The Blackened Heart
Copyright © 2017 Alison Weir
The right of Alison Weir to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
First published in Great Britain in this Ebook edition in 2017 by
HEADLINE REVIEW
An imprint of HEADLINE PUBLISHING GROUP
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All characters in this publication – except for the obvious historical figures – are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
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eISBN: 978 1 4722 3563 3
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Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
About Alison Weir
Also by Alison Weir
Praise
About the Book
Family Tree
The Blackened Heart
Author’s Note
Do not miss the story of Henry’s next queen
About Alison Weir
Alison Weir is the top-selling female historian (and the fifth bestselling historian overall) in the United Kingdom, and has sold over 2.7 million books worldwide. She has published seventeen history books, including The Six Wives of Henry VIII, The Princes in the Tower, Elizabeth the Queen, Eleanor of Aquitaine, Henry VIII: King and Court, Katherine Swynford, The Lady in the Tower and Elizabeth of York. Alison has also published six historical novels, including Innocent Traitor and The Lady Elizabeth. Her latest biography is The Lost Tudor Princess, about Margaret Douglas, Countess of Lennox. Anne Boleyn: A King’s Obsession is the second in her series of novels about the wives of Henry VIII, which began with the Sunday Times bestseller Katherine of Aragon: The True Queen. Alison is a Fellow of the Royal Society of Arts and Sciences and an Honorary Life Patron of Historic Royal Palaces, and is married with two adult children.
Also by Alison Weir
Fiction
Innocent Traitor
The Lady Elizabeth
The Captive Queen
A Dangerous Inheritance
The Marriage Game
The Six Tudor Queens series
Katherine of Aragon: The True Queen
Arthur: Prince of the Roses (e-short)
Quick Reads
Traitors of the Tower
Non-fiction
Britain’s Royal Families: The Complete Genealogy
The Six Wives of Henry VIII
The Princes in the Tower
Lancaster and York: The Wars of the Roses
Children of England: The Heirs of King Henry VIII 1547–1558
Elizabeth the Queen
Eleanor of Aquitaine
Henry VIII: King and Court
Mary Queen of Scots and the Murder of Lord Darnley
Isabella: She-Wolf of France, Queen of England
Katherine Swynford: The Story of John of Gaunt and His Scandalous Duchess
The Lady in the Tower: The Fall of Anne Boleyn
Mary Boleyn: ‘The Great and Infamous Whore’
Elizabeth of York: The First Tudor Queen
The Lost Tudor Princess
As co-author
The Ring and the Crown: A History of Royal Weddings, 1066–2011
Praise for Alison Weir
‘A tender understanding of and genuine sympathy for this proud, much-loved and honourable Queen . . . I was gripped [from] start to finish’ Mavis Cheek
‘Well-researched and engrossing’ Good Housekeeping
‘Yet again, Alison Weir has managed to intertwine profound historical knowledge with huge emotional intelligence, to compose a work that throws light on an endlessly fascinating historical figure. Yet her real gift in all of this is making it feel so fresh and alive’ Charles Spencer
‘Alison Weir clearly admires her heroine . . . meticulously researched’ The Times
‘This exquisite book charts the rise and fall of Henry VIII’s first wife, Katherine . . . A fascinating insight into this period of our history. Weir’s undeniable strength is her immaculate description, enabling the reader to be transported back to Tudor England’ Sun
‘Weir manages to untangle the complex web of 16th-century politics, shown through Katherine’s duties as ambassador, and her astute reading of the games being played. This adds greatly to the heft of the character, demonstrating what a competent woman she was becoming’ Herald Scotland
‘Katherine of Aragon: The True Queen is a true tour de force. Finely crafted, this novel is wonderful historical fiction and an outstanding introduction to the Six Tudor Queens series’ Queen Anne Boleyn Blog
‘Known for bestselling historical biographies, Alison Weir is in command of her detail . . . her handling of Katherine’s misery and dignified response to her predicament is very touching’ Elizabeth Buchan, Daily Mail
About the Book
Margery Otwell, a self-made gentleman’s young daughter, gets her first taste of courtly life when she takes up a position as chamberer to Lady Peche of Lullingstone Castle. Dances, music, feasting – and a seduction – follow, and Margery learns the rules of courtly love the hard way.
Saved from disgrace by the kindly Sir John Peche, Margery finds herself at court waiting on Queen Katherine. Little does Margery know that she is already a pawn in a game of power, irrevocably bound to the fall of the lady she will come to love as her mistress, Queen and friend.
The Blackened Heart by foremost and beloved historian Alison Weir is an e-short and companion piece that bridges the first two novels in the Six Tudor Queens series, Katherine of Aragon: The True Queen and Anne Boleyn: A King’s Obsession. Readers will delight in this mysterious tale, drawn together from fragments of history – and a good dose of speculation. Or is it . . . ?
