Innocent Traitor (20 page)

“Well, my Lord Chancellor, what is the meaning of this?” asks the King menacingly, struggling to his feet.

“Your Majesty, I am come as arranged—”

“Enough!” roars His Highness. “You have done enough. And I want a word with you.”

We watch fascinated as the King draws Wriothesley aside and starts berating him furiously.

“Knave! Beast! Fool!” he shouts. The hapless Chancellor falls to his knees, trying to explain his actions, but His Majesty will have none of it and cuffs Wriothesley about the head, sending him sprawling with a well-aimed kick.

“Get out of my sight!” he snarls, and stumps back to the Queen. Then he turns and grins at the sight of the Lord Chancellor, his dignity in tatters, scuttling back with his men to the palace as fast as their feet can carry them.

For a moment, silence reigns. Then the King’s mouth twitches, the Queen giggles, and soon we are all convulsed with laughter, releasing the tension of the past hours.

“I think I should be a suitor for him to plead his case with Your Majesty,” says the Queen charitably. Suddenly the King looks serious.

“Nay, Kate, poor soul,” he says, laying his fingers tenderly on hers, “you little know how well he deserves such grace at your hands. On my word, sweetheart, he has been a very knave to you. Let him go.”

She bows her head. The matter is closed. But she has learned her lesson, as have we all, and will in future devote herself entirely to her husband’s needs and comply with his will in all matters.

BRADGATE HALL AND DORSET HOUSE, JANUARY 1547

We have kept Christmas at Bradgate once more, for the court is closed. We are not supposed to say anything about it in public, but the King is dying. We have talked of little else all through the festive season, although behind closed doors of course.

Normally, we celebrate yuletide with great festivity, but this year there is little cheer. The yule log crackles merrily in the hearth in the great hall, the house is bedecked with evergreens, and we exchange the customary gifts at New Year, but our joy in the holiday is muted, overshadowed by anxiety about what is going on at court.

“It cannot be long now,” my father says. The servants have cleared the table in the candlelit winter parlor, and my parents are sharing the last of a flagon of wine. I sit reading in the window seat; they have probably forgotten I am here.

“I wish we knew more of what is happening,” frets my lady. “I feel so out of things buried here at Bradgate.”

“I think we should remove to London,” my father replies. “Open up Dorset House. Then we will be at hand if we are needed.”

“I doubt the King will summon us.”

“I wasn’t referring to the King. I was talking about the regency council.”

“You think it will be that soon?”

“Why else would they close the court? Many are named for the regency council, but Hertford is the Prince’s uncle. He’ll take charge, you’ll see, and he’ll be glad of those who will support him.”

“We must show ourselves friendly to Hertford,” my mother declares. “The Prince being only nine, he is likely to be in power for some time to come.”

“Yes, my dear. And with Hertford in control, the whole balance of power will shift. It’ll be an end to the Catholic party. Hertford’ll have the whole country turning Protestant, mark my words.”

“I pray it will be so,” says my lady fervently.

“Amen to that,” echoes my lord.

After Epiphany we return to London, so that my parents can be at the center of events when the new King succeeds. My father visits Whitehall Palace almost daily but is not permitted access to the royal apartments. Even so, when he returns, he has important news, which he says has been imparted to him by his friends on the privy council, and Katherine and I are summoned to the great chamber to hear it. I am intrigued, as my father rarely sees fit to discuss weighty matters with his children, and I wonder, with a slight chill in my blood, if he will tell us that my great-uncle has at last passed away.

My lord stands before the great stone fireplace, his greyhound curled at his feet. My lady sits upright and stiff in her chair, swathed in dark furs against the cold of the season. After we have made our curtsies, she indicates that we should be seated on the settle.

“His Majesty, I am grieved to say, is failing fast,” my father begins. “There is no doubt that God will soon summon him to his eternal rest—although we must not speak of it openly, mind, since it is treason to predict the death of the King. But when he goes, the Prince will become King. However, he is only a child, and his father’s only son, and any mishap may befall him. Two years ago, His Majesty passed an act of Parliament settling the succession to the throne firstly upon Prince Edward and his heirs, secondly upon the Lady Mary and her heirs, and thirdly upon the Lady Elizabeth and her heirs.”

