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

by Carol McGrath

  Thomas arrived by river on Christmas Eve. He had returned from a week in the north and seemed thoughtful. He often walked out on his own during his short visit, to wander through his childhood haunts. He was brooding and moody. Wellifield and Eliza had moved away to their own manor near Harrow. Catherine and Morgan had leased a merchant’s house outside the City walls, close to Lincoln’s Inn, set on Chancery Lane, which was an up-and-coming place to live, especially if you were a law man.

  ‘We must carry on with the feast,’ Mother said with forced brightness. ‘We won’t invite the villagers to wassail this year.’

  ‘Or the boy bishop? The children will be disappointed,’ Joan remarked.

  ‘We can make it a family occasion,’ I said. ‘They can perform a play as before. Planning it will distract them and cheer Father.’

  Joan brightened. ‘Me too.’ She hugged me tearfully.

  ‘He may yet recover. We shall pray for that,’ my mother said unconvincingly and quickly crossed herself. She hurried back from the hall to Father’s chamber where she had hung a little mistletoe branch, though it was unlikely that he would rise from his bed and kiss her beneath it.

  Mother tried to be brave. I regularly found her touching Father’s cloak that hung from his clothing pole, her eyes brimming tears. She tried to tempt Father with junkets and jellies but he had no appetite for them. As her cooks stuffed the goose and cooked meats, Mother and I retired to the parlour. We sat together and embroidered flowers on my altar cloth, using for their hearts the gold thread I had purchased that unfortunate afternoon in Threadneedle Street. Her concentration was poor and her hands fell idle into her lap. She often sat looking into an empty space, as if seeing nothing, but remembering and speaking of little incidences they had shared. Although she tried to interest Father their shared memories, he slept for most of the day. It was as if he had left us already.

  Thomas and I remained partially estranged. None but us knew it, not even my mother who, of course, had her own problems. I thought time alone together would break the chilliness that frequently hung between us like air on a cold day, unseen but ever present.

  On Christ’s Day, I asked Tom to walk with me along the river again, hoping to snatch just a little time to ourselves. He pulled his heavy worsted cloak down from the peg in the hall and without a smile for me, wrapped himself in it. I drew mine close as the day was bitter. Frost crunched under our boots as we stepped out of the orchard onto the river path. I was heavy with child so Thomas guided my arm. He had not touched me since our last walk here. I was surprised and comforted by his steadying hand on my arm, hoping that this simple familiar action had heralded the commencement of a lasting thaw. Standing by the water for a moment, we watched a pair of swans glide close to the bank and take flight, one after the other.

  ‘They mate for life,’ Thomas remarked.

  I remembered those words later. Did we love for life, or did we simply find within marriage an angle of repose.

  I drew a deep breath and exhaled, watching it make a white cloud. ‘Thomas, please speak to me. Tell me what happened? I know that you are still angry with me.’

  He stared down at me, lips closed, his mouth tight.

  I shook my head. ‘It will not do. Please explain. How did you rid the City and us of Northleach?’

  Our relationship could not heal properly unless we could talk openly to each other and unless this was concluded. I wondered if this was the sum of it. His lack of affection, his aloofness, his attention to my care, but not my heart, bothered me.

  As he breathed, his white puffs united with my own, birds pecked at the hard earth and I patiently waited.

  He spoke at last and at length. ‘I was observing his movements since your father had revealed Northleach’s relationship with the Italian. After we spoke with Susannah and Marcus, I found him and observed him closely. Northleach was meeting with corrupt wagon drivers. The Italian was running stamped cloth out of London to Southampton where, just before the gates, he concealed half of the cloth in corn sacks on these wagons to avoid the export tax. Southampton is lax and no one searched his grain sacks. They were cheating our King and the cloth guild by avoiding export duties. Since Northleach was stealing, I had him arrested by the guild sergeants on the day after you left Fenchurch Street. Unfortunately, the Italian fled the country.’

  ‘Northleach was accused of the theft?’

