The Tudor Wife

George just stood there staring at me, then he shook his head and laughed at me. ‘You are deranged,’ he said, and then he left me. He went back to Anne, and I fell weeping onto my bed to cry myself to sleep.

But there would be no true rest for Anne. Henry continued to press her to grant him the ultimate favor, and all of her family, except George, took his side.

I spied on them one moonlit night in the gardens of Greenwich.

Anne stood steadfast in a gleaming gown of silver tissue, with diamond stars sparkling in her hair, while the King groveled at her feet like a lovesick swain.

Suddenly Anne seemed to wilt and pressed a hand to her brow. In the moonlight she seemed very pale.

Henry saw his chance and seized it. He clutched her close, pressing and grinding his loins, forcing her to feel his hardness through her skirts. His lips found hers, then traveled down her neck to her breasts, trussed high above the low, square-cut diamondbordered bodice. He peeled her gown down from her shoulders until her breasts were fully exposed, with the cool evening air stiffening her nipples. She tried to pull away but he held her fast, his cruel little mouth closing round each rosy pebble of flesh and leaving it glistening with drool. But when his hands began to fumble with her skirts she somehow found the strength to shove him away.

‘Anne, have mercy upon me! For three years I have lived like a monk, all for love of you! Do not be so cruel to one who has been nothing but kind to you. Give yourself to me, tonight, Anne!’

Anne drew up her gown, tucking her breasts back inside and folding her arms protectively across them.

‘And tomorrow have you show me what a nimble dancer you are as you dance out of your promise to make me queen?’

‘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 doubt you are well accustomed to such scenes on the rare occasions when you deign to visit your wife!’ I cried.

‘Nay, Madame.’ He shook his head impishly. ‘When I am with my wife I am as good as gold. Verily, she thinks me a saint and worships the ground I walk upon. It would break my heart to disillusion her, so it is best she keep to the country while I tarry here at court.’

‘Well, you shall not tarry here!’ I shouted, flinging George’s boot at him. It thudded against the door just as Weston shut it.

‘George…’ I turned back to him and shook his shoulder, but he only slapped my hand away and snarled at me to ‘Leave off!’ Undaunted, I slipped off my robe and climbed into bed beside him and wrapped my arms around him.

With great effort, he pulled himself up, shouting in a voice loud and slurred that he was going to find another bed, but as he took a step forward, he staggered, fell to the floor, and vomited.

‘Oh, George! George!’ I railed at him, pounding the bed with my fists. ‘Why do you let them do this to you? The loathsome creatures!’

At the sight of my husband lying huddled upon the floor, retching and heaving up the wine and rich food Weston and his friends had urged upon him, my heart surged with tenderness. I felt a great need to comfort and protect him even as I clucked over his misdeeds like a mother hen, nurturing and at the same time chiding her chick. I knelt beside him on the floor, stroking his hair, shoulders, and back, until the spasms ceased; then I struggled to help him up and back onto the bed. He lay there, moaning and groaning in misery, grudgingly tolerating my soothing hands and the kisses I showered upon his brow.

‘Lie still, my love, and let me take care of you!’

He lay still and let me bathe his face. At my tender coaxing, he sat up so I could ease the doublet from his shoulders and draw the stained and stinking white shirt over his head. Then, with a groan, he fell back against the pillows and was still once again, offering no resistance as I peeled away his breeches and hose, pausing to kiss and glide my hands over his flesh. I could not help myself. I kissed and caressed every part of him, and he did not resist me. His manhood sprang to life between my hands and, with an exclamation of triumph and delight, I lifted my nightshift over my head, casting it aside with carefree abandon as I straddled him.

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