Ah, Alison. Where Liz had hidden the truth from me, Alison would always be honest, whether out of spite or friendship I never was sure. I sat bolt upright, grabbing the covers to me as meagre protection.
‘What? Why?’
‘You predicted Dame Margery’s death.’ She was not looking at me but was rubbing her fingers over the coverlet, almost as though she too were a little afraid to look me in the eyes. ‘You spoke of a headless horsewoman and it came to pass right in front of our eyes.’
‘I did not predict anything!’ I felt the familiar rise of panic. I hated my gift. I had not wanted it; it had chosen me and had brought with it nothing but trouble.
‘Yes, you did,’ she said. ‘It was the very first day you came here to Wolf Hall. You saw a spectre in the forest, a headless woman on a horse. We all remember you raving of it.’
The superstitious had long memories, I thought. When all else was forgotten, tales of haunting and witchcraft would persist.
‘That doesn’t mean I caused Dame Margery’s death,’ I said. ‘It was just a coincidence. I had a fever. I was ranting about a nightmare.’
‘You know that isn’t true.’ Alison sounded impatient. She grabbed me by the shoulders, shook me. Her gaze bore into mine. ‘You did foresee it, didn’t you, Mary Seymour?’
I wanted to lie but the truth was already in my eyes and she had seen it. She gave a little hiss of satisfaction and released me.
‘That still does not mean that I killed her, or that I am a witch,’ I said weakly. The words felt a hollow defence even to me. ‘I had nothing to do with it.’
‘I believe you,’ she said. ‘I think you see images but you do not summon spirits. Not that that will help you.’
I clutched her arm. ‘What do you mean?’
‘What I say.’ I expected her to shake me off but instead she was staring at me earnestly. ‘The villagers are full of superstition and credulity. They are simple people. They want to take you away for trial, to punish you but also to make sure you cannot curse them further. The forest is alive with rumour. Mistress Aiglonby is even now begging your cousin Edward to send you to safety, but even if he did, it would not serve. It is too late. The moment you set out you would be dragged from the coach and taken away. That is if they did not lynch you on the spot.’
‘But it’s nonsense!’ I jumped up, too afraid to be able to keep still. ‘Anyone who believes I am a witch is a fool.’
‘They are scared.’ Alison’s steady voice cut across my rage. ‘Fear makes men savage. They believe you have witchcraft and they will remember your tales of soldiers fighting in the forest and think you have summoned up a legion from the devil.’ She stood up too and came over to me. ‘Besides, it is not all a lie. You do have the gift, don’t you? You do see the future.’
She was watching me and suddenly I realised that this was very important to her. I felt some sort of urgency in her, desperation even.
‘No,’ I said. ‘It’s only dreams, imagination.’
‘You lie.’ Her hand was on my arm now, tight like a claw. ‘You have the sight.’
‘Why should I tell you?’ I said. ‘You have been no friend to me. You would only betray me.’
I was pressed back against the wainscot, the sharp corners of the wood digging into my back through the material of my skirts. Alison was so close I could see the deep lilac blue of her eyes fringed by thick black lashes, the delicate curve of her cheek, the perfect bow of her mouth. I realised she was beautiful and felt a stab of envy. Then I wondered why my mind was dwelling on such irrelevancies now, of all times, when my fate hung in the balance.
‘I can help you,’ Alison said. She sounded sincere. ‘Your cousin is too weak to defend you against a charge of witchcraft. He will fear contamination, that men will denounce his household as a hotbed of sorcery. He will sacrifice you to save his own skin if I do not stop him. It is the fate of women to be bartered.’
I felt cold, shaking. I had no notion whether she was trying to frighten me or whether her words were true but there was such vehemence in her tone and a bitterness that rang true even as the sourness of it stung.
‘Why would you help me?’ I asked. ‘What do you want in return?’
Her expression registered satisfaction. ‘So you are not so naive after all. I thought not. I will help you escape Wolf Hall, and in return you will help me by scrying the future for me. I want to know where my son is so that I can find him and take him away.’
