He bowed and said, ‘Forgive me for staring, Mistress Williams, but you see I knew you as a child. Your father used our fulling mill in Putney.’ He smiled at Father.
That was why he was familiar. I stared back, and in a moment or two I had recollected a tough, wicked little boy, some years older than I, who taught me to fish in the river with a string and a hook with a wriggling worm at the end of it.
‘I do recollect you, Master Cromwell. We played together as children,’ I said, feeling my mouth widen into a smile. ‘Father sent your father our cloth to be washed, beaten, prepared and softened for sale. I remember climbing trees and stealing apples. You led me astray.’
‘That was long ago. I am not that boy now, Mistress Williams.’ His bulky frame seemed to shift uncomfortably.
‘Nor I that girl.’ I looked hard again at his face. The unruly child was utterly transformed into a smooth, sophisticated cloth merchant. ‘I can see you no longer raid orchards for apples.’
I thought quickly. I would need a middleman. Aloud, I said, ‘But my cloth, you want to view my fabrics now, sir? Today? Today of all days? Why?’
‘Master Cromwell returns to Antwerp within a week, Lizzy. He can help you with cloth sales.’ Father added quickly. ‘In fact, Master Cromwell can help us both. He is working for the Merchant Adventurers, buying cloth for sale in Antwerp.’
I recognised that I needed this money as a matter of some urgency as, of late, we had not been doing as well as in previous years. I rose to my feet and said, ‘Master Cromwell, it would be a pleasure, but to see my cloth you must come tomorrow.’
‘Then, I shall come tomorrow, if I may.’ He bowed low. ‘Thank you for receiving me, Mistress Williams. I apologise for disturbing you on such a sorrowful day. Tomorrow morning at an hour before midday? Would this be suitable?’
‘I shall be here to receive you.’
‘God bless you, Mistress Williams,’ he said quietly, then bowed again and took his leave.
When he had moved away, I glanced over to where my mother sat at the end of the table with Joan, thinking that if she had overheard she would object to any business broached by me at her son-in-law’s funeral, but she was in conversation with Father Luke and I could see that he was listening closely to her. I smiled to myself. My mother was the beautiful, perfect hostess who could make everyone feel important. If only I was more like her; for I had no female friends, only Meg, the servant girl who grew up in our household, and very few male acquaintances.
‘Elizabeth,’ my father said, ‘Your guests are leaving now. You must bid them God speed.’
I stood, neatly folded my hands and said aloud so all could hear me, ‘May God guide you all safely home tonight. Thank you all for your care of me today.’
It was over. The interminable day was finished and tomorrow afternoon my family would return to Fulham and I would be on my own. My new life would begin. I determined that Thomas Cromwell would purchase as much of my cloth for sale as could be spared.
On the following day, the appointed hour arrived and after pleasantries were exchanged, I escorted Master Cromwell and Father to the storerooms. ‘Master Cromwell,’ I said, trying to make conversation as we walked along the passage. ‘Where have you been these past years?’
‘Abroad - Italy - learning the ways of business, banking, a little of the law and a bit of soldiering too, Mistress Williams.’ His full mouth eased into a pleasant smile.
My father drew to a stop before the storeroom door. He held out his hand. ‘The key, Lizzy?’
‘Oh, a moment.’ I returned along the dim corridor and entered the chilly parlour. Once inside, I felt a disturbance in the air, as if my husband’s unhappy soul were watching me, hovering by the tall candlesticks that had guarded his bier. I hurriedly drew the storeroom key from the cupboard and ran from the darkened room as if its shadows were about to pursue me.
I opened the door and led us into a spacious chamber filled with shelves filled with fabrics and where summer light filled the room. Linen shone and gleamed; wools appeared soft and comforting; the new mixes of silk and linen seemed to glow with colour and texture. Father immediately took charge and led Master Cromwell forward. Fingering my cloth and moving his clearly experienced eye over the first ells of cloth that Father pulled out from the shelves along the wall, Thomas Cromwell chose the green bombazine to sell abroad as well as several lengths of fine worsted.
‘I shall send for these tomorrow if it is not an intrusion on your time of sadness and prayer.’
