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

by Carol McGrath

  ‘Never mind that, for you will meet them all again and I shall remind you. Enjoy the dance, my sweeting.’

  Thomas was a superb dancer and never failed to catch me as I made the leap. It was as I turned in the dance that I noticed my bold sister approach the handsome John Williamson, whom I had forgotten. She leaned towards him, her loose dark hair falling to conceal their faces. Moments later they were dancing near us. As my sister made graceful turns, her partner gazed into her eyes when he had captured her after a jump and his hands were encircling her tiny waist. When there was a pause in the dancing, he drew her to the side of the hall. Lutes struck up for the fedelta, another circular dance. Although it was impolite for a maiden to dance each dance with the same partner, Joan never moved from John Williamson’s side.

  I drew Thomas’ attention to them.

  ‘I hope she is back in Surrey the moment our wedding is over.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘She is only past her sixteenth name day.’

  ‘Not so young,’ Thomas remarked with a sardonic smile.

  ‘No,’ I said thoughtfully.

  In the Fedelta three couples work their way around in circles, dancing with all members of the opposite sex. We were six couples in two sets. To my relief my parents were in the other set, as were Joan and John. From the corner of my eye I saw my father frown at Joan, who had the grace to look chastened, and for the rest of the afternoon she allowed others to partner her, or sat obediently beside Mother and Father. As we turned again, my eye discovered the servants gathered in a group by the kitchen entrance. The apprentices were vying for the maids’ attentions, especially favours from pretty blond-headed Bess. Meg was leaning into a foot-tapping Smith, who had thrown an arm about her waist. Not interested indeed. Nonsense.

  Finally, we danced the branle, all of us who could stand in lines carefully passing lighted candles from person to person as we turned. It was a dance of love. I smiled through the candle flame at Tom and whispered ‘I love you’. When he returned, ‘Likewise, I thee.’ I was showered with happiness.

  After the candles were extinguished there was a lull in the dancing. This provided a rest period for the musicians, but not for us. Old stockings that had been saved for such occasions whipped us towards the hall door and so Thomas and I were chased from the hall up the stairs to where a very flushed Meg was waiting at the top of the stairway for me. She ushered me through the doorway into my chamber but sent Thomas and his friends into the chamber that had been Tom Williams’ room. My mother, Meg and Joan helped me remove my gown, my kirtle, my petticoat and linen. They eased a new nightgown over my head, untied the ribbons from my hair and brushed it until it fell onto my shoulders in a silvery cascade.

  ‘Ready,’ came the call from beyond the chamber. Mother nodded and Meg opened the door. The men burst in with Thomas in their midst only in his nightshirt. We were placed into my petal-strewn bed with gentle teasing, and Father Luke pushed forward and blessed us with his sprinkling of holy water. We dutifully sat up together and said our prayers. Through my half-opened eyes, I noticed a hint of cynicism play about my husband’s mouth as he prayed. Was I married to an unbeliever?

  Mother came to my side, bent down and whispered into my ear. ‘This will be happier than before, my love. Rest well.’ She handed us a goblet of malmsey to share.

  I prayed that he had not heard her words. I was determined that I would not confess Tom Williams’ sin, for I could not spoil what had been a perfect wedding with a less than perfect wedding night. As if Thomas knew my concern, he wooed me gently with soft kisses and gentle strokes until I could no longer bear it. And when he discovered the truth, all he said into my ear was, ‘My lovely, sweet Elizabeth, of course I had suspected you were a virgin.’ I felt tears welling up in my eyes. He placed a finger on my lips. ‘Do not weep, my love, for I am glad of it. There is no need to explain. I know the world of men. I do not think God is an unforgiving God.’

  As the candle’s glow lit up his face, I saw passion stir his grey eyes. ‘Do not let us ever speak of it,’ I said holding back my sobs. ‘Let us both remember that this is our beginning. Promise me this, my Thomas, let us never lie to each other, never, from this day forth.’

  Thomas had promised God’s forgiveness, though he did not have that authority to make such a bold promise. I thought that He would send devils with spiky claws to torture Tom Williams before my first husband could ever enter Heaven’s safety.

