Shadow of Persephone

by G Lawrence

  “That means the Pope will deprive the King of this kingdom and royal dignity,” my grandmother told me. “Although His Majesty does not recognise the authority of Rome, to Catholic countries we would become a nation damned, lost to God.”

  “Are we, my lady?” I asked, terrified I would be banished from Heaven.

  “The King does not think so, and he is Head of the Church,” she said. “And the bull is not yet published. That means this may still change.”

  I was confused. My grandmother told me in one breath this meant nothing, but her eyes said it meant everything.

  The Pope was not the only one shouting at our King for More’s death. The King of France and the Emperor joined in. “Cromwell is going about telling anyone who will listen their punishment was mild, since they were traitors,” said my uncle William. “Few are listening.”

  More was proclaimed a martyr by Rome. People said invasion would come any day. And it was whispered the Queen and her brother were haunted by More. Lord Rochford was granted some of More’s houses, but sold them quickly and the Queen had come upon a portrait of More in a corridor, and ran from it.

  “But there is celebration on progress,” said my aunt. “Elizabeth Browne says the Queen is holding dances each night.”

  “She is distracting the King from his woes,” said my grandmother.

  “There are rumours another of the royal family has an eye for Howards,” said Katherine. “Lady Margaret Douglas, daughter of the Queen of Scots, is said to look with an eye of favour upon your son, Thomas.”

  “He has said nothing,” said my grandmother. “I hope Tom will be careful. The King is protective of his little Magret.”

  I heard nothing more of this uncle of mine, the second of two with the same name. This one was not Norfolk, but his younger half-brother, Agnes’ son. But if I heard nothing of that, there was plenty we did hear. Bishop Stokesley preached a sermon in London that was sent out around England. He angered many people and pleased others by shouting the King’s first marriage was ungodly and perverse. We then heard tales that people had been arrested for insulting the Queen, calling her a “naughty, goggle-eyed whore”. Suddenly, arrests were as common as rain in autumn.

  “It is treason to speak against royalty,” said my grandmother. “That is why they are being detained.”

  We heard of drunks, fools and mad people dragged to prison. And there were high ranking ones too. The Earl of Northumberland, who it was said had once wanted to marry my cousin, was sent away from court for calling her an infamous whore.

  “He is probably upset she rejected him,” Joan said. “Men do not handle rejection well. It is their greatest fear of women.”

  “King François said the Queen was a harpy and had always been light of virtue,” said Alice.

  “Another one,” said Joan with a nod. “I heard he wanted our Queen for his mistress and she turned him down. Rejection makes men vicious and spiteful.”

  The King reacted. Orders went out to remove the Pope’s name from prayer books and priests were to cease to lead prayers for him. The King’s titles were reaffirmed at every Mass. Prayers were said for the Queen, for Princess Elizabeth and the King. Katherine and Mary were to be forgotten. It was said Cromwell had men everywhere, in every house. It was no longer safe to talk. People stopped chattering when I came along, thinking I might report them, for all knew how my grandmother adored the Queen.

  I was eleven. No more unlikely a spy could there have been, and yet people were afraid of me, their neighbours, strangers… anyone. Everyone.

  *

  The King and Queen were on progress still. And as the Queen and her husband travelled, Cromwell was too, roaming about, inspecting monasteries, abbeys and nunneries. The Queen and King were happy together, it was said. Freed of cares and in love again. I watched my grandmother heave a sigh of relief. Then, there was something odd.

  “Lady Rochford was arrested in London,” said my aunt. “She was with a group of women protesting on behalf of Lady Mary. The Queen was furious, and said she could stay in the Tower. Lady William Howard was also there.”

  My grandmother went pale.

  “Lord Rochford is mortified and swears he will separate from his wife, but I hear the Queen calmed down and spoke for her sister-in-law. Jane Boleyn will be released, to slow the tide of scandal.”

  Grandmother still looked white. I touched her arm, offering wine. She took it without looking at me and gulped it down.

  “The King has a new love, apparently,” my aunt went on. “Mistress Jane Seymour. It is said she will be his next mistress.”

  We heard the King and Queen were in Bristol, and then had gone to Wulfhall, home of the Seymour family. Some said this was so the King could bed the daughter of this house. No one knew if he had, and the court went on to Winchester, where many of the Queen’s men became Bishops.

  “An open sign of defiance,” said my grandmother. “The consecrations of new bishops have been subtle affairs, because of fear about rebellion, but now, they are public, to show us all we need not fear the Pope.”

  And the King and Queen were merry again, this Seymour girl forgotten. Bishop Gardiner was appointed to respond to the Pope’s bull of excommunication, and it was said he was a wise man, and would see off the threat of Rome. Which was as well, for it was said the King meant to shut down every religious house in England.

