by Karen Harper
“Indeed, I have, well-written letters too, Lady Gera. What is his first name again?”
“Gerald, Eleventh Earl of Kildare,” I said, keeping calm, though I knew he was baiting me.
“Since the Act of Attainder against your family, my lady, he is not recognized as earl in this realm. But I have much influence with the council and could see championing your concerns and requests to them.”
“I would be very grateful. But at what cost?”
“Ah, a lady who knows how to come to the point. Very well. Let me get to the real reason for this visit. The princess Elizabeth has been placed under house arrest on her rural property of Hatfield House and her closest servants and confidantes, including her governess, taken to the Tower and questioned.”
“To the Tower? For what reason?” I asked, trying to keep my voice in check, for I feared I knew the answer to my own question.
“She has been accused of planning to overthrow her brother and his government with the help and firepower of the king’s uncle, Thomas Seymour,” he said, confirming my worst fears. He stopped and took a slow sip of heated cider, then put the mug down on the small table between us as if we were yet talking about the Byfleet River icing up. I tried to stay calm, but I fear my voice betrayed my agitation.
“She’s but fifteen,” I said, “and he is . . . how old?”
“Old enough to defy his brother, the Lord Protector, and the Privy Council, old enough to wed the dowager queen with reckless abandon, old enough to store up arms for no good purpose in Seymour House in the heart of London, and certainly old enough to be arrested for treason four days ago when, fully armed, he tried to take the young king as his prisoner. I do take your point about who would be mostly to blame for their liaison. But my point is that, since you were sent to the Chelsea household at the time Elizabeth and Seymour were there together—”
“I was there barely a week, until my lord took sick.”
“But, I hear from a good source, long enough to become quite a favorite with the princess—perhaps a confidante, eh?”
I stared him down as I had before. I suppose I should have presented a more hospitable disposition to him, but would he not have thought I was putting on a show? Yet that was exactly what I decided to do. Years ago, before I knew Elizabeth, I would have leaped at the chance to bring a Tudor down, but not now, not her. Like me, she had enemies at court, and this vile opportunist was obviously one of them, this man who would be ecstatic to ruin both Elizabeth and me if it suited his own ambition. I had no doubt that, if Dudley knew I was aware of her passion for Seymour and that I had spoken to her about it but had told no one else, he would have had me in the Tower for questioning.
“My lord,” I said, still not blinking an eye, “all I can tell you is that Tom Seymour was an affectionate host to everyone, and it is true, as you no doubt know, that he cuts a swashbuckling figure with the ladies. But I have heard the princess say more than once that she does not wish to ever wed, so I cannot help you with damning evidence against her. I even heard her say she wanted her royal brother’s approval, and I am certain she was loyal to him.”
“Loyal to her brother as you are to yours?”
“Blood is thicker than water, they say. Yes, of course I am yet loyal to my brother—both of them—and to my sisters too.”
“Let us not have another go-round on all this. Perhaps I have not made my position plain enough, a position which can help or harm, irreparably, your brother Gerald’s position with the council and the king. I need you to testify that Elizabeth Tudor, young though she is, was in collusion with Seymour to bring her brother down, push her sister Mary out of the line of succession, and rule England with Seymour as her consort.”
“Ridiculous! I know not what Seymour had in his head, but I know nothing of the kind about Her Grace.”
“Even though I would be willing to lend my full weight to help bring your brother Gerald back to England under, shall we say, a truce for things past?”
I supposed I wavered a long moment then. My deepest desire was to return Gerald to Ireland, and this would be a huge step in that direction. But to be championed by John Dudley? And to have to trust him? I knew he was mentor to the man I would always secretly love, so there must be some good in him. But I saw much good in Elizabeth. God help me, I saw myself in Elizabeth of England.
“Well?” he prompted, leaning forward across the small table toward me. “Even if you know very little, that could seem much if presented with persuasive words.”
