by Deryn Lake
‘Kate, are you trying to say something?’ whispered Tom.
And then, by the strangest coincidence, at that moment he knocked over his wine, watching dazedly as it trickled like blood from the table to the floor below.
‘Oh God’s mercy,’ he said and rising to his feet staggered from the room, afraid to look behind him to where the wine formed a thick red pool.
*
Even from the summit of Topenham Hill, where they reigned their horses in for a moment to look at the incredible view, they could hear the silence. Where once the hustle and bustle of Wolff Hall, tucked in the valley below, would have reached their ears even at that considerable distance, now there was nothing, not even the stamp of a hoof from the stables.
‘We shouldn’t have come,’ said the Lord Protector.
‘We had to,’ answered Cloverella.
Yet secretly she agreed with her cousin. Too much had happened, too many sad and terrible things, for them to visit the scene of their golden childhood at this stage. Too many memories were about to be brought back by entering the very portals of the house. And yet Ned had insisted, not content to pour out his heart to her in any other place.
After such an early end to winter, with January bringing a thaw that melted every bit of ice and snow, the ways were not only treacherous but muddy. So it was two dishevelled and bespattered figures who descended the hill, crossed the valley, and made their entrance into the great courtyard, where once Henry Tudor’s powerful beast had pawed the cobbles and sent up sparks from its ringing hooves. Now, a solitary ostler came from the stables to help them. With Dame Margery still gallantly keeping house at Sudeley Castle only a very small staff remained behind to run Wolff Hall.
But for all that, the greeting was warm. Dame Margery’s elderly steward, who had been there in Edward and Cloverella’s day, came dodderingly to meet them and assure the Protector that all was well, that there would be no visitors as he had requested.
‘And when you have bathed, my Lord, and Mistress Cloverella too, I thought you might like to take a turn round the gardens before you dined, knowing how fond of them you are.’
It was like a journey into the past, walking hand-in-hand, for there was a very strong bond between Ned and Cloverella that nobody else quite understood. They stood in the walled garden, sheltered from the coolness of a late February evening, its sundial telling them that there was one hour left until darkness. Then made their way slowly, stopping to sniff the herbs and admire the early shrubs and flowers, through the Ladies’ Gardens; My Old Lady’s somehow missed Dame Margery’s comfortable presence, My Young Lady’s mist-haunted and quiet as it had been ever since Jane’s death. In silent accord, Ned and Cloverella made for the stone seat on which she had so often sat.
‘You know how desperately troubled I am,’ the Protector said without preamble. ‘The realm seethes with discontent.’
‘But you are trying to help, Ned. You have done nothing but good.’
‘The landowners do not see it that way. By abandoning enclosures —’
‘You mean the boundaries put upon the great estates?’
‘Precisely. By getting rid of those and restoring the land to tillage I have made enemies of all the powerful landowners. Both the old families and the newly rich have turned against me. And yet I must, for the good of the common folk of England, continue my reforms.’
He sighed deeply and Cloverella took his hand.
‘The people are more important than the privileged few, Ned. And always will be.’
‘Dear God, Cloverella, they are as near to my heart as my own family, which my enemies rejoice to see is now split asunder.’
‘There is no hope for Thomas?’
‘None. Not only is he lodged in the Tower but there is a bill of attainder against him of some thirty-three items, unanimously passed through the Lords as a case of treason. But what hurts me so desperately is the way he turned against me. He wanted to depose me as Protector, give Edward — that little boy! — autonomy. But when, pressurised and harried by the Council, I ordered Tom to appear before me, he simply did not bother. That was why he was arrested. He could have avoided it. He is doomed, Cousin. And I fear that in his death he might bring me down also.’
‘But how, Ned, how?’
‘My enemies will snatch at anything. Heaven knows where they will strike next.’
‘But you are strong, you can outwit them.’
The Protector smiled at Cloverella. ‘I love you for your loyalty.’
She smiled, then said hesitatingly, ‘You do realise, don’t you, that Tom is not the Tom we grew up with?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘He is unhinged, Ned. Insane. I think he loved the Queen deeply and her death sent a volatile personality over the edge of reasonable behaviour.’
