Secrets of the Tudor Court Boxed Set (129 page)

Her second marriage agreed with her. Although black mourning dress had shown off the pale skin and bright green eyes that went with her red hair, she looked far healthier in bright colors. Her face lit up with pleasure when she recognized me. “Bess! What a lovely surprise. I have thought of you so often, but no one seemed to know where you were living.”

“Quietly,” I said before I was engulfed in a lavender-scented embrace.

In no time we were nibbling marchpane, sipping barley water, and telling each other some of what had happened to each of us since we’d
parted in Queen Jane’s apartments in the Tower. I was careful not to mention Will, since I had agreed not to give all my trust to the woman who was Lord Clinton’s wife, but by the time she refilled our goblets I had come to the point of my visit.

“I cannot give you details, for your own protection, but I have a message to deliver to the princess, one that is of vital importance to Her Grace’s future. Is it possible for you to visit Hatfield and take me with you?”

Although my request clearly surprised her, she did not hesitate to agree. “I have been there before. When Sir Thomas Pope was first made Her Grace’s guardian, before Queen Mary put a stop to such things, he arranged several masques and pageants for the Lady Elizabeth’s entertainment and invited the local gentry to attend. Pope is a witty and intelligent man, and his wife is pleasant, too.”

“But he will look askance at me.”

“Perhaps.” She toyed with a long lock of red-gold hair that had come loose from her coif while she considered the situation. “You could accompany me as my waiting gentlewoman. No one would question that.” Her grin was infectious. “Now, let me see—what shall we call you?”

“Birdie Crane?” I suggested.

She laughed. “You do not look a thing like Mistress Crane, but the name will do nicely. Is she still with you?”

I shook my head. Sometimes I missed Birdie, but so long as I had Will, I did not crave other companionship. “Birdie is with my mother and has been for some time.”

“And you are with Will,” Geraldine guessed. When I said nothing, she rolled her eyes. “You worry too much. You and I and Elizabeth Tudor, too, are young and healthy. We will survive the present regime and go on to be part of something new and glorious.”

“I pray you are right, but for the present I prefer to be cautious.”

I stayed the night at Geraldine’s house and the next morning we set out early for Hatfield. Sir Thomas Pope did not question my disguise, but the Lady Elizabeth recognized me at once, even though it had been years since she’d last seen me.

One pale red eyebrow shot up when Geraldine presented me under Birdie’s name, but all the princess said was “Do you like flowers, Mistress Crane? My gardener has grown an unusual one called a tulip. It is native to a faraway place called Armenia.”

The redbrick palace of Hatfield had beautifully laid out flower beds, and since it was the end of April, they were especially fragrant and colorful. Roses vied for attention with more common blooms—cowslip, stock, gillyflowers, and white violets. In the orchard beyond, apple trees were just bursting into sweet-scented pink and white blossoms.

Geraldine pretended great interest in the tulips to distract the waiting gentlewomen the queen had sent to watch Elizabeth’s every move. While they were occupied, the princess whisked me into the concealing shelter of a grape arbor. I rushed into speech as soon as I was certain we could not be overheard.

“Your Grace, the French ambassador sends his warmest greetings and trusts you are well.” I summarized quickly, apprising her of King Philip’s intention to coerce her into marriage. “The ambassador was most particular in stressing that Your Grace must not yield to such persuasion.”

“I would rather die than bend to Philip’s will.” Elizabeth’s composure never wavered and her voice was firm and resolute. This was no longer a solemn, somewhat naive young girl, but a woman of twenty-three, well aware of the danger of trusting anyone.

“The ambassador wished me to relay one other warning. He advises that Your Grace remain in England. Flight into France at this time would not serve Your Grace’s best interests.”

“Not even if I am at risk of being sent back to the Tower at the queen’s whim?” One long-fingered hand momentarily crept up to touch her throat.

I searched my mind for some way to convince her that de Noailles was right and remembered one of the arguments the ambassador had used to persuade me. “Did you know, Your Grace, that your sister the queen once contemplated flight to Flanders? It was during King Edward’s
reign. At the last minute Her Grace decided to remain in England. Had she not, she would have lost her chance to rule.”

