The Mer- Lion (33 page)

What Henry thought was both unspeakable and unprintable. But if thought could kill, Lady Rochford, de Wynter, and the horse would find themselves all in a common grave.

Anne continued to lean against him, her pelvis moving slowly to and fro, so daringly in public only because she was sure the court couldn't see. He stifled a groan; he was beginning to respond. Although the thick padding of his codpiece would prevent disclosure, inspecting the palace was going to be damned uncomfortable with one of his members swollen by gout, the other by lust.

"Tonight, Anne?" he begged.

"We'll see," she replied demurely. "Now, show me this magnificent Great Hall you are a-building," she commanded. Henry, proud builder that he was, was happy to oblige. With his Anne clinging to his arm, they made their way slowly—to allow for his sore foot— across the lush green turf toward the inner gatehouse. Anne looked up to check the time and stopped, shocked. There, below the oriel windows, below the astrological clock, below the bell which antedated Wolsey, was an undeniable reminder of the former owner. Defaced, but still recognizable, were Wolsey's arms in terra-cotta affixed to an archepiscopal cross, surmounted by a likeness of his red hat and supported by putti.

"Sire, I thought you intended replacing those?"

"What, the medallions? Never. I have always had a fondness for those roundels with their royal heads."

She thought him teasing her but was not absolutely sure. "Nay, not those. They are magnificent, especially the one of Augustus. It reminds me much of another wise king, I know." Her flattery, although obvious, was most pleasing. "Nay, sire, I refer to the panel above the gateway."

Although he knew well what she meant, he pretended ignorance, drawing her instead closer to the gatehouse and squinting up to where she pointed. "Oh, that. Yes, yes, indeed, I see what you mean. That does mar the facade, indeed. Yes, those arms should be replaced. But by whose? Mine are already in place on the outer gatehouse. By all rights, there should go the arms of the Queen of England. What do you think?" He studied her carefully, but Anne Boleyn's face was as well-schooled as that of any courtier, maybe better. Not by a quiver of her chin or a twitch of the cheek did she show that she seethed within. How dare he think that? Catherine of Aragon's arms up there? Never. Better to keep Wolsey's own than those of that Spanish prune. Even as she forced a smile to her lips,
that she let him think hers were words of passion rather than ambition. So pleased was he with those meager crumbs from her, that he too made a decision. "Then, my dear, in honor of her whose arms.shall soon go up there, we'll call this the Anne Boleyn Gateway." At her real surprise and expression of genuine delight, Henry grew more pleased with himself. Let de Wynter equal that, he thought.

Restored to a good mood, he placed her arm on his and led her within the gateway and under its vaulted fan roof. Then, leaning himself on the sturdy arm of his chamberlain, he mounted the stairs leading to the source of all the hammering, the Great Hall. As the court entered, chattering gaily, the noise ceased and the workmen perching on scaffolds a full fifty feet above them peered down curiously at a court staring up at them. John Molton, the Master Mason, sensed the silence, turned from arguing with an ill-dressed workman at the other end of the hall, 106 feet away, and trotted forward to greet his king fearfully. The workman followed behind.

Milton showed the king the progress made since last Henry had visited, the workman doggedly following after. Henry was in a good mood and was generous with his approbation. He approved the hammer beam roof going up, arch by richly carved oaken arch. The intricate Italianate foliage on the last beam was examined carefully and pronounced perfect; the workman still hovered nearby. The designs for the stained-glass windows were reviewed, the frames standing by ready to be lifted high within the brick walls: the workman scuffled his feet and waited patiently to one side. Then Molton led the-way to his
piece de resistance,
a sheet-sheltered structure twice a man's height. Flamboyantly, he tugged at the covering, and the sheet slid off to a chorus of admiring gasps to reveal a close crown atop a vane held by a great crowned lion, standing in the midst of painted and gilded vanes borne by fantastic carved beasts. Henry's jaw dropped, his mouth gaped.

