The Woman in the Shadows: Tudor England through the eyes of an influential woman

by Carol McGrath

  I waited until the apprentice had departed, carefully broke her seal, and unfolded a piece of parchment which I read slowly by the firelight, as by now the day was dimming.

  ‘I’ll light the candles,’ Joan piped up and scurried around the room lighting it up.

  Dearest Elizabeth, I read, I fear I am unwell and cannot come to you this afternoon. My dear, I must send you a warning, however. Mistress Watt complained about your cloth to the parish wardens a month since. She says that your cloth contravenes sumptuary. When John raised this with me yesterday, I assured him the cloth I purchased from you was not breaking the law. I reminded him that Mistress Watt’s brother was a wool man and that it might be a jealous and somewhat zealous complaint but, dear Elizabeth, do take great care where you sell your new fabric.

  I folded the letter and slipped it into my sewing purse. Thomas must see this.

  ‘So why did she not come?’ Joan looked up from her embroidery and lifted a skein of black silk and her scissors.

  ‘She is unwell,’ was all I said.

  ‘Mistress Butler should have written sooner to you.’

  ‘She has apologised of course and excused herself and she will come another day,’ I lied.

  ‘Oh,’ Joan said, and threaded her needle.

  Annie began to grizzle. I lifted her from her cradle and let her suckle, finding her closeness such a comfort in the unpredictable world we find ourselves passing through.

  Thomas returned home shortly after Vespers, accompanied by John Williamson and also by Jon Woodall, a clerk in the Exchequer. My husband was in high spirits.

  ‘Another guest for supper, Elizabeth; go and order Cook to put out his best meats tonight and a plum pie if he has one, and the malmsey. We have the Princess’ birth to celebrate, and I have news from Cousin Robert. Great news that I shall tell you over supper.’ He laid his hand on Woodall’s arm. ‘Jon was on his way from the Tower when I met him on the street. Rather than him taking supper alone on such an important evening, here he is.’

  I put Joanna’s warning from my mind. Another warning took its place, for I was sure that Thomas’ news was connected to Archbishop Wolsey. I would rather that Thomas worked for anybody but a lofty clerical cheat. Wolsey was not popular and I disliked this association.

  ‘Of course,’ I said, curtseying to Jon Woodall. ‘You are welcome, sir.’ I indicated the benches placed by the hall fireplace where a great blaze burned. ‘I shall tell the maids to lay supper out in the parlour.’ I turned to John Williamson. ‘You will be staying for supper too?

  ‘Thank you, Mistress Elizabeth.’ Williamson bowed and when he rose, I noticed his eyes flit towards Joan who coyly turned on her heel. She set off towards the kitchen to find a maid to set our supper table and another to care for Annie who was soundly sleeping against her shoulder.

  Master Woodall too, to my surprise, was also watching my sister. He was a portly man with humorous, slightly bulging hazel eyes and brown hair cut at his chin in an old-fashioned pudding bowl style. He dressed neatly in plain brown worsted, his boots polished and his linen tunic spotless. He was unmarried and a few years older than my husband, well into his third decade. ‘Wives are expensive,’ he was inclined to say. ‘They eat up your credit.’ It was unlikely that he could be interested in Joan, who liked to spend the allowance Father gave her on pretty things. If he knew.

  Woodall was very attached to his widowed mother and I assumed that she was responsible for the perfect care of her son’s clothing. A wife to Master Woodall would have high standards to keep. As both men watched Joan’s retreating back, I wondered if Woodall was lonely without a wife. My pretty sister did not lack suitors and Jon Woodall, despite his protestations about expensive wives, admired her.

  Thomas’ good news arrived between pigeon pie and a custard tart. He pushed his plate towards me and said, ‘Now, Elizabeth, leave off serving us and sit yourself down to listen to what I have to say.’

  I wondered if my premonition was right, all thoughts of Mistress Watt gone from my head.

  ‘Our fortunes are set to improve,’ Thomas began to say. ‘Until it is absolutely confirmed I want not a word beyond the parlour door.’ Thomas glanced from me to Joan to John Williamson. I discerned excitement in his fidgety posture.

  I sipped my cup of malmsey patiently. ‘Don’t prolong the suspense, Thomas. Tell us. What is the news?’

