Jack and Sybil are soon behaving like man and wife, spending every hour together. The change in my sister is like the sun peeking from behind a dark cloud. At first she is wary and her smiles uncertain, but as she becomes more sure of him, she beams on everyone like an indulgent aunt.
“For God’s sake, you two, can’t you find anything else to do?” I bawl at them when I trip over them sprawled on the floor of our cell. Sybil pulls our only cover up to her chin and snuggles on Jack’s bare chest.
“Are you jealous, Joanie? At least you don’t 'ave to go outside and sit in the rain while we’re at it.”
Her words bring back the long afternoons I spent with Francis, the smell of his warm skin, the softness of his touch, the lash of his tongue on my breast. My heart sinks, the memory still as sharp as a knife. They were my good days and if only I’d known it, I’d have relished them more’n I did. I never dreamed I’d end up here with the shadow of the noose swinging above my head. Maybe Francis was better off to go the way he did, taken sudden in the midst of living. It is this waiting that goes hard with me. Maybe Sybil has the better idea. I swivel on my heel and, as I leave the room, I turn to see Jack lift the cover and dive beneath it again, making Sybil squeal as he blows raspberries on her paps.
The corridor is dim, the courtyard slick with rain. The whores lurk in doorways, their shawls about their heads looking for likely customers. I hold out my hand and feel rain drip onto my palm. The weather is as grim as my prospects but unwilling to return to my cell, I lean against the stone wall and watch the falling rain.
“Joanie?” Nick the turnkey appears at my elbow. “Your ‘nephew’ is back to see you and he has someone with him. I’ve shown them into an upper room.”
An upper room? Peter has someone with him? My mind is teeming with questions as I follow his unwieldy body along the corridors and up a twisting stair. It could be a trick but he shows no sign of tension as he puffs and pants his way to the upper floor.
At the top, he throws open a door to a well-lit room and I step inside. Peter is standing by the hearth, his cap in his hand, his face glinting between anguish and hope. He steps forward and takes my hands.
“Joanie. I’ve brought someone to see you. She wants to ask you some questions.” His eyes are urging me to comply with whatever plan he has concocted and, with great curiosity, I turn toward my other caller.
As we face each other for the first time, she stands up and moves slowly toward me, as graceful and as grand as a Queen. My mouth gapes like a haddock’s.
“Thank you for seeing me, Joanie,” she says and offers me her stool.
Isabella Greywater – March 1542
It takes just a few days in his company for it to become clear to me that Thomas is not made from the same stuff as my father. There is no resemblance to the child I once played with. He shouts at the servants, is rude to Mother, and keeps ungodly hours. Mother blames the company he keeps, the younger sons of the gentry who, with too much time on their hands, have become wastrels and rogues. From the day of our reunion he leaves me in no doubt that he intends to rule Bourne Manor with an iron fist.
Despite the fact that we are a house of mourning, he invites his friends to stay and each night the great hall is filled with the sounds of roistering. I thrust my head beneath the pillow and try to block out the noise, comforting myself that once my child is born, I can travel to Wales to be reunited with my husband. My memories of marriage are vague, a few months of indifferent coupling and polite daytime conversation has done little to convince me my return will be a welcome one. But, since I no longer have a position at court, my duty is with my husband.
Tom, who cannot bear to look upon Eve, has denied her access to the lower floors and she is kept within her chambers. I spend much of my time with her and although she does not know me, I think she grows used to my presence. When she was missing and I feared her dead, I prayed only that she be returned to us. I did not dream it would be in this way. I never thought she could be here and yet … not be here. And so, I miss her still and it is hard for me to realise that she will never be the girl she once was.
Bess seems to be the only person my sister trusts completely, which is just as well since she relies upon her for everything. She has to be washed and dressed and her soiled linen changed several times a day, and it is only Bess who has the wherewithal to soothe her many tantrums.
My meals are taken with Mother in the dining hall, but afterwards I change into a loose gown and settle for the rest of the evening in Eve’s chamber. Here, I am away from Thomas and can relax, put my feet up on a stool and try to make friends with the girl that Eve has become.
