by Deryn Lake
The summer following Tom’s death had been a season of more uprisings and revolt, the agricultural workers taking up pitchforks to protest against their wretched conditions. In an agony, for these were the very people that he sought to protect, Ned had seen the Earl of Warwick — that dark powerful ogre of a man — set out with English troops and German mercenaries to put down the trouble in Norfolk, while Lord Russell, whom the Protector had begged to be gentle, massacred Cornishmen.
Then had come a terrible ordeal. Knowing how dangerous he was to them, the wealthy landowners, under the most capable leadership of Warwick, encouraged the merchants of the city of London to support the Earl’s faction against the Protector. Ned had called on the ordinary folk to rally to his side and ten thousand of them had done so. But Warwick had massed an army of fifteen thousand men, more than the Protector could cope with. England, in the autumn of 1549, had stood on the brink of civil war.
At first, Edward and Anne Somerset had been blissfully unaware of how the situation had deteriorated, spending September together at Elvetham, their Hampshire home, in almost lighthearted mood. But in October when they joined the King at Hampton Court, Ned had realised just what peril he was in. Only a handful of the Council had remained faithful to him and with the Tower of London now fallen into Warwick’s hands, it became obvious that Somerset’s enemies were about to seize the King. Anne had left Hampton Court by boat while Ned made ready to ride through the night with Edward Tudor, not to the Tower, as the Protector had originally intended, but to Windsor Castle.
The King had never regarded his uncle in the same way after that escapade, furious that he had been woken up and dragged out of bed when he was suffering from a heavy cold, even angrier that the Castle was not prepared for him, having little food and a temperature like ice.
How wretched, thought Ned, staring solemnly at his reflection in the river — a drowned sad Ned, rather hopeless. I lost everything that night, even my nephew.
Warwick had captured them and sent the Protector to the Tower, of course. Had seen to it that Ned rode back to London a prisoner, watched by the silent citizens who lined the streets, Wriothesley and Lord Huntingdon on either side of him, his jailers.
How he had escaped with his life, he never knew. Warwick and the Council had drawn up twenty-nine articles of accusation against him and presented them on the day before Christmas. With his signature on the documents the Protectorate had ended and Edward Seymour had been released from the Tower, a broken man.
That had been eighteen months ago; eighteen months in which some of Ned’s power had returned. He had been reinstated to the Privy Council and, later, the Privy Chamber. And when Warwick had been struck down by a serious illness, something so mysterious that Ned had suspected Cloverella of meddling, he had found himself leading opinion once more.
Warwick’s health had not improved and the Earl had been too ill to attend the wedding of his eldest son, John Dudley, with Edward Seymour’s eldest daughter, Anne; a marriage supposed to restore the erstwhile friends to some of their former companionship. The fact that it had not done so had been a savage blow to Ned, the King and Council’s refusal to give Dame Margery a state funeral, an even bigger one. And now their message was abundantly clear, Somerset might be back amongst them but his wings had been clipped for good. Edward Seymour could remain as a puppet figure only, under the mastership of the fully recovered Earl of Warwick.
He had had wild ideas of trying to oust Warwick, of course. But somehow the futility of it, the sheer folly of attempting a coup, had pressed in on him even harder than the desire to free the country of Warwick’s disastrous conservative policies. During the long plague-ridden summer, Ned had lived quietly at Syon House, almost a recluse, knowing himself to be a spent force.
Now, the reflection in the river wavered and Edward’s haggard face vanished as small drops like rain broke the surface and formed ever-increasing rings. Touching his cheek, the Duke of Somerset realised that he was weeping, his spirit finally broken. Two years ago he had signed his own brother’s death warrant and now the revenge of fate had been exacted in full. The social and religious reformer, the man who had wanted to leave a stable and contented realm for his young nephew to take over, had fallen foul of a huge ambition. The Earl of Warwick, sworn to care only for his own kind, had trodden him ruthlessly aside.
