B009RYSCAU EBOK

by Gillian Bagwell

  She sat on a chair in the sunlight and read, smiling her thanks as Jenny handed her a glass of water with lemon.

  “She’s left London with Queen Catherine and Thomas Seymour.” Even though Catherine Parr was now the wife of Thomas Seymour, to Bess she would always be the queen that had outlived King Henry.

  “And are they all well?” Jenny asked, gathering up some petals that had fallen from the big jar of roses that stood on a table near the bed.

  “They are in health,” Bess said. “But alas, heavy hearts all around, from the sound of it. The queen endeavors to be cheerful with her husband, but is sad to be parted from the Lady Elizabeth, and distressed at the reason for the parting, Jane writes. And, oh, dear, she says that poor Elizabeth wept most bitterly when she left Chelsea a month gone by, heartbroken and unable to bear her stepmother’s coldness.”

  “A sad business,” Jenny said.

  Jane Grey had written to Bess regularly since joining the Seymour household, and Bess had been appalled to hear of the tumult that had taken place in April. Catherine Parr had walked in on her husband and Elizabeth in an embrace that was far from what was proper between a man and his stepdaughter. When Bess had learned the news, she had thought back to the day at Whitehall when she had met Sudeley, how she had felt the color rise to her cheeks as he looked down at her. It was easy to imagine that he might have had the same effect on the fifteen-year-old Elizabeth.

  Catherine Parr had been beside herself with rage and hurt, and despair at the knowledge that as much as she loved both of them, she could no longer trust either of them fully, and her household could not contain them both.

  She feels herself a fool, Jane Grey had written, because only now does she learn that Thomas Seymour courted the Lady Elizabeth before he turned his attention to her, which of course many people knew at the time.

  “Is the queen not shortly to be delivered of a child?” Jenny asked.

  “Yes,” Bess said, laying the letter on her lap and letting her hand caress the bold signature of Jane Grey. “But not for another month or two, I think. Poor lady. She little needs more grief at such a time.”

  On the evening of the seventeenth of June, Bess’s pains began. Through the night she gasped and shrieked as she labored to bring forth her child. All the windows were covered now, and she no longer knew whether it was day or night. It seemed she had been in that room forever, the sweat drenching her nightdress and her hair, the still and heavy air causing her head to pound and stifling her as she gasped for breath, the flickering candlelight making her think she was in a tomb as she fell into a few moments of uneasy sleep only to be torn into wakefulness by another wrenching pain.

  She lacked for no care or company, attended by the midwife, Aunt Marcella, Jenny, and all the female servants of the household by turn. At last, shortly after three o’clock on the afternoon of the eighteenth of June, she gave a last shuddering heave and felt the baby leave her. She closed her eyes and wept with relief, and in a few moments cried out with joy at the sound of her baby’s cry and at the miraculous slippery, red-faced being that was placed in her arms.

  “A girl,” the midwife said. “And as bonny and healthy a baby as I’ve ever seen.”

  * * *

  CUSTOM DICTATED THAT A NEWLY DELIVERED MOTHER MUST NOT rise from her bed for a fortnight, but Bess, though tired, was eager to be on her feet and doing again. She was up and about a few days after her daughter’s birth, and making plans for the christening.

  “Look how many letters are come today!” Jenny exclaimed, bringing Bess a handful of sealed packets.

  “Oh,” Bess cried. “This is from Frances Grey. She and Lord Dorset and the girls will be here, as well as her stepmother the Duchess of Suffolk and her sons. Lady Dorset and Lady Suffolk are to be godmothers, and the young Duke of Suffolk will be godfather. And this from Lady Zouche. And this from Lizzie—I’ve told you of Lizzie, have I not?”

  At last came Bess’s upsitting, when she was officially permitted to sit in her bed and even to stir from it, though not too far. She insisted now that the windows be uncovered, and as Frances Grey and her daughters, Catherine Willoughby, William’s daughters, and other of her friends joined her and Jenny and Aunt Marcella for refreshment and happy gossip, the room was full of sunlight and warm summer breezes.

