Read The Irish Princess Online
Authors: Karen Harper
Tags: #Ireland, #Clinton, #Historical, #Henry, #Edward Fiennes De, #General, #Literary, #Great Britain - History - Henry VIII, #Great Britain, #Elizabeth Fiennes De, #Historical Fiction, #Princesses, #Fiction, #1509-1547, #Princesses - Ireland, #Elizabeth
The Irish Princess (35 page)
“No, I didn’t know. I am sorry to hear of that.”
A corner of his mouth quirked. “Her husband is often at sea, of course, acquitting himself well for king and country. Edward Clinton is my protégé, you know, and as loyal to me . . . as others should learn to be.”
My eyes widened; I knew not what to reply. It was obviously a command or threat that I should not struggle against nor gainsay him. He kissed my gloved hand before I could protest and mounted. “I have no doubt we shall meet again soon, Gera Fitzgerald,” he said, and spurred his horse away with his two men close behind him.
Anthony rallied a bit after that, but his health sank as spring burst with new life outside. He slept longer each day, and mumbled when he was awake about past times and pastimes with the king he’d loved and I’d detested.
“He said you were a wench after his own heart—that is, the way we were in the old days, when we used to run about after women,” he told me.
“You must rest now, Anthony. Save your strength, for Mabel’s coming, and your other children too.”
“I shall be buried next to my wife, Alys, but I shall take good memories of you with me, my dear.”
“I am happy to know I pleased you, my lord.”
“You pleased me but never loved me; I know that. In love with your Ireland, in love with . . .”
He choked and gasped. His face contorted, his body convulsed; then he went quite still. Dead before my eyes, before his children arrived, before he could finish his last thought. Was he going to mention my brother—or Edward Clinton?
I was a widow at age twenty-six. We buried him with great pomp in a fine tomb at Battle Abbey, where his armored effigy already lay carved next to that of his first wife. I must record here that Anthony has a far better memorial than Henry Tudor to this very day, for, with all the twists and turns that were soon to come, the former king’s plans for an elaborate monument were somehow shuffled aside and ignored. The Lord High God works in wondrous ways; that’s all I have to say on that.
Although I would have loved to sell Byfleet, I had nowhere else to go in my widowhood, so I made that my home. Of course, I would have liked to sail for Ireland straightaway, but I dared not, as the Act of Attainder against my family was still in effect and I dared not jeopardize Gerald’s chances with misbehavior. Besides, I was awaiting word of when he would arrive in England, so I hoped to return home with him later—if that was permitted.
A fortnight after the funeral, the bluff, kindly Mason Haverhill rode up to the house and delivered to me a condolence note from Edward Clinton, Lord High Admiral. It bore a red wax seal imprinted with an anchor. I broke the seal and read the missive as I escorted the stocky man into the house and saw that he was well fed. I have that note to this day, pressed in the pages I was then writing of my life’s story, next to the note and pressed posies Elizabeth sent when I lost my boys.
Aboard the Defiance, Deptford in the Thames, this day of our Lord September 4, 1549. Dearest Lady Browne—Gera. My heartfelt condolences in the loss of your husband. I have been at sea, chasing pirates and at war with the Scots, when I would prefer to make peace with the Irish. I do know and share from afar, on rocky waters, the pains of one’s spouse being ill unto death. Keep your spirits up and keep your head, Irish.Always, Edward
Mason Haverhill, the ship’s master who oft sailed with Edward, told me much about their seagoing adventures, making me long to be a sailor and not a land-bound soul staring only at the little Byfleet River. My fingers yet tremble at the emotion and longing that leaped off the page as I read the note that day and as I stroke the folded parchment now. There was a hint of flirtation in his desire to make peace with the Irish, wasn’t there? And “keep your head”? That too could be taken two ways, so perhaps he was scolding me to behave again. And Ursula must still be ill. Edward’s man’s visit . . . the note . . . it was all I’d had of him for years.
