Her Highness, the Traitor (8 page)

“Yes, to put it mildly. Tell me, my dear, have you made any other promises on my behalf to the duchess, or to anyone else, I should know about? Issued pardons?”

“It is only seeing her, John.”

“And seeing her again and again, no doubt, until this business is resolved. It won’t be quick, I suspect, no matter what you and the duchess must think.”

“She loves Somerset very dearly and is utterly devoted to him. It is her best quality.” I ran my hand along John’s back. “Surely she can’t be blamed for trying to help him. I would do the same for you if you were in trouble, John.”

John sighed. “Very well. I’ll see the woman.”

***

A few days later, Robert and Guildford wandered into my chamber. Robert cocked his head in the general direction of the chamber where John received visitors. “Is she still here?”

“Still,” I said grimly. The Duchess of Somerset had presented herself at Ely Place that morning, dressed in a less matronly fashion than usual and wearing, I suspected, a bit of paint on her face. Though she always was impeccably dressed and groomed, this was a step too far. I had said she could come to see my husband, not that she could look beautiful doing it.

“How long has she been here?” asked Guildford.

“Too long,” I muttered. “I fear she will be taxing your father’s strength,” I added hastily. “He has not been able to shake off that stomach disorder of his.”

Robert, from whom I could hide nothing, shot me an amused look. “What if we send Guildford in there?” he suggested. “I’d go myself, but it would look too obvious. Guildford can go in there to retrieve something he’s left. He’s always leaving things around the house, anyway.”

“Not lately,” Guildford protested.

“But you have that reputation. Go in there for—for your Greek grammar. That’s it! Stay there and search for it a little, so you’ll be able to tell us what feminine wiles and snares the duchess is using.”

“Feminine wiles and snares?” Guildford’s brow crinkled.

“Never mind about that,” I interjected. “Just tell us what she’s doing in there.”

“And there’s a bonus,” Robert added. “Father will think you’re actually working on your Greek.”

“I do work on my Greek.”

Robert and I rolled our eyes in unison.

“All right,” Guildford said. “I’ll go.” He headed out of the chamber, then turned. “What if Father asks me about my Greek tonight?”

“I’ll cover for you,” Robert promised.

Presently, Guildford loped back into the room. “It was
tragic
, Mother. She was kneeling before Father. I think she had been crying.”

As long as she wasn’t sitting in his lap, I thought.

“She had a bunch of letters in her hands, from the duke, I guess, and was reading from one of them. Father was listening and nodding.”

“Agreeing with her?” Robert asked. “Or trying to stay awake?”

“I don’t know,” said Guildford. “The duchess started telling me about her brilliant daughters, and I decided it was time to leave. I couldn’t find a good excuse to linger, anyway, once I found my book.” He held up a volume that showed little signs of wear. “It was there, actually.”

“Maybe you should study it, then,” said Robert. “In case Father asks about it.”

“You promised—”

“Well, yes. But now, there’s something I need to speak to Mother about. Privately.” Robert practically pushed Guildford out of the room. “Go play a game of tennis with Hal.”

A baffled-looking Guildford left the room. Robert let the sound of his departing footsteps fade away. Then he said in a low voice, “I’m in love.”

My heart sank. “The lady Elizabeth. Robert, she is not for you. The second-highest lady in the land—”

“Calf-love,” Robert said firmly. “No. Amy Robsart.”

“Who?”

Robert reached in the pouch at his side and pulled out a locket. “I sent a man to paint this of her,” he said reverently, carefully opening it and laying it on my outstretched palm.

I gazed at a limning of a pretty blonde girl of about Robert’s own age of seventeen. Though the artist was obviously skilled, the girl herself looked to me much like every other pretty blonde girl in England, but I kept quiet on this point. “She’s lovely. But who is she? I don’t know of any Robsarts.”

“She’s John Robsart’s daughter.” He anticipated my next question. “He’s a man of substance in Norfolk. He’s been sheriff there. We stayed at his place at Stanford Hall while we were marching to Norwich this summer. Amy and I got to talking. When Father had finished that business with Kett’s men, we stayed at Stanford Hall again, and we got better acquainted.”

