Pour The Dark Wine Page 6

  ‘If only the great lecher really meant it,’ Carew caught himself thinking, then mentally crossed himself at the word he had used to describe his sovereign.

  It was Jane herself who made no response. She sat in her customary pose, hands in lap and gaze cast down, hardly seeming to breathe as the light, easy voice rang out words of love into an atmosphere suddenly electric with unspoken thoughts. But when at the end of the song her remarkable eyes suddenly swept up, Carew noticed that the green aspect of them was predominant.

  ‘Thank you, Your Grace,’ she said simply, and stood up. ‘And now, with your kind consent, I must beg leave to withdraw. A terrible headache has come upon me this last hour and I feel that I should go immediately to Topenham Lodge and not inflict myself further on this merry company.’

  Whatever Henry really thought he masked it well and played the innocent. ‘Topenham Lodge?’ he repeated, furrowing his brow.

  ‘A place of ours in the village of that name. My mother and I are staying there during your visit, Your Grace.’

  He’s going to get annoyed, thought Carew with a sinking heart. The silly chit is pushing him too far.

  Henry turned to Dame Margery who was looking horror-stricken. ‘Alas, my Lady, I do not think my compositions fall well on the ear of your daughter. But her leaving us does not mean that we will be deprived of your charming company also?’

  ‘Oh no, not at all Your Grace,’ she fluttered, obviously greatly distressed by her child’s extraordinary behaviour. ‘The servants will ride back with Jane. I shall remain as long as Your Grace wishes.’

  He turned back to Mistress Seymour. ‘Then all I can do is wish you a speedy return to health, my dear, and bid you goodnight.’

  The girl sank into a respectful curtsey and the gentlemen present made to stand politely at her departure but not before Henry rose rapidly, still agile for all his increasing girth, and offered his hand to help her rise. For a frightening moment Carew thought she was going to ignore it but Jane obviously thought better of such a slight and placed her fingers in those of the King. He bent his head and it was only Jane who knew that as he kissed her hand his naughty tongue, swift as a serpent, darted out and drew up the skin for a moment. Nor could anyone know except the young woman herself, how a wicked thrill of response, which seemed to shoot upwards from the most intimate part of her body and consume the rest, made her weak on her feet.

  With amazing self-control Jane hid her feelings, pursing her lips severely to give a thoroughly spinsterish expression.

  ‘I thank Your Grace for your understanding,’ she said primly.

  In a voice so low that nobody else could possibly have overheard, Henry answered, ‘Let us hope that your headache is recovered tomorrow, Jane. For I do not intend to pass this visit deprived of your company. Do you understand me?’

  She wanted to answer that she would do as she pleased and could refuse to be the butt of his cruel joke if she so wished but, of course, that was impossible. Instead Jane chose to greet his remark with silence but, of their own accord, her eyes looked up and flashed a warning. At that moment she was beautiful, flushed and breathless, her irises varied shades of jade and indigo.

  ‘Till tomorrow then,’ said the King of England.

  ‘Indeed,’ replied Jane Seymour, and left her parents’ hall without looking back.

  *

  Great with child as she was, it was not easy for Anne Seymour to find a comfortable position in which to sleep, nor was she helped by the fact that Edward — beside whom she was lying in their splendid marriage bed — was breathing heavily and noisily, and occasionally gasping. In fact to keep still was becoming so difficult that it was with a sense of relief that Anne slid her legs to the floor and finally stood up.

  The room was full of silver, and warm, despite it being early September, and Lady Seymour padded on silent feet towards the mirror, turning her body to see her swollen shape. Her breasts, always one of her best features, still rose high and exciting, clearly visible through the thin nightrobe, but her belly was heavy and the child in it already low, questing to be born.

  Anne hoped it was a boy. The passionate marriage which she and Edward enjoyed to the full, had embarrassingly produced a daughter, little Anne, almost nine months to the day from their wedding. And now, only two years from their anniversary, another was on the way. Smilingly, Anne peered at her reflection closely.

