A wordless call from above and the carriage lurched into motion. The ironbound wheels crunched over cobbles as it swung toward the gate. Anne did not look back at the brightly lit windows of the great hall.
The carriage turned east on Thames Street. On the right were the dark bulks of warehouses, usually bustling with activity but quiet now. They fronted onto wharfs where tall cranes lifted cargos from the holds of ships and hoisted them onto rolling ramps that disappeared into the interiors. Most of the ships were from the Low Countries, the Duke of Burgundy’s domains. On the opposite side of the street were more warehouses, interspersed by seedy taverns and a few even seedier dwellings. Two watchmen loitered beside a brazier eating sausages they had cooked on sticks. An emaciated hound stood by looking hopeful. Beyond them, scraps of wood from broken crates littered the street, suggesting there had been an accident that day. Bits of straw blew in the wind. Occasionally a rubbish pile would heave as rats or a cat burrowed for edible scraps.
The carriage turned into the courtyard of Coldharbour House, and Anne stepped out and looked up at the façade with a feeling of dread. While the two sisters-in-law went to check that the bridal chamber was ready, she sat in the dimly lit great hall, huddled in her cloak next to a pitifully small fire that was rather like a torch flame in a vast cavern. The Duke had arrived before her and sat amid a litter of cups and flagons at the high table with his brothers and some of his knights. Their muttering resounded in the empty hall. Occasionally a voice was raised in a shout or a curse. There was no laughter.
Other than giving her a cursory nod when she entered he ignored her. He hadn’t troubled to present his household. She could feel his brooding gaze on her and imagined that he blamed her, devising a fit punishment. The thought had the same effect as something cold and slimy slithering down her back. Feeling dreadfully lonely and vulnerable and small, she kept her own eyes on the fire. It was easy to see in the glowing embers the flaming caverns of Satan’s dominions and in the sudden spurt of a flickering yellow flame, another soul fallen into irredeemable sin, writhing in agony. Demons were visible in the smoke and shooting sparks, whirling and dancing as they tore the soul with irons and jabbed with their needle sharp tridents. Listening carefully she could hear the sounds of both joy and suffering in the pop and hiss and cackle in the fiery depths. The carapace of dark ash above was all that separated the netherworld from the world of music and laughter, such a thin crust that one could so easily fall through.
The chamber to which she was later shown was even colder than the great hall. This too was dimly lit, with only the three-branched candelabra they had brought, and the miserable glow of a newly laid fire burning fitfully in the grate that had done nothing to dispel the chill of the room. Beside the fire was an old basket for firewood. Anne couldn’t help noticing there were only two logs on the fire and four remaining in the basket. When she remarked on this, Jane, William Bastard’s wife, told her that the Duke allowed only six logs per day for the bedchambers, as they didn’t need to be kept warm throughout the day when they weren’t in use.
“Winter and summer alike?”
“Yes, Madam.”
“Six logs, even in January and February?”
“Yes, Madam, except that if we have a prolonged hot spell in the summer and the rooms warm up, his Grace will cut off the firewood.”
“If you try hoarding your logs in summer,” Eleanor put in as if she was suggesting an orgy on the steps of the Guildhall, “when you move from this house to another, the logs you have saved will be gone when you come back.”
Anne shivered as the two women stripped off her bridal finery and covered her goose-fleshed body with one of the lovely linen nightgowns her mother and the ladies had spent so many hours sewing. Her hair was quickly brushed and braided while she sat on the bed wrapped in her cloak. By the time she slid between icy sheets and huddled down under a welter of blankets (at least here he wasn’t stingy) she had arrived at some preliminary conclusions about the two women who would be her chief companions throughout the years of her marriage. Jane was practical and capable but with a heart that pumped ice water. It was she who fulfilled the duties of head of the distaff side of the household, the role Anne would now assume. Eleanor was softer, kinder, easier to like but a little dense, with a brittle side to her nature, as if she would break if wounded too deeply.
Before they left, Anne told Jane that she wished to have the household presented in the morning. “I will convey your wishes to his Grace,” the woman replied, which gave Anne a fair idea of how things were done.
