At once the future appears even bleaker than before. It will be hard to watch Bella take the place that could have been mine, breed a bevy of fine little boys. While she can act the lady, giving alms to the poor and succour to the needy, I will be lucky if I ever rise higher than her knee.
“I am glad, Bella,” I say at last but I am not glad, I am green with envy.
She stays for the afternoon, dragging me from my chambers to take the air in the gardens, forcing me to go about my business as if nothing has happened. “Perhaps you should get yourself a little dog, like Fritz,” she says, as if a dog will solve all my problems. “You liked him, didn’t you? And we should pay the Lady Anna a visit, she often enquires after you.” I stare at her blankly. What good will it do? How can I enjoy the friendship of the ex-Queen or the lick of a puppy dog when it is common knowledge that my husband has shared the bed of half the court?
I can feel them all looking at me, their pity as sharp as loathing. When night comes I lock my chamber door, climb onto the mattress and curl into a ball. Yet although the fresh sheets are a balm to my aching soul, sleep does not come. There cannot be another wife in all the world as miserable as I.
All night I am kept awake wondering where Francis is, why he does not come. And although I tell myself that should he come home I would drive him from my presence, I long for him with every beat of my heart.
It is early when I rise and struggle into my clothes, lacing my sleeves awkwardly and struggling with my stockings. I have done nothing about replacing Maud. In truth I am afraid to, I had thought she was a good girl and I had believed she liked me. Evidently I am a poor judge of character. I fear I will never trust another female servant, not so long as Francis remains with me. That is, if he ever comes back.
My footsteps seem to ring loudly as I make my way along the palace corridors. Only servants are abroad and the place is deserted as I hurry toward the water gate to summon a boat to take me down river to London Town. Here, the common folk are already well into their day and I am surprised to discover such a throng.
All night I have been thinking of Francis, wondering where he is, who he is with, and then I recall the package that he was to deliver to Master Brennan in the morning. I think I recall him saying that his chambers are on London Bridge, and my intention is to seek him out and ask if he knows Francis’ whereabouts. It will be humiliating to admit that I have lost my husband, but I cannot bear to pass another night like the last.
As I push my way onto the bridge people look at me curiously, for gentlewomen do not usually venture abroad unescorted. But I want no one to witness what I might discover this day. He might be drunk or tucked up in bed with Maud. He might have been thrown into The Clink for all I know.
The way is rough; ragged children peer from corners, a pie-man shouts his wares, a woman chases a dog from her step with a broom. I keep to the middle of the bridge, for the muck is much thicker close to the houses and there are too many dark corners that might conceal a cutpurse. Across the crowd I can see the towering walls of Our Lady’s Chapel and I make toward it, casting about for someone who looks honest enough to ask the direction of Master Brennan.
I shoulder and elbow a way through the throng until I find a breathing space. A woman is sweeping straw from a doorway, tossing it out into the street with the other refuse. I step over a dead cat and wend my way toward her. She has an honest, gap-toothed way with her and when she sees me, she stops and puts up her broom.
“Are you lost, Lady?” she asks, one hand on her hip, noting my finery although I am dressed in my simplest cloak and cap.
“I am looking for the chambers of a Master Brennan. Can you direct me to him?” To my bitter disappointment she gives a sorry smile and shakes her head.
“Sorry, Lady, what’s he look like?”
“I – I have no idea but thank you, I will enquire of someone else.”
I move away and she watches me go with curiosity and a sort of pity on her face. I raise my chin and battle on, past a group of boys who are tormenting a flea-bitten cat. A man hollers at them to stop and they scatter, one of them running into me, forcing the breath from my lungs. He falls back onto the ground but I somehow manage to keep my footing.
“You all right, missus?” one of his companions asks. It seems that my predicament is obvious even to the likes of them. I nod and offer my best smile.
“I wonder, do you know of someone by the name of Master Brennan?” The grubbiest of them, his face daubed with the dried wipings of his nose, surveys me from one eye.
“Maybe,” he says, holding out a filthy fist for a coin. But I am not that gullible. I am daughter of a Bourne. I jerk up my chin.
