The Old Jug was busy. Rain sloshed in from doorway, boots and the leak by the chimney breast. Men shouted to be heard and others shouted to be heard above those who shouted. It was not a place for deep discussion, but whatever conversation was attempted was unlikely to be overheard. Stools clattered, beer was spilled, but Richard, having grabbed a stool from one man too drunk to hold onto it, was talking and Peter, fascinated, was listening.
“Mistress Jemima was enlightening . She told me how you first met as children. I gather you had a delight in the agony of others. The death of pirates. Do you go to Tyburn too, little brother, to see men hang?”
It was too dark and too crowded. His blushes remained in shadow. “No I don’t. And you know me better than that. When I was a child – well, Papa had business near the bankside and I heard the calls and cries. Of course I was curious and went to see. Then I found this fainting girl in my arms. Well, it was a friendship with a difference.”
“And did you ever, little brother?” smiled Richard, “visit the attic, attracted by calls and cries, and find some other young woman faint in in your arms?”
“I certainly hope,” Peter said, blushes turning to scowls, “you’re funning, Dickon.”
“Am I?” Richard laughed. “What you dream is perhaps less desirable than I’d like from a brother of mine. But the action – no, Peter. You are definitely not capable.”
Confused as to compliment or insult, Peter grinned. “And if you think I might have murdered three women when I was barely out of the cradle, then you’re not the great investigator I thought you, big brother.”
“Come to the house one day,” Richard told him briskly. “Renew your friendship with Mistress Jemima. I’ve every intention of keeping her at my home for some time. She needs a friend of more sense than the trumpery package of moral-less mistresses and whores she’s now surrounded by.”
“And you want those mistresses for yourself?”
The small tuck at the corner of Richard’s mouth reappeared. “May heaven save me, no, little brother, the angels cannot be so cruel.”
It was not until the rain stopped again that the two men left the tavern, and then Richard Wolfdon left his young companion and strode off to keep his original, now delayed, appointment.
Steam rose, swirled, dripped its blistering condensation, and rose again in steam. It was in the bliss of a very hot bath that Jemima later contemplated the possibility of regaining her old home and of the consequences. The bathwater was perfumed. It was a constant delight to her that the bathtub actually had its own chamber. Richard Wolfdon’s amazing palace had luxuries which had never before even entered her imagination. The bathtub, large enough for her to sit upright and remain modestly covered with water almost to her shoulders, was the usual wooden barrel, copper bound and huge, but was also lined in soft linen and well-padded in its depths. She was sitting on a linen cushion, wet of course, but exceedingly comfortable and without risk of the usual splinters. The chamber itself was small but well-lit with sconces for candles, and a table for a lantern, oils, perfumes and soaps. She washed with a large sea sponge, and the soap was Spanish and neither gritty nor slimy and liquid.
But Jemima had cheerfully denied herself the aid of her new personal maidservant. She needed no one to scrub her back, wallowed in heat, breathed heat, and imagined of heated possibilities. Eventually noticing that the water was going cold, she sighed but could not bear to leave the comfort of luxurious dreamland.
His illustrious magnificence, King Henry VIII monarch of England and Defender of the Faith, was also in his bath. But the bathtub that so excited Jemima would have met only with his contempt. The chamber that housed this excitement of steam was enormous, the tub itself was enormous, and the king sat with bubbles to his dark red nipples. His face was the same colour since the whole chamber was exceedingly hot and condensation trickled down the painted plaster. The mural on the longest wall was of the nymphs of Aphrodite bathing their mistress. The condensation joined the painted droplets and Aphrodite herself, appeared as wet as the king, whilst her breasts were about as large.
His majesty had sent away his three body servants, and sat, steaming and glaring, at his one remaining companion. “You’re late,” he said with a squelch of adjusting limbs within the tub. “I am, perhaps sir, not your principal priority?”
Richard Wolfdon stood with his arms crossed, his hair swept back damp and dark from his high forehead, and at a distance where the splashing foam did not reach him. But he smiled and bowed slightly. “Could that ever be true, your majesty? But the traffic, the crowds at the gates, and my horse a little lame. I cannot apologise more, sire. The blame is mine. Choose the punishment.”