  We all sat absolutely still waiting for him to speak. Thomas rose and closed the parlour door, which was slightly ajar. The fire hissed as snow fell down the chimney, dropping onto burning logs. I could hear the wintry wind rattling the casement and dogs barking beyond our walls. Thomas smiled, a gesture which was unusual when he was about to impart anything relating to himself. He was pleased with himself tonight.

  ‘Some time ago, Cousin Robert proposed to Cardinal Wolsey that I took over the stewardship of York Place. The position is now vacant.’

  I felt my eyes widen. The atmosphere in my parlour shifted from one of jovial, good-hearted friendship to one of awe. Thomas would be close to Wolsey. I could not voice my distaste for the Cardinal. I could not pour my concern out and quench Thomas’ happiness with his new important position. All I could hope was that he did not sail too close to the prelate and the courtiers Wolsey mingled with, other than to further his legitimate legal opportunities. Thomas lifted my hand and clasped it. ‘And,’ his voice lowered into a velvet-like softness. ‘Robert thinks it possible that the Cardinal will be the next Lord Chancellor of England.’ He turned to Master Woodall. ‘Could it be so, Jon?’

  ‘I have heard such a rumour in the Exchequer, Thomas, and a more canny man England has not known in that position since the days of Saint Thomas Becket himself.’

  ‘Let us hope he does not share Becket’s fate, or I shall be out of a job,’ Thomas replied in an amused tone.

  ‘Have you met him already?’ Joan spoke up.

  ‘Yes, I confess yes, indeed I have, some weeks ago, but only to say that if the post were available I would take it.’

  ‘You never said this to me.’ I felt slightly annoyed that he had not. A candle spluttered. Immediately, I regretted my petulance. I must control my possessiveness because it would never be possible to own Thomas. His work possessed him.

  ‘Until these things are settled, one never says anything, not even to a wife, my sweeting,’ Thomas said, breaking the silence.

  Although his voice was kindly, his eyes were determined, steely grey, and still. I wondered what else my husband kept close to his heart. Had it been me, I could never have kept such a meeting as one with the great Thomas Wolsey, the King’s confidante, Cardinal, and maybe future chancellor to the King, secret from my husband. This kind of fortune greeted ordinary men rarely and I shuddered because I could not help thinking that it was a fortune born on an ill wind. It was a position held in high regard by men. In our world it was considered that Lady Fortune smiled on women if we married well, for although many of us possessed good sense, often better sense than our husbands, we were always in the shadows.

  ‘Thomas I’m pleased for you and glad for us.’ I said with generosity and in front of everyone kissed his forehead. ‘I am fortunate in my husband.’

  He smiled, ‘And I am pleased for us too. All this is for us, my sweet wife.’

  Jon Woodall raised his cup. ‘A toast to Thomas and to the Cardinal and to our new Princess.’

  We raised our cups three times. Thomas rose again. ‘God bless our good King Henry. May he have a long and happy life.’

  ‘And Queen Catherine,’ I said pointedly. ‘May she live long.’

  Later, after Jon Woodall had departed, John Williamson said he too must return home that night. I remembered the warning from Joanna Butler.

  After I told Thomas about Joanna’s letter and Mistress Watt’s accusations, we shared a last cup of wine, looking up at the sky above our casement window. We could see a hazy moon’s light peer from behind the clouds. Snow-flakes drifted down, batting gently against the
window leads where they melted on contact.

  ‘Look at how beautiful it is, Lizzy. It reminds me of the Alps, a first snowfall during an early winter crossing. The sky was filled with snow and we were in a hurry to reach our journey’s end before it caught us out.’ He took my hand, lifted it to his lips and kissed my chilling fingers one by one. ‘Forget Mistress Watt, Lizzy. She is unimportant in the bigger shape of things.’ He looked at me thoughtfully. ‘I shall visit John Butler tomorrow. We shall both pay Mistress Watt a call. I shall put an end to this nonsense. The fabric is a mix. Joanna will not break with sumptuary by wearing it.’

  ‘But the colours?’

  ‘Are patterned, and there is no purple or gold, though, admittedly, the saffron has a golden sheen. I defy any warden from the drapers’ court to say it breaks the law.’

  ‘If you are sure,’ I said, not really looking forward to visiting hard-faced Mistress Watt to tell her so, though with Thomas by my side I was not afraid of her sharp tongue either.

