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 (39 page)
Edward might be angry with me for coming here, but he would be glad to see me too, I tried to buck myself up. We could discuss things, make peace, even in the midst of this martial madness. I wanted to assure him of my love, to support him, but convince him he must not trust his future to John Dudley, whatever the man’s promises or threats.
I saw the ground floor of this central white building was a cluttered armory, with swords and lances, halberds, and pieces of armor laid out on the floor being counted and sorted. I found the stairs and started up, passing a washerwoman hefting a pail of water and rags. She did not look at me, and no one seemed to notice her—an invisible woman. How I wished I could be the same until I found my lord.
It was dimly lit here, especially between the well-spaced torches, which sputtered as gusts of wind reached inside. As I came to a landing with halls cutting off in two directions, I heard a familiar voice, but not the one I sought. It was Dudley’s! The thick wooden door at the end of one short corridor stood ajar.
He was saying, “You must capture Mary before it is announced that the king is dead.”
I gasped, pressing both palms over my mouth. Young Edward Tudor was already dead, but Dudley was keeping it secret? Otherwise, would there not have been a hubbub in the streets or on the river? And who was Dudley sending to capture the princess Mary? Surely not my lord!
“I’ll bring her back safe and sound, Father.”
“If a stray bullet or fall from a horse should occur, Robert, do not let it worry you. It will save us time and trouble with her later.”
Robert Dudley, one of his sons. The one, I’d heard, who had been a childhood companion not only of Prince Edward Tudor but also of his sister Elizabeth. Deceit, treachery, and betrayal. Dudley’s vaunted family loyalty had turned into the rank, raw pursuit of power. So he had one son set to take the Tudor throne with Jane Grey and one set to capture Mary.
“Just so you understand, I’m depending on you,” Dudley’s voice cracked out. “This is of the essence for our plan.”
“Thank heavens she’s fled from Huddleston to Sawston Hall, as it is but fifteen miles due north. That will be no protection for her. Would that I were chasing Elizabeth, though.”
“Sharp little minx that she is, she’s taken to her bed at Hatfield, claiming illness, so we’ll worry about her later. If we all play our cards right, perhaps you can join her in that bed someday, eh? Queen Jane and King Guildford on the throne, with you and Elizabeth standing in the wings.”
“Are you forgetting I’m wed?”
“Are you forgetting that kings can call for divorces in this land? Be off with you now. Your men are waiting.”
I darted down the other hall and, from the shadows, watched the young, handsome Robert Dudley stride away, spurs jangling, his chest armor reflecting the sconces. The washerwoman flattened herself against the wall, but he did not so much as glance her way.
At the other end of the hall, I too stayed pressed against the cold stone, fearing Dudley might emerge. All I needed was for him to find me here and stop what I now knew I must do. I could not risk the time or the chance I would be caught searching for my husband, for I had to warn the princess Mary. I could not—nor could Edward—trust the Dudleys to rule England. They would never help Gerald and me but would see us as threats, as had King Henry. Dudley, Duke of Northumberland, who planned to rule through his son, could also ruin Edward, who would surely see the wretch he was and defy him. But Mary might help the Fitzgeralds someday, and, I prayed, Elizabeth might too.
I fled down the hall and down the stairs. Outside, Robert Dudley was rallying his men, the group of assembled riders I had seen earlier. I found my horse but walked her slowly around the troop of men, at least fifty, I reckoned. Once out into the street, I mounted and headed north. Our servants and Edward would be worried and furious when they saw that I had fled, but Robert Dudley had said Sawston Hall was only fifteen miles to the north. I would have to ask my way once I got on the Great North Road, but I must keep ahead of those men.
Just as it started to rain, I risked looking back, only to see the main gate of the Tower spew forth Robert Dudley and his hard-riding armed troop.
The ride itself was a wet, gray blur. Twice I shouted at carters or farmers for directions. It was nearly dusk when I pounded with both fists on the heavy oaken door of Sawston Hall.
