by Deryn Lake
It was a warm evening and through the windows of the great hall the sun could be seen dipping over the Thames in bands of pink and gilt which augured well for next day’s weather. Following the tradition of the time-honoured opening gambit of many Englishmen, the great and glorious Thomas Seymour, aware of his own magnetism, his irresistible attraction for women, could think of nothing better to say than, ‘It has been very fine, Lady Latymer, has it not?’
Once more the roses bloomed in the ice of her skin and Thomas considered Bryan’s belief that she would not be able to cope with a lusty man. Naughtily, and because he was what he was, Thomas accordingly drew her a little closer to him as the dance began.
If she was affected by this Katherine Latymer did not show it, merely answering in a steady voice that Thomas thought most pleasant to listen to, ‘Indeed it has, Sir.’
‘And you are staying at Court long?’
‘For another week. Then we return to my husband’s estate in Yorkshire.’
‘A pity,’ said Thomas, looking down at her from his considerable height and gently drooping an eyelid, ‘the Court is scarce of beauty these days.’
The green eyes shot him a reproving glance but Lady Latymer said nothing.
‘And you are indeed beautiful, Madam, as I am sure you are aware,’ Thomas persisted, watching the struggle within her with some amusement as the primness, brought on by a surfeit of elderly husbands and priests no doubt, went hard to war with all the natural youth and vivacity which had been stifled so early in life. A widow at fifteen, thought Tom, and was seized by an overwhelming urge to embrace her.
‘It is kind of you to flatter,’ she was answering, her lips somewhat pursed. ‘But please remember that I am a country woman and not well versed in the ways of the Court. Gallantry is a little beyond me.’
‘More’s the pity,’ Thomas answered softly. ‘It is the right of every woman to be admired.’
‘I am admired,’ she answered spiritedly, ‘I am a good wife and kind mother to my step-children. My family have great love for me.’
Thomas bowed. ‘Then I stand corrected, Madam. Yet it was not what I meant.’
He watched her hesitate, dying to lead him on but yet afraid of all that might ensue if a devout woman like herself should dare to open a door to the unknown. Then Thomas saw her lips quiver and thought to himself that rogues such as he were attractive to all women but particularly those who led dull and respectable lives.
‘What did you mean?’ asked Katherine Latymer slowly.
‘I meant, Madam, that it is the birthright of every beautiful woman to have admirers. Not children but grown men who can appreciate all that her charm entails. Admirers from afar, mark you, who will do no more than write a poem in praise of her ankle.’
‘Her ankle?’ said Katherine and pealed with laughter, a gay silvery sound.
Now Thomas could see the youth and splendour of her as her attractive face lit up with smile after smile.
‘I think you’re mad, Sir,’ she added, but still with the same joyful note.
‘I am,’ he said, pulling her as close as he dared. ‘I’ve been mad for years, that’s why I have such a fierce reputation. I’m known as Mad Sir Tom at Wolff Hall.’
‘And where might Wolff Hall be?’
‘In Wiltshire. It was where I was born. There they know all my follies.’
Katherine looked at him shrewdly. ‘I don’t believe a word of this.’
Thomas laughed, at his best, a beautiful woman in his arms who obviously both enjoyed and admired him. He paused for a moment to analyse his own feelings, realising the powerful effect of her physical closeness and her general attractive way. Almost without thinking he said, ‘I like you, Lady Latymer.’
‘And I like you, Sir.’
‘Then shall we be friends?’
‘That depends.’
‘On what?’
‘On how you behave yourself,’ she said, and curtsied as the dance came to an end.
Thomas bent to kiss her hand. ‘I could not guarantee my behaviour with such an exciting woman.’
‘Then we must part,’ Katherine said simply. ‘My husband and step-children always come first.’
‘Aye, we’ll part — but not for ever,’ he whispered as she drew her hand away rapidly and with a very small curtsey left his side.