  “England cannot be left without abbeys and priests!” said my grandmother. “The King must listen to the Queen, not Cromwell.”

  And it seemed that was likely, for by October there were whispers the Queen was with child.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chesworth House

  Autumn - Winter 1535

  “Gertrude Courtenay and Nicholas Carewe are supporting the Seymours, along with Francis Bryan, the Poles and the Dowager of Kildare,” said my aunt. “They want to plant the Seymour girl in the King’s bed to speak for the old faith and the restoration of Lady Mary. They also want the King to return to Rome.” She sighed. “But the good news is talks about Princess Elizabeth and the Dauphin are starting.”

  “The King will not return to Rome now,” said Agnes. “It would be impossible.”

  “Lady Rochford is back at court, I hear, although her husband will not see her.”

  “No one cares about Lady Rochford,” said my grandmother, waving a hand. A garnet caught the wan sunlight, glittering like blood. “The Pope has ordered prayers for Katherine. Much good it will do her.” My grandmother shook her head. “The King is right about some things. The Pope is ineffectual.”

  It was said Katherine would be sent from England or executed after the next session of Parliament. But suddenly the Emperor had become friendlier. He had gone to Rome and there was word he was speaking well of our King.

  “The reason is, Katherine of Aragon is dying,” said my grandmother to my aunt. “I hear it from people near her house. The Emperor thinks she will die, and when she does, he can make friends with England again.”

  *

  November came, and the wind was chilled, racing about trees, stealing the last of their leaves. The first frost fell, glinting like blades, melting soon after the sun rose ashen and pale in the skies. Ghostly morning mists drifted from fields, joining Old Man’s Beard in hedgerows to illuminate the world with strange, silver light. In the grounds, men were cutting back hedges and trees, lighting bonfires to burn bracken, so blue smoke floated in the air and piles of white ash were left, disappearing as the wind stole them away.

  “The Pope wants Spain and France to become friends and invade England,” I heard Ned say to his friend Robert.

  I barely listened. People had said that so many times and not once had it come true.

  The Queen certainly did not appear troubled. She was holding gatherings each night, flirting with her men and celebrating. News of her pregnancy had leaked, and she was showing she was joyous. It was said she and the King were not on good terms, he had gone back to Mistress Seymour, but the Q
ueen seemed not to care.

  The news that Katherine was unwell had brought hope. Even those who had cause to love the former Queen thought her death might see England safe from threat of invasion. With this in mind, the Queen tried to be kinder to Lady Mary, but her attempts failed.

  It was said the Queen had been at Eltham Palace, visiting her daughter, and Lady Mary had been in the chapel. When Mary left, the Queen was told Mary had curtseyed to her, a gesture of respect. She sent one of her ladies to say she was sorry she had missed the curtsey, and would be a friend to Lady Mary.

  “But the message she got back was that the Lady Mary knew not how any Queen could send such a message,” said my aunt, “since her mother, the only Queen of England, was so far away, and she had not been curtseying to the King’s mistress, but to God.”

  I knew of this already. People were chortling far and wide, marvelling at the boldness of Lady Mary and laughing at the Queen’s humiliation. It did Mary no good. It was said she was treated worse than ever, on my cousin’s command. Mary was not allowed to hear private Mass, she ate with servants and all who would call her by her old title, or speak of her mother well had been sent from her.

  “But the Queen has had a victory,” said my aunt not long after. “The King asked her to go to Syon Abbey, for you know the Abbess and Abbot are fighting his men. He wanted Syon to submit and swear the Oath. It would seem the Queen succeeded where Cromwell failed.

  I knew this place, for my grandmother spoke of it with awe. Syon was home to the Bridgettine Order. It was one of England’s wealthiest abbeys. The Order were devoted to the Passions of the Christ and the honour of the Virgin Mary. The community were well-respected and popular, so their defiance of the King was dangerous.

  “The Queen rebuked the nuns,” said my aunt. “Said they should not use Latin primers, for they did not understand the language, and told them to honour the King. The Abbess submitted.”

  “A strange claim,” said Agnes. “Syon’s clergy hail from noble houses, and would have been instructed in Latin from childhood.” She frowned. “I think something else went on, something we know nothing of.”

  It was said Syon submitted to survive. A new tax had been agreed, and it was hard on small religious houses for they had little left when the King had taken this money. Religious houses submitted to the tax because they knew if Cromwell came they would be shut down. It was a way of keeping the wolf from the door.

  But the King was having a harder time with other taxes. That summer had been hot, then wet. My grandmother’s crops had been badly hit, and many poor people had lost their entire harvest. Supplies were short and people poor. Beggars were often in the streets, wandering to our gates, and we were not allowed into the village anymore for it was too dangerous. The taxes the King needed to build castles and defences in case Spain attacked could not be raised, although his men tried. People lost lands and farms. There was talk again of rebellion.

