The Phantom Tree. Nicola Cornick
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turned a shoulder and drew the covers up over me. I had already proved that I would not tell. There was no need for further words.
I heard her slipping off her shoes and the rustle of clothes before the mattress shifted and she lay back down. A few minutes passed.
‘Did you see him?’ she asked suddenly.
‘No,’ I said.
She gave a sigh and a little wriggle. ‘He’s lovely.’ Her voice had softened. ‘Oh, Mary, he is so handsome! I love him.’ She rolled over so that she was facing me. ‘Shall I tell you about him? Abut what it is like when I am with him?’ Her voice was eager. I knew she wanted to talk but I did not want to hear it.
‘No!’ I said. ‘Tell me nothing. That way I can’t be made to tell anyone else.’
There was silence. I could feel her withdrawing from me. It had been our one chance of friendship and I had rejected it. She said nothing else but I felt her coldness.
Despite that, she was all glowing and bright through those hot summer nights, slipping off to meet her lover more blatantly now that she knew I knew and would say nothing. In the daytime she was dreamy and softer than she had ever been, almost kind. She looked buxom and ripe and she seemed always on the point of bursting into flower. I saw the way that the men looked at her and she saw it too and liked it. I was twelve years old, skinny and small and quiet. No one looked at me and I made sure it stayed that way. Not for me midnight trysts in the garden or a tumble behind the orchard wall. I thought Alison foolish beyond measure.
Disaster came to her very quickly. One day I was called away from my duties in the stillroom and into the parlour. The page was voluble and excited, the courtyard swarming with men and horses.
‘Sir Edward is here!’ He told me as I followed him, wiping my hands on my apron in a hasty attempt to rub off the smell of oil. ‘He wants to see you at once.’
As the parlour door swung shut behind me, I saw that there were four people in the room. Dame Margery was there, her long face sunk into grim lines I had not seen before. Beside her sat Liz Aiglonby. I looked to Liz for clues but for once her expression gave me nothing.
The two men were unknown to me. The elder was large, careless in his dress, with a high complexion and, I judged, a short temper. Already he was tapping his fingers impatiently. I did not care for the look of him.
The other was indeed my cousin Edward Seymour. Throughout my time at Wolf Hall, Edward had been an elusive presence, often rumoured to be about to visit us, but never appearing. Our house of misfits and orphans had been beneath his notice. But now he was here.
My cousin Edward had gloss. He had been brought up with the boy King Edward, our cousin, and it showed. He was only a young man but confidence cloaked him. He was handsome too and, as I entered the room, he stood and he took my hand and kissed it, courtly fashion.
‘Lady Mary. Cousin. I am happy to meet you.’
I could have pointed out to him that he appeared to have been in no great hurry to do so but I did not, bobbing a curtsey, which gained a nod of approval from Liz.
‘Sit. Please.’ He led me to a chair that was placed directly before the circle of inquisitors. ‘Dame Margery and Mistress Aiglonby are known to you, of course.’ His smile was charming. ‘This is our uncle Sir Henry Seymour.’
‘Lady Mary.’ Sir Henry inclined his head with a wintry smile. I could tell at once that he thought me of no account, being a woman and a plain one at that, but because of my name and our kinship he was prepared to show courtesy at least. There were men who said that Henry Seymour lacked the ambition of his brothers, my late father and uncle, but since they had lost their heads for it whilst he had garnered lands and offices, he was self-evidently the wisest of the three. He was certainly too grand and too important to have visited Wolf Hall during my time there. Now I felt his shrewd gaze assessing me.
‘An ill-favoured maid to be the child of so handsome a man and so gracious a lady,’ he said now.
I saw Liz poker up with outrage but I felt nothing but amusement. Nothing could please me more than to be considered undistinguished. Notoriety had served my parents ill. Invisibility would suit me best.
‘Mary will grow to be a beauty,’ Liz said stoutly, although she sounded less than certain.
I settled myself in the chair, folding my hands demurely in my lap. Dame Margery’s frown deepened; she knew my docility was assumed and it was another reason she disliked me. She thought me sly when I was simply careful.
‘Lady Mary.’ My cousin Edward sat forward, pleasantries over. ‘You share a bedchamber with Mistress Banestre?’
I nodded. His gaze grew sharper. ‘Does she ever bring anyone else to your chamber?’
‘A man,’ Sir Henry snapped. ‘Has she brought men into her bed?’
I saw Edward shoot him a look of irritation. ‘Gently, sir. Mary is but a little maid—’
‘No,’ I said bluntly, interrupting, ‘she has not.’
‘Have you ever seen her with a man?’ Edward asked.
I thought of the night when I had seen Alison and her lover kissing on the terrace. I had seen nothing but shadows, no man.
‘No,’ I said.
Liz sat back, the tension in her shoulders slackening. ‘See?’ she said. It was directed more at Dame Margery than the men. ‘She knows nothing of it.’
‘Does Mistress Banestre ever slip out at night?’ Sir Henry demanded. His colour was vivid now, like spilt red wine. He was drumming the fingers of one hand on his knee.
I hesitated.
‘She does!’ Sir Henry said triumphantly. ‘I knew it!’
‘Since she is four months gone with child,’ Edward said with exasperation, ‘we all know she must have done.’
Liz was watching me and saw the shock reflected in my eyes. ‘You did not know, did you, Mary?’ she said gently. ‘You did not know that Alison was enceinte?’
‘No,’ I said for a third time. I hesitated again. I knew little of pregnancy and childbirth but I was not completely ignorant. I had grown up in the country. I had seen farm animals mating and knew that people did it too. I had also been with the others to the Midsummer Fair, where maids and men would slip away with much giggling and touching and disappear into the bushes together.
‘Has she been sick of a morning?’ Dame Margery asked sharply.
‘No,’ I said, once again. ‘Not that I am aware.’
Dame Margery gave a snort of disgust. ‘It seems you have seen and heard nothing! All manner of things might have occurred but you would be in ignorance of them.’
‘Which is precisely as it should be,’ Liz said sharply.
‘Has Mistress Banestre told you the name of her lover?’ Edward picked up the questioning again. ‘Has she mentioned any man’s name to you?’
I realised then that Alison must have refused to disclose the name of the child’s father to them. She had told me that he was handsome, and that she was in love with him, but she had never told me his name.
‘No,’ I said.
‘You are a woman of few words, Cousin,’ Edward teased me. ‘Or perhaps you are a loyal friend.’
‘Alison and Mary are not friends,’ Dame Margery said, as though it gave her pleasure.
‘Then she knows nothing,’ Liz said. ‘If it please you, sir—’ she glanced at Edward ‘—she should be allowed to go.’
Edward nodded. ‘I will see you at dinner, Coz,’ he said. ‘We have much to talk about.’
But it was apparent