Jeane Westin

by The Virgin's Daughters (v5)

  “If it is real, then they are both doomed out of their own mouths. To be in my father’s will of succession and marry without my consent is treason, and treason is . . .” She turned away and stared into the hearth, her shoulders heaving. “They have left a queen with no choice but to obey her father’s law.”

  The gentleman usher knocked and opened the door. “Your Grace, the Lord Lieutenant of the Tower with urgent news.”

  Dudley rose and waited behind the queen.

  Elizabeth reddened, her rage building. “God’s precious broken body! What more for us this morn? Admit him.”

  The lieutenant entered, bowed to Robert, murmuring his name, and fell on his knees before the queen.

  “What say you, sir?” the queen demanded.

  “Majesty, the lady Katherine has been delivered in the night of a fine son. My own wife attended her.”

  “A son!”

  “A bonny son, Your Grace.”

  She was shaking, and Dudley stepped to the Lord Lieutenant. “Leave us now, sir. Your duty is done.”

  He bowed himself out and was probably still bowed down when he reached London.

  Robert brought himself close to Elizabeth. If she wanted his arms, she would reach for them.

  She fell against his chest and he held her. He could not tell if she was shaking with rage or anguish.

  “Bess, there is a way out.”

  “Where? How?” She lifted her head and breathed deeply.

  “If there is no contract, there is no provable marriage; therefore the son is illegitimate and no male heir to the throne to bedevil your years.”

  “Disinherited?”

  “Yes, therefore not a male in line of succession.”

  “I could show mercy . . . Kate and Edward?”

  “Leaving their sin to God’s judgment.”

  “But, Robin, there is still the matter of Edward’s defiling the blood royal.”

  “Who’s to say, Bess, that Kate, once bedded, did not many nights go from bed to bed, with countless lovers? That is what the people always believe of an unmarried woman.”

  “Think you she’d rather be a whore than . . .”

  Robert walked to the hearth and without hesitation held the contract to the fire, setting it firmly ablaze before throwing the blackening parchment into the center of the flames. “I always preferred my head to my reputation.”

  Elizabeth laughed nervously. “Let them stay in the Tower, then.”

  “If it is what you must do, Majesty.”

  Elizabeth nodded and moved toward him. “Kneel, Robin.”

  Hesitating only a moment, Robert Dudley knelt.

  She tapped his shoulder. “For your gracious goodness and good service, we do pronounce you Baron Denbigh and Earl of Leicester, granting you the ancient castle of Kenilworth in Warwickshire with all rents—”

  Robert bent far forward and kissed her foot. “Bess . . .”

  She laughed, reaching down to lift his chin. “Your investiture will be at Westminster Abbey, but I wanted you to hear the words from my lips.”

  It was an invitation, and Robert accepted, standing to take her lips with his own, thinking over and over that he was noble now. Was he noble enough to share the throne with Elizabeth of England? Was that what she intended?

  A fortnight later on a foggy, rainy November morn, Edward, Earl of Hertford, wrapped in his heavy campaign cloak, limped in chains onto Tower Green near the church. He thought he heard his name on the wind, but he could see no face in the Beauchamp Tower windows.

  “Follow me, my lord earl,” the Lord Lieutenant commanded.

  Edward fell into step behind him, taking two to the commandant’s one. The Tower warders crowded behind with their pikes at the ready, whether in salute or menace he could not tell.

  Edward knew the Tower grounds from visiting his father as a boy before the Duke of Somerset’s death on this very green. So it was to be the Bell Tower, he thought, and he was to be separated from Kate, the queen making good on her threat. “Sir, allow me one sight of my wife and son,” he said to the man’s back.

  “I cannot, my lord,” the man said, turning toward Edward. “The queen has ordered you to be kept each from the other.”

  “You would deny a man sight of his own son?” Edward did not have to pretend to be stunned. “To keep a man from his family is against God’s higher laws, sir.”

