Jeane Westin

by The Virgin's Daughters (v5)

  “Your spies are everywhere,” Kate said, almost beyond shock, yet struggling to find her tongue.

  “They are diligent, madam, as needs be in this hostile court.”

  “Not diligent enough, sir, or they would know that although I am everything you say I am and think of me, I am more than that; I am English, and Protestant enough never to make a bargain with the devil.”

  She swept her skirts away from touching him and strode on, head high, straining to keep her back straight, though her belly wanted to bend her forward. The Spaniards’ angry murmurs followed her, but Kate was not worried. She wore Elizabeth’s miniature portrait. Was that why she could queen it before Philip’s men? Or was it her own true Tudor blood and Tudor courage speaking?

  Though her body was heavy with Ned’s babe, she felt lighter than she had in months, believing herself worthy to confront any Spanish trick.

  CHAPTER SIX

  “The name of a successor is like unto the tolling of my own death-bell.”

  —Elizabeth Regina

  Michaelmas

  September 29, 1562

  Edward opened his eyes in a thundery forenoon to pain, fever and chills, seeing a dull gray sky with a cold September rain falling hard outside his tent flap. Beyond, in the campgrounds, his good Hertfordshire men huddled around smoking fires of green wood.

  James, his squire, advanced toward Edward’s camp bed to place on his thigh a hot compress, which had been prescribed to draw out poisonous humors.

  Edward steeled himself not to cry out when the steaming linen settled on the torn flesh that had taken a barbed enemy arrow before the walls of Le Havre and later been pulled out inexpertly by an English medico. Unhorsed, he had scarce known which hurt the worse, his leg or his arse when he hit the ground.

  Today, he knew. He clamped his teeth together until he feared breaking one as the searing wet cloth settled on his open wound, roiling torments through him. He knew that he was falling into the dark again, though he clung to a rope of golden-red hair that broke his descent. Kate’s image, as he remembered her on his pillow that last evening, buoyed him up somewhere between his tent and bottomless darkness. He saw her as she had been before the hearth fire in Jane’s apartment. Her sweet face came floating before him, and he reached out to touch her. She said nothing, quiet as she had been that last evening.

  He had been so proud of her. She had sent him to his duty showing the courage of a true warrior’s wife, with no tears and no recriminations. He had adored and honored her with his name before that night. Afterward, he worshiped her.

  “My lord,” Edward’s squire was saying, his face swimming above his master’s cot. “You must take this strong poppy drink. The doctors have ordered it.”

  “Why?” He knew, but had to ask, fearful they planned to amputate.

  “They must cut the bad flesh from your leg, and it will be . . . ah, most painful.”

  Edward reared up on one elbow, pushing the cup away. “Nay, I’ll not have those bloody butchers with their dull knives, bloodletting and purges touch me.”

  “But, my lord of Hertford, the wound is suppurated and—”

  Edward squeezed his eyes tight against the pain he’d inflicted on himself by his sudden upward movement. “Send for the French doctor, the one we captured before Saint Quentin. I hear he is not so eager to take off a man’s leg. Quickly now, James!”

  His squire bowed and left hastily to do his duty.

  Edward lowered himself carefully to his pallet. He must not faint or the English doctors would be upon him. Instead he dreamed. Every day for so long a time he had ached to write his love and longing to Kate, but had dared not. Cecil, a friend to Kate’s succession rights, would keep her safe, though she had no ambition for ruling, and the Lord Secretary knew that. He faithfully acted as Elizabeth’s spymaster and opened all communications from the Continent and kept nothing from the queen . . . or almost nothing. He did keep to himself the scurrilous stories rampant in the French court regarding Elizabeth and Dudley. Edward was sure she demanded to see all army dispatches. Veiled words to his sister were all that he had succeeded in sending from this endless bog of battle. The French adventure, begun with such high hope of retrieving Calais, had been impossible almost from the first day, though Warwick did not see it yet . . . or would not see it, when each victory was followed by a loss, or some desecration that turned the peasantry against them and their cause. Years of this grinding struggle faced them; Edward had no doubt of it. Elizabeth would not give it up unless a Protestant took the throne of France.

