Shadow of Persephone

by G Lawrence

  The gardens were a mass of orchards, flower beds, romantic knolls and hidden glens. Rambling lawns with close-clipped grass showed the wealth of the dukes of Norfolk, for whom but the rich could afford to grant such space to useless grass? There were archery butts in open spaces, and stables that seemed to go on for miles full of horses snorting with delight as they rooted in bags of grain, hay and vegetable tops. The kitchens stood just outside the main house, and from there came the scent of game pies baking, bread rising, and meat dripping fat from tender flesh to sizzle on open flame.

  Our chamber was much the same as at Chesworth, but there were more beds. They were there in case ladies who came to gossip with my grandmother stayed the night and their maids needed somewhere to sleep. From the window, I could see Lambeth Palace, house of the Archbishop of Canterbury, Thomas Cranmer. On our side of the water, it was an imposing building. Not far away either was the Lollards’ Tower, a place where heretics were taken, and tortured.

  The influence of my family was strong in Lambeth. Generations of Howards had been born, lived and died here. The local Church of Saint Mary contained our family chapel, and from the windows of our chambers I could just see the distinctive tower of the chapel. People said it was built by Goda, sister of the saintly King Edward the Confessor, and was therefore not only a holy place, but a royal one.

  When we had been shown our rooms, we were called to my grandmother. Filing into a grand chamber, the walls hung with tapestry glowing silver and gold in the yellow candlelight, with pomegranates snaking down the sides, we stood before her to receive instructions.

  “Now we are in London there will be many callers,” said my grandmother, her cane clopping on the fresh, green rushes like the hooves of a horse. “Noble guests will come daily to call on me, and you will be serving them. This is the first test of all you have learned, and you will not disgrace this house, or me.”

  We all made a small curtsey, almost in perfect time.

  “And there will be young men, sons of noble houses, coming to visit,” she said. “Make a good impression on them, but more importantly on their parents. We are close to court, and some of you may be chosen to serve the new Queen once she is selected.”

  She stopped in the middle of our line. “This is the time your future will be formed,” she said. “Make the most of all opportunities you are granted.”

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Norfolk House

  Spring 1538

  “It looks so still, does it not?” my grandmother asked one day when she saw me staring from the window towards Whitehall. “Yet there is not a palace, but a hive. Everyone is plotting, talking, making plans.”

  “About the King’s marriage, Your Grace?”

  She inclined her head. “Aye. Cromwell presses for an Imperial alliance, and the French are anxious. But there is word the King is not behind his chief minister. He told Cromwell he was not fit to meddle in the affairs of kings.”

  “Will the King take a kinswoman of the Emperor, my lady?”

  Agnes lifted her shoulders. “Who can say? If he likes the look of one, he may. They say he favours Christina of Milan, for she is rich and beautiful. His Majesty has suggested he marry her and Lady Mary weds the brother of the King of Portugal, Dom Luis. That would unite Spain and England twice, for both are relatives of the Emperor, but the King is still talking about French brides to King François. They say Prince Edward might marry a daughter of François, and the Lady Elizabeth a son of Ferdinand, King of Hungary… but I think the King is simply playing his enemies against each other, to capture the best rewards.”

  “I heard the King is related to the Dowager of Milan, my lady.”

  Agnes nodded. “She is his grand-niece. He would require a dispensation, and that might put the Emperor off… considering what happened the last time our King received a dispensation to marry a Hapsburg.” She chuckled. “The other problem is a dispensation would have to come from the Pope, and the King no more recognises Rome’s authority, so one would have to come from England, but the Emperor does not recognise the King’s authority.” She leaned in. “Say nothing, but the Duchess herself is not keen, either, so I hear.”

  I risked a smile and she grinned, the bare and empty space of her barren mouth looming dark before my eyes. “Does the King know, my lady?” I asked.

  “Who would dare say such to him?” Since I knew her question was rhetorical, I merely smiled and she went on. “But he dreams, as all men do. Dreams of his perfect woman, one who will excite his body, senses and mind, and at the same time cause no problems. He wants a queen, for one is needed to provide employment for daughters of noble houses, to bring alliance with other countries, and to get another heir for the country. Those are the reasons he will declare, but there are others. He wants romance to touch his soul again, make him young. Kings are lonesome creatures, set apart from all others they stand alone, even when surrounded by people. A queen may not be of the same status, but she can understand him where others cannot, for she is in the same position. She is there to bolster him, make him feel a man, feel wise, powerful and witty.”

  Agnes patted my hand. “Kings are insecure beasts, not only because of all who would plot against them, but because they are always told lies, and no matter how foolish a king is, he knows all this toadying and fawning is false. But the Queen, if she knows her job well, she can be believed. Katherine was such a woman; stronger than our King, but hid it so well he saw nothing until he tried to cast her off. She understood her role; to flatter, to please, to strengthen and to uphold, making her country powerful by making its king stronger. If the King was the throne of that marriage, Katherine was its legs.”