Although she can feed herself, the process is messy and disconcerting to watch, so Bess spoon-feeds her as if she were an infant. She sits quietly, opening her mouth like a baby bird, chewing slowly as she looks wide-eyed about the room while Bess dabs gravy from her chin and offers another spoonful. At least Eve is calm now, her bouts of rage are frightening and when the attacks come, I am at a loss as to what to do.
The first time the family were witness to such an attack, Thomas took one look at her and stormed angrily from the house while Mother and I stood back in hopeless horror. Thankfully, Bess instinctively knew what was required and launched herself at my sister, clamping her arms to her sides to stop her from harming herself. All the time she whispered soothing, sing-song words that seemed to penetrate Eve’s fury and bring her to some semblance of normality. Since that day Bess has had full charge of her and I think – I pray – that she is making some progress.
But Mother, Bess and I all know that things cannot go on as they are. Some more permanent arrangement will have to be made.
“She has been a good girl today, My Lady. She has eaten her dinner all up.” Bess places the spoon in the empty bowl and gathers up the tray.
“Eve isn’t a child, Bess, please don’t treat her like one.”
“Oh, I am sorry, My Lady. I didn’t mean to. It’s not easy …”
“I know, Bess. I do understand. It’s just that, even if she never comes back to herself, I want her to have some dignity …” My voice fails me and I battle back tears before speaking again. “I don’t know what to do and it seems the doctors are at a loss also.”
Bess puts down the tray. “Dr Malleon said that once she is used to us and has a routine, she will quieten, and she is quiet now. She seems happy.”
“I heard her shouting earlier.” I mop my eyes with the corner of my kerchief. “Was it very bad?”
“Oh, not really. She gets herself all agitated, that’s all. I just wish I could make out what she is yelling about. It is as if she is trying to tell me something. She was shouting, ‘bony’ or ‘pony’, or something like that. It made no sense to me.”
Eve’s periodic bouts of noisiness border on madness and I know there are grumblings in the kitchens about lunacy and witchcraft. One or two of the lower staff have left, and Bess heard one of the cooks declare the ‘young missus is touched by the moon.’ They think she should have no place among God-fearing folk and there are those who would shut her away from the world.
I will never countenance that.
She is my sister.
She is Eve and always will be.
My child kicks and I place a hand over my womb, gently caressing. My ribs are sore from the drumming of his heels but I take comfort that the child I carry is lusty and strong.
“And how are you, My Lady?” Bess asks, bringing me a cup of watered wine. “Are you getting enough rest?”
It is Bess’ way of enquiring if my nightmares have ceased, for bad dreams can have an undesired effect on the character of an unborn child. I wonder at the truth of it; I must ask Mother if she suffered from such dreams when she was carrying Thomas, for something has turned him from a happy child into a bully.
Bess moves to the window to draw the curtains across and shut out the falling night. She pauses and looks down into the bailey. “The master has company again, I see,”
she says, managing in a noncommittal way, to convey very much.
My heart sinks. “Again?”
This means we will all be kept awake until the small hours, just as we have been every night for a week. I join her at the window and look down upon a bevy of painted women alighting from a carriage, their raucous laughter wafting up to the chamber. “Oh, Lord,” I breathe in Bess’ ear, “pray that my mother does not see the company he keeps.”
A hand touches my shoulder and I notice Eve beside me, straining to see. “No, come along, sweetheart, you don’t want to see them…” I try to draw her back to the hearth but she pushes me away, immediately fractious.
“Oanee, Oanee …” Her voice is thick, as if her tongue is too large for her mouth and her words make no sense, although I am sure she is trying to tell me something.
“Help me with her, Bess,” I gasp. Together we pull her back to her cushions and Bess distracts her with a loud song that I remember from our nursery days. When she relaxes into Bess’ lap, I lay my head against the back of the settle. With the warmth of the flames on my face, I close my eyes.