  ‘He was also accused of murder. He cheated at cards and was in an argument with a cordwainer in the yard of the Eagle’s Egg two days previous. I found witnesses who would testify to his involvement. I was bringing them in when you decided to break your promise to stay safely in the house and rashly set out with a passport for an evangelist preacher.’

  I gasped at this revelation; this as well as Tyndale, all of it linked. ‘Did Northleach commit murder?’

  ‘As good as. It was a brawl. He provoked it and was the only one with a sword. Either Northleach must leave England immediately and for ever, or his life was forfeit. I told him this when I had him arrested by the wardens and placed in the Cloth Hall cellars - the wardens who arrested him were in my pay - that night, I told him that he would swing. He countered this with Tyndale, accusing me of aiding known evangelicals to leave England. I advised Northleach that this was none of his affair because, I told him, I was watching Tyndale. Since he knew me to be a lawyer he believed me, though he was confused because you had visited Tyndale. I said it was unwise to know about my dealings with Tyndale. He was so frightened that he believed this too, but that was fortunate. Yet, who would believe the word of a rogue? Certainly not Thomas More’s men, nor Cardinal Wolsey’s men either. He was cheating over the cloth. The cards were stacked against him.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘The victim is buried in the pauper’s graveyard. Edward Northleach is gone to sea. He did not deserve a pardon.’

  ‘What do you mean gone to sea?’

  Thomas’ eyes were stony. He said nothing. I knew then that Northleach was gone for ever.

  ‘Susannah and the gardener’s boy?’ I asked after a stretch of silence. ‘What of them? Have they…gone to sea as well?’

  ‘In the country. I know those in the north who can train him to work as a shepherd. She has a position as a servant on a farm.’

  I drew my cloak tightly about me. So this was why Thomas did not elaborate on his visits north. He had removed all evidence of our association with Northleach from the City. While I was glad that Susannah and Marcus were in the north and had a new start, I recognised that my husband was ruthless. When I asked again what he meant by gone to sea his lips curled. He turned away and began walking quickly back to the manor house, leaving me to follow him up the path.

  Christmas Day was a sad occasion, despite our determination to remain cheerful. The children’s nativity play was muted this year. All that mattered to my father was his own family’s presence. I think his illness had made him forget Northleach, or perhaps he had decided to leave all that to Thomas. Not wishing to cause him upset, we never mentioned Northleach’s demise. Nor did Father, or indeed Mother for that matter, know about the evangelical whom Thomas had helped to travel to Flanders.

  That night, Father worsened. On St Stephen’s Day, our physician told Mother, ‘Mistress Wykes, your husband must make his peace with God. Call your family together.’ Though we knew he had not long to live, to hear it from the physician broke our hearts.

  My father drew us to his bedside separately. He gave us all, one by one, his blessing. When it was my turn, he stared at me through his rheumy eyes and said, ‘Sorrow not for me, Elizabeth, my silvered angel-child. Remember me fondly. God bless you all the days of your life, my Lizzy.’

  I guarded my tears and said, ‘Father, I love you so.’

  He held my hand in a weak grasp. ‘Lizzy, take care of Thomas. He will rise in the world, but ambition may lead him a step too far. One day, he may stumble amongst the wolves and be gobbled up. Be happy and live as best a life as you can, my child.
Now, send Joan to me.’

  His hand dropped to lie amongst my mother’s embroidered roses. I stumbled from the room and called for Joan.

  We all were present when Father Christopher closed his eyes.

  On a frosty, sunlit Wednesday, between Christmas and Epiphany, we made a sorrowful procession to St Mary’s Church. Father’s illness had been sudden and final. Our futures are so uncertain and our lives are as fragile as leaves tossed about in a sudden autumn gust. My father had been too tired to live on.

  On the funeral night, our chambers were packed with female relatives who stayed at the manor house. There were pallets everywhere, even in the passage ways, tipping us up as we tried to negotiate our way to the chamber pots through the winter darkness. One large pot, placed on the landing knocked over into a screen, over-turning it with a great bang. We laughed helplessly as Meg relit a candle and ran to clean it up. It was ridiculous but it brought a momentary relief to the tension we had lived under that Christmas. We were family and we felt that bond.

