by Deryn Lake
‘What do you mean?’ said the Sultan anxiously.
‘Not only has Dr Zachary climbed the rope but he has also vanished into thin air on a magic carpet. Behold, is he not the cleverest astrologer in the whole of the world to do this?’
‘Yes,’ answered Suleiman, shaking his head in wonderment, ‘indeed he is. In fact,’ said the Sultan, starting to laugh uproariously, ‘I think he might be the cleverest man I have ever met. Call out the guard.’
Chapter Forty-Two
The people knew that he was for them, knew that Ned Somerset had genuinely tried to better their lives, that the charges of treason and felony were trumped up by the dictator, Warwick, who had now created himself Duke of Northumberland. They stood, hundreds of them, waiting in silence outside Westminster Hall where he was being tried for his life, and when a false rumour started that the good Duke stood free, they shouted and cheered until they had no voice left.
Others who had been loyal to Ned and who also stood trial, Paget, Arundel, the Howard brothers, Sir John Thynne, owed their lives to those stony-faced ranks of solid citizens, even Northumberland afraid of exciting angry public opinion further. But Somerset’s blood had to be spilled if the dictator was to succeed, and spilled before Parliament was convened when, as Northumberland knew full well, intelligent and pertinent questions might yet be asked about the flimsiness of the charges laid against the Duke.
The only person to be feared, the one person who could still step in and pardon Somerset, was the boy-King himself. Yet there was a way of dealing even with him. The Duke of Northumberland truly believed in the adage that every man had his price, and in the case of young Edward Tudor that price was entertainment. Accordingly, the Christmas festivities of 1551 were quite extraordinary in their lavishness. Northumberland personally ordered that the best Lord of Misrule should be appointed and that he should remain in the royal household for the full twelve days, while the Privy Council of England itself planned entertainments and deliberated on fancy dress, making decisions about a jerkin for the tumbler, straight to his body. A far cry from judicial murder.
While Edward Tudor, that impossible creature, destroyed by a lethal dose of sycophancy, giggled and clapped his way through masques and tiltings, his relatives and friends kept a cold Christmas in the Tower, Ned in a bleak secure cell to which he had been moved for fear of a rescue attempt. And all the while the citizens of London and the honest people of England murmured that their good Duke was being put to death unnecessarily, that the case against him was patently false, that he was a victim of Northumberland’s rapacious greed.
Cloverella, having nobody with whom to spend the festivities, closed up her house and stayed in the Bell Inn in Carter Lane, a noisy but respectable tavern where a woman might reside without annoyance. Every day she went to the Tower at the time when visitors were allowed, and so managed to see Anne Somerset, Jasper and Sylvanus, and the old warrior himself; Norfolk, still alive at the age of seventy-eight, tough as leather boots.
‘My dear,’ he said, rising with his customary courtesy as his daughter-in-law came in, ‘how glad I am to see you, you have cheered my Christmas Day. Though I hear that the fortunes of the Seymours are now as low as those of the Howards. What times we live in. What times!’
‘The Tower is packed to overflowing with Northumberland’s enemies,’ she answered in a low voice, ever-watchful of the omnipresent jailers. ‘Including two Howards. Had you not heard?’
The Duke shook his head, his once full head of white hair reduced to spikes since his imprisonment. ‘They deliberately tell us little. Who are they?’
‘Your grandsons, Jasper and Sylvanus. They drew weapons against the arresting party come to take Ned.’
‘My God, they’re not under sentence of death?’
Cloverella shook her head. ‘No, indefinite imprisonment.’
The Duke sat down heavily. ‘How terrible at their age. For me it matters not a whit. When I wake in the mornings I am often surprised to find that I am still on earth.’
Despite the terrible conditions and the bone-aching cold, Cloverella laughed. ‘I love you, Lord Duke, though it may be impertinent of me to say it. You have not lost an ounce of your wit.’
‘Thank you, my dear, on both counts. Now, what news of that missing husband of yours?’
‘None. I am beginning to think he is happy in captivity and will never return.’
