The Flawed Mistress (The Summerville Journals) (3 page)

   
He was a reasonably personable gentleman, a little stout perhaps but had he
been skinny he would have resembled that other one too much for comfort. 
He had blondish hair and blue eyes, and a slightly pimply complexion.

   
I resented the way I had been forced into this marriage, but I decided to try
to be a good wife, since it was obviously my fate to be the Countess of
Connaught
.  There could well be compensations though I
was really too young to consider what they might be.

   
The first time we met was in the church where we stood through a long and
complicated wedding mass, pledging our lives to one another.  He did not
speak to me at all, not until that night when the servants came along to take
me to his bedchamber, to wash me and undress me and put me into the bed to
await his pleasure.

   
That is when panic set in and the memories came flooding back. I closed my eyes
and could see again that horrible T shaped scar and hear the laughter. There
would be no pleasure in this night for
me, that
was
for certain.

   
When he eventually decided to join me, after a wait of some half hour during
which I had fallen asleep, he removed his clothing, climbed into the bed,
rubbed himself until he was ready then shoved himself into me, telling me to
lie still.  Then he left, leaving me to feel the pain all over again.

   
It was not long before the reason became apparent.  He wanted an heir and
it was believed that a woman should lie still to ensure a secure
pregnancy.  I did not tell him that I was probably not capable of
conceiving.  I might have, had he treated me with any sort of respect, but
I did not think that he deserved it.  I did not know then that had I told
him, I would have been given some peace, he would have had no further interest
in me.  I thought I was taking revenge, but all I was doing was prolonging
the agony.

   
I was married to a man who did not speak to me, did not do anything for me
except to make sure I was dressed in accordance with his rank. My clothing was
always beautiful and expensive, velvets and satins, cloth of silver, all in
shades that went well with my dark hair.

   
He presented me at court, but only because it was expected, while for my part I
hated every minute spent there.  I felt shy and inadequate and had nothing
to say. The Earl ignored me for the rest of the time, but every night he
performed his disgusting and painful ritual, every month he looked for signs of
a pregnancy I knew would not happen.  The knowledge gave me a sense of
satisfaction, a feeling of power over him.

   
When the King called for his courtiers to sign the Act of Supremacy, supporting
his claim to be the head of the church, His Lordship signed without
hesitation.  I presumed that religion meant little to him and he was not
about to risk his life for it, unlike Sir Thomas More who faced the executioner
rather than deny his beliefs.

   
Many people mourned Sir Thomas.  I had seen him once, at court.  He
was much loved and had a family, a wife, a son and daughters who cared more for
him than for the King.  His head went missing from its spike on Tower Bridge
and it was rumoured that it was his daughter, Margaret Roper who had climbed up
there during the night and taken it.

   
The Earl took me to court on a number of occasions, for various balls and
celebrations that the King gave and I could not help but notice that men looked
at me, took more notice of me than most of the women there.  I could also
not help but notice the smug look of satisfaction that those glances gave to
the Earl.  He was very pleased that his wife was considered such a lovely
creature, while I would rather have disappeared into the floor and let some
other woman have their attention.

   
I also noticed that the King himself gave me more than a passing glance or that
his Queen treated me to one of her disdainful, angry looks.  I would
really rather not attend any of these functions, but I had no choice. 
Even once when I feigned illness, I was still made to go.

   
I had been married to the Earl for a year or so when I decided that it was time
I established myself as a person, even though I did not have the confidence for
the task.  Surely it must have occurred to him by now that there would be
no child, so why did he bother to perform his ritual every night?  I could
not believe that he enjoyed it any more than I did myself.  I doubt it
caused him any pain though, which it did me.  I did not know then that it
was not painful for every woman, that it was my own special burden.  I
only wondered why God had made women so weak that they felt pain every time and
thought perhaps it was to be sure of their chastity.

   
“My Lord,” I said one night when he had finished with me.  “Can I ask a
question?”

   
He had climbed out of the bed, as always, to return to his own chamber and now
he looked down at me as though he had not realised that I could actually talk.
 He nodded his consent.

   
“What will happen if by some strange chance I should conceive a son?  Will
he also be taught that I am not worth talking to?”

