‘Other women manage,’ J said. ‘Leave home, manage among strangers. They will become your friends.’
‘Why should we?’ Jane asked simply. ‘We, who have two families who love us? We, who have a house to live in which is the most beautiful house in Lambeth and famed throughout the world for the rarities and the gardens?’
‘Because it comes with too high a price!’ J exclaimed. ‘Because I rent this beautiful house with my obedience, by putting my conscience in the keeping of my father who himself has never thought a thought which was not licensed by his lord. He is an obedient dutiful man, Jane, and I am not.’
She thought for a moment. Frances pulled at her hand. ‘Frances feed ducks,’ she said. ‘Frances feed ducks.’
‘Down there,’ Jane said, hardly looking. ‘Where the bank is not so steep. Don’t get your feet wet.’ She let the little girl go and watched her progress to the water’s edge. The ducks gathered hopefully around, Frances plunged her hands into the pockets of her little gown and came out with fistfuls of breadcrumbs.
‘What is your other wish?’ Jane asked.
J took a deep breath. ‘Virginia,’ he said.
Jane looked into his face and then came into his arms as simply as she had done the day they were married. ‘Oh, my love,’ she said. ‘I know you have such dreams. But we cannot go to Virginia, it would break my mother’s heart. And I could not bear to leave her. And besides – we don’t need to go. We are not adventurers, we are not desperate for a fortune or to run away from here. We have a place here, we have work here, we have a home here. I would not leave here for choice.’
J would not look at her. ‘You are my wife,’ he said flatly. ‘You are duty-bound to go where I go. To obey me.’
She shook her head. ‘I am bound in duty to you as you are to your father, as he is to the king. If you break one link they all go, J. If you do not acknowledge him as your father then I need not acknowledge you as my husband.’
‘Then what do we become?’ he demanded in impatience. ‘All whirling, unconnected, unloving, atoms; like thistledown finding its own way on the wind?’
She said nothing. Behind them, Frances put one tentative foot in the water.
‘If you are guided by your conscience and only by your conscience then that is what we must become,’ she said thoughtfully. ‘All of us, guided by our own consciences, coming together only when it suits us.’
‘A society cannot live like that,’ J replied.
‘A family cannot,’ Jane said. ‘As soon as you love someone, as soon as you have a child, you acknowledge your duty to put another’s needs first.’
J hesitated.
‘The other way is the king’s way,’ Jane continued. ‘The very thing you despise. A man who puts his own desires and needs before everyone else. Who thinks his needs and desires are of superior merit.’
‘But I am guided by my conscience!’ J protested.
‘He could say the same,’ she said gently. ‘If you are Charles the king, then your wishes could very well seem to be conscience and there would be no-one to tell you your duty.’
‘So where is my course?’ J asked. ‘If you are my adviser this day?’
‘Somewhere between duty and your own wishes,’ Jane said. ‘Surely we can find a way for you to keep your soul clear of heresy and yet still live here.’
J’s face was bleak. ‘You would put your comfort before my conscience,’ he said flatly. ‘All it is with you, is living here.’
She did not turn away from him but tightened her grip around his waist. ‘Think,’ she urged him. ‘Do you really want to walk away from the garden that is your inheritance? The chestnut tree which your father gave to your mother the year you were conceived? The black-heart cherry? His geraniums? The tulips that you saved from New Hall? The larches from Archangel?’
J turned his head away from her pleading face but Jane did not let go. ‘If we never have another child,’ she said bravely. ‘We both come from small families, we might only ever have Frances. If God is not kind to us and we never have a son to carry your name, then all that will be left of the Tradescants is their name on their trees. These are your posterity, John – will you leave them to be named for another man, or grown by him? Or worse, neglected and felled by him?’
He looked down at her. ‘You are my conscience and my heart,’ he said softly. ‘Are you telling me that we should garden for the king – even such a king as this – because if we do not then I lose my bond to my father and my rights to his name, and my claim to history?’
