Betrayal (48 page)

             
“First I must have a corrected letter. I should see your wife; question her to get the details.” Cromwell paused, seeing Andrew grow pale.  “I thought as much, she didn’t write it, but it doesn’t matter who wrote the letter so long as we have it. But that being the case your wife is a hazard to our plan. She will have to go without attracting the wrong kind of attention. No, I have it; we will put her in the Tower, but why?  Yes, I know; she will be taken on a charge of witchcraft. Yes, that is it, she will be charged with procuring the Queen’s miscarriage.”

             
Andrew blanched. He didn’t want Elisabeth arrested. Then he remembered the lover’s embrace and his blood ran cold. “But she must not come to trial!” he demanded, for he had other plans for his cheating wife.

             
“No, no, it need not come to that, I can assure you. Once the dust has settled, she will be returned to your loving care.”

“Will she have to testify?” Andrew asked timidly, aware that Elisabeth would not easily agree to do their bidding.

“No, her letter will suffice. We have them, Andrew, we have them all. But we must keep quiet for the moment until all is arranged, and stay away from the Seymours.”

             
“But you promise Elisabeth will come to no harm?”

             
“She can plead her belly, if it comes to that. How far along is her pregnancy?”

             
“I am not sure,” Andrew said bitterly.

             
Cromwell took note of Andrew’s tone, but chose to ignore it. “It matters not for your babe will save your wife from the fires of Smithfield, I promise you.”

             
Andrew bit his lip to keep from exclaiming, ‘It is not my babe,’ but he would take care of that too when the time came.

             
When he returned to The Three Bells he took a pitcher of ale to his room where he attempted to drive the remembrance of Elisabeth’s betrayal from his mind. He drank until he could drink no more. In his mind’s eye he saw Rochford stoop to kiss Elisabeth’s stomach. He leaned back in his chair.  Exhausted, he slipped into a drunken stupor.

***

              Elisabeth lay in George’s arms in the early morning light of Friday, April 7
th
. Frost etched the plain window glass of her small bedchamber as she cuddled close.

             
George rolled her over on to her back, staring down at her face. His ever-present smile was gone as he spoke.  “The Queen and her court leave for Windsor this morning and I must go with them,” he whispered as he stroked Elisabeth’s tear-stained cheek.

             
“And I to my husband must go,” Elisabeth said, turning her face away to stare at the wall.

             
“The King is at Windsor and Anne must join him there to celebrate Easter. You will join us on Monday,” George said, hoping to cheer her. Seeing her pale, he frowned. He wanted to whisper reassurances that this would be the last time.  He remembered the scene in Anne’s bedchamber when he begged his sister not to grant Andrew’s plea for time with his wife, but Anne would not listen.

             
“A wife’s place is with her husband,” Anne had said.

             
“But she doesn’t love him.”

             
“That matters not, he is her husband. He has made a simple request and I have granted it.  Elisabeth will visit with her husband for the weekend of Palm Sunday and come to Windsor thereafter.”

             
“She would rather come to Windsor straightaway.” George pleaded.

             
“You interfere too much George. The girl is married and carrying her husband’s child. Forget her.”

             
“But…”

             
“No buts, George. If you persist I will have no choice but to dismiss her from my service.”

             
“You can’t.”

             
“I can and I will if you do not desist. Isn’t it time Jane returned to Court?”

             
George frowned and shook his head, his eyes pleading with his sister.

             
“I think Jane should join us for Easter at Windsor. Please extend my invitation to her so she may join us as soon as possible. Now, leave me, George.”

             
George Boleyn made a stiff bow to his sister’s office as Queen, his face twisted with anger and frustration.

             
That had been two days ago and he had not been able to change Anne’s mind.

Elisabeth watched the Queen’s party leave Whitehall early in the afternoon. She stood in the window of the Queen’s bedchamber and watched as George Boleyn rode beside the Queen’s litter, never varying his gaze from his sister.