  The fall of auburn hair, unbound and turned to silver tissue in the moonshine, was lustrous, and her face had improved, if anything, with motherhood. In fact it was generally considered that her looks these days were better than ever. With her red lips curving into a smile, Anne moved away from the mirror and, passing quietly out the door, descended the great staircase of Elvetham —the young Seymours’ new home in Hampshire — in search of a cooling drink and some fresh night air.

  Yet she was not the only one awake, for as Anne neared the bottom step she distinctly saw a shadow separate itself from the others and furtively cross the small hall, making for the great door that led to the courtyard and thence to the gardens and parkland beyond.

  Anne froze, sinking back into the pools of black shadow and watching intently as the figure reached a patch of moonlight, thrown from a high window on the landing above. Rather as she had suspected, the face of Edward’s cousin, now personal companion to herself, came into view. Cloverella was also stalking about Elvetham in the silence of midnight.

  Anne frowned. She did not like the girl, feeling that she had been foisted on her when Cloverella’s Romany blood had debarred her from obtaining a place at Court. Anne also, rather jealously, did not care for the girl’s good looks or for Edward’s obvious affection for her. At the time she had argued hard against his cousin joining the entourage of the newly married Seymours, but for once Edward had stood up to her, showing a ruthless streak that Anne did not know he possessed.

  ‘She’s coming and that’s an end to it. I’ll hear no more,’ he had said, and Anne had been forced to give way, resolving that she would marry Cloverella off to someone, anyone, as quickly as possible; though so far without success, despite two years’ effort.

  Now Anne enjoyed seeing her victim leap in terror as she whispered, ‘What are you doing? I can see everything, so be on your guard.’

  Cloverella spun round, her eyes searching the shadows.

  ‘Here,’ said Anne, stepping forward like a phantom. ‘It is I who speaks.’

  Cloverella put her hand to her breast, which heaved with fright. ‘Oh Anne, thank goodness. I wondered what it was.’

  ‘As indeed you might,’ answered Lady Seymour, hard-eyed, ‘when you stalk about the place in the dark of night.’

  Her tone and the very way she stood, arms folded and chin high, demanded an explanation, especially as it could now be seen that Cloverella was fully dressed and carried a small bundle of possessions.

  ‘Running away?’ asked Anne sarcastically. ‘How romantic!’

  Cloverella rallied somewhat and stood her ground. ‘If you must know I was leaving, yes. This very night I dreamed that Jane was crying and calling out for me …’

  ‘So you were making for Wolff Hall?’

  ‘Yes. The dream was vivid, real. I knew it must be true. Jane is in trouble.’

  Anne smiled. ‘Cloverella, you will not go to Wolff Hall. I will not have you riding out into the night nor even the day for that matter.’ Pausing portentously, she added, ‘There is no possibility of Jane being in tears, for at this very moment the King’s Grace is visiting Wolff Hall and all is fun and frivolity.’

  Cloverella looked thoughtful. ‘Do you really think so?’

  ‘Of course I do,’ snapped Anne. ‘Your dream was caused by too many rich stuffs taken when you dined.’

  Cloverella nodded. ‘If you say so.’ She leaned forward to embrace her cousin and as she did so her hand accidentally slipped against Anne’s distended belly. ‘Why another girl,’ she exclaimed with apparent pleasure. ‘Another fine daughter for you, An
ne. My Romany blood is never wrong in divining the sex of an unborn child.’

  Lady Seymour looked as if she would like to hit the girl. ‘Stuff and nonsense,’ she answered roundly. ‘You are just saying it to annoy me. Now go to bed, Cloverella, this very minute, before I get angry.’

  Her cousin seemed sad. ‘I was only trying to be helpful. Goodnight, Anne.’

  She walked slowly up the stairs, her head drooping forward, but once out of sight of Anne’s narrowed eyes, Cloverella ran silently along the landing to the fine bedchamber in which Edward slumbered, totally unaware of the disagreement between his two favourite women, and nestled down beside him on the bed.

  ‘Edward,’ she whispered into his sleeping ear, ‘I want to accompany you to Wolff Hall when you dine with the King. You will take me with you. Do you understand that?’

  Edward stirred and nodded his head but did not wake up.