The king relented with a petulant snigger. “Send you to the stocks? Who would dare throw rotten apples at Dickon the Bastard? You know they call you that?”
“I am aware of it, your majesty.”
“Then you are forgiven.” The soap suds clustered around the several chins. “And your horse is lame? I shall present you with a new one.”
“You are too kind, your highness. And it was concerning – I believe – that your majesty wished to speak –
“Her name is Jane,” said the king with a small belch. “Mistress Jane Seymour.”
“I do not know the lady, sire.” Richard took another step back and wiped the condensation from his nose.
“Of course you don’t, sir,” objected the king. “If you did, I wouldn’t be talking to you. It’s your opinion I want, not your loyalty to some female.”
“Loyalty to your majesty,” Richard bowed again, “would overcome any loyalty to the lady. But I understand your objective, my lord. Indeed, you mentioned the possibility of a royal divorce once before.”
“Yes, a damned full year ago,” said the king, pouting bubbles. “But I took her back. You recommended that, if I remember rightly. So did Cromwell. So did Cranmer. And Hutton and Jessle. So did two or three others. And now I’m telling the whole damn lot of you that you were wrong.”
“I am frequently wrong, sire,” agreed Master Wolfdon. “The inevitable weakness of an ordinary man, your majesty. But, I believe, not always wrong.”
“Which is why I sent for you.”
Richard controlled the twitch at the corner of his mouth. “Understood, your majesty.”
“Then give me your advice, sir.” His majesty leaned forwards with a swamping splash. “Can I get rid of the woman? Oh yes, she’s with child again. I can wait until that’s proved of worth or otherwise. She gives me a son, then everything changes. The mother of my heir will be kept in comfort and given the honour due to my queen.” He raised his voice, and the water swirled. “But she doesn’t please me any longer. Not at all.” Suddenly he lowered his voice. “She demands. She criticises. She’s a weasel. I don’t – very rarely – feel that necessary desire.”
“Since she clearly adores your majesty,” sighed Richard, “could you not mistake her demands, sir?”
“No.” He pouted and the bubbles ran down his chest, collecting in the small wisps of ruddy hair streaking across his breasts. His voice became a whisper. “She would do anything before the marriage. She was an angel. She touched, she danced, she excited every bone in my body. Once wed, she expects me to please her! What arrogance. What insult to my manhood. I will not tolerate such immoral wiles.”
There was no possible answer. Richard felt the condensation down the back of his neck. “I am, as always, at your service, sire.”
“Cranmer says there will be legal difficulties. Cromwell says anything can be done. So what do you say, sir?” The king leaned forwards, his arms folded across the front of the tub. “Quick, now. Your opinion, sir, on the legalities, on the moralities, and on public acceptance. Can I throw her out, but without, heaven forbid, taking that other wretched woman back into my bed?”
“The Lady Katherine, your majesty?” Richard sighed. “That would be admitting that the second queen was a mistake. Sovereigns do not make mistakes, sire. Your m
ajesty’s principal advisers must discover a way, but depending on the child to be born next year. That will alter everything, perhaps.”
The king leaned back with a splash and soapy water dribbled across the bright tiles. “Diplomacy. Polite words,” he said with a sneer. “You give me the same neat and empty solutions as the others do. I want something clever, sir. Inventive. Unique. Something to change everything.”
“Cromwell,” bowed Richard, “is the man for extravagant gestures. I am the man for investigations and legal outcomes. I can only advise, sire. Not alter the world.”
“Then she’d better have a son,” pouted the king.
Once again it was very late when Richard Wolfdon returned home. His horse was not lame, and the promised replacement was both forgotten and unwanted. His parcel of female guests had once again not seen him for the entire day. They had already retired to their bedchambers by the time Richard retired to his own. He smiled briefly at the shuttered and darkened window.
