Книга - Betrayed, Betrothed and Bedded

Betrayed, Betrothed and Bedded
Juliet Landon


THE GAME OF LOVE IS A DANGEROUS ONE IN THE COURT OF HENRY VIII…Betrayed by an ambitious father, forcibly betrothed to the handsome yet enigmatic Sir Jon Raemon, and soon to be bedded by the covetous King Henry, Virginia D’Arvall is the female pawn in a masculine game of desire, power and lust.Ginny is determined to keep her honour, but in these dangerous courtly games she will need to have her wits about her like never before. Will she realise that in Sir Jon she might just have all the love and protection she needs to survive?







THE GAME OF LOVE IS A DANGEROUS ONE IN THE COURT OF HENRY VIII…

Betrayed by an ambitious father, forcibly betrothed to the handsome yet enigmatic Sir Jon Raemon and soon to be bedded by the covetous King Henry, Virginia D’Arvall is the female pawn in a masculine game of desire, power and lust.

Ginny is determined to keep her honor, but in these dangerous courtly games, she will need to have her wits about her like never before. Will she realize that in Sir Jon she may just have all the love and protection she needs to survive?


‘So you don’t see it as an honour to be the King’s mistress? Many women would.’

‘His Majesty has a new wife,’ Ginny said, ‘of whom I am fond, sir. I would be shamed, not honoured. You, apparently, see things differently. You stand to gain.’

Sir Jon’s reply was not quite what she’d expected. ‘Believe it or not, mistress, I am not as eager as you seem to think to propel you with all haste into the King’s bed. I can manage without his rewards. So tell me,’ he continued, ‘is there someone else?’

Here was the perfect opportunity, Ginny thought, to invent some mysterious and handsome lover to whom she had given her heart, to show Sir Jon she could play the dalliance game as well as he. But for the life of her she could not do it, and the chance slipped away before she could make the slightest dent in his arrogance.

‘No,’ she whispered, looking at the gold aglets on his sleeve. ‘There’s no one.’

He lifted her chin to make her eyes meet his. But the shadows were deep and there was little for him to recognise except the blaze of hostility of which he already knew.


Praise for Juliet Landon:

‘Landon’s novel is charming, romantic and historically accurate; it’s a feast for the history-lover.’

—RT Book Reviews on

SCANDALOUS INNOCENT

‘Landon’s understanding of the social mores and language of the era flow through the pages of this sweet novel that gives a huge nod to Jane Austen…will please Regency aficionados.’

—RT Book Reviews on

THE RAKE’S UNCONVENTIONAL MISTRESS

‘Landon has written a titillating and entertaining battle of the sexes, one in which readers cannot help but take sides—both of them.’

—RT Book Reviews on

HIS DUTY, HER DESTINY


Betrayed, Betrothed and Bedded

Juliet Landon




www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


JULIET LANDON’s keen interest in art and history, both of which she used to teach, combined with a fertile imagination, make writing historical novels a favourite occupation. She is particularly interested in researching the early medieval and Regency periods, and the problems encountered by women in a man’s world. Her heart’s home is in her native North Yorkshire, but now she lives happily in a Hampshire village close to her family. Her first books, which were on embroidery and design, were published under her own name of Jan Messent.


Contents

Prologue (#u3b1f388b-3e79-52e7-8457-8eb8c2967d14)

Chapter One (#u671c80ad-2bef-5ef4-ba1f-073cd84a885e)

Chapter Two (#u94dc0c9d-a80e-5c91-9b90-0b2bde709fdf)

Chapter Three (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Four (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)

Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)

Author Note (#litres_trial_promo)

Bibliography (#litres_trial_promo)


Prologue

1536

There were still days that late autumn when the light was so bright and clear that it almost hurt the eyes. Even in England. On this particular morning, only a month before All Saints, the low sun bounced its rays across fields of stubble and flooded the sky with a cobalt blue that made the party of riders blink and shade their eyes against the glare.

‘Over there, see?’ said Sir Walter D’Arvall, pointing to a distant mark on the horizon. ‘The towers? Still in place, thank God.’ His voice held a tone of relief and excitement, for the grand and glorious priory towers and their bells were usually the first to be destroyed in King Henry’s purge of religious foundations since his much-publicised rift with his Holiness the pope.

In the small group accompanying Sir Walter, his second daughter, Ginny, had just returned home after living for over four years with a northern family and, having had enough of her mother’s attempts to count through the linen cupboard once more, had leaped at her father’s invitation to visit Sandrock Priory across the rolling downlands of Hampshire. The prior, Father Spenney, had a good-looking nephew, Ben. He and Ginny had known each other since childhood and, in her absence, they had seen each other only infrequently. There would be some catching up to do. She spurred her horse forwards along the tracks. ‘Is Father Spenney expecting us?’ she said, meaning, Is Ben expecting me? She hoped he had not taken his vows while she’d been away.

‘No,’ said her father. He did not tell her, as perhaps he ought to have done, that the other person he expected to meet at the priory was another neighbour, Sir Jon Raemon, heir to much of the land adjoining his own, and proprietor, for the past three years, of Lea Magna while his father was incarcerated in a French prison. At twenty-four years old, the responsibility for an estate the size of Lea Magna was considerable, more than most young men would have welcomed, but Sir Jon was the kind of man to make a good son-in-law, eager and competent. Now Ginny was back home, he might, God willing, be on the look-out for a well-bred, well-trained young woman to ease his path through life, and even if the dowry would not have set his heart racing, her looks, Sir Walter thought, might make up for what the dowry lacked. Although they might not, if Sir Jon turned out to be as pragmatic as himself. At well-turned sixteen, Virginia D’Arvall had an exceptional beauty, and Sir Walter had never believed he would have the slightest difficulty in finding a husband for her. So far, his theory had not been put to the test but today...today, it might be.

At Sandrock Priory, Sir Walter and Ginny were escorted into the library, where Father Spenney stood at the top of a ladder handing down books to a team of brown-clad monks. Not being a man of expansive gestures, he merely smiled his pleasure and climbed down, holding out his hands to his friend and neighbour. ‘A sorry state you see us in, Sir Walter,’ he said sadly. ‘I never thought to see such a day. Ah, well!’

‘We shall talk,’ said Sir Walter. ‘Then maybe...who knows...?’ He shrugged. ‘But you remember Virginia, Father? She was a lass of twelve or thirteen years when you last met. You see a change?’

‘Father,’ said Ginny, ‘we have all changed, except you.’ Her eyes searched for Ben amongst those monks who had begun a discreet exit. Finding a pair of adoring brown eyes, she smiled at the change in him, too. The same age as Ginny, Father Spenney’s nephew had never been in a position to develop his friendship with Sir Walter’s daughter, but as children there had always been an attraction that they knew could, with more contact, grow into something deeper. Now, with the priory about to be dissolved by Act of Parliament, it looked as if Ben and his uncle might be lost to them altogether unless her father offered them a home.

Father Spenney’s hand smoothed over the leather-bound volume on top of a pile, his fingertips lingering over the gold tooling and heavy jewelled clasp. ‘We’re trying to save them,’ he said. ‘You know what they’ll do with these, Sir Walter, if they get their hands on them? They’ll sell them to grocers and chandlers for wrapping paper. They’re sending books by the shipload to bookbinders for the leather and parchment. They reuse the metal pieces and the pages they’ll use as rags.’ His voice wavered, balking at the images of destruction. ‘Priceless,’ he whispered. ‘Hundreds of years old. Doesn’t he realise what’s happening to them?’

A voice from the archway at the far end of the library turned all heads in his direction. ‘When the king makes a decree,’ the man said, striding forwards, ‘it may mean that something suffers in its wake. If he made exceptions for this, that, and the other, there’d be those who would take advantage. It would be chaos, Father.’ The man came to stand beside Sir Walter, removing his cap and extending his hand in greeting. ‘Sir Walter. Well met, sir. I hope I see you in good health? And your lady wife?’ Taller and broader than the two older men, his athletic frame and easy, graceful bearing would have drawn attention in any crowd, for not only was he perfectly dressed in a black fur-lined mantle over a black brocade doublet, but he was also the handsomest man Ginny had ever seen. So good-looking, in fact, that she could hardly take her eyes off the strongly chiselled features and the thick dark hair that showed the imprint of his cap, before he replaced it. The jaw was square and well defined, the neck muscled and frilled by a delicate linen collar edged with blackwork embroidery, with rows of gold aglets to tie all edges together.

His voice matched the figure, Ginny thought, well modulated and richly dark. And he was working for King Henry VIII to destroy the monasteries. He greeted the prior as though they had already met that morning. ‘My assistants are preparing lists, Father,’ he said. ‘Are you ready for them in here?’

‘A few more minutes, Sir Jon, if you will?’ said Father Spenney. ‘But you recall Mistress D’Arvall, surely?’

