“How is she?” I whisper reluctantly, wanting to hear she is thrivin’ but at the same time wanting her to be missing me as much as I am her. Lady Greywater fiddles with a loose thread on her fine white gloves and doesn’t look me in the eye.
“She is physically well now that she is properly fed, but, well, I think we both know she will never be in possession of her mind again.” She pauses as her eyes sweep the dim contours of the room; the damp straw, the stench of suffering. And this is one of the better rooms. “Joanie, I need you tell me exactly what happened. I need to know where and how you found her. Was she … injured … when you discovered her?”
I puff out a hefty breath that makes her flinch and raise her kerchief to her nose. She pretends to dab a tear from her eye and I watch her for a little while longer as I gather my thoughts. Should I trust her? Will she believe me? Can she get me out of here? If she doesn’t have the key to my freedom, she might have the wherewithal to get hold of it. I decide to tell the truth and shame the devil.
“No,” I say boldly. “She was as right as ninepence when I found her. She was looking for Francis … I – I knew Francis … He was a friend of mine. I was jealous of her and I told her where he was out of spite … to my shame, Lady.”
She drops onto the stool and I lower my eyes to her fingers that are shredding the lace edging of her kerchief.
“And where was he?”
She is looking at me now and I glare back at her, refusing to give in to the shame and remorse that are churning in the pit of me stomach. “In my bed, Lady. Where he often was.”
A slight indrawn breath and then she swallows and blinks rapidly, confounded by my honesty. “I said I’d tell it true …” I add belligerently.
“I know, I know, and I thank you for that.” She fights to regain her self-possession and slowly her blushes fade. “So - so Eve found Francis in your bed and then … then what happened? Peter here says she had blood on her hands and on her gown ... Do you think she killed him?”
Her voice has dropped to a whisper, her chin trembling, her face pale as parchment. I shift in my seat, rustle the straw underfoot and sense Sybil creeping closer. Her hand slips into mine. “Careful, Joanie,” she warns, with an unfriendly leer at the lady.
“I have nothing to hide, Sybil.” I look Lady Greywater firmly in the eye. “When she come out of my chamber, there was blood on her gown and she was in a proper state, babbling nonsense and scrabbling at me. I tried to stop her but … but she fell, My Lady. She fell top to bottom down the stair and when she come to again, she was like she is now, sort of … lost- like.”
She is weeping freely now, dabbing her cheeks with her shredded scrap of lace, her eyes red. “And do you think she killed him? Was anyone else there?”
“No, my Lady, nobody else but … Well, at first I thought she done it, there was no one else and what with him being caught with his trousers down, so to speak, I gathered she must’ve lost her temper and snatched up his dagger. But, as I grew to know and … and to love her, if you forgive me for saying so, My Lady, I came to realise that Eve could never harm anyone. She is as gentle as a lamb … as soft as a kitten …”
“Kittens have claws.” Sybil climbs to her feet, brushing muck from her skirts. “Of course she done it. She must’ve if she was the only one there.”
“NO!” Lady Greywater and I speak together, a gentlewoman concurring with a whore. “No,” she repeats, “I cannot believe that. My sister was – is – many things but she would never harm Francis. She loved him – probably more than he deserved.”
“Didn’t we all?” I hear myself say.
Peter is deep in thought, his head down, stirring the rushes with the toe of his boot which is not necessarily a wise thing to do. He looks up suddenly. “Joanie,” he says. “Lady Greywater.” He bows his head. “I’ve been thinking about the day we found her. Before now, I had always assumed she must’ve killed him, it just seemed obvious. But well, I was in your yard that morning, Joanie, and there was another fellow there, a stranger … not a neighbour.”
I look up sharply. “Why’ve you never said before?”
Surprised, he scratches his head. “I don’t know. Nobody ever asked. I’ve never given it a thought. It isn’t as if it’s unusual to find gentlemen of the court lurking in your alley, is it?”
I give a half-laugh. “Well, I’ll give you that. What did he look like?”
