Cloverella behind with Edward. Her cousin, so full of magic and mystery, would have undoubtedly considered these events as preparatory to a blood sacrifice and been unbearable company.

  As three o’clock came near, Jane found herself drawn to the window to watch for a horseman, and as a distant cloud of dust told her that one did indeed approach, her heart lurched and began to beat in an unsteady rhythm. Her thoughts flew, death and marriage, brides and corpses, all jumbled hopelessly together and, overriding all, her hopeless passion for the King which had not been fulfilled as both of them so urgently desired for quite some considerable time.

  Pretending a composure she did not feel, Jane — as soon as she realised that the messenger was her cousin Sir Francis Bryan — went to sit quietly in the receiving chamber, her hands folded in her lap, allowing one of the servants to greet him and show him into her presence. He stood bowing in the doorway.

  ‘Madam.’

  Jane stared at him amazed. ‘Francis, you are very formal.’

  He came towards her, his pale grey eyes not moving from her face. ‘Madam, I have news of great importance.’ He went down on one knee before Jane and raised her hand to his lips. ‘An hour ago the Queen was sentenced to die. It will only be a matter of days now before you and His Grace are free to marry. He begs me to tell you that he will sup with you tonight as arranged.’

  She stared at him, utterly breathless, the tears stinging her eyes like bees. ‘Did he say anything else?’

  ‘He asked me to give you this.’ Bryan pulled from his pocket a sapphire-encrusted pendant, dangling on a golden chain. ‘And begged that you wear it tonight to please him.’

  Jane took it from him silently. ‘Were you there … at the Tower?’

  Francis looked guarded. ‘Yes, why do you ask?’

  ‘Because as you are the only person at Court who is kin to both the Queen and myself I wondered how you could bear to be present.’

  The unmoving eyes stared expressionlessly into her own. ‘I found that I could,’ Bryan answered shortly, and stood up.

  Jane did likewise. ‘Will you take some refreshment?’

  A fleeting smile crossed her cousin’s face. ‘No, Jane. His Grace commanded that I return at once with your message. What is it?’

  Jane turned away from him for a moment, looking out of the window to where the swirling Thames came up to the house’s fo
undations.

  ‘Tell him that I await this evening with great pleasure and that I shall count the hours until he is with me.’

  She turned back to look at him, laughing a little breathlessly at her flowery words, still not quite able to comprehend that soon she would be both bride and queen.

  Bryan did not smile. ‘I shall relay your message faithfully, Madam.’

  And with that he was gone, bowing his way out, already behaving as if she had higher station than she actually did. Jane, looking at the space where only a moment before he had stood, shivered. It was true she owed Francis Bryan much, for he had first introduced her to Court, but the details of his deliberate quarrel with George Boleyn, Lord Rochford, when he had seen the fortunes of that family begin to ebb, were frightening.

  I pity anyone against whom he turns, Jane thought, and went a little cold.

  *

  Chapuys, a contented smile lighting his wise blue eyes, sat by an open window in the Palace of Whitehall, and thought that at last God’s justice had been finally rendered. His beloved Queen and friend, Katharine of Aragon, had been revenged, the Concubine was to die and a good Imperialist — as he liked to think of Jane Seymour — was to take her place.

  He hummed a snatch of song as he picked up his pen, about his usual task of keeping his royal master informed of events. ‘You never saw prince nor man make greater show of his horns, nor show them more pleasantly,’ he wrote, and then grinned broadly, even his beard seeming to shorten, for how true that description was. Since the arrests of the accused, the Queen’s cuckolded husband had hardly spent a night in, speeding off by boat or horse to sup with his new mistress — and the shrewd old Spaniard was more convinced than ever that Jane was this in every sense — or to feast with other friends. That the whole affair was a happy release for the King was being made patently obvious.

  The Ambassador stood up, stretching his arms and yawning, feeling that he had been writing letters for years, and in a moment of petty rebellion crossed to the window and leaning on the sill, looked out. To celebrate Anne’s condemnation her husband had organised a water pageant and from where he stood Chapuys could see the royal barge which was to lead the procession, already packed with musicians and singers of the Chamber. Cultured aesthete that he was, Chapuys felt his stomach turn. He had been at Court throughout most of Henry’s hot-eyed pursuit of Anne Boleyn, had witnessed the many indignities heaped on Katharine. And now, only three years after the King had married his heart’s desire, there was a pageant to celebrate the woman’s denunciation.

  Fat oaf, thought Chapuys with enormous satisfaction and wondered to himself that passion could transcend all, that Jane Seymour could actually have a fancy for a man not only twenty years older than she was but who was also rapidly gaining weight. He nodded cunningly, musing on the fact that even funny little women like the future queen were equally as capable of scheming their way to power as their more alluring counterparts. But, at this point, a noise from the embankment below caught his attention and Chapuys, opening the window fully, leaned out to see the sights.

  The sun was not so much going down as being killed by dagger-dark clouds, for there was blood everywhere, echoing the death sentence so recently meted out to six hapless people. The river trickled uneasily, a sludgy dark crimson, on its back riding not only the King’s barge, garishly garlanded with flowers and favours, but every type of craft, tastelessly glimmering and gleaming, ready to accompany the bridegroom, as their owners no doubt already thought of him, the short mile downriver to where his sweetheart lay waiting. That a lot of celebratory drink had been partaken of that day was obvious, for though the musicians sang and played sweetly enough, they had a counterpoint of other songs, both discordant and lewd.

