“But he has asked for you, Eve. Think of your position. You will be a married woman with a wonderful home and Sir Anthony has the King’s favour. It could mean a permanent position here at court.”
Mother and Father are watching, letting me do my best to persuade her.
“I know.” Eve’s head is down, her face slack. I do not understand such reluctance.
“Think of the new gowns you will have.” I try to encourage a smile but although she tries, her mouth goes out of shape and I know that she is close to tears. I lick my lips, searching for a more persuasive tack but, just as I open my mouth to speak, the bell chimes for Matins and Father steps forward.
“Sir Anthony has asked to see you today and when he calls here this afternoon I expect him to find a willing and worthy bride.”
I have never seen my father so ill at ease. He hates confrontation of any kind and has raised all three of his children with kid gloves. Behind us Mother makes a sudden movement, but when I look up she pretends she is brushing something from her skirts and avoids my eye. Eve’s head is lowered and I see a tear fall onto her lap. There is nothing to be done about it. If Father says they are to marry, then Eve will have to comply.
And so, this afternoon we stroll slowly about the garden. Sir Anthony plucks a rose and Eve accepts it with a delicate mew of thanks. She is strangely mute, not herself at all and I find myself forced to fill the awkward silences with a constant chatter that does not come easily to me. All the time I pretend gaiety I am aware that it is not me he wishes to listen to. He lures Eve away from me a little and I hear the earnest pleading in his voice.
“I have to visit my estates for a week or two,” he says, “but when I return I hope our suit can be finalised and we can marry before the season turns.”
Eve opens and closes her mouth but does not speak. She lowers her head again, a scarlet blush upon her face. Taking her silence as modesty, Sir Anthony offers her his arm and we stroll on again, listening as he admires the roses and compares them with those that grow in his own gardens.
I watch him from beneath my lashes and cannot see what there is to dislike. In truth, he is past the first flush of youth but he bears himself nobly and seems considerate and kind. Any woman should be glad of his attention, yet Eve is not satisfied and thinks she can do better. She is quiet for days, almost sulky and none of us can reach her. The only person she responds to is the Queen, whom she dare not ignore.
Then, one night after supper, I leave the hall in search of the Queen’s Book of Hours that she has left in the chapel. On my return, skimming silently along the corridor, I spy a couple in the shadow of the stairs. I stand watching, holding my breath, intrigued and disturbed by his eager hands upon her body.
How must that feel? I ask myself, my limbs growing weak as I watch the silent mummery of their passion. I am an innocent but even I, a girl of just seventeen who has as yet never been kissed, can recognise unquenchable desire when I see it.
His arms are wound tightly about her, her bosom flattened against his chest while his lips feast hungrily upon her throat. Something turns over in my stomach as he pulls off her veil and she throws back her head, her hair tumbling to her waist, catching the light of the torches, so that it writhes like a living thing.
My hand is already covering my mouth when the woman turns into the light and I see it is Eve and Francis Wareham. From the heat of their clinch I can tell it is not their first encounter.
Only then do I begin to understand.
Francis Wareham
Nicholas Brennan arranges for my invitation to court, where I am instructed to mingle with the Queen’s ladies and watch her behaviour, making note of who comes and goes. I am also told to keep close watch that Norfolk, Suffolk and Gardiner do not get too close to the King. It does not take me long to guess that my anonymous master can only be Cromwell, although I am not to report to him; all my findings must go through Master Brennan.
Norfolk and Suffolk, who are of the old nobility, despise Cromwell for his low beginnings and his proximity to the King. I confess, I too have no great love for him but I am wise enough to lick the hand that feeds me. So I watch them, make notes of who they speak to and take what pleasure I can from it.
Since I cannot enter the Queen’s private chambers without invitation, I watch her at functions, note the way she slurps her soup through terror-frozen lips. She is as plain as a pikestaff, her clothes stiff and uncompromising, and it pains me to keep my eyes on her when they long to feast upon the fair countenances of her ladies.
