‘Again, once more, Elizabeth,’ the midwife said. ‘Nearly there.’
I pushed again with all my might. Moments later there was a lusty cry. Tears coursed down my cheeks. Our daughter entered the world.
‘Is my baby whole,’ I gasped through tears of exhaustion.
‘St Paul, be blessed. Our city has another healthy child. Indeed, she is complete,’ Mistress Webster said. ‘A girl child.’
Mine had not, in truth, been such a difficult birthing. Many women died. I had survived. I whispered a prayer of thanks to God and touched the Virgin’s belt.
‘I caught her,’ my mother cried, looking up at me. ‘And Lizzy, she is healthy. She is dainty too, like her mother.’
‘Thank you,’ I whispered towards the still-smiling Virgin in the shadowy painting. We are calling her Anne,’ I said, turning my attention to Mother and Cat. Cat supported me as momentarily I leaned back on the birthing chair exhausted.
They cut the cord, cleaned the baby of birth mucus and gave her into my arms. ‘Anne,’ I said. I was too entranced by my tiny daughter to feel the discomfort that followed as Mistress Webster delivered the placenta, cleaned me, bathed me, gently placed and tied linen clouts about me, removed my sweaty shift and replaced it with a clean shift. Mother and Mistress Webster helped me to lie down on the sweet lavender-scented linen.
‘May we show Anne to Thomas now, Elizabeth?’ Cat said, leaning over me. ‘He is waiting in the hall.’
When I nodded, the midwife scooped Annie up and left me to sip a healing draught of camomile and honey that Meg prepared. Mother wiped my brow and Cat gently brushed my hair. Agnes Wright fell to her knees. ‘It is by God’s grace that you are safely delivered of such an angel, Mistress Cromwell.’
I nodded towards the painting. ‘The Madonna smiled on me today,’ I whispered.
Agnes Wright’s rosary beads clacked as she knelt before the painting of the Virgin that still hung behind my oak chest. I crossed myself and whispered my thanks to the Madonna with her rounded belly and her plump, oddly grown up looking holy child. The room filled with our murmuring as we joined Agnes’s prayers of thanks.
Cat and Mother tiptoed out of the room. The birthing straw was removed and the birthing chair cleaned and stored away. It would not, I hoped, be needed for a long, long time again. I demanded the removal of the brazier since it was a warm September evening and a fire was not necessary.
Mother and Cat both insisted that it stayed. ‘You are not out of danger yet. Think of the baby,’ Cat insisted.
‘If I must,’ I said because, short of rising from the bed myself and shifting it, I knew that it would have to stay until Tom took care of it later.
The linen drapes were swiftly removed. My chamber smelled of fresh herbs and lavender. Closer to me by my pillow lay a tiny swaddled Annie whose baby scent was as delicious as Meg’s sweetest milk caudle laced with honey.
Thomas came lumbering into the chamber to be with me as soon as the band of women had descended the stairs to a supper laid out in the parlour. I lay in bed, glad to be alone with my husband at last, as Annie nestled against my breast. Thomas lifted her tiny fingers and studied them. ‘She is enchanting,’ he said. ‘Just like her mother. Perfect.’ He added after a moment of thought, ‘She will be christened on Friday. It is Mistress Webster’s privilege to carry Anne to the font. She has done well today.’
‘Thomas, I am well enough to attend.’
‘Not before you are churched.’
I knew I could not fight tradition, and, giving way, lay back against the pillows. ‘Who did we agree will be her godparents?’
‘My sister and your sister and also as gossips, if you will consider him, my sister’s husband.’
‘I like it well. Who will fetch Joan if it is to be so soon?’
‘Your father has already sent for her. Cat must return to her family soon. Would you like Joan to stay with us for a month or so to help you organise the household?’
‘Joan?’ What help could Joan give me? What did my difficult sister know about keeping order with the servants or managing the cook? ‘Would she be capable?’
‘She seemed competent when I visited Surrey in July. She is grown up now, past her eighteenth birthday, old enough to be wed.’
‘I hope you are right about that, Thomas, because if she starts complaining, upsetting the servants, or otherwise behaving inappropriately, she will be sent back to Surrey on the first river boat available.’
