The Fair Maid of Kent

by Caroline Newark

  My hands trembled as I approached Lady Catherine’s best guest chamber. The current occupant was William’s grandmother, the elderly Dowager Lady Montagu. She had refused to attend our wedding, claiming winter travel too dangerous for someone of her age and frailty so all I knew about her was her preference for her younger son, Alice’s husband, and her fanatical devotion to St Frideswide.

  The door was opened by an aged crone dressed in drab grey. Beyond her were several others, creeping around with bowls and cloths, warming ale on the fire and servicing the requirements of their ancient mistress.

  She sat like an eagle on a rock, arrayed in tawny velvet, waiting for a prey large enough and appetising enough to make the effort of stretching her wings and taking flight worth the while. Her eyes were hooded and very bright, her skin pouched and wrinkled. She looked extremely old.

  One bony finger extended itself from the depths of her embroidered sleeve and curled round, beckoning me forward. Her mouth pursed into a web of fine lines and crinkles.

  I sank down. ‘Greetings, my lady,’ I said softly.

  ‘Speak up girl! Don’t mumble!’ she barked. ‘So you’re the prize they’ve bought for my grandson.’ She looked me up and down. ‘Turn around. Let me see all of you.’

  I obediently moved in a small circle and came round to face her again.

  ‘Pretty enough! I hear my grandson has been rutting like a young stag this past year. But your mother says you’re a virgin. Is she right?’

  The colour washed up into my face.

  ‘Humph! Didn’t think he’d dare disobey his mother. What was she thinking of, dangling you in front of him like a tasty little morsel?’

  I couldn’t think of anything to say. It was the bedding ceremony tomorrow and I kept telling myself I was a maid untouched. If I said it often enough and with enough conviction I could believe it. Thomas had never existed, I had never been married and we had never lain together. But I couldn’t deny the images which stole into my dreams, the longing to be held, and the hunger for something I had once possessed but had irretrievably lost.

  ‘How are old are you, girl?’

  ‘Fifteen, my lady.’

  ‘Old enough! Ripe enough! And ready enough if I’m not mistaken. Come here!’

  As soon as I was within reach she put out a finger and poked my waist.

  ‘Traitor’s daughter, they tell me.’

  I bit my lip but said nothing.

  ‘You have his eyes. A foolish boy. He should have left well alone but as young people will, he refused to listen. Had a fancy for your mother and her all that time in love with her cousin. Now there was an evil man for you. Knew what he wanted and who could give it to him and it wasn’t your mother. He had his eyes on someone else.’

  She rambled on but I found it impossible to follow what she was saying. She was talking about my parents. But who was this cousin?

  Next evening at the bedding ceremony, William drank steadily and with great bravado, cheered on by his rowdy friends who regarded the celebration as an opportunity to encourage the would-be husband in his excesses. I took only a cup or two of wine, hoping to remain sober, but by the time we went up the stairs with a train of laughing, singing followers, my legs were most unsteady. My cheeks were flushed and if I hadn’t been so scared I think I might have felt comfortably sleepy.

  We knelt at the foot of the great Montagu marriage bed, an immense creation of carved wood, draped in luxurious red and silver hangings. The sheets were woven of the finest linen, and the coverlet was of yellow satin, embroidered with a design of exotically coloured birds never once seen flying in the greenwoods near Bisham.

  William’s uncle, Bishop Simon, loomed over us, intoning prayers for the fruitfulness and success of our marriage. Two grooms of the chamber drew back the covers. The bishop dipped his fingers into a tiny silver bowl held by the white-robed boy at his side and sprinkled a few drops of holy water over the sheets, blessing the bed in which our union was to be consummated.

  There were constant mentions of Montagu generations past and the hope of Montagu generations to come and exhortations that William and I would be rewarded with numerous children, all to further the glory of God and his servants, the Montagu family.

