Poor Anna, I wish I could help her. I know she is troubled by the conundrum of providing the King with an heir, but she confides in no one. It seems to me that the King does all he can to avoid her bed and, when for the third night in a row he does not attend her, Eve tries to offer her some comfort.
“Perhaps the King is ailing, Madam,” she says. “I expect his leg is troubling him again.”
The Queen, vulnerable in her high-necked nightgown, her thick red-brown braids hanging from her ears, assumes a cheerful expression and turns her attention to her yappy little dog. She takes him into her bed to sleep beside her upon the richly embroidered counterpane, but as I bend to pick up her soiled linen, the smile slides from her face and her eyes grow sombre again.
In truth, she lacks the skills to entertain a man like the King. She does not play an instrument and has neither the ready wit of Anne Boleyn, nor the soothing nature of Queen Jane. Poor Anna is awkward, making so many blunders each day that the courtiers begin to turn away from her and her advisors frantically try to force her into some semblance of the sort of woman Henry requires. But we all suspect it is an impossible task. We all know what Henry really wants.
The Queen’s lack of womanly wiles sorely tries the patience of the King’s secretary, Master Cromwell. As the man responsible for championing the marriage, he is the one who will bear the brunt of the King’s displeasure. He visits my mistress daily, advising her on how to deport herself and, in matters too delicate for him to broach, he employs the aid of her closest confidantes. Her senior women put their heads together to decide who is best suited to instruct the Queen on the wifely duty of which she surely has no knowledge.
Francis Wareham
I am just turned fifteen on the day my mother’s laundry maid accuses me of fathering her brat. Of course, I try to deny it but when she produces a child with a knot of flaming hair just like my own, no one believes me. Father takes a rod to my back, each red-hot stroke deepening my sense of injustice, my hatred toward him, and my anger at the world, but I squeeze my eyes tight and refuse to give in to boyish tears.
After that day my mother does not look at me again. Instead, she maintains a pained, pious expression that would try the patience of a saint. The girl, Kate, is a pretty thing but she won’t talk to me either. She does nothing but weep on the day she is sent away in shame. I have no idea what they plan to do with her child and do not think of it again.
A few years later Father catches me in the scullery kissing a kitchen wench and without delay draws out his instrument to abuse me again. As the thin tip of his switch cuts into my bare buttocks I bite my lip and decide I’ve had enough. I resolve to seek my fortune elsewhere and at midnight I rise from my bed, fumbling for my cloak in the dark. Before I leave I break his rod across my knee and leave the two halves on his desk. Then I saddle his favourite horse and ride away, determined to never return.
I do not look back. My brother, Theobald, is welcome to my share of the inheritance for I am determined upon a life of adventure. Maybe I will become a pirate and sail upon the sea, gleaning riches from the weak and the foolish. With my childhood behind me I ride into the night, spurred on by a bravado that cannot last.
There are a hundred miles or more of rough road between my father’s manor and London Town, but at first travelling is easy. I live well enough for a day or two, sinking my teeth into the pasties I’d had the foresight to steal from Mother’s kitchen. I soon discover that a wink and a winsome smile go a long way with country wives, and I manage to glean other bits and pieces to sustain me along the way.
Thankfully, the weather is mild; it hasn’t rained for weeks, so the road is firm and I am in high spirits and make goodly progress.
I am eager to reach my destination, lured by the gold-paved streets and the tales I’ve heard of the merry whores who line Bankside on the outskirts of the town.
London is a place of fortune, a city of learning and advancement. I spare not a thought for the reports of burnings and beheadings, for I am a green boy and think that such things can never touch me. Even in the countryside we know that a man’s thoughts are no longer his own, but my own opinions can have no impact upon the wider world.
Before I am even half way there, a gang of thieves sneak upon my campfire, wave a dagger beneath my chin while they steal my breakfast, and ride away on my father’s horse. I curse them roundly as they gallop off, more livid at my own carelessness than their dishonesty, but it teaches me a lesson and thereafter I become more wary of strangers.
