I kept track of the days by taking off one shoe and using the heel to scrape lines on one wall where the wood was damp and spongy. So I knew it had been eight days since Arthur threw me in here. The first day I sat shivering in complete terror and confusion. The next day I begged for food but when he laughed at me, I found the courage to jump up and scratch his face. Knocked back by both his fists, I collapsed with one black eye and a bleeding lip. The following day he brought me food but tied my left wrist to the bed so I couldn’t escape past him, or attack him in return.
It took me four days to gnaw through the rope, and now it is a full day that I have sat here free, waiting for Arthur to bring me food and water so that I can escape and kill the son of a whore if I can.
He was sure I had poisoned him in order to take Jasper into my bed. Yet I also believed he had no such idea and had made it up so as to imprison me with good cause. Perhaps he swung from one to the other. Because there was another reason for what he had done, and he took advantage almost every evening.
My husband had never been interested in normal sexual coupling, and it is possible that he cannot truly achieve it. I didn’t think I had to explain that. I simply meant that without his passions fired by cruelty, taking woman to bed didn’t interest him in the least.
At first when married, I had no idea what coupling in the normal manner would be like and so I took Arthur’s behaviour as the general expected behaviour and therefore what everybody did as a matter of course. I therefore thought that either I was a simpleton to dislike this so much, or that other women who pretended to enjoy the act, must be lunatic hussies.
About four or five months later I discovered the truth. My maid at that time, later told to leave as she had become almost motherly towards me having seen my bruises, explained a great deal. I told her where the injuries had originated, and she told me how wrong that was. At first her short pushing descriptions puzzled me, but after I had begged her, she described in more detail. “A husband,” she murmured, not daring to speak loudly, “or indeed, any kind man who cares for you, first wants to experience your pleasure. Not his own. And then your pleasure actually becomes his delight.”
I saw nothing more of Patty, but I managed to give her a gold necklace of mine before she went, told her to sell it at Cheapside and hoped it would keep her in some comfort for a year or so.
And now I knew that beating and pinching, biting, whipping and cutting were not the normal passions of a normal man, at Arthur’s insistence on swiving at my behind, and using large objects of intrusion first, were the actions of an unnatural and cruel man who loved to hurt, and not to please.
I had fallen in love with Cromwell’s advisor, and that made me feel even more strongly the disgust I felt for the monstrous Arthur. Jasper Fairweather, although denying me his bed, had proved to me what touch might bring. Joy – instead of pain and misery.
So then, gradually summoning courage, I had started to refuse my husband. Once I ran. Meeting with the butler, I stopped to talk as long as I dared and Arthur slouched off to the library. On another occasion I had forced a pillow against him until he lost the capacity to swive at all and went limp.
So now I was here.
Not only could I not break free, I could not deny him while starving hungry and tied tight by one wrist. I also believe the captivity, and his ability to rape and perform disgusting deeds on a woman entirely under his power, and suffering for many reasons, could only bring delight to a demon. I so very much despised a man who could not find pleasure unless he tortured another. I wriggled my fingers.
Having that arm free at last from the bondage of the rope, was the beginning of the rest of my life. Courage again. I repeated the word over and over, as if the word itself would bring the deed.
At the beginning I had screamed of course. But this was a small and usually locked shed near the back of our grounds, and next to the pond where only the ducks could hear me. I begged more often than screaming and swearing, but that was just as futile. Now I had planned my escape – but not that of fleeing back to my house. I was going to get away to some distant place where I could not be traced. If I had the opportunity to murder the man, then I’d take it. But this seemed doubtful.