Here in this louver for the central smoke vent had he found a crown worthy of his Great Hall. Like a child with a New Year's present, he must examine every detail, limping about the six-sided structure, fingering first a massive-maned lion tall as he
...
fierce dragon with tail lashing
...
sleek, snarling greyhound. Two by two the beasts stood at the comers of this hexagon, their immense size
making the gilded vanes they bore seem ethereal. Finally, he stood back and nodded. "Well done, man."

The master builder gloated; such a work must be worth a large reward. The workman, hat in hand, cleared his throat and finding his voice spoke up. "Tain't been paid for, begging the king's pardon. I'll have me wages now, if n it please Your Majesty."

The king limped over to where the workman stood his ground. The king's hearty clap on his shoulder shook the man a bit, but though he wavered, he stood firm. "You did that? My God, man, you impress us. But we should have known. Takes an Englishman to bring a beast alive. We sit at your feet in amazement." The man was dumbfounded. Never had he stood so close to royalty, and now to be talked to and treated like an equal, no, like a superior. He bowed his head in embarrassment, but Henry was not finished with him. "You give us an idea. Needham designed us a good roof, a great roof, but it lacks something. A touch of color, some light. There and there and mere." Hundreds of heads craned to see where the king pointed, nodding sage confirmation of the king's great taste. "You will carve me lanterns, pendants to stand under each hammer beam
...
and others for the arches above."

"And my pay?" the man put forward hesitandy.

The king roared approval. "Just like one of our Englishmen. We talk of art, he of pounds and pence. Name your price, man; the king does not quibble."

Molton and the Lord Steward exchanged glances. It was up to the former to stall off payment while the Lord Steward of the Household, the Master of the Green Cloth, must find the funds to finally pay for each of the king's follies or favors.

Swallowing hard, the carver named his price.

"Agreed," said the monarch jovially. "Start work immediately. We should like to see samples of each by the end of the week."

"This week?" the man squeaked in dismay.

"Not enough time? Then"—the king fingered his upper hp in thought—"make it one this week, the other next. Now, don't just stand there man, hop to it."

Dismissed, Richard Rydge of London fled the scene, thoughts of his impossible deadline driving everything else from his mind, including the sums he was owed.

The king and his court moved on in royal inspection. Through the Great Hall to the annex at the east end, where foods would be served to the high table. Then down the stairs to the Serving Place where dishes would be received and inspected by the Chief Larderer, then passed on to the Chief Server. Onward they went to inspect the Great Kitchen in line with Wolsey's own, which had proved inadequate, although the cardinal's household had numbered over five hundred.

Under the Great Hall the king went to inspect his new beer cellar. A vast place it was, especially empty, twice the size of Wolsey's cellars, which had proved not nearly ample enough to store the household's daily beer ration. Take, for example, the maids of honor, who each received three gallons daily. One gallon both at breakfast and mid-day's dinner, half a gallon in the afternoon, and the last half at supper when she would also be served from the King's pitchers of wine. These were dispensed from the brick-vaulted crypt under the new Great Watching Chamber beyond the Great Hall. Here the Yeomen of the Guard were stationed overlooking the Kitchen Court and beyond that Wolsey's Chapel, which Henry was redoing, its ceiling being too plain for his taste, not at all indicative of heaven.

While the king made his leisurely inspection, another at Hampton Court Palace had been quite busy. The Scots Herald had continued backing his horse a bit farther, fuming the whole while. He had not missed any of the byplay
...
either between Anne and Jane Rochford, or Anne and her king when she dismounted. The girl, he decided, was a born vixen. Imagine showing such power over a man in broad daylight. De Wynter was no prude, but he was prudent. And she had been decidedly imprudent. As for Jane Rochford, Anne obviously thrived on other people's troubles. If they did not make enough on their own, she'd make some for them. Ordinarily, he would have avoided this kind of woman; he had no desire to court death. But with Anne, he found himself determined to win control over her and to force her to pay attention only to him.

