The Irish Princess (31 page)

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

BOOK: The Irish Princess
12.16Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
As I took a silent step into the king’s bedchamber, I felt the cold tip of Dudley’s dagger prick my elbow. Truth be told, I had come to kill the king for my people and my country, and for all those he had foully murdered while claiming to be the savior of his people. But if my other enemy’s dagger did the deed and was discovered, let John Dudley suffer for it.
I moved silently, giving my eyes time to adjust, though there was little enough to bump into but the bed, which dwarfed everything. Finally, I saw that an ornate, lighted lantern stood on a small table across the room. I felt I’d opened a long-sealed tomb: No air stirred, and the stench of the king’s abscessed leg, the very smell of death, sat heavy here.
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,
at the end, cobbler or king, we all must die alone
.
Though I knew the king was hard of hearing and curtains closed off most of the huge oaken bedstead, 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 needed justice, even from the grave.
A single, fat candle burned on the small 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 ornately 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 and gasped. In fine script, the king’s will! How I longed to burn it all, at least the parts about the Tudor heirs being bequeathed my Ireland. I pushed the papers aside to get to the back of the document. He had signed it already, or, at least, it had been impressed with what Anthony had called the dry stamp and someone had inked it in.
I could barely keep myself from taking out the dagger and slashing the king’s precious will into pieces. Instead, I fished out Dudley’s dagger and, as carefully as I could, cut 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 bent to stuff the narrow piece of parchment in my shoe, where it crinkled in protest. A thought hit me then with stunning force: Should I be taken and executed, no one would ever know my reasons, my story, my legacy. I should have made a will, or at least a recording of my life’s events. If I survived the day and the king was buried, I would not let my life and loves and reasons for my deeds be buried too. I would write my story.
I restacked the papers, tamping them 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. I unwrapped the thin lawn shawl with its pocket now empty of the dagger, for I gripped the steel handle, warm from my own body heat. I pulled the gauzy material of the shawl over my head like a scarf, again in case I must flee, so I would leave naught behind but the dagger and the king’s corpse.
The bed was not only huge but high. At least it had a three-step mounting stair, which the king, no doubt, or those who lifted him up, had needed. I stepped on the first step and knelt upon the third. I hoped to wake the king, so he knew why he would die. 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? Should I try to gag or bind him with my shawl?
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. I cleared my throat to see if he would move or react. Now or never, I told myself. Let him die in peace, some would say, but I would never have peace that way. Silently, I heard the shouted, futile, but bold words,
A Geraldine! A Geraldine!
I knelt upon the mattress, dragging my skirts and the shawl around my waist. I crawled closer, my fingers gripping the dagger handle so hard that my entire frame shook as I began to lift it. Granted, the smells made me want to flee—his infected leg, sweat, urine, the very scent of death. Anthony had whispered that his skin was turning yellow as old parchment with inner poisons, but all was shades of gray shadows here.
I held my breath and positioned myself to strike. Then a voice, soft, wheezing, said from the depths of the black bed and the huge, fleshy frame, “You’ve come to bed at last, my dearest love, my angel.”
 
