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

by Carol McGrath

  ‘I believe you are jealous, wife.’ He looked me in the eye. I glanced away. He was sharp; his look too penetrating.

  ‘No, not at all. I just wondered.’ Truth was, I felt ungainly and feelings of insecurity churned about in my stomach. I loved him too much, but for all his gregariousness around our close friends, he could be aloof, difficult to reach, close about his business and his true thoughts difficult to read.

  ‘She is not in the first flush of youth,’ he said, glancing up at me, his eyes twinkling as he worked his charm. ‘You, my Lizzy, are the most handsome widow-wife in all London. I would never look at another.’ He reached over and patted my belly. ‘Now…’ he lifted the coverlet from the floor and draped it over my shoulders, ‘I shall take dinner with your father at the Guildhall. You must rest today.’

  ‘I have fabrics to make into a book. The mayor’s wife is coming to look at the fabric samples next week.’

  ‘Good, Mistress Butler is an excellent connection for us, but, Lizzy, no garden work. Leave that to the gardener.’ Thomas hummed as he drew the black leather laces of his boots through the eyelets.

  ‘Thomas?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Remind Father about the wool for the Religious Houses. I don’t want us to lose that trade.’

  ‘Lizzy, don’t worry about such things.’

  I almost spoiled our moment of domestic happiness with a protest, bit my lower lip and drew back a sharp retort just in time. I had never been happy that he allowed Father to run our business. I felt increasingly unnecessary to our joint venture, since I was usually occupied in the still room, in the dairy making cheeses, in my parlour stitching black work on nightgowns or collars, or supervising the cook’s endeavours with dinner. I had taken to making pattern books to show clients now. It was a task I thoroughly enjoyed and one that had helped the new cloth gather sales.

  He leaned down to kiss me. ‘I must go. Meg will come up to you. What would you like her to bring you?’

  I felt ravenous and, for the moment, privileged at the thought of breaking my fast in bed like a great lady. ‘Warm buttermilk and soft rolls with honey, if she pleases.’

  ‘’Tis done!’ He winked at me as he opened the latch to our chamber door and I nestled back into the covers listening to his step tripping down the stairway towards the great chamber. I loved to hear his tread. I loved him so much, I would not spoil that for the whole world of London and its great swirling river. I put my mind to making up a new book of samples in preparation for Mistress Butler’s visit. Father had sent me swatches of our new materials and they waited my attention in the parlour.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  MISTRESS BUTLER, A PRETTY, dimple-faced, fair-haired woman, called on me the following week accompanied by her mother and her mother’s friend. My samples book of material mixes was ready. Inside a pair of covers, I had pasted small swatches of fabrics, along with descriptions, onto vellum. As I waited, I passed the morning teaching young Ralph his Latin reading.

  The boy was then, and is now, years later, quite brilliant. He read well and had quickly absorbed the few Latin verbs I was teaching him. Soon, young Ralph would have more vocabulary than I, and Thomas was already seeking a teacher for him from amongst the tutors his Cousin Robert knew. Ralph Sadler not only needed Latin and Greek, but also adding and subtracting figures if he was to be a useful legal assistant.

  As I heard approaching footsteps in the passage, I closed the primer and laid it on the table. ‘Now, Ralph, run along to Barnaby. He’ll take you with him to the warehouse this afternoon. When you return I want you to give me an account of all the cloth you have seen there, and I want to know how many rolls of each kind you have counted in our stock. He will show you, so pay attention to all he says.’

  Ralph nodded obediently. The door was flung opened by one of my servants. He scurried towards the ladies who stood waiting for me in the doorway. ‘Bow to the gentlewomen,’ I reminded him. ‘Remember your manners.’

  ‘Yes, Mistress, he said, stopped and made such a perfect little bow he drew a smile from Mistress Joanna, the mayor’s wife, who moved aside to allow him by. Mistress Joanna’s mother, Annette Harrison, and her friend, a cross-faced woman whom I had not met before but knew to be a widow of this parish, Margaret Watt, scowled at the boy’s retreating back.

  ‘You are too easy with him, Mistress Cromwell,’ Annette Harrison remarked as I greeted them. ‘If he were my son I would have cuffed his ears.’

