The Secrets of Saffron Hall

‘I know this is a shock for you.’ His voice was deep but surprisingly gentle and cultured. More like her father’s than her cousin’s. ‘But you have nothing to fear. I can give you a safe home, and a good life. I’m a widower and I have a young daughter, Jane. She’s almost three years old and lives at my home in Norfolk. After we are wed I will take you there, and I hope you’ll grow to love it as much as I do. Unfortunately I’m unable to spend as much time there as I would like. I have trade to attend to in London. I have a successful business importing fabrics and spices from the Far East, and I must spend time at court.’

His words washed over her and she took in nothing. This stranger was to be her husband and she had no say in the matter. Nobody cared if she wanted to marry him or not. Eventually she blurted out the question most prevalent in her mind. ‘How old are you, sir?’

He chuckled deep in his throat. ‘I’m twenty-nine years old,’ he replied. ‘I was married to my late wife at the age of twenty-four. She died giving birth to Jane. Now, I need a new wife to run my house and give me sons. You are …’ He paused and ran his eyes over her slight figure in her dress cut from drab brown fustian, deliberately worn to render her almost invisible amongst the finely dressed visitors, huddled desolately before him. ‘You are younger than I would have preferred, given that I have a house and estate to be managed in my absence, but I suspect you are stronger than you look. And you have organised this house for your father, so you will do very well. Tomorrow I’ll visit the prior and request the banns are read, and we will be married in three weeks. I’ll have just enough time to accompany you to Milfleet before I must return to court. And now, dinner.’ He got to his feet and offered his arm to her.

Eleanor shook her head. ‘I do not wish to eat, thank you, sir.’ She kept her voice cool, but even she could hear the wobble of distress in it. Standing up slowly and keeping her back straight, she walked carefully, sedately, to the stairs and the sanctuary of her bedroom.

Chapter Five

1538

In the early morning darkness, the glowing embers from the fireplace cast a burnished copper glow around the room. Eleanor knew if she called across to Joan, asleep on her truckle bed in the corner of the room, she’d immediately build the fire back up again, but Eleanor wasn’t cold. Indeed, her anger burned inside as hot as any furnace. Moving to the window, she sat on the seat, pulling the heavy drapes out of the way. She leant her forehead on the cool glass and watched an owl flying silent and low across the meadow before swooping momentarily out of sight then reappearing to perch in one of the many oak trees scattered across the park. This was her world, the only place she’d ever known. And today was her wedding day.

She knew where Norfolk, her new home, was – not far from her native Suffolk. With frightening tales her father told of its windswept boggy pastures and wild fenlands though, it may as well be the other side of the country, because tomorrow when she left Ixworth there would be no coming back. Sir William wasn’t preventing her from taking Joan with her, but everyone else in her life would be left behind: the servants and the quiet monks with their gentle lives, many of whom she considered her dear friends. Her father was gone and now her life here was over.

When dawn began to bleach the sky, the sun a red ball hanging low and steady, shimmering on the horizon, she was still sitting on the window seat. Through the house came the sounds of fires being lit and the preparation for the wedding feast later. She’d barely seen her betrothed since their initial introduction; he’d spent most of his time out hunting with the other guests. No doubt they were all keen to escape the house and the furious yelling of young Robert, who’d arrived ten days previously and had made his presence known, day and night. There was nowhere in the hall to escape the baby’s constant angry shouting. Sir William merely laughed, then absconded for the day on his horse. No wonder his wife had a permanent scowl; she probably had a headache as well. At least when he and Margaret were at court she could get away from the din. Here at Ixworth it was far more difficult.

Joan appeared silently at her door carrying a bowl containing steaming water with floating rose petals and, after Eleanor had finished washing, she helped her to dress before they both slipped away to the priory for matins. In her heart, Eleanor knew she’d miss this the most.

Kneeling on the cold stone floor, her eyes closed, she was conscious of Joan’s steady breathing beside her as the familiar Latin prayers washed over her, their responses murmured automatically, her fingers clicking through her beads as she allowed her mind to drift. Was Joan as worried as she, at the upheaval in their lives? Her cousin had readily agreed when Eleanor had insisted her companion came with her. But for Joan this was nothing new – she’d come from her own family, distant relatives of Eleanor’s mother – to be her confidante as it was deemed Eleanor was in need of gentle female company. Although Joan was the quieter of the two, Eleanor knew her friend had an inner strength she rarely revealed, which would help them both in the new life they were about to begin.