  Thomas departed on the following morning for business in the City. We said a gentle enough farewell to each other, having decided that I would stay with Mother until our second child was born. He sat with me in the parlour where we ate a small breakfast of baked eggs.

  ‘Elizabeth, I shall be much away on the Cardinal’s business because I still have land transfers in Lancashire to work on.’

  ‘I expect he is a very rich man with all these land transfers,’ I said with cynicism.

  ‘He is closing some small monasteries.’

  ‘Monks will be made homeless and the workers of their lands will have no fields to till, cows to milk, or bees to keep.’

  ‘The monks will have other houses to go to. No monk or his abbot will be turned out to beg a living. As for the agricultural labourers and the villagers, all they get is a change of landowner. They won’t even notice the difference.’

  ‘But if their monastery is gone, Thomas, they will notice. The monks took care of their sick and the poor. They provided lessons for the children.’ I was shaking with anger. ‘This is about greed. What about the relics they have, and what about the statues and glass and altar cloths?’

  ‘Stay calm, Elizabeth, please. The Cardinal will make provision for the statues and altar cloths. Those monasteries are unprofitable.’

  ‘Life is not all about profit.’

  ‘Let us not quarrel again, my dear. If I do not see to the closure and transfer, I will lose the Cardinal’s trust and, with that, the greater part of our income.’

  I glanced down at my swelling belly and sighed. ‘It is wrong that we profit this way, but God go with you, Thomas, and may he keep you safe. I shall pray for you and think of you every day until you return to me.’

  He gathered up his script. ‘May God keep you safe until I return; Annie and our unborn child too.’

  For now, I decided that I should not worry about anything other than my pregnancy and my widowed mother’s welfare. Meg parted with me later that day when she and Smith returned by wagon to Fenchurch Street. My home needed her firm hand as housekeeper during my absence. She patted my hand and told me not to worry. I was tired of being told this, as if I were a petulant child.

  As the year turned and everyone else left us, the house felt sad and empty. I missed Father deeply, despite our past differences. I had loved him. Mother grieved and retreated into herself. She lovingly packed Father’s clothing into chests along with bags of lavender and fennel, saying she would distribute them come the spring. A sadness descended on the old gabled manor house as deep as the January snow that was falling in soft wet flakes. I trudged along the snowy lane and prayed daily in our village church for the safe birth of our second child.

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Midsummer 1526, The Oriole

  AFTER THE NOON BELLS ring, I enter the oriole, a tiny store room, on the third floor, looking for a table cloth, aware that I must hurry. The maids will be setting the table and before the dinner hour I need to put on the yellow gown I have left lying on my bed.

  Austin Friars is a large house where many small rooms are hidden, appearing as large cupboards, alcoves, bays, orioles. Its many corridors and rooms are a place to lose oneself, presenting sudden revelations to any visitor who might stumble upon these miniature chambers filled with the old things of our lives; some discarded and others that remain safely wrapped, stowed away in linen and silk cloths with fennel to protect them from moths. My best table coverings are safely stored in this little place.

  The oriole is one of my favourite rooms in Austin Friars. I savour it for a moment, throw open the window with its pretty hexagonal leaded panes and lean out to watch three green finches take flight, one after the other. I know that a swallow has nested above in the creeper. I keep absolutely still and enjoy watching it fussing about its chicks. The garden is empty now. Thomas must be with Gregory in the study. From the distance I hear our daughters happily playing with their poppets, scolding them for soiling their clothes. I think that Annie has set up a pretend school and she is the teacher. I hope they have their gowns ready and are washed too. Thomas told us yesterday that we must look our best today because he has a surprise for us later. He refused to be drawn on it.

