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 (41 page)
For one, the queen planned to marry Prince Philip of Spain this coming summer, and few Englishmen wanted our realm—yes, I must admit I saw England as my home as well as Ireland now—to become, in effect, a Spanish colony. Also, rumors were rampant that the queen had hearkened to her bishops and Spanish allies about persecuting—that is, burning at the stake—everyone who would not publicly declare for certain Catholic rites that the Protestants detested.
Although the queen had immediately released the Earl of Surrey’s father, the Duke of Norfolk, who had been incarcerated in the Tower during Edward’s brief reign, Jane Grey and her young husband still languished there. As for that devil Dudley, he had been beheaded on Tower Green a month after his rebellion. Because I knew my husband had conflicting emotions over that, only in private had I lifted a congratulatory drink to Dudley’s demise. King Henry and John Dudley, dead at last, though there was much yet to do to return the Fitzgeralds to their proper fortunes. For that was the only way we could help lift our people from poverty, superstition, and the oppression of cruel English rule. I must do all I could to support not only my husband but the cause of my kin and home country, dear Ireland.
Other woes that assailed those I cared for at that time included that Parliament had once again declared the marriage of King Henry and Anne Boleyn null and void, so “the lady” Elizabeth was a bastard once again. I had corresponded with her during our exile in the north, and I was certain she was innocent of something else: The queen believed her half sister had instigated or at least sanctioned this so-called current Wyatt Rebellion. It was true that the rebels wanted the darling of the Protestants to have the throne in place of her sister, but that hardly meant Elizabeth was to blame. Yet I knew that, since the queen was still considering beheading her cousin Jane, what might she do with Elizabeth if she could prove—or concoct—treason against her?
“I cannot abide the queen’s younger sister being blamed for all this,” I told Gerald and Mabel as we sat together in Mabel’s rooms at Whitehall Palace, where we awaited Edward’s return from a royal audience. “She was not to blame for the Thomas Seymour mess, except for youthful bad judgment, and I am certain she would not have given her support to this revolt.”
Gerald held Mabel’s hand and trailed little circles on her palm with his index finger. They were betrothed but were delaying their wedding until the queen restored his title—Gerald’s idea, not Mabel’s. “Gerabeth,” he said, turning toward me and frowning, “I cannot believe you are always standing up for Anne Boleyn’s girl. Queen Mary will wed and have children, and Elizabeth will never get the throne.”
“I don’t care; I admire her. Sometimes she reminds me of myself.”
Gerald gave a snort, which quite annoyed me. “Just because you look a bit alike or have the same first name, my lady Elizabeth?” he goaded. He rose and walked to the window and scraped a small circle of frost off with his ring, for the winter winds were bitter cold. I forgave his rude manners at once. He was frustrated by waiting and felt penned in, and I understood that. He peered out toward the nearly frozen Thames. “I’ll go with Her Grace’s forces if they face Wyatt’s rebels, of course,” he told us, “but they should do what our people used to—fight in good weather and hunker down before a fire with a beautiful maid in the winter.”
He winked at Mabel and she smiled at him, lost in love. I recognized the feeling. Besides, they were suited. I had begun to turn her into an Irish rebel, and Gerald had completed the transformation. If—and when—she went home as Gerald’s bride, Countess of Kildare, I’d wager Mabel could match me for standing up to and for the Irish.
The hall door opened with a whoosh of chill air, and Edward rushed in. “You might know the queen has no standing army. She has tried to parley with Wyatt, but he replied with insolence, demanding her surrender instead of his. Her Majesty has ordered that men in the streets arm themselves. She is placing me in charge of protecting the palace, and the old Duke of Norfolk in charge of the city, but we must protect the city to save the palace. Gerald, with me. Ladies, keep close here. And, my love,” he said, pulling me to him and tipping my chin up, “that means no going out windows or tunnels to join the fray. Swear to me.”
“Yes. I’ll stay near the queen to remind her that you and Gerald fight for her cause. But Elizabeth cannot have given this rebellion her blessing. She’s too smart, too—”
“But she’s still young and has proven that she can make mistakes.” He kissed me once, soundly, as we old married folks, wed all of fifteen months, tried to ignore Gerald’s very fond farewell to his betrothed.
That was the last I saw of my husband for two days.
Even from Whitehall, we could hear the beating of distant drums, for men were being mustered as close as St. James’s Palace. Most of the foreign diplomats had fled, but, unfortunately, ferret-faced Simon Renard, the Spanish ambassador, stayed behind to spew his poison in the queen’s ear.
“Your Majesty, are you certain you can trust these men who have turned on the Tudors before?” I was told he had said. “The Howards would have taken the Tudor throne. Granted, the Earl of Surrey paid the price, but why did you free his father, Norfolk, from the Tower and give him a command? And Captain Clinton, once a rebel, always dangerous, wed to that rabble-rousing female Geraldine who wants her family to rule Ireland.”
If I had heard that firsthand, I would have scratched his Spanish eyes out. Instead, I kept near the queen, where I could keep my Irish eyes on him.
Tense hours followed, for Mary ordered her army not to fire the opening salvo. Short-tempered, she paced the long gallery overlooking the Thames. I had to wonder if I was cursed, for this could be the third siege of a castle I had faced in my thirty-one years on this earth, and I was a hapless pawn in all of them. How I wished I could hoist a battle banner, take a sword, and fight beside the men!
My lord’s former sailors moved all barges and boats from the Thames so that Wyatt’s forces could not use them to cross, but that merely delayed the rebels. They marched to Kingston and crossed the Thames at night to approach the capital from the west through Knightsbridge. All too soon, the four hundred men under Edward’s command, some civilians and some trained, were engaged in fighting, some of it hand-to-hand. What if Edward were wounded or killed, let alone what if he failed to hold his defensive line? Had the queen recalled him only for his military prowess in the past, or because he must save her to save himself?