              Elisabeth looked around the empty, silent rooms making sure everything was in its place. She delayed a while longer in refolding the Queen’s linens and packing the remaining traveling boxes. Then when she could delay no more Elisabeth passed to her own chamber to dress for her reunion with her husband.

             
At a quarter to two, Andrew Tremayne came to walk with her to The Three Bells.

             
“Good afternoon, mistress,” he greeted giving a slight nod of his head.

             
“Good afternoon, husband,” Elisabeth replied, nodding her head she handed him her bundle of clothes.

             
“What have you here?” he asked hefting the small bundle to judge its weight.

             
Elisabeth blushed.  “Merely a change of linen and a fresh gown,” she replied, the rose colored stain still on her cheeks.

             
Andrew felt the bundle. “What is the book within?”

             
Elisabeth colored.  “Why it is only my Book of Hours, I am never without it.” Elisabeth trembled; she did not want Andrew to know she kept a journal.

             
“A Book of Hours,” Andrew said.  “It must give you great comfort in your prayers. A religious wife is a faithful wife,” he continued as he turned to lead the way.

             
Elisabeth blanched.   Did he know her secret?

             
But Andrew changed the subject.  “Tonight we will dine with friends,” he said while they walked along the river.

             
“What friends?” Elisabeth asked.

             
“You will see,” Andrew answered quietly.

             
“Halt!” came a shout from behind as they approached the Inn.

             
The couple turned to see several soldiers dressed in the King’s livery.

             
“Elisabeth Beeton?” questioned the sergeant.

             
“Yes, I am Elisabeth Beeton.”

             
“You are to come with us.”

             
“But why, has my lady sent for me?”

             
“You are under arrest!” the man shouted as he grabbed for her arm.  “You are to be taken to the Tower to await trial. Come with us!” the sergeant shouted as the men grabbed the struggling Elisabeth and dragged her toward a waiting boat.

             
“But why, what am I charged with?” Elisabeth begged, struggling to free herself from the men’s grasp. “Andrew!” Elisabeth screamed. “Help me!” she begged.

             
“You are charged with witchcraft and must answer to God and the Crown for your foul deeds.”

             
Andrew took a step backward, unsure of how he was to behave.

             
“Andrew!” Elisabeth screamed. “Tell the Queen!” she begged.

             
Andrew nodded, knowing he had no intention of doing as he was bid. ‘It is for your own good, the evil must suffer the torments of Hell to be freed,’ he thought as Elisabeth was hoisted kicking and screaming into the small boat.

             
Andrew watched the boat move on the water, his mind awash with emotions; pleasure that his plan was at last being set in motion, anger at Elisabeth’s betrayal, and pity for what awaited her.  ‘Perhaps,’ he thought “if God is kind she will miscarry the little bastard growing in her womb and we will be able to begin again.’  Andrew kicked at the stones by his feet, loudly cursing Elisabeth. The thought of her imprisonment tore at his guts ,but her betrayal drove him on to the Inn and its bar, seeking to lose himself in his wine-cup.

***

              Andrew was surprised to find a message from Cromwell awaiting him at The Three Bells.  The great man demanded Andrew’s immediate attendance at Cromwell’s home in Stepney.

             
Andrew left The Three Bells hiring a dog cart for the trip. When he arrived he beat the dust from his clothes before approaching the door.

             
Tremayne, please come in. Master Cromwell awaits you in the hall. This way please.”

“Thank you, John,” Andrew replied, handing the man his cap and cloak.

“Well, you are come His knock was answered by Cromwell’s servant, John Bartelot.  “Ah, Master at last,” Cromwell said, standing up from his hearthside chair and crossing the room in a few wide strides. “How are you?” he asked, extending his hand to Andrew.

Andrew shook his head; he didn’t know how he felt.

“Dirty business.  Still it is the only way. You left the note where we agreed?”