The journey is far tougher on foot and by the time I limp beneath the Bishop’s Gate, I no longer look like the son of a gentleman. People barge me in the street and look down their noses at my filthy doublet and the clumps of mud on my boots.
By luck, when I chance upon an inn and stumble into the yard to beg a pot of ale, I am greeted by a plump matron whom I later discover is named Marion. When I tell her my sorry tale she takes pity on me. I am glad for her motherly, gap-toothed smile and her big sorry eyes.
She makes much of me, plying me with food and drink, and I soon discover there is nothing Mary-like about her at all. Having buried several husbands she has long forgot what it means to be chaste and, within an hour of sluicing my head in her horse trough, I am warming my feet at her hearth. As she leans over to ease my boots from my stinking feet, I peek down her bodice to the generous curve of her bosom. She gives me just the sort of sly smile that a man like me cannot resist, and although she has thirty years to my seventeen, I cannot stop my hands from reaching out for her.
Marion is a merry sort, happy to begin and end the day in a cheerful bedtime romp but, between times, I have to learn to toe the line and treat her like a worthy woman before her meagre staff. She is reluctant to lose the respect of the underlings and so I follow her will, happy to remain her favourite, working in her kitchen, sampling her baking by day and the charms of her body by night.
I am there a week or so but then, one market day when I think she has gone for the morning, she comes back unexpectedly and catches me servicing her kitchen wench in a niche below the stairs.
Stars spin in the blackness of my inner eye as her broom comes down hard upon my head. My companion throws her apron over her face and flees, but I am too stunned to run and so suffer the full brunt of Marion’s anger. Her blows are hard and painfully accurate.
So, without a penny to my name or a cloak for my back, I leave the comforts of Marion’s hearth and, hunching my shoulders against the rain, I wander the filthy streets, looking to find myself another comfortable berth. I have nowhere to go and as a stranger in the city, I am vulnerable and a little afraid, although I would never admit that to anyone.
“It’s about time I saw a bit of London Town,” I comfort myself, for apart from Marion’s kitchen and the mysteries of her bedchamber, I’ve seen very little yet of the city.
I already miss Marion. She was generous with her affection and, more to the point, believed in keeping up a man’s pecker by feeding him well. When I think of her plump pasties and steaming stews, a part of me regrets sampling the tart, untested pleasures of the kitchen wench. As I turn toward the outskirts of the city I smile ruefully, for I know myself well enough to admit that if there is one thing I will never be able to resist, it is temptation.
Night is drawing in when, close by the chapel on London Bridge, I spy a bundle of straw in a doorway and settle down upon it to watch the down-and-outs and the desperate pass by. Hoping they will not notice me in the darkness of the doorstep, I burrow into the straw, wrap my arms about myself and rest my head against the stone wall, imagining instead the warm cushion of Marion’s bosom.
Hours pass, the thinning crowd dwindles to nothing and peace settles. Above me, a bright moon hangs in a web of stars while below, the Thames, a stinking river of turds, slips slowly through the slumbering city.
I am dreaming when a sharp blow in the ribs tears me from sleep. I give a great cry as I am yanked from my nest and thrown into the gutte
r. I grunt as my attacker’s boot sinks into my belly again and, gasping, I roll away, scramble to my feet and run, his obscenities dying away as the space between us increases. My feet slither on the slickness of the cobbles and once I am sure I am no longer followed, I slow my pace, tuck my balled fists beneath my armpits and shamble onward, cold, miserable and alone.
I should have realised that pile of piss-ridden straw was somebody’s home, for nothing in this city is free. Hunching my shoulders against the chill, I cross the bridge into the place I now know to be Southwark.
The darkness and unfamiliar territory transform me from a brave adventurer into a frightened boy and I dart from doorway to doorway, keeping to the shadows, desperate to lay myself down to rest. My thoughts turn to my mother. At first, the way is full of drunks and I know there are thieves on every street, murderers in each dark alley. I keep my head down and for the first time I wish myself back home. My head is still lowered when I turn a corner and suddenly run up hard against someone sheltering in the shadow of the wall.