  The Lord Lieutenant, who had resumed his march, stopped again to face the Earl of Hertford, his hands gripped together as if in prayer. The warders close behind nearly piled into both men. “My lord, surely you know I have my orders.”

  “Sir, your orders are to keep us apart?” Edward tried to make his voice reasonable. “Surely, sir, the laws forbid a peer of my rank from being put to the torture.”

  The Lord Lieutenant worked his mouth, but only a mumbled, “Aye,” escaped.

  “Think you not,” Edward said, his voice trembling beyond his ability to control, “that never seeing my beloved and my first son and heir is not torture worse than the rack? Rather would I have my arms and this leg wounded in Her Majesty’s service torn from their sockets than live one more day without sight of them . . .” His voice trailed away. “When they are so close.”

  The Lord Lieutenant blinked hard, looking at his men, all leaning forward on their pikes, a good few of them with new tears on their weathered cheeks. “Dismissed,” he ordered, regaining command of them.

  They scattered, eager to be out of the rain, though some looked back.

  Edward saw, too, and thought it a good sign that men hardened to the sight of the ax and heads rolling could show charity.

  The commander of the Tower spoke low. “I will follow my orders, my lord earl, and will not allow you to approach, but I cannot in the Son of God’s name keep you from all sight of them.” He bent and unlocked the chains. “Nor would I have your wife see you in chains within a month of her birthing.”

  Edward took the stairs of Beauchamp Tower two at a time, despite his wound throbbing like all the drums of hell.

  The Lord Lieutenant grabbed his arm to hold him back. “You must follow my instructions, my lord. You may stand outside the door, but may not go inside the room, nor attempt to . . . to touch.”

  Edward nodded, swallowing hard. The chief officer had a kind soul, but he did not know what agony he commanded of a man.

  Edward reached the top room in the tower, a rushlight grabbed at the bottom of the stairs held before him.

  “My lord, move no closer.” The Lord Lieutenant bent and unlocked the door. It swung open.

  Kate sat by the fire beside Sybil, her nurse. His wife wore no hood, her Tudor hair glowing. She turned slowly toward him, the babe at her breast.

  Without thinking, Edward took a step across the high lintel, his arms raised.

  “Stop, my lord. Remember your promise.”

  “Kate,” Edward said, barely more than a murmur.

  “My lady, do not approach. I would exceed the queen’s orders to allow you . . .”

  Kate was not moving. But Edward could see her legs trembling under her thin shift as she raised her babe from her breast. The child gave a lusty red-faced cry at the loss of his nipple. She thrust him forward for Edward’s inspection. “My own love, his name is Edward and he is your true, legitimate son and heir.”

  “A handsome lad, Kate. You did well.” He was surprised at his own words, though what he yearned to say was for a private time.

  Edward saw that her face was thinner, but her eyes glowed with the joy of motherhood, the crying babe quickly returned and tugging at her lovely breast. His feet did not move, but his wounded leg told him he was leaning toward her and the child. “I would say so much more, Kate,” he said, almost choking on the words. “Surely the good Lord Lieutenant will allow us to write.”

  But the good Lord Lieutenant closed the door, leaving her alone save for Sybil and the crackle of the fire. “Come, my lord,” he said, gently tugging on Edward’s arm. “I can do no more.�
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  Edward followed him slowly down the stairs and across the green to the Bell Tower. He tried hard to swallow his anguish, appalled to hear the sound of a sob issue from his soldier’s throat. He climbed up to the stone-lined room and saw that he had been expected. Fresh straw littered the floor, and a merry fire burned. A table was laid with a trencher full of porridge and a tankard of strong ale to drink. He sat and stretched his sore leg to the fire. “I thank you, sir, for your compassion. I will not forget it, nor fail to repay your kindness when I am free.”

  The man bowed and closed the door, locking it.

  Before the day was out, pen, ink and paper were delivered, and Edward poured the words in his heart onto the pages in such haste that scarce one page did not suffer from heavy ink blots.

