Betrayed, Betrothed and Bedded

For reasons that she kept to herself, Ginny did not respond with the expected level of enthusiasm when, just after New Year in 1540, her father sent a message to say that she was to go to court. Immediately. ‘But I’d really rather not, Mother,’ Ginny said, putting down her basket of herbs on the table. ‘You know I have no wish to get involved with that crowd.’

Her mother rarely raised her voice, but this time she could not contain her annoyance. ‘For pity’s sake, Ginny! Will you but listen, for once? The king has a new wife now.’

‘Another one? Who is it this time?’

‘If you took more interest in your father’s news, you’d know. She is the Lady Anna of Cleves...’

‘Cleves?’ Ginny frowned.

‘In Flanders. A small duchy. The king needs an ally in Europe. It’s a good match, but the king wishes you to go and help with her wardrobe. She’s unfashionable. She needs help with her English, too. She has no music skills. No dancing. No card games. You should be flattered to be asked to help.’

‘Commanded, Mother.’

‘Whatever. And take that basket off the polished table.’

* * *

A week later, Ginny was at Hampton Court Palace, not far from London, with a court that contained Sir Jon Raemon, now aged twenty-seven, widowed, a father, and favourite of King Henry. Favourite of just about everyone except, that was, of Mistress Virginia D’Arvall.

Chapter One

1540

‘Yes, Father,’ Ginny murmured for the fourth time as Sir Walter D’Arvall checked every buckle and strap of the bay gelding’s harness. As the king’s cofferer, he lived his life by lists, weights, and proportions, payments, people and accounts, and his new day had begun even before it checked in over the stable roofs of Hampton Court Palace. Watching her father’s hands roam over the well-stuffed bags and pouches, Ginny caught the eye of the two young grooms who would be her escort, waiting patiently for the inevitable criticism.

It was levelled at her instead. ‘It’s all very well you “Yes, Father”, my girl,’ he said with a last push at the bulging pack behind her saddle. ‘If things start to fall off, you’ll wish you’d listened to me. Now, don’t ride on after nightfall. You two hear me?’ he admonished the grooms. ‘Not a step. Get as far as Elvetham and stay overnight with Sir Edward Seymour’s lady. She’ll look after you. You should make D’Arvall Hall by tomorrow midmorning, with an early start. These days are so short. We could have done without the snow, too.’ Turning his lined face up to the grey sky, he blinked at the flurry of white settling on his eyelids. ‘I don’t suppose it will do much.’ He delved a hand into the leather pouch hanging from his belt and withdrew a folded parchment, passing it to Ginny with the command, ‘Take this to your mother. Keep it safe. In your pouch, close to your person. It’s important.’ A blob of green wax from the office glistened in the pale light.

‘Yes, Father. How important? About the boys, is it?’ Sir Walter was ambitious for his offspring. The message would surely be about her brothers.

‘Not about the boys, no. She’ll tell you. Time to be off, Virginia.’

She wished he might have taken her into his confidence, this once, as he did with Elion and Paul. At almost twenty years old, was it not time he could trust her with a verbal message? If Lady Agnes could tell her, then why could he not?

Not that she minded being back home for a while. Hampton Court Palace was a fine place to stay, even in winter, but the bewildering intrigues of the royal court demanded all one’s skills in diplomacy these days and, even with father and older brothers to lend advice, each day had been a challenge that made her glad of her temporary position. To leave, she had needed only the new queen’s permission, and the gentle Anna of Cleves was as easy to please as anyone could wish. What a pity, Ginny thought, that the lady had found so little favour in the eyes of her cantankerous husband, Henry.