I gaped. ‘Scry for you?’ I said. ‘I do not know how to scry! Whatever visions I see come to me of their own accord not at my command.’
‘Then you had better learn how to command them, little cousin.’ She gave me a smile that had no warmth in it. ‘For that is the price of my help.’ She made for the door, quick, wily, slipping through the gap and turning back only when she had one hand on the latch.
‘I will not be long,’ she promised. ‘I will persuade Edward to send us both away to safety, to a place of our own choosing.’
‘You’re coming too?’ I said, startled. Everything was happening too quickly for me. ‘But where will we go? And what of Liz—Mistress Aiglonby? Will she not accompany me?’
The pitying look was back on Alison’s face again. ‘You need to grow up, Mary,’ she said. ‘Even before this happened, Edward was speaking of sending Mistress Aiglonby back to court. The Queen has offered her advancement. You are on your own now, or very soon you will be.’
I gulped back the tears. I was tired and young and my eyes stung with repressed emotion. This was too much. Liz had been with me since I was a baby, one of the few constants in my life, and now she was to be taken from me too. For if the Queen commanded, where did that leave me? It left me nowhere, with no claim and no rights. Worse, I had been blind to what was happening. I had never imagined that Liz would have a life of her own, a future that did not involve me.
For a second I thought I saw pity in Alison’s eyes. No doubt she was thinking me a soft fool. She had learned long ago how to deal with the cruelties of life. Perhaps she had been born with more hardihood than I.
‘Where am I to go?’ I said, more to myself than to her, but it was she who answered.
‘What of your mother’s kin?’ She asked. ‘The Parrs? Won’t they help you?’ Then, impatiently, when I did not answer: ‘There must be someone?’
‘No, there is not,’ I said.
She shrugged as though it was not her problem, which of course it was not.
‘Well, you can’t come with me,’ she said. ‘I have great plans.’
I stared at her. ‘Where are you going?’ I asked.
‘Somewhere better than this,’ Alison said, and satisfaction shone in her eyes. ‘I’m going to find Arthur and then we are going far, far away. And we’re never coming back.’
Chapter 8
Alison, Marlborough, the present day
A buzz of anticipation was building inside Marlborough town hall’s Victorian assembly room as it got close to the start of Adam’s talk on ‘Uncovering Anne Boleyn’. Alison sat at the back of the room, behind a marble pillar, obscured by a large vase of lilies and the Union Flag. People had given her a few curious glances since she had arrived early and there had been plenty of empty seats with a better view, but she had not wanted to be conspicuous.
There was a big pile of books on a trestle table in the foyer outside. Alison had tried to buy one earlier, only to be turned away by the smiling literary festival assistant who helpfully told her that if she waited until after the talk she could get Adam to sign it for her. Alison had managed to restrain herself from saying that she would rather have a tooth pulled and had shoved the ten pound note back in her purse and decided to order it online. She hadn’t wanted to be here but Adam, the book and the portrait were her only clue to Mary and so to Arthur. It was a simple question of what she wanted more.
The microphone crackled as the festival director strode onto the stage. The buzz of excitement peaked and died away to a murmur as h
e started to speak. It was clear he viewed Adam’s presence as a coup. Alison tuned out the obsequious homage done to Adam’s early life and career in the introduction and let her gaze drift around the room.
The combination of Adam Hewer’s looks, celebrity and a juicy historical story had certainly lured the audience in. Even the national media were there, as well as a group of people Alison guessed were Adam’s family, judging by the shared good looks. When she had first known Adam she had speculated about what they would be like; his parents, she had thought, would be distant and chilly because that was how she imagined aristocratic parents would still be, even four hundred years after hers. His brothers and sisters—she was uncertain how many of them there were—would be like the tumble of relatives she had known at Wolf Hall, squabbling, fractious, requiring the soothing hand of an elder sibling to keep them in order.
