by Anya Seton
He turned suddenly to Ursula. “Is this as it was in your father’s time, Lady?” He waved towards the bonfire, then to the cluster of bright-colored tents and flowery booths. “Does it remind you of your girlhood?”
She heard the note of appeal, and smiled at him, thinking how much of the boy was left still in this big handsome man. “’Tis much more lavish, sir,” she said gently, “we had no tents and banners, nor much music. We fed them only cider and bread.”
She saw that she had pleased him, though he sighed. “Aye, those were simpler, happier days . . .”
Ursula started to say that the past always seemed simpler and happier, then checked herself. There had been nothing in her girlhood to match Anthony’s troubles. Both religion and throne had been as fixed as the sun’s daily swing across the sky.
“The Lady Jane seems better, sir,” she said. “Since yestere’en she’s not puked once. ’Tis perhaps the camomile gruel I give her. D’ye know, I believe she has a surprise for you! I believe there’re two babes i’ her womb!”
Anthony jumped. “Holy St. Mary! Twins? By God, what a wondrous thought!” He considered this news excitedly. “Two heirs at a clip, for me, for Cowdray! ’Tis true, Jane’s belly’s vast this time, much larger than last year. And ’tis true there’ve been portents. My best mare dropped two foals last week, and I found two spiders on my pillow yestermorn. Ah, Lady, I thank you!” He bent quickly and kissed her.
Ursula pressed his hand. “Better not tell her. It may not be so, and the poor soul is much afeared already. She suffered a great deal last time. Oh, I wish Master Julian were here . . .” added Ursula impulsively.
Anthony raised his eyebrows. “Surely, the good doctor wouldn’t concern himself with midwifery?”
“I presume not, but he knows many potions to relieve pain, and has a tender heart . . . despite . . .” Her voice trailed off. The last meeting with Julian in Southwark had shaken her. “I wonder if he has cured His Majesty. Master Julian was very confident.”
“We must pray so,” said Anthony, though his spirits plummeted again. Whether or not the King recovered, Anthony’s personal plight would continue. May God blast that bugger Northumberland, he thought, then turned on his heel and strode back into his mansion.
Eleven
ON THURSDAY, JULY 6, at dusk, Edward died in Henry Sidney’s arms. He died after saying quite clearly, “Lord have mercy upon me—take my spirit.” His own former royal physician, Dr. Owen, bent over the hideously decayed body, and shaking his head, whispered to Sidney, “At last, poor royal youth—it is done. I believe I could have saved him, Sir Henry, had I not been banished for months. The Duke was misguided to dismiss me. . . .”
“Hush!” Sidney said. Tears ran down his cheeks. He eased Edward’s body on to the pillow, tenderly folded the contorted gangrenous hands as best he could on the shrunken chest. He drew up the embroidered coverlet. “Stay with him,” said Henry, “I must tell his grace, who wants the utmost secrecy at present. Silence about—” He pointed to the body.
Dr. Owen’s mouth thinned. “Aye—I’d forgot you were the Duke’s son-in-law—and though my antipapist convictions are strong enough, I mislike this hole-and-corner death. No last rites, nor even prayers—’twas far different when his father died.”
Henry flushed, he started to reply when they heard above the palace a tremendous thunderclap. Lightning flared into the death chamber.
“’Tis a warning, Henry Sidney!” cried the old doctor. “Tell his grace to heed it!”
“’Tis an ordinary July storm,” answered Henry, his voice trembling, and he hurried down to the council chamber where the Duke and Sir Nicholas Throckmorton were privately supping.
Wat Farrier guessed at the King’s death only ten minutes after the Duke heard of it. Wat was outside the palace’s back kitchen, near the washhouse when Betsy, one of the laundry maids, came scurrying down from the royal apartments bearing a hamper of filthy stinking linen. During these last days her errands of this nature had been frequent, the King was incontinent, and his yeoman of the chamber must continually change the sheets and bedgown.
Wat had taken the trouble—no unpleasant chore since Betsy was amorously inclined—of seducing the girl, and she greeted him with a mixture of pleasure and fear. “He’s gone—” she whispered, as she dumped the soiled linen in a vat. “I heard ’em say so as I lingered be’ind the arras, arter Gib ’anded me these.”
