Elizabeth looked up and marked the lines of disapproval on Kat’s round-cheeked face. “What does he want?” Robert she would always welcome, but the duke? Perhaps he wished her to convey a message to the Earl of Warwick, or perhaps he himself planned to visit Syon House while she was in residence there.
Kat sniffed, looking very maternal in her blue wool gown and the old-fashioned gabled hood covering her silver-streaked hair. “The duke asked for a private audience. Will you see them?”
“Very well.”
Elizabeth’s immediate impression was that Robert would have rather been anywhere else than her presence. He stood two paces behind his father, and his normally expressive face was shuttered as though he were trying to distance himself from whatever his father had to say.
Northumberland, shorter and rougher-edged than the elegant Robert, spoke with unusual diffidence. “Your Highness, thank you for seeing us. There’s a matter of some delicacy … obviously the king will have to know but I thought that you … perhaps you will speak to him for my son?”
Involuntarily, she looked to Robert, who met her eyes and gave a slight shake of his head. Not me. Well, that was something.
“Which son and why does he require my intervention with the king?” Elizabeth asked the duke.
“Guildford, Your Highness.”
She should have guessed—of Northumberland’s five living sons, Guildford was his favorite for no discernible reason. He was the youngest—two years younger than Robert—and his only talent appeared to be getting into scrapes.
“And what has Guildford done?” Fighting, drinking, gambling above his means … all were distinct possibilities with the Dudley sons.
“He has unexpectedly married.”
“Rather young,” Elizabeth remarked drily. “He’s just twenty, isn’t he?” She turned her steady gaze to Robert, who had once again dropped his eyes. “Though that is not the youngest age at which a son of yours has married. And is the young woman—I suppose someone of whom the king will not approve?”
“Lady Margaret Clifford.”
If she had been a man, Elizabeth would have whistled at that name, or sworn aloud. No, her brother would most certainly not approve. Margaret Clifford was their cousin, a granddaughter of Henry VIII’s favorite sister, and as such she held a place in the royal line of succession. Elizabeth did not mince words. “It is against the law for a member of the royal family to marry without the sovereign’s permission. The penalty is death.”
If anything could bring Northumberland to humility, it was love for his family. Ashen-faced, he became voluble. “They are young, Your Highness, as you said, and in love. I told Guildford to wait, that I would discuss the matter with the king, but youth is impatient. And the girl—”
“Already with child?”
He nodded.
“That will displease the king even more,” she said sharply. “And I do not see why I should be the one to bear his first anger rather than you. Or better yet, Guildford himself. If he is man enough to marry and be a father, then he should be able to stand up and admit what he has done. Where are they?”
“I don’t know.”
“Don’t know—or won’t say?”
For a second, she saw the canny flicker in his eyes and was reminded that, anguished or not, Northumberland always played the game to his advantage. But what advantage could he gain from a willful son getting a royal girl with child and then having the gall to wed her in open defiance of the law?
Elizabeth turned her attention to Robert. “Why are you here?” she demanded. “To speak up for your brother?”
He hesitated, then squared his shoulders. “My father thought I might gentle your temper. I told him he was mistaken; that you would not welcome any words having to do with a young and hasty marriage coming from me.”
Her laugh was immediate, and bitter. She said to Northumberland, “At least one of your sons is wiser than you. I will speak to the king of this matter and persuade him to kindness—to the girl, at least. As for your son, he has made his marital bed. Now he must lie in it.”
As they bowed themselves out, Robert eyed her gravely and she wished—oh, how she wished!—that she had not been speaking as much about him as about Guildford.
9 March 1555
Whitehall Palace
There has been quite the scandal at court. Guildford Dudley and Margaret Clifford are married, and the girl is said to be already with child. She is not even fifteen! William was furious—not the shouting, throwing things kind of anger that I know how to deal with from living with his mother. No, this fury was deep and dark and terrifying even for the onlookers. The Dudleys sent Margaret to court on her own to face William, and I will not soon forget the girl kneeling before the king in supplication while I held my breath along with the rest. For once even I could not predict what he might do.
As Margaret Clifford’s mother is dead—and clearly she was not being well supervised—she has been sent to her aunt, Lady Suffolk, along with a contingent of royal guards to ensure that if Guildford attempts to contact his bride he will be found. He has still not had the nerve to show himself. Both Elizabeth and I have warned Robert that each day’s delay will only harden William’s anger. But in this matter, Robert appears to have little influence with his family.
The tempest has delayed Elizabeth’s and my planned departure for Syon House. With the Dudley family teetering on disfavour, William wanted to scrap our visit to Mary altogether, seeing as she is in custody at one of their homes and in the keeping of Northumberland’s oldest son. At last he agreed to let us visit, but not to stay at Syon House itself. We will travel directly to Richmond and make the short trip to see Mary as often as we wish.
I do not think it will be very often.