Peter comes close, crouches at my side, his goose-turd green tunic linking the undyed homespun of my own skirt and my Lady’s rich brocade. “I didn’t look close. He was beneath the arch leading from The Cock. Not a great gentleman or anything but a middling sort. He could have been a servant or bondsman. I assumed he was waiting for his master to appear. Did Francis have a servant?”
“Not that I ever heard of. He kept a low profile. As Master Cromwell’s spy, the less who knew about his dealings the better. He never told me a thing …”
“Master Cromwell’s spy? What do you mean, Joanie?”
I gape at the lady, worried I have said something I shouldn’t, but there is no point starting to dodge the truth now. “That’s what he was, Lady. That’s how he kept his purse fat. He never told me much about it, but he couldn’t help bragging when he first began the work. I told him it would lead to trouble …”
“Are you certain of this, Joanie?” Lady Greywater leans closer, her narrowed eyes darting about as she fights to digest this piece of news.
“Sure as I’m a Goose, my Lady, yes. He reported weekly to a Nicholas Brennan, who passed his messages and ciphers back to Cromwell.”
She straightens up and I can see her mind working as she speaks as if to herself. “Francis and Eve disappeared around the time Cromwell was executed, didn’t they? There must be some connection. There must be.” She stands up and turns to Peter. “Peter, would you know this man, this servant, again if you saw him?”
Peter rolls his hat into a ball, his face the colour of a cardinal’s cap. “I don’t know, Lady. Maybe, if he was wearing the same clothes.”
I get up too and for a few moments we stand in a circle, Sybil a little apart, watching sulkily. Lady Greywater takes a deep breath. “I think you have been very helpful, Joanie. I – I thank you for the care you gave my sister and I will do all I can to discover the answers to this puzzle and see what I can do to free you from this … this place.”
She waves her gloved hand around the dingy cell. I don’t know why but I bob a curtsey, it just seems the right thing to do. “Thank you, My Lady,” I say, and squeeze Peter’s hand as he escorts her out. He smiles and winks at me.
“I will be back, Joanie, with news, just as soon as I can.”
Isabella Greywater – May 1542
Anthony is waiting outside, ill at ease in the squalor of the Southwark street. I inhale deep, deep breaths to rid myself of the fetid air of gaol. He takes my elbow. “Come along now, let us hope you haven’t contracted gaol fever. I gather you learned nothing to your advantage?”
I pull away, fiddling with the cuff of my glove. The embroidery is beginning to unravel and I will have to send them to be repaired. “On the contrary,” I reply briskly as he helps me mount my mare. “I have learned something very interesting indeed but I shall save it until we cannot be overheard.”
I toss Peter a coin. “I will send word to you when the time comes, Peter,” I say and he makes a clumsy bow and dissolves into the crowd.
Anthony rides ahead and I fasten my eye on his erect back and follow him through the throng. Our servants walk before us, clearing a path through the common folk with the aid of their whips. The crowd regard us sullenly, standing bedraggled and cold on the slick, black cobbles. Soon the shoulders of my cloak are darkened as the rain settles like seed pearls on my sleeves and gloves.
Once safely back at Richmond, Bess helps me strip off my wet clothes and rub my hair dry. She is out of sorts here in the splendour of the palace, and frets about the children succumbing to the summer fevers that beset the
city every year. I have promised that it isn’t for long, and indeed I too am desperate to escape to the country.
After weeks of mist and drizzle, the summer promises no improvement. Anthony and I shiver before the fire that is roaring up the chimney as if it is a January day while I relate all that I have learned. I pause when a servant brings hot drinks and Anthony sends him away and serves me himself, leaning over me with a steaming jug. “So, we didn’t postpone our journey home for nothing?”
“Did you have any idea that Francis was … well, that he was a spy?”
He sits down and crosses one leg over the other. “Of course not. I would have thought he was too light-minded to be trusted with secrets … but someone obviously thought otherwise.”
“Do you think Eve knew?”
He shrugs and dips his nose into his cup, takes a long pull at his drink. When he looks up, his moustache is white with froth. “I don’t think we will ever know the answer to that … or many other things. I say we forget about it and go home, put it all behind us.”
