Hanworth House, Middlesex, June 1559
Lady Frances Brandon Grey Stokes, Marchioness of Dorset and Duchess of Suffolk, lay back on her pillows looking very wan. She had not taken well to invalidism, and her always irascible temper had not been improved by the experience. Except for a rheum or two each fall or winter, she had never ailed a day in her life. But the vast annoyance she felt at the inconvenience of her condition was as nothing compared to the deadly fear that lay at the root of her savage fits of pique. For she knew what ailed her; at least she knew that the wrenching pain in her side was likely to be the same malady that had killed her mother. And for this condition there was no name, and no relief to be had except from the poppy syrup that dulled her wits along with her senses.
Her mother, Mary Tudor, younger sister of King Henry the Eighth, had been stricken with the same mysterious complaint when she was still a young woman, and had lived with it for years. Frances had hoped, when she passed her fortieth birthday without having evinced any sign of the same disorder, to have escaped it. But it was not to be; she had contracted the ailment quite suddenly just after her forty-first birthday. It gripped her without warning, and the pain that her mother had endured for years, growing ever greater as time passed, had been visited upon her all at once in all its brutal intensity. She doubted very much if she would live see her forty-second birthday. The pain was now so great that whereas at first she had been afraid to die, now she almost welcomed death.
Frances was propped up on pillows in her bed, the only position that she could tolerate for very long. She who was always so active, enjoying the hunt, dancing, hawking, must now stay very still; even the slightest movement was agony.
“Look sharp, girl!” she bellowed. “My drops and a cup of wine, if you please!”
Mary Grey had been just about to nod off, but at the sound of her mother’s rasping voice she bounded up from her chair. She hobbled to the sideboard, located the wooden flask that held the sticky, black poppy syrup, and poured a mug of wine from the flagon. These items in hand, she shuffled to the bed and held them up to her mother.
The Duchess regarded her youngest daughter with marked distaste. How on earth had she and Henry ever begotten such a misshapen creature? For Mary Grey was a hunchback and a dwarf.
“Stupid wench!” she shouted. “You know I cannot reach out. Fetch a stool.”
Mary sighed; she knew very well that nothing she did would please her mother. She set the mug and the wooden bottle on the table beside the great bed and bent down to locate the stool that was used to help the bed’s occupants to climb up into it. She positioned it, climbed it, and bent precariously to retrieve the mug and the bottle.
“Ten drops,” said Frances.
“The ’pothecary said no more than five.”
Frances wished with all her heart at that moment that Mary had not been holding the precious bottle of poppy syrup. Had it not been for that, and the fact that to do so would have caused her greater pain than it should have caused Mary, she would have fetched the girl a good clout.
“Do as I say.”
Mary unstoppered the wooden bottle with her teeth, and holding the cork between her lips, she counted ten drops into the mug of wine. Perhaps ten drops would be enough to kill her mother; she hoped so. She handed the mug to Frances, who drained it and handed it back. Just as Mary was climbing down from the unsteady stool, the door opened.
“Katherine!” cried Frances. “My darling child!” She squinted, trying to make her eyes focus. “And who have you brought with you?” Already the poppy syrup was having its effect; her eyesight was blurred and there were actually four of Katherine at that moment. She was glad, however, that her daughter had come to visit her after she had taken the drops, instead of before. Otherwise the pain would have distracted her from the only joy she had left in life. Of her three daughters, Jane, Katherine and Mary, it was Katherine, beautiful Katherine, who had always been her favorite.
Frances had truly loved her husband, Henry Grey, Marquis of Dorset and Duke of Suffolk. Theirs had been an arranged marriage, but they had known each other from childhood and the match had been a happy one. Henry was slow-witted and had been content to allow Frances to rule their household and their lives. She had been devastated when Henry lost his head in the attempt to place their daughter Jane back onto the throne, after their first attempt had failed.
Mary Grey regarded her sister with a loathing similar to that which her mother, she knew, regarded herself. Her elder sister, Jane, had been known for her erudition; and yet she had not been clever enough to keep her head on her shoulders past the age of sixteen! Katherine was the beauty of the family, but she was spoiled and her head was empty. Jane and Katherine had both inherited the fair hair and blue-grey eyes of their grandmother, Mary Tudor, that legendary beauty. But although Jane had had the pink, blue and gold coloring of their famous forbearer, her features came from the Grey side of the family. Jane had been no beauty! But Katherine…she had inherited not only the Plantagenet coloring, but the delicacy of feature of Mary Tudor and her mother, Elizabeth of York. Unfortunately, Katherine had inherited the wits of their witless father.
