B009RYSCAU EBOK (36 page)

“Then surely for Kate Grey to have a child will be good—if it’s a boy, there is a Protestant heir if the queen has no child of her own.”

“If the marriage was lawful and the baby legitimate, that would be true. And there are those who are pressing the queen to declare the marriage valid and Kate Grey her heir. But to have the validity of the marriage tinged with doubt casts everything into question. Cecil, who supported the idea of the marriage before it happened, now thinks that it is God’s will that no Grey should inherit the throne. And meanwhile, this child of Kate Grey’s presents a threat, for if it should be a boy, there will surely be those who will want him on the throne sooner rather than later, in place of Elizabeth, who has tarnished her name by this dalliance with Robert Dudley and who may never now wed and bear a child.”

“Then we must pray that Kate bears a girl,” Bess said.

But two days later, Kate Grey gave birth to a boy, who was christened Edward and given the title of Lord Beauchamp.

“She and Seymour have both been found guilty of fornication,” Will told Bess. “He’s also been convicted of seducing a virgin of the royal blood. They are to remain prisoners in the Tower, housed separately and kept apart, until it may please the queen to release them.”

“Oh, poor Kate,” Bess cried.

“This son of hers is a great threat to the queen. I cannot see that Elizabeth will ever let her go free, much less acknowledge her as her heir.”

Oh, Kate, you fool,
Bess mourned.
Why could you not have waited for the queen’s permission to marry? You might have had it all—husband, baby, and crown. And now you will live out your days in the Tower.

And a further pain twisted her heart. No baby had quickened within her though she and Will had now been married for two years. Why could it not have been she giving birth to a longed-for child, instead of Kate Grey, whose motherhood brought so much trouble to her and others?

CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

Tenth of July, 1562—Chatsworth, Derbyshire

B
ESS COULD NOT STOP HERSELF FROM CRYING AS SHE WATCHED
her fourteen-year-old daughter Frankie marry Henry Pierrepont. The marriage was everything she had hoped for for her daughter, the culmination of years of planning, the achievement of her long-held ambition to set Frankie on the path to a life of comfort and good fortune. Beside Bess, her own mother, Aunt Marcella, and her sister Jenny were also in tears of joy.

“Oh, my darling, I am most happy to see you happy and so well bestowed,” she murmured to Frankie after the ceremony, as Will clasped the young bridegroom in an embrace. “It’s a wonderful marriage.”

Frankie, her copper-colored hair flowing down her back and adorned with a wreath of flowers, kissed Bess. She was practically wriggling with delight, for the marriage was a love match as well as being eminently practical.

“Thank you, Mother. This day is heaven.” Her eyes went to her young husband, and he reached out his hand to her.

Bess had negotiated the match with Henry’s father, Sir George Pierrepont, but she had been determined that the marriage should only go forward if it pleased her daughter. Frankie had gone the previous year to serve Lady Pierrepont at Holme Pierrepont, within a day’s ride from Hardwick, and so had come to know and like the family into which she would marry. And in the spring just past, young Henry had come to London to visit Frankie, and the young couple had immediately become very fond of each other. Though Henry was only fifteen, his parents had been eager for the wedding to take place, as Sir George was ailing. The specter of the Court of Wards must haunt the Pierreponts, Bess knew, but now that her old friend William Cecil was master of the court, its power did not terrify her as it had when she was a girl.

Bess’s mother came to her side and slipped an arm around her waist. “Ah, Bess, your girls are getting off to a very good start, indeed. You’ve done so well.”

A few weeks earlier Bess’s stepdaughter Nan Cavendish had married Sir Henry Baynton, the younger brother of Will’s first wife.

“I am very pleased,” Bess agreed. “And it’s thanks to you, you know, placing me so well with Lady Zouche and then with Frances Grey.”

“The putting you in place was one thing,” Bess’s mother said, squeezing her hand. “Doing so well once you were there was entirely your own achievement.”

During the wedding festivities, talk turned inevitably to the latest gossip from court. The Archbishop of Canterbury had opined that there was no evidence that Catherine Grey and Edward Seymour had ever been married.

