A Love Most Dangerous (16 page)

He poured some wine for me and as he did so he said,
'What is that you are holding, Alice?'

I took a deep breath. There was no going back now.

'It is for you, Your Grace. It is my New Year gift to
you.'

He did not answer for a moment and I thought that I
might vomit.

Then he smiled.

'Is it indeed?' he said. 'Let me have it then.' He
held out his hand and I passed the parcel to him.

'Let's hope that I look upon it more fondly than I
looked upon the gift Thomas Boleyn proffered,' he said.

I gave a sick smile. I dared not speak.

Slowly the King unwrapped the parcel. He held up the
shirt and shook it so that its creases fell out. I realised I was holding my
breath and exhaled as slowly and as quietly as I was able.

He turned to me and beamed. 'It's lovely, Alice. A shirt. But also rather like a night shirt.'

I lowered my head bashfully.

'Did you make it yourself?'

'I did, Your Grace. I wanted it to be from me to you
as a personal gift, and what better way to ensure that than to make the shirt
myself.'

He nodded and put the shirt upon the table.

'I like it, Alice and I shall wear it. I shall wear it
on Twelfth Night in fact.'

He put his finger to his lips and looked about the
room as if puzzled. 'Now how might I equal such a kindly gift?'

He chuckled and reached out for a little cloth which I
had not noticed upon the table.

Beneath it was a necklace made of gold with jewels and
pearls hanging from it. He leaned over and placed it around my neck. 'Beauty
for beauty, sweets for my sweet.'

I blinked in astonishment. I had never touched
anything so beautiful. Nor so costly and extravagant.

'I cannot believe you have given me this,' I said.

It was true. I was so shocked by his gift that I found
myself speaking the truth.

'But why not?' he asked. 'I am the King.'

'I know. But it is such a wonderful gift. I do not
deserve it.'

The King laughed quietly and shook his head as if in
wonder.

'You can surprise me yet, Alice Petherton. You speak
your mind, you are honest with your Sovereign. That is why I like you so much.
And that is why you must accept this gift.'

'I do, Your Grace, I do. Please don't misunderstand
me. I'm astonished, that is all.'

'And in that I like you also.' He leaned towards me.
'It is a fair gift for a fair woman. And one who has delighted me more than any
other woman I have known.'

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Sleeping King, Wakeful Servant

6th January 1538

You would have thought that the twelve long feast days
of Christmas could be exhausting. You would be right. They were particularly
exhausting when, like me, you had spent almost every waking day playing close
attention to King Henry's needs. And a good many of those hours involved lying
beneath or on top of him, trying in vain to quench his torrent of love.

At such times I wondered how Jane Seymour had
performed in bed. Plain Jane with her little pointy chin and snuffing nose.
Plain Jane with her tiny mouth pursed as if she were sucking lemons. Plain Jane
with her eyes as bovine as a cow. But a cow who yearned for the bull so much
she'd trample all the herd to gain him.

How could such a demure and ghost-like creature ever
have satisfied the King's vast appetite? Did she lie inert so that he could
fulminate his lust without the need to engage another person? Or was she,
instead, the very demon of the bedroom? Did there roam beneath that pale and
placid exterior a hell-cat of hot desire who startled even the King in her tricks
and teases? Was she a wanton who would willingly abandon herself to his every
want and whim?

Was I?

I turned to look at him now. He was still asleep, the
back of his hand lying upon his forehead as if he was struggling to remember
something. Or readying himself to ward off some sudden attack.

The first light of morning was peeping through the
window. A little shaft of sunlight fell upon the King's face. It looked
different in sleep.

When awake his face was square and strong as if it had
been made by a blacksmith. His nose was big, the beak of a bird of prey, yet
beneath it a mouth surprisingly small in such a large face. But it was his eyes
which people noticed most.

His eyes looked half asleep yet watchful, as if
doubting and distrustful of everyone who approached him. Wary eyes, weary eyes.
Sardonic, calculating and cruel eyes. Eyes which could unman the bravest heart
with a glance.

But in sleep the King was different. The sunbeam
seemed to caress him now, as if it were a gentle mother soothing a petulant
child. His face lost all its granite, all its grandeur. Without that fierce
mind to sculpt them his features took back a gentler look. A dreamer, an
enthusiast, a soul keen to please.

I realised then why Catherine of Aragon, a woman of
maturity, fell in love with her ardent boy. And why she'd been so dreadfully
desperate to keep him even though she knew he no longer loved her.

He stirred in his sleep, lost in some private dream.
This must be the only time he was private I realised. At every other time he
was on show, with gentlemen to dress him, courtiers to flatter him, politicians
to try to play him. He rarely ate alone and even then his servants stood
watching. He never walked alone, for guards always paced close by and he
usually had an ambassador or great lord beside him. Perhaps only in prayer was
he truly alone, and even then he was in converse with a God. A God who he now
seemed to believe was like some distant cousin or uncle.

With Nicholas Frost, his groom, he seemed most at
ease.

No, not most.

He seemed most at ease with me. Despite the frantic
lust that gripped him, despite the even more frantic coupling, I sensed he was
at peace with me. And when we had finished making love he would lie back and
sigh, like a child who had finished every last morsel of pudding, to his own
great amazement. And then he would turn to me and a loving smile would play
about his lips and he would reach out for me and silently squeeze my hand.

That was when I felt most close to him. When I felt
safest. And most afraid.

