by Deryn Lake
‘There is nothing to be afraid of,’ she said aloud. ‘Now walk back calmly and don’t be foolish.’
But with every step she took she found herself glancing about nervously until finally she started to run. And it was dishevelled and panting that she hurriedly crossed the bridge over the moat and entered her husband’s mansion.
Snape Hall had been built some two hundred years before but improved on by every generation that lived there so that now it was a cross between a castle and a house. As if for reassurance, Katherine let her eyes wander over the great hall’s panels of carved black oak and the many tapestries that hung there. A spread eagle, worked in gold, its head surmounted by a purple crown, caught her attention.
That is myself, she thought. Two women in one, facing both directions simultaneously. God strengthen me to overcome my weaknesses.
But no rush of divine comfort answered and almost impatiently Katherine went to the fireplace and poured herself a cup of wine from a decanter that stood on a nearby table.
‘I drink to sacrifice,’ she said bitterly, ‘as taught me by one who knew.’ Katherine raised her glass. ‘To you, my good mother, who renounced your life for your children.’
She sat down, staring into the flames, thinking of Dame Maud Parr who, though only just twenty-two at the time of her widowhood, had refused to remarry, devoting herself entirely to her young family and their education — a fact of which all three of them, William, Katherine and Anne, had been reminded almost daily.
‘And what fun we had!’ said her daughter now. ‘Latin, Greek, devotional writings. Plenty of needlework, and then the greatest joy of all — the marriage bargains.’
Even before Katherine’s twelfth birthday, Dame Maud had started negotiations with Lord Dacre for an alliance with his young grandson. But she had driven too hard a bargain, been too greedy, and Lord Scrope, the boy’s father, had withdrawn from the deal. And then had followed the most terrible event: an event that hurt even to think about. Katherine had been thirteen, just entering upon womanhood, when her mother had fastened on someone else. Edward, Lord Borough of Gainsborough, a widower approaching sixty, with several children, the eldest of which was the same age as Dame Maud, had offered for the thin, anxious girl who had stood in the shadowy corner, her huge green eyes fastened on him with loathing. And though Dame Maud had demanded a small fortune for her, Lord Borough had agreed. He had bought Katherine just to get his hands on a child.
Now, sitting by the fire in Snape Hall, Katherine still wept aloud at the memory and its aftermath. A butterfly had been broken on the night Lord Borough claimed her immature body as his, a beautiful soaring creature had had its wings snapped off, a wonderful loving girl had sealed up her emotions and gone into a trance. In that state she had done her duty, cared for her step-children, run the house. But the true Katherine Parr had ceased to live.
She had never forgiven Dame Maud. But knowing the danger of hatred, how it can turn inwards and consume its own source, Katherine had looked for God instead, though her idea of Him was far from conventional. Certain beliefs had sprung up, beliefs that if she tried hard enough in even her unrewarding circumstances, the tide must turn in her favour. And in a way it had.
Within a few months of each other, first Lord Borough and then Dame Maud had died. Of course it would have been vastly improper to see the divine hand in this miracle but Katherine, having muttered prayers for the salvation of their souls, did add a quick request that she might enjoy her new freedom wisely. That was as far as she dared go.
But how she had run when she had at last been left alone. With her hair streaming out behind her and her feet bare, Katherine Parr, a widow at fifteen, had felt the poor battered butterfly return to life as she had sped through the parkland of Sizergh Castle, laughing and crying with sheer relief.
That should have been her moment, of course, to marry someone of her own age and have wonderful and merry butterfly children. But somehow there seemed little opportunity to meet anyone, living with her stepson and daughter-in-law and owning no home of her own. Dame Maud, naturally, had left Katherine nothing, instead concentrating every penny on buying her son William a well-connected wife. In the end, almost out of boredom, Katherine had accepted Lord Latymer when she was eighteen and he fifty-four. It was true that he was ugly and old even then, but at least he was kind. Katherine felt that the butterfly had not died so much as gone into a cocoon.
And so, she thought now, we are always the products of our parents. My mother sold me to an old man and I got so used to it I could do no better for myself. How strange life is.