  ‘I am sure. Now, to bed, Lizzy, before we catch our death.’

  I glanced at our sleeping daughter as we undressed, climbed up into the high bed and pulled our Italian counterpane up over a great heap of plain, warm blankets. Annie slept peacefully in her crib as if her parents’ concerns were but dandelion fluff in the breeze, none of her concern, and unlikely to ever disturb her serenity. I lay down, leaning my head on Tom’s shoulder, and as he gathered me into the cradle of his arms, I felt that we were indeed the happiest family in the City, happier even than Queen Catherine, though she must be very happy, too, to have her daughter safely birthed.

  Chapter Twenty-four

  MISTRESS WATT’S HOUSE LOOMED up out of a fresh snowfall. It was a solid, substantial merchant’s building, situated on Bread Street, its overhanging upper storeys constructed of timbers, wattle and daub. If I had expected, and I did, to find perfection and a bustling wealthy household inside, I was to be surprised.

  When Thomas rapped an iron knocker, cast in the image of St Catherine, wheel included, the door was opened by a smut-faced, shivering, skinny, dull-eyed little maid clad in a grubby thin woollen kirtle. Her dress looked as if it needed washing and, despite the cold weather, the girl smelled stale.

  Ignoring her surly look, Thomas said, ‘Tell Mistress Watt that Thomas Cromwell wishes to speak with her.’

  The maid glanced at us suspiciously, heavy-lidded eyes darting from Thomas to me and back again. Softening my husband’s terse introduction, I said in a gentler tone, ‘I assume Mistress Watt is at home this morning.’

  ‘In the parlour,’ the girl replied. I peered beyond her thin shoulders into a hall with an old-fashioned central hearth where she had clearly been trying to light the fire. The hall was filling with smoke which explained the smuts on her cheeks. We shook snow from our boots onto the rushes closest to the entrance and followed her into the smoky room. I began to cough and raised the neck of my cloak across my mouth.

  ‘Wait here,’ she said, lifting her hand to stop us entering the corridor off to the side.

  We stood at a distance from the failing fire and waited. Thomas folded his arms patiently. Meantime, I studied the hall, or rather what could be seen through drifting smoke. It was a miserable place and as no other servants were evident, I assumed that Mistress Watt could not be quite the wealthy widow she purported to be. A clutter of dirty pots lay littered by the hearth and old rushes on which we stood would have harboured all sorts of vermin were it not so cold. Some time passed before the maid reappeared.

  ‘Mistress will see you,’ she mumbled.

  We followed her through a low door that led into a narrow corridor and to the right, the parlour. It was warmer in the parlour, which had clearly been added onto the ancient, smoky hall recently because a brick fire-place was set deep into a stone wall where logs were burning brightly and with ease. I tried not to breathe too deeply because after my first breath I realised that the parlour, while not smoke-infested, contained the rank smell of Cheape tallow candles. There was little furniture to be seen - no chests, tables, hangings, cushions or the family ornaments that normally would make a wealthy widow’s home comfortable. This, I recognised, was a home fallen on hard times.

  On seeing us enter, Mistress Watt rose from an arm-chair by the fire. Thomas bowed and I curtsied. In an imperious tone, ignoring our good manners and not returning them, Mistress Watt said acidly, ‘Master Cromwell, what brings you here on such a bitterly chill day? A cloth issue, perchance?’ There was more than a hint of sarcasm in her tone. She had certainly come to the point, or so I had thought.

  ‘Not entirely, ‘Thomas said in a deceptively gentle manner. ‘May we sit? We have something else to discuss, Mistress Watt.’

  What else was there to discuss? Thomas had not spoken to me of other matters.

  The widow waved her hand towards a bench by the other side of the fire. I noted that she looked utterly miserable, her eyes rheumy and her mouth down-turned, very different to the confident women I had met during the previous year. I would have felt sorry for her, had I not been so angry at her trouble-making.

  ‘Well then,’ she said, studying me closely, her eyes flickering up and down my person as if she were assessing the value of my clothing. ‘Why are you here?’ she said as she turned from me to Tom.

  ‘Mistress Watt,’ he said in his soft-spoken voice, his look as cold as Italian marble and every bit as smooth. ‘There is, Mistress Watt, a debt owing after your husband’s death to one of the Drapers’ Company, a Master Strong. Interestingly, Master Strong has sought legal advice from me on the matter and I understand that if you do not pay him the outstanding monies you will be visited by bailiffs before the calends of February.’