There are two women in particular who stand out like doves among a field of crows, and I am not flattering myself when I say that they, in turn, are not blind to my charms. Katherine Howard and another girl I do not know, outshine the others tenfold.
Katherine is niece to the Duke of Norfolk and I suspect that her uncle has set her as a decoy to lure the King from the Queen’s bed. But whatever her mission, if indeed she is aware of one, she is a minx – a cock-stirrer of the first degree.
I watch the heavy lidded eyes of the King follow her as she teases him, twirling in the dance. She lifts her skirts a little too high, exposing her neat ankles, before sinking into a curtsey so low that the King is in danger of tipping from his seat to see into her heaving bodice. Her breasts are prominent and although she lacks the fine matronly assets of my Joan, her neckline is cut so low and so tight that they seem to writhe in a dance of their own.
One evening when I am watching her, secretly relishing her breezy disrespect for modesty, I realise that the King’s eyes are not, as expected, upon her but fastened rather unpleasantly upon myself. A chill dowses me like icy water. I whip off my cap and bow my knee, but the King’s expression does not falter. His eyes are narrowed and he does not smile.
I have displeased His Majesty and he has marked me out as a jade; a thing that will not please Master Cromwell. I am supposed to remain invisible and not draw either the displeasure of the King or the notice of my master’s enemies. A quick glance confirms that Master Cromwell is watching me also. I feel his cold, lizard-like eyes upon me and dare not return his stare for we are supposed to be strangers … which of course we are, having never exchanged a word. Thereafter, mindful of my duty and the disposition of the King, I keep my gaze firmly on the opposite side of the room from Katherine Howard.
A burst of laughter draws my attention to another pair of girls, one plain, the other fair, who are diverting the Queen from the attention the King is paying to the little Howard piece. As they take their places on the floor and prepare to dance, the court gentlemen separate, allowing me a perfect view. The prettiest one throws back her head, her trickling laughter lifting the corners of my own mouth. I lean on a pillar, lift my cup to my lips and transfer my interest from Katherine to her.
She is light of foot. Beneath the confines of her hood her fair hair runs like water, her bosom bouncing lightly as she hops and leaps in the dance. Her charms are subtler than Katherine Howard’s. This one is delicate, like no woman I have ever yet known, her breeding is unmistakeable, a lady of the first degree. My taste buds begin to tingle.
Slowly, I pass around the shadowy contours of the room, positioning myself carefully where she will surely pass by. As I go, I garner snatches of conversation from the courtiers. Without seeming to, I watch her a little longer, drawn to her flushed face and glowing eyes and when the music ceases, there is laughter and the exchange of thanks.
She is about to pass right by me and with great daring, I make to step from the shadows. But a tall stranger intercepts us and bows over her hand. I fall back and watch as that old fool, Greywater, offers her his stuttering attentions.
As I ponder this sweeting’s name I forget to keep an eye on Norfolk, or the Queen. Is she an Alys, or perhaps a Jane?
She knows she is watched and tosses her head, lets the light of the torches play upon her throat as she flicks back her hair with a dainty hand. After a while she lowers her chin and casts about the room beneath her la
shes to discover who it is that watches. Across the crowded hall our eyes meet and we both become very still, as if in mutual recognition.
When the music begins again, I leap into action, surprising myself by stepping forward, making my bow. I am not usually one for dancing but when I take her hand, I am filled with a lightness that affects even my clod-hopping feet. We exchange no words but I swear, as I lead her in the dance, there is a flash of fire each time our fingers touch. She is blushing like an unclothed maid and when the steps of the dance draw us close enough, I can feel her trembling, taste her desire, and I know she is sensing mine.
I move in closer than modesty allows and Sir Anthony Greywater looks on impotently as, before the oblivious eyes of the King’s court, I sink in my hook and begin slowly to reel her in.