Her father always accounted himself a gentleman, but it had not been that long since Margery’s family had been master craftsmen. The creative streak still survived in her brother William, who was a broiderer and freeman of Canterbury, much to their father’s disgust. But Thomas Otwell’s pretensions belied his true status: he was not a man of property, but held Brockley Hall and manor under lease from Bayham Abbey.
It was here that Margery had grown up with her brothers, John and the errant William, and her sister Elizabeth. William had run away and got himself apprenticed when Margery was just six, but John was their father in miniature and looked set to build on Thomas’s reputation. Careful investments over the years had made for a comfortable life and Thomas, who lived his life on the periphery of the royal court, hoping to attract patronage, supplemented his income by dabbling discreetly in trade.
Margery, John and Elizabeth were close. They all had the same copper-coloured hair, green eyes and heart-shaped faces, and were near in age. Margery had been born just before the turn of the sixteenth century, John just after and Elizabeth a year after that. As children, they did everything together a
nd Father even allowed the girls to share some of John’s lessons, so that they grew up able to read and do sums.
It pleased Father’s vanity to be on social terms with the local gentry. He was genial company and well liked, and when word spread of his generous hospitality, he was often invited to the houses of men of rank. And that was how he learned that Lady Peche of Lullingstone Castle was looking for a young gentlewoman to wait on her. So, at the age of fourteen, Margery found herself travelling the sixteen miles through the leafy lanes of Kent to Lullingstone to take up the post, miserable at being parted from John and Elizabeth and leaving the home she loved.
As she approached the great red-brick gatehouse she was shrinking inside. It was much grander than Brockley Hall, which was really just a manor house with a superior name, chosen by Father, of course. The carter who was conveying her and her bags drove up the long drive. There were gardens to the left and a fine big house ahead of them. Inside, Margery was led by the steward through panelled chambers and a gallery around two wings of the house, the windows of which overlooked an enclosed courtyard. Everything smelt of beeswax, dried flowers and careful tending.
Lady Peche welcomed her with a smile. She had well-bred features and was beautifully attired in good black velvet with exquisitely embroidered sleeves, and a gable hood with a voluminous veil. Her fingers were laden with rings.
‘Mistress Otwell, I am very pleased to see you,’ she said. ‘My dear, you are very pretty. Your hair is a most unusual colour.’
Margery had tried to confine her unruly copper tresses under a cap. She dimpled at her new employer’s praise.
‘I look forward to serving you, Madam,’ she said, as respectfully as she could.
‘You are to be my chamberer,’ Lady Peche said. ‘You will make my bed, change the sheets when needful, wash my body linen, help me dress and look after my clothes. I have two maids who will instruct you further in your duties.’
And that was Margery’s life for the next seven years. It was a happy household, well run and provided for, and Joan and Bess, the maids, were a jolly pair, always laughing or singing. Lady Peche was a kindly mistress, easy-going and generous with praise. Margery soon got over her homesickness and learned the household routines.
She grew to love Lullingstone, its lovely grounds on the River Darent and its vast deer park graced with ancient oak trees and wildflowers. Near the castle, which was supposed to have been built originally by a brother of William the Conqueror, there was a pretty Norman church dedicated to St Botolph, where the household regularly attended Mass. Margery loved the rich colours in the stained-glass windows and the rood screen with its carved and painted roses for King Henry and pomegranates for Queen Katherine. Sir John Peche had built it in honour of the King’s visit two years before she joined the household. People still talked of the marvellous jousts that had been held on a tournament ground laid out especially in King Henry’s honour. Margery wished she could have been there and seen him; he seemed to have dazzled everyone with his prowess in the lists, his good looks and his hearty manner.
On her days off, a groom would escort her to Brockley and back so that she could see her family. Every time she went home, John had shot up in height and filled out with muscle and she suspected that, with his angelic good looks, he was popular with the ladies. Soon he would marry and they would lose that special closeness they had enjoyed as siblings.
But that would be compensated for, because Margery was now half in love with Sir John Peche. It was in no way reciprocated, she was sure, because Sir John was far too important to take much notice of a lowly chamberer, although he had sometimes said a friendly word to her. He was a man of great reputation, Sheriff of Kent, Knight of the Body to the King and the monarch’s lord deputy of Calais; but first and foremost he was a courtier and he was often absent at Richmond or Greenwich or Eltham or the other royal palaces. The King loved him for his loyalty and his heroic reputation in the tiltyard.
When Margery first came to Lullingstone, Sir John was forty and still a handsome man with heavy-lidded eyes, full, sensual lips and a noble nose. His wavy hair was cut at chin-length and he was powerfully built, as became a champion jouster. He and his wife, who came of the ancient Scrope family, seemed happy enough together. Margery never saw them display anything other than kindness and courtesy towards each other. It had been an arranged marriage, of course, but a successful one in terms of partnership, yet there was no evidence of any passion between them.
