The Winchester Goose: At the Court of Henry VIII Read online

  The doorway is so low that any man of height is forced to duck his head so that he creeps into the room furtively, as if on nefarious business. I straighten up as soon as I am able and look about me, tugging my doublet down and fumbling with my cap. A miserly flame provides such little light that the corners remain in darkness, making the room appear little more than a cell. I am all too aware of those shadows and everything they may conceal.

  He stands with his back to me, one hand resting upon a table with an inkstand and books piled high, rolls of parchment tumbling to the floor. He pulls his gaze from a high-up window, where I can just discern the white streaked sky, and pulls back a stool. He is a small man, slightly stooped and balding, his eyes penetrating and calm. He takes a seat, elbows on the table as he regards me silently, the tips of his fingers pressed together. I notice that his nails are bitten to the quick.

  I lick my lips, glance shiftily into the shadows, uncertain if he is honest or otherwise. He has a monkish look, which makes me suspect trickery all the more and my disquiet increases. Since the King closed the monasteries England is peopled with such men, monkish fellows up to their overgrown tonsures in deceit. Outcast wretches seeking a path in an altered world; a world they cannot make fit. He clears his throat and his voice when it comes is surprisingly musical, like a popish chant.

  “My name is Nicholas Brennan and I’ve been watching you,” he says and my blood chills as I cast my mind back, mentally retracing my movements, wondering what I’ve done wrong. I can’t recall having broken any laws and so I cough the nervousness from my throat and feign a confidence I do not feel. With a hand to my dagger, I swagger a little, tilt my head and pitch my voice a shade lower than usual.

  “Indeed? And may I ask why?”

  His eyes slither about the room, as if seeking eavesdroppers, and I remember that in some parts of England there are spies in every hollow.

  “I am ever on the lookout for a likely man. My master has need of those he can trust.” There is a pause before he adds, “And I know your father to be an honest man.”

  “My father?”

  “Oh yes, Master Wareham, we know well who you are. My people have been watching you for some months now. You keep intriguing company. A whoremonger is never taken seriously. He can come and go, both in court circles and lowly, with no questions asked. Such a man could serve my master well.”

  I scowl and decide I do not like this fellow. A whoremonger indeed! But before I can remonstrate with him, he pinions me with his icy stare, compelling me to do as he wishes.

  “And who is your master?” I ask, trying to sound as if the answer to my question concerns me not at all. “What does he do?”

  “His name need not concern you, but my master strives for a better England and attempts to lead the headstrong King along a new and learned path, young sir.” He leans closer, the stench of his rancid breath forcing me to avert my nose. “My master is a powerful man. He is the King’s servant, but you will not hear his name from my lips.”

  “How can you ask me to serve a man I do not know? Perhaps he works against the King. I should never do that. I am an honest fellow.”

  “I’m glad to hear it.” Master Brennan fixes me with pale, cold eyes that seem to burn right through my bravado. He clears his throat. “You have my word that we work only in the King’s interest and for the good of England. In these days it is hard for a man to know whom to trust, the King more than anyone is vulnerable to spies and betrayal. We serve King Henry and work only to bring down his enemies … and …” He tosses a purse into my lap, a fat purse that clinks with good fortune. “We pay our servants well.”

  My fingers clutch involuntarily at the coin and I realise that with an income such as this, I can marry where I will.

  Isabella - 1540

  It is late April and things are no better for Queen Anna. I feel for her but she shuns any show of pity so completely that an outsider would not recognise her fear. She prays almost constantly and when I overhear her in conversation with the ambassador from Cleves, although I cannot understand her words, the tremor of terror is stark in her voice.

  We are all aware of her predicament. The King is clearly displeased with her and has ceased to pretend otherwise; outside of ceremonial matters he pays her no notice at all. Everyone at court is afraid, not knowing what will happen, and there are those who question whether the King will resort to the axe to rid himself of yet another unwanted queen. It is as if a great blade is wavering above us while we watch warily, uncertain where it will fall, each one of us dreading its descent.

