Читать книгу Mary, Bloody Mary - Carolyn Meyer - Страница 13
ОглавлениеFollowing my betrothal to Francis, I was relieved, for the first time, to leave my father and return to Ludlow. But suddenly there was another change of domicile. My father did not even bother to write; Wolsey sent the message that I was to move to Richmond Palace. I did not understand why. Nevertheless, I was glad.
Richmond was quite beautiful, with a great tower and fourteen slim turrets, dozens of state apartments, and two chapels royal. It was surrounded by vast acres of forestland and deer parks. Best of all, Richmond was close to London, only a few hours’ journey by barge upriver from Greenwich.
I settled in quickly at Richmond. One early summer evening soon after I arrived there, I set out to explore the grounds with my favourite attendant, Lady Susan. Only with Susan, of all my ladies, did I feel the stirrings of true friendship. Susan, with her halo of flame-red hair, was clever and adventurous. She was the daughter of the duke of Norfolk, one of my father’s closest advisers. But there was something more: Susan was the cousin of Anne Boleyn. For the past two months, ever since the masque, I had thought often of the way my father had looked at Lady Anne as we danced. Their image sent a shiver of danger through me. And though I felt drawn to Susan, something told me not to ask her about this dramatic cousin — at least, not yet.
As Susan and I walked, we came upon a tall, thin lad who carried a small living thing cupped in his hands. I told him to show me what he had. He opened his hands carefully to reveal a hawk, newly hatched and quaking with fright.
“Who are you?” I asked the lad.
“Peter Cheseman,” he said. “My father is assistant to the royal falconer” he added, a note of pride in his voice.
“And that bird you hold?” I asked. “Has it a name as well.?”
“No, madam. It’s no good, this one,” he explained. “See, she is injured. My father says it is worthless to try to train her. But I mean to prove him wrong.”
“And so you shall,” I told him boldly, although I had not the least idea how a lowborn boy like Peter had any better chance than I, a princess, did of proving a father wrong.
Lady Susan took a particular interest in the injured bird, and thereafter she and I found excuses to visit it as often as I could escape from Master Vives and my studies. One day we arrived to discover Peter in a state of distress.
“Cat got her” he blurted out. “My fault altogether.”
“It was not your fault, Peter!” Lady Susan insisted. “I’m sure you did all you could. Had it not been for the cat, I’m sure your effort would have made her a fine hunter!”
Peter looked at Susan gratefully, and I wished that I had been the one to offer him such reassurance.
Towards the end of summer the hawks finished their moult, new feathers replacing the old ones, and became active hunters again. Nearly every day when my lessons were finished, I began going out with Lady Susan to the mews where the hawks were kept. We watched as Peter and his father trained peregrine falcons, kestrels, and merlins in the hunting of birds and small game.
One afternoon we found Peter in the weathering yard, coaxing a young hawk to fly from its perch to his fist. When finally the bird spread its wings and glided to Peters gloved fist, clutching it with its curved talons, Peter rewarded the bird with a titbit of meat.
“Soon this one will be ready to fly in the open,” he said. Peter smiled — a lovely smile, I thought. “And then she’ll be ready to hunt.”
Peter explained the lessons that the bird must learn: first, to sit by its captured prey but not devour it; once that has been mastered, to fly with its kill to the falconer’s fist. “No one needs to teach her to hunt — that she’s born knowing,” he said, tenderly stroking the hawk’s feathers. “Teaching her to trust you, there’s the hard part,” Peter said. “It’s no good teaching her to kill for you if she goes off with her quarry and sits in a tree somewhere.”
I left the yard and hurried directly to Salisbury. “I wish to study the art of falconry,” I announced. I argued that my father hunted with falcons and that my mother, too, used to ride out with the king, a merlin perched upon her gloved fist. Salisbury wrote to Queen Catherine, who sent her approval with a gift of silver bells to be attached to the bird’s leg and a soft leather hood to cover the bird when it was being carried to the hunt. When the gifts arrived, I rushed to the mews to show the bells and hood to Peter.
“Now,” he said, “we must find you a hawk, and you’ll learn together.”
Peter trapped a young hawk, a merlin with eyes the colour of marigolds, and we began to train her. This was to be my bird. “It’s the females that are wanted,” he told me, because they’re bigger and stronger than the males.” I named the merlin Noisette, the French word for “hazelnut” because of her lovely colour.
“Have to get her used to her new life among people, people who walk about or who ride horses,” Peter said. “It must be a strange thing for birds, eh? And always there’s to be a reward for her. If you don’t give her a reward, she won’t work for you. You can’t force her to hunt for you — she’ll fly away and never come back. But you must not reward her too much. When her crop is full and she has no appetite, then she won’t hunt for you. She’ll do best when she’s a bit lean — not starving, mind, but beginning to think keenly of her next meal — that’s when you take her out. If you’ve trained her right, she’ll come back to you when you whistle.”
