I have to admit: it was fun.
Overnight I'd been transformed from an innocent little girl from the country to the future wife of the richest man in England, and suddenly I was not only visible, but actually within the notice of people who had, only a week ago, looked straight through me. I don't think people were necessarily any harsher back then, it's just the way things were: you were either in the elite set of incredibly elegant, wealthy aristocrats charged with the near-impossible task of upholding the establishment...or you weren't.
Suddenly, I could get drunk and sleep all day and through hissy fits like a spoilt child, and nobody could stop me, because I was better than they were. That's how it felt anyway. And like I said: it was fun. Lots of fun, actually, spending nights out with courtesans and ambassadors and libertines, getting wasted on red wine (I realise that now that sounds incredibly tame, but at the time I swear this was actually scandalous) and gossipping about anyone with the misfortune not to be Us. William seemed to like it. Part of it, at least, was an act to impress him, try and keep him from realising he'd made a terrible mistake and that I really, really was sophisticated and exotic, and not the stupidly innocent farm-girl I was going to be unmasked as. I was a rock star, and falling was inevitable.
Having said that, there were still rules: you could get drunk, you could gamble, you could gossip 'till you'd ruined the reputations of the rest of the upper set - but you still went to mass on Sunday, and you didn't, under any circumstances, do anything that might endanger the unquestioned superiority of the elite. Like having pre-marital sex, for example.
Which proved problematic about a month after I moved back to Nottingham.
It was William who decided my going home would be a good idea. After all, now I had secured myself a husband - practically, anyway - what was the point of staying in the uncomfortable savageness of court? It seemed a sensible plan, really. And after all, what was the point of getting all sophisticated and elegant if you couldn't rub it in the faces of all your old friends?
The first time I saw Nottingham again...it was a bit like going back to the school you went to as a child, and finding everything the same, but somehow smaller, changed. Of course back then I had nothing to compare it to, and all it was...was strange beyond telling.
The first night in my own bed proved even lonelier than my first in London. With no bossy older brother marching around belching out orders nobody paid very much attention to, no drunk father staggering through the halls with his charmingly boorish mannerisms, no cocky stable-boy to flirt with - everything seemed empty and pointless. It was the first time I really felt my heart break. And it did, slowly. So slowly. In London, I could somehow pretend Rob was at at alive, okay, that one day everything would go back to the carelessness of our childhood, and life would be rainbows and butterflies, same as it ever was. Returning home just made me realise that had gone, the hair-pulling and mutual teasing and telling tales. Rob was gone, whisked off to fight wars and be a hero. Maybe dead. Maybe married...some nice peasant girl he'd met over there or on the way back.
But somehow I could never quite picture Rob settled down in some tavern somewhere, five kids and a dog.
I suppose it wouldn't have been so bad if William had been there - not living with me, imagine that now - but in the same city, but most of the time he was down in London, fawning over John or ...actually I'm not entirely sure what being the sheriff of Nottingham entailed. Fawning over John seemed a reasonable enough job description. Anyway. Women weren't supposed to understand men, everyone knew that. God. It wasn't like I expected William to know about embroidery or hairpins. Anyway, he'd visit every few weeks, and bring me presents, which dismissed any doubts I didn't have straight away.
It was on one of those visits that my chasity and good Catholic morals were tested for the first time.
It was at Mabel De Belleme's harvest ball, and I was feeling smug that once upon a time I thought these little gatherings were the social event of the season. When I was married I might invite her along to one of my balls...show her what a party was supposed to be.
Anyway, I was showing a few girls my age how to get drunk - something I was terribly good at (yeah. I realise now how much of a dumbass I must have looked, slugging back cider like I was all gangsta) - when William came and whispered in my ear how beautiful the orchard was, and wouldn't it be lovely if we went outside?
Do I really have to say I ditched my friends and followed him out there like an obedient puppy?
He was right, though. The orchard was fairly beautiful, in the first throws of autumn, all dark green and gold, the smell of tart apples looming on the breeze. It was also quite conveniently far from the castle, and any prying eyes from the holier-than-thou brigade.
He ran his hand through my hair, told me how beautiful I looked. And then he tried to - look shocked - kiss me. I know that sounds incredibly stupid and slightly disappointing...but you have to understand I pretty much thought kissing got you pregnant. One thing against the middle ages: nobody was too big on sex ed. Which is when I pulled a Hester-Worsley style tantrum, "Stop...Someone will see..."
"Shhh, we're fine. Nobody's going to come out here."
"Stop it."
"Make me." I don't think he meant it in an aggressive way, and I don't think I even took it like that. I just didn't want to loose my virginity up against a tree ten foot away from a hall full of people.
Hand on breast. Boot in private area.
Man on floor, moaning in agony.
Even then, I was kind of sensitive about people taking advantage. Without another word, I went back inside, thanked Lady Belleme for a delightful evening, and left.