“Anthony, we can’t! We must at least get Joanie out of gaol, she doesn’t deserve to hang.”
He raises his eyes slowly. “I am sure she is guilty of something.” His words are eloquent although they leave a lot unsaid. I drop my eyes before my husband’s antipathy of whoredom but I am determined to fight for her.
“She doesn’t deserve to die, Anthony, and I won’t hear otherwise. I see her as unfortunate, not evil. She is a good sort, deep down, loving and gentle and Peter says …”
“Oh Peter, well I am sure a costermonger’s opinion is wiser than my own.”
I jerk my head and am relieved to find him half in jest. I adjust my attack to pleading. “I need to help her, if I can, Anthony. If it weren’t for Joan Toogood there is no telling where Eve may have ended up. Why, she might be at the bottom of the river by now.”
Anthony holds up his hands. “All right, all right. I submit, my dear. I shall speak to Gardiner, since the matter is in his jurisdiction, and see what, if anything, we can do.”
“Gardiner? A memory stirs of my few encounters with him and I shudder with irrational dislike. I would sooner avoid owing any favours to the smooth-speaking Bishop if I could.
Ten days later we are on our way home. Anthony promises me that Joan will be set free, and since I am so unwilling for her to return to her former life, we make provision for her future. But no matter how I plead, he refuses point blank to let me visit her in gaol again. All I can do is send instructions and a bag of coin to Peter to ensure that she has all that she may require.
As the horses’ hooves eat up the arduous miles and the soft contours of the Welsh hills come into focus, I find I can forget London and begin to look to the future. Opposite me in the ladies’ litter, Mother’s head rolls and nods on her pillow. I don’t know how she can sleep, the perpetual jogging and jolting prevents me from closing my eyes for longer than a moment.
Eve and Bess are travelling in the second litter while little John is here with me and his wet nurse. Anthony, of course, rides ahead. Without me and the household he would make much faster progress, but he pretends patience, for which I am grateful.
Most nights we stop at a wayside inn where the staff look askance at Eve, and Anthony on more than one occasion has to speak sharply to the landlord to convince him that she is harmless. People cross themselves and eye her warily as she shuffles up the stairs, her blank eyes wandering over the furnishings, a string of dribble at her lips. Their ignorant cruelty makes me angry but Anthony says I must grow used to it. I comfort myself that once we are home, she will be safe from the eyes of strangers.
She seems content to be with us now and has ceased to cry for Joanie, but sometimes the expression on her face is so sad and lost that my heart could break. In a few short years my poor mother and sister have lost so much. I, in comparison, am steeped in riches.
I have a good husband and a lusty child and the promise of so much more to come. It is the least I can do to try to share my good fortune with them, I just wish that Eve could show me she is aware of my care. Constantly, I tell her I love her, I stroke her hair, hug her when she will allow, but I am never sure she understands. Often, after such a display of affection, she jumps up and runs away, chasing after Bess’ daughter and squealing like a child, as if my soft words have never been spoken. At least, at such times I know she is happy … or I think she is. Who can really say?
We are deep in the Welsh hills now, the road more rutted than ever, the mud claggy and wet. When the horses stop suddenly, I lean forward and lift the curtain to discover the reason for it. Anthony rides up and halts besides me, and I crane my neck to look at him. He holds out a hand. “Come,” he says, “ride with me.”
Too surprised to argue, I issue some hasty orders to the wet nurse and allow Anthony to haul me into the saddle before him. After I have ensured my legs are decently covered by my skirts, he wraps his arms around me and urges the horse forward.
It is a strange sensation to be in his arms again. His strong body rubs against mine as the horse rocks us back and forth. Above our heads the trees are showing tight green buds and apart from the creak of the horse trappings, all I can hear is birdsong. We leave the rest of the party behind, diverge from the worn track and climb upward, the horse labouring from the unaccustomed additional weight.
“Look,” he says, his breath whispering in my ear. I follow the line of his finger to where a grey stone house nestles in a cleft in the hill. The stark walls are softened with flowers and foliage, providing a welcome splash of colour.
