Anna’s acceptance of the king’s propositions, especially after the humiliations of the past months, was humbling to Ginny, who would have protested violently. It was not only Anna’s phlegmatic nature she envied, however, but her dignity and intelligence, too; her wit and pragmatism that had turned the whole ugly episode into a bargain whereby she remained in possession of all she owned, and more, in return for her compliance. She was to be allowed complete freedom, with precedence over all the ladies of England after the queen and the king’s own daughters as long as she did not embarrass him by making a fuss, as his previous wives would certainly have done. That was what Henry was most anxious to avoid. And although Ginny could not know for certain, she suspected that, once the shock had abated, Anna would secretly be relieved to be free of him and his monstrous ego. How different, she thought, from her own situation in which she had learned to acknowledge her love for the man she had been told to marry and how broken-hearted she would have been if he had sent her away, like Henry with Anna.
* * *
Over the week that followed, while Ginny heard nothing from Jon, Henry sent his councillors back again to Anna to make sure she understood what was involved, insisting on signed letters of agreement to him and one to her brother, the Duke of Cleves, spelling out his generosity in no uncertain terms. To everything they asked, Anna wisely agreed, caring only that she was to be allowed to remain in England. It was no great surprise to them to hear that the Earl of Essex, the man who had risen to great heights as Thomas Cromwell, had been executed and that Henry had married silly young Kat Howard on the very same day. Henry’s crass insensitivity was almost unbelievable.
Lord Jon Raemon rode to Richmond after the terrible event, giving away in every line of his body and in the sadly drawn face how deeply the shock had hurt him. Cromwell, he said, had always been good to him, but with enemies like the Duke of Norfolk, the Howard girl’s uncle, his power over the king could not be allowed to continue. The Howards were on the rise again and Cromwell had had to go.
‘Can you stay awhile?’ Ginny said. ‘You look as if you need some rest.’
‘Henry is away with his new wife,’ he said, ‘but I have to return to my lord’s office to help go through his belongings and papers. I promised him I would, before the Howard rats get at them. I can stay a night, perhaps, but no more.’
‘Have you seen anything of Etta?’
‘I called in yesterday. She’d been to your sister’s all day. Sir George tells me that Paul visited them in a bit of a stew.’
‘My brother? I’m surprised he even knows where they live. What has he done this time?’
They walked in the garden beside the palace where gardeners had been set to work on the plots, littering the paths with tools, clippings, and wheelbarrows. Others had been set to repaint the heraldic beasts on top of striped poles at each corner. ‘Nothing, yet,’ Jon said. ‘He’s concerned that Tom Culpeper is trying to involve him in his affair with Kat Howard. He’s discovered just how dangerous it could be. This latest execution has scared everyone. If Henry can do it to Cromwell, who’ll be next? And if Culpeper is caught getting too close to Henry’s newest toy, he’ll bring his pals down with him, unless they get out of the way before it happens.’
Ginny waited until they had passed the nearest gardener before answering, ‘How is Culpeper involving him, exactly? Lying for him, you mean?’
‘Giving him notes for her. Messages. Trinkets. Culpeper will use anybody, and he’ll have no qualms about using Paul.’
‘So what does he think Maeve and George can do about it?’
‘Shelter him. He’s asked to be allowed to stay with them where Culpeper can’t reach him. They think he’s beginning to come to his senses, at last.’
‘Hah! When he’s in danger. I’m not convinced and I wouldn’t want Paul anywhere near Etta. He’s not to be trusted. I know him better than you do.’
‘Don’t be foolish, Ginny. How can he harm her when she’s never alone? She’s not at Maeve’s house every day.’
Jon’s tone surprised her. He had never sided with Paul before. ‘But the next thing we know,’ she said, ‘he’ll be at our house, too. Heaven’s above, have you forgotten how irresponsible he is?’