  ‘He is not your son, Mistress Harrison, nor mine. He is new to our home and as yet unused to it.’ I waved to the cushioned benches by the window. ‘Do sit, ladies and I shall send for cakes and a sweet cordial.’ It was July and the weather was hot, the room stuffy and though I should take them into the garden, I would not. They might linger overly long. I was not fond of Annette Harrison, a mean-faced silversmith’s wife, and Mistress Watt looked even more miserable.

  ‘None the less,’ Annette Harrison said, her tone as sharp as her long pointed chin. ‘Spare the rod and you make one for your own back.’

  I said tersely, ‘Quite so, Mistress Harrison.’

  ‘How are you feeling, Elizabeth?’ Joanna said politely, in contrast to her mother’s rudeness. ‘Not long now. Does the child quicken? I saw you at the Drapers’ Feast. What an exquisite gown you were wearing too.’

  ‘What, she is out and about!’ the woman with Annette Harrison said, raising a pair of scraggy eyebrows, clearly shocked. I had seen her before at St Gabriel’s Church but had never conversed with her. She lived in our parish and was someone’s widow but I could not recollect whom. I thought her husband might have sold undyed wool.

  ‘This is Margaret Watt,’ Joanna said, introducing us, and adding, ‘My mother and her friend are interested in your new draperies.’

  I inclined my head to Mistress Watt, who had spread her shirts and was making herself comfortable on the cushioned settle. ‘I shall show you once we have taken refreshments. You must be thirsty.’ I rang the bell by my sewing chair. Immediately, Meg appeared. ‘The tray, Meg,’ I said. ‘The ladies might like strawberry cordial and ginger biscuits. And can you fetch the samples book from my chamber.’

  Meg nodded to me and retreated into the corridor that led to the kitchen at the back of the house.

  Margaret Watt was studying my painted hanging. She remarked. ‘Our own Tudor roses. Pity the King has no living child.’ Her eyes shifted from the hanging to my projected belly. ‘I wish you better luck than Queen Catherine. When do you retire into seclusion, Mistress Elizabeth? Soon, I should think.’

  I had not wanted to be shut up for a whole month in my chamber and had already determined that I would not call for the midwife until my travail began. I dared not say this to that sharp-faced matron. If I did, it would be all over the parish within the day, so I said instead, ‘Late September, I believe.’

  When she clicked her tongue, I was prepared for another caustic comment. Concern showed on Joanna’s face, for the mayor’s wife was a kindly woman, and clearly did not approve of Widow Watt’s sharp tone. We were rescued by Meg who hurried in with the refreshments, an immediate distraction; my guests descended upon the pewter cups at once. Margaret Watt held hers up to the window glass.

  ‘Fine pewter ware. Fortunate you are, Mistress Cromwell, to afford pewter.’

  ‘A wedding gift from my sister-in-law and her husband.’

  She pursed her mouth and sipped her strawberry cordial, thankfully too thirsty to comment further. She reached out her cup for Meg to refill it. However, she was not of restrained tongue for long. As I served them the biscuits my gown caught in my chair and as I pulled it free I saw three pairs of eyes stare at the bright silk of my underdress. My petticoat showed.

  ‘I would not have thought that permissible, Mistress Cromwell,’ Mistress Watt remarked, pointing to my crimson underskirt. ‘I suppose if it is well-concealed who would know about such secrets.’

  I tugged my linen gown over the underskirt. ‘It is jus
t a remnant, an old piece of silk, not worth selling. It expands as does my girth, thus it’s comfortable.’ I said evenly. ‘I am sure I can be forgiven for wearing it in my parlour. I would never think to wear scarlet abroad.’

  ‘Your husband will not want any slur to touch him, if he hopes for success in the City courts. Let us hope no one else sees that kirtle.’ She sniffed and added, clearly not able to resist slighting Thomas, ‘Though I expect you can easily afford the fines.’

  Joanna Butler and her mother exchanged concerned glances.

  I felt myself redden to the shade of my petticoat as I passed around the biscuits. For the rest of their visit I felt extremely uncomfortable. Only Joanna, whose husband was a grocer turned merchant as times grew prosperous, ordered any of our cloth, a sombre grey wool mixed with linen. Though it was fine cloth she could have her tailor sew into a practical gown, I watched her mother’s companion click her tongue against her teeth with disapproval. ‘I hope you are not encouraging disobedience in others with the sale of your cloth, Mistress Cromwell,’ she said rudely as she studied my samples book. She closed the book so carelessly I thought the parchment might tear. ‘I cannot afford such luxury.’