“Ah-h,” Wat breathed. “Ye certain, m’dear?” She nodded, then jumped at another thunderclap, which was followed by a roar of wind through the open passage. Wat gave her a warm kiss. “Thankee, lass.”
“Ye’re not goin’ out i’ this?” she cried.
Wat did not bother to answer. He darted to the servants’ courtyard, where his tethered stallion was snorting and shivering in the downpour. He spurred the beast, and galloped toward London. The storm had driven all the citizens indoors, he had the streets to himself. In an hour he reached the goldsmith’s shop on Lombard Street.
“’Tis time!” he shouted through the crack which finally opened to his banging.
The crack widened enough to admit Wat, and the goldsmith spoke from the shadows. “Tom’s waiting,” he said in a thin quavering voice, “an’ I’ve kept his horse on the ready.”
“Make haste!” Wat cried. “They sent her a summons yesterday. I saw the messenger go. She’s probably left Hunsdon, Tom may meet her anywhere along the London road.”
The goldsmith glided to his safe, and took out a small ebony box. Wat peered over his shoulder, to satisfy himself that it was the buck crest ring. “Tom must put it in her own hand. Has ’e the wit and nerve?”
“He’s my grandson,” snapped the goldsmith. He hobbled to another room. Wat heard the shaky voice giving urgent instructions, and then a horse’s whinny, followed by pounding hoofbeats on the cobblestones.
“Bigod,” said Wat as the goldsmith returned, “hope he stops her. They’ve laid a subtle trap—those shitten traitors.”
“No more—I wish to hear no more,” the goldsmith whispered. “I’ll thank ye to leave. If aught goes wrong, I’ve ne’er set eye on ye in my life. Nor your master. Tell him.”
“Ye’ll be glad enow fur the reward if all goes well, old bag o’ bones,” said Wat with a snort, but he quitted the shop, and mounting his wet bedraggled stallion returned to Greenwich and the dingy wharfside inn to await developments.
He had two days to wait, and then the whole of London was rocked by the news. King Edward was dead, and Jane Grey Dudley was proclaimed Queen of England—at the Tower, on St. Paul’s steps, at Charing Cross and Westminster. The city’s few remaining bells were set to pealing. The news was greeted with boisterous huzzahs and cries of “Long live Queen Jane!” from the archers the Duke had carefully planted amongst the crowd. Shocked protests were suppressed by force. On the whole the Londoners were dazed. Rumor and speculation there had been for weeks, but fact was different. Even many of the Protestants were appalled. Who was Jane Grey Dudley? An undersized, though—it was said—learned chit of sixteen. A half cousin of Edward’s, descended from the daughter of Henry the Seventh. But what of his sisters, especially the Lady Mary’s Grace. And even the Lady Elizabeth? They were of King Harry’s own get. At least Mary was certainly born in true wedlock from a royal mother. But she was papist and half Spanish, and the poor young King had set aside her claim by will. The placards all over London announced this. At Paul’s Cross Bishop Ridley preached a jubilant sermon lauding Queen Jane.
Of more personal interest to Wat was the information that Sir John Gage, Anthony’s aged and eccentric grandfather, had at once been removed as Constable of the Tower, Lord Clinton replacing him for the occasion. Wat, remembering his chats with Clinton’s valet, said, “Aha!” and laughed dourly.
Wat waited around in Greenwich for five more days. Betsy was of no further use to him. She could no longer eavesdrop profitably, since all the court had removed to London or the Tower, to prepare Queen Jane for h
er coronation. Betsy’s only news was dismal. The King’s body lay neglected and unwatched in his chamber, where the stink had grown so horrible that the servants would not enter.
Wat haunted the docks. Sailors and fishermen always brought tidings, and he spent most of the money Anthony had given him loosening tongues with pints of ale. At last, on July 14, he was rewarded. A fishing smack from Yarmouth sailed smartly upriver on a following breeze. She was loaded with herring commissioned for the palace, and her master, though wary at first, soon could not contain his excitement. The Princess Mary was at Framlingham Castle in Suffolk! East Anglians of all degree were rallying around her. She had been proclaimed the rightful Queen at Norwich.
