“I’ll live. Babbington’s death is my cure,” Richard said. “He will have bled out by now. If not, you can wish him a swift journey down to greet that devil of yours as we pass.”
“I’ll walk straight over the bugger,” called a man from the crowd, sitting on a tree stump and nursing his bleeding leg. “And will stomp out whatever life is left in his filthy gullet.”
The road to Chilmington was slow indeed but the moon guided the path. The sheriff rode ahead to order supper, beds and wine, with the name of Richard Wolfdon even more of an assurance of future payment than his own as the law of the land.
It was a long night.
Some days later Richard returned to Lydden and the inn where Jemima waited. Richard had left orders that she be given every service and every comfort, but he knew she would be nervous, not knowing what might have occurred or whether Babbington had been the victor. He expected, after such a considerable absence, to find her tired. But seeing her was all he had dreamed of the night before.
He dismounted, Thomas at his side, threw the reins to the ostler, and gazed into the rain. It had not stopped raining for some days but the snow had melted from the land and a pale sunshine peeped between the clouds, promising a rainbow to come.
The inn, smelling of boiled onions and an overflowing privy, seemed less than inviting but Richard smiled and strode quickly towards the main doors.
Desperate for news and terrified for what news it might be, Jemima had walked every cobble between the inn and the stables for many days past, and now, escaping the rain, peered from the rain streaked window within. When Richard marched briskly into the public drinking room that morning, she leaped from the window seat and raced into his embrace, flung her arms around his neck, and kissed the bandage around his jaw.
“Well now,” said Richard very, very softly, “that makes it all well worth the while.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
Across the open fields, the pennants were blowing in a cascade of vivid colours and painted banners. Men were shouting, servants running, tents flapped wildly in the whistle of the wind as the clouds rolled in and the sky turned black. Light found a splintered path between the grey, with a flash and clash of polished armour and the swirl of bright feathers on helms, crests and pavilions.
Until Christmas the weather had danced like a church parade in floating white gossamer, with snow in a flutter and crunching underfoot, ice flung in every man’s eyes by a snow laden wind. A few days had then greeted the Lord’s great day with sunbeams in bloom and a greeting of mild warmth and soft breezes. But January had burst into a bitter march of storms. The weather turned angry and snow turned to thunder, gust to gale and crystal flecks to pelting rage. Then in the midst of a tempest hurtling down from the north, the news came like a flash of lightning. The Lady Catherine, once called queen of England and the Spanish wife of his majesty, had died. The misery and struggle of her last few years, and the obsessive resistance she had never relinquished towards her loss of face and place, had finally ended.
King Henry and his new Queen Anne had heard the news separately, and their delight in it would be doubted by no one. But after short discussion, they appeared together in public dignity, wearing yellow satins and golden silks, the colours and fabrics of Spanish mourning. One day of mournful exhibition, adopting the Spanish style of mourning for the Spanish woman, but not that of England for a passing queen. Then the celebration of the tournament, although her majesty would not attend. The new expected heir must be cosseted and the queen’s lying-in was approaching. She kept to her velvet bed.
Stretching across the limits of the fields, unploughed, the tents, pavilions and stalls were a frantic heave of excitement and busyness. And amongst them all the king strode, his armour as bright as the sun and his plumed helm as tall as the trees. He barked his orders, nodded civilly to those who bowed before him, and deigned to smile at some. He refused to complain of the weather, assured his courtiers and his squires that it would neither rain nor snow since he had forbidden such inclemency, and surveyed his kingdom from boundary to boundary.
He pointed to the Lists. “Make sure,” he warned, “that every puddle and every trough is raked smooth. But I shall fight last. It will be a glorious ending to a day of riotous enjoyment.”