“Robert. Have you got this girl with child?”

“No! She is a virgin. I don’t want to seduce her. I’ve never even tried. I want to make her my wife.”

I stared. Substantial John Robsart might be, but his daughter was no suitable match for an earl’s son, even an earl’s younger son, and Robert knew it as well as I did. “Robert—”

“I know, I know! I could find a bride with better breeding or a better dowry. But I don’t want such a bride. I want Amy. I’ll be miserable without her. And she wants me. Not marrying me will break her heart.” Robert gave me his most earnest look, one he had perfected over the years and that never failed to work its intended effect. “She might pine away without me and die. It does happen, you know.”

“The streets of London weren’t piled high with unhappy lovers the last time I looked.” But Robert had me, and he knew it. “It will be your father’s decision, in any case. But for what it’s worth, I won’t oppose the match.”

“I knew you wouldn’t.”

“I suppose you want me to speak to your father.”

“Yes. Oh, I could speak to him—but you’re a woman. He’ll see reason more quickly if it comes from you.”

“I should think that you wouldn’t want him to see reason, because if he does, he’ll never approve of this unsuitable match. But I will speak to him. I seem to be much in demand for that type of thing lately.”

“That’s because you’re good at it, Mother.”

“Flatterer. Save your blandishments for Amy.”

***

“Oh, her,” John said.

I found myself mildly disappointed I had not provoked more of a reaction. “You know?”

“I guessed. They spent a lot of time in each other’s company that evening, I noticed, and when he found out that she helped brew the family ale, he took an inordinate interest in the brewing process. So he fancies himself in love with this girl?”

“Yes. I am to intercede with you for their marriage.”

“A love match. I can’t say that I put much faith in them. Look at King Henry, besotted with Anne Boleyn and later that silly Howard girl. And Queen Catherine, losing her good sense over that rascal Thomas Seymour. I could think of others if I put my mind to it, I daresay.”

“But there were so many other things wrong with those matches besides them being made for love. Robert and Amy are alike in years, with no prior attachments or entanglements like the king had, and they are doing the right thing by seeking our blessing, instead of marrying in secret like the queen did. And how is their love match different from any other? They will have to mature together, just as we matured together when we were first married.”

“I don’t remember us being that immature when we married.”

“Well, I do. Do you remember how I could not do the household accounts to your satisfaction until two years into the marriage? How hateful I was to you when I first got with child?”

“True. You were a terror. And I was a tyrant.” John smiled fondly. “I’d shut it out of my memory. But we are getting away from our son. It’s hardly the sort of marriage I wanted for him. He could do better.”

“We have other sons who can make good marriages.”

“Unless they all decide they need love matches, too, with the first pretty girl they see.”

“Does that mean you give your consent?”

John grimaced. “Probably, unless I have an attack of common sense. The lad did good service at Norwich; I suppose he deserves something as a reward. Besides, he’s headstrong. If I forbade the marriage, he’d probably marry the girl secretly. Some Norfolk connections wouldn’t hurt our family, I suppose, and Robsart’s a sensible man. One could have worse relations. So I suppose we might as well make a fine wedding of it.”

I hugged John.

“But this is as low as it goes,” warned John. “If Guildford or Hal decides to marry a tavern maid, he’ll get no sympathy from me.”

We’re going to see Uncle George!” Kate chanted as our entourage set out from Bradgate. “We’re going to see Uncle George!”

Mary took up the cry. “We’re going to see Uncle George!”

“So we heard,” muttered Jane. She rolled her eyes at Elizabeth Tilney, a relation of ours who was being brought up as one of Jane’s companions.

“I like Uncle George,” protested Mary, and I smiled at her. At four, she was a pretty child, but very small for her age, with a slightly misshapen back. She was seated on a pillion behind a groom, and bystanders in the towns through which we passed would stare, wondering how such a tiny creature could ride a horse so calmly. “He’s jolly.”

