by Deryn Lake
They lifted down their master and his daughter and carried them into the house, but instead of taking them to their beds, laid them down carefully on bedding near the fire. Strangely, no wife and mother came bustling in to tend her charges and no small boy rushed to greet his father. Instead only a nervous silence pervaded; a silence so still and heavy that after several hours it seemed to clang like a bell, and it was then that Zachary awoke.
‘Coker,’ he called weakly, ‘Coker,’ and when the steward came running murmured, ‘Sapphira, how is she? Does my daughter live?’
‘She does, Master, aye,’ the man answered, ‘she breathes calmly though she has not as yet awoke. What ails the child?’
Zachary shook his head. ‘She has been rendered speechless and left as good as finished. And all through my fault.’
‘But how, Sir? How?’ asked the steward fearfully.
‘Because I, may God forgive me, took her to a ritual for which she was not ready. She tried to lift a curse which was too strong for her. It took away Sapphira’s speech — and only I am to blame.’
Coker had never seen Zachary weep but he had supposed, as in all things with his capricious master, whose very company exhilarated all who came in contact with it, that when he did there would be a storm, and indeed he was right. Zachary sobbed broken-heartedly, begging Sapphira both in words that Coker could understand and others said in heathenish tongue, to open her eyes.
The steward, with a great effort, braced himself for what must come next. ‘Doctor,’ he said firmly, ‘save your tears.’
Zachary turned on him a wild and stricken face. ‘What are you saying?’
‘There is worse than Sapphira’s plight in this house.’
The astrologer stared blankly and then Coker saw him realise the truth, though whether by magic means or guesswork he could not say.
‘Jane,’ said Zachary, ‘my wife!’ And with that he seemed to regain his strength and fled upstairs, leaving those below to try and bring his daughter back to consciousness.
In the dimness of their bedchamber, Zachary saw at once that the curse which he had tried so desperately to exorcise had not only struck his daughter but also his wife, for Jane Wyatt, the poet Thomas’s sister and cousin of Anne Boleyn, lay dying.
In the single leap that it took him to get to her side, the astrologer berated himself for everything: for leaving her to concentrate his energies on other matters, for being so greatly attacked by nervous exhaustion that he had not clairvoyantly known she was ill; for being unfaithful to her with Rosamund Banastre; for the million and one things that he should or should not have done during their time together.
Once in the past Zachary Howard had saved his father the Duke from the Sweat, and now he recognised its symptoms and knew that he was too late to help his wife.
‘May God forgive me,’ he said again and took her cold hand in his.
An hour later Jane left her earthly shell, never speaking to or looking at her husband again. Yet he, believing that she could hear him, spoke to her; spoke of the woods of Hever where he had married her by gypsy rite, spoke of her cousin Anne whom they had both loved in those far off distant days, spoke of his joy in their partnership that she had been so patient with all his eccentricities.
As Jane breathed her last, he made the sign of the cross on her brow and then — and not in the least irreverently to Zachary’s uncomplicated mind — spoke the Romany words of blessing for the dead. Then he wept. In a day and night his wife had been taken from him, his daughter as good as, and his father had sentenced his cousin to die. As Dr Zachary rose to pull the curtains against the grey and humourless day, he had never felt more alone.
*
Blades fell swiftly and the Grim Reaper smiled. On the 17th May the five men sentenced went to their deaths, amongst their number George Rochford. Two days later the Queen, dressed in grey damask, elegantly cut and trimmed with fur, a small hat with ornamented coifs binding up her lively hair, knelt at the block while the executioner from Calais struck off her head with one blow of his sword, even while the Queen was still praying for mercy on her soul. It was finished and done, the enchantress from Hever would never again weave her fascinating spell, the husband who had once loved her was a widower.
At four o’clock the next morning, Jane Seymour rose in the darkness and was dressed most splendidly by a bevy of waiting women. Her freshly washed hair was bound up on her head and a circlet of gold, glittering with gems, was placed upon it. Then, when she was finally robed like a Queen, Jane was escorted by musicians and servants to the royal barge, which tugged on its moorings at the very foot of the house in which she stayed.
