by Deryn Lake
Anne looked at her wisely. ‘I believe that all of this is caused by worry over the forthcoming confinement. She has nothing else to think of at all, so she spends her time on frivolities.’
‘Then we must get the letter to Dr Zachary. His arrival should take her mind off fashion for a while.’
‘It is strange, is it not, that he has not returned to wish her well?’
‘Yes,’ answered Catherine Bassett, nodding. ‘It is almost as if he is deliberately keeping away.’
*
The French hunting party was in Chenonçeau, the King’s château built on foundations which rose up out of the very water of the River Cher itself, its only connection with land being a stone bridge. Tonight they were celebrating en fête, for the Queen had organised a masked ball by torchlight and the glittering reflection of the château, brilliantly lit, shone in the calm waters of the river as dusk fell over the valley of the Loire.
Lord Lisle’s messenger, making his way from Chambord, whence he had been first directed, stopped his horse for a moment and stared. It was like fairyland, the little castle — so beautifully made with battlements and towers that were purely ornamental — rising up out of the water like an island. He thought to himself that he never had seen so lovely a sight, and decided when he had delivered the vital letter, bearing the seal of Queen Jane herself, that he would beg a night’s sleep with the servants and see the miniature château at first hand.
On the bank, guarding the King’s exquisite residence, loomed a round and formidable tower and it was to this that the messenger first reported, there being given permission to leave his horse and proceed on foot across the bridge and into the castle. Here he was once again challenged by sentries.
‘I am about the Queen of England’s business,’ he called, ‘and have ridden from Lord Lisle at Calais with a letter for Dr Zachary.’
‘Then pass friend, all’s well.’
But this was not quite true, for into a room leading from the left of the vaulted stone vestibule, a room with a balcony built out over the river on which the astrologer and the King stood in companionable silence, there passed through both men a sudden frisson at the distant sound of the messenger’s voice.
Zachary sighed. ‘What I have been expecting has happened. A letter had come for me from England.’
Frankly astonished at his companion’s acuity, François stared at him blankly and Zachary continued, ‘But I must not take delivery of it. I ask you to shield me, Majesty.’
Quite unable to follow, the King simply asked, ‘Why?’
‘Because the letter comes direct from the Queen of England.’
François shook his head, more puzzled than ever. ‘Then why not read it?’
Zachary turned to face the French monarch, the reflected lights from the river shining in his face and hair, giving him a strange unearthly look.
‘Sire, there is more to my reluctance than is apparent.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘When I told you the Queen would bear a son, I did not tell you everything.’
‘Well do so now.’
‘Her Grace is doomed to die, Majesty. She will not survive the birth of her boy two weeks.’
François looked aghast. ‘My God, what a terrible fate. You are sure?’
‘Positive. And that is why I cannot go back, as she has commanded. I cannot bear to face her when the end of her life is so near.’
The King stroked his long nose. ‘No, you are right. It would be intolerable for both of you. I will have the messenger turned away, tell him you have already left us. He can sleep at the inn this night.’
Zachary squared his shoulders. ‘But soon, Sire, when you leave to hunt, I must say farewell. I have accepted your hospitality long enough. This autumn when everything is … finished … I must return to England.’
‘And your children?’
‘They will go with me, of course. I want Sapphira well schooled, for one day I feel that by some miracle her speech might return.’
‘You should pray to the Black Madonna of Rocamadour.’
‘I already have, Majesty,’ said Zachary, and smiled a little sadly.
‘And what?’ asked François, turning back to stare moodily over the darkening river, ‘what future for our greedy brother of England?’
‘Greedy in every sense,’ answered Zachary sternly. ‘For there will be other wives and yet another death.’
‘Christ’s mercy on us,’ said the French King softly, ‘tell me no more of it.’
And with that he strode from the balcony and into his study, holding his hands out to the fire that blazed in the hearth of an evening, shaking as if the night had grown suddenly cold.
