Pour The Dark Wine

by Deryn Lake

Somerset nodded wisely, suddenly in no need to hurry home, longing to spend hours away from his duties talking with Cloverella about the past.

  ‘Do you remember our wishes on Merlin’s Mound?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes, they all came true, more or less.’

  ‘Did they?’

  ‘Jane wished to be Queen, if you recall, and you, Ned, looked all around you and said you would like to own everything you saw.’

  ‘But I don’t.’ Somerset chuckled. ‘How could I?’

  ‘You are Lord Protector, my dear. The nearest thing to being a King there could possibly be. In a way you own the realm, acting on His Grace’s behalf.’

  Edward looked reflective. ‘I had not thought of it quite like that. But what of Thomas?’

  ‘He asked to love many women …’

  ‘He’s done that all right!’

  ‘… and end by marrying the highest in the land.’

  Somerset frowned. ‘Hmm! It would never surprise me if he made a play for Princess Mary, though even he could hardly think such an incompatible union would ever work.’

  Cloverella’s eyes twinkled. ‘The wonderful thing about Thomas is that one can never tell what he’s going to do next.’

  Edward’s face did not give a corresponding smile. ‘These days, and in his elevated position, that characteristic has lost a great deal of its charm.’

  ‘You are angry with him, Ned! Why?’

  ‘He’s too …’ The Protector sought for the word and found, ‘… restless. He moves around as if there’s something at his heels, egging him on to outdo not only himself but everyone around him. He worries me.’

  Just for a moment Cloverella’s mouth looked pinched. ‘Be kind to him, Ned, for the sake of the family. You must always remember that Thomas is … just Thomas.’

  Somerset changed the subject. ‘And what was your wish, sweetheart? I cannot recall after all these years.’

  ‘I wished for knowledge, for a greater understanding of supernature.’

  ‘And has it been granted to you?’

  ‘Oh yes, I think so. There is still a lifetime’s work ahead of me but with Zachary’s help and also through taking his place in his absence, I have grown.’

  ‘In every way. You have become a considerable woman, Cloverella. I think you will be well received by France’s new king. But be careful. There is only an uneasy peace between our two countries. I would not like you to get caught up in anything that might prove dangerous.’

  ‘I have the Comte to protect me,’ answered Cloverella, smiling.

  ‘It was to the Count that I was, in part, referring,’ said Edward grandly, as only a Lord Protector could, and was gratified to see Cloverella’s cheeks turn a sparkling pink as she looked away from him.

  *

  Later that night — Edward still deep in conversation with Cloverella, the oarsmen asleep in the barge, Anne Somerset dreaming in Chester Place — the Lord Admiral of England took the dangerous road from Chelsea village to the Dower House. Beneath the midnight moon he galloped through the fields, fording the stream at Blandels Bridge, a favourite haunt of highwaymen and footpads, and rode the path to where the wall of the house ran down into the fields. There he dismounted and walked his horse to the postern gate, at which place his porteress, as Katherine had termed herself, awaited him. As promised, Thomas had sent her word in advance and now, despite the fact that midnight had struck, she was there.

  ‘Oh darling,’ she said and flew towards him even before he had finished tethering his mount.

  They stood in silence beneath a distant and dainty moon, locked in an embrace that said more than words. The very essence of Katherine seemed to enter into Thomas at that moment so that he imagined a joining of spirits. He felt that he, too, had suffered what she had done, knew well the agony of a child sold to and abused by an indecent old bridegroom, the drudgery of a woman forced to nurse elderly husbands, the terror of a queen who walked in fear. All the good in him, everything decent and fine in his character, surfaced like an anthem.

  ‘I love you,’ he said.

  All her life, Katherine knew she had been two people, all the undisciplined joyful part of her contained within a butterfly, a butterfly who had been bruised and hurt, whose wings had been ripped off cruelly, but who had grown more and flown again. And now the butterfly consumed the meek earnest little mouse, the pious little woman who prayed a great deal and thought too much. It simply opened its rainbow wings and folded in the milksop, who gave a sigh and passed away without pain.