*
Talk of the forthcoming attempt at the Indian rope trick by the Sultan’s chief astrologer had spread not only through the Topkapi Palace but the city of Constantinople as well. Massive wagers were being laid, books were opened, and odds for and against were the talk of the market place. In the midst of all this excitement there was nobody more delighted than Suleiman himself. As always he saw such a feat as a tribute to the greatness of his empire yet, before he laid his own particular wager, the Sultan very sensibly called his astrologer before him.
‘Dr Zachary, may a thousand blessings be upon your head.’
‘And a thousand thousand upon yours, mighty Sultan.’
Suleiman motioned Zachary to sit on his usual stool set at the Sultan’s feet.
‘My son, the honour of my Court rests in some measure upon your shoulders. Tell me, is this rope trick possible to do? Is it really a hoax or is it magic?’
‘Mighty Sultan,’ answered Zachary, kissing the turned-up toe of one of Suleiman’s surprisingly small satin shoes, ‘the answer is that it is a combination of both, or so I believe. Whether it is possible or not I am still not certain, but trust me.’
‘I shall, my Zachary, but tell me exactly how I should wager, what words I should use.’
‘Wager, great one, that your chief astrologer will climb the rope and vanish.’
‘As simple as that?’
‘I think so.’
Suleiman frowned. ‘But what of the boy?’
‘The boy will also vanish.’
‘But the trick is that you both return?’
‘Indeed it is, mighty Sultan.’
‘And will you use Cem?’
‘I shall, Sir.’
They both smiled, thinking of Zachary’s son, born to Salina a year after she had been given to the astrologer as principal slave. The boy was Zachary again, dark and brilliant, like a jewel, suiting his name, which was pronounced ‘Gem’ in English.
‘My Cem,’ said the Sultan’s chief astrologer fondly. ‘If anyone can help me with this trick it will be he.’
‘Your third son,’ answered Suleiman, who knew Zachary’s family history well. ‘And the most loved?’
‘No, mighty Sultan, I love all my children.’ Zachary would have liked to have added that he missed his two in England but knew Suleiman would be greatly offended if he did so. Instead he said, ‘They will be men now. Eighteen years old. I wonder if I would recognise them.’
‘A father always recognises his children,’ answered the Sultan. ‘I have over a hundred, so believe me, I should know.’
‘Indeed, greatest of the great,’ answered Zachary, and left the Sultan’s presence, bowing magnificently.
*
Because of the baton sinister in the pedigrees of both Jasper and Sylvanus Howard, the positions obtained for them by the Duke of Somerset in the household of the King of England were, perforce, somewhat lowly. Jasper, being the cleverer of the two, had become one of the King’s many secretaries; Sylvanus ostensibly a falconer, though really the boy-King liked to challenge him in the butts, enjoying sporting activities whenever he was allowed time for them.
It had not been easy after the death of the Lord Admiral and the demoting of the Protector to keep their positions at Court. In fact many days had passed when both of the boys had expected to feel a hand on their shoulder and a voice telling them they were under arrest. Yet the King must have had some small influence with Warwick for Edward Tudor’s two companions remained. Perhaps, thought Jasper, it was because their stepmother had been so close to Jane Seymour that her son liked to keep them in his retinue.
Yet the rela
tionship between the Howard brothers and the odd boy that Edward had become had grown strained during the autumn of 1551, the days leading up to the King’s fourteenth birthday on the 12th of October having been particularly difficult.
‘Do you know, Jasper, the King has not been near the falcons or the butts for a whole week now,’ Sylvanus had said when the brothers, both off duty, had met in Jasper’s small apartment.
‘He has not called me to work for him either. He is definitely avoiding me.’
‘Something’s afoot.’
‘Do you think it is more trouble for the Duke of Somerset?’
‘I would not be at all surprised,’ answered Sylvanus, frowning.
‘It is strange,’ said Jasper, abruptly changing the subject, ‘but I dreamt the other night that our father came back to us.’
Sylvanus’s beautiful rosy face broke into a smile. ‘Do you think it is an omen?’
