Shadow of Persephone

by G Lawrence

  Uncertainty washed over us all, making people skittish, jittery.

  Katherine asked to join Mary so she could nurse her, but the King did not allow it. People said it was my cousin who refused this simple request of a mother, and that Anne had laughed, saying she hoped Mary would die. I could not believe such a thing. Queen Anne had nursed my mother and saved my father. No woman capable of such generosity and kindness could become this vicious beast they spoke of.

  But I feared, like everyone else in England. The King was our master, but God was his. If the Almighty did not like what the King was doing, what would happen to England, to us?

  Chapter Eleven

  Chesworth House

  Autumn 1534

  “Trouble at court,” said my aunt Katherine. “The King’s mistress, Mary Perrot, hates the Queen.”

  “All kings take mistresses,” said my grandmother, reaching for the platter of gingerbread knots at her side. “’Tis no matter.”

  “It is to the Queen, my lady. The parrot refused to curtsey to the Queen in public. The Queen tried to have her sent away, but the King refused. Then, it seemed there was some plot thought up between the Queen and her sister-in-law to get the woman away from court, but it went wrong. Lady Rochford has been banished instead.”

  “That girl always did have a tongue too blunt to be subtle,” said my grandmother.

  “And the Queen has fallen out with Norfolk, again.”

  “Norfolk never could keep friends with women,” said Agnes. “He only tolerates me because he knows I have silver stashed away, and hopes to get his sweaty paws on it.” She sighed. “The King has named Princess Elizabeth his heir. There is nothing for the Queen to fear.”

  “Some say that was done merely to punish Lady Mary for her jaunts down the river.”

  “For whatever reason, it was done. The Queen has his support. She should cease to worry about court whores and get on with making a prince.”

  Soon we heard that the King had a new mistress, the Queen’s cousin, Madge Shelton. “Another one!” exclaimed Agnes. “What does he need all these women for?”

  “This one is to replace the parrot,” said Uncle William. “Some say Mistress Shelton is the Queen’s true woman, thrust at the King by none other than the Queen herself.”

  I expected my grandmother to be shocked, but she chuckled. “A clever play, worthy of a great queen.”

  With my grandmother satisfied the Queen was seeing off her foes, they talked of the death of Pope Clement, and the new Pope, Paul.

  “Many say he bought his papal throne with bribes,” said William. “For the decision was passed in just one day. But it is a good thing. Pope Paul sent word immediately, assuring His Majesty he is anxious to resolve the King’s argument with Rome and bring England back to the Catholic fold. Paul is also no friend to the Emperor.”

  Nothing could have cheered my grandmother more. Certain Rome was about to find in the King’s favour, Katherine would be silenced and Anne upheld, she was jovial that afternoon, offering us treats and handing out old clothes from her wardrobe. That evening I sat in bed, and an odd thought occurred. So much of our sorrow, our happiness, was bound up with people so far away. The King, my cousin, the Pope… all people of England talked of them as though they lived next door, but few of us would ever even see them. Yet they controlled not only laws but lives, could make people fearful, happy and sad with the lightest touch.

  At least Grandmother is merry, I thought. Everything was easier when she was in a good mood.

  It was not to last.

  *

  “The Queen’s sister is married and with child!” exclaimed my aunt.

  “Mary Carey?” asked my grandmother. “Whom is she wed to?”

  “William Stafford. Distantly related to Buckingham, but only a third son. He is a soldier in the King’s army.”

  My grandmother blinked. “The Queen allowed this?”

  Katherine shook her head. “She did not, nor Thomas Boleyn or the King. The chit married secretly, came to court with a huge belly and has been sent away in disgrace and cast off.”

  If my grandmother was amazed, Norfolk was incandescent. “A whore!” he shouted. “I think more and more the Boleyns are all unstable. She is insane, surely! What woman would dare thwart her family and kin, just to wed a common soldier?”

  “She has been cast out?” my grandmother asked coolly.

  “Aye, by everyone. The King is mortified. His brother-in-law is a mere soldier in his own army and his sister-in-law a common bawd. The Queen is a ball of wrath and her father and brother too, for they know how humiliating this is.” He barked a laugh. “That, at least, is some small comfort.”

  But soon there was news that if one member of our house had disgraced us all by daring to fall in love and choosing her own husband, another would be honourably married.

  “My lady,” I said quietly to my grandmother after she had told me. “Is not the Princess very young to wed?”

  My grandmother laughed. “She will not be wed yet, you little goose! This will be a betrothal, a promise to marry. It may not even come to pass, many arrangements do not, but it is a good match, and will secure friendship between France and England.”

  It was October. The days were growing shorter and the countryside only more beautiful. Crimson and amber flamed in the trees and leaves bustled to join their friends in piles on paths. Apples were being brought in to store in barrels, but Grandmother allowed us to take some to make our own pomanders, pinning an apple with cloves then sealing it in a bag with cinnamon and dried herbs to dry above our chamber fire. When they were hard and dry, we would be able to put a hook in the top, attach them to ribbons and hang them from our girdles, or place them in clothes’ chests. They could hold scent for years.