“You must take me to him first,” I say, “and only then shall you have your coin.”
He scrambles reluctantly to his feet and begins to lead me through the throng. He makes a rapid progress and I struggle to keep up, my shoes that are made for court slipping and skidding in the muck. After a while I realise he is taking me to the far side of the bridge, toward Southwark and the stews where I have no wish to go. I call to him to stop.
“Are you sure Master Brennan lives this far over?” My voice rings loud across the gap between us and I see a woman lift her head sharply.
“Master Brennan?” she says, stalking slyly toward us, an ominous eye on my child guide. “I know him and he lives back the way you come, up by the chapel. What are you up to, you young villain?”
She fetches the child a clout about the ear and he ducks out of sight to be lost among the crowd. The woman looks me up and down, taking note of my quality clothes, my lost expression. She folds her arms across her generous bosom and cocks her head to one side.
“I know trouble when I see it,” she grins, “you’re lucky I happened along. You’d better tell Joan all about it, me dear.”
And so I find myself explaining my errand, although of course, I don’t go into detail. But she is wiser than she looks and nods knowingly, half closing one eye.
“I’d lay good money on you being the lady wife of Francis Wareham. I know your good 'usband well. Would you like for me to take you to 'im?”
If she offered to take me to dinner with the Pope I’d not be more surprised.
“You – you know my husband? How so? And where is he?” All sorts of unsavoury pictures are flooding into my mind as to her precise relationship with Francis, but she seems a goodly type, a sort of honest rogue if there be such a thing. “Is he safe?” I add as an afterthought and she opens her mouth in a wide smile, her grubby prettiness suddenly shining through. She is younger than I had first thought.
“Oh yes, Francis is perfectly safe. You come along with me, I will take you to him.”
Joan Toogood
My rule has always been ‘no money, no cunny’, so I hope Peter has a long purse for he is on his third humping. The rule doesn’t apply to Francis of course, but Francis is different, always turning up with some dainty to tempt me.
I am peering over Peter’s shoulder at the cobwebbed ceiling, my legs about his waist, my heels drumming on his arse, when the door flies open and Betsy bursts in. Peter leaps away from me, clutching his fallen hose and dragging them up to hide his nethers.
“What on God’s earth is going on?” I cry, scrambling from the mattress. My sister’s in a sorry state, her hair scat asunder and her eyes wild. Her chest is heaving.
“It’s Sybil, she’s been cut. A punter didn’t like 'er price and took his blade to 'er.”
She continues to grizzle as I scrabble into my gown and make for the door with Peter at my heels. As I reach the balcony I see a crowd bearing my sister home. She is holding a bundle of rags to her cheek and even in the dim light I can see the blood seeping from beneath it.
“Oh, Joanie,” she wails as they hoist her over the threshold, “whatever shall I do? I am spoiled, spoiled.”
Her mouth gapes wide, her limbs flailing as they dump her on the mattress and begin to fuss about her. The chamber is not built fo
r a crowd and I can barely reach the bed. Pushing a way through to where Sybil lies prostrate, bleeding on my fancy counterpane, I force her hand away and gingerly lift the makeshift bandage.
I close my eyes, swallow vomit. Her cheek is open to the bone. She needs a surgeon but I can’t afford one. Not even if I worked on my back day and night for a sennight.
“Is it bad, Joanie? Is it bad? I can’t really feel nothin’...”
I swallow and look up at Peter who stands, white-faced, on the other side of the bed, his ardour vanished.
“Not so bad, Sybil,” I lie, “'tis just a lot of blood but it’s sure to heal up fine.”
Betsy sits by the hearth with her skirts to her face, rocking back and forth, weeping and wailing like Sybil is about to die. I turn back to Peter. He is young but able.
“Peter, can you get them out of 'ere so I can see to 'er?” After a moment he comes back to his senses and tears his eyes from poor Sybil.
“I will, Joanie, leave it to me,” he says and while I begin to warm water on the hearth and tear my best petticoat into strips to bind her broken cheek, he chases our neighbours from the chamber.
