B009RYSCAU EBOK (24 page)

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

Twenty-second of January, 1554—Newgate Street, London

T
HERE HAD BEEN RUMORS FOR DAYS OF PLANNED UPRISINGS IN
response to the announcement that Queen Mary would wed King Philip of Spain, and as soon as William burst through the door, Bess knew that he bore bad news.

“Frances Grey’s cousin Sir Peter Carew was summoned to court for questioning about these murmurs of rebellion. He did not come or send word, which surely means that he was involved in making trouble and is now a fugitive.”

Cold fear gripped Bess’s heart, a feeling that had become sickeningly familiar over the past months. What would happen to Jane if Queen Mary thought that the Greys were acting against her?

“But surely the Greys would not be so foolish as to be involved in any more plots,” she said, praying that it was true.

“I wouldn’t lay money on it. Bishop Gardiner told me not an hour since that Edward Courtenay has confessed a plan to remove the queen and put her sister Elizabeth on the throne, and he named Harry Grey among the conspirators.”

Jane. Save her and protect her, Lord, for this trouble is none of her doing.

“Jane must be so frightened. I want to go to her.”

William shook his head. “It’s not likely you’d be allowed.”

Within days, the situation became more dire.

“The queen is raising an army, and from what I hear, she’ll need it,” William told Bess. “Thomas Wyatt set up his battle standard at Maidstone and read out a proclamation against the queen’s marriage, charging all of England to rise to his cause.”

“And will they?” she asked, her heart pounding.

“He’s in a strong position to be dangerous if they do. He’s one of the largest landowners in Kent and during the Kett rebellion he put in place a hand-picked militia for the defense of the country. He could be at the head of an army very quickly.”

Jane.

“Where is Jane in all this?”

“In a very ill place. The Earl of Huntingdon told the council that Harry Grey tried to get him to join the rising, saying that Wyatt had promised to put Jane Grey on the throne in exchange for Grey’s support.”

A few days later, William told Bess that Harry Grey had failed to respond to a summons.

“He’s been declared a traitor, as have his brothers. And the Earl of Huntingdon has set off to hunt him down and bring him back to London.”

“Huntingdon?” she cried in confusion and despair. “But he supported Jane’s succession. Isn’t he in the Tower?”

“No longer. Alliances are shifting faster than can be reckoned, for to be in the wrong place when the music stops will bring a most unhappy end.”

Over the next days, the rumors flew. Wyatt was said to be marching toward London with five thousand men behind him.

What if he should succeed?
Bess thought, her hopes rising. Whoever ended on the throne, it wouldn’t be Mary. Perhaps Jane would go free, even if she wasn’t queen.

“What if you raised men and went to Wyatt, as you went to fight for John Dudley last summer?” Bess whispered to William in the safety of their bed.

“I have thought of it. I think of it still, but it is a very risky thing. I think the queen will prevail, and Wyatt and his supporters will die.”

It became more difficult for Bess not to beg William to join Wyatt when she learned that Wyatt’s army had taken Rochester Bridge and seized a fleet of royal ships anchored in the Medway, along with their weapons and ordnance.

“And now?” she argued. “You could go to Chatsworth; there are hundreds of men there who would go if you called them.”

“No!” he cried. “I’ve left it too late! It would be a fortnight before I was back in London. It will all be over then. Besides”—he sighed hopelessly—“this is not like last summer. Then I set out from Chatsworth, and thanks be to God, learned that the cause was lost before I met with Mary’s troops. Marching on London is quite a different thing.”

Then it’s hopeless
, Bess thought.
We have no choice but to sit and w
ait.

On the third of February, Bess woke to the sound of cannon fire.

“That sounds very close,” she said to William, and ran to the window and threw open the shutters. Smoke was rising from the east. When she turned back, William was already half dressed.

“Stay inside,” he commanded her, and headed for the door of the bedchamber, strapping on his sword. He was back within a quarter of an hour.

“Wyatt and his men have crossed the bridge and are making for Whitehall. The queen’s soldiers are marching toward the city. They’re like to meet on our very doorstep. Nothing for it but to batten down the hatches to meet the coming storm.”

Bess and a few of the servants closed and latched all the shutters of the house and barred the doors, while William gathered the rest of the servants, and armed them with whatever was to hand.

“Don’t go out unless I give the word,” he warned them. “But be prepared to defend the house against anyone who tries to get in, whether queen’s men or the others.”

Soon Bess heard shouts, the tramp of feet, drums. Then the clash of steel on steel, the discharge of arms, screams, orders bawled above the chaos. She sat on her bed, feeling helpless, knowing that what was happening outside the windows must decide the outcome of what Wyatt had started. She remembered that Wyatt was Lizzie’s cousin, and wondered where Lizzie was, and if she was safe.

