Shadow of Persephone

by G Lawrence

  But as I walked away, something struck me. This girl was from his village, not in the household of his new master. That meant he had not seen her for some time. Sometimes marriages were arranged quickly, but usually they took time as dowries were agreed. Was it possible he had known about this for a long time?

  Suddenly I knew this for the truth. There had never been any intention to wed me. He had been engaged all this time, and had hidden it from me hoping to convince me into bed if he could not scare me into it. This act of friendship, for that was what it was, was just another part of the game; he was trying to end it sweetly, so he could feel like a good man.

  At least it is ended, I thought.

  As I left, I saw Mary. A disapproving expression on her face, she stopped me as I made to enter the house. “You met him again?”

  “He had something to tell me,” I said. “All is well. He is to be married.”

  Some horror fell from her face. “You should not meet him alone.”

  “There is no more to fear from him,” I said.

  “You should not be friendly to one who abused you so.”

  Disliking her domineering tone, I shook my head. “It is up to me who I will befriend.” I had no intention of remaining friends with Manox, but it was not for Mary to command me, either.

  “As you wish.” Without looking at me, she swept imperiously into the house.

  “That chit thinks herself a duchess,” said Joan from behind me, making me start. “Sorry,” she said, seeing my open mouth and pale cheeks. “I did not mean to scare you.”

  “You made me jump,” I said. “But I am not scared.” Looking to the orchards, I could see Manox heading away. “I think there is nothing to be scared of anymore.”

  *

  “You look well,” said the pale man before me, hollow eyes resting on my face.

  “As do you, my lord father,” I said.

  I was lying. Father was sick. His face was pale, yet somehow yellow at the same time, his shoulders slumped and form gaunt. I had not seen my father for six years, since he had gone to Calais. He was a stranger. I barely recognised him.

  Even when deep in his cups at our home, he had always been handsome. Now, he looked like a demon with his yellow-tinged skin and skeletal hands. My grandmother had told me he was sick, but I had hardly expected this. My heart ached, for although he was a stranger in so many ways, he was my father, and he was dying.

  We stood awkwardly, black bands about our arms. My aunt, Elizabeth Boleyn, had died, many claimed of a broken heart since two of her children had been executed and the last, Mary Boleyn, was banished from the family home. Her body had been sent along the Thames, rowed to Lambeth on boats draped in black, lit by torches and flying banners displaying her arms. My father had returned from Calais to act as one of the chief mourners, but looked ready to tumble into the grave himself.

  The stepmother I had not met had remained in Calais. When done greeting me, my father spent time with Henry, asking him about his new bride and laughing at his jests. As we walked back to Norfolk House that dusk, a chill wind blew. I felt cold, and not because of the weather. My father cared no more about me now than he had then. I was nothing.

  I sat on my bed that night, listening to the excited chatter. Many nobles and their households had come to see Elizabeth Boleyn set into the ground, and there had been endless gossip. Words tossed into the air by servants of one house had been caught by another, and another, like a game between children. Normally, I would have joined in as they gossiped and giggled, but I felt sad. Sad my aunt was dead and my father was to die. Sadder still he was so uninterested in me.

  I felt unwanted, and for a moment some traitor in me missed Manox, not as he had been at the end, but as he had when we were friends. At first he had made me feel wanted, worthwhile, talented, special. I missed that. I wanted to be seen, to be wanted. That was part of his power. Had it all been bad, I might have fled sooner. My wanting to feel special in a life lived unloved had been his great weapon… along with fear.

  “I heard,” Joan said, pulling a comb through her long, fair hair, “it will be a French match for sure. The Duchess of Milan has made it clear she likes our King not, so he looks to France.”

  “But he still mourns Marie de Guise,” said Alice. “The King wanted her, for he said he was a big man who required a big wife, but she would not have him!”

  The girls cackled. “Who would?” one said.

  “I heard the King had to call a barber-surgeon for his leg,” said Margaret Smith. “The abscess on his leg is full of horrors.”

  “And they say he is growing fat,” said another. “He no more rides in the lists, but just sits and watches. He has a foul temper, they say, and sometimes you can hear him screaming from the other side of court. Yet he looks more splendid than ever.”

  “He is a good man,” said Mary primly, bent on ruining the mirth. “And many women would be pleased to have such a godly man as their husband, no matter his looks.”

  “Then I shall wish for just such a husband for you, Mary,” said Joan with a wicked smile. “One who is godly, but old and with a rotten leg.”

  “It is treason to speak so,” Mary said.

  Joan rolled her eyes. “Then away to Cromwell with you, and tell him what I said. I shall say you called the King ugly.”

  “I did not!”

  “Then why would a woman be pleased with him no matter his looks?” Joan demanded, eyebrows nearly in her hairline.