  “The frog surgeon, my lord,” James announced, holding the tent flap open for the Frenchman, a tiny man whose gown of office was comically too long for him, the dragging hem frayed beyond mending. “He speaks no English,” the squire announced.

  “He needs none,” Edward said gruffly, spacing out the words to cover his pain.

  The little doctor advanced and bowed. “Phillippe Bellon, monsieur .”

  “Monsieur le docteur,” Edward gritted, giving the man’s expertise the benefit of many doubts. “Aw—ye!” He groaned through clamped teeth as the man removed the compress, bringing forth a gush of blood and foul pus. All physicks were fools, but he hoped this fool was better than the London quacks who had come over with his troops carrying their magical elixirs and star charts. And there had been good reports in plenty of Bellon’s work with other wounded Englishmen. Better to risk French treatment than his own doctors’, when they had shaken their heads and muttered amongst themselves. Ned knew what that meant.

  As the Frenchman bent to examine his wound, Edward rasped out a polite, scarce-remembered phrase from the schoolroom. “Tout ce que vous pouvez faire.”

  “Monsieur,” the doctor said, agreeing with a little bow to do all he could. Bending over the wound, he shook his head at what he observed, making a very skeptical Gallic face.

  Edward performed a frantic sawing motion with his hand, shaking his head and shouting, “Non! Non!”

  The doctor raised an eyebrow and bent to his instruments and herbs, pills and potions that had been rolled in a small carpet now spread on the wooden floor of the tent.

  Edward felt dizzy and weak. What would he do if the Frenchman removed his bone saw? He could not return to Kate less than a whole man, yet he had never wanted to live more than at that moment.

  Bellon picked up clamps to hold open the wound and a slender curving knife, gleaming and honed. He took the lantern from the bedside and handed it to James, motioning him to hold it close over his master’s thigh. “Un peu,” he said, and Edward understood he needed to cut away a little corrupted flesh.

  Next the little man held a vial to his mouth, and Edward recognized the odor of poppy syrup. He swallowed the numbing liquid, gratefully this time, though even poppy would not block out all the pain of the knife as it entered his wound.

  Edward bit the leather strap James thrust into his mouth, and the Frenchman was quick with his scalpel. He could say that much for him.

  He gripped the sides of his cot until he felt his arm muscles bulge with the effort. Then his mouth opened involuntarily to scream as the knife went deeper into the corruption. Yet he had sense enough to bless the poppy, which took away his speech, keeping him from disgrace before his servant. On the second cut, Kate seemed to reach out to pull him to her, and he whirled once again with her into a soft void.

  He awoke hours later during the night, the rain gone and several braziers lit to chase the chill and keep the tent lit. Bellon dozed on a stool by his bed, James on his pallet.

  When Edward moved, the doctor rose to look in his eyes and feel his forehead. He nodded, looking satisfied, but if he spoke Edward did not hear, drifting away again into blessed sleep.

  He awoke the next morning, reaching for his leg and finding it where it always had been. He called down blessings on the Frenchman and then, ravenous, summoned James for food, and quickly.

  Bellon smiled, but shook his head. “Ne pas . . . pain,” he said,
pointing to his stomach, as if broken French were more understandable when forbidding bread. He gave a bowl to James, indicating hot broth by pointing to the brazier and pretending to drink.

  When James returned with a bowl of good English beef broth, Edward drank it all, feeling strength flow into him. He sought to sit up, but Bellon said, “Non,” again.

  The doctor bent to search his carpet roll and brought up some herbs mixed with pork fat, from the smell of it. “Betony,” he said in English.

  “A sovereign cure for wounds, my lord,” James said.

  Edward nodded. “I have heard so.”