  Master Cromwell’s eyes dart warily about the hall. As the man who brought Anna of Cleves to the King’s notice, he must be quivering with fear, although he hides it well. King Henry scowls openly. He doesn’t trouble to disguise his displeasure and why should he? His courtiers exist to please only him.

  After supper, while he ignores his wife, his piggy eyes seek out and fasten on the dancing maidens. I do not dance but hover close to Queen Anna, inwardly despising those silly women who compete shamelessly for royal approval. I cannot understand why anyone would vie for Henry’s favour. His reputation as either lover or husband is scarcely commendable, and he is far from the handsome prince that my mother recalls from the days of Queen Caterina of Aragon.

  Mother says that when she was young, every girl at court was in love with the King, for in those days he was congenial and handsome, his favour valued more than rubies. Even today, in his slashed and padded jewelled doublet, his bandaged leg concealed beneath tight white hose and his cod-piece so prominent it draws every eye, he still cuts quite a figure. He is every inch a King but my unmaidenly imagination can see all too clearly the horror he must present once divested of his grandiose robes. These days his hair shows streaks of grey among the red and he has become grossly fat, his eyes sunken in a podgy face and his mouth reduced to a slash of bitterness. He is tight-lipped and mean and Anna has my sympathy.

  If I were Henry’s Queen I would be glad for him to seek comfort in the beds of other women, but Anna is too well-schooled in royal duty. She is failing and she knows she must provide an heir. It is imperative that she does so but I don’t believe that for Anna, it is really all about duty. I think that, as well as wishing to please the King and secure her place in his heart, she yearns for a child, someone of her own to love, someone who will return her love in full measure.

  We all want someone we can rely on, someone to trust, but trust is a scarce commodity in this court where everyone peers over their shoulder, scared to speak, afraid of contradicting some new royal edict. A son would make Anna safe, and if she could just grow a royal prince in her belly, she would become as favoured as Jane Seymour and we could all breathe easily again.

  As it is, she trembles and prays. We all tremble, waiting for the storm to break, knowing that if the Queen falls then the rest of us may come tumbling down with her.

  The music is starting up again, filling the hall with false merriment. The pipers are red-faced, their cheeks blowing, feet tapping and the flaming torches and candles catch the gold thread in the tapestries and reflect the sumptuous jewels of the company. It is a shimmering, glittering mêlée but I keep to the shadows, concealing myself behind the other, more scintillating women of the court. I wish that Eve would do the same. But, as I knew she would, my sister Eve draws the eye of all the young men and some of the older courtiers too; those that should know better.

  She dances so well and so frequently that I wonder she does not drop. Her face glows, her skirts wheel around her and her eyes shine as she turns about the floor. Such inbred grace ensures that she has just as many partners as Katherine Howard, the latest of that family to come to court. All eyes are upon her, and her uncle, the Duke of Norfolk, watches her too. He and his friends, Suffolk and Stephen Gardiner, lounge in a darkened corner to watch her sport before the King.

  Katherine is the newest appointed lady-in-waiting and although she is first cousin to Anne Boleyn, she seems untain
ted by any shame. I watch her flirting with the young men and feel a twist of disdain at such laxity, although her behaviour is no more blatant than Eve’s.

  Eve and Katherine are two of a kind, beautiful, bright and irresistible. I sigh as I watch my sister being led onto the floor for the fourth dance in a row and wonder, if I were so blessed, whether perhaps it would go to my head too. Maybe, given half a chance, I too would preen myself like a peacock and flaunt my charms as if they were on sale.

  Pressing my lips together, I resolve to have a word with Eve and remind her of Mother’s warning to preserve her honour but, even as I watch, a gentleman approaches and bends low over her hand. He is tall, not a young man, but his robes are of the best quality and I recognise an elegance of the first degree. Her fingers flutter in his as he raises them to his lips and when he straightens up, he stays at her side, whispering in her ear. She tosses back her hair, leans against a pillar and looks up at him through her lashes.

  I am not sure if I should intervene.

