by G Lawrence
The more he drank, the more he owed. And the more he owed, the more he drank. More times than I could count, Isabella had ordered servants to carry him to bed and clean up rank vomit spewed over the old, smelly rushes in our great hall. Most mornings we had been told to be quiet, so we did not rouse him to anger. More times than I could count, my brothers had been slapped about the face or had a birchwood branch taken to them, not for any misdemeanour, but just so my father could unleash the rage simmering inside.
But we had been merry, at times. Our stepmother, Dorothy, had been kind. My own mother, Jocasta, had died when I was small. I barely remembered her. I clung to faint memories; the scent of rose perfume, of a voice singing, sweet and high. But what I remember most was the day she died. Maids rushing from her chamber grasping blood-soaked sheets, faces pale and eyes scared. The sound of her screaming had gone on for more than a day, but that had not scared me as much as the sound which came after; the quiet, empty stillness. Doctors had been called, men whose skills we could not afford, and then, there was the creak of a door, and the sound of it closing as they left, going to my father to tell him my mother, and her new daughter, Jane, were dead.
Mother had been laid out, her death announced by our local church pealing its bells, once for each year of her life, and people had come to see her body. I had been taken into a black-shrouded room and looked upon her pale face. She did not look like my mother. I had cried when I was taken away for fear my mother had gone and this pallid creature had taken her place. That was the first time the shadow came.
I did not see it then because it was everywhere; every room draped in black cloth, mirrors turned to face the wall, shutters not taken down. In that quiet house we lived, darkness upon us.
The priest came to sing Mass over her. They took her to the church on a black-draped cart and she was put into our family tomb. I was at the funeral, but I barely remember it. We walked behind her coffin to the church, listened to Mass… or so I was told. All I remember of that day was seeing a magpie in the churchyard, hopping between graves. He stopped under a yew tree and sang. The shadow fell, creeping across the grass from the magpie to me. I was scared and clung to Isabella.
I do remember people coming back to the house, for that was when I heard my grandmother ask my father whom he would marry next.
My father drank himself into a stupor that night, and the next and the next. One night I heard him crying. Another, he was screaming, blaming her for leaving him alone. Each night he continued on the same path, never surrendering it, even when he married again.
Isabella took care of us. My eldest sister became a mother before she had been a child. She was the one who sent our few servants to wake us, who took us to lessons with our tutor. She listened to us chattering about all we had done that day, and she went to our father to speak about us. When Dorothy came, things were better for a while. She was kind and caring, and brought a good dowry, so Father did not have to worry about money for a time. But his debts sucked most of that coin up, and he found Dorothy’s attempts to order the house annoying. And then she had died, in the year just passed.
So here we were, poor relatives beholden to the charity of the woman sitting before us, staring with her dark eyes.
She was not even blood, not directly. Our step-grandmother was the second wife of our grandfather, born a Tilney, not a Howard. Before we had left our father’s house, I had heard the servants laughing that our grandfather had been partial to a Tilney, for Agnes had been the second he had married. His first wife, Elizabeth, had been Agnes’ cousin, and a dispensation had been needed so he might wed Agnes, her younger replacement. Elizabeth had been our grandmother, our father’s mother. Agnes had borne her own children, taking my grandfather’s brood from ten to twenty-two. Only seventeen made it past childhood, and by the time I came to my grandmother’s house my Howard uncles and aunts numbered eight. It was said Agnes cared more for her own offspring, but Elizabeth’s children had inherited the bulk of the Norfolk titles when our grandfather had died seven years ago. The eldest son, Thomas, now Duke of Norfolk, had taken the richest rewards.
That was what our father spat bitterly, night after night, as he sat at the fireside swilling ale and wine. Thomas, the heir, had everything. Edmund, my father, the third and least favoured son, nothing. When we were at our house on Church Street, part of Lambeth Bridge Road, our father became only more miserable. Close to Norfolk House, the grand house and estate that Thomas had inherited, it was a constant reminder of Father’s poor fortune.
The death of my grandfather had left Agnes rich, possibly the richest woman in England below the royal family. She had lost Framlingham Castle in Suffolk as her chief residence, as it went to Thomas, but retained her house at Chesworth, and had use of Norfolk House in Lambeth. She had twenty-four manors, a generous jointure of lands, money and estates, rich clothing, jewels, and a huge body of servants. Unlike my father, who lost his principal benefactor when our grandfather died, she had done well.
Agnes had been an important figure at court for years. She had attended Queen Katherine on both her wedding nights, first to Prince Arthur and then to our present King, and had been the Queen’s train bearer at official functions. When at her own houses, Agnes was entrusted with the sons and daughters of many noble families. She polished children, making them ready for adulthood. The numbers she was guardian to were legion, and many had gone to court, rising high due to her training. This had only increased her influence. Her wards repaid her with presents and gossip, of which she was fond. Even my father, who spoke of few with respect, had reverence in his voice when she was mentioned.
