Her Highness, the Traitor (18 page)

Are my brother’s physicians quite sure that he is well enough to see me?” the lady Mary asked as we rode through Fleet Street toward Westminster, I on her left and the Duchess of Northumberland on the right.

“Very sure,” I said, and Jane Dudley murmured her assent. “It is nothing more than a cold.”

We had at least two hundred horse in our procession, the palfreys bedecked as brilliantly as the lords and ladies who sat astride them. Colorful as our company was, however, we were almost swallowed up by the gloom of the February day. And yet this was a joyous occasion: the king and his sister Mary had put aside their differences regarding religion for the time being, and the king had decreed that Mary be received in London with the highest of honor.

Unfortunately, the king had taken ill on the same day Mary entered London, so she had had to wait several days before she could see him. With London so damp and gray, I was not at all surprised the king was ailing, nor was I worried about his health. It was only surprising that we were not all in our beds.

The weather, however, had not kept the Londoners from enjoying the fine show of the lady Mary riding to court. “How kind they are to cheer,” Mary said now as we left behind one particularly enthusiastic street corner. “It is for my mother’s sake, you know. The Londoners always did love her. Unlike that Anne Boleyn creature,” she added.

The Duchess of Northumberland, who had been friendly with Queen Anne, looked at her horse’s mane.

My husband and the Duke of Northumberland, flanked by scores of knights and gentlemen, awaited the lady Mary outside of the gates of Westminster. No sooner had our party pulled within sight than the dukes and the rest sank to their knees, doing reverence to Mary. Almost, I thought as we made our slow, stately way past the kneeling men, as if she were queen.

***

“My brother and I had a very nice visit,” Mary said as my daughter Jane and I sat with her and her ladies that evening. Mary had issued the invitation outside of the presence of the Duchess of Northumberland, who no doubt would be hurt later when the inevitable court gossip informed her she had been excluded. But Mary and I were, after all, first cousins, while Jane Dudley was a mere knight’s daughter from Kent. “We talked only small talk. I did not bring up the subject of the Mass, and that is just as well, I suppose.”

“The council is not interfering with your hearing it?”

“No. For now, anyway.” Mary sighed. “Perhaps it was just as well my brother was ill. He might have lectured me about my beliefs if he was stronger.” She frowned. “He was ill just last year. Do you think Northumberland is making him do too much work?”

“It was the measles. Anyone might have them. And there was a great deal of sickness last year. Northumberland’s daughter-in-law, my own Jane, myself…”

“Well, I cannot help but worry. But he did seem to be amending, thanks be to the Lord.” The lady Mary crossed herself, then turned to Jane, who had been docilely listening to our conversation. “Have they found a husband for you yet, Cousin?”

“No, my lady.”

Mary looked at me inquiringly. “There was talk of the Earl of Hertford, but with the Duke of Somerset’s attainder and death, that is no longer a possibility,” I said. “But my daughter is still young.”

“That is what they said about me at one time,” Mary said bluntly. “Don’t let her chance slip by.”

“My daughter should have no difficulty attracting a husband. She is learned and extremely accomplished.”

“But some men may not like a woman who is too learned.”

I had to give Jane credit for maturity; two years before, she probably could not have endured this conversation in silence. “Harry’s great pleasure has been to bring up Jane as an educated woman. He would not match her to such a man.”

“No doubt,” conceded Mary. She glanced at Jane critically. “She’s a pretty young lady, in any case. But it is a pity you can’t do anything about the freckles. Have you tried the sap of a birch tree?”

Out of the corner of my eye, I watched Jane clench a dainty fist.

***

“So she told Mother she would send for some recipes to get rid of my freckles,” Jane told Kate back at Suffolk Place, the grand home, once my father’s, which we had inherited when my brothers died. “As if we haven’t tried them all! And it’s not as if my face is one mass of freckles anyway.” Jane held up a mirror and frowned into it. One flaw Mary had not mentioned was that she was slightly shortsighted. “Only a few scattered around my nose. They aren’t large.”

“I can’t believe she’s giving anyone lectures on her appearance,” Kate said. “She’s no beauty herself. If she weren’t the king’s sister, people would call her downright plain.”

“Kate!”

“Well, it’s true, Mother.” Kate, the reigning beauty of my three girls, shrugged.