“'Allo, my dear.” A lanthorn lights a kind and comely face and, in the motherly manner that I crave, she takes my elbow and leads me from the main street into the foulness of an alleyway. At first I am afraid, knowing that my vulnerability in this wicked city screams aloud. I must look to be easy pickings but, with my money already gone, all that remains for a villain to take from me is my life.
Theft and murder, however, does not seem to be on this villain’s agenda and I soon realise that she is engaging me in a sort of rough courtship.
“Wassa fine fella like you doing wandrin’ about at this time o’ night?” Her eyes sweep across my body, a smile lifting one side of her mouth and a dimple flickering in her cheek. Then, as the moon slips from behind a cloud and reveals my frozen features, she draws back and raises an eyebrow. “’Ere, does your mother know you’re out?”
Her teasing reduces me further. It is years since I have felt or behaved like an infant. I am almost eighteen years old but there is something about her that unmans me and, to my dismay, I feel my chin begin to wobble although I fight to keep it firm.
“Hey.” Her voice is soft as she reaches out and runs a finger along my cheek, trapping a tear that has escaped my control. A waft of her exotic perfume swims about my head. “Aw, bless you, me dear. You come along with Joanie, I’ve a place nearby where I can offer you comfort.”
At the rear of a shabby inn, she takes my hand and leads me up rickety stairs to a room that is devoid of furniture apart from a narrow bed and a washstand. The fire has gone out but as if by sorcery, she kneels and the flame leaps beneath her hand, immediately imbuing the room with a comforting glow. Then she turns and comes toward me, begins to loosen my doublet and pushes me into the only chair. Into my fist she pushes a pot of ale, the handle of which is warmer than my fingers, and I clutch it as if my whole life depends upon its solidity.
After I have filled my belly Joan kneels before me, opens her bodice and guides my hand beneath her shift, making my whole body tremble. I feel like an untried boy again, although I’ve pleasured more girls than I can count. Then, without a word she begins to untie my cod-piece.
I am flat on my back in her bed. She smiles as she straddles me, her great breasts swaying in the light of the fire, her mouth open, her eyes enjoying my astounded pleasure, my rigid disbelief in her mastery. The smile on my face is that of an idiot for I am discovering that Joanie is the mistress of love. She shows me things that I have never dreamed of and the memory of my previous encounters, the fumblings with servants and the courteous couplings I enjoyed with Marion, all dwindle away. They were nothing.
My head is filled with Joan, I can think no further than the lascivious lapping of her tongue, the spread of her white thighs, the bounce of her cherry tipped dugs and the relentless grip of her quaint.
I am lost in Joan.
I am Joan.
“You can’t stay here, I have to work.” She softens the harsh words by finding me a job as a pot boy in The Cock’s Inn close by her room. I tell myself she wants to keep me close so that I can visit her often but I soon learn that the romance is over and now she takes a hard-earned penny for every favour.
Trapped in the torture of calf love, each time I visit her I beg to be allowed to stay but when she has done with me, she pushes me over the threshold and I am left staring at the scarred panelling of her door. I lurk in the yard, terrified of leaving, and when I see other men climb those stairs to sample her wares, jealousy bites deep.
I block my ears to the sounds of their pleasure but she has no mercy, and when she waves her leman goodbye, she leans over the balustrade so that her breasts tumble into view. She knows how I long for her but, ignoring my anguish, she casts a cock-stirring wink in my direction. I clench my fists, unsure if the person I long to kill is Joan, her fancy men … or myself.
I work hard at The Cock, collecting the pots, scrubbing the pewter with sand until I can see my face in it. When the last customer leaves, I wipe the scarred tables ready for the morning trade and sweep the floor, ignoring the winsome eye of the serving wench.
Then, with my wages in my fist, I climb the stairs to hand it over to Joanie. Almost every penny, save that which buys me bread, goes into her pot. Soon she has a new covering on her bed, new sleeves for Sundays and two stools where once there was only one. Joanie, at the peak of her beauty, is popular in her trade and prospers.
Now, I hesitate outside her door before knocking, uncertain if she will let me in or turn me away. My summons provokes a rustle of movement inside and, remembering my manners, I raise a hand to whip off my hat. The door opens slowly and a face appears from behind it, but it is not Joan who greets me.