She nodded. ‘I wish it were an easier road to see,’ she said. ‘But surely you can plant the king’s garden and take the king’s gold without compromising your soul or your conscience. You don’t need to be his man, as your father was wedded to Cecil and then to Buckingham. You can just take his wage and do his work. You can be an independent man working for pay.’
J hesitated for one more moment. ‘I wanted to be free of all this.’
‘I know,’ she said lovingly. ‘But we have to wait for the right time. Who knows, there may come a time when the whole country wants to be free of him? Then you will see your course. But until then, J, you have to live. We have to eat. We have to live with your father and mother and keep the Ark afloat.’
Finally he nodded. ‘I’ll tell him.’
J did not speak to his father till dinnertime the following day when the family was gathered together again, Frances beside her mother, John at one end of the big dark wood table and J at the other, Elizabeth seated between her husband and son.
‘I have been considering. I will work with you at Oatlands Palace,’ J announced abruptly.
John looked up, swiftly concealing his surprise. ‘I’m glad to hear it,’ he said, keeping the joy from his voice. ‘I shall need your skills.’
Elizabeth and Jane exchanged one swift, relieved glance. ‘Who will run the business here while we are away?’ J asked, matter-of-fact.
‘We will,’ Elizabeth said, smiling. ‘Jane and I.’
‘Frances too,’ Frances said firmly.
‘And Frances, of course. Peter will show people round the rarities, he does it beautifully now, like a barker in a fairground; and you will be home often, one of you would be home for a day or two, surely?’
‘When the court moves on from Oatlands we will be able to do as we please,’ John said. ‘They will want beauty when they visit, we can do half of that with plants grown here in the seed beds and set in at the right time. When they are not at Oatlands we can go about our business here.’
‘I will not hear heresy,’ J warned.
‘I myself shall guard your tender conscience,’ his father assured him.
Reluctantly J chuckled. ‘Aye, you can laugh, but I mean this, Father. I will not hear heresy, and I will not bow down low to her.’
‘You will have to uncover your head and bow,’ John told him firmly. ‘That’s common politeness.’
‘The Anabaptists don’t,’ Jane volunteered.
John gave her a swift sideways look under his brows. ‘I thank you, Mistress Jane. I know the Anabaptists don’t. But J is not an Anabaptist –’ he glared at his son as if to dare him to confess yet another step down the road to a more and more radical faith ‘– and the Anabaptists do not work for me in the king’s garden.’
‘They are still his subjects,’ she said staunchly.
‘And I honour their faith. Just as J is the king’s subject and has a right to his conscience, inside the law. But he will be obedient and he will be courteous.’
‘And what shall we do if the law changes?’ Elizabeth asked. ‘This is a king who is changing the shape of the church itself, whose father changed the Bible itself. What if he changes yet more and makes us outlaws in our own church?’
J glanced at his mother. ‘That’s the very question,’ he said. ‘I can bend for the moment, but what if matters get worse?’
‘Practice before principle,’ John said with Cecil’s old remembered wisdom. ??
?We’ll worry about that if it happens. In the meantime we have a road we can all take together. We can obey the king and dig his wife’s garden, and keep our consciences to ourselves.’
‘I will not listen to heresy and I will not bow down low to the Papist queen,’ J stated. ‘But I can be courteous to her and I can work for my father. Two wages coming in is better than one. And besides –’ He glanced up at his father with a silent appeal. ‘I want to do my duty by you, Father. I want there always to be a Tradescant at Lambeth. I want things working right in their right places. It’s because the king does not work right in his right place that everything is so disturbed. I want order – just as you do.’
John smiled his warm loving smile at his son. ‘I shall make a Cecil of you yet,’ he said gently. ‘Let us put some order in the queen’s garden and keep the steady order of our own lives, and pray that the king does his duty as we do ours.’