Katherine refilled her wine cup and drank deeply, her cheeks glowing, remembering the saucy fellow who had danced with her at the May Day tournament. It was hard to believe that such a reprobate was the brother of good Queen Jane, who had seemed so very pale and innocent.
‘But who knows,’ said Katherine aloud. ‘Are any of us what we appear?’
‘HA!’ answered her husband from the doorway, ‘talking to yourself, eh?’
‘I am a good conversationalist,’ answered Katherine swiftly, and he laughed at her wit, coming to join her by the fire.
‘That’s as well, my dear, in view of this,’ he said when he was settled, tapping a parchment and its broken seal, which Katherine’s startled eyes took in as being the new Queen’s crest and device, Non autre volonté que la sienne, testifying that Henry Tudor was the only man in Cat Howard’s life.
‘What is it?’ she asked in surprise.
The bullfrog’s gaze grew bulbous. ‘You have been called to Court, Kate, to act as a Gentlewoman of the Chamber to the new Queen.’
‘I have?’ said Katherine, frankly astonished.
‘Yes. It seems Her Grace wants a vastly increased retinue and the King indulges her in everything. Every month, it’s said, she has an entirely new wardrobe of both gowns and jewels. And every day there is some new caprice. His Grace is apparently rejuvenated by it all. He rises at six, hears mass until seven, then rides till dinnertime at ten.’
‘They are still on progress?’
‘Yes. But it is Her Grace’s wish that you await her return in London.’
‘How strange, when I hardly know her.’
‘I believe that might be the very point,’ Lord Latymer answered knowingly. ‘Though she has some about her who served the Lady Anne of Cleves, she wants others who are entirely fresh.’
‘I suppose it will mean more gowns,’ said Katherine, and inside her the butterfly stirred in its sleep.
‘A few,’ replied her husband prudently. He had never been profligate with his money.
Katherine’s lips twitched. ‘Perhaps from my jointure?’
Lord Latymer did not reply, the money that Katherine had brought into the marriage now being his property.
‘I’ll not go dowdy,’ said his wife firmly.
‘No, not dowdy,’ he answered, ‘but most certainly not in gaudy display.’
His wife merely smiled and stared into the flames as the butterfly stretched its wings.
*
Though in Yorkshire it was both cold and damp, the summer of 1540 burned fiercely in London. Between June and October not a drop of rain fell and the pestilence, the usual companion of warm weather, raged fiercely. The King and his child bride remained on progress, while at Richmond Anne of Cleves, the highest lady in the land after the Queen and the King’s daughters, relished her newfound status as the King’s sister. She had £500 a year to herself, had been assigned the manors of Richmond and Bletchingley to live in, and had bought fine new jewels and clothes. She had turned her life round triumphantly and to show how carefree she was, had thrown away all her black gowns and dressed excitingly in vivid colours.
For the Seymour brothers, with the King still away on extended honeymoon, there seemed little to do, so on an evening in late September, being at a loss to amuse themselves, they decided to call upon Dr Zachary and upbraid him for ruining the reputation of their cousin, thus making a little
entertainment.
Yet as they set out from their lodgings in the Palace of Whitehall and took to the water in Edward’s private barge, they could not have presented two greater contrasts; the elder dark, saturnine, bearded, a sombrely dressed man of intelligent appearance; Thomas, tall and golden, sporting a red beard, his blue eyes alight with mischief, his clothes elegant and daring, copied by all the other gentlemen of fashion. And in attitude, too, they were dissimilar, Edward sitting upright, scanning the river with thoughtful eyes; Thomas lounging back against the cushions, one leg resting on the knee of the other, only looking up if he spotted a comely woman on the bank.
They had brought refreshment and as Thomas imbibed more and more, he began to see the funny side of their expedition.
‘I’m no man to tell another how to behave, Ned.’
His brother sighed. ‘She is our cousin, Thomas, not just any woman. She is a Wentworth, remember.’
‘And the astrologer is a Howard. To my way of thinking they are well matched. Do you think we should buy him as a husband for her?’
Edward’s eyebrows rose violently. ‘What a terrible suggestion.’