  “That is not what I meant. I meant…”

  “The King brings out the ladies of the Queen’s household often,” said Kat, cutting over Mary, who glowered. “I heard it from Norfolk’s men. The King has them singing and dancing before him. They go to grand banquets and he is to send them on a trip to Portsmouth to see the royal fleet. Some say he will select a new Queen from their number.”

  “But the King needs an alliance,” said Joan, shaking her head. “England is at risk, no matter what anyone says. Since we broke from Rome we have fewer allies, and the Pope is against England. The King will wed a foreign bride from a powerful family, to offer us all protection.”

  There was a moment of silence. No one liked to think about how vulnerable England was, yet the threat of invasion hung endlessly above us, like a man swinging from the gallows. If a foreign prince landed, our friends, brothers, fathers and kin would fight and die. And everyone knew what happened to women when a country was sacked.

  “Lady Mary is at court,” said Margaret Smith as she climbed into bed. “She came in white taffeta, for the King told her she was to no more wear mourning for Queen Jane.”

  “And she only dead a year,” said Alice.

  “That is time enough to mourn,” said Kat. “There is no scandal.”

  Alice sighed. “Yet he thought her his one, true wife. I might have thought he would remain faithful to her, always.”

  “He started looking for a wife the week she died,” I said, without thinking.

  “For shame!” said Mary, her face pale. “I am sure the King did no such thing.”

  “Believe what you want,” I said. “But it is the truth. I heard my uncle of Norfolk and grandmother speaking of it.”

  “It must be,” said Joan, “for all these messengers to all these courts did not get there overnight, did they? The King sent them months ago, just after Queen Jane died bearing his son.”

  Mary fell silent.

  “Lady Elizabeth is at court, too,” said Alice, swiftly changing subject. “Being cared for by her sister. They say despite all the problems between Lady Mary and the witch she does not let that affect her love for her stepsister.”

  “Do not call my cousin that,” I said quietly. “Speak not ill of the dead.”

  The ladies cast their eyes about, as though my words might bring wandering spirits upon us.

  “I am sorry, Catherine,” said Alice.

  “It is no matter. I just do not like to hear her slighted, and through her, her child.”

&n
bsp; “Aye, poor mite,” said Joan. “No matter what anyone thinks or thought of her mother, you must pity the Lady Elizabeth. Without a mother at the age of four, and with a confused place in the world. It is good her sister cares for her.”

  “My grandmother says the King adores her, too,” I said.

  “She is a bonny little thing,” said Margaret. “I was with the Dowager at court last week, and I saw her. Bright red hair like dragon fire on her head, and snapping black eyes. Everyone says she is clever enough to be a boy, and will make someone a fine wife, one day.”

  “Let us all hope the best for her,” said Joan, squeezing my shoulder.

  “She is in my prayers, every day,” I said.

  It was the truth. I knew what it was to grow up without a mother and with an unstable, changeable father. But at least her father loves her, I thought as I climbed into bed. I would soon lose my father, without ever having known him.

  *

  “Tonight, we will have some entertainment,” said Joan one day. “I have persuaded Master Dereham to come to our rooms, and he will bring our friends.”

  We all stared at her with admiration. Some girls, promised to gallants they had missed a great deal during this time of separation, applauded. Joan seemed able to persuade men to do anything. She had managed to coax Ned into befriending Dereham, and through him had worked her magic.

  “And you, Mary, will say nothing, or Master Dereham will tell the Dowager you are a bad woman and have you sent from the house,” Joan added.

  Mary flushed bright red. It was clear from her face that was just what she had intended to do. With Master Dereham as our ally, Mary had no power. She knew her word would never stand up against his. She, a mere chamberer would be cast out, and would likely get no reference if he accused her of spreading lies. She went to bed with a little huff, and wrenched the curtains about her bed. Whispering to another girl that she would not take part for fear of her honour, and if sensible, she would do the same, Mary removed herself from the gathering. The other girls made fun of her. It is often the way. When a group wants to do something and one person does not, they are teased or bullied to make them fall in line.

  “Do you want me to greet them?” I asked Joan. That had always been my role.

  “No indeed,” she said. “For you are older now, and can join the circle. Little Isabel and Marguerite will do the tasks you once did.” She smiled. “Pass on your knowledge.”

  I flushed, pleased I was now considered a woman. I went to these new, young additions to the household, and showed them what to do. “One day, you will sit with us,” I told them. “When you are grown.”

  In their eyes I saw the fire that once had burned in mine. That yearning for acceptance and notice. I understood, and was kind to them, as older girls had been to me.

  As darkness fell, we heard them. Leaning out of the window, we giggled softly into the black of night as the throng of young, bold men, led by Master Dereham himself, stole quietly across the grass lawns, keeping to the shadows. They scaled the lattice and hopped into our chambers. The scent of grass was on their boots, and they carried flowers in their hands. Slings of apples pilfered from last autumn’s stores and gingerbread begged from the kitchens were on their backs.

