B009RYSCAU EBOK

by Gillian Bagwell

  Jane Dudley wore no such mask. She looked like a cat that had eaten a canary bird, Bess thought. Beside her, John Dudley, the ghost of a smile on his lips, simply looked like a man who no one dared challenge.

  After the wedding, Bess got a moment with Jane, and kissed her pale cheeks. She began to wish Jane joy but stopped, feeling that the words might loose a flood of tears. From herself, and perhaps from the bride as well.

  “What a beautiful necklace,” she said, for want of anything better to say.

  “Thank you,” Jane said, a hand flying to her throat. Her fingers toyed with the pearls and rubies. “A New Year’s gift from Princess Mary.”

  “Where will you live?”

  “At Syon.”

  Bess felt a shiver up her spine. Syon Abbey was where Cat Howard had been taken from Hampton Court, where she had learned that she was to die. Edward Seymour had built a fine house there before he died, now in the possession of the Dudleys.

  “I hear it’s very lovely,” she said to Jane, hating the falseness of her voice. Jane looked up at her and Bess was distressed to see tears in her eyes.

  “Oh, Bess. I feel so bewildered. Everything is happening so fast.”

  How can I help her? Bess thought. She pulled Jane into her arms and held her close.

  “Come to visit as soon as you can. I’m with child again. Will you stand godmother? November is when it is like to be born. You could come and stay as you did for Temperance’s christening.”

  Jane’s face brightened.

  “Yes! I’d like that.” A shadow of doubt crossed her face. “If I’m permitted.”

  “We’ll find a way,” Bess whispered to her, stroking a russet strand of hair from Jane’s cheek. “We must find a way. For I feel I can never be happy again until you are happy, too, dear Jane.”

  Twenty-first of June, 1553—Newgate Street, London

  “The storm is upon us.” William had barely closed the front door of the house before he spoke. “Time to leave London.”

  “Why? What’s happened?” Bess asked. She was five months gone with child now and they had planned to stay in town for the birth.

  “The king is dying.”

  Bess recalled William saying the same words when King Henry’s life was nearing its end. There had been no doubt who would succeed him. But this time nothing was certain.

  “When must we go?”

  “Now. See to the packing.”

  He turned and headed up the stairs and Bess followed him, her mind awhirl with all that would need to be done to depart London suddenly. In the six years since their marriage, she and William had divided their time between London and the country, keeping the lease of the house from William Parr so that they always had a suitable place near the court, where they could entertain old friends and woo new ones.

  “But the king has been ill for some time,” she said. “Why must we leave so suddenly?”

  “His device for the succession, which Edward Seymour pushed him to enact, has been signed and approved. He has named Jane Grey as his heir. Mary is in Norfolk, so it will take some days for the news to reach her. But we’re in a race against time—Edward is failing fast. The minute he’s dead all stability will be gone.”

  “Stability? We have been poised at the edge of a precipice.”

  “And now the earth is giving way beneath our feet.” William dropped the riding boots he had taken up. He strode toward Bess and grasped her upper arms as though to plant her firmly before him. “There are only two choices now: Mary or Jane. All men will have to declare where their allegiance lies. And those who wager wrong will pay a heavy price. The farther we are from London the better. It will give us time to know how matters are falling out before we must speak.”

  “Of course it must be Jane,” Bess said. William laid a hand over her lips, and she was terrified by the urgency and swiftness of his movement.

  “Shh. We must not speak aloud what is in our hearts, even to each other. And on no account to anyone else. We must be gone before anyone knows we are leaving or has the chance to ask where we will stand.”

  The words of Job echoed in Bess’s head.

  The thing that I feared is come upon me, and the thing that I was afraid of is happened unto me.

  She clutched to William and held fast, as if he were a rock of safety in a heaving sea.

  Fifteenth of July, 1553—Chatsworth, Derbyshire

  The rider was a blur in the distance. Bess shaded her eyes and tried to see the face, but it was muffled beneath scarf and hat. No matter. Whoever it was came from London, and the news was not hard to guess.

  “William!” Bess called over her shoulder toward the house and turned at the sound of a window being flung open. William spotted the horseman and he disappeared within, coming to her side in a few moments.