“I regret I cannot help you and seem therefore unable to help my very innocent and deserving brother, my lord, at least at this time.”
“Then I must tell you that you are in luck anyway, Lady Browne, a Geraldine! a Geraldine! to your very core. The council has decided to consider a pass for Gerald Fitzgerald to come for a visit, though when I cannot say.”
“Oh, that is wonderful news!” I cried—and almost cried indeed as tears welled up in my eyes. But I realized that this man had misled me too. What he had tried to bargain for my help was already going to happen. I was so tempted to tear into him, but I had been around enough to know to play the game for Gerald’s advantage, and for poor Anthony’s too.
“I ask one small favor, my lord,” I dared, fighting to keep my tone civil. “Not for me or my brother but for my lord Anthony, who, as you know, served our king’s father faithfully for years.”
“Say on,” he said as he stood.
“He much misses being about the court, all the heady events from the days he served his king. If you would be so kind as to spend a few moments with him, bring him news of the day—even if it is about Seymour’s foolhardiness—I would be grateful. I believe you counseled me once to be loyal to my English family, and we spoke about how family matters to both of us.”
“I would be honored and could do no less for an old soldier and servant of the crown—and for a woman with a backbone of steel—steel like in a dagger I once had,” he said, and bowed stiffly to me. “I would swear I left it on a table outside the dying king’s chambers, but somehow it ended up in his bed. If you would lead the way to your husband’s bedside, Lady Gera.”
So he would not see the surprise on my face, I quickly turned away to lead him from the room. “Perhaps you were so distressed that day, my lord, you did not realize what you did or didn’t do,” I threw over my shoulder.
Did he know? How much? A formidable foe indeed. I wanted to slap him, to push him down the stairs as he followed me up to our second floor. But I was now doubly afraid of him, and—I must admit—a bit in awe of him too. The snake beckoning to Eve in the Garden of Eden, that was what he was, charming, clever, but deadly.
At least he did me a favor that day, spending an hour with my lord, as if an earl and member of the Privy Council had been sent purposefully to report to him.
I made certain Dudley and his men were fed a hot meal again before they set out, grateful he did not ask for them to spend the night under my roof. Donning a cloak and gloves against the cold, I went out to see them off from our small, cobbled courtyard slick with snow.
He surprised me by taking my hand before he mounted. I was grateful for my gloves and his, for I could not bear for him to touch me. It frightened me how he read my mind at that moment, for I had told myself not to ask about Edward’s family or his new position as Lord High Admiral, but he said, “I recall you visited the home of my niece Ursula and her husband during the great northern progress. She’s been quite ill with breathing problems, you know, a sort of lung fever.”
“No, I didn’t know. I am sorry to hear of that.”
A corner of his mouth quirked. “Her husband is often at sea, of course, acquitting himself well for king and country. Edward Clinton is my protégé, you know, and as loyal to me . . . as others should learn to be.”
My eyes widened; I knew not what to reply. It was obviously a command or threat that I should not struggle against nor gainsay him. He kissed my gloved hand before I could protest
and mounted. “I have no doubt we shall meet again soon, Gera Fitzgerald,” he said, and spurred his horse away with his two men close behind him.
Anthony rallied a bit after that, but his health sank as spring burst with new life outside. He slept longer each day, and mumbled when he was awake about past times and pastimes with the king he’d loved and I’d detested.
“He said you were a wench after his own heart—that is, the way we were in the old days, when we used to run about after women,” he told me.
“You must rest now, Anthony. Save your strength, for Mabel’s coming, and your other children too.”
“I shall be buried next to my wife, Alys, but I shall take good memories of you with me, my dear.”
“I am happy to know I pleased you, my lord.”
“You pleased me but never loved me; I know that. In love with your Ireland, in love with . . .”
He choked and gasped. His face contorted, his body convulsed; then he went quite still. Dead before my eyes, before his children arrived, before he could finish his last thought. Was he going to mention my brother—or Edward Clinton?
