Emily Purdy - The Tudor Wife

‘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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