A Love Most Dangerous (7 page)

The King tore a huge lump of bread from a loaf and
began to work his way through the tureens. He offered me the choicest pieces;
some I accepted gladly, some I declined. I began to wonder when the King's
other guests would join us.

'Here, Alice,' the King said, carving a slice from one
of the rabbits and placing it on my plate. 'This is quite delicious.' He tore a
little piece of it and fed it to me, wiping the juice from my mouth with the
utmost delicacy. I felt a tiny shiver run through me at his touch.

He returned his attention to his own plate and
continued to chew and chomp, talking all the while about an audience he had
just given to the French ambassador. At that point I realised that no other
guests were coming and that the King was going to steadily work his way through
every dish.

At the end of the meal he belched with loud
satisfaction, groaned a moment and then gave a sigh of satisfaction. Most of
the food on the table had disappeared.

'Will you walk with me in the garden,' he said. 'A
good meal and a spot of exercise are the mother and father of good health.'

'Of course I will walk with you, Your Majesty. I will
be honoured to do so.' In truth I greatly desired to leave the King's Dining
Room. The table looked like a battle field, carnage everywhere.

He pushed himself to his feet, belched again and
plucked up a goblet of wine which he emptied in one swallow.

I rose and stood aside, giving a slight curtsy, not
too low for fear of hurting my over-f stomach. The last thing I felt like
was a walk. I would much rather seek out a couch and lie down upon it.

At that moment there came a knock upon the door and
one of the King's retainers peered in.

'Come, Nicholas,' the King said.

The man entered the room, placing his feet down carefully
as if fearful of stepping in the wrong place. He was in his forties by the look
of him, clean shaven and with curling hair, his face long and with a chin like
a shovel. His nose was also long and seemed to be designed to sniff ahead of
him, compensating, perhaps for his little eyes which were small and crossed and
seemed to be insufficient for their purpose. He was tall and thin with skinny
legs which did not look as though they would readily bear his weight. He had
the look of a heron.

'This is Nicholas Frost, my groom,' the King said to
me.

I bowed slightly.

'This is Alice Petherton, Nicholas.'

Frost smiled bleakly and gave an exaggerated bow. 'The
lady who loves poetry,' he said, inclining his head to one side as if to get a
better view of me.

He knows about me. My mind raced. If a servant knows,
how many others do as well? What had the King said of me? What did this fawning
groom believe?

'I have momentous news, Your Majesty,' he said.

The King blinked and stared at him.

'The Queen is in labour. The physicians and midwives
are in attendance.'

The King stared at the ground a moment, then crossed
his arms across his chest. It looked to me as if was trying to calm his heart.

'Is the Queen well?' he asked in a low tone.

Frost did not answer for a moment but glanced at me. I
say his face compose itself to a more sanguine look.

'She is very well,' he said. 'One of the midwives said
the Queen is joyous at the thought of bringing your son into the world.'

'It is a son, then, Nicholas, it is a son?'

Frost's pale tongue flickered out and wet his lips. He
had said too much and now his eyes goggled, thinking what to say to redeem his
unwise choice of words.

'I am told,' he said, 'by the doctor, that it is still
too early to tell.'

The King laughed and punched Frost on the shoulder,
forcing him to reel back a pace and nearly lose his footing.

'Of course it is too early to tell,' he said. 'What
are you thinking, Frost? Are you seeking a new post as my jester?'

He turned to me and smiled. 'The fool thinks he can
tell whether my child is a girl or a boy when the Queen has only just gone into
labour. Angels save me from foolish servants.'

I turned to Frost. He bore a sickly grin upon his
face. I could barely hide my smile. He saw this and gave me a sour look.

I thought better of making him an enemy and, while the
King was distracted, composed my face into something which might be construed
as resembling sympathy and solidarity. It worked; the sourness faded from
Frost's face. Nevertheless the smile he dealt out was as cold as his name. He
turned once more towards the King who was busy at a mirror, examining himself
with care.

'When will the baby arrive, Frost?' the King asked.
'Though why I am asking you, heaven only knows. I would be wiser to seek out a
milk-maid in the scullery and ask her.'

Frost laughed as if he were thrilled at the King's
sharp wit. 'I am told it will be a long labour, Sire.'

'How long? Two hours, three?'

The groom held out his hands, opening them wide like a
priest who wishes to signify the mystery of God.

'I must go to the Queen,' the King said. 'Now, while
her labour is just beginning.'

He hurried from the room. Frost hurried after him but
paused upon the threshold and glanced back at me. 'You are dismissed,' he said.
'Go back to where you came from.'

According to the word on the corridors the Queen's
labour was proving a long and difficult one. I wasn't surprised. Jane Seymour
wanted everything in life to be ordered and exact, things in their right place
and with tight webs of decorum. Spontaneity was not something she valued,
certainly not something she would have condoned. I wondered what King Henry saw
in her. But it is said that sometimes the most simpering of women are like
tigers beneath the bed-sheets.

Of course, I did not know about love-making, apart
from in theory. Although seventeen years of age and with undoubted good looks I
was still, in truth, a virgin. I did not yet know whether I would prove a tiger
or a turtle beneath the bed-sheets.

I walked across to the little table in my bedroom and
picked up the mirror. The reflection which stared back at me was indeed pretty
and engaging. I was not fool enough, nor proud enough to pretend otherwise. My
looks had been given to me as a gift. There was nothing I could do about this,
nothing I could be proud of either. It was a fact of my existence as much as
that I was a woman and that my name was Alice Petherton.

