My stomach heaves with fear but I refuse to let him see. I turn dispassionate eyes upon my brother and blink at him slowly.
“Don’t be stupid, John,” I say as if he is some loathsome toad. But, when I pick up my sampler again, I do not see a row of crooked flowers in a garden of stitches, I see my father chained in a fetid cell at the mercy of a heretic king.
I know my father favours the old ways. I have heard him mutter about the disgraceful manner in which the Lady Mary has been treated since her mother was set aside by the king. He was glad when they cut off Anne Boleyn’s head and glad when Queen Jane married the king. She is known to be devout and to favour the old religion. Some even say she will guide the king back into the arms of Rome. The thing that confuses me is that the men downstairs, holding us hostage, threatening us with violence, are sworn to love the Pope also. How can they be good Christians? I cannot believe pious men would act like devils. Perhaps I am too young to understand, but although I try not to, I cannot stop thinking and trying to reason it all out.
***
At his knock, Dorothy pulls back the bolts and Layton’s bulky body slides through the narrow gap. He twists his cap in his hands as she firmly replaces the locks, sealing us in again. Mother looks up from the fire, puts down her sewing.
“Master Layton,” she beckons him forward. “What news? Has word come from Lord Latimer?”
“No, My Lady. I am sorry to say there is no news, but I thought I should warn you that the rebels have discovered the second wine store, the one that holds My Lord’s most precious casks.”
Mother gets up and moves toward the window, stops half way. “That is the least of my problems, Layton. Our own stores are running low. I am rationing the food but for how much longer can we hold out?” Her voice breaks, she lowers her head. I see a tear drop onto the back of her hand. I slide from my chair to stand close to her, clutching her skirt.
Layton swallows, shuffles his feet. “There is unrest all over the north, My Lady. The rebels suspect that your husband has betrayed them to the king, his delay in returning makes them ever more restive.”
“For all they march in his name, these are not men of God! Only evil men and sinners make war on women and children …” She sees my fear and stops mid-sentence, tries to smile, her hand reaching out to touch my cheek. Then she adds for my benefit, “It is fortunate we are so well protected.”
I climb onto the window seat and look down into the yard, where a group of rebels are teasing a stable lad. Jeremy is a good boy. He looks after my pony, mixes poultices when she is lame, and has a special recipe that makes her coat gleam like satin. As I watch, they knock off his cap and each time he tries to retrieve it they kick it farther away. To them it is all a lark, but I can see Jeremy’s misery in his hunched shoulders and the sorry droop of his head. I wish he would turn round and fight them but he is only a boy, half grown and puny.
He makes one more attempt to pick up his hat and, as he does so, one of the men kicks him from behind, sending him sprawling to the ground. Their rough laughter floats up to the window where I am standing. I know from experience the pain of falling on to the gravel. Last summer Dorothy spent an entire afternoon picking small stones out of my skinned knees and dabbing the bloody scars with stinging stuff.
I wish the rebels would go away. Why doesn’t the king come and hang them all?
“They are not bad men,” I recall Mother saying once. “They are frightened, angry men who urge the king to change his mind.” But she was wrong. I think they have forgotten all about God and the king. I think they have all run mad.
As Layton quietly takes his leave of us, there is a great shout on the landing. A stampede of feet and the door is rudely thrust open. The steward is propelled backward into the room again. The women abandon their needles and run screaming toward the window. As the chamber fills with rebels, I stand transfixed and watch my world descend into chaos.
I see a rough, bearded fellow take hold of Mother’s arm, drag her into the ante-chamber. I want to run after her but my feet will not move. The air is filled with screaming, the lower tones of hollering men. Everything seems to slow down and I observe every small detail of the unfolding horror.
Dorothy is battering a man with the warming pan, the words streaming from her lips the crudest I have ever heard. Betty from the kitchens opens her mouth to bawl in protest as she goes down beneath the onslaught. Our needlewomen, Tilly and Jane, run shrieking into a corner, huddling together against the wall, trying to evade their attackers for as long as they can.
