The Winchester Goose: At the Court of Henry VIII

by Arnopp, Judith

  “No, Joanie, that isn’t what I want. I wanted to give you this.”

  He presses a purse into my hand, a fat one. “You can’t afford this, Peter, it must be a small fortune!”

  He laughs. “If I possessed such a sum I’d give it to you, Joanie, but it isn’t from me. It’s from Lady Greywater, travelling money, she wants you to follow them to Wales to take care of Eve.”

  I am gaping at him. “Look after Eve? Travel to Wales? What nonsense is this? I’ve never so much as travelled a mile up-river. I don’t even know where Wales is!” I don’t know if I should laugh or cry, so I bluster about having a job to do here and needing to look after Sybil.

  He shuts me up with a sudden kiss. “This is your chance, Joanie. You can get away from here; go some place where no one knows what you’ve been. Lady Greywater’s only demands are that you stop your whoring, go to church regularly and keep yourself clean. They need you. You want to see Eve again, don’t you?”

  I remember her wide eyes, the silkiness of her hair, the way her body used to tremble when I rocked her to sleep at night. The way she never took from me more than I was prepared to give.

  “'Course I do.” My voice is a bit hoarse so I clear my throat and try to make out I am not tempted.

  “Well then.” He crouches a little so he can see into my lowered face, and a tear drops onto my apron. Gently, he raises my chin and smiles into my eyes and, for the first time, I realise he is a man now. In my own special way, I’ve raised him from boyhood and there is just a chance he will be a better man for knowing me, not worse, as I have always feared.

  “It’s a long way,” I sniff, wiping my nose on my sleeve. “An’ I don’t know how to get there.”

  “Well, I will have to help you to find a way then.” He skips away, blows me a kiss. “I have to run, I will come back tomorrow. You’d better break the news to Sybil.”

  Sybil is the fly in the ointment. I can’t leave her here alone, for she has no idea how to look after herself. But when Peter comes back the next day and I tell him the change of plan, he looks from me to Sybil and back again. “Take her with you then, I’m sure they can find her work in the kitchens.”

  Sybil gets up and leans over the table. “I’m not a child, Joanie, and if you don’t mind, Peter, I’m big enough to look after myself. Work in the kitchens indeed. I ain’t going to no far off foreign place just to look after the likes of M’lady Wareham. I’ve a man to be thinkin’ of now.”

  I had forgotten about Jack but Sybil, it seems, is set on sticking by him, whether they hang him or not. He is the only thing keeping her here, giving her a reason to stay, but I have nothin’ to stay for and in the end, after much argument, I agree to go. But before I consent, I open the purse and give her a palmful of coins. With a whoop of joy, she flings her arms around my neck and, for the first time in years, I think that maybe she ain’t so bad. She has it in her to be a good person … if fate allows.

  Sybil, Peter and Bertha stand on the quayside and watch me board the ship that is to take me to the port of Caerleon in Wales. It is a heavy day and as the figures of my friends grow smaller, my heart sickens. Part of me wants to leap over the side and swim back to shore but since I have no idea if I can stay afloat, I stay where I am, clinging to the ship’s rail to keep them in my sights for as long as I can.

  When we hit the open sea and the deck lurches beneath my feet and I discover it isn’t only my heart that is sick. I am slumped on the deck with a leather bucket between my knees and it seems I’m not just vomiting up breakfast but my stomach along with it. The crew ignore me, and the few passengers give me a wide berth. I draw my forearm across my mouth, push back my sweat drenched hair and wish I could die of misery. Of all the things that have ever befallen me, this has got to be the worst. By the time the port is in sight, I have sworn never to venture on board again – not as long as I live.

  Along with other merchandise on route to Greywater Abbey, I am loaded onto a produce cart where I cling to a barrel of herring and hope that I can sleep for a while. But the jolting and jerking of the cart is as discomforting as the ship. If my head isn’t banging on the wooden sides, the ruts in the road are jarring my teeth. Every single bone in my body is aching and I feel as if I am being tortured. When we finally pass beneath the gates of the old abbey, I am too weary to be thankful and just longing for someone to show me where I can lay my head.

