The Cardinal's Court Read online

  ‘Time for a snack, a glass of wine and a quick rest. See you at dinnertime,’ he said.

  ‘I’ll see you,’ I responded, lifting a hand in farewell. It was, I supposed, all a bit of game to him. To me, it was of vital importance.

  I gazed after him resentfully for a moment and then went in search for Gilbert Tailboys. He was, according to George Cavendish, at the tennis play with Thomas Arundel and Harry Percy, so I went off to join them.

  Harry, stripped to shirt and hose was on the court and opposite was Thomas Arundel. For a moment I could not see Gilbert Tailboys, but then I spotted him in the ‘dedans’, the netted window where the spectators sit, and often lay bets on the match.

  And beside him, in the ‘dedans’, was not Bessie Blount, but Anne Boleyn. I had to look hard to make sure of that, as the two shoulders were touching and the two heads were so seductively together and the girl’s mouth was by the boy’s ear. But there was no mistaking the outline. Only Anne wore the French headdress, delicately shaped to the head like a crescent moon. Today she wore a dark veil and in the gloom of the ‘dedans’ it merged with her black hair and formed a frame for the faultless pale oval of her face.

  I watched for a moment. No one had noticed me. The two boys continued to thunder shots at each other, the heavy cork-filled ball ricocheting off the walls and roofs and striking targets. I withdrew into the shadows and made my way around the back of the tennis-play and crept softly into the ‘dedans’. Neither Gilbert, nor Mistress Anne heard me. Harry had just hit the grille and was shouting aloud in triumph, his voice echoing again and again around the hall.

  In a few moments I had crept into the seat behind Gilbert. I could see the back of his head, and the faultless profile of the lady as she spoke softly into his ear.

  ‘Harry says that you are such a good friend,’ she was saying sweetly. ‘But, of course, you could not be a friend to a person who had committed murder, “Les yeux hautains, la langue menteuse, les mains qui répandent le sang innocent – hands that shed innocent blood” that’s the English of what the Bible says, but the king’s sister, a very learned lady, she translated it into French for us, and I think in French. They are very striking words, are they not? It would be a terrible sin, would it not, to try to protect someone like that? It would be something that you would have to confess, Gilbert, confess to the cardinal himself, perhaps even to the pope in Rome.’ She seemed struck by that idea and repeated, ‘You might have to go to Rome, and then, of course, you would no longer be able to marry Bessie. The king would find another husband for her.’

  Gilbert turned a worried profile towards her. Down on the court Harry declaimed that the game was his, but neither of the pair in the gallery even looked in his direction. Gilbert stared at the young lady as fascinated as a snake faced by a mongoose.

  ‘It takes courage, I know,’ she whispered, ‘but I could help you.’

  What was she trying to do? I wondered about that, but not for long.

  ‘Harry, Master Percy, says that you know why he did it. You know what drove James Butler to that terrible murder.’ She took a scrap of lacy handkerchief from within her sleeve and dabbed at her eyes.

  ‘My father wants to force me to marry James Butler, to marry a man who has murdered someone. I’m scared, Gilbert, Master Tailboys, I mean, I am so frightened. If a man has murdered once, he will murder again. I have heard that said.’

  Mistress Boleyn had dropped her affectation of inserting French words in amongst the English ones. Now she was fluent and persuasive.

  ‘I could not sleep last night,’ she said in a voice that had a moving quaver to it. Once again she touched the handkerchief to her eyes. ‘I was thinking that if I ever angered him after we married that he would murder me. He will murder me in my bed, perhaps. And I would be over in Ireland, hidden away from my family and my friends. He would murder me and hide my body in one of those bogs that they have over in Ireland. I would be never seen nor heard of again and if my family inquired, well he would tell them that I had run away with a wild Irishman.’

  She gave a realistic-sounding sob at this terrible picture and I smiled grimly to myself in the darkness.

  ‘Don’t!’ Gilbert’s voice was husky with emotion. It was just as well that Mistress Bessie Blount was not nearby. His hand stole out and covered hers.

  ‘I know, I know, I should be strong, but I am so frightened, Gilbert.’ This time she did not change the name to ‘Master Tailboys’ but said his first name sweetly and seductively, pronouncing it in the French fashion, Geelbare.