Stalls sold apples, dried figs and hot pies. Sellers cried out their offerings and prices, and pages ran between carrying jugs of wine, ale, strong beer and spiced hippocras with steam rising in spirals of faint perfumes. Knights roared, hounds scurried into the shadows, huge stone wheels were set up for the sharpening of sword and knife, and someone was singing of victory and gallant chivalry, courage, skill and the ultimate challenge of the tournament. A juggler was skipping, five skittles in the air at once, risking the wind. And in the stands amongst the buzzing chatter and spreading of silks, the crowd sat, settled and then held their breath in anticipation, and quickly set their wagers on all except the final joust when the king would gallop into the Lists, sword agleam.
“Which knight is that? Hard to see beneath the armour. But I’ll back the shorter man whose shoulders are as wide as he’s tall. On horseback, he’ll charge like a bear.”
“I’ll out my coin on the other man. Look at the length of his arm. His lance will unhorse his opponent before the charge is even complete.”
But there was no one foolish enough to bet against the king.
Sir Walter Hutton escorted a slender woman of haughty appearance, but who remained unrecognised by the other gentlemen taking their seats. Sir Walter’s many acquaintances eyed him with curiosity. His son Peter first wandered down amongst the tents, greeting friends and gathering news.
“Your father has a new lady on his arm, then?” he was asked.
“Mistress Alba Vantage. A friend of his for some months. Now tell me who are the favourites and where I should wager my coin.”
“We don’t see your brother here. Richard has been out of sight for weeks, but not out of mind, I hear. The king was furious when Wolfdon disappeared without permission or excuse, but now no longer speaks of it. Will your brother dare to return, I wonder. Or even more dangerously – dare to stay away?”
When he returned to the lower stands, Peter pushed past and sat himself next to his father. “I’ve placed my bets, but only two since there’s little to choose between most. It’s Richard they’re all asking about. Oh – and the charming new companion dressed all in white.”
Alba smiled and Sir Walter grinned. He said, “And you told them?”
“I told them nothing, naturally. Make no apologies, give no explanations, mind your own business and let no one into it unless you need them. I’ve not known dear Richard for so many years without learning some of his tricks.”
In obedience to the king, it neither rained nor snowed but the wind howled while the sky remained dark and heavily clouded. Only as the sun rose higher at midday a streak of pale but determined gold sickled through, caught its reflections in steel and stone, then immediately dismissed. The first knight and his challenger rode into the lists, and the fight began. The first was followed by the second, and the flat mud within the Lists was churned as though ploughed.
One man was dragged, feet first, from his own bloodstains. His helm rolled beneath the wooden division, its bedraggled peacock plume turned as crimson as the fluttering pennant crowning the peak of his tent to which he was returned as the surgeon was called and came running.
The next joust commenced.
Alba, carefully shocked at bloodshed and puddled flesh, turned away and said softly, “What a surprise, Sir Walter. I had not expected such violence. I had expected more show and swagger than genuine brutality.”
She clapped, polite but shivering beneath her cloak, and Sir Walter patted her quivering shoulder. “Brave up, m’dear,” he advised. “Tis all to do with a knight’s training you know. We’ve had little war to keep the country on its toes, not for years. Even France is keeping a placid face, and Spain is sitting on its hands. After they
toppled Queen Catherine, you know, bless her departed soul, some thought Spain would invade. No such luck. Paltry cowards, all of them. Not that invading over some female has happened since Troy, of course. So this is the best way of keeping any knight alert and eager. Can’t have our fighting men turning soft, nor forgetting their duty.”
“But the king? Surely he needs no further training?”
“Oh, he likes to show off his own skills, you know. Been in a fistful of tournaments over the years, and won every bout, you’ll be surprised to hear. Well, there’s no one foolish enough to stick a sword up his chainmail. But it takes more than gallantry for the king will throw a temper if he thinks it’s obvious his opponent isn’t making a true fight of it. But quite apart from his majesty, no one dies as a rule. Wounds – injuries – if infected they’ll kill a man afterwards. Keeps the crowds entertained.”
Alba maintained a frown and hid the shimmer in her eyes and the fingers tightening in excitement. “And you, sir? Did you fight in such exhibitions in your youth?”
Sir Walter nodded vigorously. “Indeed, indeed. Not that I’m so old now, you know. But a little widened around the middle.”
