Portrait of an Unknown Woman

by Vanora Bennett

  He noticed my bashfulness now. I think to put me at ease, he also began to stretch for a shirt and shake it out before putting arms into sleeves. But he went on looking happy and comfortable.

  “John,” I said, taking courage from the easy intimacy of the moment to ask the question I’d never dared ask. “If we’re going to marry now, shouldn’t you tell me about your family? I don’t know anything about where you’re from and who your people are. You sprang up from nowhere as our tutor . . . fully formed . . .”

  Not that it really mattered, I supposed. So many people that we knew were men from nowhere, rising from the ruins of wars that had wiped out half the aristocracy, destroyed fortunes, and caused chaos throughout the land. Cardinal Wolsey was the son of a butcher; his secretary, Thomas Cromwell, the son of a blacksmith. Father’s grandfather had been a baker.

  John had always been part of our circle, and that had been enough; but if we were to be united before God, surely I should know something about whatever sisters and brothers, parents and shires, he’d hailed from?

  He looked vaguely round, with the shirt flapping over on his taut chest. I could smell him on me; I breathed in and savored the memory of our closeness as he began to tie up the ribbons. “I’ll have a lifetime to tell you my stories, so I won’t rush them all out now,” he said, and I could see him choosing his words. “I lost my family young. You know that my father died. And then I had a good stepfather, but I lost him suddenly too. After that I went to live with my aunt, in Burgundy, until she died,” he went on, with a faraway look in his eye. “That’s when I studied at the university at Louvain. And then I traveled. I went everywhere when I was young, looking for a way to”—he paused—“find part of my family again. Looking for people who remembered me after the wars. You don’t know the half of it. It wasn’t just the Low Countries. I’ve been up and down the kingdom in my time, and beyond. I’ve been to Ireland. I’ve been to Scotland. But nothing came of it. The only kin I have left is a brother, and we didn’t ever get on well . . .” There was wistfulness on his face now. “He’s in London, oddly enough. One of the things I wanted to do when I came back was to renew our relationship. But coldnesses creeps in. Gaps develop that can never be bridged.”

  I thought I might have begun to understand that. When I looked at the expression on his face now, I was half seeing Elizabeth, and a part of me was quietly resolving to make things better between us when we next saw each other. “So that’s how it happened,” John was saying, stockings already on his feet, putting a hand out to feel around for breeches.

  “Then Erasmus told me—and your father—that I’d find a new family in the fellowship of learning.” He stood up, easing on his clothes. And he passed me my skirts, and handed me into them as expertly as a lady’s maid. “That felt like a homecoming. So I started a new life. It’s irrelevant now, of course—now I have you.” He laughed, ending the conversation. I realized, a little disconsolately, that I scarcely knew any more now than I had before. Perhaps he’d always be an enigma. “We’ll be a real family for each other now,” he said, kissing away the bewildered frown on my forehead. “That’s enough for me.”

  He turned me around and bent his head, suddenly businesslike, toward my laces. “Breathe in,” he said briskly, tucking a visible flap of shift under the bodice.

  I wasn’t ready for that. Slightly taken aback by how much he under stood about the way women’s clothing was put together, I said, more tartly than I meant to, “You could be a lady’s maid, Master John.”

  He laughed and pulled at the laces as if I were a doll. He wasn’t ashamed of this knowledge, I realized, nor of knowing the secret ways of the crochet lace of my modest collar, which he attached next. He almost seemed proud of it all. He picked up my bonnet too and slipped it onto my head, adjusting it with deft fingers to cover my hair. I thought he might be showing me something.

  “Well,” he said, laughing, finally catching my inquiring eye, still full of his own lightness of spirit. “In the name of truth, then, Meg, you must know that I haven’t always been faithful to the idea of you.”

  I nodded reluctantly, not wanting to know this but not wanting to appear naïve either, feeling a little of my own happiness leak away. “Italy . . . ,” I said, trying not to sound disconsolate.