‘Thank you. I shall be here,’ I said.
‘And, I shall do my best to sell the fabrics, Mistress Williams. I set sail by Midsummer’s Eve and should return in a month.’ He touched my arm. At his familiar gesture, I drew back, but in my confusion my skirt caught on a wooden nail jutting from the shelf. As I tugged it loose, Master Cromwell glanced down. Fumbling nervously, I untangled my gown, praying that Father had not noticed the flash of crimson.
Thomas Cromwell had seen my forbidden underskirt, for he glanced down, mischievously raised an eyebrow and smiled at me. ‘You have inherited a good trade, Mistress Williams. Who will help you now that your husband has -‘ He broke off. I knew he was wondering, as had others, if my husband had been murdered or if his death was accidental. ‘Now that he has passed,’ he said with tact. ‘How will you manage now?’
‘I ran this business for a time after my father-in-law died of the bloody flux. When my husband had served the King, as a yeoman, I had to supervise the overseer, the apprentices and the cloth sales, all of it. I had to manage then and I shall manage now.’
‘With my help, Lizzy,’ Father said firmly, as he looked at me with piercing eyes from under bushy eyebrows.
‘Of course, Father, indeed.’ I thought of the day he had promised me away in marriage. He would have his eye on my business now. His face relaxed into a genial smile.
Thomas Cromwell’s eyes darkened in the candlelight. I saw again that they were not exactly grey but rimmed with hazel, their centres brooding, and they shifted colour as do agates.
‘May I see if there is anything else?’
‘Do,’ I said.
Father shifted his bulk over to the shelves and pulled out my plainer cloth. Master Cromwell continued to study bolts of cloth as if he was measuring how much each was worth. He stopped by a roll of painted cloth Father had ignored, pulled it from its shelf and laid it out over a table until it revealed a carpet of golden stars scattered over a midnight-blue linen background.
His breath whistled through his teeth. ‘Beautiful. Painted cloth can fetch a good price. And this painted cloth, well…I could sell it for you.’
‘Oh,’ said Father, raising his great eyebrows again; he favoured plain cloth. ‘You see profit in that?’
‘I do.’ Master Cromwell slid a long finger over the cloth. ‘I certainly do.’
I moved to his side. ‘That cloth is promised to Austin Friars.’
‘What do the friars want with stars? Ah, of course, the Advent plays.’ Master Cromwell was silent for a moment. ‘Can you find more of this?’
Despite my desire to have nothing to do with painted cloth that my husband had purchased heaven only knew where, I said, ‘Perhaps.’
‘Well, then, Mistress Williams, fine painted cloth will sell in the courts of Europe. It is being used to ornament clothing these days. I shall make enquiries.’ As he turned to me again, I felt the soft swish of his expensive cloak caress my hand as if a cat was purring against it. Father said that we would take an advance for me on my cloth today and the rest of the profit after it was sold. I liked this arrangement well. Most of all, I liked the fact that the merchant had addressed me, not Father, and had spoken to me as an equal.
Thomas Cromwell departed after the midday Angelus rang. When he kissed my hand, my fingers felt warm. My heart beat a little faster. He was a stranger, yet no stranger. The wild boy was now a handsome man, wealthy it seemed and not for the likes of me, a recent widow. I shrugged the th
ought away. For now on, I would sell cloth and continue to live quietly in life’s shadows.
The following morning, Thomas Cromwell sent a wagon to collect the cloth. It was Midsummer’s Eve, and I had hoped he would come himself, but he did not. Instead, his servant came and dealt with Smith. I faced a lonely midsummer. There would be no revels for me this year, for I would pass my Midsummer’s Eve praying for the safe passage of my dead husband’s soul, the husband who had been no husband to me.
The disastrous marriage to Tom Williams had been imposed on me four years earlier because Father claimed he always acted in my interests, and because, in turn, I had recognised that I had obligations and duties to my parent. I made the best of it I could, though I often wished I had never agreed to it.
Chapter Two
1509 Putney
I WAS A COWARD.
