by G Lawrence
A shadow crossed her eyes. She was thinking of her husband, I could see it in the flash of fear that raced across her face. I touched her hand and she blinked. Then it was gone.
“That is why your grandmother leaves her keys in the antechamber outside her bedchamber. If she did not want us to meet, she would sleep with them under her pillow.”
Joan explained much. In other houses, women could come under threat, as some men, the masters in particular, thought them ripe fruit for their plates and sometimes forced themselves on them. Since my grandmother was a woman, the master of Chesworth did not hunt those below her, and since the young men were permitted access to ladies, and the ladies permitted them access to their lips and sometimes other parts of them, rape did not happen here, either.
“If men are denied all access to women, they become beasts,” Joan explained. “People say that women are the holders of carnal lust, but we are not alone in this. Some men, frustrated and annoyed they cannot kiss or touch women, force themselves on them. This doesn’t happen here. A little of what they fancy means they do not become wild.”
“So it keeps us safe?”
“It does. Men rule the world, Catherine. We are taught to submit, and we do, but this way…” she grinned with a roguish air “… this way, we have a little entertainment too, and we get husbands who we know will love us when we come to marry. If a man and a woman are promised and lie together, there is no sin. Only if there is no contract is it a sin.”
Joan told me that all the girls at Chesworth had been sent here to learn how to be wives, so if they found a husband here it was good. We were all distantly related to each other, and therefore we would further bond already united families, making them stronger. If a woman had sex before she was married, it did not change her position in life as long as no one found out. She was still the property of her father.
Joan was a worldly woman. She had a string of beaux, all eager to wed her if her horrible husband died, and since she was married and her husband sometimes came to the house, she could lie with other men and if a child came she could claim it was her husband’s.
“But there will be no children unless I want there to be,” she said.
“How do you know?”
Joan told me there were herbs a woman or a man could take to ensure no babe came. No woman had to have a child and risk disgrace.
Not all of the women did allow men into their beds. Only a few, but most permitted kissing and caressing.
I liked Joan and would have done anything for her. She, unlike some of the others, did not treat me like a child. Alice Wilkes was Joan’s great friend, but I did not like her as much. Alice liked to gossip, and agreed with whosoever she happened to be talking to. In our small world of many women, this meant she could become friend or foe in an instant. The only one she did not dare go against was Joan, our undisputed leader. Alice was giggly and flighty, not like Joan, who was experienced and wise.
Once they knew I was in on their secret, I was invited to join them, but in a limited fashion. I was too young to be a full member of their joyous circle, but I brought them wine and served treats, as I did for my grandmother. Kat, too, was allowed to join in, and as she was older was allowed to sit in their circle at times. When men came, either sneaking through the door, their arms weighted down with treats pilfered from dinner, or in through the windows, the hangings billowing with night wind scented with jasmine and honeysuckle, Kat and I would greet them like honoured guests. Joan liked there to be some formality so the men did not run too wild. It was common practice for women to kiss men in greeting in England, so Kat and I would curtsey, kiss each man in turn, then guide them to our elders. We poured wine and arranged sugared figs, ripe apples, menchant bread or slices of cold venison on platters.
Kat would be allowed to sit with them, but I was always on the outside.
I wanted to be a part of that circle of happy, young people. They were so merry, laughing and jesting, listening as a man played a lute softly for them. Sometimes they danced, and then I was allowed to join in, for I danced well. Although my partners were sometimes more than a foot taller than me, I could keep up with all of them.
And I saw the power these women had. Subordinate in daylight they might be, but in our rooms they were powerful. They could deny a man, or draw him in. They could flirt, or shy away. When they married, they would become the property of their husbands, but here, now, they were free. They were like my cousin, the uncaptured bird. Although they officially belonged to their fathers or guardians, those people were not at Chesworth, and certainly were not in our room. They could not see what went on and my grandmother looked the other way. And the women, free in this power, enjoyed it, understanding that this, perhaps, was the one time in their lives they might get to choose who they wanted to love and who would touch their bodies.
In daylight, they were meek, obedient and modest. As shadows fell and the night wind blew, they became goddesses.
When we are young, we want so much to belong. Perhaps this is particularly true of those who leave home, finding family elsewhere. I wanted to be part of their circle, not a watcher on the outside. And I wanted the freedom they had. I did not have that, not even for a few brief hours each night, as they did.
And never would I betray them. I would rather have died.
Sometimes, a man would take his mistress to one of the beds, and pull the curtains. We would hear huffing and blowing, but Joan told me it was nothing to fear. “They are promised,” she said of Dorothy Baskerville and Edward Walgrave, the couple in bed.
In truth, I had small idea what they were doing, but I laughed with the others and joined in to tease Ned and Dorothy when they emerged, pink of cheek and glimmering of eye.
