Her Highness, the Traitor (17 page)

Had someone told me in the summer of 1552 that it would be the last one I would spend at Bradgate, I surely would have lived it differently. I would not have passed my days indoors, sewing or listening to music or reading or playing cards, for those were things I could do anywhere. Instead, I would have spent my days in our gardens and in our parks, breathing in the sweet fragrance none of our other properties, no matter how grand, could match. I would have sat on the grounds at dusk and watched the rays of the dying sun cast a mellow glow upon the red brick walls of the manor house. I would have taken off my stockings and waded through the cool streams like a young girl, and tried to see if I could balance myself on the thick log that had fallen across one of them. I would have said a last good-bye to my little Henry, sleeping in the chapel with his father’s ancestors. But no one around me could foretell the future, so I spent that summer like any other.

It was indeed a rather ordinary summer. Harry was with the king on his progress through his southern estates. Jane was devoting herself to her latest course of study, learning Hebrew, and had quite pushed Plato aside, which I thought would undoubtedly have annoyed that august gentleman. Twelve-year-old Kate was rapidly developing into a young woman, and a very pretty one at that; it was clear she would be the family beauty. To her mixed irritation and pride, she had started her monthly courses. Mary, at seven, was the size of a girl two years younger, but she was perfectly intelligent and could sew almost as well as I could. For myself, I enjoyed paying and receiving visits from my various friends and relations.

In early August, my stepmother was one of my visitors. The last time I had seen her, soon after the death of my brothers, she had been almost immobile with grief and shock. Now, no longer wearing mourning for her two sons, she had gone further and put on an elegant green gown, which made her look younger and more handsome than she had appeared in several years. “There is something I must tell you, and I won’t dawdle about it,” she said before she had barely cleared the threshold of my private chamber. “I am remarrying.”

I mentally surveyed all of the eligible single men and widowers among the nobility. No name came instantly to mind: all I could summon up were either too old, too young, too poor, too Catholic, too remotely situated, too testy, or (it had to be admitted) too homely.

“Don’t trouble yourself,” Katherine said, seeing my difficulty. “I am marrying Master Bertie.”

I goggled at her. Richard Bertie was Katherine’s gentleman usher, who had handled her business affairs since the death of my father. An Oxford graduate, he was unquestionably a clever and trustworthy man of business, but… “Master Bertie?” I said stupidly.

“No doubt you are going to tell me that he is not of my station, that he aspires to my hand only for my wealth, and that I am disgracing my title by marrying him.”

“I—”

“Well, I say fie on that! Master Bertie is a gentleman of good abilities and unimpeachable character, who has been kindness itself since my poor boys were called to God. Why shouldn’t I marry him? It is true, as you say, that he is meanly born—”

“Katherine! I haven’t had a chance to say anything yet,” I protested. “You are carrying on this argument quite adequately all by yourself.”

“True,” Katherine admitted.

“But I must admit I am shocked. With your beauty and wealth—”

“I could marry a man who would perish on the scaffold. I want no nobleman who will involve himself in this miserable business of running England. I want only to be left to enjoy my estates in peace, and perhaps to bear more children. Master Bertie can help me do the first most adequately, I have learned, and as for the second, I shall be quite happy to find out. I have been lonely since your father died, for all my resources, and I shall be glad enough to have a pair of warm feet in bed next to me once again.”

“Have you asked permission of the king?”

“Yes. I have not received a reply yet, but he is on that progress of his. I have no doubt that he—or that is, Northumberland—will approve the match, unless perchance Northumberland was minded to marry me to one of that brood of his. And that I think most unlikely, given the young ages of his sons. Now that I think of it, actually, I am surprised that Northumberland hasn’t tried to match up your Jane or Kate with one of his boys. Is Harry arranging a match for your Jane?”

“Not that I know of.” I found that although Jane was certainly of a marriageable age, I did not want to think of the matter of her wedding, of my girl lying in a stranger’s bed. “But we are getting off the topic. How did Master Bertie propose to you?”

“Well, as a matter of fact, I asked him to marry me. Oh, it wasn’t quite as bold an undertaking as you might expect. He’d been making sheep’s eyes at me for some time, although in the most discreet and proper way.”

I snorted with laughter.

“In light of our positions, I suppose he just couldn’t come out and ask, as a man of my own station might do. So I finally just called him to me on business, and after we had finished discussing the revenues of Grimsthorpe, I said, ‘Master Bertie, have you ever considered marrying me?’ And he admitted that he had. And so it was all arranged.”

“What if he had said no?”

“Oh, I doubt he would have dared,” said Katherine cheerfully. She smiled. “But I would have been very sorry if he had. For the truth is, I love him.”

