As he sat by Edward’s bedside during the crisis, Dudley had been forced to face facts, and along with them, his greatest fears. All that stood between everything that he had accomplished as Lord President of the Council and disaster was this pale, delicate, fragile boy.
Something must be done.
Windsor Castle, October 1552
Girolamo Cardano was a genuinely humble man for all his accomplishments. He could still hardly credit that his services as a physician were sought after by so many of the nobility, and lately, royalty. He was illegitimate, a severe handicap in Catholic Europe; and yet he had managed to gain admission to the University of Pavia, in the town of his birth; and later he had studied medicine in Padua and Milan.
If medicine was his first love, he did have several others; he was an inveterate gambler and an accomplished astrologer. His gambling kept him impecunious enough to ply both of his trades as regularly as possible; and his reputation as a skilled physician dovetailed nicely with his amazingly accurate astrological readings. It had become almost a foregone conclusion that once he had diagnosed and treated whatever ailment he had been called upon to assess, that he would end by casting his patient’s horoscope, with an eye to helping them avoid further unhealthy situations.
He had recently been paid fourteen hundred gold crowns, an enormous sum, for curing the Archbishop of St. Andrews of a seemingly incurable condition of the throat that had left him without speech. After all, what good was an Archbishop who could not orate from his pulpit and bestow blessings upon his sheep? Unfortunately, Girolamo had gambled away this unheard of sum before he had even left Edinburgh. But it seemed that God and his patron saint, Saint Luke, were constantly looking out for their servant, Good Girolamo; just as he was about to have to beg his bread and seek patrons at the Scottish court who wanted their horoscopes cast in order to earn the money for his passage back to Pavia, a messenger had arrived with a bag of gold coins for his journey and an urgent request for the good doctor to wait upon the young King of England.
And so here he sat, in the cold, damp anteroom to the king’s chambers at Windsor Castle. Girolamo shivered and huddled a little closer into his fur-lined cloak, the only thing of any value about him. He reflected that as cold and damp as he found England, that Scotland was much worse; he had contracted a nasty rheum at the Scottish court from which he had only recently recovered. He wondered if he would ever feel warm again, and this thought evoked the familiar yearning that he felt for his home in Pavia. It was true that the temperatures in northern Italy in October may not be that much different from those in southern England; but in Pavia the sun would be shining, and a warm breeze blowing up from the south. It was an altogether different thing…
He was jolted out of his thoughts of home by the opening of the door at the opposite end of the gloomy room in which he sat. The duke of Northumberland, whose acquaintance he had made upon his arrival the night before, beckoned him forward. As Girolamo approached, Dudley laid a warning hand on his arm.
“His Grace is having one of his bad days, I fear me,” said Dudley in an urgent whisper. “I pray thee, do not tire him.”
Girolamo sniffed. And who was the doctor here, might one ask? “Of-a course-a, Your-a Grace-a,” he replied. It did no good to argue. He would do what he must regardless of the duke’s admonitions.
Dudley nodded and turned to go back into the room, Girolamo following close behind.
The first thing that struck him as he walked into the chamber was its warmth; he had just been wondering if he would ever feel warm again, and now here he was, blessed with a room that had a fire heaped with apple-wood. The wood should have given the room a pleasant fragrance, but it did not. The overpowering stench of corruption combined with the sweet odor of the apple-wood to produce a most unpleasant miasma. Still, the room was warm and for that, at least, Girolamo was grateful.
A great bed piled with furs and coverlets appeared to be empty, but upon more careful inspection, Girolamo was able to discern the slight movement of a small, wasted figure. The room was dim not only because it was a cloudy day, but because the wind-eyes had been covered first with stretched leather and then with tapestries that had been nailed into place. The few candles placed about the room gave off a circle of light where each of them stood, but little more.