  “It’s Cecil’s man, Bowers,” he said.

  A wave of dizziness passed over her. Her whole body felt heavy and sluggish with her pregnancy, and the summer heat added to her discomfort.

  In minutes Bowers pounded past the gatehouse and was calling out before he had dismounted.

  “The king is dead. The Duke of Northumberland has proclaimed Jane Grey queen.”

  Bess’s knees felt weak and she put a hand on William’s arm to steady herself.

  “And where is Mary?” William guided her toward the house as he addressed Bowers. “Has the news reached her? Does Dudley have her within his control?”

  “She is in Norfolk,” Bowers said, gulping down the tankard of small beer that a serving man brought him. “She was on her way to London but must have learned the king was dying, so she turned around and made for Kenninghall.”

  “God’s blood.” Bess had almost never heard William swear, and his words shook her. “There she will raise an army, no doubt. Or perhaps fly to Flanders, and seek the assistance of her cousin the Holy Roman Emperor. What a blunder on Dudley’s part. What does he do with this news?”

  “He is garrisoning the Tower and has sent his son Robert after her with orders to bring her to London.”

  William snorted with scorn. “It will need more than Robin Dudley to stop the Lady Mary.”

  “Northumberland has the promise that France will come in on his side.”

  Dear God, Bess thought, it was real war that was about to be unleashed. Thank heaven the children were here in Derbyshire, far from London. But Jane . . .

  “Where is Jane Grey?” she asked.

  “She was at Suffolk Place with her mother, but she was being fetched back to Syon when I left London.”

  Where the Dudleys could keep her in their grasp, Bess thought, and no doubt try to make their son Guildford king regnant, not just Jane’s consort, snatching power from the hands of the Greys. Poor Jane. She had not wanted the crown, would have been content to be left to her studies. Bess turned to William, feeling lost.

  “What are we to do?”

  “Wait. For as long as we can.”

  Uncertainty and anxiety ate at Bess for two long days, until another messenger arrived with fresh news from London.

  “Mary wrote to the privy council demanding their allegiance to her as Edward’s rightful heir,” William told Bess. “She’s been proclaimed queen in Norfolk, and parts of Suffolk, too. Nobles, gentlemen, and the people in their thousands are flocking to her with arms. Dudley was wrong to dismiss the plans of ‘a mere woman.’ Now he’s got a war on his hands and he’s not ready. He’s gathering arms and munitions at the Tower, and recruits are being offered ten pence a day to join his army. ‘Jane the Queen’ may be signing orders to the lord lieutenants of the counties demanding their support, but whether they will obey remains to be seen.”

  Oh, Jane, Jane, Jane.

  “But if Jane has already been proclaimed queen?”

  “It doesn’t mean the people like it. They don’t like Dudley and don’t trust him. They think he supports Jane Grey only because he means to put his son on the throne, or even to make himself king. No matter the proclamations th
at Mary and Elizabeth are bastards, or the reminders that Mary is a Papist. Mary is the daughter of Henry and Queen Catherine, whom people still love. And the countryside isn’t London—evangelicals are rare birds outside of town. I think most folk would rather have Henry’s daughter, Papist or no, than let the Duke of Northumberland rule. And here is worse news for Dudley—it’s said that he’s treating with the French, and is willing to replace Jane with the Scots queen if that will bring him the support of France should the emperor take up Mary’s part.”

  “So England would be the prize to be won by the empire or by France.”

  “Exactly. And where think you Englishmen will stand on that?”

  “But if Mary prevails, then Jane . . .”

  “Would be guilty of treason.”

  Bess felt sick, and clapped a hand to her mouth. The penalty for treason for a woman was burning alive.

  “But none of this is her doing!” she cried. “It’s all her father and John Dudley. Surely Mary knows that. And she’s like an aunt to Jane—she could never harm her.”

  William’s face was grim, but she could see that he was struggling to find words of comfort for her.

  “Likely not. As you say, she knows the ambition for the throne does not come from Jane.”