They closed the door, leaving her alone in the cold room, with a dim fire and a candle, marked by the hours, burning beside the bed. She was reminded of Queen Margaret, sitting alone in her chamber, exhausted and yet too wound up to sleep, waiting for the King to come, dreading that he would not. At least Margaret would have had a warm room to wait in and would have no fear that her husband would be drunk and brutal when he arrived. Perhaps she tried to read a book to pass the time or exhorted God to make her husband lusty and her womb fruitful. Anne was the possessor of a single book, the works of St. Bridget of Sweden, given to her at Christmas by her mother and packed somewhere in the trunks sent over from Baynard’s Castle. But there wasn’t enough light to read by even if she had been able to focus a modicum of attention on such a piece, so there was nothing for her to do but think, worry, despair…
An hour later, she was still cold, still wound tight as a drum skin and no closer to sleep when a sudden disturbance outside the chamber set her heart thumping. It rose to a riot of voices as the door burst open and in stumbled Exeter. He swore roundly at those outside, whether good-naturedly or not she couldn’t tell, and shut the door in their faces, then gave it a kick. The noise gradually subsided. He was wearing only a nightgown that came down to his hairy calves, and it was clear from the point sticking out in front that he had achieved an erection without any aid from his wife. He stood weaving to and fro, an asinine smile curving his mouth.
“Pretty wife,” he mumbled.
Might as well see what can be had from a man in his cups and in the throes of lust, Anne decided. “My lord, it is cold in here. Would you ask the servants to build up the fire and bring more wood?” Which proved to be quite the wrong thing to say.
He snorted with laughter. “Never fear. I’ll warm you up.” Dragging off his nightgown, he took his penis in hand. “What do you think of our friend here?”
“Very nice,” she whispered, utterly repulsed by the thing.
“I’ve never had a virgin before. You’re going to be a new experience.” He fell on the bed, fell on her. There followed a protracted and ridiculous struggle as they both endeavoured to remove the bedclothes from between them and get him into bed. This accomplished, he wasted no time in shoving her nightgown up to her chin and began to rub himself against her pubis, ignoring her little gasp, which he took to be one of pleasure.
“Feel that,” he whispered in her ear. “That’s what a man feels like, sweetheart. Do you like it?”
He tried to slide a hand between her thighs, which locked at his first touch. The harder he tried the tighter she clamped, until he pushed a knee between her own, forcing her legs apart. When an exploring digit thrust through the barrier of her maidenhead, she went rigid with the shock of it and cried out in surprised pain.
“Shut your mouth, woman!” he snarled. “This isn’t going to hurt.”
Taut and swollen despite her inert resistance, he climbed on top of her, and then the thing was pushed into her clumsily. There was nothing to be done but position herself to accommodate it, while gritting her teeth and screaming in her head: oh God, oh God, oh God! Seated inside her at last, he pumped vigorously, farted, groaned, covered her averted face with wet kisses and pinched her nipples as if they were made of leather. In the dim light, he looked like a creature demented, and she squeezed her eyes shut. It seemed to go on for a long time, while she hung on grimly, trying to avoid his sour mouth, too ine
xperienced to help him find release and only hoping that the awful business would soon be over.
When it was, when he had jerked and shuddered to his climax, he lifted himself off and flopped down beside her, his head heavy on her shoulder. He was snoring in less time than it takes to say a Paternoster, and Anne inched away until no part of him was touching her. She wanted nothing so much as to sink her lower parts in a tub of water and wash every last vestige of him away. Instead, she lay quite still, staring up at the bed canopy, trying to see what was there – a pattern or a picture of some sort. She could make out vague shapes, but couldn’t quite decide what they were. This mystery occupied her mind until she fell asleep.
In the morning, he had a hangover and apologised that he was not in the mood for bed sport before vomiting into the chamber pot.