Jane continued in Mary’s gruff voice, “‘Some men may not like a woman who is too learned, little cousin.’ As if Father would marry me to some cowherd! Any man I would wish to marry would be pleased to have a learned woman as a wife,” said Jane. She traced the finger on which she would have worn a wedding ring. “Mother, are there plans to marry me?”

“It is as I told the lady Mary, there are none at present. But you are almost sixteen. That was the age when I married your father. There will most certainly be men seeking your hand for their sons.”

“But what of my studies?”

“There is no need to stop your studies when you are married. Queen Catherine did not, and you yourself have corresponded with William Cecil’s wife, haven’t you? But they must take second place to your duties as a wife—and eventually as a mother.” Jane looked so stricken, I patted her on her shoulder. “You will adapt, as all of us must do.”

Despite being urged by the king and by the council, the Earl of Cumberland had not accepted Guildford as a match for his daughter, to my irritation and to Guildford’s relief. “I would have caught my death of cold up north, Mother. You should be glad.”

“Oh, Guildford, for heaven’s sake, it’s not that bad up there.”

“I believe he was speaking of the girl,” Robert said, and my sons guffawed.

I could not quite see the humor. Why wasn’t Guildford good enough for Margaret Clifford? He was our fourth son, to be sure, and Margaret was the earl’s only child, but she was not necessarily a great heiress, for Cumberland was young enough to still father sons if he chose to remarry. Worse, there had even been rumors, spread by a former servant of the Duchess of Somerset, that my husband had been plotting to gain the throne through the marriage—even though Margaret Clifford was behind Mary, Elizabeth, and the three Grey girls in the line of succession.

Silly and stupid as the rumors were, they had begun to revive this spring, for the king was not well. The cough that had troubled him on Twelfth Night had never disappeared entirely, and for a few days in February, he had been bedridden with a fever. Though he had recovered well enough to visit with his sister Mary, he had spent much of March confined to his chambers. Yet by early April, he seemed well on the mend, and I trusted the nonsensical rumors would soon die the death they deserved.

Meanwhile, my son Ambrose, after months of mourning his pretty Nan, had begun to take a healthy interest in women again, and in that same April, we held a dinner to celebrate his betrothal to Elizabeth Tailboys, an heiress a few years his senior. “I had rather hoped to be celebrating Guildford’s betrothal by now,” I confided to Elizabeth Parr, Marchioness of Northampton, as we stood watching the young people dance. “But it seems that the Earl of Cumberland is adamant against him.”

Elizabeth, whose husband was the brother of Queen Catherine, glanced at Guildford, capering with one of William Cecil’s daughters. “The girl’s loss, I daresay. He’s a fine-looking lad.” She looked around at the dancers. “I am surprised you never considered the Grey girl for him. Especially now that both your husband and her father are dukes.”

I looked in the direction of the girl in question, Harry Grey’s daughter Jane. I had seen a great deal of her in February when the lady Mary came to court, as the lady Jane was nearly sixteen and of an age to be seen at such affairs. She was fully marriageable, and looked pretty and healthy, but I had somehow never thought of her as a potential match for Guildford or for my youngest son, Hal. “Wasn’t she intended for the Earl of Hertford?”

“So it was said, back when he had prospects.” The marchioness snorted. It was Somerset who had forced William Parr to separate from Elizabeth on the grounds that their marriage was invalid, and it was Somerset’s fall that had enabled the couple to finally have its validity affirmed. Plainly, Elizabeth’s dislike for the former Protector extended to his family, as well. In a somewhat kinder tone, she said, “In any case, their fathers never got beyond the talking stage. So that’s no obstacle. She’s a brilliant girl, they say, and you don’t need me to tell you about her lineage.”

“No. I wonder how she would get on with Guildford, though. I don’t remember them having much to say to each other at my eldest son’s wedding.”

“They would learn to get along like other couples do. You surely don’t intend to let another of your children marry for love.”

I refrained from pointing out she and William Parr had done just that, but she did have a point. Besides, there was no logical objection to such a marriage. The would-be spouses were well educated, close in age, healthy, and Protestant; their fathers were the only two dukes in England in power; money was no problem. Royal approval would have to be secured, but I could not think of a single reason why it would not be forthcoming.

Yet something about the arrangement made me uneasy. Was it just that I had always found the lady Jane to be a rather chilly young woman? That hardly seemed good enough grounds to reject the match outright, especially as my contact with the girl had been only superficial. She was young, after all, not to mention very bookish, and the court could be intimidating. Perhaps her manner was more pleasing in the privacy of her household. “I will mention it to my husband.”

