by G Lawrence
As Cromwell shifted his feet, handing a cup to his manservant, I saw a face that seemed familiar, but I could not think why. “Who is that? Cromwell’s man?” I asked.
Anne peered at the young man, now chuckling at something witty his master had said. “Master John Lascelles? I know little, aside from he is dedicated to his master and the New Learning. I think he trained in the Inns of Court.”
Lascelles. My heart dropped. “I know his sister,” I said. “She used to wait upon my grandmother.”
So there were old ghosts here, coming back to haunt me. But with any luck John may not have seen his sister for years, and was not likely to either. She was married and away. Hopefully he knew nothing about me, and she would have enough sense to keep her mouth closed.
“Cromwell’s great hope lives in the new Queen,” Anne whispered, evidently deciding Lascelles was of no more importance.
“Why?” I asked, although of course I already knew.
A faint smile flickered on her lips. “You are so innocent,” she said, almost to herself. “Cromwell is part of the reformist faction. He hopes that a new Queen, from a land with Lutheran sympathies will drive forth further reformation.” She looked to the other side of the hall. “And Bishop Gardiner, who with your uncle Norfolk leads the conservative faction, holds the same hope, for her land is officially Catholic. They are both waiting, just as we are, to find out what our new Queen will be like. Each hopes she will offer them support. But if she wishes to please the King she will stay out of politics, as Queen Jane did, or did most of the time.”
“The Queen tried to interfere?”
Anne nodded, her cup of wine near her lips. “Once, during the Pilgrimage of Grace, Queen Jane sorrowed for the rebels and asked for mercy for them. It was her natural place as Queen to do so, but the King told her to desist.” She cast her eyes about, and leaned in to whisper. “He told her not to interfere, for the Queen before her had meddled with politics and that had been her downfall.” Coming away from me, resting on her heels, she shook her head. “My Mistress was most upset that day. It was as though the King was telling her that was why… the other… had fallen. Not because of what she was accused, but because she meddled with matters of men.”
“Do you think that is so?”
Anne’s face became wary. “It is better not to speak of such things. But many say that was the way of it.”
I looked at Gardiner. The Bishop of Winchester was in dark robes, his face closed, afraid to reveal secrets. He, like Cromwell, had a fat face, folds of skin hanging loose and baggy about his chin. His eyes were large, like a doe, but set deep into his face, and his eyebrows were high, as though he was always asking a question, although when they furrowed, which was often, they plunged deep. He had a hooked, hawkish nose and wide nostrils. His mouth was small and his hands large. Gardiner looked like a man constructed from all the parts other men wanted not. I knew him for my uncle’s ally. Norfolk had spoken of him, although not always with approval. Gardiner was the son of a cloth merchant, so was no noble, and Norfolk did not think well of anyone who was not. Gardiner had also defended the King against the Pope, which had won him no favours with the Catholic faction of court, but my uncle said the Bishop was true to the old ways at heart.
“Gardiner and Cromwell served as youths in the household of Cardinal Wolsey,” said Anne. “But after his fall, they became enemies, each pitching anchor on opposing sides of the religious divide. They cannot stand each other. Cromwell used to taunt Gardiner, but when Gardiner defended the King against the Pope, and did good work in France he was welcomed home and became important. Cromwell did not like that. They are as opposed in character as in policy. Cromwell is cold as a rock, never loses his composure, whereas Gardiner abandons his continually, spluttering and choking if he thinks a man has insulted him. Near to Cromwell, that is Cranmer, Archbishop of Canterbury. He is a good man, gentle and surprisingly naïve, but with great skill in writing. The King trusts him completely. Many say His Majesty loves him as no other man.”
Cranmer looked young, although I was told he was forty-six. Clean-shaven, with warm brown eyes and long, pale fingers clasped about a cup of wine, he spoke gently to people about him. My grandmother had told me he had been the only one who tried to save my cousin when she fell, and had wept on the day she died. He had managed the King’s separation from Queen Katherine, but also, despite his affection for Anne, had arranged the dissolution of my cousin’s marriage and the bastardization of Lady Elizabeth.
“Gardiner hates Cranmer too, and once accused him of heresy,” said Anne. “But the King spoke for him. Gardiner’s temper is unpredictable, but he is the brains of the conservative faction.”
“So my uncle Norfolk is the brawn,” I said.
Anne smiled. “And the influence.”
A hearty laugh took my attention from Cranmer to another man. Young, tall, and with a ridiculously handsome face, he was magnetic. His eyes snapped blue and his hair was dark.
“Who is that?” I asked, trying to conceal my interest.
Anne caught my glance and smiled. “Master Thomas Culpepper,” she said. “One of the King’s favourite gentlemen.”
“Culpepper?” That had been my mother’s maiden name. The thought that this striking young man was close kin was not welcome.
