by Deryn Lake
It was hot and airless in the wooden castle and the King saw that his wife, in fifteenth-century clothes, had loosened the lacing on her bodice, thus exposing the tops of her breasts.
‘My dear,’ he said, laughing and keeping to his character, ‘you are very forward. Should I leave you in prison? Perhaps you might overwhelm me.’
Continuing the pantomime Jane said, ‘Oh, my lord, please rescue me, lest the cruel Turk ravish me. I would far rather die — unless you did take me,’ she added in a lower tone.
Henry felt such a wave of excitement that it occurred to him that his drink might have been spiced with an aphrodisiac. ‘I can hardly wait,’ he said, realising as he did so that he was starting to tremble.
‘You must,’ replied Jane in a whisper. ‘You must wait until this night is ended.’
As Sir Loyal Heart brought his lady out of the castle there was a tremendous cheer which was the sign for all the assembled company to dance. Everyone, old and young, stood up and jigged away at great pace. Henry, realising that his leg was no longer hurting him, bounded off with enthusiasm, vaguely aware that he was being watched by the little dark scrap attached to the retinue of Edward Seymour.
‘She’s a funny creature that,’ he said to Eve Carew, who had picked him as partner in the general throng. ‘Do you know, Her Grace told me the girl was stolen by her father, a stable boy, within hours of her birth, and was brought up by Romanies.’
‘Yes, but her mother had died,’ said Eve, and as she did so, for no apparent reason, went so cold that she shivered and Henry, thinking that perhaps there had been a tragedy in her family, danced her off at double speed, forcing her to concentrate on her flying feet.
The culmination of the masque had been carefully planned by Thomas and Edward: the rescued ladies would lead their knights off into the castle for refreshment and, amidst renewed cheering, it would be wheeled away. Whether the couples inside wished to return to the entertainment or discreetly vanish was left entirely to them.
‘The potion you gave me to put into his wine, is it strong?’ hissed Thomas into Cloverella’s ear.
His cousin, her eyes sparkling, answered, ‘The Romany girls use it to bring a lover to them and also to give him power.’
‘What’s in it?’ asked Thomas, fascinated.
‘Periwinkle, leeks and earthworms.’
‘Ugh! Tell me no more for God’s sake.’
The time had come. The six ladies, dancing all the while, were taking their partners towards the castle, while everyone else clapped. The King, his face transformed with passion, was being led by Jane like a lamb, unprotesting and very meek.
‘It must have been that additional worm,’ whispered Cloverella, at which Thomas turned his brilliant blue eyes on her, winked, then pretended to vomit.
Slowly the castle began to trundle off and the laughing crowd were left to see how many couples returned. Of the original six only two pairs came back and it was with a sigh of relief that the Seymours saw that Jane and Henry were not amongst them.
‘May Dr Zachary’s potion work,’ said Thomas softly.
Cloverella looked at him innocently. ‘Oh, that was not one of his. His is to aid conception and is made from raspberry leaf. It must be stored for use during the winter. But I had none. This is a special one my grandam used to sell.’
‘It makes men of boys, I presume?’
‘Dearest Thomas,’ answered Cloverella, kissing him on the nose, ‘it makes rams of goats!’
‘Then for sure I don’t need any,’ he answered, and laughed, his eyes wandering round the room and settling on the Princess Mary who, even in the midst of making merry, still bore a gruff, unhappy air.
‘If you will excuse me,’ he said to Cloverella and bowed.
‘Be careful, Thomas. Don’t reach for the stars.’
‘If I do, at least I’ll touch the moon,’ he answered lightly, and was off, the glow of the candles burnishing his hair to the colour of autumn gold.
*
By the light of the moon, Henry and Jane were making love as once they used; every movement, every touch, bringing them a million pleasurable sensations, every kiss a million joys. He, having drunk his fill of Cloverella’s potion, felt young again, and took Jane as if she were his bride, while she once more knew the passion she had originally felt for him. Tonight the terrible need for a son was forgotten by them both and they made love for pleasure, for desire and fulfilment, forgetting the pressures of the world about them.