‘Of course he won’t! How can you think so, when your sister is willing to help him out of a corner? Have you so little faith in him? Are you not willing to shelter your own family when they need it?’
‘Shelter him my foot!’ Ginny retorted. ‘All he has to do is to refuse Culpeper’s requests. Stand up to him. He could always go home to D’Arvall Hall.’
Jon stopped as they reached the arbour where the tunnel of trelliswork supported rosebuds on the point of opening. Ginny could see by the haggard lines on his face how much the past few days had upset him. He had been at the execution of his friend, the man who had recommended him for promotion. The horrific events had taken their toll of him and now, when he had come to find comfort, she had provoked an argument about something and nothing. His expression was far from lover-like. ‘I think I can be trusted to know what’s best to do, while you stay out of danger with the queen,’ he snapped. ‘I had not thought you to be so unhelpful to your own kith and kin, my lady. If you’re like this with your brother, then heaven help the rest of us.’
‘I only...’ Ginny began, realising the danger too late.
‘Do excuse me. I have to get back.’
‘My lord...don’t go...please! You said you could stay...’
But Jon was already striding along the gravel pathway through the stone arch into the courtyard and, before she could catch him, the clatter of his horse’s hooves was echoing through the gatehouse. A hot lump rose in her throat, burning, making her gasp with pain. He had ridden eight miles to see her, hoping to find some kind of normality in a world that had turned upside down, and she had failed him miserably. How could she have been so clumsy?
* * *
That night, she wept herself to sleep, longing for his arms, exaggerating the damage she had done, berating herself for not putting his needs first and wondering what she could do to make amends. The light of the new day was no more than a faint wash of colour that brought with it the first song of the blackbird. The door of her chamber opened very slowly. ‘Molly?’ she said, sitting up with a start.
‘No. Me,’ the familiar deep voice said. He closed the door without a sound, shedding his clothes and dropping them to the floor, and Ginny caught the aroma from his heated body, the familiar smell of leather and horse that told her he had ridden hard to reach her. He had returned. He wanted her still. Even through a quarrel, he needed her.
Stifling her cry of joy, she held out her arms, drawing him to her side, still drowsy and limp with tears. ‘Oh, my love, you came back to me. Rest...there...in my...’ But although he had ridden back to Richmond, it was not to rest that he’d come, but for the loving he had forfeited for no very good reason except to make someone, her, suffer for his pain. Even now, he could show her little of the tenderness she had been used to expect. He had not come for tenderness.
For the next hour or so, while the household began to stir into life, the distress he had been forced to contain under the guise of efficiency was released in a storm of passion he doubted would be understood, lacking any kind of explanation. It was not only Cromwell’s death that had disturbed him, but also the insecurity of his own position and the newest arrangements that had removed Ginny from him, which everyone knew had nothing to do with avoidance of the plague. Pulling her warm, pliant body close to him, he smothered her invitation with kisses over her face and breasts that left her with no breath for pleasantries or teasing, and with nothing to do but act as a vehicle for his pent-up emotions. Only in this way could he blot out the memory of the barbarous events of the past few days.
There had been time, since his last abrupt leave-taking, for Ginny to realise what was
the cause of his unusual black mood. The king could cut a swathe through anyone’s life without losing any sleep over it, but it was those closest to him who bore the brunt of his brutal decisions, those with feelings not dulled by constant adulation. They were the ones, like discarded unloved wives, councillors, daughters, and loyal servants who suffered most. Like Jon, who was having to pick up the pieces of Henry’s petty revenge.
So, making what she could of her husband’s darker side, Ginny gave herself unreservedly without taking anything in return except the satisfaction of knowing him better than she had before. When he took her quickly, she made no complaint, sensing his urgency to spend himself in the oblivion of her body. His first climax came with a ferocity she had not experienced before, but that was not to be the end of it, for the next time was long, self-indulgent and beautiful in its purpose, which was for nothing more than comfort and the mind-numbing rhythms of desire. She could not deny him what he needed so badly, having ridden to be with her when he could easily have made use of any of the willing courtiers at Whitehall.
