Pour The Dark Wine Read online

  Even now, lying comfortably in her bed at Wolff Hall, Jane shied away from the next memory, in fact pulled the pillow over her ears as if to drown out a sound that was in reality only in her head. Yet nothing could take away the memory of the terrible cry that had come from the Queen’s lips on that stark dawning in Windsor when Katharine had awoken to find both her husband and his lady slipped away in the darkness. How the Queen had guessed that this signified the end of her marriage, that she would never see Henry again, Jane could not imagine. But that dreadful howl of anguish, enough to freeze the blood of all who heard it, would never escape her. For the fact had been that in her own quiet way, Jane had loved the Queen; a little humbly, a little undemonstratively perhaps, but nonetheless loved and respected the daughter of the Queen of Castile who had been so ill-used in the country of her adoption.

  Jane sat up in bed, though still with her eyes closed, wishing for a time now beyond counting, that she had been powerful enough to defy the Lady in the days that followed the Windsor parting. Days when Katharine had been requested by the council to leave her apartments in the castle and move on to the disgraced and dead Cardinal Wolsey’s former home at the More, there to hold a pathetic little court of her own, her household and retainers whittled away to nothing, all her young maids-of-honour, Mistress Seymour amongst them, removed from her service.

  But to Jane, despite all the degradation that Katharine had been forced to endure, she was still Queen. For Mistress Seymour would never, could never, mentally accept the woman she detested as the true Queen of England. In spite of all directives, Jane still thought the poor creature, little better than a prisoner, now eking out her existence in Kimbolton Castle, to be England’s sovereign lady.

  To try and stop the wicked turn of her mind, Jane got out of bed and, crossing rapidly to her bowl, washed herself hard, as if scrubbing her skin could take away the guilt of having hidden her feelings and accepted a place in Anne Boleyn’s entourage when Katharine had been exiled. But it was useless. As she trickled the water slowly through her fingers it seemed to her that they were the old Queen’s tears.

  ‘How could I have done it?’ Jane said under her breath. ‘I should have had the courage of my convictions.’

  But how would she have dared to make a stand? She could have brought trouble not only on herself but the whole of her family. How would they have survived when good men like Thomas More and Bishop Fisher had gone to the block?

  ‘No,’ she thought, ‘I did the only thing possible. Looked meek and waited for the moment when I could do her a disservice.’

  Now, calling for her waiting woman to help her dress, Jane thought with a certain grim satisfaction that since the birth of Elizabeth two years earlier, the fortunes of the mighty Anne had plummeted, with no help from Mistress Seymour or any other of the Lady’s detractors. It was common knowledge about the Court that the King was losing interest, had had a passionate affair with one of Anne’s ladies when the baby Elizabeth had been barely a year old — a fact that had sent the Lady into hysterics before a startled Admiral of France — and was presently visiting the easy-virtued Madge Shelton in her bedchamber.

  Jane pulled a face. To her mind Madge was a hackney, for the King was not the only one to taste her fruits. It was rumoured that the Queen’s own brother — to say nothing of several other young courtiers — all beat a track to her apartments.

  ‘And good luck to them,’ muttered Jane. ‘Anything that puts that wicked woman’s nose out of joint can only be for the good.’

  ‘What did you say, my lady?’ asked her servant, kneeling on the floor adjusting her mistress’s kirtle.

  ‘I was talking to myself, Meg.’

  ‘About the King’s visit I suppose?’

  Just for a second Jane looked at her blankly and then drew a sharp breath. She realised now why she had been lost in thoughts of Katharine. The colossus at the heart of all the old Queen’s suffering had announced his intention of hunting at Savernake as part of his progress, and it was to Wolff Hall that he was probably already making his way at this moment.

  ‘Merciful God!’ she exclaimed, ‘I had forgotten.’

  ‘Forgotten?’ Meg stood up, looking thoroughly startled. ‘How could you?’

  Jane gave a naughty smile and her pale features took on a pixie-like life, making them suddenly fascinating.

  ‘I see His Grace nearly every day, remember. This visit is of no great excitement to me.’

