Pour The Dark Wine

by Deryn Lake

  His task done Chapuys crossed to the window of his apartments in Greenwich Palace and looked out on a landscape so bleak that the very sight of it set him longing for his native Spain. In all his years in England the Ambassador had never known a colder winter and to move around the palace was agony for him, scuttling down the draughty corridors through which the wind whipped raw from the Thames, to the nearest fire, then warming himself before he braved the next part of his journey.

  It had started to snow on Christmas Eve, which even the Ambassador had had to admit lent a certain softness and sparkle to the start of the twelve day celebration. But since then it had barely stopped and Greenwich had turned into a winter palace, dripping with crystal cascades, its roofs and turrets sparkling beneath the moon, its windows traced with delicate diamond patterns of frost even by day.

  Outside the land had been cleansed, purified, by the virgin white which covered it, familiar landmarks hidden and smoothed out so that Chapuys felt he dwelt in a strange anonymous country, far from anywhere known or charted. Only the trees, clad in their magnificent vestments, heavy with diamonds, stood to mark the places they had always held, proud and imperious; pleased it seemed with their glistening transformation. On the Thames, usually so fast flowing and swift, patches of ice had begun to appear, at first like spun glass, delicate and fine, a whirl of rainbows. Then the ice had started to thicken, white and dense as bridecake, yet hard as an axe.

  It won’t be long, thought Chapuys, looking from the window after rubbing his sleeve on a pane to remove Jack Frost’s fine lacework, before people are on that skating. Who would believe it possible?

  He turned back to his desk and added a postscript to the letter.

  ‘It is small wonder, Majesty, that this is a land of strange occurrences and the King needs new wives to keep him warm, for the River Thames that runs through the heart of the capital looks upon the point of freezing over! With what fond memories do I remember the winters at home. E. C.’

  And with that the Ambassador threw another log upon his already roaring fire and shivered at the very thought of making his way to the Princess Mary’s apartments to dine with her that evening.

  *

  Even before she had fully awoken, Jane knew that during the night it had started to snow again, for there was an unearthly stillness everywhere and a lavender light at the window which meant that a dawn full of white flakes, swirling and dancing against the panes, lay beyond the walls of the palace. She thought then that there was no more pleasant thing in the world than to lie beneath a fur coverlet in a comfortable bed, watching the flames of the fire dance in shadow on the ceiling, and to think of the outside world, so bitter that every beast in creation had gone to its lair to survive.

  And I am in mine, she thought, the cosiest lair in the kingdom.

  She drifted into a doze and pretended, just for a wicked moment, that she had conceived a son and Henry had died before his birth so that she, Jane the Queen, became Regent of England, assisted by her brothers. Then a snore from her right-hand side reminded her that her husband was very much alive and that so far there was no sign of the longed-for prince.

  Oh God help me this year, Jane prayed. I dread the next twelve months if I do not get with child.

  The picture she had had of herself as a mare and Henry a stallion had in a twisted way come true, for he heaved at her at almost every opportunity and she, who had loved that side of their life together so much, now began to dread it. Every month as her flux came and she had to tell him again that they had not succeeded, a hard Tudor eye would glint at her, reminding Jane of a vicious old boar deprived of his feed. The conviction that one day he would dispose of her and take to wife some nubile creature still in her teens and bursting with fecundity started to haunt her nightmares, and every time the moon’s cycle came and went and still she was infertile, Jane wept.

  Once, but only once thank God, she had suffered the terror of the King’s wicked fury. In the autumn of last year the northern part of the country had rebelled against Cromwell’s dissolution of the monasteries; Lincolnshire and Yorkshire suffering much at Mr Secretary’s vandalising hands. The insurrection, known as the Pilgrimage of Grace, rose to implore that the monasteries be restored, and the Prioress of Clementhorpe in Yorkshire had written direct to Jane to beg her intercession to save the nunnery. In a torment, for in her heart the Queen believed in the old faith and hated the rape of the abbeys, Jane had actually gone on her knees to Henry and begged him to spare the northern monasteries, believing the rebellion to be a punishment from God.