As they cast off and made their way down river to Hampton Court, she thought that she had never seen such a morning. In the fine and glistening dawn, so different from the ominous weather that had brooded all the days Anne Boleyn remained alive, Jane saw the merry sails of craft, the waving fishermen standing knee-deep, the plunge and fall of the bending shore line. Above her head gulls plummeted and wheeled, spearheads of white, flashing against the pink and jade of sun-up; while on the banks, first villages, then churches, were lit with sparkling gold as the great orb climbed. Everywhere there was blossom, tossing and laughing as the river breeze played amongst it, curling it with its fingers and sometimes throwing down a shower of petals fit to greet a bride.
Jane laughed. Her life was complete. The ugly cygnet had become a swan. Now she could stand fearless in the daylight and lift her face to the sun. She knew that she was beautiful, that May was her very month, as delicate and fair as she. As she ascended the water steps at Hampton Court to discover that the whole world seemed to be bowing before her, her little mouth curved into the happiest smile of her life. Whatever followed from this moment, whatever sadness lay ahead of her, she would cling fiercely to this split second of time and cherish the memory even as she died. In all the beauty and splendour of her arrival, Jane Seymour stepped forth into the Palace of Hampton Court to receive a ring of betrothal from the King of England and with him to pledge her promise of marriage.
Chapter Thirteen
Around the neck of Sir John Seymour the Esturmy horn, symbol of office of the wardens of Savernake Forest, hung like a Welsh harp, its silver sheen nestling against the darkness of his black jerkin. The medieval craftsman who had fashioned it had crumbled to powder long before Sir John had been born but it, in the manner of all inanimate objects protected against the march of time, still glistened argent, its enamelled bands as clear and proud as the day they were fashioned by those skilled hands.
To blow upon the horn was the ancient greeting given to the monarch upon entering the forest and today Sir John, his long beard lifting in the wind like that of an old testament prophet, waited upon Topenham Hill for his first sight of the royal party, with a heart that beat at double its usual pace. Behind him all dressed in their finery were his two sons, Edward and Henry, and his son-in-law Sir Clement Smith, his other being too sickly to attend. And what smiles there were upon their faces and how grandly the old man swelled his chest, sitting his horse like a lord, for today no ordinary visitors came to Wolff Hall but His Grace himself with his affianced lady, the daughter of the house, Mistress Jane.
Sir John’s faded eyes were blue as fresh sheets of linen wind-blown on a line, and they had never watched the distant view so acutely. Nor, when the royal party finally did come into sight, would he ever have raised the Esturmy horn to his lips more eagerly, waiting for that first thrilling moment when they would come into earshot and he could welcome them with all his heart. At home, he knew, Dame Margery had prepared Wolff Hall as never before and the Great Barn, in which the pre-wedding feast would be held, had been swept until it glowed, while on the tenter hooks, all replaced and shining, hung not only the Seymour tapestries but some borrowed from the mighty Wentworths themselves.
Watching his father, Edward could have laughed and also wept. Pride had rejuvenated the dear veteran to such an extent that Sir John even
joked with his sons of dancing the night away at Jane’s betrothal feast.
‘If only Thomas were here,’ he said and winked a merry eye so broadly that Edward immediately had a hint his brother must have returned from France and be about to make a surprise appearance. But he played along, ‘If only,’ he replied — and then winked back.
The visitors were a sudden line of colour in the distance and the moment had arrived. With a grand gesture Sir John raised the ancient horn to his lips and blew a blast that should have had the dead jumping clean from their graves. Back from the royal party came an echoing greeting and with that Sir John kicked his heels into the side of his mount and, raising his hand for his sons to follow him, charged down the slope at full speed, his beard flying out over his shoulders like wings.
