Pour The Dark Wine Page 2

Taking each other’s hand the two Seymours made their way to the outer hall where, having donned masks — Jane’s attached to an elaborate wig of fiery red curls — they joined the other dancers, pacing out the measured steps of a pavan. The King, in gold brocade with silver lining, was at his most hearty, laughing loudly and making a to-do of neatly placing his feet. Jane, looking at him through the mask’s enlarged peepholes — especially cut wide that her best feature might be on show — thought him frightening; a colossus with mighty shoulders and legs, an altogether suffocating man. She wondered whether Edward was right, whether the Lady Anne had held him at arm’s length all these years, or whether the delicate creature had succumbed to the King’s desire and been crushed beneath that mighty weight. Jane gave a small shudder of disgust, a little angry with herself that the thought should fascinate her so much.

  The music changed to a galliard — the after-dance of the pavan —and Mistress Seymour was astonished to see the King change partners and go whirling through the women, exchanging a few steps with each one. Realising that he would be in front of her in a moment, Jane braced herself, but before she could so much as drop a curtsey another dancer, heavily masked and gorgeously attired, seemed to appear from nowhere and stood directly in Jane’s path.

  Why she reacted as she did the girl could not tell but, suddenly angered at the intrusion, she pushed in front of the other woman and, as the King came dancing up, almost flung herself into his arms. She saw his look of surprise and then saw that bleak blue eye crease with amusement.

  ‘Well, well, well,’ he said.

  ‘Forgive me, Your Grace, I stumbled,’ Jane muttered, in an agony of embarrassment, glad that the red wig and mask totally disguised who she was.

  As if reading her thoughts, the King said, ‘Comely women should not hide their faces. Which of the Queen’s ladies are you, my dear?’

  ‘Jane Seymour, Sir,’ she murmured, raising her pretty eyes to steal a glance at him.

  ‘Seymour, Seymour?’ he said. ‘Would that be Sir John’s daughter?’

  ‘Aye, Your Grace.’

  ‘Tell your father I shall see him one of these days. I love to hunt at Savernake.’

  Within her mask Jane blushed, almost incapable of further speech, and it was then that she felt the King stiffen and saw his gaze go to the dancer who had almost stolen her place. Without further word he gave Jane an abrupt nod and whirled to the other woman, catching her to him as a starving man might snatch a bone.

  Jane heard a low musical laugh and caught a whiff of musky scent as the couple danced by her. So the Lady Anne Rochford, born Boleyn, had come to the revels after all. Fascinated, Jane stared from the safety of her disguise.

  The Lady was smaller than she had thought; altogether thin and flat where Jane’s breasts swelled. But she had the most beautiful hair, thick and luxurious, scantly disguised by her exotic headdress. She seemed very delicate to be holding an entire kingdom to ransom, Jane thought, and then wondered whether Edward would be right; if, when Anne finally granted the King his heart’s desire, he would tire of her.

  ‘What do you think?’ she asked her brother, as he came breathlessly to her side as the music ended. He followed the direction of her eyes. ‘Is it the Lady?’

  ‘Yes, I’m sure of it. She would have taken my place in the dance had I not stepped in front of her.’

  Edward laughed. ‘Bold little Jane. When I am next at Wolff Hall I must tell the others how you pushed her aside.’

  ‘Wolff Hall, how I miss it!’ answered his sister with a sigh. ‘How are they all?’

  ‘Tom pursues maidens, Henry pursues game, Elizabeth does her embroidery and looks thoroughly bored, while Dorothy spends her days mooning over father’s new horse.’

  ‘And what of Cloverella?’

  Edward gave a tolerant smile and Jane suspected, not for the first time, that her brother had more than a soft spot for their strange little cousin.

  ‘Wandering about barefoot, crooning to the moon — or would be if Mother gave her the chance to do so.’

  ‘I thought she would forget all about the Romanies as she grew older.’

  ‘The blood is in her,’ said Edward with a note of sadness. ‘It will never go away.’

  ‘And that worries you?’

  He turned slightly, not answering, and Jane found herself wishing that his adulterous wife would die in her wretched convent and leave her brother free to marry again with honour. She regarded him as one of the most noble people alive and deserving of a happy future.

