Northumberland, my father says, is rarely far from the King’s side these days. Something ominous is in the air, and today a messenger in the royal livery came cantering to Syon, although I don’t know what his errand was.
I am still a little frail after my illness and spend my days reading in the great parlor, or strolling with Mrs. Ellen through the beautiful gardens that Somerset planted. The roses are in bloom just now, and I savor their heady scent, and the sensual whisper of the warm breeze on my face.
It is late afternoon, and the sun is a golden ball slowly moving westward. As we are about to return to the house for supper, we espy two horsemen trotting through the main gates.
“It’s Lord Guilford,” I say, startled. I have not seen him since our wedding day, and I have not missed him, either. What could he possibly be doing here? The other rider is obviously a manservant, for he wears the Dudley livery.
Guilford sees us and waves, reining in his horse.
“Good day, my lady!” he calls. “I hope I find you better.”
I dip a brief curtsy. “Much improved, sir, I thank you,” I reply politely. “What brings you here?”
He dismounts and walks toward me, a lean, graceful figure in tawny velvet.
“You may go,” he says curtly, addressing Mrs. Ellen. Startled by his rudeness, I shoot her a pleading look that begs her to remain within earshot, and she quietly withdraws into the next garden, behind a high box hedge.
Guilford looks down at me. He is so tall, and his eyes are very blue. Reluctantly I find myself admiring his perfect features, even while reminding myself that I have no cause to admire his character.
“I came, my lady, at my parents’ behest. Were you not informed?”
“I know nothing,” I answer in some bewilderment.
“Oh. I thought you were waiting for me.” He seems at a loss for words.
“Of what should I have been informed?” I ask in mounting trepidation, for I begin to think I can guess the answer.
Guilford draws a deep breath. “That we are to consummate our marriage,” he says with an odious leer. “I am to make a true wife of you. My father says the King wishes it, and your parents have agreed.”
There is a silence while I try to compose my thoughts, which are now plunged into fearful turmoil.
“I did not know,” I stammer at length. “I am unprepared. They should have told me. And I’ve not been well. This is impossible!”
He looks at me in dismay. “But my father sent a messenger.”
“I am unprepared. They said nothing.” He must be able to detect the panic in my voice: I sound to myself like a trapped animal.
“There is nothing to fear. I would not hurt you. Trust me.” He tilts my chin upward with his fingers and our eyes meet. I feel myself flushing. Again I think, how handsome he is! And how I wish I liked him better. Then I reprove myself for going over to the enemy. But he
is
very good-looking, and for the first time he seems disposed to be kind.
Young as I am, I have learned, over the years, to accept the hand that Fate has dealt me, even if I occasionally rail against it. My situation could be a lot worse. I have heard of girls wedded to graybeards who can do little in bed save indecently paw their young wives, while yet expecting those same wives to bear them sons. At least I will not have to suffer an old man’s caresses. Instead, my duty bids me submit to this fine-looking youth, whom Fate has set in absolute authority over me as my husband. Many girls would envy me, I make no doubt, but they are not the kind of girls who look beyond a beautiful face and a muscular body. What irks me most is that I have been sold for gain, and I cannot help my resentment running high.
Guilford is watching my face and has the wit to read my conflicting emotions. Tenderly, to my surprise, he bends and kisses me on the mouth.
Supper in the evening is a horribly embarrassing occasion. My parents have welcomed Guilford warmly, obviously aware of the purpose of his visit. For my part, I cannot forgive them for keeping me in the dark. During the meal, which we take in the private parlor, they make excruciating bawdy innuendos and jokes. I squirm when my father, seeing me blush, observes that I am lucky to have been spared a public bedding ceremony.
“Unlike your mother and me.” He winks, expansive with good wine. “They stripped us naked in front of all the company.”
“Don’t remind me,” says my lady. “I thought I should die for shame. And then they returned an hour later with the loving cup and demanded to know if we had performed the act. They even inspected the sheets.”
Guilford is sitting there smirking. I wish I were anywhere else.
It is an utter relief when the cloth is lifted and spiced wine and wafers are set out in honor of the occasion. We all raise our goblets in a toast, then my lord claps Guilford on the back.
“To your labors, my boy! Do your duty and provide me with a brace of grandsons!”