  “Your servants, my ladies,” said Francis Dereham, sweeping into a long, elegant bow.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Norfolk House

  Summer 1538

  “Do you love him?” I asked Joan, my voice a murmur as incense, swirling blue and grey, floated over our heads.

  The priest’s voice boomed, intoning words in Latin none of us understood. The chapel was dark, musty with the incense and herbs on the floor which needed sweeping out. From the wrinkling of my grandmother’s nose, I knew chamberers would be sent to the chapel that day.

  Candles, thick, white and tall stood in sconces, dappling whitewashed walls with bright yellow flickering flame. Kat was staring at the altar, eyes lost in the mystical words of God. Mary, at her side, looked less pleased. She, like her family, believed Mass should be said in English. She thought Latin popish, foreign and ungodly. The King, her hero, had approved an English Bible, but Mass was still in Latin. Not all priests followed this rule, however. Some were saying the Mass in English, and we had heard some were even daring to marry, as Lutheran priests did.

  Mary might disapprove of Latin, but she would say nothing against the King. He had delivered us from the Devil of Rome. His reformation was the greatest act since Jesus died on the cross. That was how she thought.

  I was not so sure. I remembered our family chapel as it once was, with statues of the saints, golden ornaments and decorations. I could remember once coming to church and feeling awed, as though truly I stood in the presence of the Almighty. Then, I could feel God, a gentle yet magnificent presence, creeping into me and standing over me, at once all, nothing and everything. I did not feel this in the stripped-down chapel of my grandmother. It was richer than many, so I had heard, for my grandmother was an old woman, and whilst she might be a good follower of the King’s Church in public, in her heart she would always be loyal to the old ways. But there were few ornaments on the altar, and the statues were spare. We did not want the King to think we were traitors.

  So the church seemed bare, and I found it less godly for being so. It was not as though I did not believe in God, I was no cursed nulla fidian, but I did not find Him in church anymore. In my prayers, at times, but not in church. To me, Mass was just another task.

  It was safer, in any case, to simply follow the King. At the end of May, John Forrest, an Observant Friar and once the confessor of Katherine of Aragon, had burned for heresy at Smithfield. He had sworn the Oath of Supremacy, but said the outer man had sworn, and the inner still believed in Rome and the Pope. Refusing to recant his beliefs, he had been dragged from Lambeth, through London, to Smithfield and there he burned before ten thousand witnesses alongside the Church of Saint Bartholomew the Great. One of my cousin’s bishops, Latimer, had preached a three hour sermon denouncing Forrest for his heresy in upholding Rome over the King. At the end, Forrest had boldly told Latimer that a few years ago the Bishop would not have been able to give such a sermon without endangering his own life.

  He was right. Not so long ago it had been heresy to deny Rome, now it was heresy to deny the King.

  I glanced up at Joan. Her fair hair was caught up in a hood, covered with a veil like the rest of us. In church we had to cover our heads, and she, as a married woman, could not display her hair as I could at other times. But if her bearing was modest, her blue eyes were bright and merry as she glanced at her new admirer.

  Her eyes swayed to Dereham, standing near my grandmother. He cut a fine figure; tall, handsome, strong… many girls blushed when he spoke to them, and he was of an age to marry, being thirty and as yet unwed, but other girls had no chance. Joan was the only woman in the world, or so it seemed.

  “Perhaps,” she whispered with a naughty smirk.

  Dereham was in hot pursuit of Joan. Not only had he come to our chambers on many nights now, bringing Ned as well as John, Anthony, Will and Robert Damport, but had sent flowers, treats and ribbons to Joan. He told Ned he thought her the most beautiful girl in the world. Ned had agreed, much to Alice’s annoyance.

  Overjoyed to be part of the intimate circle at last, I had joined in with tasks of taking messages and presents from men to women and back again. I had no gallant, but wanted to help friends who did. I was happy, free, and wanted them to be the same. I had a generous heart. It desired joy for all.

  I also helped to arrange the stealing of the keys. It was easier for me, as I was often closeted with my grandmother as she assessed my dancing and music. The word was the King was set to wed as soon as he could make his mind up about whom. When he did I was sure to be sent to court.

  “The King needs to decide,” said my grandmother, clicking her tongue against her one remaining tooth with irritation.

  Hans Holbein had barely ha
d a moment to himself that year. He had been to paint Christina of Milan, then Madame Marguerite, daughter of King François, then another French princess named Marie and there was word he would be sent to paint another two, Renee and Louise de Guise, then on to Anne of Lorraine.

  But for all this willingness to sit their kinswomen on stools to be painted, it seemed alliance might not come between England and France, or England and Spain… but France and Spain, that looked likely.

  The French King and the Emperor were soon to conclude a truce through the mediation of the Pope. They declared they were united against the infidel Turks, but many in England were wondering if they were not thinking of other infidels a little closer to home. In response, the King had sent men to ask about Christina again. The lady still seemed rather reticent, but the Emperor had kept talks open.