The Curse of the Hungerfords, Page 2

  Nothing was found to be amiss with the accounts, and the complaint was dismissed. But John’s resentment against his neighbours festered. They were watching his every move, he was sure of it, and waiting for an opportunity to make life difficult for him. The craft guilds were powerful; they could prevent a man from working if he was not one of their members.

  It was time, he decided, to go back to Somerset. Not Dunster, where he had grown up, but Bath, at the other end of the shire. Agnes wondered about this. By now, she knew that John had not been what he seemed when she married him, and suspected there was a good reason why he did not want to go home. Had he been up to some mischief in Dunster? Or was she overreacting? If it was true that he had no family there now, there was nothing to go back for. Bath was a big place – there would be plenty of work there. She was content to leave; she was not close to her parents, and it was uncomfortable living in Canterbury, where all their neighbours hated them.

  Armed with a letter of recommendation from a fellow member of the fraternity of St John the Baptist, John made his preparations. He terminated his lease, packed up their belongings, made Agnes sew their savings into his doublet, and, in the middle of the night, loaded everything onto the big cart and rode away. As a parting gesture, he thrust a lighted taper into the thatch of the Maryons’ cottage. They had not gone far when, turning around, they saw flames leaping up and heard shouts. John drove on, grinning.

  In Bath, they found lodgings and John was soon acting as a middle-man for a wealthy merchant. The pattern of their lives was set for the next seven years.

  As those years passed, Agnes grew more discontented. She lacked for nothing materially, yet she still felt a yearning for something more in life – for love, for adventure – for she knew not what! And she was conscious that time was running out. She was well into her thirties now, middle-aged by anyone’s reckoning, and she lived in dread of finding another faint line on her face or another grey hair in her nut-brown tresses. Yet she knew, from the whistles that followed her when she ventured out of doors, that some still found her comely. Her figure was yet youthful because, for reasons of His own, God had never sent her children; her cheeks were rosy and her lips cherry red.

  John barely seemed to notice her these days – apart from when he wanted food or sex. He lived his own life away from the home, and filled it with friends and business acquaintances – and probably lewd women too, for all Agnes knew.

  It was through one of John’s acquaintances that he learned that Sir Edward Hungerford of Farleigh Castle needed a steward.

  ‘You could do that,’ Agnes said encouragingly.

  ‘Of course I could, woman!’ His tone was nasty.

  She ignored that. ‘Think of it! Living in a castle. There would probably be a fine lodging for us. And the wages . . .’

  ‘Would not be as much as I earn now. But there would be prestige, and patronage. I could become an influential man. Sir Edward, I hear, is much at court, when he is not fighting the French. You never know where it could lead, wife!’

  So there they were, living in Farleigh Hungerford Castle in more comfort than they had ever known, warm and cosy with winter setting in, and Agnes felt like a lady. And it was not just because of their opulent surroundings.

  Anne, 1521–1533

  I have some memories of my father. He died when I was seven, and I can still conjure up the sense of loss I felt. Not that I was close to him. He was an old man when I was born, an old, respected man of high importance in the west country, but burdened by his many duties as sheriff of Cornwall and Devon, and by the demands of a young and boisterous family. Yet he was a solid, reassuring presence in our lives, in control of everything, and protective of his children.

  There were seven of us. I was the third-born, after Philippa and John. John was Father’s pride and joy, the son and heir he had craved throughout the thirty years of his first marriage, which had produced four daughters and a boy who died at birth. Once started, it seemed my mother could not stop, for two other sons – George and James – followed and then two more daughters.

  Ours was a busy household, ruled capably by Mother, the former Honor Grenville. When she married Father in 1515, she was twenty, with – I have heard – the competence of a woman twice her age. Right into old age and infirmity she has looked deceptively fragile and delicate, and was always exquisitely dressed, as a lady should be, but there was a forcefulness in her, and determination as hard as steel. Yes, she was proud, as some have levelled at her, and certainly she could show a haughty demeanour; if there was hypocrisy in her, you might rather call it tact. Defend her I will from the jibes of her enemies, for she was always a wonderful mother, utterly devoted to our interests, and indefatigable in working for our advancement in the world.

