Her Highness, the Traitor (33 page)

“Very much so, Your Majesty.”

“She plays and dances well?”

“My daughter dances better than she plays, but no one has ever found fault with either, Your Majesty.”

“She is biddable?”

This was not my Kate’s strong point. “She is willful, Your Majesty, but her nature is good.”

The queen considered. “We should like to have her serve as one of our maids,” she said finally. “We will soon be making our entry into London with the king, and from thence we will go to Hampton Court. Can you have her ready by September? Our mother of the maids will inform you what is necessary in the way of clothing.”

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

“You and your younger daughter, of course, are welcome at our court any time you wish to come.”

Dismissed by the queen, I made the short trip to my house at Sheen, lost in thought. For Jane’s sake, and Harry’s, should I have refused the queen’s invitation to Kate? Even if I had dared to decline—and Mary had given me no chance to do so—I could not justify such an action. Kate and Jane had never been close, and I knew Kate’s mourning for her sister had been more dutiful than deep. As for Harry, he had been a kind father to all three of our girls, but his deepest attachment had always been to Jane. Kate’s main grief, it had to be admitted, had been for the death of her own prospects. Now she would be at court, with young men and their matchmaking parents to remark upon her beauty and to watch her dance and play…

So at the beginning of September, I watched my second daughter get on a barge—sent for her by the queen—bound for Hampton Court. Even her monkey was making the journey. Queen Mary had given the royal permission for it to accompany Kate to court. She had made it a jaunty red cap and matching doublet especially for the occasion. “Don’t let that creature pester the bargemen,” I called in farewell as it showed great interest in an oar.

Kate, who normally took great offense at the term “that creature,” simply laughed. Her coffers had been packed for days.

Beside me, my youngest daughter pouted as the barge began to pull away. “Kate won’t be able to see me wave good-bye!” she complained. Her lip began to wobble. “Father would have put me on his shoulders.”

“May I, Your Grace?”

I nodded, and Adrian, who had been standing with the rest of the household to see Kate off, lifted petite Mary high into the air. She waved happily until Kate’s barge pulled out of sight. Then Adrian carefully set my daughter back on her feet.

“Thank you,” I said. “That was so kind.”

Adrian shrugged. “Kind? After all, I am Lady Mary’s stepfather,” he said into my ear.

Since the Spanish entourage had arrived in England (“an invasion,” the malcontents liked to call it), I had acquired a new friend at court: María Enríquez de Toledo y Guzmán, Duchess of Alba. Fortunately, I was allowed to call her Maria.

I had sought out the duchess for purely selfish reasons, as yet another contact to be cultivated to free my sons. I was granted an audience so quickly, I felt almost ashamed as we each settled on a stool.

“There are few of us Spanish ladies here,” the duchess informed me after we had discussed King Arthur’s Round Table, which the Spanish had enjoyed seeing at Winchester, for a while. (You must not think this conversation went so smoothly as I report it. I was speaking my barely adequate French, the duchess was speaking Spanish, and a member of her household, who knew both languages and a little English, was gamely interpreting for us.) “The English ladies do not like us. They avoid us. We get homesick here.”

“We English can be unkind to foreigners,” I admitted. “But we are all not like that.”

“No, I see you are not. But you must pardon me. I did not understand who your husband is, my lady.”

Even in English, much less fractured French, I was at a loss to explain. Everyone in England knew perfectly well who John was, or who they thought he was: a traitor who had manipulated the poor little king into changing his will and paid the price. The interpreter came to my rescue. He bent and whispered something in the duchess’s ear, finishing off with a cutting motion of his own neck that he was probably not aware of making.

I sat there miserably, waiting to be turned out of the house, for the Spanish had enough enemies without receiving the wife of an attainted traitor, as well. Then the duchess at last spoke. “You must grieve his loss greatly, my lady. I can tell from your eyes, even though I do not understand a word that comes out of your mouth.”

“Indeed I do.” Something in her own eyes made me add, “Each day when I wake I have hope, just in those first few moments before I am fully conscious, that it is all a bad dream, and that he is just away in his own chamber.”

I expected the interpreter to smirk, but he nodded gravely and rendered my words into Spanish. Then the duchess dabbed at her eyes. “I love my husband,” she said. I could make out the words even before they were translated. “We ladies were not supposed to be on this expedition. We were told that it would anger the English to come with too large an entourage. But I insisted on following my husband. Everywhere he goes, I go, if it is humanly possible.” When I had been made to understand this, the duchess spoke again. “Some people dislike my husband, the duke, too. He is a soldier, not a courtier. He has a foul temper sometimes, but never with me. He is the kindest of husbands. Did your husband leave children?”