As a dowager duchess, she was one of few elite women in England. Queen Katherine and Princess Mary outranked her, of course. The Duchess of Suffolk, too, was higher, for she had been Princess Mary Tudor before she scandalised the world by marrying her brother’s best friend, Charles Brandon. My uncle of Norfolk’s wife, Elizabeth Stafford, was the present Duchess of Norfolk, but that small list of women were her betters. All others were beneath her.
She was fifty-four when I first saw her. To me, she seemed ancient… and fearsome.
“Greetings, Your Grace,” I almost whispered, sinking into a curtsey. My foot, usually so sure, stumbled. When I dared to glance up, I saw her brow creased with irritation. My cheeks flushed.
“When you meet someone, girl, say ‘Godspeed’, not ‘greetings’,” she snapped. I knew that! I thought. Why did the wrong word come out?
“Godspeed, Your Grace,” Henry said, performing an elegant bow. I could feel him smirking at my mistake.
“Stand,” she said, her voice authoritative. Her eyes roamed, taking in my form and face.
I hoped she would not be displeased. I was small for my age, diminutive, or so Isabella said, but women were not supposed to be as tall as men. My hair was uncovered, streaming down my back in a wash of thick, honey-coloured fairness. My skin was pale, but I had a blush not unlike that found on a ripe peach upon my soft cheeks. My large eyes were hazel; at one time brown and earthy, and at others a flash of green could be spied. People told me I was pretty, but I found it hard to believe.
I was little, my hair and eyes were good, but my mouth was large and cheeks wide. If fed well, my short frame could run to fat. That had not happened, but my sisters had told me of it, often, in that cruel way girls have where they put you down but make it seem like concern, or worse, a compliment. My nose was large, although it seemed in keeping with my mouth. Joyce, another half-sister, told me I looked like a frightened fawn, which I was not sure was a good thing.
My half-sisters Isabella and Margaret were bonny and fair, with wide-set blue eyes and a touch of red in their golden hair. They were pretty. Comparing myself to them, I found much that was wanting.
Grandmother walked to us, her ivory cane clipping against floorboards concealed by rush matting, feet crushing down expensive herbs. The scent of rosemary and bay crept into the air, oily and yet fresh. Agnes’ hair was covered
by a French hood, black velvet rimmed with shimmering pearls. At the front, a little of her hair, auburn locks sliding to iron grey, could be seen. There were creases beside her eyes, and more about her mouth, but her skin was pale and clear and her dark eyes, perhaps brown or black, I could not say in the dim light, were sharp.
Her gown was glorious, a hearty, healthy shade of crimson with wide sleeves and a deep blue kirtle underneath, shown through a gap in her skirt. Fine lace clung to her bosom and throat, and silver lining sparkled from the hem and edges of her gown. The shoulders were slashed, so blue could be seen through them too, and about her throat was a pendant on a golden chain, pearls shaped into an ‘A’, set with diamonds.
It would have been hard to call her pretty. Infant eyes find it taxing to see beyond age. But she was arresting. Pride thumped from her as a heartbeat, and dignity was in her every step. Despite the cane, she seemed to bear no weakness; even that instrument was another part of her authority. From her bearing it was clear she was used to issuing commands, not obeying them.
She went first to Henry. Five years my senior, he was a handsome lad with strong bones and shoulders that promised broadness. Taking hold of his chin, she turned his head this way and that.
We knew what to do. Children were to stand still and quiet, not scratch, sigh, cough, pick noses, or breathe too loud. We had to bow or curtsey when entering a chamber, and do a smaller gesture to echo that first supplication when spoken to. We had to listen carefully, looking straight at the person talking to us. We were not to speak unless directly addressed, and only then if a question that required an answer was asked. I had learned that adults often did not require answers.
“You have the mark of your grandfather,” she said, and Henry smiled, bowing as she released his chin. Our grandfather had been a great man, a masterful general and courtier.
She quizzed Henry about his studies, the state of the roads and the people we had stayed with. Henry kept his answers short, only offering more information when she asked for it. This pleased her, and towards the end her eyes were glimmering. No doubt she was wondering where she might place him so he and she would benefit. When satisfied, she nodded.
“You will be housed in the men’s room,” she said. “Each day you will be on time for lessons. Each evening you will come here to tell me what you have learned. You will attend Mass each morning and afternoon, thanking God for all He has granted.”
She spent some time on Henry, telling him of his lessons, and of the pride he ought to bear in his family. Our father was not mentioned, just our family, as though in coming here we had ceased to be his children, and had become just Howards. A clan.
When, eventually, she turned to me, it was as an afterthought. Agnes’ eyes narrowed. “You look like your aunt, Lady Boleyn,” she said, and I smiled nervously, bobbing a half-curtsey. Her words were a compliment. Elizabeth Boleyn, my father’s full sister, one of two sisters who had borne that same name, was a beauty.
I had only seen a portrait, painted when she was a young maid, but I had often wished I could look like her. She was married now, and had three children, all of whom were at court. Elizabeth’s husband was Sir Thomas Boleyn, a man some claimed was no more than a merchant, but he had been granted the earldom of Ormonde, an Irish title, and was made Earl of Wiltshire at the same time. His daughter, my cousin Anne Boleyn was, some claimed, the mistress of the King.