The pain was always horrific when it happened, but it was afterwards that it often seemed worse. Day after endless day sitting staring at the dust on the walls, or lying on the bed trying to think of the future and what happiness it might bring, was my only chance at forgetting the endless hours. Each little minute seemed like a lifetime. Each hour crept by so slowly that I thought I might go mad. Whatever pain had recently been inflicted on me, inevitably grew worse as time passed. The black eye felt as though my cheek had smashed, my split lip as if my chin was broken. Pain increased each night and then again in the morning. The back ache was probably caused by the lumpy bed and no possibility of exercise. I could walk three steps forwards, then three steps back. Neck ache from twisting and turning, gritting my teeth and cursing. Stomach ache like the stabbing of a knife caused by terrible hunger. A raw throat from lack of anything to drink and screaming. Then the cold, the shivering, the fear and the utter misery.
Hatred of my husband was equalled only by hatred of the god that had allowed this to happen. But then I feared God’s revenge if I dared to hate him, and wondered if my support of the late king and dislike of Cromwell’s intolerant beliefs was my crime, and Cromwell’s god was already punishing me for that.
Planning my escape, I knew where I’d go, and being homeless didn’t bother me. Already my clothes were that of some beggar maid. When Arthur had grabbed me, I was wearing two petticoats, a tight bodice but no skirt yet, and only one sleeve attached. I was sitting in front of the mirror in my bed chamber, half dressed and waiting for my maid to return with a cup of chocolate. I wore stockings and shoes but as yet no skirt and only one sleeve, so I had my bed robe over my shoulders like a shawl. This was all that had kept me warm ever since.
Chapter Eighteen
My husband arrived shortly afterwards. I heard him clumping along the path and unlocking the door. He couldn’t lock the door behind him since no lock existed on the inside, but he didn’t yet know that I had freed my wrist.
Bending over me, Arthur grasped my ankle and flung me backwards. I tumbled back on the bed, legs flailing. The damned man hadn’t even brought me food, let alone asked me how I was. Without a word he knelt between my legs and loosened the buttons on his britches. There was a willow cane stuck down his belt, and the belt itself was quickly unbuckled, ready for a beating.
I had thought of my escape, planned it for so long, now I had built up the courage to do it. So I immediately kicked both hard shoes into his groin, then his stomach, and even harder into his groin for the second time.
He looked amazed, finally he howled like a wolf, and toppled off me onto the floor, clutching his belly with one hand, the other trembling between his legs. I jumped up and stamped both feet onto his face. His cheek opened like a joint of meat, and bled with profusion. He groaned, gulped, shivered and clutched at every wounded part of him. I promptly stamped on his chest, and he gasped, then wheezed, unable to speak.
One last pleasure – I poured the contents of my chamber pot over his face, and then slipped off my shoes, held them, and ran.
I didn’t have time to feel either guilty or proud, but I did know I was lucky. He had been too surprised to defend himself and it had all been quicker and easier than I had expected. Yes, I was lucky, and knew it. Perhaps the lack of retaliation was simply because my attack was so sudden and besides, he was a cowardly weakling behind all the bravado and cruelty. Maybe that was why he behaved in such a vile manner, boosting his inner knowledge of himself.
Not that I cared. I just ran.
My stockings were ruined of course, and my feet wet at once, but I could run faster without shoes, and getting far away was the most important goal of all.
It had rained several times in the past few days, so the fields were muddy and ro
ads were puddled and pitted, but I hardly noticed and kept running until my breath gave out. There was no sign of Arthur following me, but he had possibilities which I did not. A good horse, for instance. Even a carriage, since he had his own small hackney, if he could get it fitted up in time.
Crawling up from the shed to the house would hopefully take him nearly an hour. I had time, so I climbed the little verge and the hedge beyond the lane and cut through the forested grasses and the fields beyond.
The first time I slept out in the cold, I was horrified. I hadn’t realised it would be so cold and wet, and although I carpeted my muddy bed with dry leaves first, stripping the trees above me, the damp still seeped through and I had only my bed robe as a blanket. I could have grabbed the old blanket from the shed but had not thought of it. Too busy stamping and kicking! So much for planning.
That first night I could hardly sleep. In ignorance I had chosen to sleep beneath the shelter of the trees. Instead they dripped on me continuously. I stared out at the thousands of glowing stars like tiny torches showing me the way. No moon that first night, but the beauty of the stars glittering silver against the rich black sky was wonderful. It made me feel small, but it reminded me of the church preaching that God watched over us.