It is much later when I am woken by a gentle touch on the arm. Bess nods toward Eve, who is now tucked up in bed and sleeping soundly. I look about the chamber and see to my astonishment that the fire has burned low. “Goodness, Bess, how long have I been asleep?”
“You must have needed it, My Lady. Come, let me help you to bed. There’s another day tomorrow.”
With a glance at my sister and a silent mew of thanks to Bess, we tiptoe from the room and along the corridor to my chamber. At the top of the stairs we pause and I raise my eyebrows at the sounds of music and the squeals of feminine revelry coming from the great hall. “How is anyone expected to sleep through that ruckus?” I complain as Bess opens the door.
I don’t expect to but I fall sleep easily. It is not until I become conscious that there is somebody in my room that I open my eyes again, and find myself blinking into the yellow circle of Bess’ candlelight.
“What is it?” I pull myself up on my pillow and try to force my bleary eyes open.
Bess’ face is white, her hand trembling slightly. “Oh, My Lady. I am sorry to wake you but I didn’t know what to do. Miss Eve is not in her bed. Something disturbed me and when I checked her, I found her blankets were thrown back and she isn’t wearing her robe.”
She is clutching Eve’s robe beneath her arm and her hair is hanging in two long braids. I swing my legs over the edge of the bed and fumble for my slippers. “She can’t have gone far, I shall help you look. It’s best not to disturb Mother.”
Together we tread quietly downstairs. It is quiet in the hall now and I hope they are all gone to their beds. If there is any justice, they will all have headaches come morning and live to regret their excesses.
“We should check the kitchens first, My Lady, Mistress Eve is always hungry.”
We hurry toward the back of the house where the kitchens are situated, and as we enter the chilly stone passage, our candle illuminates a golden circle about us. Beyond the reach of our light the night is black, giving everything a false emphasis, the darkness seemingly alive with danger. A tiny sound brings us to a sudden stop and I give a sharp squeal as a mouse appears and scurries along the wainscot. We hold our breath until it has passed and I suppress a shudder – dreadful little things - and then we creep onward.
Night and day the old house creaks and settles, but tonight, with night wrapped like a blindfold about the windows, the sounds take on a new and eerie significance.
We stop abruptly again and listen. It could be footsteps crossing the upper floor above our head, they could be Eve’s or they could be … something else. All the stories I’ve ever heard of ghouls and spirits come back to me. They are tales I would scorn in daylight but now I wish with all my heart that I were safe in my bed.
The house seems to close in upon us as we creep forward, suppressing our rationality until we are afraid of everything ... and nothing. Bess reaches for the latch, and as her hand touches it something clatters in the kitchen. It sounds as if every pot and pan has fallen to the flagstone floor. She snatches back her hand and emits a yelp of fear.
“Don’t be silly, Bess,” I say, with a conviction I don’t feel, “it is only Eve.” But I am now clinging to her hand too. We listen for a moment but there are no more sounds, and very slowly, so as not to startle Eve, Bess pushes open the door.
Our tiny flame throws a looming shadow about the stark room. The whitewashed walls are painted yellow by the flickering light and we see the long wooden table in the centre of the room holding half a loaf of bread, some discarded flagons and a covered pitcher. A scattering of copper pans litter the floor, but other than that it seems to be empty. We begin to turn away.
But just as we start to relax there is an enormous clashing and clanking of pans behind us and some devil streaks between our legs with an unearthly shriek. I scream and Bess drops the light, plunging us into darkness.
“Sorry, My Lady.” Bess’ voice is pale in the darkness as she scrambles for a tinderbox and drops it on the floor, the pieces scattering. I fight for my breath, a hand to my throat. “That damned cat!” I gasp, trying to still my thumping heart. My child stirs fretfully and stretches, his head pressing down hard on my bladder. I hold my breath until the pain has passed.
“There was a torch burning in the hall,” I say when I have regained my breath and, groping for each other’s hands, we fumble our way back along the corridor again. The night chill is creeping up my legs, and ignoring the pain in my lower back, I draw my shawl about me and feel my belly tighten uncomfortably. “Where can she be?” I whisper irritably. “The outer door is sealed so she must be in the house. We will have to check the great hall.”