  ‘Thank you, dearest Ned,’ said Cloverella and dropped a kiss on to his quiet lips before she scurried off to her own room, and away from the prying eyes of Anne Seymour.

  *

  The morning was horribly fine, bright and merry and full of brilliant sunshine which strained Jane’s puffy eyes and made her want to pull the bedclothes up over her head and lie all day in a curtained room, rather than rise and be part of it.

  She had cried all night, sick to the heart of Henry Tudor’s mockery, and frightened quite horribly by the awesome sensation which had swept her when the King’s tongue had flickered over the spaces between her fingers. So intense a reaction had forced her to admit to herself finally — for she had long had a suspicion which she had furiously thrust from her mind — that, despite her prim appearance, she was passionate.

  Looking at the matter without emotion, which she found hard to do, Jane presumed that she had inherited such violent fervour from her father, whose youthful indiscretions were something of a family joke amongst his children. And if she had, she was not alone in this, for Thomas made no secret of the fact that he had lost his virginity at thirteen years of age and had been pursuing women ever since. Indeed, at the time he had proudly boasted of his early conquest to his brothers, a fact which the girls had soon got hold of and giggled about — and had been quite revered in the Seymour nursery as a result, as there is nothing more attractive than naughtiness.

  Jane, on the other hand, had firmly put such feelings from her and was as innocent now as she had been as a child. Yet with the passing years her longings had ceased to be vague and had now begun to rage within her, brought to a head, or so she thought, by the overpowering and somehow monstrous attraction of the King himself.

  She could have wept again, would have done so, had not she heard her door opening and the heavy footsteps of Meg advancing to the bedside. Jane closed her eyes but not quite quickly enough for her servant said suspiciously, ‘Jane, I know you are not asleep so don’t pretend. Just you get up, slug-a-bed. The King will be hunting soon and you should be there to wave him off. Your mother has already left.’

  Jane opened her swollen lids painfully. ‘I can’t go,’ she answered hoarsely. ‘I’m not well.’

  Meg leant over her saying nothing but taking in every detail of her mistress’s pale and ravaged face.

  ‘I don’t believe you are ill at all,’ she said eventually. ‘I think you have been weeping, and most of the night, judging by the look of you.’

  Jane remained silent, not daring to utter, and after a moment Meg sat down on the edge of the bed, took one of Jane’s hands in her own and said in a different tone, ‘What is it, my dove? Are you unhappy? Tell old Meg your troubles, like you always used to.’

  It was too much! The one thing guaranteed to send Jane into another fury of tears was kindness; she put her head in the servant’s lap and wept wildly for what seemed an age. Meg said nothing, simply stroking the blossom-pale hair, until finally Jane quietened down and only the occasional sob disturbed the silence. Then she spoke.

  ‘This has something to do with the King’s visit hasn’t it? Has he said something to upset you?’

  Jane shook her head violently but Meg went on. ‘Old Will told me that His Grace took a fancy to you. Sang a song especially for you. Is that right?’

  ‘Old Will is mad,’ Jane answered furiously. ‘His Grace did nothing but mock me.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘He thought it diverting to see if a plain woman would succumb to his charms as easily as any other.’

  ‘Hmm,’ Meg said thoughtfully. ‘Now I’d always believed that King Henry was a man of the world.’

  ‘What has that to do with it?’

  ‘Well, if he is, he would know that a plain woman would fall into his arms twice as fast as a beautiful one because she would be so grateful to him. So I doubt that was his ploy.’

  Jane’s tear-stained face peered into hers and she said slowly, ‘I had not looked at it like that.’

  ‘No, I don’t suppose you had, Mistress, because you are so busy believing yourself ugly that you don’t stop to think at all.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  Meg did not reply at once, pulling Jane towards her by the shoulders and holding her none too gently. Then she said, ‘I mean what I say. If the King flirted with you it was because he genuinely wanted to. Listen, I saw Nan Bullen once when I went to Court to serve your mother I tell you she has no looks at all. She is thin, has no comely breasts, hides a hand she is ashamed for anyone to see — and yet she once had the King of England at her feet. And do you know why?’

