by G Lawrence
Stains on my white thighs. Little streaks. It stung when I pissed.
“You might want to piss hard,” said Margaret, grinning as she shifted from her bed. “With all you were up to last night.”
What had I been up to? I could not remember a thing. But there was pain between my legs. There was blood on the sheet of my bed. I felt afraid, and everything hurt.
I washed, scrubbing my skin so hard I thought I might bleed. I felt dirty. As I dressed I had to stop and vomit again. Afterwards my flesh broke out in a fever. I felt slick inside my clothes, and dirty… ashamed, but I was not sure of what. My mind felt numb and at the same moment confused thoughts and images raced inside me. I could hear other girls vomiting, and I knew I had not been alone in drinking so feckless and foolish last night. But what had happened? All I could recall was kissing Francis, a memory which made me blush. Had I really been so forward? So bold and fearless with wine in my belly?
I tried not to think of wine, or my belly. Both made me want to be sick.
Joan entered through the curtains just before the bell rang for chapel, holding a steaming cup. She looked pale and wobbly, but grinned when she handed me the cup. “You will need this, with all you were up to last night,” she said.
Why did people keep saying that? What had I done?
I swallowed the tea, making a face at the bitter taste.
“Rue,” she said.
I knew what rue was. Other girls took it when they had lain with their gallants. I stared at her in shock.
“Do you remember nothing of last night?” she asked.
“Only laughing… I remember I kissed Francis.”
“You did a great deal more than that,” she said. “He took you off to bed and the two of you… well, you know…” She looked at me with a raised eyebrow.
“We…”
She nodded. “You did.”
A memory flashed into my mind. Me on the bed, a man on top of me. Me giggling as he took off my clothes. Then there was something else. Me trying to push him off, mumbling no. Something had hurt, and I felt sick. My head was fogged, and when he had refused to stop, something had gone through my mind, telling me to lie still for that way it would be over sooner. The empty place.
I swallowed more tea, feeling sick to my stomach but not for the bitter rue. Had I wanted to lie with him? Had I said I did? Was that memory real, or a dream? I knew not, but I felt violated.
“I think I tried to say no, and he carried on,” I whispered.
Joan turned her face away. She told me to get ready for chapel and I knew. She did not want to hear me. Perhaps she did not believe me, or perhaps she simply did not want to think she had been in that room as I was hurt. Did not want to think she had sat idly by as I was raped in the bed next to her. And had I been raped? I knew not. I had kissed him. I had giggled as he took off my clothes. Perhaps it was my fault. Women were weak to carnal desires, and I had taken much wine. Perhaps I had initiated it. I could not remember.
But I knew one thing. If my friend would not hear me, no one else would. If I went to my grandmother, I would be blamed. I had allowed the men into the chamber, like the others. I had drunk wine, had kissed Francis. I had led him on. It was my fault I was ruined, diminished. Mine.
And there was no promise of marriage between us. I was a whore. I had surrendered my most precious asset in return for nothing. If my grandmother, or still worse, my uncle found out, I would be cast out. I felt sick again.
I had to see Francis. I had to know what had happened.
That day was torture. Trying to stand up straight in chapel whilst all I wanted was to lie down and be sick was horrific. Waiting on my grandmother, hoping the rose perfume Joan had dashed on me would conceal the scent of wine still riding my breath. My fingers faltered on the strings of my lute when I tried to play and I almost fainted when I had to dance. I was dizzy. Everything was too bright, too harsh. All I wanted was to get into my bed, pull the covers over my head and vanish.
I was ashamed of myself. Every memory I had of the last night I hated. Even innocent moments, our laughter, our jests, became sins so grievous I thought I might be kept from Heaven. I berated myself, and wondered at my behaviour. Who was that girl who had been so wild and feckless last night? It was as though in trying to keep the shadow away I had let it in, and it had taken on my skin. It had transformed me, controlled me. I was a creature such as priests spoke of, a beast of wickedness and sin, cursed, damned to the lowest pit of Hell. I was a fallen woman, a temptress, a whore.
When finally I managed to get a moment with Francis that afternoon, I was almost out of my mind.
“Sweet Catherine,” he said, coming to me in the orchard.
“Do not call me that,” I said, memories of Manox snapping in my head. “Please.” I looked at him with a pale face. “Francis, what happened last night?”
“You do not remember?” He looked so sorrowful, I pitied him. During the day I had been thinking of him as a beast, this man on top of me who would not stop when I had asked, but now, he was another man; concerned, worried for me. My heart became warmer. It was a relief.
“I do not,” I said. “Joan said you took me to bed. I remember nothing.”
I was not going to tell him about the memory. Was it even real? I could not believe, with him in front of me, that I could have said no and he could have carried on.