By afternoon, the battle sounds had ceased. William went out with half a dozen men to learn what he could.

“The queen’s army turned back Wyatt’s men,” he told Bess when he came back. “There’s a corpse hanging in St. Paul’s Churchyard. One of Wyatt’s, I think.”

“Is it finished, then?”

“I don’t know. We’ll learn more tomorrow.”

The next day he went to Whitehall and returned looking haggard and despairing. “That fool Grey has doomed himself and all around him,” he said, sitting on the bed.

Jane.

Bess went and stood before him, praying he would have some words of comfort. He took her hands in his, studying them as if he had never seen them before. He kept his eyes down as he spoke. “The queen has agreed to sign the death warrants of Jane Grey and Guildford Dudley.”

Bess was seized by a wave of nausea and panic.

“No! Surely she knows that Jane cannot mean her harm!”

“I don’t think anyone knows anything anymore. All is in turmoil. But as long as Jane Grey lives, people opposed to Queen Mary will rally to her.”

Bess had a sudden recollection of Jane returning from a visit with Mary years ago, prattling happily about her cousin’s kindness and praise for her. It had seemed then that Mary had provided Jane with the kind of encouragement and affection that her own mother did not.

“When?” Bess asked, her throat so tight with fear she could barely speak.

“Three days from now.”

Bess’s head swam, and the last thing she saw before she slumped into William’s arms was the fear on his face.

* * *

T
HE NEXT THREE DAYS SEEMED LIKE A YEAR.
D
ESPITE
W
ILLIAM’S
protests, Bess went to the Tower and tried to see Jane, but she was not permitted, and when she returned home she lay in her bed and wept until her head ached and she thought there could be no more tears left to be shed.

On the day that Jane was to die, Bess rose from bed only to kneel in desperate prayer that somehow Jane might be saved. Were it not for William and the children, she would have prayed to be taken instead, if only Jane could live.

When she heard William’s footsteps on the stair, she covered her mouth, steeling herself for the news that Jane was dead.

“The execution has been put off,” William told her. “The queen has greater dangers than Jane Grey just now. The rebels have reached Knightsbridge. There are rumors that royal troops fled in the face of the attack and that the Earl of Pembroke has gone over to Wyatt’s side.”

Bess’s hopes rose. “Will you join him? If enough men rally to him, perhaps he may win, and Jane will be restored to the throne.”

“I would if I thought that it would do any good, but I think the tide is about to turn against Wyatt. Huntingdon and an army of three hundred men brought Harry Grey and his brother John captive to the Tower this day.”

“Perhaps Queen Mary will change her mind,” Bess said desperately. She thought of the necklace that Jane had worn at her wedding, a gift from the queen. “Mary loves Jane.”

But William shook his head. “There’s no going back now.” He took her into his arms, and she saw that there were tears in his eyes. “You make it harder for yourself if you hold out hope when there is none.”

“How terrified she must be,” she wept. “If only I go could to her. She needs me; she has no one to comfort her now.”

“She knows you love her. You must cling to that knowledge. The best we can offer her now is our prayers.”

On the morning of the twelfth of February, a messenger brought a letter for Bess, addressed to her in Jane Grey’s bold handwriting. Bess was trembling as she broke the seal and read.

My dear Bess, I know that you will weep for me, but I beg you to take comfort in the knowledge that I do not weep that God will take me from this vale of misery, for I know that in losing a mortal life I shall find an immortal felicity. As we are told, there is a time to be born and a time to die, and the day of death is better than the day of our birth. I pray you remember me in your heart and in your prayers, and that the Lord that has hitherto strengthened you so continue, that at last we may meet in heaven. With my most constant love to you, dear Bess, your Jane.

A lock of red-gold hair tied with a bit of blue ribbon had been folded into the letter. Bess raised it to her nose and thought she could detect Jane’s scent. She kissed the lock of hair and curled it into her hand, as if by holding it close she could draw Jane to her, and sobs racked her.

The sound of a cannon boomed and echoed in the distance, and Bess felt as though the shot had gutted her.

“What noise is that?” she asked, knowing the answer even as she spoke.

The young messenger’s eyes met hers and she saw that he was in tears. “It is done. Jane Grey is dead.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

Eighth of March, 1557—Chatsworth, Derbyshire

B
ESS LOOKED AROUND AT THE FRIENDS AND NEIGHBORS WHO
had come to celebrate the christening of her baby, Lucres, who had been born the previous week, on Shrove Tuesday. The mood was relaxed and happy. The godparents were all close friends of Bess and William from nearby, rather than highly placed and powerful Londoners. Bess smiled at Jenny, standing next to their brother Jem and surrounded by a knot of tumbling, laughing children, including her three own little ones and Bess’s. Frankie was almost nine now, Harry and Willie were six and five, Charlie was three and a half and always into mischief, little Bessie would be two in a fortnight, and May, in the nurse’s arms, was fourteen months old.

