Shadow of Persephone

by G Lawrence

  It was October. Leaves were drifting from trees of cinder. The grounds were afire with crimson, yellow and brown. Purple leaves with white backs fell to the earth making a blanket fit for royalty. In the grounds, the world seemed peaceful, waiting for the death of winter, but in England chaos reigned.

  The north was consumed by rebellion. Some objected to Cromwell being the King’s chief advisor. They said he was base-born, unsuited to his noble titles or position close to the King. Once, my cousin had been blamed for all the King did. Now it was Cromwell. The King was never at fault, something I thought odd, since he was the one in charge of our country.

  The Ten Articles of faith had not helped. Reformers thought them too mild, but conservatives found them too Lutheran. People feared the King meant to make England a realm of heresy, like those in northern Europe.

  Riots had begun in Louth and Horncastle. Led by a man called ‘Captain Cobbler’, they had attacked and killed two of Cromwell’s agents. One had been hanged and the other had been wrapped in the hide of a calf and thrown to a pack of dogs used for bull baiting. But these few savage acts and small, shambolic bands had become organised, running into an army of men, marching under leaders, some of them nobles. They wanted England returned to the bosom of Rome, and believed failing harvests had been brought upon them because God was angry with our King. The King must set aside men leading him astray, like Cromwell, they cried, and listen to the will of his people.

  Lord Hussey was in support of the rebels. Sir William Parr had blockaded the Great North Road at Stamford and Members of Parliament had gone to join a rebel force led by another man.

  “A lawyer named Aske,” my grandmother said. “He has nine thousand men, and they have taken York. The King must act, or all will be lost.”

  Even I knew York was a mighty city, and if York could be taken, would they come for London? Word came soon after that Hull, too, had fallen. Lord Darcy surrendered Pontefract Castle the next day, and joined the rebels. Men were flocking to join the Pilgrimage of Grace and although my uncle and others were on their way with men, the King’s cause looked bleak. All anyone could talk of was when the rebellion would start here, in the south. My grandmother had her guards ready, watching for any sign people on her estate might join the rebels.

  “I will protect you,” Manox said that night, waylaying me on the way back from chapel.

  You do not even have a sword, I thought, but I nodded and smiled, walking quickly to our chambers. When I got there, I had a horrible thought. What if he should find out about the gentlemen coming to our rooms, and appear here? He had not dared follow me into the maidens’ chamber yet, but if he came with them, what would I do?

  Fortunately, the other young men thought Manox a bit of a joke. Although Ned’s cousin, he did not seem to have any particular friends. He was not popular enough to gain an invitation.

  Within days, there was news of the Pilgrimage of Grace. Aske had indeed taken York, and the Duke of Suffolk, sent north with speed to stop him, was unable to do anything. York, seeing the impressive rebel forces and fearing to be sacked, had opened her gates and let them in. By the end of October, rebel numbers were put at thirty thousand men.

  “Thirty thousand!” my grandmother breathed, her face draining of blood. “It will be another civil war!”

  Perhaps there was more truth to this than she knew. Many of Aske’s men were Yorkists who had never supported the Tudor line and wanted the King deposed. There was word Reginald Pole, one of the last Plantagenets, would be brought back to England and they would set him on the throne.

  Aske restored nuns and monks to houses they had been evicted from, and Catholic observances were brought back too. My uncle, along with the Earl of Shrewsbury, was sent to negotiate with the rebels.

  Although, we had news Aske and his men did not think of themselves in such a way. They were not rebelling, but protesting, they claimed, not attempting to overthrow the King, but to make him listen.

  Norfolk met them at Doncaster. My uncle had five thousand men to Aske’s thirty thousand. Although my uncle’s guns commanded the main road and river, he knew he would not win in a battle.

  Offering them a pardon if they would disband, my uncle also said a Parliament would be held in York within a year, and abbeys would be no more attacked until that took place. Aske was told to come to London so he and the King could talk.

  “The King is displeased,” my grandmother said to Katherine. “My stepson’s enemies are whispering in the King’s ear, saying Norfolk could put down a rebellion if he wanted to, but he does not, for he sympathises with the rebels.”

  “They had more men than us, by a long stretch,” Norfolk told Agnes when he came to her after being scolded by the King. “Had we fought, we would have lost. That is why I negotiated, and it was successful for upon my promises they disbanded.”

  “Does the King see it that way?”

  “The King wanted me to lecture them on the sins of rebellion, but I think I have persuaded him there was no other way,” he said, rubbing his troublesome belly. “Although what he believes one minute as gospel is a lie the next.” Norfolk sighed. “But he is pleased the rebellion is over. Aske told his men to go home, and they obeyed.”

  Aske was welcomed at court with warmth by our King. The rebel put his case, and the King listened. That December, Aske remained at court and celebrated with the King as a pardoned man. All were saying how generous our King was, and now he had heard Aske, he would cast off Cromwell and return England to Rome.

  “He must be considering it,” Katherine said to my grandmother.