But of course it wasn’t like that at all. They looked happy and united, and very proud of Adam, cheering and whistling when he stood up to begin his talk. She saw his mouth curve into a smile as he gave them a little wave and she felt the shared intimacy of the occasion, even in a big public hall, and felt also a stab of jealousy. She had never wanted emotional intimacy with anyone. It was impossible with her past, simply something that she could never achieve. Yet in that moment she wanted to be a part of that charmed circle.
Adam held his audience rapt from the start. Although Alison had never seen his television programmes, she could understand why he was so popular. There was an easy confidence in the way he moved and the way he effortlessly established a rapport with his audience. He told the story of his discovery of the portrait and the other artefacts as though it were a page-turning piece of fiction: how he was summoned secretly to an ancient house lost in the English countryside, how the reclusive owner had stumbled on a cache of Tudor relics, the painstaking process of recovering and researching them and the excitement when the team realised they had found a previously unknown portrait of Anne Boleyn. He wove a compelling tale, erudite enough for people to feel they were learning something, light enough not to bore, exciting enough with its sprinkling of history, mystery and celebrity. No hint of doubt ruffled his assurance when talking about the portrait’s subject. He was certain of the thoroughness of his scholarship and Alison thought that, to be fair, he had no reason not to be. Experts had authenticated his research. Even though it was sometimes difficult to identify an artist or a sitter, he had no reason to doubt in this case.
When the talk came to an end, there was a rapturous round of applause and a welter of questions from the excited audience.
Where was this mysterious manor house? Could they visit? Was it true that the portrait had been found at Wolf Hall?
Alison shifted sharply in her seat. Wolf Hall, like so many of the places associated with her childhood, was long gone, a Victorian farm of the same name being the only signpost to the past. But the associations of it lived on and possessed people’s imaginations. Even the name alone caused a frisson to run through the hall like wind through grass.
She watched Adam smile charmingly and tell the questioner much the same thing, apologising that he could not disclose the location of the finds because the owner of the house had demanded discretion.
Even when she had lived there, Alison thought, Wolf Hall had been a place of ghosts, tumbledown, haunted by her uncle the Protector Somerset and feckless Thomas, Mary’s father. Amongst those famous Seymours glided the pale shade of Queen Jane, a previous generation that had cast a long shadow on the living. If she closed her eyes, even now Alison could see the mellow sun-warmed walls and tangle of chimney pots. She had not hated it there. It had not been home; she had known no home since she had been six years old, but it had been a place to live. Dame Margery had almost been like a mother to her. Then Edward had come…
A repeat of the applause snapped her out of the memories. The Q&A had finished and the audience stood up and almost as one made a dash forward, keen to buy Adam’s books, to chat with him, even to get his autograph. He was mobbed. There seemed to be a lot of young women with long, glossy hair and very bright smiles, reinforcing Alison’s realisation that he genuinely was a celebrity. If she wanted to talk to him she would have to stand in line.
The crowd around the book table was seven deep, reminding her of a particularly busy night in her favourite pub. The assistants from the local White Horse bookshop were working overtime to open new boxes; as soon as the books were on the table they were snapped up.
‘Did you wish to buy a copy, madam?’
The crowd had jostled her to the front and now she was being accosted by a slightly harassed-looking young man, who obviously wondered why she was standing still when the world about her was in chaos.
‘Oh… Yes, please.’ Alison grabbed the copy he was offering and fumbled for her purse.
‘If you’d like Adam to sign it,’ the young man said, going slightly pink about the ears in the excitement of using Adam’s name, ‘join that line there.’
‘I won’t, thanks,’ Alison said, but he hadn’t heard her. Someone else had already claimed his attention, agitating to buy a copy.
She tucked the book, with Mary’s portrait on the cover, under her arm and turned to go, but found Adam’s godfather standing directly behind her. She had seen him in the hall along with the rest of Adam’s family. Adam’s mother was now standing slightly to the left of the signing table in animated conversation with a woman Alison thought might be his literary agent.
‘Hello again,’ Adam’s godfather said, holding out a hand in a way that made it impossible for her to ignore him. ‘Adam didn’t introduce us yesterday but I’m Richard Demoranville.’