It had been the right decision to remove themselves from London, Bess thought. Of course William had to spend time at court, but he returned to Chatsworth as much as he was able, and it was so much more enjoyable to stay at home with her children rather than leaving them in Jenny’s care and dashing off to town.

Besides, London was a place of horror now. In early February of 1555, a cleric named John Rogers, the prebendary of St. Paul’s, had been convicted of heresy and burned at the stake in Smithfield. It had been impossible to avoid the mood of terror and anger welling up among the people in the days before the execution. Worse, the smoke had drifted down toward the river, and Bess, more than seven months gone with child, had been overcome with nausea and revulsion, vomiting repeatedly with such ferocity that William had called a physician to attend her.

That ghastly execution had been only the beginning, and since that time hundreds more had died in the flames—men and women, the feeble old and boys not yet come to manhood—for no more than cleaving to the religion that had been so stringently imposed by King Edward only a few years earlier.

“I cannot bear it,” Bess had wept, holding a handkerchief over her nose and mouth to block out the stench of burning flesh. “Can we not leave?”

They had been in London for the marriage of Frances Grey’s niece Margaret Clifford.

“We must go to the wedding,” William had insisted. “Margaret Clifford is a relation of the queen, and the nuptials will be celebrated like a royal wedding. We cannot afford to have Queen Mary question why we are absent.”

So they had attended the wedding, the feasts, the jousts and masques, and inside Bess had felt as if she were dying by inches. The Lady Elizabeth was there, the whiteness of her face standing out against her black gown, and watching her standing alone in a corner Bess was reminded of an animal, hiding trembling and silent in hopes of being overlooked by an approaching predator.

Just as difficult as curtsying low before the queen, swollen with what had proved to be a false pregnancy, and smiling and chatting, had been coming face-to-face with Frances Grey and her daughters, all now serving in the privy chamber of Queen Mary.

How could they do it? Bess shrieked inside her head. Had they forgotten Jane, whose blood had sodden Tower Green only three years earlier? Did they not recall that it was Queen Mary who had sent her to her death? Seeing the Greys only made Jane’s absence a new and tearing grief to Bess. And she had found herself looking for the grinning, ruddy face of Harry Grey, who had introduced her to William those many years ago. But he had gone to the block only a few weeks after Jane, along with John Dudley and so many others, for his part in Thomas Wyatt’s rebellion. She had searched Frances Grey’s face for signs of sorrow but saw none, and the rage rose within her.

Not long after that dreadful wedding, Frances had married Adrian Stokes, her master of horse, to universal surprise, ending any possibility that she would ever succeed to the throne. Kate Grey’s marriage to Henry Herbert had been annulled, and little Mary Grey’s espousal to her cousin dissolved, with as much dispatch and cold political calculation as the alliances had been made only months before. Bradgate Park, the house that Bess had called home and loved when she lived among the Greys, had been taken by the crown. Everything to do with the Greys had seemed baffling and heartbreaking to Bess, and she had wanted to be far from the court and all to do with it.

Now, on this prematurely springlike day at Chatsworth, peace and happiness reigned, and Bess felt safe. Her mother came to her side, a goblet of good French claret in her hand.

“The house is looking splendid,” she said, tilting her head back to admire the plasterwork of the ceiling. “The furnishings in my chamber are magnificent—such exquisite tapestries! You’ve done so much work since last I was here.”

“And yet it seems it will never end!” Bess sighed. “Outside as well as in. The orchard is coming along well, but come summer I plan to put in a pleasure garden, fish pools, and an entrance lodge. And there’s work to be done on the land we acquired last year, as well.”

“How is William’s health?”

Bess followed her mother’s glance to her husband, who stood in conversation with William Paulet, and a shadow of worry darkened her mind as it did so often when she looked upon him. He had been extremely ill during the previous winter, unable to eat because his stomach was in such great pain, and far too weak to ride to London until summer. Even then, they had canceled a planned visit to their old friends John and Christian Thynne at Longleat.

Work was more than half the problem, as far as Bess was concerned. When William had become treasurer of the king’s chamber accounts upon Edward’s accession there was a deficit of nearly two thousand pounds, and he had struggled with that burden ever since.

