The Merry Mistress, page 18
There was truth in what he said. Like a warrior who scorns a weak antagonist, we women do not want too easy victories. We could have a dozen men each night if they were all we wanted; but, nay, it is the pursuit, the defeat of other women in an amorous war that gives no quarter, and then the submission, he who neglected or scorned us humbled and his sword surrendered to our beauty. To have taken Hastings sighing for a kind word from me would have been no conquest of which to boast. I was proud to have humbled him and he might prove, I thought, of value in the future should the king tire of me, as everybody said that he must tire, when I would need a strong protector. Until then, I was content to have him at my feet while he scribbled poems about my heartlessness and accounted in rime my various perfections.
Often deliberately was I cruel to him that I might exult in my power over so great a man. I would talk of the king as though I talked to another woman, concealing little, or I would exclaim at the good looks of some courtier until Hastings’ fingers closed about his dagger-grip and he glared murder at the innocent fellow. Of Dorset also would I talk, being curious to meet this man of whom I had heard so much, for he was then from court, and Hastings, for all his jealousy, was wise enough not to abuse or to warn me against the man. That, he realized, would have piqued my interest. Therefore he spoke of him casually, emphasized his gambling and drinking and brawling rather than his lechery, and I smiled, seeing into his plot and knowing he was afraid.
Many were the tales I heard of the gay doings of this Thomas Grey, Marquis of Dorset, the queen’s eldest son by her first husband. When the women talked of him, none abused him, all smiled at his name as though recalling happy hours; and that was unusual, for a man to have left no rancour in deserted beds. It was as though they spoke of a child who could not be blamed for his cruelties and who must always be forgiven in the end. Noticing my interest, Eleanor at every opportunity would mention him, praising his looks, his gallantry, the verses that he made and his courage in the joust. That made me smile, to see her act the bawd, for I knew she plotted to send me into some fellow’s arms that afterwards she might betray me to the king; and I was determined to remain faithful, if only to outwit and infuriate her.
Some mornings she would come yawning, purring like a cat filled with milk, and would say how exquisitely weary she was, and her great dull eyes would turn towards me, smiling. These were after nights when I had slept alone and anger would grow hot in my cheeks, but I’d not show it. That the king was not faithful, I knew; I could not expect fidelity in a man tempted so often; but it maddened me that he should go to the only woman I disliked amongst them all. That he visited others was not hidden from me. The chosen women made it plain in various ways, as though by accident letting slip the confession when I was by; yet they did not greatly trouble me. Even when pope-holy Jacquetta came from chapel and moaned that her penance increased each time and what the king gave her went straight to the priest, I smiled. Only Eleanor did I fear. The others, even Jacquetta, meant little to the king and were taken by him casually, at the call of a sudden mood, but Eleanor was a determined, dangerous woman hating rivals. Unlike me, who smiled at the women’s tales in the morning, she darkened and her eyes glittered and she would clench her fists as though it were agony for her to listen. For one so lazy, so slow in her movements, there was strong passion in her and she hated me the most because the king loved me the most.
Never a week passed but he visited me. When we travelled from castle to castle, manor to manor, always would he ride up to my carriage and ask whether I were bruised or tired, ignoring the other ladies riding with me. And when he had left us, there would be a heavy silence in the carriage, and
Eleanor would breathe as though she suffocated, and I knew that she would have killed me had she dared.
Continually was I chosen by the king. When there was dancing about the fire in the hall, he would take me in the first dance and throughout the evening would always return to me. One reason for his preference was that I never upbraided him when he neglected me, as I knew that many others did. Always would I greet him merrily, never asking where he’d been, but would fondle him as though I had no doubts of his loyalty.