  She shook her head. “And you with a husband dead of treason,” she said. “The time we should fear most is when a king slips his hand about our shoulders. From there, he can spy our necks most keenly.”

  “You think him false?”

  “I think him a king. It is better to stand a little distance from kings. They burn the skin if one gets too close. Just ask…”

  She trailed off. She had been about to say “Anne”. I understood. The same gag was upon me. The word I wanted to speak was Manox.

  From listening to my elders, I understood England was divided, fractured, one foot in the past and the Catholic religion, and another in the future, and the reformist ways. The King desired a compromise; the old faith to continue but with him as Head of the Church. He could not understand why men could not see he was as, if not more so, godly than the Pope.

  But some, my uncle included, would always consider themselves loyal to Rome, for there God sat within His emissary the Pope. The King might say he was Head of the Church, and subjects might agree out loud, but in their hearts they kept secrets, like me. They would never see the King as the spiritual father of England. He was a usurper.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chesworth House

  Winter 1536 - 1537

  “If you do not meet me, I will tell your grandmother you kissed me.”

  I swallowed. Trapped, alone in a corridor with Manox’s odious breath upon my neck, I had nowhere to run. He had been insisting I meet him somewhere so he could touch me. I had avoided him for days, and then he pounced.

  The fresh-washed scent of my skin wafted into my nose, but I knew I would have to wash again after this. When he touched me I became soiled. The other girls thought I was coming unhinged, for washing in winter was dangerous, but I could not leave the sticky imprints of his hands on me, the filth that crept up along my skin, my spine, seeping into my flesh. Even through clothes the stain crept, the shadow catching me. Even air became unclean when he smiled.

  “I will meet you,” I whispered. “Now let me go.”

  He released me, squeezing my buttocks as I scrambled past. What could I do to stop him? Hands full of laundry, trapped in a dim corridor, and with his threats in my head, I was powerless.

  And that was how I felt, powerless, helpless. Forgotten, to all but him, the one man I did not want to remember me.

  Anne knows how to manage men, whisp
ered my grandmother in my mind, speaking from the past.

  As I scuttled down the corridor, feeling dirty and ashamed, I wished I knew what my cousin had, although, in the end, whatever knowledge she had possessed had not aided her, either.

  I could feel her sometimes, at my side, lips whispering how easy it was for a woman to be blamed. Anne’s warning was before me. Even in courts of law it was the sexual history of the girl that came up rather than the sins of the man, and once a girl had flowered, she was an accessory to the crime, not a victim. Call a girl a whore, and she is lost.

  *

  “The King sent Aske home,” said Norfolk, “then sent out a response to the Pilgrimage of Grace.”

  My grandmother nodded. We had all heard it. Read out at Lincoln Cathedral first, it had been sent to many churches and noble houses, ours included. There had been another rising in the north, not as well organised this time, but enough to inflame the temper of the King. Thinking the north required a lesson in loyalty, he had sent out his proclamation.

  It said the King would choose his own men, appointed by him, not by “rude and ignorant common people”. It called the rebels presumptuous for finding fault with him, and said they went against the laws of England and God by rising up against him. It said they had behaved like rebels and traitors, and had madness in their brains. The King was not faint-hearted, it declared, and they could not compel him with insurrection or rebellious demeanour.

  One hundred persons were to be delivered into the hands of the King’s officers in the north, held accountable for the sins of all who had rebelled. If they were not, their families and homes, as well as souls would be at risk.

  Disagreeing with the King was treason. Treason was death.

  “Think you this will make the north rise again?” asked my grandmother.

  Norfolk shook his head. “If they do, they are fools. The King is prepared now, where before he was not. He is angry at the north for shaming him, but the true reason is fear. Reginald Pole has been made a cardinal, and there is word he has been sent to Flanders. If that is true, the Pope was hoping the rebellion would succeed and the Plantagenet Cardinal might end up on the throne of England.”

  I knew that name. The King despised Reginald Pole. Once, the King had paid for his schooling, but he had not liked what had come from that education. Reginald had proclaimed kings were subject to the same laws as common men and had written a book against the King’s separation from Katherine of Aragon and his claim to be Head of the Church. The King had been incandescent with fury at this, and wanted to kill this Pole with his own hands. That ambition had only grown when Reginald had petitioned all kings of Catholic countries to force England back into allegiance to Rome.

  Norfolk paused, picking his teeth. “I am to go north, to take these men into custody and execute them.” He smiled without mirth. “Another test of my loyalties.”

  “The King suspects you?”

  “Cromwell is whispering in his ear that I am disloyal, that I support Rome and the monasteries. And the King suspects everyone. You would not recognise him since the rebellion, he is so changed. It is as though his father has returned, after eating a horse.”

  “You should take care with those words.”

  “I take care where I have to. The King is suspicious, in pain, and is putting on weight like a boar before Christmas. His leg is a horror; veins risen and bleeding, and the stench that comes from it is obscene. Some say he cannot go on like this.”