“Not tonight, Socrates,” he murmured. “Tell her I have too much else to think on, and am tired.”
His valet, busily folding his discarded clothes, looked up in surprise. “Did you speak to me, sir?” asked Robert Strawb.
But Richard was already in bed, eyes closed against the guttering candle flame.
Chapter Ten
It was the next morning when Sir Walter Hutton came to Wolfdon Hall, and asked for Richard.
“Master Wolfdon is not at home, my lord,” answered the steward. “And I have no knowledge of what hour to expect him home. But if your lordship wishes to wait?”
He did. Led along the great entrance towards the main hall, Sir Walter heard the sounds he had been expecting, and immediately stepped sideways, entering the smaller hall. He faced the group of women with a wide smile, turned to the steward and ordered wine and raisin cakes, then marched cheerfully into the entering sunlight.
“Well now,” he said loudly, “what a charming picture. Let me introduce myself.”
There was a small but instant panic of upheaval as the women straightened, blushed, pushed their skirts down over their ankles, pulled down their sleeves, tugged tighter the ties of their bedrobes and attempted to smile. Discovering that this was Peter’s father did not help overmuch. Jemima said in a hurry, “My lord. You are – most welcome. But I believe Richard, Master Wolfdon that is, cannot be at home.”
“As the principal, the mother you might say, of the company here, I shall speak on their behalf, sir,” Alba said, standing quickly and gliding forwards to greet the unexpected guest. “But sadly we have no idea where Master Wolfdon may be. We never do. Indeed, although we are his guests, our host is rarely present. And he is not the type of gentleman, as I am sure you know, sir, to explain himself and his actions after he returns.”
“Nor before.” Ruth lifted her chin, cross and embarrassed to be seen while wearing a bedrobe so short that only her chemise covered her ankles. “I do not complain, yet his constant absence surprises us. I doubt he finds us congenial company.”
“I, on the other hand,” exclaimed Sir Walter with an extravagant bow, evidently unoffended by the company of several ill-dressed females exhibiting various parts of their private anatomy, “am more than willing to explain anything and everything, ladies. But first – a cup of wine, I think. For every one of us. And then a morning of unbridled pleasure and gossip.”
Of the eight, six very bored women agreed with delight. Katherine Plessey shook her head, murmuring, “Not wine, thanking you, my lord. I will not drink at this hour.” And Jemima, who blushed.
Jemima said, “I am delighted to meet you sir, since I’ve heard a great deal about your charm and courage from your son. I have known Peter since I was a child.”
Since he and his tutor had often come to the Strand house over the years, several of the women had known Peter. “My lord, will he accompany you one day, perhaps? He was such a sweet boy when I knew him.” Alba smiled, confident in the heavy white pleats of a respectable bedrobe. “Six years of age, or seven, and pretty as a cherub,” she remembered.
“He’d not thank you for that,” laughed the father. “He’s eager to show himself as a strong man and a warrior. He intends joining the jousting after Christmas, you know, and has bought a great shining mountain of fancy armour and feathers.”
“How grand.” Jemima, surrounded now by the cluster of interested women, said, “It would be nice to talk to Peter again. And even more exciting to watch him jousting.”
Each woman brightened, responding, reacting, and was engaged. They had someone worth smiling at. Jemima was equally interested, since she had never before known her friend’s father, and was also touched that he was prepared to stay and to talk, even though she knew him to be a lord of the royal court, and member of the royal council. She was tempted to ask him about Richard Wolfdon, but knew she must not.
Nurse Katherine enjoyed sitting back, hands neat clasped in her lap, with nothing better to do than listen. After a lifetime of scrubbing and sweeping, cooking and shopping, swaddling babies and changing their nethercloths, now sat in idle peace and was offered wine by a lord, even if she had diplomatically refused it. Katherine now adored the same tedium which others despised.