‘But how could he have loved her?’ the Protector asked harshly. ‘He was sniffing round the Princess in five minutes and terrible stories have emerged. He was pursuing her even while they all lived in Chelsea. There was bottom pinching, tickling, God alone knows what!’
‘How do you know that?’
‘Katherine Ashley and Cofferer Parry were arrested a few days after Tom, and the Lady Elizabeth was put under restraint. Sir Robert Tyrwhit was sent to question her and his wife is to be her new governess.’
‘And they all confessed?’
‘Eventually, yes. But at first Tyrwhit found a conspiracy of silence. However, Parry finally admitted that Tom was desperate to marry the Princess, and Ashley confirmed.’
‘And the girl herself?’
Ned smiled grimly. ‘A worthy opponent, my dear. The only time she faltered was when Tyrwhit made her read the confessions of Parry and Ashley.’
‘What did she do?’
‘Become breathless and blushed, I’m told. But neither of them said anything really incriminating about her. I am convinced they have all three sworn a secret pact.’
‘Umm.’ Cloverella looked thoughtful. ‘Do you think the Princess was Tom’s mistress?’
Somerset shook his head slowly. ‘I don’t know. He lent her Seymour Place at Christmas time and talk abounds that he visited late at night. But no one will ever learn the truth. She wrote me an extraordinary letter, you know.’
‘Yes?’
‘In the last paragraph she said that Tyrwhit had told her it was rumoured Elizabeth was in the Tower with Thomas, and was with child by him. She said these were shameful slanders and that she wanted to come to Court to see the King and show herself as she really was.’
‘How odd!’
‘I thought so. It suggested to me that Her Grace had something to hide while seeming to deny. For not once in the letter did she refer to the relationship between herself and Tom, only throwing dust in my eyes by talking about pregnancy.’
Cloverella put her arm round her cousin, holding him close to her. ‘Be very careful. You are the subject of a great deal of enmity.’
‘I know and I will be cautious. I promise. But what I do for Tom is more immediately on my mind.’
‘You can do nothing. The Tom we knew and loved died long ago. A frenzied man will go to the block, a man who knows not which way to turn. He is cornered Ned, his reason gone. It is better he dies.’
The shadows had lengthened while they spoke and now they both shivered, though whether through chill or the weight of events was not certain. Ned stood up and held out his hand to Cloverella.
‘We must go in. We shall sit by the fire in the gallery tonight and remember old times.’
‘But only the good ones,’ she answered, smiling.
They made their way through the dusk to the house, and as they did so it seemed to both of them that a third person, the slight misty figure of a young woman, walked a few paces ahead, as if escorting them homewards.
*
It was as though, on his last day, the strange partnership, the twin souls of Thomas and Elizabeth, were bonded in some way, so that she, under virtual house arrest at Ches
hunt, woke with a portent of such doom that she was physically ill. Tom, waking at the same moment in the dreariness of his room in the Tower, felt he could see her standing and watching him, already wearing black.
When the Princess had calmed herself a little she dressed in a kirtle and gown of ebony velvet, knowing he hated that colour, remembering how Tom had cut her dress to ribbons all those years ago when she had still been a child. Yet she must mourn him, he who would have been her lover if fate had not played its final cruel trick on Anne Boleyn, and given her a child deformed.
By pretending a chill, Elizabeth had delayed her return from London and insisted on seeing Dr Huick, swearing to Kat Ashley that she would allow no other physician near her. When they had parted company, both patient and doctor had been grim faced. Women’s diseases were the province of midwives, not men, and Dr Huick could honestly say that his entire experience of pelvic examination had so far been confined to corpses. But he knew what he saw now well enough. Elizabeth Tudor was doomed to a life without men, her vaginal canal missing, a small inadequate pouch in its place.