“I gave it to a servant girl with instructions and a penny. She seemed eager for the task. I suspect she did as she was bid,” Andrew replied sadly.

“Good, good, now they will not look for Mistress Beeton.” Then, realizing his blunder, Cromwell corrected himself, “your pardon, I meant Mistress Tremayne. There remains only for you to be gone.”

“Gone?” Andrew said in disbelief.

“Yes, you must leave London immediately. Have you some place to go?”

             
“Why must I leave London?”

             
“Fool, how long do you think the Boleyns will believe you took your wife to Cornwall if they see you walking the streets of London?  Come now, don’t be foolish, if they look for her, they will find her. Must I remind you that our whole plan depends on her being unavailable?”

             
Andrew frowned and shook his head; he hadn’t expected to have to leave London.

             
“I repeat, have you some place to go?”

             
Andrew thought for a moment.  “My friend is to marry the daughter of a Devonshire gentleman soon.  I suppose I could attend the wedding.”

             
“Not in Plymouth or a like place where you might be recognized, is it?”

             
“Hardly, it is a hamlet near to Totnes, called Morely’s Cross. My friend marries the gentleman’s heir and I had thought to take Elisabeth there when she is released.”

             
“Good, then be gone as soon as you can.”

             
“But Elisabeth,” Andrew began nervously. “You promised she will come to no harm.”

             
“She will not burn, if that is what you are afraid of,” Cromwell said thoughtfully, raising his hand to stroke his chin.  “Here,” he said, pointing to his writing desk, “write the name of this family and I will write to you when to return. Now go, you must not be seen in London.”

             
Andrew wrote the names Morely and Morely’s Cross on a scrap of paper. He looked out the window over the small desk at the driving rain hoping Cromwell would offer his carriage. When he did not, Andrew left to walk back to The Three Bells. He pulled down his cap and gathered his cloak tightly around his body as he stepped into the street, his mood as melancholy as the weather.  His brain burned with anger and his thoughts were as dark as the windswept streets as he walked on through the rain, arriving at the inn soaking wet well after dark.  As he climbed the stairs he cursed Elisabeth and her lover for this humiliation, vowing to get his just revenge.

                                                                                    ***

“If you scream again,” the sergeant threatened, holding his dagger before Elisabeth, “I will save the Crown the cost of your trial.”

              Elisabeth stared in disbelief at the small knife just inches from her throat. She opened her mouth to speak, but was silenced by a jab of his hand toward her. She stopped struggling allowing the soldiers to ease their grip on her arms and legs. They dropped her with a thud into the bottom of the shallow boat where she could see Andrew turn and walk away. She lay watching the oarsmen’s strokes as the boat made its way slowly upstream to the Tower.  Twenty minutes later as Elisabeth watched the water gate open she wondered if she could get a message to Sarah.

             
“Kind sir,” she said to the soldier nearest to her.

             
He frowned and shook his head raising a finger to his thick lips.

             
Elisabeth shivered with fright as the boat came to rest at the dock. She wanted to pinch herself, so sure was she that she was dreaming, but this was no dream.

             
The soldiers surrounded her as they passed through the arch of the inner gate into the Tower grounds. Elisabeth searched the amassing crowds, but could not see Sarah or her father. ‘At least he will not see my shame,’ Elisabeth thought as the soldiers led her past the Lanthorn Tower and up the stone stairs to the Salt Tower, the eastern-most tower in the curtain wall.

             
Once inside the round stone tower Elisabeth was pushed up the narrow, winding staircase leading to a small room.  The soldier directly behind her pushed her forward with such strength she went tumbling to the floor.  The icy stone burned her hands with cold and she hurried to warm them in her armpits.  She had just a moment to look around before she heard the key grinding in the lock.   “What have I done?” she screamed as she fumbled towards the door in the semi-darkness. She beat at the hard oak with her hands, begging for someone to answer her, but the only sound she heard was the tramp of heavy boots going down the narrow stairway and soon there was only silence.