Magheen and I made a trip to visit Jane Grey, back in her home at Bradgate, to renew our abruptly truncated acquaintanceship and put in a good word for Gerald with her father. We two Irish colleens also went for a walk on the grounds and covertly dug up
The Red Book of Kildare.
I intended to entrust it to Gerald when it was safe to do so. Magheen, of course, was as excited as I, for her dear Collum would be coming home with Gerald—someday, we prayed. We took our Irish treasure back to Byfleet House with us, and I buried it in a metal box in my own garden this time. And waited and waited for my life to begin again.
The Red Book of Kildare.
I intended to entrust it to Gerald when it was safe to do so. Magheen, of course, was as excited as I, for her dear Collum would be coming home with Gerald—someday, we prayed. We took our Irish treasure back to Byfleet House with us, and I buried it in a metal box in my own garden this time. And waited and waited for my life to begin again.
Though I felt far distant from important events those early months of my widowhood, I had learned a great deal in the few days I was at Bradgate, for Jane’s parents stayed abreast of significant happenings. Elizabeth and her confidantes, including her governess, had been exonerated. Yet people whispered that the princess’s reputation was besmirched by Seymour, who was beheaded for treason in May of 1549, the very month Anthony died.
I must record here—especially in light of what happened later—that during our short visit to Bradgate, I saw how terrified Jane was of her parents. I asked that the girl be permitted to visit me at Byfleet when I saw how they abused her, but they brusquely turned that offer down. I know they buffeted Jane about and I heard her mother screeching at her more than once. Poor Lady Jane Grey.
Another thing I learned during our few days there was that the Greys were close friends with John Dudley, Earl of Warwick. There was talk that Jane would wed one of his sons to bond the two families, so perhaps that was what all the discord was about, for Jane had whispered to me that, like Elizabeth, she wished not to wed. I thought anything Dudley had his hand in—except, of course, his championing of Edward Clinton, and possibly expediting my brother’s return—seemed pure poison.
I also learned at Bradgate that Edward’s career, under the young king—with a push from Dudley, no doubt—was on a meteoric rise. His prowess at sea with the fleet, especially his part in the Scottish Battle of Pinkie, led to his receiving lands and being named to the honored position of Garter Knight. How I wish I could have attended his garter ceremony at St. George’s Chapel, Windsor, the very place where King Henry lay rotting in his tomb. Edward was also named a Privy Council member, which would keep him more in London, despite his sea duties. As if he were a man who could be in three places at once, he was also given grants of land and orders to build a power base in Lincolnshire for the crown. And, I’d overheard, something that was not meant for my ears but pricked them up—all these honors were bittersweet, because his wife, Ursula, the Earl of Warwick’s niece, was ailing so sore with lung fever she could not even get out of bed.
Speaking of the devil—Dudley, alias Warwick—I heard that not only was Tom Seymour out of the way on his path to power, but Edward Seymour, King Edward’s other uncle, who had served as Lord Protector, was out of favor for his strict, rough handling of the king, and the Earl of Warwick was riding high in the boy king’s favor. Jane Grey had told me with a sigh, “How wonderful that Warwick permits the young king to have a childhood and not just study day and night. I am so happy my royal cousin is allowed to play at arms and parade through London’s streets, and not just be so strictly confined and handled.”
As I said, poor Jane Grey—and the rest of us, even those of us who knew not to trust Dudley but still did not see what was coming.
My life truly began again on May 6 of 1550, when I received a second missive from Edward Clinton, Lord High Admiral, delivered yet again by his ship’s master, Mason Haverhill:
To the Lady Gera Fitzgerald Browne, Byfleet House, Surrey, from the hand of the Lord High Admiral, Edward Clinton,
G.K.,
London.I will be staging a water festival at Deptford for the king on the Thames next month. Although it will be a military display, we need two lovely ladies to grace the scene as water nymphs, so if you and your stepdaughter Mabel would be willing, there will be a chamber assigned to you at Greenwich Palace. . . .
