B009RYSCAU EBOK (22 page)

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Second of February, 1552, Candlemas—Newgate Street, London

B
ESS CLUTCHED THE BEDCLOTHES AROUND HER AND PUT A HAND
to her aching head. It was the second anniversary of Temperance’s death, and she felt the wrenching grief of the loss of the baby almost as keenly as if it had just happened. She had a bad catarrh, with a pounding headache, running nose, and sore throat, and she felt weak and miserable. And little more than a week before, Edward Seymour had died upon the block on Tower Hill. John Dudley had urged the young king to sign his uncle’s death warrant, and Harry Grey had been one of Seymour’s judges and supervised the execution.

Bess thought of the three men laughing together around the card table at her supper party three and a half years earlier, and Seymour’s kindly smile as he had arrived, probably realizing how anxious she had been about ensuring that the evening was a success. What must it be like, she wondered, to watch the axe fall upon the neck of a friend, and know that you had helped it come to pass?

Whatever John Dudley’s emotions, his actions had earned him the further distrust and hatred of the people. The crowds on Tower Hill had shouted “Rescue!” and “Reprieve!” when a contingent of guards late for duty were seen to rush toward the scaffold.

I will drive myself mad,
Bess thought,
if I think on nothing but death and despair
.
Let me think of something that will make me happy instead. Chatsworth! That is good indeed.

William had recently visited to inspect the progress of the building, and come back well satisfied. The first wagonloads of household goods would soon make their way northward to Derbyshire. Bess longed to see the house taking shape, the turrets rising stone by stone. She could imagine the scent of spring in the country and longed to breathe it in. Yet the thought of being away from London, from the pulse of what was happening in the land, tugged at some string of anxiety deep within her.

A sharp gust of wind rattled the shutters. The wind was from the north, and bitterly cold. How much depended, Bess thought, on knowing which way the wind blew.

* * *

“
H
OW DOES THE KING?” SHE ASKED ANXIOUSLY WHEN
W
ILLIAM
came into their bedchamber. He had rushed to Whitehall that morning at the news that King Edward was ill.

“He has measles, or perhaps smallpox.” William’s face was grim.

“Then we must pray for him,” Bess said.

“For him and for all of us.”

The statement hung heavy in the air. In the quiet and privacy of their curtained bed, Bess and William had spoken often of late of what might happen if the king should perish before he had a son to succeed him.

“Only women would be left behind,” William had said. “Mary, Elizabeth, the Scots queen, Margaret Douglas, Margaret Clifford, Frances Grey, the Grey girls unless Frances should have a son before the king dies. By Christ, that it should come to this, after King Henry moved heaven and earth to get a son, casting off poor Queen Catherine and then Anne Boleyn, and breaking with the church.”

Yes, what human wreckage Henry had wrought to ensure that he had a male heir. The terrified faces of Cat Howard and Catherine Parr had risen to Bess’s mind, and she had shivered despite the piles of bedclothes.

“With a woman on the throne,” William had said, “England would be seen as weak, like a rabbit waiting to be taken like a hawk. France, Spain, the Holy Roman Empire—who might strike first?”

“Has there never been a ruling queen of England?” Bess had asked.

“Never. But unless God preserves Edward for a few more years, it is very like to happen now. And there are many who don’t want Papist Mary on the throne. I tell you truly I fear what may come.”

Bess’s mind came back to the present as William banged open the lid of one of the great chests that held his clothes and pulled out his heavy riding cape.

“Parliament has been dissolved,” he said, “because of the great prevalence of smallpox in the city. So I’ll go to Chatsworth while I may to see how the house comes along, and while I’m there I’ll have another look at the other pieces of land.”

For months, William had been laboring on a great scheme—the granting to the crown of all the far-flung properties he owned in exchange for a vast amount of land near Chatsworth, as well as better pieces of property in other counties.

“Do you think the king will approve your plan?” Bess asked, making a pile of William’s shirts on the bed.

“I think he will. I have been nurturing the idea along most carefully.”

Bess suddenly felt breathless with anticipation at the thought of possessing sweeping miles of the Derbyshire countryside. “When will we know?”

“Soon. The royal surveyors will go to Northaw in the next fortnight.”

“Then we must send them something while they are about their work,” Bess said.

“Not money. Too heavy-handed.”

Bess thought of the pleasure she felt whenever she received a hamper of food from her mother, full of the bounty of Hardwick.

“Then some good things to eat and drink. No one can object to that, surely.”

William took Bess in his arms and pulled her close to him.

“Perfect. You always think of the perfect idea.”

