“I thank you,” Anne said. For the first time I could recall in our long acquaintanceship, her expression was a humble one. She looked back toward her husband, but his figure had long disappeared from view. “And can his favorite cook be with him in the Tower? My husband is very particular in his eating habits.”
***
“I have made a promise today, John.”
“Oh?”
“To the Duchess of Somerset.”
John groaned eloquently.
“I promised her that I would use my influence to see her husband released from the Tower.”
“Released from the Tower? He’s not even there yet; his quarters won’t be ready until tomorrow. I’ll say one thing for you women—you don’t waste time.”
“I couldn’t bear it, John. She had gone to watch Somerset being brought into the city, and she was weeping. I felt pity for her.” I put my arms around John in the bed we were sharing. I could feel the bones in his back more easily than I could a couple of months ago; he’d been hardly eating, and some days could scarcely keep anything on his stomach. Somerset, at least from my vantage point on the street, had looked less worn for his ordeal than did my husband. “I told her that you would receive her if she came and spoke on his behalf. Did I presume?”
“Yes, to put it mildly. Tell me, my dear, have you made any other promises on my behalf to the duchess, or to anyone else, I should know about? Issued pardons?”
“It is only seeing her, John.”
“And seeing her again and again, no doubt, until this business is resolved. It won’t be quick, I suspect, no matter what you and the duchess must think.”
“She loves Somerset very dearly and is utterly devoted to him. It is her best quality.” I ran my hand along John’s back. “Surely she can’t be blamed for trying to help him. I would do the same for you if you were in trouble, John.”
John sighed. “Very well. I’ll see the woman.”
***
A few days later, Robert and Guildford wandered into my chamber. Robert cocked his head in the general direction of the chamber where John received visitors. “Is she still here?”
“Still,” I said grimly. The Duchess of Somerset had presented herself at Ely Place that morning, dressed in a less matronly fashion than usual and wearing, I suspected, a bit of paint on her face. Though she always was impeccably dressed and groomed, this was a step too far. I had said she could come to see my husband, not that she could look beautiful doing it.
“How long has she been here?” asked Guildford.
“Too long,” I muttered. “I fear she will be taxing your father’s strength,” I added hastily. “He has not been able to shake off that stomach disorder of his.”
Robert, from whom I could hide nothing, shot me an amused look. “What if we send Guildford in there?” he suggested. “I’d go myself, but it would look too obvious. Guildford can go in there to retrieve something he’s left. He’s always leaving things around the house, anyway.”
“Not lately,” Guildford protested.
“But you have that reputation. Go in there for—for your Greek grammar. That’s it! Stay there and search for it a little, so you’ll be able to tell us what feminine wiles and snares the duchess is using.”
“Feminine wiles and snares?” Guildford’s brow crinkled.
“Never mind about that,” I interjected. “Just tell us what she’s doing in there.”
“And there’s a bonus,” Robert added. “Father will think you’re actually working on your Greek.”
“I do work on my Greek.”
Robert and I rolled our eyes in unison.
“All right,” Guildford said. “I’ll go.” He headed out of the chamber, then turned. “What if Father asks me about my Greek tonight?”
“I’ll cover for you,” Robert promised.
Presently, Guildford loped back into the room. “It was tragic, Mother. She was kneeling before Father. I think she had been crying.”
As long as she wasn’t sitting in his lap, I thought.
“She had a bunch of letters in her hands, from the duke, I guess, and was reading from one of them. Father was listening and nodding.”
“Agreeing with her?” Robert asked. “Or trying to stay awake?”
“I don’t know,” said Guildford. “The duchess started telling me about her brilliant daughters, and I decided it was time to leave. I couldn’t find a good excuse to linger, anyway, once I found my book.” He held up a volume that showed little signs of wear. “It was there, actually.”
“Maybe you should study it, then,” said Robert. “In case Father asks about it.”
“You promised—”
“Well, yes. But now, there’s something I need to speak to Mother about. Privately.” Robert practically pushed Guildford out of the room. “Go play a game of tennis with Hal.”
A baffled-looking Guildford left the room. Robert let the sound of his departing footsteps fade away. Then he said in a low voice, “I’m in love.”
My heart sank. “The lady Elizabeth. Robert, she is not for you. The second-highest lady in the land—”
“Calf-love,” Robert said firmly. “No. Amy Robsart.”
“Who?”
Robert reached in the pouch at his side and pulled out a locket. “I sent a man to paint this of her,” he said reverently, carefully opening it and laying it on my outstretched palm.
I gazed at a limning of a pretty blonde girl of about Robert’s own age of seventeen. Though the artist was obviously skilled, the girl herself looked to me much like every other pretty blonde girl in England, but I kept quiet on this point. “She’s lovely. But who is she? I don’t know of any Robsarts.”
“She’s John Robsart’s daughter.” He anticipated my next question. “He’s a man of substance in Norfolk. He’s been sheriff there. We stayed at his place at Stanford Hall while we were marching to Norwich this summer. Amy and I got to talking. When Father had finished that business with Kett’s men, we stayed at Stanford Hall again, and we got better acquainted.”
