The Tudor Wife. Emily Purdy

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      ‘You are queen of my heart already!’ he protested.

      ‘But not of England! If you make me Queen of England I shall share your bed and give you sons; it was that we agreed upon, and I will keep my end of the bargain only if you keep yours!’

      ‘In time, Anne, all shall be yours in time! But for now…’ He reached for her again, but Anne slapped his hand away. ‘Is it not enough that I promise you my undying love?’

      ‘Would you chance your son being born a bastard?’ Anne asked icily.

      ‘No, no.’ Henry sighed, his great padded shoulders sagging in defeat. ‘That I cannot risk. For the sake of my unborn son I must damp my carnal lust, though I am in the sight of God a free man…’

      ‘But not in the eyes of men,’ Anne reminded him. ‘And until that day comes, I shall go alone to my bed.’ And with only the briefest of curtsies she left him.

      Gleefully, I gathered up my skirts and raced back inside, eager to taunt George with what I had just seen. But George was not there and his valet could not—or would not—say where he had gone.

      The valet was putting away some freshly laundered linens when I came in, and every time I asked his master’s whereabouts he studiously lowered his eyes and murmured, ‘I do not know, my lady.’ As he bent over the chest, I drew back my foot and kicked his plump posterior as hard as I could; then, seething with annoyance, I stormed into my own chamber and slammed the door.

      I was very curt with my maid as she undressed me.

      Joan was a timid country girl I had brought from Great Hallingbury to serve me; she had previously been a dairy maid and was not accustomed to waiting on great ladies. Her nervous fingers often fumbled and she was ever prone to dropping things. Father had always taught me that we must be patient with our inferiors, but tonight I was in no mood to remember the teachings of childhood, and when she pricked her finger on my ruby, pearl, and emerald flower brooch and dropped it, and one of the stones popped out of its setting, I swung round and struck her soundly across the face.

      As she cringed and cowered before me, a trickle of blood snaking slowly from one nostril, I should have deplored my anger and tried to comfort her, but tonight I was so incensed by George’s absence that I just could not control myself, and instead I called her ‘a fumblefingers’ and said she was ‘as stupid as the cows she used to milk.’ I seized my heavy silver-backed hairbrush from my dressing table and flung it at her head as I ordered her from my sight. ‘Go back to your cows until you learn how to properly attend a lady!’ I shouted as she ran out, whimpering, with tears streaming down her face.

      I finished undressing myself, and in my temper and haste I tangled the laces that fastened my ornate over-sleeves to my bodice and ended by tearing them badly. Furiously, I flung them down on the floor and kicked them into a corner in disgust. They were my best and most expensive sleeves—red velvet trimmed with golden tinsel and intricate gold embroidery—but at that moment all I cared about was the fact that George was elsewhere, making merry with his dissolute friends, no doubt.

      Then, in my nightshift and dressing gown, I went into my husband’s room, ordered his valet to bank up the fire and be gone, and settled down in a chair to wait.

      Hours passed and I fell into a doze. The dawn was already breaking when I finally heard voices outside the door. I sat up, wincing at the crick in my neck, and watched with mounting fury as the door swung open to reveal Francis Weston and Will Brereton supporting a very drunken George. He sagged there between them, his arms slung across their shoulders, head drooping, feet dragging, too drunk to walk unassisted.

      Brereton was bemoaning the loss of a pair of fine Spanish leather boots that he had wagered when his coins were gone.

      ‘Be of good cheer, Will,’ Weston advised him. ‘All things Spanish are on their way out—or will be if the King has his way. You have merely anticipated the fashion!’

      ‘Aye.’ Brereton nodded. ‘He seeks to discard Queen Catherine like an old boot!’

      It was then that they noticed me.

      ‘Ah, my Lady Rochford!’ Sir Francis exclaimed, using my new title. The King had given George the title of Viscount Rochford to please Anne. ‘I bid you good morning!’

      I was in no mood to bandy words. ‘Put my husband down upon the bed and get out!’ I ordered sharply.

      They smirked and exchanged a knowing glance as if to say ‘Is she not a bitch?’

      Well, let them think what they would of me! Harpy, shrew, termagant, scold, bitch; I knew they called me all these things and more, lamenting that George was bound to me. How dare they keep my husband out, carousing the whole night through, then bring him home as insensate as a corpse with drink? What wife would not be upset? What right had they to smirk and roll their eyes at me when it was clearly their fault that George was in such a state? Did they honestly expect me to make them welcome, invite them to sit down by the fire, while I sent a servant running to fetch wine and cakes?

      ‘As you will, Lady Rochford!’ Weston shrugged. ‘Come, Will, let us not be remiss in giving satisfaction to the lady.’

      ‘Aye, never let it be said that we failed to give satis faction to a lady!’ Brereton chortled as they deposited George upon the bed.

      ‘Or gentleman either!’ Weston added cheekily.

      ‘Speak for yourself, Francis.’ Brereton patted him upon the back as he headed for the door. ‘You and I do not enjoy all the same games.’

      Impatiently, I held the door open wide.

      ‘Upon my soul, Lady Rochford, never have I seen a more vicious viscountess with such a viperous tongue and so much venom in her eyes!’ Then, chuckling at his own wit, Brereton tipped his cap and sauntered away, whistling a merry tune.

      I turned back to the bed impatiently, wondering why Weston lingered. And then I saw—George had begun to stir and had clapped a hand round Weston’s wrist and was trying to pull him down on top of him.

      ‘Nay, George,’ he said lightly, pulling back, ‘you are drunk, and I would not take advantage of you in such a state.’

      ‘Why ever not?’ George murmured, still holding fast to Weston’s wrist. ‘I want you to.’

      ‘Well, that makes all the difference in the world! But, nay, George, tempt me not! I would not have you for my lover, I would rather keep you as a friend; friends last longer. Now release me.’ He gently extricated his wrist. ‘Your wife is impatient to have me depart.’

      ‘As I am impatient to have her go!’ George cried with surprising savagery.

      ‘And where would you have me go, George?’ I inquired, coming to stand at the foot of the bed and tug off his muddy boots.

      ‘To the Devil!’ he shouted, wrenching his foot free and kicking out at me.

      I jumped back, my left hand smarting from a wellaimed boot heel. ‘Go now, Sir Francis!’ I commanded, pointing adamantly at the door.

      ‘Your wish is my command!’ he said, gallantly doffing his cap. ‘Such scenes of domestic bliss are not for my eye.’

      ‘No СКАЧАТЬ