  I shook my head. ‘I have never read of a law forbidding grey or a mix of wool and linen. If you wish to purchase cloth for yourself, Mistress Watt, I can offer you a good price.’

  ‘No, I have no need. Let us hope you abide within the law’s strictures. I would not want to think that the parish wardens would have our mayor’s wife investigated.’

  ‘I am sure no one can fault the grey mix,’ I said evenly.

  Those likely to mind would be Joanna’s mother, Annette Harrison, and her friend. When they rose to leave, I felt relief.

  Once they were ushered out, I could not settle to my embroidery so I hurried out into the garden in search of pleasanter air. I determined to pull the weeds growing around the hollyhocks - a clutch of invasive, spiky thistles that the gardener had previously missed. The act would cool my irritation with the unbearable Mistress Watt.

  Mistress Butler sent to Cornhill for the fabric to be delivered to her house which stood four storeys high, secluded behind tall walls in a street close by. After that, I heard nothing more from the mayor’s wife. I wrote her a short note thanking her for her interest in our cloth, suggesting that I inform her when more became available. She replied saying that would be suitable, and wished me well with the birth of our child. She made no mention of her mother or of Margaret Watt. I assumed that other than in St Gabriel’s I was unlikely to encounter Mistress Watt again.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  MY TIME WAS DRAWING near; yet the closer it came, the more I loved to work in the garden. The earth smelled of autumn, apples and late roses. A gentle breeze blew. A pleasant September sun was shining and I wanted to feel the softness of the day, to be in the open air. I glanced up, beyond the rooftops, to where the sky held scudding clouds soft as duck down. There were still a few weeks left before the expected birth of the child I longed for. I would not harm the child with an hour outside.

  Mother and Catherine had both come to stay, to help, they said. If Mistress Webster and my mother had their way, I should have been closed away in my chamber by now, covers over the windows and a charcoal brazier burning night and day. I certainly would not be out in the garden gathering pennyroyal, hellebore and madder, herbs would that ease my labour when it came to my time.

  I was placing a clump of pennyroyal in my basket when the sharpness of the thrusting pain took me by surprise. It coursed through me, shaking me up, and throwing me down as if I were being cast into Hell’s darkness. I dropped the basket, doubled over, my hands cupping my fallen abdomen. ‘It’s coming,’ I shouted over the herb beds, desperately hoping that I could be heard.

  Meg, who was throwing washing over a hedge, came running towards me, followed by Mother and Cat exiting the still room, their skirts flapping in the breeze.

  ‘Send for Mistress Webster at once, Meg,’ my mother said with reasonable calm. She turned to me. ‘Lean on me. As well we were nearby. You should not be out in the garden at such a time. To the bedchamber with you, Elizabeth.’ She helped me straighten up and to lean on Cat and herself.

  I groaned. ‘It is only the beginning, Mother. It could be hours yet.’

  ‘Maybe not,’ Cat said gently, taking my other arm. ‘I’ll send for Thomas. He’s in the Guildhall with Smith and Master Wright, the mercer, today. Barnaby can run over and fetch him.’

  As Mother and Cat helped me through the house, servants appeared in doorways, anxious and flustered. We passed through the corridor to the staircase that led up from the hall without difficulty. Somehow I hauled myself up the stairway, Mother and Cat supporting my considerable weight, managing to hold me upright until we reached my bedchamber where I collapsed onto the bed. Cat removed my shoes and loosened my clothing. Mother called down the staircase for Bessie, who was amongst the gathering of retainers below, to bring a brazier up at once. I groaned. The pain was excruciating.

  ‘No need. It’s warm enough,’ I complained, feeling sweat trickle down my back.

  ‘It is dangerous for the child, and besides we need to heat water.’ Mother was adamant. All would be done as she decreed.

  As I lay down on my bed another tortuous pain gripped me. I climbed out again and stood clutching the edge of my oak coffer, waiting for the next pain to descend. Servants came running with the draperies and baskets of straw for my chamber. I was hardly aware as Mother and Cat and the maids hung linen drapery over the window, lit candles, thickly scattered straw over the floor. Mother drew the ominous-looking birthing stool she had brought from Putney from an alcove where I had concealed it under folded linen.