‘My sweet young wife,’ whispered Henry, and Jane, forgetting his ferocity, answered, ‘Dear husband.’
But as together they sought and found ecstasy Jane felt sure that there was something different, that tonight, as the twelve days of Christmas came to their brilliant end, she had achieved her heart’s wish, that a new life, the life of a Tudor prince, had at long last been sown within her.
Chapter Fifteen
Every bell in England was ringing; in every church throughout the realm, from mighty St Paul’s to the smallest Saxon cot, a solemn mass followed by a Te Deum was being celebrated for the quickening of the Queen’s child. In every town and village bonfires blazed and hogsheads of wine were being put down, that all might drink without charge to the babe that was on its way. The Lord Deputy of Calais ordered celebratory guns to be fired off, and Sir William Sandys in Guisnes did likewise. Festivities abounded and there was no one in the kingdom who did not pray for the safe deliverance of a prince, particularly the delicate mother herself, who knew that her entire future depended on the outcome of this pregnancy.
As always in the summer months, an epidemic of the Sweat had broken out and Jane had been removed to the safety of Hampton Court with her entire entourage of ladies. And it was from there, with the Palace windows open and the Queen gone into the gardens to hear the sound of celebration, that the first bell rang out, only to have its message picked up and taken the length of the land, even the Regents of Scotland draining a quizzical dram as the Pursuivant of Berwick brought them the news.
All this, she thought, standing by the river and feeling the warm air blow through her loosened hair, ‘all this and I am not yet open-laced. Oh God, let me not abort my baby now.’
But to the King standing beside her, bluff and big and definitely moist of eye, she said nothing. Jane had, by this pregnancy, moved into the position that every woman must envy; the pampered sweetheart of the King’s majesty, the capricious wife whose every whim must be catered for. Quails had been her desire and quails had been sent for from Lord Lisle, the Deputy of Calais, from London to Dover, from Dover to Calais, with the order that if there be no fat birds available then the Deputy’s servants were to speed to Flanders for them. Boxes of fat live fowl had been shipped across in a matter of days, that the Queen might have her wish and feast on dainties.
And now she stood by the river on Trinity Sunday, almost exactly a year from her wedding day, and felt the sturdy baby kick her hard. Laughingly she put her hand to her body.
‘He is moving now,’ she said, and saw Henry weep with pure joy.
‘God grant us deliverance of a healthy son,’ he said.
‘Amen,’ answered Jane fervently, ‘amen, amen.’
And with that they joined hands and walked together to the chapel that they could pray, not only in company with the assembled Court but with the entire nation, for the prince that all hoped was to be safely born that autumn.
*
In the warm sunshine of that same spring François, King of France, walked with his pretty butterfly courtiers through the pleasure gardens of the Château of Chambord, that extraordinary turreted palace of four hundred and forty rooms, which boasted a chimney for every day of the year. The exquisite who was King liked to refer to Chambord as his hunting lodge, though this nonchalant description was pure affectation, for the Château was without doubt the finest in the valley of the Loire, while the gardens were splendid, a triumph and tribute to the men who had created them. Great golden beds in the styl
e of the fleur-de-lys rose up out of vivid blue backgrounds, while amongst flowers like tongues of flame grew others in the shape of the royal crown or François’s personal emblem of the salamander. Fountains leapt and cascaded everywhere and mirrors of water reflected the sky and all the sweet gaudy creatures who passed by them.
The King, who had once said that a court without women was like a spring without roses, walked surrounded by them, his vivacious favourite Anne, the Duchesse d’Etampes, on his arm. Behind him at some distance came the chillingly beautiful Diane de Poitiers, once the King’s mistress but now the object of the Dauphin’s obsessive adoration, despite the fact the widow was nineteen years his senior.
All of them, as they trooped past, were splashed with drops from the fountain and Anne d’Etampes stopped to count the rainbows in the sparkling plumes of water as she walked beneath a showery arch. It was a day of sheer enchantment and François, happy and relaxed, a handsome laughing peacock, was not well pleased when a liveried footman from the Palace came hurrying to find him, a look of some perplexity on his face.