  Thomas held me close in his arms, and we loved as if passion had never been known to mankind before. That night, I put Tom Williams behind me and felt as if we two were the subject of love’s invention.

  Part Two

  Fenchurch Street

  I love a flower of sweet odour

  Marjoram gentle or sweet lavender

  Columbine, gold of sweet flavour

  Nay, nay let be

  Is none of them that liketh me

  Roses, a Song for Three Voices

  Chapter Nineteen

  Midsummer 1526, The Bedchamber

  I GLANCE ABOUT THE large bedchamber I share with Thomas. The maids have tidied away my nightgown and Thomas’ dressing robe, an embroidered garment of soft silk, purchased on his last journey to Italy, a second visit on behalf of the Boston aldermen. He revisited Rome in 1517 to renew their right to sell indulgences, and returned even more disillusioned by the clergy’s profligate manner of living and with the sale of indulgences, which has caused such an uproar in some parts of the German Empire and with an evangelical called Martin Luther.

  ‘But you do legal work for the Cardinal,’ I pointed out every time he complained about the clergy. I add, ‘People complain that Cardinal Wolsey is enriching his own coffers. Just look at the palace he has built on the river, the thousand servants he employs, the cooks, his food taster, the gold plate, the tapestries which hang in his many houses. He rides on an ass but it is covered with golden cloth, his hat carried before him on a golden cushion. The gossips say he is feared by all and loved by few. He sets himself up as greater than the king himself.’

  Thomas claims that I rant on unnecessarily. ‘The Cardinal is different. He is of the common people. He is not of noble blood as many of the Italian cardinals are. No, Lizzy, he has strived hard for everything he has achieved. Do not become a scold.’

  ‘So you like him because he strived hard like yourself, Thomas.’ A hint of sarcasm creeps into my voice.

  He looks serious and remarks, ‘Like myself, indeed, and I intend to rise high too.’

  There is no answer to this because I must live with his admiration for the Cardinal. I love my husband and I believe that he loves me too, though there was a time when I thought that I had lost his love. I bite my bottom lip and taste the trickle of my own blood as I remember this bitter betrayal, but I shall come to that shortly.

  I understand how Thomas thinks. By our bed, he keeps a strange work scribed in Italian. This is not a printed book but a hand-copied codex titled The Prince by an Italian called Niccolo Machiavelli, a volume that he brought from Italy. Thomas has read me extracts from it, translating it as he reads, explaining how fate and destiny work. It makes me shudder to think that my gentle husband can be influenced by writing that tells men to carve out their own destiny, for this is what it does. Take for instance -

  He who neglects what is done for what ought to be done, sooner effects his ruin than his preservation.

  It is, Thomas says, about new princedoms like King Henry’s, and ways of seeing how they work. ‘A ruler must establish himself in defiance of customs.’

  ‘Against the Pope’s authority,’ I parry. ‘The Pope is our Holy Father and even a King must care for his soul and revere the Pope’s spiritual authority,’

  Tom raises an eyebrow and throws me a sharp look. ‘Perhaps, it is wise for a prince to destroy powerful people if they threaten his authority, even a Pope.’ He sets the codex to one side. ‘Many think the Church needs reform, but they still care for their souls and for the Chu
rch’s teachings.’ He sighs. ‘People are naturally resistant to reform and change. I would they could be guided in this matter by good and strong leaders.’

  ‘Thomas, do not speak these things abroad,’ I caution him.

  He raises his eyebrows, tired of hearing my warning. ‘As I keep telling you, I am no fool, Lizzy.’

  Though I cannot complain to Thomas about Niccolo Machiavelli and be certain he will listen, I can take care for my own soul and, by humble example, urge him to have a care for his own. I pray daily for Queen Catherine, especially now that we often hear that the King is besotted with a new lady. I give generously to the poor, and I always speak well of the Church.

