Pour The Dark Wine

by Deryn Lake

  ‘Do you think the old man still does it?’ one of the town’s more dubious ladies had asked another, watching the radiant girl enter within the city walls.

  ‘Well, if he doesn’t somebody else certainly does. I’ve never seen a more contented woman.’

  ‘Then a toast to the Queen!’

  ‘And to whoever she takes to bed,’ echoed her friend, eyeing up the mass of soldiers and retainers flooding into the city in His Grace’s wake and thinking that royal progresses, whatever their true objective, were certainly good for trade.

  But now that was past and the King was almost home. It was the end of October, 1541; the harvest was gathered but it seemed, or so thought Cranmer, that the grimmest reaper of all could yet be wielding his scythe.

  After hours of deliberation and prayer he still had not found the answer to his appalling dilemma. Yet the facts remained and would not go away. Henry had arrived at Windsor and from there would make his way to Hampton Court. It was only a matter of days now before the truth must come out. To make the situation worse, Cranmer had received royal instructions that on All Saints Day, the 1st November, the Bishop of Lincoln was to offer special prayers for the King’s safe return and for the good life he led, and trusted to lead, with his jewel of a wife. The Archbishop had cringed both mentally and physically, dreading all that lay before him.

  Yet nothing Cranmer had imagined was anything like the horror of reality. In the chapel of Hampton Court he had hardly been able to concentrate on the mass as out of the corner of his eye the Archbishop watched the Queen. Burdened with knowledge, he had been obliged to echo prayers for the King’s future happiness, even while he did so his gaze turning again and again to that small demure creature, kneeling in the shadow of Henry’s bulk, crossing herself like the good Catholic she was, her lids cast down with much show of modesty.

  It had been that, the sight of the little hypocrite, that had finally given the Archbishop the strength to do what he must. Excusing himself from one of Henry’s inevitable feasts, Cranmer had left Hampton Court and gone straight to Lambeth by water, there locking himself into his study, the way quite clear. With his mind fixed firmly on Catherine Howard’s smirking expression, the Archbishop picked up quill and parchment and wrote down everything that Lassels had told him. Then he sealed the statement with Canterbury’s great seal and went to pray.

  The next morning, waking early after only a few hours’ sleep, Cranmer, in full pontificals, took to his barge once more and was rowed to Hampton Court in time for the Mass for All Souls Day, the day following All Saints. This occasion was more than solemn, it being the festival when the dead were especially prayed for.

  Images of long-gone queens floated before Cranmer’s inner eye as he began to chant the ritual; Katharine of Aragon, assuredly killed by Henry’s withdrawal of love from her, dying wretched and alone, the prisoner of Kimbolton Castle; Anne Boleyn, the wonderful nymph whom nobody could ever catch, could she really have been turned into a nagging shrew by Henry no longer wanting her?; Jane Seymour, pale and demure, hacked open to release her son and indubitably dying as a result. It occurred to Cranmer then, very heavily, that the monarch had much to answer for, but he fearfully turned the idea aside. For the good of his realm Henry Tudor had done what he did. Or was that just a cover? Was the King a vile tyrant who killed women when he no longer had any use for them?

  ‘Oh God, God,’ said Cranmer, and fell on his knees in a torment, hardly daring to look at the congregation of great men. Then the necessary strength came to him and he rose up valorous, thanking the Lord.

  ‘Your Grace,’ he murmured as Henry lumbered up to him to take the sacrament. ‘I have something for you.’

  ‘Yes?’ The King’s silly eyebrows arched.

  ‘It is a letter, Your Grace, and I beg you now, if you have ever considered me friend, to read it well and in private.’

  And with that the Archbishop slipped the paper into Henry’s hand.

  ‘Surely, Cranmer, this is not the place …’

  But the Archbishop had resolutely turned away so that Henry had only two options, to throw the thing aside or to slip it into his pocket. To the Primate’s overwhelming relief he did the second.

  The die is cast, may the outcome be in your hands, oh Lord, prayed Cranmer beneath his breath. But then, horrid and unwanted, to go with those images of dead queens, came another. Cranmer saw a beautiful head, its owner still a girl, cleaved from its neck, the shapely body fallen in bloodstained straw.

