by Deryn Lake
Zachary bowed. ‘Yes, Lord Duke my father, I could not travel before because the ways were treacherous. I hoped you would still be here.’
‘I was on the point of returning,’ answered Norfolk coldly. ‘The King will soon be leaving for the north and I am chosen to accompany him.’
‘I know,’ replied Zachary, and waited.
Eventually, the Duke motioned him to a chair and poured a cup of wine, saying, ‘It has been a long time since we last spoke.’
‘I was in the wrong then, Lord Duke my father. I implied something and I apologise for it,’ Zachary answered at once.
Howard looked at him over his broad nose. ‘You implied that I knew … something … of the Queen’s Grace. But I assure you I know nothing of her.’
‘Then so be it,’ answered Zachary hastily. ‘That is the best way.’
‘Then you are truly suggesting …?’ Norfolk stopped, leaning back and putting the tips of his fingers together.
Zachary gulped his wine convulsively. ‘I would rather not discuss it, Sir. It led me to fall out with you last time, and nothing is worth that.’
‘Then,’ said Norfolk thoughtfully, ‘we’ll say no more. But before I do close the subject, give me one word of advice.’
‘Gladly.’
‘If this young girl is not all she pretends, what then for the Howards?’
‘Danger, Sir. But leave her to her own salvation. A fool is a fool and can never be helped.’
‘And she is that?’
‘All of it and more, Lord Duke. She is a creature that lives for excitement and her excitement only comes from one thing.’
‘Which is?’
‘Illicit sex, Sir. Oh, do not look so grey! Catherine is the sort who makes love dangerously, the thought of imminent discovery her stimulant.’
‘God’s Holy Mercy!’ The Duke dabbed his upper lip. ‘I pray you are wrong.’
‘So do I,’ answered Zachary solemnly. ‘So do I.’
‘I shall try to warn her,’ Norfolk said thoughtfully, his face very set.
Zachary shook his rumpled head, the sheen of silver in it picking up the light. ‘I would keep quiet, Sir.’
‘I must do what I must. But now enough of all that. How are you, and the children? I have missed them.’
‘They are well and happy. And as for me, I have entered a time of great contentment.’
The Duke’s eyes met his and Zachary saw in his father’s expression a certain amusement. ‘A new woman?’
‘A new wife, Sir.’
The Duke’s glass stopped half way to his lips. ‘You have married? Without obtaining my blessing?’
‘Lord Duke my father, be calm. We have wed like Romanies, by the letting of blood. The solemnisation by priest I have delayed until you give me your permission.’
Howard looked instantly suspicious. ‘Who is this woman?’
‘Elizabeth Wentworth,’ answered Zachary calmly. ‘First cousin to the Seymour clan but half a Romany, as I am.’
The Duke said nothing and Zachary sat watching the fluttering glimmer of firelight as it played about his father’s features, showing them at one moment craggy and hard, at the next warm, understanding. The room seemed full of little noises, a comforting mixture of familiar sounds, of scratchings and rustlings and cracklings, as dogs moved and mice ran and the logs shifted in the hearth, a lovely brightness flashing and dying with them.
‘I wish,’ said Zachary dreamily, before the mood was broken, ‘that I could be forever with you like this.’
A flame burst forth picking out the Duke’s face clearly for a moment, and Zachary realised that the thin Howard mouth beneath the long hawk nose was more at ease than he could ever remember seeing it.
‘My son,’ said Norfolk quietly, ‘I wish you well with your new wife. You have done your best with life and deserve happiness. The fact that she is a Seymour I will overlook. In any event it is Surrey who fears them more than I do.’
‘My half-brother fears and dislikes many people, Sir. He is not cut out for Court life.’
‘No, he should have been a poet. At heart I believe him to be an unhappy man.’
‘And though he hates Thomas Seymour more than anyone, have you noticed how alike they are?’
‘No,’ said the Duke slowly, ‘in fact I haven’t. But you are right, of course. There is almost an affinity between them, now that I come to think of it.’
‘An affinity that does not auger well.’
‘Does it not?’ asked the Duke softly, and after that there was silence.