  As these thoughts trouble my mind, my hands slide along the rich garments hanging on my clothing pole, searching for a gown to wear for our Midsummer’s dinner. My eyes follow my collection of beautiful gowns until I catch sight of one I wore to the Drapers’ Company’s Midsummer Feast only a year after we had moved into the house at Fenchurch Street. The fabric is of softest yellow silk threads mixed with cotton. It is embroidered with golden flowers, and owns a matching overskirt cut in a V to show off a creamy underskirt. I lift it down and lay it on the bed and remember that I own a hood to compliment the gown. Thomas had similar material in his store on St Catherine’s Wharf and, recently, he asked a haberdasher to use black velvet for the hood’s newly fashionable curved frame and the yellow fabric for its fall.

  I take the underskirt, figured in cream silk from my cupboard, and leaving it lying across the counterpane with the overdress, set out from my chamber to look for Bessie who will help me tie the laces for the sleeves and bodice.

  Glancing down into the courtyard from the window at the top of our great staircase, I see Thomas and Ralph Sadler carrying gardening tools into the shed. The youth is now taller than my husband. When I first wore the yellow and cream gown, Ralph had just joined our household and as a small boy, was not afraid of anything, certainly not thunder and lightning, even though that night of the Drapers’ Company’s Midsummer Feast, I had feared for him.

  Chapter Twenty

  1515

  LOOSE TILES CLACKED ON city roofs as a sudden wind shook through the streets. The unseasonal storm blew up from the river, carrying with it the river’s stink.

  We returned from the Drapers’ Midsummer Feast, struggling along St Swithin’s Lane, clutching each other to steady our walk as a gale blew us forward. Smith held our covered lantern with one cloaked arm protectively about it, as if encircling a small child. Although first and second storey overhangs allowed some protection from the heavy rain, the journey from St Swithin’s Lane to Fenchurch Street felt interminable. Little Ralph Sadler had joined our household earlier that week and I thought of him sleeping alone in his small chamber high up in the attic with this storm worrying at the rafters.

  ‘Ralph will be so frightened. I should go to him when we get back.’

  Thomas shook his head, rivulets of water running down his hood and his face. He lifted his hand from my elbow and tried to wipe the water away. ‘The others will look after him.’ He clutched my arm even more tightly. ‘Stay close to the walls and try to stay dry.’

  I was six months with child, and could not help feeling worried about a boy whose father had placed him in our care at such a tender age. He was only turned eight last month. I stoically pushed on through the wind and rain. Never in my lifetime, not before, nor since, has there been such a terrible Midsummer storm.

  We had to sidestep buckets that clattered along the slippery cobbles and avoid the waste that spilled out of the central gutters. We passed others caught in the storm who flitted past like dark shades. More than once lightning leapt out at us like a Midsummer actor intending to surprise us. This year the usual festivities were cancelled. Rain lashed through my cloak drenching my new yellow gown, water seeped into my thin leather shoes and the candle in Smith’s lantern shrank into a slender ghost of light, blowing out as we reached the courtyard of our Fenchurch Street house.

  Gerard Smith banged on our great knocker. There was a rattle at the sliding window peep hole. The porter’s large face emerged, red and fat-veined. I turned away on smelling his foul, ale-infused breath, noting that he had been celebrating his Midsummer alone rather than guarding the house. I determined to have words with Thomas about him. After all, it was Midsummer when my warehouse in Wood Street burned down. I had forgotten to be vigilant where our property is concerned and there were so often celebrations out on the streets involving fire- should they be May Day, All Hallows Eve or Midsummer Revels.

  It was after nine by the time we reached home. The porter quickly drew back, slamming shut the peep hole and rattling keys. Moments later, too slow for my liking, two of his servants dragged the gate opened. Smith growled at them for their tardiness. We hurried through the yard hearing the restless neighing from our stable and the barking of our dogs from the hall. Meg pulled open the house door and ushered us inside.

  ‘Sainted Mary, what a state you are in. Upstairs, Mistress Elizabeth. Now. Get you out of those wet clothes.’

  We were drenched and dripping but safely home.

  ***

  Thomas and Meg helped me upstairs. On the way up, when I mentioned the boy again, he told me to stop fussing and to have a care for my own needs.

  Meg, remarked, ‘I have heard that lightning could shock the unborn child. We must get you into bed at once.’

  ‘Nonsense, an old gossip’s tale,’ I grumbled.