*
Not everyone was at the great banquet at Durham Place that night. The Duke of Norfolk had used the excuse of a cough and cold not to be present, while Elizabeth Wentworth, known as Cloverella, had developed a diplomatic headache, though in reality all she wanted to do was sit quietly and sort through her thoughts, her problem being whether she should stay at Court ruled by her autocratic cousin Anne Seymour, or put into plan a particularly daring and secret scheme of her own.
Yet these two diverse people, the Duke and the half-gypsy, had one thing in common as to why they stayed behind. Both knew that Dr Zachary was coming to Whitehall Palace that night to see his natural father, and though he had an appointment with one the other was determined to waylay him.
Thus a hovering Cloverella, from a secret hiding place from which she could observe the entrance to the Duke’s apartments, saw a dark figure knock softly on Norfolk’s oak door and gain admittance equally silently, and then, before the door closed, watched the Duke embrace his visitor.
‘He’s here!’ she breathed in relief, and prepared herself for a long wait.
‘Welcome, my boy,’ Thomas Howard was saying within, bolting the door and leading Zachary to stand by the fire that burned brightly despite the warm evening. ‘How good it is to see you.’
The astrologer smiled, holding his hands out to the blaze before he took the wine cup offered.
‘It is good to be here, Lord Duke. I have been too long away.’
‘Indeed you have. I thought we had lost you to the French King.’
‘No fear of that,’ said Zachary and put his hand out to touch his father’s cheek. ‘My roots are in Norfolk, Sir, as are your own.’ Norfolk nodded but said nothing and they sat opposite one another, lit by the firelight, silently appraising the change that had come about in each in the years they had been apart.
In many ways the Duke, with his broad Howard nose and strong features, had fared the better, for he had never looked truly young, and now only a deepening of lines round his mouth showed the passage of time. Zachary, on the other hand, had a great sparkle of silver in his pitch-dark curls, not one single strand, but an all over spread as if winter had thrown frost upon him. He was thirty-six now, lean and tough, a dark shadow stalking in the background of his father’s life: a permanent reminder of a honey-skinned girl that once the Duke had loved.
‘Will you go away again?’ asked Norfolk now, this being the first real chance he had had to converse with his son since Zachary’s return to England.
‘No, never. Father …’ the astrologer leaned forward earnestly, his arms on his knees.
‘Yes?’
‘It was guilt that drove me abroad. When Jane Wyatt died I felt that I had betrayed her.’
‘And had you?’ asked Norfolk mildly.
‘You know so. Rosamund Banastre of Calais was my mistress and bore my child.’
‘Yes, yes, I was aware,’ the Duke answered quietly. ‘But those times are long gone now. I believe she has married and that you have her son here.’
Zachary nodded. ‘I regret that you have not had time to meet him or see the others.’
‘They are well?’
‘Indeed, though poor Sapphira still has not spoken. But Jasper grows daily more like you. He is a Howard through and through.’
The Duke of Norfolk smiled. ‘Perhaps you should take another wife, my boy. Jane has been dead a very long time. Is there no one …’
The astrologer shook his head. ‘No one. And being what I am, full both of your blood and of Romany, I will only marry for passion, for love. I would never do it merely to provide my children with a mother.’
The D
uke smiled. ‘You still bear all the fire of youth. Wait till you are middle-aged and comfortable.’
Zachary gave a glinting grin. ‘God forbid that time ever comes. Let me continue to learn and quest all the days that are left to me.’
‘You wild boy.’ The Duke impetuously leaned forward and ran his hand through the tangled mass of curls. ‘Will you never grow up?’
‘I hope not.’ Zachary held out his wine cup to be refilled. ‘Now, Lord Duke my father, how is it with the house of Howard? I hear strange rumours.’
‘I think they are more than that,’ answered Norfolk in a low voice. ‘Will you read the future for me?’
His son grinned. ‘How fortunate that I brought both the dark crystal and the cards.’
The Duke eyed him. ‘You knew full well I would ask.’
Zachary’s glance was sly. ‘I could not believe you wanted to see me for my good looks alone.’
‘Then go to. What’s to happen?’
