The Winchester Goose: At the Court of Henry VIII

by Arnopp, Judith

  “What? Are you run mad? What about her?”

  “You get rid of him, and I will take care of her.”

  “Me? Get rid of the body and …what do you mean you will take care of her? You don’t mean to harm her?”

  “'Course not. Once he has gone,” I nod toward Francis’ still form, “I’ll put her to bed and hope that when she wakes she will 'ave no memory of it. She is in a bad way, she may not even last the night. If she does I will take her after dark and put her where her own kind will find her.”

  Peter sighs and rubs his forehead, chews the inside of his mouth. I can see he can’t decide what’s best and I am suddenly full of remorse. I put a hand on his arm. “I’m sorry, Peter, it’s the shock of it all. I can’t expect you to be part of this; I see that now. Go home and forget it. I will sort it out. Visit me next week when it’s all over …”

  He grabs my hand, kisses it, and looks me in the eyes, his beardless chin set firm. “No, Joanie, no. I will help; you have no one else. When dark falls I – I will drop him in the river. I will need to use your counterpane as a shroud.”

  At his words I have a sudden unwanted picture of Francis, eyes wide open beneath the surface of the shite-filled Thames, turning and drifting with the current, battered against the starlings, buffeted by boats, chewed by fishes until he is just bones; bones that were once living, laughing, loving flesh.

  A sudden sob escapes me and I clamp a hand across my mouth, try to stop the tears, but they find a way out and course down my cheeks. Peter ignores them, his mind on practicalities.

  “I need something to weigh him down, to take him to the bottom and keep him there.” In this nightmare Peter speaks as if he does this sort of thing everyday, as if every broad-shouldered costermonger on every corner of Southwark is party to murder. I hand him the cooking pot.

  “Fill this with stones and wrap it up with him.”

  Many tortured hours later, Peter bears my love away and the last I see of Francis is a tuft of ruddy hair poking from the blanket. Red-faced, for Francis is a well-built man, Peter hoists him onto his shoulder and carries him furtively down the stairs. I watch them fade into the darkness, my heart heavier than it has ever been, and turn back indoors.

  I cuff Sybil to stop her snivelling and she wipes her nose on her sleeve before helping me strip the bed and turn the mattress. She takes a scrubbing brush to the wooden floor and it is only then that I go outside. Taking M’lady beneath the arms, my hands clasped just above the pretty, pink-tipped breasts that Francis spoke of so fondly, I drag her toward the bed where her husband died. Then I sit down and wait for her to wake up and tell me why she did it.

  Isabella, Lady Greywater – August 1541

  After a wet and dismal start to the journey the sun has finally come out, and the royal cavalcade is on its way again. The Queen has been under the weather but seems better now, although her indisposition was so acute it set the court ablaze with gossip that she is already carrying the King’s child. In the end it proved to be no more than a piece of bad fish, and now her cheeks have colour again and her silly giggles are once more grating on my nerves.

  I didn’t want to come. My heart is in London with Eve, wherever she may be, but Anthony insisted that the honour was too great to pass by. Although it is early days, I had hoped that with all Anthony’s attentions I could plead the indisposition of early pregnancy, but I have failed to get with child. Now, I watch the cycle of my courses as eagerly as the Queen watches her own, for of course, the King’s incessant quest for male heirs never stops, and he will not be content until such time as Katherine produces a Duke of York, a back-up plan should any ill-fate befall Prince Edward. God forbid.

  Poor Katherine. If the King’s constant caresses are anything to go by he is an ardent husband indeed. Now that I am party to all that passes between a man and his wife, I find it quite repellent to watch the way the King mauls her even in company. I turn my face away from them. She is so very young and he a ravaged old fool who cannot keep his hands off her. I notice the way she turns her face from him so his lips are upon her neck rather than her mouth, and I wonder she can bear even that. I hope the jewels she loves so much are some recompense for so distasteful a bed-mate, and I pray she bears him a son soon and is spared of his company, at least for a few months.