  Of course my cousin was to blame. She was a witch, an emissary of Satan. Without my cousin, there would have been none of this chaos, men said.

  The King’s preachers went out, saying that if England was being tested by God, we would meet the challenge.

  But people were muttering this was no test from the Almighty.

  It was punishment.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chesworth House

  Winter - Spring 1536

  “The former Queen, Katherine, is dead,” said Kat one cold morning. “They say she died of a broken heart, but some are already whispering the Queen poisoned her.”

  “My cousin would not do such a thing,” I said, my tone hot. “She is a good woman.”

  “When the King heard he leapt from his chair, crying, ‘God be praised! We are freed from threat of war!’” said Joan. “I heard it in the kitchens.”

  It was said my cousin had seemed joyous at first, and then started to weep. “The Queen said what was done to Katherine might one day be done to her,” said Joan.

  “What does she fear?” my grandmother demanded, of no one in particular, that afternoon. “She is with child and the former Queen is dead. At last even fools who called her no Queen will have to admit she is!”

  We kept our heads down and carried on sewing. It was safer not to answer when my grandmother was in a strange temper.

  The King organised jousts and dances. He and the Queen appeared in matching yellow outfits, which shocked everyone… although not as much as the news Katherine was to be laid to rest in Peterborough Abbey rather than Westminster.

  “It is a scandal!” said one of the women of the kitchens. “And she Queen of England and Princess of Spain! The Emperor will surely invade now.”

  But all news from court suggested the Emperor wanted only friendship with England. Chapuys was always with the King, and the King was merry. He was even jousting again. A series of entertainments went on at court and the Queen was in the stands watching her husband as he rode.

  But then, uproar.

  The King was dead. The King was fine. The King had been thrown from his horse. The King was dead. No, it was the Queen who was dead.

  “The King was thrown from his horse, but is fine,” my grandmother announced to the entire household, brought to the great hall after a day of panic. “The Queen too is fine. All is well. The King was hurt, for his horse rolled on him, but he was up and about later the same day, jesting with his men.”

  All about the hall there was a sigh of relief. Although many there did not like what he had done to Katherine or her daughter, no one wanted our King dead. There was no adult heir but Lady Mary, and England would be unsafe.

  Although the King was fine, I heard later, as I sat playing the virginals for my grandmother, that Norfolk was in disgrace. The King’s injuries had actually been more serious than my grandmother had claimed. Norfolk had gone to my cousin and told her the King was dead.

  “She is lucky he did not bring on her pains,” muttered my grandmother.

  But my cousin was not lucky. On the day of the funeral of Katherine of Aragon, pains came. It was too early. Anne lost her child, a boy. Within hours, the whole country knew.

  It was said the King hated her, and had shouted she would have no more boys from him. Others said it was his fault. The Queen had lost her child upon finding him in the arms of Jane Seymour.

  Many expected this to be the end for Anne, but when she was well, she joined the King and he was attentive. It was said another child would come, and Anne herself claimed it was better her son had not been born, for when a new child came no one would question his legitimacy.

  “What a fine woman she is,” said my grandmother. “No man could show more courage.”

  But people said the King was afraid. God was frowning on this marriage. It was said he thought Anne a witch.

  “Canon law says a man might escape marriage if sorcery can be proved,” I heard one of my grandmother’s men say as he walked with a friend.

  And yet nothing happened to the Queen. There was talk that the King and his wife would go to France again to secure a match for Princess Elizabeth. The Emperor told the Pope not to excommunicate our King, and the Lady Mary was sent to a good house, with a purse of coin from her father. It was said the King was all-powerful. Spain and France were both desperate to be England’s friend. England was supreme. There was no more danger.

  None to England, but my aunt Katherine went to court soon after, trying to secure a separation from her husband. I knew not what for, but others did.

  “Her husband beats her,” Joan said, nodding. “Believe me, I know the signs.”

  “But there are no marks on her skin,” said Alice.

  Joan laughed without mirth. “Practised men hit their women where bruises may easily be concealed,” she said. “You think all that lace about her throat and wrists is for show?”

  “Why would he need to hide what he did?” asked Alice. “It is legal for a man to beat his wife.”

  “If he can hide it, he can deny
it,” said Joan. “If he can say what is real and what is not, he can control her world. Make her doubt herself, make others doubt her, and he controls her not only through law, but in mind and soul too. That is far more powerful. That is true power. And she is ashamed, knowing people will judge her, for there must be a reason he beats her, so she hides it too, making the reality he creates, real. He has control then because she fears him, but also because she fears the world, the judgement of people. And when the world comes to believe him and not her, she becomes lost, with him as her master, always.”

  “But she raised men and threatened to burn down a castle once!” I said.