But Ixworth wasn’t Joan’s home, and she wasn’t about to become someone’s wife, with all that would entail. Eleanor swallowed hard. She knew what was expected in the marriage bed, and Greville was not a boy of her own age. He’d have expectations – she had no doubt about that. So no, answering her own question, Joan had very little to worry about.

The voices of the monks lifted in the final bars of the ‘Te Deum’ hymn soaring to the vaulted ceiling as the heavy, cloying scent of frankincense drifted through the nave and the service was over. She’d be back here in six hours, and she’d already been informed they would leave for Norfolk early the next morning. This was it, the final time she’d be alone to say her farewells.

‘You go,’ she said, ‘I’ll be back shortly.’

Joan looked unsure. Did she think Eleanor was going to run away? If there was somewhere else to go, she’d have already gone.

‘I want to say my goodbyes now,’ she added.

Joan’s face cleared and she smiled gently, nodding. She gave Eleanor’s arm a slight squeeze. ‘We need to finish packing the last of your belongings,’ she reminded her.

‘I’ve not forgotten – I’ll be back in plenty of time. It’s going to be a long day.’

Joan disappeared through the chapel door, leaving Eleanor sitting silently in the shadowy morning half-light at the back. By this point the brothers had all dispersed to their chores with just two remaining, snuffing out candles and cleaning the sacraments. Their movements were fluid as if they were contained in an ancient religious dance, their rough wool habits sighing against the floor the only sound they made. Finally they too left and she was alone, with the solitude and silence that enveloped her a comforting, familiar blanket. But she had little time to pause and appreciate. Her time had run out.

Outside, after a brief visit to her parents’ grave – there were no goodbyes here; she missed them, but had accepted they were gone forever – she carried on until she reached the priory’s physic garden. Carefully laid out in sections splayed out like the rays of the sun from a central bed, each patch contained herbs to cure ailments for a different part of the body. Behind her a separate bed held the plants needed to create dyes for the colourful inks the monks used. As if he were expecting her, the prior was already there, gently pulling the tops from new shoots on a feverfew bush. He straightened and smiled as he saw her, and they walked together to a wooden bench set against the stone wall of the garden. It was a seat her father used to rest on when watching her helping the monks in the garden. Or on the many days she was inside with the scribes watching and copying their painstakingly intricate illuminated texts.

The pair sat in companionable silence for a few minutes until finally he asked, ‘Are you ready for your wedding and the next part of your journey?’

Eleanor shrugged. ‘I suppose so. I shall miss being here so much. But nothing stays the same forever, does it?’ She managed a small smile as if she was trying to reassure him and not herself, and his old hand, the veins bulging and the skin paper-thin, patted hers.

‘You speak wise words. Even here in our pious solitude where nothing has altered for centuries, the bells of change may soon be chiming at our gates,’ he replied. She knew he was talking about the king’s commissioners who were closing down monasteries. Nobody knew where they may turn up next. An air of constant apprehension and dread hung over them, clinging silently to the fabric of their lives. ‘Now,’ he said, changing the subject, ‘I have a gift for you. Not a wedding present, but something especially for you. Come with me.’ Getting shakily to his feet, he led the way to a wooden shelter propped against the opposite wall, which contained the monks’ gardening tools. Reaching inside, he withdrew a sturdy carved wooden coffer and placed it into her hands. It was heavy and Eleanor put it onto the ground so she could open it and peer inside. It appeared to be full of tiny gnarled onions. She looked questioningly at him.

‘Crocus bulbs,’ he told her, ‘so you may grow your own saffron at your new home. You’ve seen how we cultivate it here in our stand, you’ve helped many times with the harvest and the drying, and you appreciate the value the saffron has, both in monetary terms and in its uses. These are your dowry from the priory.’ He looked down at her and smiled gently. The smile of a father to a daughter he’d never had.