  “Mistress Toogood?” A dark-haired matron is smiling at me, her cheeks a pretty shade of pink, her eyes not quite reaching mine.

  “That’s right,” I say, hoisting up my bosom and giving her the benefit of my boldest stare. She holds out her hand.

  “My name is Bess. I’ve been looking after Eve. The mistress says you are to come with me.”

  I trail after her, not to the big house itself but a smaller one that she tells me used to be the gatehouse when the monks were here. “It’s where me and my daughter lodge,” she says, flushing again, “and you’ll be sharing with us.”

  She must know what I am, or what I was, and I wonder how a decent woman feels to be forced into the company of someone like me. Throwing open the door, she ushers me inside and I look about me.

  It is plainly furnished and spotlessly clean. Compared to my old lodgings, or the rooms I have lately shared with Bertha, it is a palace. A proper big fire burns in the grate beneath a smoke blackened pot, and there is even rush matting instead of straw. In the centre stands a well-scrubbed table. It is a simple, decent room with three doors leading off. One must be a chamber, but I know not where the others lead. “Very nice,” I say and she smiles at me and pours me a cup of short beer.

  “I’ve water warming so you can bathe before I take you to greet Lady Greywater. She is mightily strict on cleanliness.”

  “It was a rough crossing,” I say, not wanting her to think I am always so grubby.

  “Come,” she says and I follow her through one of the doorways into a bedchamber where sits a wooden tub, half full of tepid water. “Shall I help you undress, or will you manage?”

  “Undress? Why?” I stare at her, full of suspicion.

  “So you can bathe. I thought I had explained that.”

  I point in alarm at the tub. “What? Get in there? Naked-like?” I have never been wet all over. I had thought, when she mentioned ‘bathing,’ that she meant giving myself the once over with a bit of flannel.

  She adds a steaming jugful to the bath. “Come on, it won’t hurt you. The mistress is waiting to see you.”

  I watch her busy about, laying out linen on the bed. I slowly begin to untie my bodice. In Bess’ company, for the first time in my life, I feel shamed of my own body. Maybe it’s the way she averts her eye that makes me shield my dugs with my arms as I step anxiously into the water.

  “Sit down then,” Bess orders, and I do as she says, sinking my arse into the warmth. After a moment or so I realise it isn’t as bad as I thought it would be. The water is a bit like a caress and almost right away I can feel the aches in my bones begin to ease. But when she tips a great jug of boilin’ water over my head, I scream like a pig in the slaughter house and come up splutterin’.

  “What did you do that for?” I blink water from my eyes and glare at her as she approaches with a big hunk of lye soap.

  “The mistress mislikes vermin,” she says firmly, “and your hair is alive with lice. Come on, Joan, be a good girl now.”

  Bess is fiercely thorough. The soap burns where the little blighters have been feastin’ on my scalp and her nails feel as if she is raking great holes in my head. But afterwards, when I am wrapped in a linen sheet before the roaring fire so she can tease the snarls and dead livestock from my hair, I begin to feel more like myself again.

  “There,” she says, when I am all trigged up in a home dyed woollen skirt and fresh linen. “That is much better.” I look down at my clothes, they have never been worn by anyone else. It’s a new experience for me. The linen feels prickly on my fresh-scrubbed skin, and with my hair tu
cked away beneath a modest cap, I am as decent looking as a nun on a holy day. Bess looks pleased with the result of her labours. “There,” she says, “I think we are ready to greet Lady Greywater now.”

  The big house that Bess leads me through is grander than anything I’ve ever seen. We pause outside Lady Greywater’s inner chamber while Bess scratches on the door before taking me inside.

  The chamber walls are lined with bright tapestries, the floors are clean and even the air is rich with the fragrance of herbs. When I was a girl and my mother took me to the priest for the first time, he spread me on a rich brocade counterpane. I remember noticing the way the colours of the pattern wove in and out of each other. There were birds and flowers and vines, but it was never so fine as the fabrics I see around me now. This place is fit for a Queen, I think to myself in those first moments. And then a movement takes my attention and I see Lady Greywater seated at the fireside. She is to be my mistress now. Although outside the sun is blazing it is not so warm indoors, but as we draw closer to the fire, the comfort increases. She looks up and smiles at me. “Joan.” She beckons me closer to the hearth. “How well you look. Was your journey very tedious?”