I know this, because Lady Herbert told me it was due to the Queen’s kind influence that Mary and Elizabeth were restored to their rightful places in the succession, although the King stopped short of declaring them legitimate, maintaining his firm opinion that he had never been lawfully married to their mothers. The King, muttered Lady Herbert, liked to have things all ways.

“We must all pray,” my father says piously, “that God preserves the life of the Prince and does not see fit to curse this kingdom once more with a female sovereign. You will have been taught, I trust, of the dreadful anarchy that ensued when the Empress Matilda asserted her claim to the throne in the twelfth century.”

I nod, but inwardly I am puzzled. Dr. Harding has taught me that Matilda lost her crown through her pride and arrogance, not because she was a woman. Despite her sex, many men had declared for her, and my studies have shown me that women can be as brave, astute, and intelligent as men. What about Boadicea, who courageously took on the might of Rome? Or Queen Isabella, who governed Spain very wisely? Would a queen ruling over England really be such an evil thing? To me, there is no logical reason why a woman should not govern a kingdom successfully—after all, does not my lady mother govern my father? But I dare not say as much, so I tighten my lips and try to quell my rebellious thoughts.

My father rambles on about the frailty of women, taking ages, as usual, to get to the point. Even my mother is tapping her foot with impatience.

“The King’s will, my lord!” she interrupts sharply.

“Yes, the will. Of course. Well, at the end of December, His Majesty made further provision for the succession, and the position has therefore changed slightly. Now, should the lines of his three children fail, the crown would pass to the heirs of His Majesty’s younger sister, Mary, your late grandmother. That means that, if Edward, Mary, and Elizabeth were all to die without issue, your lady mother here would be Queen.”

I gasp. The prospect is astonishing. In fact, it is terrible. And my father, who has just voiced his disapproval of female rulers, must inwardly be deeply irked at the prospect of my mother becoming Queen. Presumably he thinks he would rule through her, although I cannot imagine her allowing that to happen. Nor can I bear to contemplate what life would be like with my lady on the throne. To me, the perfect queen would be like Queen Katherine, kind and gracious, and it is hard to envisage my mother being like that.

My mother rises and already seems to have a regal air about her. She addresses us sternly.

“You will both remember in future that you are the daughters of a possible future queen, and you will conduct yourselves accordingly. I will be even less ready now to tolerate any disrespectful or undutiful behavior. Our royal dignity must be preserved at all times.”

“Yes, my lady,” we say in unison, eyes downcast.

“Never forget it. This is a great honor for our House, for His Majesty has, in our favor, set aside the stronger claim of the Queen of Scots, who is the grandchild of his elder sister, my aunt Margaret. He has declared that he will never allow England to be ruled by Scotland.”

“We pray, of course, that the Prince will grow to maturity, marry, and raise many sons,” my father says, casting a meaningful look at my mother. “Likewise the Ladies Mary and Elizabeth. We must not anticipate therefore that your mother will ever ascend to the throne, since it is not likely to happen. It is honor enough for her to have a place in the succession.”

It is only later that, as I am at my prayers, it dawns on me that, should my mother die, then I, her eldest child, must be next in line for the crown.

DORSET HOUSE, FEBRUARY 1547

Katherine is drawing a picture and I am reciting some Latin verbs for Dr. Harding when we hear the church bells solemnly tolling in unison outside our window. Soon afterward, my lady comes unbidden to the schoolroom. As we scramble to our feet, I notice that her face is pale and sad.

“Forgive the interruption, but I have news of the heaviest import for us all,” she announces. “His Majesty the King has departed this life.”

She sinks onto the settle, clearly moved by the news.

“When was this, my lady?” asks Dr. Harding.

“He died at two o’clock in the morning three days past, at Whitehall,” she tells us. “At the last, he was beyond speech, but he managed to squeeze Archbishop Cranmer’s hand to signify that he died in the faith of Jesus Christ. His passing has just been announced today, and the young King’s accession proclaimed.”

