The Autobiography of Henry VIII_ With Notes by His Fool, Will Somers - Margaret George [80]
The drawbridge was down. We rode across it into the empty, cobble-stoned courtyard.
I scanned the windows on all three sides of the courtyard. There was no sign of movement behind any of them.
A large grey-and-amber mottled cat appeared from an open side door and sauntered across the courtyard. We stood awkwardly, our horses stamping and moving restlessly back and forth, their hooves making loud noises on the stones. Still no one appeared.
“Compton,” I finally said, “see if Viscount Rochford is at home.” I knew, however, that had he been there, he would long since have appeared in the courtyard, making effusive gestures of welcome. William dismounted and knocked upon the scarred center door. The knocker made a mournful sound, and no one opened the door. He made a gesture of helplessness to me and had started to return to his horse when at length the door creaked open. An old woman looked out. Compton spun around.
“His Majesty the King has come to see Viscount Rochford,” he said, grandly.
The woman looked confused. “But—he did not know—”
I urged my horse forward. “Of course not,” I said. “ ’Twas but an impulse. I was hunting nearby and took a fancy to see the Viscount. Is your master in?”
“No. He—he—went to Groombridge to inspect his tenant cottalcotold him so, and meant it. He showed me his instrument, which he said had been made in Italy, and I duly inspected it.
Lady Boleyn then appeared, and other members of the household. They bustled about and laid a fire, as it would soon be growing dark, and nights in old stone manor houses are damp and cold even in July. But where was Anne? Somehow I could not bring myself to ask.
The sun set, but the light lingered on, as it does in high summer. Boleyn talked to me incessantly, trotting after me like a trained puppy. I did not hear him, and gave noncommittal responses. Still no Anne, and soon we must be gone, or suffer through a long, drawn-out supper laid in our honour.
I passed the small leaded windows along one side of the hall overlooking the tidy Boleyn garden and grounds. The stream which fed their moat trickled through the garden, lined by weeping willows. The wind had risen, as it often does in early evening, whipping about the branches. They were so green they almost glowed, and so thin and whiplike they seemed to writhe like living things.
It was then I saw her, standing by a far willow: a thin figure with long hair that tossed and waved like the branches surrounding her. Anne.
She was wearing green, light green, and her gown billowed in the wind, causing her to sway like the stalk of a flower. She reached out to touch a branch with her hand, and it was the most graceful movement I had ever seen.
I became aware that I had stopped and was staring. Thomas cleared his throat beside me.
“My daughter Anne,” he said. “She is back here with us at home, as the Cardinal sent her from court. It was most unfair—”
“I am sure.” I turned and pushed past him. “I will speak to your daughter myself.” Earlier I had seen the door that opened onto the garden. Now I would avail myself of it.
“Pray do not accompany me,” I said to the trailing Thomas. “I will go alone.”
Before he could protest, I was out in the garden, slamming the door behind me. It clanged and made that peculiar noise which tight-fitting doors do when suddenly closed. In another part of my mind I thought that the Viscount must enjoy a draught-free hall in winter.
But that was in a small part of my mind, and went almost unnoticed. The larger part was straining toward the slim figure in the far end of the garden. Resolutely, I made my way toward her.
She must have heard me approaching, yet she did not turn. She kept her back to me until I was a scant two yards away. The wind had risen and was lifting her skirts in great swirls. She wore no covering, no shawl. Was she not cold? Still she stood, motionless,