CHAPTER THE TWENTY-FIRST
 
I
n the depths of the royal bed, a huge, familiar hand clamped my wrist and yanked me close. “Jane, my dear wife, Jane,” the king whispered.
I went icy cold. The dagger, clasped in my hand, was trapped near my rib cage, under his huge arm. For a dying man, his grip on my other wrist seemed as strong as it had that night at the gaming table. If I could just free my right hand . . . I must strike now and be away. They said his lucid moments came and went—or what if someone heard him wailing and broke down the locked door to come in? What if, in the morning, he reasoned out who his Jane really was?
I knew my coloring was somewhat similar to Queen Jane’s, but he was clearly delusional in one of what Anthony had called the king’s non compos mentis states. My lawn shawl had fallen forward over my face, so I peered at him through a scrim. If he thought I was his dead queen Jane Seymour, perhaps that made him think I was an angel or apparition.
“I don’t want to die, my love,” he went on, sniveling like a child, “but I want to be with you in heaven.”
Despite his hallucination, he thought I was a ghost, so he was not in the past but in the here and now to realize Jane was dead.
“You gave me my son,” he whispered, “and he will rule after me, but I don’t want to die. I’m the king and I don’t want to die-eeee. . . .”
“Sh!” I crooned. “Hush now, husband.”
“Jane, my love, I know I’ve changed since you left me, gained much weight. I’ve become a glutton since your death—my only sin, but for lusts of the eye.”
Was that what the king believed and would claim to his confessor on his deathbed? He thought his only sins were gluttony and ogling women! My hand cramped around the dagger, but I fought to calm myself, to say what I must.
“Everyone must die, my lord. But I know you must have many regrets besides losing me.”
Drawing out my words, I spoke in a hushed, wispy voice, hoping no hint of my crisp Irish brogue slipped in. I could not believe my daring, but I had naught to lose, snared against him like this. I must talk my way free and finish my deed.
Then a new thought struck me. After all, I wanted this man to suffer for what he had done to my people—to his own people. If I simply stabbed him, it would be over, brutally, though he was dying anyway. But what if he thought his angel Jane had come to prepare him for hell? Torment in the time he had left was better justice than a quick, if bloody, death.
“R-regrets?” he stammered. “You m-mean regrets of dead children with the Spanish princess? But you gave me Prince Edward. You said you loved me.”
“For one thing, I am speaking of regrets for the deaths of your first two wives and the callous setting aside of two others after me, not to mention beheading that poor girl Cat Howard. I speak the truth now without fear, since you can no longer hurt me. Oh, yes, I feared you, knew I had to wed you, or you’d bring me and my family down, ruin us as you had others. Love? Love for our son, but only fear for you.”
“Jane . . . Jane . . . you cannot mean th—”
“Even now you have turned your affections from Queen Katherine after she has nursed and tended you, even in your vilest moods.”
“But . . . b-but you understood about my first two queens. I explained it to you, you above all people. The Boleyn was a whore, and my marriage to Spanish Catherine a sham and sin, and not my fault.”
“Princess Mary’s mother was loyal and loving to you until the day she died. Anne Boleyn was innocent of the charges against her, my lord; in God’s truth, you knew that. Incest? Witchcraft? You pursued her for years, devastated the English Church for her. As you face eternal judgment, surely you know that, and you will admit all at the judgment seat. But you wanted to get her out of your way so you could have me, have the chance of a legitimate son.”
He recoiled from me, but I still could not free the dagger from under his arm. The man’s weight was amazing.
“You . . . Jane, how can you be so cruel to defend her? The entire Boleyn family betrayed me—incest with her brother. At least his wife, Rochford, died with Cat Howard! And now the Howard men will go down too!”
“How could Cat Howard love you, any more than I, for even then you were a fat old man. And now you’ll kill the Howard men? For what, my lord king? Yes, Surrey and Norfolk should have been chastised for their arrogance, but that was nothing compared to your pomposity. They fought England’s wars for you and with you over the years. It grieves me greatly—and all the saints of heaven too—that you are so brutal and cruel. You have dragged down and have slaughtered by royal decree families that have helped you, and that shows your weakness, your fear, not your strength and power. ’Tis a great, great sin, huge sins encrusted on your doomed soul.”
“No—nooo . . .” Even though I feared I was overdoing my part, he began to gasp for breath, his once-commanding voice a mere whine. “You cannot mean these things!” He shoved feebly at me, but my wrist was still trapped; I could feel my entire arm going numb. He hissed, “Sent from hell, you a demon—”
“Sent from heaven, Henry Tudor! A harbinger from heaven. It is to hell you are going for the way you have destroyed so many innocent and loyal, from your first wife to the brave Fitzgeralds of Ireland who ruled there for you over the years. You could have been the greatest king in Christendom, but now you must pay the price for all eternity.”
He began to choke, crying, sniveling with one hand lifted to cover his face. I gave a great tug to free my arm from under him and loosed it—without the dagger.
“It cannot be, cannot be, for I am blessed, beloved of the Lord High God. It cannot be. . . .” His whining trailed off, and he lay back on his pillows, gasping for air. I wished I had the dagger, but I would have had to strike him with my left hand, and that mountain of flesh could well protect his heart or throat. I could only hope his shock and horror might make him senseless or even bring death before his cronies could call for Bishop Cranmer to administer the last rites, offering atonement for his sins. Whatever happened, I had made my point with the dagger of truth.
So I fled the king’s bed, of necessity leaving Dudley’s dagger behind and finally leaving behind some of my fierce hatred for England’s dreadful Tudor.
 
After my confrontation with the king, I lay shaking all over as if I had the ague, feeling chilled even beneath two coverlets. I was huddled in the truckle bed in the next room, where Magheen slept those days she stayed with me when Anthony was away. He still slept, where I had hastily undressed and scattered my garments in the dark. As I had heard the king’s snoring, I could hear my husband’s now through the closed door.
I was so undone I could not sleep and was terrified that, if I did, I’d have my nightmare again. Waking reality on the morrow seemed dreadful too. What would happen when Anthony or others found the defaced royal will? I had hidden his signature from it. Perhaps they would discover the dagger in the king’s bed and question Dudley. The king might recall what had happened and would surmise who had invaded his inner sanctum and imitated his dead wife. Or would he now send for Bishop Cranmer for the final Church rites to cleanse his black soul? I had thrown the lawn shawl with the pocket for the dagger down the chute of a common jakes, but if I were taken and tortured, what would I admit to? Oh, Saint Brigid, I should not have mentioned the Fitzgeralds with the other families he had ruined. Had Queen Jane known of or cared one whit for the Irish Geraldines?

Other books

The Shattered Goddess by Darrell Schweitzer
I'm Yours (Bold As Love) by Lindsay Paige
Haunted Love by Cynthia Leitich Smith
Grace by Elizabeth Scott
After Innocence by Brenda Joyce
The Game Changer by Louise Phillips