One day, Joan told me it was necessary for the good health of a woman that she lie with a man. “Greensickness,” she said, “is mortal dangerous for women.” Greensickness, I was told, was a waning, wasting condition suffered by virgins. Without a man to release desire locked up in them, women grew sick. They became hysterical; wombs, not permitted seed, would roam about their bodies, wreaking havoc with humours and minds.
“Your little pet is a charming creature,” one of the men said one night. He was courting Margaret Smith, and she was not best pleased when he reached out to take my chin, his eyes boring into my face.
I giggled, as the others did, and cast my eyes to the ground. In truth, his hot gaze made me uncomfortable, but I had learnt from the other maids the best thing to do if afraid of a man was to appear flattered and look submissive, or deflect him in a flirtatious manner. I was not bold enough to try that, and we all knew that outright refusal made men angry.
That was how they all handled men. It seemed to work for them, so I had no reason to think it would not for me. I smiled and dropped my eyes. My cheeks flushed on their own, and the man seemed pleased.
“Soon, she will be a woman,” he said, one finger curling up about my cheek.
“But still a Howard, and no match for you,” said Joan, guiding me away.
I was eight years old, but longed to be a woman, like Joan, like Margaret. A woman who was wanted and adored, with a gallant to bring me presents and tell me he loved me. A woman like my cousin, Anne Boleyn.
Chapter Seven
Chesworth House
Winter - Summer 1533
“He has married her, I’d wager my fortune on it!” my grandmother cackled that February, returning from a trip to court, snow falling from the folds of her cloak as I took the damp garment from her shoulders. “The King was drunk as a cardinal at the gathering in my granddaughter’s rooms, and all but announced he was her husband!”
Thrusting her gloves at me, she sighed happily. “And there will be a son, soon, or I am no Tilney.”
“Surely, Your Grace, you are a Howard,” I said.
“You are of the family into which you were born, first and always, in life,” she said. “Howard I am, loyal to my husband’s kin and my children I remain. But I
will always be a Tilney, and you a Howard, no matter whom your husband is.”
It seemed my grandmother was right about Anne and the King, for that March as rain poured from the skies, Thomas Cranmer, who all knew for a Boleyn supporter, became Archbishop of Canterbury. A few days later, Convocation announced the King’s marriage to Katherine of Aragon was under investigation.
“This is the end,” said my grandmother. “The King now has all the power he needs to decide the matter himself.”
“My lady, are not his clergy deciding it?”
She looked at me sharply, then grinned. “Of course, of course. But the King is Head of the Church. Think you they will wish to disappoint him?”
“No, Your Grace.”
“No, Your Grace, indeed,” she said, chuckling.
“So the Pope is no more the only man who may decide, Your Grace?”
A flicker of doubt passed through her eyes. “The Pope is no man of God,” she said stoutly. “But our King is.”
*
In May, the King’s first marriage was declared null and void. On the same day, we also heard the King had married again, to my cousin, Anne Boleyn.
Many were astounded. It had all happened so fast. From dithering for years on end, the King had suddenly acted. But my grandmother knew the reason.
“Anne is indeed with child,” she told me. “If the King wants his son born legitimate, they must be married before the Prince makes an appearance, so they are!” She chuckled. “I will tell you a secret, for you are a Howard and will keep it. This came about so fast because of Anne. When they were in France, she finally surrendered and let him into her bed, but not for lust.” Agnes’ eyes widened, mirroring mine. “She surrendered, to win. A move worthy of her warlike grandfather. What a man that girl would have made! All those years she held out, and when she saw he was floundering, she gave a push.”
Agnes laughed. “Anne is a canny thing. She knows how to manage men. She knew if she got with child the King would have to wed her, now and with no more delays. All those bishops and cardinals, lords and earls, popes and emperors arguing back and forth and in the end the matter was decided by a woman.” She grinned. “And I am to hold her train at the coronation.”
“I wish I could see it, Your Grace.”
“You are too young,” she said, but her face took on a more sympathetic expression as she saw mine fall. “I will tell you about it when I return, and I will speak about you to the Queen. In a few years, you could become one of her maids of honour.”
“I would go to court, Your Grace?” The prospect was dazzling, and I would meet this amazing woman, my cousin.
“If you learn your lessons well. The Queen is an educated, refined woman. Only the best will enter her household.”
Nothing could have made me concentrate more. I studied my lessons and tried hard with numbers. Sadly, a few weeks of intense concentration did not make me more intelligent, and other girls teased me about appearing bookish, so my enthusiasm wore off quickly. But I did concentrate on singing and dancing. That was easy, I liked both. If I could not impress my cousin, the Queen, with my mind, I would with my body.
On the first of June, Anne was crowned.
Most of our household went to the coronation. I did not. Whilst the lord of each noble house was expected to be there, a mere child like me was not. But as promised, when she came home my grandmother told me about it.
“The skies were clear and bright as we gathered in the Tower,” she said. “We were supposed to leave at two of the clock, but it was close to five by the time everything was ready. The servants of the new French ambassador, Jean de Dinteville, were leading the procession, to show how England is friends with France now, and there were twelve, in sapphire velvet with yellow and blue striped sleeves. White plumed feathers stood in their hats, and their horses were in trappings of blue sarcenet, powdered with white crosses.”