As he approached the bed, the covers stirred once more, but before Dudley could announce Girolamo, the little figure on the bed began to cough. The cough persisted until it became a paroxysm; Dudley matter-of-factly held the boy until the spell passed. When it was finally over, Dudley turned and placed a golden cup, which he had been holding to Edward’s lips, onto the table beside the bed. Without hesitation, Girolamo lifted the cup to his nose, and then studied its contents in the dim light of a nearby candle. Just as he suspected.
“Your Grace,” Dudley said. “The Italian physician, Dr. Cardano, is here. He has come to examine you.”
Edward drew breath to respond, and the coughing fit started all over again. Girolamo quickly transferred the cup back to Dudley. After several minutes the fit passed and Edward, aided by Dudley, struggled to sit up against his pillows.
Edward drew an experimental breath, and this time did not cough. “Your Excellency,” he said, extending a small, pale hand. “I am so pleased to make your acquaintance. Thank you for coming.”
Girolamo took the hand, and whilst replying, his mind was already working. “Your-a Grace-a, I am-a honored to have-a been-a called-a to your-a…” His English was fluent, but he still sometimes had difficulty calling to mind the right word. “…assistance-a.” During the time his brain had been searching for the correct word, the medical part of his mind was actively assessing the situation. The king’s hand was very hot and dry; fever. The coughing cup contained greenish-yellow sputum streaked with blood, more black than red. He would have to examine the cup’s contents in greater detail, but he would be surprised if it did not contain some more solid matter. This boy’s grandfather had died of the lung rot; it was not Girolamo’s habit to rush to judgment, but it was likely that the same condition ailed His Majesty. Poor child!
“I am having a bad day just today,” said Edward, almost apologetically. “I shall be better tomorrow. Do you play chess?”
Instantly Girolamo returned his attention to the scene in the room and focused on the boy not just as a patient, but as a person. Medicine was his first love, and gambling his second; the casting of horoscopes was more occupation than hobby; yes, his third love was chess. He was sure of it. He smiled, revealing a practically toothless grin. Some of his teeth had been knocked out in fights; in his youth he had possessed a vile temper and was always fighting with someone over something. Lately, his few remaining teeth had been falling out for no apparent reason. “Indeed-a, Your Grace-a, I play-a the chess.”
Edward looked pleadingly at Dudley. The two played a great deal of chess because it was nearly the only occupation in which Edward could still indulge; he seldom left his bed.
Dudley reflected back over the summer and wondered for the hundredth time if he had not defeated his own purpose. He had planned the Royal Progress to show Edward to the people, and to assure them that their king was completely recovered from the bout of smallpox he had suffered in the spring. Had the schedule he had outlined been too punishing?
Dudley had stayed behind in London to see to the business of the realm; he had not seen Edward again until late in September when he had met up with the royal party at Salisbury. What he saw appalled him. Unusual for him, he went into a panic at the sight of Edward, pale, coughing, so wasted away; why had no one told him? They must get the king to London as quickly as possible, they must call for doctors to come to attend him on the road…
Edward had traveled as far as Windsor Castle, a place which he unfortunately loathed and in which he did not want to stay; but it was evident that he could go no further. The court physicians had come and examined the king, looking grave and shaking their heads; but more than these indication
s they refused to evince. All knew that it was treason to predict the king’s death. Death! Could it be so? It could not be so!
The Scottish ambassador, a kindly old gentleman, had pulled Dudley aside and told him of the famous Italian physician who was then at the court of Scotland, at the behest of the pope himself, to treat the Archbishop of St. Andrews for a malady of the throat. The cure the good doctor had effected on the prelate had been nothing short of miraculous; perhaps the Italian might be able to cure the king?
It was worth a try, certainly; and Dudley had sent a royal messenger posting hotfoot to Edinburgh, in hopes of engaging Girolamo Cardano, and having him attend on the king of England. And now here he was. Hope had been high while Dudley awaited the Italian’s arrival, but now he was here it was apparent to Dudley that it was just possible that there may be no hope of Edward’s recovery. If that were true, Dudley needed to know. He had already conceived a plan of action back in the spring for just such a calamity as the untimely death of his protégé; but when Edward had recovered, and seemed well enough to go on a Royal Progress to prove to the people that it was true that he had recovered his health, the plan had been shelved.