Mary had inherited nothing from any of them; she was a changeling child. Dark, sallow, misshapen… She replaced the bottle of poppy syrup on the sideboard and retreated into a dark corner, hoping to escape notice. Mostly everyone ignored her unless they wanted someone to put upon.
“It is I, Anne,” said Lady Anne Stanhope, the Duchess of Somerset. Lady Anne was the widow of Edward Seymour, the Duke of Somerset, he who had been the boy king’s Lord Protector until John Dudley, the Duke of Northumberland, had had him executed. So Anne, like Frances, had also lost a beloved husband to the block. Both women had children who had been, or still were, married to Dudleys. And now, finally, a way in which to avenge their husbands had presented itself.
“Dear Anne,” said Frances. “I am right sorry to have become so ill whilst under your roof. And I was so looking forward to my time here at Hanworth! I fear me I have been naught but a nuisance to you.”
“Not at all,” said Lady Anne graciously. “I trust that you are comfortable?”
“I am indeed,” said the poppy syrup. It was true; Frances was now enjoying the full effect of the opium drops. The pain had completely subsided and suddenly she realized that she was not in the bed at all, but floating up in the rafters looking down upon everyone in the room. She could see herself in the bed; beside her now stood Katherine and Lady Anne.
“Tell your lady mother the happy news,” said Lady Anne, with a complacent smile upon her thin lips.
Katherine, who was very pale, blushed, a wave of pink starting at the base of her white neck and rising until it reached the roots of her moonbeam-colored hair. She knuckled her cheek and laughed, seeking to hide her face, but said nothing.
“Well, then,” said Lady Anne affectionately. “I shall tell her, yes?”
Katherine nodded and a titter escaped her lips.
“My eldest son, the Earl of Hertford, has conceived a passion for the Lady Katherine,” she said. “And I believe,” at this she placed a bony, beringed finger under Katherine’s now beet-red chin, “that his affection is returned.”
This was exactly the result that Anne and Frances had expected and encouraged by throwing the two young people together; it was, in fact, the whole purpose of Frances’s visit to Hanworth. Both Katherine and Edward were easily led; both were extremely handsome and knew it. The result had been inevitable. For Anne Stanhope, marrying her eldest son to the heir apparent to the throne of England meant that someday he might be king; her husband, as Lord Protector to the boy king Edward, his blood nephew, had been king in all but name. And herself almost a queen! And if Katherine should bear a son…! Already rumors were racing about the court that Elizabeth was reluctant to marry because she knew she was barren. With Elizabeth refusing to marry and beget a child of her own, and with Katherine married to her son, who was likely to be popular with those
who had revered his father as Lord Protector, her revenge for her husband’s execution would be complete.
Frances envisioned a marriage between Katherine and the Earl of Hertford as a means to revive the flagging fortunes of the Greys. The fall from grace with the execution of her husband and her daughter Jane, the Nine Day Queen, as she was called, had been precipitous. Elizabeth’s refusal to name an heir meant nothing as far as she was concerned; the Reformers all supported her uncle’s will, in which it was stated that the descendants of his sister Mary, her mother, were the heirs to the throne of England. And that meant Katherine now that Jane was dead. Herself as a candidate Frances had tactfully refrained from mentioning; she had no desire to place herself in the shadow of the block. She had already lost her husband and one daughter to the executioner’s axe; better her children than herself! Of course, if aught went wrong she would be sad to lose Katherine, but…
“How lovely!” said the woman in the bed. Frances peered down from her perch in the ceiling. Oh, yes…she wanted Katherine to marry the Earl of Hertford and beget a son. “Then they must needs marry,” said the Frances in the bed.
“Of a certainty,” agreed Lady Anne. “But we must seek the queen’s permission for that, I fear me. It is the law. The heirs to the throne cannot marry without the consent of the sovereign. And even though Her Grace refuses to name my lady as heir, that changes nothing. Called so by the queen or not, your daughter is heir to the throne of England.”