“Robert. Have you got this girl with child?”
“No! She is a virgin. I don’t want to seduce her. I’ve never even tried. I want to make her my wife.”
I stared. Substantial John Robsart might be, but his daughter was no suitable match for an earl’s son, even an earl’s younger son, and Robert knew it as well as I did. “Robert—”
“I know, I know! I could find a bride with better breeding or a better dowry. But I don’t want such a bride. I want Amy. I’ll be miserable without her. And she wants me. Not marrying me will break her heart.” Robert gave me his most earnest look, one he had perfected over the years and that never failed to work its intended effect. “She might pine away without me and die. It does happen, you know.”
“The streets of London weren’t piled high with unhappy lovers the last time I looked.” But Robert had me, and he knew it. “It will be your father’s decision, in any case. But for what it’s worth, I won’t oppose the match.”
“I knew you wouldn’t.”
“I suppose you want me to speak to your father.”
“Yes. Oh, I could speak to him—but you’re a woman. He’ll see reason more quickly if it comes from you.”
“I should think that you wouldn’t want him to see reason, because if he does, he’ll never approve of this unsuitable match. But I will speak to him. I seem to be much in demand for that type of thing lately.”
“That’s because you’re good at it, Mother.”
“Flatterer. Save your blandishments for Amy.”
***
“Oh, her,” John said.
I found myself mildly disappointed I had not provoked more of a reaction. “You know?”
“I guessed. They spent a lot of time
in each other’s company that evening, I noticed, and when he found out that she helped brew the family ale, he took an inordinate interest in the brewing process. So he fancies himself in love with this girl?”
“Yes. I am to intercede with you for their marriage.”
“A love match. I can’t say that I put much faith in them. Look at King Henry, besotted with Anne Boleyn and later that silly Howard girl. And Queen Catherine, losing her good sense over that rascal Thomas Seymour. I could think of others if I put my mind to it, I daresay.”
“But there were so many other things wrong with those matches besides them being made for love. Robert and Amy are alike in years, with no prior attachments or entanglements like the king had, and they are doing the right thing by seeking our blessing, instead of marrying in secret like the queen did. And how is their love match different from any other? They will have to mature together, just as we matured together when we were first married.”
“I don’t remember us being that immature when we married.”
“Well, I do. Do you remember how I could not do the household accounts to your satisfaction until two years into the marriage? How hateful I was to you when I first got with child?”
“True. You were a terror. And I was a tyrant.” John smiled fondly. “I’d shut it out of my memory. But we are getting away from our son. It’s hardly the sort of marriage I wanted for him. He could do better.”
“We have other sons who can make good marriages.”
“Unless they all decide they need love matches, too, with the first pretty girl they see.”
“Does that mean you give your consent?”
John grimaced. “Probably, unless I have an attack of common sense. The lad did good service at Norwich; I suppose he deserves something as a reward. Besides, he’s headstrong. If I forbade the marriage, he’d probably marry the girl secretly. Some Norfolk connections wouldn’t hurt our family, I suppose, and Robsart’s a sensible man. One could have worse relations. So I suppose we might as well make a fine wedding of it.”
I hugged John.
“But this is as low as it goes,” warned John. “If Guildford or Hal decides to marry a tavern maid, he’ll get no sympathy from me.”
12
Frances Grey
November 1549
We’re going to see Uncle George!” Kate chanted as our entourage set out from Bradgate. “We’re going to see Uncle George!”
Mary took up the cry. “We’re going to see Uncle George!”
“So we heard,” muttered Jane. She rolled her eyes at Elizabeth Tilney, a relation of ours who was being brought up as one of Jane’s companions.
“I like Uncle George,” protested Mary, and I smiled at her. At four, she was a pretty child, but very small for her age, with a slightly misshapen back. She was seated on a pillion behind a groom, and bystanders in the towns through which we passed would stare, wondering how such a tiny creature could ride a horse so calmly. “He’s jolly.”
George Medley, Harry’s older half brother, was indeed jolly, and I was looking forward as much as my daughters to spending a few days at his Essex estate of Tiltey. We needed some merriment this year. During the summer, there had been dreadful unrest, and three thousand rebels had been killed by the Earl of Warwick’s men at Dussindale alone. Harry had managed to keep the peace in Leicestershire, and a sullen calm had settled over the rest of the country, but I still found myself looking around uneasily for angry mobs as I passed through countryside that was normally as safe and familiar to me as my own bedchamber.
Riding near me and my ladies was Adrian Stokes, a man of around thirty who had recently become my master of horse. He had been serving with Harry’s brother John in France as marshal of Newhaven, which had fallen to the French a couple of months before. When Master Stokes returned to England, Harry promptly hired him at the recommendation of his brother, without consulting me, of course. Although it had irritated me to have Harry interfere with the management of my own household in this manner, I could find no fault with the conduct of Master Stokes himself. Indeed, I could not remember when we had left for a journey in such good order and good time.
