“I told you, I’m tired.” Jane suddenly pulled off her French hood, revealing her fine auburn hair. She rose, unsteady on her feet. “I’m going to bed.”
“No, you are not.”
John Aylmer stared at me. “My lady!”
“She cannot go to bed. She has the sweat. If she sleeps within the next few hours, she will die like my brothers did.” I grabbed Jane, who had actually started to unfasten her gown, totally indifferent to the presence of a man in the room. “Stop that! You shall not go to bed. You must study. I insist.”
“But Mother…”
“Go inform the household that my daughter has the sweat,” I told Aylmer. “See if my other daughters are ill. If they are not, make sure they go nowhere near Jane and me, and make sure that their ladies watch them closely for any signs of the illness. And have a physician sent for,” I added. But physicians were next to useless against the sweat, I knew. “Then come back and help me keep my daughter awake.” I shook Jane, whose eyes were shutting. “Read to me.”
“I want to sleep.”
“Read to me. I care not what you read. Just read it.” I glared down at my daughter, grateful for my advantage in height. “Read, or I will take a switch to you.”
Jane picked up a book—I recognized it as Plato—and stumbled her way through its pages, half reading, half crying with frustration. When Aylmer came back, she looked to him for rescue but got none. When her voice grew hoarse, he hauled her to her feet and walked her in circles around the room, then sat her down after a while of this and ordered her to write out a translation of what she was reading. All this time, she was sweating and having the utmost difficulty catching her breath.
For a couple of hours, we kept up this parody of a normal day’s study, until the physician arrived to confirm what I had guessed for myself. He allowed Jane to take to her bed, but bade me to continue to keep her awake and to make her sweat even more. Obediently, I swaddled Jane as tightly as a newborn babe in layers of blankets, ordered that the servants who had bravely ventured into the sickroom stoke the fire, and poked and prodded Jane every time she showed an inclination to shut her eyes.
Late in the evening, Jane begged to use the chamber pot. The physician nodded in satisfaction as she did so. “Copious urination. A good sign.”
Settling back in bed, Jane glared at him as he studied her prodigious output. “I wish you would go away.”
“Disrespect to one’s elders,” the physician said. “An even better sign.”
Jane turned her glare on me as I tried to wrap her blankets around her again. “Would you stop that, Mother?”
I nervously touched Jane’s forehead. It was cool. The physician followed suit and gave another nod of approval. “I believe the crisis is over, my lady. If the lady Jane continues as she is for another hour or so, she may sleep.”
***
When the physician at last consented for Jane to sleep, I watched her nervously, expecting every breath to be her last. But she grew visibly better as she slumbered through the night, and when the sun rose, she looked almost her usual self, except that after waking she was content to loll back against her pillows and doze some more. Her condition was so promising, I, too, could sleep for the first time in four-and-twenty hours, leaving Jane under the eye of our servants. When I returned to her side, Jane was sitting up against her pillows, sipping ale and staring at what she had written when her tutor and I had kept her awake. “I wrote this? It’s barely coherent, complete nonsense.”
“I will have to take your word for it, because it all looks like nonsense to me.”
“Little Mary could have done better.”
“You were very ill.”
Jane looked up at me with eyes that were mercifully clear and bright again, if weary. Then she lowered her gaze. “The physician told me that you kept me awake,” she said to her paper.
“They say it is dangerous to sleep when one has the sweat.”
“He said that you probably saved my life.”
“The Lord saved your life. I did only what he enabled me to remember was necessary.”
Jane raised her eyes back to me and gave me a rare smile. “Thank you, Mother.”
“There is no need to thank me for doing what I desired most as your mother.”
Jane said nothing, and I did not want to break this happy moment by speaking further, and possibly saying the wrong thing. My daughter had lived, and lived to smile at me. That was enough.
21
Jane Dudley
April 1552 to May 1552
In early April, the king gave all of England a terrible fright: he fell ill of the measles and the smallpox. Some cruel people said it was God’s wrath, punishing him for allowing the death of Somerset; others openly wondered whether the lady Mary would soon become queen. But the king soon shook off the illness. By St. George’s Day, there was almost no sign he had been ill, except for a few stray pocks on his face.
With the king well mended, John and I traveled to Otford Palace in Kent, to spend a few days relaxing in the country before John went to the North on the king’s business. With us were our children and their spouses. Even those who served the king, like my older sons and Henry Sidney, had obtained a few days’ leave. There was more than enough room for us. Otford had once been the palace of the Archbishops of Canterbury, one of whom, William Wareham, had built a palace there to rival Cardinal Wolsey’s Hampton Court. So successful had he been that some years later, King Henry had taken a fancy to Otford, and the current archbishop, Thomas Cranmer, had obligingly, and sensibly, given him the palace. Recently, King Edward had given it to John. I could not walk around the vast expanse of Otford without thinking of my childhood home of Halden, also in Kent but a world away from the grandeur here.