  Agnes pursed her lips and her voice dropped. “Anne never learnt her place. She was too long the mistress, too long the one with the power. When the time came and he expected her to relinquish it, fading from the foreground where she had stood fighting for him and their love for years, she did not. He came to hate her for it.” She stared into my eyes. “She did not see that to survive she had to alter, emulate Katherine, become the power behind the throne. She made him look weak, something he was too insecure to accept.”

  “She thought he loved her for who she was, my lady,” I said.

  “Perhaps he did, once,” she replied. “Later, he wanted her to be who he wanted her to be.”

  My cousin’s ghost seemed to sigh. We both shivered.

  “The King has called your uncle to court,” Agnes went on abruptly, “which worries Cromwell for he has been trying to keep Norfolk away.”

  “Why?”

  “The King’s Secretary has always been a post granted to men with fiery ambition. Wolsey was the same. The Secretary wishes to be the only man the King turns to. That was why Anne got rid of Wolsey, and why Cromwell sent Anne to her death. Everyone wants to become the wig in the ear of the King. The only voice he hears. That way, they are secure.”

  “So, he does not want my uncle there, for fear of losing power, my lady?”

  “Indeed. But the King, like his country, is torn. One half of his heart dedicated to the old ways, the other true to the New Learning which granted him power. Cromwell supports the new, your uncle the old. The King’s heart is split, and whilst it remains so, he will call for both of them.”

  She smiled. “Norfolk tells me many courtiers have come to him of late, running to him in the hope he will uphold the old ways. He will be here in a few days, and you are to be formally presented to him.”

  I frowned, for I had seen my uncle many times over the years. I had thought he had seen me, but that thought was quickly laughed out of my head. Of course he had not. When I was a child, I had been nothing to him. As a woman, I was little more than an ornament. My grandmother watched as my face cleared of confusion. “Yes,” she said. “You understand.”

  “Why does he want to meet me now, my lady?”

  “He did not. I told him you were almost a woman. That is what made him pay attention. As soon as girls are old enough
to wed, he becomes interested. With your uncle organising your marriage, you will go far… as long as he likes you.”

  “What should I do, my lady?”

  “Speak as little as possible. Norfolk does not know what to do with women who talk, they unsettle his spirit. Practise a dance and a song so you might show off your talents, and make sure you are washed and presented well. He will be assessing you for the marriage market. If you wish to wed well, perhaps above your station, he must be impressed.”

  I went about my duties. I had no more lessons now. Turned fourteen, I could read, write, sew, fumble through numbers, play instruments, sing and dance. That was enough. It was more important now that I learn how to serve and appear like a lady. From nine until eleven I was with my grandmother, waiting on and entertaining her and her guests. When I and the other women had eaten in the great hall, we would return to my grandmother’s chamber, or if she was engaged, trading secrets with other ladies, to the great chamber to sew and listen to snippets of gossip from court. We were in bed early, usually by six, and asleep long before the Bow Bells rang at nine, calling for people to head to their homes, or inns. The City Watch went out after that, keeping criminals on their toes and making sure people were not out in the street after dark.

  At Norfolk House, we had risked no gatherings like those at Chesworth. The climb into the maidens’ chamber was no more difficult than it had been at our former residence, and the men no less eager, but there was another reason.

  I, like all the ladies, was now under the supervision of Master Francis Dereham, a servant of my uncle’s whose job it was to ensure the house ran well, and protocol was observed. If training was required in table manners or polite conversation, Dereham provided it. He was strict, and eager to impress my grandmother. He also slept in with the other men. It was therefore risky for any of them to sneak out. But we had a secret weapon. Her name was Joan Bulmer.

  It rapidly became obvious Dereham admired Joan. All men did. She was the true beauty of our group, and witty and clever besides. Seeing his attention, she understood there was a way to resume the moonlit meetings. And she was not averse to him. Dereham was a handsome man and Joan’s former sweetheart, a young man called Tom, had left to take on his yeoman farmer’s estate. She had been sad, and a little affronted to hear he was to wed almost as soon as he got home, so perhaps her interest in Dereham ignited more out of revenge than anything else. But all the same, if her friends wanted a little diversion, Joan was willing to flirt with our supervisor to gain it.

  “I will invite him to our rooms, at some point,” she said, giggling. “That way, we will know we can trust him, and if he says anything bad of us, we can hold this over him.”

  “And think you he will come, not report us immediately?” Kat said, anxious to see her suitor again.

  “I think he will be more interested in an intimate supper than running with tales to the Dowager.”

  Joan was a canny creature. She was our Queen, organising, protecting, working on plots and ploys, always with our happiness in mind. I laughed when she told me this, for Master Dereham had chastised me that night at the table for dropping the napkin I had been attempting to place on my left shoulder. I liked the idea he would be tricked.