  I never saw my lady idle. Always she was busy, writing endless letters to her many connections at court; working in her still room, where her amazing knowledge of physic came into its own; on her knees in chapel (no doubt seeking God’s cooperation in her plans for her children); ordering the servants, or tending her many dogs. She loved to ride out with her bow, or dance, or lose herself in a book. Whatever I achieve in life, I will never have the vitality of my mother.

  So there we all were, a big merry household: seven children, and my older half-sisters, Jane and Thomasine. The other two, Anne and Margery, were married – Anne to a Courtenay, a relation of the Earl of Devon, as my mother liked to remind people – and living in Cornwall. My oldest sister Philippa’s life would take a similar course.

  I was closer to my younger sisters, Kat and Mary. Mary was the fairest maiden you could hope to see, Kat much plainer, but the kindest and most winning of us all. Our worlds were bounded by each other.

  The time of our childhood was divided among my father’s three houses. Above the porch of each was a shield on which was blazoned the crest of Bassett, a silver unicorn’s head. The principal seat was the manor house at Tehidy on the north coast of Cornwall; that house has been in Bassett hands since the time of the Normans. We children ran free in the grounds, exploring the woodland around the North Cliffs, clambering around the ancient earthwork hidden away there.

  Umberleigh – Mother’s dower house – is even older than Tehidy, for it stands on the site of a palace built by a Saxon king on the west bank of the River Taw, by the old bridge. Nearby lies a pretty village of thatched cottages with an inn that was then said to be haunted. I used to run past it whenever I was on errands for Mother, taking food or physic to sick tenants – terrified lest I might see the spectre!

  The third house, Heanton Court, stands at Heanton Punchardon, also in the north part of Devon. Many of my Bassett ancestors lie in the church there.

  These places marked the parameters of my early years, when the world seemed constant, safe and secure. Until, in the wintry frost of January, in the year of our Lord 1528, Father died.

  He left us all well provided for, with good marriage portions for me and my sisters. Since my brother John, the heir, was but ten years old, Mother and our kindly cousin, John Worth, Sewer to King Henry VIII, made him their ward.

  When a decent year had passed, Mother hied off to London to look for a new husband, and that was how Arthur came into our lives. He saw her at court, and was smitten. Being Mother, she took care to let him chase her until she caught him, and really, she could not have netted a much bigger fish. For Arthur Plantagenet was the bastard son of King Edward IV, and therefore uncle to King Henry, who liked him well and afforded him great prominence at court.

  Arthur was in his fifties when he wed my mother. As I was to see for myself, he bore a strong resemblance to the King, and was of a similar great height and broad build. He had held many high offices, including those of Vice-Admiral of England, Privy Councillor and Lord Warden of the Cinque Ports, as well as the title Viscount Lisle, which he had in right of his first wife. He had three daughters of his own, Frances, for whom my b
rother John would soon conceive a certain liking, and Elizabeth and Bridget, who were both married.

  Marriage to Arthur Plantagenet raised my mother, and indeed us, to the highest ranks of society. It was great good fortune, and doubly so for me, because I liked him well. He was a good and fair stepfather to us. In his household, no distinction was made between children and stepchildren. He was a kitten of a man, for all his great size and near-royal status, friendly, hearty, gentle and easy-going.

  Mother soon dominated him. It was in her nature; she could not help it. He happily bowed to her rule, and left most decisions to her discretion. If he opposed her, even in the smallest domestic matter, she would fiercely protest and incessantly nag him until he bowed to her supremacy. Dear man, he was too gentle to stand up to her. And yet, there was great love between them, and I am sure he relied on her completely.

  It was thanks to her that, three years into their marriage, Arthur purchased Master Worth’s share in my brother John’s wardship and marriage; the plan was that John would wed Frances Plantagenet when he was older, and John was very happy with that.

  By then, of course, we were all living in Arthur’s house in London, and the great matter of the King’s marriage was the burning topic of the day. Mother, of course, sided with the King, who wanted to divorce Queen Katherine and marry her maid-of-honour, Anne Boleyn.

