My fifteen- and thirteen-year-old half brothers, my father’s sons by his marriage to Katherine, had been studying at Cambridge. “They are ill?”
“They are with the Lord, my lady. They perished of the sweat.”
“Lord have mercy,” I whispered. They were Katherine’s only children.
“When the sweat came to Cambridge, they left immediately for Buckden, but it was too late. They fell ill hours after their arrival. Their death was very quick. My lady was sent for, but they had expired before she arrived. The eldest died first, and the younger followed just a half hour later.”
The twins, we had nicknamed my brothers, for even though they were a couple of years apart in age, they had been inseparable. “They died together, at least. It would have been cruel for the Lord to have left only one alive.”
“Aye, my lady, and they both died as dukes, as the younger inherited the elder’s title in his remaining half hour of life. They will be buried as such.”
I nodded sadly. My father’s dukedom, awarded him by King Henry before my parents married, had died with my brothers. There would be no other Duke of Suffolk—unless, as Harry pointed out when he came to Bradgate a few days later, the king chose to give Harry himself that title.
“How can you think of such a thing at a time like this?”
“I’m sorry, my dear, but the possibility does spring to mind.” Harry patted me on the hand. “Be honest, Frances. You probably thought of the matter yourself.”
“Yes,” I conceded. “But it’s poor taste to speak of it at this time.”
“All right, my dear.”
We were to leave the next day to visit Katherine at Grimsthorpe. Harry, hearing of my brothers’ deaths, had hastened to Bradgate, heedless of the sweat still ravaging the countryside. That had to count in his favor, I reminded myself.
“Sometimes, I wonder which is worse,” said Harry. “For a child to be taken as an infant, like our Henry, or for one to be taken as a young man, like your brothers. At least the Duchess of Suffolk got some time with her boys, got to see how they turned out. Not that I’m trying to make light of her grief, or yours. I know they’ll be sorely missed. I was fond of them myself.”
“You still mourn for our Henry?” I asked.
“Most certainly I do. Every day. You never realized that?”
I could not say the word “no”; it sounded as harsh as the July sun boring through our windows. “I suppose I never did.”
“Well, I do. Give me credit for some feeling, Frances.”
I said nothing, and we went about our separate business for the rest of the day until late in the afternoon, when I appeared in Harry’s study—usually forbidden to anyone but my husband. He was not reading one of his books, but weeping into his hands. “I’m sorry, Harry,” I said.
Harry nodded and took me into his arms. Holding each other, we cried for different things—him for our loss of many years before, me for my brothers—but we cried, at last, together.
17
Jane Dudley
October 1551
Since three of our sons—Jack, Ambrose, and Robert—and our daughter Mary were now married, and some of our sons were attending the king, we had begun setting aside one day a week to dine together, just John, our children, and their spouses. It was a time for each of us to tell the others our news, if we had any. With so many children married, I deeply hoped one or more of the couples would soon have news of a coming child. Having reached the end of my own child-bearing years, it appeared, I looked forward to spoiling a line of Dudley grandchildren.
But the news that night belonged to John. “The king is to make several knights next week,” he informed us. He nodded at Henry Sidney, who after his initial misstep in secretly marrying our daughter had become a favorite of John’s. “Henry is to be one of them.”
Mary squealed. “This calls for a kiss,” she announced and turned her attention, and her mouth, to Henry. Since Henry Sidney had joined our family, I had discovered there was very little in life Mary did not deem worthy of a kiss from her husband.
Robert, Jack, and Ambrose obligingly followed suit with their own wives, while Katheryn sighed romantically. Hal, my youngest son, rolled his eyes. “Why did you seat them together, Mother?”
“When do I get to be knighted?” Guildford asked.
“All in good time,” said John. “You are but young yet. But there are more honors to be given out that day, some of which you may find of interest. If I may have your attention—”
“Yes,” muttered Hal. “Save this for the bedchamber.”
My married children obediently turned flushed faces to their father. “William Paulet is to be made the Marquis of Winchester.” This was the William Paulet who had informed John of Thomas Wriothesley’s scheme. John had previously made him the Earl of Wiltshire. “William Herbert is to be made the Earl of Pembroke. The Marquis of Dorset is to be made the Duke of Suffolk.” John coughed. “And I am to get a new title myself—the Duke of Northumberland.”
I dropped my napkin. Even Mary was too stunned to kiss Henry Sidney.
“Well, it was likely to happen sooner or later, given my position,” John said.
“Will you have a coronet, Father?”
“Yes, Katheryn.”
“With jewels?”
“No doubt. And your mother shall have one, too.”
Katheryn sighed rapturously.
“Did the king give this to you of his own, my lord, or did you demand it of him?”
We turned as one to Anne, Jack’s wife, who as Somerset’s daughter had come to fill the role of a skeleton at our family meals. I tried to be kind to her—it could not be easy, I knew, being Somerset’s daughter at a Dudley table now that relations had turned so cool between John and her father—but there was a whole string of topics that could not be discussed around her, and even seemingly innocuous remarks could be taken the wrong way. It did not help to ease the tension around the table that Anne was not only her mother’s namesake, but also her virtual double, minus some years and her mother’s mature figure.