With disconcerting suddenness, Frances found herself back in the bed. The dose was wearing off. It seemed that the more she took, the less effective the potion became. What she would do if the poppy syrup ever stopped working altogether she shuddered to think. Already the fangs of the excruciating pain she suffered with this relentless ailment were making themselves felt once again.
“I will speak to Her Grace,” she said in barely a whisper. No one else should do it; she was Elizabeth’s first cousin, and it was her own daughter who was the subject of the needed consent. Katherine was heir apparent to the throne whether Elizabeth liked it or not; surely her cousin would be able to see this and act accordingly. If Elizabeth would not marry and produce an heir, then certainly her presumptive successor should do so, and as quickly as possible.
Frances nodded to Lady Anne, who could see that Frances was once again in agony.
Lady Anne placed her hands on Katherine’s shoulders and said, “Come along now, Dearest, your lady mother needs to rest.”
Neither Lady Anne nor Lady Katherine had even acknowledged Mary Grey’s presence in the room.
Once in the corridor, Katherine allowed Lady Anne to lead her away towards the garden, where Lord Edward awaited her, agog to hear the plan that would have him safely married to the heir to the throne, and on his way to being King of England.
Katherine was very happy; she had never been in love before. It was a completely unexpected occurrence, and a pleasant one. She did wonder, though, what she was going to say to the Spanish ambassadors…
London, June 1559
The Count de Feria had heard of the Lady Katherine’s loud protestations in front of the entire court when Elizabeth had turned her out of the Privy Chamber. He had immediately sensed an opportunity; during his last interview with the King of Spain, he remembered that Philip had lamented the fact that Spain had no candidate to put forward for the throne of England, as King Henri of France had in Mary of Scotland. And now suddenly here was hope. Why not spirit the girl out of England and marry her to Philip’s son, Don Carlos? A convenient coup could then be staged, or who knew? Elizabeth might die childless just as everyone feared, and there Spain would be with a very viable alternative to the throne of England instead of Mary Stuart. Mary was a foreigner, not having been born on English soil; that fact gave even many of her English Catholic supporters pause. In Lady Katherine they would have a candidate who was English to the backbone, just as Elizabeth took such pleasure in proclaiming that she herself was wholly English, without taint of foreign blood.
Although King Philip had seemed to dismiss the idea of replacing de Feria as his ambassador to Elizabeth’s court, and had sent him back to England, the King of Spain had in fact been considering the count’s request. He selected a replacement in Álvaro de la Quadra, Bishop of Aquila and Venosa. He had sent de la Quadra along to England just after de Feria had departed Brussels. De Feria, who had returned to England in despair, but willing to do his duty, had been delighted at the welcome news of de la Quadra’s appointment. He had spent the past month bringing the bishop up to date on all the issues. And he had presented the Lady Katherine Grey to the new Spanish ambassador almost as a welcoming gift.
De Feria had approached the girl discreetly, and listened attentively to the childish recitation of all her complaints about the many slights she had suffered at her disagreeable cousin’s hands. She seemed to greatly resent the fact that Elizabeth had not immediately recognized her obvious position as heiress-presumptive to the throne. She was disgruntled and much offended at what she perceived to be the insults visited upon her by her royal cousin. It seemed that the Lady Katherine viewed life in terms of how other people ought to be treating her, and they had better measure up or know her displeasure. The girl had certainly not spared her words in front of the entire court at her ouster from her position in the Privy Chamber; and not only had she voiced her complaints quite loudly to all and sundry, she had done so in the queen’s hearing. The girl lacked both discretion and, it would seem, mere common sense.
But none of that mattered to de Feria or to Bishop de la Quadra; the girl was merely a tool, and a handy one at that, to be used to further Spanish ambitions in England. That she was foolish would simply make her an easier tool to handle. Her weathercock attitude towards religion was a case in point; she had been raised in the Reformed faith, but had quickly embraced Catholicism when her cousin Mary Tudor took the throne. Then just as quickly she had done a volte face when Elizabeth succeeded and now professed to be a Protestant. It was obvious that the Lady Katherine would do as she was told on the subject of religion. The only possible flaw in the plan was that many of her current supporters in England supported her only because they believed her to be a Reformer. But no matter; they would come around if it meant a choice between Mary of Scotland and a woman born and bred on English soil.