‘Why?’
And put as simply as that Edward could think of no reason other than his wife’s reaction and his own pride in being Earl of Hertford. It was Cloverella’s mixed blood that had stood in the way of her making a good match and from what he had heard, Dr Zachary’s mother had also been a Romany. Edward took a thin sip of wine and sat in silence while Tom watched him, smiling.
The sun began to dip over the river and the sky became the clear light-blue of glass, while the water deepened to emerald. In places there were patches of purple where the weeds grew and the colour of the fields that ran down to the bank was dark as mint. Very small white clouds drifted overhead and were reflected in the water, their images blending with those of the swans, gracefully dipping their way downstream.
‘It’s a peaceful night, Ned,’ said Thomas slowly, the tender side of his character welling up. ‘Let us not disturb the idyll of those two gypsies, for such they are and don’t deny me. Let us see, rather, if we can regulate the household that they keep.’
Edward turned down his long mouth. ‘Perhaps.’
But he was won over, the beauty of the evening combining with the wine to make him feel at peace with all his surroundings. And when they rounded the bend in the river that brought them to Zachary’s landing stage, he beheld such a sweet sight that every angry word he had in him was finally stilled.
Two little imps, quite naked, both about ten years old, swam gallantly in the shallows, while in a boat rowed by the untidy figure of the astrologer himself, Cloverella, one arm round the shoulders of a small fair girl who cuddled closely against her, trailed a hand in the cool water.
They all looked up at the sound of approaching oars and Thomas watched as Cloverella’s face became apprehensive. All his youthful love for the little thing consumed him and he called out, ‘How now, dear cousin? We are come on a visit to greet you.’
He felt Zachary’s amber eyes sweep over him and Thomas waved again.
‘Greetings, Dr Zachary. May we rest here a while?’
‘Indeed, indeed.’ The astrologer waved back. ‘Greetings, my Lord. Greetings Sir Thomas.’
So far everything was very cordial but Thomas did not quite trust Edward to keep the peace as they came alongside and the larger of the two little boys, hastily pulling on his hose, tied the Earl of Hertford’s barge to a mooring ring.
‘If your oarsmen would like to step ashore they will find refreshment,’ said Zachary courteously, and the eight men who had rowed Thomas and Edward along the stretch of the Thames gladly disembarked. The astrologer, meanwhile, had moored his own vessel and helped Cloverella and the girl on to the jetty. Then, waiting for them to walk ahead, he bowed deeply and said, ‘Gentlemen, I suspect that you have come to take me to task over my seduction of your cousin, but, alas, there has been no such occurrence and Mistress Wentworth stays in my house as both pupil and honoured guest.’
Edward looked amazed but Zachary, ignoring him, bowed again to Thomas.
‘I feel that I may speak to you as a man of the world. I am somewhat older than Cloverella, some nine years in fact, so you may believe that my attitude towards her is that of a senior, a brother.’ His smile lit his face. ‘Now, my Lord, Sir Thomas, I do hope that you will pay me the great honour of having a late supper at my home.’
They could say nothing, the wind taken from their sails completely.
‘Is this true?’ hissed Edward, moving rapidly forward so that he could accompany his eavesdropping cousin along the path that led through the orchard to the gardens and house.
She nodded. ‘Perfectly. So you must not hate me, Ned. Court life became too much for me. I am much happier here.’
Just for a minute his face took on its old vulnerable look. ‘You were finding it hard to remain friends with Anne, weren’t you?’
‘She has grown a little proud,’ answered Cloverella slowly.
‘I know, I know. And yet I love her. She has borne me children and given me much loyalty. I will never desert her.’
‘And neither should you. I think you are a good couple.’ Cloverella’s voice grew lighter. ‘And what of Thomas? No marriage plans as yet?’
‘He contemplated Norfolk’s daughter — the astrologer’s half sister!’ he said with some amazement, ‘but nothing came of that. Surrey intervened, little beast that he is.’
‘And he,’ answered Cloverella with a laugh, ‘is the astrologer’s half brother.’
‘Anyway, Seymour and Howard could never make a match and it ended there.’