‘Thank you, this is so kind of you. These are very precious to me.’ Shutting the lid, she left the box at her feet, dropping to one knee and kissing the ring on his hand. ‘You’ll be forever in my thoughts,’ she promised him, before gathering up her gift and leaving the garden. Determined not to look back, her vision was hampered by the tears in her eyes.

The rest of the morning passed quickly. The smells and noises from the kitchens confirmed how excited the servants were to finally have a happy occasion to prepare for, after the sadness of the previous months. The wedding was a cause of celebration for them, if not for Eleanor, and they were determined to give her an impressive nuptial feast. They had spent days cooking swan, gosling and boar, the cool larder shelves filled with fruit preserves, sweet pastries, tarts and custards together with a magnificent cake.

In her room, with their last chest laid open for the final pieces to be packed, Eleanor sat mutely while Joan decorated her hair. For once it was uncovered, with flowers and pearls wound into the tight, uncomfortable braids against her head. Finally the fine lawn veil, which had been worn by her mother, was pinned on her head. Already she was hurting, in her thoughts and her heart. She wore her best dress, a muted pale blue wool, the perfect foil for the blaze of her hair glowing as if it were alight. Her eyes kept straying towards the bed behind her, the curtains drawn back displaying the embroidered coverlet her mother had sewn during the early years of her marriage before Eleanor’s arrival. Her father had often assured her how delighted her mother had been to be having a baby.

Only a few days previously, Lady Margaret had swept into her bedroom uninvited, and inspected the furniture and layout, explaining she would be using the room after Eleanor had left. She’d sneered slightly as she fingered the covers and Eleanor had decided immediately that whatever else was packed into her luggage, the bedcover was coming with her. Already, the room no longer felt like her own, and tonight her husband would be joining her in that bed. She shuddered and Joan tutted as a hairpin fell to the floor.

‘Keep still,’ she scolded.

Eventually, she couldn’t delay the inevitable any longer. Downstairs the previous noise and raucous commotion had abated, the household having already left to line her route to the chapel. The house was silent and Eleanor could hear every shaky breath she took as her heart pounded hard in her chest, a fine sheen of sweat beading on her forehead and sticking the veil to her face.

If she’d been praying for divine intervention, now was the moment she acknowledged that God had let her down. Badly. Prior Gregory had often told her that some things, such as her father’s death, were a part of the Lord’s great plan, but it was difficult to understand how the Lord thought this was going to improve her life.

‘Do not look so despondent,’ Joan reassured her, as she handed over a small posy of lavender, which Eleanor tucked into her kirtle beneath her gown. ‘Many girls would be delighted to have a handsome husband and a new home awaiting them.’

Eleanor looked at her friend sharply, suddenly appreciating that in Joan’s eyes she had more than she deserved, although even this realisation couldn’t lift her black mood.

Joan walked in front of her, holding aloft a branch of rosemary, and Eleanor followed slowly, her legs unsteady but with her shoulders back and her head held high as they approached the church. Everyone from the hall was crowded outside waiting, including the servants she’d known all her life, her cousin’s guests and of course, William and Margaret. As if their presence would ensure she went through with the marriage. Which she would. She was too much of a coward to run away, or take herself off to a convent. Stood at the heavy wooden door was the prior, together with Greville, dressed in his customary black but this time with flashes of deep, rich scarlet from the inserts in his doublet sleeves. His dark eyes met hers and he smiled encouragingly. Eleanor, still quaking, lowered her eyes and stared at his shining leather boots, so big compared to her small slippered feet.

The ceremony words washed over her bowed head and within minutes it was all over. A heavy gold ring studded with emeralds and rubies was slipped onto her finger and together they stepped inside the church for the wedding mass. Greville offered her his arm and although she wanted to shun him, Eleanor leant on it until she could sink onto her shaking knees. No longer could she occupy the front pew, the family space now taken by her cousin as she and Greville knelt before the altar.

For once, the familiarity of the mass was of no comfort to her and she went through the motions in a daze. That was it. She was married to a man who was a stranger, and tomorrow she’d be leaving the only home she’d ever known. And tonight was her wedding night. Her insides constricted painfully.