The Duke stood up again. ‘If you think that, you do not really know my son. He has given you his love and pledged his vow accordingly. He is imprisoned against his will, I know it.’
Cloverella twisted her lips. ‘He has probably taken a Turkish wife and forgotten me.’
The old man shook his head. ‘No, Cloverella. He may have bowed to nature’s will now and then as men do, and women too’ — Norfolk looked at her so shrewdly that Cloverella flushed from head to foot, glad that he had never at any time been her adversary — ‘but he would never desert you. I am surprised your magic gift does not tell you so.’
‘I do not look for myself, it is too unlucky.’
‘Then you must take my word,’ answered the Duke, with just the suggestion of an order.
Cloverella had brought dainties and wine to cheer the prisoners’ wretched day, and herbal remedies to combat the complaints brought about by cold and damp. And one look at Jasper, lying on his narrow bed in high fever, had his stepmother hurrying for her bottles and jars.
Because of their age and lowly position, the two Howard boys had been given a mean cell, the straw on the floor filthy, a smell emanating from it that had Cloverella putting her sleeve across her mouth and nose. On the battered table, the only other piece of furniture, stood a bowl of soup and a hunk of bread, untouched, and a bottle of wine, half drunk.
‘Our Christmas treat,’ said Sylvanus with a laugh.
‘How long has Jasper been like this?’
‘A few days. It will pass though, Stepmother. It is prison fever. A lot of the inmates get it, or so the turnkey tells me. He gave him a dose of something vile which seemed at least to make him sleep better.’
Cloverella sniffed suspiciously at the bottle. ‘Well, he is to have no more of it. See that he takes this three times a day, and applies this to his chest …’ She rattled on, unaware that her stepson was struggling over something he wanted to say.
‘… and two generous measures of this at night to help him rest.’ Cloverella looked up and saw Sylvanus biting his lip. ‘What is it, sweetheart? Why are you looking like that?’
‘I don’t know whether I should tell you,’ he answered awkwardly. ‘As you know, I have none of my father’s gift, being too much an outdoor person. But Jasper is different and I believe has a little of it.’
‘So?’
‘So, just before the Duke was arrested, Jasper had a dream that father came home. And now, in his fever, he is having more. He even calls out for Zachary.’ Sylvanus’s face glowed with eagerness. ‘Cloverella, is he coming back? You of all people should know?’
She stood on tiptoe and put her hands on his shoulders. ‘My darling, I don’t, truly. A clairvoyante must never divine for herself, it is too dangerous.’
The door was being unlocked and a pool of light fell on the cell’s filthy floor. The turnkey stood in the opening.
‘Time to go, Madam.’
Cloverella produced a coin which she thrust into his grimy hand. ‘My son is not well, jailer. Please see to it that the floor is washed and clean straw put down.’
The man looked at the coin and pulled a greasy forelock. ‘Very good, my Lady.’
‘I shall return tomorrow to see it has been done.’
‘Yes, Madam.’
In stark contrast with the boys, Anne Somerset sat before a log fire in a comfortable room with a bedroom leading off it. Her bed had fresh linen, by her washing bowl lay a good towel, and on the table, already laid for supper, were dishes and spoons, a selection of silver plate stored in a nearby cupboard.
‘Such
luxury!’ said Cloverella, not altogether surprised.
‘I sent for them from home,’ answered the Duchess briskly. ‘There is no point in staying here without comforts. But my selection of clothes is both meagre and poor. Cloverella, would you do me the kindness of going to Syon House and getting me some more?’
‘Certainly. What items do you require?’
‘Well, about a dozen gowns and kirtles. But there are two black ones I particularly want, one velvet and the other satin, both edged with jennetts. Then I would like my scarlet stomacher and velvet coat, and my partlets and ruffs and all the laces that Mistress Pursbey has in her keeping.’
Cloverella stared at her amazed. ‘You will need all this?’
‘Indeed I will. And if you could get my crimson satin box complete with the stuff that is in it while you are there, I would be most obliged.’