‘So Tom plays the field?’
‘Fiercely. The women at Court throw themselves before him. He’s never short of a bed partner.’
Thinking that perhaps he had been vulgar in front of a lady, albeit his cousin, Edward’s cheeks deepened slightly, though Cloverella only laughed.
‘One day he’ll meet his match.’
‘I sincerely hope so,’ Edward answered fervently.
The supper was merry, going on late into the night. Long after the children and Cloverella had retired, the three men continued to talk and drink till the candles burned low and at last Edward Seymour mellowed.
‘Well, Dr Zachary,’ he said, ‘I have known you many a year, you rogue, and am a great believer in your abilities. Will you read your magic cards for us now?’
Zachary shook his head violently. ‘No, Sir. Drink clouds my vision and I might advise you false. Let me do so another time when I am sober.’
‘Very well, but I shall hold you to it. Now, while we are alone, tell me your intentions towards my cousin?’
‘Our cousin,’ interposed Thomas.
Zachary looked thoughtful. ‘At present I have none. I expect I shall teach her all I can and then she will leave me.’
‘I think you should marry her,’ said Thomas boldly. ‘You are too alike to let such a kinship pass.’
‘But we are Seymour and Howard,’ answered Zachary. ‘Did you not say that that could never work?’
Edward smiled wryly. ‘I did not realise you could overhear.’
Thomas ploughed in. ‘It is true that Surrey and I have no liking for each other. I had a brief affair with his sister, the Duchess of Richmond, but he meddled and ruined it.’
Zachary laughed. ‘Surrey detests me. A bastard sired out of wedlock, whom his father acknowledges and loves. He is riddled with jealousy.’
‘Then there is no problem,’ Thomas answered. ‘You and Cloverella are well suited, regardless of family background.’
Zachary shook his head and sighed. ‘But she doesn’t love me.’
‘Then put a spell on her, man,’ retorted Thomas outrageously, and laughed till he wept.
The rest of the night was like that, all jokes and jollity and back-slapping, so that when the Seymours left in the hour just before dawn, their sleepy oarsmen yawning themselves awake, they were co
nvinced that Zachary Howard was one of the best fellows alive.
‘He must marry our cousin and that’s all there is to it,’ said Thomas as he settled himself to sleep on the cushions in the barge’s cabin.
‘But they must live quietly,’ answered Edward, sobering slightly. ‘It would not do to have them at Court claiming to be related to the Prince.’
‘You really do act the cock at times,’ Thomas’s sleepy voice was oddly sharp. ‘I think your wife’s self-importance is spreading to you, like a creeping disease.’
‘Speak no ill of Anne,’ said Edward, warningly.
‘God’s teeth and toenails,’ came the muffled reply. ‘I’m going to sleep!’
Leaning out from her bedroom window, Cloverella could hear the distant voices as Zachary and his servant saw the visitors off, their lanterns lighting the darkness.
So, she thought, my cousins approve. Now I must act.
Going to a small wooden wall cupboard, Cloverella unlocked it with determination and drew out a phial of liquid which she hid in the pocket of the night-rail thrown over her shift. Then she sat down for a moment on the corner of her bed, thinking carefully about what she planned to do.
Her love for Zachary, which had consumed her almost from the moment of their first meeting on the landing stage at Whitehall Palace, was now like a forest fire running out of control. To be beneath the same roof as he, to be in his presence daily, was more than she could bear. She longed to kiss him and touch him, to lie in his arms, to be his gypsy wife and consummate her love beneath the stars.
Yet Cloverella had no true wish to stoop to devious means, though the boast she had once made to her cousin Jane had been true. Before her Romany grandam had left her at the door of Wolff Hall, she had whispered to her little grandchild the secret of winning any man she chose. And now a concoction far more powerful than the one she had given Henry Tudor that he might take Jane to bed and sire a boy, lay ready. For weeks she had prepared it, just as her grandmother had told her, and now, knowing by Thomas’s wink that at least one of her cousins approved her choice, Cloverella felt ready to act. Yet still she hesitated, so desperately did she want Zachary to love her without the aid of magic.