B009RYSCAU EBOK (13 page)

“A few days ago, one of the queen’s servants found a paper on the ground which proved to be a warrant for the queen’s arrest. He brought it to her, and she could see that it was real, and signed by the king. Her weeping was lamentable to see.”

How terrified the queen must have been, Bess thought. She had the examples of Anne Boleyn and Cat Howard before her, and knew well enough that the king would not hesitate to put her to death.

“Dear God,” she cried. “Upon what cause? Surely he does not suspect her of playing him false, like . . .” Cat Howard’s terrified eyes came into Bess’s mind. She could not speak Cat’s name and blinked back tears. Lizzie took her hand and Bess knew that Lizzie, too, must be recalling that terrible day at Hampton Court. And she must have been afraid for her own safety, too.

“No, not that,” Lizzie said. “The accusation was heresy.”

“Then Dr. Crome, and the books . . .”

“Aye, but there was more than that. The queen has been in the habit of taking the king’s mind from his pain by engaging him in learned discourse, debating theology.”

“An odd sort of comfort! Why doesn’t she just bring him a warm posset?”

Lizzie smiled wanly. “Perhaps she will now. Anyway, when she saw the warrant, she was distraught. Dr. Wendy, the king’s new doctor, came to calm her, and he warned her that Bishop Gardiner and the Lord Chancellor were plotting to undo her.”

“Thomas Wriothesley again.” Bess shuddered.

“Dr. Wendy said that her exhorting the king to further do away with popery had angered him, and that Gardiner had played upon his mind and argued that she was a serpent in his bosom, a heretic who defied his authority and would dissolve the politic government of princes and teach the people that all things ought to be in common. He told the king that all who believed so deserved death, no matter how high they might be.”

Bess thought of the queen’s face alight with passion as she had read from her book.

“But surely she didn’t plot against the king?”

“Of course not. But don’t you see—the power of the reformists is growing, and it threatens the conservatives like the bishop. They hate and fear the queen because of her influence with the king, but more importantly”—she glanced around and lowered her voice—“her influence with the Prince of Wales. For he will be king ere long.”

“They fear what will become of them if the evangelicals have control of Edward.”

“Yes. And it will only get worse, William says. For the king’s health is worsening.”

Bess looked around to see who was within hearing. She longed to ask what Lizzie knew about the king’s decline, and what might happen when he died, but that was a dangerous subject for discussion. She glanced once more down at the privy garden, where the shadows were lengthening across the lawns and flower beds.

“What did she do to save herself?”

“Dr. Wendy counseled her that if she conformed herself to the king’s mind he might be favorable to her. But still she wept, and the king, hearing of her dangerous state, himself came to comfort her.”

Bess would have laughed if the image of the bloated king sitting at the bedside of the wife whose death warrant he had signed were not so horrible.

“She told him that she feared he was displeased with her and had forsaken her, but he patted her hand and crooned and said it was not so.”

The calculating and vicious liar, Bess thought.

“When he had gone,” Lizzie whispered, “she bade us get rid of any forbidden books, and told us that pleasing the king was all her care. That night she went to him, and when he sought to trap her, like a cat with a mouse in the kitchen corner, by bringing up matters of religion, she told him that she believed with all her heart that God had appointed him as supreme head of all. ‘Not so, by Mary!’ he said, and told her that she was become a doctor who thought to instruct him. She told him that her meaning had been misunderstood—she had only sought to distract him from his pain, and that she was but a woman, with the weakness of her sex, and that she happily submitted to his better judgment as her lord and head.”

What a cool head the queen must have, Bess thought, to make such a speech, knowing that her life depended on it.

“She told William, and he told me,” Lizzie continued, “that then his face broke into a smile, and he cried, ‘Is it so, sweetheart? And tended your arguments to no worse end? Then we are perfect friends, as ever at any time heretofore!’ Then he kissed her and told her it did him more good to hear those words than news of a hundred thousand pounds coming to him, and he would never again doubt her.”

“Then why,” Bess asked, “why did the guards come?”

“I expect that was to pay Wriothesley back for his interference,” Lizzie said. “He’ll be lucky if he doesn’t lose his head.”

