Three Maids for a Crown: A Novel of the Grey Sisters (15 page)

Chapter Nine

K
ATHERINE
H
ERBERT
B
AYNARD’S
C
ASTLE
, L
ONDON
J
ULY
10, 1553

ane—queen of England. No matter how many times I repeated the news my father-in-law had brought to the Herberts’ grim family seat at Baynard’s Castle, I could not make the ascent feel real.

When our wedding finery had been brought from the royal wardrobe, Jane had cringed at the richness of gowns and jewels. Perhaps she recoiled because they had belonged to the Duke of Somerset before he was beheaded, one of my maids had suggested. Was Lady Jane not once betrothed to his son? But it had less to do with Somerset’s fate than with Jane’s strict rules as to what became a sober Protestant maid. Now she would have every gem in the treasury to eschew.

The Pembroke coach lurched, and I banged my knee hard against the ivory inlaid box that Henry’s sister Maud had insisted on squeezing into what little space remained between her and Henry and me as we jounced toward Westminster, where Jane would be waiting.

Everything would be different between us. I rubbed my bruise. It would hurt when I had to kneel to Jane. I would have to obey her every command. Even Father would favor her now. I turned my face to the window to hide the tears that were turning Cheapside to a blur.

It seemed I had spent the past three days avoiding people’s eyes. My goal: to conceal the restlessness that gripped me since the earl had appeared, travel-stained but triumphant, and summoned the family to his privy chamber.

I remember my shock at Pembroke’s news, as if the dank stone floor had collapsed beneath my feet. Moments later it shored itself up again, and envy soured my tongue. I could hear Dr. Thomas Harding’s stern voice, Father’s chaplain, upbraiding Mary, Jane, and me with the commandment:
It is a sin to covet thy neighbor’s ox
.

How much more damning was the sin of coveting a sister’s throne?
my conscience demanded.
Would you change places with Jane? Be forced to wed a man you loathed, join a family you fear?
It was true that Henry’s father had a reputation as a warrior, and was not as educated or civilized as my own, but he had lavished me with praise and gifts and provided me with every kind of delight in the six weeks since Henry and I had wed.

Jane had grown so unhappy, she became ill. I remembered Northumberland’s face when I broke the vial, its burden of white powder spilling on the floor. Northumberland would spread poison in the same manner through the life of anyone who stood in the way of his ambition. Surely Jane was safe, I assured myself. Through her the Dudleys would hold on to the power they had gained during Edward’s reign—disinheriting Cousin Mary, even though she was the rightful heir, according to her father’s will.

Poor Mary. She had never been pretty, had no husband, no children to love her. Now she would not even be queen. But if King Edward thought Jane better suited to rule England, the crown was his to bestow on whomever he wished.

Even in light of that conclusion, I could not silence the other question that rose in my mind. “What of our lady mother?” I had asked my lord of Pembroke. “It is God’s natural order that she come before Jane in the succession.”

My father-in-law’s eyes had turned fierce. For the first time I felt uneasy in his presence. A ridiculous reaction, born, no doubt of my shaken nerves. “Her Grace of Suffolk has agreed to relinquish her claim in Jane’s favor,” the earl informed me. “Do you understand what that means, daughter? As of this moment, you are Queen Jane’s heir. Should your sister perish or fail to produce a son, you will inherit.”

Jane’s suspicions had been right, as had Mary’s warnings. Dudley and Father and, yes, even the Earl of Pembroke
were
using us as pawns in some sort of gamble. But even with all my flights of fancy, I had never guessed the prize they sought was the crown!

I spread my fingers against the embroidered fabric of my stomacher, imagining what it would mean to be raised to a station even greater than to which we had ascended when Father became a duke. The Grey family would grow wealthier as lands and lordships poured in, offices bestowed on us with all their attendant power.

I imagined being swathed in the richest furs that the royal wardrobe could supply, a crown atop my head. Suddenly I stopped myself, sickened to realize what dire events would have to occur for such a thing to be. I did not wish my sister dead, but if it was God’s will that Jane be childless … That thought was wicked also. Even cuddling my spaniels failed to soothe my shame.

Later that night after the earl had dismissed us, I could no longer bear being alone with my misgivings. I went to Henry’s sister Maud’s bedchamber, where she blunted my worries with her delight. “Of course, it is only right we mourn our dead king,” Maud had said. “But after—oh Katherine, just think! A coronation, tournaments. We must have new gowns—and jewels.” She had bustled to her treasure-casket, retrieving something that gleamed between her fingers. She pressed the lumpy objects into my hand. I stared down at my palm where green stones glittered against gold settings.

“These earbobs belonged to my mother, a gift from her sister, Queen Catherine Parr. My mother often said the emeralds were the exact color of Henry’s eyes.”

“They are.” I remembered running my thumb over the gems.

“You love Henry so much,” Maud said. “Mother would want you to have them.”

The ugly knot of envy that had remained despite my best efforts melted away. Be jealous of Jane? She probably envied me! I was wed to my Henry, so handsome, as wild in love with me as I was with him. I had a powerful new family who pampered and adored me. Even Henry’s fierce father treated me as if I were his own best-beloved daughter. True, I had heard disturbing stories about the earl, but people loved to imagine the worst, and tales grew more fantastical as they were passed from plowman to merchant to butcher. What else had they save gossip to enliven their dreary existence?

My life would be so much more exciting. As sister to the queen, I would be admired by everyone at court, my fashions copied, my beauty lauded, my favor sought. But I would not have to suffer the quarrelsome council meetings or appointments with tedious ambassadors that Jane would be required to endure—all of that unpleasantness made worse by the Duke of Northumberland hanging over her every moment.

