by G Lawrence
“The Pope means, with peace between Spain and France in mind, to publish the bull of excommunication,” my uncle William told my grandmother.
Her face lost colour, but she stuck her chin in the air. “He will not. He did not dare three years ago, and will not now.”
Which of my kin was right, I knew not, but everyone in England wanted the King to get on with finding a wife so her kin could protect us from our enemies.
This promise of a court appointment also meant my grandmother was finding fault with me, often, and usually about nothing. But I did not care. I knew well enough my dancing was superior to that of many girls in the house. I took pride and pleasure in it, for I knew I was stupid in other ways. Dancing brought peace and oftentimes I needed it.
Sometimes, even though I knew I was no more in danger, I would jump as though someone was at my back. I woke often from dreams of hands and sweaty lips. Manox bothered me no more, but part of him had joined the shadow always creeping behind me. In daylight, I was merry, but as dusk fell or dawn came, I felt it.
But when I danced, the shadow could not catch me.
Through delicate steps, with glistening music shimmering in my head, I danced. I leapt and pranced, clapped my hands and tipped my head. I was become a butterfly, loose and reckless, tumbling prettily on the wind. I was lost to the world, to trouble. There was me and there was music. Nothing more could touch me.
There was some wildness in me. I could feel it, a heartbeat in my soul, rising up, clawing its way from the deepest part of me.
Perhaps in trying to break me, Manox had set something loose. Something feral. Something that did not want to be contained.
It was not a careless thing, for I had care still for others. But I had less for myself, like a doe crashing through the forest fleeing the wolf, her feet so fast upon the ground that each moment becomes the one she might die, might slip, neck snapping, cracking against the ground. That feeling was what I sought without knowing it. That reckless abandonment. That flight into the unknown. I sought danger, without knowing it was what I sought. Perhaps I sought to confront my fear, or to surrender to it. I know not.
You might think that strange. Think I would seek safety, warmth, the known. But it was not so. It was not what would fire my blood, feed my soul. The heart is not a being of reason. It wants what it wants. Perhaps it was destructive, and perhaps there was a reason. At that time I thought on it not. I did not think about much, then.
Looking back now, it makes sense. Enough times had Manox told me I was nothing without him, that no one else cared, and although I had hated him, I believed him. The only time I had felt extraordinary was in the early days with him. What was I without the attention of a man to make me special? Just another unremarkable girl, lost in legions of others. Perhaps I believed him. Perhaps I wanted to prove it was not so, and I was someone. It is possible to hold two opposite beliefs at the same moment. I did not want Manox, but I wanted attention. I knew he had lied to me, but I believed in his lies. I had pride in myself, my family, yet knew, deep down, I was worthless. That was where the wildness was born. In strange confusion and desperation. It was seeded by Manox, but grown by me.
Freed from shackles he had thrust about my wrists, I became wanton for happiness. I helped my friends to sneak gallants into our rooms, and giggled with them. I danced at night with young men and enjoyed their company. I learnt to flirt as the others did, and had even found a place to hide the men if someone came to our rooms unexpectedly; a small gallery at the end of the maidens’ chamber. I had suggested we hang a curtain over it. The gentlemen had been most amused, and had tried it to see just how many of them could squeeze into it. Their laughter had almost brought Mother Emet upon us, and we ladies had pulled them back into the room, scolding them to be quiet. But all of it was merry. I supped on laughter like wine.
Our feasts at night were greater than they had been before. Dereham was in charge of the household, and after a feast or dinner would oversee what foods went back to the kitchen to be used again, like meat which would go into pottage. Of what was left, some went to the poor who came crowding to the gates, and some was shared amongst the other servants. We all had a little, an apple here, a bag of nuts there, but Dereham got the most. This meant when he came calling, picking the lock to our door or clambering boldly up the lattice, he had plenty; strawberries and damsons, sweetmeats and gingerbread, beer, ale and sometimes wine. All this he brought to our rooms, tempting Joan with the tastiest titbits in return for a kiss.
She received his attentions with pleasure, but had not allowed him into her bed. The girls teased her, but I knew the reason. She flirted with Dereham, but her eyes told another story. She had been glancing at Ned and he at her. Friends for years they had been, equal partners and confidants, but of late something had changed.
There was another reason for her changing of affections. Ned was better born than Dereham, rumoured to have a future at court, for my uncle of Norfolk liked him. Dereham’s grandmother had been a Tilney, and his great-uncle had been the father of my grandmother, but Dereham had small prospects.
When I had heard he was my first cousin once removed, I had not been surprised. It was not unusual. I had hundreds, and almost all the girls at Norfolk house were cousins to some degree.
Dereham’s father was a gentleman, but not a noble. He was also a younger son, and had no inheritance. He did own some land in Norfolk from which he drew an income but he was not wealthy. Ned had better prospects, and Joan, although she enjoyed amusement, was looking for a good future, as long as she could lose her absent husband.