  Now, lying in bed beside him and remembering, Jane’s teeth chattered. The King had turned on her such a look that she had known at once the fear which must have clutched the hearts of her two queenly predecessors. His face white as suet and as moist, his eyes two splits of spleen, Henry had raised his hand as if to strike.

  ‘How dare you,’ he had whispered, ‘how dare you? Know your place, woman. I raised you up to give birth to my son not to interfere in matters that do not concern you. So hold your tongue, for you have no boy to save your head as neither did she whose crown you now wear.’

  It was the first time, ever, that Henry had been angry with her, let alone threatened her life. She had felt so faint that she had been glad she knelt. Jane had lowered her lids, knowing that her pale face was bleached to the colour of snowdrops, and muttered pleas for pardon. But inside, even while she mumbled, a kind of hatred had been born out of the death of her trust.

  Jane propped herself up on one elbow and looked down into the King’s sleeping face. Her love for him had received a wicked blow that day and had never recovered since.

  For after all, she thought as her sense of injustice rankled, I have been a good mother to his children, even getting Anne’s bastard accepted back at Court, to say nothing of my endeavours on behalf of poor Mary.

  The bulk beside her gasped in its sleep and turned over, pulling the fur coverlet and other bedclothes with it. Devoid even of covering on this bleak morning, Jane shivered afresh. Remembering how easily her husband could switch from lover to tyrant had frozen her to the bone and now she had nothing at all to warm her. With a muffled sound of annoyance she got out of bed and went to the fire, throwing on more logs to set the embers roaring up once more.

  Though both the King and Queen had separate apartments in all of their palaces Henry, no doubt through his feverish desire to sire a son, had taken to spending most of his nights with her, only keeping apart at the time of her flux or when fatigue rendered him incapable. The matter of her fatigue, she noted bitterly, did not matter and even if she was half asleep, Henry would thrust away for dear life if he so desired. How George Rochford could ever have thought him impotent, Jane could not understand.

  Unless, she wondered as she crossed to the window and gazed out, he meant it in the other sense; that the King can no longer beget children.

  She shook her head, tired of worrying about it, and concentrated instead on the prospect outside. Before her stretched fairyland, a glittering winter landscape of frost and snow. The early morning fall was already dying away, leaving the ground utterly pure and unmarked except for the fresh prints of an animal and, sure enough, even while she looked she saw him. Jane watched as a beautiful red fox sported and rolled in the crispness, his coat picking up the flakes and dappling him white. Then he ran off, sinking thigh deep, as his hunger forestalled play and the quest for food became paramount.

  She turned back to look at the bed where her husband stretched, just prior to waking up. Ever since he had vented his fury on her, Jane had adopted a certain way of dealing with him and now she stared slightly beyond him as she spoke.

  ‘It is a fine crisp morning but cold, Your Grace.’

  Henry yawned. ‘Is it, my dear? Then you will have to wrap up warmly.’

  He, too, had changed in manner since his outburst. Now he would often sound paternal, almost as if he was underlining the twenty years that lay between them. Jane sometimes wonde
red if it was his way of saying he was sorry.

  ‘We can’t have our sweetheart catching cold.’

  The King was coy and his Queen felt a terrifying combination of revulsion and delight in being cherished. To hide her feelings she turned away, once more to look outside.

  ‘I shall not be cold, Your Grace, for surely tonight the largest crowd of all is to be at the Palace to celebrate Twelfth Night. The very press of people should keep me warm.’

  It was an answer that meant something else and Henry knew it.

  ‘I was hoping my presence alone might protect you from the chill.’

  Jane swung round to look at him but did not meet his eye. ‘Of course it will, Sir, for in the company of yourself who could feel anything but heated?’

  Henry got out of bed, pulling a robe about him. ‘You are very formal today.’

  Jane bobbed a curtsey to emphasise the point. ‘Am I, Your Grace?’

  He came to stand beside her. ‘Yes, you are. I have obviously offended. What can I do to make amends?’