Suddenly the service was all over and they were back outside, followed by the rest of the party who were in a buoyant mood as they returned to the hall in the cool afternoon as twilight crept in. Inside, platter after platter of roasted meats, vegetables and sweets were brought out to the guests. The air filled with raised voices as the ale and wine flowed freely. Eleanor would have been surprised at the generosity of her cousin in providing such a feast, but Cook had already told her Greville had paid for everything. She toyed with a piece of manchet, the best white bread that Cook could make, pulling it into crumbs. Her hand felt strange and uncomfortable with the weight of the band of gold now sitting on her third finger. Greville kept putting fine slivers of meat on her plate, but she slid them off and onto the floor where the dogs sat under the table, making short work of them.

Finally a large cake made of marchpane studded with coloured comfits Eleanor had helped make was brought in, and the celebrations dissolved into drunk, unruly partying. Someone was playing a lute, the noise increasing the more wine was consumed. Eventually the moment she’d been dreading arrived as the revellers began to insist the bride and groom were taken to their wedding bed. Good-naturedly, Greville got to his feet and held out his hand to Eleanor, almost lifting her from her seat. As if he could sense the reluctance that was emanating from her in waves, he gave her fingers a gentle squeeze in reassurance.

He led her upstairs and the rest of the guests followed, jostling them forwards and shouting ribald suggestions which, she noticed, her husband frowned at rather than joining in. The party tumbled into the bedroom still singing loudly, but to their surprise Greville held his hands up to quieten them – Eleanor could see that his height and wide shoulders had definite advantages – and announced they could all continue celebrating downstairs because he didn’t require any further assistance in the bedchamber.

The response was not polite as he ushered, and in some cases manhandled the disappointed guests from the room until finally, just the two of them were left. He threw another log onto the already blazing fire, causing sparks to splutter up the chimney and the flames to rear up, lighting one side of his face. In that brief moment, he looked like Beelzebub himself and Eleanor resisted the temptation to cross herself. Walking around the room he lit the candles in their sconces while Eleanor stood motionless watching his every move, like a rabbit suddenly spotted by a fox. Joan had left with everyone else and she wondered how she was going to undress on her own.

Silently she began to unlace her sleeves. She felt, rather than saw, Greville move behind her and she paused, holding her breath before recoiling as his fingers wound in her hair, gently removing the pins that had kept it firmly braided to her scalp all day. The flowers, now wilted and limp, scattered across the floor. With two deft pulls of the laces at her back, her gown was loose enough to step out of and Greville laid it over the open chest, still awaiting the last pieces to be packed. Eleanor took off her kirtle and stood in her linen shift, shivering despite the blazing fire and watching his every move.

Her new husband removed his boots and hose, his slim legs looking long and pale in the firelight. He threw his doublet carelessly on top of her dress and within seconds he too stood in his smock, which mercifully came down to his knees. Eleanor averted her gaze, just in case. Lifting the bedcovers back he gave her an encouraging smile before indicating that she should get into bed. She darted across and slipped between the cool linen sheets, pulling them up to her neck, and lay down with her eyes closed, awaiting the dip of the mattress as he climbed in beside her. It didn’t happen. Instead, she felt the weight of the blankets on her legs shift, and peeping out from beneath her eyelids, she saw Greville struggling with her coverlet as he pulled it from the bed. What was he doing?

She watched through half-closed eyes as he continued to wrestle with it until it was pooled on the floor.

‘I know you’re watching me,’ he remarked, and reluctantly she opened her eyes properly.

‘What are you doing?’ she asked finally as he wrapped the blanket around himself. Not before she’d seen his muscular thighs as they disappeared underneath the coverlet. She looked away quickly. He settled himself in the chair beside the fire, his face shining in the firelight. His dark eyes met hers.

‘Go to sleep,’ he told her. ‘We’ve got a very long journey over the next few days. I want as few stops as possible on the way home.’ And with that, he blew out the last candle, leaving just the dull glow from the few embers in the fireplace.

Eleanor rolled onto her back and gazed up at the canopy above her. She knew what was expected of her on her wedding night, and it definitely wasn’t lying here in her bed on her own. She cleared her throat.

‘Why are you sleeping in the chair?’

