No one tells her to get up.
“But you found no paper, did you?” Anthony continues, twisting the tip of his blade, making the blood flow afresh.
“No.” Perkins, if that truly is his name, is beaten, his body submissive as my husband persists with his questions. “And you snuck off into the shadows like a cur and left Mistress Wareham to take the blame. Have you any idea how she has suffered since?” When he makes no reply, I can contain myself no longer.
“You should be flogged,” I cry, but Anthony turns a stern eye upon me.
“Keep out of this, Bella. Take the women back to the house and stay there. This fellow shall be chained in the dungeon until I can get him back to London. It’s the hangman’s noose for him, no matter who his master is, for I shall be taking this matter directly to the King himself.”
He signals to the steward and as I hurry the women back inside, I turn in time to see them leading him off in chains.
As soon as we reach the fireside I am stricken by a fit of shivering and nothing serves to warm me. I submit willingly as Mother covers me with a blanket and chaffs my hands and arms, while Bess brings me a strong restorative drink.
“Just imagine, Madam; if Joan hadn’t recognised him, we might have all been murdered in our beds!”
It is not a thing I care to dwell on but I understand her need. “We may indeed, Bess. I think we are all deeper in Joanie’s debt than ever.”
Joanie looks up from retying Eve’s sleeve. “You owe me nothin’, My Lady, nor ever shall. Having the care of Eve is all the thanks I will ever need.”
And then she goes back to her task as if she has been doing it all her life.
Isabella Greywater 1543
A year has passed and all is well at Greywater Abbey. We keep as far from London as we can, although Anthony is summoned to attend the wedding of the King and his new bride. Henry chooses another Catherine this time, as if he has some fatal fascination with that name. Knowing what Catherine Parr has in store she has my pity, but I plead sickness and stay away from the wedding.
I have no wish to return to Greenwich, for everything I need is here. I have a warm and happy marriage now and a good husband. Our son is thriving and another child is already on the way. We both hope for a daughter, which is strange, for no one knows better than I that a woman’s lot is often hard.
My mother, with old age fast approaching, is comfortable here among the lush hills of Wales. She finds peace among the flowers and if she ever remembers that the garden paths she treads once knew the footsteps of dispossessed monks, she does not mention it. The Abbey maintains a certain monastic peace and I am reminded of them often; how can it be otherwise? We sleep in the Abbot’s bedchamber, prepare our food in the monks’ kitchens, dine in their refectory and worship in their church. I should, I suppose, feel guilt to have profited by their downfall, but it was the hand of Cromwell and the King that brought them down, not us. The only recompense I can make is to ensure their buildings are maintained and my prayers are added to theirs. I spend many hours on my knees, giving thanks that Eve has been returned to me. For that I am truly grateful.
She thrives as well as she ever will and knowing her days are spent in Joanie’s loving hands, I enjoy the kind of peace I thought I’d never know again.
I am enjoying an hour of solitude in my solar when voices floating up from the garden draw me to the window. I peer through the open casement and the scene below teases a smile.
Joanie and Eve are taking air around the gardens.
“Mistress Eve, what 'ave I said? You will get me hung if you keep pluckin’ your sister’s blooms. Give 'em 'ere.”
The girl holds out a fistful of white roses and Joanie sinks her nose into them. “Mmmm,” she says, taking them from Eve. “I can’t blame you fer pickin’ 'em, mind, they smell sweeter than an angel’s breath. Did I ever tell you about that time I saw a real angel?”
My sister shakes her head, silently willing Joanie to reply. “No? Well, I was walkin’ across London Bridge, mindin’ me business, when all of a sudden there she was, lightin’ up the world around her …”
Her voice fades as they move together across the garden, and then Bess appears from the house with my son on her hip and calls to them that it’s time for the midday meal. Bess’ daughter, Mary, toddles into view and I see Joan bend down and scoop her into her arms, swinging her around and making her squeal with glee.