*
The lovely spring continued. The meadows near Hampton Court were full of early colour, pussy willow trees displayed clumps of soft silver fur and light green catkins danced and swayed in the woods and hedgerows. The river gleamed blue, winding clearly through pastures and hills, catching the gleam of sunshine as it went, and ignoring the boats on its back or the hearty people who dived into it, as it flowed past Hampton’s great palace. It seemed to Catherine Howard, staring disconsolately through one of the upper-storey windows to where some naked urchins played in the shallows, the most beautiful waterway in the world, the spring outside the finest she had ever seen.
The pensive Queen, all seventeen years of her, had married her monstrous husband eight months ago and, until recently, had done nothing since that day but dance and rejoice, never allowing herself time to think, never for one second contemplating the endless future that stretched relentlessly before her. But then, last February, all frivolity and pleasure had abruptly ceased. Henry had gone down with a fever and the ulcer on his leg had closed. To avoid the danger of a clot the surgeons had had to drain fluid from him daily.
After that how terrible everything had become! All of a sudden Cat’s pig-wig had turned into an ill-tempered, evil, invalided old man who wanted no noise and no fun and everyone, including his child bride, had had to creep round like mice to avoid his fury. Amusing guests had ceased to call while the King lay sick, and consequently Catherine had found life wretched, a chasm of boredom, the truth suddenly home as she became terribly afraid of all those long and miserable years that might lie ahead. Instead of laughing the Queen now wept daily, and if it had not been for the company of Lady Rochford, or Lady Roe as she liked to call her, Catherine simply did not know what she would have done.
Now, gazing at the river, she felt at her lowest ebb. Today was Shrove Tuesday, the last day that anyone could eat nice things or make merry, as tomorrow saw the beginning of Lent and all the obligatory fasting that must be endured until Easter. Usually such an occasion never passed without a play or at least music, and pancakes and other traditional delicacies were always served. But now there was nothing. Just a terrible, boring silence.
At the very idea of such unrelenting gloom, the Queen screwed up her face like a spoiled child and ran to her apartments in search of Lady Roe, a willing ear to all her poured-out problems.
‘Your Grace, my dearest,’ said Jane Rochford as Cat came rushing through the door and hurled herself into the elder woman’s arms. ‘What is it? What can be wrong? Madam, please tell me.’
She had a clever way with her, this dark-haired widow, so enigmatic that nobody ever knew what she was thinking, yet capable of charming the childlike Queen by a curious combination of servility and mothering.
‘It is just that everything is so quiet and depressing,’ sobbed Catherine into Lady Rochford’s lean bosom. ‘We always made much of Shrove Tuesday when I lived in the Duchess of Norfolk’s household. It was the last chance we young people had for fun. But look at it here! Is it not like a graveyard?’
‘There, there, Your Grace,’ said Jane, dabbing at the pretty little face that had now slid down to her lap. ‘We must think of something amusing for you to do.’
‘Me?’ said Cat wretchedly. ‘What can I do that’s amusing when I’m all alone?’
Lady Roe looked thoughtful, her dark brows drawing together. Then, like summer, she smiled. ‘Why not give a small supper party,
Your Grace? Just you and a few of your younger ladies, with myself to attend you. You could ask Master Dereham, your cousin, to bring an equal number of gentlemen. There could be a little quiet music, a few cards, some discreet dancing and, provided nobody makes a lot of noise, His Grace need never be disturbed.’
Cat turned to look at her, her face that a moment ago had been the picture of despair, now sparkling and animated.
‘Lady Roe, I swear I could not live without you. Will you go to Master Dereham with a note while I see the cook? Oh, it could be such fun.’
Jane Rochford played a trump card. ‘Your Grace, my dear. As you have been upset and anxious for His Grace, naturally …’
Cat muttered an echoing, ‘Naturally.’
‘Why don’t you let me tuck you up for a rest and leave everything to me? By the time you wake up, your party will be arranged.’
Cat smiled, then stretched her arms over her head and yawned. ‘Dearest, dearest, Lady Roe, if the evening is a success you shall have a wonderful present.’ She clasped her arms round her knees. ‘Oh, Lady Roe, please make it happen. The mood in the Palace has been so awful recently that we deserve a little gaiety, don’t we?’