  My dearest Desire,

  Katherine, forgive me for not being near when our Son was born. The Channel seas were high, delaying our departure from France. My leg heals well. I beg you, do not worry yourself. I swear on our Love that we will all be together soon. We have friends in Parliament and at Court who work for our release. They doubt Her Majesty will bring us to trial for treason. Even Elizabeth’s power cannot sunder God’s ordinance. Have faith.

  My Sweetest wife, I found a Stone projecting under my window and, with my good leg, I raised myself to see the Tower across the green where you and little Edward wait for me. When the bells ring for prayer, wave a hand outside your window and I will reach mine toward you. I think often that I can hear our son’s cry . . . and your voice calling me. You must know how sore in body and mind I have been all these months away from you.

  Look in your Heart and you will surely find mine,

  Ned

  For want of wax, he sent it unsealed that very day and the next morning was delivered a letter from Kate with food to break his fast.

  Edward was reading Kate’s hasty letter for the second time, longing nearly choking him. His uneaten porridge had congealed by the time the Lord Lieutenant entered his cell, bidding his yeoman guards wait on the landing.

  “My lord earl,” he said, obviously troubled, “I will send a doctor to make certain your leg is healing well.”

  Edward nodded, not trusting his voice.

  The commandant paced to the fire, then back several times, though Edward was half-unaware, his mind filled with Kate’s tear-splashed pleas and distress. “My wife?” he asked, looking up.

  “The lady Katherine is . . . well. My own wife has tried to tempt her to eat more, lest her milk dry up. We cannot find a suitable country girl to wet-nurse the babe. I’m sorry, my lord.”

  Edward, holding his head in his hands, shook it slowly. “This will kill her, sir. Don’t you have a conscience?”

  The Lord Lieutenant walked to the door, but did not open it. Without turning, he mumbled, “It is against God’s law to keep a man from his wife and babe. By His precious memory . . . I cannot keep you from your family. I will pray on it, my lord.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  “I grieve yet dare not show my discontent. I love and yet am forced to seem to hate.”

  —A love poem by Elizabeth Regina

  Accession Day

  November 1562

  Kate had fallen into a fitful sleep after her babe’s last nursing. She woke after midnight and slipped from her narrow rope bed to bend over her son’s cradle, breathing in the warm, milky air above him, listening to make certain her precious child was alive and resting well. Reassured, she tucked tight his sable blanket, a gift from Lord Dudley, swaddling him against the seeping cold of the tower. Still, she could not leave off hovering above her babe, watching his sweet, round face, the long lashes that cast candlelit shadows against his cheeks, the sucking sounds he made with his tiny mouth. Soon young Edward would wake for feeding and she would feel his tug at her breast, his strong little legs kicking against her. She could scarcely bear to put him back in his cradle, forever cooing over him.

  Whenever his small, warm body was in her arms, she planned his life. Little Edward would be loved every minute. He would have all the love that had been withheld from her as a child, know the affectionate comfort of being embraced when ill, or frightened by bad dreams. Her son would live where laughter would not be shushed and where he ran to his mother and not away.

  She cupped her hand about his little head and whispered a promise: “When your father is with us, we will both know more love than ever imagined in this world.”

  A milk bubble appeared as he breathed, and she smiled. Surely, if wellborn women knew a moment of what passed between Kate and her babe, they would never allow their children to be sent off to wet nurses until they were weaned, or hand them to tutors later, seeing them only to chastise, as her mother had.

  For an anguished moment, Kate was overcome by the fear of being parted from young Edward. Jesu Christo! She gripped the cradle; then her hands flew to her mouth, covering the sudden dread that filled her.

  To quiet herself, she took one of Ned’s letters from under her pillow. He promised that they would be together forever in the green deer park, shady woods and grassy meadows of Eltham, describing its sunlit rooms and gardens until Kate had endless mind pictures of what her life could be.