My hand caresses the burgeoning globe of my womb where the babe kicks lustily beneath my ribs. And, riding into this idyllic scene comes Anthony, swinging from the saddle, calling for his groom and completing the happy picture.
The End
Author’s Note
The Winchester Goose is a work of fiction based upon a foundation of fact. Everyone knows about Henry VIII and his wives, we all know the impact he had on English history. What I wanted to explore was the possible effect his actions had on the wider population, in particular the underbelly of society.
Southwark teemed with the more dissolute section of society, but they were not all of the lower class. Attracted by the sex on sale, visitors to the capital sought the entertainments on offer there and there are reports of night-time trips across the Thames to and from the royal court.
The prostitutes who worked in Southwark did indeed pay their rents to the Bishop of Winchester and before the reformation provided a service to monks and clerics. They were known as The Winchester Geese, but their world was a great deal bleaker than I have painted it. I have only touched upon the likelihood of contracting sexually transmitted disease or the risk of imprisonment or physical abuse.
The incident with the young noblemen firing stone arrows at the girls working on the Bankside is mentioned in the historical record, although it takes place a number of years before the narrative begins. The main culprit in this crime was the young Henry Howard, Earl of Surrey who ended his life on the scaffold for another unrelated offence to the King. The incident with the bear on the Thames barge did indeed take place, but the papers the clerk was carrying were to do with Cranmer’s findings on the six articles and not concerned with Katherine Howard at all. I changed the nature of these papers to suit my story because I could not resist the colourful picture the incident evokes. I make no apologies for this.
The women who worked as prostitutes formed an unexplored section of Tudor society. During the course of my studies I became fascinated with what they may have made of the goings on at Henry’s court.
Henry, for all his extra-marital and marital escapades, was quite a fastidious man and, offended by the tales of disease and crime, determined to clean up the area. Vice in all its forms thrived and theft and murder were commonplace, but it was not until 1546, a few years after my story ends, that he finally succeeded in closing the brothels down. Of course, it didn’t last. The women simply moved on, spreading the contagion and making vice more widespread in London than ever and after Henry’s death, his heir Edward VI was still complaining about the widespread Vice in London.
In many ways, most women of the period, particularly the upper classes, were bought and sold. Forbidden the luxury of choosing their own mate, the marriages of gentlewomen were financially or politically motivated, and subject to parental control. Love didn’t come into it but politics and power played a large part.
Historians widely agree that Katherine Howard’s marriage to Henry was instigated by her uncle, Norfolk, who together with his allies, Stephen Gardiner and Suffolk, desired a return to traditional methods of worship. With Anne of Cleves out of favour with the King they lost no time in promoting their own candidate.
Opposing this was Cromwell, serving both his King and his own preference for church reform and his fall had less to do with disservice to Henry and more to do with the plotting of enemies.
The brief years of Henry’s marriages to Anna of Cleves and Katherine Howard contrast and compare very nicely with the role played by Joanie Toogood.
I have tried to be as accurate as possible in tellin
g this story, but some things have to be simplified to make for an engaging read. I did not want to bog my reader down with historical detail and tedious explanations, not because I doubt their ability to understand, but because I wanted them to become more engaged with the characters.
Apart from historical court figures, all characters are fictional and their opinions not necessarily mine.
I do hope you enjoy the journey into Tudor England and despite some of the more unsavoury characters you meet there, will join me there again in my next novel The Kiss of the Concubine.
Judith’s other works include:
Peaceweaver: the story of Eadgyth, Queen to Gruffydd ap Llewelyn of Wales and Harold II of England.
The Forest Dwellers: a tale of Norman oppression.
The Song of Heledd: the story of a 7th century princess of Powys.
Dear Henry: Confessions of the Queens: Short Tudor Stories
Judith Arnopp’s books are all available in paperback and on Kindle.
Table of Contents
Copyright
Prologue – Joanie Toogood - Southwark Stews
The Winchester Goose: at the Court of Henry VIII
Author’s Note
Judith’s other works
The Winchester Goose: At the Court of Henry VIII Page 22