I held my breath, unwilling to say a word in case she grew impatient and refused to tell me the rest.
“Behind them were Gentlemen of the Royal Households, marching two by two, then nine judges, in scarlet gowns and hoods, wearing gold collars. The judges had been unable to get into place in time, and had to slip into position as we started to trail out of the Tower…” my grandmother chuckled. “… After them came new Knights of the Bath, then Members of Parliament and Government, the Council, peers and magnates. Chancellor Audley rode beside the French Ambassador. The Lord Mayor just behind the deputy Earl Marshal and at his side was Suffolk, the Constable of England.”
“Behind them came Anne’s litter,” my grandmother continued, her eyes misty with happiness. “Ah, child, if you could have seen her. Never was a woman more beautiful. Her gown was white, and she wore a coronet of delicate, sparkling gold. Her litter was white satin, hung with white cloth of gold inside and out. The two palfreys that pulled it were pale of coat, covered with white damask which drooped to the ground. Her long, dark hair was loose and uncovered, stretching to her waist, and her eyes, jet black and wide with happiness, sparkled like gems. Over her was a canopy of cloth of gold, held aloft by the Barons of the Cinque Ports. Then came her palfrey, dressed in white, along with twelve ladies in crimson, and two carriages decked in red cloth of gold. They were followed by more riders, two more carriages, and thirty gentlewomen on horseback, dressed in black velvet. Behind them marched the King’s guard in rich coats decorated with goldsmiths’ work, and all servants of court came last, dressed in their masters’ liveries.”
“I think I was the only person of England not there, Your Grace,” I mourned.
“I sorrow to say, but you were not,” said my grandmother. “Mary, Duchess of Suffolk refused to attend, apparently on grounds of ill-health, and her daughter, Frances, was also absent, along with my daughter-in-law, the Duchess of Norfolk.” Agnes smiled. “But her loss was my gain. If my daughter-in-law had attended, she would have been in the first carriage, but instead I was there, with Lady Elizabeth Boleyn and the Dowager Marchioness of Dorset.”
Agnes sighed. “But Elizabeth Stafford and Mary of Suffolk were not alone in not attending. The Earl of Shrewsbury was not there, although he did send his son in his stead, but another was Sir Thomas More. He says he supports the King in choosing his wife, but does not support him as Head of the Church, nor separating from Katherine.”
“Your Grace, I do not understand. If he supports the King in choosing his wife, the King must separate from Queen Katherine.”
“Call her not Queen anymore, child,” said my grandmother curtly. “There is but one Queen of England, and that is Anne Boleyn. It is treason to say otherwise.”
“I am sorry, Your Grace,” I said. “It was a slip of the tongue, of habit.”
“All of us must watch those habits now,” she said, but I knew she was not angry with me, for there had been no slap. “But you are right about More,” she went on. “His statements contradict, as do his actions with his protests of loyalty. He trained as a lawyer, and they are slippery creatures when it comes to words. The fact is, he does not support the King, and his absence from the coronation was an insult. He is wary of the King, so tries to placate him with half-truths, but the King sees through them. More is in danger, truth be told.”
“He will be arrested, my lady?”
“Do you want to hear about this coronation, or not?”
“Very much, Your Grace.” I had the impression she did not want to tell me about More.
“We rode through the streets to the sound of cheering, but as we passed, some men had to be nudged to remove their caps. But the Queen was a model of dignity. There is still support for Katherine, you see? But soon, the people will see Anne is worthy, and the swell of her belly, for she is six months gone with child now, brought hope to many.”
“And it will be a prince, Your Grace?”
“So say all men of magic and science the King brings to court.”
Agnes patted my hand. “London was in her finest, streets freshly gravelled, pa
inted cloth and tapestry hanging from all the houses. Anne’s falcon badge was everywhere. At Fenchurch Street she was greeted by a procession of children dressed as merchants who welcomed her to the city, and in Gracechurch Street, Hanse merchants, men deeply involved in the cause of reform and therefore her supporters, had constructed a triumph arch, where a tableau of Apollo stood upon Mount Parnassus, surrounded by the nine Muses, all playing sweetly on instruments. Under this was a white marble fountain where Rhenish wine flowed. The Queen stopped to hear choirs of children sing, and look upon pageants. The Muses held up cards with poetical verse on them, and played instruments. The Queen was welcomed as the bringer of the new, Golden Age; the herald of a perfection soon to come.
“There, too, was a castle constructed in wood, but painted to look like stone. About its walls were screens showing clouds and heavenly bodies. A hill rose, topped by a tree stump where Saint Anne, mother of the Holy Virgin, sat with her three daughters. As the Queen’s litter stopped, she was greeted by the Virgin who called out, ‘most excellent Queen and bounteous Lady!’”