George Medley, Harry’s older half brother, was indeed jolly, and I was looking forward as much as my daughters to spending a few days at his Essex estate of Tiltey. We needed some merriment this year. During the summer, there had been dreadful unrest, and three thousand rebels had been killed by the Earl of Warwick’s men at Dussindale alone. Harry had managed to keep the peace in Leicestershire, and a sullen calm had settled over the rest of the country, but I still found myself looking around uneasily for angry mobs as I passed through countryside that was normally as safe and familiar to me as my own bedchamber.

Riding near me and my ladies was Adrian Stokes, a man of around thirty who had recently become my master of horse. He had been serving with Harry’s brother John in France as marshal of Newhaven, which had fallen to the French a couple of months before. When Master Stokes returned to England, Harry promptly hired him at the recommendation of his brother, without consulting me, of course. Although it had irritated me to have Harry interfere with the management of my own household in this manner, I could find no fault with the conduct of Master Stokes himself. Indeed, I could not remember when we had left for a journey in such good order and good time.

I also could not help but notice that Master Stokes was an exceptionally good-looking man. He was of average height and of a strong build, with dark brown, curly hair, a short, neat beard, and dark blue eyes. The young ladies who served in my household liked nothing more than to watch him get upon his horse, where he struck an especially good figure. Had he been inclined to lechery, he certainly could have found partners with whom to exercise his tastes.

Thanks to Master Stokes’s excellent planning for our travel, we arrived at Tiltey in good time. The younger children ran off to play, while we adults caught up on the news of the family. Then George Medley shook his head. “So, Frances, what do you think is going to happen to the Protector? Odds has it that he loses his head. Evens has it that he’s in for a long spell in the Tower.”

“What do you mean?”

“You don’t know?”

“No. I have heard nothing since Harry went to London, except about our travel arrangements. No news of any sort.”

“Well, there’s news, all right.” George shifted on his feet. “I don’t know why he didn’t tell you; it’s no secret. The Protector is in the Tower, you see. After the disaster this summer, the Earl of Warwick and others started talking about ending the protectorate. You really can’t blame them, I suppose. Anyway, Somerset got wind of this and dragged the poor king to the gates of Hampton Court. Ranted about how the council was trying to destroy him and the king—even started carrying on about Richard III, for heaven’s sake. Why an uncle would want to mention that particular king is beyond me. Summoned the commoners to his side.”

George Medley paused, presumably so I could ask a question, but as all this was news to me, I could only say, “Go on.”

“So now we have the Protector and the king surrounded by a mob of devoted peasants, as if we hadn’t had enough of that this summer! Not that they were kind to his duchess; Somerset decided he had to send her to safety, and she left in tears. The peasants jeered at her. Some blame the whole of the duke’s troubles on her and her sharp tongue and meddling ways. I think it’s nonsense myself; the duke is capable of mucking things up without a woman’s help, from what I hear. Finally, the Protector hauled the king from his warm chamber at Hampton Court and took him to Windsor Castle in the dead of the night. A mistake, as it’s not been used as a royal residence for years and wasn’t provisioned to receive him. The king was miserable there. Caught a cold, as a matter of fact. Letters started to go back and forth between the Protector and the council, each accusing the other of all manner of evil doing. Finally, the Protector gave in. He didn’t have enough men to win a civil war, if that’s what he was thinking, and to his credit, maybe he didn’t want one either. So he gave up the king and let himself be taken a prisoner to the Tower, where he’s sitting today.”

“I never heard any of this. It is important, surely, and yet Harry told me nothing!”

“Well,” George said. “Perhaps—”

I turned to look at my oldest daughter. There was not a trace of surprise on her face. “Jane, had you heard of this?”

“Yes, Mother.”

“You mean that your father told you?”

“Yes, my lady, everything.” Even Jane could not look me quite in the eye. “I am sorry, my lady. I thought Father would have told you, and when you did not mention it, I assumed you were not interested. It did not occur to me that—”

“No. How could it?” I gave George Medley, standing there awkwardly, a radiant smile. “I suppose Harry simply omitted to tell me.”