  But all further thought was prevented by the abrupt departure of the Queen, who rose from her chair — signalling to her younger women that they may remain to enjoy themselves — and swept from the room accompanied by her closest attendants, some of whom had served her since she had come to England as a young princess all those years before.

  ‘She has recognised the Lady,’ Jane whispered.

  ‘Not difficult,’ answered Edward, gazing to where the King stood talking to the masked woman with a look of utter adoration on his features.

  ‘What price our wager now?’

  Edward looked dubious. ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘But His Grace is utterly besotted.’

  ‘It is not difficult for love to turn to hate,’ her brother said bitterly, ‘and the greater the love the greater the hate can be.’

  Jane nodded but said nothing, not wishing to hurt him more, and their conversation would have ended as each turned away to dance with another partner had she not seen the Lady move away from the King, giving a light laugh and tapping him on the forearm with a tapered finger, as if in mock reproof.

  ‘She’s coming over here,’ Jane whispered frantically and, sure enough, the Lady Anne Rochford was making her way through the dancers, accompanied by a taller woman, in the direction of the young Seymours.

  Suddenly nervous, Jane looked for an escape route but it was too late. The Lady stood before them.

  ‘My dear,’ she said — and Jane felt that a laugh, and not altogether a kind one, lay just below the surface of her voice.

  ‘Madam,’ she answered stiffly, giving a formal curtsey.

  ‘In your clever disguise it is impossible to recognise you. Nor do I know this gentleman …’ She nodded to Edward. ‘… but so many people are at Greenwich for the twelve days that it is impossible to know all the masquers. Pray, will you reveal the secret of your identities?’

  Jane never knew afterwards how she had the courage to answer as she did but she found herself saying, ‘Gladly Madam, on the condition that you also reveal yours.’

  That Anne, for all her covering headgear and mask, was certain that everyone knew her was apparent, for she visibly stiffened as she answered curtly, ‘I am Anne Rochford, the Earl of Wiltshire’s daughter.’

  There was a pause which seemed to Jane to last forever. She stood, staring at the Lady, her thoughts in turmoil, knowing for certain that she had taken an instant dislike to this slight, dark creature who could attract men just by tilting her head. But overriding this powerful reaction came another. In common with most of her generation and the older as well, Jane had learned almost by instinct that in order to survive in the maelstrom of Tudor life it was often essential to hide one’s feelings. And it was to this course that she now unerringly steered.

  Hating herself but knowing that plain Jane could never triumph if she made powerful enemies, Mistress Seymour dropped a respectful curtsey and said, ‘Forgive me, Madam. I am new to Court and know little. Allow me to introduce my brother, Sir Edward Seymour, and myself, Jane. Our father is Sir John Seymour, Warden of Savernake Forest.’

  Anne Boleyn appeared to relax for she said, ‘And this is Anne Stanhope, one of the Queen’s ladies.’

  The woman with her curtsied politely and Jane got a vivid impression of creamy skin and a fall of auburn hair. Yet beneath her mask Anne Stanhope’s mouth showed itself to have a slightly drooping underlip as though its owner were not easily contented. But now she had her att
ention turned to Edward and, as the music began once more, she laughingly extended a hand to him and led him away. His sister noticed with amusement that his neck had gone a brilliant shade of red.

  Jane lowered her eyes, afraid that her true thoughts about Anne Boleyn might be revealed in their depths. But she need not have worried. At the first notes of the dance, Anne was suddenly surrounded by gallants all begging her to accompany them. Sighing with envy, Jane left the hall and made her way to where the cold night air from the Thames would cool her flushed face and also give her a moment to consider whether she had done the right thing in ingratiating herself with the Lady. But once outside she forgot everything, for she stood in a magical night; a frosty, freezing, splendid creation of winter stars and ghostly mist-hung moon.

  Behind her Greenwich Palace, bleached white in the starshine, reared like a castle of ice, its sloping roofs, turrets and spires picked out delicately against the crisp blackness of the frost-filled sky. Long, low and spreading, built round three interconnecting quadrangles — known as Fountain Court, Cellar Court and Tennis Court — tonight the Palace was brilliant with candlelight and noise as the celebrants of Christmas grew drunker, wilder and even more uninhibited as the evening wore on.