* * *

W
HEN
B
ESS RETURNED TO
D
ORSET
H
OUSE WITH
F
RANCES AND
J
ANE
Grey that evening, she felt drained, as exhausted as though she had been laboring in the fields. She was finally beginning to recover her spirits the next day when the Duchess of Suffolk paid a call on Frances Grey, with news that made Bess shiver with terror.

“Anne Askew is to be burned tomorrow,” the duchess said. “Along with John Lassels and two other evangelicals.”

“And there is no one who can save her,” Frances Grey said, dropping into a chair. “For now the queen cannot speak for her, nor any in high places, for fear it will end with them on the flames.”

Bess said a silent prayer for Mistress Askew.
And let this horror end there
, she begged.
Let it not touch anyone more. Keep the queen safe, and Lady Dorset and Jane and Lizzie. And me.

The next afternoon Harry Grey returned from Smithfield to tell his wife what had happened that day. Frances Grey sent away her six-year-old daughter Kate, but Jane would not go.

“I want to hear it,” she said. “For surely Anne Askew is a true martyr, and if she can suffer death for her faith, I can hear of it.”

“Very well,” Harry Grey said heavily, and turned once more to his wife.

“She wore naught but her shift, and she was carried on a chair to the stake because she could not walk, so cruelly had they broken her on the rack. They bound her to the stake with chains.”

“Was there a great crowd?” Jane asked, her face white.

“There was. And as the flames were lit, some called out that she deserved her death, but more wept in pity and raised their voices in prayer. Nicholas Throckmorton and his brother were among the crowd, and they shouted encouragement to her, saying that she did not die in vain.”

“The queen’s own cousins,” Frances murmured. “I hope she will not suffer for their words.”

“Bishop Shaxton was there,” Harry told her, “and preached at the lady, and once she cried, ‘There he misseth, and speaketh without the book.’”

“How could she have the heart to do so?” Bess wondered.

Harry Grey met her eyes. “She showed great bravery. She didn’t scream until the flames mounted to her chest.” Bess’s stomach heaved with horror. “Someone had provided her with a little bag of gunpowder, which hung around her neck, and by God’s mercy it went off soon, and so she died. The others lasted longer.”

A log in the fireplace crackled and Bess clapped a hand to her mouth as nausea gripped her.

“A great lady,” Jane said quietly. “I pray that I might show such fortitude were I ever in such circumstances.”

“Don’t speak like that!” Bess cried, pulling Jane into her arms. “You will never be in such peril!”

“I pray not. But if I were, I would remember Anne Askew, and that would give me courage.”

Lizzie and Doll came to visit Bess at Dorset House in early September. Since Bess had last seen her, Doll had been widowed, and had recently married John Port, a justice of the common pleas. Lizzie had been with the queen at Hampton Court Palace, where there had been ten days of celebrations in honor of the visit of the Lord High Admiral of France to ratify the new peace treaty between the two nations.

“Was it like when Anne of Cleves came?” Doll asked. “What a sight that was!”

“Not quite as grand, but still impressive,” Lizzie said. “Monsieur d’Annebaut brought two hundred gentlemen with him, and when Prince Edward rode out to meet him, he was accompanied by eighty gentlemen in gold and eighty yeomen of the guard.”

“Prince Edward greeted the French!” Bess exclaimed. “Not the king?”

Lizzie shook her head. “He can scarce get around at all now. He has a sort of chair on which he can be carried, and he cannot get up the stairs at all, but must be let up and down by a device. Of course he couldn’t let the French see him like that. The Lord Chancellor and privy council welcomed the admiral. The king only received him sitting in his presence chamber on the second day, and then in a pavilion out in the gardens for the feasting.”

“I wish we could have gone,” Doll said wistfully.

“You’d likely have had to sleep in a tent outside.” Lizzie giggled. “The palace was full up. The grounds were covered with tents of gold and velvet that had been set up for the French alongside the banqueting houses. Elegant, but still tents.”

“And the queen?” Bess asked. “Does all seem to be well between her and the king?”

“Aye, she is all honey with him.”

“No sign of being with child?” Doll asked.