  Many girls thought him handsome. Some even did things wrong on purpose, so they could spend time with him, even if it was time being told off. But he had eyes for no one but Joan.

  Two days later, Master Dereham came with a message. My uncle was ready to see me.

  Although I had been told I would meet him that day, and was prepared, freshly washed and dressed in my best gown, a glorious creation of crimson velvet with long sleeves, with a French hood to match, I must have looked nervous, as Dereham smiled. “All will be well,” he said. “Just be demure and quiet. He respects women who act as women should.”

  I smiled gratefully, thinking a little better of him, and left for my grandmother’s chambers.

  When I entered, I walked forwards, offering a graceful curtsey to my uncle and another to my grandmother. Standing straight, I kept my eyes on the ground, waiting to be spoken to. As I stood there, my uncle walked around me, eyes assessing me as though I were a cow sent to market.

  “You say she is fourteen?” he asked my grandmother.

  “Just turned,” said she, remaining on her seat, her cane in hand.

  “She looks about ten,” he said. “And very short.”

  My heart fell, but he sniffed and went on. “But it is as well. Men do not like wives taller than them, and the figure is good… the face and hair pretty.” He told me to lift my head, and I met his eyes, as expected. His narrowed. Clearly there was something he did not like.

  “She has much of that woman in her eyes,” he said, turning to my grandmother.

  I knew who that woman was. No one spoke of Anne in company. My grandmother did, but only with family she trusted. To Norfolk, Anne Boleyn had been that woman even before her death.

  “Catherine is nothing like her,” protested my grandmother. “She was middling tall for a woman, where Catherine is short. She had black hair and eyes, Catherine’s hair is fair and her eyes a becoming hazel.”

  “Yet there is something of the same look in them, all the same,” he said. “But at least this one knows when to be quiet.”

  This one did, indeed.

  He quizzed me about my learning and I opened my mouth only when he spoke directly to me. That pleased him. My grandmother answered for me often, which might have been a problem, were I not well-trained by that time to pause a moment before offering my own answer. She concentrated on my virtues; I was modest, quiet, but not unintelligent. I danced, sang and played instruments with pleasing skill. I was graceful, demure and clement. I had a pretty face and a good figure.

  Although it was pointed out my numbers were poor, and handwriting ungainly, Norfolk did not seem displeased. He preferred women to be a little stupid, and was happy enough I was good at sewing. Some of my blackwork was brought out. Only a cursory glance did he grant my work, some of which had taken weeks of effort, but he appeared content.

  They made me recite passages from the Bible, then play the lute and virginals. I sang, managing to keep my voice true. When this was done, I danced, performing the hardest I knew, a basse danse. At the end, I stood before them, quiet and demure, awaiting my uncle’s assessment.

  “She will do,” he said to my grandmother. He turned to me. “The King is seeking to wed again. When he does, there will be spaces in the new Queen’s household. We will get as many Howards as we can into her chambers, and if chosen, you will maintain the honour of our family. You appear gentle and modest, which is good, but do not let me hear anything ill of you.”

  I knew why he was saying this. It was something I had only learned when we came to London. Norfolk, despite always sounding like a true authority on all that went on, had barely been at court for the past two years. He had been in London, hearing gossip, yes, but often not in the halls of court unless specifically called by his King. It had been safer to keep a little distance between him and the King, since his niece had been executed and his stepbrother had died in the Tower. Were the King reminded of the treason of the Howards a great deal, it would not be a good thing. There were other reasons of course. The Pilgrimage of Grace and other uprisings had kept him busy, and he had spent time near the borders, keeping an eye on the Scots. He had reported to the King, stood as godfather to Prince Edward, and performed other duties, but his influence had not been as great after the fall of Anne. But now, loyalties proved and with the King growing annoyed at Cromwell for overstepping his boundaries, it was time for the Howards to push forth again. That meant sending family members into court so we could all work together, a hive within a hive, to better the fortunes of the family, but of Norfolk most of all.

  “Catherine is a good girl,” said my grandmother, and I shot her a grateful look.

  “See she remains that way,” Norfolk said, waving a hand to dismiss me. “And no more
book learning. She knows enough for a woman. Work on singing and dancing.”

  “Of course, my son,” said Agnes. She had already done this, but did not tell him that. Better he thinks it all his idea, I thought.

  He flicked his fingers in my face as his turned the other way. I felt like a flea swatted from a collar. “Now go, child. I have important matters to attend to.”

  As I went to our shared chamber, my tongue eager to tell my friends about all my uncle had said of me, I was happy. But as I walked through a courtyard, I stopped. Hairs on the back of my neck prickled. Breath caught in my throat. Sick terror leapt into life inside me.

  I flashed about, certain there was something behind me. There was nothing. My heart raced as I hurried into the house.