“Open! Open at once!” I shouted. What, I feared, if the princess Mary was not here? What if she’d gone on? If so, I must hide until Dudley’s men rode away.
When the door swung inward, I darted in and slammed it behind me, despite the two armed men who stood there with drawn swords. They stared aghast at me, sodden and frantic in men’s garb. “I am Lady Gera Clinton,” I gasped out. “If the princess is here, she must flee now. Northumberland’s sent his son and an armed band to seize her, and they can’t be far behind.”
One man ran off down the hall shouting for his master, Sir John Huddleston. The old man appeared instantly; then, to his dismay though he tried to motion her back, the princess Mary came right behind. “Gera!” she cried, squinting to see me better. “It’s been so long!”
I curtsied, but my legs almost buckled. “Your Grace, your royal brother is dead, and Northumberland means to put his son and Jane Grey on the throne. Men led by his son Robert are right behind me to take you prisoner.”
Chaos erupted in the hall as several other men and ladies appeared, arguing with one another, urging the princess to stay or flee. In their midst, garbed all in black, Mary Tudor grasped her large gold crucifix and gazed upward as though she heard none of their babble.
“Silence!” her unmistakable voice quieted them. “I vouch for this woman’s honesty. Though her lord is a man greatly deluded by Northumberland, I believe her. Prepare the horses at the back. Listen! God has quieted the storm outside for us. We shall flee!”
Everyone seemed to forget me as I leaned exhausted against the staircase balustrade, but old Lord Huddleston in his riding cloak came up to me. “I’ve ordered a fresh horse and food packed for you too, dear lady. You’ll come with us, of course.”
“You’ve no time to pack food! I must turn back to London. I had to tell her, that’s all—”
A crash nearly sundered the front door. “Open in the name of the king!” Robert Dudley’s voice shredded the sudden lull. Something huge battered the door a second time.
“Liar!” Mary spit out low. “My brother, the king, is dead, and you know it well, may God rest his poor soul. And
I
am queen now.”
I
am queen now.”
“Out, out the back!” Sir John cried. “Lady Clinton, please!”
I ran behind the others as the front door smashed inward with a grinding crunch. Outside, I caught a glimpse of the princess’s mounted party melting into the black forest behind the lawns. Yes, there was a fresh horse for me. I mounted and raced after Mary’s party, out into a little valley. From the crest of a distant, forested hill, we reined in and turned back to watch Robert Dudley’s men force Sir John’s servants outside and put the torch to stately Sawston Hall. Sir John watched it burn with tears tracking down his wrinkled cheeks.
“Do not grieve, my loyal friend,” Mary declared, “for, by the Holy Virgin, I shall build you a greater Sawston when the throne is mine.” Her crucifix glinted bloodred in the reflected inferno. She turned my way. “Gera, you have saved my life. I shall reward you, too. I only hope your lord husband sees the error of his ways and comes to my banners.” She raised her low-pitched voice like a battle cry: “Do not look back, only ahead to a brighter future for England! On to Framlingham Castle, where we shall make our stand. Come!”
Like homeless Gypsies in the night, our bedraggled band turned our horses away from the raging holocaust toward Framlingham—and farther from my lord Edward, to whom I longed so desperately to return.
July 16, 1553
From rural towns and hamlets, thousands of peasants, tenant farmers, and gentry knights poured toward Mary Tudor’s banners at massive old Framlingham Castle, which King Henry had taken from the Norfolk family, but wich King Edward had given to his sister Mary. Outside the triple moat, fortified bastions, vast battlements, and thirteen watchtowers, Tudor loyalists camped and awaited Northumberland’s army, rumored to be approaching from the south. Carts of bread, beer, and meat rumbled in from obscure towns in Norfolk and Suffolk to feed the rough soldiers of Mary’s makeshift army. Woodsmen cut down trees and used the trunks to block the possible approach of seasoned, trained fighters under the banners of Queen Jane Grey and led by her father-in-law, the Duke of Northumberland. In defiance of the overwhelming odds against her, over it all fluttered Queen Mary Tudor’s blue-and-green pennants. It reminded me of how Maynooth had been provisioned and protected against the English forces—and we had lost.
