Joan Toogood
The King is presiding over the bear baiting. I weave and push myself through the crowd, exchanging greetings and ignoring sneaky squeezes from unknown hands. I see the pennants of the royal party fluttering, glimpse a fair laughing face at the King’s side, but I pay his new Queen little heed. My mind is not really on the festivities and I care nothing for the presence of the King. I am, as ever, hoping for a sight of Francis, for I have not seen him in ever so long.
Sometimes, I fear he has forgotten me and every day I pray he keeps himself free of all the trouble that we hear is happening at court. The goings on in the palace don’t take long to reach this side of the river and I listen, more for news of Francis than for tidings of old Henry.
Recently the King has put Queen Anna aside, and we must all learn to think of her as the King’s Good Sister now. It seems a funny thing to me, to be sister to a man you’ve wedded and bedded, but there’s naught as queer as the carry-ons at the royal palace and it’s not my place to question.
I will not trouble myself to attend yet another royal wedding. Most people expect to see just one royal pageant in their lives, but having witnessed three, I am bored to death with the King and all his wives. I pray God this fifth one is his last. He is growing old and, pray God, he can now be content to settle for what he has.
It pleases me that he let German Anna go free, and mayhap this new one will delight him enough and happiness will come to England again. She is bonny enough to please any man. Barely sixteen they say, poor mite, and as sweet as a nut too. The pamphlets tell us that the King has dubbed her his ‘rose without a thorn’.
Well, time will tell, won’t it? It always does.
London is teeming with visitors and most of them find their way across the bridge to the stews at sometime or other, and boost business nicely indeed. I buy myself some thick bed curtains and a sturdy dresser to hold a jug and bowl. It isn’t new of course, and bears the mark of many an owner, but it’s new to me and I’m proud to own such a thing. I have a meagre store of firewood put by too, in readiness for the winter cold. These days, I am so wore out that I fall into bed at dawn and sleep the sleep of the wicked, but before I close my eyes, I make the time to pray that Francis is safe and that the French disease will pass my sisters and me by.
The sickness, that seems to come in waves, is rife in Southwark again and the King is threatening to close the brothels down. They’ve tried that before, of course, but we just lie low for a bit and offer our services beneath another name. As long as the gentlemen come, there will always be whores, there’s nothing even the King can do to change that.
Sometimes I fear I am growing old, for these days my work hangs heavy on my shoulders. Maybe it’s the lack of hunger, but I can no longer revel in the bright pennies that are pressed into my hand or find satisfaction in the ale that my customers tip down my throat.
Even when I am stone drunk I lie beneath the sweating, wine-sloshed bellies of my leman, sick at heart, wishing there was another way. But there never has been, not for women like me. When the working night is over I often lie awake and wonder what became of Francis. It goes hard with me, never knowing if he will ever come to me again, or if he has forgot his Joanie for good this time. It’s the not knowing that is worse, but only in the cover of night do I face up to my fears and admit that the joy in my life has gone with him and that life is harder now that I am no longer a merry whore.
“Joanie!” A young man grabs my waist, spins me round and for a moment I think it is Francis, but it isn’t. It’s the son of a Costermonger from Gropecunte Lane that I have known since he was an infant. “You coming to see the fun?”
He grins hopefully but I shake my head. I’ve seen enough beheadings to last me a lifetime.
“It should be good,” he continues. “They say this one isn’t likely to depart well. They expect him to die craven, begging for mercy.” I rouse a smile at his gory enthusiasm. Some say it’s thoughtful of the King to provide such merry japes to entertain us, but there is something about watching a fellow die that I cannot stomach.
The weeds will never grow rank along the scaffold way while Henry is King, for when he is unhappy heads will roll and these days, King Henry is not happy very often. They are saying on Bankside that Master Cromwell is in the Tower too, and like to lose his head. The gossips also say that he who rode so high and carried out such evil deeds in the King’s name is gutless in his defeat. Now that it is his turn to be punished, he cannot summon the bravery to do it well, but they say that the King turns a deaf ear upon his pleas.