Sir Jon swung round to face Ginny and slowly removed his cap again with a graceful flourish and a bow that allowed him to keep his eyes on her until he was upright. ‘Mistress D’Arvall? I thought I knew all your family, Sir Walter. Where have you been keeping this one hidden?’ He made it sound, Ginny thought, as if she was the last of a litter.

‘With the noble Norton family in Northumbria until last week, Sir Jon. Virginia, this is our neighbour, Sir Jon Raemon. I don’t believe you ever met, did you?’

‘No, Father. Sir Jon,’ Ginny said, making her curtsy. Northumbria, her father had said, where she had been introduced to young and not-so-young men by the score, where not one of them had held her interest for more than a day or so, though she’d had to pretend otherwise out of politeness to her hosts. She had learned how to conduct herself in every situation and was now, in theory at least, supposed to be able to handle herself as a lady should. But there were times, she was discovering, when nothing could prepare one for the heart’s response to this kind of thing, when it refused to obey commands to settle back into its rhythm, to beat less loudly, to give her her breath back. Her eyes were held by his, dark and probing, as if he could see that something deep inside her was already changing, writing that life change on her heart for ever. If one believed in love at first sight, then this must be it.

‘Mistress D’Arvall,’ he said, taking in the full picture of her in a pool of bright sunlight. It caught the white-gold mane that fell down her back, lighting up the perfect complexion and the autumn glow in her cheeks and lips. The grey black-rimmed eyes glistened like quartz, incredibly thick lashed. ‘I have met your two brothers often at court. The elder one, Master Elion, assists your father, I believe, in the household offices.’

‘He does, sir. He aspires to be comptroller of the royal household one day, but he’ll have to wait a while.’

Sir Jon smiled. Dead man’s shoes, indeed. ‘And the younger...Paul, is it? What does he aspire to?’

‘To be a gentleman of the king’s bedchamber. The king likes him well.’

‘Hmph! And you, mistress? You seek a place at court, too?’

There were several pairs of ears listening. This was not the moment to be discussing her future and all those clever responses she’d learnt deserted her. ‘No, sir. I am a countrywoman at heart.’ What was she saying? He would think her unlettered and dull, domestic, bovine. She could do better than that. ‘But these books belonging to the priory, Sir Jon. Is there not a better way of disposing of them? Some safe place, perhaps, where they could be kept until...well...I mean, are you not in a position to turn a blind eye to their existence here? Once destroyed, they can never be replaced, can they? As the king’s official, do you condone the destruction of such priceless treasures? Will you allow it?’

Sir Jon’s eyes widened under the welter of questions, but instead of answering them directly, he spoke to her father. Which she resented. ‘What do you have here, Sir Walter? A bookish daughter?’

The quartz eyes glittered hard. ‘I am not bookish, Sir Jon,’ she replied, ‘but I know an irreplaceable item when I see one and there are hundreds here. Individually, they must be worth—’

‘Mistress D’Arvall,’ said Sir Jon, unused to being lectured by a woman, ‘I am aware of their worth. But when the king gives me an order through his secretary, Sir Thomas Cromwell, I tend not to question it unless I want to lose my job. Which I do not. The priory must be emptied, and Father Spenney understands that it must be done efficiently and quickly. We don’t have time to find buyers for individual items, however precious. As I have said, if His Majesty were to start making exceptions, we should be here for ever. He needs the funds rather urgently, you see.’

Father Spenney was more resigned. ‘I think you may be on a loser here, Mistress D’Arvall. Don’t pursue it. It’s useless.’

Sir Walter disagreed. ‘Does Cromwell know exactly what happens to every item, Sir Jon?’ he said. ‘If not, then I have a suggestion that might find favour with you and our beloved prior. Would you care to hear it?’

The silence in the room, padded by shelves of books and manuscripts, was almost tangible as Sir Jon absorbed the implications of a scheme as yet unspoken, while the noble head turned to look at Ginny with a sweeping survey that she thought he might have used on a piece of prime bloodstock. It both infuriated and excited her. Then, ushering his neighbours to one side for a more personal discussion, he said, ‘Shall we talk about this, Sir Walter? And my lord prior? What exactly do you...?’

Ginny and Ben remained to draw some comfort from a hurried conversation and a privacy they had not thought likely to happen. How would they manage once the priory was closed down, emptied, sold off, and re-used for secular purposes? Where would Ben go? What could he do? How would he earn a living? Her father, Ginny was sure, would not allow them to be homeless. Ben would not now be taking vows. His pleasant face softened as he drew on that hope, while the thought of seeing more of her than before would mean more to him than food. Even so, as plans were tossed to and fro within Sandrock Priory on that autumn morning, Ben sensed that something had already happened to Ginny that she herself would find impossible either to admit or explain. And although she spoke oftener and kindlier to Ben than to Sir Jon, it was the young gallant with the authority over people’s livelihoods and the manners of an arrogant courtier that held her attention on a knife-edge, as if she would keep every detail of him in her memory to sustain her in the days, weeks, months ahead. His place was at court. Hers, by her own choosing, was at D’Arvall Hall. They were unlikely ever to meet again.

Ben, however, was a known quantity, nearby and adoring, the very antithesis of Sir Jon Raemon with his royal connections and ambitions. Not that she and Ben could ever have become marriage partners: Ben’s orphaned state and lack of prospects excluded him completely from her father’s list of potential sons-in-law. Her affection for the gentle, scholarly, young novice would never soften her father’s heart, nor would it be encouraged.

So when Ben backed away before the approach of Sir Jon, it was with a combination of regret and excitement that Ginny ceased to hear Ben’s last few words to her and instead felt the presence of the man who was already forcing an entry into her heart as Ben had never done. Sir Jon glanced briefly at Ben’s departure, then at Ginny’s wary expression as if to discover the exact depth of the affection remaining in her eyes, a look she felt was too invasive by half. ‘We have known each other since we were small,’ she said before he could ask. ‘I believe he will be a physician one day.’

‘Is that so?’ Sir Jon replied, without enthusiasm. ‘So you have spent some time with the Nortons up in Northumbria, your father tells me. I know that family well. Is that where you learned to have opinions, mistress? Or were you always strong-minded?’ His eyes continued to roam at leisure over her, taking in every detail of her face and hair, her slender waist and the hands holding leather gloves, and she wished she had worn her new French hood instead of letting her hair loose like a girl.

‘Strong-minded, Sir Jon? Is that what you call it when a woman is able to express herself on matters other than the price of fish? The Nortons, as you should know, encourage the young women in their care to speak for themselves and to contribute to discussions. I thank God I can do more than sew aglets on a man’s points, sir.’ She saw the flicker of a smile tweak at the corners of his wide mouth and knew that her choice of dress accessories was open to more than one interpretation, his points being the cords that kept his breeches tied to his shirt, amongst other places.

The blush that stole upwards into her cheeks showed him that she was not a young woman, like so many others, who would fall at his feet so easily. Spirited and intelligent, how many hearts had she broken up in the north? he wondered. ‘I’m sure you can, mistress,’ he said, ‘if ever you stay silent for long enough.’

‘Long enough to what, Sir Jon?’

‘To allow your husband a word in edgeways, mistress.’

‘Husbands and their requirements are not on my mind, nor am I yet ready to saddle myself with a life of silent obedience. I’d have gone into a nunnery if I’d wanted that, sir.’

‘Then that would have been a great waste, Mistress D’Arvall, after all those years of training. Did they teach you anything else other than how to express yourself, and to sew, and to appreciate books?’

‘Many things. Including how to hold on to one’s conscience and not to confuse it with duty. ’Tis sometimes difficult to know the difference, Sir Jon. Have you not found it so?’

The twinkle of laughter in his brown eyes disappeared as he detected her disapproval of the work he was doing for his royal master. It was a brave man, these days, who could afford to heed his conscience on every matter. Brave men’s heads had rolled, including those of abbots and priors. ‘No, I have not. Not yet,’ he said softly. ‘I am quite clear about which is which. And if I may offer you a word of advice, Mistress D’Arvall?’

‘Certainly. Please do.’

‘Then I suggest you confine your opinions to what you understand best. Things are rarely as clear-cut as they seem to be.’

His words of advice were courteously spoken and Ginny had the sense to accept them without taking offence. ‘I shall take your advice, Sir Jon,’ she said. ‘Thank you. I tend to see things from one angle instead of from several.’

‘I did, too, at your age.’

Inwardly, Ginny smiled at this as though he exceeded her years by decades instead of a mere eight.

* * *

That same evening, at home, Ginny obeyed a summons to her father’s room where he and Lady Agnes D’Arvall sat beside a roaring fire, their faces flushed by good food, wine, and warmth. Here they told her that Father Spenney and young Ben had been offered the position of chaplain and assistant with them, since the office had been left vacant for a year after the death of the previous one. He and Ben would live with them as part of the household. Not only would it solve their problem, but it would look good for Sir Walter and Lady Agnes to have a properly staffed chapel once more, with perhaps a choir, too. Such details mattered in society.