I remembered the presents we sisters received on Twelfth Night. I had always compared them with a critical eye, my feelings hurt when Jane’s seemed the greater prize. This time I had won the most precious gift, and it was one I would treasure for the rest of my life. My sister Mary had often said I was the luckiest girl in the world. She was right.

I had hugged Maud, moved by her kindness. It was good to have her to confide in while my sisters were far away. Strange how the absence of someone could leave a hollow place, even the absence of someone you had never met. I missed the presence of Henry’s mother. I think the whole household did when they contrasted the accomplished, elegant Anne Parr against the rough manners of the earl. “I will cherish your gift always and wear these the day Jane is crowned,” I told Maud.

She grinned. “Just promise to pass the earrings on to your own daughter when you and Henry have one.”

“
If
we ever have one. Sometimes I wonder if we will ever be allowed to be together. It is cruel to still be forbidden my husband’s bed.”

“I am sure the ban will be lifted soon. They say the Duke of Northumberland never acts without considering every purpose or possible result tenfold. His motive in arranging the marriage between you and Henry is to secure powerful allies to your sister’s throne. A babe will solidify the bond between Suffolk, Pembroke, and Northumberland, something all three families’ desire. I would wager every jewel in my box that the night your sister is crowned, you and my brother will share a bridal bed.”

I smiled, grateful that I would share Henry’s bed instead of wear a crown won me by a Dudley. My voice dropped low. “Maud, I have never been to a coronation.”

It had been a sore point with me—I had been left behind with baby Mary when Edward was crowned. Jane had described the festivities to me as best she could, but she had little imagination when it came to such things. When Father was in an expansive mood, his tales proved more satisfactory. He would draw me onto his knee and tell how he had attended Anne Boleyn on her triumphant procession to Westminster Abbey. She had been garbed in virginal white, her hair loose like a maid’s even though her belly bulged with child. Father had become a knight of the bath on the eve of her coronation, keeping vigil the whole night through. But Jane’s coronation would be my first chance to be part of so grand a celebration where all eyes would be upon my family, the crowds cheering and tossing caps full of coins in the air while fireworks burst in the sky to welcome a new reign.

I must ask Jane to make Henry a knight of the bath. How delighted he and my lord of Pembroke would be! How they would thank me! Jane would be queen, but she could never please people as I did. She was too caught up in her scholarly pursuits to care. Perhaps Londoners would come to love me as much as they did her. Maybe better.

A blast of trumpets shook me from my musings, and I felt Henry come awake where he had been drowsing beside me. The coach slowed, shouts ringing out from the earl’s servants as they attempted to clear our way. I peered past the Pembroke banners unfurling like ribbons on the wind. A crowd thronged about St. Paul’s, Cheapside. The center of their attention: the great stone cross that soared above their heads, a symbol that remained from the old, superstitious Catholic days. Since then wooden risers had been built to seat crowds that came to the cross to hear the important sermons and momentous announcements that were made there.

Today heralds in royal livery stood at attention on either side of the cross. More trumpets sounded. The crowd strained forward as a cleric draped in ecclesiastical robes mounted the platform in the shadow of the stone cross. The people knew something important was about to happen. All England had bruited about rumors of the king’s failing health. Were they anticipating a celebration? Father said the fountains had run with wine when Uncle Henry died and Edward was proclaimed king.

Henry looped one arm around me, his voice still tinged with sleep as he murmured in my ear, “Look, wife. England is about to change forever.”

Our lives as well
, I thought, as I imagined awakening every day to that same husky voice. Surely the dukes would allow Henry and me to consummate our marriage now.

“Hear this, one and all!” the cleric’s voice boomed out from beside the cross. “Our good and pious King Edward is dead. God save Queen Jane!”

I leaned out the window to wave to the throng, anticipating my first taste of being sister of the queen, intending to savor the crowd’s shouts of joy. Instead, a strange silence muted the crossroads. Long moments dragged by. A few people echoed the cleric’s words, but even those cries seemed blunted by confusion.

A lad a little older than Henry elbowed his way forward, his thatch of straw-colored hair framing a face crumpled with outrage. “Queen Jane?” he bellowed. “Who is Queen Jane? It is Great Harry’s girl should be heir to her father’s crown!”

I stiffened, affronted. The insolent pup! How dare he question the will of his king! I waited for someone to cuff him or reprimand him. Instead, other voices joined his protest.

“Indeed! It is true! We want the Lady Mary!” Who spoke I could not say. Only the youth’s identity was clear. I saw a man grasp him by his leather jerkin. The youth’s master, perhaps? Red-faced, the older man said something to his charge that I could not hear.

A brace of royal heralds plunged toward the two, but the lad yanked free and bolted through the crowd. He should have been easily caught, but a pathway seemed to open, then close behind him, foiling the pursuit. More unnerving still were the movements of the crowd—heads nodded, quiet signals that they agreed with what the apprentice had said.

“Beware!” a stout merchant cried out, gesturing in our direction. “Look to the crest on that coach! That is the Earl of Pembroke’s device!”

“His son is wed to Suffolk’s daughter,” a woman cautioned. “Mind what Pembroke and Northumberland did in the North counties!”

Her words conjured memories that frightened me. I remembered the terrifying summer in 1549 when the new English prayer book had been put into the churches at the king’s orders. What a fuss there had been over nothing but a book! Wicked, disobedient people had turned the countryside to a battleground. Fields had erupted in flames, and peasants had invaded the peers’ parklands, tearing down fences, setting torches to the houses.

Pembroke had ridden against the rioters, hacking them to pieces with his own sword. What else was he to do? Those bad people had started the trouble.