  Meg gave her a shocked look. ‘It is a good thing Dame Margery can’t hear you. Why, she’s been planning for weeks as to how she will entertain His Grace.’

  Jane patted her hand. ‘I know, I know. That’s why I’ve been sent for.’

  ‘Yes, your mother thought he would be pleased to see a familiar face.’

  Jane turned away, sitting down before her mirror and leaning forward to examine her reflection.

  ‘Familiar face, you say? Why, he hardly knows I exist.’

  Meg came to stand behind her and picked up the hairbrush. ‘How can that be? You said you see him daily.’

  ‘He walks past me daily, as he does all the Queen’s ladies who are plain and uninteresting. It is only those with their fair share of beauty that he will stop and speak to. Then it is all smiles and winks.’

  Meg gave her a smack with the hairbrush. ‘Jane, hush. Things like that should not be said aloud.’

  ‘Why not?’ Jane studied her reflection again. ‘Look at me, Meg. Last April I was twenty-five — and what have I achieved? A sweet courtship when I was little more than a child — and nothing since. And the cause? That’ — she stabbed at her nose — ‘and that.’ She drew her lips into an even thinner line than they were naturally. ‘And my terrible pale face. Why in certain lights I look almost green!’

  Meg stood silent, at a loss as to what to say. It was true that her charge, given to the servant to look after while still a babe-in-arms, had nothing to commend her in the way of beauty, except for her eyes.

  She opened her mouth to reply but Jane cut across with, ‘And if you are going to mention my eyes, please do not do so. Nobody even notices them when they are so busy hurrying past me. Plain Jane is my role in life — and plain Jane I shall die.’

  Meg had had red hair in her youth and now her sudden temper exploded. ‘For shame on you! If you think you are so uninteresting it is small wonder that no one bothers with you. There are other things beside looks. What of your wit and grace and intelligence? And what of your childhood pledge to outshine all and make a grand match.’

  Jane smiled wryly. ‘You mean my wish on Merlin’s Mound? I should not have told you of it. It was obviously unlucky to do so.’

  With all the familiarity that only a trusted servant would dare display, Meg answered, ‘I shall speak to you no more, Mistress, until you are in a different mind. Now, would you like me to brush your hair?’

  Jane stood up, pulling a light gown over her kirtle. ‘No, I shall finish dressing later. I think I will go into the garden to see the day.’

  Meg looked a little chastened. ‘Are you angry with me, sweetheart? I spoke only for your good.’

  Jane smiled. ‘I know that. But it is difficult to bear such plainness when beauty seems to unlock every door, and the things said which are meant to give cheer somehow only serve to make it worse.’

  Meg wrestled with some important thought but finally settled for saying, ‘Then shall I return in a while?’

  ‘Yes. Then you can dress me in my best in case His Grace decides to surprise us all and arrive this morning.’

  ‘Is he riding from London?’

  ‘Yes, so there is little chance of his getting here early. I will have plenty of time to take the air.’

  And with that Jane Seymour descended the stairs and made her way through the lofty quiet of the great hall — called the Broad Chamber in the days of the Esturmys — and out to the gardens in the centre of which stood the manor house.

  The buildings which comprised Sir John Seymour�
�s family home were laid out in a rectangular pattern, a great court in front, and behind a small court round which were clustered the outbuildings and the stable block. A short distance from the small court stood the Great Barn and to the left of the house itself was the chapel, built by Sir William Esturmy in the Middle Ages, where the priest Sir James officiated for the salary of £2 per year and all found.

  At this early hour the gardens were at their most delicate, wreathed with tendrils of mist which rose a few feet above the lawns and through which Jane glided like a ghost. Above her head a gemstone sky was also veiled by vapour but the sweet sun shot through glinting rays, proclaiming that this September day of 1535 would be fine and fair. A blackbird rose almost from beneath Jane’s feet and carolled a song for her delectation from the branch of a nearby elm. So it was with a smile on her lips that she sat down on a stone seat and looked around.