The queen had commanded that John should have lodgings in the park at Oatlands and that everything should be done as he wished. His house adjoined the silkworm house and was warmed by the sun all day and by the charcoal burners which were set about the walls of the silkworm house all night. John at first found the thought of his neighbours the maggots, silently munching their way through mulberry leaves night and day, immensely distasteful; but the house itself was a miracle of prettiness, a little turreted play-castle of wood, south-facing with mullioned windows and furnished by the order of the queen with pretty light tables, chairs and a bed.
He was to eat in the great hall with the other members of the household. The king demanded that dinner be served in the great hall in full state whether he was there or not. The ritual demanded that a cover be set on the table before his chair, that dishes be put before the empty throne and that every man should bow to the throne before entering the hall and on leaving it.
‘This is superstition,’ John exclaimed unwarily when he saw the men bowing low to the empty chair.
‘It is how the king orders it,’ one of the grooms of the bed chamber replied. ‘To maintain the dignity of the throne. It’s how it was done in Queen Elizabeth’s time.’
John shook his head. ‘Well, I remember Elizabeth’s time, which is more than most do,’ he said. ‘Men bowed to her chair when she was going to sit on it, and bowed to her dinner when she was going to eat it. She was too parsimonious to have dinner served in ten palaces when she was only going to eat in one.’
The man shook his head, warning John to be silent. ‘Well, this is how it’s done now,’ he said. ‘The king himself ordered it.’
‘And when does he come?’
‘Next week,’ the groom said. ‘And then you will see a change. The place is only half-alive when Their Majesties are not here.’
He was right. Oatlands Palace was like a village with the plague when the court was elsewhere, the passages between one building and another empty and silent, half the kitchens cold, their fires unlit. But early in September a trail of carts and wagons came down the road from Weybridge, and a hundred barges rowed upstream from London bringing the king’s goods as the court moved to Oatlands for the month.
The palace was under siege from an army of shouting, arguing, ordering, singing cooks, maids, horsemen, grooms, servers, and minor gentry of the household. Everyone had an urgent task and an important responsibility, and everyone got in everyone else’s way. There were tapestries to hang and pictures to place and floors to sweep and carpets to lay. All the king’s most beautiful furniture travelled with him; and his bedroom and the queen’s bedroom had to be prepared and perfect. The chimneys had to be swept before fires could be lit, but fires must be lit to air the damp linen at once. The whole village, spread over nine acres, was in a state of complete madness. Even the deerhounds in the kennels caught the excitement and bayed all night long under the yellow September moon.
Tradescant broke the rule of dining in the great hall and went to Weybridge village to buy bread, cheese and small ale, which he took home to his little house in the gardens. He and the silkworms munched their way through their dinners in their adjoining houses. ‘Goodnight, maggots,’ Tradescant called cheerfully as he blew his candle out and the deep country darkness enveloped his bedroom.
John had given no thought to meeting the king. When he had last seen His Majesty, they had both been waiting for Buckingham to come to Portsmouth. The time before that had been at the sailing of the first expedition to Rhé. When John was led into the king’s state bed chamber he found, with the familiar pang of sorrow, that he was looking around for his master. He could not believe that his duke was not there.
At once, like a ghost summoned by desire, he saw him. It was a life-size portrait of Buckingham painted in dark rich oils. One hand was outstretched as if to show the length and grace of the fingers and the wealth of the single diamond ring, the other hand rested on the rich pommel of his sword. His beard was neatly trimmed, his clothes were bright and richly embroidered and encrusted, but it was his face that drew Tradescant’s look. It was his lord, it was his lost lord. The thick dark hair, the arrogant laughing half-raised brows set over dark eyes, the irresistible smile, the sparkle, and that hint of spirituality, of saintliness, which King James had seen even as he had loved the sensual beauty of the face.
John thought how he still touched his lord in his mind, almost every morning and every night, and how he had thought that perhaps the king too reached out over death to his friend. But now he saw that the king had a greater comfort, for every night and every morning he could glance at that assured smiling face and feel the warmth of those eyes, and if he wished he could touch the frame of the picture, or even brush a kiss upon the painted cheek.