“Catherine,” he said, stepping close. “We were together as man and wife, as I have wished for some time. I am so sorry you remember not, for you were most responsive and pleased last night.” He touched my hair. “Perhaps your feelings for me were increased by the wine,” he said, looking sad. “I promise if you do not want to do that again, we do not have to. I would not force you.”
It did not occur to me for a long time that he was the first to bring up the notion of being forced.
I swallowed, my dry throat painful. I nodded. “I think I was overcome by wine,” I whispered. “But I do like you.”
“I love you,” he said. “I mean to make something of myself and one day ask for your hand.” He put his hands on my shoulders. “There is no sin if one day we are to wed.”
I nodded. Although unsure I wanted to wed Francis, even less sure my family would allow it, this was a way to ensure I was not damned. Relief flooded through me. He did not mean to abandon me now he had taken what he wanted. I was protected. I was safe. I was not cursed.
“I love you,” I said. In that moment, perhaps I did. I was so grateful. I would not be used and cast off like poor Dorothy with Ned. Had I been, my fate would have been worse, for I came from a noble family and my disgrace would be greater than hers. She had just found another man. I would have been ruined goods. No more of value to anyone.
And he looked so pleased when I said I loved him. I liked to make people happy. He kissed my hand and swore no one would know what we had done. An empty promise, since everyone knew, but it made me feel better. Francis cared. He would shelter me.
But as I walked back to the maidens’ chamber, ready to take to my bed and hide in dreams, there was confusion in me. He said he loved me, and although there were gaps in my memory, large ones, I felt something I had not wanted had happened last night.
But no one would hear me. No one would sympathise, thinking that I was not of a mind to say yes or no, and understand the consequences. Francis had taken my maidenhead, and now it was gone, there was no taking it back.
I told myself it could have been worse. He could have abandoned me, could be out telling the world what a delightful whore I had been. Women were cast out for such things, and worse. I might be chained to a pillory, stripped naked to the waist before thousands and lashed, then left there for people to jeer at. My cousin had been named a whore, and died for it.
Francis was my shield. With him, I was safe. With us in love, I was respectable. I should stay with him, ignore my fears.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chesworth House
Late Summer 1538
<
br /> “When will the King marry?” my grandmother huffed, leaning on her cane as she stared with displeasure at the gorgeous sunset on the horizon. Red and pink as pomegranate seeds it spread across the skies, a blush upon the world. “Enough time has passed.”
She was not alone in asking this. The maidens’ chamber was full of gossip about which ladies of court the King was flirting with, and which princesses were being contacted for portraits. But the King had already lost two potential brides. Marie of Guise of course, and now her younger sister, Renee, was rumoured to be about to take the veil, some said to avoid the hand of our King falling upon her.
But the King had not given up on his Christina. A sumptuous embassy was being put together to woo this fresh damsel and her much talked of dimples.
“The King needs a wife,” my grandmother went on, glowering at the skies as though it were their fault our King was still unwed. “It would make him more clement.”
I knew she was thinking of the Poles. There was word Montagu and Exeter would be executed. If the King married, he would be happier, she thought. Perhaps she had a point, but our King had been married when Fisher and More had died. A wife had not made him more clement then.
In the maidens’ chamber, everyone was sure Christina would agree eventually. She would have little choice if the Emperor commanded it, and it was said he was not happy in his alliance with France. Joan had told me she thought I would be sent to court.
But a life at court seemed far away now. Weeks had passed since my encounter with Francis, and he had become my gallant. Everyone thought us in love, and he certainly was with me. We had not gone to bed together again, but had done other things. In my bed, when I was heady with wine, he had showed me how pleasure might come from touch and tongue, and when I was lost in my cups, as often I was now since it dulled my fears, I allowed this. I told myself I was in love with him. Sometimes I almost believed it.
A life at court seemed gone because I was now all but promised to him. Of course married women served at court, but they were grand noble ladies. Dereham was no high-born lord. Maids of honour were usually unmarried. If I married, I would not be granted one of those posts. If I did not marry, I was ruined.
That recklessness of that first night came back again and again. I could not control it. When Francis brought wine, something feral was unleashed. I would kiss him and tell him I loved him even though I was not sure I did. I was not sure of anything, anymore. I felt afraid of intimacy, yet rushed to it as a dog may race into a fight knowing he will lose. Facing my fear in this way made me feel powerful in one way, vulnerable in another.
In setting free the shadow, I had become lost. I was not sure I cared. And my feelings were confused. I was grateful he had not cast me aside, but there were things I did not like about him.
I had not noted them before, but then, I had barely known him before he came to my bed. Francis was jealous, easily roused to anger. And his anger was fierce, frightening. I had laughed with Ned one day and Francis had taken me aside, his grip painful as he whispered harsh words, telling me he liked not that I talked or laughed with other men. His face had been red and his eyes pinpricks. At his side, his hands became fists. Something in me told me to be quiet, for fear he would hit me. I had agreed to all he said, and apologised many times, but an indignant voice within said all I had done was laugh with a friend. There had never been anything between Ned and me.