Her younger sister, Sybil, leans on the threshold and watches me as, like an underling, I fumble with my cap. “I – I was looking for Joan.”
Sybil leans forward, grabs my doublet and begins to draw me into the room.
“Joan ain’t here, dearie, but Betsy and I can look after you.” Betsy, Joan’s youngest sister, is draped across the solitary bed, the sanctuary where, only yesterday, I had made love to my Joanie.
“No.” I pull away, affronted by their forwardness. “My business is with Joan.”
Betsy pulls herself from the pillows and walks, half dressed, toward us. I glimpse a pink nipple, a nest of dark hair lower down. Once, I would have fallen on her, any portal in a storm, but now, felled by love’s arrow, I tear my eyes away and fasten my gaze just to the right of her ear.
“You’re that country fellow she was telling us about, we know all about you. Sweet on our Joan, ain’t cha? She’ll be back come mornin’, she’s making her salutation to the Bishop.”
The whores of Southwark pay their rent to the Bishop of Winchester and sport with the clergy hereabouts. Sybil and Betsy fall about at the crude joke but, made prudish by love, I curl my lip in distaste. The thought of my Joan debasing herself with a priest bites deep. My belly curls like a worm with jealousy and I have a wild longing to rescue her, take her back with me to my father’s house, seek his forgiveness and resume my life as his dutiful heir.
I try to picture Joan, dressed sombrely in a matron’s gown, her hair tamed beneath a white linen cap, but the image is difficult to capture and it fades completely when I try to imagine myself presenting Mother with a Winchester Goose as my future bride.
My happy dream dissolves.
But, I tell myself, that doesn’t mean there is no hope of Joan ever becoming my wife. If I can only earn enough to keep her, she can give up whoring. There must be a better way to seek a living. I dislodge Sybil’s fingers that are clutching my doublet and, throwing Betsy’s arms from around my neck, I clatter down the stairway with their laughter following in my wake. Fumbling for my dignity, I walk briskly toward the bridge to clear my head.
Bankside teems with whores, thieves, villains, dispossessed monks; even the nobles who jostle shoulder to shoulder with the poor are here on shady business. Close by the bridge I le
an over to watch the dark brown river pass slowly beneath me.
The water is littered with refuse and branches and as I stare as far into the depths as the murk will allow, the corpse of a sheep, washed down from the hills, crashes suddenly from between the pilings. The roaring torrent forces it to turn in a circle before the river takes it again and it resumes its stately journey. I am suddenly struck by my own likeness to this dead, sodden sheep that bobs helplessly along to wherever the river current cares.
I sigh raggedly and thrust a hand through my hair, as close to desolation as I have ever been. I want Joan with a desperation that will not let me rest and, like a wasp about a honey pot, I persist in the happy dream of wedding her. I know that my days of drifting are over and, for once in my life, I must be decisive.
I must make something happen.
A raven shrieks suddenly above me, and I look up to where a gibbet creaks and turns on the wind. Higher up on the parapet, a cadaver’s mouth gapes as if in laughter and it seems to me that even the dead lack faith in my ability. A scattering of kites dart and dive down to tear the flesh from the maggot-ridden scalps and I scoff, feeling superior to the so-called friends of the King who are loved no longer.
It is as I turn to leave that I realise with a start of surprise that someone is observing me from an open doorway. An inconspicuous doorway with a nameplate swinging in the wind that is so grimy even the literate cannot read it. I narrow my eyes, wondering what it is about me that he finds so interesting and as I make to move indignantly on, a slight jerk of his head indicates that I should go with him. He turns and disappears into the darkness of his lair while I shift from foot to foot, wondering if I dare follow.
London is a hellhole, a noisy, dirty nightmare peopled with devils and cowards, but such is my wretchedness that I venture after him regardless. I have little left to lose. I sidle along a dark, panelled passage until I come to a door that stands open, lit from within. After a moment’s hesitation, I step inside.
The Winchester Goose: At the Court of Henry VIII Page 2