There was a new rigidity in Elizabeth’s spine when she straightened from pretending to inspect the grapevine. “That would have suited you well, would it not, if Mary had not been in place to raise an army against our cousin Jane?” Her piercing black eyes bored into mine.

Since I could not deny that I had supported making Lady Jane Grey queen, and by doing so had conspired not only against Queen Mary, but also against Elizabeth, as Mary’s heir, I remained silent.

“I am told,” the princess continued, “that it was your suggestion that the Lady Jane Grey marry the Duke of Northumberland’s son.” Her tone implied more.

I had heard the rumors, too. “Despite what his enemies have claimed since, Your Grace, Northumberland did not plan all along for his son to be king, nor did he poison King Edward. Nor did
Lady
Northumberland. These are no more than attempts to discredit a good man and his wife. At the time of the wedding, there was as yet no thought of the Lady Jane as King Edward’s successor. No one even knew how ill your brother really was.”

I was not sure she believed me, but her ladies were rapidly drawing near. Our conversation came to an abrupt end. The remainder of my visit to Hatfield passed without further opportunity to speak in private with the princess.

When I left Hatfield later that day, I thought that I’d succeeded in convincing Her Grace to heed the French ambassador’s warning, but I was less certain that I had done myself any good. Although the princess had been gracious throughout the remainder of our visit, she had directed her conversation to Geraldine, not me. Had she been acting for the benefit of those who watched her? Or had this been a sign that Her Grace bore a grudge against me and mine?

I had supported Lady Jane Grey’s claim to the throne. I had also betrayed Elizabeth’s girlhood confidences by telling the lord protector’s wife about Tom Seymour’s attempt to seduce the princess. Did Elizabeth know that? If she did, her succession might not mean that Will and I
could return to court after all. Not unless the warning I’d just brought her from de Noailles balanced the scales. Elizabeth was a Tudor. Once she was queen, she would reward those who’d served her well, but she would also punish those who she believed had acted against her. I returned to Blackfriars hoping for the best.

When I resumed my quiet life there, I was no longer quite so content. Once again I had to school myself to patience. To wait. I chafed at the inactivity, and Will’s restlessness grew worse.

In June, England declared war on France. De Noailles left the country. On the sixth of July, King Philip embarked with his contingent of English troops. Will’s former brother-in-law, the Earl of Pembroke, was in command of the English forces, seconded by Geraldine’s husband, Lord Clinton. My uncle, Lord Bray, went with them. So did Ambrose, Robin, and Henry Dudley and hundreds of other gentlemen trained in warfare.

The incessant clanging of every church bell in the city brought me out of my chair on a sunny afternoon in August. Hands over my ears and heart racing, I rushed to the nearest window. My embroidery fell to the floor, forgotten.

“What is it?” I asked in confusion as Will joined me. Distantly, I heard shouting and—more bewildering still—singing. “What has happened?”

Griggs burst into the room. “Victory!” he shouted. “Saint-Quentin has fallen and Cambray, too. The way to Paris lies open before the king’s troops.”

Will and I exchanged a startled glance. The normally taciturn Griggs was all but dancing a jig.

We went out into the streets. How could we not? I was reminded of the annual fairs held in the countryside, where everyone was in buoyant spirits. I did not think I had ever seen so many smiling people.

Bonfires blazed from dusk to dawn. The church bells continued to ring.
Te Deum
s—hymns in praise of God—were sung not only as part of the liturgy but in the streets, where every conduit ran with free wine. I found myself smiling, too.

But the joy did not last. We soon received word that Henry Dudley—
Northumberland’s second son with that name, not the rebel leader—died in the battle. My uncle, Lord Bray, was wounded. Although he returned to England, his injuries were mortal. My father served as chief mourner at Bray’s funeral. It was his duty as the husband of Bray’s oldest sister.

“He was also the only one of Bray’s brothers-in-law to attend the service,” Will told me when he returned home to Blackfriars, where I had remained lest old enemies see that we were still together. We did not dare become complacent. The queen still had the power to imprison us both.