There was nothing to be said. Such frivolous behaviour while her husband froze in a nearby cell, under sentence of death, was more than Cloverella could comprehend. She stared at Anne mutely and then saw something unbelievable. The firmly compressed lips were trembling, the muscles of the chin quivered.
‘Oh dearest,’ said Cloverella, and rushed to take Lady Somerset in her arms.
‘Oh God, God, God,’ sobbed Anne, completely broken. ‘My Ned, my love, they are going to kill him. Oh Cloverella, I do not know how to bear it. They will not let me see him. Not even today, not even on Christmas Day. I have been granted an interview on the eve of execution and that is all. And I love him. I really love him.’
Cloverella wondered, then, how she could have been so foolish as not to realise that the silver plate, fine napery and beautiful clothes were simply to show the Duchess’s tormentors that she would not be beaten.
‘You see,’ Anne went on, grasping Cloverella almost painfully, ‘they fear a rescue bid by the citizens of London. No one is to visit him at all until the night before he dies.’
‘Oh Ned, Ned. How pitiful!’ said Cloverella, and wept also.
‘Will you write to the King?’
‘The letter would never get to him.’
Anne nodded dismally. ‘You are right. I am clutching at straws. And the ungrateful child would do nothing in any event. I hate him.’
‘But Jane was so kind. It is hard to believe that little monster is her son.’
‘Ah,’ said Anne, narrowing her eyes. ‘But remember who his father was. Not the best-natured creature ever born.’
‘So one evil begets another, in every sense,’ answered Cloverella harshly. ‘The Seymours have drunk from a bitter cup.’
‘All their good intentions trodden under.’
‘But never forgotten, I promise you. The name of Seymour will never be forgotten.’
*
It was just as the Duchess had said, the most rigidly guarded prisoner in the Tower was her husband. Fear of rescue had produced the most stringent conditions of imprisonment, the people of England having learned at last which of the two Seymour brothers was truly their friend. Edward spent his days alone, quietly preparing for death, looking back on his life with a clear conscience, knowing in his heart that he had tried his best for both the King and his realm.
For bribes, the jailer brought him occasional terse messages. ‘Your wife says she hopes you keep in good health.’
‘Will I be able to see her soon?’
‘Yes.’
‘When?’
‘Some time in January.’
Only in this way had Ned learned that his execution was to be soon and on the evening of 19th January his long ordeal was finally over. The Warden of the Tower came to his cell to tell him that that day in Council, sixteen members being presented, a decision had been made to apply for a warrant for Somerset’s execution.
‘In how many days’ time?’
‘Three, my Lord.’
It was a relief to know; it was a relief to have the embargo on visitors lifted; it was relief beyond measure to see Anne again, to hold her in his arms and tell her for the last time that he loved her.
‘But it is my fault,’ she whispered.
‘What do you mean?’
‘I was too proud, too overbearing, Ned. My haughtiness made people dislike you and because of my foolishness you are going to die. I should be the one to walk out to the block tomorrow.’
‘What nonsense is this?’ he answered, taking her chin in his hand and forcing her to look at him. ‘You have been a wonderful wife and mother. You have given me many clever and comely children. Your love and loyalty to me are beyond question.’
‘Ned,’ she muttered, looking away despite his forcing, ‘Henry Howard’s passion for me went unrequited. I did not …’
‘I know, I know. And you never had need for jealousy of Cloverella. She was just my childhood pet.’
‘Has she been today?’
‘Yes. The only one of us left of the four who wished.’
‘The four who wished?’ repeated Anne curiously.
Ned smiled quizzically. ‘When we were young, on Merlin’s Mound, Jane, Thomas, Cloverella and I made wishes — Jane to be queen, Thomas to marry the highest in the land, myself, foolishly, to own everything I could see. They were all granted, and yet how bitterly. It was only Cloverella, who wished for something unselfish, who escaped.’
Anne looked at her husband in disbelief. ‘But it is only a foolish legend that Merlin sleeps in there. It is just a strange coincidence.’
‘Is it?’ answered Ned softly. ‘Can you be quite certain?’