‘Of course, my love, but don’t you think we should give her a chance?’
I sighed. ‘If Joan behaves, then she must have her chance.’
I was only too aware that a young clerk had caught Joan’s eye and that he was often a visitor to our home. Joan must be kept so busy she would have no time to upset anyone with her outspoken tongue, nor would my little sister display forward behaviour when Master Williamson spent time in Thomas’ offices behind the hall.
A round moon peered through the thick-hazed window glass, bathing us in its pale soft glow. I cast Joan from my thoughts. Meg tapped on the door with a dish of broth for I had not eaten since morning- nothing but potions and caudles. I sipped it as Thomas cradled our daughter. Later, he leaned down, kissed me and then laid a kiss upon our baby’s head. ‘Thank you, my wife, for this day; for making us a family,’ I heard him say, as he rose to return to work in his office. He slipped away while I drifted into an exhausted sleep.
Chapter Twenty-three
1516
JOAN CAME TO STAY and was, I was happily surprised to discover, grown-up and helpful. She had also grown darkly beautiful, like our mother. Two of her charges were being placed in other households, and my mother considered I had a greater need of her. In truth, Mother hoped that her second daughter would learn to mix with city wives, and benefit from exposure to the people we knew. Within weeks Joan had integrated into our family and I began to enjoy her sisterly company. We attended services together in St Gabriel’s and she gradually learned how I conducted our household affairs. That autumn and winter our lives settled into a pleasant, busy, domestic routine.
By February of the next year, 1516, Joan had become a devoted nursemaid to five-month-old Annie. In turn, my tiny daughter loved her aunt. Annie smiled, cried, fed and soiled her clouts with equal regularity. Yet my sister humoured her because she liked children, always happy to even change the baby’s swaddling. If Annie became fractious, it was Joan who would happily sing to her, for hours rocking the cradle with her foot.
Perhaps, it was I, too, who was changing, since I was less critical these days, less retiring, content in myself and with my family. I had a small circle of friends amongst the merchants’ wives and Thomas’ friends. Most of all, I enjoyed Cat’s company, and always that of Mother who could draw me out and make me laugh at the stories she would gather from friends at court, tales which never ceased to entertain Joan and myself when she visited Fenchurch Street.
Romance was evolving between my sister and handsome young Master Williamson. It blossomed during the Christmas revels and by February they sought out each other’s company when he visited us.
Joan carried her small frame more erect than ever she had before, smiled with genuine warmth glowing from her dark eyes and she always wore a crisp clean linen cap over neatly plaited hair; it was tied perfectly below her chin, showing just a little gleaming dark hair at her broad forehead. Joan was serious as well as beautiful. She either sat listening intently or spoke up with intelligence and charm when we invited Thomas’ humanist friends to supper, those who believed in questioning and debate.
I am not sure this new thinking was Mother’s intent for Joan. Rather, it was the London goodwives’ company that Mother considered important to furthering my sister’s education and with their connections a suitable husband from a merchant family. Unbeknown to my mother, Joan was becoming an intellectual asset to our household, a self-assured, interesting young woman, learning from those discussions about history that brightened our chi
ll winter evenings, the excitement of discussion reverberating about the parlour for days after our visitors departed. Moreover, it was clear to us all that John Williamson adored her.
Thomas was determined to help the young couple. I have always been aware, even now, years later, that he had a particular motive for his encouragement, other than just liking them. It was one he never spoke aloud during our conversations concerning Joan’s future. Thomas wanted to bind John Williamson to our family. John, who was intelligent and good-looking, with thoughtful eyes and a ready smile, came from a family of builders. He had been given an education at St Antony’s School, which Thomas found encouraging.
‘John Williamson might soon become an agent in my employ, and he must study the law,’ he said.
Thomas believed that a closely-knit, loyal family with close friends had great value. It was as if he was creating a loyal clan, one akin to family kingdom of old.
‘But we must guard Joan’s virtue because Father will aim higher for her. She is growing too close to our impoverished Master Williamson.’