Our comfort increases a little when we locate the torch and can see a little way past the ends of our noses. The heavy oak doors open with a groan and we immediately recoil from the stench of wine and debauchery.
I put my hand across my nose.
“God’s holy acre!” Bess looks around with wide eyes at the devastation of my father’s once noble hall. It will take a fleet of servants a week to clear up such a mess. One corner of the great tapestry showing The Expulsion from Eden has become detached from the wall, and my father’s carved chair is overturned; its legs pointing Heavenward.
A couple of hounds are finishing off the remains of the feast, upending platters and jugs as they wolf down meat and pastries. I inch forward, lifting the skirt of my shift to avoid a pool of vomit, and with Bess following, begin to tiptoe deeper into the room. Bess raises her torch higher and I let my eye trickle disgustedly over the prone bodies of men and women who, in various states of undress, are snoring by the hearth. There is no movement and no sound but the rasp of stagnant breath.
“She isn’t here.” It is not possible to disguise the relief in my voice as Bess takes my elbow and begins to help me from the room again. But as we reach the door we are brought up short by a high-pitched giggle, a vacant, girlish giggle we both instantly recognise.
Regardless of danger or what I might find, I march across the room and snatch back a curtain. Eve, clad only in her night shift, is sitting on the knee of an individual whom I can only assume is an associate of my brother. He looks every inch a reprobate.
“Eve!” I exclaim, grabbing her wrist and dragging her away. She comes easily, still giggling, her hair hanging loose and her breath reeking of wine. “What in God’s name do you think you are doing, Sir?”
His gaze trickles impudently to my swollen belly. “I don’t think I have to explain that to you, Miss.” He tips his head back and swigs from his wineskin, wipes his mouth on the edge of his sleeve. I cannot believe this foul, arrogant jade has laid hands on my sister. He should be horsewhipped!
Before I can respond, he stands up and begins to stagger toward me, stumbling over his sword as it becomes entangled between his knees.
“Come away, Lady. Come on…” For once ignoring etique
tte, Bess grabs my arm and pulls me toward the door. I waste no time in following, and dragging Eve behind me, we head for safety. In our haste we make a great noise, tripping over abandoned clothes and plate while the fellow bellows in indignation behind us and the hounds begin to bark.
At the bottom of the stair we are confronted by half the household who, disturbed by the racket, are descending from the upper floor. We stop and watch them approach. Mother is hurriedly tying her robe and behind her emerges the pale face of my brother, a thunderous look in his eye.
“What goes on here?” Thomas pushes to the front of the crowd and it is obvious he is still very much the worse for wear. His hair is on end and there are dark circles around his eyes. I am drawn to a large red bruise on his throat. He stinks like a doxy.
Very much aware of the need to keep gossip to a minimum, my eyes dart from Thomas to Mother as I search desperately for a credible tale. “Eve has been sleepwalking,” I say, snatching the idea from the air. “Bess and I heard a noise and went to find her; that is all. I am so sorry to have woken everyone, we knocked some plate to the floor in the hall …”
The servants are turning sleepily back toward their quarters and Bess begins to lead Eve up the stair. Just as I am beginning to think we will keep the truth to ourselves, the drunken fellow lurches accusingly from the great hall. Heedless of the gathering, he raises his finger and points directly at Eve.
“Hey, I paid good money for her!” he cries. All eyes turn toward my sister, who smiles back at him like a wanton. For the first time, I notice a small bag of coin fastened about her neck and the last thing I hear, as I fall crashing to the floor, is Bess’ voice shrieking, “Lady Greywater is going to faint! Somebody catch her!”
I roll in a relentless sea of agony. I have heard gossip of course, and witnessed the labour of cattle in the barnyard, heard the cries of our household women. But nothing, nothing, has prepared me for the reality of childbirth.
The Winchester Goose: At the Court of Henry VIII Page 18