  ‘God’s mercy for the Queen,’ was on his lips before he knew it.

  *

  With summer over and the threat of plague gone, the courtiers’ wives and older children who lived in London returned from the country, including Anne Seymour from Hertford Castle. Despite her pride and posturing, which Edward had to admit were sometimes irritating, he was still fascinated by Anne. So much so that to please her he had disinherited his two eldest sons, who had been born to his first wife, the faithless Katherine Filliol, and were therefore slightly suspect as to legitimacy. In their place he had nominated his son by Anne, another Edward. This was her second boy, the first having died when he was two, and from their robust marriage she had also given Edward two daughters and a new baby, Henry. Yet Anne Seymour maintained her good looks, still slender despite the recent birth, her fall of red hair as bright as it had been when they met.

  Now it was the Seymours’ first evening together after the summer break, during which months Anne had given birth. Consequently Edward had only seen his new son twice, afraid to leave London while the King was on progress. But, very cleverly, Anne had left every single child behind, including the baby, so that she could concentrate on her husband.

  While the Queen’s early indiscretions had been unreported, Edward had kept the secret, but now everything was out in the open he felt free to discuss the matter. Yet a most extraordinary turn of events had taken place, an eventuality that Edward would never have believed possible. As he recounted it to his wife her eyes widened incredulously.

  ‘You say he laughed?’

  ‘It is hardly credible, yet it’s true. The King’s Highness read Cranmer’s letter then laughed in his face.’

  ‘A great turnabout since the days of Madam Boleyn,’ said Anne with asperity.

  ‘The Archbishop has been in a state of shock ever since.’

  ‘But how did it happen? Did His Grace not believe it?’

  ‘Precisely. He said that John and Mary Lassels were lying, that Francis Dereham was lying. He almost accused Cranmer of lying. He believes, or wants to believe, that the whole thing is a vicious calumny invented to blacken the Queen’s character.’

  ‘And who would do that, pray?’

  Edward raised dark brows. ‘The Seymours, or someone else opposed to the Howards.’

  ‘God’s blood,’ exclaimed Anne, jumping to her feet. ‘Does His Grace think that?’

  ‘I don’t know. But he believes it strange that in the Council of three left behind there was not one supporter of the Howard clan.’

  ‘Christ’s mercy,’ said Anne, still fuming. ‘Things have come to a pretty pass when the monarch is so infatuated with a chit that he will not listen to the advice of his own Councillors. When he accuses them of lying for simply telling the truth.’

  Edward laid a hand on her arm. ‘You are so loyal, sweetheart. I love you for it.’

  His wife sat down again, somewhat more calmly. ‘So what will happen now?’

  ‘I shall take you to bed,’ said Edward, deliberately misunderstanding.

  ‘You know perfectly well what I mean. What does the Archbishop intend to do?’

  ‘He is already doing it. He is interviewing witnesses and will then present to the Council that there is a case to be answered. The King will have to listen. Even he cannot overrule his advisers forever.’

  ‘But Norfolk and his henchman Stephen Gardiner are on the Council.’

  ‘Two men, my dear, two men. Already the Duke of Suffolk and th
e Secretary of State, Wriothesley …’

  Anne muttered, ‘That social climber!’

  ‘… have been won over. They will see the Queen finished if they can.’

  ‘Norfolk must be sweating blood,’ said Arnie with a sly grin. ‘Probably, though I have nothing against the man. It is Surrey who makes trouble.’

  ‘How did he and Thomas get on together during the mission to Guisnes?’

  ‘I believe it was all perfectly civilised. They did not come to blows, at least.’

  ‘Well, that’s a mercy,’ answered Anne, and laughed. ‘And where is your brother now?’

  ‘Just back from progress like everyone else. It is a bitter thought, is it not, that all the time the King presented his rose without a thorn to the crushed rebels of the north, there lay a worm within?’

  Edward’s wife shivered slightly. ‘Bitter indeed. And there may yet be bitter consequences.’

  The Earl stood up. ‘Enough of the Queen and her follies. It will spoil our first evening together. Let us walk by the river for half an hour while it is still light.’ He slipped his arm round her. ‘You have told me little of how the baby progresses. Are his eyes still blue?’