At last, exhausted and sated, he fell asleep in her arms with her hand smoothing his brow, her lips touching his face like the wings of a butterfly, her satisfaction of a different order from the usual, her body tired and aching. He was still soundly asleep when Ginny washed herself down and dressed, giving Molly the task of folding his clothes ready for when he awoke. But when they returned from taking breakfast with the Lady Anna, as she was now to be known, Jon had gone, leaving no sign that he had been there except the rumpled sheets on the bed. Again, Ginny felt the sad emptiness of his too-hasty departure, though now she understood more about the patience and acceptance of married women. Lurking like a spectre at the back of her mind were questions concerning the first Lady Raemon and how she would have dealt with the crisis, whether she would have known not to cross him at such a time, whether she would have placated him with sweet words and sympathy for his distress, whether she would have abandoned Anna in favour of the husband who needed her more. Until he chose to tell her, she would have to make her own assumptions.
* * *
Weeks passed, taking them through the burning days of August when the wells started to dry up for lack of rain and fears of approaching plague were in everyone’s mind. The Princess Mary, now a young woman of beauty, and her younger sister, Elizabeth, came to stay with the Lady Anna at Richmond where they found that her kind of fun was very much to their taste and, in the long hot days, they almost lived out of doors in the gardens and on the river. Master Holbein came regularly to be with the Lady Anna and Ginny felt that she herself would not be much missed if she went to visit her stepdaughter.
At Tyburn House, where the grass was parched to a straw colour, she found her brother Paul and sister Maeve romping with the children, which provoked an angry reaction in Ginny after the first welcomes were over. Carrying little Etta in her arms, she followed Maeve into the cool hall where she voiced her concerns. ‘What are you thinking of?’ she scolded her sister. ‘Letting him loose with the little ones. My lord must have told you how I feel about Paul being here.’
‘He did, love,’ said Maeve, pouring out beakers of ale. ‘But he also said he had no objection if George and I were convinced he means what he says about reforming. That seemed to us quite genuine, Ginny, and he’s been wonderful with the children. They adore him.’
Out in the orchard, Ginny had seen how they held his hands and clung to his legs, and listened to him as he showed them the spirals of a snail shell. They had chased him on their hobby-horses as he darted away like a hare, then allowed himself to be caught. She did not want to be persuaded. ‘Yes...well, two swallows don’t make a summer, Maeve,’ she said, holding her beaker out of range of Etta’s hands. ‘You don’t know what he’s capable of, as I do.’
‘Ginny...stop it! Sit down and listen to me for a minute. I do know what you’re referring to.’
‘How do you know?’ Ginny said, lowering Etta to the floor. She sat, wiping her forehead with the back of her hand. ‘This heat!’
‘I know,’ Maeve said, ‘because Paul talked to me and George about it, and about you seeming to believe that he was as guilty as the others. He’s upset that you should think so.’
‘Hah! Upset? So how d’ye think the park keeper’s wife felt, Maeve? He was there. He didn’t deny it.’
‘He was there, but he swears he tried to stop it, but he couldn’t. They killed the other man who tried to help her, and they’re all older than Paul. They swore him to secrecy, but news of it got to Henry and he dismissed it as a game men play. Paul was not one of the offenders.’
‘You believe that?’
‘Yes, I do. So does George. He may be immature and irresponsible, Ginny, but he’s never been vicious. And what’s more, he’s concerned that you should think so ill of him that you could believe it without giving him the chance to explain. He would have told you more, but you walked away, didn’t you?’
‘He blushed like a girl, Maeve. I took that as guilt.’
‘Because you wanted to believe it.’
‘Because of the nasty trick he played before, at home. And the remarks.’
‘Which he regrets. He’s trying to make amends.’
‘By ingratiating himself with you and George. And with Jon, too, through Etta.’