And now Edward wanted to play chess. Was this a good sign? Did it mean that the boy was recovering? Or was he doomed?
Girolamo observed Edward as they played. The boy was a good strategist. Girolamo did not wish to tire him before he could be examined, so he allowed Edward to win, but neither too quickly nor too handily, lest he suspect. As they both made their moves in turn, Girolamo listened to the wheezing of the lungs, observed the boy’s difficult breathing. When the game was finished, Girolamo arose and began his physical examination. Whilst he worked, tapping the boy’s back, listening to his chest, Edward asked Girolamo about his native land. Girolamo told him of the beauty of Lombardy, and all about the Alps, which Girolamo had crossed a number of times in his travels. Edward asked intelligent questions, and gravely considered the answers; his opinions and observations were those of a person much more advanced in years. But then this boy was a king, and had been educated to be a king almost from his birth.
Apropos of nothing, Edward said, “Today is my birthday.”
Girolamo smiled. “And-a how-a old is-a Your-a Majesty?”
“I am fifteen,” said Edward proudly.
It was such a pity…the boy might never live to see his next birthday; he was likely to die before another year passed, if he lasted that long. And he would burn in hell, being a heretic. Such a shame!
“Your-a Majesty has-a my-a…” What was the word…? “Congratua-lations.” Girolamo considered for a moment. He wanted to cast the king’s horoscope. Would such a thing be permitted? Perhaps he could suggest it as a gift. The entire Protestant Reformation was founded upon the idea that Catholicism was based on superstition, its careful rituals meaningless. But astrology was not part of any religion; it was science, a science of the stars. And to cast a horoscope on the very day of one’s birth! What could be more conducive to accuracy than that!
Girolamo laid Edward back on his pillows and offered him a cup of wine to sip. “Your-a Majesty,” he said. “I am-a simple-a doc-a-tor, but a man-a who-a has-a some-a…” What was the word? “I can-a read-a the stars-a. With-a your-a gracious permissions, may-a I-a cast-a your-a horoscope? As-a my-a gift-a to you-a.”
To Girolamo’s surprise, Dudley responded before Edward was able to draw breath to reply. “What a splendid idea!” he said excitedly. “How kind of you, Dr. Cardano, to wish to bestow a gift upon His Grace in celebration of the anniversary of his birth.”
Edward smiled wanly from the comfort of his pillows. His eyes had immediately sought Dudley’s at Cardano’s suggestion, and since Dudley had agreed, then it was settled; but then he spoke.
“I would not wish you to think, Dr. Cardano, that I am superstitious,” said Edward carefully. “The stars in the heavens proclaim the works of God, from which He is revealed to men. I believe that the skies describe in detail, yea, they signify Heaven…the invisible glory of God and His awesome power over the world. When one studies the stars, one is very close to God.”
Dr. Cardano regarded Edward in astonishment; the boy had described exactly how he himself felt about his uncanny ability to read in the stars the fate of men. “Then-a Your-a Majesty and-a my-a self are in-a perfect accord-a.”
Edward nodded and indicated with his hand the writing desk in the corner; the doctor would need parchment and quill. With that, Edward closed his eyes and slept.
New Hall, April 1553
It was certainly a coincidence, but to Mary, it was a point of extreme irony, that she should be sitting in the exact same place that she had been sitting one month shy of twenty years earlier, as she read the documents in front of her. On that day in May twenty years ago, in the year of Our Lord 1533, she had received the letter from her father informing her that she no longer held the title of Princess of England, that she was stripped of her royal coat of arms, and that she must henceforth cease to use her livery colors of blue and green.
And now, sitting in the same chair, in front of the same fireplace, she held in her hands the Letters Patent restoring her title of princess, her coat of arms, and the permission to use once again her own livery colors instead of the Tudor colors of green and white.