  We were often sent into the parks to gather rosehips for syrups and quince for jelly, both good for rejuvenating a flagging spirit in winter, and tasty too. Slices of apple were hanging in rings from rafters in the kitchens. They were allowed to become green and blue with mould, and then were dished out by my grandmother as a remedy against colds and fever. Onions were placed in many chambers for they drew sickness from the body, and my grandmother had the kitchen collecting mutton bones, so they might be handed out to all as a cure for cramps.

  A delegation from France was on its way to talk about marrying Princess Elizabeth to the Dauphin. I was pleased for my cousin, for I felt she had had enough sadness of late.

  But sorrow could not leave the court alone.

  “It is punishment,” said an old man to his boy in the stables as I came past with another basket of rosehips. The old man’s hands did not pause as he spoke; down the brush came on the coat of the horse, burnishing chestnut into bronze. “God shows His displeasure by threatening the life of the King’s only son.”

  Henry Fitzroy, Duke of Richmond, the King’s bastard was sick. It was said the King was out of his mind with fear, and had sent all his best doctors.

  “My son, too, is distraught,” said Norfolk. “The two are closer than any men I have known.”

  “Is your daughter, his wife, not worried for him too?” asked Agnes.

  Norfolk waved a hand, as though the feelings of his daughter mattered little to those of his son. “Many are saying this has fallen upon the King for the break with Rome, and for the late suppression of the monasteries.”

  “And does the King heed them?” Agnes asked.

  Norfolk shook his head. “If anything, he takes it as a sign to be harsher.”

  The last remaining servants, friars and monks of rebellious houses had been carted off or turned out onto the streets. A new Act of Supremacy had made the King’s title of Supreme Head of the Church law, cutting England’s last ties with Rome.

  “Ecclesiastical matters are now in the hands of the King alone,” said Norfolk. “Englishmen are now to understand the Word of God is synonymous with that of the King.”

  “Do you agree?”

  Norfolk threw his hands in t
he air. “There was nothing to be done! Stand against the King now, and the punishment is death. Fisher and More need to mark that. There was no stopping Cromwell in Parliament. He stuffed the Upper Chamber with lords loyal to the King, and the Commons was full of MPs dedicated to the new order. Detractors were warned to stay away, or risk losing more than just livelihoods. The King is done with mercy and patience. Anyone with sense will keep their opinions to themselves.”

  “And that includes you?”

  “That includes everyone. We must pick which battles to fight. I believe in the Pope and Rome, but I will be the King’s man in public. That is what Father taught me. Even if you disagree, if you are a Howard you stand by the throne. Only that way can we bring about change.” He sneered. “And Cranmer is busy. He and his heretic bishops are in talks about rituals of the faith. They will decide which Sacraments we obey.”

  “I thought all would be kept?” A note of panic was in Agnes’ voice.

  Norfolk shook his head. “They want rid of indulgences, but most people agree with that. But there is word they mean to strip churches of statues and ornaments, so they stand bare like heretic Lutheran churches of the north. Some say they mean to ban the Order of the Garter, but the King will never allow it.” Norfolk sat down, rubbing his belly. “In truth, the King will stand in the way of much they want. He believes in the Sacraments, and will not permit the transubstantiation to be brought into doubt, or purgatory, and he upholds clerical celibacy. I doubt they will get their naked churches, either, for he loves his statues. They think him a reformer, but he is a good Catholic at heart.”

  “Just one who does not agree the Pope should be the Head of the Church.”

  “Aye, that heretic Cranmer will have a hard task convincing the King to ban many aspects of traditional religion.”

  “But he listens to the Queen still, when she debates religion?” Agnes sounded worried.

  I had heard of this before. The Queen discussed religion often with her husband, sometimes debating in his rooms with men and sometimes at the dinner table. I thought it wonderful a woman could know so much, for I knew little. From the look on Norfolk’s face he thought as many others did; no woman should dare speak of religion or faith.

  “He listens to her, and others. Often, when too lazy to read, he selects two people to read a book for him and brings them together to debate it. But it is her pushing him into this radical madness. The break was bad enough, but that woman has let loose heretics and Lutherans upon England!”

  “The common people understand not.”

  “They will soon see the King’s mind. Cromwell is to send out pamphlets on the corruptions of Rome and the supposed ungodly behaviour of various popes. Preachers are to march the streets.”

  Norfolk was right, for we soon had preachers shouting sermons at us. The King was hailed as the noblest monarch that ever had reigned. He was godly and wise, and had set us free from Rome. Everyone prayed for the King, but as I saw lips move, I knew many were praying for the Queen to die and the King to come to his senses.