‘Yes,’ answered Jane Rochford, smiling her dark, interesting smile. ‘I think it is time for some fun. Now rest, Your Grace, and soon I will come with good news.’
*
On Shrove Tuesday, just as a welcome shower drenched the flowers so that their scent came up from the earth with the raw heady smell of spring, Zachary Howard and Elizabeth Wentworth were married in the private chapel of Wolff Hall by Sir James the priest, now old and stumbling and very nearly blind.
The dear old man, frail though he had become, performed the ceremony with much sweetness, aware as he did so that two people stood before him who could not have found their way in the world always easy, marked with the stigma of tainted blood as they were. He also loved the bride, remembering her from early childhood, for he had been there on the very day her Romany grandam had left Cloverella at Wolff Hall, Dame Margery calling on him to swiftly bless the girl and lift from her any curse the Romanies may have laid. But he had known then from its little flower face that the babe was free of evil and that the laying on of hands, though done to please the good Dame, was not truly necessary.
And now he thought, as he gazed fondly at Cloverella in her silver tissue wedding gown and pearl-decked headdress, she was hardly changed. Maybe because his sight was clouded and he was not at all the spry fellow he once had been, but to him the little creature looked the same, still possessing the great violet eyes and clouds of nightshade hair that had picked her beauty out from all the others.
The bridegroom too, or so reckoned Sir James, was a personable being; his face full of lively expressions and pleasant idiosyncrasies, hair black as pitch, though shot with silver, and a mass of dancing curls like a halo. His eyes were spellbinding, golden as a bird of prey’s, yet with a warmth and wisdom all their own. And their owner looked at his delicate bride as if he would cherish her all his life.
‘God bless you, Sir,’ said Sir James, where he shouldn’t have spoken, yet not caring about the faux pas.
And it was then that he saw Jane. Quite distinctly, though his old eyes had to peer, the priest glimpsed Jane Seymour sitting in the pew behind her mother, dead but unflawed, smiling.
‘God bless you, Lady,’ he called again, and the bride and groom though saying nothing followed the direction of his eyes.
Sir James never knew afterwards whether they had seen her or not, for no one spoke. Though Dame Margery, also turning, let out a little cry, while her hand flew to her mouth. But then came the moment for the wedding ring to be placed upon Elizabeth Wentworth’s finger and by the time the bridal couple had kissed and Dame Margery and Henry Seymour — Thomas and Edward’s shy brother, who hated town life — had come to kiss them too, there was no sign of the pale spectre who had smiled so wanly.
Yet afterwards at the wedding feast which was small but goodly and held in the Great Barn to remind Cloverella of past days, the old priest could not resist but lean across to the bridegroom.
‘Dr Zachary, my son, you may think me a blind fool but I would swear that today in chapel I saw Jane the Queen at your wedding.’
‘She was there,’ Zachary answered quietly.
That evening, just after their wedding, Cloverella took her new husband to walk in the Young Lady’s Garden, made especially for Jane when she had been born. At this time of year only the early flowers were out but the roses and gillyflower were already in bud and the dark, mysterious shrubs had points of colour everywhere.
‘She would sit here,’ Cloverella whispered, ‘over there on that stone seat.’
She pointed, and just for a split second both of them saw Jane again, dressed in white, tendrils of mist weaving about her feet. Then she was gone as quickly as she had come.
‘I hope my friend is happy,’ said Cloverella quietly.
‘She is. She has seen you as a bride.’ Zachary turned her to look at him. ‘My bride, whom I love.’
‘As I you,’ answered Cloverella.
‘If you ever stop,’ said Zachary, ‘I shall remind you of tonight when we glimpsed Jane the Queen.’
‘Jane the Queen,’ repeated Cloverella slowly. ‘Now just a poor, sad little ghost.’
And near to tears she slipped her hand into Zachary’s and walked back to Wolff Hall and the wedding guests.
*
‘Poor sad little ghost,’ said Catherine Howard round-eyed, ‘does she really haunt the great stairs of Hampton Court?’