  The doctor replaced the lint packing from the wound and looked satisfied. He spread the betony salve on a thick bandage and wrapped it tight about Edward’s thigh, indicating that he should stay prone.

  Pointing to the hourglass and raising four fingers, he left.

  Edward watched Bellon go, the man’s shoulders rounded with fatigue. “When I am on my feet, James, take the good doctor to our lines and see he has safe passage to his own.”

  He slept and ate again, this time—bedamn the doctor—of bread and good English cheese. Although his wound yet throbbed, it became less and less hurtful as the day advanced.

  Bellon appeared twice more, each time changing his bandage and each time finding less heat in the wound. He seemed pleased and smiled.

  Although the doctor had not allowed it, Edward tried to take a step or two, but fell back to his cot, having set his wound to throbbing like all the drums in the queen’s processions. He tightened his jaw, which pulsed with the effort. Tomorrow, he would walk inside the tent. The following day he would show himself amongst the men to prove he was well enough to lead them. God’s blood, but he would!

  As dusk settled over the campsite and the shouts of men-at-arms at their duties grew fewer and dimmer, two days’ dispatches awaited his attention.

  Sitting on his camp stool, his bandaged leg stretched in front of him as more braziers were lighted, he saw the usual victory claims in copies of dispatches from Warwick for Cecil to report to the queen. Finally, at the bottom waited that for which he searched. A letter from Jane. He tore away the wax seal and saw its date. Only five days from her hand!

  Edward stood, leaning heavily on a staff, and took halting steps to a brazier burning high, holding the heavy parchment letter to the light. Jane had avoided Cecil’s couriers and sent it by an English ship’s captain, probably with good coin for his trouble.

  My most beloved lord brother, Edward,

  I have news of great Import, which will gladden your Heart and speed your Return.

  Your lady wife, Katherine, is with Child. And, I hasten to add, far gone with your Child, which she and the Astrologers are certain will be your Son and Heir. She cannot escape Her Majesty the Queen’s eyes much longer. I beseech you, for family’s sake, complete your Victory and return with greatest haste.

  Lord Robert remains our friend. He does not whisper to me about my lady Kate, but he may suspect. Not much escapes his eyes. My lord Dudley, even more than ever in the queen’s favor, has been most attentive and of Service to . . .

  Your Loving Sister, Jane Seymour

  A son! To his almost instant shame those were the first words that rang through Edward’s head.

  Then his hand containing the letter dropped to his side, almost as numb as his wounded leg. Sweet blessed Christ! Kate was alone and in mortal danger. What could he do? Nor would he escape Elizabeth’s revenge. Only Calais would have saved them sure, and the surrender of Calais would require a God-sent miracle. And a quick one.

  Edward stumbled to his cot to lie breathless, his hand over his bandaged thigh to contain its throbbing.

  He must act. But how?

  It would be some time before he could travel without breaking open his wound and making himself more useless.

  He lay long in his cot, his eyes clenched tight in order to think more clearly without the many distractions of a camping army. How could he leave his men in this foreign place, this quagmire of mud and blood?

  Yet he was to have a son! And Kate? His stomach twisted in agony, her face rising before him as if she were no more than inches away. She needed him more than ever. It was his highest duty to be at her side when their son was born. And after. Whatever “after” would bring.

  Finally, he came to the only plan that made even the smallest amount of sense. “James, attend me!”

  The squire appeared instantly from outside the tent, where he’d been cooking a stew of pigeons and parsnips, from the smell of it. “Aye, my lord.”

  “Pen and paper and my writing board.”

  The board was laid carefully across his lap, ink in the little pot, with paper and freshly sharpened pens.

  “Prepare yourself for a trip, James.”

  “Aye, my lord, to what destination?”

  “London.”

  “My lord of Hertford, I will find another man to serve you during my absence.”

  Edward could see that James just barely held back a smile at the thought of going home, immediately donning his cloak and beginning to place essentials into a blanket and tie it in a leather saddle roll. He left the tent to take his savory stew from the fire and find his substitute from amongst the lesser servants.