‘I don’t know,’ Jasper said thoughtfully. ‘But my thumbs are pricking. Something is going to happen, I’m certain of it.’
He was right. On the 16th of October, having been unable to attend the masque given in honour of the birth of the King’s Majesty on the 12th, the Duke of Somerset arrived to dine with his nephew alone. It was a cold, formal meal, the boy saying so little that in the end his uncle had blurted out, ‘Your Grace, tell me, I beg you, if I have done anything to offend you.’
The King turned icy eyes on him and Somerset found himself hating Jane’s son, the sweet boy welcomed by an entire nation who had turned, through constant treatment as a demi-god, into a hard-hearted little wretch, indifferent to blood relations and faithful servants alike.
‘Nothing, my Lord,’ said the brat, in a voice that meant, ‘everything’.
Somerset hesitated on the brink of saying that the execution of Thomas Seymour had eventually been forced upon him by others; that the desperate night ride to Windsor, cold and miserable though it was, had been essential; that he had never tried to seize power for himself, but only for the cause of England and its long-suffering people.
‘Then, Your Grace, know this and know it well,’ answered Somerset bravely, ‘if I have done anything inadvertently that has not been to your taste, understand that it was for the sake of the nation, for the sake of yourself. That you might take over the reins of a sound state, a peaceable kingdom.’
‘Thank you,’ answered the King tonelessly.
‘Yes, thank you indeed,’ said Ned, blood before his eyes and bitterness in his heart. ‘I have brought you a fine horse for your birthday gift, nephew. See it when you have time to spare.’
He no longer cared now, ex-Protector that he was, a fallen man without hope. ‘God bless Your Majesty,’ he said and stood up from the table.
‘Are you leaving us?’ asked the King in genuine surprise.
‘Yes,’ said Somerset, ‘I am leaving you. Farewell, Your Grace.’
He stumbled from the room, blinded half by tears, half by fury, realising that his breach of etiquette had been appalling but that the fate which lay ahead of him would be even worse. And as he reached the stables, mounted his horse and with the two servants who had accompanied him turned away from the Palace, the Duke saw that nemesis had finally come. On the road ahead, in a cloud of dusty hooves, an arresting party was galloping hard.
‘By God,’ shouted Ned, ‘things have come to a terrible pass,’ and he wheeled round to escape only to see Sylvanus and Jasper Howard, mounted, armed, and miraculously at the ready, putting their lives at risk by leaving their sworn duties.
‘Go back,’ Somerset shouted, ‘it is treason to desert your posts. Don’t side with me. I am finished.’
‘Damn treason,’ said Sylvanus, ‘and damn the pricks who have turned against you, Lord Duke. Loyalty has to start somewhere.’ And with that he unsheathed his sword as Jasper did likewise.
*
To look at Cem was to relive memories of childhood, for here was the young Zachary Howard, tough and courageous, sweet and steadfast, with the dark fascinating looks and rough black curls that had always made his father so attractive yet so distinctive a personality.
‘Now,’ said the astrologer, cuddling the boy in the crook of his arm, ‘you do understand why I have to go, don’t you?’
‘Yes, my Lord. You must return to England to see your wife and grown-up sons who are sad and troubled.’
‘Not just troubled. I believe that your brothers might be in danger.’
At the word ‘brothers’, Cem’s face wreathed into a nest of cheerful grins. He loved the very thought of it, of having older half brothers in England, boys of importance whom one day, with luck, he might be able to visit.
‘Then you must go back to them, Sir.’
Zachary leaned close to Cem’s small brown ear. ‘You have arranged for the boat to be moored three miles down the coast?’
‘Yes, my Lord. And I have arranged also for a decoy vessel to sail at the same time with a dark-haired man wearing your clothes.’
‘And the snake’s skeleton?’
‘Was sewn into the rope, my father, by a blind tailor who did not know what he did.’
Zachary smiled and patted his son’s dark head. ‘You have done well, my Cem. I shall miss your sweet presence when we part.’
