Valerie Anand - The House Of Allerbrook

So it was going to happen, and Francis was so determined to make it happen that he was willing to spend money on virginals and a tutor. Jane, who liked music, didn’t mind learning a new instrument, and Master Corby turned out to be a patient and agreeable instructor. It was the purpose behind the lessons that frightened her.

Just once she made a further attempt to protest. After she had practised daily on the virginals for a month, Master Corby invited Francis and Eleanor to listen while she played a simple melody. “I think you will be pleased,” he said to them. “A little polishing, and she’ll be an ornament to the court when she gets there.”

“But,” said Jane, seating herself, gathering up her courage and addressing the keyboard rather than her relatives, “I have no real wish to go to court. I would be so very happy to play music here at home, when anyone wants to dance, or to play at our Christmas and harvest revels. I am not…not eager for advancement in society.”

“Well,” said Francis, “let us hear how well you perform. Then we will talk privately.”

Afterward, when Master Corby, with a tactful smile, had left the room, Francis said, “My dear sister, it is time you accustomed yourself to the idea of going to court. Sybil has failed us and you are her natural replacement.”

“We have been in touch with Ralph Palmer’s cousin, Sir Edmund Flaxton,” said Eleanor. “He has sent commiserations for Sybil’s ill health and he is willing to obtain an appointment for you if he can.”

Francis nodded. “Do well, attract the right kind of notice, make worthwhile friends and you could become the route by which influence and wealth are drawn toward us all, and you might even find yourself a titled bridegroom!”

It was no use arguing. Francis could be severe when he was angry. Her duty was being made clear to her. There would be no escape.

“Broth,” said Katherine Lanyon shortly, putting her head into the kitchen where a pot was bubbling on the trivet over the fire and giving off an appetizing aroma. “Take her some mutton broth, and some hot milk, as well.”

Withdrawing from the kitchen, she marched into the parlour, stripping off her stained apron as she went. Owen, who was sitting by the window, shirtsleeved in a shaft of sunlight and playing chess against himself, got to his feet. “Is it over already?”

“Didn’t you hear it squalling? Yes, it’s over,” said Katherine, sitting down on the nearest settle. “Where’s Idwal?”

“I sent him to the jetty to see that consignment of ironware loaded properly. Well, Sybil hasn’t taken long.”

“No, she hasn’t! Oh, it’s so unfair!” Katherine cried. “I almost died bringing Idwal into the world. Three days and nights of agony and I’ve never conceived since. Yet I was a decent, honest young wife, bearing her husband’s son. While this little hussy…!”

“I wouldn’t call her that,” said Owen mildly. “I fancy she only made the one mistake.”

“That kind of mistake is the same whether it’s once or twenty times!” snapped Katherine. “She deserved what I went through, but does it happen to her? No, it does not. She abandons the dinner table, saying she has a stomachache, and before supper she’s slipped a great big bawling boy into the world as easily as though it were nothing at all, and now she’s sitting up and asking for something to eat, and I’m waiting on her!”

“What does she want to call him?” Owen asked.

“Stephen,” she said. “There was a Stephen in the family years ago, it seems, and she likes the name.”

“Well, if he thrives, he could be an asset to the business one day,” said Owen.

CHAPTER FIVE

T he court rarely stayed in one place long. It took only a few weeks for a palace’s privies and cesspits to start stinking and then, to escape the smell, King Henry and his six-hundred-strong entourage would be off.

In a flurry of dismantling, they would pack up their goods, their clothes and ornaments and toiletries and workboxes, their books, their chess and backgammon sets, and in the case of the more important folk, their favourite tapestries, bed-coverings and items of furniture, including beds complete with their hangings, and depart, generally by water, since most of the palaces were along the River Thames or not far from it. Horses were sent by land, and there were wagons and pack animals to convey goods by land when this was required.

Everyone in the royal retinue was used to its gypsying habits, but the same problems appeared every time. Anne Boleyn, who had been at court long before she became queen, was well accustomed to them. Early in her reign she remarked to a newly appointed young lady-in-waiting called Jane Seymour that never, never had the court managed a move without somebody’s precious Florentine tapestry or sandalwood workbox or priceless ivory chess set or irreplaceable illuminated prayer book falling into the river or off a pack saddle.

“And when we go on the summer progress, it’s worse,” the queen had said irritably. “We move once a week and sometimes oftener. It’s hell.”

But the progress in the summer of 1535, through some of the southwest counties, was not hell for Jane Seymour because it included her family home, Wolf Hall. For the few days they spent there, she could be with her parents, at ease in what, to her, was a happy and informal world.

Not that Wolf Hall was so very informal. It stood amid farmland, but the fields did not press close to the house, which was surrounded instead by parkland and formal gardens. Sir John Seymour had a solid, gentlemanly background and Lady Margery was descended from King Edward III. They were well aware of their status. The brief stay made by King Henry that late summer should have been a very pleasant one. Unfortunately…

“My dear child, what in the world is the matter?” Sir John, strolling through the beautifully shaped yews of the topiary garden, was horrified to come upon his daughter, sitting alone on a bench and sobbing, her fists balled into her eyes as though she were an infant.

Jane lowered her hands unwillingly and he sat down beside her, taking them in his. “What is it?”

Jane gulped and said, “The king and queen are shut in their bedchamber and they’re quarrelling.”

“But, my dear daughter, why should you cry about it? I daresay it’s embarrassing, but it’s their business.”

“They’re quarrelling,” said Jane wretchedly, “about me .”

“I saw you!” said Anne Boleyn furiously, for the fourth time that morning. “I saw you with my own eyes!” She knew that she was doing herself no good by all these histrionics, but she couldn’t help herself. The anger and—yes—the fear had been building up inside her for so long. Now it had broken loose and she couldn’t stop it. “I was in the gallery and I looked out over the knot garden and there you were…”

“It’s a very pretty garden!” Henry snapped. “Even this late in the summer. I was admiring it. Mistress Seymour was walking there as well and I stopped and remarked upon the flowers. Is there anything wrong in that?”

“There is when you take her hand and lead her to a seat and sit beside her, smiling at her!”

“Would you expect me to scowl at her? She is one of your ladies and she is also the daughter of our hosts! And a very sweet, modest little thing she is! I did nothing more than sit and make conversation with her!”

“And you held her hand throughout!” shrieked Anne.

“Oh, for the love of God, will you have done?”

Across the width of the spacious bedchamber the two of them glared at each other—King Henry with feet apart and hands on hips, Queen Anne twisting her hands together and trying not to burst into tears.