As I chewed my lower lip and tried to ignore the roiling of my stomach, I saw Ambassador Renard sidle up to the queen again. He unrolled a piece of parchment I recognized: the drawing Edward had made to show the queen his defensive plan. I moved closer, shifting my way through the cluster of her ladies, as if we females could protect her if Wyatt’s forces breached the palace walls.
“Your most gracious Majesty,” Renard said, unrolling the parchment and frowning at it as if he had been bidden to criticize it, “will you not allow me to send for aid from Spain? Can we truly trust those who have served not only your enemy Dudley but the Protestant cause before? And as I have urged, not only your royal sister but Lady Jane Grey are becoming a touchstone for such rebels,
sí
. Best they both be kept under lock and key, if not sent far away.”
sí
. Best they both be kept under lock and key, if not sent far away.”
“Exile, Ambassador?” she replied. “Then my enemies would surely rally to their cause.”
“A permanent exile,” I heard him whisper. “Not only from England, but from this earth.”
“Your Grace,” I said, “forgive me, but this foreign ambassador is counseling you to do what, thank God, was not done to you. Outside forces hoped to use you for their purposes, but your loyalty to your family, even in difficult times, kept you faithful. I believe your sister is fully loyal and stake my life on my husband’s loyalty, and worry only about advice you get from foreign quarters!”
Mary listened intently, but Renard looked livid. “Your husband,” he cracked out, pointing at me, “is betting his life on his success today,
sí
, I tell you that!”
sí
, I tell you that!”
“Ambassador! Gera!” Queen Mary interrupted my next retort. “Both of you, leave my presence until you can calm yourselves and speak only of my God-given rights as queen. I do not need fighting of any sort in or near this palace! The Virgin Mary is with this royal Mary, and we shall prevail!”
I curtsied and went huffily from her presence, only to realize she might not prevail. I could hear the fighting coming closer, the sounds of guns and drums—even men’s shouts. Had my lord’s forces not held their defensive lines? As I paced in the corridor above the courtyard facing King Street, I managed to stop a messenger only because I recognized him, and called out, “Haverhill! How does my lord Clinton?”
Out of breath, he gestured to me but kept going. I lifted my skirts and ran to keep up as he gasped out his words. “We met the rebels with cannon shot and arms. Bloody fighting now. No one has taken Wyatt yet. But he’s sent a splinter group of men—around another way—and the queen must take cover. . . .”
Even as he spoke, chaos erupted outside. Everyone ran to the windows to look down. The rabble of guards in the courtyard shouted as a hailstorm of arrows from Wyatt’s approaching forces thudded against the windows. Several panes shattered and sprayed inward. Lurching toward him, keeping low, I grabbed Haverhill’s arm.
“The palace can hold out a while,” I shouted, “but Edward must be told they made it here!”
“I have orders to warn the queen! Then I’ll go back. Streets blocked—gotta take a roundabout way.”
“That will take too long. Consider her warned with this noise outside and broken windows. You must go back to Edward and bring him and some men here—attack them from the outside too. I’ve seen it done—years ago in Ireland before my home castle was taken by deceit. He’ll know what to do. Go. Go!”
“He told me to tell the queen first, and then we’ll go, or I’ll send someone else!” he shouted. “His lordship was adamant that the queen be warned while she could still flee!”
“I’ll tell the queen! You get back to my lord with word of this, and tell him to bring troops here, even if it weakens the line of the main onslaught. Now, or I will ride there myself!”
He finally obeyed, muttering something about women captains. I looked out the windows again. Below, the men my lord had left at the palace were holding their own. Could I risk that Edward would be warned and arrive in time with reinforcements? Could I delay telling the queen that all might be lost and she should flee?
But I did not have to go to her, as she, Renard, and six yeomen guards, all trailed by her ladies, came rushing along the corridor to view the fighting below, as if there were some fine joust being played out for them.
“Whatever are we to do?” Mary was saying, wringing her hands with her big crucifix clasped between. “I will not leave my palace and my capital, not to a rabble who want to put my sister on the throne!”
“Your Grace,” I said, rushing up to her and curtsying low, “I can assure you more help is on the way.”
“Assure me how?”
“Not only do I know my husband’s loyalty and zeal to protect you, but I just spoke with one of his lieutenants, who said this splinter group will be dealt with.”
“She lies,” Renard said.
“Gera Clinton’s fault is that she dares to say things she should not,” the queen clipped out. It was, perhaps, the biggest gamble of my life, but then both King Henry and Queen Mary had remarked upon the luck of the Irish. Within a half hour, thank God, before Wyatt’s forces could batter their way into Whitehall, his soldiers were penned in and cut down by my husband’s men. With Wyatt himself taken, the upheaval was over—that is, the military upheaval, for the queen’s blood was now up and she—with thanks to my lord for bringing the extra troops, and her ear unfortunately still tuned to Ambassador Renard—moved with swift vengeance.
Scores of rebels’ bodies swung from gibbets throughout the city. Townsmen who had turned traitor were hanged from their own shop signs, while wives and children cowered and wailed inside. Rebel leaders’ heads on pikes studded London Bridge. Thomas Wyatt himself was hanged, drawn, and quartered. Jane Grey and Guildford Dudley, whom Mary had once insisted would be spared with Christ’s tender mercy, were beheaded. And Elizabeth Tudor was brought by force to London and imprisoned in a suite at Whitehall and questioned endlessly about her treachery and treason to have secretly spurred on this unholy rebellion.
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