And then I spy John, hiding on the bed, peering through the drawn curtains. I see his face crumple as he loses his self-control. He will hate it when he realises I am witness to his womanly tears and piss-wet hose. I open my mouth to call to him but as I do so a huge hairy hand clamps down upon my throat. I am dragged onto the floor, the rush matting scrapes my elbows, a great wet mouth smears across my cheeks, and stubble lacerates my skin. He fumbles at my skirts but I kick and bite and wriggle. My only instinct is to flee and if I have to kill him, I will.
But he is strong, too strong. His breath is foul, a stench of fish and dung, stale ale and ashes, his red lips fastening like a leech, his tongue deep in my throat, his filthy hands tearing aside my skirts, probing between my thighs. For a moment I break my face free, open my mouth and scream, my head crashing hard against the wainscot. I strain away but my body is trapped beneath him. Over his shoulder I see John standing upright on the bed, shouting in feeble protest, his face red and wet with tears. Tears he sheds for me.
A terrible pain, like a knife, and then a bang, an explosion, and my attacker slumps like a dead weight across me. My throat fills with vomit, I battle to free myself but I am pinioned, I cannot move. A warm sweet scent tasting of copper engulfs me.
A great voice is shouting, swearing, cursing. Women are sobbing, weapons clashing. The burden shifts. I manage to free one leg and one arm and, with all my strength, I heave the rebel from my body and scramble to my feet. Gasping for breath, I look down to where he lies. His mouth is open, his eyes staring sightless at the ceiling, his beard sprouting blackly on his grimy face. A crimson stain is spreading across the floor beneath him.
I draw back my leg and swing it forward again, sinking my foot into his groin. He does not move. I make to kick him again but a hand gently clasps my arm, and I look up at Mother and a man I do not recognise at her side. The man is holding a smoking pistol; he rolls my attacker over with his foot and grunts in satisfaction.
Slowly I become aware of the ruin around us.
Broken windows, upset caskets, torn linen, a log from the fire smouldering on Mother’s fine Turkey rug. “Are you harmed, Margaret?”
For a moment I do not answer. My female parts are stinging but I shake my head just once, and wipe the blood from my nose.
“Are you, Mother?”
“No, no, thank the Lord. But I fear some of the others …”
“How did you get free, what happened?”
John appears from behind the bed hangings, climbs shakily from the mattress and wipes his face on his sleeve. “Soldiers,” he says. “I think Father is back.”
Downstairs, the sound of battle continues. Layton, a cloth tied around his wounded head, drags the corpses from our chamber and, as soon as we are able, we secure the door, eager for once to be locked safe inside. John, in a frenzy of fear, begins to pile every piece of moveable furniture against it, barricading us all in. Mother and I begin to comfort our women.
Several of them are wounded, violated, and all are traumatised. I give no thought to my own ordeal as I copy my mother. I try not to think of what has just happened but set to, bathing their eyes, cradling them in my arms, and feeling their tears soak into my gown.
All the time I work, I am aware of John silently watching me, his large round eyes unblinking as he waits for me to confess the truth. But that is a truth I will never disclose, a secret violation I will carry to my grave.
***
>
Father is different; thinner, older, more indecisive than ever. He constantly pats me, strokes my arm, holds my hand and tries to make me smile, but I have no smiles. He should have come sooner and prevented the attack. Then I might have been able to forgive him. Everything is spoiled now.
The rebels have gone and Father is pacing the parlour floor, explaining to us why he must ride straight back to London. The king doubts his loyalty. Cromwell is after his head, and his estates. Even the Duke of Norfolk has withdrawn his friendship. If Father is to salvage anything from this sorry mess he has to leave us again, immediately.
I do not care if he goes or stays, but I wish the castle were more secure. I am so fearful of a fresh assault that I no longer sleep at night. I can still smell the stench of my attacker’s breath. I wake up weeping in the night, disgusted at my own violated body, but I cannot tell anyone. For some reason I do not try to analyse, it is imperative that they never know what happened to me.
