After a long day recording the newly purchased cloth in a ledger, I organised my stock anywhere I could, mostly above me in the attics where the apprentices could keep watch over it. I needed my bed. That first night of our return, thankful to be home, I climbed up onto my goose feather mattress, pulled the counterpane up to my chin, longing for rest and easy dreams, satisfied that I had arrived back in Wood Street with new cloth and without further misadventure.
A pounding on the outside door put paid to my rest. Hearing the porter draw back the hall door’s enormous bolts, I climbed out of bed again, lifted my cloak off its hook, grasped hold of my night lantern, and opened my chamber door a crack. There were voices below in the hall. I slipped out and listened at the top of the stairway. I could not recognise them immediately, nor could I make out what was being said.
Before we had set off for Northampton, I had asked for a spy window to be inserted into the hall door. The servant on night duty was instructed to lift this up before opening my latches, yet tonight he had apparently allowed a stranger in.
Ducking back inside my chamber, I slipped a sharp dagger from below my pillow into my mantle pocket and lifted a lantern we kept lit just outside in the passage way. I heard the door below creak closed. I hurried down the stairway into the hall and threaded my way through my sleeping servants to the hall door. Just inside the porch, in a pool of weak rushlight, two of my servants were bending over a collapsing man who was gasping for breath.
‘Fetch the mistress,’ the door porter was saying. ‘She will want to deal with this so-called knight, this traitor. He won’t escape this time.’
There was a yelp from below a thatch of bright hair.
‘She’s here,’ I said, lifting my lantern higher. ‘What is going on?’
The figure groaned and looked up at me.
‘Mistress, have pity,’ he gasped before I could speak again and I knew that voice.
The porter had him by the shirt collar and was shaking him like a drowned water rat. ‘Stop that, Dicken,’ I ordered. ‘You don’t need to shake him.’
It was young Toby; not the handsome sword-waving Toby I had once known but a sad, bruised-face reflection of that boy. Though in my heart I knew he was not responsible for the Midsummer’s Eve fire, I was as furious as my servants that he could just turn up like this. He was in a terrible state but pity departed me and I accused him. ‘My warehouse burned down and you have the nerve to return here. Were you responsible? Many think it was you, Toby.’
‘Answer the mistress.’ Another shake from Dicken.
Toby groaned, ‘No, no, Mistress. It was not me. I did not cause the fire.’
‘Did you not, Toby? It has taken you long enough to explain. Why should I listen to you now? You never raised the alarm and you ran away. You were our sword and you fled. You claimed to be a knight’s son, a scion of the great de Bohun family.’ I snorted. ‘A true knight’s son has courage. You possess none.’
The servant holding him shook him, emitting a growl like a hound with its parry, cruel and fearsome. ‘Noble family, by the saints, ‘tis a lie. What are we to do with him, Mistress? Send for the constable?’
I lifted my lantern higher. Toby’s face was badly bruised, his left eye swollen. Something bad had occurred to bring him back on a freezing November night and I wanted to know what. I needed to discover what had occurred on the night of the fire. I recollected the shadowed man of that evening and the veiled threat. ‘Bring him into my parlour before the whole house awakens. Fetch Meg. He’s hurt. Before we call the constable, I want to find out the truth of what happened that night.’ Already the sleeping servants were awake and mumbling.
‘Go back to sleep,’ I ordered. The four hall servants fell back onto their pallets again.
Toby was clearly very frightened. Blood had seeped through his tunic sleeve. He kept glancing over his shoulder as if there was a pursuit, even though the door was closed and bolted again. We bundled him into the parlour through the hall’s side door. ‘Tell Meg to fetch food. He looks half-starved, and bring me lavender water and cloth.’ I almost felt sorry for Toby. Was he guilty? I still thought not. The servant hurried upstairs to the miniscule closet beside my chamber where Meg was, I suspected, exhausted after our journey and sleeping the sleep of the departed.