My mother leads me to the state bedchamber, which has been made ready for the occasion, and helps Mrs. Ellen disrobe me and dress me in a beautiful chemise of white silk embroidered in gold. My long hair is brushed until it shines, then spread becomingly over my shoulders as I lie in the vast bed, which is hung with painted oriental curtains and spread with herb-scented lawn sheets and a counterpane embellished with the Dudley arms. I rest on the pillow stony-faced as my mother kisses me—a rare occurrence—and departs with Mrs. Ellen.
All the lurid female gossip I have ever heard about virgins being deflowered has surfaced in my head, and I am doing my best not to panic or burst into tears. Once, one of my mother’s ladies said the pain was so great that she had screamed out loud, and even then her husband had not been able to penetrate her, though he went repeatedly to the assault like a battering ram to the siege-tower, she shrieking in agony every time.
Please, God, I pray, let it not be like that for me.
Guilford, clad in a red velvet nightgown, places the candle on the table and smiles uncertainly at me.
“Blow it out,” I whisper.
“No. I want to see you,” he says with that leer, pacing toward the bed and throwing off his nightgown to the floor. I have never seen a naked man before and lower my eyes, not daring to look at the virile nudity so blatantly displayed before me. He climbs in beside me, taking me in his arms and kissing me hard on the mouth. The feel of his bare flesh is a shock to me.
“Take off your shift,” he orders, his voice hoarse. Mutely I obey. Snuggling down under the covers, I unlace the ribbons threaded through the bodice and wriggle out of the garment, thrusting it under my pillow, ready for when I can put it on again. I am desperate with embarrassment, but Guilford allows me no vestige of modesty. He wrenches back the bedclothes and exposes not only my nakedness, but also his own. I close my eyes for shame.
“Look at me,” he insists. “Look at me, Jane.”
“I cannot,” I whisper.
For answer, he grabs my hand and guides it to his erect penis. Startled, I open my eyes and am again shocked at what I see and feel. It seems to have a life of its own, for it throbs and swells at my touch. It is horribly big.
Guilford starts touching me, fingering me hastily from breast to thigh.
“Squeeze me,” he demands, breathing heavily. “Go on! Hard!”
Timidly, I venture a squeeze.
“Harder!” he rasps. “Harder!”
My hand tightens. His manhood is taut beneath it. I cannot believe how large it has become and draw my fingers away involuntarily.
“Will it not hurt me?” I whisper fearfully. He makes no reply. He has gone red in the face, and it is as if he is no longer truly aware of me. It is only my body that he wants, as he writhes against me, rubbing me vigorously and panting with increasing fervor. His strength is fearsome: I cry out as he jabs me with an elbow, but he takes no notice. Suddenly he leans up on one forearm and pushes my legs apart with his free hand. His fingers boldly explore the secret place between them, briefly caressing every crevice, then suddenly, brutally, thrust inside me. A hot splinter of agony pierces my core, and with unwilling tears spilling down my cheeks, I use all my strength to pull his hands away, but he is too strong, too insistent, forcing his fingers farther inside, invading, probing, and wounding.
“Hold me!” he grunts, mercifully withdrawing his hand and clamping mine to his pulsating member, which seems even bigger than before. He is in a passion of excitement, an animal with only its primeval urge to satisfy. “Let go, you bitch,” he snarls, pulling my hand away. “Not now.” Then he mounts me, heaving himself on top of me and violently forcing his penis into me. Deeper and deeper he thrusts, and the pain is terrible, sharp and stabbing. I would be screaming, but he has rammed his lips close on mine, and I can only whimper and squeal, squirming beneath him, almost suffocating, and praying for him to stop. But he is jerking against me, slamming into me faster and faster, hurting me savagely, yet intent only on his own pleasure. Then suddenly, mercifully, he ceases his awful thrusting, tenses, and holds still, clutching me painfully tightly and gasping in what seems like agony. I feel him pumping his seed into me before he slumps on me, his erection slowly subsiding.
The torment ended, I lie entangled with him, ravished, violated, unbearably sore, not daring to move. Is it of this that the poets write such heavenly verse? How could any woman ever achieve pleasure from such brutal couplings? And, oh, dear God, will I have to endure it again?