The portrait was new in the chamber, along with the rich curtains and the thick Turkey rugs on the floor. The king’s most precious goods travelled with him everywhere he went. And the king’s most precious thing was the portrait which hung, wherever he slept, at his bedside where he could see it before closing his eyes at night and on waking in the morning.
Charles came silently into his bed chamber from his private adjoining room and hesitated when he saw John looking up at the portrait. Something in the tilt of the man’s head and the steadiness of his look reminded the king that John too had lost a man who had been at the very centre of his world.
‘Y … you are looking at my p … portrait of the … duke.’
John turned, saw the king, and dropped to his knees, flinching a little as his bad knee hit the floor.
The king did not command him to rise. ‘Your l … late master.’ His voice still held traces of the paralysing stammer he had suffered from as a child. Only with his intimates could he speak without hesitation, only with two people, the duke and now his wife, had he ever been fluent.
‘You m … must miss him,’ the king went on. It sounded more like an order than an offer of sympathy.
John looked up and saw the king’s face. Grief had changed him, he looked older and more tired, and his brown hair was thinning. His eyes were heavily lidded, as if he were weary of what he saw, as if he no longer expected to see what he wanted.
‘I grieve for him still,’ John said honestly. ‘Every day.’
‘You I … loved him?’
‘With all my heart,’ John replied.
‘And he I … loved you?’
John looked up at his king. There was passion behind the question. Even after his death Buckingham could still inspire jealousy. John, the older man, smiled wryly. ‘He loved me a little,’ he said. ‘When I served him especially well. But one smile from him was worth a piece of gold from another.’
There was a silence. Charles nodded as if the statement was of little consequence and turned away to the window and looked out into the king’s court below.
‘H … Her Majesty will tell you wh … what she wants done,’ he said. ‘But I sh … should like one court planted with r … roses. Rose petals for throwing in masques.’
John nodded. A man who could turn from
the death of his friend to the need of rose petals for masques would be a difficult master to love.
The king looked round, his eyebrow raised.
‘Yes, Your Majesty,’ John said from his place on the floor. He wondered what his master Sir Robert Cecil, who had scolded a greater monarch than this one, would have thought of a king who confided his grief in a gardener but left him kneeling on an arthritic leg.
There was a rustle of silk and high heels tapping.
‘Ah! my gardener!’ said the voice of the queen.
John, already low, tried to bow from a kneeling position and felt himself to be ridiculous. He glanced up. She was a short plump woman, beringed, curled, painted and patched with a low-cut gown which would have incurred Elizabeth’s censure, and a powerful scent of incense around her skirts which would have inspired outrage in the Ark at Lambeth. She gave him a bright dark-eyed smile and extended her small hand. John kissed it.
‘Get up! Get up!’ she commanded. ‘I want you to walk me all around the garden so that I can see what we must do!’
The flood of words came so quick after her husband’s halting speech, and her accent was so strong, that John could not immediately understand what she said.
‘Your Majesty?’ He glanced towards the king for help. Charles made a brief dismissive gesture with his hand, which clearly indicated that John should go, so he bowed low once again, and backed from the room. To his surprise, the queen came with him. John pressed himself back against the wall as a footman flung open the door.
‘This way! Come on!’ the queen said, and ran prettily down the stairs and out into the summer sunshine of the king’s privy garden.
‘I want this garden full of scented flowers,’ she told him. ‘The king’s windows look out over it, I want the scents to blow up to him.’
John nodded, taking in the grand sweep of the walls around the court. The south-facing walls would provide extra warmth, the walls to the east would provide shelter. ‘I could grow almost anything here,’ he said.
‘It was the king’s mother’s garden,’ the queen said. It was evident from the slight movement of her head that she did not think much of her predecessor’s taste for low-growing herbs and knot gardens made of coloured gravel. ‘I want roses against the walls and lilies everywhere. Those are my flowers, in my crest. I want this garden filled with roses and lilies to remind the king of me whenever he looks from his window.’