   
He
frowned
a puzzled frown, as though not quite sure
of my meaning.

   
“It seems unlikely to happen
does
it not, so the
question is irrelevant.  I do not understand it anyway.”

   
“My uncle told you that I was not a virgin?”

   
“He did,” he replied stiffly.  “At the time I believed it would make the
physical side easier, you being so young.  But it seems not to be the case
as I still find it difficult.”

   
I laughed then, I could not help it.  Perhaps things would not be quite so
‘difficult’ if he bothered to treat me with any sort of affection.  I was
not about to reveal that it was ‘difficult’ because it hurt me so much.  I
would not ask for sympathy when I expected none.  But a frown of anger
crossed his brow;
  perhaps
he thought I was
laughing at him, and perhaps I was.

   
“Was your first wife treated the same as me?”  I asked him boldly.

   
“You will not speak of her,” he replied angrily, raising his voice.

   
I felt angry then and determined to wield a little power of my own.

   
“Did my uncle happen to mention how I lost my virginity?  Did it not occur
to you that it was uncommon in one so young?”

   
He started to shake his head slowly and I could see by his expression that he
was not looking forward to what I had to say.

   
"He told me you were assaulted, yes," he said slowly.

   
“I was raped, Sir, repeatedly,” I said firmly, “when I was a child.  The
physician told my uncle then that it was unlikely I would ever conceive.”

   
His eyes widened in shock and fury,
then
he bent down
and struck me across the face.

   
“Why did you not tell me yourself?”  He demanded angrily.

   
“It did not occur to me that you would want me to tell you anything, Sir,” I
replied with a little smirk.  I was glad he was angry, glad that I had
demolished his little idea of having an heir.  Perhaps now he would leave
me alone at night.

   
I know my expression made him even angrier and he grabbed my shoulders and
started to shake me, until I thought my neck would break.  Still I was not
afraid.  It seemed to me then that if he killed me, I would find a place
in heaven and put an end to all the horror of this life. Purgatory could be no
worse than this. After another hard slap he dropped me back on to the bed and
marched out of the room.  I never saw him again.

   
The Earl left the house the next morning and never returned.  I had a
visit from a lawyer, wanting to know the details of my marriage.  It
seemed that my husband was trying to find a way to get himself a divorce, but
that was one thing he could not buy.  The King had managed to get one;
perhaps he thought himself as important as the King.

   
I was fifteen when I became a widow for the first time, when word reached me
that the Earl had died after a fall from his horse.  I felt nothing except
a little concern that the King might marry me off to someone else, someone who
had some other use for me.

   
I had thought at least that now I would not have to depend upon a man to
survive, that the Earl would have left his fortune and house to me, but even in
that I was mistaken.  It seemed that he had left the bulk of his fortune
to a distant cousin and the house would also go to him when I no longer needed
it to live in.  So, even in death he was punishing me because of my
uncle's deception.

   
It was not long after his death that suitors began calling.  I have no
idea how they knew about me or where I lived, but it seemed that word had got
around court circles that the very beautiful Countess of
Connaught
was in need of a new husband.

   
The first one to call took me by surprise as I had not expected it.  The
servant showed him in, announced him as the Marquis of Davenport and brought
refreshments.  He was about forty years old with greying hair and many
wrinkles.  He also had a bulging abdomen that stuck out beneath his
doublet and a double chin.

   
 I was still naive, despite my experiences, and had no real idea of what
he wanted.

   
"My Lady," he said at once, taking my hand and kissing it.  I
could not avoid stiffening somewhat at his touch and I know he must have
noticed it but he chose to ignore it and kept hold of my hand.  "It
is true what they have been saying; you are very beautiful."

   
Once more those words transported me back to a dark carriage and a leering
stranger.  I pulled my hand away and indicated a seat, as far away from
mine as possible.

   
"I have come to offer my services, My Lady," he began.  "I
realise that you are recently widowed but enquiries have revealed that you have
no male relative on whom you can depend to help you through this sad
time."

   
"I have an uncle, Sir," I replied.

   
"So I have heard, but he cannot escort you to the palace and I have heard
you have no one else.  I was hoping we might become friends."

