He lays me down and presses against me and there follows a deal of shoving and a lot of grunting. When he slumps suddenly, as soon as I am able I scramble from beneath him and run to my mother’s side. As we walk briskly through the alleyways toward home, I am full of doubt and want to cry but my mother does not speak or offer comfort. I learn later that because of the things the priest did to me, I am no longer a maid, but I have no idea what that really means.
After the initial squeamishness has passed, I no longer mind the old gentleman and once Mum hands me a shiny gold coin at the week’s end, I begin to see the reason for it all. The older men favour me and my visitors are mainly clerkly types with trembling hands and nervous ways. My path in life is set and I become grateful to the men that put food in my belly and provide me with the means to buy a pretty new cap once in a while.
Soon I learn that the more I please them, the more reward I get and, as a consequence, Joanie Toogood becomes a favourite. Sometimes, when I go home in the early hours and fall into bed where my younger sisters sleep the sleep of the innocent, I am so tired that Mother lets me stay there 'til late afternoon.
I laugh at those who prate of love and I scorn the idea of matches made in heaven; there are far too many devoted husbands among my customers to pull the wool over my eyes. I know a man keeps his brains in his cod-piece, and no sooner are they out of their wives’ sight than they are casting about for a willing whore.
I have never experienced tender feelings and never expect to. Men are soft, too easily distracted and too quick to utter mistruths, or at least that’s what the men who keep company with me are like. I couldn’t count the number of wives I’ve wronged, but what am I to do? A girl has to make a living.
My mother does not live out my twelfth year, and I am still a novice when I find myself in charge of my sisters. I know the future will be hard for us. Sybil is not yet ten and Betsy younger still. For two years I work double hard to keep them from my fate, but we all know the day will come. There is naught to do to stop it.
It’s been a hard night. I am soothing my nether regions in a bowl of warm water while Betsy scrapes together a meagre meal. Sybil squats beside me, pouring fresh water between my thighs. Her hair straggles about her worried face, her fine eyes bright with held back tears.
“You do the work of four gels, Joanie,” she says. “It ain’t right.”
“You want to eat, don’t cha? Want clothes on your back?”
She nods and I see her throat working as she tries to give voice to the words she would rather not speak.
“I am old enough now, Joanie, maybe it’s time.”
On the day I encounter Francis Wareham for the first time, Sybil has been working for two years, and Betsy for six months. Our youngest sister takes to the life like a duck to water and seems to enjoy it too. Her cheer is not feigned like mine and Sybil’s and, for her, whoredom is a vocation, not a chore. She works her way happily along the Bankside, greeting her gentlemen, young and old, as if she were a Goddess smiling upon worshippers. Sybil and I would think ourselves blessed if we could enjoy our trade as much.
But with the three of us working, our hardship eases a little. The Toogood sisters become well known as girls who will guarantee a good time. We are sought after and often times, if the money is right, we work together, earning as much in an hour as we could in a whole day of working alone. It is after such a romp, when I am enjoying a rare evening off, that I bump into a boy, lost, hungry and cold, and in want of mothering.
“Poor mite,” I say, seeing his tears and his frozen cheeks. I take him home with me.
There is something about the lost look of this young’n that persuades me to let him stay 'til morning. He has nowhere else to go; he’s green and unspoiled and, for once, I take some pleasure in the act. In the days that follow, some deep-rooted instinct to nurture prompts me to help him find employment as a pot-boy in The Cock Inn.
After that he is always hanging around, putting off my other customers, and I have to be cruel, try to ward him off, scared to find myself in straights again.
I soon realise that poor little Francis is one of those men who yearns only to crawl back into his mother’s womb and feel the comfort only infancy offers. And, since the woman that bred him now scorns him, he seeks that lack in me.
Part of me thinks it ridiculous the way he clings to me, suckling like a piglet, as if he is trying to claw a way inside or consume every part of me. I lie beneath him, astounded at his energy and when I’ve finally had enough of his rutting, I call him, ‘my baby’ and ‘little one’. Playfully, I pat his bottom until he cries out, his fingers digging deep into my flesh as if he would turn himself inside out to gain the thing he seeks. Poor Francis doesn’t realise he will never rediscover the thing he is looking for. None of us can go backwards; we must all plod on toward the end.