On the face of it, this was good news, but she found herself asking the same question that had been weaving its inexorable way around her mind for months. What did it mean? Why would Dudley, for it must be Dudley, restore to her the symbols of her royalty? And why now? And why all this, but not her legitimacy? Possible answers chased themselves around her brain like figures on a Greek vase, endlessly running after each other in a never-ending circle.
She remembered the first time that she had consciously asked herself this question of why? It was just a year ago in June, when she had visited the court and been treated with such deference; she had had a lovely visit with Edward, and seen him off on his Royal Progress without ever hearing a harsh word from him or anyone else about her religion. She had repeated her visit in the following February, ostensibly invited to court to attend the Candlemas celebrations; but these had been called off due to Edward’s indisposition. The rumors about her brother’s health had been flying around the country, and she welcomed the opportunity to see for herself just how ill he really was.
If her visit had been, in her own mind, a way to assuage her fears for her brother, it had failed miserably; she had been in London a full three days before he was well enough to see her. And during those three days she had been feted by the Council as if she were queen already.
That disturbed her; again she found herself asking, why? There could be only two possible explanations; either the Council expected Edward to die and herself to become queen, or they were trying to lull her into complacency and put her off her guard.
It was painful to contemplate the possibility that Edward was dying, but it was hard not to believe it. He had been very sick in the fall in the year just past, but he had rallied, even participating in the planning of the Christmas revels. But he had relapsed just before she arrived for her visit and had been very sick indeed. He had seemed to be on the mend when she left him; certainly he had been well enough to open Parliament barely a week later, but the reports she received from Scheyfve said that his wasted appearance had stunned those who had not seen him recently. Scheyfve had been alarmed enough to send a dispatch to the emperor stating that a crisis was brewing in England; but Charles was, as usual, too busy with Continental concerns to give England more than his passing attention. The Imperial ambassador’s information was completely reliable; he had a spy amongst Edward’s doctors. It was his information that had prompted Mary to accept the invitation to court in February to see for herself.
And so back to the beginning.
She had almost been better contented and easier in her mind when Dudley was harassing her; when he opposed her outright, at least there was no question about where she stood. But
now Dudley and the Council were being so obliging that she could not help but think she must go warily and be on her guard.
Something must be very wrong.
For the first time, she was beginning to realize that she might actually become queen. If that did happen, it could only be if Edward were no more. That thought tore at her heart, because despite all, she loved her brother…but if it were true that he was dying and Dudley was preparing for such an eventuality, she must be on her guard as never before.
Because if she knew anything, it was that Dudley had no intention whatsoever of allowing her to ascend the throne of England.
Westminster Abbey, May 1553
May was a lovely month for a wedding; in Dudley’s estimation, it was even better than the June wedding many brides cherished. It could be cool, but was rarely hot; the flowers were all so new, so fresh, and so lovely. The abbey was bedecked in flowers, but no other color had been used but white, to emphasize the purity of the brides; it was a striking display. On either side of the elaborate altar (he would have to see to that after the wedding!) standing sprays of white lilies gave off their delicate perfume. Sprays of white wildflowers, gillyflowers, and white roses adorned every pew. The only color in the floral arrangements was the green of stem or leaf, and the ivy that had been delicately interwoven with them.
The soft sounds of the organ wafted through the open spaces, and high above their heads, the choir chanted peacefully. Then suddenly the clarion call of the trumpets shattered the quiet and all eyes turned towards the great western doors. The grooms were already standing at the altar, in full regalia; the brides now processed down the long nave.
It was a double wedding, with both the Grey heiresses marrying the men he had chosen for them. The younger, Catherine, was barely twelve; she was to be married to the son of his great friend, Lord Herbert, Earl of Pembroke. An amenable child, she had raised no fuss, indeed, had seemed glad to do her parent’s bidding.
The Baker's Daughter Volume 2 Page 20