Nicola Cornick - The Phantom Tree

Alison, 1560

She awoke to find Edward touching her. He insisted that she sleep naked for this very purpose, so that she was always available to him, even though sometimes she lay awake for hours shivering in the cold. Even when he did not come to her she was obliged to remain uncovered in case he should decide to visit her bed after a night spent carousing on the town. He would roll in, his breath smelling of wine, and demand that she open her thighs for him. No preamble, no words of love. At least when he was not drunk he made some pretence at arousing her first.

His hands swept over her breasts and down across the curve of her stomach. She felt nothing, nothing but an anger that grew with each day. She wanted to go to the privy but she did not dare leave the bed.

She had been such a fool. She should have run away when she had the chance that day in Marlborough. She would have survived somehow. At the time she had told herself it was all for the best; as Edward’s kept mistress she lacked for nothing. She had had the baby to consider as well. It was vital that she protected them both. She had thought Edward would do that.

How she regretted her weakness now she was so demeaned, helpless, of no account. Edward rolled on top of her. It was all over quickly and clumsily. With the amount of wenching he indulged in, she would have expected him to be more proficient by now. Odd how it had all seemed so enchanting before Arthur had been born. She had been in love with him then though.

He stood up, leaving her lying splayed on the bed, the cold air washing over her.

‘You return to Wolf Hall today,’ he said.

She gaped at him.

He shrugged on his robe and poured wine for himself, refusing to look at her. Outside, the chatter and clatter of London was all around but Alison heard nothing of it. Her head buzzed.

‘I am to wed.’ He was still avoiding her gaze. A line of colour stung his cheek beneath the beard.

She felt as though she could not breathe. Had she really thought that he would marry her? Had she still dared to hope for it? How much more of a fool could she be, when he had refused to acknowledge her, hidden her away, bound her to silence, taken her son away?

She dragged the covers over her, her entire body chilled. ‘Who is she?’

He shook his head. ‘I cannot tell you. It is a secret.’

More secrets. They ruled him. She wondered if he had asked the Queen’s permission or if that was where the difficulty lay.

Stubborn hope lifted in her heart though. Perhaps this was a political match and after a little while he would send for her again. In the same moment she felt fury, with herself, with him. How much more misuse would she accept? She could no longer fool herself that this was best for her—or for her child.

‘In a few months I will find you a husband too, give you a dowry.’ He was looking eager now, almost pleading. ‘Someone who is…’ He stopped.

Not too particular? Alison thought savagely. Prepared to accept his discarded mistress if the pill was sweetened with enough money? She could not pretend any longer. There was a bitter taste on her tongue. She had chosen this, humiliated herself for a security for herself and her son that had proved an illusion.

‘What about Arthur?’ She made herself ask although she already knew the answer. Arthur had been taken from her as soon as he had been born. For a little while, Edward had indulged the pretence that she would see him again when he was weaned. It was the way things were done, he said. She was a lady not a wet nurse.

The truth was that he had wanted her all for himself. She had been his plaything and the child had been a nuisance. Now Edward no longer wanted either of them. So she had go.

‘Arthur stays with me,’ Edward said.

Alison clutched the sheet a little tighter.

‘But I will see him?’ she said. She could hear the begging in her voice.

‘It’s better you do not.’

Her fingers ached from her grip on the sheet. She did not notice. Her head ached too, a sharp stabbing pain behind the eyes, but she blinked it back trying to concentrate.

‘Better for whom?’

Edward looked surprised. ‘For Arthur, of course. I will place him in a noble household when the time comes. He will want for nothing.’

Except a name and a mother’s love , Alison thought. The pain had spread to her throat now. It felt like a blade that threatened to cut her if she swallowed. Her chest was too tight.

‘It will be better for you too.’ Edward refilled his cup. Some wine splashed, red as old blood. ‘It will be a new start.’

Fury spurted up in her that he thought her memories, her love for her child, could be so easily discarded. The callous arrogance of it stole her breath.

‘You mean that my new husband would hardly want to be saddled with another man’s by-blow as a constant reminder of his wife’s lack of chastity,’ she said.

Edward looked shocked, more so at her crudity than the sentiment. He did not reply.

Alison sat up and reached for her robe, needing to protect herself against the thought, against her lover, against her own weakness. She felt powerless. If she went against Edward’s will he would throw her out onto the street as carelessly as a pile of rags, justifying his actions by accusing her of ingratitude. But she would never give Arthur up. As well rip her heart out. Nor would she marry a man of Edward’s choosing. She had absolutely no intention of being parcelled off to some yeoman farmer in order to tidy her away. She was a gentleman’s daughter even if he was long dead and she had come down in the world.

Now was not the time to show defiance though. She would need to be cunning and bide her time. And she would need to be brave too and show more backbone than she had done so far.

‘It will be pleasant to see Wiltshire again, I suppose.’ She forced the words out. ‘Though I shall miss you, my love.’

He looked gratified and bent to kiss her. The contempt rose in her throat. He was so gullible.

‘I shall need some new clothes.’ She pressed her advantage.

‘You will have a trousseau ere long.’ He was not as much of a fool as he looked.

‘Just one new gown for winter.’ She busied herself about the room, looking, planning. How much could she take with her to Wolf Hall? Edward would probably be quite generous if she were prepared to go quietly and would overlook the odd item that went missing, though her thefts would have to be small. A few silver dress pins, the pomander encrusted with emeralds, perhaps even his gold crucifix since it was a sign of nothing but his hypocrisy. It was not as though he had ever been generous with gifts. He owed it to her. And one day soon it would enable her to make a new start.

She had nothing. She felt her shoulders slump as despair took her. She was less than nothing. But this misery was why she had not had the courage to leave him before. It cast her down when she most needed to be strong. It would not win this time. She had had enough of being used and she wanted something better.

‘I shall be ready to leave within the week,’ she said, and was rewarded with another quick, clumsy kiss, the prize for being complaisant. When he took a purse out of his pocket and extracted a few gold coins, she felt a flash of triumph.

This was where it began. This was where she started to take back.

Mary, December 1560

That winter, Alison came back. She had changed. I think perhaps I had imagined that she would not return. She had slipped from my mind like a wraith, lost beneath the detail of day-to-day life until suddenly one frosty morning she was standing by the bare hawthorn hedge, one hand on the gate, wearing a new woollen riding hood of orange tawny. She saw me and smiled, half raising a hand in greeting before she pushed open the gate and came up the path towards me.