The two envoys had sent word to Philip about Lady Katherine; she was more than willing to cooperate with their schemes. De Feria had taken his new wife and departed England earlier in the month, leaving all in de la Quadra’s capable hands. As soon as an opportunity presented itself, they would spirit the Lady Katherine out of England. Upon arrival in Madrid, she would be married immediately to Don Carlos, Philip’s son from his first marriage. He had left it to the girl to apprise her scheming mother of the plan. King Philip had been very enthusiastic; all seemed fair fit to succeed.
Paris, June 1559
Between each course the tourney grounds were cleared of dung so that the stench of horse droppings should not offend the ladies’ noses. Also for their comfort, the grooms sprinkled the ground ever so lightly with perfumed water, so that the dust would not rise so precipitately.
This day was the climax of a week of festivities, comprised of extravagant pageants and tournaments by day, and elaborate masques by night. There was much to celebrate; the recent peace treaties with Spain and England had resulted in the inevitable marriage alliances. This week of gala merriment was in honor of a double wedding. King Henri’s eldest daughter, the Princess Elisabeth de Valois, was to marry Philip, the King of Spain, and his sister Marguerite, the Duchess of Berry, was to marry Emmanuel Philibert, the Duke of Savoy.
It was a perfect day for such celebrations; warm, sunny, and with a slight breeze. The royal gallery had been festooned with garlands of fragrant roses, and exquisite porcelain bowls of sweet-smelling potpourri reposed elegantly on the tables that bore the dishes of fruit and flagons of cool wine for the refreshment of the royal party.
; Mary looked about her complacently. The heralds of the Dauphin and Dauphine were splendidly arrayed, as usual, with the arms of France and Scotland; but throughout the week of celebrations, the addition of an escutcheon bearing the coat of arms of England gave her a sly satisfaction. Every so often she could not resist stealing a glance at Sir Nicholas Throckmorton, the English ambassador to the court of France. She knew that he was one of her admirers; she often caught him regarding her curiously. But now he seemed unable to take his eyes from what must be an insult to his so-called queen. She happened to be looking at him when he noticed that in addition to the offending escutcheon, the heralds’ tunics were now also embroidered with the English insignia. His eyes went wide with shock; but he wisely made no display of his chagrin. Certainly he would write to Elizabeth in his next dispatch of the audacity of the Queen of Scotland; that made her wriggle inwardly with delight. Let her bastard cousin of England be discomfited! She was not at all certain how it would come about, but surely soon events would order themselves in such a way that she would be Queen of England in fact instead of just by right.
Mary was sitting just below the king and to his left. By rights, the position to the king’s right should have been occupied by his wife and queen, Catherine d’Medici. But at the court of France, the king would allow no one to take the place of his mistress, Diane de Poitiers. It was the beautiful Diane who sported the crown jewels on this sparkling occasion; the dowdy, homely queen wore jewels, but none as fine as Diane’s. And so all Mary had to do was to glance upwards and to her right to espy Diane. Diane was lovely, but she was twenty years older than the king. How did she keep him so fascinated? Mary vowed that never would she tolerate a royal mistress. That François should ever take a mistress was an event unlikely ever to occur; her husband idolized her.
Thinking of royal mistresses brought to mind royal lovers; the shocking rumors coming out of England about Elizabeth and Lord Robert Dudley gave rise to the most interesting discussions in the royal chambers. When Diane was not present, Queen Catherine, more at her ease, could at times be positively loquacious. On one such day earlier in the week, the queen had remarked that Elizabeth’s mother, Anne Boleyn, had once been known as the Scandal of Christendom because of her affair with King Henry VIII; and now it seemed that her daughter had earned the same title. She dallied with her horse master whilst refusing brilliant matches with the cream of royal suitors. Among the august personages who had been refused so far were King Philip of Spain, who was now to marry Mary’s own sister-in-law; Prince Eric of Sweden; the Hapsburg archdukes Ferdinand and Charles; all rejected so that Elizabeth of England might bestow her favors upon Lord Robert Dudley! Mary reveled in any conversation that reviled her bastard cousin.
In High Places Page 10