She smiled up at him and smoothed his ruffled hair.

“Such as marrying you? That plan has certainly worked out well.”

“Indeed it has, wife. For both of us. I knew I had spotted a good bargain when first I clapped eyes on you.”

Fourth of October, 1552—Chatsworth, Derbyshire

“This is the best birthday gift I could wish,” Bess said. She revolved in a slow circle, admiring the stone walls of the new house rising around the central courtyard where she stood.

“A fitting monument to your attaining the great age of a quarter of a century,” William laughed.

“Mother, whose house is this?” Little Frankie, four years old now, tugged at Bess’s skirt.

“Ours, my lamb. But it’s not finished yet. So we will live in another house and watch this one grow. That will be something to tell your grandchildren in years to come.”

“My grandchildren?” Frankie giggled, tossing her red ringlets. “That’s silly. I’m just a little girl; I don’t have any grandchildren.”

“But you will, sweet thing,” William said, scooping her into his arms. “You will. And so will your brothers.” The nurse Tamsin held baby Willie in her arms and two-year-old Harry clutched her skirts.

“What about our other house?” Frankie wondered.

“Northaw is not our house anymore,” Bess said. “But this house will be much better.”

In June, William had signed the papers giving over Northaw and small parcels of land scattered in several counties to the crown, and now he was master of hundreds of acres of land in Derbyshire, encompassing meadow, woodland, mines, and quarries, as well as whole villages. The exchange had been an astonishing bargain, costing little in real money, and providing new sources of income. William had taken care that Bess would never experience what her mother and the Barlow family had gone through. All the properties were held in both his and Bess’s names, so that if he died before her, she would not lose them and Harry would not be made a ward of the court.

“We will invite the countryside to the house at Christmastide,” Bess said. “I wish to know our tenants, and it will be good for them to know us.”

“An excellent thought,” William agreed. “And when they know you, they will love you, Lady Cavendish, as who could not?”

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

Second of May, 1553—Chatsworth, Derbyshire

H
UM!
H
ERE IS MUCH NEWS INDEED,”
W
ILLIAM SAID, HIS HAND
with a piece of bread poised halfway between plate and mouth.

“What is it?” Bess asked. He looked more worried than usual at the regular reports from London.

“John Dudley’s son Guildford will marry Jane Grey.”

“Guildford Dudley? But last I heard it was likely she would marry the king.”

“Everything’s changed now,” William said, letting the letter drop to the table and sitting back in his chair. “The king is ill. When he opened Parliament last month many thought he was dying, he looked so pale and sick, and afterward he took to his chamber for a fortnight. John Dudley urged him to write his will, and he did so, excluding his sisters from the succession.”

Bess’s mind ticked off the list of possible heirs.

“Then who is to succeed him if he has no child? The Scottish queen?”

“No. He passes over the descendants of Margaret Tudor, as did his father. Mary of Scotland is too much a foreigner, and her aunt Lady Margaret Douglas, too, married to the Earl of Lennox, and raising their children as Papists. Besides, there were always questions about her legitimacy.”

A cold knot was forming in Bess’s stomach.

“Then that leaves Frances Grey.”

“Not quite.” William’s eyes met hers and he dropped his voice. “Her sons. The king declares that the throne will pass to the sons of Frances Grey.”

Neither of them had to state the obvious. Frances Grey had no sons. She was thirty-five. It might still be possible she would have another child. But she had borne no living children in the nine years since the birth of Mary Grey.

“Jane.” Bess’s voice was little more than a whisper.

“Jane. But Mary Tudor will never stand quiet and let the crown pass her by, and there are many who would fight for her, whatever the king may wish. And that is the reason for all these weddings. For what is needed to battle the claim of an unmarried Papist princess is a lady who is emphatically not a Papist, suitably married, and on the way to producing a male heir.”

“Who else is to be married?”

“Kate Grey, to Henry Herbert. And Catherine Dudley will wed Henry Hastings, who has his own claim to the crown.”

So the Earl of Pembroke had shored up his position since the death of his wife Anne Parr in February, Bess thought, by betrothing his son Henry Herbert to a Grey. And by marrying their daughter to Henry Hastings, the Dudleys gained yet another grappling hook to the throne.

“And poor little Mary Grey is promised to Lord Grey of Wilton,” William said.

“She’s only eight!”

“Yet she must down. And two more matches are in store. Henry Dudley will marry the Greys’ niece Margaret Audley, and the Earl of Cumberland’s girl will be the bride of Dudley’s brother Andrew. Do you see the effect?”