They met in the valley below Topenham Hill and Sir John could hardly believe the change that he saw in his daughter. An elegant young woman, beautifully dressed and jewelled, her face superbly painted, rode in a litter beside the King, who besat an enormous horse, brightly caparisoned. Having not seen him for some eight months, Sir John was struck by the way in which his sovereign had increased so greatly in size. Jane’s father knew, of course, about the King’s accident in the lists which had prevented him from exercising as once he used, but nevertheless he was not prepared for the fact that even Henry’s face had broadened whilst his eyes seemed to have receded slightly into his head.
Fat eyes, thought the mischievous old man. By God’s teeth and toenails, His Grace has got fat eyes!
Just for a second he wondered what his daughter saw in such a gross fellow and then the generations of feudal blood that ran in his veins gained dominance and he guessed, incorrectly, that Jane was in love with the very ambience of the King rather than the man himself. Jumping from his horse lithely for a man of his advanced years, Sir John approached his daughter’s litter, bowed first to the King then to Jane, and kissed her hand. There was a flash of bright eyes and then she laughed.
‘Father, no kiss for my cheek? All this formality!’
‘You are a King’s future bride,’ said Sir John quietly. ‘Soon I must greet you as Queen.’
‘But not yet,’ answered Jane, ‘not for a few days. May I not be ordinary Jane on this visit?’
‘No,’ replied her father solemnly, ‘it is not possible. You can never be ordinary Jane again.’ And with that he turned to the King before whom Edward, Henry and Clement were making reverence and made a secondary bow which put the others to shame. ‘Your Grace, my heart is almost too full to allow me speech but know that the honour you have brought my family by asking for my daughter’s hand will be spoken of with awe until there is no longer a Seymour left alive,’ he said grandly.
Henry, who had not dismounted, extended a hand. ‘We thank you, Sir John, and give you greeting. Now, as we have ridden hard, let us to Wolff Hall for refreshment.’
Once again the old man found an irreverent thought in his mind — ‘he can’t wait to get at his vittals!’ — then he gave himself a mental kick. Such naughtiness was unbecoming in a man of his years and could be potentially dangerous. He must control his private fancies lest one day in his cups he might actually speak them aloud.
Yet the look on Dame Margery’s face as the huge retinue clattered into the great courtyard was revealing to Sir John. Just for a second she gazed aghast at the colossus who was soon to be her son-in-law, before she remembered herself and hid her thoughts behind the excited fuss she was making of Jane. But later that evening, as she and Sir John dressed for the banquet, the comfortable Dame did allow, just briefly, her thoughts to be put into words.
‘His Grace looks older, do you not think, husband?’
‘Older?’ answered Sir John in a pithy whisper. ‘He looks gross, if that is what you mean.’
‘Poor Jane,’ sighed her mother on her breath.
‘Poor Jane, nothing,’ said Sir John, very quietly indeed. ‘She is going to be Queen.’
‘Yes, but …’
‘There are no buts in it, Margery. She will be the first lady in the land.’
His wife looked at him, her country-fresh face quite sad. ‘But she is so delicate …’
‘No more,’ answered Sir John firmly. ‘We will be late for the feast. Put such ideas from your mind.’
If Dame Margery had triumphed on the King’s first visit to Wolff Hall, now she excelled even that occasion. It seemed as if the entire county of Wiltshire — or those of importance who dwelled there — must be present, for the Great Barn was packed to the doors with people, servants, musicians, not forgetting the Seymours’ personal priest, Sir James, now grown old and tipsy, and Will Somers, the King’s favourite jester. Though the banquet was officially to celebrate Jane’s betrothal, it had the atmosphere of a wedding feast and, what with Will’s jokes about bride beds and maidenheads, and the many love songs that were sung, sentimental tears ran down many a flushed cheek and propositions were made amongst the guests that would have shocked Dame Margery had she overheard.