I held the mirror closer to my face, examining it for
any fault or blemish. I could find none. My skin was clear, my hair shone like
blossom in Maytime, my chin well made, fine and dainty. I peered into my eyes.
They were dark, as dark as the damsons that King Henry had likened them to. A
little smile of self-satisfaction crept over my lips.

That self-satisfaction was soon banished. I felt the
presence before I saw it. I turned and my heart clenched. Philippa Wicks and
Dorothy Bray stood in the doorway of my chamber.

'Preening yourself, Alice,' Philippa said. Her voice
was charged with contempt.

'Looking for blemishes, rather,' I said.

Dorothy Bray smiled at the thought.

'I found none,' I added.

'Then you have not looked enough,' cried Wicks,
hastening into my room. She grabbed the mirror from my grasp and pushed it
close to my face, bending back my nose. I tried to pull away but Bray had leapt
in behind her leader and held my head fast in her fishwife paws.

'You're hurting me,' I cried.

'What are you going to do about it?' Bray's voice came
hot in my ear. 'Go running to the King?'

'Little will any complaint avail you,' said Wicks. 'He
has other things to occupy his mind, like a new Prince.'

I gasped. 'He has a son?'

I felt a sharp slap upon my face. 'Impertinence,'
Wicks cried. 'Hold your tongue or you'll get worse.'

The slap gave me renewed vigour and I managed to shrug
off Bray's hold and knock away the mirror. No doubt the knock was hard but
Wicks allowed the mirror to fly from her hand and smash against the floor. It
shattered into a thousand pieces. She put her hand upon her hip and gloated.

'Now what will you preen yourself in?' she said.

I stared aghast at the broken mirror.

'That belonged to my Grandmother,' I said. 'She died
last year.'

'Then she won't be needing it,' said Bray with a
smirk.

I turned to her, my face white with fury. 'How dare
you,' I said. I was surprised to hear that despite my rage my voice remained
calm and low.

'How dare you speak of my Grandmother in that fashion?
At least I know who my Grandmother was; something which you cannot boast,
Dorothy Bray.'

Bray's face turned hectic red. It was rumoured that
her mother had been born illegitimate.

I turned to Wicks, sensing that the advantage now lay
with me. 'And what do you have to say?' I whispered. 'Do you wish to join your
crony in speaking ill of my poor dead Grandmother?'

She did not reply but her face worked, trying to frame
some answer which would hurt me yet not make her look as despicable as her
friend.

I spoke before she had chance to. 'Then if you have
nothing to say to me you may leave my chamber. I do not recall inviting you
in.'

Wicks turned on her heel and stormed out, followed by
the red-faced Bray.

I sat on my bed, drained and empty. I looked at the
shattered mirror and wondered why these women hated me so much that they would
destroy my most treasured possession.

Then the tears came, hot tears, oozing down my cheeks
like blood from mortal wounds.

CHAPTER NINE

An Heir is Born

12th October 1537

I was woken in the dark of the night by people yelling
and bells clanging. I gasped and reached for my clothes. It must be a fire;
nothing else could cause such alarm.

I struggled into my clothes, too anxious to seek for a
flint to light a candle.

Swift foot steps echoed outside and then the door was
flung open.

'Alice?' came an anxious voice.

'Is that you, Lucy?'

'Yes.' I heard the rustle of clothes and then a warm
body flung itself into my arms. Lucy Meadows was only fifteen years of age and
now she seemed even younger.

'What's happening, Alice?' she asked. 'Is it the
French? Have they stormed the Palace?'

'Don't be so foolish,' I said. 'I think it may be a
fire.'

'Then we shall be burned alive,' Lucy gasped.
'Quickly, we must fly.'

I squeezed her arm to give her courage.

'Hush, Lucy, do not fear, I'll look after you.'

A moment later Susan hurried into the room. She held a
candle in her hand; it was just like her to have thought of lighting one. She
had dressed as swiftly as I had for her clothes were all awry. But her face was
bright with excitement.

'I'd rather it was the French than a fire,' she said.
'Think about those handsome soldiers.'

I glanced outside and saw a light to my left. It was
moving in the air, up and down, up and down, and getting closer all the time.

'Arise, arise,' shouted a voice. 'A son is born, a son
is born.'

Susan and I exchanged glances. Queen Jane had been in
labour now for three days and two nights. We had begun to think that the child
would not be brought alive into the world.

The light grew larger and I saw that it was a torch held
aloft by one of the King's servants.

'A son is born,' he cried as he reached us. 'Arise,
arise and celebrate. The King has a son, an heir.'

He pushed a candle into my hand.

'Go to the chapel to pray for the babe,' he said. He
hurried on his way, chanting at the top of his voice while bells rang out in
wild exultation.

'The Kingdom is saved,' Lucy said. 'The King has an
heir.'

'Let us pray the boy lives,' I said. 'Only his
daughters seem intent on surviving.'

'His bastard, Fitzroy, survived until a youth,' Susan
said.

'The Kingdom needs more than a bastard youth who gives
up the ghost at seventeen,' I said. I regretted saying these words the moment
they left my mouth. Fortunately, nobody seemed to have heard.

'It's a miracle Jane Seymour has produced a son,'
Susan said. 'She is dry and bitter as a quince.'

'Susan Dunster,' I exclaimed, in a shocked tone. 'How
can you say such a thing?' Then I giggled and pinched her arm playfully.

'I say what everyone of us is thinking,' she said.
'You included.' She paused. 'How do you think the King will react?'

'How should I know?'

Susan touched me upon the arm. 'You know why I think
this, Alice.'