  When Bess emerged from her chamber for the christening, bearing her little daughter dressed in a flowing white gown, she felt like a queen. William’s eyes were alight with joy. He had lost five children born to his previous two wives, and looking at her daughter’s perfect little face, Bess wondered how anyone could survive such losses.

  The house was full of Brandons and Greys and Cavendishes, come to honor Bess’s child, little Frances.

  “Of course she could be christened for no one but you, my lady,” Bess said to Frances Grey. “For it was you who gave me such love and so many wonderful opportunities while I was in your service. Not least the introduction to my dear husband.”

  She held out a hand to William and he came to her side and kissed her cheek.

  “It is I who am blessed to have you by my side, my love. I thank God for your safe deliverance and that of the child.”

  It was a glorious afternoon, fleecy clouds scudding across the azure sky and the scent of ripening fruit in the air. Bess smiled as she watched golden-haired Henry, the twelve-year-old Duke of Suffolk, and his younger brother, Charles, race around the lawn, their dignity cast off for the moment.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Fifteenth of August, 1548—Newgate Street, London

  WILL TWO SWANS BE ENOUGH?” BESS ASKED THE COOK.

  “I think so, madam. After all, there will also be roast beef, oysters, eels, a great pie of venison, and fricassee of chickens. As well as the kickshaws, salads, fruit, sweets, and nuts.”

  Bess was huddled in the kitchen with her steward and cook, reviewing the list of the dishes and wine to be served, the silver plate to be polished, and the servants needed to wait at table. The preparations for the supper had been going on for days, and she was exhausted. She had been alternately exhilarated and anxious since she and William had begun to make plans for the evening. Everything must be perfect. It would be the first London social event that she would preside over as Lady Cavendish, and though the guests were not many, they were some of the most powerful people in the kingdom.

  They had talked carefully over whom to invite. Of primary importance were William’s patron Edward Seymour, Lord Protector of the young king, and his wife Anne.

  “The king begins to chafe at how strictly Edward Seymour keeps him,” William said. “And there is much resentment against him by the people. The dissolution of the chantries and all they supported has done much harm, including reducing the value of properties held by the guilds. And since the heresy laws were struck down, there has been such an outbreak of preaching and teaching by every sort of hedge-priest and wild-eyed evangelical. But the fact remains that Seymour is king in all but name.”

  “And he has just settled that matter of the Leche lands in our favor,” Bess reminded him. “So of course we must have him and his wife.”

  “Of course,” William agreed. “And close behind Seymour in power is John Dudley. And between us and the fencepost, it would not surprise me if Dudley elbows Seymour out of his way before long.”

  “Then they must be here,” Bess said, carefully adding to her list John Dudley, Earl of Warwick and Lord Great Chamberlain, and his wife Jane. “The king much favors his uncle Thomas Seymour, does he not?”

  “He does. But Thomas is much out of his brother’s grace still, after wedding Queen Catherine without his leave. And fortunately, they are at Sudeley, awaiting the birth of their child, so we need not worry about them.”

  “I cannot stomach the thought of entertaining Thomas Wriothesley,” Bess had said with a shudder. She could never think of him without envisaging him turning the wheels of the rack himself to torture Anne Askew.

  “We may safely leave him
out,” William said. “I think neither Seymour nor Dudley trusts him entirely, and without either of them, he has no power.”

  “Of course we must have Harry and Frances Grey and Catherine Willoughby,” Bess suggested.

  “Certainly, for love and old friendship as well as for their importance.”

  “And Lizzie and William Parr?”

  “Yes, Parr is one to keep on our side. He is much beloved by the king, and the council might just give him leave to divorce his wife, so Lizzie may yet become Marchioness of Northampton.”

  “Good,” Bess said, adding the two names to the list. “Besides, he’s our landlord.”

  Now, with the guests invited and the supper almost at hand, Bess ran an eye over the list of the items to be bought at market and shook her head as she counted out coins to the steward.

  “Jesu, the cost of the spices alone would feed a poor family for a week,” she exclaimed, and then wished she hadn’t. After all, she was no longer the young girl at Hardwick who had been terrified that the king’s men might seize the family’s only cow, but the mistress of a substantial household. And she knew that William would not question whatever the entertainment cost.