Sir Walter had apparently discussed it with his wife, although the decision was his. Lady Agnes had never been required to agree with anything Sir Walter said, except as a formality. The next thing they told her, however, concerned Ginny even more personally than Ben being part of their household. It was to do with Sir Jon Raemon.

‘Sir Jon has agreed,’ said Sir Walter, ‘to consider my offer of your hand in marriage.’ He continued before she could make a sound. ‘He has also agreed to allow me possession of the priory library, for a considerable sum of money, I might add, so you’ll be pleased to hear that the books will be spared from destruction.’

Having one’s marriage prospects mixed up with a library of rare books was not something Ginny had ever anticipated, nor could she help wondering which was most important to him. ‘Marriage, Father? To Sir Jon? He favours the connection, then?’

‘He certainly favours it, in principle. Of course, there are things to be decided—property, dowry, jointures, that kind of thing. Financial details. He has promised me a firm answer as soon as he’s able. Maybe in a week or so.’

‘And me, Father? Shall I give him my answer as soon as I’m able?’

Both parents glared at her, detecting a certain facetiousness instead of the grateful excitement they thought due to them. ‘What on earth can you mean, Virginia?’ said her mother. ‘Sir Jon doesn’t need an answer from you. You will do as you’re instructed and think yourself fortunate. Your father has had this in mind for some time. You might thank him, instead of arguing.’

* * *

That night, Ginny had hardly slept for excitement. Sir Jon wished to make her his wife. It was two weeks before they had a message from Sir Jon to say that his father, a prisoner of war in France for the past three years, had died. It was another month before Ginny was told, almost casually by her father, that the hoped-for marriage would not now be going ahead. Sir Jon would be marrying a very wealthy woman, well known at court. Huge properties. Massive dowry. Beautiful wife with good connections, and older by some three years than an inexperienced sixteen-year-old. Sir Walter was disappointed but philosophical. ‘Politics,’ he said unhelpfully, in answer to Ginny’s question why.

Over the past six weeks, Ginny had existed in an unreal world of make-believe, of elation and fright, of overwhelming emotions and mental preparation in readiness for the dream of all dreams, of being wedded to the only man ever to share her wildest fancies of love and possession, and a good many other things too vaguely intimate to dwell on for long. Brought up to regard herself as a good catch for any man, she had almost taken it as a matter of course that, once negotiations were complete, he would come to claim her in person and make himself just a little less forbidding than he had been at their first meeting when her father had talked to him of deals. But Ginny, in love for the first time and so full of hope, was hurt, insulted, and bitterly resentful to have been rejected for someone older, wealthier and more royally connected than herself. The humiliation would not be forgotten or forgiven, and if those were indeed his best reasons, she hoped his marriage would be a disaster and that his crops would all fail, year after year.

* * *

So for the following three years, while Ginny remained at home with her mother, saw her older sister married and bear a child—rather too soon to escape comments about dates—and heard about the death of Sir Jon’s wife in childbirth, her heart ached with a wound that was taking far too long to heal. Had it not been for Ben’s adoration and the chaotic housing of Sandrock Priory’s library, life might have been dull. And had it not been for her parents’ regular attempts to tempt her with possible suitors, much too soon after the first, she might have made more of an effort to recover.

Then the king had come to stay at D’Arvall Hall on a hunting trip and Ginny’s contact with the royal court first-hand had begun a chain of events that opened the old wound all over again. In that autumn of 1539, Ginny was six months past her nineteenth birthday, and if she had been considered lovely before, she was now stunningly beautiful and worthy of the king’s admiration. For him, the sight of the daughter of his cofferer at D’Arvall Hall seemed to soothe his heart as much as his sight, though at the time, Ginny thought nothing much of his interest. According to her information, the king was equally interested in every young woman at court, and flirting was part of normal court behaviour. She had, however, sadly underestimated the situation.

* * *

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?’

‘Well,’ said her mother, ‘I’m pleased to know you like her. So what does Sir Walter think about all this? Is he—?’

‘Oh! I almost forgot. I have a letter for you. Wait, Mother, I’ll go up and get it from my pouch. He’ll tell you what’s happening, I expect.’

With a space cleared on the table before her, Lady Agnes smoothed the parchment out, adjusted a pair of fragile spectacles on her nose and frowned at the words underlined by her moving finger, words she had clearly not expected. In summer, perhaps, but not in February. ‘He’s bringing the king,’ she murmured. ‘Again. Oh, my lord!’

‘Where? Here? Why could he not have told me himself?’

‘For two nights, for some hawking. With a few friends, before the court moves to Whitehall.’

‘With the queen? Does Queen Anna come, too?’

‘Er...no, dear. Not the queen.’

‘Hah!’ said the lady who’d spoken before. ‘What’s that all about, then? Not hawking, you can be sure of that.’

‘Hush, Joan,’ said Lady Agnes. ‘You’ve said enough already to land you in the Tower. He’s bringing with him...a husband...for our daughter Virginia.’ Her finger moved on, then reversed its direction, Lady Agnes repeating, ‘...a husband...for...Virginia.’

‘I don’t want a husband, thank you, Mother,’ Ginny said firmly, ‘and I certainly don’t want one of the king’s choosing. Send a message back. Thank you, but no.’

Lady Agnes pushed the finger farther along while her two ladies, one useful for her wisdom, the other for her energy, leaned in to read the astonishing words in silence. ‘One of his gentlemen of the bedchamber, no less. Oh, Ginny! That’s a great honour. One of his own personal friends.’

‘Oh, good gracious, Mother! One of that crowd. I’d rather...’ The words of denial froze on her lips as the picture formed in her mind of yesterday’s little scene in the stable yard at Hampton Court Palace when a certain gentleman of the king’s bedchamber had appeared at her father’s side for no very good reason. At least, that was how it had seemed. What had he been doing there? ‘Who, Mother? Does Father say who it is? And does he say why the king is involving himself in my future?’ Unconsciously, a hand crept up to rest over her heart, pulsing to the heavy thud beneath her stiffly boned bodice.

‘Yes. He says the king regards you highly for your comeliness and charm, and for your assistance to Her Grace the queen, and...’

‘Oh, I don’t mean all that flummery, Mother. I’ve done no more than anyone else would have. Who does he propose as a husband and what’s the deal? I’ve learned enough in my short time at court to know he doesn’t give something for nothing and certainly not to a woman. Who is it?’

Lady Agnes sat back, clearly taken by surprise, her pale eyes staring about her in bewilderment. ‘He’s bringing our neighbour, Sir Jon Raemon,’ she said. ‘He thinks the match would be to both your advantages and Sir Jon has already expressed a willingness for it. Well, what d’ye think of that?’

What did she think? Disbelief. Shock. Rebellion. Elation. Numbness.

‘I’ll tell you what I think of that, Mother,’ Ginny said. ‘I think the king has perhaps not been made aware of Sir Jon’s rejection of the very same proposal that Father made to him only a few years ago. So to say that Sir Jon is willing must be utter nonsense when he’s barely looked my way in four weeks of living under the same roofs. And anyway, I’m not willing. Can’t stand the man.’

‘Because of what happened when you were still a lass?’ Lady Agnes said, placing a dish of nuts on one corner of the letter. ‘Oh, come now, Ginny. That’s all water under the bridge. It was politics. Nothing personal. Your father and he did not fall out about it, so why should you? You know how these things go. A man has to choose carefully who he marries and for what purpose, and the first Lady Raemon brought him far more wealth than you could ever have done, even though Sir Walter’s offer was very generous.’

‘Which suggests,’ said Mistress Joan, ‘that the king has made him an even more generous offer that he cannot refuse and that there might also be something in it for Sir Walter. Sir Jon is now a widower and he needs an heir. Sir Walter is ready for a step up in the world and Virginia deserves a reward for her duty to the queen.’

Ginny’s tone was bitingly sarcastic. ‘Thank you for putting it so simply, Mistress Joan. That seems to be the situation in a nutshell. If ever a woman felt more like a pawn on a chessboard, then I cannot imagine her humiliation. She’s supposed to be grateful for the reward of a husband she doesn’t want, just for doing her duty. The men, however, get their rewards, whatever they are, for falling in with the king’s wishes. There must be something here I’ve missed, but for the life of me I cannot see it, Mother.’ With a scrape of her stool through the rushes, Ginny stood up to go. ‘I’ll go up and change, if you’ll excuse me.’

‘Ginny, dear, I wish you’d see this differently. It’s an honour we cannot afford to refuse. You must know that.’

‘It’s an honour I can refuse quite easily,’ Ginny said. ‘There are plenty of marriageable women swarming around the court, waiting for Sir Jon to glance their way, and I’m not one of them.’

‘He’s so handsome,’ said the other lady coyly, thinking it might help.