***

Although it was only late November, there was already a feeling of Christmas in George Medley’s old-fashioned great hall. Only at court in the days of my uncle Henry had I seen more food—every animal that could fly, swim, or run appeared to be represented on George’s table, along with the fruit of every tree imaginable. The fruit of the vine was also there in abundance.

I am normally temperate, to the point of sometimes being the only sober person at a banquet, but with my anger at Harry festering, I took the opportunity to overindulge that night, especially after the children were sent to their beds and the company became conspicuously merrier. I sampled every variety of wine and joined in every toast, and when it came time to dance, I stumbled my way through three numbers, each time using the excuse of being overheated afterward to reward myself with a gulp of wine.

By the time the fourth dance started, even I recognized I was in no condition to join it. Instead, I was stumbling toward my seat when I saw my master of horse approaching. “Master Stokes!” I called. “Will you get my horse ready for me? I wish to ride.”

“Ride, my lady?”

“A horse,” I said, a little irritated at his denseness. “You are my master of horse, and I wish to ride a horse. Ergo—” I giggled. “Ergo. It sounds like something my daughter Jane would say.”

“It is a little late to ride, my lady, but I think some fresh air might do you good.”

“My horse is not ready? Is that what you are saying?”

“Yes, my lady.”

“Well, that is quite a disappointment to me. You are my master of horse, after all.”

“Yes, my lady.”

“You could at least make yourself useful and bring me some wine, then.”

“No, my lady.”

“You refuse me?”

“I think you might have had just a bit too much already, my lady. Come. Let us walk a little.”

Unable to muster further argument, I let him haul me out into the chilly autumn night. Suddenly I had an irresistible urge to sit, and did. “Master Stokes,” I said dreamily as he joined me on the ground, “I do believe you are correct. I have had a trifle too much wine.”

“Yes.”

“Don’t tell Harry. He would be angry.”

“I won’t.”

“Good. He would be shocked, actually, for I am not a habitual drunkard, Master Stokes.”

“I did not think so.”

“My mother had a poor head for wine, and she drank little of it as a consequence. Usually I try to follow her example. But…” I lost track of what I was going to say and giggled instead.

“I remember seeing your mother once or twice. She was a beautiful woman.”

“Yes.” Half to confide, half because I badly needed the support, I leaned against Master Stokes. His belief in the sobering effects of fresh air had been woefully misplaced; I felt giddier than ever and more reckless than I ever had in my life. “Did I ever tell you that my mother seduced my father?”

“No.”

“Well, she did. It was easy, I suppose. She was the Queen of France, after all, and she was very beautiful. Mind you, she was a widow, and they married immediately. But it was still a seduction.” I snorted. “She used to tell me the story of their marriage. She made it sound so very respectable, but I could read between the lines. I am not entirely stupid, no matter what Harry and Jane say.”

“They say that?”

“Not in so many words. But they think it. Why, he did not even bother to tell me about the Protector. And yet he told Jane!”

“Perhaps he did not think you would be interested. Your ladyship is not a friend of the Protector, are you?”

“No. But it is the principle of the thing! Husbands should tell their wives these things. Not only their daughters. I am nothing to him, Master Stokes, but something to get with child now and then, and as of late, I have failed even at that.” I shrugged in a way I had learned from my mother, who in turn had learned it from her brief stay at the French court. “But of course, to get a woman with child, you must lie with her, and he hardly ever does that. He says it is because I almost died giving birth to Mary, but in truth, Master Stokes, I think it is that he simply does not care.”

“My lady—”

“Oh, I know, I should not be telling you this. But who else can I tell? It is not the sort of thing one wants to tell another woman. We have our pride. And, too, I am the Mar…Mar… Mar… the something of Dorset. Many a woman would like to be me. Why should I disillusion anyone?” My head was beginning to hammer. I made an effort to rise. “I am going to go and get some more wine.”

“No. That would be unwise.”