  But many were on the opposing side. Some started calling the King The New Arthur. Players and poets were wandering house to house, spreading word of the King’s magnificence and closeness to God. It became fashionable for loyal subjects to display the King’s portrait in their houses to demonstrate their faith in him. My grandmother already had one, but commissioned another for the great hall. Cheaper ones were copied and handed out in the streets. We had one in the maidens’ chamber. The King looked utterly magnificent; handsome, fearsome and mighty. I quaked a little when I saw it, for his eyes bored into me as though he could hear my thoughts.

  “The King has taken to wearing a chain with the inscription Plus tost morir que changer ma pensee,” said Katherine.

  “I prefer to die rather than change my mind,” said my grandmother. “No one can doubt his conviction.”

  “Some reformers are calling him the new Solomon, or David,” said Katherine. “And Cromwell has been appointed Master of the Rolls.”

  “That is odd. Usually that position goes to a priest.”

  “Much is changing, and fast. He has the grand Rolls House on Chancery Lane, and needs it, for he has almost as many servants as the King now. Flocks of people go to him daily. He is like a little King himself.”

  “Just as Wolsey was,” said my grandmother.

  *

  It seemed Cromwell was not only busy with his house and men, but had other plans soon after.

  “He is trying to undermine me,” Norfolk said. “Suffolk has fallen into line, so Cromwell seeks to rid the Council of me, for he knows I oppose him, speaking for tradition and honour whilst that innkeeper’s bastard tries to ruin England.”

  “Are you in danger?” asked my grandmother.

  Norfolk shook his head. “The King might appear decided, but he is conflicted. He listens to the Queen and Cromwell, to Cranmer and other heretics flapping about him, but in his heart he is of the old faith. That is why he needs me.” He smiled grimly. “And the King becomes as suspicious as his late father. He can see Cromwell may become another Wolsey. He likes not that the blacksmith’s boy puts on entertainments to rival his own.”

  “Can you get rid of him?”

  “Not alone, but there may be allies I can use. George Boleyn is irritated with him.”

  “Why?”

  Norfolk shrugged. “Something about Cromwell countermanding one of his orders as Lord Warden of the Cinque Ports. The details are unimportant. Lord Rochford is loved by the King. If I can work with him we might unseat this little tick.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Chesworth House

  Autumn 1534

  “She has done it again,” Joan told us. “The Lady Mary once again floated down the Thames on a barge waving to all the people.” She shook her head. “The King will surely send her to the Tower.”

  We were walking back from the village, baskets full of herbs from the cunning woman for my grandmother on our arms. Joan was often sent to her, as the woman had great knowledge, but never were we sent alone. Gentlemen of my grandmother’s chamber were at our heels, in case beggars or gypsies might think to carry us away.

  Beggars were only more numerous on the streets now, since the Greyfriars had been cast out of their houses. They turned up in villages, but were sent away or whipped unless they had licences to beg.

  Joan had used her time in the village to gain information as well as herbs. Lady Mary had repeated her trick of showing herself to the people, and all of England, it was said, was weeping in sympathy for her.

  I watched as a leaf, brown as aged leather, skittered heedlessly across the path, fragments shattering from its surface each time it hit earth and stone. Eventually flayed, it would become a beautiful skeleton, slowly becoming nothingness.

  “The King would not send his own daughter to the Tower,” said Alice.

  “He sent his friends there,” said Joan. “Once, they say, Sir Thomas More was his closest companion. The King used to go to his house to go fishing and watch the stars by night.” Joan shifted her basket to her other arm, a puff of tansy and chickweed floated into the warm air. “Lady Mary is preparing to become a martyr, they say, and her mother too.”

  “God keep them safe,” Alice said, crossing herself.

  We fell silent as we passed a field of late wheat, green-silver tops dancing as the breeze washed through them, like the breath of the world sighing in happy slumber.

  “I know not if God can keep them safe,” said Joan quietly. “It is perilous to disobey the King.”

  But if Catholics in this country were disobeying the King, reformers in France were following suit.

  “Reformers took to the streets, setting up placards which denounced the Catholic Mass as popery,” said Uncle William a few days later. “It was an attack on the Catholic faith, and rumours have spread that French reformers want to murder all traditionalists in their beds. One placard was nailed to the King’s bedchamber door. There ha
ve been arrests, and King François has come to think this is part of a plot against him. There is talk he will forbid books supporting reform and grant the Sorbonne licence to take what measures they wish.”

  “It is the stronghold of conservatives in France,” said my grandmother.

  “And responsible for weeding out heresy and banning works thought to be heretical. François was opposed to them for a while, because they banned his sister’s book, The Glass of the Sinful Soul, but now the Sorbonne might be offered more power.”

  “Perhaps that is a good thing,” said my grandmother. “Reformers there, like here, have been attacking churches and icons. Lutherans and Anabaptists are on the rise.”