Old Cromwell smoothed the road for Henry, and regardless of who he had to bring down to do it, he put things within his reach that he’d no business to. Because of him, even the way we worship God seesaws back and forth to suit the comfort of the King. There is not one among the common folk who can keep track of it, each of us unsure which road leads to Heaven, and which one to Hell. Sometimes it seems to me there is little difference.
One day we must love the Pope, the next we mustn’t; one day we worship the Virgin, the next her image is taken down and burned in the market square and we, the common folk, must all be pleased to have it so. We just keep our heads down and go with the flow, back and forth like refuse caught in the tide, our only way that of the King.
We’ve all heard tales of what happened to the people from up north when they took offence at Henry tearing down the abbeys. I can’t vouch for the truth of it, but they say that the man who is to die today, Walter someone or other, Hungerford I think, was caught up in the pilgrimage and none of us want to die in the manner he will.
Even Cromwell, who served his master better than any man, will receive no royal pity when his time comes. Some say Cromwell’s enemies brought him down, but either way, it is his own laws that he has fallen foul of – sanctioned by the King or not. Master Cromwell’s friend dies today and he will follow soon after, and who knows whose turn will be next.
The men who are to die are accused of heresy and treason, but it seems to me, although I am but a simple soul, that in these changeable days such a claim could be laid against any man. For of course, every man, woman and child in England knows that he really dies for no other reason than displeasing the King and offering Anna of Cleves as Henry’s bride. Such is the value of the King’s friendship. I swear to God I’d sooner be me, living in the gutter, than be a bosom-friend of the King.
On the face of it, Cromwell has done little wrong. As far as I can see he obeyed his master in all things, doing his master’s dirty work so that Henry’s hands stayed clean. And if he praised the charms of Anna of Cleves too much, where is the crime in that? The old saying about one man’s fancy being another’s poison has never rung more true. If Cromwell saw her plain sobriety as queenly potential, it is hardly his fault that fat, lusty Henry didn’t agree.
But I, and others like me, care not one way or the other. My main worry is for Francis, who I fear is too mixed up in court intrigue for his own good. I’ve not the time to pity any of the others. At least this Queen escaped, and I hope the next one will too, for when you come to think about it, it’s like my head being lopped off because a punter finds another whore up the road that he likes better!
Well, we are all whores when it comes down to it, fancy clothes or no, all subject to a man’s lust and greed. Queens are no different.
“Come, come with us.'Twill be a lark.” Peter’s laughter pulls me back from me thoughts and I reluctantly let him lead me from the bear pit, knowing that he will want to use me later. Oh well, he has an ample purse and it may save me the chore of turning out for punters after dark.
As we near the river’s edge a great cry goes up from the crowd and we turn, craning our necks to see what all the fuss is. To our amazement, those gathered at the pit are scattering, men, women and childer fleeing, wide eyed, half laughing, half afraid, their great shrieks tearing the air while the tormented bear, who has broke free of his chains, comes lumbering after.
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bsp; The dogs are still following, baying and yelping as they snatch at his bloodied fur with their lathered jaws. Women snatch their bairns into their arms and hide in doorways as in a great, snarling, madcap parade, they pass close to us. Peter the Costermonger gallantly pushes me behind him and I cling to his goose-turd green jerkin to peer over his shoulder, watching in astonishment as the bear lumbers past and casts itself, with a great splash, into the stinking river, the yelping dogs not hesitating to follow after.
With wild hoots of laughter the crowd rush to the bank where the sudden appearance of the bear and his savage train are causing a deal of trouble on the water.
Several passing barges are thrown into disarray, rocking wildly in the murky waves. I see a man standing in the prow of an abandoned wherry, the other occupants having leapt into the water. With flailing arms they struggle for the shore. I nudge Peter in the ribs as the dripping bear clambers onto the side of the barge, over-tipping it, dragging it down so that it begins to fill with water, throwing the hapless cleric into the drink. The air around us is filled with screeching laughter.