  ‘I love you too,’ she answered.

  The moon was too delicate, too kind, to reveal the silvered lovers who lay beneath the canopy of a weeping willow, making love with solemnity, like priest and priestess pledging their faith. It was ritually done, without haste of any kind, the tidal wave an affirmation, the troth that followed it sacredly pledged.

  ‘You promised me two months,’ said Thomas, telling a falsehood without caring. ‘But I want you to break that vow.’

  ‘What must I do?’ asked Katherine, every part of her in harmony with her lover and the night.

  ‘You must retain the figure two but change the time scale.’

  ‘You want to wait two years?’ asked Katherine in horror, the idea now beyond contemplation.

  ‘Two days,’ answered Tom, and chuckled. ‘I want to be married in two days’ time, pretty Kate.’

  ‘But Tom, by whom? And what of the future? To act without the Council or Protector’s permission is surely dangerous.’

  ‘Not so dangerous as leaving you a widow a moment longer in this wicked world of men. Cranmer will marry us if you ask him nicely, you and he are old friends. As for permission, I will get the King’s, just you wait and see. He is my nephew after all.’

  ‘But your brother will be furious!’

  ‘Prick ’im,’ said Tom irritably. ‘I have not come this far in the world nor reached the age I have to ask my brother’s permission every time I want to fart.’

  ‘Surely you will not do that at our wedding?’ answered Katherine, laughing despite herself.

  ‘Of course not. Now, let me hear your answer. Putting aside all the obstacles, will you marry me the day after tomorrow?’

  ‘But …’

  ‘I don’t want to hear but,’ said Tom firmly, putting his fingers to her lips. ‘Please say yes, Kate. Trust me to take care of the difficulties.’

  ‘But I have nothing to wear.’

  ‘Then get something. Will you marry me?’

  ‘I think so. Yes, perhaps I will.’

  ‘I’m very pleased to hear it,’ said the Lord Admiral tartly. ‘At last I can achieve my ambition.’

  ‘And what is that pray?’ asked Katherine, all light heart and amusement.

  ‘To be respectable. An old married man.’

  And with that almost impossible wish the bargain between them was finally sealed.

  *

  Because of the warm weather and consequent fear of the plague, the King and his entourage had removed themselves to Hampton Court, whose splendid grounds offered every kind of amenity to a nine-year-old boy intent on enjoying himself on a fine day in early summer. There was the river for swimming or boating, the gardens for strolling, the butts for archery practice, the parkland for riding. Any one of these pleasures would have been acceptable to Edward Tudor who stood, gloomily staring out of the window, wishing that he had not agreed to an audience with his favourite uncle or that he was somebody else, the granting of either request equally welcome.

  Yet it was at moments like these that the King sensed within himself an innate pomposity, for even as he thought how exciting it would be to be an urchin boy, a dirty-faced mudlark, he shrank from the very idea of not understanding Latin, not being able to discuss the Classics. In many ways the poor wretch was not happy with the child produced by the tutors and scholars with whom he had been placed since birth, yet he was impotent, unable to break free from the rigid mould they had created for him.

  He
wondered, even while he watched the glittering river, what Lord Seymour wanted of him and if it could have anything to do with the ridiculous questions John Fowler kept asking. Whom should his uncle marry, would this one be suitable, what about that one? The King felt he had given his answers clearly enough already; the Lady Anne or the Princess Mary, if Thomas could change his sister’s religion. But not content, Fowler had persisted. What would His Grace say to a match between Lord Seymour and the Dowager Queen.

  ‘Nothing,’ Edward had answered in exasperation. ‘I would say nothing.’

  ‘Then Your Grace would have no objection?’

  Edward could remember that he had been tired and bored at the same time. ‘Of course I wouldn’t,’ he had answered scornfully. ‘Why should I? It’s as good an idea as any of his madcap schemes.’

  That had put paid to it at the time but then, from a clear sky, the Lord Admiral had suddenly requested a private audience.

  ‘Christ’s blood,’ said the King now, pressing his nose against the glass. ‘God’s holy passion.’