‘Mistress Molly,’ said Ginny, scathingly, ‘they all are. The king surrounds himself with tall, good-looking, virile bucks who dance well, joust and hunt well, gamble more than they can afford, make conversation and music to keep him entertained. That’s what he pays them for. Even the new queen thinks them foolish beyond words.’

‘Does she have any English words yet?’ said Mistress Joan.

‘Indeed she does. She learns quickly. She’s a darling.’

Summoning the servants to clear away the dishes, Lady Agnes rose to her feet and folded the letter into her pouch. ‘Such short notice,’ she said. ‘I wish he’d have given me a week instead of two days. Joan, I want you to go and make a check on the best linen and order the fires to be lit in all the chambers. Molly, your duties will be in the stillroom today. We shall need a mountain of marchpane. Ginny, you come with me.’

Clenching her teeth against a retort that would do nothing to soften her mother’s determination, Ginny followed her up the wide oak staircase and along a panelled passageway where carved door frames displayed the very best workmanship and, by association, the money that had been poured into this building by Sir Walter. His efforts had been well worthwhile, for now the king himself felt it was good enough for a stay of two nights, to avail himself of the excellent hawking on the estate. Lady Agnes might have been uncomfortable with the short notice, but nothing could have given her greater satisfaction than to know that King Henry was to visit them twice in the same season and to favour the family with a connection Sir Walter had always been keen on. And it had been worth those years Ginny had spent away from home, not to mention the expense, while she had absorbed the attributes needed for a nobleman’s wife and the company of young aristocrats. Things were certainly looking up.

Ginny knew her own feelings on the matter to be irrelevant, however strongly she might try to present her case. Her mother’s subservience to her husband’s will was absolute. Whatever opinions she had about anything except the day-to-day running of the house, she had been well trained to bend and mould them to her husband’s, though even the housekeeping was not secure from his occasional criticism. So however clear-cut Ginny’s objections, she knew in her heart that her mother would say nothing to countermand her father’s wishes, nor could she expect either sympathy or tolerance from them in a matter that affected them so deeply. For any woman to harbour a preference about her future husband was laughable. Men could choose, women did not, unless they were the flighty kind who fluttered too near the flame of love and burnt their wings in the process, their reputations ruined. And worse.

‘Now, Ginny, dear,’ said Lady Agnes, imagining her daughter dressed for the great occasion, ‘let’s just take a look at the rose velvet and see if we can dress it up with my squirrel fur round the sleeves. Is that what the court is wearing nowadays? You of all people should know.’

Ginny went to sit in the large window recess overlooking the squared herb garden where a fine layer of snow etched the scene into tones of grey. Beyond the low hedge stood gnarled apple and pear trees in the orchard, the rose-covered bowers of summer now drooping and dormant, the stream frozen along its banks. In the cosy room behind her, her mother was trying to urge her into the next phase of her life by throwing gowns onto the silk counterpane to make a heap of colour as if there was nothing else more important to discuss. ‘Mother...wait,’ she said. ‘Can we not talk about this? Surely you cannot have forgotten the answer Sir Jon gave to Father when he offered him my hand? How he told Father he would give it his consideration and the next thing we knew he’d married that heiress? Did you not see how hurtful it was to me? Did you not think he could have been truthful from the beginning and said that his future was already decided? How can you agree to it so readily now, after that rebuff?’

Laying down an armful of green brocade, Lady Agnes shook her head at it, then came to sit beside Ginny on the cushioned window seat. Taking the folded letter from her pouch, she passed it to Ginny with the words, ‘Perhaps you’d better read it yourself. It won’t make any difference in the long run, but you have a right to know, I suppose.’

Ginny unfolded it and read her father’s efficient handwriting with sentences as free from sentiment as one might expect. ‘“The king has noticed our daughter...and feels a need of her company at this troubled time...wants her to be at court...but only within the safety of marriage, not as a maid...to preserve her good name...and to have a trustworthy mate already in the king’s employ so that he and she might serve the king as one...”’ Raising her head, she tried to read her mother’s eyes instead. ‘Serve the king as one?’ she said. ‘What on earth does he mean by that?’

Lady Agnes’s reply came rather hurriedly. ‘He means you to serve Queen Anna, too, dear, the way you have begun to do with her clothes and...well...whatever else it is that you do. So that you can be at court as a respectable married woman rather than a maid, which might set tongues wagging. And Sir Jon will continue to serve the king as he does now, so you need not be separated as husbands and wives often are when one is at court. A most convenient arrangement.’

‘Convenient for the king. Nothing to do with Sir Jon’s preferences, then? So he’s been commanded, has he? Just like me. To suit the king. To pander to his sudden need for my company at “this difficult time” and for that, I have to be married, do I? As if not being married would set tongues wagging, for some reason?’

‘It’s not a sudden need, is it, Ginny? You know it isn’t. The king saw you here late last year and spent quite some time with you. He made his liking for you quite obvious.’

‘Flirting, Mother. As I told you, he flirts with every maid who catches his eye. There’s Anne Basset and Kat Howard, the queen’s maids, and plenty of others who enjoy his attentions. It’s not just me. Really, it isn’t. So it’s no use you thinking I’m anything more to him than the others.’

‘He’s particularly asked for you. And he doesn’t arrange marriages to his special friends to every maid who catches his eye. This is a great honour.’

‘So you keep saying. Marriages are for families, are they not, rather than for individuals? So any woman who thinks it’s for her had better think again.’

‘Dynasties,’ said Lady Agnes, showing no sign of empathy with her daughter. ‘Don’t think your role is unimportant in all this. Men have to think further ahead than we do. Generations ahead. Sir Jon’s wife left him with an infant girl child, but he needs a son, and I know nothing about his reasons for the sudden decision to marry his heiress. Perhaps your father does, but he doesn’t discuss such matters with me. It’s not my business, except to commiserate when a mother dies in childbed.’

‘Well, perhaps he’d already got her pregnant when Father made his offer. Perhaps her parents insisted on a marriage. By the way the women at court flutter their eyelashes at him, it wouldn’t surprise me.’

‘You should not say such things. If they think him a good catch, that may be as much to do with the wealth he acquired at his marriage.’

‘Of which I obviously had so little to offer that I was not even worth looking at.’

Lady Agnes reached out both hands and took Ginny’s in her own, layering them for warmth. ‘Dear girl, that’s not so. If he’d been able, he’d have accepted your father’s offer without hesitation. You’d been away up north for over four years at the Nortons’ home, remember, and you came back all polished and womanly and well mannered and, best of all, a beauty. Father would have got you a place at court, but you didn’t want that, did you? That, and the business of marriage offers, were the few times he let you have your own way. But it cannot last, Ginny, dear.’

Ginny smiled. ‘Is it difficult being married to Father?’ she said.

‘No. As long as I fall in with all his wishes, it’s easy enough. If I ever want to go and let off steam, I go to see your sister Maeve, when she’s at home. She brings me back to reality faster than anyone.’ A gentle hand came up to rearrange Ginny’s long ash-blonde hair that fell like water over her shoulders. ‘So lovely,’ she whispered. ‘I am blessed with lovely daughters and handsome sons and a successful husband. And now I must send for Maeve and George to come over from Reedacre Manor while the king is here. You know how they love a good feast.’ Lady Agnes did not mention that her daughter Maeve had also once caught the king’s eye with her hair like pale golden honey. But Sir George Betterton had stepped in smartly, too smartly for the king’s timetable, made her pregnant and married her before Henry could deepen their friendship. It had not been thought a good idea to tell Ginny of the reasons for the hasty marriage, and the child’s earlier-than-expected arrival had caused little comment at home.

‘Still,’ Ginny said, ‘I don’t like the idea of being married to a man I despise simply so the king can have the pleasure of my company without it being thought he wishes to marry me. I admire Queen Anna. I want to make her happy and fulfilled, and for her to find out how to make him happy, too. Being on the receiving end of Henry’s attentions does not please me the way it does some of the other women. They see it as a way into his bed, but I don’t, and I would do nothing to hurt such a dear lady. I don’t want his silly notes and jewels. I want her to have them, not me.’

‘He sends you notes? And jewels? Show me.’

‘I’ve returned them. It makes no sense.’

‘It did to dear Jane Seymour. It got her the throne.’

‘Yes, stringing him along. She knew exactly what he was about and she was certainly not doing anything to spare Anne Boleyn’s feelings, was she? Pious, mousy, unscrupulous Jane, enticing a married man to please her family. Well, I shall not do it, Mother. I’m sorry, but I draw the line at that.’

‘You must do it, dear. Would you deny King Henry the pleasure of talking to a well bred and beautiful young woman? Because that is what you are.’

‘If he put more effort into his new marriage, he could easily do that with the queen. She is anxious to please him in any way she can, if only he’d see it.’