‘Alison Bannister,’ Alison said, smiling as she shook his hand. She could not help the smile. It was odd; there were some people—not many—whom she immediately felt comfortable with. Diana Jennings had been one. Richard Demoranville also felt like someone she had known for ever. Perhaps it was that the bright intelligence in his eyes and the restless energy reminded her a little too much of Adam.
‘I’m surprised to see you here,’ Richard said. ‘I had the impression last night that you weren’t persuaded by Adam’s identification of the portrait.’
Alison didn’t contradict him. She thought it would seem disingenuous after what she had said before. ‘It was still worth coming to listen,’ she said. ‘Adam’s a great speaker. He knows how to capture and hold an audience.’
Richard frowned. ‘He’s been in a filthy mood all day,’ he said, ‘worrying about the talk.’
‘I didn’t have Adam down as someone who suffers from stage fright,’ Alison said.
‘He’s not.’ Richard’s frown lightened a little. He touched her arm. ‘Look, could we talk somewhere a bit quieter?’
Alison knew what he was going to say. Her heart sank. ‘I don’t think there’s much point—’ she began.
‘Please,’ Richard said. Then: ‘There’s a lot riding on this book. A new TV series and—more importantly for Adam—the possibility of a research and teaching post at London University.’
Oh, shit, Alison thought. She tried briefly to imagine the professional embarrassment and personal mortification that would follow any discovery that Adam had been wrong about the Anne Boleyn portrait. She shuddered at the thought. It would be horrendous, not just for him but for his family with their shiny pride and the hopes they had invested in him. She felt a heel for raising questions in his mind.
But it was too late anyway. The book was out there, and there was no reason why anyone would discover Adam’s error. They were not going to have the sort of historical insight that she had.
‘If you care about Adam,’ Richard was saying, carefully, ‘you might want to consider that.’
Alison felt the colour burn her face. ‘Why would you think I did?’ she said.
Richard raised his brows. ‘Don’t you?’ he asked dryly.
Alison laughed reluctantly. ‘I knew Adam a long time ago. I did care for him
then.’ She wondered why she was being so honest. ‘But, like I said, it was a long time ago. And it didn’t end well.’
‘Youthful infatuations so often end badly,’ Richard said vaguely. His blue gaze snapped back to her face. ‘Taking revenge ten years later seems a little harsh.’
Alison was stung. ‘I told him he was wrong,’ she said. ‘That’s all. I didn’t do it to cause trouble but because I know I’m right. If Adam chooses to investigate, he may find the truth for himself—’
‘Ali?’
Alison spun around. Adam was standing behind them, hands on his hips, a wary expression on his face. She had been so wrapped up in the conversation with Richard, she had not realised that the crowds had dissipated and only a few people were left standing in the foyer: the booksellers, Adam’s agent, torn between concern and proprietary curiosity, and a few diehard fans.
Adam’s gaze dropped to the book she was clutching under her arm.
‘Would you like me to sign that for you?’ he asked. Amusement lurked in his eyes. He extended a hand as though to take it from her.
Alison clutched the book more tightly. ‘I’m good, thanks,’ she said.
‘A pity,’ Adam said. There was a definite challenge in his gaze now. ‘What would be appropriate? Best wishes? Hmm, that’s a bit bland, given the nature of our relationship. For old time’s sake, perhaps?’
‘That’s such a cliché,’ Alison said. ‘As a writer I would expect better of you.’
‘We’re all doomed to disappointment,’ Adam said. ‘That’s history for you.’ He nodded towards the book. ‘Enjoy. Though you won’t find what you’re looking for.’
‘That’s fine,’ Alison snapped, ‘since you found something and didn’t recognise it for what it was.’
She turned on her heel and headed out of the big double doors, down the grand staircase and out on to the high street. It felt cold out here after the warmth and light inside. She paused to tuck her scarf into her jacket more securely, huddling down into the cashmere folds.
The Phantom Tree Page 9