  Bess felt suddenly exhausted and overwhelmed and sank into a chair. The child in her womb kicked, as if he felt her turmoil. She put her hand on her belly, as if to calm the babe as well as herself. She and William and the children were all safe here at Chatsworth. Perhaps they might ride out the storm and come to no harm.

  “Bess.” William stooped at her side. “We can stand aside no longer. The time has come for action. I will raise as many men as I can, and go to join John Dudley.”

  A wave of terror swept through Bess.

  “But why?”

  “If Mary becomes queen, many will suffer greatly for it. Our friends. All of England. The matter now hangs in the balance. Dudley will need every man he can get if there is any hope of keeping Jane on the throne.”

  Jane, Jane, Jane.

  Bess stared at him, feeling numb. “But what if he fails?”

  “Then many will die. I must do what I can to prevent it.”

  * * *

  WILLIAM HAD GONE. BESS LAY IN HER BEDCHAMBER, WHERE SHE had retreated with a pounding headache. She took up the little portrait of Jane Grey that stood near her bed and studied it. Those keen, bright eyes, the determined chin with its dimple, the delicate hands. Jane was strong, no question, but surely the threat of civil war and foreign invasion was too great a weight for those slender shoulders. And if Dudley should fail . . .

  Bess got to her knees and prayed.

  God my Father, let Thy care watch over my dear husband, my only harbor in troubled seas. Grant that John Dudley and his forces may be victorious. And protect my Jane. Jane the queen, if so she be, but most of all my sweet beloved Jane. Give her Thy infinite strength and wisdom, and guide and protect her as she treads this treacherous path.

  * * *

  THE DAYS SEEMED TO DRAG ON ENDLESSLY. HERE IN THE countryside, summer was in glorious reign. But Bess knew that even as she went about her daily life, supervising the running of the household and estate, seeing to the dairying and the baking, the brewing and the plans for the harvest, matters of great importance were moving inexorably forward in London and elsewhere.

  She had had no word from William, but riders passing carried news that the country was rising to support Mary’s claim to the throne. She had been proclaimed queen in Buckinghamshire, and armies of men were rallying to her at Framlingham Castle in Suffolk. Five royal ships had mutinied off Norfolk and now stood at her command.

  Bess was both relieved and terrified at the sight of William’s secretary John Bestenay pelting down the road to the house.

  “My husband?” she cried, before he had dismounted.

  “My lady, I have no news of him—I come from London—but I bring a letter writ to him from Sir William Cecil.”

  Inside the house, Jenny and Aunt Marcella followed Bess as she led Bestenay to William’s study. Once the door was closed behind them, Bess broke the seal on the folded square of paper that Bestenay handed to her. A smaller letter fell out of it, and as he bent to retrieve it, Bess saw that on it was written her own name, in Jane Grey’s writing. Bestenay handed it to her, and she clasped it to her bosom. Jane was yet well, or had been a few days since. But Bess could not bring herself to open the letter, for fear of what ill tidings it might bring. She found no comfort in Bestenay’s grim face.

  “What is the news?” she asked.

  “It is over, is the sum of the news.”

  Aunt Marcella gasped, and she and Jenny stood arm in arm, their faces grim. Bess wrapped her arms about herself. Where was William? He could be dead even now. And what of Jane? She clutched Jane’s letter like a kind of talisman. If she held the letter in her hands, then Jane was well.

  “Read me what Cecil says.” She strove to keep her voice calm and steady.

  Bestenay opened the letter and read.

  “The nineteenth of July, 1553. This day the Earl of Pembroke proclaimed Mary to be queen at the cross in Cheapside, to the great joy of the people. Bonfires were lit and the bells of the churches rang forth, as they had not done when the Lady Jane was proclaimed queen but ten days ago.”

  “So Pembroke turned,” Bess said. She thought of William Herbert, godfather to her newest child, sitting at the christening dinner across from William Parr, whom he had now abandoned to the uncertain mercy of Mary Tudor. And so many others would suffer, too.

  “Harry Grey knew he was beaten and gave in without a fight. When the soldiers sent by the privy council came to the Tower, he ordered his men to down their weapons, and went forth to Tower Hill to read the proclamation declaring Mary queen. When he returned he tore down the canopy of state with his own hands and told his daughter Jane that she was queen no more.”