At the back of Ginny’s mind was another reason for wanting to escape, for she had not been flattered by King Henry’s unwanted attentions that, instead of being focused on his fourth wife, were being directed at her in an embarrassing juvenile charade she found difficult to evade. Only a month ago, she had been summoned to go and assist the new Queen Anna, whose taste in the heavy German fashions was fast becoming the source of some comment, not to say amusement and scorn. Unable to see past the costume to the sensitive lady beneath, the king had sent for Ginny to educate and remodel his dowdy twenty-four-year-old bride in the English manner before he himself became a laughing stock. Ginny had found the task much to her liking, forming a friendship with Queen Anna to which their mime language added a piquancy.

But the king had had more than fashion in mind when he’d sent for her, and it was not long before Ginny realised that her father must have been aware of Henry’s interest even then, his easily wandering affections, his ruthless pursuit of passable young maids, his need to be surrounded by admiration, as he had once been. Sadly, Sir Walter’s personal ambition did not allow him to protect his daughter from the royal lust with the same concern he showed over her journey home in the snow on a February morning.

‘Yes, Father. Time to be away,’ she agreed, gathering her skirts for her father’s lift up into the saddle.

‘Allow me, Mistress D’Arvall.’ The deep musical voice behind her caused an uncomfortable flutter of annoyance, for she’d hoped to be away without notice, and now here was the man who had not until this moment offered her more than two words at a time, much less his assistance to mount. Her father was looking smug, as if he’d arranged it.

‘Thank you, Sir Jon,’ she said, taking hold of the stirrup, ‘but I can manage well enough with my father’s help.’

‘You’ll manage even better with me,’ Sir Jon replied. ‘Place your foot on my hands and hold the saddle. There... Up!’ In one effortless hoist, he propelled her upwards so fast that, had she not clung to the pommel, she might have gone over the other side.

Gathering the reins, she looked down on him with tight-lipped irritation, her legs half-bared by the impetus of the movement. ‘I cannot imagine how I managed before,’ she said, suspecting that this impromptu show of interest was more for her father’s sake than hers. Yet in her month at court, Sir Jon Raemon had done nothing to make her days more comfortable. A nod, a slight bow, or an impolite stare had been the sum total of his regard for her, though for others it was quite the opposite.

Too late to hide her legs from his gaze, her father drew Ginny’s skirts into place while she adjusted the other side, rattled by the man’s unwelcome closeness. He had changed since that first meeting when he’d been twenty-four and she a very opinionated sixteen. Now a trim dark beard outlined his square jaw, emulating the king’s own device for concealing fleshy jowls, though Sir Jon’s muscled neck was clearly visible above the white frill of his shirt collar. From above, she saw how closely his hair was cropped, fitting his head like a black velvet bonnet that joined the narrow beard in front of his ears, and the black brows that could lift with either disdain or mirth were now levelled at her, giving back stare for stare. She knew he was laughing at her discomfort, though the wide mouth gave nothing away.

Her father’s smugness had vanished. ‘Mend your manners while you’re at home, Virginia, if you please,’ he said sternly.

That stung. ‘There’s little wrong with my manners, Father, I thank you. Had it not been for all this baggage, I could have managed by myself. I’ve been riding since I was three, remember. Sir Jon is confusing me with those of his friends who like to pretend a little maidenly helplessness. Easily done. They’re thick on the ground here at court, are they not, sir?’

Her horse threw up its head at Sir Jon’s roar of laughter that Ginny usually heard from a safe distance. Close to, she could see the white evenness of his teeth smiling at her prickly retort. ‘Correction, Mistress D’Arvall. I could no more confuse you with another woman than forget my name,’ he said. ‘And that’s the most I’ve heard you speak since you came to court. Even an attempted put-down is better than nothing, I suppose. The manners will come eventually.’

‘Then I hope they’ll never be as selective as yours, Sir Jon,’ she said, easing her mount round to present its wide rump to him. ‘Farewell, Father. We cannot waste any more time.’