It is two days before I have the opportunity to steal my first kiss. During a revel I notice her slip from the hall and as soon as I am able, I follow and accidentally encounter her on a shadowy stairway. Coming to a stop before her, I put a hand to my heart as if overwhelmed with the coincidence of us meeting there. She looks down, her cheeks pleasingly clothed in pink as, careful not to alarm her, I execute a sweeping bow. Then, rising slowly, my eyes lick up her body, pausing at her bodice before fastening upon her face. We have no need of words.
I lay a light hand on each shoulder and draw her close to place a chaste kiss upon her forehead, like the blessing of a priest. She trembles beneath my touch like a feather in a draft, and I know she lusts for me. It is apparent in her wide eyes, her red-bitten lips, her shallow breathing and the way her eyelids flutter closed as my face comes close to hers for our first gossamer-light kiss.
I give myself another week before I hump her.
Isabella 1540
I cannot but feel a little sneaking admiration as I watch Eve manipulate our parents. Secure in the knowledge that she is irresistible, she always gets her way. It is like the opening of a scene in a play when she slowly opens the door and walks to the fireside as if in great agony, her hands clutched to her stomach, her head lowered, her bottom lip a’tremble.
Father is warming his backside before the flames, he looks at her from the corner of his eye, aware that he is being coerced but defenceless against such lethal female weapons. Many parents would chastise a daughter who dared to refuse a suitor, but neither Eve nor I have ever yet suffered a real beating and I don’t expect Father to resort to it now. He is a gentleman and a philosopher not a bully; a man who solves problems with words rather than violence.
Mother, on the other hand, is clutching and twisting her hands in her lap. If one of them were to strike out at Eve, it would be her. She finds it hard to watch her daughter throw herself away on a nobody, but she knows Father is not the sort of man to impose his will on Eve. He clears his throat and frowns, trying to look stern, as if he is in control.
“You put me in great difficulty, Eve,” he says weakly. Eve cleverly makes no reply, but lets a single tear drop upon her writhing fingers. She looks up at him, pretty, vulnerable and tragic as she demolishes her father’s resolve. “Sir Anthony has quite set his hopes on you. He has excellent connections, such a match would serve us very well indeed … and he is a splendid fellow.”
Eve is spurred into response. “He is old!” she cries, and I raise my brows for Sir Anthony is in his prime, no more than thirty-five. “I cannot love him, Father, please, find a way to free me from this …this arrangement. I have not even been properly consulted.”
A rustle of movement as Mother leaves her seat to glide across the room and take her place beside her husband. She hisses her disapproval.
“Love has nothing to do with it, Daughter. Not at this stage. When we were first married I was not enamoured of your father either but I soon grew to respect, and then to love him.”
“Thank you, my dear.” He raises an ironic eyebrow in Mother’s direction and I smother a smile. Mother was lucky, her father chose well for her and I think she has been happy. All the same, in our position it is better not to let your heart light upon a man of your own choosing. It is not a woman’s place and we all must trust in our fathers to arrange a good match.
Eve is being ridiculous. I for one would welcome a suitor as fine as Sir Anthony. I rather fancy a fine household and although I can never hope for such a good match, I can easily picture myself as mistress of Greywater Place, daintily organising the servants and ordering the meals.
Father sighs, raises his arms and lets them fall helplessly to his side again.
“Oh, for Heaven’s sake.” He stares into a dark corner, his brow furrowed, and I know that Eve has won. We all know it. He has been easily vanquished but I can see that it costs him dear to be so soundly beaten. “I will think on the matter and see what, if anything, can be done. In the meantime, stay away from Master Wareham. I will speak to him forthwith and see what he has to say for himself.”
His severity is feigned and we know it. We dip a curtsey and Eve and I glide demurely from the room, heads lowered, hands clasped in our voluminous sleeves but, as soon as we turn the corner, she grabs my arm, her face alight with victory.
“I have him, Bella. Father will talk Sir Anthony round and I will have my Francis yet.”
“Do you mean you haven’t had him already?” I snatch my hand away. “Your behaviour the other evening suggested otherwise.”
Eve is dismayed at my spite and she slaps at me like a spoiled little girl.
