Shadow of Persephone

by G Lawrence

  This was not his only cruelty. It was said he beat his wife, often and viciously. No doubt he wished he could do the same to my cousin. He did not like her. She, like me, was his niece, and to Norfolk all female kin were little more than glorified cattle, his to command, herd and sacrifice when needed, to marriage or as mistresses. There were rumours he had encouraged Anne to become mistress to the King, but she had told him there were greater rewards. She had been right, he wrong. I suspected a great deal of his irritation at her was because of that. Norfolk did not like to be wrong, particularly when the one who was right had a cleft between the legs.

  I did not like my uncle. He came often to my grandmother’s house and I had the impression he was self-serving, conceited and proud. Leader of our family he was, and I had to honour him in public, even though he barely knew who I was, but in private thoughts I had no respect for him. Every time he came, it was with complaints about the Queen on his lips. I for one was glad she spoke to him like a dog, as he often complained.

  My grandmother had little good to say about him, unless he was in front of her. He lacked courage, skill and talent to further the family, she said to Katherine, my aunt, and would always aimlessly flutter at the edges of true power, never winning the King’s affection, for Norfolk was devoid of true charm. Surface charm he could manage, but when you had known him a few years, she said it was like holding calf gut to a window; Norfolk was transparent. He held his position by feudal right, but had he possessed an ounce of wisdom, charm or talent, he would be the right-hand of the King, and he was not.

  It did not help that Norfolk considered himself higher than the King. My uncle thought his blood better than that of an upstart Tudor, and the King, sensitive and suspicious, was well aware of this. Norfolk had had outbursts against Wolsey when he was in power, and Cromwell now too, complaining that court was full of upstarts and commoners. Everyone knew he thought the King amongst their number. He spent his time moaning he was not justly rewarded, which left no time for him to better himself. When angry with her, which was often, he told anyone who would listen that Anne was a whore, which was ironic, as Norfolk kept an official mistress and had many bastard children. But the rules were different for men. Sex outside marriage was only a sin if women did it. Men could do as they pleased.

  “His one grace is that he loves his children,” Agnes had once said, but to me this was hardly a virtue. That was what parents were supposed to do. And respect for his own children did not extend to those of others. Four years ago, my uncle had kidnapped Edward Stanley, the young Earl of Derby, and had forced him to wed his half-sister, another Catherine. The King had been enraged, and Norfolk had found the marriage put on hold whilst it was investigated. My uncle had spent that time complaining the kidnap was necessary, to increase the power and strength of his family.

  Norfolk was always right, everyone else was wrong.

  He had hoped to marry his son to the King’s now-bastard daughter, Lady Mary, but had recently surrendered and married him to the daughter of the Earl of Oxford, Frances de Vere. But it appeared Norfolk was not content with this bride. He had refused to allow the couple to live together, and consummation had not taken place. That meant he could declare the marriage null if a better match came along. There was gossip he meant to try again for Lady Mary and many considered her the true heir to the throne. Perhaps he wanted his son to be King.

  “Sons will follow,” Agnes said.

  “Not if the King never visits her bed,” said Norfolk. “There are ill rumours.”

  “Such as?”

  “The King’s mistresses have been giggling about him,” he said. “They say the King is often too tired to bed them, and merely stays with them, talking.”

  This was another horror for my poor cousin. The King had taken a mistress whilst she was with child, and another had followed after the birth. The Queen was certainly aware of one of them, as she had shouted at the King for betraying her. I was overawed by her boldness, but the King had not been. He had told her to close her eyes as others better than she had done before.

  “But clearly he is capable of fathering children,” said Agnes.

  “He was, nine months ago, but what of now? A man who keeps a mistress merely to talk must have something wrong with him. Few women have any conversation, their brains are too soft.”

  I saw anger flicker in my grandmother’s eyes, but she knew there was no point saying a word to Norfolk. “Perhaps he does not desire them as he does his wife.”

  Norfolk made a hawing sound, ending in a cough. “It takes more courage for a man to bed a shrew than a mouse. They are far prettier than her, more clement, and the King does not find her tantrums exciting as he did when she was his mistress. Now, he walks away if she talks to him as though he is a dog. Before, he ran to her heel, begging.”

  “She is a wife now. Wives do not have the same power as mistresses.”

  “Indeed, although I would never have allowed any woman the kind of power he granted her.”

  “All men are different.”

  “We are not. We are all the same, in essence. The King permitted liberties before because he had no hold over her. Now, he has the power, as it should be. Anne is a fool. She becomes angry for his mistresses but the King finds her anger enchanting no more.”

  “Then tell her to court him.”