Margery knew it was wrong to have feelings for a married man, especially one whose wife was so good to her, but she could not help it and no one would ever know. She cherished her youthful passion in her heart, hugging it joyfully to herself, lost in a fantasy world in which Sir John wore her favour in a tournament and declared himself her knight, swearing undying love . . . Her inexperienced knowledge of men prevented her from conjuring up much beyond that.
When Sir John was absent from Lullingstone, the world seemed a greyer place. When he returned, it was as if the sun came out. Margery thrilled to see him dismounting from his horse, wearing his customarily colourful court clothes and his great gold collar of linked SSs. A year after Margery joined his household, he was among the escort that attended the King’s sister, the Princess Mary, over the sea to marry the King of France, and was away for weeks. The next year he went to court to participate in the revels, taking with him a suit of green velvet gored with yellow satin, which Margery had lovingly pressed. The year following he was at Greenwich for the jousts held to celebrate the birth of a daughter, another Princess Mary, to the King, and on this occasion Margery ironed an outfit of black and blue, in velvet and satin. As she wondered how much it must cost to keep up such courtly finery, she was imagining how debonair Sir John would look in it.
When the master was at home, he and Lady Peche entertained often. Their guests were mostly local lords and gentlemen, among them Margery’s own father on occasion, and sometimes richly dressed courtiers would visit. Margery was allowed to be present with Joan and Bess in the great hall when feasts were held, although some way down the board from the high table where Sir John and Lady Peche sat with their guests. She revelled in the rich food, the music and the dancing that followed dinner.
It was on one of these evenings that a young man bowed before her and invited her to dance. She glanced at Lady Peche, who nodded approval, and allowed the young man to take her hand and lead her to the floor, where they joined a circle of dancers in a lively brawl. Her partner was rather attractive, Margery thought, sneaking glances at his high cheekbones, long dark hair and Roman nose. He was tall and graceful too, and well dressed in green satin. She knew who he was; his father was tonight’s honoured guest, a man rising high at court and, like Sir John, in good favour with the King.
After the dance ended he asked for another, and another, but Margery caught Lady Peche frowning at her and knew she must not accept a third dance. The young man took it in good part and went back to his place. He did not dance with anyone else, but sat there looking at her with his intense dark eyes.
After dinner the next day, he came upon her as she was gathering flowers on the river bank. It was an overcast summer afternoon, with a hint of rain in the air, but she had been grateful to escape the teeming household. Her thoughts were in turmoil: she could not stop thinking about the handsome young man and yet she knew that her heart truly lay with the unsuspecting Sir John. But then, suddenly, he was there, and all became clear.
As they sat on the bank and talked, she was amazed to hear that he was only sixteen. He looked so much older. If she told him she had recently turned twenty, would he still be seeking her out? But he was so attentive that she concluded that it did not matter and anyway, he would be going home tomorrow, and who knew when she would see him again? It was no good wishing for what could not be. She was below him in rank and not well-dowered, and ambitious families like his looked to marriage to b
ring them wealth and land. She must enjoy their tryst while it lasted.
She took him to the field by the wayside where there stood the ruins of the old church. Long disused, it had been claimed by briars and nettles and they had to pick their way through these to get inside. It was a place that fascinated her, though there was not much to see, just crumbling walls of flint and thin old bricks covered in lichen and damp patches, and the remains of traceried windows.
‘In the castle they have a collection of things that have been found here,’ she told him, aware that they were alone together in this deserted place, and not wanting him to think that she had brought him here for any purpose other than showing him something that intrigued her.
‘What have they found?’ he asked, looking up at the jagged edges of the remaining roof timbers silhouetted against the lowering sky.
‘Small pieces of coloured stones, some coins and pieces of pottery.’
He turned to her. ‘You are so beautiful, Margery.’ And he held out his arms.
What impulse seized her she never knew, but suddenly they were kissing as if their lives depended on it, and her need, her sinful need – oh now she knew what the priests warned against – was overwhelming. Had she been but half-alive before? She only knew that she must have this completeness, this sweetness, this joy . . .
How long they lay on the mossy earth, where he had spread his cloak, she could not tell. It was as if they had been lost in time, lost in a wonder of which she had never dreamed. There was no shame in it, no embarrassment, just glory and ecstasy. And then there descended a great calm and a deep contentment.
‘Will you be missed?’ he asked at length, sitting up and reaching for his shirt.
‘No, I am free in the afternoons. They know I like to go out walking.’ She pulled on her shift.
‘That’s a relief!’ He smiled and continued his dressing.