To my astonishment, Guilford is smiling sleepily at me, his face close to mine on the pillow. He is still lying across me, heavy, hairy, and sweaty, and I can hardly breathe.
“That was good,” he mutters hoarsely. “Very good. You were so tight. I could feel every sensation.”
I cannot speak, I am so distressed. The pain inside my female parts is an agony.
Guilford frowns. “What’s wrong with you?”
“It was horrible!” I burst out, tears welling up. “Horrible. Worse than they told me. You hurt me.” I am weeping uncontrollably. “You hurt me. Oh, oh.”
“For Christ’s sake, it couldn’t have been that bad,” he says, as if I am making a fuss about nothing. This makes me cry all the more pitifully.
Guilford rolls off me and lies staring up at the tester. The sheets are in a tangle and he is obscenely exposed, flaccid now, damp. There is blood on his penis. My blood.
I pull the covers around me and curl up into a ball, facing away from him. I am sobbing my heart out, but he makes no move to comfort me.
“What on earth is wrong with you?” he asks impatiently. “God, what a little misery you are. I should have guessed you’d be like this. Or perhaps you don’t fancy me and would prefer to be fucking that sex-starved tutor of yours.”
That is beyond enduring.
“How dare you insult me so!” I cry.
“You are my wife, God help me. I’ll use you as I think fit. Now pull yourself together and stop sniveling.”
I respond to this by breaking into a further torrent of weeping.
“Oh, go fuck yourself!” he swears, and flings himself across the bed, dragging all the covers with him. I lie naked, exposed and vulnerable, and scrabble under my pillow for my chemise. But Guilford is too quick for me. His face blazing with anger and something else, he rears up to his knees, seizes my hands in a grip of iron, and forces them back on the pillow. This renders me helpless, which immediately, and strangely, has the most unfortunate effect on him. His expression changes to a lustful contortion, and kneeling over me, he begins roughly sucking my breasts, kneading them with one hand and gripping his member with the other.
“No!”
I scream, pushing him backward with all my might.
He slaps me on the cheek. “Yes!” he roars. “You will serve my pleasure. Whenever I like, and as often as I like.” He is above me now, forcing my legs apart with his knees, then driving into me again with a violent urgency. The pain is white-hot, knife-sharp, but my husband is relentless in his lust and ignores my pitiful cries.
“You will obey me, you bitch!” he gasps, shuddering to a climax.
I have died, I think, and gone to Hell.
For hours I lie awake at the edge of the bed, as far from Guilford as possible, steeped in misery. Eventually, sheer exhaustion sends me off to sleep. When I awaken, he has gone and it is morning. Gingerly I sit up, inspecting my bruised body. Dried blood is on the sheets.
By the time Mrs. Ellen comes in to dress me, I have made myself decent, but she must see from my face how distressed I am, for she makes the rare gesture of putting her arms around me to comfort me, something she has not done since I left childhood behind. Somehow she knows I cannot talk about what has happened to me, not even to her.
“All right now, my lamb?” she says, handing me my shift.
If anyone in the household heard me cry out in anguish in the night, they do not betray it by word or look. I am unable to sit, stand, or walk without discomfort and eat my breakfast by sheer effort of will, hiding my inner despair. What has been done to me is too shameful, too awful, for words, and my pride forbids me to disclose it to anyone. I feel dirty and sullied.
Guilford, Mrs. Ellen tells me, departed at first light, apparently eager to get back to Greenwich. He dares not face me, I think. Even my mother and father are looking at me with concern.
My lady takes me aside. “I take it your marriage has been consummated?”
I can only nod. I cannot speak of it.
“I hope, then, that you will soon find yourself pregnant. Then you might settle down to a more normal life and dwell a little less upon intellectual matters. I’m beginning to wonder if we made a mistake in educating you so well. It has given you unnatural ideas and made you discontented with your lot. Well, no matter—you will soon learn where your true duty lies.”
I am bereft, remembering a world I have lost, and to which I can never return. The very idea of pregnancy fills me with fear. Pregnancy and childbirth are hazardous matters, to which I have now laid myself open, albeit unwillingly. Like the rest of womankind, I must risk my life to provide my husband with heirs. Within a year, I realize with horror, I could be dead.