Innocent Traitor (12 page)

With Prince Edward, who is nearly six, the King has been rather more cautious. The poor child is kept isolated in his spotlessly clean residences, guarded by an army of servants. In my opinion, Henry is being a little overprotective of his son, whose every waking moment is subject to a rigorous routine. I ask as often as I dare if Edward might come to court, but…

“Kate,” Henry tells me, holding up my hands to his lips and kissing them, “I should prefer it if the boy did not come here because of the risk of his catching some infectious disease. He may visit occasionally, but it is my pleasure that he live in the country. Now, if I had other sons…”

He regards me archly. There is a great unspoken disappointment between us. I do appreciate that the Prince’s life is especially precious since in him alone lies England’s future security and the continuance of the Tudor dynasty. But if only Henry and I could have a son, how different Edward’s life would be. And mine. I should not then have to live with the fear that my own position can never be secure.

I would dearly love a child, of either sex, but my womb has never yet quickened with a man’s seed. I am thirty-one, still at an age for bearing children, but I often wonder if I am barren. It is hard to tell, for my first husband, the ancient Lord Borough, took me to wife when I was just fourteen and was kind to me, but our marriage was never consummated because he did not have the vigor. Lord Latimer was equally kind, but he too was no longer young, and sexual congress between us was infrequent. God must have chosen me to comfort the elderly and give them solace in their infirmity!

Now, for my sins, and not through choice—although I’ve come to think I’ve not done too badly after all, for there are many benefits to being Queen, not least the manors and estates that the King has bestowed on me and, most important of all, the opportunity to do some good and make a difference to people—I am the wife of another aging man, who, although he too is an indulgent and considerate husband, is rarely capable of the act of love. I lie there patiently, legs spread, letting him do what he will with me, as is my duty, and trying not to notice his pathetic flabby rolls of flesh, wasted muscles, and putrid leg. (It’s my wifely task to dress that leg, and I do it with good grace and as much gentleness as I can muster, trying not to gag at the awful stench of rotting flesh emanating from the ulcerated, suppurating wound. Fortunately, I hide my revulsion well; poor old soul, it’s not his fault he has this vile malady, and he is so grateful for my ministrations.)

All too often, however, as we lie in the vast bed with the arms of England embroidered on tester, pillows, and counterpane, along with the initials
H
and
K,
our coming together ends in failure. Henry heaves his great bulk on top of me, so that I can hardly breathe, and presses his member against me, but it is usually only half-aroused, and it is often as much as he can do to accomplish an entry. Then he thrusts desperately, grunting and puffing, before desire withers and he withdraws from the fray, disappointed and ashamed. It is, I realize, utterly humiliating for such a powerful monarch, to whom women had once come running at the crook of a royal finger, to fail in such a manner, and I always endeavor to make light of it.

“You must be tired, my lord,” I whisper, snuggling up to him. “Or is your leg paining you?”

“Nay, sweetheart, I am overburdened with the cares of state,” he answers, then guides my hand to his flaccid penis. Sometimes this strategy works, and then, when it is time for my courses to come upon me, he will innocently inquire of my health with more frequent solicitude than normal. Sadly, I have not as yet had any good news to impart to him.

So there is no second son of the King to bear the customary title Duke of York, and Prince Edward comes but rarely to court. He is an oversolemn little boy, who has now lost his infant chubbiness and become rather lanky, and he has his mother’s slanting eyes and pointed chin. Otherwise, he is all Tudor. They have brought him up to be the model of his father, and the last time he visited, I had to hide my smiles at the sight of the imperious little boy strutting around the privy chamber and adopting the regal pose favored by the King, feet apart, hand on hip, chin high.

“God’s blood!” he cried when His Majesty made a jest, echoing Henry’s customary oath, which amused his august parent, but brought his eternally watchful governess, Lady Bryan, running in wrath.

“My Lord Prince, you forget to whom you speak!” she shrilled, as the King suppressed his mirth. “Do you want poor Barnaby to get a beating?” As she is not allowed to lay a finger on Edward if he transgresses, his whipping boy, Barnaby FitzPatrick, pays the price. Barnaby is of an age with the Prince and was chosen along with several other young gentle-men to be raised in his household. Edward’s punishment is to endure the shame of seeing his friend beaten for something he himself has done.

Once, I catch my husband looking intently at his son’s hardening features and red-gold hair.

“He looks very like me, don’t you think?” he says.

“Your Majesty must be proud in having sired another such as yourself,” I observe.

“Yet I was more robust, and much bigger, as a child.” His anxiety is palpable.

“My lord, you are chasing demons. The Prince’s health has rarely given cause for concern.”

“Not since that alarming fever he suffered at the age of four.”

“He made a quick recovery, as I remember. And he has grown into a very active little boy.”

“And therein lies the problem,” sighs Henry, watching from the window as Edward and a group of other boys scuffle over a ball. “I would like to indulge to the full his desire to engage in sporting pursuits—God knows, I did when I was his age—but the truth is, Kate, that I dare not, for fear of accidents. Not while he is the only one.”

We are teetering on the edge of dangerous ground. I deem it best to say nothing, and the moment passes.

“I must constrain him to be more of a spectator than a participant,” Henry continues. “Which is sad, because he is capable of so much, and he resents the caution imposed on him. He rides well already, but I can only permit him to exercise his skills on the most docile of mounts. He is eager to learn swordsmanship, and there is no avoiding the fact that he must be taught the craft of strategy in war. I know that one day this boy will command both an army and a navy, and that some practical experience is essential, but I have a mortal dread of some mishap befalling him. At the same time, I remain aware that all princes should become proficient in martial exercises. Truly, Kate, I am in a serious dilemma.”