  Surprise dropped upon me as if a pigeon had suddenly fallen down the chimney. Tom did not even mention sumptuary laws. He had already, he told me afterward, settled that matter with the Drapers’ Company, the parish and with Mayor Butler, himself, on the previous day.

  ‘What is this to you, apart from your legal advice, that is?’ the widow snapped, looking aghast, then furious, her deep-set eyes challenging. ‘What is in it for you, Master Cromwell?’

  ‘My fee, for a start.’ Thomas leaned his chin on his folded hands and waited for a moment, moved his hands to his lap. ‘You see, Mistress Watt, I can be of assistance to you because I can lend you the amount you need to pay the debt. I believe you own a piece of land in Stepney. I shall take promise of it as surety of repayment.’ The widow’s eyes looked set to leap right out of her head. Thomas’ face grew increasingly earnest as he carried on, ‘You would be wise to consider my offer. Your deceased husband’s debts were considerable. His wool business was failing.’ He paused, before saying, his voice quiet but firm, ‘There are others who demand payment.’ The dagger now twisted, for he calmly shook his head and added. ‘I am surprised that Mistress Joanna and her mother do not know of this situation. Once the calends come this month, secrecy will be impossible.’

  Mistress Watt’s mouth opened and closed shut again. She stiffened in her chair. At length, she spoke, ‘Are you saying you will lend me the complete sum, Master Cromwell?’ She frowned, her forehead creasing into furrows, a hint of fear displayed on her countenance. ‘How long would I have to repay the debt?’

  ‘Your son is wasting money in gambling taverns. He mixes with low life, those who prey on innocent citizens south of the river.’ Thomas looked straight into her eyes. ‘You must be firm with him. His irresponsible behaviour must stop.’ Leaning back, as if considering his next words, he said after a moment, ‘As for the debt, let us say five years. He will have money to purchase the new season’s wool. The business, I believe, passed to you but you will have to oversee all, protect your interests. He must reinvest profit from the wool. You, Mistress Watt, will make sure it is profitable because if the business does not pay, if he cannot sell his wool to the Merchant Adventurers for a suitable profit and the debt is not paid, I shall take over the land. There will be an inter
est payment of five per cent on the loan, less, I imagine, than that others will offer you.’ Thomas paused again. The widow’s eyes narrowed as if she was calculating her next response. He said, ‘I suggest you move into your son’s house. Keep watch over him.’

  ‘He is my only living child. He lives here with me.’

  ‘Where is he?’

  ‘In bed today with a chill.’

  ‘Convenient,’ Thomas muttered under his breath. ‘The business passed to you and you know what you must do, Mistress Watt. Do you accept my terms?’

  ‘Yes, but I ask that this remains between us. I don’t want others to know.’

  ‘You, Mistress Watt, will assure me that you do not intend to say any more about the sale of our draperies. They are mixes and, moreover, the colours are not forbidden. They are patterned.’

  The widow turned as pale as the linen on her coif. ‘Sir, I do not see a difference, but I have no option.’

  ‘Then, Mistress Watt, I wish you good day.’

  Thomas rose. I stood beside him, wondering at his cleverness with the widow. I had not said a word but I thought of Thomas’ money-lending. It bothered me. This was a business involving interest, one that I was sure the Church, while not forbidding the practice, would not approve either.

  He bowed. ‘I expect to see you, Mistress Watt, and your son in my office at my home in Fenchurch Street tomorrow at ten o’clock.’

  ‘I do not possess a clock, Master Cromwell.’ Opening her hands she looked around the chamber. My eyes followed hers. ‘I sold everything I possess so that we could eat.’

  ‘Mistress Watt, you can hear the bells chime out the hours like most citizens. As for your son, get him out of his bed and working.’

  Thomas bowed again and led me from the parlour. I could not like the woman but I hoped that she would get her son to work. Never had I seen him in the Drapers’ Hall, though before his death his father had occasionally sold wool to the Adventurers. The elder Watt had been a quiet man, and not sharp like his wife. I had hardly noticed him, and I had rarely seen his wife before Joanna had introduced us. Perhaps, it was envy that had caused her to stir up trouble for us, that, or deep-rooted unhappiness.