Smith shook his head.
‘There is nothing to be done until my father returns. Not a word, I have to get to the root of this. It is best that no one knows about his absurd lies. Witnesses indeed!’
A thought slid into my mind as I spoke. Susannah of course. The servant girl had left my house just before we moved to Fenchurch Street. I could not remember where she was gone or whom she had wed, but she had been in the garden on the day Edward Northleach had called to ask me to marry him.
‘No, Mistress Elizabeth,’ Smith was saying. ‘I would not say a word.’
I hardly heard him because I was trying to remember Susannah and another person who had been in the garden morning. I had it - a boy sweeping.
‘The sooner Master Cromwell returns, the better,’ Smith added. ‘He has his own methods of dealing with cheats and scoundrels.’
‘Yes,’ I said thoughtfully.
There would be no written pre-contract, but what if Susannah and the gardener’s boy were his witnesses? Could Northleach have found them and persuaded the pair that a small silver cross was a betrothal token and that they had been witnesses to our betrothal? Why was Northleach so determined to destroy my marriage - his debt to Father, his need for money, obsession, insanity? A terrifying thought gripped hold of me. Was he obsessed? Had he imagined a betrothal, and he really had been robbed and imprisoned and was his mind twisted?
‘Smith,’ I said. ‘Do you remember a girl called Susannah, one of the maids we had when we lived at Wood Street?’
He pulled his hand through his straw coloured hair. ‘Aye, she was after Master Toby, but he soon tired of her pestering, whoring ways.’
‘Do you remember a gardener’s boy we had that time?’
Smith laughed. ‘That lazy wretch! Marcus was his name. Why?’
‘I think they are the so-called witnesses. You see, Master Northleach did give me a gift, but it wasn’t a token. It was a mourning gift, a silver cross because Tom Williams had died. Northleach had said that it belonged to his dead wife. At the time, I thought it touching.’
‘Innocent, but naïve if I may be so bold to say, Mistress. May I sit for a moment? I need to think.’
I waved my hand to the bench by the fireplace. Smith sat down, leaned on his lanky legs and scratched his head. ‘Susannah married that Marcus, true enough. I think they live over the river.’
‘Near the stews?’
He glanced up with a half-smile. ‘They use maids there too. Likely they dwell amongst the Winchester geese. Plenty of pots in those haunts to empty, linen to change, gardens to weed, allotments to tend.’ Smith laughed. ‘And a barrel full of poverty too.’
‘If Northleach has found them there, we can too,’ I said decisively. ‘Thomas will be home soon, before the calends of September the last messenger said, and that is end of this week. I shall tell him. Father will be hopeless but Thomas will silence Northleach.’ I gave up a silent prayer to St Elizabeth that Tom would not think my behaviour of all those years ago foolish and that Father had not made promises he could never deliver.
Smith rose from his bench. ‘We shall double the guard on the gate. I shall have Northleach followed, if he shows again.’
‘Who is to follow him?’
‘A street rat that I’m training up as a carter. He knows the warren over the river. I’ll have him watch Northleach if he shows up.’
‘What reason will you give the boy?’ I asked.
‘Money owed to myself, and that is not far from the truth.’ He grinned showing a mouthful of small even teeth, so unlike those Northleach liked to flash, unfolded his long legs and stood, ready to be dismissed.
‘Thank you, Gerard, for coming to me so quickly.’
‘Never worry, Mistress Elizabeth. His deceit will come to nothing.’
How could I not feel anxious?
***
Cat returned home. I had enjoyed her visit. Northleach’s leering face caught me at unexpected moments after she had gone. I darted glances into the shadowy corners beneath the overhangs of buildings every time I ventured out to the street. I always made sure that a guard accompanied me. My irrational fear of a servant with a scarred face was replaced by Northleach’s grinning teeth. The former may have been a figment of my imagination, but Northleach was dangerous, capable of circulating gossip that could be construed as a truth. Spinning out a half-truth can be the most dangerous kind of slander.
There was no news of Susannah or Marcus that week. Smith shook his head when I sought him out and asked.
‘If I do not find them, Master will root them out when he returns.’