  Jane thought rapidly, knowing that if she told him the real truth he would probably have her killed. ‘Your offence is in your thinking, Sir, but if Your Majesty would enjoy a morning’s sport, might we ride across the Thames?’

  He stared at her, puffy eyes goggling. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I believe it to be frozen solid — or at least that is how it looks from here. When we were children, all of us at Wolff Hall, we would skate on the Kennet and run and ride on the ice. It was a wonderful sensation to walk on something that is another element entirely.’

  The King stroked his chin. ‘But supposing you are with child, might it not be dangerous?’

  Jane looked at him boldly. ‘I do not believe I am, Your Grace. Why, the last time you favoured me I was so tired I could scarce keep awake. My fault, of course, for walking far that day,’ she added hastily. ‘Still, I believe the mother must be participating for a child to be conceived.’

  Henry turned on her a face of thunder. ‘Then you must not allow yourself to get so fatigued. We have been married almost eight months. I sometimes despair of having a son.’

  Jane crossed over to him, a small bit of her sorry for the heirless King. ‘I am sure we will soon. It has been foretold me.’

  ‘Then pray God the prediction is right.’

  ‘Amen.’ Jane paused then said, ‘It is a wives’ tale that if the woman is happy and relaxed her chances will be better. So may we ride upon the river?’

  He nodded. ‘Why not, if it pleases you. And let everyone come. I shall give it out that it will be today’s pastime.’

  ‘A rare treat for Twelfth Night.’

  ‘Indeed.’

  Two hours later the entire Court, in all its splendour, set forth. It seemed that everyone capable of mounting a horse was there, and in their winter trappings of furs and velvets, Jane thought she had never seen a finer sight than when the brightly dressed cavalcade crossed over the ice to the far bank to where an enterprising pedlar had set up a brazier and was roasting crabs. Several of the men, and some of the women too, had brought skates with them and, having reached the other bank, put them on and began to whirl about, cutting patterns in the ice. The King’s Gentlemen, however, had with them sticks and a ball which they hit from horseback as they rode. With the colours of their clothes reflecting in the river’s glassy surface and the fiery red sun above, Jane thought it looked as if they were all inhabitants of the Ice King’s realm, quite unreal in their frozen splendour.

  With a laugh of excitement she dismounted from her horse and took a pair of skates from a waiting groom. Then she was off, skimming like a butterfly down the centre of the Thames, with never a backward glance at her royal husband. In all that speed and elation she suddenly felt free, powerful, as if she could skate on for ever and never again have to worry about becoming pregnant or upsetting the tyrant; as if, if she went on far enough, she would find an undiscovered country upriver where she could dwell in peace amongst beautiful flowers, her companions sylvan characters who were merry all day long.

  It seemed as if her fantasy was coming true, for she suddenly heard laughter behind her and turning, Jane saw that Edward, Thomas and Cloverella had left the throng and were skating fast to join her. She stopped and let them catch her up, then all four linked arms and skimmed gracefully along.

  ‘What does this remind you of?’ said Cloverella.

  The other three looked at her, thinking she seemed radiant, her black hair escaping from her hood and her skin glowing with the cold.

  ‘Skating at Wolff Hall?’

  ‘Yes, that too, but more the day we saw the Kennet turn to gold and made our wishes on Merlin’s Mound.’

  ‘Mine has come true,’ answered Jane slowly. ‘Do you remember that I wished to be Queen?’

  ‘How odd,’ said Thomas. ‘I had forgotten. But you are quite right, you did.’

  ‘Well I wanted to own land and I certainly do now. So perhaps mine has as well,’ put in Edward.

  Thomas turned to him. ‘But you said “all this”, as if you meant the whole of Wiltshire.’

  Edward smiled. ‘Perhaps it has come half true.’

  ‘I suppose mine has too. For I asked to know many beautiful women before I married the highest in the land.’ He laughed joyfully. ‘And I have known several already!’

  Jane tried to purse her small mouth but could not help but laugh instead. Out here in the middle of the winter wilderness, safe from Master Cromwell’s spies, and with only her closest family near her, she could say and do exactly as she pleased.