‘But it is their turn in England,’ answered Cem philosophically, ‘they have not seen you for so long. Whereas I, if I escape the Sultan’s wrath and live, may one day travel to you.’
‘If you do as I say, Suleiman will not be dangerous. Angry, yes, but you can charm him out of that. I think he will believe what you tell him, for several hours at least.’
‘And what about my mother?’
‘She will not be in danger. She is innocent of this plot and can swear so. Anyway, the Sultan would never harm the beautiful Salina.’
‘It sounds like a legend,’ said the boy, his eyes shining, bright as topaz.
‘It will be a legend. How the glorious Salina had a child by the English astrologer, Dr Zachary, who grew up to be the famous Cem, the greatest wise man in the Ottoman Empire.’
‘Will I really become that?’
‘Yes,’ said Zachary certainly, ‘you will. Now, once again, tell me how we do the trick.’
‘It will be performed by means of mass hallucination. Really you and I will climb into a tree but the audience will think they watch us enter a cloud. It will be all illusion.’
‘Except for the rope. That will stand up because a snake’s bones are stitched within. But after that it is up to me to persuade them, to put them into a trance.’
Cem looked at his father very earnestly. ‘You will be able to, my father, I know. You are a very powerful man.’
‘I only hope you are right.’
The blue Turkish afternoon was upon them, a haze softening the distant peaks, a rare loveliness coming upon the waters of the straits so that they glowed like a sapphire. The whole scene was transformed unforgettably by the light and in the Palace’s largest courtyard the locked gates of the harem shone like mother-of-pearl.
Seats had been erected before the offices of the Grand Vizier, and now these began to fill with courtiers, gaudy as hummingbirds, bright as swallows. On two high chairs in the front sat the Sultan Suleiman and his Russian wife, Roxelane, her huge blue eyes fixed firmly on the area close to the Gate of Salutations where Zachary was to attempt his feat of magic.
The afternoon was very warm and somnolent, the air wreathed with a sweet-smelling vapour coming from a huge incense burner set beside the seats, and another, strategically positioned within the standing circle of people who had offered to take part. Thus it was with an effect of walking through mist that Zachary and Cem made their entrance from the Gate of Felicity. On seeing them there was an indrawn breath of excitement, followed by total silence from every member of the crowd of several hundred who had been privileged to watch.
Zachary bowed low before Suleiman. ‘Mighty Sultan, glorious Sultana, today I will attempt the impossible with t
he aid of my son, Cem. To answer the challenge of Lord Ravi I will perform the Indian rope trick.’
There was another audible breath followed by applause then a gasp as Zachary flicked the rope and the snake’s bones within locked in the strike position.
‘Now,’ said the astrologer, ‘I want you to watch Cem. Do not take your eyes from Cem. Focus your attention. Look at him, look, look.’
Every head turned to watch the boy and now Zachary launched into rapid and incessant speech, giving elaborate and detailed explanations of everything they were doing.
‘Now Cem is climbing, watch, watch.’ They did so, hardly breathing. ‘Now he has reached the top and …’
Cem had swung into the branches of a great tree but it was as Zachary suspected. The audience was in that state known as trance. They believed everything that was being said to them.
‘… he has vanished from your sight.’
There was another audible gasp.
‘Now,’ said Zachary, very fast. ‘I shall repeat the feat of daring. I will climb the rope and vanish. Watch me, watch me I say.’ He shinned up fast and called from the top, ‘I am going to vanish now … now … now …’
He swung into the tree, kissed Cem on the lips, cried, ‘A magic carpet awaits me,’ kissed his son again and jumped from the tree to the parapet of the Gate of Salutations. Below him stood a ladder, held by the blind tailor who had stitched the snake into the rope. ‘Help, the carpet is taking me away!’ Zachary called, his voice growing faint, and descended the steep treads faster than anything he had ever done in his life before.
‘Help,’ echoed Cem, sliding down the rope like a monkey and sprinting to where the Sultan sat. ‘Oh mighty Suleiman,’ he gasped, ‘may a million blessings be yours. I fear that my father’s magic has worked but too well.’