At the first touch of the warm cloth Sybil’s body stiffens, her hands clawed, her legs taut. I try to wash away the blood but more comes, as fast as I try to staunch it. The cloth is reddened and the water in the bowl turns scarlet. Peter looks over my shoulder, his young face furrowed with concern.
“Why would someone do this?” he asks, bewildered. “Sybil is a fine gel, gives a fellow a good time. Why would anyone hurt her?”
I sigh, continuing to bathe my sister’s ravaged face that was once so 'andsome.
“Some men like to hurt us. It soothes something within them, some secret sense of guilt. Maybe it makes it easier for them to go home and bed their wives … who knows?”
It was true, girls like us did get hurt, and often died at the hands of their customers too. It wasn’t always a punter, sometimes it was a jealous wife or sweetheart, sometimes it was a bawd. My mother told us a tale once about her childhood friend who’d been marked by the bawd who ran her. The girl had wanted to marry but the woman she worked for, unhappy at the loss of earnings, had other ideas and opened up her face for her. That girl had died of her wound, her cheek festering until she expired in agony. A glance at Betsy, still howling at the fireside, tells me that she is remembering that tale too.
“My ma’s a midwife. I could get her to come.”
Peter’s anxious face is paler still and I know he hopes I will decline the offer. “She’d come here and sew up a whore?” That doesn’t sound very likely to me. Peter shuffles his feet.
“She would if I asked her, she is a Christian soul.”
Sybil is shivering and moaning, half asleep, half reliving the horror. “Go on then, me little darlin’.”
I give Peter my best smile and he takes himself off. I watch him go and make a silent vow that I’ll never ask payment from him again but will lay back for him for free until the end of my days.
As Sybil drifts in and out of sleep, I stoke up the fire higher than we can afford in July and tempt Betsy to get to bed. She curls up next to Sybil, her pretty unmarred face contrasting with the livid marks on Sybil’s. Oh God, let her heal well, I pray, but in reality I have long since given up believing in the power of prayer.
I am more grateful to Peter than I can say and since his mother helped our Sybil, he is a constant visitor in our lodging. She is no pretty picture but at least she lives, even if she no longer laughs. The mark has healed crooked, one side of her mouth taut as if she is always about to break into smiles, but her smiles don’t reach her eyes which remain dark and wary. One cheek is unblemished, as pretty as it ever was, but the other is as red and as angry and as knotted as her wounded heart.
She is afraid to go abroad now and refuses to leave the chamber. When my ‘gentlemen’ call she shuffles off to sit on a stool just outside the door. Rain or shine, she will not set foot further, although I tell her she should. She ain’t that bad lookin’ and could still work if she would, most men aren’t fussy about the state of the mantle when they are poking the fire. I understand her fear but she won’t even work in a twosome with Betsy or me. All she wants to do is sit at home, eating and using up all the kindling on unseasonal fires.
“Good day, Joanie.” Peter puts his face in at the door and I smile up at him before putting down the shawl I am mending.
“Come in, me little darlin’,” I say and he whips off his cap and steps over the threshold. I haven’t gone back on the promise I made and accommodate his needs most days. He is a needy boy but I’ve learned what he likes and manage to keep things efficient. He is welcome to call but I don’t let him linger long for I’ve a living to earn, after all.
Sybil shuffles outside, the door closes and when we hear the stool creak beneath her weight, I begin to undo my bodice, watching the eager blood surge into his cheeks. Once my dugs are bared he fumbles with his lacings and we leap into bed.
Poor Peter, his visits are always interrupted lately and not two minutes later, there is a squeal from Sybil and the rumble of a masculine voice outside the door. Peter’s face is red and contorted and he lets out a loud groan of frustration when the door is thrown open and there is Francis, large as life and twice as handsome.
“Get out of here,” he yells and Peter, with one terrified look at his rival, whips himself out and scuttles from the chamber, tying his lacings as he goes. Feigning nonchalance, I pull down my skirts and swing my legs from the bed as Peter’s hasty footsteps clatter down the stairs.