  ‘Well, the highest eligible woman in the land is the Lady Mary.’ Thomas crinkled his sea-blue eyes. ‘Hmm, not very pretty — too short and gruff and bustling, and her gaze does stare so.’

  Jane laughed gently. ‘That is because she is short-sighed, poor thing.’

  ‘And she is not completely restored in her father’s favour despite your efforts, which must make her nervous.’

  ‘I think she may yet be fully restored if I do not conceive soon.’

  The other three stared at Jane in pity and eventually Thomas spoke high treason. ‘Is it him? There are rumours …’

  Jane blushed deeply but kept her head up; they were, after all, four country people. ‘He is not impotent, if that is what you mean.’

  ‘Aye, but can he breed children? None since Elizabeth, I reckon.’

  ‘But what of Anne’s miscarriage?’

  ‘Smeaton’s,’ said Tom shortly. ‘I’ve always thought so.’

  None of them wanted to pursue that line of conversation, so Cloverella changed it. ‘I will mix you a potion the Romanies use. I had heard my grandam speak of it, but Dr Zachary reminded me of its properties.’

  ‘Zachary,’ said Edward musingly. ‘What has happened to him? He’s not been seen since the death of his wife.’

  ‘I believe he went to Calais with his children. No one has heard from him since.’

  ‘A shame. A good fellow.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Cloverella very wistfully, and Jane shot her a searching look.

  There was the sound of distant hailing and looking back, the four saw that some of the King’s Gentlemen were drawing near.

  ‘I think they want us to go back,’ said Tom.

  ‘His Grace has probably missed me.’ And Jane sighed.

  ‘Courage,’ answered Edward. ‘Take Cloverella’s potion and we will probably end up with twin heirs.’

  ‘Now that,’ said Jane, ‘would solve every problem I have.’

  She felt a moment’s intense happiness then, thinking how glorious was freedom, before she linked arms again with her beloved family and they slowly and deliberately, without too much show of concern, skated back to where the King and his courtiers awaited them.

  *

  That night, being the last of the twelve days of festivity, there was to be a special banquet, a masque, and an entertainment of mummers and players, together with tumblers and a fire-eater. The Q
ueen’s brothers had organised the masking between them; a new venture for which they had begged permission of His Grace. More conscious than any other of the present strain on their royal brother-in-law and his wife, the Seymours had chosen a romantic theme for the entertainment, one of love in peril, happily rescued by a loyal heart. It was an old idea but knowing how well the King had once enjoyed a like display, Viscount Beauchamp, as Edward had now become, had commissioned from the carpenters a castle borne on wheels, complete with towers, cannon, a gate and a dungeon. In it, imprisoned, sitting amongst her ladies would be Jane, dressed in clothes of an earlier century, weeping into a handkerchief.

  As soon as the banquet was underway, Edward ordered that the amazing contraption be pulled in and there was a moment’s stunned silence whilst Henry, who had half guessed there was to be a surprise when Jane excused herself from the table, was seen to stare aghast before he, too, joined in the thunderous applause. Not since the days of two wives now dead had there been such a display and when Edward and Thomas, disguised as knights, came to the King’s high chair with knightly clothes for him, he willingly joined the fun and donned his costume and mask.

  It was some time since he had danced nimbly when similar masques had been arranged but now, despite the pain in his leg and his increased size, Henry entered into the spirit of the occasion, and with the other men made a mock assault on the castle. As the first signs of attack were heard, Jane’s gaoler — none other than Sir Nicholas Carew disguised as a Turk — led her to the ‘dungeon’ where she wept all the more.

  The Seymour brothers had already thought of the one possible flaw in the proceedings — Henry’s entry into the castle to rescue his lady — and had organised that the boarding plank be specially reinforced. So that now with much goodwill and chuckling, having danced a few steps with every lady in the room, regardless of the pain it cost him, Henry hastened to the gangplank and into the wheeled contraption and clambered with difficulty down the ladder into the dungeon where Jane sat smiling at him.