“Not likely,” Lizzie said. Even though they were alone in the parlor, she lowered her voice. “I doubt the king could manage it. When they went to Oatlands to hunt, a ramp had to be built to help him mount his horse. And even then, he didn’t ride out. They drove a poor stag past him so he might shoot at it from where he sat.”

“I have not been at court since—since last I saw you there,” Bess said. “Have there been no more plots, no more arrests?”

“I think the failure of the attempt to bring down the queen has settled Norfolk and his crew for the time being. But the battle lines between the factions are drawn, and beneath the surface, tension roils. Little fights break out, and it will only get worse as the king fails. All jostle to control Prince Edward, but of course they must not show that they do it.”

“Your William is still greatly in favor with him?” Bess asked. Lizzie had been living with William Parr for three years now.

“Very much so,” Lizzie said, with a catlike smile. “He is Edward’s favored uncle. And likely to be among the regents.”

Regents would only be needed if King Henry died and Edward succeeded him before he had come of age. It was treason to predict the death of the king, so even here among her friends, Bess weighed her words carefully before she spoke.

“So the king is making those plans?”

“He is,” Lizzie said. “He must.”

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

O
N THE DAY IN
O
CTOBER WHEN
B
ESS’S SUIT WAS TO BE HEARD,
Sir William Cavendish arrived at Dorset House and carried her behind him on his great bay gelding to Chancery Court. Bess felt queasy with anxiety, but she knew that she could not have a better ally, for among the positions Sir William held was treasurer of the court of surveyors, which administered crown lands. He was used to negotiating about the disposal and administration of estates, knew the laws in and out, and knew the man who would hear Bess’s case against Sir Peter Frecheville.

The street before the court was bustling with people. Or more accurately, with men and boys, for Bess did not see any other women. Prosperous-looking gentlemen with page boys in tow, somber black-gowned lawyers clutching armloads of papers, grooms leading horses through the mire of straw and mud, their voices rising and falling in discussion and dispute, a bark of laughter from somewhere.

Sir William helped her dismount and she waited as he handed his horse’s reins to a boy and gave him a coin. She felt very small surrounded by the surging crowd.

“Come, let’s get you inside,” he said, placing a guiding hand on her elbow. The antechamber was crowded, and here, too, there were no other women. Two or three men greeted Sir William, bowing to Bess, and his assured presence gave her strength as they continued into the court chamber.

Sir William led Bess toward a back bench and she caught sight of Sir Peter Frecheville, glowering at her from across the room. He was a soldierly man in his middle thirties, recently returned from the campaign of destruction against Scotland. Bess knew he had been knighted there by Edward Seymour, and the thought of doing battle with him made her heart race with anxiety. Seymour was Sir William’s patron, and Sir William had asked for his help, but had he given it? Perhaps he would be inclined to favor Sir Peter, regardless of what he had told Sir William.

“That’s him,” she whispered to Sir William.

“Good,” he said, inclining his head to Sir Peter with a stern expression on his face. “Then we know all may be dealt with today, and no more waiting.”

He was clearly not the least intimidated, and with him standing reassuringly bulky and steady at her side, Bess felt protected.

“Just answer the questions truthfully,” Sir William said as they took their seats. “You’re entitled to what you’re asking for and they’ve treated you very shabbily.”

“Thank you, sir.” Bess smiled at him and he patted her hand.

Four men in black gowns were busy at tables at the front of the room, piled with scrolls and documents. At length a clerk called out, “All rise for the Honorable Master of the Rolls,” and the hum of conversation ceased and there was a shuffling and scraping as everyone stood. A beak-nosed old gentleman took his seat in the great chair behind the central table and pounded with a gavel, bringing the proceedings to order.

Case after case was called, and the wait gave Bess time to worry. What if the judge found merit in Sir Peter’s claim that she was not entitled to her widow’s portion, a third of the income from the Barlow estates? Then she would have nothing to live on, nothing to make her attractive to a prospective husband, not even her dowry, small as it had been. Surely no man, and especially not Sir William, would marry her then. And perhaps Lady Dorset would send her back to Hardwick. As much as she had not wanted to leave home, what a failure she would feel creeping back, in no better position to help her parents and with no better prospects than when she had left.