“Is that it, Anthony? Is that Greywater Abbey?”
“It is,” he says, pride ringing in his voice, “and the alterations to the Abbot’s quarters are almost finished. Do you like it?”
“Oh, I love it.” It is quite true. I am instantly enamoured of my new home, the afternoon sun is shining on the subtle grey walls, blending it perfectly with the tranquillity of the valley. “It seems to have grown out of the hill.” I don’t know what else I can say, for my words inadequately convey my emotions and seem contrived somehow, and false.
“I like it too,” he says, and I twist a little in the saddle so I can look at him.
“I will make you happy, Anthony.” His face reddens and he pulls off his glove, tucks a tendril of hair back beneath my hood, his touch as gentle as thistledown.
“You already have,” he whispers and when he kisses me, something turns in my tummy like a small silver fish in a stream. “Come, let us go home.” While my mind lingers on the kiss and the strange feelings it evoked in me, he kicks his mount onward and we begin the slow descent to the Abbey. His arms are tight about my waist and I can feel his heart is beating, just as fast as mine.
Joanie Toogood
“Go on, out of 'ere.” The turnkey throws open the door, his voice breaking into my early mornin’ dreamin’.
“What d’yer mean?”
“You’ve been let off, someone put in a word for yer with the Bishop.” I look about the filthy cell where Sybil and Jack are just emerging from a shabby blanket. She rubs her eyes and blinks up at me.
“What’s goin’ on, Joanie?”
I stare at the turnkey, suspecting trickery, and it isn’t until he grabs me by the hair and drags me from the cell, chucking me and my bundle out onto the road, that I finally believe him. Sybil comes swiftly after. It is plain to see that she too has been wrenched from her bed. I’ve never 'eard of anyone being thrown out of gaol, 'tis usually the other way about. She clutches her stuff to her chest, her mouth upturned and blubberin’.
“What’s the matter now?” I ask, exasperated.
“What about Jack? I can’t leave Jack.”
“Oh, yes you bloody well can,” I say, and grabbing her arm I march her briskly from the prison precinct. “We need to get as far away from 'ere as we can, before they change their blimmin’ minds.”
I set quite a pace, instinctively heading for the Cock Inn yard, wondering if me
rooms are still empty. In the alley we bump into Peter.
“Joanie,” he cries, with a great bear hug. “I’ve been waiting for you. They really let you out? I wasn’t sure it would ever happen.”
“Well, I’ll wager you were surer than I was.” With a question in my eye I cock my head toward the stairway that leads to our old rooms, but Peter shakes his head.
“They’ve been let to someone else, Joanie love, but it’s better so. You need a fresh start.”
I think of the happy times I’ve spent in those rooms; childhood days when my mother kept me safe; and prosperous days spent with Francis. Even the recent times of poverty and want seem to have a rosy glow to 'em now I am forbidden to enter.
I sigh. “Well, I don’t know where we’ll stay then, looks like we’re homeless, Sybil.”
Peter relieves me of my bundle and takes my hand. “Don’t be silly, Joanie, as if anyone around here would see you in want. There’s no one in all o’ Southwark who hasn’t enjoyed your motherin’ at some time or other. Come on. Bertha is waiting, she’s put on a bit of a spread.”
And so she has. There are meat pies, bread and a couple of jugs of ale on the table. Compared to what I’ve eaten lately, it is fare fit for a Queen. While we gather at her hearth, reminiscing on the larks we had when we were girls, and laugh at the antics of her dead, drunken husband, one by one the neighbours drop by to give me their best wishes.
“Good to have you back, Joanie,” they say. “We missed you.” “It 'asn’t been the same without you.” I am so touched by their kindness that I am forced to swallow a soppy, sentimental tear. And when Bertha offers me a bed at hers until I am sorted, it’s all I can do not to blub openly like a bairn.
“I must be going.” Peter stands up and cocks his head for me to follow. I half expect he is after a favour and it’s the least I can do for him, he has been so good to me. But outside, when I reach up to kiss him, he grabs my wrists and presses me away.
The Winchester Goose: At the Court of Henry VIII Page 20
