Innocent Traitor (38 page)

SALISBURY AND WINDSOR, SEPTEMBER 1552

The progress is to be curtailed. The lords of the council inform me that, after carrying out what they describe as a punishing schedule of public engagements and lavish entertainments, the King’s health has broken under the strain. Fearing that His Majesty will not be able to go on, they have summoned me from London, where I have been attending to the business of government during the King’s absence.

Arriving at Salisbury, I am shocked at Edward’s appearance. When he left on his progress at the end of July, he seemed restored to health, as robust as ever, and of good color. Now, just over a month later, he looks ghastly, thin and white, and even his lowlier subjects are beginning to comment on it.

I bow deeply, trying to conceal my dismay. The implications of what I see are manifold, and I need time to think about them. For now, however, I put on my most avuncular manner, saying kindly, “I am most distressed to see Your Majesty so unwell.”

“It is of little moment, my lord,” replies the King. He sounds weary.

“Perhaps Your Majesty should return to London.”

“I cannot disappoint these good people. Some of them have gone to great trouble and expense on my behalf. Kings should not give way to weakness.” He coughs.

“They should when the welfare of their kingdom is at stake,” I tell him firmly. “If Your Majesty, by persisting on his progress, makes himself ill, then what of his duty to his people and to the true religion? Sir, your councillors are alarmed, and I too am concerned about your health. I must remind you that your heir is the Lady Mary. Now, for the sake of England and its Church, I beg you, go home and rest.”

The other lords present add their pleas to mine, and the King, knowing himself defeated, gives in with good grace.

“But please have our secretaries write to those we have disappointed and extend our heartfelt apologies for our absence,” he insists.

“It shall be done,” I assure him. “And now you must set all cares aside, and lie down.”

He looks relieved as he rises from his chair of estate and walks slowly toward his privy chamber. At the door, he pauses.

“Thank you, my lords. I do confess I have never felt so ill in all my life.”

We are at Windsor. Despite having rested and submitted to the attentions of a whole team of royal physicians, who all declare themselves puzzled by His Majesty’s illness, Edward shows no signs of recovering. In fact, his condition grows worse.

Desperate for a remedy, I send to Italy to summon the eminent and renowned doctor and astrologer Girolamo Cardano to England to examine the King. Cardano duly arrives, consults the royal physicians, and disappears into the royal bedchamber, where he remains for the next hour.

The doctors stand in a little group, keeping an eye on the door and conversing in low voices, so that I cannot hear what they are saying. Do they know more than they are telling? Are they too frightened to disclose their fears? Or are they reluctant to have their ignorance exposed?

Dr. Cardano and I sit facing each other in my private closet, where the most secret business of the realm is conducted.

“You may speak plainly,” I say in Latin, grateful that the Italian is fluent in that language. There is an ominous pause.

“I am very impressed with the excellent virtues and singular graces of His Majesty, which can only be a gift from God,” Dr. Cardano begins. “I cannot say enough to commend him: he is such a worthy Prince, despite being so tender in years. For his mature wisdom, his wit, and his princely bearing, I have met few his equal.”

“Yes, yes,” I interrupt, desperate for him to come to the matter in hand, “but what of His Majesty’s health?”

Cardano’s smile disappears. “Such a paragon is too good for this world, I fear, my lord. I regret to inform you—and I cannot stress how deeply—that the King shows all the symptoms of a consumption of the lungs.”

I feel as if cold fingers are streaking down my spine.

“I must confess to you,” he continues, “that before I visited His Majesty, I took the liberty of casting his horoscope, even though I was aware that such things are not permitted in your country. I assure you, it was purely for the purpose of making a diagnosis. I saw therein the omens of a great calamity, and when I was admitted to the King’s presence, I observed unmistakable signs in his face denoting an early death. There is no cure for this disease. His vital powers will weaken, and he will die.”

“How long?” I bark.

“It is impossible to say with any certainty. Months, a year at most, no more.” He bows his head.

I sit silent, digesting this terrible news. I feel I have aged ten years in a single moment. But this is no time for self-pity. I must safeguard my interests and pray for time. I tell the doctor, “The council will wish to be told the results of your examination. May I remind you that in England it is treason to predict the death of the King?” I smile meaningfully. “Say whatever you like, fob them off with platitudes, tell them that His Majesty needs a period of rest in order to recover, but I warn you, do not even hint at the seriousness of his condition. If you manage to allay their fears, you will be well rewarded and may congratulate yourself on having done me a signal service. Because what I need now—what this kingdom needs, and what the Church of England needs—is time.”

Lady Jane Grey

HAMPTON COURT, OCTOBER 1552

After resting for several weeks at Windsor, the King has risen from his sickbed and traveled to Hampton Court for his fifteenth-birthday celebrations. My family and I are among the many lords and ladies attending a state banquet held in King Henry’s great hall with its magnificent hammer-beam roof.