“It’s like a spider’s web,” Bess said. “With threads thrown out in every direction, binding every possible successor to the throne to the Dudleys.”

“Yes. John Dudley rules in all but name, and he has cast the dice on a mighty wager—that kin of his will be on the throne or very near it when Edward is gone. And what is more, if the new monarch is very young, the privy council will keep control of the country. That means Dudley and William Parr. And Harry Grey, if Jane should be queen.”

“But what if Mary . . .” Bess couldn’t finish the sentence. For what the Dudleys and Greys were gambling in the pursuit of power was the lives of their children.

“If Edward dies,” William said, “Mary will expect to succeed. And it will be a dogfight, make no mistake, with much blood spilled.”

Fear rippled through Bess and her hands grew suddenly clammy.

“Whose side are we to take?”

William’s gray eyes were dark with worry, but his voice was calm.

“We must balance as a rope dancer does, a leg on one side, an arm on the other. And be prepared to jump to left or right, lest a fall in the other direction prove fatal.”

Twenty-fifth of May, 1553, Whitsunday—Durham House, London

Bess looked around the chapel of John and Jane Dudley’s magnificent house on the Strand. It was crowded with the highest and most powerful people in England. Dudleys and Greys were out in force for the wedding of their children. The entire privy council was present, and it seemed that every noble family was represented. Or at least those who were not Papists, Bess reflected, scanning the faces.

The king was not present. He was at Greenwich, and William had told Bess that despite Northumberland’s pronouncements that Edward was recovering, he was gravely ill, and his failure to appear at his cousins’ wedding would likely fuel the rumors that he was already dead.

The king’s sisters, Mary and Elizabeth, were also absent, though Bess had heard that they had both written letters of congratulations and sent gifts.

The room was warm, and the dozens of feather fans waving made her think of a flock of birds, flapping and rustling their wings as they settled on the branches of a tree. Jewel-bright colors shone in the sunlight that flooded in from the courtyard, and the chatter of voices carried a sense of excitement. Of urgency, almost, Bess thought. For this triple alliance between Dudleys and Greys had been the subject of much astonishment and whispering in the weeks since it was announced.

Lizzie sat next to Bess, gorgeous in periwinkle blue. “Thank God this day has come,” she said in an undertone. “It was my idea, you know, marrying Jane Grey to Guildford Dudley.” She gave Bess a significant look and lowered her voice to a whisper. “For if Mary comes to the throne, I am undone utterly. She is a friend of Anne Bourchier, you know.”

Bess had forgotten that William Parr’s first wife was close to the Lady Mary. But Lizzie was not the only person who would be undone if Mary came to the throne, for surely she would return England to the old religion, reverse all the changes that had been made over the last twenty years, and restore the heresy laws. Lizzie’s marriage to William Parr would be meaningless, as Anne Bourchier still lived.

There was a stir and a murmur, and Bess turned to see Jane Grey, on the arm of her father, coming down the aisle followed by her sister Kate, ethereally beautiful in silver and gold, and twelve-year-old Catherine Dudley.

Jane looked pale, her pointed little chin and cheekbones standing out sharply, and her eyes sunken and shadowed. Bess thought she looked far older than her sixteen years, and nothing like a joyful bride. Jane managed a smile as she faced handsome Guildford Dudley and he took her hand in his. Young Henry Herbert, the Earl of Pembroke’s son, looked ill and as if he could barely stand. William had said that he had been abed for weeks and had been harried from the house to wed the Greys’ other daughter.

As the priest spoke the words of the marriage service, Bess couldn’t help but glance at Frances Grey. Regal in black studded with pearls, she held her head high. Her expression was unreadable. If King Edward died leaving a child heir, Frances would likely be governor to the young monarch. Did she think to be mother to a queen before long? She had raised Jane like a princess, and Jane had been diligent in her lessons, unwilling pupil though she was. And no doubt Frances and Harry Grey intended to control Jane as they had done throughout her life, regardless of whether she wore a crown. Bess hoped that if Jane did fulfill her mother’s ambitions and become queen, Frances might at last show her some love and kindness.

Jane Dudley wore no such mask. She looked like a cat that had eaten a canary bird, Bess thought. Beside her, John Dudley, the ghost of a smile on his lips, simply looked like a man who no one dared challenge.

After the wedding, Bess got a moment with Jane, and kissed her pale cheeks. She began to wish Jane joy but stopped, feeling that the words might loose a flood of tears. From herself, and perhaps from the bride as well.

“What a beautiful necklace,” she said, for want of anything better to say.