This was not difficult for me to do, for I did not love him and often was grateful when nights passed and my bed-curtains remained unpinned. I grew fond of him, of course, and was happy to see him, for he was a stout lover, but had it not been that thereby was my prestige tarnished I’d not have cared how often he slept with Eleanor, Jacquetta or any of the others. There was no spark of jealousy in my heart. To be accepted as the favourite, to have men bow to me and think to win their way into the royal regard by wooing me, was flattering and I gloried in my power. Yet never did I abuse it. Only when I thought injustice had been done did I sue to the king, asking him to right some wrong; and when this became known, many were those who came to me with gifts that I might be their intercessor, and I saved the lives of some condemned to die when I believed they did not deserve that cruel end. Rarely did the king refuse my request, unless it were a question of money, and then he would not listen; yet once I did manage to stop him in his greed, when he would have seized the revenues of Eton College. At first he raged when I protested that that would be an unkingly act, but when I remarked, as though casually, that it would be said he had taken the money because the late king had granted it to the college, he faltered, cursed and spat, then grudgingly agreed; and for weeks afterwards would he remind me of his generosity and of how he had acted only to pleasure me.
For myself I asked nothing, knowing that to ask would be the surest way of losing him. And I did not need money. My life was spent wholly with the court where I spent nothing, my clothing being supplied from the royal wardrobe. Had it not been for the queen’s haughty bearing, I would have been most happy; and I could not blame her for hating all us women and for taking on us when she could a spiteful revenge, keeping us out of bed until late hours and making us stay silent while she read or dozed. Our tasks were slight, yet always were we near exhaustion when we staggered off, for she would not permit us to rest in her presence. On aching legs we had to stand, not daring even to lean against the wall, and we had to answer immediately when she spoke and never tarry when she ordered us to bring her something or to sing to her or to play some game, like closh or cards, with her. Thereby did she take her revenge, and as if by instinct she appeared to know which of us the king had visited the night before. That girl would be singled out and given no rest. She would be made to stand hour after hour until she grew as white as dough and could scarcely open her eyes for weariness, while she read from some Latin or French book of dull devotions, usually one that raged against adultery and the sins of the flesh.
When she dined in public we had to attend her, one of us tasting her food lest it be poisoned, and two of us stood behind her chair holding a cloth to place before her face should she stuff herself too hugely and wish to vomit. Little peace were we allowed. After a bumpity journey, barely given time to wash the dust from our faces, we would be summoned to her presence and made to stand about, doing nothing, while she played chess or talked to the older women. If she wished to walk — which, may God be thanked, was not often — we must walk with her; when she wished to hunt, we had to ride in her train; and after we had undressed her for all-night and conducted her to the little chamber with green-clothed-covered seat, one of us had to sleep on the truckle-bed at the foot of her great bed. This was a duty I detested when my turn came. All through the night I would be unable to sleep and would not dare move, because at a sound she became alert and commanded silence. In these ways did she take her revenge on us and consoled her pride because not often did the king now visit her; no longer troubling to conceal his mistresses, he was content so long as she did not quarrel, and when she quarrelled he would stay for weeks away from her apartments. Sometimes almost could I pity her, yet she had consolations enough. The crown alone was joy sufficient for so proud a woman, and she adored her children, of which she had ten, Elizabeth, the eldest, being about sixteen, and Bridget, the youngest, being about two. Between these were Mary, fifteen; Cecily, thirteen; Edward, twelve; Margaret, ten; Richard, nine; Anne, seven; George, five; Catherine, three; or thereabouts in age.
When she had her children with her almost did I like the woman, so fond she seemed, and her smile, usually so wintry, became as gentle as the smile of the Virgin herself seen in miniatures. Lovely children were they, golden-haired, and always merry.