*
Autumn came softly. The leaves on the trees ripened to richness and the sky at sunset was tinted the colour of wine. The air smelled golden, of harvesting, and gathering plums, and in the lofts apples were laid out in trays to keep for the winter, adding their crisp aroma to all the others. The long grass was cut for the last time that season and put aside to dry for fodder; everywhere preparations were in hand for an end of year that might well prove severe.
In the city the pestilence raged, even though the days shortened and the air grew cooler; while at Hampton Court a tremendous quiet fell over the palace as daily life seemed almost to come to a halt. It hung over Jane like a pall, all the heavy silence as she walked past interspersed with whisperings, then discreet stares, as though everyone constantly conjectured upon which day she would actually go into labour.
Dr Butts, who had once saved Anne Boleyn from the Sweat, now hovered the corridors of the Palace like a black moth, ready or so it seemed, to leap forward and attend the Queen, should she so much as hiccough. These were the most difficult times the girl had ever had to endure, living as she did in a state that swung violently between the extremes of hysterical anticipation and the crushing boredom of a guarded prisoner, no diversion capable of raising her spirits.
September was the happiest month, with the hottest days gone and both the Queen’s husband and brothers returned from their various hunting parties. But still there was no sign of the summoned astrologer, who had now been in France some fifteen months. Longing for help, Jane suddenly found that she could be quite as imperious as her predecessor, and wrote to her sister-in-law, commanding Cloverella’s immediate release from Edward’s household so that she may permanently serve Her Grace.
‘As I should have done months ago,’ sighed Jane to herself as she signed the letter ‘Jane the Queen’, and put it into the hand of a messenger already dressed to ride.
‘This is all, Your Grace?’ he asked bowing.
‘Yes,’ she said, then changed it to, ‘No’. ‘Take another to my cousin who is also residing at Wolff Hall. I have certain instructions for her and I bid you ask her to fulfil them for me before she comes to Hampton Court.’
The man bowed again as Jane scratched the words, ‘Go to Zachary’s house and see if you can take possession of the black crystal from Venice. If he has it with him in France I know not what steps to take, for my letter cannot have reached him, yet I must know for once and for all if this is a boy that leaps so heartily within.’
‘Go to, fast, and you shall be well rewarded,’ she said as she pressed her seal into the wax. ‘If you can be at Wolff Hall this night, all the better. But you are not to leave without Mistress Wentworth. You are to escort her to Greenwich to the house of the astrologer, thence to me. Make sure that this is done.’
The man bowed. ‘Mistress Wentworth will be at your side within two days, Your Grace.’
Jane looked jubilant. ‘Then I shall know all,’ she said as the rider hastened to do her bidding.
*
The old woman who was acting as caretaker in Zachary’s absence looked at the girl with the cloud of midnight hair who had come knocking at his door, with some suspicion.
‘What do you want of him? He is in France and has been this year past. State your business.’
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‘My business is on behalf of the Queen’s Grace,’ came the quick reply, and the crone thought grudgingly that her lack of size in no way diminished from the girl’s air of authority.
‘So what is it, Mistress?’
‘I have come to borrow his scrying glass that I may gaze for the Queen.’
The servant stared at Cloverella with her mouth dropping open. ‘What?’
‘You heard me well enough. I was once the Doctor’s pupil and now I have come to consult his crystal. So let me pass if you will.’
‘Aye,’ said a burly man, appearing from nowhere. ‘Let the Queen’s lady pass.’
‘He’ll have my hide,’ said the old woman furiously, ‘if I so much as let you through this door.’
Cloverella turned on her a glorious smile. ‘Tell him that his pupil has bathed in vervain and now nothing can be denied her!’
‘But what of me?’
The dark-haired imp, already rushing up the stairs to Zachary’s sloping room beneath the roof, paused. ‘Don’t be afraid. Whatever I borrow shall be returned within a night and a day. He will never know.’
‘But he has taken the dark crystal with him, Mistress.’