The lad slumped onto the settle by the dying fire, trembling with fear and shivering with cold. I threw a blanket around him then knelt by the fire and blew on the embers, coaxing it to flame and carefully adding kindling stick by stick from the hearth box. Toby never spoke. Soon, Dicken returned with water and cloth. ‘Mistress Meg is on her way,’ he said, taking a moment to glare at Toby.
‘We near burned into cinders that night,’ he spat. ‘Because of you. You are only good for chains and a fire about you scorching as Hell. No mercy!’
‘That’s quite enough, Dicken.’
At least the fire had revived and now it burned merrily.
‘Go then, Dicken, and make sure the door is bolted. Let no one else over my threshold tonight.’
Dicken scuttled off. ‘He is dangerous, Mistress,’ he threw back at me.
I lifted away the blanket, made Toby remove his filthy tunic and dabbed at his wounds with the soothing water. He bore my ministrations bravely. What was it about me that attracted overt malevolence to the boys in my service?
‘They are flesh wounds and bruises,’ I said as I wound a linen bandage around his injured arm. ‘Nothing is broken. You have explaining to do.’
‘I know,’ he whispered.
I took the chair that had been my husband’s and sat down utterly exhausted. ‘Talk.’
‘Mistress, it was not me who torched the warehouse.’
‘If not you, who was it? You were supposed to watch out for danger.’
This was followed by a rush of tears but I refused to be moved by them. ‘Toby, where have you been?’ I said sternly.
He shook his head, wiped his eyes and swallowed. ‘South of the river. I was frightened so I ran, Mistress. I ran away because they were going to murder me. It was me they wanted, not the warehouse. The fire was an accident.’ He took a long breath.
‘I need to understand what happened. Who are they? Did you carelessly cause the fire, knock over a lantern?’
‘No, I did not. They had been carrying torches. One was knocked over when they tried to hold me down and take my sword. Everything caught fire at once.’
‘Who were they?’
‘Mistress, they were holding on to me. I know not who they were but they called me a catamite, which I am not.’ He paused. I crossed myself. ‘They said they would take away my manhood and feed it to their dogs. They said they would gut me. When flames rose they never tried to kick them out. They dragged me out into the yard with them. There was then an explosion inside the warehouse and they loosened their hold on me. The explosion saved me. I shook them off and ran through the opened gate into the alley. I ran and ran until I found myself a hiding place in a backyard stable.’ He stopped again.
‘Go on,’ I said, terrified now myself. Whoever they were they were out there, possibly watching my house, watching out for Toby. I needed to know the rest. I needed to know whether I was placed in danger too.
He swallowed and continued. ‘I hid there until daylight. I crossed the big bridge. I’ve been hiding in Southwark since, with the prostitutes, begging food, sweeping floor straw like I did before. I am no catamite.’
My hand flew to my mouth. But my husband had been… Would this secret never go away? Not even our servants knew what Tom Williams was. Again, I remembered the shadowy person who had whispered in my ear on the night of the fire. As Toby paused his tale, I found myself drawing my cloak protectively about me. Toby may not have been a catamite but they thought he was. They had attacked the wrong person because Toby was not my husband’s lover. That person had never lived here. I never saw him, but I had known of him. He was a nobleman who lived at court and I had hated the way he had corrupted my husband years b
efore we had wed. I did not want to know his name. It would bring accompanying shame to me. Tom’s lover was powerful. Mine was a sham marriage but I could tell no one this. I could only pray to St Elizabeth to intercede to God for my soul’s safety because of my concealment of this truth. I could only pray for forgiveness for my husband’s sin. Even now I was guilty of harbouring this hideous sin and secret, because none of it must get about or I would be ruined. Toby was innocent but no one would believe him. My husband had taken such care of his secret life and was so protected by his noble lover that even Toby did not know the truth. I crossed myself again and said as evenly as I could, ‘Why return here now?’
‘Look at me, Mistress,’ Toby was saying. ‘I throw myself on your mercy. I upset a customer. He wanted what I would not give and when I refused he drew a knife, beat me and cut me. I have no food, nothing and I have nowhere else to go.’
‘You ran away from us, Toby, and expect my protection?’
