by Maeve Haran
Halfway along Fleet Street the crowds eased and the carrier was able to pull the cart to a stop to let the horses drink from the conduit there.
‘Listen, mistress,’ the carrier held a finger to his lips, ‘it is three of the clock.’
From inside the fountain, which was carved with a statue of St Christopher standing atop a band of stone angels, all carrying bells, there came the sound of a clicking and a whirring and to my delight sweet-sounding bells began to gently chime a hymn. As if the fountain were the key that turned a lock, all of a sudden from all around us church bells began to toll so loudly it was like being trapped inside a belltower.
‘You’ll get used to that, mistress,’ confided the carrier. ‘In London we ring bells for everything, the hour, when someone is married, or dying, and then again when they’re dead. There’s a different toll for whether it’s man, woman or child if you know how to listen for it.’
‘How sad. Are deaths so common in London even when the plague is not rife?’ I knew the plague struck often, badly enough to fill the graveyards to overflowing not five years since.
‘Death’s an everyday thing here, mistress.’ He glanced back at Ludgate to where, high above the ground, a metal cage hung, and in it was the rotting torso of a body being picked at by crows. I had to look away before I retched. ‘Though they do say a man’s lucky here to live to five and thirty.’ He clearly deemed this some manner of achievement.
‘That’s enough from you, sirrah!’ my father admonished. ‘You would do well to learn to keep your tales to yourself instead of scaring young women with them. The only people who are punished are felons and traitors to Her Majesty.’
‘I’m sorry, your worship.’ The man climbed back onto his cart. ‘My wife says I do babble on.’
‘Don’t listen to my father,’ I whispered, guiding my horse so that it was alongside the cart. ‘You have made my journey much the livelier.’
The carrier winked.
‘See, Ann,’ my father commanded, looking unusually pleased with himself as we processed up the Strand with its busy shops on one side, where the mud gave way to paving stones under foot. ‘York House is where your aunt is living now.’ He pointed to a small and unassuming door, but I could see that the house it led to was large indeed, no doubt with a fine river frontage. ‘My sister Elizabeth has just wed its tenant, Sir Thomas Egerton, the Keeper of the Great Seal, one of the most important men in all of England.’
‘But she is five and forty!’ I blurted before I had the sense to button my lip. I loved my aunt well but somehow, after Bett’s wedding, the thought of my aunt as a new bride seemed most unnatural.
‘What has age to do with it?’ My father was descending from his horse and handing the reins to a liveried groom. ‘She is no blushing maiden but she had a good fortune from her husband Sir John Wolley. Sir Thomas Egerton is a widower who needs a wife to organize his household. He offered her position and status. It is a good bargain for both.’
And, without waiting for any comment from me on the sensible justification for such a marriage, he swept into the house.
Small though he is, my father walks faster than any other person I know, and I had to rush to keep up with him as we made our way through the warren of rooms, past vast family portraits, enormous tapestries, suits of armour and, as was just becoming the fashion in more forward households, statues of Greek nymphs and maidens.
I was out of breath by the time we arrived at a wondrous long gallery filled with light, and I saw that beyond it the river sparkled in the afternoon sun. ‘Ann! My lovely girl and favourite of all my nieces, welcome!’ A figure stepped out of the light, almost like a goddess herself, and took me in her arms, a hard task since we both wore farthingales.
‘My lady aunt!’ I returned her embrace with equal affection. She had ever been kind to me, even though she was so busy in the Queen’s service that she had not time for her own son and sent him to be raised with us at Loseley. ‘I am glad to be come.’
I had to admit, though she might be five and forty, my aunt was trim and youthful, her teeth not blackened nor missing, with a straight back and a sprightly step. Her hair, which she wore wound round an Italian wire band, heart-shaped and studded with pearls, as was the fashion, was still brown, though whether by nature or artifice I knew not. And there was something different about her from when we had last met. A glow of contentment.
