The Woman in the Shadows: Tudor England through the eyes of an influential woman

by Carol McGrath

  The day was close and Tom’s chamber was oppressive, the atmosphere tense. I untied my cap and shook my hair until it fell about my face. ‘Faery hair,’ my father used to say when I was a child without cares, ‘silver curls for a faery princess.’ I did not feel light and faery-like now. ‘I think, Mother, we could leave the rest of this to Meg. Let us pass an hour or so outside. The chamber is hot. I cannot remain in it.’

  Mother nodded and piled the rest of the clothing in a basket for Meg, while I fetched straw hats from my chamber. I managed a smile.

  ‘Those old things. Just what we need.’ Mother said, smiling again at last, setting the hat I handed her on top of her wimple, its wide brim sheltering her face. Now she laughed. With her laughter, my mood lightened and I spontaneously kissed her cheek almost knocking her cap off. They say laughing is good for us. I am sure those wise women are right for I felt lighter because of it.

  Descending the stairs, we took up our sewing bags from the parlour bench and, once outdoors, sat in the shade under the mulberry tree. In the cool of the garden, we sipped strawberry cordial and talked of Joan and Alice and Harry who would be haymaking in the country. Eventually, our conversation turned to the King’s court which had set off on a summer progress and Mother, who, of course, prided herself on her court connections, told me how courageously Queen Catherine saved the North from the Scottish attack while King Henry was in France.

  ‘Did she go north herself?’ I asked.

  ‘Of course not, but the kingdom was in her charge. She had to put her seal on all decisions her knights made.’

  ‘She is clever and brave,’ I said. ‘Determined to win.’

  ‘She did win. There was a battle at Flodden. Our army won, and I have heard that Queen Catherine has had the Scottish King’s head. Cousin William says she was the real commander of Flodden while our King has been away fighting the French.’ Her cap bobbed up and down enthusiastically as she spoke of Queen Catherine. ‘She is a warrior queen.’

  ‘Yes, but it is so sad that she lost her little prince,’ I said. ‘The King was devastated. Little Henry was only a few months old. He even held a joust in his honour.’

  ‘She is with child again, I have heard, and they are hopeful.’ Mother laid her cup on a bench and pulled her embroidery from its bag, the altar cloth for St Ursula’s chantry, a beautiful fabric with a design of silver fishes, a wavy black sea and dark green silken reeds.

  ‘God willing.’ I crossed myself and sent a silent prayer up through the mulberry leaves to my saint.

  I tucked my sewing in its bag, lifted my cup thoughtfully and drained it thinking that it was a shame that Tom Williams and I could never have a child because I would not permit it. For a moment I dozed, the sun caressing my back making me sleepy. Gradually my eyes opened again. I could hear the Wood Street birds chirruping. Mother was drawing her thread back through the linen cloth, making a dainty stitch on her silver fish. The bells of St Albans were ringing.

  ‘Lizzie.’ My mother leaned over her embroidery, speaking softly. ‘Lizzie, the Vespers bells. I promised Father Luke we would attend service today.’

  ‘Mother, sorry. I forgot.’ I gathered my skirts, stood and lifted our cups from the low wooden table, scattering biscuit crumbs over the path. ‘And after we return, I must attend to the books. You can sew in the parlour and Meg will keep you company. She has been making gooseberry syllabub today.’

  ‘Meg always makes a perfect syllabub. She is light-handed with pastry too, but you should stay and embroider with us. Those books are all you think of, Lizzy.’

  ‘It is what I must think of.’ I glanced down at my ink-stained fingers. ‘Now if we don’t hurry, Father Luke will be disappointed. He will blame me for keeping you away.’

  It was not a chore to attend Vespers with Mother. I enjoyed the haunting melodies of the plainchant and today, I longed for the peace of the colourful, cool church, where for a few moments after the Mass, I promised myself that I would empty my mind and pray. It had been a difficult afternoon.

  Within the hour, clicking my beads one by one, kneeling by an alcove altar to the blue-cloaked Virgin, I was whispering my prayers, earnestly hoping that the Madonna would guide me into a safe future of my own making. I thought of the queen and prayed for her too. Within the click and clack of the rosary beads, a long forgotten memory flashed into my mind.