‘I was outnumbered, Mistress Williams.’
I heard the door open. Meg appeared in the doorway, wrapped in her mantle, carrying ale and a bowl of last night’s gruel. ‘What is he doing here?’ she said and shoved the bowl into his hands. She made to turn on her heel.
I lifted my hand to stop her. ‘No, stay, Meg.’ I sighed. We were going to have to do something about him. ‘I don’t want him upsetting my household. I have heard his tale and I don’t want him turned away.’
Meg glared at him. ‘A sorry night this is when he who is so cowardly that he betrays those who feed him comes back to cause trouble.’
I turned to Toby. ‘The constable has searched throughout the Cripplegate Ward for you.’ I shook my head and angrily folded my arms. ‘Eat, Toby. I shall tell you what is going to happen.’
Meg tossed a log on the reviving fire and it blazed up. Toby gulped his food down as I thought of what to do with him. If the servants did not know already that he had returned, they would soon enough. Toby’s story must not become servants’ gossip.
‘Did you see anything of those who attacked you that night, Toby? Features, height, clothing?’
He hung his head over his plate. ‘One had a jagged scar on his face. It ran from his left ear down to his chin. I smelled his perfume too. It was expensive for I know it. I have smelled it in Church, the incense, I mean, the Frankincense.’ He shuddered and I felt sorry for him.
‘And?’ I spoke quietly.
‘Another had no hair on his head and he had eyes that bulged out. He was the one who pulled my sword from me. He was strong.’
‘How many?’
‘Three, all cloaked. The third - I don’t know. I never saw him. Good cloaks. Good weave; one was brown with velvet trim. The third I just don’t much remember. He was small but sturdy.’
‘Not poor then,’ I said thoughtfully.
‘No,’ Toby said. ‘Of middling height - strong too. I don’t know who those men were - and I never want to see them again.’
‘Where do your family dwell? My husband said you had been a ward and that you ran away. Are you really a knight’s son?’
‘A poor knight’s son. Lincoln. They have a manor there. We dwell on De Bohun land. They are relatives, distant, though I bear the name, my father’s name too.’ He hung his head. ‘Wrong side of the blanket, long ago.’
‘Then you will return to Lincoln, as soon as I can arrange it, and never will you return.’
I turned to Meg who was standing beside me with her arms folded. She wore a fearsome look on her face. Her uncovered head was a wild mass of curls. ‘Meg, tell Cook Toby is to sleep in the kitchen. He does not allow himself to be seen outside this house. We can tell the servants that he was frightened and not responsible for the fire. He ran away because he was attacked and fearful. Mostly this is true.’
I turned back to Toby. ‘I do not think you were responsible for the fire, nor do I think that we shall get justice either for you. You can stay here until I can arrange your departure. It must be soon. You saw tonight what Dicken intends, given a chance.’
‘To turn me over to the constables.’ He sighed. ‘Thank you, Mistress.’ After a moment’s thought, his eyes filled with tears. ‘My family won’t want me either.’
‘You will go to them none the less or I shall give you over to Dicken’s kind of justice. I shall provide you with a purse of coins and a set of fresh clothes. As to what you say to them or how you behave with them, well, Toby, that is for you to decide over the coming few days.
Chapter Twelve
Springtime of the previous year
I COULD NOT FORGIVE TOM Williams for his betrayal of our marriage in such a sinful manner, but I had discovered a sense of repose in his Wood Street house. His mother had died from the sweating sickness in the spring of 1511 and, after her death, I was in charge of the day-to-day affairs of our household. I smiled at the merchants’ wives, helped his father, kept the cloth ledgers for Tom and attended to business when he was away. Before Christmastide that year Richard Williams, too, sickened and died of the bloody flux. His death had caused me sadness, since I had grown fond of my father-in-law. I had nursed him and through his recent illness I had prayed hard to Our Lady for his recovery. My prayers were to no avail. In the end, his death was a relief because it ended his suffering.
Spring winds had blown the day Tom had brought Toby to our house, the sort of wind that rattles the window panes, that makes you glad to be inside and which promises to blow away the chill of winter frost and the endless fasting of Lent.