  Not wishing to wake Sybil, who slept on a pallet in the corner, Kate bent to add more fuel to the fire and watched it leap to warmer life from the cushioned bench. Her mother, Frances Grey, Duchess of Suffolk, had gained the queen’s permission to bring the cradle and other furniture and hangings from her manor of Bradgate. They made the Tower cell almost livable, Kate had to admit. Her head rested against the back of the settle, looking up at the firelit stone arches of her cell and remembering what else her mother had brought: her bitter disappointment, blame and deep anger.

  Kate saw her yet, standing rooted in the middle of the room this past Lord’s day, wearing the Spanish hood from King Henry’s court that she would not give up, since it represented the time of her greatest power.

  “Wait outside, but listen for my call,” she’d ordered the ladies and ushers in her procession, after they had installed the furniture and wall hangings to her satisfaction.

  Kate had stood watching her mother reorder her daughter’s prison, her lusty son on her hip, a living son that her mother had never been able to produce. Young Edward was Kate’s triumph, but she had only a short moment of satisfaction.

  The duchess sat, arranging her gown, and ordered Kate to remain standing.

  “I have been to see my niece, the queen,” she said, staring at her daughter with cold eyes. “What your father did not complete for this family with his disgrace, you seem to have finished with your bastard . . . banished from court, our lands yet attainted, our name without its rightful reverence and your right to the throne overturned.”

  Shaking with rage that she’d repressed for a lifetime, Kate held little Edward up for her mother to see. “My lady mother, this is what I have accomplished. Your grandson, Edward Seymour, my child from a lawful union with the Earl of Hertford.”

  “There is no proof of any such marriage.”

  “Lord Dudley will find it.”

  Her mother’s bitter laugh pierced Kate’s heart. “You were always an empty head. First with young Seymour, then with Lord Pembroke, your husband, and now with this!” she said, pointing at young Edward. “Gone . . . all is gone.” She turned her face away from the baby. “Take the child from my sight.”

  Kate continued standing, opening her shift and giving young Edward her breast.

  Frances Grey’s mouth twisted as if she’d tasted bile. “And now you make of yourself a common country wet nurse.” Her mouth was set in contempt. “I will remedy that at once.”

  Kate did not raise her voice, but it was filled with determination. “No, you will not, madam. I will care for my son, feed him, change him when he is soiled and hold him when he cries. . . . I will be all the nurse he needs.”

  Her mother stood, opening her hand to punish such unheard-of insolence, but for the first time, she let t
he chastising hand fall to her side. Shoulders drooping, the duchess looked bewildered. “All my dreams vanished, when they were so close, thrown away by an ungrateful child.”

  “They were always your dreams, madam, never mine.” Kate’s voice rang with the courage of truth. She would never fear her mother again.

  The duchess walked to the door and, without turning, said, “I lowered myself to beg the queen to allow you to come to me at Bradgate.”

  Kate shuddered. “What did she say?”

  “She was unyielding. You stay in the Tower for your offense.”

  Kate drew in a deep breath of relief and her babe lost the nipple, crying out.

  The duchess walked through the door to the tower stairs. “I think she means to take your head and Seymour’s, our name further besmirched in every London alley and alehouse.”

  The door closed on those last choked words. There was no further good-bye.

  Days later, deep in the night, Kate sat before her fire remembering every word with no sense of loss. Her mother had always predicted the direst punishment for her daughter’s failings. Once, those prophecies had left her with no choice but to obey. Now, even in this prison, she was free. She had her babe and Ned, her lord and love in his cell across the Tower grounds, and was no longer subject to her mother’s will.

  Hugging the blanket about her, Kate allowed her mind to seek out ever more optimism, as important in the Tower as any food. Every word from a guard, every positive change was a possible sign. If Elizabeth allowed her the comforts her mother had brought, then surely Her Majesty’s heart was softening, as Dudley had said it would, although it was certain the queen would banish them. She would need to be seen to punish harshly, and all nobility would think there was no worse punishment than to be denied the court, the very center of life in the realm.

  Kate smiled to herself. Who would believe that she and Ned would welcome a life in the quiet country? There had been no trial, and even if there were, Elizabeth was known to waver, ever reluctant to sign death warrants.