  I shake my head, for once made speechless by her treatment of me. She is speaking to me as if I am a decent sort, like Bess, and I am touched by it.

  Bess bobs a curtsey and nudges me to do the same, but although I try to copy her, I am awkward in comparison. I let my eyes stray about the room again, taking in the rich furnishings, the gleam of the panelling on the wall, the stiff effigy of a man that seems to be painted on a board. “Eve is with my mother, would you like to see her?”

  Her words drag me back to her face. I bob again, a better effort this time, I hope. “Oh yes, my Lady, I should indeed.” She nods to Bess who, after sending me a silent scowl that warns me to behave myself, departs, leaving us alone. Lady Greywater looks at me quietly for a while before she breaks the silence again. “My sister seems to have loved you.”

  “That’s nice to hear,” I reply, not sure what she wants me to say.

  “Of course, everything depends on how she receives you now. I’m sure you understand that, if she has forgotten you, we will not require you to care for her. But be assured, I will find you work in the kitchen or dairy but perhaps not in the house.”

  “I understand,” I say, but I don’t, not really. Why would she bring me all this way, make me suffer all I’ve suffered just to keep me in her dairy when she must have skilled workers aplenty? It makes no sense to me.

  And then I hear a voice; a loud, childish babble of nonsense that I remember well. I turn to face the door. When it opens and Bess enters, leading Eve by the hand as if she were a child, my heart jumps a little in my chest.

  This is an Eve I’ve never seen before. She is plump and rosy, no longer in rags and craving for food. She is so clean!

  I take a step toward her and wait for her to notice me, praying she will recognise me. My mouth is as dry as ashes and I swallow a lump in my throat while she examines me dispassionately from the other side of the room. Her dull eyes rest upon me for a long, long moment and while I whisper a silent prayer, she keeps on looking. I feel as if I am going to sweal away with the waiting.

  Then, in a few shuffling steps, she crosses the space between us and, without speaking, lays her head on my breast. I close my eyes as her arms slide around my neck and she begins to rock, back and forward, humming very gently. And all the while, my silly tears are dropping onto her linen cap.

  Isabella Greywater – July 1542

  There can be no mistaking Eve’s fondness for Joanie. She has been calmer and happier these last few hours than I have seen her in a very long time. It may seem foolish for Anthony and I to allow her contact with a woman like Joan Toogood, but it was the only way to ensure my sister any lasting peace.

  In fact, the more time I spend with her, and the immodest images that my mind conjures of her unspeakable past begin to fade, I find her company much easier than some of the gentle women I knew at court. She is funny and unpretentious. I do not doubt her when she says she loves Eve like her own child, and that she protected her as far as was possible. Her devotion seems to be returned full measure and although I am sorry to have lost the closeness I once shared with my sister, I can take some comfort from her present happiness.

  They are walking before me in the garden now, and Eve’s head is resting on Joanie’s shoulder. Bess’ daughter, Mary, tags along behind them with her fat fists full of daisies. It is so long since I have felt such contentment that I am unsure it can last.

  In the Abbey precinct Anthony and his steward are overseeing the unloading of the produce brought by ship from London. When he sees me, he raises a hand in welcome. I alter my direction and cross the grass toward him. Joan and Eve, seeing my departure from the path, follow slowly in my wake. When I reach him, Anthony removes his feathered cap and tinkers with it, casting a doubtful eye in Joan’s direction. “So, she has arrived, then?”

  “As you see, my Lord, she has, and Eve seems very pleased. Indeed she has scarcely let go her hand since they were reunited.” I am determined not to allow his reservations to sway my resolution.

  “Well, she is certainly more wholesome looking than I expected.”

  “She is indeed, and is still very handsome, I think. I begin to see what charm she held for Francis.”

  Anthony’s brow crinkles. “Good Lord, she is not fairer than Eve.”

  “No, but she has a certain motherliness that some men favour.”