Because of our near kinship, my parents (and consequently myself ) are among the few people who have been made aware, to our sorrow, of the gravity of the King’s condition, and we have been sworn to secrecy. Until today, however, the reality of the situation was not brought home to me, but now, seated with my father and mother toward the end of the high table, I have a good view of His Majesty and am appalled to see him looking so ill, with sunken, flushed cheeks and swollen limbs. What is more, to judge from the furtive glances and alarmed expressions along the tables, others are shocked too. I watch my poor cousin as he toys with his food, leaving most of it, and from time to time I see him hold his chest with one hand and cough into a fine lawn handkerchief held in the other; once, I swear, I see that handkerchief come away spotted with blood. The King’s cough is harsh, racking his body, and it interrupts him every time he tries to speak.

I turn to my lady and whisper, “Madam, I fear His Majesty is far more ill than I had expected.”

“Hush!” she hisses fiercely. “You must not speak of such things here. Remember, we have been told by my lord of Northumberland, for the King’s sake, to act as if all is well. Very few people know how ill he actually is, and for very good reasons.”

“But surely people notice? And surely the King himself realizes how sick he is?”

“The Duke wants everyone to believe that he is slowly improving. I hear that the King himself has been told he will recover in due course,” she murmurs. Poor, deluded soul, I think sadly. “Now, enough,” my mother adds briskly. “This is a festive occasion and should not be spoiled by mournful talk.”

I cannot help but feel mournful, though. That poor boy. He cannot recover: it should be obvious to everyone, himself included. Death sits upon him as clear as day. He should be warned of it and, in charity, given time to prepare his soul.

I am disgusted to see Northumberland carrying on as normal, sitting at His Majesty’s right hand, laughing and jesting. Already he is planning, for the King’s delight, a number of elaborate and costly entertainments for Christmas, which is probably the last Christmas Edward will ever see. My father says the Duke is also trying to hurry along negotiations for His Majesty’s marriage to Elisabeth of France, hoping no doubt that my poor cousin will father an heir before he dies, although my lord says that, looking at him, he doubts he would be capable of it. Yet Northumberland continues with his charade, intent on deceiving the world. It is even said that the Duke has made belated friendly approaches to the Lady Mary, with an all-too-transparent motive, and it is certain that he has banned the Lady Elizabeth—who is far too astute for his comfort—from visiting her brother. Without a doubt, he is playing for time and arming himself against several contingencies. But can the insensitive man not see that, by maintaining the fiction that the King’s illness is just a temporary indisposition, he is imposing an intolerable strain on Edward, who is plainly far too ill to be cooperating in all this deception?

The Lady Mary

NEWHALL AND WHITEHALL, FEBRUARY 1553

“I don’t like this at all,” I confide to Sir Robert Rochester, the comptroller of my household. “Everywhere I go, and even in my own house, I hear rumors that the King is seriously ill; and yet from the court, and in particular from that villain Northumberland, nothing apart from this.” I wave the document that has just arrived. “I have sent letter after letter, begging to know the truth, and I am just fobbed off with extravagant pleasantries. Does it not occur to you, Sir Robert, that a year ago they were sending me threats? Now they seem to be falling over themselves to win favor with me.”

“It does seem suspicious, madam,” my comptroller agrees.

“The Emperor’s ambassador tells me that Northumberland has taken over the Treasury and begun hoarding huge sums of money.” I twist the rings on my fingers in agitation. “Now I receive this invitation from the Duke to attend a masque to be performed at court at Candlemas. All he tells me is that the performers are a group of very talented children, and that I might be amused by their antics. It beggars belief: the King might be dying, yet all he can write to me is of mummeries!”

“I beg of you, madam, do not accept.”

“Oh, but I must, my friend, I must,” I insist firmly. “For all my reservations, I must see for myself how my brother is. He may have fallen grievously into error, but I was ever fond of him. And I am next in line to the throne, never forget that. I should see for myself how matters stand.”

“It may be a trap.”

“Fear not, I will take with me a goodly entourage—shall we say one hundred stout knights and their ladies? And we shall go very publicly in procession through London. I know I may say without vanity that the people love me, if only because I am my father’s daughter. I am sure they would suffer no harm to come to me.”

“I admire your courage, madam,” says Sir Robert sincerely, “but my mind will not be eased until you return safely home again.”

I smile at him affectionately. He has served me faithfully and well for years.

“I appreciate your concern, Sir Robert, and will take good care of myself, trusting in God and Our Lady to protect me. Now, I must have my gear packed. The Duke writes that he has arranged for me to stay in the former priory of St. John at Clerkenwell”—I sigh—“another great religious house turned over to secular use. Well, I am sure I will at least be lodged comfortably.”