  I raised my arm imperiously and pointed to it. ‘I can’t use that!’

  ‘When the time draws nearer, you will be glad of its support, Lizzy.’

  ‘Mercy is right,’ Cat said. ‘As well it is here. You said the baby was due after the end of September, not so early in the month.’

  ‘I made a mistake. I did not want to be suffocated in here for weeks,’ I grumbled. Two servant girls carried a brazier into the room. ‘And I don’t want that either,’ I cried between groans of increasing agony.

  ‘Foolish, foolish daughter; fortunate indeed we are with you,’ Mother crooned in her best soothing voice.

  They loosened my smock ties and undressed me where I stood clutching the oak chest, the Virgin smiling down on me from a painting on my alcove wall. Her halo seemed to glow fiercely through the dimness of the chamber. She was encouraging me. I fancied I saw her nod at me. Mother drew a soft linen smock over my head. All of a sudden, another pain grasped me and my waters broke in a great gush over the straw. They had covered the bed with fresh sheets, so now they prised my hands from the coffer and drew me back to it. I lay down on the cool linen, glad of them since the chamber was stifling with the charcoal brazier and the windows closed and covered. The green satin coverlet had been removed to the room where Thomas was sleeping. Instead, a red flannel cover appeared. The pains were more regular and I knew it would be soon.

  Voices accompanied footsteps treading up the stairs. I recognised the midwife’s and another whose I did not know. I raised my head and, squinting, saw the mercer’s wife in the doorway with the midwife. Agnes Wright, whose husband Thomas had been with today, swept into my chamber and I was too immersed in waves of pain to protest her presence.

  ‘Your husband is waiting below,’ the plump woman said quietly. ‘I have helped Mistress Webster before. May I help you, Mistress Cromwell?’ She looked closely at me. ‘I think this will be over sooner than many I’ve seen of late.’ She smiled. ‘Now, what can I do?’ Her voice was soft and kind.

  ‘The baby’s linen is in the small coffer. You could air it for me,’ I managed to reply.

  Her expensive skirts swished as she crossed my spacious chamber and began to organise swaddling and the cradle in readiness.

  Meg offered me an in
fusion of pennyroyal laced with honey. ‘I rescued your herbs,’ she whispered. ‘And, in any case, I had a supply ready waiting. Drink it all if you can. It will hurry on the travail.’

  As I slowly sipped the sweet liquid, Meg wiped my hot brow with a cool cloth moistened with lavender water. The scent, drifting into my nostrils, was momentarily soothing.

  Mistress Webster efficiently took control of my chamber. As I drifted through waves of pain all afternoon, she issued instructions to my mother and Cat which they seemed to follow without a word of complaint. She applied a mysterious sweet-smelling ointment containing oil of almonds to my belly and calmed me with soft words. I had not warmed to her brisk bossy manner when she had called on me early in my pregnancy, but now I welcomed her.

  Mother lifted up some items lying on the coffer. ‘'Tis time for these.’

  I possessed a good luck stone and had borrowed the Virgin’s childbirth belt from St Gabriel. Mother hung my eagle stone, a stone within a stone from the east known to preserve the safety of my unborn child, about my neck, gently lifted me and tied the Holy Virgin’s plaited girdle loosely above what had been my waist. There must be a magical supply of these for every parish church in the land seemed to possess such precious items. Thomas had snorted at the practice when the cincture arrived on loan from St Gabriel’s Church, calling it a ridiculous and superstitious nonsense. It is a comfort to us women, no matter its origin; it was a solace that day as my agony drew towards its climax.

  As the City church bells rang for Vespers, I screamed. ‘She’s coming.’ More than ever now, I was sure that I was having a daughter.

  Meg and Cat helped me down onto the straw and over to the birthing chair. As I reached down to clutch onto it I could feel Mistress Webster lifting my linen shift and probing about my secret parts. I caught a whiff of oil of lilies from her hands. ‘The child has crowned, Elizabeth,’ I heard her say, ‘Push.’ I pushed so hard I thought I must die, as Cat and Agnes Wright supported me by my arms.