  I felt William shift as if he was uncomfortable. I had my head bent but shot a sideways glance under my lashes. His eyes were closed and his face was white. He looked sick.

  After the men left, Lady Catherine loitered at the bedside showing no desire to go and every wish to remain. Margaret had once told me of a girl whose mother-in-law watched while her son deflowered his bride as she wished to reassure herself the deed was done so there could be no dispute over the massive fortune the girl brought with her to the marriage. I was consumed with terror this was Lady Catherine’s intention.

  What would I do? To deceive William was one thing but to deceive a watching and waiting Lady Catherine was quite another. She would whip the sheets from under us the minute the deed was done and I would have no opportunity to practice my deception.

  I thought of the tiny knife my maid had hidden beneath the pillow and wondered if I could reach it without Lady Catherine seeing.

  She leaned forward and kissed her son gently on his forehead, murmuring a mother’s blessing and as she turned and walked out of the room I felt my whole body soften and melt.

  For a moment or two neither of us said anything. I told myself I had never been to bed with a man before and any memories of the little attic room in Ghent were false. It had never happened. Never!

  ‘Are you frightened, Joan?’ William’s face, despite his pallor, was full of eagerness.

  Should I be frightened? Was that how a girl who had never known a man was supposed to feel? I tried to recall how it had been with Thomas, but all I could remember of that night was the joy of what we did together and my worry that I was a disappointment. I didn’t think I would prove a disappointment to William Montagu. He looked as if he couldn’t wait.

  ‘I am a little frightened,’ I said, thinking he might prefer it if I was. His eyes were greedy as if I was a choice piece of meat, something he longed to tear apart with his teeth and devour on the pillow.

  ‘You don’t need to be,’ he said with a boy’s conviction. ‘I know what to do. I’ve done it dozens of times and I’ll try not to hurt you.’

  Of course. His uncle would have given him a woman at Wark. I wondered if she had been the only one or if his grandmother’s words were true. I wasn’t sure if I cared. He was almost a man and this is what men did.

  He grasped my shoulder and pulled me towards him. He wasn’t particularly rough but his hands were sticky and his breath was hot with the smell of wine. He kissed me hard on the mouth, prising my lips open with his tongue while his hands enthusiastically explored the top half of my nightgown. I thought if I were truly innocent I might recoil from this intimacy and pretended to shrink back a little.

  ‘Oh Christ!’ he gulped. ‘Get that thing off.’

  I tried to undo the satin ribbons but his hands were in the way and after a short wrestling match he pulled up the silk folds and sank his face into my breasts while he grunted and pushed his knee between my legs.

  What surprised me at the time was how quick he was. One thrust, a gasp, a shudder and he was done.

  I was immediately consumed with fear. Could he tell? I didn’t think so but I was not a man and didn’t know. If he suspected, would he ask? Would he accuse me to my face or would he look for some proof?

  I remained perfectly still while William’s head lay heavy on my shoulder. I didn’t dare put my arms around him. After a few moments when nothing was said, he climbed off me and collapsed on the bed. He felt for my hand, picked it up and kissed it.

  ‘That was good. Did I hurt you?’

  I gave him a little smile to hide the fact that he had. ‘No
t really, William. A small matter perhaps but I wanted to be yours.’

  He looked startled. ‘Did you?’

  ‘Yes,’ I whispered, thinking I didn’t much care for William Montagu, who was nothing more than a rough, uncouth young man. But he was my husband and I had better make the best of it.

  The skin on his shoulders was beautifully smooth. He was quite good-looking, far more so than on our wedding day. There were no clawed fingers or sagging belly where William was concerned and his body was firm and well-muscled. In time I hoped he would learn better manners in our bed. He wasn’t the husband I would have chosen but then no girl has a choice and he could have been worse. He could have been like his uncle.

  I parted my lips slightly, lowered my eyelashes and tried to look suitably meek.