I rose from the bed without waking the King and took
myself to the little privy. How grand it was not to have to use a chamber pot
or go to the public privy and sit and talk with thirteen others. I would have a
bath this morning, I thought. The King's bath chamber was the thing which I
marvelled at most in all of Hampton Court. It was a fairy land of pleasure,
with hot water, steam and soft and yielding towels.

I washed my hands and hummed to myself a song which
kept echoing in my mind. I did not know it's name nor all the words but it was
a pretty tune and it made me feel light in heart. I replaced the soft towel on
the rack and stepped out into the bed chamber. I almost screamed in shock.

Nicholas Frost was standing in the doorway. He appraised
me for the briefest moment while I hastened to cover my breasts and private
parts with my hands. He cast his eyes downward in a humble manner although I
saw that he had feasted them upon me in that twinkling.

'I beg your pardon, madam. But the Lord Privy Seal
desires to speak with you. At your earliest convenience.' He turned to go and
then paused. 'My advice would be to go immediately,' he said.

Thomas Cromwell, Lord Privy Seal. What on earth could
he want with me?

I knocked upon the door. It was great pity that I had
been summoned at this time. The Twelfth Night feast was due to start at noon.

I heard a voice calling to me to enter.

The January sun made no impression on the shadowiness
of the room, I doubt even the midsummer sun would have been allowed to do so. A
small fire burnt in the grate but it seemed to cast little light and less
warmth. I gazed around, my eyes struggling with the dimness of the chamber,
searching for the whereabouts of the man who had commanded me to enter.

'Come child,' came a voice in front of me. 'I will not
eat you.'

My eyes focused on the direction of the sound.

Sitting behind a desk, as immobile as that piece of
furniture, was the Lord Privy Seal.

As my eyes got used to the dimness his appearance solidified
from out of the shadows; he seemed to coalesce, as if from stuff of rumour, and
settled into the palpable figure before me.

He was dressed in a coat of very dark green, darker
even than the wall behind him, darker than the oak chair upon which he sat. A
tight dark hat was pressed upon his head and beneath it he wore his hair well
cut, like a younger gentleman might, although the black was tinged with silver.

He gestured to me to come closer, his thick hand
adorned with a single ring set with an immense green stone.

I approached the desk and he pointed to a chair in
front of it.

I sat, pretending to keep my face low to the ground.
But my eyes flicked up in order to see what manner of man was Thomas Cromwell.
He was in his late middle age with a face as broad and pale as a haunch of
pork. His nose was sharp and questing, the nose a little hunting dog might
choose for itself if it were to become a human. His mouth was small and
well-formed, the furrows above it the exact mirror of the cleft upon his chin.

But it was his eyes which held me. Beneath eyebrows
perpetually raised in question and doubt, deep eye-sockets cradled eyes as
small as a bird's, as piercing as a knife. They were black like coals and
burned brighter than a flame. His eyes watched me now, gimlet sharp, as
immobile as those of a cat waiting on a mouse desperate to make a run for
safety.

'You are Alice Petherton,' he said.

His voice was like a river of honey cascading over
stones. I felt the hairs on the back of my neck rise at the sound of it. Soft
as balm, cruel as a scourge.

Raw power beat down upon me and I wondered whether
this came from the man himself or from his authority and the rumour of his
malice.

'I am Alice Petherton, my Lord.'

He cradled his fingers and rested his chin upon them,
staring at me with eyes which he must have trained not to blink. Little wonder
they call him the King's Basilisk.

He gave a little sigh and picked up a document as
though it were one he had been long studying and was suddenly wearied by.

'I am led to believe,' he said, 'that you are His
Majesty's current favourite.'

I nodded. 'We read poetry together and go for little
walks when the weather is clement.'

He gave a sudden smile, one that seemed made up of
pure pleasure and good-humour.

'You read poetry and go for walks? How pleasant for
the King, how fine a solace for him in his bereavement and grief.'

He poured himself a cup of wine and part way through
darted a glance at me.

'And when the weather is not clement? How do you
entertain the King then?'

My lips lost all their moisture. I was desperate to
wet them but something warned me to keep my tongue within my mouth. Better
Cromwell did not see the organ which had so enthralled His Majesty.

'He finds my presence a comfort, my lord,' I said.

Cromwell nodded. 'I'm sure he does, Alice Petherton.'
His eyes examined me as though I were a document he suspected of being a
forgery. Or a piece of meat he had a mind to eat but feared might hide some
rottenness inside.

He wiped his lips with his finger tips, as if there
were some crumbs of food hanging there and irritating. His tiny eyes narrowed
until they seemed little bigger than fireflies above a stagnant pool.

'I suppose not one of His Majesty's subjects would
begrudge him taking comfort from someone as beautiful and alluring as you,' he
said. 'A grieving heart can find solace in a heaving chest.' His eyes moved to
stare at my bosom.

'If I can help His Grace to find solace in any way
then I count it a duty well-fulfilled.' I looked into his eyes, making my glance
full and open.

Thomas Cromwell smiled. 'And what would your father
feel if he knew that you were whoring yourself in the King's bed?'

'I am not a whore, my Lord.'

'And I say you are. I say you most definitely are.'

His eyes had flashed open suddenly. Their colour
seemed to change from black to green, wild as a tom cat's when it was readying
itself to fight. I knew that I dare not argue with him, for to do so would risk
my doom. Yet I also knew with a dread certainty, that I could not afford to
acquiesce too swiftly. This was a man who was used to people surrendering to
him. I knew that I had to be different, if only for a moment. It was a tactic I
had used with the King and I prayed that it would work as well with his
servant.

'I am not a whore,' I repeated. 'A whore charges for
her labours. I do not.'