I slept perhaps an hour or a little more from utter exhaustion, then clambered up, shook out the muck from my clothes and continued my hopeful escape.
After the third night, I was accustomed to the wet freeze, but walked in almost constant mud, even when I walked only in my shoes. The only time the mud did not stick, was when it had frozen, making me slip. My hair was so woven with mud, it clung to my face. When at last there was a mild day, the mud baked, and I was able to pick some off.
Whether anyone had made the slightest effort to follow me and bring me home, I had not the smallest idea. I saw no one except children playing under an orchard of apple trees, and a woman collecting twigs for her fire. I had caught some form of mild ailment for I coughed and sneezed a great deal. Sleeping outside may have caused it. Yet it did not bother me too much, and I had energy enough to run, to climb, and to keep walking across the countryside. I began to sleep far better and even enjoyed the fresh frosty air in my throat. Instead of the usual smoke-filled gloom of most houses, I could enjoy the utter perfection of God’s good country air. But I began to lose track of the days passing, and one morning I wondered if I had been walking only a few days, or perhaps a month. Not that it mattered. I was delighted to be away, free, and not having to comply with my husband’s cruel demands.
Getting something to eat was harder. I ate nothing but apples for two days. I found mushrooms and old acorns, but could not cook them. Water, clean and cold, was easy from several narrow streams, and I also tried hard to wash myself. Then wet hair turned to icicles in the night and I coughed more. But carried on, even when so hungry I had lost my strength.
I couldn’t count the days and lost track of time passing, but now, instead of each hour seeming like a day, each hour whizzed by like an arrow from a crossbow. My legs were hopelessly scratched, and I certainly felt the terrible cold when I tried to sleep. But running, climbing and walking kept me warm during the days and even the wistful sunshine tried to help.
When I saw the cottage standing all alone on the outskirts of a village, although not knowing where I was or what the village was called, I succumbed to the wrenching pain of hunger, and I knocked on the door to ask for bread, cheese if I was lucky again, or any tiny particle of food they could spare.
It was a pretty cottage, its thatched roof neat and well-trimmed, although glittering with tiny threads of ice. That was pretty too, as if decorated, remembering Christmas in the old days when we were permitted to hand mistletoe and holly and cook great feasts for our guests.
When the door abruptly opened, swinging back against the side of the house, just wattle and daub and so shook a little as though trembling with anticipation, one of those icicles dislodged and tipped directly onto my head. There the ice caught in the filthy knots, and I scrabbled to push my tangle of dirty curls from my eyes.
Then I felt a strong long fingered hand against my forehead, smoothing back the mud encrusted mess away from my face, eyes and ears, and then with one fingertip, someone wiped away the wet dirt from around my mouth.
I mumbled a thank you, sniffed in case my nose was dripping, rubbed my eyes so that I could see properly, and then realised the miracle. I’d prayed for more luck, but I would never have imagined I might deserve as much luck as this.
He stood there so calmly on the doorstep, tall and beautiful and smiled faintly, just a twitch at the corner of his mouth as I stared back at him, open mouthed. Then I snapped my mouth shut, and Jasper said, “You appear just a little lost, young lady.”
I was. I was also standing there in front of this well dressed gentleman with his touches of non-Puritan velvet and lace, while I was wearing one bedraggled and torn sleeve and one bare arm, a torn petticoat which now seemed only to be filthy with the hems unravelling and wet, holes in my stockings and shoes thick with mud, mud caked hair in knotted tangles down to my shoulders, and my face striped like a tabby cat but with dirt. Clutched around me I wore what was clearly a bed-coat, which was also now mud encrusted. I coughed like a disease-ridden beggar brat, but even beggar brats didn’t usually look quite as bad as me.
“No,” I said. “But frozen and starving.”
“In which case,” he said very quietly, “you had best come in.”