  ‘Harry says that you alone have the evidence to convict this murderer. He says that you know of James’s terrible secret, that you know why he was being blackmailed and why he had to take life away from that man.’

  ‘Good match, isn’t it?’ I said heartily from behind them. This was a conversation that should not allowed to be continued. Whatever about Gilbert’s discretion, there was no way that I would trust to Mistress Boleyn. This projected match with James Butler was spoiling her chances of a possible union with the heir to the Earl of Northumberland. But not the strictest father could expect his daughter to marry a man accused of murder, so the lady was taking steps to get her freedom. I leaned forward and looked from face to face.

  Meanly, I enjoyed the start that both of them gave. ‘Good shot,’ I yelled down as Thomas Arundel sent a ball crashing against the tambour and the angled buttress deflected it across the court. I was deemed enough of an expert to render my interference more of a compliment than an annoyance and Thomas, an amiable fellow, raised a hand with a slight bow in my direction.

  ‘Yes,’ I continued blandly, ‘they are both playing well. You are interested in tennis, Mistress Boleyn?’

  She cast me an annoyed glance from her black eyes. ‘Certainly,’ she said shortly.

  ‘Or is it more exciting in France?’

  ‘I suppose it’s much the same game,’ said Gilbert awkwardly after a long minute of silence from the lady.

  ‘I do not like to talk while watching,’ she said then.

  ‘Really? Goodness, I must apologise. I thought that you were already talking. Did I make a mistake?’ I saw Gilbert flush at my words, but Mistress Boleyn stared stonily ahead. The match was drawing to its conclusion. Harry Percy was out of condition or had been drinking too heavily the night before. Even from this distance I could see that he was pouring sweat, continually stopping to wipe his face, and when Thomas sent a shot down the floor of the court Harry just stepped back awkwardly and it skidded fast and low and struck the corner of his racquet.

  ‘My point,’ said Thomas triumphantly. ‘Game, set and match.’

  Without a word, Mistress Boleyn got to her feet and went back out through the door. Gilbert and I were left together in the semi-darkness, and neither of us said anything as we watched her come towards young Percy. She picked up a linen towel from the table and carefully, almost as gently as a mother, she mopped his face. He took it from her with a smile. The door opened, casting a broad stripe of light along the wooden floor and causing the candles in the man-sized candelabrum to flicker dangerously, and Harry’s servant came in. She went away, then, but not before I had glimpsed a very tender look on her face. Everything within her, love, ambition, a dislike of having her course through life mapped out for her, everything, I realised, was pushing her to repudiate the projected betrothal with James Butler.

  And she was a very strong-willed young lady.

  I waited for a moment, watching while Harry towelled himself hastily, pulled on his fresh shirt, thrust his arms into doublet and then jerkin and rushed off. Thomas’s servant now arrived and supplied him with towels and a clean shirt. He got dressed in a more leisurely way and then he went out also. The trumpeters sounded the warning. Supper would be in half an hour. It was time for all to get ready, but Gilbert did not move. He sat very still and gazed straight ahead.

  ‘I wasn’t going to tell her, you know,’ he said.

  ‘I’m sure that you ar
e too good a friend to put a noose around James’s neck,’ I repeated my words of earlier as I got to my feet. I wished that I were sure of that. He had been, I reckoned, on the verge of betraying the secret, but perhaps I did him an injustice. It would, however, be no harm to remind the boy of the consequence of yielding to the lady’s questioning.

  10

  The queen was to have supper in her own chambers this evening and she had invited the cardinal to share her meal. The rest of the guests from the court and the cardinal’s household dined together at the first sitting in the great hall. George was in charge, very flushed with the excitement of his promotion and totally unable to quell the un-Lenten-like atmosphere of fun and of excess that gradually arose as no quelling glances were sent from the high table. Voices grew louder, servants scurried around, yeoman of the pitcher house were kept busy refilling cups and glasses. Harry Percy, Gilbert Tailboys, Anne Boleyn and Bessie Blount were on the high table. They formed one mess just across the tablecloth from me and I studied them anxiously. Gilbert was getting very drunk and I feared that it was not good for him. I knew very little about epilepsy, apart from a mention in Suetonius of the epilepsy that afflicted Julius Caesar, but I hoped that this excessive alcohol would not bring on another fit. Anne Boleyn was tempting him to drink more and more. She almost seemed to be flirting more with Gilbert than with Harry and I could see that Bessie was fast moving from a forced expression of amusement to tight-lipped anger. Once everyone rose to partake of the ‘void’ in the cardinal’s room next door and allow the table in the great hall to be re-laid for the household officers, I went forward to meet the four of them.