Afterwards, when he has done, he is too shy to look at me. He ties up his piece, leaves a coin upon my washstand and creeps away. I smile at the empty chair, more touched by him than I care to admit. Francis Wareham is a disquieting fellow and there is something about him that is hard to forget. He doesn’t go far but hovers on the brink of my life until, after almost a year of mooning around me, he is suddenly gone, disappeared from Southwark as if he had never been there.
To my surprise, I miss him a lot and ask around, but no one has seen him; it is as if he has melted away and, knowing his tendency to melancholy, I worry that he has cast himself into the stinking river or been thrown into Clink.
London is rife with rumour that the King has not taken to his new German wife. Rumour follows rumour and there is talk of imprisonment, death, and divorce. The memory of the Boleyn, ending her short reign on the scaffold, flickers at the back of every mind.
There are whispers of a new fancy in the King’s life and we all know that what King Henry fancies, he usually gets. I remember the strained, white face of the woman from Cleves and would not be in her shoes, not for all the wealth in the world. I’d sooner be Joan Toogood the whore, than Anna, the unloved Queen.
The streets are all but empty and I have had a quiet night. I turn away from the thoroughfare and begin to work my way back toward home, when I hear a step behind me. It is dark and although I know the alleyway like the back of my hand, I feel a shimmy of fear and quicken my step.
The man behind me hastens his step, too.
At the far end of the alley I see a glimmer from a friendly window and my feet fair fly through the filth, hurrying for the sanctuary of home. But, just as I reach the entrance to the courtyard at the rear of The Cock, ready to climb the stairway to my room, a hand falls upon my shoulder, all but scaring me out of my hide.
“Joanie? Don’t you know me?” His smile is wide. He whips off his cap, a fine thing of velvet with a jewel and a feather.
“Francis?” I sweep my eyes up and down, taking in the smart, crimson-slashed doublet, the jewelled hilt of his sword. He has obviously found good fortune.
“Well,” I say, “don’t you look fine, my dear? Too good for the likes of me now, I warrant.”
“Never,” he says. “I’ll never be too good for Joanie Toogood.”
His wide grin is seductive and I smile back at him, glad to see he has found some wit in his absence. Then, just as hot as ever, he sweeps me into his arms for a kiss.
Francis is the only man I don’t mind kissing. I turn my face away from the mouths of other men, shove their noses against my paps and let them wipe their drool on those instead. But Francis’ mouth is sweet, his lips soft, the abrasion of his cheek is gentle. He smells of youth and vigour. I could grow fond of him … if I gave myself leave.
Sybil and Betsy squawk loudly when I throw them out of our room, demanding privacy. As their cries dwindle away I turn toward Francis, who throws off his cloak and pulls me close, his hands roving all over my body, into my bodice. He frees my dugs so he can kneel and suckle like a starving child, and I groan at the rasp of his tongue. Thus encouraged, he wastes no fur
ther time and rucks up my skirts, burrows between my legs, his hardness seeking sanctuary. He loves me, good and hard, for ten minutes or so while I hang from his neck, my head back, eyes closed. And then it is over … before I am ready to stop.
While I gasp for breath, balanced on the cusp of pleasure, wanting to pull him back into me and make him finish, he sits up and fumbles for a cup.
“Did you miss me?” he asks.
I look at him, my lips parted, my cheeks hot with the flush of frustration. No man has ever brought me so close to peaking before and my quaint is throbbing, but I can’t tell him that.
He has a newfound confidence, a sense of manliness that was missing before. My Francis has not only grown up, he has been taking lessons. I narrow my eye and wonder where he has been practising … and who with.
“I never noticed you were gone,” I lie. “And wherever did you come by such fancy clothes?”
“I’ve a job of work now,” he says proudly. “A gentlemen’s post with a tidy pay.”