“Bigod, has she in truth?” Wat cried, betrayed by relief into a triumphant shout. He lowered his voice. “How’d she get to Framlingham?”
The fisherman sucked ale foam from his lips and grinned. “Ah—they say she was warned at Hoddesden. Somebody warned her of a trap. She turned back and went skitterin’ north to her palace at Kenninghall, an’ Northumberland’s men arter her. But she got clear, an’ hightailed it to greater safety at Framlingham—brave as a lion, like her dad. She’ll get her roights, that one will. They’re all solid for her up Yarmouth way.”
“God bless her,” said Wat on a great sigh of relief. “I’m off to join her,” he said suddenly. “She’ll need every able man!” He looked around the pot room defiantly, ready to fight arrest, aware that as matters stood his assertion was treason. Instead, he was cheered. Ale mugs thumped on tables. Several voices shouted, “We’ll join wi’ ye, Wat!”
Wat had a fleeting thought for Sir Anthony, virtually imprisoned at Cowdray. But it was yet too soon. There was nothing to report except the proclamation of Queen Jane, the escape of Mary.
“Ferry me an’ me horse ’cross Thames,” he ordered, “I’ll start now.”
The master nodded slowly. “I’m no papist, but I’ll take ye. If we must have a woman fur queen, better the roightful one, I say!”
In the end several fishing boats and a horse ferry crossed the Thames that night, eleven men roused by Wat’s enthusiasm elected him leader, and one of these who was Suffolk-born offered himself as guide.
At Chelmsford they found the town in a ferment. The church bell pealed for Queen Jane one hour and Queen Mary the next, as messengers came rushing through with new proclamations. At Chelmsford, Wat and his little band learned that the Duke had raised an army of three thousand men, and had proceeded into Norfolk to “fetch in Lady Mary, captive or dead,” that he was burning and pillaging as he went, and rousing increasingly angry opposition as he marched towards Cambridge, the Protestant University town where he might reasonably expect to raise stronger forces.
An hour after Wat’s party finally reached the great triple ramparts of Framlingham Castle, and joined the hordes of gentry, yeomen and common people who were milling around shouting allegiance to Mary, a royal herald galloped amongst them. His horse was lathered, his tabard so askew and fouled by spattered mud one could scarcely see the lilies and leopards. He brandished a roll of parchment, and yelled hoarsely, “London’s proclaimed Queen Mary! Long may she reign!” He panted a moment, then blew a great blast on his trumpet.
The crowd gave a collective gasp.
Harry Jerningham, a rich Suffolk squire, and Mary’s staunch supporter, came running from inside the fortress. “What’s that?” he cried. “Did I hear aright? Has the Council proclaimed Queen Mary in London?”
“Aye, sir,” answered the herald mopping his face on his sleeve. “Here’s proclamation. An’ the order’s gone out for Northumberland’s arrest.”
“Jesu!” said Jerningham. He fell to his knees, and upholding his sword kissed the cross hilt. One by one, most of the crowd followed suit.
Wat, exalted and triumphant as any of them, had a momentary pang. “So there’ll be no fight,” he murmured to the Suffolk lad beside him. He fingered his musket, touched his dagger. “I was itchin’ to have at the bloody heretics!”
The boy did not answer for they were all riveted by the appearance on the drawbridge of a small pale woman in violet velvet, riding a white palfrey.
“Long live our good Queen Mary!” the herald shouted as all the men uncovered. “Queen of England, Ireland and France, Defender of the Faith!”
Her pinched face brightened and colored rosy. She looked instinctively to Jerningham, who nodded. The myopic blue eyes glistened. She pulled the jeweled crucifix up from her bodice and kissed it. “A miracle!” she cried. “Our Blessed Lord and His saints have then answered my prayers.” In her deep mannish voice she added, “And I thank you, too, all my loyal followers, from the bottom of my heart.”
There was riotous rejoicing that night outside Framlingham’s great curtain wall. The weather was warm as new milk, and Mary’s lesser followers settled for sleep on the soft green lawns. Before Wat began snoring with the rest he had a sharp struggle between duty and inclination. The crews from a fleet of men-of-war Northumberland had sent out to guard the channel from possible Spanish intervention had been willingly blown into Yarmouth harbor, and upon being accosted by Harry Jerningham had at once switched sides and declared for Queen Mary. Many from the crews had come to Framlingham bearing ships’ stores for the castle.
