The Irish Princess (2 page)

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

BOOK: The Irish Princess

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Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices:
80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

First published by New American Library,
a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

First Printing, February 2011

REGISTERED TRADEMARK—MARCA REGISTRADA

LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA:

Harper, Karen (Karen S.)
The Irish princess/Karen Harper.
p. cm.

eISBN : 978-1-101-47864-6

1. Clinton, Elizabeth Fiennes de, Countess of Lincoln, 1528?—1589—Fiction.
2. Princess—Ireland—Fiction. 3. Elizabeth I, Queen of England, 1533-1603—Fiction.
4. Henry VIII, King of England, 1491—1547—Fiction. 5. Clinton, Edward Fiennes de,
Earl of Lincoln, 1512—1585—Fiction. 6. Great Britain—History—Henry VIII,
1509—1547—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3558.A624792I75 2011
813’.54—dc22 2010039716

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PUBLISHER’S NOTE

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

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. . . Foster’d she was with milk of Irish breast. Her sire an Earl; her dame of Prince’s blood. From tender years, in Britain doth she rest . . . Bright is her hue, and Geraldine she’s named . . . Her beauty of kind; her virtues from above; Happy is he that can attain her love!

From the sonnet to Elizabeth Fitzgerald,
“The Fair Geraldine,”
by Henry Howard, Earl of Surrey

CHAPTER THE FIRST

WHITEHALL PALACE, LONDON

January 25, 1547

I
, Gera Fitzgerald, was going to kill the king. He was dying, but I was going to kill him anyway.

In the dim back servants’ hall, I pushed the hidden panel that led to the king’s bedchamber. It seemed I had waited for this chance my entire life. I had been forced to bide my time until the king was alone in the small back rooms so few knew existed.

Henry Tudor, king and tyrant of all England and of my beloved, battered Ireland, was living his last moments on this earth. I pressed the dagger I had secreted in my shawl to be sure it was still there. Yes, its sharp steel, warmed by the heat of my body, waited to strike with all the power and passion that festered within me.

My pulse pounded in my ears as I hesitated but one moment. I could bear up to it if I were caught, I tried to buck myself up. If I must, I could face torture in the Tower and bloody death by beheading like those I had loved. At my trial, I would speak out for my family and my country. The Geraldines had been the salvation of poor Ireland and must be again.

I stepped into the void, black as the pit of hell, for I’d not dared bring a lantern or even a candle. The air was stale, so this entry must not have been recently used. A cobweb wove itself across my sweating face and snagged in my eyelashes. No matter if I kept my eyes open or closed, it was the same deep darkness.

I went slowly, one hand along the wooden wall, one out ahead so I would not bump into the door at the end. A sliver jabbed into my finger, but I ignored it. My hand touched the door.

I froze, straining to hear. Some strange sound came from within, a rhythmic hissing. I pictured a fat, coiled serpent, the king of England I had so long detested and feared. Snoring—that was it. He slept.

I recalled the arrangement of the two rooms I had walked through nearly three years ago, the shadows, the silence. Not silent now. As I pushed the door inward a crack, I saw wan light, though it nearly blinded me at first. I felt I’d opened a long-sealed tomb: No air stirred and the very smell of death sat heavy here.

I shuffled along, giving my eyes time to adjust, though there was little to bump into but the oaken bed that dwarfed everything. I saw the source of light was a pewter lantern on a small table across the room.

He had gone quiet now. What if he were dead already? It would not be enough if he escaped me after all this time! But no, though the snoring had ceased, a sharp rasping for breath resounded from the big, curtained bed. Had he hidden out here like a wounded animal—or was he ashamed to let others see him as he was? Did he really want to cleanse his soul and risk dying alone?
Ah, well
, a little voice in my head seemed to say,
in the end, cobbler or king, we all must die alone
.

Though I knew the king was hard of hearing and the heavy brocade curtains separated us, I tiptoed into the small adjoining room to be certain no servant or guard slept there. No one. Just shadows, like dark ghosts from Henry Tudor’s past and mine, those who had been murdered, those who cried out for justice, even from their graves.

A single fat candle burned on the table here, illumining a short stack of parchment. The candle diffused the sweet scent of expensive ambergris and threw flickering light on the rows of rich parchment-and-leather-scented books shelved on all four walls. Hoping no one would wonder how the obese, crippled king could rise from his bed to lock the door to his more public chambers, I went to it, listened with my ear to the carved and gilded wood, then twisted the key in the lock.

As I passed the table again, I bent to look at the documents lying there. In fine script, the king’s will! I longed to burn it all, at least the parts about the Tudor heirs being bequeathed my Ireland. Somehow I must find a way to restore my brother’s rights and title, for that would benefit our people more than Tudor power. I pushed the papers aside to get to the back of the document. He had signed it already, so its decrees and bequests were final.

I could barely keep myself from slashing the royal will to pieces with the dagger. Instead, I fished the weapon out and, as carefully as I could, sliced off the bottom inch of the last page that bore the signature. Let them think the king had done that before he did away with himself. I hoped to make my deed look like suicide instead of regicide. I would leave the dagger in the hand of the king’s corpse.

I bent to stuff the narrow piece of parchment in my shoe, where it crinkled in protest. A thought hit me with stunning force: Should I be taken and executed, no one would ever know my wishes, my story, my legacy. I should have made a will or written my life’s events. If I survived and the king was dead and buried, I would not let my life and loves and reasons for my deeds be buried too. I would record my own story and entitle it
The Irish Princess
, for what could once have been.

Nodding at the decision I had made, I tamped the papers into place. Keeping the dagger out, I trod as quietly as I could back into the bedchamber.

The king was breathing easier now. I took off my heavy outer shawl and tied it around my waist, lest I would need to flee, for I must leave nothing behind that could be traced.

The bed was not only huge but high. At least it had a three-step mounting stair, which the king himself or those who lifted him up had needed. I climbed the first step and knelt upon the third. It creaked, but then, at the last moment, I hoped to wake the king so he knew why his life was forfeit. But if he called out for help, would his voice carry clear to his guards or to someone who might be just beyond in his formal bedchamber? Was this gigantic but ill man yet strong enough to stop me?

I parted the bed curtains so I could see within. At first, I thought I saw only a pile of pillows, but the king was propped upon them. After all his harsh breathing, he was so quiet now. Was he awake, watching, or had he just died?

I cleared my throat to see if he would move. Finally—now or never, I told myself. Let him die in peace, some would say, but I would never have peace that way. In my mind, I heard the shouted, futile but bold words of my family’s battle cry:
A Geraldine! A Geraldine!

I knelt upon the mattress, dragging my skirts and the shawl. I crawled closer, my fingers gripping the handle so hard that my entire frame shook as I began to lift it.

I held my breath and positioned myself better to strike. I would awaken him now, to pass judgment on his brutal life.

Then a wheezing voice came from the depths of the black bed and the huge, fleshy frame: “You’ve come to bed at last, my dearest love, my angel.”

PART I

My Youth

Love that doth reign and live within my thought
And built his seat within my captive breast,
Clad in arms wherein with me he fought,
Oft in my face he doth his banner rest . . .
And coward Love, then, to the heart apace
Taketh his flight, where he doth lurk and ’plain,
His purpose lost, and dare not show his face.
For my lord’s guilt thus faultless bide I pain,
Yet from my lord shall not my foot remove,—
Sweet is the death that taketh end by love.

—HENRY HOWARD, EARL OF SURREY

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