  ‘No, he is getting like you,’ answered Anne, relaxing into his shoulder.

  ‘Poor thing,’ said Edward, as fathers have done since time began. Then he and his wife laughed and kissed and went on their way, fondly.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  The procession setting out from the King’s house, built near the village of Chelsea, was not one of particular importance. At the head rode Sir Thomas Seymour, a little girl sitting proudly in front of him, held in place by his arms which were wound tightly round her. Behind came several of the King’s servants and two litters, one of which was empty. That was all, no particular pomp or splendour attached to this modest train bringing the Lady Elizabeth — no longer styled Princess since she and her half-sister Mary had been removed from the line of succession — to see her father.

  It was strange, thought Thomas, putting his nose near the child’s hair and idly sniffing the warm clean smell of it, the way the fortunes of Henry’s two daughters swung from one extreme to the other. Jane had worked hard to get them reinstated at Court, particularly Mary, for both girls had been stripped of their titles long before his sister had become Queen. Mary had ceased to be Princess of Wales when Elizabeth had been born; Elizabeth had lost her status when her mother had lost her head. Now, with a girl in her teens as Queen, greatly though Catherine liked Elizabeth, both she and Mary were isolated again — just like their young brother who Henry kept away from Court, for fear of the boy contracting a fatal illness. The days of having a loving homemaker like Jane Seymour for a stepmother were well and truly over.

  Yet, despite their shared sorrows, how different the two sisters were: Elizabeth so vital, Mary so sad and bitter. And with good reason. Thomas grinned, wondering whether in view of the constant failure of plans to marry Mary off even he might have a chance of the royal hand. Yet it was no laughing matter. The poor girl had been betrothed at the age of two to the Dauphin of France, only to see the promise founder. After that she had been passed like a package between Charles V and various other sons of François of France, the whole sordid business adversely affecting her health.

  She needs me, thought Thomas cheerfully, I would liven her up.

  Almost as if she sensed that he was no longer concentrating on her, Elizabeth gave a squirm. ‘Sir Thomas?’

  ‘Yes, my Lady?’

  ‘May I dismount? I would speak with my governess, Lady Bryan.’

  ‘Certainly, Madam.’

  Thomas swung out of the saddle, his body nimble and graceful, a fact that was lost on Elizabeth but not on Lady Bryan, mother of the notorious Sir Francis, who had descended from her litter as soon as the procession stopped. She hurried forward, looking anxious.

  ‘What is it, my Lady? Are you ill?’

  ‘No,’ said Elizabeth roundly, then whispered in her ear.

  Thomas smiled. Even to king’s daughters, nature must call. With great tact he gave the servants five minutes’ rest, then took advantage of the enforced stop himself. When he returned from the trees, Elizabeth was back, running after the falling leaves, her hair the same vivid hue, in some lights flame, in others the colour of oranges. In contrast with this her eyes, which should have been blue or green to compliment her colouring, were dark like her mother’s.

  Elizabeth, even in childhood, was the embodiment of autumn: her lithe body lean as a twig; her paleness the white of evening frost; her hazelnut eyes part of the season’s richness. Her hands, too, were eloquent, speaking of late and delicate flowers, the long and perfect fingers like petals of some rare specimen that would die as soon as winter first breathed upon it.

  She was alluring even at this age. Though not a beautiful child she had enormous charm, together with a certain aloofness which Tom Seymour believed Elizabeth had inherited from her mother.

  ‘Shall we continue, my Lady?’ he asked now, bowing and sweeping his hat off so that his hair, darker than hers but with more gold in it, caught the October sun and gleamed.

  ‘Yes,’ she said, quite shortly, but in no way rude.

  ‘Then may I lift you up?’

  ‘Don’t you think Madam should ride in her litter?’ asked Lady Bryan anxiously.

  ‘I’d rather not,’ Elizabeth answered without hesitation. ‘I can see far more on horseback.’