  To my relief, we break the journey for five days at Collyweston, an impressive palace in the midst of the most beautiful countryside. Although the house is far grander than home, the sight of the gently sloping meadows and wide green river makes me long for Bourne Manor. I close my eyes and let my mind rush back to my childhood and a time when Eve and I were always happy.

  But I cannot keep my eyes closed forever and I know that when next I open them, I will still be here in a strange palace, surrounded by people I do not love and married to a man who does not move me.

  I am uncertain if he has noticed my lack of ardour when we couple. It is not a requirement that I receive enjoyment, but I am careful to embrace him and accept whatever he cares to do to me. But while he gyrates in the throes of ecstasy, I stare into the darkness, bite my lip and pray for him to make a child on me quickly so that I can have some respite, both from him and from court.

  We are making ready for the ride into Lincoln. Katherine, bedecked in a gown of cloth of silver, holds out her hand for her rings to be placed on her fingers. While Jane Rochford has that honour, I scurry about, my gown rustling as I pick up her fan and offer it to her with a deep curtsey. Then she holds out her arms and raises her pointed chin for our approval and I must confess, she looks more a Queen today than she ever has before. Her youthful charms are quite overshadowed by the grandeur of her glittering costume and even though we are all in our very best for the entry into the city, beside Katherine’s splendour we are like sparrows beside a peacock.

  With Katherine all in silver and the King in cloth of gold, she boasts that she is the moon to Henry’s sun; a royal sun and moon with the ladies in waiting playing the part of attendant stars, shining in reflected glory and ready to do their every bidding.

  It is the first time I have seen pageantry such as this and for a while my mind is drawn from my own troubles. I drink in the tabarded heralds, the sword of state held aloft as the King and his child-Queen follow the carpet through the great west door of Lincoln Cathedral.

  There, before the Bishop, the King and Queen kneel before God while they are censed and a Te Deum is sung in their honour. Eve would have revelled in this. The pure voices of the choir bring a lump to my throat and I surreptitiously wipe away a tear. Perhaps Katherine will prove to have the stuff that Queens are made of after all. A good Queen is what Henry needs; it’s what the country needs; it’s what we all need. I pray that it be so.

  The other ladies whisper that the King secretly plans to crown Katherine when we reach York, but I cannot imagine the ceremony will be any grander than this. Henry’s eyes shine with joy at the crowd’s reception of his enchanting new wife. He smiles fondly upon her as she graciously inclines her head, her gaze dancing on the cheering people before she lays a hand on Henry’s forearm and allows him to lead her away. Her ladies and I follow, skimming along behind her, basking in her glory. It is a good day for the King and Queen, a good day for England, but unable to rise above my personal sorrows, it is a heavy day for me.

  Long before the ceremonies end, Katherine’s eyes are red. Like a child who has been allowed to stay up too late, she constantly yawns behind her hand. In any other woman such behaviour would be frowned on, but Henry’s child-bride can do no wrong. She wilts prettily, like a Lenten lily in want of water, but on our return to Lincoln castle, when the King retires straight to his apartments, Katherine’s yawns immediately cease.

  She claps her hands and demands music and refreshments and while the lady of the bedchamber helps her change, we scurry about making her room as cosy as we can. We are all prepared for an evening of supper and cards, when Katherine suddenly pleads a headache and asks to be left alone. Onl
y Jane Rochford is allowed to stay behind, and a smug smile plays on her lips as she closes the door firmly upon us.

  The other ladies pout and whisper together in corners but without sparing it another thought, I skip off to the apartments I share with Anthony and to my relief find them empty.

  Oh, the luxury of an evening alone. I slip early into bed and try not to let my thoughts return to Eve. I have to make myself believe that she is well and will come back when she is ready, but before I sleep, I pray earnestly for her safety and ask that it please God to send her home to us.

  The next morning, for the first time, I vomit before breakfast and the face that looks out of my glass is as white as death itself. I clutch my stomach in a relief that is short lived, for I realise that pregnancy has come too late to spare me from attending the Queen. Soon, we must journey inland across Yorkshire, calling at Pontefract, Hull and York; a journey that entails a fortnight spent in tents and swaying litters. Just the thought of it sends me running for the chamber pot again, where I retch like one damned.