“It’s what Her Majesty wanted,” said Frances Brooke, seated in the shade with Bess and a few of her other closest friends. “But of course now she’s under even more pressure to name an heir.”

“It could still be the Scots queen,” Lizzie said, sipping a cup of syllabub. “Her Majesty smiled like the cat that has eaten the cream at the masques in May at Nottingham Castle, which were all to do with love and friendship between two queens. And she planned to meet with Mary in September.”

“But Mary Stuart is fishing for a powerful Papist husband,” Bess said. “And sure Elizabeth will never put her in line for the English throne knowing that she would return England to the old religion.”

“The Countess of Lennox is a fool,” Frances said. “If she had bided her time, perhaps her boy might have married the Scottish queen yet.”

There was much truth in that observation, Bess thought. The Countess of Lennox and her son Lord Darnley had no sooner been released from the Tower than the countess was found to be involved in a plot to marry her boy to the Scots queen and depose Queen Elizabeth, and now she was a prisoner again. How much her haste had cost her.

“I think these wars in France between the Papists and Huguenots have truly scuppered any hope that Her Majesty will make Mary Stuart her heir,” Lizzie said. “It is Mary’s Guise relations who are behind the oppression and murder of Protestants. Her Majesty will never meet with her now.”

“Then she had better marry and get an heir of her own,” Frances murmured.

“How stood things in London when you left?” Bess asked.

There was a rustle of skirts as the ladies turned to see who was within earshot and moved their seats closer to Frances.

“I think she could still marry Robert Dudley,” Frances said.

Bess thought of Elizabeth’s face, alight with joy as she looked up at Dudley. Surely if the queen was happy the country would be the better for it.

“He told me at Christmas that she had promised to marry him,” Frances continued, “but not this year. And you know at the Garter ceremony in April, Norfolk invited all the other knights to support Dudley’s courtship of the queen, and they agreed—”

“Except Arundel and my husband,” Lizzie snorted. “They were so incensed that they walked out of the gathering. No, William believes most strongly that the matter of his wife’s death will always taint Dudley, and that the queen can never marry him without tarnishing her own honor and that of England.”

CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

Sixteenth of October, 1562—Hampton Court Palace

T
HE QUEEN IS GROWING WORSE.”
K
AT
A
SHLEY’S EYES WERE DARK
with worry. Bess knew that Kat was like a mother to Elizabeth, having served her since she was a toddler. “She has lost consciousness. We must pray.”

Though Bess was no longer serving the queen, she had accompanied Will to Hampton Court Palace, glad of the chance to spend time with old friends, including Lizzie and Frances Brooke. The queen had fallen ill six days earlier, and a bath and a walk in the bracing air had not only failed to bolster her strength but had left her with a chill. Dr. Burcot had examined the queen and declared that she had smallpox, but there were no spots, and she had cursed him for a fool and dismissed him from her presence.

Now the ladies hovering in the queen’s privy chamber sank to their knees in a sea of dark velvet. Bess caught Lizzie’s hand and held it tight. She thought their murmured prayers sounded lost in the high-ceilinged room, and hoped that they would pierce to heaven.

God help us, and all of England,
Bess prayed. For surely if the queen died now, childless and having designated no successor, the country would be torn apart by war.

The next day William Cecil arrived from London and the privy council sequestered itself for hours.

“They must decide what to do if the queen dies,” Will told Bess that night. “Or when the queen dies, for I fear she is failing.”

He slumped forward in his chair, head in his hands, and Bess stooped to wrap her arms around his shoulders and kiss the top of his head.

“What will they do, think you?”

“As you might expect, they cannot agree. Those most given to the new religion want Kate Grey to succeed Elizabeth. After all, she stands next in line according to King Henry’s will, and has a male heir.”

“But her marriage . . .”

“Could be examined again and found to be legitimate, if it were convenient. But of course others of the council will have none of her.”

“Then it will be the Scottish queen?” Bess thought how strange it would be to have a foreigner rule England, for Mary Stuart had lived all her life in France.

“None raise their voice to support her.”

“Then who?”

“Some argue for the Earl of Huntingdon.”

“Surely he lies far out of the natural line of succession.”