“Is it true that you’re to marry the Earl of Cumberland’s daughter?” Robert asked Guildford one evening as we had settled in what once had been the archbishop’s private quarters.
“Father wants me to,” Guildford said gloomily.
“Most men wouldn’t complain about marrying an earl’s only child,” John said dryly. “Particularly men who are fourth sons.”
“But the girl’s never been out of Yorkshire!” Guildford said. “I hear that her father’s practically a recluse there.”
“There’s a romantic story about that,” said Mary. “Do you want to hear it?”
“Oh, please!” said Katheryn.
“His father built a tower and a gallery just to welcome his wife, the lady Eleanor,” Mary said. “She was the younger sister of the lady Frances, you know. The earl fell passionately in love with her.”
“‘Passionately!’” mimicked Hal. He gave a mock bow when Mary glared at him. “Go on, Sister.”
“He fell passionately in love with her,” continued Mary. “But then she fell ill and died. The earl was heartbroken. He would not eat or take drink, and finally he fell so ill that he was given up for dead. He was actually laid out for burial, when his men saw signs of life in him and managed to revive him. But he was so weak after that, he could drink only milk from a woman’s breast.”
“Ugh,” said Hal.
“I hope he paid the lady well,” said Robert. He nudged Ambrose. “What sort of annuity do you think that would rate?”
“Depends on how handsome the earl is,” Ambrose said.
Mary raised her voice. “After a few weeks of that, he recovered, but he has never ceased to grieve for the lady Eleanor, whom they say was as fair as her mother, the French queen. His daughter is very dear to him, as her only child, and they say he is reluctant to see her married.”
“Thank God for that,” said Guildford. “Perhaps I won’t satisfy his tastes.”
“He has an excellent library,” Mary offered consolingly.
“If he does consent, I’ll most likely have to live
at Skipton Castle with them, among the sheep,” Guildford said. “And the girl probably speaks with a northern accent.”
“And kills and skins her own supper each night,” said Robert.
“And has a tail,” added Hal.
“Look on the bright side,” Jack advised. “If all she’s seen are the northern men, you’ll probably look to her like King David.”
“The negotiations are not far along at all,” said John, who had been enjoying this banter thoroughly. “There will be plenty of time to civilize the young lady before your wedding, should her father and I reach an agreement.”
“Just don’t drink the milk at Skipton Castle,” Hal advised. “God only knows where it comes from.”
I decided it was time to take this conversation to a higher level. “Perhaps we might have some music,” I suggested. I looked at Ambrose’s wife, who played the lute beautifully. “Maybe you can play for us?”
Nan, who was always glad to perform, obliged, and soon all of my daughters and daughters-in-law were singing, even the Countess of Warwick. Her scratchy little voice was not exactly melodious, but thanks largely to the kindnesses of the other ladies in my family and Jack, she had become a little more amiable lately, so I listened and forced myself not to wince when she hit a high note. Besides, I had a surprise planned. When the singing was done, I held out a book to Anne. “I obtained this the other day, Anne. I thought you might want to read it to us, as we have not heard it.”
Anne stared at the book. It was of her own authorship, a collection of verses she and two of her younger sisters had written to commemorate the death of the learned Marguerite of Navarre. It had been published in Paris two years before. “How did you get a copy of this?”
“Jack gave it to me. Will you read it? The French verses,” I added hastily. “I do not know Latin, and I would like to understand what is being read.”
Anne hesitated, but the vanity of authorship proved uppermost, as I had hoped, and she stood to read us her and her sisters’ production. I wondered at the beginning, when her voice faltered when reading of Marguerite’s death, whether I might have been opening a wound, but she quickly regained her composure and read with a feeling that touched me.
Begin to bear in your hand the honor of the victorious palm branch, both because you won and because you were strong.
By this time you are standing before the stronghold of the throne; now you are adoring the Might of God; you shout greetings to the One Alone who sits in the stronghold.
You are holding in your hand true offerings, a casket of real incense and simple prayers not without understanding.
Now a Divine One joined to the celestial choir, you will not fear thirst or hunger, cold or heat.
“That was beautiful,” said Mary before I could speak. “I wish I could do as well as you and your sisters, Anne, and I am older than you.”
Anne blushed and looked pleased. That night, for the first time since her marriage to our son, she let me give her a good-night kiss on her cheek as we made our way to our various bedchambers.
***
I fell asleep that night in the arms of my husband. Late, late that night, a scream awakened me from a pleasant dream. “What is it?” I said, blinking as John and I untangled ourselves to sit up and stare around. Then the first thought of a loyal courtier came to mind. “The king? Is the king ill?”
My door slammed open without a knock. “My lady—my lord—forgive me. The lord Ambrose’s lady is dreadfully ill.”
Throwing on just enough clothing to hide our nakedness, we rushed to Nan’s chamber, where Ambrose sat clutching his wife in his arms. She was shivering and covered with sweat. As we came in, she glanced at us vaguely, as if not quite understanding who we were. “She was fine earlier tonight. We even…” Ambrose’s voice trailed off. “Her illness came on just a short time ago.”