  Edward rarely swore, so felt better for the oath and turned back to look into the room, only to see that the usual rigmarole surrounding a private audience had begun. Obviously the King’s uncle had arrived at the Palace and presented himself at the privy chamber where a page had taken the message to a gentleman usher who, in his turn, had passed it on to one of the gentlemen-in-waiting, one of whom was now approaching the place where the boy-King stood.

  Making a deep reverence, the young nobleman said shrilly, ‘The Lord High Admiral, Baron Seymour of Sudeley, is here to see Your Grace at Your Grace’s pleasure. May I know Your Grace’s wishes in this?’

  ‘Show him in,’ answered Edward loftily. ‘We will give him audience. And let the word be spread that we will speak with our uncle in private.’

  There was a general shuffling of feet as the room cleared and then a voice from the doorway, announcing Thomas Seymour by all his titles was interrupted with, ‘If you could inform His Grace that his sailor uncle is here I think that might suffice.’

  Edward looked down his nose, a trick of his when alarmed. Should he laugh as he would like, or should he look askance? In the end he did neither, standing mutely and a little foolishly — or so he thought — as his uncle came towards him.

  Seymour bowed deeply, his hat sweeping off and brushing his nephew’s foot. ‘Sire, as I am the Admiral I wondered if it might be in order that we hold this audience upon the river. It is, when all is said, hot work indoors today.’

  He stood upright, very straightfaced, though Edward could have sworn he detected a wink about Thomas’s eye. With a flash of inspiration the King scored a point.

  ‘Lord Uncle, we have a better plan. First tell us quickly why you are here, without cackle as you would say, and then we give you leave to take us upon the river.’

  He’s learning, thought Tom, by God he’s learning.

  ‘Very well; Your Grace,’ he answered briskly, ‘I am here to inform Your Grace that I have concurred with your wishes.’

  ‘Wishes?’ Edward wrinkled both brow and nose. ‘What wishes?’

  ‘Your wish, expressed to me via John Fowler, that I should marry the Dowager Queen Katherine.’

  The boy looked positively amazed. ‘Did we wish that?’

  ‘I believe, Sir, that you told him it was a good idea.’

  The King realised with a thrill of horror that he had been misquoted but that to say so would be downright insulting. ‘Well, we …’ he muttered.

  Thomas Seymour dropped on one knee. ‘Then I crave the blessing of the King’s Majesty. I have done as you have bidden. The Dowager Queen and I are now husband and wife.’

  ‘You took our remarks very literally, Lord Uncle,’ said Edward, with a certain acerbity.

  ‘Your slightest wish is my command, Your Grace.’ Thomas stood up again. ‘Now what say you to the river, Sire? I have a new model sailing boat, a replica of my own in the fleet.’

  Edward extended a small pale hand. ‘We would wish to see it.’

  Thomas, smiling broadly, kissed the little fingers then clasped them firmly in his own. ‘Then come with me, Majesty,’ he said, and with that the two of them left the stuffy confines of the Palace and ran, laughing, through the gardens and down towards the Thames.

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Through the door of the Chelsea Dower House, being opened amidst a royal fanfare from the King’s trumpeters, came the wonderful smell of spice, of cooking, of Christmas. Just for a second the boy-King paused in the entrance, sniffing, letting his thoughts wander to the mother who had died when he had been a few days old. If she had lived there would have been family Christmases every year, not the formal occasions he had spent with his father and a procession of stepmothers, or the others when he had remained in his own household, only having his sisters for company. For Jane had left him lonely, a strange little boy, very solemn and serious, happiness being something almost unknown to him.

  But now at least he was smiling as his favourite stepmother curtsied to him and invited him into the house. Very formally the King bowed, accepted, and walked into the great hall to see all his family, with the exception of the Protector and his wife, bowing and curtseying to him. Without exception their eyes twinkled and the boy felt a moment of intense pleasure, secure in the thought that so many people loved him.

  It was Elizabeth who rushed to kiss him on the cheek and Edward thought how elegant she looked, pale as snow yet clothed in scarlet, like holly and mistletoe, her russet hair gleaming beneath her hood. Uncle Thomas was not far behind her, tall and dashing, his bright eyes permanently smiling as if he secretly laughed at the world. The King found him fractionally disconcerting.