  ‘His Grace needs a son!’ she declared. ‘Can’t the Queen see that? She ought to stand aside for a younger woman who can give him one. And many doctors have told him that his marriage is invalid. It’s about time the Pope stopped prevaricating and declared it so.’ I had a strong feeling that Mother alone, given five minutes with his Holiness, would have sorted out the whole dragging business.

  Arthur nodded. He always agreed with her – and it was politic to support his nephew, the King.

  There was high excitement when Mother was selected as one of the six ladies who would accompany the Lady Anne to Calais in that autumn of 1532. The King was taking his sweetheart there to meet the French King, plainly hoping for support from that quarter. I looked on with envy as Mother supervised her packing, watching the rich gowns poured like molten gold and silver into the chests, the hoods encrusted with pearls, the soft slippers, the furs and the jewels. How I wished I could go with her!

  When she returned, full of her experiences, Kat, Mary and I thrilled to hear her tell us how she had danced with two kings, and how charmingly the Lady Anne had condescended to befriend her.

  ‘What is the King like?’ we wanted to know.

  ‘Tall, magnificent and very handsome!’ she enthused. ‘His eyes are so blue, and he has such a kingly manner. And she is exquisite! Not beautiful in the accepted way, but there is something fine about her. She is so elegant in her dress, so regal in her carriage. She will make a fine queen!’

  ‘When his Grace is free to marry her!’ Arthur put in.

  ‘It will not be long now,’ Mother declared. ‘You’ll see.’

  She was right.

  The following March, Arthur was appointed Lord Deputy of Calais, and had to hasten back across the English Channel to take up his duties. It was a high and prestigious honour, yet it threw Mother into an agony of joy and sorrow. Joy, because she was delighted at his advancement; sorrow, because she did not want to move so far from the court. But, of course, she had no choice but to join him there, and I and my younger sisters went too. My brothers were left at Arthur’s house in Hampshire with their tutors; and Mother gave Jane and Thomasine, both still unmarried, permission to stay at Umberleigh.

  For those who do not know it, Calais is an English enclave on the north-west edge of France, just across the Channel. King Edward III captured it two hundred years ago, and it has been a closely guarded territory ever since, surrounded by stout walls and defences. We lived in the Staple Inn, in the middle of the town. It was a fine house, suitable for receiving those of the highest rank, yet Mother, naturally, would have preferred to lodge in the Exchequer Palace, where kings and queens stayed on their rare visits to Calais. She felt that Arthur, as the King’s deputy, should have been allowed the use of it, but no matter how she pressed him, he would not ask for that particular favour. It was one of the few issues over which he defied her.

  We had a good life in Calais, a bustling, noisy town with a great harbour, where we liked to watch the ships. We lived in some splendour, and Arthur entertained often. At twelve, I was quite observant of my elders, and I became aware that he was somewhat indolent in the exercise of his vice-regal obligations. It was Mother who ruled Calais – at least, until Master Cromwell, the King’s Principal Secretary, sent a tactful letter to Arthur, hinting that he should not let his wife tell him what to do when it came to state affairs. I remember Mother spluttering in rage when she read it, and Arthur trying to placate her. I’m not sure that she ever did entirely desist from instructing him, and certainly he had not the will to control her.

  Not a month after we moved to Calais came the sensational news that the Lady Anne Boleyn was queen! The King, it transpired, had married her in secret. Soon afterwards, we heard that Queen Katherine had been divorced. Now, Mother was more discontented than ever with being exiled to Calais. She was desperate to be at court, for the court was at the centre of her world. Accordingly, she dashed off a volley of letters to her friends there, hoping not to be forgotten, and praying that, by their means, she could ingratiate herself with the new Queen.

  Agnes, 1518

  Agnes watched John as he ate. How she hated him. He had beaten her again last night, for rebuking him when he came to bed drunk. Her arms and back, which had sustained the worst of the blows, were sore today. Almost, she was glad of the attack. It salved her conscience. Tit for tat.