  After I share with Anthony the suspicion that I bear his child I tell him that I wish to return home. He hesitates. “Give it a few weeks, my dear. The sickness may yet pass.”

  He is gently unmovable. My place, as he sees it, is with the Queen although to me, my duty is to nurture our child, not be buffeted about the countryside like a pig on its way to market.

  The Queen, when she learns my news, is tight-lipped and envious. I stand, hands clasped, fighting the ever-present nausea, while she offers her insincere congratulations. I do feel for her. The whole court is eager for the news that she is with child and I have heard her uncle of Norfolk’s constant haranguing that she should conceive, as if the matter is as easily arranged as a day in the tilt yard.

  There were rumours while we were still at Grafton Regis that she had fallen, but it proved not to be so. And it is not just the royal couple who wish things were different, for as soon as the Queen presents Henry with a son everyone will breathe a little easier. When the King is happy it is as if his court bathes in sunshine, but his displeasure is like a dousing of frozen rain.

  It is the Queen’s duty to provide an heir and I, and many like me, do not envy her. Few of us would wish to be in Katherine’s shoes. Just the thought of sharing the bed of the sick old King makes my bile rise. A woman, when she is little more than sixteen years old, dreams of youthful knights, tall, handsome figures with a well-turned leg. The King is certainly tall when he stands, but that is where the similarity ends. Poor Katherine is to be pitied. I would not swap all her jewels to be forced to yield to the corrupted, stinking body of the King. I don’t believe there is a woman alive who would envy her that. There are those who whisper that Henry cannot mount a woman anymore, and that Katherine has about as much hope of bearing a prince as Master Cromwell. I begin to wonder if they are right.

  The Queen’s gown rustles and I remember she is waiting for my answer, so I tear myself from my thoughts. But as I open my mouth to make reply, a knock at the door reprieves me and I step back as a young man enters. Thomas Culpepper, a gentleman of the King’s privy chamber, bows before his Queen and she tosses her head, a twinkle in her eye, her demeanour changing as it ever does in the presence of a goodly looking man.

  “Master Culpepper,” she says, “is the King’s leg still troubling him or is he better today?”

  He rises, keeping his eye respectfully on her hem, and offers her a small parcel. “His Majesty is well. He sends his love and apologies for failing to join you for supper last night.”

  I watch her accept the gift and notice their fingers touch as, for a brief moment, his eyes rise boldly to hers. I catch my breath, for the look I intercept is one I have seen before; a hot, sly dart of yearning, like the exchange of unspoken secrets. Once I saw Francis Wareham share such looks with Eve.

  My eyes flit from Culpepper to the Queen, but the moment has passed and he is backing away, taking another bow before he departs. As soon as we are alone, the Queen bends her head to the offering and tears open the box, her giggle trickling about the chamber. It is yet another pretty trinket from the King, yet another token of his undying affection, although some would see it more as payment.

  The next day, due to my condition I am spared the jolting of the hunt, but the King and Queen and most of the court set out early, for the day promises to be fine. Glad to be free of ceremony for a few hours, I wander about the gardens among the flowers, looking for a likely spot to take my ease.

  I settle in an arbour and lean my head against sun-warmed stone. It is as quiet and peaceful as the grave, with only birdsong to break the silence. I close my eyes and lose myself, just for a short while, freeing myself from care.

  After a time my ears, accustomed to the joyousness of the birds and the droning of lazy, fat bees, become aware of a less soothing sound. Voices intrude into my quiet world, male voices, and the tone is so subdued that I am alerted to their intrigue and prick up ears.

  I cannot see them, as they cannot see me, and I find myself holding my breath, my heart beginning to dance unsteadily within my breast as I realise I am hearing secrets that I would rather not be party to.

  “Of course, if the King really knew her he’d not be spouting of love the way he is. He had no cause to marry her. She drops quite willingly to her knees at the slightest bidding …as I, for one, can vouch.”