“Besides,” I said to Kat one afternoon as we strolled under a bloody sunset. “She and Ned were made for each other, do you not think? They are each as wild and wily as each other. Together, they would be foxes in a den, hatching plots to steal chickens.”
“Alice will be upset,” she said.
“Alice never seemed that interested in him,” I said. “All they did was kiss. And she will forget him. She cannot hold on to a strand of thought.”
It was true enough. Alice had no opinions of her own, but stole frequently from those of others. Thinking to make people like her by agreeing with them, she had recently angered Joan by agreeing one day with Mary that the Mass should be in English and the next with Margaret that it should stay in Latin. “If you cannot think for yourself, Alice, say naught!” Joan had said. “The Dowager heard of these discussions, and was most displeased. She needs no popish or heretical talk in her household!”
Mary and Margaret had received the same scolding, and had been told to be quiet on religious matters. It was a perilous time, Joan said, to form an opinion about religion. “The King is Head of the Church, and we are loyal, so with him we agree,” she told the girls. “And that is an end to it.”
“But…” Mary interjected, always ready to talk of religion.
“But nothing, Mistress Lascelles. Hush your lips, or leave this house.”
It was not safe to call yourself Catholic or Lutheran. Catholics were traitors. Lutherans were heretics. The only safe religion was the King’s. It made no matter to me. Surely, God heard us in any language? He must have invented them all, must He not? In terms of religion, I had always been told what to do. Raised Catholic, I had come to understand the Word of God through priests. I might have been shocked by the dissolution of the monasteries, like everyone else, but it was no surprise to be told how to worship.
Midsummer was coming, as were plans for bonfires and dances. I wrapped myself in thoughts of pleasure, and cast Manox into the deepest pit of my heart.
One morning, when I woke, I felt moisture between my legs. When I drew back the covers I saw blood. I was pleased.
“Let me get you something,” said Alice, my bedfellow. As she rose, she squeezed my shoulder. “You are a woman, Catherine.”
I beamed, although an ache in my belly pulled painfully. I had been told of the cramps, of the feeling the world hated you and all was sorrow, but altho
ugh I felt the pain of my courses come, I did not feel low. The girls helped me to clean myself, and I was shown how to wear a belt which held a pad of linen between my legs.
“It is so ungainly,” I said, wriggling up and down the centre of the long room, trying to keep the wad in place.
“That is why women walk slow and gracefully,” Joan chuckled from her bed. “It is not for the benefit of men, as they like to think, but to keep our pads in place.”
The girls burst into raucous laughter and I joined them, making my steps slow as I meandered, practising my new walk. The walk of a woman, I told myself.
I was fourteen. By virtue of my menarche, I had entered an adult world.
Chapter Thirty
Norfolk House
Midsummer 1538
After the first excitement about my courses arriving, I found the experience trying. The pads were uncomfortable, the belt dug into my hips and I felt low for no reason. If I told myself the reason I felt depressed or angry was because of my courses, I could manage, but at times, I found myself seeking out a corner in which to cry, or burrowing into my bed to weep. I wept for things real and imaginary; my father who was sick, my mother who was dead, for my cousin and her poor daughter, and for myself and the nightmares which haunted me.
When my bleeding stopped, I felt lighter in body and mind. My menarche had made me feel not just short, as I knew I was, but dumpy and ugly. I was unloved and unlovable. No one wanted me. I was alone. Spots had broken out on my skin, which I regarded with horror, but Joan showed me how to wash carefully and told me to let them alone.
“Touch them, and they become worse,” she said. “Wash in fresh, cold water each morning, go a little into the sun, and they will depart.”
She was right, they did, and as my first bleeding left, I felt better. It made me feel grown up. I looked with pity upon the younger girls, mere chits, I told myself.
As Midsummer approached, there was word of trouble for England.
“Emperor Charles and the King of France have united,” said my uncle William. “They signed a ten-year treaty with the help of the Pope.”
“To unite against the Turks?” asked my grandmother.
“And possibly against England.”
The King was angered, said my uncle, afraid that he had been left out of this treaty of Christian unity against the infidels. Although it was not an offensive treaty against England yet, it left England isolated, without friends.
“Did the King expect to be invited to the talks?” asked my grandmother, her voice awash with incredulity. “He has rejected Rome!”
“Do you think that matters to him?” William asked. “My lady mother… he thinks he is right and all others wrong. The split from Rome is, in his mind, the Pope’s fault not his.”
“Be careful what you say, my son.”
William cast his eyes about the room and smiled at me. “I think my niece will not betray us,” he said. I returned his smile, for I liked my uncle. He was friendlier than Norfolk, and had merry ways.
“Walls own ears,” said my grandmother.
William sighed. “The King fears this will isolate England, and therefore has sent Wriothesley to the Emperor, to press again about the Dowager of Milan.”