  She stood and straightened the apron she wore over her gown of dark gray wool.

  “I thank you both for your care in this matter,” she told the cook and steward. “I know I can rely on you to ensure that the evening is a success.”

  She passed through the dining room, where two servants were ironing table linen, and made her way upstairs to her bedchamber. Her maid Cecily was sewing gold buttons onto the sleeves of the plum-colored velvet gown Bess would wear for the supper, and she felt a thrill at the beauty of the material as its sheen caught the sunlight. It was the finest garment she had yet owned, and when the tailor had delivered it and she had stood before the mirror, the reflection that stared back at her was that of a grand lady, a wife eminently suited to a prosperous gentleman well situated at court.

  Bess wished suddenly that Jenny would be there to help her dress on the great night, but her sister, along with Aunt Marcella, was at Northaw tending to baby Frankie, as little Frances had come to be called. Bess’s stepdaughters Kitty and Nan, at fourteen and ten years of age, were too old to need a nurse, but William had resisted their pleas to come to London.

  “I’ll be very busy, and the plague is always a danger in town in the summer.”

  He had bent to kiss Nan’s dark curls as he and Bess took their leave, and Bess thought he must see behind her the shadows of the five little children he’d lost.

  * * *

  AT LAST THE EVENING OF THE SUPPER CAME. BESS WAS NERVOUS beyond measure as the time approached when guests would begin to arrive. Cecily was lacing Bess into her gown when her maid Nell came into the room and curtsied.

  “My lady, the Lord Northampton and his lady are here.”

  “So soon! Well, ask Mistress Brooke to join me while I finish dressing.”

  “Bess!” Lizzie cried as she sailed into the room. “Oh, you look enchanting! Such a color—perfect for your hair and complexion.”

  “You are most beautiful yourself this night,” Bess said, embracing Lizzie, who was radiant in a gown the color of claret, rich with gold embroidery. She examined the strand of gleaming pearls around Lizzie’s throat. “New?”

  “Yes. From William.” Lizzie’s dark eyes were sparkling. “Bess, I have news to tell you. But it’s a secret.” She glanced at Cecily.

  “Oh, Cecily won’t tell, will you?” Bess said. “Besides, I need her. Come, sit by my side and tell me all while Cecily completes me here.”

  Lizzie sat on the edge of a chair and leaned close to Bess. “We are married.”

  “What?” Bess shook off Cecily’s hands and turned to look at Lizzie.

  “Yes, it’s true! William said he could wait no longer, and now we are man and wife.”

  Bess sat stunned for a moment, and spoke carefully.

  “Lizzie, of course I’m so happy for you. But . . . he is still married to Anne Bourchier, isn’t he?”

  “In name.” Lizzie waved a hand airily, as if that could dissolve the bonds of an inconvenient marriage. “But soon the council will grant him a divorce, and then we can marry again properly and publicly.”

  “Who knows?” Bess asked, as Cecily placed a pearl-encrusted cap on her head and pinned it in place.

  “No one. Well, the priest of course, and William’s steward and secretary were witnesses, but that’s all. And no one must know, for Edward Seymour would be enraged!”

  Bess’s heart sank. No nobleman was permitted to marry without the authorization of the Lord Protector, and Seymour had been furious when his brother Thomas had married Catherine Parr without his permission. He hadn’t been able to do much but roar and seethe and keep Thomas Seymour from having any influence with the privy council. But this was a different case. Lizzie was not the former queen, and the penalty for marrying bigamously was death.

  “Oh, he’d never have William executed,” Lizzie said, as if reading Bess’s mind. “William is the king’s uncle, too, don’t forget. But still, William says we must wait until the time is right to make all known.”

  Edward Seymour had spies all over London, Bess knew. What if he had already learned of the marriage? God in heaven, what disaster would the evening become then? And could she tell William? Warn him, so that he was not caught flat-footed if Seymour did know? She stared at Lizzie in dismay. This night must be perfect, and she had striven so hard to ensure that it was so. And now this.