Even before she had let him look at her, Elizabeth had made Huick swear an oath so solemn that the physician felt bound by more than his Hippocratic vow. Rumour might gather strength, but the truth would never come from his lips, her secret was safe. And the only other person alive who knew it was shortly to have that life taken away. As the Princess dressed in black to mourn Thomas Seymour, she also mourned the children she would never bear, the husband she would never have, the loving fulfilment that could never be hers.
The Lord Admiral dressed brightly for the scaffold, fearless and foolish to the end. He wore scarlet so that the blood would not show and a hat with a huge white feather to annoy the executioner. In his velvet shoes he had sewn two letters, one for Elizabeth, the other for Mary, which he had written with an aiglet plucked from his hose, and ink smuggled in by his man John.
It was windy that March day and Elizabeth, unable to bear the close confines of the house, spent most of the time in the garden, wandering amongst the winter beds and feasting her eyes on a bush of jasmine. She had no idea at what time the execution would take place, only knowing from listening to Lady Tyrwhit that it would be today. But suddenly she could picture him, standing on the scaffold, defiant and unrelenting to the last.
‘No final speech, my Lord?’
‘None,’ said Thomas curtly, for he knew, did he not, that he died falsely accused, alone and friendless. His brother had signed his death warrant, his nephew had not lifted a finger to save him, his wife had deserted him by dying, his obsession with Elizabeth had ended in the most ironic twist of all.
But before he laid his head on the block, Thomas Seymour gave one last long look round. ‘I do not accept this sentence,’ he said. ‘All I wanted was to see the King’s power restored to him and the Protector’s diminished. I die a victim of another’s greed.’
He knelt and turned quickly to look for John, white-faced and trembling, but ready to serve his master to the end.
‘Speed the thing you know about,’ whispered Tom and then the headsman wielded his axe twice and it was over, John weeping as he climbed the scaffold to remove the shoes from the corpse’s feet.
In the garden at Cheshunt, the black veil attached to Elizabeth’s hood blew up over her face and for a second or two, while she fought to pull it down, she felt she could hardly breathe.
It’s finished, she thought, it’s done. Oh Thomas, Thomas.
She wept bitterly, then, not just for his death but also for her life sentence. The final joke had been played on them both. Never again would the dashing Lord Admiral play his love games, never in the future could Elizabeth play hers.
Chapter Forty-One
As with all good ideas the basis of it came from a casual remark, a mere piece of idle chatter, said as much to pass the time as anything else. Yet Zachary Howard, the second he heard what was spoken, knew that here at last was something which might open up a chance for his escape from the Court of Suleiman the Magnificent.
This court did indeed live up to its Sultan’s name, being one of the most beautiful in the world, the Topkapi Palace more superbly marbled and decorated than any other, its inhabitants more exotically and richly dressed than even the splendid courtiers of France or England. Because of its rarity and excellence, travellers came not only from all over the Ottoman Empire but also the world to bring the Sultan gifts and often to take away some prize in return.
As Suleiman’s chief astrologer, Zachary was introduced to them all, often in a sense of competition, the Sultan claiming that his wise man was more of a visionary, a better divine, than any they could produce, and being proved right. In this way Suleiman came to regard his astrologer more and more highly as the years passed by, and politely but firmly refused all diplomatic attempts by both France and England to secure Zachary’s release.
Then, in the autumn of 1551, came a visit from a much-travelled Indian nobleman, Lord Ravi, a minister of the ruler Sher Shah, seeking the Sultan’s help to repel the Moguls. And it was by his lips that the chance remark was uttered.
‘Your reputation preceeds you, my dear Astrologer,’ he had said, leaning across the low table that separated them, upon which stood bowls of fruit and sweets alongside cups of a rich dark liquid known as ch’a, the origins of which lay in China, or so Zachary believed.
‘Does it, my Lord?’
‘But much as your Sultan admires you, I believe that we have men in India who might be equally wise.’
‘Let me establish one thing,’ Zachary had answered, ‘Sultan Suleiman makes such claims on my behalf. I do not endorse them. I am an Englishman, brought to Turkey eight years ago. In reality, though it does not appear so as I live in the very height of luxury, I am held captive. But the Sultan does not like me to speak of it so I will say no more. But as regards boasts of greatness, I do not make them.’