”Of Bedgebury,” she said. The name meant nothing to me. “He is a great favourite with many women,” she said and chuckled. “Even my mother was taken with him. She, a matron, sent him colours to wear in the joust, and she never did such a thing for any other man before! He used to be in the household of my stepfather, in Calais, and made quite a name for himself by flirting with all the women. My parents adore him.” She followed my eyes, noting how I gazed at him. “I could introduce you, if you like,” she said, a wry smile on her lips.
I flushed before I could do a thing to stop it. “I think he is kin,” I said. “Culpepper was my mother’s maiden name.”
“It is not a strong connection,” she said. “He spoke of how a distant cousin was wed to the Howard line. At most, he is your sixth or seventh cousin, if I remember rightly.”
Culpepper was richly dressed, showing off fine, muscular thighs in tight stockings and a graceful, long body in his doublet. His face was perfectly formed, graceful angles and high cheekbones, a long but not overlarge nose, and sparkling eyes, full of mischief. There was some wildness in him, I could see it.
“He is a great favourite of the King’s,” Anne went on, “owns property in Kent and a townhouse in Greenwich.” She put a hand on my arm and reluctantly I took my eyes from Culpepper’s mesmerising face. “Although I am most fond of him, I should tell you he is a great flirt and showers many women with attention, some true but much false. Many a maid has lost her heart and head over him, but he has lost his to no one. He is one of those men all women stare at and adore; a free man, a wild soul, born to break hearts but never risk his own.”
I nodded, as though taking her warnings on board, but in truth I did nothing of the kind. As Culpepper gazed about the room, he saw me watching him and smiled. It was self-assured, cocky, and arrogant. And it made me shiver. Inside me, the slumbering wildness woke, called to life by him.
Chapter Forty-Four
Greenwich Palace
Autumn 1539
It was some time before we were presented to the King. When I arrived he was away with a small band of men, hunting in the country. To my distress, Culpepper left court the day after I first saw him, to join the King. Even though I had only seen him at a distance, and naught but a smile had passed between us, I missed him with a fire that surprised, hurt and astonished me.
I had not had feelings like that for a man before. Manox I had thought a friend, then fiend, then fool, and Francis I had felt grateful to, until he started to scare me. This was different, and although I knew Culpepper not a whit, I could not deny my feelings. Perhaps you will think me a fool, but I’ll wager once you were just as fool as me, and lost your heart to a stran
ger too.
We maids went about our duties even though we had no Queen to serve. Each morning in the faded light of dawn, we rose, washed and dressed, and went to the Queen’s rooms to instruct the chamberers, who, although they had no beds to strip, or plates to clean away also presented themselves each morning. It was all faintly ridiculous, but fires were lit and surfaces dusted, pillows plumped as though they might be sat on, and we curtseyed to the empty throne in the Presence Chamber, absent, like the chambers, of a Queen.
Trooping as one, we went to Mass. Watched by the young hawks of court as we stuck together like a flock of wary sheep we would smile, then cast our eyes downwards and hurry past. I cannot tell you I felt afraid of the lounging gallants, but I was aware. We all were. We all took precautions against attack. It was something we barely thought about, yet in our minds at all times was a thought, whispering we had to be careful. Life was not a pretty tale or song. A knight would not rescue us or immediately believe we were innocent and the attacker was not. Not all men were hawks, but we could not tell who was by outward appearances, making us wary of all.
But a maid would be thought sullen and undesirable if she showed that constant, wary awareness. So we hid our chariness, smiling and nodding as though we had never known fear in our lives. It was a tight, thin line to walk.
After Mass, we went to our quarters and sewed by the fire, passing on all we had heard of other courtiers or our mistress. The marriage had now been agreed, and everyone was talking of the King’s desperation to get his bride standing on English soil. Her brother wanted her to come by land, but the King insisted on sea. Despite protests this would damage the delicate skin of his future wife, and that the poor lady had never been on a ship, or seen the ocean, the King wanted a ship to bring her as it would be faster. We were no less eager to meet our new mistress, as apart from satisfying our burning curiosity, it would also give us more to do.
But there was plenty to talk about; plots, gossip, intrigue… Almost as though it were scripted in a pageant, fights broke out daily amongst young men. Outside the bounds of court, for swords were not to be drawn inside, although daggers were often enough, these fights were always over some insult of pride or property. One man would slight the house or parentage of another, or dare to court their lady, and would be challenged. All men carried blades and were quick to draw them, as though they itched in scabbards if unused. Ladies of course went unarmed, although some of the laundresses and kitchen maids, often the receivers of unwanted attention, might have welcomed a dagger at their belts.
The clash of swords was as regular in London as the pealing of church bells, and men met just outside the bounds of court to satisfy hurt honour and pride.
Sometimes it seemed to me that the honour and pride of these men were fragile creatures, if so easily wounded.
But still, we admired these tales, for many were daring. We sighed to hear two men battled for the love of a lady, even though we all knew they did not, in truth. They battled to be superior to the other man. The lady was just the excuse. Oh, sometimes I am sure there was love there, and love makes people do much that is odd, but the speed at which a young man would leave behind a lady he had sworn to adore until the end of time and find another was enough to tell me much.