‘Mmm, well, coming here without her isn’t going to do much to help, is it? Now come and take a look at these gowns and let’s see what’s to be done.’

It was not hard to understand where Ginny had acquired her style and elegance. Even though she chose not to be a courtier, Lady Agnes D’Arvall was a keen needlewoman for whom sewing was never a chore as long as she had a team of the best tailors and seamstresses, and a husband to send her bolts of fine fabrics from the London merchants. Her eldest daughter Maeve, now Lady Betterton, spent some of her time in the London house at Westminster near her husband, who was employed in the king’s Great Wardrobe. Consequently, the Bettertons and D’Arvalls were amongst the best-dressed families known to the royals, and ostensibly it was this flair that the king had intended to exploit when he’d sent for Ginny to advise his new German wife on the latest English fashions.

Ginny’s thoughts, however, were far from the rich heap of velvets, damasks, satins, and silks on the bed and, as soon as her mother had left the room, she returned once more to the window seat, hoping that the stillness of the darkening landscape would help to clear her mind. It did not. Having come home expecting a rest from the empty flattery doled out by the king and his courtiers, she now found herself in a situation where she would have to suffer more of it rather than less.

Even worse was the king’s intention to marry her to a man who wanted her only for the rewards he would be granted, a man who’d been told to make himself known to her, for why else would he have appeared beside her father, pretending assistance? She had asked herself this same question all the way home. Now she knew. After four weeks of noticeable indifference and stand-offishness, it had taken the king’s command, offer, bribery, call it what you will, to force him to speak, then to make an absurd attempt at flattery by telling her he would not have confused her with another. ‘The manners will come,’ he’d said patronisingly. As if he could teach her anything.

With all the painful sensitivity of a very young woman, Ginny had been baffled and hurt when, after being assured by her parents that finding her a husband would not be difficult, their eligible neighbour had declined Sir Walter’s offer in favour of the beautiful heiress Magdalen Osborn. That had been the cruellest part of all, and Ginny was sure he must have known it.

At court, once the shock of seeing him again had abated, she had done her best to convince both herself and him that he was the very last man she would have chosen as a husband, giving him not the smallest opportunity to revise the decision. Unable to separate sexual attraction from the lingering pain of rejection, it had seemed to Ginny that the natural antidote was to avoid him at all costs and to show that she had always been quite beyond his reach. Even if he had not been the handsomest man at court.

At the royal court for much of the three years since his first marriage, Sir Jon’s connection with his neighbours had been brief. When the king had visited D’Arvall Hall last year, Sir Jon had been on a mission for his friend Sir Thomas Cromwell, the King’s principal secretary, who occasionally employed him. Not understanding the workings of the royal rota, Ginny had naturally put a different construction on his absence that heaped yet more fuel on her resentments.

‘Why?’ she whispered angrily. ‘Why him, of all men, when he must want this as little as I do? It’s so degrading. Bad enough to be pushed into marriage for the convenience of others, but to marry a man who must be commanded, after making it clear he doesn’t have a mind to it, is shaming. All the court will know of it, for they’ve seen how things are between us. And now I shall be obliged to face down all the stares and pretend all is well. As for the rest...ugh! It hardly bears thinking about.’ Wrapping herself warmly against the icy passageways and open spaces of the courtyard, she crossed over to the stillroom near the kitchen door where Mistress Molly had already begun the task of pounding lumps of sugar in a mortar with a pestle as big as her arm. ‘The king loves his marchpane,’ she puffed, as Ginny entered.

‘Done the almonds yet?’ Ginny said, looking round at the benches lined with jars and parchment-lidded pots. ‘It might be best to let them blanch while you do that. I’ll do them, if you like. For a favour.’

Mistress Molly had been taught the art of sugarwork and simpling by her aunt who, despite being thought a witch, had died peacefully in her bed. There was little that Molly did not know about herbs and their uses, and this was not the first time she had been visited by Mistress Virginia seeking a remedy for some ailment. She smiled at Ginny’s bribery. ‘I know what it is,’ she said. ‘I’ve been thinking about it.’

‘How do you know?’

The grinding stopped for Molly to shake her aching hand and to dart a look of saucy wisdom at her mistress’s daughter. ‘Take a glance at your face,’ she said gently. ‘Anyone would think you’d been given the devil himself to marry. You want me to give you something for it, don’t you?’

‘For it, or against it. I don’t know which. I have to do something, Molly.’

‘Depends what. Put him to sleep? Put you to sleep? Make him love you? Make you love him? Make him impotent? Make you...?’

‘No, Molly!’

‘I was going to say, make you have twins.’

‘How on earth would that help matters?’

Picking up the heavy pestle, Molly resumed the pounding. ‘Two for the price of one,’ she said. ‘He’d leave you alone for a fair while after that.’ The pounding continued until she realised there had been no reply. ‘Is that what you want?’

But Ginny was staring out of the window, biting at her top lip. Then, rousing herself, she sighed. ‘It’s getting dark again. Where d’ye keep the almonds?’

Molly lifted down an earthenware pot from the shelf above her and passed it to Ginny. ‘Best to put the water on to boil first,’ she said with a sly grin.

Not being at all sure what she wanted a potion to achieve, Ginny put the almonds to blanch and then left Molly to her task. But Molly’s thoughts on the matter were somewhat clearer. Rather than allow the problem to resolve itself, which might take some time in Ginny’s present mood, she put aside a basin and began to add dried herbs picked during the summer months. Vervain, yarrow, mistletoe and rue, thyme and bay, chopped and bound together with honey and oil of roses. These she shaped into tiny fairy cakes and, that same night under the light from the rising moon that turned the garden to silver, she placed them just beyond the boundary where the grass was long and brittle with frost, whispering a blessing upon each one. The day of the king’s visit, with Ginny’s future husband, would be on the fourteenth day of February, Saint Valentine’s Day and, although Ginny had been too preoccupied to notice it, Mistress Molly had not.

* * *

By the time Ginny’s sister and her husband arrived from their home a mere four miles away, the preparations for the king’s arrival that same day were nearing completion. Outwardly serene but inwardly anxious about every detail, Lady Agnes’s veneer cracked only for a brief moment as she threw her arms around her elder daughter with something like relief. ‘Oh, Maeve, my dear, thank heavens you’ve come at last. And, George, you, too. Such a day! I’ve had to double the quantities, you know, and now he’s bringing women with him.’ With more than a hint of drama, she waved her arms aloft.

‘Mother,’ said Maeve, with a sideways glance at her husband with a warning not to speak, ‘stop worrying. There are plenty of places to sleep here. The court is used to it, you know. The palaces are like rabbit warrens. As long as we have enough food and drink, sleeping won’t present a problem.’

‘They like a bit of indecision about that,’ said Sir George.

‘George, dear, that’s not helpful,’ said Maeve, stifling her laughter. ‘Where’s Ginny got to? You said in your message something about a husband. Is it true?’ Unwrapping her fur-lined cloak, she draped it over the end of a bench before her mother picked it up and returned it to her.

‘Not there, dear. The steward is rehearsing the pages. Come into the small parlour. And yes, it is true and I expect she’s still up in her room, sulking.’

Maeve, whose understanding of her younger sister exceeded her mother’s by miles, rose to her defence. ‘No, Mother. That cannot be. Ginny doesn’t sulk. I dare say she doesn’t much like the idea of the king choosing her husband for her, and nor would I, but she won’t be sulking. You and she have been quarrelling, haven’t you? Is that it?’

Turning her gaze upon Sir George as if to seek comfort, Lady Agnes heaved a noisy sigh, drooping her shoulders. ‘Discussions,’ she said. ‘Heated discussions. You know what she’s like. So determined. We’d have had her married years ago if she’d been more cooperative about the business. Oh, I know she’d have married Sir Jon when your father first proposed it, but since that fell through, all the matches he’s suggested have been rejected without a single look. It’s taken her recent visit to court and the king’s command to make it happen, whether she likes it or not.’

‘And apparently, she doesn’t,’ said Sir George. ‘So who is he?’

‘Same man. Yes, Sir Jon Raemon. You might well look astonished.’

‘So what’s the problem?’ said Sir George, blinking. ‘He’s widowed now.’

Lady Agnes’s eyes rolled with a look of despair. ‘She’s seen him again at court and now she doesn’t like him.’

‘Doesn’t like him?’ said Maeve, frowning. ‘But she would have accepted him before. So this has to do with her pride, Mother, hasn’t it? We have to talk to her, George.’

‘We do, dear,’ he agreed, ‘but can we first get out of these clothes before Henry arrives, or we shall be taken for a travelling merchant and his doxy.’ He dodged smartly to one side to avoid the sharp slap aimed loosely at his ears, laughing at his wife’s lovely face and the sudden flare of grey eyes. But out of his mother-in-law’s hearing, his frivolous tone changed to something more serious. ‘You know what this sounds like, don’t you?’ he said to his wife, closing the door of their chamber. ‘Remember how Henry set his sights on you, too?’