‘But you are an astrologer and clairvoyant of considerable repute?’
‘Yes, Sir, I am. It was born in me, a gift from my mother. Fortunately, as a child I was allowed to study further and increase my knowledge.’
Ravi smiled. ‘Then I would like to hear your comments on the rope trick, a thing native to India. I saw it the other day and was both amused and puzzled.’
Zachary frowned. ‘The rope trick? I know nothing of it.’
‘Do you not? I thought its fame might have spread. It is simply this. A magic man with an assistant boy comes into a village and collects a crowd of onlookers, who are made to stand close to one another so that they form an unbroken circle. From a basket the man produces a rope which he shows round for inspection. It is found to be perfectly normal yet at his command it becomes rigid and stands in the air like a pole. The boy climbs up and disappears into a small cloud which hovers at the top, the man climbs after him, though one can still hear his voice.’
‘It is an illusion I imagine.’
‘Definitely so. Because down to the ground comes, gruesomely, the boy’s severed limbs and trunk. The man reappears with the boy’s head and a bloody knife clenched in his teeth. He thrusts the remains into a cloth which he then stabs for good measure. While the spectators are still aghast, the magic man shakes the rope which returns to normal, while the cloth moves to reveal the boy in one piece and grinning cheerfully. So tell me, Astrologer, how is it done?’
‘I don’t know yet,’ said Zachary slowly, as an idea was born. ‘But I shall certainly experiment.’
‘Do you think it is a mass hallucination? That the crowd see something which does not happen at all?’
‘Probably. But the hallucination must begin with the rising of the rope, unless …’
‘Unless what?’
Zachary grinned. ‘You don’t think I would tell you, Lord Ravi, surely? After all you have challenged my skills. It is up to me to prove to you that I am as clever as your magic men.’
‘Very well,’ Ravi said, now much amused. ‘I am a man of honour. I shall l
ay a wager both with you and your Sultan that his astrologer cannot reproduce the Indian rope trick.’
‘In how long?’
‘Two weeks?’
‘Make it three and I’ll take you on,’ said Zachary cheerfully, and held out his hand.
‘Done,’ answered Ravi, and shook it.
*
Autumn stole into summer like a thief and laid a finger here, a thumb mark there, then scurried away again. At first, even a critical observer could not be sure that they had seen a hint of yellow in the leaves of the oak tree, a splash of gold in the birch. It was settled weather, fine and warm, and yet signs were everywhere that the year had already started to wane.
In the mornings a gentle slumbrous mist rolled over the river, vanishing slowly with the sun but reappearing again at dusk. The daylight took on a special nuance of colour, the afternoons amber rather than gold. The smell of fruit was in the air, the crispness of apples, the heaviness of plums, and wasps appeared from nowhere to buzz and irritate.
Now the thief struck regularly and each day saw a subtle change in nature’s tints. Reds appeared, transforming trees and shrubs, there were points of molten light throughout the landscape, scarlet berries bloomed in the hedgerows. The days were fine but cool, the mornings saw the rime of ground frost.
In tune with the mellow season, the Duke of Somerset felt a great calmness come over him, almost to the point of resignation. He took long walks by the river alone, staring into the water and seeing his own face look back at him sadly. Since Thomas’s death, since that savage act of fractricide, he had become old. Though only in his fiftieth year he looked far more, his hair nearly grey, the dark saturnine features so sunken that the bones of his skull were clearly visible beneath. But the expression in Ned’s eyes was the saddest thing of all; disillusionment and sorrow, misery and pain.
On his solitary walks by the Thames, the Duke found himself turning over again and again the question as to whether politicians who were sincere — or almost — for he had to admit that even the best of them suffered from folie de grandeur, could succeed. He, of all people, had sympathised with the labouring classes, continually fleeced by their masters, who rapaciously lined their pockets at the expense of the people. But yet his good intentions had foundered, the nobles determined to get rid of such a dangerous creature whom they accused of being both sheriff and robber, too full of social conscience whilst still the richest man in the land.