“Gera, look you,” Princess Mary said as she pointed from the tallest tower, where we stood overlooking the sprawling scene. “Golden iris growing in the inner moat like another sign from heaven that I shall prevail!”
On our frenzied ride to Framlingham, Mary’s little band had seen the numerous crudely lettered signs along the rural roadsides, where word of the Tudor king’s death and Jane Grey’s insurrection had finally spread:
Vox Populi, Vox Dei—
“the voice of the people is the voice of God.” Many of the faithful who flocked to Mary’s aid believed she was the new Virgin Mary, come to do God’s righteous avenging work against those who had imposed King Henry’s new religion on the people of England. But Mary too believed she was a savior, and that terrified me. Each tiny event became to her a momentous sign that she must stamp out the new Protestant religion as well as those who opposed her under Northumberland—and that, I feared, included my husband.
Vox Populi, Vox Dei—
“the voice of the people is the voice of God.” Many of the faithful who flocked to Mary’s aid believed she was the new Virgin Mary, come to do God’s righteous avenging work against those who had imposed King Henry’s new religion on the people of England. But Mary too believed she was a savior, and that terrified me. Each tiny event became to her a momentous sign that she must stamp out the new Protestant religion as well as those who opposed her under Northumberland—and that, I feared, included my husband.
With Mary’s permission, I had sent him a carefully worded note by messenger two days ago, telling him I was safe and with Mary’s forces. I begged him to join us. I had no word that he had received my plea, but informants said that Northumberland, with three thousand mounted men and foot soldiers, thirty cannon from the Tower of London, and thirty cartloads of ammunition, was camped at Cambridge and set to do battle. Hearing that, I almost fled, for I had no doubt that John Dudley would have me arrested or worse when he found I had betrayed him. And my Edward—was he helping Dudley? Would he ever forgive me for casting my fate with Mary’s forces?
“The flowers are beautiful, Your Grace, but my heart is still heavy,” I said, choosing my words carefully. “Instead of rewarding me as you have kindly offered, the favor I would ask is that you promise pardon to my lord Clinton.”
“By the Holy Virgin, the choice is his, and he has evidently made it! If he came to me as you did, or brought his navy over to me, of course I would consider pardon. But as England’s rightful monarch now,” she declared loudly so others could hear, “I cannot be ruled by my heart in anything. Though,” she said, half to herself, “when I choose a husband, I pray he will love me as a woman as well as a queen.”
As her entourage walked on with her, I stood there alone on the windswept heights, looking in the direction that Edward’s help or Dudley’s hell must come.
Word spread through the castle and among Mary’s army like wildfire: The Privy Council had abandoned Jane Grey and declared for Mary in London. They were sending emissaries to sue for her forgiveness and favor.
I had been living in borrowed gowns from some of her ladies, and I donned the best I had, Irish green, I told myself. Would my lord be with the men from the council? Had he gone over to Mary’s cause? And what of Dudley and his army—would they still attack? Even the stout stone and flint walls of mighty Framlingham seemed to hold their breath.
Boldly, the uncrowned queen walked among her people, making brief speeches. Helmets flew in the air; caps and coins tossed for the cause made a carpet under her feet. I stayed as close to her as I could, waiting for news, praying I would be close if my husband came with the others from London.
Pikes and swords gleamed in the hot July sun, as everyone broke into cries of, “God save the queen!” Several of the local folk, addressing me as the princess Elizabeth, curtsied to me too, but I was thankful Mary did not see or hear that, as rapt as she was in her own joy.
And then, from beyond the crowd, heading for the crest on which the massive castle stood, came a single, fast rider whose horse made puffs of dust as it parted the jostling throngs.
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