As my lust subsides I raise a cynical eyebrow at his boasting.
“Why, of all the men in London Town, did they pick you?”
I am recovering quickly now and remember I must not let him sense my affection. He has thrown off his shirt and his skin glows in the firelight, the leap of the flame shadowing the muscles of his torso. I’d like him to love me again, slower this time, giving my abused body the time to differentiate between work and pleasure. I want to relish the freshness of him.
I roll over onto my back, let my breasts fall free and, as I hoped, his eyes fasten upon them. My teats tighten, wanting his mouth, but he is not yet hungry. I know that as the night progresses he will want to feed from my trough again.
“It is all hush-hush, so tell no one about it, Joan. Not even your sisters. My master says I am the only man for the job.”
He bounces beside me on the mattress and fiddles with a strand of my hair, running the coarse curl through his fingers as if it is a fine ribbon. There is something different about Master Wareham, he has seen and done things that have changed him. He is growing up, moving away from me, and I feel a squirm of jealously at his new life and the new people in it.
I watch him, loving every inch of him, the auburn curl of his hair, the movement of his jaw as he speaks. I know there have been other women and, suddenly afraid that he will forget about me, I throw off caution and open my arms to him. After a single moment’s hesitation he falls back into them, laying his head on my bosom as if he were a bairn.
“What sort of a job, my dear? Who do you work for? You can tell me.” I stroke his hair from his forehead, my touch as gentle as thistledown. He wriggles beside me, puts his mouth upon my naked skin and a jolt of pleasure stabs me. His tongue is hot, wet and probing, his voice muffled.
“No, hush, I cannot say. Only that it is a position close to the court and the pay is so good I will soon be able to take a wife.”
He fastens his lips upon my nipple.
“Good boy,” I say. “Oh, what a very… good … boy.”
And at my words he suckles harder, making me whimper. His leg slides up mine, his hardness thrust against my hip, and something shifts within my belly. I feel myself sinking into him. My legs part and I urge him to mount me. For the first time I want a man; this man, just this one, Francis Wareham, Gentleman of Court.
Isabella - June 1540
The court is atwitter with the news that the King has granted lands to Katherine Howard, raising her from a poor relation of Norfolk’s to a woman of some status. She is flaunting about the palace in a necklace that none of us has seen her wear before. It can only be a gift from the King. We all know it and so does the Queen, although she gives no inkling that she suspects any ill-doing.
In our bed at night Eve whispers that Katherine has surely lain with the King. “She has been bought with property and trinkets,” she whispers, her face flushed with excitement. “She is no better than a strumpet.”
I nudge her sharply in the ribs.
“Shush, for Heaven’s sake. To speak against his favourites is to speak against the King himself. He is too pious a man to flaunt his mistress beneath the Queen’s nose.”
Eve snorts inelegantly and pulls the blankets up to her chin.
“What about Boleyn and Jane Seymour? He flirted with them beneath the noses of his wives. Haven’t you seen his eyes fastened on Katherine when she dances? I’ve noticed he pays particular attention to her breasts.”
“You can hardly miss them,” I reply, with a small tinge of regret at my own scant paps. Eve wriggles like a restless puppy beside me.
“I just know they are lovers, I can always tell. I wonder what will happen if she gets with child.”
Katherine would not be the first to be deflowered by Henry. The King has other bastards and rumour has it that Katherine’s own cousin, Mary Boleyn’s eldest child, was sired by the King. But it is curious that, of all his bastards, he acknowledges only Henry Fitzroy and consequently he is treated like a prince. More so, indeed, than Mary and Elizabeth, whose status waxes and wanes with the King’s fancy. His other bastards are left to make what way in life they can.
I pull my attention from royal scandal to concentrate on the present. “It is wrong to gossip, Eve, especially about the King’s affairs. It is best to keep your eyes open and your lips sealed.”
“Oh, I can say anything to you, Bella. I know I can trust you.”