“I thought it was clear she was uninterested?”
“The King does not believe that. He cannot believe there is a woman in the world not breathless with desire to wed him.”
“But negotiations with France continue?”
“Indeed. He has the portrait of Christina, and declares her enchanting, but wishes to keep his options open, so talks with France continue. Norfolk thinks him set on Christina, though. The King means to send an embassy to Mechelen this autumn to press for Christina’s hand, but there is much talk the Emperor will not allow the match.”
“Because of the feelings of the Duchess?”
“Because of confusion over the required dispensation. Who would issue it? The King or Rome? And would either accept the dispensation of the other?” William ran a hand through his hair. “There is some talk, too, about the northern princes of Saxony. It is said the daughters of the Duke of Cleves are pretty, and this has interested the King enough to ask for portraits.”
He paused and my grandmother watched him. “What is it?” she asked.
William hesitated. “The Pope is said to be sure to execute the bull of excommunication. He has also sent Cardinal Pole to Spain. There is talk this is to persuade the Emperor to invade and depose the King.”
“Think you he will?”
William shrugged. “I know not, but the King is increasingly paranoid. All Poles in England are under watch, including your old friend, the Countess of Salisbury.”
“Margaret? What cause has the King to suspect her? She has always been loyal.”
“More loyal to Katherine than to him. And her son, the Cardinal, is making trouble abroad. The King wanted to burn him along with his book when it was published, for he hated all he read about himself in it. And now, with this…” William spread his hands, rings of gold glittering in the dim light. “Besides, he has always distrusted her. She holds royal blood of the last Yorkist Kings in her veins.”
“But he cannot act against her for being born to a certain family.”
“He did with Buckingham.”
“That man was a witch.”
“Many thought the charges false, my lady mother.” William drew in a breath, sighing it out through his nose. “I would be careful about communicating with her. She has forbidden her household from reading the Bible in English. Many think her still allied to Rome, and certainly to her sons.”
After more disturbing talk, William left and my grandmother turned to me. “You say nothing of what you heard in here today,” she said in a quiet but dangerous tone. “I know it is common for you to pass on gossip, and usually there is no harm, but some of what was said was dangerous.”
“I will say nothing, my lady,” I said.
“Good girl,” she said, patting my arm. Her eyes were far away.
“My lady,” I said. “Are you worried for your friend?”
She offered a half smile. “A little,” she said. “We have not been close for years, but once we were. You will find, girl, as you grow old, that many friends fall. Those you spent time with in the fire of youth, and thought you would never be parted from, they go. Some marry, some die. There comes a time when you look around and find you are no more surrounded by those you thought you could never do without. It is a strange moment.”
“You miss her, my lady?”
“Sometimes. Sometimes I miss all those I once knew. Your grandfather could be an endlessly irritating man, and I did not love him when we were first wed but I came to. Sometimes I think of those who have gone and wonder why I remain.” She smiled. “But we learn lessons as we age, girl. It is a better thing to become reliant on yourself. Others let you down, or leave, but you will never be without yourself.” She offered a stronger smile. “But yes,” she went on. “I fear for her. It does not do to live too close to the throne, unless you are wed to it, and even that can be dangerous.”
A breath of Anne passed, candles guttering as she slipped by.
*
Midsummer Eve came, and the house and chapel were decked in cloaks of greenery. The house hummed with the scent of fresh boughs, moss and flowers, blooms dying soft and gentle, plucked from their stems. That night, we would go to a hill near the house to dance about a bonfire as many others were lit all over England. My grandmother would come for the first part of the night, then she would leave, she said, for she wanted us to take time to enjoy ourselves.
“Be sure the young men do not get drunk and familiar,” she warned Dereham as she clipped her way down the halls that day.
“Of course, my lady,” he said, casting a wink in my direction.
I had to smother a smile. There would be a grand feast and celebration, and without my grandmother there much would go on. She knew that. Her warning was for the
appearance of propriety.
That night we went into London to watch the parade. It was dusk as we crossed the river, the water lit by lamps on our boats and the sun casting long black shadows, spilling promise of night upon the last light of day. We were not to stay for all of the parade, but we would see some. It was an occasion like no other.
The streets were packed, the scent of sweat and pies, piss and perfume riding the still-hot air. There was free ale, handed out from men wandering with barrels, and cakes were brought about on huge trays tied to the fronts of broad chests. These treats were provided by nobles like Norfolk, to show generosity. All doorways were decked with boughs and green birch. There were white lilies and garlands of flowers hanging everywhere. Shopkeepers had lamps of glass in their windows. That night, London was bright with light burning from each window of each shop and all noble houses. Branches of iron hung from doorways too, holding more lamps. Usually, by nightfall the only lights were those seen through cracks in wooden shutters. Not so for Midsummer. England was afire, bonfires in the streets and lights in the houses, blazing as daylight into the night’s skies, to welcome Midsummer in.