John’s physician pushed into the chamber and pried Nan out of Ambrose’s arms. After examining her, he told us what we had all suspected: our daughter-in-law most likely had the sweat. John promptly gave orders that the rest of the household be kept far away from Nan’s rooms, which was a simple matter, given the size of Otford.
For the rest of the night and day, we attended on Nan. To John’s fury, in our absence, one of Nan’s waiting women allowed her to rise to sit upon the close stool, which brought on a fainting fit, and, we thought, certain death. She quickly revived, however, and by midmorning seemed to be past the most serious part of her illness. But by noon, she was markedly worse. Finally, at six in the evening, she breathed her last in Ambrose’s arms.
Every now and then, I felt an ache for the old religion, for the practice of saying prayers for the dead. I felt it now as I saw this lovely young woman, who less than four-and-twenty hours ago had been strumming her lute and laughing at my sons’ jokes, lying motionless and cold on her bed. Superstition such prayers might have been, perhaps, but—
I touched Ambrose’s shaking shoulder. “Now a Divine One joined to the celestial choir, you will not fear thirst or hunger, cold or heat,” I recited softly.
Ambrose nodded dumbly, my words small comfort to him. Then Robert—who like the rest of my children had been barred from the sickroom—walked in and knelt beside his brother. “Come with me,” he said after a while, and gently led Ambrose away.
A few days later, we left Otford Palace, never to return. The next spring, John exchanged it for other land. It was too large to keep up properly, he explained to the king.
22
Frances Grey
August 1552
Had someone told me in the summer of 1552 that it would be the last one I would spend at Bradgate, I surely would have lived it differently. I would not have passed my days indoors, sewing or listening to music or reading or playing cards, for those were things I could do anywhere. Instead, I would have spent my days in our gardens and in our parks, breathing in the sweet fragrance none of our other properties, no matter how grand, could match. I would have sat on the grounds at dusk and watched the rays of the dying sun cast a mellow glow upon the red brick walls of the manor house. I would have taken off my stockings and waded through the cool streams like a young girl, and tried to see if I could balance myself on the thick log that had fallen across one of them. I would have said a last good-bye to my little Henry, sleeping in the chapel with his father’s ancestors. But no one around me could foretell the future, so I spent that summer like any other.
It was indeed a rather ordinary summer. Harry was with the king on his progress through his southern estates. Jane was devoting herself to her latest course of study, learning Hebrew, and had quite pushed Plato aside, which I thought would undoubtedly have annoyed that august gentleman. Twelve-year-old Kate was rapidly developing into a young woman, and a very pretty one at that; it was clear she would be the family beauty. To her mixed irritation and pride, she had started her monthly courses. Mary, at seven, was the size of a girl two years younger, but she was perfectly intelligent and could sew almost as well as I could. For myself, I enjoyed paying and receiving visits from my various friends and relations.
In early August, my stepmother was one of my visitors. The last time I had seen her, soon after the death of my brothers, she had been almost immobile with grief and shock. Now, no longer wearing mourning for her two sons, she had gone further and put on an elegant green gown, which made her look younger and more handsome than she had appeared in several years. “There is something I must tell you, and I won’t dawdle about it,” she said before she had barely cleared the threshold of my private chamber. “I am remarrying.”
I mentally surveyed all of the eligible single men and widowers among the nobility. No name came instantly to mind: all I could summon up were either too old, too young, too poor, too Catholic, too remotely situated, too testy, or (it had to be admitted) too homely.
“Don’t trouble yours
elf,” Katherine said, seeing my difficulty. “I am marrying Master Bertie.”
I goggled at her. Richard Bertie was Katherine’s gentleman usher, who had handled her business affairs since the death of my father. An Oxford graduate, he was unquestionably a clever and trustworthy man of business, but… “Master Bertie?” I said stupidly.
“No doubt you are going to tell me that he is not of my station, that he aspires to my hand only for my wealth, and that I am disgracing my title by marrying him.”
“I—”
“Well, I say fie on that! Master Bertie is a gentleman of good abilities and unimpeachable character, who has been kindness itself since my poor boys were called to God. Why shouldn’t I marry him? It is true, as you say, that he is meanly born—”
“Katherine! I haven’t had a chance to say anything yet,” I protested. “You are carrying on this argument quite adequately all by yourself.”
“True,” Katherine admitted.
“But I must admit I am shocked. With your beauty and wealth—”
“I could marry a man who would perish on the scaffold. I want no nobleman who will involve himself in this miserable business of running England. I want only to be left to enjoy my estates in peace, and perhaps to bear more children. Master Bertie can help me do the first most adequately, I have learned, and as for the second, I shall be quite happy to find out. I have been lonely since your father died, for all my resources, and I shall be glad enough to have a pair of warm feet in bed next to me once again.”
Her Highness, the Traitor Page 18
