Shadow of Persephone

by G Lawrence

  The Watch formed at St Paul’s, moving through Westchepe Street to Aldgate, then back via Fenchurch Street. The procession twisted through the city, torches held aloft raining down glimmering embers. The constabulary, dressed in gilt harnesses and scarlet cloaks, led the city guard as minstrels played, mummers performed, drummers thumped and Morris dancers pranced. There were standard bearers and sword-players, archers in white coats and the Lord Mayor, flanked by footmen and torch-bearers. Pageants from guilds trundled along, depicting Biblical scenes or ones which showed the King as mighty and courageous. We screamed as we saw one of the Devil, naked with a drawn sword, which he wielded as a serpent under his demonic bottom spewed fire from its mouth. When that pageant passed, I had to beat down Dorothy’s gown, for embers fell on her hem.

  We cheered for Saint George and the dragon he was slaying, for the Virgin surrounded by little boys singing a charming song, and for animals brought out from the Tower, held on chains or in cages, roaring as they thundered past.

  We ladies were surrounded by the men of the household, keeping vagabonds and thieves away from us. It was as well they were there for a man tried to steal Margaret Smith’s handkerchief. Dereham and John had to see him off.

  “My knight,” she said to John when he returned, and he smiled, proud to be thought of as her saviour.

  There were giants made of plaster and wood. Marching through the streets, they waved their hands and swept them through the air, just above our heads, making us duck, shrieking with fear and delight. We listened to an old man tell the tale of how London was founded by people fleeing the Battle of Troy, and I marvelled that we had sprung from those ancient heroes of old.

  We came back to the house, chattering gaily on the boat, and made for the hillside where gallants were building the bonfire.

  Bonfires were lit to cast out the old and welcome in the new. Smoke was purifying to the air and the spirit. As we waited under the spell of falling night, Joan handed out hemp seed. We threw it over our shoulders, holding flaming torches to it to catch a sign of our future husbands.

  “Yours looks like a crown, Catherine,” shrieked Alice, laughing like an old witch. “Mayhap you will marry Prince Edward.”

  “I would be an old bride for him,” I said, pulling a face like a hag to make the others laugh. “He would send me to the fens, and there would I waste away.”

  “Witch of the fens!” shouted Alice, fleeing as I stalked towards her, my hands raised like claws.

  “Yours looks like an E, Joan,” I said, when Alice and I had ceased. I grinned at her. “I wonder who that might be.”

  Joan was usually good at controlling her emotions, but a light flush spread across her cheeks.

  My grandmother appeared for a time, which put everyone on their best behaviour, but she left not long after. “See you behave yourself,” she said to me before she went to her bed. “Master Dereham is here to keep an eye on you all.”

  “I promise, Your Grace,” I said, knowing full well Dereham had no intention of stopping any of us enjoying ourselves.

  As others gathered about the fire, warming wine and chattering, I walked to the edge of the hill. The sky was dark crimson, mirroring the fires burning beneath. All over London and into the countryside sparks ignited in blackness as people lit fires, casting out all that was old, and welcoming in the new.

  I sat on that hillside, my friends about me, watching the parade still roaming, flaming, in the distance. I saw fire after fire light in London. Amber flames rose in the gathering dusk. Ned cried out that my grandmother had sent ale and musicians, and a cheer went up. The musicians started to play, their notes cresting on the light, warm breeze. But I did not run to dance. I sat watching the skies, feeling a hush of happiness fall.

  That was a good night. One of the best of my life.

  “May I have this dance?” asked a voice.

  I looked up to see Francis Dereham standing beside me, his hand outstretched.

  “Would you not rather take hands with Joan, Master Dereham?” I asked.

  A smile crept upon his lips. “The lady is otherwise occupied,” he said, casting a hand to Joan who was laughing as Ned teased her by holding one of her ribbons prisoner.

  “And you do not mind?”

  “As he is my friend, I have stepped aside. He adores her and the lady clearly prefers him to me.” His smile grew, and my heart leapt. He was so handsome. “Besides,” he said, “there is another lady I would dance with this night.”

  I took his hand and we went to the bonfire. We danced about it, free and feckless as the stars above our heads.

  That night the stars beamed upon us, blazing over London, covering her in dappled fire. I forgot cares, and surrendered to pleasure. With the hand of a handsome man in my palm, I danced as a wild, free thing, as a creature of the forest set loose from bonds of iron.

  As the night went on, couples snuck away to caress, hidden in bushes, making beds of grass and bracken to lie upon. But not me, and not Francis. We danced.

  My head whipped and feet skipped. Skirts billowed and sparks flew from the fire into the darkling skies. There was nothing more for me to fear. Nothing more to sorrow for.

  All there was, was this night, this dance; the humming heartbeat of London thundering through me, as my feet beat a rhythm into the earth which echoed throughout England, washing into time itself.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chesworth House

  Summer 1538

  That August, my grandmother’s fears became reality.