Three days after the women’s departure for Richmond, William endured a privy council meeting that was more than usually tense. In addition to the Duke of Northumberland, who sat brooding and watchful as if waiting for someone to badger him about Guildford’s folly, the Earl of Surrey was in attendance for the first time. The king had met less resistance than he’d expected from his uncle at naming Surrey to the privy council; Rochford had gone so far as to admit William’s wisdom in balancing England’s divided religious interests. Still, William kept his eye on the young man, wary for any sign of his grandfather’s arrogance or belligerence. Surrey looked unassuming enough; his clothing balanced nicely between the Earl of Oxford’s peacock extravagance and Dominic’s restrained simplicity.
Both Northumberland and Surrey sat quietly while other council members discussed the early items, which centered on the treasury and the unpleasant fact that William was rapidly running out of money. Though not himself so much as England, a point he was quick to make when William Cecil, Lord Burghley, began listing personal expenses as examples of items that might be scaled back.
Burghley’s voice was as inflectionless as his numbers. “In the last year, Your Majesty, you have spent two hundred pounds on books, five hundred pounds on fabrics, and more than eight thousand pounds on property …”
“All of which came from my own purse, not England’s coffers,” William interrupted, allowing a hint of displeasure to creep in. He was not going to permit Burghley to accuse him of plundering England’s treasury for his own pleasures.
But Burghley was not easily cowed. “And none of which would matter if your spending confined itself to such trifles. But the treasury is nearly depleted after the French campaign. There have been too many years of drought and bad harvests. Retrenchments will have to be made in public expenditures.”
“Then why are you troubling me with figures about books and fabric?”
Rochford intervened, his steady voice still holding more than a trace of authority. “Because your personal life should set the example for the people. You cannot cut back government posts and servants, not to mention increase taxes, while flaunting private wealth in a most public manner.”
Piqued by his uncle’s intervention,
let alone the fact that he was correct, William ignored him and said to Burghley, “What is it you recommend?”
The treasurer’s answer was prompt. “A commission to study court expenditures and make recommendations for eliminating unnecessary spending. Now that we are at peace with France, there are certainly cuts that can be made. The sooner the better.”
“Fine.” William bit the word off to underscore his reluctance, though he knew it was a sensible plan and he was already turning over possible commission members in his mind. His father and Cromwell had proposed the Eltham Ordinances years ago and been lauded for their good sense. This was a chance to show himself as practical and civic-minded as they had been.
After finances, they arrived at the most common, and most rancorous, subject—religious discontent. Although it had been muted for the last four months by his betrothal to Elisabeth de France, Catholic resentment at Norfolk’s death and Mary’s house arrest ran deep, and they never knew when it might flare into something ugly.
Two weeks earlier, a prosperous family in York had been burned out of their home by a mob claiming they had sheltered a Jesuit priest some months before. If that were all, it would never have come to William’s attention, but the mob had been less than careful and, in their haste, neglected to ensure that the house was completely empty before they fired it. A twelve-year-old housemaid had died in the blaze—a girl with no ties to the Catholic Church, save working for a family who possibly sympathized with Rome.
Tensions had been running high in the North ever since—from the justifiably angry Catholics, who accused the mob of not caring whom they hurt, to the local cleric who had preached a sermon that as good as said the dead girl got what she deserved and anyone even speaking to Catholics was damned by association.
“The Lady Mary’s household has remained quiet on the matter?” William asked. The last thing he needed in this overheated climate was any kind of public statement from the half sister who most of Europe still considered England’s rightful ruler.
“It has,” Rochford said. “Your Majesty, do you mean to continue her house arrest indefinitely? Or is the Princess Elizabeth’s visit to her a sign that you will soon restore her some measure of autonomy?”
William looked at the Earl of Surrey, sitting stiffly where once his grandfather had sat and entirely mute until now. “What think you, Surrey?” he asked curtly.
“I think her imprisonment is a mistake, Your Majesty.” He had a strong, clear voice that was more remarkable than his other, somewhat forgettable, features.
William indicated that he should continue. Surrey’s voice strengthened as he spoke. “Your Catholic subjects are still that—your subjects. Including the Lady Mary. It is my understanding that you have no certain evidence to doubt her loyalty. When you punish where there is no fault, resentment breeds. And you cannot afford resentment.”
William raised a single eyebrow. Despite his own recent imprisonment, Surrey was not afraid to be direct, even offensive. But he was honest, and William had ever respected honesty. “What would you do?”
“Continue your course of moderation. Don’t confuse matters of state with matters of conscience. There will always be agitators on both sides, Your Majesty, but the bulk of your people understand and admire your tolerance.”
Northumberland grunted and finally broke his silence. “Tolerance is earned. And it isn’t Protestants threatening the throne.”
“It isn’t me, either,” Surrey retorted. “By all means, punish treason wherever it threatens. But don’t confuse the security of the state with personal prejudice.”
“Says the man not long out of the Tower,” Northumberland muttered, almost but not quite under his breath.
“I would think you would agree with Surrey’s call for tolerance, my lord duke,” William said with deceptive mildness. “After all, there’s more than one way to undermine the throne.”
It was the first time William had publicly touched upon the matter of the still-absent Guildford since the day he’d sent Margaret Clifford into Lady Suffolk’s care. He felt everyone’s attention sharpen—except Dominic, whose attention was always pitched to an extreme. Oxford and Pembroke looked almost greedy as they leaned into the table, eager to watch the arrogant Northumberland be taken down a notch. William wondered if there was a single man at that table who truly cared for anything more than his own position. Other than Dominic, of course.