There is no easy answer. I watch the jostling, shrieking group of little boys and feel a wave of compassion for the redheaded one who must bear such a burden on his slender shoulders.

“There is one thing at least that I can do for him,” Henry is saying. “He is six now and has been too long among the women. He must not grow soft and womanish. It is time for him to be given over wholly to the governance of men.”

I am struck with a further pang for the little boy who lost his mother at birth. He has grown into a self-contained child who rarely smiles and is too conscious of his exalted position and the great destiny awaiting him. I resolve to do my best to help choose a kindly and diligent tutor, who will be gentle with the Prince and instill in him a love of learning.

Over the next few weeks several doctors are considered for this coveted post. I am allowed to be present when the King interviews them, and afterward we discuss their comparative merits.

“What is your opinion, Kate?” Henry asks.

“I think the choice is between two men, sir. Dr. Richard Cox and Dr. John Cheke.”

He gives me a suspicious look. “But both are Cambridge men, Kate, and Cambridge, I fear, is infested with men holding extreme reformist views, or even adhering to the vile tenets of Martin Luther. Do you think there is any danger of Dr. Cox or Dr. Cheke holding such heretical opinions?”

It is my secret hope, but of course I dare not say so. I suspect that they do; as the King says, Cambridge is notorious for breeding such men.

“I know nothing of such things, sir, and I have certainly never heard anything ill said about these two excellent doctors. I would not have had them summoned here if I had nourished such concerns.”

“Then I shall rely on your judgment, Kate,” he says, caressing my cheek with a plump, beringed finger.

“Indeed, sir, I am sure you will not regret it. The scholarly reputations of these two doctors are such that we could not let such an opportunity slip.”

“Exactly my view, Kate! I’ll engage them both.”

Inwardly, I congratulate myself. But if he were ever to suspect…I dare not think of what the consequences would be. I should, of course, plead my ignorance.

We then spend an enjoyable few hours with Dr. Cox and Dr. Cheke planning the curriculum that the Prince will follow. It is decided that the emphasis will initially be on reading, writing, mathematics, theology, grammar, and astrology. Edward is an intelligent child, and I have no doubt that he will make rapid progress and delight his father. Above all, I am relieved to discover that both his masters prefer to coax children into a love of learning rather than to beat it into them.

Secretly I hope that, unbeknown to the King, there might also be another learning process going apace, and that these good doctors will consider it no less than their conscientious duty to open young Edward’s mind surreptitiously to there being more ways to God than that officially sanctioned by the Catholic Church of England.

Lady Jane Grey

GREENWICH PALACE, OCTOBER 1544

It’s a beautiful, crisp autumn day, and we are sailing along the Thames from Dorset House to Greenwich Palace. The morning sun bathes the city of London in a golden glow, and the spires of a hundred churches point reverently upward toward Heaven. On the river, the stink of the capital is mercifully diluted, and the city rises imposing and majestic beyond the wide banks. You get the best views of London from the river.

I am going to court to see the Queen herself. I am both brimming with excitement and quaking with trepidation. I fear that my eagle-eyed mother, waiting for us at the palace, will miss no dereliction of manners or deportment.

Mrs. Ellen sits with me in the open cabin of my parents’ stately barge. We are both fighting losing battles to stay upright on the well-stuffed cushions of Florentine velvet, as the barge sways drunkenly in the strong current. Above us is a wooden canopy hung with blue satin curtains, which are tied back today to enable us to take advantage of the brisk breeze. I would far rather be sitting on one of the oarsmen’s benches, trailing my fingers in the water, but I am a marquess’s daughter, so it is out of the question.

Mrs. Ellen and I are both dressed in our best. She says I look fine in my court gown of sage-green silk with oversleeves of marten and a matching French hood trimmed with gold braid, but the tautly laced bodice is cruelly tight and my velvet veil so heavy that it threatens to overbalance my headdress, which I clutch desperately in the wind. My nurse is plainly dressed in good black silk.

For all my discomfort, I am so happy, for the Queen, freed at last from the heavy duty of acting as Regent of England while the King was away fighting the French, has found leisure to advise on my education and has asked my mother to have me brought to court.

We have come five miles down the Thames, and now we see before us the sprawling palace of Greenwich, with its steep roofs and its river frontage faced in glowing red brick. It is an awe-inspiring sight. I stare at the great towers, the endless expanse of glittering oriel windows that reflect the sun’s brilliance, the sheer mightiness of it all. This is a truly magnificent place.

We alight at the royal stairs. A groom in red livery embroidered with the initials
HR
escorts us to the privy lodgings. We pass undreamed-of splendors: colorful, fragrant gardens, waterfalls, shady arbors, decorative railings, and painted poles bearing heraldic beasts enclosing tamed flower beds, magnificent galleries with antique plaster friezes of cherubs and goddesses, fine portraits and framed maps, lofty state rooms rich with Italian tapestries and Turkish carpets—I cannot take it all in, cannot believe there could be such luxury. Everywhere is a riot of jeweled colors, and the heaving mass of courtiers in their sumptuous peacock fabrics press on every side, hoping for a glimpse, a word, or—most prized of all—some mark of patronage from the King, my great-uncle.

The palace is a busy place, crammed with people waiting hopefully in antechambers, or hurrying here and there on important business. There are guards in the green and white Tudor livery at every doorway; pensive or frowning men in long, furred gowns and black bonnets, who stand deep in serious conversation and move aside impatiently to let us pass; dark-robed clerics carrying armfuls of parchment scrolls or weighty ledgers; dubious-looking, furtive urchins, who probably have no business being here; and, occasionally, a fashionably dressed lady sailing haughtily past, maid in tow.