  Norfolk went north, and soon news came of executions. Men hanged, men quartered, men screaming in agony. Lord Hussey was executed. Lord Darcy was sent to London and lost his head on Tower Hill. Abbots of five monasteries were executed along with thirty-eight other monks and priors. Aske was hanged above the dungeon at York. Men hung on gallows all over Yorkshire, rotting slowly in the freezing air as ravens picked their bones clean.

  The New Year had only just dawned, and already England was awash with blood.

  *

  My feet were heavy as I walked to the chapel, dragging, reluctant. They did not want to go where I was leading them. Neither did I, but I had no choice. I had avoided him for as long as I could, but his threats had increased as had his unwanted caresses. Soon, someone would see us. Someone would tell my grandmother. So I had agreed. Agreed to meet him somewhere secret so he could touch me where others did not. I had told him that would be all and he had agreed, but the shining look in his eyes I had not liked. He knew I would have to surrender in time. What could I do? My mouth was clamped, and would not open. He had stuck me fast, a flight to an arrow. He held power over me, and all my pathetic, weak protests he had an answer for.

  “Girls are married at your age… You must want me, or you would not have kissed me… You love me; you just do not understand it yet… I will tell your grandmother… You will be cast out.”

  From cajoling to threats he moved with grace, as though dancing. He switched so fast from one plan of attack to the other that I was always left bewildered. I knew not which man I was meeting from one day to the next. The friend, who swore all he wanted was to protect me, or the foe who scared me.

  But I had agreed. It was done. I had to hope he would not try to take more. That this would satisfy him.

  Into the alcove he drew me. I did not resist. I had become a doll. Perhaps that was what he wanted. He put his hands on me, thrust his lips against mine. He was fumbling at the front of my gown, trying to free my breasts as he guided my hands to his shaft.

  I wanted to cry as I felt it in my hands, but fought back tears, not wishing him to see how terrified I was. Not wanting to offer him more power. With his hands on my little breasts, he started to thrust himself into my hands. They shook as he pushed me hard against the wall. Something was digging into my back, but I could not move. I could do nothing. I was petrified. A statue.

  And then, there was a click, like a clock, but inside me. I could feel hands upon me, but I was not there. The Catherine who had felt fear was gone. I was floating, above this man as he fumbled against me.

  I was without my body, separate from what went on below. I could see myself, could see my head turning, staring at the wall, but I could feel nothing. I watched as that Catherine stared at the wall, her eyes no more bright, but hollow, haunted. I was not her. All emotion was gone, as though a shield had come down between Manox and me, holding me fast, protecting me.

  It was the feeling of winter; stark, cold, a lost season where no flowers bloomed or leaves budded, bringing hope. There was nothing of comfort in that place, that empty place, yet nothing of fear, either. It was the long winter, the barren nothing, the last season of the lost soul.

  And it was about me, holding me from harm. There, in that blankness, I stood, I floated. It was not safe, but it was safer than where the other Catherine was.

  When he was done, he leaned against her and sighed. There was moisture on her hands and he handed her a cloth. “Tell no one, sweet Catherine,” he whispered, his brow pearling with sweat. “It is our secret.”

  It seemed we had a lot of those.

  When he stopped touching me, I returned. There was a cloth in my hands, a nasty smell on the air. I rubbed my hands hard, but even had I stripped away skin it would not have rid me of the soiled feeling he had left.

  He told me to wait until he was gone and I did. When I saw him race from the chapel door, I went to a table where candles for the dead stood. I took one and lit it, praying for my mother’s soul.

  As I looked upon its light, flicking, guttering, I felt moisture on my cheeks. Putting a hand to my skin, I found tears. Yet I felt nothing.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chesworth House

  Winter - Spring 1537

  In some ways, it was easier after that. His promise that once I had submitted he would leave me alone was false, demonstrated only a day later when he cornered me for a kiss in a corridor. But whilst I was still afraid of him, still hated his hands, I could leave. I could be no more within this bod
y he wanted, this body that was no more mine, but his.

  There were more secret meetings, brought about by more threats. He would lift my skirts and touch me, but he did not seek to take my maidenhead. For now, he was content with me pulling at his shaft. And when he put it in my hands, I left, and went elsewhere.

  There was nothing in that place, but nothing cannot hurt as something can. There, I was not harmed. There I knew nothing. When I felt moisture on my palms, I returned. I walked from each encounter trembling, feeling emotions I had not whilst I drifted in that empty limbo.

  It went on like this for weeks, months. I would come to lessons and if Barnes was there Manox would contrive secret ways to touch me. When not in lessons, he would tell me he had a secret to share, and I, fearing he would tell my grandmother, went to him.

  It was always the same.

  He told me he loved me and made me do things. In time, he wanted more, as if he had not taken enough already, but the one thing he wanted above all I would not do. He wanted me to lie with him, but I told him what we did was enough. “We have done much already,” he said one day. “Why not this little thing?”