  Whispers came thick and fast. The Poles had been in contact with Reginald Pole. The Cardinal, who was on his way to Spain, apparently to convince the Emperor to invade England with Rome’s aid, had been warned about English plots to assassinate him. Whether any of this was true was unknown, but events soon showed the King believed Cardinal Pole was his enemy… along with all his family.

  Sir Geoffrey Pole, son of Margaret, the Countess of Salisbury, was arrested. Many said he was being tortured in the Tower, even though this was illegal, as he was noble, and from his confession, extracted through pain, more arrests would come.

  The Poles were in trouble. As one, they had lamented the dissolution of the monasteries, and Margaret had remained loyal to Katherine of Aragon throughout the fiasco of the annulment. She had also supported Elizabeth Barton, the Holy Nun of Kent, executed for making treasonous prophecies against the King. Reginald had stood against the King’s second marriage, had written tracts against the King, and spoken out against his title of Head of the Church. The Poles had also criticised the way the King had handled the Pilgrimage of Grace, saying he had dealt dishonestly with the rebels.

  There were other trifles that might be considered treason. A cousin of the Poles had said our King was “worse than a beast” and Lord Montagu, Geoffrey’s elder brother, had commented on the King’s ulcerous leg, saying it might limit his life. It was treason to talk of the death of the King. Montagu, in the Pilgrimage of Grace had apparently called Lord Darcy a fool, and said he should have “first begun with the head”, which was taken to mean killing the King. Montagu was arrested and the Marquess of Exeter went with him to the Tower.

  Exeter was said to have been sad at the birth of Prince Edward, and had planned to wed his son, the young Earl of Devon, Edward Courtenay, to Lady Mary as part of a play for the throne. Exeter was said to have praised Cardinal Pole, but there seemed slim proof of treason.

  Whatever was done to Geoffrey Pole in the Tower, he confessed much, implicating many Poles in treason, but not his mother.

  This frustrated the King for he was sure she was embroiled. It was said that if an invasion fleet raised by Reginald in Spain landed in the south, they would come ashore on Margaret’s vast estates. The King thought she might welcome an army, especially if her son was leading them. Seeing that Margaret was one of the richest people in England, she had money enough to fund an attack on the King.

  Despite lack of evidence, Margaret Pole was put under
house arrest at her house in Cowdray Park in Sussex, and questioned.

  “It matters not what is truth anymore,” said my uncle William. “Only what the King believes.”

  The shock at the arrest of Margaret Pole was palpable. No one could quite believe this aged and saintly lady, known for piety and charity, had been arrested.

  Margaret Pole was niece to two past kings, daughter of a prince, cousin to Elizabeth of York and godmother to the Lady Mary. Margaret was hallowed stock and was well-liked and respected. The King himself had once claimed he venerated her no less than his own mother, and the Countess had written several papers denouncing her son’s infamous book which slandered the King. It seemed inconceivable she had plotted against the King, even if on behalf of her sons. It was whispered the King had lost his way, a spirit of wickedness had entered him, for no one could believe Margaret would conspire to work treason.

  Everyone knew Reginald Pole was the true target.

  But whilst this old lady was frail in body, she was not in spirit. We heard she was enduring long hours of questioning yet stood firm, maintaining she was innocent, as were her sons. One of the interrogators had declared, “We may call her rather a strong and consistent man than a woman.” Seeing as all ill traits were referred to as “womanish”, for a woman to be compared to a man was the highest praise.

  As the Poles awaited judgement and everyone held their breath, at Norfolk House we young things, freed of such weighty cares, continued with our lives. We talked of these matters of course, but they were far from us. When one is young it is so easy to feel as though you are on another plane of existence. One moment we could talk in hushed tones about arrests and the next bark with laughter at some foolish jest. It is that way for all people. Cares are only cares when they belong to you.

  We had our own intrigues to think about. Joan and Ned had become a couple, meeting in secret and often sharing a bed, and as his friend claimed the girl he had once wanted, Francis Dereham had found a new interest; me.

  I was flattered, truth be told. Francis was handsome, danced like a stag and held a good position in the household. Suddenly I was being sent flowers, suddenly he wanted to share treats from the kitchens with me, and me alone. And I was not scared of Francis. I was not sure I liked him as he liked me, and that thought made me feel powerful. I was being chased, but not in a frightening way.

  It might sound cruel to say I enjoyed the power this granted to me, and perhaps it was, but I had felt so out of control, so helpless before. Feeling confident and adored was intoxicating.

  Joan, happy she had captured Ned, and happier still that Francis was not resentful, encouraged me. “Although he was not the one for me, I would not see him unhappy,” she said. “Some girls want those who adored them once to do so always.” She put a mocking hand to her forehead and sighed. “They want men to waste away, pining for them.” When she lowered her hand, she grinned. “But I am not such a fool to think a man should mourn me forever, never finding happiness. He would be happy with you.”