‘Well, then, you might remember this, love,’ said Maeve, coming to sit beside her. ‘We’re all reasonably worldly. George is not easily duped and neither is your Jon. They’ve both known Paul for some time and they’ve always thought that if Culpeper had not drawn him into his set, he’d not have run so wild and tried to keep up. Paul has always listened to George, and he’s very aware of how others have gained good positions, like Jon, for instance, while Father would never recommend him for anything. Jon has told George that he thinks it’s time somebody gave Paul a break and that it ought to come from family first. I think your Jon would have given quite a lot to have a family to support him and a father he could have relied on for help. You and we are the only ones Paul can turn to, Ginny, and I’m well able to judge for myself when an apology for bad behaviour is genuine. Father has given Paul a hard time over the years for some reason best known to himself, as if Paul could never please him. Which is probably why our mother tried to adjust the balance by appearing to spoil him. That’s what mothers do. I’m not at all surprised that Paul fell in with the wrong crowd. They were the only crowd that would have him, when Father wouldn’t employ him as he had Elion. So George has taken him on at the Wardrobe.’
‘Was that wise?’
‘George thinks so. He’s already proved his worth in getting the best deals from the mercers in town. He knows more than you’d think about fabrics and what’s going to be fashionable.’
Feeling exhausted by the heat after the ride from Richmond, Ginny let the matter drop, but kept a close eye on Paul until he left with Maeve. She didn’t want to think the worst of her brother, nor did she have any grounds for pursuing her fears in the face of their belief in him. Perhaps they were right. Perhaps Paul, too, had been made to feel insecure and threatened by Henry’s volatile tendencies, by his father’s early disapproval, and by Culpeper’s unfair demands on his loyalty. Perhaps he was seeing sense at last, and perhaps Jon was displaying more understanding than she, after Paul’s immature pranks.
* * *
It was the beginning of September when Lord Jon Raemon came home to his wife and daughter at Tyburn House, when Ginny’s determination not to go and seek him out was beginning to falter. She regretted her obstinacy as soon as he came through the door, silhouetted against the red evening sky that set the satin river on fire, his great frame almost filling the space. She sensed the change in him, too, when he did not return her cry of greeting but held her in his arms as if more for support than welcome. She saw how his hair covered his head like a thick layer of silk that slid through his fingers as he
raked it back wearily. That was how it had been when they’d first met at Sandrock when she was sixteen. Now he was not so arrogant.
‘What are you doing here?’ he said, unsmiling.
‘I live here,’ Ginny replied.
‘Oh? I thought you lived at Richmond.’
She could have countered that with a similar remark, but held her tongue. He was here and that was all that mattered, not personal scores or accusations. ‘How long can you stay, my lord? Come, sit... Let me take off your boots. You look weary.’
‘Thank you. I am. But I shall not be staying more than a night. I’m going to Lea Magna for a while.’ He sat on a stool, sticking out his feet, too weary to lift them up, his attempts at an explanation foundering.
From his dull, brief replies, Ginny could tell that he was exhausted and in no mood to supply her with the information she would have liked. But more than exhaustion was a deeper reason, she suspected, for this uncharacteristic surliness that threatened to spoil the warmth that had once begun to flourish between them. Something like despair seeped through Ginny’s veins and washed around her heart, constricting her throat at the thought of never holding him, never having his love, never discovering how to be more to him than his first wife had been. ‘Yes, stay overnight,’ she said. ‘The king has released you from duty?’
He nodded. ‘And my lord of Ess...Cromwell,’ he whispered. ‘I’ve finished there, too. It’s all done.’
The sickly smell of hot unwashed feet nearly turned her stomach as she placed the boots to one side. ‘Good,’ she said. ‘Now I shall send for a bath to be prepared up in your room and clean clothes, and then you shall eat. Then some sleep, I think.’
Betrayed, Betrothed and Bedded Page 20