‘Virginia! Do you forget who you’re speaking to?’ he scolded, holding the bridle. ‘Sir Jon is—’

‘Yes, I know who Sir Jon is, Father. They’re all the same, these gentlemen of the bedchamber. They rate themselves highly. Too highly.’ Her words were almost lost beneath the hard clatter of hooves on the cobbled yard as she and the two grooms moved off and Sir Walter let go, sliding his hand over the gelding’s back and pulling gently at its tail, fanning it out.

Recently elevated to being one of the king’s gentlemen of the bedchamber, Sir Jon was rather higher up the social ladder than Sir Walter, to whom he showed every respect. A great well-built handsome creature of the kind King Henry liked to have about him, his excellence at jousting, hunting, dancing, and music was well known to all at court, and wherever the king was, there also was Sir Jon Raemon in attendance. But although Ginny had never been short of company or admiration, Sir Jon and she had exchanged no pleasantries or conversation since their first tense meeting at Sandrock Priory, not even when they had met in the dance. Other young women she knew would have rectified that situation within days, but Ginny saw no reason to, and many reasons why she should not. The man had plenty of worshippers and she would not be one of them.

Sir Walter shook his head, sighed and turned back to his friend, whose expression was much less serious and far more admiring, his eyes following the trio out of the gates and along the track that ran alongside the River Thames. In the weak light of early morning, Sir Jon could see only Ginny’s slender figure swathed in furs, riding astride in the manner made fashionable by the king’s second wife. Enclosed by a headdress and hood, her lovely face had been the only part of her visible, except for the brief glimpse of shapely ankles, but he knew from oft-recalled memory how her glorious ash-blonde hair framed her face and could sometimes be seen in a heavy jewelled caul behind her head. He had not exaggerated when he’d said she was impossible to confuse with others. She was, in fact, the most distinctive and desirable woman at court, and if she thought her absence would not be noted, then she was much mistaken.

Well able to understand and even to sympathise with her coldness during her month at court, Sir Jon would entertain no doubts about his ability to bring about a change in her attitude, for their first meeting at Sandrock was still as fresh in his mind as yesterday. She had been caught on the wrong foot even then and had given him back word for word the reproofs he’d offered, just to provoke her, to make her rise to his bait. Sharp-tongued and courageous, she had fenced verbally with him as few women did at court where their flattery and simpering helplessness was, as she had said, thick on the ground. None of them was worth the chase. Since that meeting, however, so much had changed for him, not all of it for the best, and now, although he was sure of her interest while she tried to hide it, the situation would require some careful handling and patience on his part. The lady’s strong opinions were deeply rooted in so many misconceptions that it was hard to see how best to proceed. Only time would tell. Perhaps, he thought as he turned away, a certain firmness of manner might be best, in the circumstances.

* * *

After an overnight stay at Elvetham Hall, where Sir Edward Seymour and his lady lived, Ginny and her escorts reached home just as her father had predicted, even to the weather. His estimates were never far out, for the snow had been no more than a warning flurry that covered the rolling fields like a dusting of flour. The gardens of D’Arvall Hall looked like an embellished chessboard, and fine wreaths of smoke from the tall redbrick chimneys showed her that the servants had been up and about for half a day, and the distant clack of an axe on wood called up the image of wide stone fireplaces with blazing logs, warmed ale and her mother’s welcoming arms. Riding into the courtyard through the wide arch of the gatehouse, they were met by running grooms, shouts of surprised greeting and the sudden bustle of skirts at the porch as Lady Agnes D’Arvall and her ladies emerged with faces both happy and curious, their breath like clouds in the freezing air, puffing with laughter.

Always content to stay at home rather than at court, Lady Agnes D’Arvall was nevertheless eager to hear from her daughter every detail of the life there, unbiased by the accounts of husband and sons. Politics, rivalries and appointments were far less interesting to her than what the ladies were wearing, doing and saying, information that Ginny was soon happy to supply across a white cloth spread with trenchers of warm bread, cheeses, roast pigeon and wild duck, apple-and-plum pie, spiced wine, nuts, and honeyed pears. Good homely fare, Ginny told her mother, that she’d missed at court.