‘I hope you are right,’ I said, aware that Thomas had his own spies. ‘And Northleach, have you heard news of his whereabouts?’
‘He has vanished again.’
I sighed with relief, but I knew Northleach would return to haunt me, just as surely as the vision of a scarred face man had the year before.
Chapter Twenty-seven
A MESSENGER TROTTED INTO the courtyard with news of Thomas’ imminent return. Thomas had docked in the Kentish port of Dover. He had business in Canterbury but would be with us soon.
‘Madonna, your servant offers you her grateful thanks,’ I whispered to my little statue of the virgin after I had sent the bringer of this good news to the kitchens for refreshment.
I shook off an obsessive melancholia that had descended upon me that week and set about cleansing our Fenchurch Street house. Under my supervision, maids bustled through the house, sweeping, dusting, washing windowpanes with vinegar, and polishing the leads until they shone. I swept from parlour to hall and back to parlour to inspect that all was ready for Thomas’ return. I wanted him to see his house with its new possessions gleam and smell sweet.
The servants dusted a buffet that sat on stout legs in the parlour, an exquisite cupboard, its oak carved with wolves and bears, beavers and strange birds with spreading wings. Thomas had purchased the cupboard Antwerp on his way south and had dispatched it to me by merchant cargo ship. Once it had safely arrived in Fenchurch Street, I put it to use, proudly displaying a pair of elaborate gilt candlesticks from Italy with vines climbing up them and two plump angels, wings spread at the top. This marvellous cupboard possessed a ladder of further shelves on which I showed off our pewter plate.
I walked purposefully through the hall glancing around at its furnishings, checking for dust as I trailed my fingers over freshly polished surfaces, inhaling the scent of lavender and beeswax. I paused by a pair of chests he had sent me from Italy. They stood on golden hued matting, purchased purposely to show them off. As I trailed my hand over lids that depicted The Garden of Eden and King Solomon’s Court, I thought how fortunate I was to have a husband who noticed, admired and enjoyed such exquisite carvings. Logs in the wall fireplace glowed, casting warmth into the hall’s recesses and over the new coffers. Instinctively, I plumped up a red velvet cushion on Tom’s particular chair. It had been empty too long.
Cook bustled into the hall. ‘A word, Mistress, there is a line of victuallers at the gate.’ He swept a floury hand across his brow.’
‘Yes, yes, I shall pay them, Cook. Send them to me in the closet. Now go before you drop a trail of flour everywhere.’
‘Yes, Mistress.’ He sped off, his hands buried in his great apron.
As basket after basket of vegetables, fish and meats and fowls arrived at the kitchen door, I paid off butchers and mercers, and as my cooks began cooking, the comforting smells of pies and spiced puddings drifted through the house soothing me, lulling me into a false sense of harmony. I tucked my fears, Susannah, Marcus and Northleach deep into the recesses of my mind.
Thomas arrived home on a late September day, just after the noon Angelus bells chimed through the City. The gates scrapped open and two overloaded carts trundled into the yard. I had no eyes for the treasures the wagons contained. I saw only my husband, a sun-browned, solid, dark headed man wearing a russet coloured linen bonnet with gleaming pins and a feathe
r; my husband, a wind-burned handsome merchant dressed in a brown riding cloak, sat atop a prancing roan. I raced forward to greet him as if I were Guinevere welcoming Arthur back to Camelot after campaign. Annie came toddling behind me like my retainer, her hand firmly clasped in Meg’s.
Thomas swung his leg over his horse and slid down by my side. He drew me to him, kissed the top of my head and held me close. ‘Mine own Elizabeth,’ he said, before releasing me. ‘I am so glad to be home. What’s for dinner?’
‘A veritable feast, sir.’ I clasped his hands for a moment, then snatched up Annie and offered her to him for a father’s kiss. ‘See how she has grown.’
‘Oh, my sweet Annie. 'Tis good to be home,’ he said as he hugged his daughter to his breast.
I had invited Master Woodall and John Creke, another of Thomas’ good friends, to join us for supper that evening, a small gathering in the parlour to welcome Thomas home. I knew that I had to tell him about Edward Northleach’s return to England after our supper when we were private. It would best to tell Thomas the good news first. After that, I must speak of the bad.