Alba, standing taller than Jemima, invited Sir Walter to share their dinner, shortly to be served in the hall. Sir Walter, with a slight bow, accepted. Both Jemima and Alba scurried off to change their clothes. Ysabel, although aware of the parts of her body which spilled from her silks, smiled sweetly, and made no rush to change. Philippa giggled, apologised for the pretty velvet bedrobe but said she hoped Sir Walter would excuse her maidenly blushes, and Penelope snapped her mouth shut and said nothing, since she had very few clothes to change into anyway.
Late in the afternoon, Alba no longer wore her bedrobe, and was instead glorious in white with embroidered underskirt. “I am sure, my lord, that any son of yours would be the victor at any joust, and never the victim.” She spread two slim white hands. “I met Peter only twice. I was with little Jemima for many years of course, almost from birth, and until she was eight years old and near wise enough for some proper form of education. She could read and knew her letters. Dear child, and almost felt like my own. But we had only just become acquainted with dear Peter when I – sadly – found it necessary to leave the family mansion.”
The white satin suited her pale face, high arched brows, and long slender neck. Whereas Jemima had always been the little dove, Edward Thripp had called Alba his swan.
Sir Walter appeared enchanted, and said so. “Madam, will you join me at the joust? And dear Jemima too of course. I would offer to escort all the ladies, but naturally space on the spectator stands will be restricted. The twenty-fourth day of January, I believe the date is set, and at the great palace at Greenwich. Will you do me the honour of accompanying me, madam?” He stood, and bowed again.
It had been a long time since any man bowed to Alba. She smiled and her eyes brightened. The flush in her cheeks was not from rouge. “Oh, my lord. How kind. How generous. And indeed I will. What delicious entertainment.”
It was three hours later when their absent host returned, and Richard took Sir Walter into the private ante-chamber. He was once again in riding clothes, threw down his gloves and crop, flung himself into the wide armchair and began to pull off his boots.
Sir Walter regarded his step-son. “Call your valet, for pity’s sake. Must you always be so damned independent, Dickon?”
Richard continued to remove his boots, tossed them to the empty hearth, and leaned back in his chair. “Perhaps you’ll inform me, sir, whether you are here to discuss my personal habits, or for some business of your own?”
“In truth, to discuss the king’s matter. He has already spoken with me. Now I hear he’s spoken with you.”
“In other words,” sighed Richard, “you came to inspect the troop of flouted mistresses which Peter informed you I had staying here.” He nodded, eyes narrowed. “The king’s matter is n
ot so urgent after all. Until the child is born, he’ll do nothing. Everything depends on that. If it’s a boy, he’ll pretend satisfaction and visit his own mistresses every night instead. If it’s a girl, he’ll wait a few months and then negotiate with the church for a divorce. If it’s yet another miscarriage, then the divorce will come quicker and negotiations will be simpler.” He nodded to the wine jug on the shadowed corner table. “So enough of the king. Admit the truth. You came to investigate my investigations and the women that go along with them. And if you call a page to pour the wine, we can talk more easily.”
Sir Walter cackled, stood and yelled from the open doorway. A page came running. Brimming cup in hand, the older man turned back to the younger. “Thinking of opening a brothel, then, my boy? But some of the women are ageing, it seems. Not such a high profit, perhaps.”
“Don’t be vulgar, sir.” Richard drank his own wine. “Some of them interest me. Others less so. But they keep the one important female company, and that’s their main purpose, although they’re unaware of it.”
“You’ve lost interest in the salacious murders. It’s the girl you want?”
“Conversation with you, sir,” Richard informed him, “can be tedious. Let me explain.”
It was more than an hour later and Sir Walter was preparing to leave, when he pointed to the wall which divided them from the small hall, and added, “I accept your details, my boy. I accept your common sense. But I’ve an idea you may take more than an investigatory interest in that young woman. But a pirate’s daughter, Dickon! You’ll not be bringing her into the family, I hope.”
Richard, entirely expressionless, gazed at his step-father with blank silence. Finally he said, “Strange, sir. I have no memory of having informed you that I consider Jemima Thripp in the slightest interesting, nor that I intend marriage to anyone at all. You appear to be answering your own imagination, sir.”
The Deception of Consequences Page 11