  The gardens were extensive. Before the great court lay the walled garden, its neatly planned flowerbeds and walks culminating in a central circle in which stood the sundial. Yet although Jane was fond of its symmetrical beauty, it did not appeal to her as much as the sweetly perfumed Young Lady’s Garden, made especially for her as the first-born girl, and in which she, her sisters Bess and Dorothy, and Cloverella, had played so many innocent childhood games. Here, roses and gillyflower grew side-by-side with sweet smelling honeysuckle and great bushes of lavender, while in the spring dark mysterious shrubs burst forth vivid splashes of colour. It was a place for pastimes and pleasure unlike My Old Lady’s Garden where, beside the flowers, and at some points intermingling with them, grew the herbs; golden marjoram, dill and rosemary, wormwood, pennyroyal and sweet cecily, the beds edged with sage to give an aromatic scent overall.

  Behind Wolff Hall lay the Great Paled Garden, fenced with wooden staves as the name suggested and occupying an acre, beyond which lay the orchards, the arable fields and the park lands — the Horse Park, the Red Deer Park and undulating Soden Park. All told, Sir John owned an extensive holding but nonetheless not one large enough to house Henry and his entire entourage. In fact, in order to put at the King’s disposal the best suite of rooms in the house, Sir John was sleeping in a minor chamber while Dame Margery and Jane had been moved out to nearby Topenham Lodge and were to take up residence there this very afternoon, while the Great Barn — freshly painted for the occasion — was once more to act as the dining hall.

  The sun broke through the mist and Jane leaned against the back of the stone seat and closed her eyes. She was not really looking forward to the forthcoming visit. There was something about His Grace which frightened her; perhaps his enormous height and shoulders and the arrogant masculinity of him. Whenever Jane saw him at Court she would lower her eyes in pretended modesty and hope that he would not pick her out to speak to. And her wish had been granted; since that night six years ago when she had danced with him amongst the other masquers, they had not exchanged a word.

  Let the beautiful ones bear the brunt of his lechery, Jane thought. I could not stomach to be the butt of Anne Boleyn’s vile temper.

  And as this idea went through her mind she remembered the tantrums and hysterics, the irritability and outbursts of violent anger, caused by the fact that Henry’s eye had wandered even when Anne had still been pregnant.

  ‘And that is exactly what she deserves after all she did to Katharine,’ Jane muttered to herself as the sun came out in full and flooded My Young Lady’s Garden with all the brilliance of a fine September morning.

  *

  Nearly all the county of Wiltshire was drenched with a swirling ground mist that dawning, and the last places from which it cleared were those in which the ancient and mysterious stones reared up to pose their eternal questions. Dampened by fog they stood, grey and massive, silently brooding over the surrounding countryside, looking out to where Silbury Hill, the ultimate enigma, caught the first rays of the sun on its smooth green slopes.

  Observing it from a distance and writing down what appeared to be calculations in a large book, a man stood with his back leaning against one of the stones of Avebury, singing to himself as he worked. To assist his freedom of movement, his cloak had been discarded along with his doublet and he was dressed, despite the fact that the day was still chilled by fog, only in his shirt and stocks.

  The cloak which lay on the ground beside him was of a sombre black hue but the doublet thrown down upon it was a harsh shade of green, almost distressing to the eye, while his upper stocks — paned with panels of vermilion — glowed a vivid shade of purple. His dress was bizarre, indeed quite terrible to look at, yet he had a certain quality that defied derision, an indefinable strength that would have made an onlooker pause before they passed him by as a motley fellow.

  His face was squarish, displaying a strong jaw and nose and a contradictory mouth, tough yet sensual, the mouth of one who could both fight and love, yet if it had not been for the wild mass of black curls that sprawled round his head, his eyes would have been the most outstanding thing about him. But as it was, hair and eyes equalled one another; the one dark as pitch, suggesting tainted blood of some kind; the other amber, golden almost, largely set and clear, yet capable of giving the wink to a maiden should their owner so wish. For here was a creature who possessed the most captivating thing in the world — an abundant energy for life made endearing by a childlike wonder. It was a deadly combination when all was said and done.