  Apparently not aware of my uncertain tone, he charged on. “No—I actually led a monkish sort of life in Italy—I mean back here at court. It’s a lascivious place, King Henry’s court. They talk about it all over Europe: the stamping ground of the new rich—self-made men grabbing everything they can. When I came back I found that everything they say is true. Every entertainment ended the same way: a lot of drink, a lot of wild talk, and a lot of wild behavior. And there’s nothing wilder than the respectable married ladies who flirt with you so demurely from behind their masks early in the evening. By the small hours, when they’ve drunk their way through half a barrel of wine, they’re only too ready to let you take them off into the draperies—or the rose garden by the light of the full moon—and take whatever liberties your own wine-fueled fancy tells you to. So I let myself be led astray once or twice,” and I could see private memories flit across his face. Then he took in my shocked face, and looking repentant, he went on, pulling my chin up so I had, reluctantly, to meet his eye. “Oh, Meg, don’t look so disappointed in me . . . because it was one of those encounters that finally brought me to my senses. Someone who reminded me of you. And suddenly I realized it was time to put all that behind me, and come and find the grown-up Mistress Meg and try and win her hand.”

  He kissed my nose again and looked deep into my eyes. “I’ve offended you,” he said, sounding stricken. “I should have held my tongue. Too much truth is always difficult.”

  I broke away and picked up my cloak, still feeling and, it seemed, against my will, looking unsettled, suddenly wretchedly vulnerable at the memory of having given myself to this man in this wood, fearful of the heart-stopping possibility that he might talk about me, one day, to some other woman in the same way: she reminded me of you.

  “It’s the past, Meg,” he said persuasively, keeping his distance, not foolhardy enough to risk trying to touch me until the hurt passed but clearly guessing what was going through my mind. “Never look back. It was never anything serious; you know I’ll never notice another woman again. I’ve found you.”

  I put my cloak around my shoulders. He was still standing in stocking feet. His boots and cloak were forgotten in the nest of crumpled grass and leaves we’d made. He looked like a giant stork, or a raven, standing there so tall and black and suddenly anxious. And just as suddenly I wanted to forgive him.

  “Isn’t it time for us to go?” I said, and found a smile for him, and enjoyed his visible relief as he scrambled for his boots and hopped, comically, on one foot and then on the other, doing them up.

  “And,” I went on, before he’d had time to compose himself, wanting to be able to forget feeling vulnerable and alone forever, “isn’t it time for you to tell Father I’ve accepted you and ask for permission to marry me—tonight?”

  “Tonight.” He had his cloak on now and was arranging it over his shoulder. Then his jaw hardened into decision, and he grinned at me and held out a hand to start guiding me back out of the wood. “You’re right, wife,” he said firmly. “You have good instincts. Tonight it is.”

  We parted at the gate. He went toward the New Building to find Father.

  I went alone to my room with my feet hardly touching the ground.

  I took off my clothes. I looked at myself in the glass. There were scratches on my back and buttocks, twigs in my hair, red marks on my breasts, and a small, sharp, invisible ache between my legs. But my lips looked full and red, my eyes were shining, and even when they brought me water, I almost didn’t want to get into it because I wanted to go on smelling his smell on me. After I’d scrubbed myself till my skin was pink and my teeth chattering from the coldness of the water, I dried every inch of skin carefully, rubbed salve on my
self, and prepared for a new life without any need for secret hopes and fears. I dressed festively in the yellow dress I’d worn on the January day he’d reappeared. I found the pearl choker Father had given me when I came of age, which I’d had hardly any occasion to wear. I reddened my bruised lips and flushed cheeks. Far from my usual businesslike way before the glass, I pirouetted and smiled at myself, enjoying the feel of the silk under my hands and the way it flared out as I turned.

  I wanted to look my best for Father’s announcement at the table.

  I didn’t want to have to talk to anyone before my news became public, so I sat down on my bed to wait for suppertime. I couldn’t concentrate on needlework or reading. Time dragged. I could hear Margaret, still in her bed down the corridor, singing with happiness; a maid beating at something in a closet nearby; Dame Alice murdering a lute tune downstairs. I stood at the window and looked into the garden and saw Master Hans and Master Nicholas taking a turn just outside; I ducked away in case they saw me and invited me to join them. From a step farther back, I watched two squirrels jerk playfully across the lawn and up and down the nearest tree. I sat down again. The sun was still high in the sky. There wasn’t even the sound of pots clattering that might have meant the afternoon was nearly over.