It took me days to learn the particular whistle that would bring Noisette to my glove. Once I made the mistake of practising the three quick notes when I was supposed to be studying Latin grammar, and Master Vives bashed his walking stick so hard on my desk that the silver fox head was thereafter cocked at a quizzical angle.
FINALLY NOISETTE and I were ready. Mounted on my white Spanish pony, I squinted up at the brilliant sky. On my left hand I wore my leather glove, thick enough to resist the talons of a hawk. High overhead Noisette swung lazily as though suspended by a string. I could make out the shape of her graceful wings as a dark blur against the cloudless blue sky.
Several of my ladies had ridden out with me. All but Lady Susan straggled behind, gossiping and laughing among themselves, while Susan and I trotted on ahead. Beside us rode the pompous Lord Ellington, the royal falconer. I leaned back in my saddle, searching for Peter. He saw me and grinned.
I had become fond of Peter during the weeks of training. He had big ears and his eyes were set too close together. Unlike my weak eyes that could see next to nothing at a distance, Peter’s seemed to be as been as those of the hawks he worked with. I much admired his way with birds. He was patient and firm, unlike Master Vives, who was neither.
I took such pleasure in Peter’s company that I had sometimes wondered if it might be possible to marry him. He would surely make a fine companion, and he would let me rule England just as he let me do whatever else I wanted. But I knew that was impossible. I could no more choose my own husband than fly like Noisette.
Noisette circled slowly overhead. I gazed up at her, thrilled; for a moment I imagined that I was that merlin, flying free and wild and solitary — alone! I was never alone. Salisbury slept beside my bed and two servant girls lay on pallets near the door to my chamber. From the moment I arose in the morning until I said amen to my nightly prayers, I moved through the day surrounded by servants, courtiers, councillors, priests and confessors, tutors, ladies-in-waiting.
Suddenly Noisette spotted her prey. She tucked in her wings and dived, dropping straight down and snatching a lark out of the air. Not only did I envy Noisette's freedom and her solitude but also her deadly power. I whistled, and Noisette came to my fist with the lark clutched in her talons. The falconer reached for the lark and slipped it into the game bag. I presented Noisette with her reward, a bit of meat from the falconer’s supply.
Riding home at the end of the day, my game bag half-full, I wondered if my father knew I was learning one of his favourite sports. I thought of my father far more often, it seemed, than he thought of me. Although my mother wrote nearly every week, it had been months since I had had so much as a word from the king. Any message he had for me was sent through Wolsey.
“Why does he not come to visit me?” I asked Susan days later as she accompanied me for a walk. The weather had turned foul, and Susan was the only one of my ladies who did not mind going out in the rain. “Deer hunting is one of his favourite pastimes and the deer parks here exist for his pleasure. Why then do I hear nothing from him?”
“They say that the king has taken up falconry again,” Susan replied cryptically, pulling her cloak up over her head.
“Then he could come and hunt with me! He could bring my mother as well. Why does he not bring the queen here, so that I may see them both?”
“His hunting companion is not the queen,” Susan said in a voice so low that I scarcely heard it. “It is my cousin Anne Boleyn.”
Her words took away my breath. “Lady Anne? But why?”
“It is said that the king is in love with Anne,” Susan replied, head down, avoiding my eyes.
“What lies are you telling me?” I demanded furiously.
“Sadly, madam, it is the truth. The king makes no secret of his passion. My father speaks of it proudly: King Henry is seen everywhere with Lady Anne by his side. Queen Catherine appears with him only at large public occasions.”
“I don’t believe you!” I cried. I turned and splashed back to my chambers through the pelting rain, leaving Lady Susan to walk a little way behind.
As a servant girl helped me off with my wet cloak and sodden shoes, I spied the letter on my table. It bore the thick wax seal of Cardinal Wolsey. His letters seldom brought me good news — was I to move again? — and so I waited until I had changed into dry clothes to break the seal and read the letter.
It bore a message from the king, commanding me to come to Greenwich for Yuletide. At last I had been invited to the palace, to spend Christmas with my father and mother. My mood lifted at once. But then a darker shadow passed over: Anne Boleyn would surely be there.
I remembered well the way my father had looked at Anne as we danced for the French king. And now Lady Susan claimed that my father was in love with Anne! I vowed that I would not believe these hurtful rumours until I saw proof with my own eyes. I would have that opportunity at Yuletide, still several weeks away.