Peter’s arm is tight about my waist and, with the sharp edge of the balustrade digging into my ribs and the sun warm upon my back, I open my mouth to bellow insults at the struggling man who, with his books and parchments floating rapidly downstream, cannot decide which is the greater danger, the bear or the water.
He is a sorry sight, his robes streaming water, his hat lost, his face turning blue with cold. The onlookers roar with merriment as he wades up the bank, sits on the mud and begins to empty his shoes of water. Then, on seeing the bearward preparing to lure his charge home, he gestures to his treasures that are threatening to sink beneath the waves. The fellow runs obligingly along the water’s edge to fish them out with his stave and dump them some way up the river bank.
The spectacle has raised my spirits and, in a better mood now, I follow Peter across the bridge. The hand on my waist may not be the one I long for, but Peter is a merry lad and will warm me for a while and help to keep a roof over my head.
I can be content with that for now.
Francis Wareham
I am a married man. I wake up and lay back, head on hands, and look down on my sleeping wife, fighting the urge to wake her. She did well last night for her first time and deserves her sleep. I look forward to all I have yet to teach her.
Fair hair tumbles over her pillow, her oblivious face is pink and serene, one leg thrown free of the blankets, showing a slim calf and knee. I think of the fleshy thighs and the cleft of Heaven that lies between.
With care, I slowly slide the sheet from her and gaze upon the bite marks still visible on her snowy white arse. It stirs again. The desire to possess her, bend her to my will whether she welcomes it or not. She is mine to have, whenever I want her and right now, I need to hear her cry out again in mingled pain and passion. I reach out. Touch her.
Breath rushes from between her lips and she rouses, opening one eye to look at me through her matted hair. Her lips stretch in welcome. “Francis?” she questions, half rising, but I push her face down again and, straddling her, begin to knead her fleshy rump, pinching and squeezing, making her squeal and wriggle before I anoint it with soothing kisses.
Afterwards, as I am tying up my cod-piece, Eve slides up the pillows, wincing as her well-used quaint comes in contact with the mattress. Her taut breasts peep at me through the ends of her hair and I am filled with the sudden regret that her body isn’t as round and motherly as my Joanie’s. I’ve always favoured large, pendulous dugs, the sort that suggest nourishment and comfort, and as the memory of Joan stirs my mind drifts to the south side of London Bridge.
Joanie will think I have forgotten her but I have just been intent on other pleasures … and work, of course. I never neglect my duty to Nicolas Brennan, although now that Master Cromwell has been taken, the exact nature of my task is unclear.
My latest instructions were to lie low, watch those about the King, and particularly Cromwell’s direst foes, Norfolk and Gardiner. It is no hardship to do so. I am happy to lurk at the King’s court, noting who comes and who doesn’t. There is no real work in scratching a few cryptic reports on parchment and, ensuring I am not followed, delivering them to Nicholas’ rooms. It means I spend less time with Joan but, now I am married, a night time spent at home with the wife has a certain novelty.
Eve is bending over a bowl of water, one knee on a stool as she rinses her nether regions with a linen cloth, the water trickling down her legs onto the floor. Her bottom is slapped pink, the softness of her inner thigh bruised from my attentions. She glances up at me through her hair, her nipples still red from my mouth, her face flushed, her eyes gleaming. I feel the urge to go again, but as I move toward her a sharp double knock falls upon the outer chamber door. When I open it, I find her narrow-eyed sister, Isabella. As she breezes in, I make my bow and hastily take my leave.
I saunter among the throng. I have no cares in the world and call a happy ‘good morning’ to a bevy of girls as I pass beneath the town gates and onto the bridge for a casual encounter with Nicholas. His chambers are close to Becket’s church, as we must now, since the reforms, remember to call Our Lady Chapel. Before I approach Master Brennan’s door, I ensure that I have not been followed. But my stealth is unrewarded for the door remains closed, and I surmise that Nicholas is from home. I stroll on, my feet taking me, against my better judgement, toward the south side of the river.