It was often said by other women that to be a widow, especially a wealthy one, was the best estate of all—with neither father nor husband to command you. And yet my aunt’s smile told a different story. Rich widow though she may have been, she seemed as happy as a girl to be married once again and to so august a person as the Lord Keeper.
‘I was sad to miss your sister’s celebrations. You must recount me every detail. No point asking your father, for all he will tell me is the size of her husband’s expectations.’
‘Plentiful, I assure you,’ I bit my lip in laughter. ‘Sir John is not a thin man.’ I dropped my voice. ‘Mary said Bett would be like grain under a millstone in their marriage bed.’
‘Ann!’ My aunt pealed with laughter while my father threw me a silencing look.
‘Such talk is not seemly,’ he corrected me stiffly, ‘above all from the lips of a young girl. You are not schooled in the ways of society. My sister will have a task in teaching you, I fear.’
I dropped him a curtsey. ‘I will do my best to learn all she teaches, Father.’
Suddenly the room was full of men, all dressed in black garb down to the ground instead of the usual doublet and hose, each wearing a large black hat. I thought of that expression my grandfather had told me, looking out of the window at Loseley to where a great cawing flock of black birds roosted in the trees. ‘They are called a parliament of crows, Ann.’
And thus seemed this group.
‘Ann,’ my aunt’s voice interrupted my thoughts, ‘this is my husband, Sir Thomas Egerton.’ Her voice held a smile under its formality, which I saw returned in the eyes of a noble-looking man standing next to her. He was taller than the group around him, and his back straighter, almost with the posture of a soldier, and his clothes more ornate. In one hand he carried a small bag fashioned of cloth of gold, and I guessed with something approaching awe that this must contain the royal seal of England without which no document in the realm had the force of law.
At first his white beard brought to mind my grandfather, yet on greater studying I saw that he was a younger man than I had first imagined, his gaze clear-sighted and calm. I vowed that if ever I had to bring a case in the courts of Chancery or Star Chamber, I would trust it with this man.
‘You are welcome in my house, Mistress More,’ the Lord Keeper said and bowed low. ‘Your aunt has told me much of your lively mind. I hope you will find company here with my son’s wife and his three young daughters. They could do with some youthful diversion amongst this nest of lawyers.’
The crows all laughed as if Lord Keeper Egerton were the greatest wit in Christendom.
IF I HAD thought our house at Loseley large, it was as a cottage compared with a castle next to York House. I lost count of how many servants the Lord Keeper had, yet reckoned it was almost a hundred, and beyond that four gentlemen ushers as well as chaplain, auditor, receiver, almoner and steward, and various other noble men who served my Lord Keeper, carrying out his business at Chancery, and running for him between Queen and Court.
Then there was his son, Sir Thomas the younger, and another son, John, who resided nearby at the Inns of Court but was much seen here also. Of the younger people my dear cousin Francis lived here, as well as the young woman, my aunt’s ward, Mary, to whom he would soon be married, who brought with her the manor of Chequers in Buckinghamshire.
Francis and I had spent so long in each other’s company that I considered him more nearly brother than cousin and had seen more of him than of my own true brother, Robert. There was also, I was told, a poet and friend of the young Sir Thomas, lately co
me to work for my Lord Keeper as a secretary, a Master Donne, but I did not encounter him at first.
I meant to write to Bett to tell her of life here and of the surprise and pleasure I felt at seeing my new chamber. Instead of sharing a bed at Loseley with my preaching little sister, Frances, I was given a grand room with fine views of the river, like an honoured guest.
The first morning I awoke as excited as a child on Christmas morn, and looked out at the shining river—at this time of day not so stinking and crowded as it would later become—and it seemed a road to excitement. It was on the river that everyone of power travelled, between the palaces of Whitehall and of Westminster, downriver to Greenwich and upriver to Hampton Court or Richmond.
I dressed carefully and went downstairs to find my aunt and break my fast with her. She sat in the smaller chamber off the Great Hall, her spaniel dog, Spratt, at her feet. He was so called because, like the dog in the children’s verse, he would eat no fat, though he would happily polish off a baron of beef if he could get his paws on it. This meant that, unlike many dogs, his chops were not greasy, and my aunt therefore cosseted him and cuddled him as if he were her infant. Sir Thomas the younger was also at the table with Eleanor his wife and two of the baby girls.