Though the Duke had seen the sight many times before it never failed to send a thrill of fear shooting icily along his spine as he watched Zachary’s features change into those of a mystic, a dreamer. The rough hair drooped over the crystal’s black heart as Zachary laid his father’s hands upon it and closed his own over them. Then there was silence, the only noises in the room the crackling of the fire, the scratching of the Duke’s hound, and Zachary’s sonorous breathing, almost as if he were asleep. Finally, after what seemed an age, he spoke.
‘She is here, Lord Duke my father.’
‘Who?’ Norfolk found himself whispering. ‘Who is there?’
‘My little cousin, the little girl.’
‘You mean my niece, Catherine Howard?’
‘Yes, yes, yes.’ Zachary seemed in a trance. ‘She is here in blood.’
‘What do you mean?’ Norfolk found that he was shivering violently.
‘She will be Queen of England unless you stop it. And she will die as such. She is an enchantress, Sir, who gives her body freely when she gives her heart.’
The Duke sat thinking furiously, his brows drawn down. ‘But Zachary, what can I do? If His Grace is attracted to her I cannot intervene. It would be disaster.’
Zachary said nothing, laying out the ancient cards with three above representing the King, Queen Anne of Cleves and Catherine Howard.
‘It is here again, Lord Duke. The Queen will be put aside, not cruelly but indeed to her own advantage. And the little Cat will creep into His Grace’s bed and drive him mad before he realises the truth about her. Then comes the Tower of Ruin and the Moon of Treachery.’
‘But what can I do?’ Norfolk repeated with an edge in his voice.
‘Tell him now that the Cat has already had two lovers. That she first gave herself to a man when she was …’
‘Enough!’ Norfolk had risen to his feet and slammed his hand down hard on the table which bore the cards and crystal. ‘I know nothing of this. Catherine was brought up by her grandmother in Lambeth. She has been strictly raised. Stop it, Zachary, at once.’
The astrologer sat silently, the distant look draining from his features and giving way to what appeared to be some inner struggle. Eventually he said, ‘Lord Duke, if it indeed is true that you know nothing then I beg you to make enquiries that you may yet save the house of Howard from a death blow.’
Norfolk looked furious. ‘What do you mean “if it is true”. I tell you I know nothing of any scandal linked with my niece’s name. I warn you, you are going too far.’
Zachary stood up, his face rather white. ‘Lord Duke my father, I beg you to see reason. You asked me to read for you. I told you truthfully what I saw. Now you are angry with what has been revealed.’
‘Yes,’ said Norfolk from between clenched teeth. ‘Indeed I am. I warn you Zachary, that if one word of this gets out … one word! … I shall disown you.’ His son said nothing and he went on, ‘Don’t you see that if my niece becomes Queen the power of the Seymours, to say nothing of that common upstart Cromwell, will be forcibly diminished?’
‘Temporarily, yes.’
‘God give me strength, I have sired an idiot. Zachary, you had better go before I lose what is left of my temper.’
The astrologer rose from the table and put on his cloak without a word. As he stood he seemed smaller, as if his father had physically beaten him and now he crouched with the pain.
‘Goodbye, Lord Duke,’ he said, bowing very formally.
‘Goodbye,’ answered Norfolk tersely, his back turned as he faced the fire and furiously kicked a log.
Without another word his natural son left the room, slipping silently away and opening the great door without a creak. But once outside and down the spiral stairs that led to the courtyard below, a great sob racked Dr Zachary and he leaned his forehead against the cool brickwork as if to ease an aching head. The shadow that came up behind him was, consequently, invisible, and it was not until a small voice, speaking in the Romany tongue, said, ‘Greetings, Master,’ that he realised anyone was standing beside him at all.
Starting with fright and brushing his hand across his eyes, Zachary turned to face the speaker and then almost laughed as the diminutive figure of Cloverella Wentworth revealed itself before him.
‘Oh, it’s you,’ he said carelessly, ‘I thought you had returned to Wiltshire years ago.’
‘And more’s the pity that I didn’t,’ came the answer, ‘if that is how you are going to greet one who was once your pupil.’ She paused, peering up into his face. ‘Master, are you ill? There are tears in your eyes.’