  And with that she held up her arms to Thomas so that he might lift her. As he stooped and took her childish waist a sudden and almost overpowering sense of pleasure filled him, which continued as he raised the girl into his arms, then on to the horse’s back. Even as he leapt up behind her, the lovely feeling was still there. Then disgust with himself drove it away. Horrible words like ‘lecher’ and ‘molester’ ran through Thomas’s mind as he urged the horse into a trot. And yet it was exquisite, a sensation beyond any other he had known. The woman-child in his arms seemed to exude a fascination he had never experienced before. Almost dreamily, Thomas closed his eyes for a moment and pretended she was older, fourteen, ready to receive a man’s love and courtship.

  He opened them to find that Elizabeth was looking at him, and her beautiful mouth — how strange he had never noticed its sensual curve — was smiling at him.

  ‘Were you asleep, Sir Thomas?’ she asked, knowingly he thought.

  ‘If I was, I was dreaming of you, my Lady. Did you know I danced on the day of your birth, and I have rejoiced in you ever since,’ he answered.

  The child in her giggled, the girl blushed, and Elizabeth turned her face away and stared straight in front of her.

  ‘How is His Grace?’ she said, changing the subject abruptly. ‘I look forward to seeing him. And dear Cat — Her Grace — too.’

  Looking at the small averted profile, Thomas said, ‘You are fond of your new stepmother, are you not?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ Elizabeth answered enthusiastically. ‘She is kind to me. She is my cousin, as you know, and I am given the place of honour next to her when we are together. Her Grace is pretty, or at least I think so. Do you agree, Sir Thomas?’

  ‘Is it proper for me to tell you? After all, she is Queen.’

  Elizabeth shot him a brief calculating glance, not certain if he was teasing. ‘Perhaps you are right,’ she answered. ‘Perhaps we should not discuss Her Majesty.’

  ‘But I am sure she would not care.’

  ‘You have just asked,’ Elizabeth said sharply, ‘whether it would be proper. Make up your mind, Sir Thomas.’

  He laughed out loud, loving her quick wits and acerbity.

  ‘I concede, my Lady. You have made me look a fool.’

  Once again Elizabeth shot him a rapid glance. ‘I am sorry for that, Sir. It was not my intention.’

  ‘I think,’ answered Tom slowly, ‘that we should stop talking and enjoy the ride. Now, my Lady, let us see how fast I can get you to Hampton Court.’

  ‘By all mea
ns, Sir Thomas. As long as we don’t fall off.’

  ‘No fear of that,’ he answered, and gathered the child tightly into his arms, appreciating the feel of the sparrow-thin body against his chest even while he berated himself for unnatural desires.

  *

  On the day of Lady Elizabeth’s visit to her father, a visit during which she spent long hours with Queen Catherine, eating sweetmeats and playing games and cards, Henry Tudor hardly spoke at all. In the way of most children, the girl immediately thought it was her fault, stealing fearful glances at her father, where he sat in his great chair, moody and irritable. But he did not glance back and nothing about him reassured her. In the end Elizabeth, who had not seen the King for months, began to review her recent behaviour, convinced that she had sinned in some way and the matter had been reported back to him. Finally she plucked up enough courage to ask, choosing a moment when Cat had left the room and they were finally alone.

  Approaching the vast chair and dropping a highly respectful curtsey, Elizabeth said, ‘Your Grace, Father, have I done wrong?’

  He turned on her a glance that almost froze her blood. ‘Not yet. But no doubt on reaching woman’s estate you will.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ asked Elizabeth, taking a step backwards.

  ‘That women are whores. That Queens are whores. And you, young as you are, will probably grow into one.’

  Elizabeth’s face flamed. ‘I shan’t, Sir, I shan’t. I shall remain pure, like the Lady Anne of Cleves.’

  A smile flickered round Henry’s little mouth, hidden amongst the fuzz of his beard. ‘You count her as a friend, do you not?’

  ‘I love her,’ answered his daughter defiantly. ‘I love the Lady Anne more than anyone.’

  ‘More than me?’ he asked dangerously.

  Elizabeth went even redder. ‘Not more than you, Sir. You are my King and my liege lord as well as my father.’

  ‘A great many words for a little creature! And what about Her Grace? Do you love her more than the Lady Anne, or less?’

  Something in his tone warned Elizabeth to be very careful of her answer and she stood considering.