  ‘I’d do it again if I wasn’t so drunk,’ he muttered, his voice thick with wine and tiredness. ‘I can, you know. You’ll see. Go to sleep now. I’m too exhausted to think.’

  I didn’t know what to do. I half-expected him to turn and carelessly pull me into his arms again but he didn’t and I was glad because he had not been particularly kind or gentle and I felt bruised. The girls in Ghent had said young men were tireless between the sheets and certainly in our little attic room under the rafters Thomas had kept me awake long into the night, yet here was William, flat on his back in the Montagu marriage bed, his mouth open, snoring like a farmer’s pig.

  The night candle burned low and I waited for hours, not daring to move. I was listening for the Matins bell. I heard the lonely hoot from a distant owl and the clang of a man’s boots on the stone outside and then a grunt and a snort from my half-drunk husband. A few moments later William’s head rolled to one side, his breathing slowed and I was certain he was fast asleep.

  I reached under the pillow and retrieved the knife. With great difficulty I lifted up my foot, ensuring I didn’t disturb William. I said a hasty prayer, held my breath and made a slash on the soft skin of the instep. There was a sharp pain as the blade cut into the flesh. I was surprised how little blood there was but it was enough for my purposes, I only needed a few drops.

  With the business done, I wiped the blade and replaced it under the pillow. I settled down and closed my eyes, confident the deception was complete. To anybody who cared to look, William had done his duty and I was no longer a virgin. As I drifted off to sleep, my last waking thought was how pleased Lady Catherine would be in the morning when the maid delivered an armful of stained and crumpled sheets.

  I woke to find William standing, fully-dressed, gazing at me with a puzzled expression on his face. I smiled shyly wondering why he was wearing his clothes. This was our first night together and surely any husband should want to take me again.

  ‘I shall see you at Mass,’ he said abruptly. ‘Then we’ll break our fast here in our chamber. My mother says we may have a week with no duties and in that way get to know each other. She and my uncle, the bishop, have given me instructions as to what we should do during this time.’

  I blinked in surprise. This was not what I had expected. It seemed our life together was to be governed by a list of instructions from William’s family. I wondered would there be a strict order for when we might be permitted to pray together, to walk together and to lie together, and would there be guidance for what was to happen beneath the sheets?

  My maid helped me wash and put on my clothes, lacing up my gorgeous new green silk gown and winding my hair into the golden nets over my ears. She chattered happily about the richness of the damasks and taffetas worn by the other women but carefully avoided any mention of last night.

  I had given her the knife as soon as she had greeted me that morning and she had replaced it in my chest, hidden beneath a pile of my cloaks. She knew better than to enquire as to its purpose. Perhaps she thought it common for girls like me to take a knife into their marriage bed and for all I knew perhaps it was.

  I walked to the chapel to hear Mass with my husband feeling important but very nervous and refusing to catch anybody’s eye. I worried Lady Catherine might leap out of the shadows at any moment screaming, “Not enough blood!” Every footstep coming towards our solemn procession had me trembling with fear and the accompanying ladies must have wondered what was wrong. I saw them exchange knowing glances and smile indulgently but they said nothing.

  William and I prayed together and distributed alms to the villagers who had come to gawp at us in our fine clothes, before returning once more to give thanks at the altar rail. William appeared properly devout judging from the serious look on his face and the way he bowed his head but, whatever his prayers were, I was certain they would be different to mine.

  At our first meal he ate with relish like most men, tearing the bread with his teeth and chewing enthusiastically. On the table was a special rich cheese ordered from the West Country for our bedding morning. Margaret said such delicacies were supposed to give strength to a newly-married couple and aid the conception of an heir but I didn’t dare mention such a matter to William.

  He made no comment on my gown, although it was one I thought a husband would like with its fashionable low-cut neck and nipped-in waist. In truth he barely looked at me, giving his full attention to his food. I saw him lick his upper lip to remove any crumbs and wondered if he would kiss me again. I wasn’t sure I enjoyed his kisses. He had handled me roughly last night and bruised my mouth but he was my husband and could kiss how he liked.