As gentle as ever, Mother places her hand on Father’s sleeve. “I understand that you must go,” she says. “And in your absence I will do all in my power to restore order here. Perhaps we can join you in London soon. The children would like that, would you not, Margaret? John?”
She turns her attention to my brother, who wakes from his reverie and nods once. These days he displays a greater degree of anxiety than he has ever shown before. His eyes are restive and even now as we relax in the parlour he is poking a hole in the lace trim of his sleeve. I long to escape from Snape Castle. If I had my way I’d never return again. We are buried alive here and the need to escape the memories of the past few months is strong.
London; I imagine visiting the royal court. The rebels cannot hurt us there and perhaps one day I might have the chance of an appointment to the queen.
As a member of the queen’s household I could delay my marriage to Ralph Bigod, remain free of a husband for much longer than if we tarry here. London, as wild and dangerous as the capital is, presents a much brighter future than Yorkshire. The promise of escape relaxes the tortuous memories. Mentally I begin selecting which gowns I will take with me, and which I shall leave behind.
April 1537 – Charterhouse, London
Our family is in disgrace and Father imprisoned in the Tower, but still Mother remains calm. Cromwell, the king’s secretary, believes we secretly supported the uprising. In truth, I have no clue as to where Father’s loyalties lie, or what part he took in the Pilgrimage of Grace. We plead innocence and loyalty to the crown and, so far, there is nothing to prove otherwise.
The king and his henchmen have shown no mercy and the leaders of the rebellion have been hung. In the north of England rebel corpses hang like grisly flags in the rain, and they told me yesterday that, for his feeble part in the protest, Francis Bigoddied too. My marriage to his son will not now take place. I don’t know why. I try to imagine the grief the boy must feel to have lost his father in such a way, and hope that I won’t soon have reason to share it. The death of Francis Bigod and the severing of my betrothal to his son has freed me, liberated me from a future I did not relish. It is one tiny thing to be thankful for as the world grows darker around us.
Every day, every bitter night that Father remains within the Tower, convinces me that they will hang him too. His brothers, my uncles, are also in trouble and to match my mood, every day is wet, and cold, and grey. The future is draped before me like a wet blanket, preventing the sun from shining. Once I was so happy, but everything altered on the day Father rode away to negotiate with the king on behalf of the rebels.
Whether he reached the king or not, I do not know; it is immaterial to me. All I do know is that he was away too long and returned to Snape too late to prevent the ruination of my world.
Katheryn visits him, takes him baskets of wholesome food, warm clothing. Each time she goes she asks me to accompany her, but I turn away and plead a headache or a sick stomach. While Father languishes, my mother turns to the support of her brother, William Parr, who has maintained his high favour with the king. Mother’s sister, Anne Herbert, whom I call Aunt Anne, is also on hand. She has a position in the queen’s household and, at their contrivance, Mother and I find ourselves garbed in our finest for a visit to the royal court.
***
The queen is with child and everyone eagerly expects a boy, a lusty prince to follow his father. Our family does not go often to court but when I do, the things I witness there enthral me, and open my eyes to a new, exciting world.
Were it not for her finery I would describe Queen Jane as nondescript. She is sallow and meek, and according to Aunt Anne, behaves more like the lady-in-waiting she used to be than a queen. Her new status does not suit her and I get the impression she would rather be elsewhere. But when my aunt confides that Queen Jane is suffering from the most dreadful morning sickness, I sympathise a little more. Where any other woman could take to her bed, as queen she must do her duty and appear to be thriving.
She is overpowered by everyone; her husband, father, brothers. Aunt Anne tells me that the reformists are worried, for Queen Jane is an adherent of the old religion and Bishop Gardiner is rubbing his hands in gleeful anticipation.
The king, when he comes, draws all eyes, and when I look upon him it is as if the breath is sucked from my lungs. This is the man who felled the Pope, brought the church to its knees; the man who ordered the death of my betrothed. I examine him closely, taking in every detail.
Today he is amiable, a wide smile slashed across his face, his hearty chuckles filling every pause in the conversation. His clothes are exquisitely jewelled and trimmed, his cod-piece the biggest I have ever seen. Everything about him is impressive, huge, overwhelming, filling all who look upon him with awe.