The king adored them. Often would he talk to me of how he hoped to leave them a settled England, yet while he talked I would see him bite his lip, as though in doubt. Behind his boasting there was a secret fear, but I never dared ask what it was, knowing he would deny it and grow angry that I had stumbled on it. He intended, he told me, to marry the girls into as many royal houses as possible, uniting Europe in one Plantagenet family. His eldest daughter he had affianced to the French dauphin, while the third, Cecily, he had hoped to wed to the heir of the King of Scots. Unfortunately, since then, the Scots had deposed their king, or, at least, had locked him into Edinburgh Castle while the English troops under the Duke of Gloucester were ravaging the country. Such matters interested me little, and the reason for this war I could not fully understand, but I know it troubled my king greatly, although the duke was conquering wherever he rode.
“Before I die,” said the king, “I will have all my daughters princesses and England will be the greatest power in the world. When I was crowned, all was chaos; now all is peace and my country’s ships trade where they will. I have broken the greedy lords and given power to merchants. England should be grateful to my memory.”
Yet always I sensed that fear gnawing behind his boasts, and when drunk at times he would curse himself for having been a fool when young; and I have seen him clasp his eldest boy, Edward, to him passionately, crying: “You will be king after me. By God’s splendour, you will be king!” as though he were defying the fates.
Soon I learned the truth. Little was hidden at court and it was whispered that he had had a wife before Queen Elizabeth, some lady now a nun; but I’d have dismissed such tattle had I not seen in the king’s own behaviour that there was possible truth in it.
“Thank God,” he would say, “for Richard. Had George lived I’d not die easy. But Richard is loyal, the noblest man I’ve known, although he be my brother. Always have I loved him, although we are so different, he solemn and devout and a faithful husband, more or less… and I… well, lass, you know me to be far from solemn or faithful, although devout enough when the fit takes me. I need more Richards, so few are they whom I can trust. Hastings, of course. But then the queen detests him and, should I go, there’d be strife between them. There might even be war, were it not for Richard to be there to hold their peace.”
“Your grace,” said I, “why do you brood on death? You are not old.”
“Not old, nay,” he said, warming his hands over the charcoal fire, his face showing bright against the darkness as he leaned forward. “Barely forty years of age, but I’ve lived hard and have grown fat. At times I become giddy and must sit down. In France I caught the ague and it shakes me badly, so that I lie and sweat and shiver for days. I am no longer young. I know it by the failing of my temper and that I often think of death. Small things now anger me and I grow furious at the silly quarrels of my nobles that might split the realm. Those fools Hastings and Dorset ever at each other’s throat…”
“Why!” said I, “I thought them friends. Hastings speaks highly of Dorset.”
“That’s his cunning. He knows, the rascally amorist, that the surest way to open a woman’s heart to another man is to abuse him; and I doubt not that he’s tried to grapple you.”
I shrugged, leaning my head against his knee. “He’s not the only one,” I said.
“Of course, and who can blame them?” He laughed, sliding both hands under my gown on to my bosom. “A man must be of stone who did not want you, hinny. When Dorset’s back, he’ll be the same. Then the two sniffing dogs will have another cause to show their teeth at one another. Long have they been enemies. My queen began it, I believe, for, true wife, she hated most the men I loved the most, and in our early years she would rage and say that Hastings led me into wanton company. I needed little leading.” He laughed again, his fingers gentle in their caressing. “I think the hatred first began when I made Hastings lieutenant of Calais. Her brother, Anthony, wanted the post, but I loved Hastings more and he had been always loyal, fleeing with me overseas when Warwick turned traitor, and returning with me to conquer again. Yea, that began the feud, I think. It has burned fiercer with the years. And I love both men, alas.”
“I have not met this Dorset yet,” I said.
“In a few days you will,” he laughed; “and then I’ll have another rival, eh?” and he kissed the crown of my head, his breath warm on my skull.