  This Christmas being the first for Edward as sovereign, he had copied his father in everything, keeping his celebrations at Greenwich and inviting all his family to attend him on Christmas Day, which they had done in rather a strained atmosphere.

  During the twelve days the King had left the Palace twice, to go to a banquet given by his other uncle at Chester Place, and now to come to the Dower House. And here Edward knew already it was going to be lighthearted, gay, whereas with the Lord Protector he had felt awkward, the Duchess fawning over him to such an extent that the child had felt near to screaming. The presence of two amusing boys, distant kin to Somerset, had been the only redeeming feature. Though respectful and polite, they had obviously seen Edward very much as a contemporary and before the feast had shown him some good card tricks, while the younger of the two, Sylvanus, had taken the King on as a competitor in the butts. All of this had made the day worthwhile and Edward had extended an invitation to the lads to attend him at Greenwich, an invitation which his uncle had accepted with alacrity on their behalf.

  But now his elderly half-sister Mary, who did not truly approve of her stepmother’s rapid re-marriage, but was keeping part of her Christmas in Chelsea for the sake of their old friendship, was coming to kiss him too. Edward felt he was truly amongst kinfolk, much more so than at Greenwich when the Queen Dowager and the Duchess of Somerset had glared at one another in a most un-Christian manner. The only person absent from this Chelsea family gathering was his pretty cousin Jane Grey, the girl having returned to her home for Christmas. Like Elizabeth, Jane had been put into the care of the Queen Dowager to further her education.

  ‘What is your pleasure, Your Grace, for you are voted Lord of Misrule today?’ Elizabeth was calling, looking as if she would whirl him off his feet at any second, hovering over him like a flame in her gallant red dress, smiling her special smile.

  ‘I should like to dance with you, dear sister,’ the boy said politely, knowing that she was longing to jig away and as Lord of Misrule it was up to him to organise events.

  ‘Then let it be a chain dance, Your Grace,’ the Admiral put in. ‘One where we change partners.’

  Edward nodded agreement, the musicians struck up, and friends and family in the great hall began to cavort enthusia
stically, Edward dancing with his sister then bowing stiffly before the Queen Dowager, who smiled at him kindly and went prancing away with him despite the difference in their heights.

  Edward had never been sure in the end whether he had really suggested his Uncle Thomas should marry her or not. John Fowler had assured him again and again that it had been the King’s idea all along. To the point that Edward had written to Katherine, ‘We thank you heartily, not only for the gentle acceptation of our suite moved unto you, but also for the loving accomplishment of the same, wherein you have declared a desire to gratify us.’ But he had still not been certain.

  The news of the secret marriage between the Queen Dowager and the Lord High Admiral had caused a furore and the Lord Protector had reacted savagely, though not half as badly as his wife, who had been seen to seethe. Anne Somerset had always disliked Katherine, considering her common and nouveau. She had resented being the Queen’s train bearer during the King’s lifetime and now the Duchess was indignant that Katherine took precedence over her.

  It had been Anne who had been the instigator of the scheme to keep the Queen’s jewels, given to Katherine Parr by Henry and claimed by her as her own, though Somerset maintained they were Crown property. There had been and still was bitter wrangling over the gems, Thomas vehemently siding with his wife. For the first time open animosity between the brothers had been noticed, and the King, yet again, had been approached to intercede, John Fowler acting as go-between. Edward had felt a sudden exasperation with both his uncles but had been willing to assist Thomas, who always gave him extra pocket money when he was helpful, whereas the Protector kept him horribly short.

  Now Edward bowed to Katherine and changed partners to dance with Mary, who at thirty-one was old enough to be his mother and who seemed remote and ancient to the boy. It was his other sister, whirling in the arms of Uncle Thomas and glittering with some inner excitement of her own, to whom the King felt truly close. Elizabeth and the Admiral were laughing as they danced past and Edward thought curiously that his uncle must be feeling the heat, for a sweat beaded his brow.