‘Well, what is it?’ asked the King, thinking it would have to be a good reason for interrupting this blissful interlude.
‘Sire, forgive me. I did check first with Monsieur le Comte, your aide, and he said you might wish to know.’
‘Know what?’ said François, intrigued.
‘That there is someone at the Palace asking for Your Grace.’
‘Who?’
‘He looked a vagabond Romany to me, Majesty. Yet he claims that he knows Your Grace. He says he is Dr Zachary from England.’
‘Zachary!’ said the King, a grin spreading over his thin features. ‘That old fox Norfolk’s bastard! Show him into the gardens. I should like to see him very much.’
‘But Sire,’ answered the footman, somewhat distraught, ‘he has children with him and they do not look well washed.’
François roared with laughter. ‘And neither is he, I’ll warrant.’
The servant smiled tentatively. ‘Not very, Majesty.’
‘You see!’ said the King and laughed again until pretty Anne asked impatiently what could be the joke.
‘An astrologer has arrived from England, my dear. And a good one at that. I think you will like him.’ He turned to the footman. ‘Tell him to clean himself up and then ask him to dine with us.’
A quickly masked look of surprise crossed the servant’s face. ‘And the children, Sir?’
‘Let them be washed, too. Then they may go to the nurseries.’
Anne d’Etampes stared at François, astonished. ‘You are asking a gypsy man to dine?’
‘Zachary is not quite that, my dear. His father is the Duke of Norfolk and as to the man himself, why, I met him at Calais when our brother of England paraded the whore Boleyn for all of us to see. I spent a whole day with him. He is one of the most interesting creatures I have ever encountered.’
‘I can’t wait to meet him,’ said Anne, wrinkling her superb little nose as a wicked smile came and went.
And an hour later when a freshly laundered Dr Zachary made his bow, she thought him attractive and gave him a searching look from beneath lashes that swept up long and thickly, partly due to the aid of a small round stick with which the Duchesse curled them both morn and night.
Anne d’Etampes guessed the astrologer to be in the early part of his thirties and liked his strong, squarish build, his broad nose and features and the tumble of blue-black curls that crowned his head. His eyes she thought a little frightening, for it seemed to her that they ran the gamut of every shade between green and gold, and could alter expression at will, capable of being both hard as steel or exciting as a new flirtation. At the moment, however, the look in them showed obvious appreciation of her charms, which pleased her. Anne gave a gracious inclination of her lovely head and the Doctor bowed so low that his hair brushed against the floor.
‘Well, my boy,’ said François, when Zachary had made his reverence. ‘What are you doing at Chambord? Or even in France for that matter, I had thought to see you safely settled in England, tamed and domesticated.’
Zachary smiled and Anne appreciated the glint of strong white teeth. ‘It would be difficult for me to be either, Majesty, but indeed I did try while my poor wife lived. But, alas, the plague claimed her last summer and, having nothing left to tie me, I brought my children to Calais to see whence fate might take us.’
François looked to where, sheltering behind their father but peeping round his legs, stood three children: a girl, fair as daffodils, with eyes the same fine blue as could be seen inside a church in summer, when the high sun casts down the reflection of stained glass. The two small boys the King took at first to be twins, though there were certain puzzling features in that conclusion. One was raven-dark with Zachary’s Howard features and old Norfolk’s light brown eyes, a clever child; the other round-faced, comely and cheerful, with golden hair streaked by red, and round eyes like forget-me-nots.
‘Are they twins?’ asked François, puzzled, and Zachary had the good grace to blush.
‘They are half-brothers, Sir, for that one —’ he pointed to the jolly boy — ‘is the son of my mistress, Rosamund. While the other is by my wife. Only a few months separate them, but strangely the younger —’ again he pointed to the golden-haired child, who grinned merrily — ‘is the larger.’