She sighs and I feel her relax into the pillow, her breath slowing. I shift on the mattress and slip an arm about her, relishing her warmth. In many ways, for all her apparent sophistication, Eve is naïve. She may be well-versed in how to attract a man but she knows little else. As she settles down to sleep, I listen to her regular breathing and acknowledge to myself that every bit of scandal she utters is undoubtedly true. My eyelids begin to flutter, my thoughts swirling into dreams.
In the morning I am torn from sleep by a banging on the chamber door. With my heart thumping, I slither from bed to tiptoe, shivering and barefoot, to see who calls so early.
“Father!”
I pull back the bolts and throw open the door, allowing our parents to sweep into the room. They have just ridden in and when Father embraces me, leaving a chilly kiss on each cheek in the French manner, the cold from his garments seeps through my thin nightrail. Mother clasps me tight before turning to where Eve is still gently snoring.
My sister always sleeps deep and would probably slumber through the Apocalypse. I jump on the bed and shake her awake and she wriggles, shrugging my hand away and uttering a foul word. I gasp and look up, red-cheeked, at my mother who allows no discomposure to show.
It is not the same with Father.
“Eve!” His outrage penetrates even my sister’s dreaming ear and she springs up in bed, blinking wildly as she struggles to gather her senses. Her plump, pink face is still marked by the creases of the pillow and her hair stands on end. I can see that she half believes herself to still be asleep and dreaming.
“Mother? Father?” She stumbles from bed, clumsily embracing them both, her sleepy prettiness making them forget to scold her. As I watch them I realise that Mother is fairly twitching with news and I am touched by the sudden sense that something is about to change. Although I don’t know why, I am suddenly afraid, aware of our vulnerability. We are all victim to the whims of our elders.
“Why are you here?” I ask. “You should have sent word and I would have made sure we were ready to greet you.”
“You used to like surprises.”
Mother is drawing off her gloves and slipping from her warm mantle. She straightens her hood and perches on a fireside stool. “When you are dressed we will talk, the news concerns us all. My lord, why don’t you discover if our rooms are ready while the girls are dressing, we will meet with you in an hour.”
Father does as he is bid and while Eve and I help each other to dress, Mother gives us the news from home. Bess, the gardener’s daughter, has married and now has a
son, and Father’s favourite hound has birthed a litter of pups. Her words evoke the scents of home and I am filled with a sudden longing to be back at Bourne Hall, playing with Bess and my little brother Tom in the garden, forever a child, and as far from the uncertainties of the royal court as I can be.
Mother gets up and begins to wander about the room, picking up trinkets from our dresser and putting them down again, flicking through our clothes press, checking that our maid is keeping our gowns in order. Eve’s hair crackles and snaps beneath my hand as I brush it and then she does mine, tucking it up and pushing it beneath my cap.
Mother looks us over.
“You will do very well,” she says. “Come, let us meet with Father now.”
“No! Sir Anthony Greywater does not please me!”
I stand aghast as Eve rejects Sir Anthony’s offer of marriage. Mother shifts in her seat, her lips pressed tight together, her eyes a warning to anyone other than Eve that disobedience in not an option. The suit is to be put before the King and if he sanctions it, then it will go ahead, whether Eve likes it or not.
I watch my sister stick out her chin, my father’s exasperation threatening to overspill, my mother’s temper increasing. Eve is not yet fifteen, perhaps she is too young for marriage, although many girls marry sooner.
“Eve,” I intervene with great daring, hoping to defray a family argument and save her from disgrace. “Sir Anthony will make a splendid husband. His fortunes are rising high and Blanche says he has built a house on the old abbey lands he was given Apparently, the medicinal gardens are now a wonderful pleasance. You will not find better.”
“Yes, I can find better, Bella. Sir Anthony does not please me. Perhaps he could be persuaded to marry you instead, you are the oldest after all and it is right that you should be the first one wed.”
We are all shocked into silence. My cheeks flame with disgrace. In all honesty, she is correct and I should be the first to be married but I am not so reduced as to accept her cast-offs. I am not yet seventeen and hardly an old maid, but I swallow the insult and try to reply gently.
The Winchester Goose: At the Court of Henry VIII Page 4