I was not surprised by this news. John Bray had been a traitor before he’d been a soldier and he had not had the good fortune to die a hero.

Will appeared to be brooding. I went to him and wrapped my arms around him. “What is it, my love?”

“Your father has aged since I last saw him.”

“Has he been ill?”

“He admitted to having been laid low by a quartan ague but insisted it was nothing to worry about. He reminded me that half the troops coming back from France have been ill of fever.”

Concerned, I went to visit my family in Kent. The reunion with Father did not go well. If he’d ever been reconciled to my decision to live with Will after our marriage was invalidated, he’d reconsidered. He’d made a new list of “suitable” gentlemen for me to wed. I stayed two days before I returned to Blackfriars, vowing never to go back to Cobham Hall.

O
N THE TWENTIETH
day of January, news of the surrender of Calais reached London. Guisnes fell ten days later. King Philip’s war had cost England the Pale, the last English outpost on the Continent. After that, nothing seemed to go right. It was a year of heavy thunderstorms and hail, of floods, and of new outbreaks of fever. The cold, wet weather in summer and autumn produced food shortages.

At the end of September, some ten months after we’d parted with harsh words, my father died.

I returned to Kent for his funeral.

“He wanted only the best for you,” Mother said, a note of reproach in her voice.

“I know.” We clung to each other and sobbed, but shared grief could not change what was.

We’d barely buried Father when word came from Bedfordshire that Grandmother Jane was deathly ill. Mother and I reached her bedside only just in time to say farewell. She died on the twenty-fourth day of October. Devastated by the dual loss of husband and mother, my mother seemed to lose her will to live. The sickness that had taken my father and grandmother seized upon her weakened state and carried her off eight days later. It was left to me to take her body back to Kent.

My brother George arrived from London the next day. What I read in his face robbed me of my last vestige of strength. “Will?” I whispered.

“Ill of a fever.” He made a rueful grimace. “As who is not? I was sick myself shortly after Father died.” His flushed skin and persistent cough gave the lie to his claim that he had recovered.

I remained healthy, but I felt numb with grief and guilt and fragile in a way that I’d never been before. I could barely remember any longer what it felt like to be optimistic about the future. “I must return to Blackfriars,” I told George.

“I’ll take you,” he offered. “There is little either of us can do here.”

Our eldest brother, William, who had become Lord Cobham upon Father’s death, had matters well in hand for Mother’s funeral, just as he’d made arrangements for Father’s.

George and I left at first light the next day, taking Birdie Crane with us. With Mother’s death, Birdie had nowhere else to go.

We traveled by water and reached Blackfriars Stairs before nightfall. Griggs met me at the door of our little house, his face so grave I knew at once that he had more bad news to deliver.

“Is he dead?” I asked bluntly.

“Not yet, but he has taken a turn for the worse. I called a physician
in. He says it is some new variety of ague that is raging throughout England. Our soldiers brought it back with them from France.” He spat to express his opinion of anything French.

I did not care where the disease had come from, only that it was killing my family. That Will might follow Father, Grandmother, and Mother to the grave was more than I could bear.

“The queen has been stricken, too,” Griggs said. “Some think the fever may carry her off.”

“The queen is about to die? Again?” I did not believe it. It seemed to me that all those I loved would be gone before Her Grace had the decency to succumb.

I nursed Will day and night, bathing him with cold cloths to bring down the fever, forcing him to drink strengthening broths. I tried every remedy Mother had taught me in the stillroom, but nothing seemed to help. Birdie Crane nagged at me to rest. She warned me that I risked my own health, but what point was there in living if Will did not?

When the bells began to ring on the seventeenth day of November, signaling the death of Queen Mary, I barely lifted my head from Will’s chest. I had fallen asleep sitting beside his bed.

Stiff and sore, I considered rising and going to the window. That required too much effort. Even when Birdie came in to confirm the news that the clanging meant the queen was dead and that her sister, Elizabeth, was queen, I felt no elation, no surge of hope. It was a struggle merely to overcome my sense of despair.

“Elizabeth?”

I gasped and turned to stare at Will. His eyes were open and clear for the first time in days.