  Sir Edward Hungerford, who was far more of a gentleman than John would ever be, had been more than kind to her. Much more than kind. She revelled in the stolen hours in his bed, luxuriating in his muscular, soldierly body, and his cultivated sweet talk. From the moment he had first looked at her and their eyes had met, she had known for a certainty that he wanted her.

  Edward warned her that he would often be away at court, but she would be in his heart and thoughts when he was gone from her. Except that he wasn’t gone from her very often. It seemed that his duties as sheriff of Wiltshire, Somerset and Dorset were suddenly very pressing. Temptation stalked her daily. She would feast her eyes on his tall, noble figure clad in black velvet, cloth of silver and sleeves of crimson, cloth of gold, green tinsel and yellow satin . . . fine attire that John could never aspire to. She could not get enough of Sir Edward.

  If John knew what had been going on almost under his nose for the past two months, he did not care. He was enjoying the prestige of his new role, and Agnes suspected he had his sights on the bailiff’s wife, a lazy slut like an overblown rose. It mattered not a whit to her. Why bother about the steward when you can have the master?

  They had to be careful, of course. Sir Edward was married, to a member of the powerful Zouche family; he wanted no scandal. Yet Lady Hungerford was rarely to be seen. She spent her days in her tower room, endlessly embroidering, or in the chapel, at her devotions, and when she did emerge it was only long enough to eat dinner or take short walks in her garden for the sake of her health. Agnes doubted she was sickly, for she looked rosy enough; she was sure that my lady had long ago learned to feign incapacity to avoid her husband’s embraces, and that it had become a habit. Witness the evidence: there was but one son of the marriage, and Sir Edward was a lusty man.

  Neither parent had much control over young Walter, who was fifteen, bullish and headstrong. The lad was left very much to his despairing tutors and the temptations of the great outdoors, and Agnes had only ever seen him with a scowl on his face. It was not surprising that he was resentful. In place of the love he should have had, all he got was reprimands from his father and helpless shrugs from his mother. Agnes tried to talk to Edward about Walter,
but he silenced her with a kiss and rolled her over on her back.

  ‘Don’t concern yourself with that young scamp, darling,’ he murmured, kissing her into forgetfulness.

  Agnes tried to be kind to Walter, but it was clear that he resented her. She suspected he had some inkling of what was going on between her and his father. After a while, she gave up trying with him, knowing she would get nowhere.

  She really had eyes for no one but Edward. Desire was a constant flame in her, consuming her, like a kind of madness. It was a madness he shared in equal measure. Sometimes their passion was so violent it scared her, yet it excited her too. She had never dreamed that lovers could cross such boundaries.

  And then, suddenly, when the snow was thawing in January, Lady Hungerford died. There was no warning, no sign of illness. One day, her maid walked into the tower room and found her dead on the floor. There was no mark on her body, save a bloodshot eye and a blue hue around the lips.

  ‘It must have been an apoplexy,’ Edward told his household, who were crowding the doorway and stairs, agog. He closed his eyes, clapped his hand to his mouth, and sighed deeply, then made a visible effort to control himself. ‘Move her to her bedchamber,’ he ordered. ‘My dear lady must be honourably laid out.’

  On the night after the burial, even before the funeral hatchments had been removed from their places of honour on the walls, Edward and Agnes lay together again.

  ‘My dear love,’ Edward murmured, caressing her cheek, ‘I think you know what must happen now.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Agnes spoke more sharply than she intended. She thought he was going to say they must part – at least until he was out of mourning.

  He pulled her against his hard, bare chest. ‘I want us to be together. I want to marry you!’

  He had given voice to an idea that had been germinating and flowering in Agnes’s mind ever since she had seen Lady Hungerford lying cold on the rushes. She was not of equal rank to Edward, but that need not matter. They loved each other, and were surely meant to be united. She had begun to weave a fantasy, seeing herself presiding at the high table, being deferred to as my lady, and enjoying the Hungerford wealth. Marriage to Edward would bring her all the status, luxury and comfort she had ever desired, and it would give her an entry to the court. She might even meet the King himself.