“Not that the king is as young – nor as slim – as he was.” Peter was grinning.
“Ah, my son loved the fights,” Sir Walter explained. “”And it won’t be more than a year, I’d wager, he’ll be galloping between the Lists himself.”
“And Master Richard?”
“Pooh,” disclaimed Peter. “He says jousting is a child’s ritual and nothing more than false conceit. I tell him he’s a shivering coward but he just laughs at me. He says a man may ride, fight and can conquer during a joust, but will escape in terror when faced with a roaring enemy on the battlefield.”
The only thunder was from the hooves of the horses and the only lightning from their swirling silken tassels and the clash of steel on steel. Then the cheering, clapping, shouting and stamping of feet from those in the stands. His majesty’s great golden tent was the first beyond the Lists, and he strode out to watch each combat, retiring again between fights to sit, drink, and accept his squire’s careful attentions. It was as the echoes of the last challenge faded that his majesty strode out from his tent and raised his hand to his people. Their cheers swirled like church bells until even the heavens range with praise.
King Henry mounted his horse and trotted quietly into the Lists. He waited there patiently as his opponent took his place. Then both closed their visors and awaited the calls of the trumpet. Then, with a sudden lurch of speed and a gasp from the stands, both men dug in their spurs and their horses, with a grand jangle of full armour and cascading silk, sped from trot to gallop and raced one towards the other.
It was so fast that afterwards very few remembered the same story and even fewer could describe exactly what happened. But it was a disaster that had never occurred before, and his majesty lay on his back in the hard raked mud, and the weight of his fully armoured horse was partially covering him. King Henry’s eyes were closed. His sword lay at some distance and the small beacon of sunshine blinked out.
The moment’s utter silence seemed almost horrible and utterly terrifying. Then each member of the audience exhaled and the breath rose in swathes of steam on the bitter air.
His majesty was carried off, his personal servants and a dozen knights and courtiers all rushing to his side. At first he was laid in his own tent, his armour carefully unbuckled and removed, the portable bed cushioned, and the covers pulled to his royal chin.
“The king is unconscious,” whispered the surgeon. “While he feels nothing, I will examine his bones.”
It was astonishing, everyone agreed, that the sovereign’s large frame and sturdy flesh appeared to have suffered no breaks. But a small ulcer on one leg, heavily bandaged beneath his right cuisse, had burst and was now oozing both blood and pus. The surgeon was unexpectedly pleased. Ulcers, he told those clustered around, should be kept open and free of infection. It was, he added, a miracle and a sign of the Lord’s favour, that after such a dreadful tumble his majesty had suffered no breaks, fatal lacerations nor even fractures.
Nor, added the squire, had the horse.
“But that beast has crushed our sovereign lord beneath its undeserving flanks,” said the doctor. It should be put down.”
“It’s a mighty expensive animal and the training alone took five years,” the squire shook his head. “I’ll not authorise no horse’s beheading and will keep the poor thing alive. But we’ll say naught of it to his majesty.”
His majesty was saying nothing at all. He had opened his eyes after some moments, and was assured by those around him that he had not been seriously injured. The king had silently closed his eyes again in relief, and had not spoken then nor since.
He did not speak for more than two hours. The shock, it was agreed, had silenced him in a manner which no other experience had ever achieved. He was transported by litter to Greenwich Palace and his own magnificent chambers within the royal apartment, and laid in the utmost comfort. He was undressed, kept warm, examined many times, and assured that he would not only live, but would soon be up riding and dancing once more.
Her majesty was called.
Queen Anne received an unexpected shock. Summoned to her husband’s bedside, she stared in jumbled confusion at the large prone heap beneath the eiderdown, and wondered silently whether she was horrified, delighted, or a little of both.
“Majesty, he has not spoken for more than two hours. He must be in pain although he has not said so.”
“Will he – live?” whispered the queen.
“Oh, most assuredly, your majesty. But we cannot be sure whether there might be – internal injuries. Anything is possible.”