‘I thought as much. But something of his must remain, and I shall find it. It is my duty to know the Queen’s future and whether she will bear His Grace a son.’
‘Please disturb nothing. Dr Zachary does not like his study entered. Even I only go there to dust.’
And not very often at that, thought Cloverella as she panted up the final spindly staircase and swiftly entered Zachary’s room, closing the door behind her while she looked round.
It was as if the astrologer had only just left it, just gone downstairs and would be back at any second, for his ambience within the place was tangible. Cloverella could almost smell his bodily scents, the herbs that he rubbed into his skin for cleanliness, the exotic perfume that he wore when attending Court. She felt that at any moment he would step out of a dark corner and touch her.
Boldly walking to the small window, Cloverella wrenched it open and the fresh air from the river entered the room, banishing some of the mustiness but doing nothing to dispel Zachary’s presence, though the shadows lightened as the dusty panes were thrust back.
‘Don’t begrudge me this, Master,’ said Cloverella aloud, and behind her something stirred.
She had never been more frightened, and in horrid response every nerve in her body leapt, while her heart lurched downwards. With the hairs rising on her neck Cloverella turned to face whatever had crept in behind her, making the sign of the cross as she did so. A fearsome cat with a knowing look on its face sat in the doorway.
Cloverella laughed in sheer relief. ‘Oh, so you have sent your familiar out to do your bidding, have you?’
The cat slowly winked an amber eye, reminiscent of the colour of Zachary’s own.
Cloverella advanced on it. ‘Are you his familiar?’ It rubbed round her legs, arching its back and purring. ‘Why, I believe you must be. Then help me find his scrying glass or else his ancient cards. Though I know — and your master also — that my cousin Jane will bear a son, she needs reassurance.’
The cat backed away, its ears flat to its head.
Cloverella stared at it. ‘What is wrong? What did I say amiss?’
She bent to comfort it but it retreated from her, jumping up on Zachary’s desk and knocking something to the floor. Cloverella saw with a coldness of spine that it was a skull that rocked from side to side, disturbing the spores of dust. Yet again she stooped and then saw that the death’s head concealed a small crystal. Picking up both, she took Zachary’s seat and closed her eyes for a moment before she began to gaze.
For the rest of her life, Cloverella wished that this point had never been reached and yet could clearly see that it had been inevitable, to allow her to progress along her chosen path. She had asked Merlin for wisdom, had begged Zachary to take her as pupil, and now the consequences had come and she must face them with courage. But it was so hard and so painful, for even as she held the glittering sphere in a nerveless grasp she knew what she would see even before she stared into it.
Jane lay on her great bed, asleep and yet not. The paleness she had exhibited in life nothing compared with the wonderful waxiness which now consumed her. But it was not Jane any more, only a doll that she had turned in to.
‘Oh God,’ said Cloverella bleakly. ‘I did not know. I did not know until this moment.’ She must have spoken aloud, for the cat gave a mournful wail to echo her words.
The vision was changing. A voice was calling out, ‘Edward, by the grace of God, right excellent and noble Prince.’ And now a funeral bell tolled, sonorous yet bleak.
So that was how it was to be! The living child would kill its mother. Plain Jane, who had achieved so much, was to be snatched away in her moment of triumph. Endgame had been reached.
Cloverella never afterwards knew how long she sat motionless at Dr Zachary’s desk. Hours probably, for the sun had sunk beyond the river and the room was almost in darkness, when the serving woman finally came up the stairs, the expression on her face both fearful and curious.
‘Your manservant bids me to seek you, Mistress. He was afeared for you.’
Cloverella turned stiffly. ‘Tell him to be at peace. I shall come down now.’
The woman shuffled in the doorway. ‘What will you be taking with you?’
Cloverella shook her head. ‘Nothing. There is no need. I know all that I must.’ She stood up. ‘Be careful not to imprison the cat.’