‘What, with all that variety and every day different?’ said Lady Agnes. ‘I doubt your father and brothers miss it so much. I think that’s one of the things that keeps them there.’

From what Ginny had seen and heard in her month of the queen’s service, the main attraction of the court for her older brothers had less to do with food than with women—more varied, more attractive and easily obtained. ‘You know full well what keeps them there,’ Ginny said, closing a hand over her mother’s wrist. ‘Father believes that, with enough of the D’Arvalls in the king’s service, he’ll be in line for promotion. Heaven knows, the king puts people down and sets others up so fast these days, I dare say Father could find himself Lord Steward one day.’

Lady Agnes leaned forwards so that one of the long black-velvet lappets of her headdress flapped onto her bosom. ‘No, I really don’t see that happening. Yes, Sir Walter is ambitious, and I believe the king regards him well, but commoners don’t make leaps of that kind, my dear. Well, apart from Thomas Cromwell, of course. Tell me about the king’s new wife, Queen Anna. Does he like her any better now?’

‘No, Mother. I fear not. He rarely comes near her except at night.’

‘After only a month? Poor lady. Then what? Has he taken a mistress?’

Delivered lightly, the question held more interest than Lady Agnes had intended and her daughter’s ears were quick to detect it. Since King Henry had first noticed Ginny during his brief stay at D’Arvall Hall late last year, Lady Agnes, as ambitious as her husband, had recognised what might result from his mild flirtation, for that was how he had wooed and won his second and third wives, Anne Boleyn and Jane Seymour. His summons to her daughter, just after the New Year wedding to the Lady Anna of Cleves, had been no great surprise to Sir Walter and Lady Agnes, or indeed their sons, even disguised as a temporary position in his bride’s new household. Now the seemingly innocent question about mistresses demanded more than a simple denial when the king’s amorous intentions were rarely simple.

‘Flirtations, Mother,’ Ginny said. ‘That’s all he can do, I think. Several of Queen Anna’s ladies were with Queen Jane before her death, and some go even further back than that. He flirts with most of them. It’s almost expected of him. All the men do it.’ It was a fact of court life. It meant nothing.

But if Sir Walter was ambitious for his sons, his wife was equally ambitious for her daughters, and any suggestion of interest from Henry would raise her expectations sky-high. ‘And you?’ said Lady Agnes gently. ‘He still flirts with you, does he?’

Ginny turned a shelled walnut over and over in her fingers, studying its contours. ‘That’s why I’m glad to get away,’ she replied, aware that her mother’s two ladies were listening to her reply. They had known her since she was a babe. They were also aware of the king’s methods in pursuing women he wanted. ‘I’ve grown to admire Queen Anna,’ said Ginny after a pause. ‘She’s a lovely lady.’

‘Lovely, dear?’ said Lady Agnes. ‘I thought they said she was not.’

The elder of the two ladies interrupted. ‘Men,’ she whispered, angrily. ‘They’ll say black is white if it suits them. Our Good King Henry will do whatever he pleases to get himself out of a situation he doesn’t much like, even slandering a good woman.’

Again, Ginny’s hand came to rest and comfort her mother, understanding that this particular reference was not to the king’s present dilemma, but to his first wife, whose life was made a misery after his affections had changed. She had been much beloved by everyone, unlike his second. Ginny continued, ‘Queen Anna’s only fault is that she didn’t fit in with Henry’s expectations. She’s taller than he thought, for one thing, and Master Holbein’s painting made her look sweet and demure, which she is. But Master Holbein and she could converse in their native German so he was able to see much more of her inner loveliness, and that was what he portrayed. And then there was that awful fiasco at Rochester when she landed and Henry rushed down to surprise her without any warning. That really was the stupidest thing to do. What woman likes to be seen when she’s not looking her best, I ask you?’