I was a widow at age twenty-six. We buried him with great pomp in a fine tomb at Battle Abbey, where his armored effigy already lay carved next to that of his first wife. I must record here that Anthony has a far better memorial than Henry Tudor to this very day, for, with all the twists and turns that were soon to come, the former king’s plans for an elaborate monument were somehow shuffled aside and ignored. The Lord High God works in wondrous ways; that’s all I have to say on that.
Although I would have loved to sell Byfleet, I had nowhere else to go in my widowhood, so I made that my home. Of course, I would have liked to sail for Ireland straightaway, but I dared not, as the Act of Attainder against my family was still in effect and I dared not jeopardize Gerald’s chances with misbehavior. Besides, I was awaiting word of when he would arrive in England, so I hoped to return home with him later—if that was permitted.
A fortnight after the funeral, the bluff, kindly Mason Haverhill rode up to the house and delivered to me a condolence note from Edward Clinton, Lord High Admiral. It bore a red wax seal imprinted with an anchor. I broke the seal and read the missive as I escorted the stocky man into the house and saw that he was well fed. I have that note to this day, pressed in the pages I was then writing of my life’s story, next to the note and pressed posies Elizabeth sent when I lost my boys.
Aboard the Defiance, Deptford in the Thames, this day of our Lord September 4, 1549. Dearest Lady Browne—Gera. My heartfelt condolences in the loss of your husband. I have been at sea, chasing pirates and at war with the Scots, when I would prefer to make peace with the Irish. I do know and share from afar, on rocky waters, the pains of one’s spouse being ill unto death. Keep your spirits up and keep your head, Irish.
Always, Edward
Mason Haverhill, the ship’s master who oft sailed with Edward, told me much about their seagoing adventures, making me long to be a sailor and not a land-bound soul staring only at the little Byfleet River. My fingers yet tremble at the emotion and longing that leaped off the page as I read the note that day and as I stroke the folded parchment now. There was a hint of flirtation in his desire to make peace with the Irish, wasn’t there? And “keep your head”? That too could be taken two ways, so perhaps he was scolding me to behave again. And Ursula must still be ill. Edward’s man’s visit . . . the note . . . it was all I’d had of him for years.
Magheen and I made a trip to visit Jane Grey, back in her home at Bradgate, to renew our abruptly truncated acquaintanceship and put in a good word for Gerald with her father. We two Irish colleens also went for a walk on the grounds and covertly dug up The Red Book of Kildare. I intended to entrust it to Gerald when it was safe to do so. Magheen, of course, was as excited as I, for her dear Collum would be coming home with Gerald—someday, we prayed. We took our Irish treasure back to Byfleet House with us, and I buried it in a metal box in my own garden this time. And waited and waited for my life to begin again.
Though I felt far distant from important events those early months of my widowhood, I had learned a great deal in the few days I was at Bradgate, for Jane’s parents stayed abreast of significant happenings. Elizabeth and her confidantes, including her governess, had been exonerated. Yet people whispered that the princess’s reputation was besmirched by Seymour, who was beheaded for treason in May of 1549, the very month Anthony died.
I must record here—especially in light of what happened later—that during our short visit to Bradgate, I saw how terrified Jane was of her parents. I asked that the girl be permitted to visit me at Byfleet when I saw how they abused her, but they brusquely turned that offer down. I know they buffeted Jane about and I heard her mother screeching at her more than once. Poor Lady Jane Grey.
Another thing I learned during our few days there was that the Greys were close friends with John Dudley, Earl of Warwick. There was talk that Jane would wed one of his sons to bond the two families, so perhaps that was what all the discord was about, for Jane had whispered to me that, like Elizabeth, she wished not to wed. I thought anything Dudley had his hand in—except, of course, his championing of Edward Clinton, and possibly expediting my brother’s return—seemed pure poison.