Thereafter my days took on a pleasant pattern of playing with the children, venturing abroad with my aunt on various errands and in finding ways in which I could make myself useful to this busy household. And then, about three weeks after my arrival, I descended to the Great Hall, dressed as I often was, with the expectation of some small outing.
‘Ann, beloved girl,’ my aunt asked, a look of slight annoyance on her face, ‘did you not receive my message?’
My look told her the answer.
‘That stupid Mercy! Today you and I are going to the palace at Greenwich for an audience with the Queen.’
My heart leapt in my breast. I had seen Queen Elizabeth on her visits to Loseley, but only when I was a small child, and had been quickly shushed and taken back to the nursery. This time I would be an adult, and treated as such, savouring the majestic delights and extravagant glory of the greatest monarchy in Christendom.
‘If we are in luck we may have a word or smile from Her Majesty. Faith, I will come with you myself to choose your gown. First impressions matter much. The Queen loves a modest maiden and this is the first step to get you a place about her, hard though that will be.’
The Queen, I knew, was the centre of our entire universe, what she wished or thought governed every person in our nation. To be a planet, however small, in her constellation would be keenly sought by all.
‘Every nobleman in the land wants a place at Court for his daughter,’ my aunt shrugged. ‘There was a time when precedence decided who would win, with the oldest families at the top of the list, but times have sorely changed. So many new men have come up lately, all offering their fine new houses to Her Majesty for her summer pleasures, putting on masques and lavish entertainments, giving her gifts and jewels, so that precedence has been ousted by more vulgar values. The Queen no longer chooses her ladies for their virtue or breeding but because they have fought a long campaign, with prizes hidden in the trees for Her Majesty to pick like apples.’ She dropped her voice as if there were ears in the linen-fold panelling, which indeed there might be. ‘The Queen is ever mindful of a bargain. She inherited much pomp from her father but empty coffers. I trust we have offered her enough.’
In my innocence I had not known that even at Court favours were only given for money or gifts, like bartering in some great market place.
‘Bess Throckmorton, sister to your own Mary’s husband, only got her place at Court when her brother Arthur gave the Queen a jewel costing fifteen pounds.’
I was surprised to hear that even my own relations, if only by marriage, were bidding for position. I had not thought we were so ambitious as that for preferment.
‘Arthur Throckmorton thought it well worth the price. A relation at Court means the whole family may rise up on their back. I will send you my own gentlewoman of the chamber to help you change. Joan!’ A stately woman, her prettiness now faded by middle age, came humbly into the room. ‘Ask the usher of the bedchamber to place pegs here,’ my aunt pointed to panelling next to the window, ‘so that Mistress Ann may hang her best gowns and not keep them all in this infernally cramped press.’ She picked up one of my ruffs, an especially delicate one, almost like a spider’s web, which was sewn in Brussels lace. ‘And pin Mistress Ann’s ruffs to the curtains, then they will need less attention from the poking stick and will therefore save our starch bill.’
I smiled that even my rich aunt, like the Queen when she stayed with her nobles in order to save money for the Exchequer, appreciated her small economies.
My aunt busied herself in appraising all my dresses. With my auburn hair and warm brown eyes I favoured the hues of autumn for my gowns. Burnished gold’s, the green of a new-furled leaf, the warm red-brown of cinnamon spice, newly arrived from the Indies. ‘Pretty enough,’ my aunt insisted, ‘but none of these will do for Court. The Queen’s ladies must all wear white and silver.’ A naughty gleam came into my aunt’s eye and she lowered her voice. ‘Her Majesty must be the jewel in the crown, her ladies but foils to set off her magnificence. If any wear bright colours they find themselves sent smartly back to change.’
‘What if they refuse?’