Francis Dereham laughed. ‘Only on the anniversary of the Prince’s birth, Your Grace. There is no need to be afraid.’
He looked at her with a lazy insolence, as if he still had carnal knowledge of her, smiling to think this creature of whose body he knew every inch was now the Queen of England. He would never, could never, take it seriously. His angel slut married to that living, oozing mountain of blubber when she liked lean, hard young bodies pressed close to hers.
She smiled at him. ‘I think we all grow melancholy. Master Tandridge, play for us to dance, but softly mind. We dare not risk waking His Grace.’
Cat’s supper party had been a great success. In the end there had only been six present; Catherine Tylney and Margaret Morton making up the female numbers; while on the gentlemen’s side, Francis had invited two young members of the Privy Chamber, Thomas Culpepper, another Howard cousin, and Thomas Paston. Though the guests had of necessity been quiet, they had eaten well, with pancakes and other delights of Shrove Tuesday coming up from the Palace kitchens, and beautiful sweet things following, to say nothing of an abundance of wine which had reduced the young things to much laughter and whispers of ‘shush’ as the evening wore on.
During the course of the meal the Queen had left her guests and gone to the King’s apartments where she had bidden Henry, in pain and consequently gloomy, a sweet goodnight.
The piggy eyes had looked at her suspiciously. ‘You seem very bright, Cat. Are you feasting in your rooms?’
‘No, Sir,’ she had answered, curtseying and kissing his hand. ‘’Tis but myself and two of my ladies eating sweetmeats before Lent.’
He had patted her head. ‘Dear child. Enjoy yourself. It must be misery for you, shut up here with an invalid like me.’
Cat had forced a naughty smile. ‘’Tis but a respite from your loving, Sir. For I vow you are such a man as would tire a young girl.’
The obese creature looking at her had managed a twisted grin. ‘Wait till we get on progress, dear one. Then we’ll see a brother for Edward.’
Catherine had curtsied again, her head so low that her face was completely hidden. ‘I pray so, Your Grace. Now I bid you goodnight and restful sleep.’
‘Come and see me when you wake.’
‘I will, Sir. Nothing shall prevent me.’
She had once more kissed his hand, then fled away, glad to be out of the stench of the sickroom a
nd back with her young and carefree companions.
The Queen had only allowed one of her musicians, John Tandridge the lutanist, to be present, and he to play softly at that. But now, with the supper done and Lady Roe and the servants who had waited at table gone, Cat longed to dance. Very gently John struck up and the six youthful people took their partners. Before the Queen’s Grace bowed her childhood friend, Thomas Culpepper, as beautiful a young man as Cat had set eyes on in months. In the flickering firelight she let her eyes drink in his appearance, lingering on the lissom body with not an ounce of fat upon it, and the curling brown hair and tanned skin in which two clear blue eyes, a shade most similar to forget-me-not, looked at her from lashes that were almost black. To crown Master Culpepper’s beauty was a mouth like a rose, though not silly and girlish, just well shaped and curling.
‘May I have the honour of dancing with Your Grace?’ he said as he straightened from his bow.
‘You may,’ answered Cat and held out her hand with dignity. But when he put his lips to it she felt sensation run straight from her fingers to her breasts. It was difficult for a girl still in her teens to be aloof with a handsome man not much older, and after a moment Cat relaxed.
‘Your Grace still dances beautifully,’ said Culpepper, his face close to hers and both his eyes and mouth smiling, reminding her of when they used to play as children.
Cat smiled back. ‘And so do you, Tom.’
The dance continued until that moment when her partner had to lift Cat high on his knee. With a feeling that was so indescribably sensual, Master Culpepper put his arms to the Queen’s waist and raised her up. As she dandled above him Cat knew that he held her deliberately high and when he slowly lowered her, though whether by accident or design she could not say, he slid her the length of his body so that she could feel every muscle.
Dismissing Master Tandridge, the six young people, suddenly tired, sat by the fire on low cushions, Francis Dereham making sure that the wine cups remained filled.
‘Are there really such things as ghosts?’ said the Queen, returning almost fearfully to the subject.