The House Of Allerbrook. Valerie Anand

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СКАЧАТЬ said Francis, “that when the Lanyons leave tomorrow, taking Sybil with them, I will allow you to say goodbye to her if you wish.”

      “I do wish!” said Jane. She turned to him. “Of course I want to say goodbye to her. I can’t bear it that you’re sending her away forever!”

      “If she had gone to court and then married someone from the other side of the country, you might never have seen her again. You may make your farewells, but once Sybil goes, she is out of our lives for good. Remember that! Now, come indoors. After supper I want you to play your lute for us.”

      “Francis…”

      “Yes, what is it?”

      “Today someone suggested I might go to court instead. I don’t want to, one little bit.”

      “Listen to me, Jane. You and Sybil were born into a good family, into a comfortable life in a house where you have had fine clothes and no hard work—every indulgence. Do you think you can have all that and not give something back? Sybil has thrown away her chance to be of use to her family. I trust you don’t want to throw yours away, as well!” He laughed. “You’re still very young. When you’re older, you’ll feel differently, I promise. If Palmer’s cousin finds a post for you later on, believe me, you’ll be delighted with it.”

      Jane was silent, still leaning on the gate. The sun had come out as evening approached, and as it set, it shed a softness over everything, so that the green meadow was tinged with gold and faintly dappled with the shadows of the tussocks.

      There were things she knew Francis would not understand. Their father would have done, but Johnny Sweetwater had died two years ago, struck down by a fever after getting soaked and frozen while bringing sheep in to safety from an unexpected snowstorm. Her mother had gone two years earlier, from some internal malady that no physician could explain. Since then, Jane and Sybil had been in the care of their elder brother and his wife, and no one could say that Francis or Eleanor had been anything but conscientious and kind, but they were not like Father.

      He had loved Allerbrook, loved the racing waters in the combe, and the moor with its varying moods, and the yearly cycle of the farm. And so did Jane. She did not want to go away to court, and her father would have known. He would have been less harsh with Sybil, too. Angry, yes, but perhaps —not so unforgiving. There would have been hope for Sybil in the end.

      Francis had a hardness in him which their father had lacked. If he wanted her to go to court, then go she would. And if she cried for Sybil, she had better do it secretly, in bed. “I’ll be glad to play my lute after supper,” she said, and followed Francis obediently indoors.

      At Richmond Palace, by the River Thames a little to the west of London, the atmosphere was fraught. Queen Anne Boleyn was the cause. Her high-pitched voice and shrill laughter had been heard less than usual that day, but she gave the impression of being like a wound crossbow, which might at any moment release a bolt, and who knew which one of them would be the target?

      King Henry, who was planning improvements to the private rooms at Greenwich Palace, miles downstream to the east, was engaged all day with architects and did not see the queen until he joined her for supper. Most of the conversation then concerned the choice of wall hangings for the refurbished rooms and Queen Anne took part amiably enough though those who knew her well sensed that her apparent good humour had much in common with a set of gilded bars on a cage containing an irascible tigress.

      When the meal was over, in her most gracious and persuasive tones Anne invited Henry to join a game of cards with her and some other friends.

      As the darkness closed in, the group settled in a snug, tapestried chamber, lit by firelight, candles and lamps, scented by sweet lamp-oils, and the rosemary in the rushes on the floor.

      There, in the flickering half-light, as the cards were dealt, Anne employed them to send a secret message to Henry.

      It was one of their private games, this exchange of signals that only they could read. To hold the cards in one’s right hand and pensively flick the leftmost card with the other hand was to say, I love you. For him to run a forefinger slowly and sensually across the edge of the fan of cards was to say, I desire you. I will come tonight. For her to do the same was an invitation. Please come tonight. I will be awake and waiting. For either of them to flick the face of each card in turn with the nail of a forefinger was to reply, You will be welcome or I will come.

      In the course of the evening’s play she fingered the edge of her cards four times, lingeringly, invitingly. But at no point did the king’s small greenish-grey eyes meet her dark ones; at no point did the square bearded face above the slashed velvet doublet show any awareness of her except as a fellow player in the game. Nor did his thick forefinger ever flick the face of any card at all.

      What am I to do? I have borne him one daughter and lost one male infant. He is turning away from me. He had a mistress last year, I know he did, and she wasn’t the first. I will only win him back if I give him a son, and how can I give him a son if he will not make love to me? Or if he can’t?

      The previous night Henry had failed her. She had used every art she could think of to help him, without success. Now it seemed he was refusing even to try. Perhaps he was ashamed. But she was afraid, because she knew he would blame her both for his failure and her own. Her dreadful failure, in his eyes, to produce a prince to follow him.

      He had blamed her openly last night. He had said, “If only you were a real woman. If only you could have a healthy child every year, and half of them sons, like other women! If you were a real woman, I’d be a real man!”

      “I am a real woman!” she had shouted. “What else could I be?”

      “A witch,” said King Henry nastily. “Or a whore.”

      Oh, God, make him come to me tonight and make him able. Let us make a sturdy son. Because if we don’t…

      If we don’t make a son, I shall be blamed and blamed and blamed. I’ve given him a sweet red-haired Tudor daughter, but what use is a daughter? Elizabeth can’t be his heir, any more than her sister Mary can. He told his first wife, Catherine of Aragon, that for a king to have only daughters was the same as being childless altogether. But how can a woman choose whether her babies are boys or girls? Unjust, unjust! I could kill him! Or I could kill God, for denying me this one thing that I need, that he needs, so badly.

      Henry was thinking, Candlelight doesn’t suit her. It suits most women, but it makes her look weird. Like a sorceress. Maybe she is a sorceress. I wanted her so much. I’ve turned the church upside down for her, broken away from the Pope, changed the ritual, started closing down monasteries…not that the monks don’t deserve it, fat, luxurious layabouts that most of them are. But how did she make me want her to that point, just the same? Was it witchery? If she doesn’t stop fingering those cards, I’ll get up and walk out of this room. We need another signal. One that says No, stop it.

      I’m getting tired of her, and my other queen is still alive. Two unwanted queens and no son. Was ever a man so accursed?

      CHAPTER FOUR

      A Port in a Storm 1535

      “There’s no room here for idle hands,” Katherine said СКАЧАТЬ