  Afterwards we walked by the river watching the shafts of green and silver light shimmer in the water but found nothing to say to each other. I tried once or twice but had no idea what would interest a new husband. I pointed out the moorhens scattering into the reeds at our approach and the ducks dabbling at the water’s edge, but he ignored me. He knew nothing of eglantine or meadowsweet or the romances which he said were fit only for foolish women who had nothing better to do with their time.

  When we reached the newly built lych gate we sat on the tiny seats and stared at the flat stones where the villagers laid their dead. He didn’t try to touch me and I certainly wasn’t going to touch him.

  ‘Do you play an instrument?’ I asked, thinking how badly I was doing as a new wife.

  ‘No,’ he replied.

  ‘Do you like to sing?’

  ‘Sometimes.’

  ‘I do too.’ I smiled encouragingly but he didn’t ask me to sing with him which is what I’d expected.

  Hearing the birds twittering in amongst the trees edging the churchyard wall, I recalled the melancholy little ballad Otho Holand had sung for me in Ghent. All of a sudden a lump formed in my throat as if I’d swallowed a stone and tears welled up into my eyes.

  William didn’t touch me. Thomas would have taken me in his arms and kissed my tears away, but William did nothing. I wasn’t sure he even noticed my distress. If he did he wasn’t concerned. He simply sat and waited until I had stopped crying and then said we should walk back.

  Things got no better. We ate together in silence. The valets who served us, moved quietly as they replaced the dishes and the groom of the ewery contrived to fill our cups without a single splash. Once or twice I smiled at William but he looked away quickly as if offended by my presence at his table.

  That afternoon we sat in Lady Catherine’s private garden. It was a special privilege granted by his lady mother, William said, sounding as if escorting me to a flower-filled bower was the last thing he wanted to do. He clearly thought I was nothing other than a nuisance. But it was there, amongst the roses and the gillyflowers with the sun on my face and the butterflies flitting idly from bush to bush, that I finally discovered what my husband really liked.

  ‘The groin is particularly vulnerable,’ he said, showing me the place on his leg where he’d make his planned attack. ‘If you pierce that with your dagger a man is more than likely to bleed to death. I’ve heard it makes a fountain of blood. T
hink of that.’

  I swallowed hard and tried not to think about blood in all its crimson horror.

  ‘But you can easily break a man’s skull with a cudgel or an axe and if he has the misfortune to lose his helmet, you can split his head apart and his brains will spill out into the mud.’

  ‘But William,’ I said, hoping he would soon talk about something else. ‘I thought you’d fight with a sword in your hand.’

  ‘Oh I will, and just think what you can do with a sword, particularly a well-made one. I could take out a man’s eye with a sword or if I aim right, cut off an arm or a leg.’

  I was beginning to feel decidedly sick as William continued to number the thirty different ways he knew to kill an opponent.

  ‘Up into the gullet is one of my favourite thrusts. Men gurgle and spit out their life blood if you hit the target right. Did you know blood can be black as pitch? It’s hot and sticky and smells sweet.’

  He turned his glittering eyes back to me but immediately dropped them to my waist. He didn’t like to look me in the face.

  ‘Surely your enemies will protect themselves, William?’

  ‘The breast is well-protected but it’s often possible to hack off a man’s head. The neck is very fragile. Here, I’ll show you.’

  I sat perfectly still on the bench in his mother’s garden while my husband of just over a year circled my neck with his man’s hands. It was the feel of those muscular fingers on my throat which made me realise just how far the boy William had been left behind. I looked up into his eyes which were close to mine. I saw a muscle in his cheek twitch slightly as he held my gaze for a brief instant but then he dropped his hands and moved along the bench so we no longer sat close together. He was giving a rose bush his full attention, a slight flush on his face.