John said calmly, “I demanded nothing of the king, Anne. He is a young man with a mind entirely his own. He chose to honor me for my service to England, as well as others who have served him, and I am grateful.”
“With John a duke, Jack shall be the Earl of Warwick,” I added. “You shall be a countess, Anne.”
“I can only hope to fill the role as well as you have, my lady,” Anne said. She turned back to John. “Will my father be at the ceremony?”
“Certainly.”
“No doubt that will delight him.”
“Anne—”
“What? Today there is one duke in England—well, two if you count the Duke of Norfolk in the Tower—and soon there will be two more. Why wouldn’t my father be delighted of the extra company?”
Amy, who had a certain talent for rescuing conversations, said, “Will we ladies be allowed to attend?”
“Yes,” John said gratefully. “The king is allowing the ladies to witness the ceremony, though it will be crowded, I daresay. And there will be a banquet afterward.”
“Delightful,” said Anne. “I must plan what to wear.”
***
“The Duke of Northumberland,” John commented when he came to my bed that night. “What would my poor father have thought?”
“He would be proud beyond measure, as I am.” I looked through the opening in the bed curtains, where I could see the parrot in his covered cage. “I shall have to teach him how to say, ‘Duke.’”
“‘Northumberland’ might be a bit much for the poor creature,” John agreed. He kissed my cheek. “‘Duchess’ he will be able to manage, I’m sure.”
“The sooner the better, for there will be a new countess in the household.” I bristled. �
��I was furious, I must say, that Anne was so rude to you at supper. I know that it is hard, with her father—”
“Don’t speak of him,” John said. He took me into his arms and began fondling me in a way he had not done in some time. “Let me remind you of how an earl makes love. Then you will have a fresh basis for comparison when I become a duke.”
***
On October 11, my children and I joined the press of courtiers in the king’s presence chamber at Hampton Court. John’s younger brother Andrew was not present, as he was serving as captain of Guines, but Jerome was there, dressed in his finest clothes and agog at the sight of the king sitting under his canopy of state, surrounded by noblemen. Next to our family stood Frances Grey, Marchioness of Dorset, and her three daughters, the youngest so tiny at age six that a servant had been deputed to hold her upon his shoulders.
With a flourish of trumpets and a burst of color, the king’s officers of arms processed into the great chamber, followed by the Garter herald, who bore the patent creating Harry Grey the Duke of Suffolk. Lord Cobham, bearing a golden verge, the Earl of Rutland, bearing a cap of estate and coronet, and the Earl of Bedford, bearing a sword, followed. Behind them walked Harry Grey himself, wearing the crimson velvet, ermine-trimmed robes of estate of a duke. He was flanked by the Duke of Somerset and the Marquis of Northampton.
Harry Grey knelt before the king. Impulsively, I squeezed Frances Grey’s hand as the king vested the new Duke of Suffolk with his sword, coronet, and rod. She turned to smile at me.
Crimson robes trailing behind him, Suffolk moved to stand on the right side of the king as Frances wiped a tear from her eye and her daughters gazed at their father. Even Jane Grey, who had struck me as a girl who could not easily be moved, appeared to be impressed by the ceremony.
Then the officers of state and the attendant lords left the chamber. With another flourish of trumpets, they returned, this time with John walking between an expressionless Somerset and a smiling Northampton. John’s face was solemn, as befitted the occasion, but his eyes glowed with pleasure.
Robert put his hand on my shoulder as John knelt before the king, his head bowed low. Already, tears of joy were streaming down my face, and the king hadn’t even placed John’s coronet on his head yet. “Happy, Mother?”
I turned my tear-stained face to Robert and smiled. “Beyond words.”
***
Five days later, the Duke of Somerset was arrested and imprisoned once again in the Tower.
“Four dukes in England,” said Jerome, who had become somewhat obsessed with the topic since his brother had been raised to his new status. “Two in the Tower. Two out.”
18
Frances Grey
November 1551
What on earth are you doing to your hair?” demanded Harry.
My serving woman withdrew an iron from my hair and wound out a perfect red-gold curl. When all was done, my French hood would be covering a mass of ringlets. “For Mary of Guise, we ladies are dressing in the French style,” I said mildly. “One wouldn’t want her to think that Englishwomen are dowdy. Especially English duchesses.”
“Haddon—”
James Haddon, Harry’s chaplain, had made it his mission to improve us all, reminding us in his sermons about the vanity of dress and the evils of card playing for money. While I accepted that this was his duty, I could not help but find it annoying, especially since I had always been rather lucky at cards. Haddon had found even Jane wanting, much to her amazement. “He will just have to live with us tonight,” I said, nodding at my woman as she prepared to put a touch of color on my cheeks. “Trust me, the Duchess of Northumberland will be just as splendid. Why, even Jane has consented to wear that lovely gown that the lady Mary gave her.” She was also sporting a head of wanton curls, I started to add, but decided against it. Harry would find that out for himself shortly.