  Finally I couldn’t stand the quiet anymore. I tiptoed downstairs and out into the garden and stood basking in the sun and drinking in the oily sweetness of the roses and the singing of birds. Everything my senses were aware of reminded me, with a secret thrill, of the smooth movement of body on body in the woods that morning; even the black eyes of the starling looking inquisitively down at me from a spray of greenery reminded me of John.

  When I saw Father, walking slowly down a path toward the New Building with a letter in his hand, I almost danced toward him over the daisies and buttercups, so lightly that he didn’t seem to have heard my footsteps on the lawn behind. When I put a soft hand on his shoulder and said questioningly, “Father . . . ?” he jumped. He turned. I thought I’d see excitement and pleasure on my behalf on his face; I thought I’d see a blessing for our future forming on his lips; but I didn’t. He was unshaven and set-faced and full of cares. “Father, have you . . .” I faltered, stopping at the savage gloom in his eyes without even reaching the words. “. . . spoken to John?”

  Of course he hadn’t, I realized, kicking myself for my foolishness. John was waiting for him at the New Building, and he was only just heading off to it now.

  There was something that might have been pity in Father’s dark face. “I know you’ve talked seriously with John,” he said somberly—not the answer I expected. It was as if he hadn’t heard my question. “But I’m afraid I have bad news.” He waved the letter. “Edward Guildford is dead.”

  I was baffled. What was he talking about? I didn’t even know who Edward Guildford was. Father was getting letters every day telling him who had gone down with the sweating sickness. Why was he suddenly so worried about this stranger’s death? What could it possibly have to do with me and the important question I was asking?

  But I could, at least, see that he thought I should have understood better. When he saw my blank stare, he shook his head angrily. “You don’t even know who he is, do you?” he snapped. Less certain of my happiness than a moment ago, I shook my head. My mouth began to form the innocent word who? , but he saw it and shook his head again, even more angrily. “Not now, Meg,” he said brusquely.

  I’d never seen Father less than courteous. But now, without another word, he turned on his heel and stumped on toward the New Building.

  Bewildered, I stood where I was and watched him go.

  As he reached the door, I saw a figure disengage from the shadows behind the New Building and come loping toward him. John. My heart lifted again, especially when John followed Father in through the door and shut it.

  I walked to the river, full of anxious feelings I couldn’t name. I watched the fishing boats come in. When Master Hans came to stand beside me, a grin all over his big face, I said without ceremony: “Who is Edward Guildford?” He’d just spent two months at court scoping out everyone who might give him a commission. I knew he’d know.

  I wasn’t disappointed. He didn’t ask why I was asking, just looked pleased at getting a chance to display his knowledge, and answered: “Sir Edward Guildford, you mean. One of the most influential men at court. He ran the celebrations at Greenwich. A big man. Black haired.” He wriggled in delighted self-importance. “I met him many times.”

  “Thanks,” I said, and nodded to him. I still didn’t understand.

  I left Master Hans at the water’s edge and walked back, past the New Building. I peered inside. I could hear voices in the dusk inside, but speaking too quietly to make out what they were saying. I fidgeted around for a few minutes, but there was no sound of chairs scraping or keys.

  I walked toward the house and stood by the back door, watching the sun sink toward the horizon and the shadows lengthen. I was too restless to stand still; too restless to go inside. When I finally saw the two little figures come out of the New Building door, and Father stop and fiddle with the lock while John came striding up the path toward me, I ran to meet him.

  When I got close I saw he wasn’t going to stop. His eyes were red and swollen and there were wet streaks on his cheeks. But whoever he’d been crying over, it wasn’t me. He looked at me with an empty face and kept walking. “John . . . ?” I began, feeling the beginning of fear, turning to trot along behind him. “Not now, Meg,” he said, as brusquely as Father had earlier. And, with what sounded like a sob, he quickened his pace, lengthened the distance between us, and escaped into the house.