  Edward was brief:

  Dearest Lady Sister,

  I have been Wounded. Do not tell Kate, as she will be too much Concerned for my sake. It is a minor Scratch, but will keep me from Horseback for a fortnight.

  Edward’s pen paused in midair. He hoped that Jane did not know that being unable to sit a saddle for two weeks meant more than a minor wound. He dipped his pen.

  Sister, I beg you to help Kate retire to my house in Westminster at once on any pretext she chooses. The Bearer of this letter will assist my lady in all ways.

  Then ask my lord Dudley to gain from the Queen my release from Duty without delay, since I am unfit for further Command.

  Know that with or without Consent, in two weeks’ time, I travel to the one to whom you must present my everlasting Love and Honor.

  Edward, Earl of Hertford

  His squire heated the wax and dripped it on the folded paper. Edward quickly pressed his signet ring into it while the wax remained soft, pushing hard enough to make sure there could be no mistaking that this seal was truly by his hand.

  “Godspeed, James. My lady Jane will give you instructions to aid my wife until I can join you. This is the greatest service you can ever do for me and one I will never forget.”

  “My lord, do not concern yourself. It is done,” his squire said, placing the letter inside his liveried doublet, bowing, then pushing the tent flap aside. He galloped away on the horse always kept saddled and waiting.

  Edward hobbled to the opening to see his squire riding for the nearest port. Pray God he would not have to wait for an English ship making for London. Edward watched long after the rider carrying his precious letter disappeared from view. He counted the days on one hand: a day to the port, another to take ship, a swift crossing, with another day to beat up the Thames with the incoming tide and then to Hampton Court.

  Four days. Five. A week at most.

  A clumsy servant helped him to his bed. His dreams that night were of a beautiful boy with Kate’s Tudor hair and eyes and the Seymour height and strength. A boy named Edward, an heir to the earldom, the next to succeed as master of Eltham and Hertfordshire. He prayed silently that it was not a foolish dream, but a foretelling.

  At Hampton Court, it was the hottest October in memory, the sun’s heat shimmering across the inner gardens, turning the edges of green leaves to brown, forcing the queen and courtiers into the woods for some relief. At night the full moon shone bright as day, so that guards at the gate needed fewer candles for their lanterns.

  As Kate walked through numberless halls from Jane’s rooms, past high mullioned windows, the harvest sun seemed to follow her like a faithful old dog.

  Poor, poor Jane. She was taken hard with the small
pocks and was on her way by coach to Westminster. Kate had hoped to find a letter in Jane’s apartment from Edward, but she was denied entrance until the rooms had been washed clean with strong vinegar.

  The heat of summer and now of autumn always brought plague with it and the digging of lime pits for the dead. All who could removed themselves from London and court until snow and the freezing over of the Thames refreshed the noisome air that carried death with its every stirring. She would pray for Jane, since her sister-in-law was now in God’s hands, the final physician.

  As was most certainly the secret Countess of Hertfordshire, Kate had to admit. If the queen had not been ailing from an intermittent fever that her doctors could not cure, and the dispatches from France were not so full of demands for more troops and gold to occupy Elizabeth’s attention, Kate knew she would have been discovered by now. Every day, as she approached Her Majesty to kneel with her dinner, she saved her breath to deny that her clumsiness was what it was . . . a babe growing large in her belly. Yet the queen—dining these days with her sober chief counselor, Cecil; elderly treasurer, Paulet; her cousin Sir Francis Knowles; and Robert Dudley . . . always her Robin—seemed not to notice the thickening mistress of the wardrobe through the thicker veil of dispatches from France.

  Kate hurried into the privy chamber to her duties. All the queen’s ladies were breathlessly waiting for Kate’s discovery by Elizabeth and ready to pretend shock and deny any knowledge. Thus the dinner ceremony had taken on added interest for all of them. Each kept their pomanders close to her nose now that the pocks were in the court.