***

Soon after Katherine left us, we moved to our house at Sheen, not far from London. No sooner had we arrived than it began to rain constantly, keeping us confined inside. When a clear morning finally dawned, therefore, I was eager to venture out for a ride, especially as I had developed a headache. My daughters were as restless as I was. Even Jane asked that her horse be brought out.

The fresh air, however, did nothing to ease the pain in my head. Instead, the ache spread to the rest of my body, and I found myself having to think about the simplest details of riding my horse, as if I were a novice.

“Mother?”

I blinked. “What, Jane?”

“I asked if Father had told you when he might be coming here.” Jane looked at me more closely. “Are you unwell?”

“It will pass.” I clutched the pommel of my saddle as a wave of dizziness suddenly overtook me. “If we can just rest for a moment—”

Jane brought her horse to a halt. “My lady mother is ill,” she called. “We must turn back.”

“It is really not—”

“Now,” said Jane.

Master Stokes, who had been riding a little ahead of us with my daughter Mary, wheeled around. In almost a single motion, he dismounted his own horse and swung himself onto mine, taking the reins as I slumped back against his shoulder.

***

By the time Master Stokes carried me into my chamber, I was burning with fever and had a sharp pain in my chest. “Don’t disturb Harry,” I begged as my ladies stripped me of my clothing. “He is so busy on the king’s affairs, and he will be annoyed if he is called for nothing.”

In hours, however, I was past caring if Harry, or anyone else, was called or not. I saw figures that I vaguely knew were my daughters and servants, and I was conscious of people giving me physic from time to time, but otherwise, I was oblivious to all that went on about me.

At some point, I felt someone stroking my hair, followed by the pressure of a large hand on mine.
The
Lord
himself
, I thought dreamily, and drifted off into a tranquil sleep. When I woke, the hand was still upon mine, and my mind felt clear. I blinked. “Harry?”

“The one and the same, my dear.”

“You came.”

“Of course I came. They told me you were ill. Indeed, we thought you would die. The chaplains have been praying for you, day and night. The girls have been miserable, worrying about you.”

“Even Jane?”

“Especially Jane. She’s worn herself out, tending you.”

“I am glad to hear that. I mean—”

“I know what you mean.” Harry lifted his hand from mine and patted me on the cheek. “Don’t tire yourself with talking. All sorts of people have been inquiring about your health. The lady Mary, the Duchess of Northumberland, your stepmother, the Marchioness of Northampton… The marchioness has an idea in her head about our Jane’s marriage, by the way.”

“Marriage?”

“She thought that we might consider matching her with one of Northumberland’s sons. Guildford, perhaps; they’re close in age.”

“But he’s the fourth son! Jane can do much better than that.”

“True. I think she was just talking to divert my attention. Anyway, we can speak more of it later. I won’t tire you with it at present.” Harry started to rise, then sat back down. “I’ve been thinking. When you get strong enough again, my dear, maybe we can start trying for another child, more often than we have lately. If, of course, you’re willing. Perhaps after what happened to Queen Catherine, you might find it risky—”

“I am willing, Harry. Very.” I took his hand in mine. “I love our daughters, as I know you do, too, but I should like to give you a son. We could name him Edward, like every other little boy in England.”

Harry smiled.

“And,” I said daringly, “even if I were not to have a child, I would like to lie with you more often. We did a great deal of that when we were first married.”

“Nearly every evening.” Harry took a strand of my hair in his hand. It was a point of pride with me that it had not faded much with age, but was still as bright as it had been in my girlhood. He stroked it, as he had before. “We were quite the pair in those early days.”

“We can still be so.”

Harry stood. “Then I must let you rest now, my dear.” He kissed me lightly on the cheek and headed toward the door. Then he turned. “I was frightened that I would lose you, Frances. I’m thankful to the Lord that I didn’t.”

So was I. I settled down to sleep, dreaming of new beginnings.

Lady Page is here with your ladyship’s New Year’s gift.”

I sighed. I myself had prepared a New Year’s gift for Lady Elizabeth Page, a pair of gloves, but I knew full well this was not the present she was hoping for. She wanted her daughter, the Duchess of Somerset, released from the Tower.

It had been the surprise of my life to meet Lady Page, for only in coloring was she like her elegant daughter, the duchess. Where Anne Seymour was tall and slender, Lady Page was short and ample, what men called “comfortable,” and their differences did not end with their lack of physical similarity. Only in one respect were the women alike: they both made excellent comfits, as I had found over the past year when Lady Page first began to cultivate my favor—though I like to think I would have been kindly disposed toward her even without the jams she brought me.