For I could not set myself against my father’s wishes. A daughter could not. He called me into the little chamber off the hall on a chill February morning where a small fire was lit. After he had waved me to a stool close to the flame, I sat and waited for him to speak, wondering what merited this summons so early in the day. I had hoped that Father would suggest that I could help him in our cloth trade, because ever since he had spoken of trade with Flanders weeks earlier, I had prayed that he would include me in his new plans. I could read, write, count and keep ledgers up to date. I could negotiate and, importantly, I had an eye for colour. He often remarked on this.
Father coughed, folded his hands behind his back, looked at me earnestly and said, ‘Lizzy, you are eighteen. It is time you were wed.’
This was not what I wanted to hear. I nearly fell off my stool, so great was my disappointment. I looked up at him, trying to hide my displeasure, blinked and nervously pinched the wool of my russet gown between finger and thumb. ‘Is it, indeed, Father?’
‘Yes, I have found you a husband.’
A chill gripped me. ‘Who?’
‘Tom Williams. A good family, cloth merchants, like us, only richer.’ Father looked hopeful and said with meaning, ‘He is an only son. Your mother has lost two children, boys.’ He crossed himself. ‘And there is only Harry who is busy with his estate in Surrey. I want to see you wed into cloth.’
‘Well, I do know who Tom Williams is,’ I burst out in a passion. ‘I have seen the family at guild processions and I don’t care for him and I am too young to wed.’ My arms stubbornly folded themselves. They could not help it.
Father leaned down and kissed my forehead, loosed my arms and took my hands in his. ‘We can afford a dowry and you are not too young, my child. Be reasonable, Lizzy. Tom Williams’ father is an important member of the Drapers’ Company. We spoke of you only yesterday. Look, he brought me that gift…as a token, a promise.’ Father glanced up and pointed at a new painted cloth that hung on the wall above us. It showed Abraham’s sacrifice which I now thought ominous. I looked away, refusing to praise it. He chose his next words carefully. ‘One day Tom Williams will inherit the family fortune. They are wealthy drapers. Richard Williams will invest in my worsteds and fine wools. He is offering you, and our family, opportunity, don’t you see? Will you agree, Lizzy?’
‘No, I do not see, nor shall I agree,’ I said.
I would not take this man Father was thrusting at me. I thought of children disturbing my happy existence. I thought of an end to my beloved studies.
Father reached for a chair and moved it around to face my stool. Sinking onto the cushioned seat, he leaned forward, his face so close to mine. His breath smelled of sweet peppermint. ‘You will have a good home,’ he said. ‘Of course, since Master Williams is a King’s yeoman you will have a most coveted position too. Our cloth business will be secure. They are well-connected.’
This was all about markets, not me, and I was the sacrifice.
‘Not as well-connected as we,’ I said quickly, thinking of my mother’s good connections with minor nobility. ‘Mother needs me here. I help her with the household accounts, with embroidery, sewing and weaving. I had hoped to help you, too, Father, in the business.’
‘Mercy will manage. You will not be lost to her. There are maids, plenty of those, to help and I have apprentices. The business is not for women.’
I snorted and frowned. The maids did not play the lute for my mother to sing in the evening dusk. As for business - better to be a cloth merchant than a cloth merchant’s chattel. I fumed inside, anger eating me up.
Folding my hands in my lap, I tried to be still, but my soft blue woollen kirtle whispered as I restlessly moved my feet and strived hard to keep my voice even. ‘I have learning, Father.’ I shook my head. ‘The Williamses will have no time for that.’
I thought of Tom Williams’ ill, fragile mother with her yellowing pallor; the father who was bent and aged. Tom Williams, I truthfully did not know at all, but there was a quiet about him as silent as the falling snow. I imagined that as a King’s yeoman, he moved with slow, thumping, marching feet, whereas I was small and quick.
My father looked weary and defeated. ‘Won’t you take him, Lizzy, take him for my sake, and, indeed, for your own? It is an excellent match. You will come to like him, love him perhaps.’
I would not take Tom Williams for my own sake. I began to form the words but I hesitated. What choice did I have? That was the truth of it and the lie. We daughters were given to believe we could refuse, but choice did not really exist for women like me. Love him! No. Like him, possibly.