He is accompanied by two men, whom I quickly discover are the queen’s brothers, Edward and Thomas Seymour. Unlike the king, they are not at such ease in their splendour. Their clothes are not casually worn, they are a little too immaculate, their hair is a little too fragrant, their smiles brittle and wary, as if they have been painted on.
One of the queen’s brothers spies Aunt Anne and, taking his leave of the king, bears down upon us, sweeping off his feathered cap to bend over Anne’s hand. As he rises, the jewels on his doublet dazzle in the torchlight. Then he turns his attention to me, a benign expression on his face as his eyes sweep up and down my body. He doesn’t appear to notice my youth, or the plainness of my gown. His hands are warm; my fingers tremble in his palm, my heart quailing beneath the power of his charm. It is the first time I have been noticed by a gentleman of court.
“I know your stepmother, Katheryn,” he says. “Is she not here today?”
I rise from my polite curtsey, swallow my nerves and answer boldly. “She is at home, My Lord, bowed down with estate business in my father’s absence.”
He stands back, a smile hovering on the corner of his mouth, an unexpected dimple winking in his cheek.
“Ah, yes. Latimer. A sorry tale indeed. Cromwell is keeping him close, so he can watch who comes and who goes.”
“I don’t know, My Lord. I only hope he will soon be allowed home.”
I have no intention of allowing Seymour to guess at my lack of parental love for my father. My eyes trail around the room as if I am a little bored with the present company and seek something new. A rakish-looking fellow wearing an embroidered eye-patch saunters over to join us. “Do you know my cousin, Sir Francis Bryan?” Seymour asks. “He also knows your mother. He was attached to her grandfather, William Parr’s household.”
My hand is taken by yet another stranger. I know of him, of course, everyone does. He is notorious, even the king refers to him as the ‘vicar of hell.’ I am not entirely sure what he has done to earn such a title but I am sure that twinkle in his eye can have nothing to do with hell. I find myself warming, and a smile tickles the side of my mouth. I try to hide it.
“Mistress Neville? I am delighted. Your mother is not with you?”
His voice is li
ght and caressing, as if I am his close kin. He retains his hold for too long, his lips slow and moist on my fingers. My cheeks are burning as I sink into another curtsey, and stay there as if I am greeting a king.
It is a wonder that the knees of the court women are not riddled with rheumatism from so much bobbing and bending. Slowly I rise again, look at him, and snatch my eyes away. I don’t know how to address this man. His one eye makes him menacing, but his lopsided smile and the way he carries himself is devastating to an untried girl like me. He smells of liquorice and pomander, with a hint of the stable; all three aromas are pleasing. I open my mouth to answer but he forestalls me.
“Thomas and I must call to pass an hour with Lady Katheryn soon. I hope we will see you also when we come.”
Suddenly aware that my jaw is hanging open I snap my mouth closed, try to free my hand, but he holds on to it, his thumb stroking my knuckles, setting my insides atremble. I wonder if I am going down with a fever.
It is fortunate that Aunt Anne notices my confusion and swoops to my rescue. “You are a bad man, Francis,” she teases, tapping him reprovingly with her fan. “What poor girl stands a chance when you two are on the prowl?” Francis Bryan is forced to relinquish my hand and exchange it for my aunt’s.
We all laugh, Seymour’s teeth flashing while Bryan rolls his eye at me and guffaws loudly. Something sinks in my nethers, a feeling of disappointment, humiliation. They were teasing me. I blush scarlet and turn away, once more a chastened child. How am I supposed to tell truth from lies in this place where nobody says what they mean, or means what they say?
Suddenly I am overwhelmed with longing for home and Mother’s tranquil chambers where the fire burns brightly and the gossip is of homely, trivial things. I swallow tears, lift my chin and look across the glittering crowd, hearing but not listening to the chatter, the high-pitched laughter of the court as they enjoy the uproarious antics of the royal fools.
Intractable Heart: A story of Katheryn Parr Page 2