Others said differently. Some said the King would set aside his wife, Katherine of Aragon, and marry my cousin. The King claimed his first marriage was illegal because Katherine had been married before, to his brother. The Bible said that if a man married his brother’s wife, they would have no sons, for the match was cursed. But there was another passage which said a man should marry his dead brother’s wife, for he was duty-bound to continue the family line with her. The King said his lack of sons, for he only had a daughter, showed God did not look on his marriage with favour. If he had no son the future of England was in doubt, said the King. The Pope said the King had no right to question Rome’s dispensation for his marriage to Katherine. The King disagreed.
People whispered he had been thinking of ridding himself of barren Katherine for years. Others claimed he only wished to do so because the younger Boleyn sister would not open her legs as the elder had. Mary Boleyn had been the mistress of the King and had borne him two children. But the younger sister, trained in foreign courts and sent home to England a polished, beautiful creature of grace and fire, was not of the same mettle. Or at least, servants whispered with glee, pretended not to be. Anne had spent years in the Low Countries and the Court of France, and everyone knew what went on in such courts. But, gossips said, Anne had seen that if she held the King at bay she might win more than a few favours and a bastard babe… she might become Queen.
I was supposed to know nothing of this, but I did. No one told me a great deal, but I was adept at listening at doors. What I did not know I found out.
Although, at first, my grandmother had supported Queen Katherine in the King’s Great Matter, as the annulment battle was called, she had switched sides some years ago, seeing that with a granddaughter as Queen much favour could be bestowed upon her kin. Agnes had attended a court of cardinals in Blackfriars, London, and had spoken of when she put Katherine and Arthur to bed on their wedding night. The Queen had told everyone her first marriage had not been consummated, which meant marrying her first husband’s brother was no sin, but Agnes said the Queen was lying, and testified the couple had been together as man and wife.
“That is what makes the second marriage a sin,” Isabella had whispered to Joyce, her bedfellow, one night. We girls had slept in one room, the boys in another. We slept two or three to a bed. It was normal, even for nobles. Beds were expensive and only the very rich had one to themselves. Even then, they shared it with a favoured servant, for comfort, warmth and safety. Pretending to be asleep, I had overheard many a conversation between my elder sisters. “If Queen Katherine was the full wife of Prince Arthur, then in God’s eyes she is sister to our King. God does not like brothers and sisters to marry. It says so in the Bible.”
Then she is a most wicked woman, I had thought, and strange too. Who would want to lie with a brother?
I had no idea what consummation was. I was six when I overheard this, and whilst I had seen animals mating, I knew not the purpose, or that people did it too. I thought what Isabella spoke of was simply going to bed, and had no idea why one would want to do that with a brother. My brothers teased me, tickled and chased me, making scary faces and laughing if I screamed. And when I did, I was scolded for making noise. They were excused, because boys were boys and always teased girls. It would not be very restful going to bed with them, so I thought the Queen strange.
Just before I left home, Isabella had told me what consummation was. She thought it important, so I could tell a man no if he asked me to do something. I promised her I would do nothing of the kind. It all sounded horrible.
“Does the Queen not like our grandmother now?” Joyce had asked Isabella. “Since she spoke against her in court?”
“The Queen is polite to everyone, even enemies,” said Isabella, “but it is true she does not favour our grandmother as once she did. ’Tis no matter. When our good cousin becomes Queen, we shall rise higher than before.”
It did not seem that might happen soon. I had heard people talking of the death of Cardinal Wolsey, who had disappointed the King by failing to separate him from the Queen. It was said Wolsey had also plotted treason. My brother Ralph, a grown and married man, had come to the house a year ago with news that the Pope was refusing to grant the King an annulment, and the King was furious with the Holy Father. Words like “split” and “heresy” had floated from my father’s rooms, but I knew not what they were speaking of. Then, at the beginning of this year I had been told the Pope was no longer Head of the Church, the King was. Everyone seemed to think this important, but it had meant little to me. I was used to the idea that I obe
yed elders, all the way up to the King. The King was in charge of the country, why not in charge of faith too?
I was a little too young and innocent to understand how momentous this was. The King had broken from Rome, made himself Head of the Church. He claimed this was his ancient right, usurped by the Pope. The Holy Father thought it was the King of England who was the usurper. England was isolated in Europe, seen as a heretical state by many. I understood later, but not then.
Agnes broke my thoughts by walking back to her chair. “Each morning, you will wash your hands and face and put on clean undergarments,” she instructed. “You will comb your hair, go to Mass, then to lessons. In the afternoon, you will learn how to serve me, preparing for the time you go to court. You, girl, will learn to read, brew, bake and count, so you might order your husband’s household, and Henry, you will learn to read, write, carve, hunt, ride and fence, so you will not disgrace us when you go to the household of the King.”
As she reached her chair, she turned. “Thank the Lord God when you wake, for your food before each meal, and at night for the clothes on your back and the bed in which you sleep. Say a Pater Noster and a Hail Mary for the souls of the dead before bed and make the sign of the cross upon your lips before eating. When elders speak to you, meet their eyes and show respect. Set about your duties quietly, with care and grace. Be modest and good. Do nothing to disgrace this house.”