  Jane’s face came clear to Bess’s mind, and she longed to be with her and to comfort her. Jenny and Aunt Marcella were weeping quietly.

  May God damn Harry Grey, she thought. His ambition overran all sense. And how many others will he take down with him?

  “Grey and his wife are gone to Baynard’s Castle,” Bestenay read on, “to plead with Pembroke that all they did was at the behest of John Dudley. After they left the Tower, the guards had orders to let none else leave. Jane Grey, along with her husband and his mother, are prisoners.”

  “Oh, God, no!” Bess gasped, staggering as though she had been struck, and Jenny and Aunt Marcella caught her in their arms.

  “Do you wish to lie down?” Jenny asked. “Let me help you to your chamber.” Her face was gray with worry.

  “No. I am well. The child is well.” Bess put a protective hand to her belly. She looked to Bestenay. “Read the rest of the letter.”

  “John Dudley and William Parr are yet in the field,” he continued, “but if they are taken alive and returned to London, there is naught but death awaits them here. Mary is queen, it is most certain. I enclose for your lady wife a letter from the hand of one who loves her well. Yours in haste, William Cecil.”

  Bess looked at the small square of paper in her lap and broke the wax that sealed it. The sight of Jane’s writing brought tears to her eyes and she wiped them away so she could read.

  My dearest Bess: It is hard to believe so much has happened in the few weeks since I last saw you, at my wedding. I will not recount the events as I am sure you have heard them all from those whose thoughts are clearer than mine. I am here at the Tower where I came as queen and from which, perhaps, I will never depart. I wish you were with me. You ever knew what to say to me to ease my fears and to still my whirling thoughts. My cousin Mary, now the queen, has always been kind to me and I hope will show me mercy. Without that, I am lost. Pray for me, dear Bess. With love always, Jane.

  O God, protect her, Bess prayed, for those on earth who should do so have cast her to the dogs.

  *
* *

  WILLIAM ARRIVED BACK AT CHATSWORTH THAT NIGHT, LOOKING like a ghost.

  “Thank God, thank God you are safe!” Bess repeated, burying her face against his chest and holding him tight. She raised her eyes to his face. “You are safe? Your men?”

  He nodded. “The news from London came to us before we came close to reaching Dudley. If any have reason to ask, I shall say that I was riding to the aid of Queen Mary. And none can prove that was not my aim.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Twenty-first of December, 1553—London

  A STIFF BREEZE WAS BLOWING ON THE RIVER, BUT BESS DIDN’T care. She was on her way to see Jane Grey at the Tower, and her heart felt lighter than it had in months, for Jane expected that Queen Mary would shortly pardon her and send her home to Bradgate, and she was now allowed to walk free in the Queen’s Garden within the Tower walls.

  It would still some of Bess’s frantic worry to see Jane with her own eyes, to be able to touch and speak with her. Sheltering at Chatsworth had kept her family out of danger, but left her desperate to know what was happening in London. Once the trial and execution of John Dudley had taken place in August, William had urged that they return to town and she had agreed.

  “We must go back sometime,” he had said. “My only livelihood is with the crown. And our surest footing is to stand squarely by the side of Queen Mary. An easy path lies open to us—we shall ask her to be godmother to the babe that is coming.”

  So back to London they had gone, Bess in her seventh month of pregnancy. As always, the sight of London had brought mixed feelings, but she knew that William was right. They could not hide in Derbyshire forever.

  She had nearly fainted when William told her on the thirteenth of November that Jane Grey had been convicted of treason and condemned to die by burning. But he had assured her that Mary would pardon Jane. So a few days after their son Charles was born on the twenty-seventh of November, he had been christened in a Papist service, with Queen Mary as his godmother. In a further step to securing the goodwill of the queen, William and Bess asked Mary’s longtime ally Bishop Gardiner to be one of the child’s godfathers. Bess wept with rage and shame at the thought of smiling at Gardiner, recalling his plot to bring down Catherine Parr, and his sending Anne Askew to the flames. Only the knowledge that she was securing a safer future for her family steeled her to go through with it. But she had insisted that the second godfather be Harry Grey, whom Mary had pardoned.