“Thank you,” Jane said, a hand flying to her throat. Her fingers toyed with the pearls and rubies. “A New Year’s gift from Princess Mary.”

“Where will you live?”

“At Syon.”

Bess felt a shiver up her spine. Syon Abbey was where Cat Howard had been taken from Hampton Court, where she had learned that she was to die. Edward Seymour had built a fine house there before he died, now in the possession of the Dudleys.

“I hear it’s very lovely,” she said to Jane, hating the falseness of her voice. Jane looked up at her and Bess was distressed to see tears in her eyes.

“Oh, Bess. I feel so bewildered. Everything is happening so fast.”

How can I help her?
Bess thought. She pulled Jane into her arms and held her close.

“Come to visit as soon as you can. I’m with child again. Will you stand godmother? November is when it is like to be born. You could come and stay as you did for Temperance’s christening.”

Jane’s face brightened.

“Yes! I’d like that.” A shadow of doubt crossed her face. “If I’m permitted.”

“We’ll find a way,” Bess whispered to her, stroking a russet strand of hair from Jane’s cheek. “We must find a way. For I feel I can never be happy again until you are happy, too, dear Jane.”

Twenty-first of June, 1553—Newgate Street, London

“The storm is upon us.” William had barely closed the front door of the house before he spoke. “Time to leave London.”

“Why? What’s happened?” Bess asked. She was five months gone with child now and they had planned to stay in town for the birth.

“The king is dying.”

Bess recalled William saying the same words when King Henry’s life was nearing its end. There had been no doubt who would succeed him. But this time nothing was certain.

“When must we go?”

“Now. See to the packing.”

He turned and headed up the stairs and Bess followed him, her mind awhirl with all that would need to be done to depart London suddenly. In the six years since their marriage, she and William had divided their time between London and the country, keeping the lease of the house from William Parr so that they always had a suitable place near the court, where they could entertain old friends and woo new ones.

“But the king has been ill for some time,” she said. “Why must we leave so suddenly?”

“His device for the succession, which Edward Seymour pushed him to enact, has been signed and approved. He has named Jane Grey as his heir. Mary is in Norfolk, so it will take some days for the news to reach her. But we’re in a race against time—Edward is failing fast. The minute he’s dead all stability will be gone.”

“Stability? We have been poised at the edge of a precipice.”

“And now the earth is giving way beneath our feet.” William dropped the riding boots he had taken up. He strode toward Bess and grasped her upper arms as though to plant her firmly before him. “There are only two choices now: Mary or Jane. All men will have to declare where their allegiance lies. And those who wager wrong will pay a heavy price. The farther we are from London the better. It will give us time to know how matters are falling out before we must speak.”

“Of course it must be Jane,” Bess said. William laid a hand over her lips, and she was terrified by the urgency and swiftness of his movement.

“Shh. We must not speak aloud what is in our hearts, even to each other. And on no account to anyone else. We must be gone before anyone knows we are leaving or has the chance to ask where we will stand.”

The words of Job echoed in Bess’s head.

The thing that I feared is come upon me, and the thing that I was afraid of is happened unto me.

She clutched to William and held fast, as if he were a rock of safety in a heaving sea.

Fifteenth of July, 1553—Chatsworth, Derbyshire

The rider was a blur in the distance. Bess shaded her eyes and tried to see the face, but it was muffled beneath scarf and hat. No matter. Whoever it was came from London, and the news was not hard to guess.

“William!” Bess called over her shoulder toward the house and turned at the sound of a window being flung open. William spotted the horseman and he disappeared within, coming to her side in a few moments.

“It’s Cecil’s man, Bowers,” he said.

A wave of dizziness passed over her. Her whole body felt heavy and sluggish with her pregnancy, and the summer heat added to her discomfort.

In minutes Bowers pounded past the gatehouse and was calling out before he had dismounted.

“The king is dead. The Duke of Northumberland has proclaimed Jane Grey queen.”

Bess’s knees felt weak and she put a hand on William’s arm to steady herself.

“And where is Mary?” William guided her toward the house as he addressed Bowers. “Has the news reached her? Does Dudley have her within his control?”

“She is in Norfolk,” Bowers said, gulping down the tankard of small beer that a serving man brought him. “She was on her way to London but must have learned the king was dying, so she turned around and made for Kenninghall.”

“God’s blood.” Bess had almost never heard William swear, and his words shook her. “There she will raise an army, no doubt. Or perhaps fly to Flanders, and seek the assistance of her cousin the Holy Roman Emperor. What a blunder on Dudley’s part. What does he do with this news?”