“Mabel! Mabel!” I shouted, for she was visiting me that week from London. Though I was twenty-seven years of age, I tore out in the garden to find her. I felt I was a child again, as if I had been told I could go to visit the sights and shops of distant Dublin. “We’re going to London! I’m going back with you! And whatever is a water nymph?”
CHAPTER THE TWENTY-FOURTH
June 1550
T
hough I thought the twelve-year-old king looked rather pale, even in the warm spring sun, color came to his cheeks, and his eyes sparkled at the excitement of the river tournament.
hough I thought the twelve-year-old king looked rather pale, even in the warm spring sun, color came to his cheeks, and his eyes sparkled at the excitement of the river tournament.
Watching from behind a gold brocade curtain, I sympathized entirely, for I was thrilled to be back even temporarily at court, where I could do some good for Gerald. He had been invited to come to London but was still reluctant to trust the Tudors, so was biding his time in Paris a bit longer. I had written to advise him that to put too much confidence in John Dudley, Earl of Warwick, who had extended the invitation to him, could be a two-edged sword. If Dudley thought it would help him and his family, he might be of aid—otherwise, I wrote, beware.
And, oh, yes, I must admit that day of the river tournament, I also sympathized with the English boy king’s exhilaration because I was so thrilled to be near Edward Clinton that I could hardly keep my mind on my coming histrionics.
Shortly after our arrival at the palace, the Lord High Admiral of England had come calling on me and Mabel, giving us both a hearty greeting and a quick kiss on both cheeks. “In the French fashion,” he had said, though his eyes watched my mouth. His stylish, close-cut beard enhanced his dark eyebrows as his gaze went thoroughly—possessively, I thought—over me. We stared too long at each other, I warrant, for Mabel had to clear her throat to break the spell.
“So,” he said, clapping his big hands together, “there will be a rehearsal dockside at Deptford on the morrow, and I will send horses for both of you. You will have short parts to learn in rhyme about the mock battle, the king’s forces against the powers of evil.”
“Scotland?” I asked. “France or even Ireland?”
“We’re keeping this all in the realm of allegory,” he told me. He touched my arm, sending a tingle up it as if I were some green girl who had never been wedded and bedded. “You’ll both recite some high-flying rhetoric, which the king loves, the sort that would have made the Earl of Surrey proud. It will be such a fine show that I have my two sons here for it—wait until you see how little Henry, whom you bounced once on your knee, has grown. He’s thirteen now and his brother Edward is eight, but the two girls and young Thomas are home tending their mother. . . .”
Cold reality smacked me in the face. Edward had two sons here in London. He had five children by Ursula to add to his three daughters by his first wife. And I . . . I was barren and would always be bereft for my losses.
I blinked back tears as he told us more about the performance of the so-called water nymphs, but I remember naught else about his visit that day but that I adored him, much to my shame and peril, and he belonged to everyone but me.
“Gera, you look strange.” Mabel’s voice interrupted my agonizing as we waited for our cue to caper out from behind the curtain to begin the pageant. I was quite certain I had picked out Edward’s two boys, seated in the crowd directly behind the king. All five of Dudley’s healthy sons were also in that second row. “Are you quite all right?” she asked. “Are you ready to go on?”
“Yes,” I told her, told myself too, “I am ready to go on.” I took her hand for our entry at the edge of the dock, where the king and his court were assembled under a golden canopy. I kept glancing at Edward’s
Defiance
approaching on the Thames to take on the other ship.
Defiance
approaching on the Thames to take on the other ship.
In our pure white satin gowns trimmed with golden ribbons with long, trailing trains and with our hair flying free, the two of us flitted out before the assembled king and court and began to speak our piece. Wishing Elizabeth or even Princess Mary were here—but seeing Dudley in the front row right next to the king—I began my lines first, gesturing grandly:
On the bright, broad Thames, see the vessel of the king.
Who shall dare attack it, for the Lord High God will bring
Victory to England, peace and bounty to our land.
But now, we view in battle the power of royal command.
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