Mary of Guise, dowager queen of Scotland, was the mother of Mary, Queen of Scots. Having paid an extended visit to her native France, where her daughter was living, Mary of Guise had decided to visit the English court on her way back to Scotland. Jane and I were among the ladies who had been appointed to greet her, and as Mary was a member of the powerful Guise family and had been used to the luxurious courts of France, it would be unthinkable for us to meet her in anything less than the highest of style. Since the news had come that the dowager queen had arrived on England’s shores, we ladies had been frantically refurbishing our wardrobes. The Duchess of Northumberland and I had sent several messages back and forth to ensure we were not wearing gowns that were too similar, and even Jane had been inclined to spend less time with her Hebrew and more time with her dancing master.
There were conspicuous absences from our ranks, however. The lady Elizabeth, who was having a bout of ill health, was not present. The lady Mary, who had been specially urged to come by the king, had also pleaded ill health. “Feigning illness,” Harry had commented, and I knew he was probably right. Mary and the council had been quarreling about the Mass all year.
My poor stepmother was not there, but that was no surprise; still mourning the loss of her sons, she was living quietly at Grimsthorpe, though the last letter she had sent to me showed she was coming to terms with their deaths. By far the most glaring absence, however, was that of the Duchess of Somerset. How she would have liked to have put on her finest clothes and jewels and meet the dowager queen! But two days after the Duke of Somerset had been seized on his way to a council meeting and taken to the Tower, the duchess had been arrested, along with her half brother and a number of the duke’s men. The duke and duchess were now in separate quarters at the Tower, their children—the youngest a mere babe—lodged with various relations. It was said the duke and his allies had conspired to arrest the Duke of Northumberland and shut him in the Tower, or even to murder him while he sat dining at a great banquet.
I found the rumors hard to believe, though I kept my thoughts to myself—especially around the Duchess of Northumberland. Instead, I concentrated on Mary of Guise’s visit and my jewels and my clothing and my hair, and hoped that somehow everything would sort itself out without bloodshed, as it had the first time the duke was arrested.
Somehow, though, I doubted it.
“Which gloves would you like to carry, my lady?”
“My newest ones,” I said. “I wouldn’t want the queen to think we are savages.”
***
At dinner, the king and Mary of Guise dined under the same cloth of estate, Mary’s words lost to me in her strong French accent tinged with a Scottish burr picked up during her stay in her adopted country. I sat at a table slightly below them with my old friend and first cousin Margaret Douglas, Countess of Lennox, whose mother, Margaret, was my mother’s elder sister. As one of Anne Boleyn’s ladies, Margaret Douglas had scandalized the court by becoming secretly engaged to Anne’s handsome uncle, Lord Thomas Howard, and both she and her fiancé had been sent to the Tower by an outraged King Henry. Thomas Howard, poor man, had sickened and died there, but Margaret had been released, only to fall in love with yet another Howard. King Henry had finally found her a suitable husband, Matthew Stewart, Earl of Lennox, and she had obligingly fallen in love with him, too. Safely married, she now spent most of her time at Temple Newsam in Yorkshire. It was rumored her household was crawling with Catholics and Margaret herself could be found praying the rosary in the privacy of her own chamber, but Margaret, unlike our cousin the lady Mary, kept the matter of religion to herself. Instead, she chattered about her son, Henry, Lord Darnley, whose limning she kept in a locket around her neck, in readiness to show off at any opportunity.
“Do you miss being at court?” I asked after having duly admired the very pretty five-year-old Lord Darnley from every possible angle.
“Sometimes,” Margaret admitted, lovingly closing the case containing Lord Darnley’s portrait. “Yorkshire is beautifu
l, as is Temple Newsam, but sometimes it is too isolated for me, especially when my husband is gone.” She lowered her voice. “But every time I come to London, it seems someone new is in the Tower. Will they try Somerset soon?”
“I think so.”
“There are so many missteps one can make around here,” Margaret said. “The Lord knows, I made enough of them in my day. And the poor duchess is imprisoned, too, isn’t she?”
I nodded.
“Do you think they will execute her?”
“Surely not.”
“The duke?”
“I cannot say.” I dropped my voice even lower. “But I fear the worst.”
“So do I, and I have always been one to expect the best,” Margaret said. She sipped her wine. “No. This time when I go back to Yorkshire, I think I shall be quite pleased to be away from court.”
19
Jane Dudley
November 1551 to January 1552
Whatever the people said later—and they said plenty of things—the Duke of Somerset was no Anne Boleyn, brought down by mere slander. There was evidence against Somerset, and it was damning. Sir Thomas Palmer claimed Somerset had been planning to invite my husband, the Marquis of Northampton, and others to a banquet to cut off their heads. Somerset was planning to raise the apprentices of London—a potentially unruly lot—in his favor. William Crane testified that my husband and other lords were to have their heads stricken off while dining at Lord Paget’s house. The Earl of Arundel, no friend to my husband, said he and Somerset and the duchess, meeting in the garden of Somerset House, had conspired to arrest John and the Marquis of Northampton, then throw them into the Tower. John Seymour, Somerset’s bastard brother, had seen Arundel, clad in an inconspicuous black cloak, visiting Somerset House. Michael Stanhope, the duchess’s half brother, had taken messages between Somerset and Arundel.
Her Highness, the Traitor Page 15