‘Humph, you are right, of course, Lizzy, and they are much in each other’s company. I shall keep him busy, and well away from her,’ Thomas conceded with a grunt. He turned to a new book he had purchased that day, opened it up and began to study it.
‘What are you reading?’
‘Herodotus.’
The subject of Joan was closed.
A happy event occurred early that year which lulled us all into temporary forgetfulness of our own lives. On a February day, just as we finished our morning prayers, and were breaking our fast in the hall with our household, church bells began to ring voraciously all over the City. They were always ringing for something- births, deaths, weddings, the chiming of the Angelus, services and even city fires. London was a city of bells. At first, we thought nothing of it. After a pause, the pealing began again, more insistent than before.
Joan leaned over the table towards me, her eyes bright with excitement. ‘Must be for the Queen this time. She has given birth.’
We laid down our knives and spoons and listened to the bells that, across the City, were echoing and pealing, one set after the other.
‘They continue. The baby lives,’ I cried out.
The celebration would continue for hours. I felt a sense of great excitement race through our hall, from Thomas at the head of our long trestle to the maids gathered close together on the bench at the lower end. They proclaimed Queen Catherine’s birthing of a healthy child.
I called to Barnaby, ‘Go out now. Ask the first crier you see if it is a boy.’
Barnaby did not wait to pull his cloak down from a peg by the hall door. He clambered over the bench, raced past the maids and out of the hall entrance into the bitterly cold yard.
Moments later he was back, his teeth chattering as he cried out the news. ‘It’s a girl.’ He brushed a light covering of snow from his jerkin.
‘But the King wanted a boy.’ John Williamson, who had stayed late into the night before, and had slept in the hall by the fire, spoke up. He shook his head, his loose fair hair waving from side to side. ‘King Hal should be grateful for a living child, but I bet he won’t be. Only a boy will do. That’s what everyone says.’
‘Hush, John. Of course he wants sons,’ said Thomas. ‘And there is time yet for them.’ He glanced at Annie who lay happily in her cradle by my chair. ‘Look at how precious she is. I’m sure King Henry will love his daughter just as I love mine.’
‘So many dead babies though.’ My sister visibly shuddered. ‘The Queen’s babies never live. This one might die too.’ She rose from her bench, reached for the jug and poured us all buttermilk. ‘I hope the girl-child lives. Then, one day, we might have a woman to rule England.’
‘Joan, you are outspoken,’ I said. ‘It’s a crime to even think of the King’s death.’
‘But I was not,’ she answered me pertly, ‘I love our King and wish him a long life with many sons to follow him and Queen Catherine about their grand palaces. But a woman can rule as well as a man. Queen Catherine’s mother ruled Castile.’
‘I do not think England would agree to that,’ said John Williamson. ‘The people like a king and they love King Hal.’
‘The Queen may yet have a son,’ I said pragmatically, ending the discussion.
Annie began to whimper so I lifted her from the cradle. She ceased crying momentarily but started up again, her little head nuzzling at the laces of my gown. ‘I think she is hungry.’ I rose to carry my baby to where we could be private. I did not employ a wet nurse for Annie but fed her myself, enjoying the intimacy of it. However, that February morning was cold and on that bitterly cold morning, I hoped that there was a fire already lit in the parlour.
Meg rose to accompany me. ‘No need, Meg. Sit and finish your oatmeal.’
‘I’ll carry Annie’s cradle through to the parlour for you, Lizzy.’ Joan plonked the milk jug down crossly in front of John Williamson, and before I could stop her had lifted the cradle, adding, ‘If the parlour is warm Annie may as well take a nap in there.’
‘I’d better be getting on with the cloth. Come on boys,’ Gerard Smith said, rising to his feet.
I did not miss the long-faced, longing look he threw Meg. I was sure she had cooled towards him, assuming she had ever been interested, though they had danced together and joined in the games at Christmastide. It was apparent that Smith still liked her very much.
My household throbbed with the hint of romance all winter, unrequited and requited love. I smiled to myself as I followed Joan into the parlour holding Annie close and humming to myself. It was harmless surely.
Joan excused herself, saying she had to help Cook with a pudding and bustled into the passageway.