“Two daughters and four sons, now. All of my boys are in prison.”

“In prison? For what?”

“For obeying the Lord’s command that we shall honor thy father.”

“The poor lads!” The duchess shook her head angrily. “They should not suffer for that. I have seen the queen but seldom, but my husband is King Philip’s chief advisor, and I will ask him to say a word on their behalf. My own sons are dear to me—but not, I confess, as dear to me as my husband.”

In that moment, I knew I had made a friend for life.

***

I would have been delighted to have Maria visit me at Chelsea, but the Spanish in London did not like to venture far from their lodgings in the city’s guildhalls except in large numbers. Though there was little actual violence, save for the occasional scuffle, between the Spanish and the English, there was a great deal of hooting and mockery, especially by the city’s boys, who had the miraculous ability to melt into nowhere when someone arrived to keep the peace. The London cutpurses had also discovered there was something in the make of Spanish purses that was peculiarly advantageous to their trade. So in the middle of October, I was rowed to the stairs near Maria’s house by one of my regular boatmen. “There’s some news, Your Grace,” he said. “Don’t know if it’s true, mind you. I guess you don’t want to hear it, though.”

“William, don’t torture me like this! Of course I want to hear it.”

“They say the queen’s expecting.”

Expecting what? I almost asked. Then I realized what he meant. “You mean she is with child?”

“So they say. No disrespect, but she looks a little old to breed to me. Roger over there thinks so, too.” He nodded at one of his compatriots a ways off.

I could not help but share the boatmen’s expert opinion. “Nonetheless, I hope it is true, and I will pray that she bears a healthy babe,” I said. “My own daughter will soon be having a child,” I added proudly.

“Aye, that’s good, Your Grace.” He handed me out of the boat with a flourish. “Don’t let me hear that you let that George take you home as you did last week. Young fool almost overturned you, didn’t he?”

“It was pouring,” I said apologetically. “I should have waited for you to come along, though.”

The Duchess of Alba greeted me in a torrent of Spanish before anyone could come to assist us. By now, I could pick out a phrase here or there, and I distinctly heard the name “Penshurst,” or Maria’s version of it. “Penshurst? That is where my daughter lives.” I stared at the approaching interpreter. “Is there something wrong with my daughter that you have heard?”

“No, no! The queen has agreed to set free three of your sons. The Earl of Warwick, Lord Robert, and Lord Henry. They are to go to Penshurst, pending further orders.”

“God be thanked,” I whispered.

The duchess took me into her arms.

“But there is one thing you need to know,” she said softly, her tone echoed by the interpreter. “The Earl of Warwick is very ill.”

***

By the time I arrived home, a royal messenger had come to confirm the news of my sons’ release. I would have taken horse and ridden for Penshurst as quickly as I could, but my servants flatly ignored my orders and got my litter and mules ready for me instead. They had been coddling me lately, and fussed each time I went to the court or to the Duchess of Alba’s, but they could hardly complain about this journey.

Even in the mule cart we made good time, though—better, I heard the driver say to my groom, than we would have made if I had slid off my horse in a faint—and we arrived at Penshurst before my sons were expected to arrive.

Mary took my arm when I got out of the cart. “You’re the one who needs an arm,” I protested. “You’re huge.”

“I feel fine, Mother. Why don’t you lie down until Henry gets here with the boys?”

“No. I want to be here when they come through the gate. Not sound asleep.”

Mary gave Katheryn, who had come with me, a look.

At a little past three, I heard the sounds of approaching horses. Before I could disentangle myself from the baby clothes I was stitching, Robert and Hal stood before me.

I have no words to describe how it was seeing my sons for the first time in months with no guards beside them. We clung to each other and wept for what seemed to be hours. Finally, I managed, “Jack?”

“They’re bringing him upstairs, Mother,” Mary said. She had been talking in a low tone with her husband. “Let him get settled first. Then you can see him.”

“No! If he is ill, I need to nurse him.”

“Mother—”

Henry moved closer to Mary. “Let her, Moll,” he said softly. “It can’t make her any worse.”

***

Jack was not merely ill; he was dying. I knew that as soon as I stepped through the door. He had the same wasted look King Edward had worn in his last days, except the desperate remedies tried on the king had not been tried on him, so he would be dying in peace, at least.

“I didn’t get to finish my carving,” he said as we all sat in his chamber.

“Carving?”

“Jack carved our bear and ragged staff into the wall of the Beauchamp Tower,” Robert said, patting his brother’s shoulder. “It’s beautifully done. Not that I ever want to go back and see it again.”

“And a border with roses for Ambrose, gillyflowers for Guildford, oak leaves for Robert, and honeysuckle for Hal,” said Jack. “There’s a verse, too.”