‘Yes, by God’s ill humour there are. Oh Cloverella, he has more power to upset me than any creature on earth.’
‘Who, Master?’
‘The Duke, my father. I love the old dog so much.’
Now he wept in earnest and it was the easiest thing in the world, then, to fold Cloverella into his arms and shed bitter tears that no one other than a Romany would have been allowed to see. And all the while, small though she was, she held Zachary firm and soothed him, just as a mother would have done her child. Eventually the storm passed and he could talk normally again, his eyes rather reddened but dry.
‘Thank you,’ he said solemnly. ‘Believe me I would not shame myself before anyone else.’
‘Then I am honoured.’
Zachary frowned. ‘But what are you doing here? I thought that all the world was at the banquet tonight.’
Cloverella shook her head. ‘I was waiting to see you, Master. I knew that you were coming here and there is something of great importance that I have to say to you.’
Zachary looked genuinely surprised. ‘What can it be?’
‘Simply that I want to become your pupil again. Three and a half years ago you left me with never a farewell and from that day to this I have learned little of the secret lore. I ask you now to teach me more and, in return, I will bring up your children as if I were their natural mother.’
Zachary stared. ‘But what of your position at Court? Your cousin is raised high and will go higher.’
‘I know and I love him still, sincere, dear fool that he is. But Anne cannot cope with power. Her head is dizzy with it. Every day she becomes more intolerable. Dr Zachary, if I do not become your pupil I shall go home to Wolff Hall and live the life of an unmarried daughter.’
‘But how can you be unmarried, you who are so very beautiful?’ Yet Zachary knew the answer even before she said it. ‘Though I can guess. Bad blood, as they believe. A Romany sired you and that has been your downfall.’
Cloverella nodded, her dark hair clouding her face. ‘It is true, Master.’
‘Then come with me and share a home with another Romany and his children.’
‘That, Master,’ answered Cloverella, smiling, ‘is what I want more than anything else in the world.’
Chapter Nineteen
With only the thinnest tissue concealing her nakedness, Cat Howard, flushed with wine, stood before a long mirror, and gave herself a smiling head
to foot appraisal.
Starting at the top, her face, sweetly rounded and youthful, looked innocent enough but her pretty eyes belied the fact that she was still only seventeen, having a worldly-wise expression which, combined with her drooping underlip and long rich brown hair, gave rise to a stunning attractiveness. Nor could fault be found with her figure. Though very short in stature, not an inch above five feet, she was lissom where she should be, though her breasts were excitingly full, and her legs the longest part of her.
I am, thought Cat naughtily, born for love.
And so, she remembered now with a guilty flush, she really had been. For with what joy had she given herself to Henry Mannox, her lute teacher, when she had been merely twelve, giggling and naked, romping in the great dormitory she shared with the other girls of the Dowager Duchess of Norfolk’s household in Horsham. They had let the men in after lights out and they had stayed till dawn, feasting and flirting and making love. Cat had thought it heavenly.
Then two years later when the Howard entourage had moved to Lambeth, she had met Francis Dereham and learned what passion was really about. He had been the Duchess’s kinsman and he and Cat together had explored the limits of what it was permissible for lovers to do. In return he had showered her with gifts and finery, enough to set her greedy little eyes alight with joy. How lovely it had been then to dress in fine clothes and wear flashing brilliants, though of course none of it half as expensive or rich as those wonderful gowns and trinkets with which His Grace was showering her now. With a smile of pure avarice, Cat threw off her robe and stood only in her jewels.
About her neck was a diamond-studded collar and on each arm a mass of costly bracelets. As she moved her hands, rings glistened on every finger and the toss of her mane of hair revealed ruby earrings as large as eggs. And there would be more to follow, or so it had been whispered in her ear. More and more when she became Queen of England.
But, of course, before that happy state could come about there was something that Cat must do, and do often, to convince the King that she was his own sweet girl, his loving baby wife, his adorable little virgin. She must get into his bed and prove to him that he was still vital, that she was just the kind of wife he needed if he was to father another son.