‘Wake up, niece. What world live you in? None refuse the Queen. Or they find themselves back in the bosom of their families. Or worse.’
I felt like some ignorant stranger in a foreign land, unaware of either the customs or the rules. Life at Court seemed like a trick staircase I had read about in a fable; it fell away if you gave the wrong answer to some incomprehensible question.
‘Ah, this one will do.’ She pulled from the bottom of the press the simple white dress I had worn for my confirmation.
‘But it is too tight for me,’ I protested. ‘And not long enough!’ This was not the vision I had of myself going to Court, dressed as a twelve-year-old girl making her confirmation. ‘My grandmother bade me bring it only in case you needed my help with household tasks.’
‘Then you will look the more maidenly, and please the Queen the better.’
I bit my lip. No matter that the Queen was an old woman, I was beginning to see that, though none dared acknowledge it, she liked to brook no competition from younger beauties.
‘Come, put on this simple strand of pearls.’ My aunt handed me the necklace she had brought with her and helped me put it on. I looked at myself in the glass and saw my aunt’s reflection behind me. The tenderness on her face made me wish, with a sharp pain, for the mother I had hardly known, struck down so early in childbirth. There was no portrait of my mother and she died before I was old enough to fix her face in my mind’s eye, yet I did recall the eyes. Rich brown, like those of myself and my brother Robert, and direct in their gaze. Too direct, some said, for a maiden of my tender years.
And then, just as were are to leave, my aunt remembered something and led me, alone, through her bedchamber, and the two or three rooms adjoining, to her private closet.
It was a small room, wainscoted, containing little but table, chair and chest. She lifted the chest, in which were stored spare hangings, and removed a pouch of velvet.
‘Take it. I came upon it amongst some old treasures and meant to give it to you before now.’ She handed me the pouch and I untied the lace and discovered a silver case, inlaid with enamel filigree, a pretty thing. The catch was stiff and wanted not to open. Of a sudden it sprang apart like a Jack-in-the-box and the face I had not seen since I was four years old looked up into my eyes. My mother!
In my soul I knew such a yearning for her, as if my very heart would burst from my chest. I felt her presence, leaning over my shoulder, whispering that she had wanted to give me a mother’s softness, to hold me to her, to temper my father’s choler, his helplessness in dealing with such a great brood of girls. I had to hold on to a chair-
back, my knuckles whitened by the force of my longing.
My lady aunt leaned over and placed her hand under my chin. ‘She would be proud of you, Ann. And now, let us go to Court.’
To my great excitement we went downriver to Greenwich in the Lord Keeper’s barge, with liveried servants to announce our status. I was amazed to see that the river was almost as crowded as the road had been. Stately barges ploughed their way up and down between the Queen’s various palaces, past the gardens on the river bank and the vast mansions where her advisors and courtiers lived, with their private stairs down to the water. Tiny wherries darted about, a comic sight with scruffy boatmen rowing grand ladies in their gowns and ruffs, hardly able to fit their fine dresses inside the craft.
A tilt boat overtook us with well-dressed courtiers fanning themselves under a rich red canopy, a lute player sitting on the deck softly singing a melancholy song. My aunt told me that often in summer the Queen and her ladies took to the river in one of her barges and rowed up and down to feel the breeze.
‘She knew that in her honour the church of Lambeth undertook to ring the church bell at her passing.’ My aunt smiled at the memory. ‘And sometimes she went back and forth five or six times that they might keep tolling. As I recall the vicar complained that he could not afford to keep paying the bell ringers! Her Majesty retorted that her people should want to ring the bell for her without payment!’
All along the river front were small stairs dipping vertiginously down into the water. Well-off Londoners in search of a wherry gathered here to shout ‘Oars!’ or ‘Westward Ho!’
On the south bank we passed Southwark with its pits for bear and bull baiting, and went on towards London Bridge. Beyond were the legal quays, where I was astonished to see almost a hundred ocean craft lined up all the way from the bridge to the city, loading and unloading their cargo by way of ingenious pulleys to be assessed for customs duty.