“Joanie.” Francis holds out his arms but I shun them. Although inside my heart is alive with joy, I have to show how angry I am at him for disappearing for so many months. And what gives him the right to treat my customers as if they are trespassing?
I regard him unsmilingly for several moments. “I was working, paying a debt,” I say pointedly as he swoops toward me, takes me in his arms. I close my eyes, inhale the man-smell of him, the velvet of his doublet as smooth as swansdown on my cheek after the roughness of the costermonger’s tunic.
“Did you miss me, Sweetheart?”
I look at the strong bones of his face. He hasn’t shaved this morning and his doublet is open at the neck, giving me a glimpse of ruddy chest hair. I want to kiss it. “No,” I say, deliberately trying to hurt him.
“Oh, I’ve missed you.” Like a bear he nuzzles into my neck, squeezing me tight and flattening my dugs against his torso. “I’m starving, is there anything to eat?”
“No,” I say again, but his wide smile and sunny, open face is thawing my ice. Before I can stop myself I add, “But we could send out for some, if you’ve a coin about you.”
And so, without an apology or an explanation, he is back in my life, and as I lay beneath him, enjoying the familiar surge of gratification that I only get with him, I am glad.
He is my Francis and I love him.
Afterwards he lays his head on my bosom and while I twiddle his hair where it curls into the nape of his neck, he tells me he has wed another. At his words, something dies inside me.
It is as if he has forgotten he ever promised he would wed no other but me. I push my jealous fear away and pretend it doesn’t matter. At least he is here. He prattles on about her, even going so far as to tell me how she mislikes him humping the maids. Oh, Francis, I think to myself, for all your adventures with women, you know us not at all.
“What is she like?” I ask, although I don’t really want to know. I should have known better than to ask, for envy and dislike writhe like snakes in my belly as he describes her.
“She is a gentle lady,” he says, “to look at her you’d not imagine she’d ever enjoy the rough coupling she gets from me. She is petite, like a daisy … no, no, finer than that, more like a primrose, yellow haired and delicate with small, pink tipped breasts like a child’s.”
I hate her even more now and hope she is barren and that she will soon grow ugly and all her te
eth fall out. Francis shifts in the bed. “Pour some more wine, Joanie. We can share the cup.”
He watches me go naked across the room to do as I am bid. When I climb back into bed with him, his arm slides about my neck, his hand wandering down to play with my dugs.
I try to console myself. At least he is back, and now the stew pot will be full again and the firewood store replete, the coming winter may not seem so harsh. There is nothing pleases me more than the clink of money in my purse, for coin means food and warmth and there has been little of that while he has been gone.
Francis burbles on about his bloody wife until I can’t stand the mention of her, but his dribbling praise means that when I bump into her on the bridge early one morning, I have such a clear picture of her that I recognise her almost straight away.
She is lost and some small boys are tormenting her when I come upon her and, although it is plain to see she is in sorry straights, to my shame, jealousy prompts me to torment her further. Pretending to help her, I lead her into trouble, and as a result of my meddling, Francis’ wife and I will suffer together until the end of days.
Isabella Bourne – June 1541
We have searched everywhere, high and low, near and far, but neither Eve nor Francis can be found. Their chambers are left empty, their bed unmade, the morning meal uneaten. It is as if they have been spirited from the world and I am distraught with worry.
From the very first I knew it was a mistake for Eve to wed a man like Francis Wareham, but she would not listen, not even to Father. There was nothing he could do but give in to her and now he regrets it. We all do. Each one of us wishes we could travel back and live that day again. I’m sure that if he had that time again, Father would shoot Francis dead on the first encounter.
I had to tell my parents about Francis’ indiscretion and we all fear that their disappearance is connected with that shameful act. We are afraid that Eve did something stupid and reckless, but we cannot imagine what. It is the not knowing that is worst. I cannot rest and although I am to be wed in a few days, I can think of nothing else when my mind should properly be on other things.
The Winchester Goose: At the Court of Henry VIII Page 9