‘I just told you. We have a long day tomorrow and we’ll be gone at first light. Are all your belongings packed?’

‘Yes,’ she confirmed, ‘apart from the blanket you’re wrapped in. My mother embroidered it for me before I was born, and I’m not leaving it for Lady Margaret. Apparently she’s using this room when I’ve gone.’ He still hadn’t answered her question though. ‘But, aren’t you supposed to sleep in the bed with me now we’re married?’

She heard him chuckle. ‘It’s late and we’ve both had a long day. We have the rest of our lives ahead of us. One night …’ he paused for a moment ‘… however many nights, won’t make a deal of difference. Now, do as you are told. Sleep.’

Astonished, Eleanor rolled onto her side, bringing her knees up to her chest and hugging them against her as she lay in the dark, her eyes wide open. She hadn’t been expecting this on her wedding night. All day she’d worried about what would happen in the bedroom and now, nothing. She couldn’t help feeling a sense of relief as well as surprise that she was lying in the bed on her own. But it was, she reminded herself, merely a stay of execution. From across the room came slow, measured breathing. It hadn’t taken him long to drop off and she needed to sleep as well, but the day’s celebrations – if they could be called that – were playing out in her head, turning over and over. She didn’t feel remotely tired, and tomorrow she would begin the journey to her new life, in Norfolk.

Chapter Six

1538

Eleanor must have finally fallen asleep, and before she knew it Greville was shaking her shoulder urging her to wake up. A fresh log on the fire was spitting and cracking, although the room was still in darkness. He was already dressed and had placed her folded coverlet on top of the remaining chest.

‘We need to be leaving,’ he told her. ‘I’ll call Joan. Do you want something to eat before we go?’ Eleanor shook her head and watched as he left the room, leaving the door ajar. She heard whispered voices outside and then Joan slipped in, lighting the candles around the room until it was flooded in soft light. She was wearing her travelling clothes and Eleanor wondered if she’d slept in them, given that she didn’t appear concerned by the early start.

Before long, Eleanor was also dressed in her warmest and most robust clothing for the journey ahead. They packed away the last few pieces of their belongings, with the rest of their clothes having already been sent ahead the previous week. Downstairs, the servants paused in their chores to say goodbye to the two women. Some of them had known Eleanor all her life and there were plenty of tears. Both for her and the quiet, devoted Joan. There was no sign of William or Margaret, and Eleanor’s own eyes filled as she took a last look around the great hall, still clothed in its night-time shadows. She imagined she saw the ghost of her father sat in his chair, smiling and nodding encouragingly at her, as if giving her permission to start this new chapter in her life. She was turning a page, a fresh start.

‘Goodbye, Papa,’ she whispered, as behind her she heard the clump of heavy boots approaching. Her husband took hold of her shoulders and turned her around, enveloped her in his strong arms and held her close for a moment. Her face was pressed against the rough wool of his cloak. He’d been striding in and out as the horses were being prepared and there was a layer of fine, early morning dew on him, making his short hair curl into tendrils against his neck and his clothes and skin damp. Eleanor pulled away.

‘Here, put your cloak on,’ he told her, swinging it round her back and fastening it at the front, ‘and we’ll be off. We’ve got a hard day ahead. Today is not a day for endings and farewells, but rather a time for new beginnings. Come.’ Taking her small hand in his much larger one, he led her outside where two horses waited, stamping their feet impatiently. She’d been expecting her own mount and she looked around for him.

‘Where’s my pony?’ she asked. ‘I’m not leaving him here.’

‘Don’t worry, he’s already gone on ahead. He left yesterday,’ he reassured her, ‘but you need something bigger and hardier for the long journey, so I had one of my horses brought from Milfleet.’ The beast he indicated was fine-looking, with strong lines and a wide sturdy body. It had a gentle face and was snorting quietly, small white clouds puffing out of its nostrils as she patted its soft nose. It was also huge, at least twice the size of her pony. At Greville’s behest she placed her shin in his cupped hands and he lifted her up and onto the horse’s broad back as if she weighed nothing at all. From her vantage point the ground seemed a long way down, and she wished she was perched on the end of the cart, with Joan.