  “Your ladyship, the Duke and Duchess of Somerset are here,” Nell said from the door.

  Bess said a silent prayer for help and stood. There was nothing for it but to go like a bear to the stake, and hope that all would be well.

  “Come,” she said, offering a hand to Lizzie. “I’m terrified of the duchess. She likes you, doesn’t she? Perhaps you can keep her from eating me alive.”

  * * *

  “MY LORD AND MY LADY, YOU DO US HONOR WITH YOUR PRESENCE,” Bess said, sinking into a curtsy before Edward and Anne Seymour. She turned to William Parr, who returned her bow. “And you, my lord. It’s a great pleasure to welcome you.”

  “Lady Cavendish.” Edward Seymour smiled down at Bess. His eyes were the same rich brown as those of his brother, but his gaze was respectful. As he bowed to Lizzie, he gave no sign that he knew of the secret marriage, and Bess relaxed a little as she turned to his wife. Anne Seymour had the reputation of being sharp-tongued and domineering, even over her powerful husband, and Bess did her best not to quail under her piercing glance. She was saved from any immediate need to make conversation, though, by the arrival of Harry and Frances Grey, together with Catherine Willoughby.

  “Please come this way—wine is waiting!” William said, when the guests had greeted each other. He led them toward the great chamber where the table was laid for supper, and Bess was pleased beyond words when Frances Grey gave her a nod and smile of approval as she surveyed the table draped in snowy linen and laden with gleaming plate.

  Soon the rest of the party arrived. John Dudley’s arched eyebrows, dark eyes, and forked beard put Bess in mind of the devil. Jane Dudley seemed his opposite, softly pretty, belying her forty years, Bess thought, and with a gentle voice.

  The cook had outdone himself, and each dish that arrived at the table was greeted with approbation and murmurs of enjoyment.

  Bess had been particularly apprehensive about welcoming the Duchess of Somerset into her home, but Anne Seymour seemed to have taken a liking to her, and this helped to calm her nerves. It was a stroke of luck that the lady had been delivered of a son only a few days before Bess had given birth to Frances, for it gave them a natural topic of conversation.

  “I hope you have found a wet nurse who is suitably sweet tempered and fair of face?” she inquired, speaking across Harry Grey and taking a hearty swallow of canary wine. “For of course the temperament of the nurse flows with the milk, and it would never do to entrust y
our dear child to some foul-tempered slut.”

  Bess met the duchess’s eyes with a disarming smile.

  “Yes, madam. We were fortunate that a most amiable woman, wife of one of Sir William’s tenants, had recently been brought to bed of the most charming fat little pair of twins I’ve ever seen, and she gives suck to the three of them in turn most deftly.”

  “I am pleased to hear it. There are some who think they know all there is to the matter of raising children, though they have never before been mothers.”

  Bess realized this must be a reference to Queen Catherine, who would shortly give birth to her first child at Sudeley Castle. William had told her that Catherine Parr and the duchess had been at war for some months over the issue of Catherine’s request to be sent the jewels traditionally worn by the queen, now sequestered in the treasury.

  “Anne Seymour considers herself to be all but queen and wants to keep the jewels for herself until such time as King Edward marries,” William had said. “She’s most unwilling to give precedence to the wife of her husband’s younger brother, queen though she was, and the jewels have become the battleground.”

  “Do you not think it most peculiar,” the duchess went on, “that Catherine Parr should be with child now, with her fourth husband, when she never before conceived in all her thirty-six years?” She gave an arch smile. “Of course, she married the king in his doting days, when he had brought himself so low by his lust and cruelty that no lady who stood on her honor would venture on him.”

  Bess glanced down the table to see if William Parr had heard the duchess’s commentary on his sister, but he appeared to be listening intently to Catherine Willoughby, the Duchess of Suffolk, resplendent in black satin with silver embroidery.

  “Sudeley has become like a second court,” Anne Seymour pronounced. “Catherine Parr thinks herself the queen yet. Why, when she was at court not long past she demanded that I carry her train!” She gave a scornful little laugh.