At fifteen, I was a far more cynical being than I had once been.
At eleven we went to the hall to eat, and after were sent back to our rooms. Sometimes, one of the ladies of the Presence Chamber would come to Mistress Stoner, offering a task for the afternoon, such as playing for the elite ladies of the Bedchamber, or singing to them as they embroidered.
“Keep an ear out for talk of the Queen,” Anne said to the girls who went with her, for Anne was always selected. “And we will tell you all upon our return,” she said to us.
She did just that. Anne took her position as senior of the maids seriously, and held fast to the truth that if we were to succeed we had to support each other. It was a very different idea to that which had been borne in my grandmother’s house, where all the girls had sworn to protect each other yet none really did. Here, I felt part of something; a sisterhood of maids, all watching out for each other.
We were sent to bed early, but often lay awake, whispering in the darkness, warm under sheets that smelt of lavender and hawthorn flowers. Mary Norris was my bedfellow, and we talked of what would happen when the Queen came, and if she would like us, reassuring each other in that special way girls have, by complimenting the other and denying compliments granted to oneself.
“You are the most graceful dancer,” Mary said. “She will like you best.”
“Anne is the best dancer,” I said. “You can read Latin. She will like you best.”
“But you are prettier than me. Book learning is not a wonderful skill.”
“I think it wonderful, and I am not prettier than you. You have those enchanting grey eyes, so different to those of any other. She will like you best.”
Women will know of what I speak. Men may be confused, as I have learned they do not do this strange dance with one another. Accepting a compliment outright was considered arrogant, and no woman could be seen to be so bold, so when offered compliments we rebuffed them. If a gown was praised, the correct response was, “this old thing?” and the compliment was deflected by admiring something the other was wearing. Men could smile and nod their heads if complimented, accepting without question. We women danced and parried, fencing about each other in a kindly game, allowing us to feel happy, yet remain modest.
One day, there was news that the King had come to court, and we were all in a panic, thinking we would be rejected and sent away. That was the day I saw the kindness of women in truth, for on that day every girl was there for the other. We helped each other to comb hair, don hoods and lent each other necklaces and rings. We assessed each other’s faces and pinched cheeks that had grown pale with the thought of standing before our sovereign. Compliments were warm and accompanied by a touch to the shoulder, or an embrace. That day, we were as one, united in the goal to be accepted.
Women can be the best and worst of friends to other women. At worst, they can be spiteful, vicious and cruel, bending your soul into a twist of misery. Not permitted to fight as men do, out in the open and with weapons, they fight with word and thought, striking enemies with cunning, hitting subtly, often without warning. And at their best, women are remarkable; supportive, warm, motherly, sisterly and friendly by turns, people who would throw themselves before death to protect someone they loved.
Men will say they do the same in war, but on a battlefield men fight for themselves first. Wars are won by the desperation of men clinging to life. Only the few and courageous fight truly for friends and brothers.
But every person on the earth under God has had a woman do it for them. Every mother risks death for her children.
When we were ready, we trooped into twos, walking along long, ornate corridors to the chambers of the King. We were to be presented one at a time, so His Majesty would be able to assess each of us in detail. The ladies-in-waiting were already chosen and secured, of course, selected by virtue of title and beauty, but we, the lesser daughters, nieces and cousins of nobles, had to be approved by the King personally.
I was one of the last to go in, as it was done by age. The oldest, like Anne, entered first. Behind me were two girls, both Howards, who were only thirteen.
“Be not scared,” I said as we waited. “You are beautiful. He will adore you.”
They both looked faint. I wondered if it would not have been a better idea for the youngest to enter first, for surely older girls were more skilled at holding their nerves?
When the door opened for me, my heart was in my throat. I walked in, making sure I reached the centre of the chamber before lowering myself into the most graceful curtsey I had ever performed. Fear fine-tuned my dancer’s grace that day.
I glanced up. I could see Norfolk, his thin face grave, but I was almost blinded by my King.
He was
enormous. I had never seen a man so big, so broad of shoulder and of waist. He seemed to take up half the room, more a mighty giant than a man. And he, like his palace, was an assault on the eyes. Gems glittered from every fold and crease of his purple and crimson robes. His shoulders were naturally large, made extraordinarily so by puffed, padded sleeves. His flared doublet exposed his legs, bound in white hose glimmering like fresh snow, and his jewelled codpiece was absurdly large. It was common for men to wear them, but even I, who had seen a man naked more than once, had trouble keeping my cheeks from blazing crimson at the sight of this obvious, somewhat threatening, display of manhood.
Gold cloth glimmered, catching the light of guttering candles and the afternoon sun streaming in through diamond windowpanes. My eyes started to water from the shimmering light cascading from rings on his fingers, gold about his neck, his clothes and his black hat, sat atop a head with thin hair, which nevertheless shone gold and red, like the rest of him. To look upon him was to stare at the sun. He was blinding.