William also leaned forward, and clasped his hands loosely on the table in front of him while focusing on Northumberland’s uneasy face. “I wonder, is your son still in England, or has he been spirited away to the Continent? Not very gallant of Guildford to abandon his girl-bride.”
“He knows Your Majesty would not harm her,” Rochford interposed in his measured way. Like so much his uncle did, the intervention irritated William.
Harm his young cousin? No, he would not do that. But the chit of a girl was hardly an innocent—Margaret had admitted to being a wife in all ways to Guildford Dudley and had the belly to prove it. Time to bring pressure to bear before it was said that Northumberland could get away with anything. Let it be seen, William thought, that he could punish Protestant as well as Catholic.
“My Lord Chancellor,” he said—for this was a task for Rochford, not for Dominic’s more sensitive conscience—“have Margaret Clifford—excuse me, Margaret Dudley—arrested. Bring her to the Tower, that we might question her more closely about her husband’s whereabouts and … intentions.” He considered Northumberland for the space of four slow breaths, letting the tension build. “I find it difficult to believe that young Guildford would have been so rash of his own accord. To bed the girl—yes, he would easily do that. But to wed her? A girl in line to my throne? I wonder where your son got the courage to do that?”
He took pleasure in having rattled the normally undaunted Northumberland. “Your Majesty, I assure you—”
“You’re excused, my lord Northumberland. I have no further need of you at court just now. You may return when you bring your son to answer for his crime. You are free to retreat to whichever home you choose—save Syon House, naturally.”
It was a toss-up whether the duke would go quietly. He did, in the end, shoving his chair back with all the fury he could not give voice to, and William did not envy whatever unlucky soul would bear the brunt of Northumberland’s swallowed resentment.
The remainder of the meeting passed quickly, no one anxious to further try William’s uncertain temper. He rather enjoyed it, while he pondered Surrey, who’d had the good sense not to react to Northumberland’s public rebuke. The late Duke of Norfolk would not have been so circumspect. Although he knew the Howards could be erstwhile friends and implacable enemies, William decided that he liked this young earl.
It seemed Dominic liked him as well, for he took several minutes to speak to him as the privy council was dismissed. When Surrey had left the room, William called Dominic back.
“I need hardly ask if you agree with him,” William said.
Dominic shrugged. “I have seen the results of heavy-handed repression. You wouldn’t need a lieutenant on the Welsh border if there hadn’t been so many generations of brutality on both sides.”
“The real trouble with the religious divide is that even when I punish clear-cut wrongdoing, it gets tangled up with religion. There’s always someone ready to turn any situation to their advantage.”
“I suppose that’s why we have a king. To sort the impossible.”
William laughed. “All the more reason to buy what books I wish, without meddling from accountants and clerks.” He looked at Dominic and made his decision on the spot. “Dom, I want you to head this commission into court spending. Your advice I can live with, for it will not be condescending. Or, at least, no more so than usual. I do have one condition.”
“What is that?”
“That you do not protest the expense of any gifts I choose to give Minuette.”
Dominic’s expression did not so much as f
licker. “As long as they’re not bought with treasury funds, I promise to refrain from comment.” Then, swiftly, he changed the subject. “What made you go after Northumberland today, after so carefully holding your tongue?”
“A man who wishes to openly attack should take care his own house is in order first. If Northumberland wants to provoke Catholics, he needs cleaner hands. Don’t you think he’s the one who manipulated Guildford’s marriage?”
Dominic shrugged. “Possibly.”
“That’s a possibility I dislike. Everyone knows his one great regret is that he married off Robert too young, so that he has no chance with my sister. He would have taken care with Guildford to choose ambitiously. Not quite Jane Grey—I’m sure Northumberland still hopes I will change my mind and marry her myself—and Jane’s sisters are too young, but Margaret Clifford comes next to them in succession.”
“All those women,” Dominic said lightly. “Elizabeth, the Grey sisters, the Clifford girls …”
William laughed. “Believe me, no one is more anxious than I am to start getting sons. But until then, yes, all those women line up after me, which means I must take great care with the men who come near them.”
Always anxious after being confined to sitting for too long, he stood and began to circle the table. Dominic rose as well, used to standing still while his friend prowled. “I’ve been thinking, Dom.”
“Always a sure sign of trouble.”
He rolled his eyes at his friend, who for the first time in weeks looked somewhat cheerful. William hadn’t realized how tense Dominic had been until now, when his expression was once again open and relaxed. It lightened his heart, and he went on confidently, “I’ve decided to allow Surrey to inherit his grandfather’s title.”
“Another Duke of Norfolk? Let’s hope this one is less trouble than the previous one.”
“It’s good for the country,” William said. “I won’t let him have all the lands and retainers—I’ll clip his wings considerably—but it will soften the Catholics to see that I am not afraid to listen to their advocate.”
The Boleyn Deceit: A Novel (Ann Boleyn Trilogy) Page 7