That the King and Jane were besotted with one another was glaringly obvious and Dame Margery would have spent the rest of the evening mulling over the incredible fact, had not there been a sudden thunderous knock at the door, closed against drafts as the guests tackled their fish supper — eight pikes, five salmon, seven tench and nine lobsters, to say nothing of an assortment of pike, eels, trout, bream and carp — it being a Saturday and no meat allowed. Everyone looked up, startled, except for Sir John who made a furtive signal to his minstrels. At this they broke into a noisy fanfare and the door was thrown open to reveal a cloaked figure, standing motionless, the hood of the garment pulled well down over its face.
A woman guest screamed and several men rose to their feet as if to put the intruder out but, as the welcoming music blasted forth, the newcomer threw back his hood and, half walking, half dancing, entered the barn. There was a flash of bright hair and the sound of an infectious laugh.
‘It’s Thomas,’ exclaimed Jane, rising to her feet and, turning to her betrothed in a way that her mother considered bold, tugged the King’s arm, ‘Your Grace, it is my brother returned from France.’
Thomas sauntered up to the centre of the huge table and made a fanciful bow. ‘Your Grace, forgive my somewhat precipitate entrance. I have ridden, even now, from Bristol, where I have been about my business. But what brother worth the name could miss the wedding of his sister?’
George Rochford walked over the King’s grave and for a moment Henry stirred uneasily as his spine crawled with fear, then he said, ‘I greet you Thomas. All the relatives of our affianced lady are as dear to us as they are to her.’
They looked at each other and just for a second each had a premonition of the love that Thomas would one day have for two of Henry’s women, both wife and daughter, and their gaze grew icy. Then the moment passed as each man shook off the presentiment and the feeling was lost amongst the mirth and merriment all around them.
*
On the 20th May, 1536, the day of Jane Seymour’s betrothal, Jane Wyatt, wife of the Duke’s son Zachary, was laid to rest in the Wyatt family tomb at Allington in Kent; the baton sinister, the sign of bastardy running through her husband’s coat of arms being enough to make the idea of internment in the Howard vault untenable to the rest of the family. Thus, Jane was buried alongside her ancestors, with her brothers and sisters — still in mourning for their friend and cousin Anne Boleyn — standing uneasily at the service with the wild-headed husband whom none of them particularly liked.
As soon as the funeral was done the astrologer left them, sweeping away on his dark horse with no more than a farewell. And the next morning Thomas Wyatt was astonished to hear that Zachary had sailed with the tide to France that very night, his two children with him, the house in Greenwich closed down all but for one servant, the only clue to his destination a short letter to his father stating that his son would be placing the children ‘in the care of a good woman of Calais’ for the meantime.
The mistress that Zachary kept in Calais was now nineteen years of age, having been seduced by him four years earlier and having borne him a son, Sylvanus, who was three years old. She, in her very embodiment, was part of Zachary’s guilt and yet he needed her naughtiness. Where Jane Wyatt had been all that a wife should be, Rosamund was the perfect mistress with her lovely slut’s mouth and desirable breasts. But now the wife was gone for ever and Zachary was in Calais to come to terms with his future.
He had sworn to himself that he would resist Rosamund’s charms on this visit but, of course, he could not and they had gone to bed together as lovers of old, and there he had wept bitterly for Jane in the security of Rosamund’s warmth. Then they had talked late into the night, the candles burning low and the wine in the flagon slowly disappearing.
‘I feel craven,’ Zachary said slowly, ‘for I deceived her over you and yet I never could resist you, you little witch.’
Rosamund looked at him long and hard. ‘I think we couple well and I think that it is difficult to forgo a good partner. But soon, my well-beloved, you will have to do so.’
He stared at her, astonished. ‘What do you mean?’
Rosamund pursed her beautiful mouth. ‘My hand is sought in marriage and my mother has given her consent.’
‘What!’ Zachary was furious. ‘Who is he? What is all this?’
‘He has a title and money and he is French. Need I say more?’
Zachary grinned wryly. ‘So you have a suitor. I should have guessed. But what of Sylvanus? Does your lover want him too?’
‘No, our child shall remain here in Calais with my mother. But there is nothing wrong with that. Surely it is the custom in England for the grandmother to care for the children while the parents are at Court?’