  One look at Father’s face turned the mood at table to ice. I had the impression that no one knew any better than I did what the matter was. Master Hans wiggled an eyebrow at me to express his secret puzzlement but stopped when I ignored him. John was not in the room. It seemed unreal; a waking nightmare intruding into my dream come true. I tried not to move too much to avoid drawing attention to myself decked out in my yellow dress and choker. I kept my eyes lowered and tried not to think of the sharp little nag of pain, sin remembered, between my legs. We ate in a deathly hush.

  “We will go to chapel tonight,” Father said, pushing aside a platter of untouched food, “for a funeral. Sir Edward Guildford, who has died of the sweating sickness, will be buried among us. God rest his soul.”

  Eyes rose, furtive signals passed from one bewildered diner to another.

  I saw Will Roper and Margaret (up, but still with a sickbed shawl around her thin shoulders) raise eyebrows at each other. Was this an explanation?

  Even they, who clearly knew who Sir Edward Guildford was, had no idea why he would be buried in our family chapel. It was unheard of. Father offered no further information. The two foreigners gave up any pretense of politeness and stared in frank curiosity from one pinched face to the next.

  Dame Alice kept her nose firmly down and stared at her food.

  We put on black cloaks over the clothes we were wearing and walked by torchlight to the village. Margaret went, despite her weakness, with Will holding her arm. Dame Alice walked with Master Nicholas. Fifty yards ahead, Father led the way with John, who’d slipped out of the house to join us when we set off but was so wrapped in his outer garment that you could hardly guess at his face. He’d walked straight past me. He hadn’t spoken to a soul. His shoulders were shaking.

  And that left me, slipping as far back as I could to avoid the humiliation of even seeing those shoulders, bringing up the rear with Master Hans. “I don’t understand anything,” he whispered plaintively. “What is this funeral?”

  I shook my head to indicate that I didn’t understand either, but kept my eyes ahead. I felt, by turns, numb, hot with a monstrous embarrassment, and sick, as though I’d eaten splinters of glass and was slowly shredding inside. I was having too much trouble controlling my own emotions to have anything to say to anyone else. I didn’t want him to insist on talking to
me.

  “Is the funeral why you are unhappy?” he persisted with his usual embarrassing frankness, still whispering but at larger-than-life volume.

  I shook my head again. Despite myself, I was touched by his concern. But the last thing I wanted was to have to answer an interrogation whispered at full pitch just behind the rest of my family. If I spoke, I’d weep, and I would do anything to avoid the humiliation of weeping.

  “No one understands about the funeral,” I whispered back through set lips.

  The event became still more numbingly unreal when we reached the chapel. Not just our priest, robed in black; not just the coffin of a stranger ringed by candles to greet us; not just the door of the family vault Father had had prepared for us, open to take in someone none of us had known in a mist of frankincense and damp. But there were people already kneeling in prayer by the time we walked in. All men. All tall. All in black cloaks. And all strangers. They’d come from the city, clearly, because there were horses outside, stamping and blowing and dusty from the London road. Pages with brightly colored legs and wrists sticking out under the muffle of cloaks—which meant boys in livery—were murmuring at the horses. And an armed escort in the shadows beyond, quiet, but unable to avoid clinking or stop light falling on the polished metal they were wearing about themselves.

  One by one, seeing Father and John, the strangers got up and approached them through the fog of scented candlelight. One by one they huddled together. Heads leaned forward to whisper. Black-clad arms touched John’s shoulders. His head bowed lower.

  It was only after the heavy footsteps of the procession, and after the priest had begun to declaim “De profundis . . . ” (Out of the depths I have cried to thee, O Lord: Lord, hear my prayer), that I felt another tweak at my arm.

  “Look,” hissed Master Hans, eyes staring so wide open that they looked as though they might pop out of his square face. His arm hadn’t moved, but he’d raised the first finger of his right hand. It was poking insistently toward the strangers.