  “You think she would deign to listen to me? Anne is proud, haughty, and rash. She has become accustomed to commanding the King, and thinks that is her right. She is unnatural. I do not doubt many think her a witch, for she goes against all a woman should be. She will find quickly that the King will not be commanded by a wife. By a mistress, yes, but not a wife.”

  I was starting to think becoming a wife was the worst of fates. And I understood. It was the same for Dorothy, was it not? Ned had adored her, then gone on to someone else when he had enjoyed her. I pitied my cousin. It was strange to feel such an emotion for Anne, for always to me she had been a creature set above all others.

  “When she produces a son, all this will be forgotten,” said Agnes.

  “If she cannot get him into her bed, or he is incapable, there will be no son,” said Norfolk.

  Chapter Nine

  Chesworth House

  Winter 1533 - Spring 1534

  It was winter. Snow lay on the ground. When I greeted young men at the window at night, pretty flakes would fall from their shoulders onto my face, melting on my skin.

  That November, when animals had been slaughtered for winter, pigs’ bladders had been handed out to the young gallants, so they might play football. With my grandmother we had trooped out to watch them, pink-cheeked and eager to impress they had raced over the field, once used for crops but in winter stark and crisp with mud and frost, each side of ten challenging the other. Glancing at my grandmother that day, I had noted the appreciation of their boldness in her eyes, and I understood that she knew of our adventures. Perhaps she had engaged in similar games when she was young, before she married my grandsire and had to become a lady, proper and controlled at all times.

  That Christmas we had fasted until the day itself, and on the Eve had had but fish and bread to eat, as meat, eggs and cheese were prohibited. I had watched the Christmas log burning in the hearth, lit from the embers of the old fire, and lifted my voice to sing carols.

  The house had been rich with evergreen boughs and holly leaves which we had gathered from the parks, making the air hum with the scent of fresh greenness. On Christmas Eve, candles on the boughs had been lit and we had gathered in my grandmother’s rooms to hear stories of myth and legend, then to Mass we had trooped at midnight, standing in the ice-cold church as Father Borough told of the birth of Jesus Christ. Walking from the church into the dark night, our breath misting into the air as we talked, glances had been exchanged, for the men were to come that night.

  And so they had. Ned, unable to get Alice to return his kisses, had shown affection once more to Dorothy, and had taken her to bed whilst she was
drunk on wine. The huffing and blowing had been loud, to the amusement of everyone, and when they had emerged Dorothy had looked so happy. She had Ned back. Triumphant were the glances she had thrown at Alice that night.

  But by Christmas Day, all he could see was Alice.

  On Christmas morn, we had walked to Mass in the morning through low, freezing mist which clung to the wet grass unwilling to yield its silken, silvery grasp. After, we had trooped into the great hall and feasted until our bellies were set to burst. Mummers had performed, setting out a nativity scene, and under the mistletoe, when my grandmother was looking elsewhere, men had begged kisses of us. Ned asked only Alice, ignoring Dorothy.

  Although Dorothy was upset, Joan simply smiled and said Dorothy would find a new gallant. Will Ashely was interested in her. “Besides,” she said. “There is no sin. There was no true promise of marriage betwixt Ned and Dorothy, and all they did was kiss.”

  This was certainly not true, but it was another secret that all knew and kept. As long as that was all there had been between them, there was no sin and no bar to either of them seeking another mate.

  I had come to understand this talk of being promised. It was an excuse, used in order that men might charm women into bed, and so women might let them. I had become ten in December, and thought myself wise. I knew what they did behind those curtains now, and although I was too young for any man to offer me a second glance, I had thought it might be exciting to find out.

  In truth, it was not the huffing and blowing I wanted. I yearned to be noticed, to be wanted. I thought desire was the way to find such attention, for it seemed to work for the women in the maidens’ chamber. That is love, I told myself. Desire led to attention, attention to love. I understood not there was a difference between what I wanted and what went on.

  I was being taught, without knowing it, that lust was love.

  And I yearned to be loved. Do not all people? People told me my mother had loved me, but I barely remembered her. Our father had been too busy with his own self-pity to spare time for me, and my grandmother was no more concerned with me than with any other girl in the house. But this, this attention, this adoration… nights of soft talk and sweet murmurs, this was love.

  Even Kat had a gallant now, Anthony Restwold. They had done nothing but kiss, but she enjoyed his presents and company. I tried to be nothing but happy for her, but I was not. I was jealous. All my life I had been standing on the edges of life, watching as others were praised and desired. At home, our father had ignored us, and here, although it was much better, I was still but one young, insignificant girl amongst a horde of others.

  *

  “It is said the Queen is with child,” said my aunt Katherine.

  My fingertips faltered on the lute, earning me a stern glance from my grandmother. Ornaments were not supposed to listen to conversations.

  “For New Year’s the Queen presented the King with a fountain decked out in symbols of fertility. People say she has ceased to bleed.”