“But I am unwise. In fact, some think me downright stupid.” I leaned back against Master Stokes’s shoulder and closed my eyes. “I may be stupid, but at least I am not ugly. You don’t think me so, do you?”

“No.” Master Stokes gently dislodged me from my resting place. “I am going to find your ladies to help me escort you to your chamber. You need to sleep.”

“My ladies think you are quite handsome. Do ladies ever tell you that, Master Stokes?”

“No.”

“Well, they should. You are handsome. And very, very kind.” Master Stokes attempted to raise me to a standing position, but I shook him off. “And you won’t tell Harry about this?”

“No.”

“You swear?”

“Yes, if you promise to let me help you up so I can find your ladies.”

“Very well,” I said, attempting to rise also and instead sinking back to the ground. I giggled again. “But it will not be as easy as you think.”

Somehow, Master Stokes got me to my feet at last and back to the hall, where I sagged on a bench as he went in search of my ladies. Fortunately, my sodden condition went unnoticed: all eyes were on the hobbyhorse prancing about and emitting guttural neighs that sounded suspiciously like George Medley.

Master Stokes quickly arrived with my ladies, who had been looking for me. I blew him a parting kiss good-bye as they steered me toward my chamber. “Good night, kind and handsome Master Stokes,” I said. “Don’t let some lady seduce you. You are innocent about such matters, I fear.”

“I won’t, my lady,” Master Stokes promised.

Mercifully, my ladies managed to haul me away before I could give any more parting advice to Master Stokes.

I longed to spend the rest of the next day in bed, nursing my hangover and my shame, but I was the Marchioness of Dorset, after all, the highest-ranking lady present, and I had to act up to my station. So I struggled into my riding dress—even the feather that adorned my cap drooped as if hung over—and rode out to the hunt with the rest of the household, Master Stokes by my side. How many times had I told him the previous night he was handsome? At least, I consoled myself, I had not tried to seduce him. As we rode at the tail end of the hunting party, every step my horse took feeling like a hoof on my head, I said, “I believe I asked you several times last night not to tell my husband of my foolishness, Master Stokes, but I will ask you again nonetheless.”

“There is no need, my lady.” Master Stokes smiled. “Indeed, my lady, I must confess that after our encounter last night, I myself overindulged. I have very little recollection of what happened before and afterward.”

I looked into Master Stokes’s deep blue eyes, which bore no sign of recent dissipation at all, and shook my head. “You are a poor liar, Master Stokes, but I thank you.”

***

Our next stop on our journey to London was worlds away from George Medley’s house: Beaulieu in Essex, a home of the lady Mary also known as Newhall. “Will we have to go to Mass?” asked Jane as we rode side by side.

No inkling of my regrettable behavior at Tiltey seemed to have reached Jane, or anyone else besides Adrian Stokes and my ladies: the Lord was certainly entitled to some heavenly thanks for that, Mass or no Mass. “Yes, if she wishes us to attend with her. She is our hostess and is entitled to that courtesy.”

“Perhaps she won’t let us be present,” Jane said hopefully. “We are heretics in her eyes, after all.”

Mary was indeed at Mass when we arrived at Beaulieu, which gave my daughters and me time to freshen up after our journey and to admire a special feature of my own luxurious chamber: the bathing room. Even Jane looked awed as we stepped inside and played with the faucets: one for hot water, one for cold. “May we take a bath tomorrow, Mama?” Kate asked.

“Of course,” I promised. I turned to my youngest daughter, who appeared wary. “It’s quite safe,” I assured her. “Just like the tubs we use, only this one has its very special room.”

We could have enjoyed admiring the bathing room and the other luxuries of Beaulieu for a while longer, but shortly thereafter, Lady Anne Wharton, one of Mary’s waiting women, came to lead the four of us to her mistress in the great hall. We walked past the indoor tennis court, once enjoyed by Anne Boleyn’s brother George, and by the side chapel. Sitting on the altar in a splendid receptacle was something that had long been banished from our own altar and from nearly every other altar in England: the Host.