   
"I have
no need nor
desire to go to the
palace," I told him. 

   
He smiled benignly.  "You say that now, my dear, but you will soon
miss the gaiety and the excitement."

   
As always, nobody was interested in my wishes, only their
own.
 

   
"Who sent you, Sir?"  I demanded, feeling the tears spring to my
eyes.  "Who told you I might be in need of your services?"

   
I asked the question because I was sure it was Uncle Stephen, meddling in my
life again, trying to find me another title to marry.  I was shocked by
the Marquis' reply.

   
"His Majesty the King asked me to come," he replied proudly. 

   
"The King?
  Why?"

   
"My wife died a few months ago and His Majesty was kind enough to think of
you as a possible match.  I know you are recently widowed and it is too
early to think of such things, but I thought it best to introduce myself before
some other fellow snapped you up."

   
I could scarcely believe my ears.  Was I to spend all my life at the beck
and call of every man whose attention I caught?  I stood quickly and went
to the door, where I called for Alice, my senior maidservant.

   
"You will leave, please Sir," I told the Marquis.  "You may
thank His Majesty for his concern, but inform him that I have no intention of
marrying again, ever."

   
He shook his head slowly and
smiled,
a smile that told
me he did not take me seriously, that I was in mourning and would soon come
round to his way of thinking.

   
Of course, my wishes were of no importance to anyone.  More titled
gentlemen appeared at my door, some young, some old, but all with those same
words on their lips:  "You are very beautiful," and that same
lascivious look in their eyes.

   
Not a single one of them seemed to notice how I hated to hear that; perhaps
they all believed it was modesty that made me cringe away from them, made me
stiffen when they touched my hand.

   
Eventually, I told the servants to refuse admittance to anyone.  I cared
nothing for
custom,
I cared not that it might be
uncivil.  I just wanted to be left alone.

***

   
I had heard rumours that the King’s marriage to Queen Anne was not all he had
wanted, that she had failed to give him a son just like Queen Katherine and
that he spent little time with her now.  I heard from servants’ gossip
that he had returned to his mistresses, but it was just of passing interest to
me.  What King Henry did was of no concern of mine, so long as he forgot
my existence and left me in peace.

   
I was denied my wish.  Only a few weeks after the death of my husband, the
King sent for me to attend him late at night. 

CHAPTER
THREE

   
My first reaction was to refuse, but I knew that would never be allowed. 
There was a servant from the palace standing in my bedchamber and waiting for
me to give him an answer, but why I could not imagine since there was only one
answer that would be accepted.

   
I had heard that this was what happened when a woman had attracted the King. 
I had also heard that Queen Anne had refused the king’s attention and that had
resulted in his interest growing.  But she had been the niece of the Duke
of Norfolk, a much more important lady than I. That is how she became Queen.

   
Better to accept my fate, as I had accepted my fate on many occasions, than to
tread such a dangerous path as her.  I had no desire to be Queen, or
mistress, but if they were my choices I would choose the latter.  A far
safer option I would have thought.

   
So I dressed and followed the palace servant to his waiting coach.  Inside
the King’s chamber my heart began to hammer loudly.  I had hoped that when
my husband had died I would be left in
peace, that
I
would be allowed to hide away in his London
house and not attract the attention of any man.  This beauty that they all
said I had was a cruel curse and no mistake.  Sometimes I felt like
slashing my face with a knife, so that no man would ever want me again. 
If only I had the courage!

   
This man who approached me was old by my standards, but I had been subjected to
old men before. He was a big man though, heavily built, with striking red hair
and an easy smile on his tiny mouth.  I felt that there was more behind
that smile though, as it did not reach his eyes and that he was so used to
getting his own way, his anger would be dreadful if he were refused anything.
 Queen Anne must be a braver woman than I.  There were rumours that
he was a great lover, although I was really not sure what they meant. 
What did a man have to do to be a great lover?

   
He was holding out his hand to me, waiting for me to take it, and I cursed the
tears that began to gather as I gave him a deep curtsey before taking that
hand.  I was shaking, my heart hammering, my legs trembling.

   
“My dear,” he said.  “Do not be afraid.  You are so very
beautiful,
it would be a shame to spoil such beauty with
tears would it not?”