And what would she be required to testify about to prove her case? Her face flushed at the thought of having to speak to this room full of men about whether her marriage had been consummated.

Please, God,
she prayed silently,
give me strength to do as I must and the fortitude to bear the outcome.

And then Bess heard her name being read out and her heart hammered as she got to her feet.

“Speak up so you can be heard,” Sir William told her in a low voice. “And don’t let any of these old buzzards frighten you.”

She returned his smile and walked to the bar, head held high. She felt conspicuous and vulnerable, knowing that so many eyes were watching her, and her palm was damp as she placed it upon the Bible to swear that she would tell the truth.

The master of the rolls in his black cap consulted the papers before him and peered at her from beneath bushy brows.

“Mistress Elizabeth Barlow. You are making a claim against Sir Peter Frecheville for a widow’s dower. And yet you previously accepted a settlement offered to you by this gentleman, did you not?”

I had to!
Bess wanted to cry. But Sir William had anticipated that she would be asked this question, and she took a deep breath to settle her nerves and calmly spoke the response she had practiced.

“I did, sir. I accepted Sir Peter’s offer, though it was not much, on the advice of legal counsel and because I was suffering great hardship.”

Bess thought of the lines of worry etched in her stepfather’s pinched face when she had last seen him, and the shadows beneath her mother’s tired eyes.

“My father had but lately returned home from debtors’ prison and he and my mother were striving mightily to manage all and to care for my younger sisters.”

“Hmph. I see.”

The master of the rolls shuffled through the pleadings before him, muttering as he ran a finger down the pages. Would the fact that her father had been in prison harm her case? She felt ashamed by his imprisonment, and disloyal for feeling ashamed. But surely his troubles would not be held against her. She could not recall if she had asked Sir William about the matter, but it was too late now.

“And what say you, Mistress Barlow,” the master of the rolls asked, “to Sir Peter’s claims that you have no right to a widow’s dower, as you were not truly wed?”

Here it was, the issue she had dreaded. But she remembered Sir William’s admonition. She was asking for no more than was her right.

“His claim is groundless, sir,” she said. “Robert Barlow and I were married more than a year and a half before he died. We stayed at first in the household of Sir George Zouche, whom we both served. Then we went to Barlow and lived with my husband’s family. My husband was very young, sir. I cannot help that. But I cared for him and he for me and had he lived we would have been master and mistress of the place. We were truly married, sir.”

“Hmph.” The master of the rolls took up one of the papers before him. It appeared to be a letter, written closely and with a heavy red seal. He raised his eyebrows as he read through it again. Bess fought the urge to turn around and look to Sir William for reassurance.

“Very well. You may step down.”

The master of the rolls waved a dismissive hand and Bess curtsied and returned gratefully to her seat, taking comfort in Sir William’s stalwart presence and approving nod.

Next Sir Peter Frecheville was called forward and argued his case. He was elegantly dressed and spoke eloquently and persuasively, and as Bess watched the master of the rolls nod in seeming agreement, her hopes fell. Who was she to stand against such a powerful man? He would trample her underfoot, keeping all for himself, and she would be left with nothing.

Sir Peter returned to his seat, a supercilious smile on his lips. The master of the rolls conferred in whispers with his clerks, frowning and muttering as he reviewed the documents before him once more. Bess hung her head and twined her fingers in her lap and waited in silent misery. At last one of the clerks called out.

“Come you forward, Sir Peter Frecheville. And come you forward, Mistress Barlow.”

The gray-bearded master of the rolls glowered at Bess as she went forward, and she knew she had lost. Her heart was in her throat but she determined that whatever happened she would not cry. She would not let Sir Peter Frecheville see that he had frightened and humiliated her, even though he had succeeded in keeping her money.

“I find,” the master of the rolls announced, “for the plaintiff, Mistress Elizabeth Barlow.”

Bess restrained herself from gasping aloud.

“The defendant is ordered to pay Mistress Barlow, throughout her lifetime, one third of the revenues of the manor of Barlow and its dwelling houses and cottages, its fields, meadows, pastures, woods, furze, heath, and forests, together with the rents from its sundry properties in the villages of Barley, Barley Lees, Dronfield, and Homfield.”