  Without pausing, the man continued to make his calculations until the sun was well risen when, the glare being too great to allow him to do more, he called his horse, contentedly cropping nearby, and throwing his unworn clothes over the saddle, made off through the trees in the direction of the town of Marlborough, passing the church of St Peter and St Paul, where the son of an Ipswich butcher, named Thomas Wolsey, had first been ordained priest.

  As he trotted by on his way down the main thoroughfare, the man looked back over his shoulder, thinking how that same priest had risen to be Cardinal, Archbishop of York, and Chancellor of the Kingdom before His Grace had finally turned his back on him, furious over Wolsey’s failure to bring about an annulment of Henry’s marriage to Katharine. Just as he had done to the old Queen at Windsor, so the King had treated his prelate at Grafton. The anxiously waiting churchman had been told that His Grace had gone hunting and could not receive him but, in truth, the King was never to set eyes on his mighty Cardinal again. Sixteen months later, Wolsey had been dead, some said of a broken heart. Shaking his head at the cruel course of such recent events, the man entered the alehouse known as the Bear.

  Hurrying forward to serve the stranger, bobbing a curtsey even while she walked, the keeper’s daughter was all excitement as she greeted him with, ‘Are you from court, Sir? Has the King already arrived at Savernake?’

  The man bowed politely. ‘I am little there these days, madam, and must confess I was not aware of His Grace’s visit to these parts.’

  The girl poured out a measure, burbling eagerly as she did so. ‘Oh yes. He has announced his intention of hunting in the forest and is to stay with the Warden of Savernake, Sir John Seymour, up at Wolff Hall. It is a great honour for all the family. Mistress Jane has even come home from court.’

  The man nodded slowly, one black curl freeing itself from all the rest and falling forward over his forehead.

  ‘And Her Grace is not with the King?’

  ‘Oh no, Sir. It is said that she expects a child next spring and is taking good care of herself.’

  The man smiled quizzically. ‘As indeed she needs to.’

  ‘Oh yes, Sir. The King so longs for a Prince.’

  ‘Yes,’ answered the man, downing his ale and holding out the rough drinking vessel for more, ‘he does indeed.’

  Without knowing quite why, the girl asked, ‘Do you think he will get one?’

  The man’s face was in half-shadow as he answered softly, ‘Oh yes, His Grace will have a son. Of that I’m certain.’

  ‘So the Queen will be lucky?’<
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  ‘No,’ he answered, still partially hidden from her, ‘this Queen will never be lucky. She must pay her dues.’

  The girl stared at the stranger, mystified. ‘Dues?’

  He stood up and a sprite-like smile crossed his face, making him normal and merry once more. ‘I am talking to myself, forgive me. But I thank you for what you have told me. I find it very interesting to learn that the King has once more gone hunting in earnest.’

  Any hidden meaning escaped the girl, and she answered enthusiastically, ‘Oh yes, Sir. There’s red deer in abundance in Savernake Forest. To say nothing of wild boar. I am sure he will have good sport.’

  ‘Perhaps he will,’ the man said quietly. ‘Perhaps the time has come for the wheel to start turning.’

  She gaped at him but he would say no more, merely brushing her fingers with his lips before he left the room and, taking his horse from the stables, headed away towards London.

  *

  The cavalcade mounting the hill climbed at speed, the sun catching the bright metal of spur and bridle as the twenty men who made up the party raced to see who could attain the summit first. Well to the fore, as tact and discretion decreed that he surely must be, Henry Tudor, King of England, his mighty legs astride a powerful horse, shouted with glee in the sunshine, free for once from all the gnawing thoughts of discontent that nowadays beset him almost daily.

  Yet despite his high spirits and lively retinue, this was no elaborate progress to Wiltshire, but in fact a hunting party. In place of a vast following of royal guards, chattering courtiers and brilliant women, Henry had chosen on this occasion to surround himself entirely with a hand-picked group of men: men with whom he could hunt till he dropped with tiredness; who would feast and drink well into the night with him; who would listen while musicians played the King’s own compositions and raise their masculine voices in song. For this was the very relaxation he felt he needed these days, away from the worries of kingship and the nagging voice of she whom once he had loved so well but who had so subtly changed on attaining the pinnacle of power into something dark and sinister.