“Oh, you don’t understand what love is like. Look at you, all bound up in ropes of decorum. Just wait until someone kisses you, Bella, only then will you know how the blood howls through your veins and your body screams like a wanton to be touched. Piety is for fools, love is the thing.”
Her face is pink with excitement, her eyes lit by a wicked, devil’s flame. I feel a warm flicker in my belly just listening to her talk of such passion and I can see that she will not heed Father’s warning to keep away from Master Wareham. My little sister is running headlong into disaster and I have no idea how to stop her.
Francis Wareham
I watch and wait and listen at doors, storing any tit-bit of gossip or conversation and bearing it back to Nicholas Brennan. “Make sure you are not followed,” he warns me, but I shrug off his lack of ease and hurry back to court and all that awaits me there.
The King is disgruntled, his new Queen nervous and edgy, and to the barely disguised joy of Stephen Gardiner, Master Cromwell is visibly nervous. I am pleased that duty draws me so often into the vicinity of the Queen and her ladies for there is one among them who lingers in my thoughts both night and day.
It is not often I am wrong about women, but Evelyn Bourne’s virtue is not as easy to conquer as it promised to be. What do I know of ladies? I’ve humped serving wenches and whores and imagined all women to be the same but it seems I must tread more carefully with this one, if I don’t want to be the one caught.
Her father, Edward Bourne, is from a family still struggling to regain its former status after fighting for the wrong side at Bosworth all those years ago. In truth, the Bournes have done well to survive the Tudor regime this long, for both Henry and his father have striven to keep the Plantagenet faction low. The Bournes keep their heads down, breed fine sons and pretty daughters to barter for power and wealth, and work a stealthy way up the ladder.
But it seems that sweet little Evelyn, for all her wanton glances, is a lady in deed as well as word and, although I do all I can, I can only manage to plough her furrow so far. She meets me when she is forbidden and allows me liberties that she shouldn’t, but then she pulls away and I find I am driven to distraction. If she wasn’t a lady of the Queen’s household I’d throw her down and take her in the floor rushes. But she demands a pledge, a betrothal and a ring, and so mad has her half-commitment made me that I find myself agreeing.
Such frustration is too much for a man to bear and whenever I can, I hurry over London Bridge, fight my way through the raucous crowd, casting off the clutching hands of other whor
es to bang on Joanie’s door. There I lose myself in her motherliness and try to forget the virginal, tight laced torment of Evelyn Bourne.
Eve’s father grills me, demanding to know my means and my prospects, and all the time I am stood in his stuffy parlour, through the window I can see Eve playing with her little dog in the garden, lifting it in the air so that her wide sleeves fall back to reveal slim, white arms. Arms that I long to feel entwine about my neck, arms that I long to pinch and bite and lick. He says, quite pointedly and politely, that Evelyn comes with a limited dowry and wants to know how I will keep his daughter fed, where will we live? I am out of my depth. I want to hump her, not marry her, but what can I do?
He has me in a cleft stick.
She is laughing now, throwing back her head, baring her long, white neck. Her father is waiting for me to speak but I hesitate to answer for Eve leans forward, her breasts pouting over the edge of her bodice like doves about to burst from captivity. I long to free them, to feel those tight little dugs pressed against my naked chest. My cod-piece strains with lust and my need is so great that I promise anything.
I cannot tell him I am a spy for Master Cromwell, so I make up a story of a private income, the promise of inheritance to come, and hope I can produce the proof of it. Nicholas Brennan will back me up, forge the necessary documentation, I am sure.
It is obvious that he is not in full favour of the match but, like a gentleman, he pumps my hand up and down and begins to talk of dowries and investments. All the while a sweat is building up beneath my collar. I wonder what the hell I have done.
And then, within a week, the Queen and Evelyn Bourne along with her, are sent from court to escape the plague and I am left kicking my heels, wondering how to get close to her again.
The Winchester Goose: At the Court of Henry VIII Page 5