  Turning, Jane saw reflected in the river a mysterious and gentle palace, its lines wobbly beneath the water, its inhabitants — the jumping luminous fish — altogether more circumspect. Then a roar of laughter and a burst of song made her face the original once more, a rather prim frown turning to a smile as an enormous codpiece — bejewelled, decorated and obviously of great importance to its owner — came floating from an upstairs window and landed at her feet. With a naughty expression, Jane threw it over the wall that separated the riverside walk from the Thames, and watched it gently float away in the direction of the sea.

  She felt suddenly uplifted. Despite the chill, despite everything, Jane snatched off her disguise and let the breeze blow hard into her face, relishing the taste that it left on her lips and the hard sting in her nostrils. Her pale hair, the colour of apple blossom, lifted on the current and flew out about her head so that just for a moment she looked unearthly, beautiful almost. Then the illusion was gone and, her small mouth compressed, she turned to go back into the Palace, before some instinct made her draw back into the shadows as another sound came in on the breeze. A single pair of oars was rowing a small craft up to the steps of one of the landing stages. A late visitor was coming to Greenwich.

  From her hiding place, Jane watched as a man climbed up and stood for a moment looking out over the river, his head blotting out the moon. She could see little of his body, for he wore a flowing cloak that hid his shape but his face, as he turned, was remarkable. Jane saw a mass of black curling hair, a broad powerful nose, and a set of strong white teeth as he smiled to himself. She thought that she had never seen such a vagabond and yet there was something captivating about the stranger for — or so it seemed to her — he radiated an inexplicable charm and energy. Moreover, he obviously had excellent sight because he had noticed her, where she stood in the shadows.

  Not knowing quite what to do, Jane stepped out and said lamely, ‘I am taking the air. It is so hot in the Palace.’

  He bowed very low, the top curls on his head almost sweeping the ground. ‘It is always preferable to breathe freely,’ he answered, in some manner making her think that he knew of her recent encounter and falsehood.

  ‘Yes, quite so,’ answered Jane Seymour as the stranger bowed again and made his way into the Palace without another word.

  Chapter Two

  A far-standing observer, watching the figure that climbed up the slope of Merlin’s Mound in the clear September sunshine, would have been forgiven for thinking that he was looking at a child, for the body — though showing a delicate curve to both breast and hip — was small in stature, while its owner moved lightly, one hand inelegantly bunching up the skirts of its dress, as if she was not bothered by a woman’s weight. But woman she was and if the observer had drawn closer he would have seen that, though made on a small scale, she was a rare beauty for all her size.

  An elegant bone structure supported an elfin face dominated by two enormous eyes, a strange purplish colour in shade; while from the girl’s head a mass of waving black hair, unconstrained by a headdress, rippled halfway down her back. Her diminutive stature — a bare five feet in height — was her only fault and yet, in another way, it was one of her greatest attractions. At twenty years old Cloverella Wentworth was a charming figurine and only her doubtful origins and the fact that her cousins the Seymours were considered parvenus had stopped her from achieving a good match.

  Now, staring all around to check that she was quite alone, Cloverella took in at a glance the wide breathless sweep of landscape, giving particular attention to that area where five miles to the west stood another mound known to most as Silbury, larger than that of Merlin. That another great man — or woman — lay buried there she felt convinced. But who? Could it be Morgan le Fay who had brought about the destruction of Merlin, as it was said? Or could it be King Arthur himself, slumbering near his guide and mentor, the most powerful wizard of them all?

  Thinking that no one could ever know, Cloverella sank down onto the grassy turf and patted it with her hand. Then almost as if she was listening for an answering voice, Cloverella flattened herself on the ground and put her ear to it. But there was no response and she was just about to get to her feet when she heard a distant shout. Looking up cautiously, Cloverella saw that her cousin Tom Seymour stood at the foot of the mound, staring upwards, one hand shielding his eyes from the sun.

  ‘Cloverella, you wretch,’ he called, ‘I know you are up there. Come down at once. Mother urgently needs your help for the wedding party. Now come on, or by God I’ll climb up and box your ears.’

  But he was laughing as he spoke and Cloverella did not hesitate to stand up and wave her arm.