*
She felt utterly crushed by fate; dwarfed and impotent, a futile little figure whose magic had deserted her. As Cloverella climbed aboard her barge, moored at the Tower’s watergate, in preparation for the row back to Greenwich, she experienced a moment of sheer desolation. It seemed to her that everyone she loved had been taken away in one form or another. Jane and Tom by death, Edward as good as, Zachary by captivity or desertion. And though her stepsons were alive, Jasper having recovered from his fierce fever, they were gaunt, skeletal boys, Sylvanus’s rosy beauty pinched and withered, Jasper’s raven darkness turned sallow.
Very briefly, as the barge pulled out across the unfriendly waters of the January river, Cloverella wondered whether to let herself slip quietly over the side and allow her sodden garments to pull her down to the mud at the bottom. But she rallied her thoughts, knowing that her oarsmen would only jump in bravely after her, getting a dangerous soaking in the raw and unrelenting wind.
Cloverella huddled in the cabin, peering out from her fur-lined hood like an elf. Even though it was only four o’clock it was already beginning to get dark and she faced the prospect of yet another evening alone, tormenting herself with visions of Ned’s imminent death.
I can’t endure it, she thought. I shall get the servants to sit with me. A solitary vigil is more than I can stomach tonight.
The barge rounded the bend in the river and entered the loop of water above Greenwich. There was no one to be seen, only a lone wherryman coming back from dropping a passenger. The citizens of London and the people of the surrounding villages were huddling in their homes on this unfriendly evening. Yet, as they drew within sight of her house, Cloverella saw that for some reason every candle in the place was blazing, the light shining out over the gardens, so bright that it caused a glow on the river.
Zachary’s terrible one-eyed cat sat on the landing stage, rising and arching its back as the barge drew alongside.
‘What do you want?’ said Cloverella, cautiously bending to tickle its head, for it was a creature of fiercesome swings of mood and one could as easily get a bite as a purr.
It hurried ahead of her up the orchard path and, as it did so, from the stables the astrologer’s raw-boned horse let out a sudden wild cry.
Cloverella stopped in her tracks. ‘My God,’ she said, ‘My God,’ and started to run.
*
They did not desert him! Despite the edict of the Council of England that every householder i
n London and its surrounding villages must remain in his house until after ten o’clock in the morning, long before daylight they trudged in the darkness, thousands of them, to Tower Hill. The man of the people, the good Duke of Somerset, was being put to death because greed and ugliness and ambition had come in the way, but they were going to see to it that he did not die friendless.They had come, not to gloat or gape at a side-show, but to pray as a multitude for his immortal soul.
By seven o’clock thousands of people stood in a surly silence and when, an hour later, Ned Somerset appeared, as tall and commanding as ever and wearing his very best clothes, a huge cheer went up and the crowd pressed forward, jostling the extra troops who had been drafted in especially to guard the scaffold.
‘God bless the good Duke,’ someone shouted, and the cry was taken up on every side. ‘God bless the Duke, God bless the good Duke Ned.’
Acknowledging them with a smile, Edward Seymour climbed to the block steadily and without hesitation, and knelt at once in private prayer. Then he rose to make his last speech on earth to the people who loved him.
‘I declare to you all that I have never offended against the King, either by word or deed. I have been as faithful to this realm as any man alive but I die nonetheless as an act of obedience.’
Edward paused, his attention distracted, and there was a sudden murmur in the crowd at the appearance of mounted men on the perimeter.
‘A rescue,’ cried a woman hysterically. ‘It’s a rescue.’
‘Then let them through,’ shouted another, and the crowd scattered frantically, some throwing themselves into the Tower Ditch to get out of the way.
But the horsemen were not what they had hoped and there was an angry roar as it was realised that these were extra guards, come to quell rabble-rousers. It was now obvious to those trying to keep order that mob violence was about to erupt and the situation could go rapidly out of control. Sir Anthony Browne turned his horse and rode towards the scaffold to try and restore calm, but the now hysterical people thought he brought a royal pardon, for it was hard for even the most callous of them to comprehend that a boy could be so ungrateful to an uncle who had served his monarch loyally and well.