  Chapter Six

  Midsummer’s Eve, 1509

  A LONG-AGO JUNE HERALDED the summer after my betrothal to Tom Williams and the eve of the King and Queen’s coronation. Another long ago Midsummer’s Eve.

  I was in a state of high excitement since we were to watch the royal procession ride through the streets from the Tower to Westminster. Harry and his wife Alice had declined Father’s invitation to join us in London. They preferred to spend their Midsummer on their tiny manor in Surrey, saying they could not leave the sheep, nor could they abandon the haymaking, not even for a King’s holiday. Besides, the shepherds and cotters expected my brother to provide them with a feast. I thought how fortunate they were to watch the country bonfires and dance freely to the sound of fiddles. That just left Father, Mother, Joan and myself to be rowed from Putney to London Bridge as a glorious dawn broke on that summer morning.

  Mother and I decorously arranged our skirts over the wherry bench. Mother’s green and gold embroidered gown complimented my pink kirtle with its new rose-embroidered sleeves. ‘We look like a tapestry illustrating a garden,’ I remarked, as we made ourselves comfortable. Joan could not remain still and Father threatened that he would take her back and leave her in Putney. She behaved.

  Mother smiled. ‘All of London will appear as lovely as a garden today, Lizzy.’

  I doubted this. There were too many poor people in the City. They would not wear embroidered sleeves or eat a fine dinner like the one in Meg’s wicker basket.

  Soon, we were passing by Chelsea where grand gardens sloped down to jetties on the riverside. Our oarsmen rowed us past high-reaching arches until, at last, we reached the Abbey at Westminster and the King’s Hall close by. I peered hard over the busy river, trying to snatch a glimpse of the tapestries being laid out before the Abbey for the Queen and King to step upon tomorrow before they were crowned in the Abbey Nave. I saw nothing except the magnificent turreted church, but those gleaming spires felt so holy to me that I fancied angels hovered about the walls and entrance.

  A great cheer swelled upwards from the river. ‘God bless our King and Queen.’ ‘God give them health.’ ‘God bless the Rose and the Pomegranate’. I felt tears well in my eyes, while my mother dabbed at hers with a tiny lace-edged cloth. My father cried out across the boats, ‘God bless us all. A new age is coming. ’

  ‘Amen,’ other voices chorused, the sound of them echoing off the water.

  We left our oarsmen at Drinkwater Wharf and from there followed Grasschurch Street towards Leadenhall Market.

  There were cutpurses everywhere. I felt for the purse hanging from my belt, was relieved to find it still there and pushed it below my kirtle into the folds of my linen. When we reached the water conduit in the middle of the crossroads of Grass-Church and Cornhill, we could see that though it was early yet, the City guildsmen were gathering in companies along Cheape Street, clad in their particular livery.

  ‘Father, why are you not joining the cloth merchants?’ I asked. It would be good for my father to be positioned amongst his fellows. Were women merchants permitted, I would have been there.

  ‘My back would not stand the strain. They must wait for hours. But we shall take a look, Lizzy.’ In spite of his mild tone, I could see that Father was annoyed that he was not amongst the cloth-makers.

  ‘I need the chamber pot,’ Joan protested.

  Father turned to Meg and the servant boy. ‘Take Joan with you. Go to the shop and tell Master William we shall be along soon. Make sure he does not allow anyone to position themselves before my building.’

  Father waved the two servants and my sister
past the conduit, which was transformed as it was smothered in white and red Tudor roses and fat golden pomegranates.

  ‘Won’t everyone be thirsty with all the waiting,’ I remarked.

  ‘Worth it,’ Father said. ‘Wine will flow from all the fountainheads tonight.’

  The streets were swept clean. No animals dared foul the sweet-scented grasses that had been scattered with herbs and flowers. Painted cloths and tapestries of gold hung from casements, from awnings, from doorways; no wall on the Cheape had been left under-covered that day. As we wandered along, weaving through the gathering crowd, Father pointed out his favourites.

  ‘Look at the red dragon! See that silver cock!’ He beamed. ‘Flames of fire, too. He will be a great and fiery king, I have no doubt. He will make England noble and powerful again. And he looks just like his grandfather Edward, a very handsome young man indeed, by all accounts.’