  ‘Just a minute, Gilbert,’ I said, catching him by the arm and drawing him back. Mistress Boleyn gave me a quick glance from her black eyes, which I met with a bland smile. She put the tips of her fingers on Harry’s sleeve and went forward with him. Again there was that swift upward motherly glance to check that he was well. He smiled down at her and there was a great sweetness in that smile. I began to see what they saw in each other. People are complicated. He fell in love with her milk-white skin, her black eyes, her swaying and graceful figure; she, I reckoned, originally may have been attracted by his position as the heir to the mighty earl, liked the warm colouring of his cheeks, the curl of his brown hair, but then his helplessness would have pulled down the barriers. Mistress Anne Boleyn had a pretty face, a sheaf of midnight black hair, a gorgeous figure and an alluring voice, but under all of that she had a strong nurturing instinct.

  And Harry, poor fellow, disliked by his own father, was a lost boy in need of the tender care of a mother.

  I looked after them with a tinge of pity. There would be no possible future in that romance, no matter how much the lady personified Perseverance’ as she had done in the pageant of Château Vert. Life would have been easier for both of them if they had been boy and girl on neighbouring farms.

  Bessie, with a contemptuous glance at Gilbert, hurried after them and I was left with an intoxicated boy drooping from my grip.

  He was not the only one who was drunk. Queen Katherine’s physician, Dr Ramirez was singing a quite impolite song in Spanish and as I passed him, he reeled and almost fell over, just saving himself by putting an arm on my shoulders.

  ‘My friend, my Irish friend,’ he hiccupped. ‘We put our brains together. We …’ he waved a hand.

  ‘That’s right, old fellow,’ I said soothingly. ‘We’re friends. We’ll have a game of tennis tomorrow. Just before dinner. That’s the best time. I’ll see you on the tennis play then.’

  ‘No. Have to go tomorrow. Go home to wife and baby. Got something to tell you, first. Got idea. Heard something about you when I in the bayne tower was. Bathing very good for braining.’ He giggled hysterically at this piece of wit and I managed an indulgent smile. The boys folding the tablecloths grinned at each other and then smoothed their faces when they saw me look at them.

  ‘You talking to Her Grace, Queen Katherine, about St Leger and the king’s serjeant …’ The words seemed to erupt from his mouth and then he stopped and began to look very pale. I was relieved. Goodness knows what he was about to say. I interrupted quickly before he could resume.

  ‘Now you go and have some of that nice Hippocras. Ramirez. You will enjoy that. You know how they make it, do you? I’ve been in the privy cellar,’ I went on, desperate to stop him talking about St Leger. The Spaniard had a penetrating voice, even more so when he was drunk. ‘You must go down there, one day, Ramirez. Go down to the privy cellar. It’s the place that is used for sweetening and spicing wine to make hippocras. They say that it’s good for the digestion, so go and have some before you get sick,’ I babbled on.

  ‘Yes, but, my friend, you are a judge, not a wine groom. Listen to me,’ he stared at me owlishly.

  ‘Yes, yes,’ I said soothingly, but raising my voice to drown his, ‘and, you know, Ramirez, the spices are put into a filter-bag. It’s shaped like a cone and it’s made from some sort of felted woollen cloth and they pour the wine and sweetened wine back and forth through the spices until the wine is clear. You’ll love it, Ramirez.’ I was running out of ideas to keep chattering and stop him blurting out things about St Leger. I was relieved when one the queen’s gentlemen ushers, a man called Juan de Montoya came to my rescue, taking Ramirez by the elbow and leading him away, leaving me with my own burden, as Gilbert drooped heavily from my supporting arm.