The servant looked puzzled. ‘The cat?’
‘There was one here.’
But of course it had gone, as silently and darkly as it had arrived. Perhaps Zachary had indeed guided her towards the truth, albeit almost too terrible to contemplate. With a puzzled sigh, Cloverella left the astrologer’s home at Greenwich a wiser woman, and with a heavy heart rode through the darkness towards Hampton Court and Jane.
Chapter Sixteen
It seemed to Dr Butts that the screams coming from the Queen’s apartments had somehow become frozen in the air so that, even with his hands over his ears, the echo of the terrible sounds was still audible to torture him.
Never, he thought, as near in his life as he had ever been to publicly weeping, has man or physician been placed in so intolerable a position. For the treatment of my patient is no longer my decision. Only the King can choose her fate.
He stood in the anteroom leading off Jane Seymour’s bedchamber, listening to her calling to him through the open door. Calling and screaming; begging him to put an end to her suffering and make the child that was tearing her apart be born. And all he could do, for all his longing to rush in and crush the baby’s head so that it could pass through the too-small space, was tell the exhausted woman to be calm, to let nature take its course. Had it been any other child he would have killed it immediately and let the mother live. But how could he lay hands upon the future Prince of Wales or, if matters came to the worst, the King’s own legitimate daughter? Dr Butts shivered. If he lived to the ripest age the sufferings of Jane Seymour and his consequent predicament were something he would never forget.
Right from the start it had struck him, after a delicate examination of the Queen’s abdomen during which her ladies had clustered round her, hiding her privy parts with cloths, that the child might be too big for its mother. He saw immediately that the stretching involved for one to leave the other would be an enormous effort for one so delicately built as Jane. And now, three days later, he was positive he was right, that the baby simply could not get out and that unless he cut the mother surgically and took the child away, it might well die.
Butts shuddered where he stood. The risk to the mother of such an operation was enormous and though he might, in less important cases, have saved one or other of them, now it was beholden on him to ensure that both survived. To make the situation a thousand times worse the King, nervous of the plague, had fled to Esher and could onl
y be contacted by messenger. Jane had not only had to bear her agony alone but wait unendurable hours while riders thundered from one place to the other.
‘Because I will not,’ Butts muttered to himself, ‘cut the mother open until I have His Grace’s written consent to do so. I will not be forced to make such a momentous decision alone.’
He had performed the Caesarean operation twice before, the name — or so legend had it — coming from the great Roman leader Julius who had been taken live from his mother’s womb. Yet on both occasions when Dr Butts had practised this particular surgical skill the mother had been dead and it had been only a matter of saving the child. There had been none of the tricky business of stitching the woman up that she might live on and healthily bear more children. The doctor felt faint at the very thought of what might lie before him. Not only was this mother alive, she was also the Queen of England.
His train of thought was interrupted by a bustling midwife plucking at his elbow. ‘You must come at once, Dr Butts. Her Grace looks fit to leave the world.’
‘Is she losing blood?’
‘Not yet. But her breathing is laboured and shallow. I reckon we’ll lose both mother and child if this labour goes on much longer.’
‘She is too narrow to deliver the infant, that is the problem.’
‘I know that, Sir. And I know the remedy for it, though it may be against the teachings of the Church.’
The physician rounded on the woman. ‘Mind your tongue. I cannot listen to such treasonable words.’
‘That’s as may be. But the point is, how are we going to save them? Will you cut her open, Doctor?’
‘Not without the King’s permission.’
‘But while you wait for that the Queen might breathe her last —and then what?’
The doctor’s heart shrank. If the Queen was to die while he hung on for instructions from Esher, he could be in even more serious trouble.
‘It seems to me, Dr Butts, that it is as dangerous to wait as it is to proceed,’ said the midwife, speaking his thoughts.
Butts crossed himself. ‘Then I must try to save them both. I have no choice. Prepare a strong caudle laced with enough poppy essence to render Her Grace insensible.’