  ‘I like the red and white rose and the crowned portcullis. It is gold thread.’ I said.

  ‘Look at the half rose, half pomegranate over there,’ Mother exclaimed with delight.

  We walked as far as St Paul’s Church to see stalls occupied by virgins in white gowns holding up entangled branches of white wax. Priests stood patiently holding silver censers, to waft the King and Queen with incense as they passed.

  ‘It is pure frankincense,’ my father remarked and sneezed. When he had recovered himself, he added, ‘They will have to wait another four hours. I hope those wax branches last.’ He took my mother’s arm and gently spun us round. ‘Come, Mercy, I have seen enough. Lizzy, I heard your stomach growl a moment ago.’

  It took ages to push our way through the gathering crowds back down Cheape Street to our shop. At last we were back at Cornhill and inside Father’s cool warehouse, where our servants had set out our picnic dinner on a white cloth. Chattering, laughter, cheers and even cries of ‘Stop thief’ flew in through the opened casements, from which hung our best cloth alongside the large red rose made by my mother, sister and myself.

  Our appliqué was fine work and we were proud of it because we had taken several weeks to stitch it. After we appraised our work, we drew up our chairs to the table and Father crossed himself. ‘God bless our humble repast,’ he said.

  My excitement over the day did not stop me from falling greedily on our picnic dinner. I loved little pasties filled with meat. Cook had made these yesterday, and the pastry was still crisp. When I sank my teeth into one, gravy dribbled down my chin.

  Mother frowned. ‘Do not eat like a peasant, Elizabeth. You must show manners fitting a lady, now your wedding is almost upon us. Use your napkin.’

  ‘I don’t eat like a peasant,’ Joan said primly.

  ‘Just as well you do not. If you are finished eating, Joan, Meg will walk with you a little way along the street to see the hangings. Your mother and I wish to speak to your sister.’

  ‘Yes, Father,’ Joan said and slipped from her seat.

  ‘Lizzy,’ Father said, after Meg had hurried with Joan out and down the stairs. He wiped crumbs from his mouth with the back of his hand, ‘I may as well tell you now. Your mother and I are agreed. No further delay. We must have you wed by Christmas.’

  I dropped my pasty onto my plate, where it disintegrated into a mess of crust and gravy. Father’s words had soured the day’s happiness. He placed his ale cup on the table, folded his arms and announced happily that he had ordered a bolt of fine cloth from his weavers for my wedding gown. ‘Blue like the Virgin’s robes,’ he enthused. ‘the colour of cornflowers to compliment your eyes and your silver curls.’ He sat back in his chair and added proudly, ‘I shall give you a feast like none I have ever given before. It will be St Cecilia’s feast day, the twenty-second day of November. We shall employ the best city musicians that I can afford.’

  ‘Thank you, Father,’ I said quietly and tried to listen to my mother’s chatter as she talked to him about my wedding feast. It was as if I were not there.

  ‘And your dowry will be an orchard. Of course, in return, the boy’s father promises to invest in my cloth business.’

  ‘Do you mean an orchard attached to our land?’ There it was again, Father’s own interests, but, at least I would have one of his apple orchards.

  ‘Indeed, I do. I hope that one day you will move to Fulham from the City; better for the children.’

  ‘I am sure.’

  I could find no objection to my marriage, except that I did not love Tom Williams. Remembering his reluctant kiss, I closed my eyes. Love was a foolish, romantic notion. I whispered a prayer to St Elizabeth: ‘Make me a good wife.’

  I heard footsteps on the stairs and a moment afterwards the door opened. Joan and Meg were back. As Meg cleared away the remains of our picnic, an excited Joan gave us a detailed account of all she had seen.

  By mid-afternoon, the heat slumped over the street below and the air thickened like soup. We delayed descending the rickety stairs to the street until we knew the procession was drawing close.

  Horses clattered along the cobbles. I craned my neck to the left, peering to see them better. Two richly clothed gentlemen walked in front of the King’s horse. Their hats were powdered with ermine and their robes were trimmed with the same expensive fur. One carried the King’s hat, the other his cloak.