I also learned at Bradgate that Edward’s career, under the young king—with a push from Dudley, no doubt—was on a meteoric rise. His prowess at sea with the fleet, especially his part in the Scottish Battle of Pinkie, led to his receiving lands and being named to the honored position of Garter Knight. How I wish I could have attended his garter ceremony at St. George’s Chapel, Windsor, the very place where King Henry lay rotting in his tomb. Edward was also named a Privy Council member, which would keep him more in London, despite his sea duties. As if he were a man who could be in three places at once, he was also given grants of land and orders to build a power base in Lincolnshire for the crown. And, I’d overheard, something that was not meant for my ears but pricked them up—all these honors were bittersweet, because his wife, Ursula, the Earl of Warwick’s niece, was ailing so sore with lung fever she could not even get out of bed.
Speaking of the devil—Dudley, alias Warwick—I heard that not only was Tom Seymour out of the way on his path to power, but Edward Seymour, King Edward’s other uncle, who had served as Lord Protector, was out of favor for his strict, rough handling of the king, and the Earl of Warwick was riding high in the boy king’s favor. Jane Grey had told me with a sigh, “How wonderful that Warwick permits the young king to have a childhood and not just study day and night. I am so happy my royal cousin is allowed to play at arms and parade through London’s streets, and not just be so strictly confined and handled.”
As I said, poor Jane Grey—and the rest of us, even those of us who knew not to trust Dudley but still did not see what was coming.
My life truly began again on May 6 of 1550, when I received a second missive from Edward Clinton, Lord High Admiral, delivered yet again by his ship’s master, Mason Haverhill:
To the Lady Gera Fitzgerald Browne, Byfleet House, Surrey, from the hand of the Lord High Admiral, Edward Clinton, G.K., London.
I will be staging a water festival at Deptford for the king on the Thames next month. Although it will be a military display, we need two lovely ladies to grace the scene as water nymphs, so if you and your stepdaughter Mabel would be willing, there will be a chamber assigned to you at Greenwich Palace. . . .
“Mabel! Mabel!” I shouted, for she was visiting me that week from London. Though I was twenty-seven years of age, I tore out in the garden to find her. I felt I was a child again, as if I had been told I could go to visit the sights and shops of distant Dublin. “We’re going to London! I’m going back with you! And whatever is a water nymph?”
CHAPTER THE TWENTY-FOURTH
DEPTFORD ON THE RIVER THAMES
June 1550
Though I thought the twelve-year-old king looked rather pale, even in the warm spring sun, color came to
his cheeks, and his eyes sparkled at the excitement of the river tournament.
Watching from behind a gold brocade curtain, I sympathized entirely, for I was thrilled to be back even temporarily at court, where I could do some good for Gerald. He had been invited to come to London but was still reluctant to trust the Tudors, so was biding his time in Paris a bit longer. I had written to advise him that to put too much confidence in John Dudley, Earl of Warwick, who had extended the invitation to him, could be a two-edged sword. If Dudley thought it would help him and his family, he might be of aid—otherwise, I wrote, beware.
And, oh, yes, I must admit that day of the river tournament, I also sympathized with the English boy king’s exhilaration because I was so thrilled to be near Edward Clinton that I could hardly keep my mind on my coming histrionics.
Shortly after our arrival at the palace, the Lord High Admiral of England had come calling on me and Mabel, giving us both a hearty greeting and a quick kiss on both cheeks. “In the French fashion,” he had said, though his eyes watched my mouth. His stylish, close-cut beard enhanced his dark eyebrows as his gaze went thoroughly—possessively, I thought—over me. We stared too long at each other, I warrant, for Mabel had to clear her throat to break the spell.
“So,” he said, clapping his big hands together, “there will be a rehearsal dockside at Deptford on the morrow, and I will send horses for both of you. You will have short parts to learn in rhyme about the mock battle, the king’s forces against the powers of evil.”