  “Then clearly the King has no problem,” said my grandmother.

  “Clearly not, unless it is a feint to please him.”

  “The Queen is not foolish,” said my grandmother. “No, this is real, and so soon after the Princess Elizabeth… A good sign, although it will be hard on her body.” She smiled at my aunt. “That is what the medal was about.”

  I had one of these medals. Made with the image of my cousin on one side and bearing the motto The Moost Happi, they had been sent far and wide. I had kept one my grandmother gave me. It was one of my few possessions, although if she ever asked for it back I would have to surrender it. Nothing was mine, really.

  “They say the Lady Mary is rebelling,” said Katherine, taking a cup of ale from her woman, Mistress Phillips.

  “She copies her mother. Neither will swear the Oath.”

  It was late March. Snow was still falling as though winter did not wish to surrender to spring. And winter was not the only rebel. The King and his Parliament were about to pass the Act of Succession, making the children of my cousin, the Queen, the true heirs to the throne. Lady Mary was upset because she was about to lose her place in the succession and Princess Elizabeth would replace her. It was said that all people of England, or all those who mattered, such as nobles and prominent citizens, would swear the Oath of Succession. This was so all men would personally promise to uphold my cousin as Queen and her children as their royal family. A copy had already come to my grandmother. As Dowager of Norfolk she was an important woman, and had promised to swear.

  I was told this was not the only thing going through Parliament. The King was also stopping payments to Rome. But there were many who thought this and the Oath wrong. Some said we should not break all ties with Rome, and others thought the King could not be Head of the Church. Rome certainly thought that, and the Pope had recently declared the King’s first marriage to Katherine of Aragon was valid, and my cousin was therefore nothing but the King’s mistress. There was a sense of rising panic on the air. With the snow it tumbled, drifting from village to village.

  When I reached our chamber, I took out the medal and sat on my bed, stroking her face with my finger. “You are the true Queen,” I whispered.

  *

  “Another delegation was sent to Katherine,” said my uncle William, throwing himself into a chair.

  “Did they have more luck than the last?” My grandmother sounded both sceptical and amused. Katherine’s defiance was famous now. The King had sent many men to her when trying to get her to stand down, and all had come back with burning ears and aching heads. Not because the former Queen shouted, but because she faced them like a lioness, and would not back down.

  “Not from what I hear,” William said.

  I listened carefully. Archbishop Edward Lee of York had headed a party to confront Katherine and threaten her because she would not swear the Oath. They told her the Pope’s support for her was meaningless, and promised a life of elegance in retirement if she would retract her appeal to Rome, which they pointed out was now illegal, and swore the Oath.

  “Katherine declined,” said my uncle. “She said she was the King’s true wife, not one of his subjects, and therefore was not required to swear. She told them Cranmer was nothing to the power of the papacy, declared the Act of Succession did not concern her, and would never swear anything that would go against her conscience.”

  “The King never knew he was bedding an Amazon all those years,” said my grandmother.

  “I think not. Katherine was told refusing to swear was an act of treason, punishable by death. Even that did not shake her.” William assumed a mocking air of regal dignity as he went on. “She said, ‘If any man amongst you wishes to be my executioner, he should step forward, and perform the act here and now’.”

  My grandmother pinched the bridge of her nose. “What then?”

  “The men retreated, like cowards. The King was not best pleased. You could hear his roars from the other end of court.”

  “Katherine knew they would not dare cart her to the Tower,” said my grandmother. “Such a spectacle could easily persuade the Emperor to take action. No one, except Katherine, wants that.”

  “Perhaps that was the idea,” said my uncle. “If they arrested her, the Emperor would invade and her daughter would gain a throne.”

  Within days we heard more. Although apparently unable to punish Katherine for disobedience, the King found ways to make her suffer. It was not enough she was banished and could not see her daughter. He would hurt her friends.

  Thomas More had been commanded to appear before the King’s men and swear the Oath of Succession. He attended, but would not swear. He said he upheld Parliament’s right to declare my cousin Queen, but refused the spiritual validity of the King’s second marriage. Bishop Fisher refused the Oath too. Four days later, More was arrested, sent to the Tower of London. Fisher joined his friend not long after. And the King was not finished with those who opposed him.

  “
Cromwell has been ordered to investigate the Observant Friars,” Aunt Katherine said to my grandmother. “It is said they are subversives, secretly communicating with Katherine, and they, along with the Carthusian monks and the Bridgettine order, are outspoken detractors of the break with Rome.”

  “Those three orders are the most godly of England,” my grandmother said, her face turning a touch pale.

  “And speak loudest against the King,” said Katherine. “But this really is a blow against Katherine. She fears for the faith more than for herself.”