  One of the Queen’s ladies, Blanche, is beside me, watching the dancing, and I touch her arm, discreetly asking if she knows the gentleman’s name. Blanche peers short-sightedly across the room, raises her brows and tells me he is Sir Anthony Greywater, a widower lately endowed with extensive lands in Wales. I can see she is impressed, and with growing interest I watch my sister flirt with him for a while longer, comforting myself that Father can only approve of attentions coming from a man of his standing. I decide to do nothing.

  As the music starts up again the Queen crooks her finger and I hurry to her side. “Bella, could you fetch my wrap for me, there is a chill about my shoulders.”

  I bob a curtsey and weave my way through the throng. Although I hurry along the corridors and up the twisting back stair, it takes me some time to reach the Queen’s apartments. The guards at the door recognise me and put up their pikes to let me pass.

  “Oh, Fritz,” I cry in dismay, and the silly dog gets up and stretches, his legs and tail stiff while he shows me his pink tongue. The Queen’s wrap, that he has made his cosy bed, is scattered with tiny white hairs and I am forced to spend some time picking them off, praying she won’t notice and hoping she won’t scold me for my tardy return. I flick some rosewater on it to mask the odour of dog and hurry back to the hall.

  The first thing I see on my return is Sir Anthony standing alone, watching the dancing from the shadows. My eyes swivel to where Eve blossoms beneath the attentions of another man, another stranger.

  This one is younger, less elegantly dressed and less courtly of manner but undoubtedly very, very handsome in a roguish, flamboyant sort of way. Even my attention is taken by the smooth, youthful contours of his face. Many eyes are drawn by their laughter as they twirl and hop in the dance, and people are putting their heads together, whispering behind their hands. I bite my lip, suppressing the desire to force my way onto the floor and drag her away. I watch them, my lips compressed like an old, disapproving maid while my cheeks flame with a curious mixture of shame and envy.

  “What would Father say?” I demand much later in the privacy of our room. “Flirting like that before the whole court … before the King himself!”

  She flips back her hair and preens before the small mirror, cutting a jig before the fire, the movement of her small, tight breasts discernible through the thin material of her nightgown.

  “Are you my mother, Bella? I had thought you were my sister … and my friend.” She pouts, knowing that her pursed lips and downcast eyes only add to her prettiness, but I refuse to be so easily seduced.

  “I don’t want to spoil your fun, Eve, but you must be more reserved. It was bad enough the way you were flirting with Sir Anthony, and he is a good man who will not cross the boundaries of respectability. You know very well that Father would condemn the way you were behaving with … with that other young man. Were our father as harsh as most you would receive a good whipping and face a ration of bread and water.”

  Eve hugs herself and swirls about the room. “Master Wareham,” she murmurs. “His name is Francis Wareham. He is so handsome, don’t you think, Bella?”

  She bounces onto the mattress, slipping beneath the covers beside me and putting her cold feet on my legs, making me squeal and pull away. I fold my arms across my meagre chest and scowl at her, but she remains unperturbed.

  “I do believe you are jealous, Bella, which one is it you fancy for yourself? Sir Anthony Greywater … or Master Wareham?”

  She slurs the latter’s name so that it rolls off her tongue as if it were a naughty word.

  “Don’t be ridiculous. Why should I be jealous? I’ve had partners aplenty.”

  But in truth, I am a little piqued for when I do have dance partners, they are mostly old, some of them barely able to mark time with the music. Eve laughs at me and ignoring my coldness, snuggles into my shoulder.

  “Did you see Katherine Howard dancing before the King? I wonder what she hopes to gain. Anyone would have thought him the handsomest man in the room when, in truth, she could have the pick of them. I’d not favour an old goat like Henry over the likes of Thomas Culpepper.”

  “Eve! The King’s youth and vigour are unequalled. He is still very handsome,” I say pointedly, lowering my voice to a whisper. “Besides, it is not safe to suggest otherwise.” I have told Eve more than once that she must guard her tongue, for there are court spies in every corner.