             
At her feet lay her small bundle, she picked it up and turned back to study the room.  It was a small room with stone walls and floor.  Unconsciously she was lifting one foot then the other as the cold of the floor burned through her thin shoes.  Beneath the arrow slit window in the wall was a pile of straw. Elisabeth crossed to it and sat down, pleased that the straw insulated her a bit from the cold.  In the fading light Elisabeth saw a small wooden bed covered with a thin blanket, a small table, and a stool. How different it was from her bedchamber at Whitehall Palace with its soft featherbed and warm fur coverlet. Elisabeth pulled the threadbare blanket from the bed and rolled up in it. Hugging her small bundle tight she curled up on the dirty straw, shivering with cold. Looking around the darkened chamber she began to cry hysterically until finally, exhausting herself, she drifted into a deep demon-filled sleep.

             
When Elisabeth did not join the Royal party at Windsor as expected, a messenger was sent to London to find her.  But all that was found was a note pinned to her pillow in her room which read:

             
Dear and Gracious Lady,

             
              At my husband’s bidding I have returned with him to Cornwall to care for his aged mother, who is ill and requires immediate care.

             
              My husband begs your forgiveness of my untimely but necessary desertion of my duties in your service.

             
                            Yours faithfully,

             
                                          Elisabeth Tremayne nee Beeton

              When George said he was going to look for Elisabeth, Anne threatened to have him arrested. Unwillingly and heartbroken George Boleyn agreed to let Elisabeth go.

THIRTY-ONE

JANUARY 1
ST

              Alan dropped the telephone receiver into its cradle when he saw Lydia and her Uncle enter the foyer.

             
“Who was that?” Henry asked looking at the telephone.

             
“Wrong number,” Alan said hastily.  He wanted to distract Lydia from the telephone and the thought that she should call Dan. Looking out the window he pointed “That’s a pretty little Norman church, would you show it to me, Lydia?” He asked as he pulled her jacket from the hall closet and slipped his London Fog trench coat on.

             
“Yes, it’s a lovely church. It was built in about 1264. It replaced an earlier wooden one,” Henry Hays-Morely said, slipping on his tan Burberry jacket. “Did you know that Morely’s Cross is listed in the Domesday Book?” he asked as they crossed the garden.

             
“What is the Domesday Book?” Lydia asked as she paused by the gate leading into the churchyard.

             
“The Domesday Book is our earliest public record; it dates from the year 1086.”

             
“1086, wow!  But what is it?” Lydia asked.

             
“It was commissioned by William the Conqueror, wasn’t it?” Alan asked.

             
“Yes, it’s a detailed statement of the lands held by the King and by his tenants and of the resources that went with those lands. There were already earlier lists of lands

and taxes in existence, some dating from Anglo Saxon times, but William wanted an updated list of his lands and wealth, so he sent four commissioners to review the Anglo Saxon records and to make an accurate account.  Morely’s Cross is listed as a village, given to William by Iudhael of Totnes and then given by William to Gregory De Morlei, a Breton.”

              “Gregory De Morlei,” Lydia said, turning the words over in her mouth.

             
“Yes, that’s why the house is called ‘Old Beretun’; he was supposed to have been from Brittany,” Henry said, walking up the path the church’s front doors.

             
“Old Beretun? Isn’t that what Christine said I was to inherit?” Lydia questioned pausing just inside the battered oak doors.  She rested her hand on a nearby table to steady herself.

             
“It is indeed.  I hadn’t meant to tell you this way, but now is as good a time as any other,” Henry said, walking back to the door. He stepped outside into the watery sunshine pointing back to the two story white stucco house.  “That’s Old Beretun and it’s your inheritance. For more than four hundred years the house and farm have been entailed to the first born daughter of the first born daughter.”

             
“What happens if there isn’t a daughter to inherit?” Alan asked, joining Henry outside.