   
Those words again; and they sounded no better coming from royal lips.

   
“Yes, your majesty,” I replied, not knowing what else to say.

   
“Come, sit beside me and tell me all about
yourself
,”
the King said gently, leading me to a settle before the fire.

   
Tell him about myself?  Why, I thought, would he want to know?  I
could not remember a time in my life when any man had wanted me to say
anything, so why would this illustrious one wish to know?  Of course, he
did not really have any interest in my life;
  it
was just a rouse to get me to relax and he would never remember what I told him
in the morning.

   
“There is nothing to say, your majesty,” I replied. 

   
I could think of nothing else to say.  I had not had the practice at
conversation that another woman might have had and I hoped that this flaw in my
character might make him leave me alone, but it was not to be.

   
“That is all right,” he replied.  “I like a woman who is mysterious.”

   
Then he leaned toward me and kissed my lips.  I had never been kissed by a
man before, never, and it was an odd experience.  His lips were wet and
his breath stank, and I wanted to wipe my mouth on my sleeve but dare
not.  I knew there were worse things to come so was unsurprised when his
hand started to crawl up my skirts.  I tried to curl myself into an
imaginary ball, but it did not work, did not make him realise how I hated his
hands on me or if it did, he did not care.  His only interest, like all
men, was what he wanted.

   
He took my hand again and led me to the bed, where he started to remove my
clothing.  I had not experienced this before; I had always had to be
waiting in the bed, already naked.  I found the experience embarrassing in
the extreme, reminding me bitterly of my tenth birthday.  I started to cry
again, but it did not seem to have much
affect
.

   
“I think you being so shy
is
charming,” he said
softly. 
“Such a refreshing change.”

   
So there would be no escape no matter what I did.  Once I stood naked
before him he lifted me into his arms and placed me in the bed.  He took
off his own clothes then and climbed in beside me,
then
he began to run his hands over my breast and thighs.  Once more I was ten
years old and
helpless,
once more I was in pain and
terror.  I began to sob but it did not stop him, not till he had finished
with me while I just lie still as I had been taught.

   
He said nothing else, merely left me to get dressed.  A servant came in to
help lace my bodice then I was taken back to the waiting coach and delivered
back to the house.  Once there, I climbed into bed and cried myself to
sleep, wondering if there were any life for me, wondering why God had chosen to
make me look like this if all it brought was heartache.

   
It seemed that I had disappointed the King as he did not send for me a second
time and for that I was grateful.  I had little to do with my time, my
late husband having left a pension for me as long as I stayed unmarried, which
would be a lifetime if I had my way. 

   
I rarely left the house.  Wherever I went I attracted the stares of both
men and women, men with a lecherous leer and women with a haughty
vindictiveness which hurt even more.  I felt happier just staying at
home.  I had no wish to go to court, no wish to attract the further
attention of the King, nor the jealousy of his Queen who was no longer in
favour.  He had got rid of one Queen so why not this one too?

   
But he had no excuse to divorce
Anne,
there was no
saying that it was not a valid marriage as he had done with Queen
Katherine.  I had a feeling she would not go quietly, but in the meantime
the servants’ gossip told me that the King was already pursuing another.

   
I only found out what was going on by listening at doors.  Since the only
person in my life who had ever talked to me and listened to me was my mother,
and since she had been dead now for almost six years, it is what I had become
accustomed to.  It never occurred to me to actually ask anybody, even the
servants.

   
I remember the day of Queen Anne’s execution as vividly as I recall my tenth
birthday.  I would not have believed it possible that someone who had
caused such a major upheaval as a change of religion in the
land,
could be brought to nothing at the whim of one man.

   
She had been convicted of many crimes, witchcraft, adultery, even incest with
her own brother, and now she would face the executioner.  I was not alone
in believing that her only crime had been ambition, had been in thinking she
could oust the rightful Queen and take her place.  Her avarice had been
her downfall.

   
It was said that a swordsman had been sent from France to cut off her head, as a concession
to the love the King had once had for her.  If that was love, I could well
live without it.  I was very glad that I had disappointed the King and not
become his next great attraction.