Now, with the queen allowing England to be drawn into her husband King Philip’s war with France, the press for money was even more acute, for somehow those thousands of foot soldiers and hundreds of horse must be paid for. William had refused to provide the crown with the loan of a hundred pounds that was being demanded from landowners across the country, but the pressure was relentless and he tossed and turned in the night, or got up to pore over account books and write letters by candlelight.

“He is better just now,” Bess told her mother, not willing to show the depth of her concern. She sought to turn the conversation to another subject. “What a grief to hear of the death of George Zouche.”

“Yes. I sent Lady Zouche a hamper of honey and other things from Hardwick. I will always be grateful for the start they gave you.”

Elizabeth placed a gentle hand on Bess’s cheek, and Bess kissed her, feeling comforted as always in her presence. Having her mother only a few hours’ ride away was another reason she was happy to be living at Chatsworth.

Late that evening, when the guests were gone and Bess had checked that the shutters were closed and the doors locked, she mounted the stairs, ready to climb into the soft warmth of the great bed. William sat in his nightshirt, his feet bare, staring into the darkness before him.

“What’s amiss, love?” Bess asked. “You’ll catch your death; get under the covers.”

He started as if he had not heard her come in and passed a hand over his forehead as though to ease a headache. Perhaps the day’s excitement had been too wearing for him, Bess thought, chiding herself that she had not noticed earlier how tired he was looking.

“Are you feeling ill? Shall I make you a nice warm posset?”

“No, it’s not my gut.” He looked at her and she thought he looked more worried than she had ever seen him. “William Paulet says that my chamber accounts have been audited—going back eleven years!—and I am out by almost six thousand pounds. I will be summoned to report. To explain.”

Bess was staggered at the vast amount, and baffled. William was so methodical, so careful.

“But how can that be? And why do they seize on your accounts?”

“It’s not just mine. The queen seeks to wring every penny she can from the government, in service of the war. But I fear that she wishes me gone, and will use this as an excuse to remove me from my office.”

“Surely you can put your accounts straight if they are out.”

“It will be a monstrous task. There have been times when I have paid for needful expenses myself as the chamber accounts had not the money, and other times when I borrowed, only to repay the money shortly. And Thomas Knot kept the books much of the time—all those months when I was ill last year—and Paulet said he disappeared when the audit began. I hardly know how to begin.”

Bess’s heart ached to see the despair and exhaustion etching his face.

“I will help you,” she said. “You have taught me well how to keep accounts. We’ll sort it out.”

“I hope you’re right,” he said, as she coaxed him under the bedclothes. “Oh, Bess, that all my work should come to ruin in this way.”

If William was required to repay six thousand pounds it would be disastrous, but Bess refused to countenance that possibility.

“No ruin,” she murmured, stroking his head and kissing him. “We’ll write to the queen. All will be well, you’ll see.”

Eighteenth of August, 1557—Chatsworth, Derbyshire

The household had been in an uproar since the previous day, when Bess had received William’s letter from London. He would shortly be called before the Star Chamber to answer for the errors in the privy chamber accounts, and he begged that Bess would come to him.

I need your clear head, my good Bess,
he had written,
and your steady hand and heart with me now in this time of trouble. I have been working day and night to prepare fair copies of the rough journal books of the accounts, but I fear I will not finish and at moments I stop and sit and stare and wonder if all my labor is to no avail. I pray you fly to me as soon as you may.

Bess wanted to reach London as quickly as possible and so would travel light, but still that meant two footmen, a guide, and nurses for six-year-old Harry, whose presence she thought would cheer William, and baby Lucres. Clothes were gathered, baskets and saddlebags were packed, instructions given for the running of the household in her absence.

“Why can’t I go to London?” Frankie pouted.

“Sweetheart, you will come another time,” Bess said, stooping to tuck a stray golden curl back into her daughter’s cap. “Harry has not been to London since he was a baby. And I must haste to your father and cannot take you all. Besides, I need you to help your Aunt Jenny look after your little sisters and brothers and to make sure that all is well, just like a grown-up lady with her own household.”

She was relieved to see Frankie’s face brighten. “We will be back as soon as we may,” she said, kissing her daughter’s cheek. “And your father will be so proud to know what a capable big girl you are.”

The party set off at dawn the next day. The journey to London, more than a hundred and fifty miles, could easily take a week but Bess was determined to be at William’s side as soon as she could. She had always regarded him as unflaggingly steady and strong, and the fear that she read between his words terrified her. Six thousand pounds. However could they come up with the money if the inquiry didn’t go well? And what effect would it have on William’s health and state of mind if he should lose his position?

We will prevail,
she thought, glancing back at the retinue straggling behind her.
We must prevail
.