  I hear muffled laughter but when he makes his reply, the other fellow keeps his voice low and I cannot make out his words. But his companion’s response is loud and clear, and even to my mind indescribably foolish. “She is a trollop of the first degree, I tell you, and our monarch is made to look a fool by the association. Why, between you and me, when she was little more than a child in her grandmother’s household, I was the first man to bounce upon her belly but I wasn’t the only one to tickle her velvet, I can tell you.”

  I have heard that Katherine’s grandmother, the dowager Duchess of Norfolk, keeps a lax household and it is no great surprise that the Queen has turned out as she has. The men are moving away, their voices dwindling. Determined to know their identity, I stand up and peer above the rose bushes at their retreating backs. I raise my brows; surprised to discover that one man is Master Dereham, lately engaged as the Queen’s private secretary. The man who accompanies him I do not know, although I have seen him many times about court. Infuriatingly, I have no idea which man has just unwittingly made such a dangerous confession.

  I should, of course, be shocked at such a frank discussion of the Queen. Loose talk is dangerous and I should be hot in her defence, indignant at such disregard for the truth. To my dismay, I discover that I believe every word.

  From the moment I met Katherine I noted her lax morals, her silly, vain, greedy, single-minded regard for the opposite sex. For the first time I am ashamed that I ever compared her to Eve, who I am quite sure would never give herself lightly to any man.

  I linger for a while until I am quite satisfied that they are gone. The garden is no longer as restful as it was, and lifting my skirts, I hurry back across the daisy-strewn lawn toward the palace, passing through the kitchens in search of something to eat.

  I am constantly hungry these days but once my stomach is filled, I find I cannot contain it and hurry to my chamber to vomit all into a pot. If this carries on I shall grow weak, and if I am to produce a healthy child, I must be strong. My breasts are larger now, my nipples hot and tingling. I slide a hand across them, feeling a dart of pleasure before I stroke my still-flat belly, cupping an imaginary bump, cradling the child within although he cannot be any larger than my thumb.

  The sun is beginning to slide toward the west, and when I move to the window I see in the distance a puff of dust on the road that denotes the returning court. My peaceful afternoon, which lasted only as long as I was alone in the garden, is over and I must prepare to greet the Queen again.

  With the knowledge of her past writ large in my mind, I hope that should Master Culpepper be in the co
mpany, they make no action or speak a word to confirm my suspicion that they are indeed lovers. I, for one, have no wish to be party to the Queen’s most dangerous secrets.

  The weeks pass slowly and although I try to keep my eyes closed to the goings on of the Queen, I cannot help but be aware of the night-time whispers, the furtive locking and unlocking of chamber doors. Jane Rochford has a look of wary devilment in her eye and I tell myself that perhaps it is she who has taken a lover with the Queen’s endorsement, and not the other way round. Katherine is young enough to enjoy romantic intrigue and would surely not be so foolish as to risk the same fate as her cousin. It must be she who shields Lady Rochford, not the other way around.

  One morning, as I am passing along the corridor toward the chapel, someone comes whirling down the stairs. There is no time for me to retreat and we collide. She is moving so fast that I am almost knocked flat. As I grab at her gown to steady myself, I am engulfed in fragrance, and when I gather my wits I realise that I am grasping the richly jewelled sleeve of the Queen herself. Her cheeks are flushed with laughter but she straightens her face and snatches her arm indignantly away when she recognises me.

  “Mistress Greywater,” she says, as haughty as ever. I wonder at her formality for she usually addresses me as Bella, or sometimes Belle, which I can’t abide. She swallows, licks her lips, her eyes darting up the twisting stair as if she expects someone to be following. “I was looking for you. I have mislaid the emerald ring the King gave me. I would have you go to my apartments and search until it is found.”

  She speaks loudly, her clear voice filling the corridor. I know she lies for the benefit of some companion hidden up the stairway, but I sink into a curtsey and turn on my heel to do her bidding. It is not my place to question the directives of the Queen.

  In her apartment the maids are turning her mattress, the chamber windows stand open wide and soiled linen is heaped in one corner, fresh ones in a neat pile on a nearby stool. The maids’ chatter ceases when I enter and they turn to bob a curtsey but I wave my hand, indicating that they can relax.