He was mollified by my apology, and then I could not stop. I kept saying sorry, but for what I knew not. Finally the ruddy hue of his face left and he was kind Francis again. He took me in his arms, told me how special I was, and that his anger was a sign of how dearly he loved me.
“Men are often cruel to women they adore,” Alice told me. “It is a compliment.”
‘
In some ways it felt that way, for I felt wanted, desired and owned. It was a sign of how fixated on me he was. For one who had been neglected, to know I was the absolute focus of someone was intoxicating. But I was wary of his temper. Scared to rouse it.
I felt captured. There was a rope binding me to Francis, and I could not tear free. I blamed myself. I had brought this upon myself.
Francis was kind, but he had a hold over me now. When I was lost in wine, he would take me to bed and we would do things. Because I had not refused him that first time, I felt I could hardly do so now. If I refused, he might become angry, and he might tell my family I was a whore.
But it was confusing for there were times I felt pleasure in his caresses and times I felt shame. I liked his jealousy even as it scared me. There was a feeling of specialness he offered me, and I welcomed it, but I felt on edge, jittery. And, child that I was, I threw myself into fiction. I loved him. This was what love was. It was better to dwell in stories than to face the truth.
“The King has been too long without a wife,” my grandmother went on. “He must choose.”
“Any alliance with the Emperor seems fragile,” said my uncle William. “And the King is less keen on France, since he lost Marie.”
“Whom is Cromwell pushing for?”
“There has been talk again of the daughter of Cleves,” said William. “The Duke has a powerful range of territories, which might act as a shield against the Emperor, and his daughters are said to be beauties.”
“Are they not Lutherans?”
William shook his head. “Catholics, but the Duke has many Lutheran allies, and appears not rigid in his faith. His daughter, Sybilla, married Duke John of Saxony, who is a Lutheran and Head of the Schmalkaldic League, but the Duke’s family remained Catholic.”
“So they float between the faiths,” said my grandmother, her voice thoughtful. “Much like our King.”
“It is only a suggestion,” said William. “The King still wants Christina, and he is accustomed to getting what he wants.”
*
Later, I was on my way to the kitchens, my hands full of onions from the garden, when I was stopped by some of my grandmother’s grooms in a small passageway. “Why do you walk so fast, little Howard?” one asked, leering at me. “There are friends to be met.”
“I have work to do,” I said, smiling and casting my eyes to the floor. “Please let me pass.”
“Look how like a maid she flushes,” said one, turning to his friend and laughing. “But I hear much, little Howard. You are no maid.”
My heart leapt with fright as he pressed closer. “Just a kiss, little Howard,” he said, pushing his hand against the wall, so he stood like an arch over me, pinning me down. “That is all I want.”
“I do not want to kiss you,” I said, my cheeks flaming as I tried to get away.
“Little whore,” he hissed, suddenly no more teasing. “Do you think we do not know about you? Stay still. All I want is what you give freely to others.” He pushed me none too gently against the wall and his face loomed towards mine.
“Stop it!” I said, onions dropping from my hands as I struggled to push him away. “Let me go!”
“The whore wants to feel forced,” said one of the others. “Like all women.”
My eyes flashed to them. Three more men standing behind the first. Two looked excited, faces flushed as they egged on their leader. They watched him with admiration for his boldness, for daring to insult a Howard. They were low born. Something in their aggression made me think they resented this, and that anger was to be taken out on me.
But the last seemed unsure. I saw something in his eyes, some qualm of conscience. For a moment I had hope, and then it was gone. I saw it buried, gone from his eyes as he became more fearful his friends would tease him than he was worried for me. He was afraid to lose face, to seem girlish for possessing a strand of human mercy. If he was strong in character, he might have stood up for me but he did not. He closed his mouth, and although he did not advance on me like the others, his silence offered them licence, approval, even.
As the leader pushed himself against my body, struggling to kiss me and at the same time grope
my breast, I saw onions bouncing away, across the courtyard. I had not known I had dropped them.
My hands were numb, I realised vaguely. I seemed to go. I left myself, my mind going blank. And then the man was gone. Someone had pulled him off me and was shouting at him.
I was back behind my eyes, and I saw Francis.
He drew a knife on the man who had been trying to kiss me, his cheeks blazing like fire. The men ran. Master Dereham had the power to send them away, and they knew it. I think they also thought he might kill them, so wild did he look.
“Are you alright?” he asked, his dark eyes full of concern, and at the same time burning with anger.
I nodded. “Thank you,” I stuttered.
“You should not talk to such men.”
I blinked. He seemed to think this was my fault. “I was not talking to them,” I said. “They stopped me. I dropped my onions.” With that foolish phrase I burst into tears and he took me in his arms.