Chapter 10
December 1454 – Exeter
The Duke and Duchess of Exeter had been invited to Windsor for the Christmas season. An invitation from royalty was a summons dressed in its Sunday best. Anne was delighted at the prospect of being warm and perhaps seeing some friendly faces, although she knew it would be a quiet and boring Christmas, especially given King Henry’s condition. Christmas at court, even when the King was well, was a solemn and sober occasion, for the King disapproved of dancing, secular music and frivolity of any kind. It would be good to have a change of scene, too. Coldharbour had become tedious.
In her bedchamber, Jane and Eleanor were packing two coffers with her clothes and other necessities. Anne had two other attendants: young gentlewomen, aged fifteen and sixteen, who spent a great deal of time whispering and giggling together. She was still only fifteen herself but felt very much older than the two girls, who she called her ‘butterflies’ because they were pretty and flighty. She sat in a window seat – supposedly supervising but in fact reminiscing about Christmases past at Fotheringhay with her family. These pleasant memories shattered like glass when Exeter entered the room like a gust of foul air. Judging from his diatribe, someone had informed him that Anne’s courses had begun again. The two women paused in their tasks to curtsy. Anne, too, rose to her feet to curtsy and then stood with her hands folded in front of her and her eyes downcast.
“What’s the matter with her? Is she barren?” he railed at Jane.
“I’m sure it’s nothing, your Grace. Just her youth. Young girls are frequently slow to quicken with the first. It’s only been three months,” Jane said in the rather odd way in which she habitually spoke to the Duke. It was not something Anne could interpret; a tone that was more than just deference, yet not quite fear. Eleanor, on the other hand, couldn’t hide her fear. On a couple of occasions, when he approached her, Anne saw that she trembled and seemed to close in on herself as if she was flinching away inside. From this, Anne suspected that Thomas Bastard wasn’t the only one to beat her.
Anne could feel their eyes on her and kept her head down. I remember when Edward and Edmund put vinegar in the wassail bowl…
“Three months is long enough!” Exeter glowered. “I tup her every bloody night.”
Every night, at least once. Sometimes during the day, too. At any time of day he might stride into her chamber, order everyone out, release an engorged penis from its confinement and thrust into her without a word. Then leave her dishevelled and disgusted.
The guests laughed, but Mama was furious. She knew at once who the culprits were, but we all got sent to bed without any supper.
“It’s because she’s cold.” The Duke threw her a savage look before striding to the door, where he stopped to glare at the packing. “One trunk only!”
“I can’t possibly fit everything into one trunk!” Anne protested.
“Do you contradict me, Madam?” he said, coming forward menacingly.
“No, my lord.” Anne lowered her eyes again. “I can manage with only one.”
When he had slammed out of the room, Eleanor said: “If you permit, Madam, I will make room in my trunk for a couple of your gowns.”
Anne nodded, and Eleanor went to her chamber to repack her trunk. Anne sank back into her seat. Her spirits were very low. The only bright spots in her new life were the letters from her family. She wondered if she could find the courage to sneak away to Baynard’s Castle to see her father, to confide in him and beg him to help her before she left the city. But of what did she have to complain? That her husband was nasty? That he had struck her once. Would her father be outraged, or would he tell her that Exeter was within his rights? If she went, it would mean taking one of her attendants into her confidence, but could any of them be trusted? Not the butterflies certainly, and Jane was… inscrutable, not easy to read. She suspected Jane might be his creature. That left Eleanor…Which reminded her that some time had elapsed and Eleanor had not returned.
“Where is Eleanor?” she asked crossly.
“I’ll find out, shall I, Madam?” Jane dropped the chemise she was folding onto the bed and hurried to the door.
“A mild indisposition,” she reported upon her return.
“Very sudden,” said Anne. “I shall go and see her.” She was about to rise when she found Jane’s hand on her shoulder, gentle but insistent.
“It’s nothing, Madam, I do assure you. Don’t trouble yourself,” she said in a tone of voice that lacked nothing in deference and yet made Anne’s hackles rise.
Removing the offending hand from her shoulder, she said very firmly, “I shall see for myself.”