I am sorry to hear of the old King’s death. I know he could be terrifying and cruel, but he was always kind to me. The realization that I will never see him again makes me want to cry. But as my mother is clearly striving to control her tears, so must I.

“There will be no more lessons today,” she declares. “Jane and Katherine, repair to Mrs. Ellen, who will see you are decently clad in mourning garments. Then go to the chapel and pray for the safe passage of the King’s soul to Heaven.”

Somber in our black velvet gowns and hoods, we kneel in our pew, hands folded, listening to the chaplain intoning a requiem Mass for our departed sovereign. Our parents have already hastened to the court to pay their last respects to his body and to ensure that they are kept abreast of all that is happening in the corridors of power.

We now have a new ruler in England, but it is not the new King, Edward VI, for he is too young, at nine years old, to govern the realm himself. Instead, the late Queen Jane’s brother, Lord Hertford, is to be Lord Protector until His Majesty comes of age. My father says that Hertford is to be assisted in his duties by a regency council, which will include Archbishop Cranmer and John Dudley, Earl of Warwick, who my lord says is one of our most experienced politicians and military commanders, for all that his father died a traitor at the beginning of the late King’s reign. When I was with the Queen, I heard these men being privately referred to as secret Protestants, and I wonder if our late King was aware of this. Did he choose them on purpose, foreseeing that England itself might one day turn Protestant? I doubt it, as he was quick to punish heresy. But I remember Queen Katherine predicting that, once his father was dead, Prince Edward would embrace the new religion, for he has been brought up and governed by men who are zealous reformists; and with Lord Hertford in power, I should not be surprised if we are all now commanded to become Protestants. And that, I believe, can only be a good thing.

My mother and I go to the Queen, to offer her comfort. She was not present at the King’s deathbed and is now, according to custom, confined to the seclusion of her apartments for a period of mourning.

“I last saw him on the day before he died,” she tells us. “He summoned me to his side and said that it was God’s will that we should part.” Her voice breaks. It is obviously painful to her to relate what passed between them. “He said he thanked God for allowing him to die in the arms of so faithful a wife, and he ordered his councillors, who were present, to treat me as if he were living still. I couldn’t speak for weeping, and he waved me away. I don’t think he could bear to witness my distress. He never asked for me again. And he did not, poor soul, die in my arms.”

I am sure she mourns the King most sincerely. From what I’ve heard, she did not want to marry him, but he proved, in the main, to be a kind and indulgent husband.

“I did not expect to miss him so much, but I do,” she confesses. “Shut up here all day, I have leisure to think on my loss and to wonder what I should do now.”

“I am sure that you should stay on at court, madam,” ventures my mother. “The young King is surrounded and governed by men, so I am sure he would welcome a little motherly tenderness.”

Motherly tenderness? I think, surprised. I did not realize my lady knew of such a thing.

“Do you think they would let me see him very often? I doubt it,” ponders the Queen. “Anyway, there can be no question of me remaining at court, since I can’t stand that insufferable Lady Hertford with her barbed tongue, who will doubtless become even more insufferable now that her husband is Lord Protector. Beyond that, I am weary of the court, weary of the ceremony, the intrigues, the very falseness of life here. I crave some freedom.”

“But where will you go, madam?” asks my mother.

“Fortunately, Frances, the King has left me a wealthy woman. He has also bequeathed me that fine, redbrick palace that faces the Thames at Chelsea. I have a fancy I may retire there. Having had three aging husbands and been a dutiful wife to each, I think it is time I pleased myself!”

“High time!” agrees my lady.

But I can hardly hide my sadness. No more visits to court for me—without a queen in residence, there will be no call for ladies to go there. And no more pleasant sojourns with dear Queen Katherine. Unless, of course, she invites me to stay at Chelsea….

“How did the King and the Lady Elizabeth take the news of their father’s death?” my mother asks.

“Alas, poor children, they collapsed in tears when the Lord Protector broke it to them,” the Queen relates. “My Lord Hertford said he was hard put to it to console them, but finally he was able to persuade the Prince to sit in the chair of estate to receive the homage of the privy councillors. Poor little boy, he’s only nine.”