  “I am not sure what I feel,” I admitted. “I like him, but I know not if I could love him.”

  “Not everything must be about love,” she said. “And, you know, love does not always come at once. Look at me and my Ned. For years we were friends. I admired his looks and he mine, but love came later. Accept the attentions of Master Dereham, and see where this goes. If it leads to love, all is well, and if just to friendship, there is no harm there, either.”

  Sound advice from a maid as pragmatic as she was romantic. I took Joan’s advice. Francis and I took walks when we could sneak away and he told me of his family, and about the man he wanted to become. I listened, never thinking it strange he did not ask what I wanted. Perhaps it was because women had few fates.

  I felt like a mirror, at times, reflecting his image into his own eyes.

  But he made me feel special again, and I was happy, most of the time. Still the shadow came. In dreams, in darkness. But what held the shadows at bay now was not my dancing, but the power I felt in being the one who was in charge of this dawning relationship.

  That power, I was soon to understand, was a fantasy.

  *

  “Tell the jest again!” roared Ned, cheeks alight with wine as he and Francis traded quips.

  “Enough, Ned,” giggled Joan. “Hush. You will bring Mother Emet upon us!”

  “We will hide in Catherine’s alcove,” he said, words slurred as he grinned cheekily at me.

  “That hiding place is mine alone,” said Francis, affecting to fence Ned with a long chunk of bread. Ned grasped a handful of dried apple and threw it at him. Everyone laughed at their antics.

  We were all deep in our cups. That night, my grandmother had gone early to bed, and the men early to ours. Francis had brought a great deal of good wine with him, and we had drunk deep and long. The men had taken a glowing poker from the fire and plunged it into jugs of wine. The drink slipped upon my tongue; spiced and sooty, earthy and warm.

  Everyone was drunk, aside from Mary, who never joined us. One of the smaller girls, Marguerite, had been sick into a chamber pot and put to bed. The rest of us were laughing, at nothing most of the time.

  I had never been drunk before. We drank ale at meals, but it was not strong and I had only had a sip or two of wine from my grandmother’s cup before. I liked the feeling. There was a certain dislocation from my thoughts that was pleasurable. The shadow could not touch me because I was not there. It was like when I had left my body as Manox touched me, but rather than entering a vast and lonely place of emptiness, had encountered one of merriment. There was nothing in me but pleasure and laughter. I felt wild, free and blissful. The part of me that knew fear and sorrow was dull, deadened. I wanted to drink more, to make that feeling spread so it might take hold of me, lifting me up, high enough to fly.

  There was a wildness in me then, a recklessness. Something in me cared nothing for anything anymore. That was freeing.

  Boldly, I took hold of Francis’ cheek. “Are you going to kiss me?” I asked, my words slurring and a grin on my face.

  He looked both astonished and pleased as he reached out to kiss me. And fiercely did I kiss him back. The feeling of the kiss was like that of the wine. I could lose myself in it. This pleasure I had always wanted, always needed, was within wine. That yearning to be noticed was here, upon his lips. At that moment, I was the only focus of his attention. Knowing that made me feel powerful, as though I could do anything.

  For long years, I had been taught to confuse lust and love. I had been shown this was how women gained liberty, and perhaps for some of them this was true. But I did not see that this pleasure and this wine were ways of blocking my mind to the pain within, dampening thoughts so they could no more touch me. There was wildness surging up from within, carrying all the hurt and pain and frustration and horror of all I had faced in my spare fourteen years.

  Too young to understand these emotions, too foolish to know they would hurt me, I surrendered, washing myself into a sea of wine and laughter and pleasure. Nothing could hurt me. I had already been hurt more than anyone could understand.

  Yes, a wildness. A savagery. A feeling within that I had to let free, for it contained all I had locked away. I was recklessness. I was wildness. I was free as I was chained, a beast breaking from iron shackles binding it to a torture chamber only to find itself in a cage.

  As Francis and I broke apart, I could see two of him. He wobbled before me and I grinned as the others clapped their hands, applauding our love.

  Drunk on wine and false feelings of power, I smiled, pushing my cup forwards towards the two Francises wavering before my eyes.

  The last thing I remember of that night is leaning my head on Francis’ shoulder as he filled my cup with wine again.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chesworth House

  Summer 1538

  When I woke, I was naked.

  There were covers over me but I had nothing on. And I was sore. Sore
of head and in body. As I tried to get up, not even sure where I was, my head seemed to split in two and my stomach lurched. I was sick into my mouth and had to pull out the chamber pot, already half full of dark, amber piss, so I could void my belly into it.

  My sick was red with wine. Little clumps of sweet treats, now hideous and sour as they came back up, floated in the pan. Blearily I gazed at it, my brain pounding in my ears as though it meant to escape my head. The stench of urine made me sick again. When I was done, I needed to piss. Holding my sore head, I squatted, my body rushing to rid itself of all I had poisoned it with.

  It was then I saw the blood.