She walked briskly to the chamber occupied by Eleanor and Thomas Bastard, aware that Jane was following behind her. A gentle tapping only elicited a small sound that she was unable to interpret.
“Madam, please don’t go in there,” Jane pleaded, but Anne ignored her, lifted the latch and pushed open the door. And froze at the sight that met her disbelieving eyes. There on the bed on all fours was Eleanor, her skirts thrown up, and behind her was Exeter, his hose hanging limply around his knees, his pale buttocks clenched and pumping vigorously. Both looked round simultaneously. Eleanor, face white and horrified, gasped.
“Get out!” Exeter said in a voice distorted by his approaching climax.
With a cry of shock, she jerked the door shut, but not before she saw the Bastards sitting on a chest against the wall. Thomas was whittling while his half-brother raped his wife. Anne had no doubt that it was rape.
The very next thing she could remember with any clarity was being in her bedchamber with her mind reeling. How she got there, she could not recall, though she was fairly certain it had been on her own two feet. She was seated in a high-backed chair, gripping the arms as if to anchor herself to reality. Telling herself she couldn’t possibly have seen what she thought she’d seen. Telling herself she had.
In slow motion, it seemed, Jane poured a cup of wine and offered it to her. She had an impulse to knock it away, but there was no mistaking the genuine sympathy in Jane’s hard eyes, any more than the horrified anguish in Eleanor’s at that moment when she had glanced round. So she took the wine and sipped it in silence until she was certain that she wasn’t about to fall into little pieces.
“Tell me everything,” she commanded.
Jane turned away, toward the window and spoke in a monotone while looking out. “It began when she joined the household, four years ago. She was daft enough to fall in love with her husband, so when he told her that he wanted her to service his brother – the Duke, that is – she protested. So they beat her, and then they raped her. I’m not quite sure when William joined in the fun. At some point, they discovered they enjoyed beating her. They’re decent enough, at least, to give her time to recover from the last one before giving her another. When you came, we were spared his attentions for a while, but now it’s started again.”
“You, too?”
“Oh yes. But I learned from Eleanor. When William made the same request of me, I agreed at once. I don’t fight them; I don’t protest, and I don’t get beaten. They have sport with me, but when they fancy something a little more v
icious they pick on Eleanor. Sometimes they have the two of us together.”
“What of the butterflies?”
“I think they’re safe because they’re virgins. Eleanor and I are the property of our husbands. But who knows? Perhaps when they tire of us…”
She had shed not a tear in the telling, had held herself in rigid control but having done so, she covered her face with her hands and stood quaking from head to foot as she struggled to suppress her tears. Anne went to her and gathered her stiff frame into an embrace.
“I fear I’ll go to Hell. To avoid a little earthly suffering, I’m committing a grievous sin, and the sin is even worse now because of the wrong to you. No penance can absolve me!” she said and, to Anne’s surprise, burst into tears.
“No! Oh, no! You have nothing to reproach yourself for, dear Jane. God will understand. He will not hold you to blame any more than I do.”
There was a tremendous outpouring of grief as if all the pain and humiliation and horror of the last years had been dammed up inside her, and only released by today’s events in a flood of tears, a torrent of desolation. Anne held her, stroked the heaving back and murmured words of consolation until the heart-wrenching sobs began to subside.
“It’s not the rape that’s the worst,” she murmured after a while. “It’s that they treat me like a piece of meat as if I’m soulless.”
“Thank you for telling me. Now I feel we are truly sisters.” Anne could find nothing better to say to comfort her. It was useless to pretend there was anything she could do to stop the abuse, but she resolved to try. She had disliked Exeter from the first moments in the garden at Baynard’s Castle and after hearing what Jane had to say she loathed and despised him. Knowing what she did, confronting him was one of the hardest things she had ever done, and yet it was something she had to do. She chose a public occasion when the household gathered in the great hall for supper. Eleanor made an appearance too, sitting in her usual place beside Jane. Anne tried to catch her eye, to send her a look that said ‘No blame to you,’ but the poor wretch wouldn’t lift her head, kept her attention on the food on her plate, which she toyed with and ate very little.
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