  ‘That is a storm out there to beat all others and you should have a care, Mistress. There are all kinds of poisons in the air this summer.’

  ‘So the drapers’ goodwives were saying.’ I removed my headdress and shook out my damp hair. Rubbing it viciously with a towel I said, ‘A posset would help, Meg.’

  Thomas sent Meg down to the kitchens for a filled kettle to warm my bed and a hot posset. He unlaced and helped me out of my over-gown as expertly as any experienced maidservant could manage. For a moment, I wondered at his expertise in this area of our lives.

  He said, ‘We should send for Mistress Webster in the morning since it is best to be sure all is well with you.’ I instinctively drew my hands across my swollen stomach. Mrs Webster was the midwife, a plump and comely barber-surgeon’s wife of good reputation. I liked her well enough but didn’t think I needed her.

  ‘Don’t fuss, the child has quickened. That’s all. My womb is not wandering about my body because of a bit of lightning, no matter Meg’s concern. Nor do I intend catching a chill.’

  He shook his head. ‘You must take care from now on. You must rest. You are always rushing up to Cornhill to check on the cloth sales when your father and Smith can handle it all. Trust them.’ A fine thing for him to say when he rarely trusted anyone, and I knew he kept a close eye on the two clerks he employed to keep accounts.

  I was about to say so when Meg bustled back into our chamber with an egg and milk posset. Thomas gently took the posset and gave it into my hands. She placed a warm stone jar into my bed to warm the sheets. Thomas sat on a stool and rubbed my feet until I had finished sipping the frothy drink, while Meg lifted the empty cup from my hand, grumbling that I should be in bed forthwith. He rose from his stool, nodded and said he would work in his closet for a few hours. ‘I shall leave you in Meg’s care, Lizzy, but if there is a problem we must send for Jane Webster immediately. Do you hear me, Meg?’

  I shook my head; Thomas’ concern for my well-being bordered on obsession.

  ‘Yes, Master,’ Meg said, concern plastered over her face.

  I felt the last flicker of energy fade as Meg helped me into a warm linen nightgown and into my bed. I glanced at my yellow dress and its sodden silken petticoat where it was drying out over my clothing chest. ‘I shall never be able to wear that gown again.’

  Meg lifted the petticoat up and examined the damp, fragile material. ‘Yes, you will, Mistress. I can clean it of mud and you will never think it had been damaged. Your cloak protected
it well enough.’ She drew her hand over the petticoat. ‘Only a small rent and I can mend that. Even a queen would not discard such lovely figured silk.’

  ‘Meg, can you see that young Ralph is not afraid of the storm?’

  ‘I doubt that child is afraid of anything or anyone and certainly not a storm.’ Meg filled her arms with my discarded linen. ‘Sleep well, Mistress. Shall I draw the bed curtains?’

  ‘Leave them open.’

  Though the storm raged outside, hammering at our gates, our chamber felt warm and safe. Stretching out on the feather mattress, I fell into a deep sleep and never heard Thomas come to bed.

  When I awoke, Thomas was climbing down the bed step. The Italian coverlet lay in a green, gleaming, satin heap on the floor. It was the sea. Our bed was an island. Sunbeams slanted in through the window glass. The sudden storm was over.

  ‘Are you well, Lizzy?’ Thomas looked down on me, his bed cap askew.

  I laughed, reached up and straightened it. ‘It would seem so; no need to send for Mistress Webster. My womb is not terrified by a crack of lightning nor is your daughter.’ I was sure we would safely have our child by the feast of St Michael and intuition told me that we were having a girl.

  ‘That is a relief.’ He reached for the fresh hose Meg had laid out for him.

  ‘Are you staying at home today?’ I asked Thomas, as I watched him dress.

  ‘No, I have to visit a widow in Bishopsgate. She is in a dispute over land.’

  ‘Where is her land?’ I pulled myself up against the pillows, interested.

  ‘Surrey. I may go down later in the week and stay with your brother. I could take John Williamson with me. He is proving helpful.’

  ‘My sister would like that,’ I said, amused, thinking that Joan would be delighted if John stayed with them on Henry’s manor. ‘This widow, is she young?’