‘Well, well, well,’ said François, raising a thin dark brow towards his hair, ‘you do spread your talents about, astrologer!’ Then he burst out laughing while the Duchesse giggled uproariously into her hand.
Zachary smiled too. ‘It was profligate of me I know, Sire, but I have always found it hard to resist a pretty woman.’
He looked directly at the Duchesse who lowered her lids and smiled.
‘Well, there are plenty of those at my Court, Zachary. I think it might be good sport if you and your brood stayed for a while this summer. There are many ladies here who would enjoy having their horoscopes cast, and your time could be profitably passed — in one way or another!’
The thin brow was rising again and Zachary felt his heart lift with it. He went down on one knee.
‘Majesty, I will gladly take your offer. My children and I have travelled like Romanies across France, for that is the way in which I felt they could best learn. I myself lived roughly, as a gypsy, until my mother — died …’ He hesitated over the word and the King wondered why. ‘After that the Lord Duke my father sent me to a tutor and I became civilised. My children were born to better things but I wanted them to see the wonder of life before they grew too old. But now, like myself, they need to rest.’
‘Then so be it. Welcome to my Court, Dr Zachary. Let us hope that we will learn much from each other.’
‘Much!’ echoed Anne d’Etampes and laughed naughtily once more while the children, at a nod from their father, came forward to be presented to the King of France.
*
The summer continued hot and long, ridden with Sweating Sickness, with London too dangerous a place to visit until the cold weather killed the infection.
Jane, who in early June had finally unlaced her bodices, filling in the ever-increasing gap with decorative stomachers of substantial size, roamed the gardens of Hampton Court with her ladies, thoroughly bored. Only the presence of her sisters, the young, but recently widowed Elizabeth, now in the full flower of a love affair with Gregory Cromwell, Master Secretary’s son, and the boisterous Dorothy, Lady Smith, helped to pass the time with any modicum of pleasure. There was not even Cloverella to amuse them, for Anne Seymour, having borne a child in February, had temporarily retired from Court life, taking Jane’s cousin with her. However, all were to assemble again in September in time for the Queen’s confinement. Meanwhile, Jane passed the interminable months of waiting by supervising a change of wardrobe for her ladies, insisting that every one should have exactly one hundred and twenty pearls in her girdle and wear decorative hats, well trimmed.
Indirectly, a piece of int
eresting information came into Jane’s possession through this preoccupation with clothes, for when Lady Lisle of Calais sent over two of her daughters with a view to their joining the Queen’s entourage, the name of Dr Zachary, last heard of in that town, arose during the conversation, and the sisters saw a gleam come into the Queen’s eye.
‘So you know the astrologer’s whereabouts? I would like to consult him at once. Where did you say he is now?’
‘I believe he has been with the French King all summer, Your Grace,’ answered Anne Bassett, the elder of the two. ‘He came to Calais to see Lady Banastre’s daughter’ — the girl’s cheeks deepened slightly — ‘he has a child by her, you see. But then he went off, taking all three of his children with him, not even asking Lady Banastre’s permission to remove the boy.’
Jane smiled. ‘That sounds rather typical. But where is the Court at the moment?’
‘I am not sure, Madam. Perhaps in Paris. But when the King goes to hunt in September they are bound for Chambord.’
‘I shall write to him there and bid him return,’ answered Jane determinedly. ‘And you may take the letter with you and ask your father to despatch it with a fast rider. I want Dr Zachary here before the birth of my child.’
‘Yes, Your Grace.’
Jane smiled again. ‘But if, my ladies, you want to join my retinue this autumn then you will need to get yourselves different clothes. Have new bonnets made, edged with pearls, and two black gowns, one of satin, the other of velvet. And buy more material, less coarse than at present, for your smocks.’
Inwardly the Bassett sisters groaned. Their mother had kitted them up with an entirely new wardrobe for this visit and now everything in it seemed to be wrong.
‘Of course, Your Grace,’ said Anne, while her sister Catherine merely curtsied her downcast acceptance.
‘Is the Queen not too fussy for words?’ she asked later when they were alone.