There was a low murmur of voices. Perhaps others listening to the evidence had also not expected her to win, Bess thought.

“Moreover,” the master of the rolls continued, turning piercing eyes on Sir Peter Frecheville, “we award to Mistress Barlow additional compensation of half a year’s rent for suffering the said most apparent wrongs and injuries since the death of her husband, without the succor or comfort of the said lands.”

Bess felt as if life and warmth were flowing back into her again.

“Thank you, sir! Oh, I thank you most heartily!”

The master of the rolls smiled, and Bess wished she could kiss him. Sir Peter Frecheville, white with rage, blew out his breath like a bull, as Bess returned to the safety of Sir William’s side. She wanted to throw her arms around him, too, but restrained herself, shaking the hand he offered and curtsying to him instead.

“You did it!” she exclaimed. “I cannot thank you enough, sir!”

“I am pleased that I was able to help. And I don’t doubt that my Lord Hertford’s letter helped your cause. But the part you played was just as important, Bess,” he said. “You showed great courage in going through with this, and it was your speaking on your own behalf that won the court’s sympathy and the additional compensation for the trouble that Frecheville put you to.”

* * *

O
NLY A FEW DAYS AFTER
B
ESS’S SUCCESS IN COURT,
S
IR
W
ILLIAM
Cavendish had come to call at Dorset House, but it was Bess’s company he sought, and Frances Grey had left them alone in the cozy little parlor with spiced wine and cakes, giving Bess an arch smile as she shut the door behind her. Since then, William had returned two or three times a week, and it was clear to Bess now that he was courting her.

He smiled at her as she refilled his wine cup, and she reflected that she felt quite comfortable around him, and he no longer seemed as imposing as she had found him at first.

“John Dudley was back at court today,” he said, inhaling the rich scent of the wine before taking a drink.

“You said he had been sent away, did you not?” she asked.

“Yes, after he struck Bishop Gardiner before the full council a month ago. Had the king been present, his action would have called for a sentence of death. It’s a mark of how far in favor he has risen of late that he was not banished for much longer.”

Bess thought of Gardiner contriving the terrible death of Anne Askew and attempting to send the queen to the flames.

“Then the bishop has fallen in His Majesty’s eyes?” She tried to keep her voice neutral, but a glint in William’s eyes told her that she had spoken with more vehemence than she intended.

“Yes. His fall began with the failure of his plot against the queen, and even as he and his faction have fallen, so have his enemies risen.”

“Of whom John Dudley is one?”

William nodded. “And my Lord Hertford another.”

Edward Seymour, the Earl of Hertford, was William’s patron. “As Seymour rises, so will William Cavendish,” Frances Grey had said.

“And William Parr is also Gardiner’s foe,” she said, thinking of Lizzie. “And who else?” William raised his eyebrows. “I don’t mean to be impertinent, sir, but I wish to understand.”

“You’re wise, Bess. It is well to know who stands where. It helps to know where to plant your own feet. William Paget, William Herbert, William Clerk, John Gates, all of the king’s privy chamber. And now more than ever, Anthony Denny.”

“Why him and why now?”

“Because he is His Majesty’s chief gentleman of the privy chamber, and as the king grows more ill, his world grows smaller, until it is bounded by the walls of his privy chamber. The men who attend him there are ever within sight and hearing of him; they know his moods, his thoughts. Denny keeps the gates that shut others out. And he is keeper of the king’s privy purse, as well.”

“And you are treasurer of the privy chamber.”

“Yes. And in that role I come within Denny’s realm, and that of the king. But I don’t rely on Denny alone. I am fortunate to have the ear of my Lord Hertford. And he is not only favored by the king, but by the Prince of Wales.”

Who would be king, Bess thought. When that time came, Edward Seymour would fare well, and so would William.

The next time William came to visit, Bess played for him upon the virginals.

“Upon my soul, you have a rare talent,” he congratulated her. “My daughter Kitty plays well, but not as well as you, I think!”

“How old is she?” Bess asked.

“She is eleven. Polly is seven and Nan is just six.”

Bess thought William’s eyes were sad as he named his daughters. “You have not seen them in some time?”