His immediate concern was for tonight; he would indeed have all of her attention as he introduced an imaginary dance done to yet-to-be composed music for a poem of which he had never heard. Fervently, he
prayed that that learned man, Wolsey, had had a library and that it was still intact. Not likely since the king had been industriously tearing down and building up much of Wolsey's famed "Happy Hampton," the massive pink brick palace whose fretwork of chimneys silhouetted against the sky rivaled Fontainebleau. But, if there were a library, wise Wolsey would have had copies of any and everything this vainglorious king'd ever writ. The task then: to select a poem, compose music to it, improvise some sort of believable dance to accompany it—by tonight. De Wynter feared the French Ambassador would not be pleased when he heard the reports of tonight's doings, but there was no choice in the matter.

Unfortunately for de Wynter's plans, Henry had indeed altered Wolsey's personal apartments to the south and east of Clock Court. Only one remained, a room lined high as the hand could reach with linen-fold oak paneling; above that with magnificent Italianate paintings of me Passion of the Lord; above that with a frieze of Wolsey's motto
"Dominus Michi Adjutor"
repeated over and over again; and above the frieze an ornate gesso ceiling alternating a Tudor Rose and the feathers of the Prince of Wales as centerpiece of each blue and red and gilt panel. The room was exquisite.

"We stored most of the manuscripts and books here, milord, those that the king didn't have put in his own writing closet. But His Majesty had it in mind to redo this room too, so everything was moved."

"Elsewhere in the palace?"

"I really couldn't say. But I doubt it. His Majesty's a great one' for moving things from one palace to another."

Discouraged, de Wynter sought out his own quarters. As was typical of vagabond courts, his room was almost as hard to find as the nonexistent library. There, however, he hoped to find Fionn and devise some plan for the evening. To find Fionn, first he must track down the offices of the Lord Chamberlain of the Household, who had the ordering of quarters for more than a thousand men and. women this day.

As was the case with everything at court, the assigning of quarters was done by order of precedence. As a Scots earl, de Wynter entertained no illusions as to his ranking at court. The understeward
checked several lists before determining that de Wynter was quartered with the bachelor knights in the north range of the Great Gate House. Beyond that, the understeward could be of no help.

By trial and error and much questioning, he finally found his room—as he'd expected undesirably on an upper floor. However, by virtue of Hampton Court's having so many single rooms and his position as Scots Herald Ross to Margaret Tudor, he had it all to himself. The room was large, but devoid of all furniture except the bed.

Fionn was already there, having been assisted in his searching by many a helpful linen maid impressed by his size and very interested in where he might reside while the court was at table or busy for the evening. He had just begun unpacking.

"Best stop right there, we may not be staying the night," de Wynter said

"No luck?"

"None. Not unless we can find a way to search the king's own writing closet." The prospect did not faze Fionn, who held the king in lower repute than he did his Scottish Majesty.

"A note came for you." Fionn's voice was carefully noncommittal.

De Wynter arched an eyebrow in surprise, bom at the news and the tone of Fionn's voice. He took the note without comment.

Puzzled, de Wynter studied the note. "Did you read it, Fionn?"

The young man laughed. "Nay, I have trouble enough reading Scots without taking on any foreign tongues."

De Wynter read it to him:

The Right Honorable the Earl of Seaforth, The King's Most Excellent Majesty has graciously given his Imperial consent to your Lordship's presentation of His Imperial Majesty's music tonight following the masque.

The Lady Anne Boleyn

Penned across the bottom of the note, as if an afterthought, in a round childish hand identical to the signature was
"C'est
Bon
!"
"What do you make of it?"

Fionn shrugged. The message seemed very straightforward to
him, but he humored de Wynter. "That you're to do your dance tonight after the masque."

"But I already knew that. And she knows I knew. Why take a risk that the king find her sending me notes for such a purpose, unless
...
C'est Bon!"
He worried the phrase upon his tongue. "Of course, that's it! Continue unpacking, Fionn, and see if you can work your wiles on one of the linen maids to iron the tabard bearing the arms of Scotland's queen. I go to borrow a lute, steal a song, and invent an entertainment."