I also could not help but notice that Master Stokes was an exceptionally good-looking man. He was of average height and of a strong build, with dark brown, curly hair, a short, neat beard, and dark blue eyes. The young ladies who served in my household liked nothing more than to watch him get upon his horse, where he struck an especially good figure. Had he been inclined to lechery, he certainly could have found partners with whom to exercise his tastes.
Thanks to Master Stokes’s excellent planning for our travel, we arrived at Tiltey in good time. The younger children ran off to play, while we adults caught up on the news of the family. Then George Medley shook his head. “So, Frances, what do you think is going to happen to the Protector? Odds has it that he loses his head. Evens has it that he’s in for a long spell in the Tower.”
“What do you mean?”
“You don’t know?”
“No. I have heard nothing since Harry went to London, except about our travel arrangements. No news of any sort.”
“Well, there’s news, all right.” George shifted on his feet. “I don’t know why he didn’t tell you; it’s no secret. The Protector is in the Tower, you see. After the disaster this summer, the Earl of Warwick and others started talking about ending the protectorate. You really can’t blame them, I suppose. Anyway, Somerset got wind of this and dragged the poor king to the gates of Hampton Court. Ranted about how the council was trying to destroy him and the king—even started carrying on about Richard III, for heaven’s sake. Why an uncle would want to mention that particular king is beyond me. Summoned the commoners to his side.”
George Medley paused, presumably so I could ask a question, but as all this was news to me, I could only say, “Go on.”
“So now we have the Protector and the king surrounded by a mob of devoted peasants, as if we hadn’t had enough of that this summer! Not that they were kind to his duchess; Somerset decided he had to send her to safety, and she left in tears. The peasants jeered at her. Some blame the whole of the duke’s troubles on her and her sharp tongue and meddling ways. I think it’s nonsense myself; the duke is capable of mucking things up without a woman’s help, from what I hear. Finally, the Protector hauled the king from his warm chamber at Hampton Court and took him to Windsor Castle in the dead of the night. A mistake, as it’s not been used as a royal residence for years and wasn’t provisioned to receive him. The king was miserable there. Caught a cold, as a matter of fact. Letters started to go back and forth between the Protector and the council, each accusing the other of all manner of evil doing. Finally, the Protector gave in. He didn’t have enough men to win a civil war, if that’s what he was thinking, and to his credit, maybe he didn’t want one either. So he gave up the king and let himself be taken a prisoner to the Tower, where he’s sitting today.”
“I never heard any of this. It is important, surely, and yet Harry told me nothing!”
“Well,” George said. “Perhaps—”
I turned to look at my oldest daughter. There was not a trace of surprise on her face. “Jane, had you heard of this?”
“Yes, Mother.”
“You mean that your father told you?”
“Yes, my lady, everything.” Even Jane could not look me quite in the eye. “I am sorry, my lady. I thought Father would have told you, and when you did not mention it, I assumed you were not interested. It did not occur to me that—”
“No. How could it?” I gave George Medley, standing there awkwardly, a radiant smile. “I suppose Harry simply omitted to tell me.”
***
Although it was only late November, there was already a feeling of Christmas in George Medley’s old-fashioned great hall. Only at court in the days of my uncle Henry had I
seen more food—every animal that could fly, swim, or run appeared to be represented on George’s table, along with the fruit of every tree imaginable. The fruit of the vine was also there in abundance.
I am normally temperate, to the point of sometimes being the only sober person at a banquet, but with my anger at Harry festering, I took the opportunity to overindulge that night, especially after the children were sent to their beds and the company became conspicuously merrier. I sampled every variety of wine and joined in every toast, and when it came time to dance, I stumbled my way through three numbers, each time using the excuse of being overheated afterward to reward myself with a gulp of wine.
By the time the fourth dance started, even I recognized I was in no condition to join it. Instead, I was stumbling toward my seat when I saw my master of horse approaching. “Master Stokes!” I called. “Will you get my horse ready for me? I wish to ride.”
“Ride, my lady?”
“A horse,” I said, a little irritated at his denseness. “You are my master of horse, and I wish to ride a horse. Ergo—” I giggled. “Ergo. It sounds like something my daughter Jane would say.”
“It is a little late to ride, my lady, but I think some fresh air might do you good.”
“My horse is not ready? Is that what you are saying?”
“Yes, my lady.”
“Well, that is quite a disappointment to me. You are my master of horse, after all.”
“Yes, my lady.”
“You could at least make yourself useful and bring me some wine, then.”
“No, my lady.”
“You refuse me?”
“I think you might have had just a bit too much already, my lady. Come. Let us walk a little.”
Unable to muster further argument, I let him haul me out into the chilly autumn night. Suddenly I had an irresistible urge to sit, and did. “Master Stokes,” I said dreamily as he joined me on the ground, “I do believe you are correct. I have had a trifle too much wine.”
“Yes.”
Her Highness, the Traitor Page 9