‘Too well,’ Maeve replied. ‘If you’d not stepped in when you did, I might have—’

‘Shh! Don’t say it, love. Trouble is, I doubt if Ginny will understand what Henry has in mind for her. She’s such an innocent about what goes on at court, even after a month there, and your mother won’t have explained it to her, will she?’

‘No, my love. But somebody had better. Shall we warn her?’

‘Your father will put pressure on her. Raemon, too, for all I know. They’ll make it impossible for her to refuse, with all the lucrative rewards lined up for them. Your father will see it as his big chance to get ahead and your mother will do everything he tells her to, without question. And before we know it, the D’Arvalls will be the new owners of Sandrock Priory and sitting squarely at the top of the tree. Parents of the king’s new mistress, otherwise known as Mistress Virginia.’

‘I don’t want that to happen to her, George. Ginny is destined for better things than that. She’s really not cut out for a life at court.’

His sideways smile showed that he knew what she meant. ‘Perhaps Raemon himself will explain to her what this is all about,’ he said. ‘Or perhaps he won’t.’


Chapter Two

An hour spent in the frost-bound gardens had done little to clear Ginny’s mind of rebellious thoughts, nor had it helped to form any kind of plan to be used against tyrannical parents. Dependent on them for everything she did or was likely to do, the options to please herself did not lie thick on the ground. It had always been so; the nearest she had ever come to being heard on matters relating to husbands had been her refusal to meet any of her father’s choices. Until now, that was, when he had turned the tables on her by engineering a meeting first and involving the king. If she found it possible to defy her father, no one knew better than he how impossible it would be for her to defy His Majesty King Henry VIII.

By midafternoon the light had begun to fade again as she trod down the crisp grass, shaking the white crystals off the hem of her skirts and reaching the door in the garden wall just as sounds from the other side made her pause with a hand on the latch. A clatter of hooves in the courtyard, men’s voices calling, her mother’s sharp words of reply. Could it be the king’s party? So soon? Opening the door to look, she saw two men dismounting from horses whose sweat steamed white clouds into the air. Short capes swung from broad shoulders, plumes curled around velvet caps, and long boot-clad legs glinted with spurs.

‘Half an hour away, m’lady,’ the tallest of the men called. ‘His Grace will need wine. A long day’s ride and a fast pace. Whew!’ As distinctive as the build, the voice was rich and deep, the voice Ginny had last heard in the stable yard at Hampton Court Palace. She could not meet him yet. Not here. Not until she was ready. She was at home now and she, not he, would dictate the pace. And the manners.

Swiftly pulling back her pink velvet skirt, she closed the door, hoping he would not hear the loud clack of the latch, yet fearing that he had when she heard the heavy tread of his footsteps followed by a softer click. The door opened slowly, wedging her behind it to merge with the pink brickwork of the wall, flattened like a naughty child evading capture, her expression already defiant.

Sir Jon’s expression was irritatingly amused, though Ginny could tell what else lay behind his lazy scrutiny of her face, her abundant hair splayed over the fur of her cloak, the gentle swell of her bodice beneath one hand. He was experienced. He would know exactly how to assess what lay concealed beneath layers of stiffened fabrics. He closed the garden door and came to stand before her, purposely too close to mask the smell of leather and the sweat of hard riding, handing her the chance to deflate his arrogance with a satisfying shrewishness. His clothes were perfectly tailored and of the finest deep brown velvet with gold edges, his hose clinging to thighs like an athlete’s, which she knew him to be. ‘You should go and wash, Sir Jon, before supper,’ she said. ‘Your fast pace leaves its marks, does it not?’

His mouth twitched at the corners and he was close enough, too, for her to see the creases in his tanned skin, like soft leather. ‘That’s me told,’ he said quietly.

‘Don’t tell me you rode ahead of the king’s party to say that he will need wine,’ she said tartly. ‘When does he not need wine these days?’

‘Then I won’t, Mistress Sharp Tongue. I came early for a private word with you, and you have obliged me. As you will continue to do.’

‘I shall exert no great effort in that direction, sir, be assured.’

‘Then we shall agree to disagree on that point, for the moment.’

‘Oh, do say what you must and let’s go in. I have things to do before the king’s arrival,’ Ginny said with an impatient glance beyond him.

‘Then your things to do will have to wait, Mistress D’Arvall, until I’ve spelled out a few ground rules that are more immediate,’ he said, suddenly changing tone. ‘The first of which is that any infringement of good manners towards me personally will incur a penalty. Is that clear? For a start?’

Ginny’s eyes narrowed dangerously, reflecting the deepening sky in their clear greyness. ‘I do not usually have a problem in understanding rules of any sort, Sir Jon, but for the life of me I cannot see where or how you obtained any authority over me or my good manners. They have always been perfectly adequate, otherwise...’

‘Yes, otherwise you’d not have stayed at court for a month, would you? I’m talking about your lack of good manners towards me, and you know that I am. You also know why I’ve come here and there’s nothing you can do to change that. Once His Grace has decided, no woman will undecide him, so you may as well accept it and come off your high horse, lady.’

‘Or there will be penalties. I see. Well, that must be the most subtle inducement I’ve ever received. Guaranteed to succeed with disobedient hounds, hawks and horses, I suppose, but women? I’m not so sure. Me, I’m quite sure it would fail dismally. So sorry. Try again.’

Like a firework, their conversation had sparked into the antagonism lying dormant between them for weeks, Ginny’s resentment simmering beneath the surface, Sir Jon’s usual assuredness on hold, waiting for the right time. Forced into a confrontation by the king’s own needs, the right time was still some way off, and Sir Jon’s only option was to tackle the problem head-on. Subtlety was going to be of little use here, he’d decided. Bracing himself against the wall with both hands, he effectively caged her with his bulk, making it impossible for her to complete the irritable flounce away to one side. ‘No, mistress! That’s the first thing you’ll learn not to do when I’m talking to you. Stand still and listen.’

‘I shall not listen.’

‘I think you will. Your manner towards me before others will be polite and respectful at all times. I do not care what you try on in private. I can deal with that in my own way. But do not seek to chasten me by pretending I’m not there, as you have done at court.’

‘I can choose who I speak to, sir.’

‘Not anymore, you can’t. None of us can. We must be civil to everyone these days or make enemies of those who have the means to harm us. You should have learnt that by now. You’re about to enter a different world from this—’ he tipped his head towards the silver-grey garden ‘—where a harsher set of rules applies and, if you have the common sense your father tells me of, then you’ll allow yourself to be schooled by one who knows them well.’

‘Yourself, of course.’

‘That’s the king’s wish and your parents’, too.’

‘And how much is the king paying you to take on this onerous task, Sir Jon, since nothing my father could offer you three years ago was enough? How many abbeys has he promised you? Which particular titles did he bribe you with?’

There was time enough for her words to fade away on the ice-cold air before he replied, searching her eyes as if to see behind them. ‘My, you are a bittersweet little termagant, aren’t you, mistress? Is that’s what’s been eating at you for three years?’

‘How could it, sir? We have seen nothing of each other until recently.’

‘And now we have? Still resentful?’

‘I resent being commanded to wed a man who has to be enticed so openly and expensively, sir. What woman could possibly be flattered by that?’

‘Wait a minute. That’s not the answer, is it? You’ve only just found out about the king’s wish, so why the cold shoulder at court?’

‘I really don’t know what you mean. I’m not one of the queen’s ladies-in-waiting, nor even one of her maids. I have not felt obliged to mingle as they do. We may be neighbours here in Hampshire, Sir Jon, but that doesn’t mean we have to like each other. You made your indifference plain from the start. Why should I not do the same?’

‘I have never been indifferent, Mistress D’Arvall. I was obliged to bide my time, that’s all.’

‘Ah, yes, of course. Biding your time. That’s done rather differently at court, I notice. A command from the king can make all the difference to one’s timing, can it not? There, I see that’s hit the nail on the head.’

His head had dropped between his powerful shoulders as she laid bare the facts about timing and, when he lifted it, she could hear how the soft laughter caught at his words, feel the warmth of his breath, and smell the male odour of skin. Standing upright to release her, he replaced the black-velvet cap on his head as a sign that their conversation must end. ‘Correct,’ he said, smiling still. ‘A king’s command is a powerful thing, but don’t forget who else stands to gain from it, mistress. Your family. All of them. Does that mean so little to you? There was a time, I believe, when you would have needed no persuading.’

Freed from his closeness, she pulled her cloak farther around her neck and faced the door, through which shouts could be heard. ‘Do try to understand me, Sir Jon, if you will. I am as set against the king’s command, and my father’s, as it is possible to be. If I could find a way out of it, I would. Persuasions are superfluous, aren’t they, when consent has been removed? It’s one thing to be noticed by the king and to have the honour of being his friend, but it’s quite another when he tells me who I should marry. It would matter little who you were, sir. My resentment would be the same.’