I expected a visit from Joanna Butler that day, who sent me a message saying that she was so pleased with the grey fabric she had bought from us before Annie’s birth, she wished to see my latest samples. I was pleased because I now had possession of new fabrics that Thomas’ agent had purchased in Norwich. The bays used weft of lamb’s wool, and the perpetuanas were a delicate wool and silk mix. They were all woven in beautiful shades of blues, greens and soft pink, interwoven with a slightly darker diamond patterning. These latest fabrics were so light in weight they promised to be perfect materials for over-gowns once winter passed. Thinking of the profit they would bring us, I longed for a lightweight blue gown for summer and had promised my sister one in a deep rosy pink as a thank you for her help.
I held Annie to me and drew my shawl close against the early morning nip in the air. When, at last, she was sleeping, I called for a maid to be her rocker. As the girl rocked the crib, she could mend a pile of hose. It was as if a hosiery puck was set loose in my household that year, since there always was a great basket of darning to be done. For a moment, I listened to the chiming sounds in the street beyond the parlour and above this the excited shouts of citizens who were cheering. The bells rang on and on, then stopped. The maid glanced up from her rocking, ‘Another one dead,’ she said in a morose manner, her expression hang-dog.
‘Surely not,’ I replied, holding my breath until they started their clanging again. ‘No, not this time.’
The maid shrugged. ‘Daughter or son, Mistress, babies are fortunate to survive. Queen and peasant are evened up, Mistress. Our maker does not discern. We are all equal in His sight.’
‘Finish the mending by dinner hour. Call me if you need me for Annie,’ I said sharply and returned to the hall and to my breakfast.
Thomas rose from his chair after I arrived, and pushed it back saying, ‘The King may have a child today, but my work cannot stop. Cousin Robert has news for me.’ Thomas was smiling. I suspected he was keeping a secret and determined to discover it later. He turned towards little Ralph Sadler. ‘And you, Master Sadler, will continue your Latin lessons despite the King’s good news. If Master Matthew decides to take another holiday because of it, I still want to see that translation of Cicero don
e on my return. Do you hear me, lad?’
‘Yes, Master Cromwell.’ His dark eyes twinkled mischievously.
Thomas placed his hand on John’s shoulder, ‘Why don’t you be my companion today, John. The Merchant accounts can wait. We’re off to York Place this morning. Archbishop Wolsey is now Cardinal Wolsey so you are to visit a Cardinal, my boy.’
Delight caused John’s face to glow with pleasure. He fetched their warmly lined cloaks. My veins pulsed anxiously as my blood ran faster. York Place. Was Thomas to be employed by the Cardinal? He lived as well as a king, it was said. He lived off taxes that guildsmen paid for the good of the Church.
‘We’ll dine with Cousin Robert,’ Thomas called back over his shoulder, as he pinned his cloak at the neck and pulled on a furred cap that covered his ears. ‘We’ll be back for supper.’ He lifted a torch from a bracket by the hall door saying that they would take horses from the stable and ride with it being snowy outside.
By late afternoon, Joanna had not arrived and my sample book lay forlornly on the bench. ‘Joan, go and find Wilfrid. I have a note for Mistress Joanna.’ Joan raised a dark eyebrow, but left her sewing and diligently went to do my bidding.
When Wilfrid slouched into the parlour, I handed him a note wishing Joanna well, saying what wonderful news the City had received that day. And I reminded her of our appointment.
Wilfrid hurried off, grumbling that it was unfair that he was to go out into the bitterly cold afternoon when he was busy cutting fabrics. ‘You will go and quickly,’ I snapped, and glared at his back, wondering if it was on account of the King’s news that Joanna Butler had not come. It was remiss of her not to send us word.
We had been given a mechanical clock as a New Year’s gift by Antonio Bonvisi, a merchant friend. This wonderful object sat on our wide oak mantle and for over an hour my eye was drawn to it. It was a dainty, filigreed object in shiny gold-plated casing that had hands moving around its face, always reminding us of time’s passage. By the time Wilfrid returned, note in hand, I had given up all hope of Joanna’s arrival.
The Woman in the Shadows: Tudor England through the eyes of an influential woman Page 17