  ‘Christ’s blood,’ said Chapuys beneath his breath.

  Despite the fact that he found the whole gaudy exhibition rather vulgar, he continued to watch and was rewarded a moment or two later with a sight of the King, dressed in white satin and gems, his vast codpiece embroidered with golden threads as if to boast to the world of his virility, his hat plumed with a waving purple feather. There was a huge cheer from all the attendant courtiers as with a jaunty step, like that of a man half his age, Henry stepped aboard the waiting barge.

  At exactly that moment, or so it seemed to the watching Ambassador, the sun went out. A huge cloud, black as a moor, crossed its surface and hung there while in the distance thunder rolled. The atmosphere suddenly became stifling as little winds rushed everywhere, preparing for a storm. The King, refusing to be alarmed, looked up to the rapidly darkening heavens, strode into the cabin of his barge, and gave orders to cast off. The last glimpse Chapuys had of him was sitting resplendent, surrounded by his musicians, while the craft and its attendant flotilla headed out for midstream.

  *

  At long last they were alone and clasped in each other’s arms, Jane almost lifted off her feet as the King smothered her aching mouth with kisses. Since the incident of the purse of sovereigns they had hardly met without chaperons, behaving so virtuously that Henry might almost have known of what profligacy his wife would be accused and, by way of reply, kept his own actions accordingly chaste. But now, with the musicians and servants dismissed and nobody present to witness what he did, he wooed Jane with intensity, determined to take her to bed before the night was out.

  It had been reported to him verbatim what Anne’s brother, the elegant and likeable Viscount Rochford, had said at his trial: that the King was unable to have relations with his wife for there was no virtue or potency left in him. Up till that moment men had been betting ten to one on George’s acquittal, the charge of incest sticking in the craws of most and Rochford himself making a brilliant defence. But those fateful words doomed him and stung Henry to the quick, raising in his mind doubts and fears to which a man of forty-five, albeit somewhat heavy through lack of exercise, should not be prey.

  Now, holding Jane away from him and looking down at her, both aware and proud of his magnificent height, he said, ‘Tell me, sweetheart, have the words of Lord Rochford at his trial been recounted to you?’

  Jane, with her inherent dislike of the very thought of incest, answered, ‘No, and I have no wish to hear them.’

  ‘But he said things of me,’ persisted Henry gloomily. ‘Things to which only you could give the lie.’

  A pair of puzzled eyes looked into his. ‘What things do you speak of?’

  For the first time in their acquaintance, Jane saw a redness deepen Henry’s cheeks. ‘That I am impotent,’ he answered gruffly. ‘Past pleasing a woman.’

  She said the best thing possible to restore the King’s hurt pride. ‘No doubt the man was jealous.’

  ‘Jealous?’ he exclaimed. ‘How could George Rochford possibly be jealous of me.’

  ‘Henry,’ said Jane, still finding it an effort to call her sovereign by his name, ‘your reputation with women was one that I am sure any gallant would envy. Nobody could resist you. Nor still can,’ she added softly.

  Sentiment poured from his eyes as the King wept. ‘My little Jane,’ he said huskily, ‘you who are to be my first true wife, I shall love and protect you until my dying day.’

  It did not seem quite the moment to Jane, whose handling of Henry grew ever more subtle, to ask exactly what he meant by the word ‘first’. Instead she cuddled her arms more closely round his great waist.

  ‘And I shall care for you, too, until I die.’

  At that instant a freakish draft sprang from nowhere and every candle in the room flickered, some even going out.

  ‘Oh dear,’ said Jane, ‘I hope that is not an omen.’

  ‘If it is,’ Henry answered solemnly, ‘it denotes the passing of evil from my life, for outside it is bright.’

  With his arm round her waist he led her to the window and threw back the heavy curtains. The night was still, the moon shining on the river, its counterpart glowing back from the depths, all sign of the storm now gone.

  ‘There,�
�� said Henry, ‘the Thames, who always befriends us. Do you remember telling me its story at Windsor when first we became lovers?’

  Even at the memory affection suffused her. ‘I do remember,’ Jane answered softly, ‘I remember everything. And let those who insult you on that score come to me for the truth.’

  ‘My sweetheart,’ he said gruffly, and once more they kissed.

  By the fire in the Hall the two of Henry’s gentlemen who had accompanied him that night, slumbered in chairs; while the musicians and singers slept where they could. On the river the master of the King’s barge snored in the cabin, his oarsmen in the kitchens asleep with the scullions. Only Henry and Jane were left awake so that there was nobody to see them when, with their hands clasped together like children, the King and his beloved softly blew out the remaining candles and quietly made their way together to her own most private bedchamber.

  *

  It was at the breaking of the next day’s violent dawn, all poppy-red with a suffused and angry sun lumbering up over a black horizon, that the solitary figure of a horseman streaking over the dark fields surrounding the village of Greenwich could be seen making its frantic way homeward. And it was just as the first sinister rays lit the house near the water’s edge that Dr Zachary clattered into his stables and, for a brief moment, seemed to lose all his power, his bony face white beneath his tumbling curls and his body shrunken. Over his saddle, in a confusion of arms and legs and trailing hair the colour of daffodils, lay another shattered human being as weak as he, and the sight was so terrible to behold that the stable boy screamed and ran to the steward for help.