King Henry’s face was flat and pale. He appeared unable to keep his eyes open for more than brief moments, but at the queen’s question, his eyes snapped wide. Still he said nothing. His mouth twitched, his lips parted, but he seemed unable to discover the words.
“Shock, pain, and a dry mouth,” explained the surgeon.
“Give him wine, then,” suggested the queen.
“If his majesty cannot swallow,” the surgeon explained, “the risk is that he might gag and choke. Offering drink could do more injury than otherwise.”
The queen gazed down at the husband she had learned to fear and loathe, and mumbled her sorrow. She had a backache. “It is too – heart-rending,” she exclaimed, both hands to her back. “I am too – distraught. I must retire to my own bed. Please inform me – immediately – at any slightest change. Both for better – or – may the good Lord forbid – for the worse.
His majesty’s recovery was reported with great fanfare, trumpets, and drums. The queen, now lying on her own eiderdown, sighed. But the king remained quiet and a little distant for several days. It was, advised Thomas Cromwell, the shock of discovering his own vulnerability. But after four days, having prayed at some length and been exhaustively examined by several doctors on numerous occasions, Henry declared himself entirely well. He needed company and some cheering diversions back in his life. So he sent for Jane Seymour.
With her lying-in arranged for the following week, her majesty, in the midst of her own silken ladies of honour, visited her husband to wish him a welcome return to health, to declare her gratitude for his recovery, and to promise him that she was about to present him with his new infant son and long-awaited heir. She whisked impatiently into his outer bedchamber, and discovered Mistress Jane cosily cuddled on her husband’s copious lap. One of his large hands was around her hips, the other neatly cupping the young woman’s small breast.
Anne fled. The king hurriedly dropped Jane, who stumbled to the floor and then to her feet with a grunt, and trotted dutifully after his wife. “Sweetheart,” he called with plaintive annoyance, “it means nothing. Don’t take a pet, now.” But the queen, flushed with humiliation, rushed back to her own chambers and slammed the door.
It was for the following day that the previou
s queen’s funeral had been arranged. The Lady Catherine had been embalmed with care and reverence, but the surprising news had leaked. Her heart, pronounced the embalmers in shocked whispers, was found to be quite black. The rumour spread. The country was united by gossip and divided by opinion. That the foreign and strictly Catholic queen had been black-hearted was believed by many. But others said she had been poisoned. Even witchcraft was a possibility, said some, and the culprit was without doubt the king’s whore, who had never been his rightful queen but who had worked in secret to bring about the first queen’s death before her own child was born a bastard.
The Lady Mary deeply mourned her mother. She had rejected any offered hand of commiseration from the new Queen Anne, and swore that she would revenge her beloved Mamma’s death.
Now just two days from her lying-in, Anne curled on her bed, the covers twisted and awry, her knees to her belly as she rolled, sweated and cried in the candle-light. In a panic, the midwife was called. The women bent over their queen, offering comfort, hot drinks, and reassurance. The midwife offered only one word. “Disrobe.”
The confines of embroidered damask, the tight lacing, the heavy winter kirtle and the rigid girdle were carefully removed as her majesty tossed, screaming with pain. Wearing only her light linen chemise, she lay staring up at the billowing tester above the bed, and knew that even if she did not die herself, her life was over. She was losing the child which would have been her saviour.
The fire blazed across the hearth. The windows were dark, shutters closed tight. No draught crept through and no person entered or left the chamber as the queen moaned, now almost quiet after long exhaustion and continuous pain. Herbs were laid across the floor and their perfumes swelled in the heat, but the smoke from the fire gusted back into every woman’s face and the queen coughed, heaved and vomited.
The little boy was born in suffering, but was already dead. Too tiny to breathe, it was declared that the infant had never had time to live, and was deceased in the womb. The queen wept and wept, and could not stop herself. Many of her ladies, crowded around with bowls of hot water and cups of hippocras for her majesty, were also weeping. Jane Seymour had not been invited to attend.
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