  Jane shook her head.

  ‘Because she is clever, so full of style and artifice that she makes people believe she is beautiful. She tosses that great mane of dark hair and flashes those eyes and men fawn over her. Well, Jane, do you not have hair light as flax and eyes sea-blue? Why can’t you do as she does and hide your bad points beneath the good ones?’

  It was all so sensible and somehow so relevant that Jane was almost convinced. Sensing her advantage, Meg persisted.

  ‘You serve the Lady at Court. You have seen her early in the morning. Be honest Jane. Is her beauty a true one?’

  The answer was a little hesitant. ‘Not really. In fact some call her the Night-Crow.’

  ‘There you are then.’ Meg was triumphant. ‘And what is the opposite of a fierce dark crow? A little fair dove — my pet name for you, Jane — that coos so sweetly for all to hear.’

  She had done it! Meg could tell by the girl’s expression that she believed every word she had heard.

  ‘Now, let me wash your face and put some of Cloverella’s lotions and potions on it. If you cannot wave farewell to the hunting party at least you can greet them on their return.’

  Jane nodded slowly. ‘Yes, Meg, you are right. I must be there to receive them. It is only polite after all.’

  *

  The days in which summer finally concedes to the first sweet fire of autumn have a sunshine, a mellowness, all their own and that September afternoon in Savernake Forest was no exception. In the air hung the smell of recent harvests, of apples ripening in the orchards of Wolff Hall, of heavy dark plums groaning on their trees; and the light itself, filtering through the branches of the formidable oaks, was gold dust, full of dancing motes and sleepy insects, a foretaste of the half-mist it would later become. Everywhere, despite the warmth, there was a sense of slowness, as if the urgent brightness of summer, with its days of river sports and outdoor food and lovers’ trysts, was gone and the earth was settling to a more leisurely pace to herald the dark, still months that lay before it.

  And for once, as though his mind was more on the season’s mood than hunting, the King rode in an almost unhurried manner, spurring his horse to give chase but then easing it again, as if he needed time to think, and the speed of pursuit distracted him. And that this was true became abundantly clear when, as Sir John Seymour and the other hunters sped away surrounded by his pack of yelping hounds, in fast pursuit of a buck, Henry restrained Sir Nicholas Carew by the arm and
said, ‘Let them be. I would like to rest.’

  Nicholas, only two years older than his king but with his wiry crop of hair already grizzled grey, looked anxious.

  ‘Are you not well, Sir?’

  ‘Never better, Nick. Never better,’ Henry replied, a shade too heartily. ‘It is just that I am in the mood to converse and with whom better to do so than yourself?’

  Nicholas bowed in his saddle but said nothing.

  ‘How pleasant it is here and what good hosts the Seymours,’ Henry went on. ‘As you said when we arrived, a sound family, every one of them. I have a great regard for young Edward, as you know, and Thomas has proved himself an excellent courier for Francis Bryan.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Carew, thinking that Henry was going all round the point to get to what he actually intended to say, and having more than a sneaking suspicion that the King really wanted to ask about Jane.

  ‘I know that you have been friendly with them for some time,’ Henry continued, ‘and probably know more about them than anyone else at Court.’

  ‘I expect that is true, Your Grace. What is it you wish to learn?’ A blue Tudor eye looked at him shrewdly for a second before it became masked by its hail-fellow-well-met expression.

  ‘The girl, Jane. Is she spoken for in any way? I would presume her father has pre-contracted her to someone or other.’

  ‘Not that I know of, Your Grace. I have never heard of such a thing, though I have been on intimate terms with them a long while.’

  Nicholas kept his voice completely level but inside his jerkin his heart had doubled its pace. So his plan, created more in jest than anything else, had succeeded. Quiet, mousy Jane had attracted her sovereign’s attention despite the disastrous events of the previous evening. Her contrast to that scheming bitch Boleyn had been both noted and approved.

  ‘Strange,’ Henry was saying. ‘She is such a self-possessed little thing I would have thought she would have made an excellent wife. I must look out for someone for her when she returns to Court.’