His arm came across her once more, preventing her first step. ‘And you should try to understand me, mistress, when I say that your reasons are far from watertight. But we’ll let that go for lack of time. Just remember what I said to you about a more respectful demeanour, for I’ll not be made to look foolish by a woman again.’ Dropping his arm, he moved away to open the garden door, and there was no time to ask what he meant by that before the king’s hounds came bounding forwards to greet them. Sir Jon was relieved by not having to find an answer to his slip of the tongue, as he was by the controversial question of penalties, for if she had asked for examples, he would not have been able to invent a single one.

* * *

No one could fail to be impressed by King Henry, for if size alone had been a measure of kingship, he would have won hands down. At forty-nine years old, his girth had expanded to enormous proportions, exaggerated by the winter bulk of padding and furs, making the whippet-like figure of Sir Walter D’Arvall look like a toy beside him. The heavy fur-lined gown was thrown back to expose a chest like a house side, encrusted, embellished, puffed, slashed, and hung with chains and pendants as big as tartlets. Everything about him was large except his prim little mouth and glittering beady eyes that darted over the top of Lady Agnes’s head as he raised her to her feet with gentle courtesy. His eyes alighted at last on Ginny, standing with the escort she had not planned to meet until much later, when it suited her. ‘Ah, there you are, Mistress D’Arvall. Are you glad to see me again?’

Ginny came forwards to make a low curtsy. ‘Indeed, Your Grace. As are we all. Welcome to our modest home,’ she said, already practised in deflecting Henry’s attention from herself to more general themes. This occasion was going to require all her wits to stay out of deep waters, and Sir Jon’s presence would hardly make things any easier. His appearance beside her was immediately remarked on.

‘Raemon! Didn’t lose much time in finding her, did you? Eh? Made any progress, or is it too soon?’

Sir Jon had expected this kind of tactlessness. It was Henry’s privilege. One either had to squirm and accept the humiliation, bluff it out with similar frankness or stand on one’s dignity. ‘Like you, sire, I made good haste,’ he said, smiling. ‘As would any man.’

Henry nodded, satisfied. ‘Your brothers are here, too,’ he said to Ginny. ‘We must have them with us at such a time. Can’t leave them out, can we?’

‘Hawking is one of their favourite pastimes, Your Grace. You have chosen a perfect time for it, while the air is clear,’ she said.

His smile became paternal as he bent his head towards her. ‘Ah, mistress,’ he said, so close that she could smell his sour breath, ‘that was not my meaning. I invited your brothers along to witness your betrothal to this fine fellow here. Surely your lady mother has told you of our wishes?’

It took every ounce of Ginny’s self-control to stifle a cry of defiance at that, having only just learned who her eventual husband was to be, and that there was no way out of it. What was the urgency? Why now? Why the indecent haste for a betrothal, as if she might run away? Forlorn hope. ‘So soon?’ she whispered.

Taking her response for maidenly reticence, Henry glanced at Ginny’s parents, unable to conceal the desire in his piggy eyes. ‘Charming,’ he said. ‘What modesty. She does you credit. Now, Lady Agnes, a glass of your Rhenish would be more than welcome after that long ride. Eh?’ Leaning heavily on the arm of a well-dressed young man, he limped away towards the porch where the warmth of the great hall would begin the slow thaw of fingers and toes.

Yet despite Sir Jon’s recent warning to her, Ginny’s glare of sheer fury could not be held back and, though it was met by the unmistakable caution in his eyes, her snarled question found its mark. ‘You knew of this, didn’t you? Am I to be the last to know what’s going on here?’

‘Later,’ he whispered. ‘We’ll talk later.’

‘I’ll be damned if I’ll talk to you,’ she muttered, ‘or him.’

‘Shh! For pity’s sake, have a care, woman. He’s not deaf.’

Fortunately for Ginny, the hum of voices covered their heated exchange while Sir Jon’s hopes of a more compliant attitude from her seemed as far away as before. Obviously it would take more than a hurried warning to make any impression on this fiery creature with a resentment as deep as a well.

For a crowd of courtiers who had ridden hard all day to reach D’Arvall Hall, they still looked remarkably fine and free from the dust that, in summer, would have covered them from head to toe. Around her, the swish and rustle of rich fabrics mingled with excited chatter as skirts were lifted, cloaks trailed, and feathers waved like so many bright birds in an overcrowded aviary. The sheen of silver and gold woven into the silks caught the mellow light from the hall, though Ginny herself would never have ridden a horse wearing such costly garments. She was glad, however, that she’d taken time to dress with care in the pink velvet with the square neckline, the loose outer sleeves edged with her mother’s honey-coloured squirrel fur, the undersleeves of pale cream brocade. To her mother she had pretended not to care that her hair was of the same paleness, but a glance in the mirror had confirmed the radiant confidence that came with looking her best, no matter how dire the situation. ‘I shall give you Mistress Molly,’ her mother had said in an attempt to thaw the frostiness between them. ‘You’ll need a maid now and Molly knows your ways better than anyone. She can dress your hair.’

Ginny had thanked her without a smile, suspecting that Mistress Molly would be well rewarded for keeping Lady Agnes informed of all that happened, or did not happen, to the new Lady Virginia Raemon. So the sensational hair had been taken into plaits at each temple, then joined at the back to lie over the top of the rest. Now she felt, as well as saw, the looks directed her way from many of the courtiers she knew and who, until now, had thought her too innocent to include in their worldly conversations.

Her mother’s efforts had paid off: gleaming silver and glass on the tables, white napery, liveried servants, musicians up on the gallery, and the delicious aroma of food wafting through the openings of the elaborate wooden screens where tapestries made a splash of colour on adjacent walls. ‘Well, little sister?’ said a familiar voice behind her. ‘You’re going to take us all up in the world, are you? Can’t say I’m surprised. You could give young Kat Howard a run for her money any day. And the Basset girl, too.’ It was Paul, her brother, wearing a doublet of brightest yellow.

Before she could reply to his typically facile remarks, Sir Jon forestalled her with a more apt put-down than she could have devised. ‘Your sister is not in competition with Mistress Howard,’ he said, ‘nor will she ever be. As for going up in the world, that rests with His Majesty alone. Better get that straight, lad, before you get any more fancy ideas.’

Paul D’Arvall’s indiscretions had landed him in trouble more than once during his year at Henry’s court where he was tolerated for a particular aptitude for mimicry that had been known to take away the pain of Henry’s badly damaged leg. Time and again he had been forgiven and excused by Henry for misdemeanours that had had others banished, locked in the Tower, or worse, and others suspected that young D’Arvall felt himself perfectly safe as long as he could keep Henry amused. No reprimand from his father had made him more circumspect, and though his mother could see no fault in him, the rest of the family felt distinctly uncomfortable whenever he was around.

His brother-in-law, Sir George Betterton, was one of the few people to whom Paul would listen, occasionally, and now he happened to be standing with Sir Jon, his neighbour. ‘Best keep your opinions under your bonnet, D’Arvall,’ he said. ‘Such loose talk can get even you seen off with your tail between your legs.’ He winked at Ginny. ‘Hello, sister-in-law,’ he said kindly. ‘Maeve’s looking for you. Been hiding?’

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘What would you do?’

‘Oh, I’d certainly hide from this great brute.’ He laughed. ‘Come and talk to me and your sister. We’ll tell you how to handle him.’

But Ginny had seen her other brother, Elion, and her greeting was warmer by far than it had been for Paul, the younger of the two. ‘Dear one,’ she said. ‘Can we talk?’

‘Yes, love. But not until after supper, I fear, for here comes Father with that “now you listen to me” look on his face.’ He lifted his cap as Sir Walter approached. ‘Want me to stay, Ginny?’

His question was answered for him by the quick tip of Sir Walter’s head that usually left his subordinates in no doubt about what he intended. Even Sir Jon could only watch as Ginny’s arm was taken and she was steered towards a shadowy corner away from the bustle. Foolishly, in retrospect, Ginny hoped she might be allowed to have the first word. ‘Father, I know you mean well, but I did not agree to—’

Sir Walter knew immediately what she referred to. ‘So your mother tells me, Virginia,’ he cut in brusquely. ‘But what has that to do with anything? I agreed to it. So did His Majesty the king, and so did Sir Jon. Isn’t that enough? Who else is there to ask? God’s truth, lass, if we went round the countryside asking for opinions, you’d still be unmarried by Domesday. My duty is to find you a suitable husband and I’ve been lenient with you till now. But I shall not be here for ever and the king’s offer is as good as it’s going to get. You must accept it, for all our sakes. It means everything to your mother and me.’

‘Whether I like it or not.’

‘Yes. Whether you like it or not, young lady. And no more discourtesy towards Sir Jon, if you please. I could hardly believe you and he have not spoken in this last month at court. Have you no thought to the future?’