‘Jellies! You won over the Pope with English jellies and a three-part song, Thomas?’ Master Woodall laughed heartily. ‘I had no idea you were of such perfect tune to hypnotise a Pope with song. What secrets you keep. My, my, I would hear it now. Can you sing it for us?’
‘No, because I employed three English singers for the purpose. Elizabeth had made the jellies. The Pope loves sweets but, even more, he likes the unusual.’
‘My sugared fruits. They lasted all the way to Rome. They were for the Pope’s table?’
‘Yes, and they were as delicious as when you made them. I gave them a fresh dusting of powdered sugar.’
‘Did you provide the instruments too?’ John Creke asked.
Thomas’ grey eyes twinkled with mischief. ‘Oh a dulcimer, but the three young singers were clad in multi-part hose - finely turned legs, naturally - which the Pope ogled, and short capes trimmed with ermine. They looked and sounded superb. They had no need of any accompaniment, and certainly not me.’
‘And where did this event take place?’ Creke pushed back his dish of pears and cream. He momentarily turned from Thomas to me. ‘Ah, Mistress Elizabeth, that was such a feast.’
I smiled and thanked him. I wished them both gone, for, although they were Thomas’ dear friends, I desperately wanted him to myself.
Thomas laughed, his small mouth pursed. ‘Creke, it was in woods, just outside the City. You see, the Pope enjoys hunting, so we bribed his guards and servants, and we appeared outside his pavilion just as the sun was setting. It was perfect timing. He was in a mellow mood.’
‘And you were successful with the indulgences? It was worth the effort, I gather? The Boston guilds must be pleased.’ There was just a small hint of sarcasm in Creke’s tone. Master Creke did not believe in indulgences, claiming that these only served to enrich the Church as others starved. I had once overheard him say that they were a bundle of false hopes, a ludicrous promise, a nonsense.
‘I was very successful in my mission.’ Thomas, seeming self-satisfied, pushed back his plate and lifted his wine. He let it touch his lips and laid the sparkling Venetian glass back on the table. The heavy red wine gleamed richly in the goblet. ‘The Boston guildsmen are delighted to have such a grand source of revenue returned to them.’ He became thoughtful, his round grey eyes fathomless. When he spoke again, he lowered his voice. ‘Listen, Creke, I am not an evangelical but I, too, find the whole business of indulgences worrying. I like not the Vatican’s greed. I do not like the corruption in our church. The Curia is no example. It is worse than ever it was, worse even than on my last visit. Nor do I like the vicious insincerity I observe amongst Pope Leo’s Vatican disciples.’
I was sure that Thomas muttered ‘foolish fools’ under his breath, and so I said quickly, ‘Hush, Thomas, do not say such things.’
‘I agree with Thomas and Creke, Mistress Elizabeth,’ Woodall said, his plump lips pursed in protest, for an instant making me think of a virgin’s small useless pouting rebellion on being deflowered by her newly wed spouse. ‘’Tis a waste of time. You really cannot buy God’s forgiveness for your sins. The Church needs cleansing. There are monasteries, even inside our city gates, that are the haunts of greedy and foolish monks who lie with nuns.’
‘Hush,’ I hissed, and lowered my voice into an anxious whisper, never forgetting that I could still be accused in some church quarters of guarding my first husband’s heresy. ‘There are always ears at the door … servants … have a care, please, sirs.’ I gave Jon Woodall a hardened look. ‘You may be our friend, Master Woodall, but there are those could wish us and yourselves ill.’ I folded my hands. ‘The Church knows best,’ I added primly. I thought I noticed Thomas’ eyes momentarily dart towards the parlour door as Woodall shook his somewhat large head and cast his eyes upwards, but said nothing more on the subject of indulgences.
Thomas patted my hand. ‘I read Erasmus’s Latin translation of the New Testament on my long journey home. In fact I learned it by heart.’ He looked at Woodall. ‘Elizabeth has a little book of wisdoms scribed by Erasmus, given to her by the Holy Prior of Austin Friars some years past, do you not, my love?’
I smiled at that. We were on safer territory now. ‘I keep it by my bed and read it sometimes before I snuff out my candle, even though it is in Latin,’ I said, proudly reminding them that I could read the language.