Her efforts had brought her only partial success. I had prevailed upon John to let her visit her imprisoned daughter, and she now came and went from Anne Seymour’s Tower cell as she pleased, often spending days at a time there. Over the summer, she had made it her mission to “cheer up” her daughter’s quarters with her own tapestries, of the sort last fashionable in the seventh Henry’s time, and she was known to disapprove of the Turkey carpet Anne had been allowed to take with her into captivity. It bred fleas, she had told anyone in the Tower who would listen, and it had been a triumph for her in August when she had found one nestling in its folds.

Try as I did, though, I could not move John to release the duchess. It was not just that she had threatened me, he explained—though I suspected this lay at the heart of his intransigence. The duchess had plotted against him with her husband, and might plot some more if freed. If she were a man, she would have certainly been executed, as had her half brother.

I had no answer for this, for John was entirely correct. Indeed, I was not certain why I kept pleading for the duchess’s freedom, save that I pitied her in her widowhood and felt sorry for her children, especially the Countess of Warwick.

Besides, it would take a heart of stone to refuse Lady Page, now being ushered into the room and bearing the usual jar. She curtseyed to me, which always made me feel guilty, and handed me her gift—strawberry jam. “A little token, Your Grace, in appreciation of your kindness to me this past year.”

“Thank you. I know I will find it delicious,” I said, quite truthfully. Also quite truthfully, I said, “I wish I could have done better for you. I know your daughter wishes she could be with her children.”

“She misses them, but I must say it is her husband she grieves for, every day.” Lady Page sighed. “And her brother.” Her half brother, Michael Stanhope, was Lady Page’s son. He, too, had died on the scaffold a few weeks after the Duke of Somerset.

“Perhaps the council will agree to free the duchess this year,” I said encouragingly. “I will certainly do all I can to promote it.”

“I know you will, Your Grace.” The old lady gave another sigh. “But sometimes I despair. My daughter has a good heart, but she can be difficult. I often tell her that if she could have kept a civil tongue in her head, perhaps she would have been freed by now. But of course she doesn’t want to hear it. Daughters don’t, as you probably know.”

“I do indeed. I will keep trying. And in the meantime—” I handed Lady Page the gloves. Dutifully, she tried them on. They fit—barely—but I knew well she would never wear them. They would go instead to her glove-loving daughter in the Tower. “Happy New Year, my lady.”

“And a happy New Year to Your Grace, as well. I hope it is a good one for you.”

“And for you as well, my lady.”

***

George Ferrers had proved such a successful Lord of Misrule the Christmas before, the king had invited him to reprise his role. He had worried openly he might not be able to repeat his triumph of the previous year, but so far the festivities had exceeded expectations. On New Year’s Day, there had been a joust of hobby horses, and tonight, Twelfth Night, there was a triumph of Venus, Mars, and Cupid.

With my daughter Katheryn at my side, I settled back contentedly, watching the small boy who was playing Cupid, complete with golden wings, try desperately to evade the clutches of the marshal and his band. This New Year’s was so much happier than the one before. Somerset lay peacefully between his two queens at the Chapel of St. Peter ad Vincula. England was more stable and prosperous than she had been for several years, thanks to John and the council. The king himself, who had turned fifteen in October, was becoming more active in government each day. There were plans to declare him of majority when he turned sixteen, a day I looked forward to desperately. Then John—home sick at the manor of Chelsea the king had given us as a country home near London—could lead a more tranquil life. His continuing ill health and the melancholy it always inspired in him were the only things that troubled my mind that Twelfth Night.

A burst of laughter made me turn my attention back to the stage, where Venus, trailed by her ladies, was attempting to rescue Cupid. Having employed all of her considerable charms upon the marshal without success, Venus retreated and conferred with her ladies. Then, as the court cheered them on, the ladies pelted the marshal and his band with tennis balls. Soon the marshal and his cohorts lay vanquished on the field.

Cupid ran into the waiting arms of Venus, while the sound of trumpets signaled the grand but tardy entrance of Mars, who surveyed the carnage around him shamefacedly. Heaving a noble sigh, he slowly lifted his helmet off his head, as if to crown Venus with it, but Venus would have none of it. Backing away in terror, she was on the verge of being cornered by Mars, when Cupid, having rushed around behind the god of war, shot an arrow at him. Pierced by it, Mars put his helmet back on his head and embraced Venus and Cupid at once.

The audience clapped, none more vigorously than the king. As the applause died down, I heard another distinct sound. The king coughed, and coughed again.

He sounded, I realized as the players took their final bows, perfectly horrid.