He held the door open for me and did not seem perturbed when I dripped my filth onto his rug. He closed the door gently behind me and asked me to sit while he fetched food. I then further ruined his room by sitting on his comfy chair, imprinting it no doubt with wet mud.
Jasper’s little house was beautiful and seemed larger inside then out. Two small mullioned windows sparkled with clean glass, the walls were whitewashed, and the rug was from Turkey like my own back home, rich red patterned and thickly warm beneath the feet. Most beautiful of all were his chairs. One was more a settle and wide enough for at least two to sit, and three others smaller were placed around the fireplace. No fire blazed, but the space was warm. The chairs were upholstered in soft dark cloth patterned in strange shapes and were cushioned in creamy velvet. I was amazed and couldn’t stop staring around until Jasper came back with a tray and a platter of sweet smells.
Placing the tray on my shameful lap, he gave me both knife and fork, and told me to eat whatever part of the feast I wished. There was also a grand green glass of red wine, and the platter held three cheeses, soft white bread rolls, sugared biscuits, a pastry cup holding warm cooked meat in whipped egg, an egg hard boiled with a spoonful of parsley on top, and two slices of cold pork pie with grated onions and spicy pickle.
I ate and drank the lot, and while I ate, Jasper talked. When I could, even if I was spitting crumbs, I answered, gulping every shred of what I’d been given.
He watched me, sitting on the chair opposite, arms loose over the chair’s cushioned sides with his legs stretched before him, ankles crossed. After watching me for some time, he said, “I presume you have run from your husband?”
And I said a muffled, “Yes. He – he tied me in the shed.”
Jasper lifted one eyebrow. “Is that his normal behaviour?”
Spluttering into my glass of wine, I managed, “Yes. Well, not really. He accused me of poisoning him. That was when he was disgustingly drunk after you came. A bit later he locked me in the shed. He hates me, probably as much as I hate him. And, well, I’d had the courage to say no to him. Not that one word usually stopped anything.”
“Have you killed him?” Jasper asked with only slight curiosity. I just shook my head. Did he really think I could do that? Perhaps he thought I should have. Then he said, “I might kill him myself. In the meantime, you may stay here. The bedchamber upstairs is comfortable enough. There is sufficient wood behind the grate if you are cold, which no doubt you are.”
I nodded again. Finally, I
said, “This food is wonderful. Do you have a cook?”
“I have a wife,” he said, “but at present she is away. Although,” and here he smiled again, looking at me more closely, “not far away.”
I blushed. I had wanted him so very badly in the past and had made a fool of myself. He could have thought me a slattern. If so, he’d shown no sign of it but he had certainly turned me down. Simply faithful to his wife, perhaps, loving her and not me. Yet he seemed entirely unconcerned and refilled my glass from a decanter on a shelf behind me. As I gulped down the last dregs of everything, I mumbled, “But if your wife returns while I am sleeping in her bed, she would be furious. And rightly so.”
Now he shook his head. “You are – let us say – not unknown to her. She will understand. But first, before you soil the bedding, I suggest a bath.”
That was exactly what I needed. “Please,” I said. “Is there water I can boil? I’ll fetch it from the well if you have a tub and bucket.”
“There is a half barrel I shall bring in here, and there is water which I can heat – by another system.” His smile seemed secretive. “I shall also light the fire, or you will feel the cold more once you step out.”
I couldn’t explain how grateful I was, and just kept saying thank you while watching his preparations. He lit the fire with his back to me, but I was interested as it seemed to take no more than a blink. The half barrel bath was quickly filled and the water steamed. The steam clouded up by the ceiling beams and the whole room began to heat in glorious welcome. The steamy swelter was the most wonderful thing I’d experienced in months.
So the bath tub stood there ready, the fire blazed, and I stood, waiting for him to leave the room.
“If you discard those remains of clothing,” he said, turning to me, “I shall bring you others. My wife will not mind, and you are roughly the same size and height.”
Dark Weather Page 13