“Do so,” said the marchioness. She laughed. “And if he likes the idea, be certain to give me full credit.”

***

“The lady Jane Grey? Funny. Northampton suggested her to me tonight as well. I didn’t realize he and his wife were such determined matchmakers. I must say she seems a logical choice. But—”

“But what?”

“Nothing.”

“It is a woman’s prerogative to say ‘Nothing’ when asked such a question. Not yours.” John did not laugh. “John, what is it?” I grabbed his arm when he remained silent. “Tell me, for heaven’s sake!”

“You must not tell this to a living soul. I should not be telling you, actually. I believe only the king and I know about this. You will be the third.”

The realization of just how much my husband trusted me made me fall silent. I took his hand. After a while, he said, “A couple of weeks ago, the king was feeling very ill. So ill, he told me afterward, that he had thought he might never recover. He was wrong, thank the Lord, as he was much better in a day or two. But just a few days ago, he called me to him again and showed me something.”

John looked around. Sensing what he wanted, I rose and bolted the door.

“Thank you. You remember King Henry’s will. The crown to Edward and his heirs, then to Mary and her heirs, then to Elizabeth and her heirs, and then to the lady Frances’s heirs.”

“Yes.”

“He’s proposing to alter that.” John made his voice even lower. “Should the king die without heirs, God forbid, the crown will go to Lady Frances’s male heirs. If there are none, to the lady Jane’s male heirs. And so on to the lady Jane’s younger sisters, and then if none of them has male descendants, to Margaret Clifford’s male heirs.”

My head swam. “The lady Mary? The lady Elizabeth?”

“Cut out of the succession entirely. King Henry declared them both bastards, King Edward pointed out, and never had them legitimated.”

“But King Henry provided for them to succeed to the crown!”

“That’s what I reminded King Edward. He just shook his head and gave me his father’s glare—he’s getting quite good at it. He said that besides being a bastard, Mary would bring us back to Rome, and that although he did not believe the lady Elizabeth would do our religion harm, she was as much of a bastard as her sister. Perhaps not even King Henry’s child, given the accusations against Anne Boleyn.”

“John, you know all that was lies.”

“Maybe. But that’s not what the king believes. To him, King Henry’s first proper wife was Jane Seymour. That’s the one thing both of the Seymour brothers agreed upon, and they never missed an opportunity to tell the king so.”

“But the lady Frances has not borne a child in years, and the last have all been girls.”

“Precisely. So under the king’s devise, as he calls it, if Lady Jane marries and has a son, that boy could be the king of England.”

So
if
Guildford
married
the
lady
Jane
and
sired
a
son, our grandson would be King of England
. I sank into a chair.

John continued, “Of course, this all supposes the king will die without issue of his body, which is most unlikely. His French match is sure to go through now that we’re at peace. And his health will certainly improve now that spring is here. I told the king these things.”

“And what did he say?”

“He said that he believed that God would be merciful and let him reign for many years, but that it was best to be prepared. Then he put his devise away in a chest he has, away from prying eyes. He likes to tinker with it from time to time, he said.”

We were silent for a short while. Then I said with some relief, “You could not possibly ask him now to approve Guildford’s marriage to Lady Jane, even if they wished it. It would make it appear that you had ulterior motives.”

“To the contrary, the king has urged it upon me. He said that should his line happen to fail, he believed that England would be safest in the hands of my grandson.” John looked out over the Thames. “I set out to win the trust and affection of the king, and I have succeeded, it appears.”

“Do you intend to marry our son to the Grey girl?”

“I can think of no good reason to refuse the king. Even without that devise of his, it is, as the Marchioness of Northampton says, an eminently suitable match. I will talk to the Duke of Suffolk.”

“What about the king’s devise? Can’t you persuade the king not to disinherit his sisters? It seems so unnatural, and it is bound to lead to trouble.”

“I can try. But the king is not a child who can be distracted from one bauble by handing him another. He has thought about his sisters’ legal status, read about it, even asked that the records of Anne Boleyn’s trial be brought to him. I fear it will not be an easy task. I can only hope that the necessity does not come to pass.”

“And if it does come to pass? John, you must think of this!”

John reached for me. “I really don’t want to,” he said quietly.