*
Strangely, I longed to meet this Dorset. Mayhap it was Hastings’ ill-suppressed fears of him that made me eager, and already I pictured him, young and golden, at my side with dark Hastings watching us with his hand on his dagger. Who knows from whence such dreams arise? how many women, and men, too, have loved an image, a phantom of their own imaginings built on some chance word, or on a song, or on their own need for love? Not that I had need for love, with the king my bedmate and scarce a man at court who did not ravish me with his eyes when I passed, but when I was alone at night often I built this Dorset in my mind and had him love me. In some way, I felt thereby that I injured Hastings, and that pleased me, why again I cannot tell, but I found delight in hurting him. Perhaps it was because of the high-handed insolent way he had behaved in Cheapside, acting as though I could be cheaply bought with a courtier’s smile and the promise of a jewel or two. Yet I should have been grateful to him. Had he not seen me at my wedding, I might yet have been the prisoner of Cheapside, the slave of Agnes. All that I had attained I owed to him; nevertheless I was not grateful. When he talked of love, I laughed; I would let my hand, as though by chance, touch his, or would lean forward while he talked until our mouths well-nigh met and he could taste my breath, but nothing more. Never would I let him catch me alone, although the other women often contrived to slip away when we were in the outer chambers and the queen not watching, and Eleanor never ceased to praise him as a generous lover and swore that I was fortunate to have snared such a gallant. I would smile and say nothing.
In the dance, always he sought me, and would clasp my hand in his damp paw, and when the dance called for kissing, long and amorously would he try to hold me although the music had commanded that he let me go. Ay, and he would strain me to him until he hurt, squeezing the breath out of me, his body hard against mine; and I thought it jolly to keep him in pain. Yet I am not a cruel woman. Towards others who have meant less to me have I been loving, although, in fear of losing the king, I let them do no more than fondle me, even when — such being my body’s weakness — I felt limp in their arms and longed to consent. Towards Hastings, however, I did not suffer even this casual tenderness and pity which I felt should be rewarded with at least a searching kiss; towards him, I remained cold as stone, his touch meaning nothing.
Only those who have suffered can understand another’s sufferings. Were I to live those times again I would not be so cruel to Hastings. But then I had not loved. I did not understand what anguish it can be to watch one whom one adores yet fears to touch. That is why the young are always harder than their elders, girls more cold-hearted than women: they have not suffered. Ay, youth suffers, it knows in feverish longings pains older folk can never feel again, but these are often self-enjoyings. Later comes real love, and with love’s coming, agony enters, too. I scoffed at Hastings, not knowing how he suffered; I lured him on with a sight of my ankle or puffed out my bosom when I knew he watched, glorying in his anguish, proud to see the sweat on a cold night glisten on his brow. I did not understand: that only can I say to extenuate my wickedness.
Not only Hastings, all the men essayed me, whispered amorously into my headdress, squeezed me when they dared, or mouthed me when they caught me alone, promising wonderful things if only I would be kind. Some were difficult to repulse because I liked them and in their arms I’d feel my knees weaken and my nipples grow hard; yet, having had my warning with Simon, I managed to break away before I surrendered. There was the queen’s brother, swaggering Anthony Woodville, Lord Scales, who, like all the Woodvilles, hated Hastings. Men said he was a coward. He was no coward with women. On our first meeting as he kissed me he dipped his hand into my bosom, with all the court watching, and he laughed at my confusion when I beat him off. Whenever he glanced towards me I found it impossible not to smile, so mocking and so merry was his gaze, so blatant his lewd thoughts; and he cared not what he said to a woman, teasing me with bawdy and speaking with an openness that I had never heard before from a strange man. Yet he had his fascinations and I liked his company; I liked being made to feel uncomfortable and shy as a maid, while he tempted me with gold in his hand and the promise of rich dresses and jewels.
All the Woodvilles from the queen down were arrogant. Sir Richard Grey, a son by her first marriage, was like his uncle, Anthony, and gave me no peace; but I liked his uncle better. Opposing them were what I might call Hastings’ party, men who resented their upstart airs and plotted to destroy them. As the king had said, should he die suddenly there would be violence at court with only his brother, Richard, strong enough to keep the peace; and Richard at that time was fighting in Scotland.