  Ramirez would have a headache in the morning and probably not feel too well. I wondered whether he would remember what he wanted to tell me about St Leger and the king’s serjeant. Well, he was a doctor so he probably had some sort of medicine that would make him feel better. I had more important matters to see to. Firmly I steered Gilbert away from his friends, Thomas Arundel and the four younger boys who had been allowed the treat of dining at the high table this evening, and got him out in the fresh air. It was snowing slightly, the frozen flakes drifting down, clinging to the red brick walls and powdering the fountain courtyard at our feet. The fountain had been turned off during this cold spell, but the water in the basin had a thin skim of ice over it and the flakes fell softly on this, linen-white against the pale grey. I wondered whether to walk Gilbert around for a while, or whether I should get him straight back to his lodgings and hand him over to the care of his servant. I decided that would be best. He had looked very green, but now as I examined him under the wavering light of the torch I could see that a faint trace of colour showed in his cheeks. Best to get him home before he decided to go back and join the alluring Mistress Boleyn again.

  ‘Come on, Gilbert, let’s get you into bed and you can have a good sleep.’

  ‘Secret. What’s the secret about James Butler?’ muttered Gilbert.

  ‘There is no secret. Gilbert, do you hear me? There is no secret.’ I hissed the words into his ear. There seemed as though no one was around on this sleety evening, but I still spoke very quietly and hoped that the intensity in my voice would penetrate through the fumes of wine. ‘Say nothing about James. If anyone asks you, say you don’t know.’ I took a firm grip on his upper arm and marched him towards the steps to his lodgings. I knew them well. He was housed next door to James and when I had got rid of him I went in to have a word with Padraig.

  ‘Not a sign, not a word,’ he said as soon as I put my head around the door. He looked strained and anxious. He and James had grown up together in Kilkenny. I had a picture in my mind of them both at about the age of ten, bare-footed and covered in mud, just back from a fishing expedition in the River Nore and slinking into the kitchen to see what was left over after dinner. I scrutinised him carefully. I would have thought that James, if he planned to escape back to Ireland, would have found some way of letting Padraig know.

  ‘And his horse?’ I asked.

  ‘Still in the stable. Eating his head off with oats. I’d better take him out for a gallop soon if himself doesn’t turn up.’

  We stared at each other for a few minutes, each trying to guess what
the other knew. Padraig was the first to break the silence.

  ‘We’d better get him out of this place, Brehon,’ he said. ‘The cook, Master Beasley, was having a quiet word with me. He says to get him out of the country and back to Ireland. He thinks that the king’s serjeant means business and he’s a man who knows all the gossip. I’d say that there’s more known in the kitchen about what’s going on in Hampton Court than there ever is in the clerks’ offices.’

  He was right, of course.

  ‘Keep James’s horse in good condition,’ I said. I looked around the room. Bread, ale and wine were piled up on the table. The boys who brought the bouche de court every morning and every evening were still supplying the lodging for man and master. ‘Useful stuff, bread,’ I said. ‘I remember when the Earl and myself were going up visit the Earl of Tyrone, the country was in such a state of unrest that we took loaves, baked hard, and then when we were hungry we dipped them in ale.’ I saw him nod and knew that he would set to work immediately, placing the bread in the covered iron pot that stood on the hearth. Once well-hardened, it would not go mouldy and would be perfectly edible when dipped in ale or wine.’

  ‘I’ve got a good cheese here, too,’ said Padraig with a grin. And I’ve taken in the saddle bags and the leather bottles. I have them all ready for when you give the word.’

  ‘Good man!’ I left him then and wandered out again. The second dinners would have been served by now and the kitchen staff relaxing after their labours.

  ‘Tired of the fish, are you?’ Master Beasley greeted me with a knowing grin when I came into the kitchen. ‘Still hungry, I suppose.’

  ‘We don’t have all this fasting over in Ireland. Well, yes, Ash Wednesday, Good Friday … not the whole forty days of it.’ I was not, in fact, hungry. The meals at the cardinal’s table were, for a person like myself who liked to play tennis, far too engorging. But I welcomed the opportunity to talk to the cook. The kitchen was a very welcoming place with the three huge fireplaces throwing out warmth and light.