***

“Jane Grey? That sour little girl? I tried to carry on a civil conversation with her—in Italian, mind you—and it was sheer misery. Of all of the women in England, why must I marry her?”

“She was younger then, Guildford,” I said. “You have seen her at court. She’s perfectly polite and civil.”

“Like a stick of wood.”

“She’s pretty.”

“Not enough to make up for the rest.” Guildford looked at John, who had been standing silently by. “Father, must I marry her?”

“It is the king’s own wish.”

“Why? What is it to him whom I marry?”

“She is of royal blood, and the king wishes to honor the Dudley family by bestowing her upon us in marriage,” John said.

“Then why not bestow her on Hal? He’s a better scholar.”

“You are the oldest of our unmarried sons. It would be perceived as an insult, perhaps, if we offered him our youngest in your stead. Besides, you and the lady Jane are nearly the same age.”

“Fourth son, fifth son, what’s the difference? And Hal’s but a year younger. Please, Father.”

“I am sorry. It must be.”

“You let Mary and Robert marry people of their own choosing.”

“Have you contracted yourself to someone else?”

“No,” Guildford admitted. “But I wish I had. Then you couldn’t make me marry this self-important little chit.”

“Guildford, many marriages start in dislike, and end in deep love. The two of you will come closer together when you get to know each other better. Especially when you have children.”

“I’d rather not even think about that, if you please,” Guildford snapped.

“She is a far more prestigious bride than any of your brothers’ wives.”

“If only Ambrose hadn’t remarried so quickly. He could marry her.” Guildford suddenly brightened. “Why not annul Jack’s marriage? The girl doesn’t care for us, and it’s never been consummated. Then the lady Jane could have an earl for a husband, not just Lord Guildford.”

“We are not going to throw the Countess of Warwick out of our household just to oblige you,” John said. “Lady Jane is for you and for no one else. Most fourth sons I know wouldn’t complain of getting a duke’s eldest daughter for a bride. I have overindulged you, I fear. There shall be no more comment from you about the subject.”

He turned and walked out of the room, leaving an open-mouthed Guildford. “Mother? Isn’t there anything you can do to make him change his mind?”

“Not this time.”

“I don’t understand. What is so important about this girl? She’s of royal blood, but she’s not the only girl in England who can say that. She’s not an heiress. She’s not beautiful. She’s clever, but there’s such a thing as being too clever. Why does my marrying her mean so much to Father?” He frowned. “Is there something that you’re not telling me?”

“Don’t be absurd. It is simply a good match, that you are too blinded by your prejudice against this girl to realize. You have been overindulged.”

Just as John had, I turned and left the room, leaving my son doubly puzzled.

***

Guildford’s betrothal to the lady Jane—a match to which the Duke of Suffolk had eagerly assented—seemed to inspire everyone in the court to begin matchmaking. Suffolk, not content with arranging the marriage of one daughter, promptly began negotiating for the marriages of the other two; in addition, he proposed his niece Margaret Audley as a wife for Hal. The Earl of Huntingdon suddenly decided that no one but our little Katheryn would do as a bride for his son, Henry, Lord Hastings. Even the Earl of Cumberland, having in time-honored fashion decided that Guildford might make a suitable husband for his daughter after he had been promised elsewhere, agreed to a match with the one remaining Dudley—John’s younger brother Andrew, whom I had considered destined for perpetual bachelorhood.

There was to be a triple wedding on May 25—Guildford and Jane, my Katheryn and Henry Hastings, Kate Grey and the Earl of Pembroke’s son, William Herbert. In preparation, the king showered presents on all of us—cloth of gold, cloth of silver, and jewels, most of which had come from the goods forfeited to the Crown by the Duke of Somerset. There seemed no end to the cloth the duke had acquired: produced for him by the finest workshops in Italy, it came in every imaginable shade of blue, green, tawny, yellow, and crimson, and in a variety of patterns, so no one at the wedding would be in the same garment. As my dressmaker transformed some green cloth into a gown that would flatter even me, I could only wonder at why Somerset had amassed so much uncut fabric. Had he been saving it for his own children’s weddings? For his daughter Jane’s longed-for marriage with the king? It did not seem a good omen, but the cloth was too lovely to let superstition stand in the way of wearing it. Instead, I gloried in the way it set off the fine tablet, bearing the face of a clock, which had also come to me from the Somersets’ goods.