  He makes no answer but I notice the flush upon his face and know that he is thinking of the intimate hours we have lately both enjoyed in the privacy of our bedchamber.

  Joan and Eve are close now and he looks down his nose at Joan and gives her a grudging welcome. “It is good to see you in happier circumstances,” he says guardedly.

  “Yes, my Lord, and 'tis good to be here among honest folk …” Her words trail off and her brow furrows as her eye is taken with someone in the yard. “My Lady, what is he doing here? The fellow bearin’ the sack of grain? I’m sure I’ve seen him before, loitering on the Bankside.”

  Anthony and I turn to where she is pointing and my husband quirks his brow. “Do you mean Perkins? My steward engaged him a week since. His recommendation was good. Do you know him well?”

  “Nay,” Joan replies, “not well at all, but I know his face, if I can only place just where I have seen it.”

  “Which fellow do you mean, Joanie? The one stacking the sacks in the barn? Oooh …” As the man turns, I am at once struck by so great a coincidence that my blood runs quite cold. I too have seen that pale face and those bulbous eyes somewhere before. “Anthony, th – that is Bishop Gardiner’s man, I am sure of it! I saw them together at Greenwich, and while I was on progress with the Queen, I saw him speaking to Dereham, the man that died along with Culpepper. Why should he be suddenly working as a servant for us, here in the wilds of Wales?”

  “I have no idea, but I mean to discover it.” Anthony strides determinedly across the yard and, summoning his steward to follow him, hails the fellow forward. As if I am watching a play, I see the man whip off his cap. Realising he is in some trouble, he cringes beneath the hail of my lord’s questions. He nods and then shakes his head, every vestige of colour flooding from his parchment cheeks, and his eyes dart about the precinct as if seeking an escape. Then, quite suddenly, my husband thrusts him bodily against the barn door and whips out his dagger.

  “Anthony!” I cry, running toward him and hovering just a short distance away. “Take care, my Lord.”

  Anthony ignores me. “Why has Gardiner sent you?” he snarls. “What do you hope to find here? Who do you wish to harm?”

  The fellow’s neck is stretched and the point of the dagger is digging deep into his skin. I see a ruby drop of blood appear, followed by another, the crimson beads forming a chain that dribbles down and soaks into his collar.

  “I mean no harm to anyone.” He gasps, his
eyeballs swivelling from Anthony to the steward and back again. “My instructions are to keep an eye on the girl and ascertain that she is indeed a lunatic.”

  “What else?”

  “I am to seek out what she knows about her husband’s last movements.”

  “Why?” Anthony leans in closer, increasing the pressure of his blade. His usual demeanour is quite abandoned and I am seeing my husband in a whole new light. My heart beats rapidly and beside me I can hear Joanie’s breath issuing in short, sharp jerks as she absorbs the scene. The tension hovers in the air around us, making the skin on the back of my neck prickle. “I’m waiting.” Anthony’s voice is menacing, I feel I scarcely know him.

  “Wareham stole some papers detrimental to my master’s cause and sold them to his enemies. The Bishop seeks to lay hands on them.”

  “And,” Anthony persists, “presumably he also seeks knowledge of Wareham’s whereabouts.” The fellow is quiet. We can see his mind feverishly determining how to answer, but before he can make reply, Joan steps forward. Her voice is low and dangerous as she seals the fellow’s tomb.

  “He ain’t interested in Francis. I reckon he knows very well what happened to him for he’s the one that killed him. Ain’t that right? I’d bet my quaint this is the sly fellow Peter saw in my yard that day, and I’ll wager he’s been dogging us all ever since.”

  The villain says nothing, but flinches when Anthony drives his fist into the barn door just inches from the fellow’s head. “Answer me, man, before I forget myself and give you what you deserve.”

  He keeps his eyes closed and decides to neither struggle nor deny his crime.

  “It was an honest fight, my Lord. I did but seek the papers he carried but he resisted me and drew his knife. It was him or me. I had no choice.”

  Joan crosses herself, and we draw in a shared breath of horror while Eve, unaffected by the presence of her husband’s murderer, sits on the ground and begins to hum a nursery tune.