  After this we had eyes only for our beautiful young King, so near my own age, dressed in crimson velvet furred with ermine. ‘That jacket alone,’ my father muttered from behind me, ‘is worth a lifetime of dinners. His coat would feed London’s poor for the rest of our days.’

  The King’s jacket was raised gold studded with jewels, diamonds, rubies, emeralds and great pearls, and he wore a gleaming baldrick. His horse sported trappings of gold damask. My heart throbbed within my ribs when he passed close by us. The women curtsied; my father raised his hat and bowed.

  My mother rose from her curtsey and exclaimed, ‘The man behind the King is Sir Thomas Brandon. Just look at the horse he is leading, and by a rein of silk!’

  The master of the King’s horse was clad in tissue embroidered with golden roses. I loved the fabrics. In the sun’s rays, the rich materials glowed even more brightly. If I were my own mistress, I thought, I would sell such beautiful cloth as these courtiers wore.

  As the procession of nobles and bishops moved on towards the display of the City companies, I spotted my betrothed in his gold and red uniform, amongst the yeomen following the King’s procession. Tom Williams never looked my way that day, though he must have known we would be watching. He walked beside a handsome youth. I saw them exchange a smile, then an almost imperceptible touch. My heart plummeted.

  Drums rolled. ‘The Queen approaches,’ a herald announced.

  In that moment, I forgot Tom Williams. I forgot the King. My eyes were now only for Queen Catherine, seated on a litter borne by two white palfreys, draped in white cloth. Her satin dress floated about her. A silver coronet studded with jewels sat upon her magnificent auburn hair, which fell in coils past her waist, and for a moment I felt a twinge of envy.

  The Queen was followed by a group of noblewomen apparelled in cloth of gold, tinsels, embroideries and velvets, driven in richly adorned chariots. I could not help but wonder what my life would be like if I could serve the Queen, if I could dwell in a palace…

  At that moment, the sky darkened. A heavy cloud blotted out the sun and opened; rain showered down on the Queen’s litter, halting the procession. Liveried guards drew the litter towards us. Others pushed us back into our shop front. Obediently, the white palfreys stood still. The Queen was sheltered from the rain under our huge awning.

  We sank to our knees; common men and nobles alike knelt amongst the flower-strewn grasses on the street. All London bowed to their Queen and my mother almost prostrated herself. As I rose from my curtsey, my stomach churned again because the Queen was looking straight down at me. She spoke not a word but she smiled.

  As quickly as it had started, the rain stopped and the sun came out. A cheer
rose to meet the sun’s rays as the procession slowly began to move again towards Cheape Street.

  My father’s eyes were glazed over.

  ‘Oh, Father,’ I gasped.

  ‘Elizabeth, we have been greatly honoured this day.’

  I knew it, but I also recognised that a Queen’s smile was a transient thing. It mattered little, yet it mattered much. It mattered to us, her subjects and it was especially important to me. She seemed to me even then, so long ago, as a woman of great courage. Her husband had been chosen for her and she looked happy. Maybe, I thought that afternoon as she smiled, I could be happy as well.

  Chapter Seven

  MOTHER RETURNED TO HER manor without me, and Father purchased broadcloth at the Bartholomew Cloth Fair, as well as the fabric for the monasteries. I was grateful. When I promised to repay his generosity, he opened his hands in an expansive gesture and shook his head.

  ‘You are my elder daughter, are you not? You need help, my dear. I give it willingly.’ A mysterious smile hovered about his whiskered mouth.

  ‘Yes, Father,’ I said and held my tongue, wondering why he was not renewing his attempts to persuade me home again and what the return for his generosity would now be. Perhaps I was too cynical and Mother had swayed him after all. Or maybe, and this was more likely, he had another husband in mind for me. If he did, I would be ready to challenge him.

  ‘Please, stay for dinner. I have a chicken pie today, a pease pottage and newly baked bread..

  He bustled into his cloak and set his new hat on his head. A feather nodded as he moved towards the doorway, as if to remind me that this extravagant hat had once belonged to my poor dead husband. ‘I believe I must not, my dear. I have a middleman to see today.’

  ‘Not Master Cromwell?’

  ‘Not this time. Master Cromwell has vanished again.’

  ‘Oh,’ I said, and could not help feeling disappointment as he swept out.