  I search through several chests for a table covering I had once embroidered with a hem of marigolds and which will delight the girls today. Raising the lid of the coffer nearest the window, I easily discover it, wrapped in soft old linen. I draw it out and set it by a pile of matching napkins. Ah, I want to touch it once again. It is here, I know. My hand finds its way into the painted chest again. This time, I lift out a silk wrapped package that contains the veil I wore for my churching after Grace’s birth. I shake off fennel and bits of dried lavender and hold it to my nose to inhale its sweet scent. It was used thrice, for Annie, for Grace and finally for Gregory. I discover another linen package containing my children’s christening gown. How unusual it is for a mother to attend her child’s christening, for we are impure, bleeding creatures after another child’s birth.

  The quicker a christening follows a birth, the better, for, after all, where would my child’s soul be should she have died after her entry into this world? The soul would live in limbo. I think of Queen Catherine, and I remember how fortunate I am to have three healthy living children. For a moment I remember, birth, christening and purification. I think of Grace’s birth on a cold, damp February morning in Putney.

  Chapter Thirty-three

  1518

  THE CHURCH BELLS RANG the hour of Prime on the twenty-eighth day of February when Grace slipped into the midwife’s hands after a painful drawn-out night of labour. I thought I might lose her but she cried lustily, for such a fragile creature. The cord was severed and the midwife wrapped her in swaddling and gave the child into my arms. ‘I shall call her Grace,’ I said, remembering how Thomas liked the name.

  Some hours after my baby’s birth, and the afterbirth was safely expelled, sheets changed, I was bathed, and wearing a clean night rail, I was sitting up in bed. Even though I was exhausted, my heart was filled with love for the whole world. The girdle of prayers I had worn during my labour would be returned to St Mary’s to protect another pregnant mother to place above her swollen belly as she laboured. For now, as with my first birth, it hung suspended above the bed post like a strange papery creature that belongs to maps or at the end of the world, reminding me that God had given me and the child I bore, life. I closed my eyes and whispered thanks to St Margaret for bringing me so easily through my travail. I promised that Grace will be well-loved by her grateful mother all the days of my existence.

  Midwives bustled around, helped me to give the baby suck, and then satisfied, they discreetly removed themselves to stools in the alcove. Turning their backs, they lifted the ancient swaddling that my mother had once used for us. These good dames watched the rain drizzle down the small leaded window as their needles rhythmically slipped in and out of linen, mending rents in the soft baby wra
ppings.

  Mother announced that we were ready to receive visitors. She hurried from the birthing chamber to fetch Annie and Thomas. My husband arrived with a smile on his face, excitedly tiptoeing in with Annie. Grace, who promised to be a contented child, lay sleeping peacefully in my arms. Mother drew Annie back towards the door for a moment and allowed Thomas to approach us first. I presented Grace to him, as if I were offering him a gift more precious than our own lives, which she surely is.

  ‘Our child is healthy,’ I said.

  Thomas leaned down and kissed his second daughter’s tiny head, looking up at me with tears in his eyes.

  ‘She is beautiful, like her name,’ he whispered. Carefully, as if she were made of gossamer, he gave her back into my arms and turned towards the door where Annie patiently waited in the thin winter light. ‘Annie, come here now. Say hello to your sister. Come.’ He held out his hand to Annie. Thumb in mouth, she drew close to us.

  ‘Her name is Grace,’ I said.

  ‘When shall she be christened?’ Annie said.

  ‘Tomorrow,’ my mother quickly said, lifting Grace and holding her so Annie could look upon her. ‘It can’t wait. If Grace dies before she is christened, the Devil can claim her for his own.’

  ‘She is not going to die, Mother. Let us wait a few days.’

  ‘Saturday it is,’ Thomas said. ‘I must be in the City tomorrow. I shall return. Alice, Henry’s wife, and my sister Eliza can act as godparents, and Henry as godfather. They need a day at least to come to Putney.’

  My mother nodded agreement. ‘As you wish, Thomas. My son and his wife will be true godparents.’

  ‘Your sister Eliza?’ I said, raising myself up, feeling a protest slide from my lips.