I sat in my parlour by the fire embroidering purple daisies on a napkin. My hands had constantly sought occupation since we had buried my husband’s father just before Christmastide.
That winter, my husband had been excused his yeoman duty so that he could put his business affairs in order. In the space of a year he had lost both mother and father. He had worked hard and purchased new cloth. Despite my anger at him, I admired this. Time was running out and he was anxious to return to his duties by Eastertide.
It was at this time that he employed Gerard Smith as his right-hand man. The apprentices liked Smith. They respected and looked up to him because he was already a journeyman. Although I kept the books, once Tom employed Gerard Smith, I had a little more time for myself. I did not have to nurse an aged father-in-law anymore, nor did I expect any more additions to our household. I was right on the first count and wrong about the second.
‘Lizzy,’ my husband blithely called through the parlour door that March afternoon, ‘come and meet Toby, for he is as good with a sword as I, a young nobleman, no less, though without money to purchase steed or patron. When I return to my duties, Toby will guard the warehouse and run our errands. He’s helping me with a roll of painted cloth right now. Come and see it, my dear. Do come and meet him.’
What now, I thought, feeling irritated, though I had no right to be annoyed; we needed a watch man, but what good would an impoverished nobleman be to us? We were cloth merchants. I tucked my petulance away, folded my sewing into my work basket, placed it on the shelf and followed Tom into the hall.
First of all, I noticed the gorgeous painted fabric, half-unrolled on the trestle, all silvered stars. Then my eyes beheld the golden-headed vision that was Toby.
The cloth that lay on the large trestle in the hall was the same starry fabric that I took to the Prior of Austin Friars the following September. The fair-haired, blue-eyed, handsome youth of less than sixteen years was unrolling it. I beheld the loveliness of a night sky unfold as a beautiful boy solemnly opened it up. The lad was as lovely as the painted cloth. He wore a faded tunic and a gambeson. His impoverished state did not detract from his beauty and his wide eyes. I sighed to myself thinking, will I have to share my home with a new lover of my husband’s? It must not be. If he dared this, I would make a great fuss. I would return to my father’s house, no doubt never to wed again. If my husband kept his secret life away from me at least I could pretend a half-lived life, though I feared for my soul and for hi
s. Yet, when Toby bowed low and smiled a genuine and very charming smile at me, and fetched me a padded stool to sit upon, I was almost won over by his manners - but not quite, not yet.
‘The cloth is beautiful,’ I said, trying not to be distracted by the boy’s angelic face. ‘Where shall we sell it?’
‘One of the monasteries we sell woollen cloth to in autumn - you know, the wool for their novice’s new habits. This painted cloth, the prior and his friars will like. They might use it as a hanging for the Christmastide plays.’ Tom and Toby began to roll the cloth away. ‘You are right, Elizabeth, it is very fine.’ He turned to Toby. ‘Now, since you are to stay, I shall introduce you to Master Smith, my journeyman.’
I returned to the parlour but could not concentrate on my sewing. My needle stabbed me and the daisies came out wrong and had to be unpicked. I kept wondering if the handsome youth was about to replace my husband’s friend. When our supper of cheese and bread and buttermilk was served in the hall that evening, I noticed my husband smiling at Toby. The candlelight emphasised the boy’s beauty and his young skin glowed. No, I thought, he must go. We are undone if this boy stays.
‘He is not staying,’ I told my husband later that evening in the privacy of the bedchamber he occupied, the one opposite my own, his clothing pole filled with beautiful, expensive garments; fancy hats stored with gorgeous shoes in his coffers. ‘I will not permit such danger here. You sin, husband, but you will not bring this sin into our house.’
Tom Williams folded my hands into his own and held my look with earnest blue eyes. ‘Elizabeth, Toby is not my lover, nor will he ever be so. I plighted my troth long ago to another.’
‘And not me,’ I muttered angrily.
The Woman in the Shadows: Tudor England through the eyes of an influential woman Page 10