Creke gave me one of his lofty looks. ‘Latin indeed! You are as clever as Queen Catherine herself. I would prefer that the Gospels were printed in English, so that anyone who would read them, could.’ He sniffed. ‘Not all have the Latin. Most people don’t. You could say anything to the people. They would believe any old superstition.’
‘Yes, a Bible in English so that anyone could listen to God’s words in his own tongue would be no bad thing,’ Thomas remarked quietly. ‘St Jerome’s Vulgate is very old.’ I noted a change in his countenance as if he knew something he could not say. His face was serious and determined.
No good would come of this evangelical talk in our home. Thomas, usually so guarded, had shared several bottles of Italian wine with Creke and Woodall and, unusually, he had spoken his mind that night, or at least something of it. I wondered what was left unsaid. If Thomas held challenging thoughts deep in his heart, they must out, and most likely at an unfortunate time and probably in the wrong place. Someone, one day, would hold him to account. We lived in dangerous times. Things we thought were laid to rest often returned later to haunt our thoughts. I could never forget that there had been a fire in my Wood Street dwelling and that had it had been no accident. The culprits had not been discovered. And there was Northleach.
That evening, as we supped with Masters Creke and Woodall, I felt a dark shadow flit in front of me as if it were pulling us forward into a dangerous future.
Thomas touched my hand. ‘You are pale, Lizzy. What is it?’
‘It is nothing.’
He took my hand between his and held it. All would be well, now he was home. Within a heartbeat, the shadow was gone and I let out a sigh of relief.
‘Mistress Elizabeth, you are tired and I must be gone. It is late,’ Woodall said, rising to his feet. ‘I’ll walk the length of Fenchurch Street with you, Master Creke, as far as St Benet’s Church. Our friend and his wife should be left in peace.’ He pushed back the bench, bowed and gave me a kindly smile as he kissed my hand. ‘That, Mistress Cromwell, was the best pigeon pie I have tasted in many a year.’
I stood, murmuring my thanks. Walking to the door, I called for the maids to clear the table and snuff out the parlour candles. Tom led his friends from the parlour, through the hall and out to the gate. I glanced out of the parlour window to watch them pass and waved before closing the shutters for the night.
When Thomas returned to me, holding hands we walked out into the garden because the night was so soft, and the moon was like a silver boat hanging above us. I
confessed I wanted to tell him something. I told him about Northleach first.
He listened carefully, occasionally putting me back over my account.
After I told him how I had seen Northleach at the Drapers’ Guildhall and how he had accosted Smith with lies outside Father’s business premises and about Susannah and how we had tried to find her, he said, ‘Lizzy, I shall root this evil out sooner than later, if I can find him. When is your father returning?’
‘Any day now.’
‘He owes us money, and he is slandering my wife. With no written and signed betrothal contract, his accusation is fatuous. He has been abroad these three years and will have foreign associations. The Italians won’t win him friends in the Guildhall. The drapers are hurting because of the King’s harsh punishment of our English apprentices who attacked foreigners last May Day. King Henry took the foreigners’ part. He wanted the money from their trade. Remember how, before I left for Italy, the City Fathers were being most harsh on foreign merchants, insisting on new legislation. Foreign merchants must now have English apprentices and many have suffered loss of trade.’
An owl hooted, making me start. I remembered only too well how because of the riots that May we had locked our gates for two whole days. We had felt besieged within our own courtyard because the City guilds wanted the foreign merchants banished. They were undercutting trade. I instinctively put my hands over my ears, still hearing the City apprentices marching up Fenchurch Street shouting and banging on gates with great hammers seeking out foreign victims. We merchants had shuddered inside our halls.
On May Day, I had sent the servants to their beds and waited up for Thomas to return home, anxiously pacing the hall. I tried to concentrate on my embroidery but failed miserably. That night, I kept opening the hall door, longing for the sound of his boots on the cobbles and his bridle’s jingle. Every now and again, I would see one peer out through the hatch in the gate’s door until eventually, Thomas arrived home after the midnight angelus.
The Woman in the Shadows: Tudor England through the eyes of an influential woman Page 22