  “There is only you to hear me and anyway, all the court secretly agrees. The King we saw this evening is a travesty of his former self. He is an old man and it would be better for all concerned were he to realise that fact …”

  She yawns suddenly, the truth of her words echoing in my head like a bell, ringing out in a terrible foreboding of disaster.

  Joan Toogood – Southwark

  I have never set foot outside the stews until the day I cross the bridge, the better to see Anne Boleyn go up river for her coronation. There is a great crowd gathered to see the pageant and the river is full of boats, the air ringing with bells and the sounds of the revel. I don’t see much of the Queen, just the fall of long dark hair and a fleeting glimpse of her forehead, but at least I can go home and tell my sisters that I’ve seen an honest-to-goodness Queen. Over the years that follow I retell the story so often that they are sick of hearing it, but it is a golden day for me and I can’t forget it. “It was a proper spectacle,” I say, “and I’ll not live to see another queen crowned.” I little realise that she who has climbed so high will rapidly fall so far.

  Years later, after the dark days of Anne’s sorry end are over, the bells of London ring out for our new Queen, Jane, and peal again even louder when she breaks the King’s curse and births a bonny little prince. They say that King Henry is cock-a-hoop over his longed-for heir, but a few weeks later, when the childbed sickness takes her and the Queen’s death knell is rung, we shake our heads in sorrow for the poor, motherless little boy.

  Queens, so many Queens and so many disappointments, it’s a wonder the King can stand it. Those who are foolhardy enough to whisper such things say that Old Harry is cursed and will never keep a wife. They mutter of a wrathful God seeking vengeance on the house of Tudor that has brought down the church. But I say nothing. I just button my lip and lift my skirts for my punters. I know my place.

  It is just a year or two later that we learn another Queen is on her way, a royal princess this time, coming all the way from Cleves, wherever that may be. So I hide the badge of my trade beneath a borrowed cloak and elbow a way across the teeming bridge into the city again. There, I stand shoulder to shoulder with the good, decent folk of London Town and watch the Princess from Cleves ride into the city.

  She is a far cry from the other Anne. This one’s face is red with cold, her hands barely able to clutch her mount’s reins, but she manages a frozen smile, a glimmer of royal snot at her nostril. Children and women throw winter greenery in the path of her horse, their hearty cheers welcoming her hither, every one of us wishin
g her better success than her predecessors. As the procession moves through the crowd, I push to the front and see how young and sturdy she is. I feel a gleam of hope for England’s future. This one looks to be a good girl, a fine sturdy breeder of princes, if ever I saw one.

  Not that it concerns me, of course. I turn away from the pomp and, wrapping the borrowed cloak about me, hurry back to my side of the river. I have work to do. I shouldn’t be loitering, dreaming of princesses and high gleaming towers.

  I know my place.

  My sisters are at home. Sybil is stirring a thin gruel over the fire while Betsy runs a lack toothed comb through her hair, teasing the ends into curls about her finger.

  “Did ye see 'er?”

  I throw off my cloak, sink onto a fireside stool, and stretch out my toes to the meagre flames.

  “'Course I did.”

  “Is she as fine looking as they say?”

  “She was pinched with cold, the poor mite, and her eyes ringed with fatigue, but I imagine she will scrub up well enough.”

  Sybil thrusts a bowl into my hands and I greedily suck the thin liquid between my lips. Darkness is falling, it is time for me and my sisters to go out into the cold and ply our trade.

  I was no more than six when I first saw my mother serviced by one of her ‘gentlemen’. He had her over the board, his great hairy arse drumming back and forth so hard that the table legs shifted in the floor rushes. I stood and watched with my thumb in my mouth, no more troubled than if I was witnessing a wedding. In fact, it wasn’t until I was twelve and expected to earn my own keep that I saw anything remarkable in it at all.

  She picks my first customer well. He is growing old, his cock soft and more willing than able. He sits me on his knee and lets me play with the tasselled girdle of his cassock. When I take exception to his exploring hands, my mother, who is sitting opposite, casts a scowl at me and although I wriggle and pout, I fight him no more.