‘Yes’, she replied, she had, she did, ‘but—’

‘But nothing!’ Sir Walter snapped. ‘There are no buts in this business, Virginia. Men make the conditions, not women of your age. Just remember that, will you?’

‘Yes, Father,’ she responded as he walked away. He did not want answers, reasons, or opinions, only blind obedience, for this was not just about her, but about all he stood to gain by it. In one way or another, a man had to fight for his own advancement by any means open to him, for Henry had grown fickle, unpredictable, and not to be relied on for his favour. Whatever he offered must be snatched up with both hands before someone else benefited; families were at each other’s throats, seeking dominance and influence with a king who wanted those around him to agree with every word, to fawn and flatter, to pander to his monstrous ego. Those who were not prepared to do this had no place at court, and no place at court meant no share of the spoils being handed out almost daily, whether positions, titles, or one of the eight hundred or so monastic properties that had been closed down over the past five years. What were the preferences of a young woman worth compared to this?

Nevertheless, it seemed to Ginny that all this fuss simply to have her near the king at court as a married woman was completely ridiculous when he could command her presence at any time, married or not, and to enjoy her company whenever he wished. As he had done since she’d been with Queen Anna, his new wife, walking in the gardens, partnering him at bowls, riding out with hawks, sharing these pastimes with others of her own age until the queen from Cleves could converse in English to his satisfaction. Was this really worth the rewards her mother had told her of? Was there something more she might be expected to do? Was she being used by her family in the same way that plain Jane Seymour had been by hers? Evidently not, for Jane had taken no husband except the king himself, and now he had ‘a new wife he didn’t care for’...and rumour had it that the dear lady was still a virgin.

The hairs along Ginny’s arms prickled. Her scalp crawled. No...no, not that! Were her parents so insensitive that they could subject her to that? With an ageing king? And Sir Jon, too? Had he agreed that, for his rewards, he would allow his wife to be used? Her head reeled with the onrush of questions. She felt nauseous as a wave of cooking smells assaulted her nostrils. Where was Elion? Maeve? They would explain.

From above her, a fanfare of trumpets blasted out across the hall to tell them that supper was about to begin, for however much the king pretended that his informal visits needed no pomp or ceremony, he would not have been impressed if his hosts had taken him at his word. It was too late for Ginny to explore the details of the matter that would affect her for the rest of her life.

Amongst those who had come with the king that day, there were few who were unaware of the coolness between Mistress D’Arvall and Sir Jon Raemon, and now some had even placed bets on how long it would take him to thaw the lady who must have some very serious reasons for her dislike. She must rate herself very highly, they thought, to place herself so far beyond his reach when he was one of the most eligible of the king’s gentlemen, wealthy, accomplished, intelligent, and devastatingly good-looking. So it was with some anticipation that the handsome couple was observed together at the table where their demeanour could be judged and the stakes raised accordingly.

But as if in unspoken accord, neither Ginny nor Sir Jon would give them the satisfaction of having anything to gossip about, and to all eyes it looked as if Ginny was prepared to accept the role being thrust upon her, whatever it was, and to be the meek and submissive daughter her father required. The truth was that she would not shame her family, or Sir Jon, in public before the king, although what she did in private would be an entirely different matter. Knowing her as they did, her family was not fooled, and nor was Sir Jon, who did not know her half so well, but had observed her more keenly than she realised. He had seen how her father had spoken to her, how she had paled and how he would not have minced his words. Having gained some idea from their brief talk together how her mind was so set against him, he was thankful, but not optimistic, about her show of obedience.

The lavish supper passed off without incident, King Henry’s occasional references to Ginny’s talents and Sir Jon’s eagerness being taken good-naturedly by them, while she raged inside at all those who sought to manipulate her life for their own selfish ends. There was a point during the banter when, under cover of the noise, Sir Jon murmured to her, ‘Well done, mistress. I know what this is costing you in restraint.’

‘Do you, Sir Jon? I very much doubt it.’

‘Believe me, I do. They’re like a dog with a bone. They’ll let it go eventually.’

Warming to his role as matchmaker, and assuming that Ginny would be of the same mind as any young woman ripe for marriage, Henry lost no time after supper in bringing the two of them together in a public manner intended to show off his great benevolence, as if his motives were entirely selfless. Upstairs, in the beautiful oak gallery, he took Ginny by the hand while beckoning Sir Jon to stand close by, past the silk-clad legs and crackling skirts, the smiling faces and nudging elbows, causing a silence to descend as he took centre stage. ‘Mistress D’Arvall,’ he said in his rasping tenor, ‘since this sluggard has not seen fit to find you for himself, I present him to you now for your approval. It is our wish, and that of your parents, that you and Sir Jon should plight your troth at some time during our visit. You, sir, are most fortunate. Mistress D’Arvall is a prize worth winning.’ He looked down at Ginny with such unconcealed lust that, for once, his next words only squeaked and had to be repeated. ‘He will...ahem...he will make you a good and honest husband, mistress. We commend him to you.’

‘I thank you, your Majesty, but...’

‘Sir Jon, you may take the lady’s hand.’

With every eye upon them, Ginny placed her fingers lightly on Sir Jon’s rock-solid palm to support her curtsy as the applause and smiles added yet another layer of finality, already too deep for her liking. She felt the net closing around her and pulling her wherever Sir Jon went and nowhere she wanted to be. Certainly not at court and certainly not anywhere near the husband of the woman she had come to admire. She would be moulded to other men’s lives, given over to their desires with all her dreams of love fading in one handclasp. He took her hand to his lips, bowing courteously, putting on a good act, Ginny thought, of being pleased by the king’s generosity. Her own eyes were downcast, her heart heavy with foreboding, for this handsome creature who had once rejected her would surely have a woman of his own somewhere, maybe one of those watching this charade. Their hearts would probably weigh as heavy as hers. Perhaps they had already planned how to deal with it.

Heavy-hearted or not, Sir Jon concealed it well as he led her through the crowd to meet well-wishers, to acknowledge smiles, slaps on the back for him, and kisses for her from those she would now have to learn to like. Drawn this way and that, parted from Sir Jon, she came face-to-face once more with her brother Paul, his friends already laughing at his witty remarks, the content of which Ginny could easily guess. She would have smiled and moved away in search of her sister, but Paul would not allow the chance to escape him and, leaning heavily against her with his lips close to her ear, he mimicked the king’s words of a moment earlier. ‘He’ll make you a good and honest husband, mistress,’ he said in the reedy royal tone. ‘And do you see that lust in my eyes, too, sweet wench? I’ll have you in my bed tonight, sweet Virginia. Sir Jon won’t mind if I have you first, eh?’ Laughing at his own adolescent jest, he swung her round by the waist in a parody of a dance until she was caught and held by Maeve, who would not share Paul’s sport at her expense.

Nor did George, her husband, whose hand held the back of Paul’s embroidered collar as if he were an ill-trained pup. ‘Go and sit down, D’Arvall,’ he said in a low angry voice. ‘The wine’s gone to your head, lad. You’ll go too far one day if you’re not more careful.’ He gave him an ungentle shove into the arms of his companions.

‘I said nothing!’ Paul protested. ‘I was only...’

Sir George turned back to the two sisters and saw by Ginny’s white face that her brother’s ‘nothing’ was far from the truth. People moved away sympathetically, leaving them to find a bench at the end of the long gallery beneath a dark portrait of their grandfather. ‘What is it, Ginny?’ Maeve said. ‘What did Paul say?’

‘He said...well, he seemed to be saying that this is all for the king’s convenience and that Sir Jon wouldn’t mind. Which is what I’d already begun to suspect. Is it true, Maeve? Is this what the king does when he takes a mistress? I’ve not been at court long enough to know how these things are done, but not for one moment did I imagine the king would already be in need of a mistress when he’s only been married a month or so. Tell me it’s not true.’

The brief glance exchanged between Maeve and her husband was loaded with anguish. ‘Listen, love,’ Maeve said, taking Ginny’s hand upon the rich green brocade of her skirt. ‘We hoped Mother would have made the position clear to you by now. And Father, too. They know how these things go.’

‘The position? You mean, it’s true? He’s expecting me to...?’

‘Well, yes. When the king intends to take a mistress, he prefers her to be a married woman so that when she bears a child, there’s always a husband to give it a name, so that it won’t be a bastard. Bastards can cause a bit of a problem, you see, later on, with claims of royal prerogative, so he tends not to recognise them these days. It’s easier for him.’ She paused, hoping George might continue.

‘It was like that with Mary Boleyn,’ he said, ‘Anne’s sister. She was married off to William Carey before her children were born. They didn’t have any choice and Carey didn’t care for the arrangement, but he accepted it. It’s happened with others, too. He doesn’t have affairs with unmarried women anymore. It’s too risky.’





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