Ever attracted by the sea, Wat joined some of these sailors and listened longingly to their tales of tempests, of sea monsters near the Canary Isles, of successful battles with pirates, of the beauties of Venice and Genoa, including succulent descriptions of those cities’ brothels. Even more fascinating was a bosun called Jack Tate who had actually set forth with Richard Challoner in May on the adventurous search for a northeast passage to India. He had only got as far as Amsterdam when he took sick. The crew, fearing it was plague, dumped him off. By great good fortune, the Greyhound was in port, about to sail along the channel at Northumberland’s orders. It picked him up, and thus he had eventually reached Yarmouth and Framlingham.
Jack Tate’s eyes were blood-red, he had purple patches on his face, and an ugly running sore near his mouth. It drew his lip up in a snarl which gave him a sinister look, belied by his doggy eyes and amiable voice.
“I doan’t know why I doan’t ’eal,” he said ruefully. “I fear ’tis the King’s evil. I wonder would our new Queen touch it fur me—arter she’s been crowned, to be sure.”
“N’doubt she will,” said Wat absently. “Now, about that venture. Ye say they was going ’round Jutland and north to them icebergs?”
It was then that Wat noticed a middle-aged, shabbily dressed man in a battered felt hat standing above them and staring steadily at Jack Tate. The stranger had a long face with dark stubble on his chin and torn hose, though his shoes of thick leather were unexpectedly good.
“Sit down,” said Wat, “don’t loom o’er us like that. Ye want to hear about Jack’s venture?”
The man started and smiled. “Da vera—” he said, “most interesting, but I was thinking about that imposthume on his face, and those bloodshot eyes. I could cure him.”
Wat and Jack both stared, then burst into guffaws.
“I am a physician—my name is Julian Ridolfi—and ’tis the first time in a fortnight I’ve dared admit that,” said the stranger, unruffled. “My good man,” he nodded toward Wat, “didn’t I see you at Cowdray last summer? Aren’t you Sir Anthony Browne’s Master of the Horse?”
“Aye,” Wat admitted after a moment. His wits were quick but he had not yet quite realized that there was no more need for secrecy. “Bigod, and are ye the foreign longbeard wot healed our Brother Stephen o’ rat bite? Ye’ve got the voice an’ the manner, but ye’ve come down i’ the world, old cock!”
Julian bowed. “Certain changes in my appearance became imperative. I intended to stow away from Yarmouth to get to the Continent. Recent events make that unnecessary.” He smiled suddenly, the pleasant smile always tinged with irony. “‘Exitus acta probat,’ as wise old Horace wrote.”
Suspiciously, Wat thought this
over, and suddenly grinned. “Wot’s that?”
“The outcome justifies the act,” said Julian chuckling. He had scarcely spoken to anyone during the past fortnight of hungry, footsore plodding, and was glad of company.
“Ah-hr,” said Wat, “well, we’re i’ the same boat then, an’ it’s stopped rocking, thank God. How would ye heal Jack?” he added, curiously.
“Chopped greens, eaten raw—” began Julian.
The sailor who had been listening blankly gave an angry yelp. “Ye’re mad, ye rogue, or else ye jest. Me teeth wobble in me jaw loike ninepins, an’ me gums’re rotten.”
Julian nodded. “You have scorbuto, my poor fellow. ’Tis common enough.”
Jack paled, “The French pox . . .?” he whispered. “That fleabit whore at Calais . . .”
“No,” said Julian. “I believe your disease is called ‘scurvy’ in England. Since you can’t chew, will you drink milk and fresh ox blood? New-pressed cider will also help you, though it will take some weeks.”
“Faugh!” cried Jack. “Me belly heaves at the thought.”
“Then you will die before your time,” said Julian.
Jack gulped and crossed himself. His crimsoned eyes stared fearingly at Julian, in whom he recognized authority despite the shabby dress and the un-English intonation which he instinctively mistrusted. “Is it witchcraft?” he whispered after a moment. “Should I say a spell, a charm?”