As I hesitated, tears gathered in my dear father’s eyes and that was the moment I was lost. He had given me everything. Mother and I were clothed in fine wool and linens. He had indulged my love of learning and had me educated as he had my brother, as if I were a daughter of the King’s court, rather than a middling merchant’s female child.
February snow splattered the windows. A log on the fire hissed. For a heartbeat I looked into Father’s watchful green eyes, so like my own, begging me to agree. As I considered my fate, a silence hung between us. I might, in time, find opportunity to help in the Williams’ cloth trade since Richard and Agnes Williams were old. Maybe there were possibilities. And I would rule my own household. I made myself reconcile to the fact that there was no reason not to marry Tom Williams other than my contrary nature. People never married for love. Love belonged to stories such as King Arthur and Queen Guinevere. On that cold day, a hazy picture of Tom Williams formed in my head. He was just a slight, hazy line, muddied like water in the duck pond.
I inclined my head, and despite myself, my mouth formed the word, ‘Yes’.
‘Good,’ Father said, patting my hand. ‘I knew you would see sense, Lizzy.’
I met Tom Williams on my betrothal day, soon after I had agreed to marry him. I said my piece quietly, eyeing my betrothed with suspicion, as a harsh wind blew around our hall, upsetting buckets in the yard, rattling the gates, and shaking trees against the casement panes. Outside, dogs barked, hens squawked and cats yowled, but standing in my best grey woollen gown by the long table in our hall, I wore what was for many years to become my hall face. I smiled. I spoke politely to his mother, Agnes, a mild woman, and to his father, the very serious master draper.
My father, delighted, beamed generously around the small gathered company and penned the marriage agreement with a flourish. I signed my name with confidence, proud that I could read and write. My betrothed slipped a betrothal ring of gold and sapphire onto my middle right finger. When he kissed me, I admit that I sensed his gentleness and kindness, but I felt distaste too.
During our four years of marriage, even though we shared a bed for most of those years, I lay with him only once, and that was on our wedding night.
Chapter Three
1514
FOUR YEARS ON, I was a cloth merchant’s widow, without children to inherit the business, which no doubt the goodwives considered my fault, not his - though his mother, unknowing of the true way of things, kindly said it would happen in the fullness of time. My mother curiously never
said a word. Now that Tom Williams was dead, if my household was to survive, I knew that I must become a cloth merchant myself, and I made a firm decision on the day Thomas Cromwell sent for my cloth that Father would not rule me again. Now that I had my once longed-for wish to be a merchant, I would make a success of my cloth business. It was indeed mine.
On the Midsummer’s Eve after Tom’s funeral, the servants wanted to join in the festivities, as had been their tradition in past years. I did not see any reason why they could not enjoy the holiday, even if I could not, so I suggested that Gerard Smith take the two apprentices and go out into the City streets to see the festivities.
Smith said, as he stood uncomfortably in my hall, bonnet in his hands, ‘Are you sure, Mistress? We shall only be away for a short time. To see the guild companies march down by the river.’
‘I am sure. Leave Toby to mind the shed. I shall give him another whole day off instead. He’ll like that.’
‘And you, Mistress?’
‘Meg will stay with me and I shall sleep, Master Gerard.’ I swept my arm about the dark hangings. ‘It has all tired me out.’
He nodded his sympathy but, not before I noticed the wistful glance he cast eighteen-year-old Meg’s way. She glanced up and smiled at him. Yet, when my eyes lit on her again, her head had dropped once more over her sewing.
Demurely Meg continued to mend the shift that lay limply over her knee, as if butter would not melt in her pert mouth.
That Midsummer Eve I went to bed early and fell fast asleep as soon as my head touched my pillow.
Doors slamming. Shouting. Calls of fire. I sat up in bed, rubbing my eyes, hovering on the edge of sleep, in which I was dreaming of a boy with whom I had played long, long ago along the river bank in Fulham and who had sent a servant for my bombazine cloth.
The Woman in the Shadows: Tudor England through the eyes of an influential woman Page 2