“‘You that these beasts do well behold and see / may deem with ease wherefore here made they be,’” recited Hal. “‘With borders eke wherein are to be found / four brothers’ names who list to search the ground.’”

“And poor Guildford carved ‘Jane’ into one wall,” said Robert. He glared at the wall of the chamber. “And then the little wench wouldn’t even see him.”

“She said it would have caused too much grief for them both,” Hal said.

“Still, she could have at least waved to him from the window.”

“Boys!” I said.

“It’s all right, Mother,” Jack said. “They’ve been arguing about this since Guildford died. I like hearing them.” He closed his eyes, then opened them. “Anne…my wife. Is she coming?”

“We sent for her,” I said. All of my sons’ wives were here now, or on the way.

“Good.”

I walked out of the chamber with Henry and my younger sons as Jack dozed. “I have not had a chance to thank you, Henry, for helping to get my sons released. You and the Duchess of Alba have done so much.”

“I believe your petitions did as much as the rest of us combined. The queen respects tenacity.”

I turned to Robert and Hal. “How long has Jack been ill?”

“Not that long, or even the queen would have probably released him earlier than this. He’d been looking peaked for a while, now that I think of it, but the way you see him now, it came upon him quickly,” said Robert.

“And Ambrose?”

“He’s being kept in the Tower as sort of a hostage for the good behavior of the rest of us,” Hal said. “There’s been no talk of releasing Uncle Andrew.”

“Then we must keep trying.”

Robert cleared his throat. “You’re not looking well, Mother,” he said bluntly.

“Naturally, your father’s and Guildford’s deaths have aged me.”

“Katheryn said that you fainted a few days ago. Fell off your chair while you were sewing.”

“The room was too warm. I told her that at the time.”

“Henry and Mary would like their physician to see you. So would the rest of us.”

“So I can get poked and prodded and dosed? I believe that physicians only make one sicker. You know that.” I met Robert’s eyes defiantly. “When Ambrose is free and when my grandchild is born, I will let a physician see me. I promise, if it will make you and the rest happy.”

“It will.”

“Then that is settled. Now, tell me. Did you see your father before he died?”

“No,” Hal said. “He sent us a letter begging us to forgive him for bringing us to this. He converted for our sake, you know. Jack, at least, would have been executed with him otherwise.”

“I know.”

“He was gone by the time we got the letter. We couldn’t reply. But we were allowed to pay our respects at his grave before we left the Tower. We spent a long time there. What did we have to forgive him for, anyway? Being loyal to the king?”

I wiped my eyes with my handkerchief, one of my husband’s. “Now tell me about Guildford.”

Robert said, “He wouldn’t say a thing against Father when the lieutenant told him that his sentence was being carried out. Nothing against the fool Duke of Suffolk, either, who deserved it. He even insisted on sending him a farewell message. He said that Suffolk was about the only person in the Grey family who didn’t treat him like something the cat spat out.” My son snorted. “I think he was half in love with Jane by the time he died, judging by that carving of his, but of course he didn’t actually have to spend any time with her. That helped, in my opinion. As I said back there, he begged to meet her one last time, but she decided it would be a distraction.” Robert rolled his eyes. “Poor Guildford. It wouldn’t have been easy, married to a Protestant saint. Anyway, he sent his love to you, of course—I should have said that from the start—and made us promise that we remaining brothers would always be loyal to one another, that we would always speak of Father kindly, and that we would take care of you.” Robert patted my hand as I at last began to give way to my emotions. “He didn’t need to make us promise those things, Mother. We would have done them anyway.”

***

Aged seven and twenty, Jack died in my arms on October 21, 1554. His wife had come just in time to spend a few minutes with him alone. What the two of them said I never asked, but Jack seemed at peace as he said his dying prayers, surrounded by his wife and family.

We buried him at Penshurst—Warwick Castle, where we might have otherwise taken his body, was forfeit to the Crown. I was not present at the funeral, for his death did send me to my bed, from which I found myself too weak to arise for nearly a month. By the end of November, however, I was able to be present while my daughter Mary labored to bring her first child into the world.

It was a long labor, but my daughter remained strong through it all. On November 30, she brought forth my grandson.

King Philip agreed to be one of his godfathers; the Duke of Bedford, who had led the embassy to Spain a few months ago, the other. They served by proxy. I, the godmother, was there in person as we gathered in the chapel of Penshurst in December to christen him.

I bore my grandson to the altar and carefully placed him in the arms of Philip’s proxy—my son Robert. “What name do you give this child?” the priest asked.

“Philip,” Robert said, staring proudly down at his baby nephew. “Philip Sidney.”