  ‘I knew it,’ he cried triumphantly. ‘I said to Mother that this is where you would be. You really must stop your awful habit of wandering off. There are footpads and ruffians everywhere. It will serve you right if one catches you up.’

  Sticking out her tongue, Cloverella started the precipitous descent, her feet almost slipping out from under her as she ran down the half mile of pathway and collapsed, laughing and breathless, into Tom’s arms. He hugged her tightly, as he hugged all women, and they looked at one another.

  She had not seen him for six months, as nowadays he was attached to the retinue of Sir Francis Bryan and had spent some considerable time with his cousin in France. But looking at him, Cloverella thought how well the boy’s spectacular looks had blossomed with manhood, so that now he was all dash and splendour and fit to capture the heart of any woman in the kingdom. And he knew it! Every gesture, every turn of his head and tilt of his eye, was calculated to gain him admittance to hearts and bedchambers. And as for his hands, why even though he and Cloverella had been brought up together, he could not resist letting them linger for a moment about her waist before he finally released her.

  ‘You are a shocking flirt, Tom,’ she remonstrated, laughing. ‘One day it will get you into trouble.’

  Even as she said it, Cloverella felt that lurch of her stomach which always accompanied a premonition her words might come true. ‘You are a rogue,’ she burbled on, to cover the horrid clutch of fear. ‘You should try to behave.’

  Tom laughed, the sun gleaming gold in his hair and his eyes a sudden glory of ocean blue. ‘Must I? Why? It is much more fun to be a little naughty, provided it hurts no one.’

  ‘Aye, that’s the nub of it. But be careful. It is when you play with fire that you’ll get burned.’

  He caught her to him, his smiling mouth an inch from hers. ‘Is that a prophecy, gypsy girl? If so I’ve a mind to kiss you.’

  ‘You can’t,’ protested Cloverella, ‘we are like brother and sister!’

  Tom laughed again. ‘Aye but we’re not, are we?’

  It was use
less to protest. His mouth was on hers, drawing out the passion that burned fiercely in her Romany blood and making her want to give herself to him, there and then in the sunshine.

  ‘I thought you were wild,’ he said, drawing away. ‘There is more in you than meets the eye, Elizabeth Wentworth.’

  Angry with herself, Cloverella frowned at him. ‘I am glad you called me that because if anybody kissed you it was she, Elizabeth. Not Cloverella, who is far too sensible to allow such a thing to happen.’

  He slipped his arm round her waist, leaning down because she was so tiny. ‘Whoever you are, you must come home now. Dame Margery is in a turmoil and running about wringing her hands.’

  ‘I am sure that is not true.’ Cloverella gave a joyous laugh. ‘But it will be so wonderful to have Edward and Jane at home again. I haven’t seen either of them since Anne Boleyn became Queen. Is his new bride a beauty?’

  Thomas grimaced. ‘I met her at court once. She was an attendant to the Lady before she became Queen. She is very handsome, but …’

  ‘But?’

  ‘I will leave you to judge for yourself, cousin. You are supposed to be able to see into people’s hearts. You can tell me what you think.’

  ‘Yes,’ she answered slowly, ‘I will.’

  ‘And as you know so much’ — Thomas smiled as he lifted Cloverella on to her horse — ‘tell me whether the Queen will produce a healthy son.’

  His cousin looked at him seriously, her eyes suddenly darkening to purple. ‘She will produce a healthy child, yes. Very soon. But it will be a girl.’

  Thomas turned a shocked face to her, then slowly a grin spread over it and his eyes twinkled. ‘I think you’re wrong, gypsy. Every astrologer in the land predicts a boy.’

  ‘Wait and see,’ she answered calmly, and drumming her heels into her horse’s sides, sped off in front of him into the heart of Savernake Forest.

  Even though fine weather still lay upon the land, the first hint and breath of autumn had come to the woodland. Looking up to the glimpses of clear deep sky that could be seen through the silent army of trees, Cloverella noticed that the leaves etched against it already held in their depths a hint of russet, a foretaste of what was to come when the land blazed with splendour and every vivid hue from scarlet to crimson consumed the mighty forest and turned it into a living anthem, heralding the end of the year.