“God save me,” Geoffrey breathes. “It’s Hugh Holland, the corn merchant.”
The round, smiling face of the London merchant is blenched and pale, his hands gripping the crupper behind him to hold himself on the swiftly moving horse, as he is badly jolted with the hammering pace.
They ride past us without slowing. The captain throws us a swift suspicious glare, as if he thinks we might have ridden to rescue Hugh Holland. I raise my hand to recognize his authority and this draws Hugh’s attention. He sees our standard and my men’s livery, and shouts out to Geoffrey: “Keep on your way, for you’ll come after me!”
In the noise of the horses’ bits and the jostle of the riders, in the confusion of the dust and the rush of their passing, they are gone before Geoffrey can reply. He turns to me, white-faced, and says: “But Cromwell was clear. He was satisfied. We explained.”
“This might be something else altogether,” I say, though I don’t think that it is. “Let’s get to Montague’s house and ask your brother.”
BOCKMER HOUSE, BUCKINGHAMSHIRE, SUMMER 1538
Montague’s house is in uproar. The king’s men broke tables, settles, and benches in the great hall when they arrested Hugh Holland, and he fought against them and ran around the hall as they crashed after him like clumsy hounds after a terrified deer.
My daughter-in-law Jane has gone to her private room in tears. Montague is supervising the servants setting up the tables in the hall and trying to make light of it all. But I can tell that he is shaken when Geoffrey bursts in shouting: “Why have they taken him? What reason did they give?”
“They don’t have to give a reason, Geoffrey. You know that.”
“But Cromwell himself assured me!”
“Indeed. And the king pardoned Robert Aske.”
“Hush,” I say instantly. “There is some mistake here, there is no need for us to fear. This is between Hugh Holland and the law. Nothing to do with us.”
“They searched my private rooms,” Montague says tightly, turning away from the men who are picking up the scattered pewter. “They tore my house apart. It is to do with us.”
“What did they find?” Geoffrey whispers.
“Nothing,” Montague says tightly. “I burn my letters as soon as I have read them.” He turns to me. “You keep nothing, do you, Lady Mother? You burn them as you read?”
I nod. “I do.”
“Nothing as a keepsake? Not even from Reginald?”
I shake my head. “Nothing. Ever.”
Geoffrey is pale. “I have some papers,” he confesses. “I have kept some papers.”
Montague rounds on him. “What?” he demands. “No, don’t tell me. I don’t want to know. Fool! You’re a fool, Geoffrey. Get them destroyed. I don’t want to know how.”
He takes me by the arm to lead me from the hall. I hesitate; this is my son, my darling son.
“Send the chaplain, John Collins,” I say quickly to Geoffrey over my shoulder. “You can trust him. Send him to your steward or, better, to Constance and tell her to burn everything in your room.”
Geoffrey nods, white-faced, and scurries out.
“Why is he such a fool?” Montague demands, dragging me up the stairs to his wife’s presence chamber. “He should never keep anything, he knows that.”
“He’s not a fool,” I say, catching my breath and making the men pause before opening the door. “But he loves the Church as it was. He was raised at Syon Abbey, it was our refuge. You can’t blame him for loving his home. He was a little boy and we had nothing, we lived off the Church as if it were our family. And he loves the princess, as I do. He can’t help but show it.”
“Not in these times,” Montague says shortly. “We can’t afford to show our love. Not for a moment. The king is a dangerous man, Lady Mother. You never know these days how he will take something. One minute he’s suspicious and anxious and the next he’s draped around your shoulder and is your best friend. He watches me like he could eat me up, gobble me for his pleasure; and then he sings ‘Pastime with Good Company’ and it’s like the old days. You never know where you are with him.
“But he always remembers—he never forgets—that his throne was won on a battlefield by chance and by treason. Chance and treason can turn against him, just as easily. And he has one frail son in a cradle and no one who would defend him. And he knows that there is a curse, and he knows that it justly falls on his house.”
Montague’s wife, Jane, is frightened and crying in her room as I enter with Katherine and Winifred, and she pulls them towards her, blesses them, and says that she will never forgive their father for exposing them to danger. Little Harry makes his bow to me and stands staunchly beside his father as if he is afraid of nothing.
“I don’t want to hear another word, Jane,” I say flatly to her. “Not another word.”
That checks her and she curtseys to me. “I am sorry, Lady Mother. It was a shock. And that terrible man running away from the guard, and they broke some glasses.”
“We must be glad that Lord Cromwell seized him if he is guilty, and if he is innocent he will be quickly freed,” I say stoutly. I drop my hand onto Harry’s straight little shoulder. “We have nothing to fear for we have always been loyal to the king.”
He looks up at me. “We are loyal cousins,” he volunteers.
“We are, and we always have been.”
Jane follows my cue and for the rest of the day we try to act as if we were making a normal family visit. We dine in the great hall and the household pretends to be merry as we on the high table, looking down on them feasting and drinking, try to smile and chatter.
After dinner we send the children to their rooms, leave the household to their drink and gambling, and go into Montague’s private chambers. Geoffrey cannot settle, cannot sit in one place. He prowls about from window to fireplace, from settle to stool.
“I had a copy of a sermon,” he says suddenly. “But it was preached before the king! There can be no harm in that. And anyway, Collins will have burned it.”
“Peace.” Montague looks up at him.
“I had some letters from Bishop Stokesley, but there was nothing in them,” he says.
“You should have burned them the moment that you got them,” Montague says. “As I told you. Years ago.”
“There was nothing in them!” Geoffrey exclaims.
“But he, in turn, may have written something to someone else. You don’t want to bring trouble to his door, nor for his other friends to bring trouble to yours.”
“Oh, do you burn everything?” Geoffrey suddenly demands, thinking that he will catch out his brother.
“Yes, as I told you, years ago,” Montague replies calmly. He looks at me. “You do, don’t you, Lady Mother?”
“Yes,” I say. “There is nothing at any of my homes for them to find, should they ever come to look.”
“Why should they ever come to look?” Jane says irritably.
“Because we are who we are,” I answer her. “And you know that, Jane. You were born a Neville yourself. You know what it means. We are the Plantagenets. We are the white rose, and the king knows that the people love us.”
She turns her bitter face away. “I thought I was marrying into a great house,” she says. “I didn’t think that I was joining a family in danger.”
“Greatness means danger,” I say simply. “And I think you knew that then, as now.”
Geoffrey walks to the window, looks out, turns back to the room. “I think I’ll go to London,” he says. “I’ll go and I’ll see Thomas Cromwell and find out what he is doing with Hugh Holland, and tell him,” he snatches a breath, he has quite run out of air, “tell him,” he says more strongly, “that there is nothing against Holland and nothing against me, and nothing against any of us.”