Then I spy a great hubbub on the water and see, of all things, that a bear has escaped the baiting. He plunges into the drink, a train of hounds on his tail, onlookers streaming after. For the first time since I left my wife this morning, I relax a little and smile, leaning over the better to see as those on a nearby barge leap into the waters when the bear scrambles on board. A great spectacle ensues, and not wishing to miss the fun I hurry over the bridge, pushing and elbowing through the jostling crowd.
I arrive at the riverbank in time to see a clerkly fellow flounder onto dry land, water streaming from his clothes. The crowd shows him little mercy, pointing and laughing at his predicament, and I notice he is anxious for his possessions that are in danger of floating downstream. Someone dumps them on the bank further upstream and, my curiosity piqued, I sidle forward. Unobserved by the onlookers, who are more concerned with the antics of the bear, I snaffle the dripping documents from sight, secrete them about my person and melt away into the commotion.
It is as I am mingling with the throng passing back over the bridge to London Town that I see Joanie. She is with some low fellow, his hand possessively on her waist, her head laid lovingly on his shoulder. The twist of jealousy just beneath my heart is so sharp that I look down to ensure someone has not wounded me. I know too well the privileges her ragamuffin lover will soon enjoy, and barely able to breathe for envy, I stand stock-still and watch them until they are lost in the crowd.
I am astonished that my affection for Eve has in no way cured me of love for Joanie. I’m at a loss as to know what to do. They are ahead of me and she doesn’t see me, doesn’t know my pain. Yet as I watch her walk happily away from me, I realise that the bonds that tie me to Joanie are unbreakable. I will have to see her again … and soon.
I am in my chambers squinting at the cipher scrawled like a spider’s journey upon the stolen parchment when Eve comes up behind and peers over my shoulder. Instinctively, I cover the paper with my hand.
“What is it?” she asks, and sidles round me to perch on my knee, lifting my fist from the document.
“Nothing to concern you.” I push back her hair and begin to kiss her neck, inhaling her lemony scent, enjoying the silkiness of her skin beneath my tongue. She leans forward, her corsets creaking a little, and I slide my arms further about her waist.
“Is it a code, Francis? A cipher? Oh, do let me see properly.”
“No.” I have no way of knowing what the secret message contains, the information therein could be a matter of life or death. “I was suppo
sed to deliver it but the recipient was from home.”
It is easy to lie to her. I slide my hands up her bodice, the stiff brocade of her frock is rough beneath my fingers, denying me the pleasure of her soft contours. But at the top I find warm flesh that seems to pulse a little beneath my touch. My fingers wander, pushing awkwardly beneath the stiff garment to the softness beneath. She gasps as I pinch her nipple but still her attention is on the document. I no longer care what it contains and wish I’d left it on the river bank.
She lifts the paper closer to her face as I impatiently cut away the lacing on the back of her gown. I have them at last; small, round, hillocks of perfection, one in each hand. I groan with rising ardour.
“This word here …” she says, straining to see the paper as I twist her toward me so that I can rub my face between her breasts, “it is the same as this one … and this one … look.”
She struggles to pull away and I lose my grip, the parchment waving beneath my chin, the smell of the wax seal in my nostrils. “Let us see if we can work it out, just some of it, come on.”
She slips from my knee, shrugging her bodice impatiently back up her arms, and brings the candle closer to the table. “You see this word? What can it be?”
She bites her lip, her eyes alight with intrigue, at that moment more a spy than I am. I watch her lean over the table, her bottom an unintentional invitation I cannot refuse. I get up slowly and while I pretend to look over her shoulder, I press myself against her rump. Ignoring my attempt at seduction, she taps the signs and symbols with one long finger, biting her lower lip with small white teeth.
Her reading skills are limited but that doesn’t seem to hinder her capacity for unravelling a coded message, for suddenly, I see quite plainly that she is right. The same word is repeated several times; if we could just discover the meaning of that one coded word we could use it to decipher the rest.
The Winchester Goose: At the Court of Henry VIII Page 7