“He’s descended from Edward the Third,” Will said. “He is Protestant. And he is a man. That weighs most heavily now—the council have seen what a troublesome thing it is to have a woman on the throne.”

“How will they decide?”

“As there’s no clear path set out and no agreement among the council, the matter may be sent to the judiciary to decide. But of course that cannot happen yet, not until . . .” He pressed her hand to his cheek and kissed it. “Let us to bed. And let us pray.”

The next day the queen regained consciousness briefly only to lapse into insensibility again, and for two days she continued in that state. Meanwhile, the privy council argued, and the court prepared to go into mourning.

“I cannot believe it,” Bess wept to Will. “What a senseless loss it would be, for her to have come through all the troubles that she has, only to have her life cut short like this.”

“And I am quite powerless,” he said. “Against assassins and plots, I can take action. But against this enemy, all the guards in the world can do nothing.”

In the morning Bess made her way to the queen’s chambers, through flocks of grave-faced courtiers and diplomats. Lizzie and Frances stood just outside the closed doors of the queen’s bedchamber, their faces leaden with sorrow.

“Is there any improvement?” Bess asked.

“None.” Frances shook her head. “She looks like the grave.”

“But Dr. Burcot is with her again,” Lizzie said. “Lord Hunsdon bustled him in there just now.”

The bedchamber doors burst open and the black-robed young doctor strode toward Bess and the other ladies.

“Fetch red flannel,” he ordered. “Such a quantity that Her Majesty may be wrapped in it from head to toe.”

“Red flannel?” Frances gaped at him.

“Yes, yes, do not delay—send someone for it, there must be some in the house—it is the only chance that is left.”

Frances turned and ran from the room. Past the doctor, Bess could see the queen’s body inert beneath the bedclothes, her face pallid and damp with sweat. Mary Sidney bent over her, sponging her forehead, her beautiful face pale and her eyes red with weeping.

“Let me help you,” Bess said, approaching the bed. “Have you been here all night?”

“Aye.” Mary nodded and wiped a tear from her cheek. “No, there’s no need,” she said, as Bess tried to take the sponge and basin from her hand. “We’ll bundle her in flannel as soon as it comes and lay her before the fire. The doctor says that will sweat the illness out of her.”

Soon Frances was back with an armful of red flannel. She and Mary Sidney helped Dr. Burcot roll the queen in the cloth, swaddling her like a baby so that she was closely wrapped, and then laying her on a pallet near to the hearth.

“Oh, my lady,” Mary murmured, kneeling at her side.

Dr. Burcot stooped beside the queen. “Raise her head,” he ordered, and Mary Sidney cradled the head with its tumbled red locks in her lap as the doctor poured some distillation from a vial into the queen’s mouth.

“Oh, Bess,” Mary whispered. “Whatever will we do if it doesn’t work?”

“She swallowed it,” Bess said. “Surely that’s a good sign.”

“Yes,” Dr. Burcot said. “Keep that fire built up.”

He fell to pacing and Bess knelt on the floor beside Mary Sidney. Frances, Lizzie, and Kat Ashley huddled nearby, their eyes bleary with lack of sleep.

A servant had added wood to the fireplace and the room was sweltering. Bess bowed her head over clasped hands and prayed, for there was nothing else to do.

Father, preserve the life of Her Majesty, for surely we are lost if she perishes. Let not England be riven with war and her fields watered with blood, but save the queen and keep the land in peace.

The queen gave a little moan.

“She’s stirring!” Kat Ashley cried, dropping to her knees beside the queen’s pallet. “God be praised.” Lizzie and Frances hovered nearby.

The queen opened her mouth and her tongue quested weakly along her lips.

“She wants water,” Bess said. She lifted the queen’s head while Mary Sidney put a cup to her lips and poured a few drops of water into her mouth and then more as the queen drank.

In a minute or two the queen opened her eyes. She seemed to smile a little to see that it was Kat Ashley who was stroking her face, and her eyelids drifted shut again.

“Let everyone leave Her Majesty,” Dr. Burcot ordered. “All but Lady Ashley and Lady Sidney. But tell the privy council that Her Majesty is with us once again.”

* * *

“
S
HE ASKED THAT
R
OBERT
D
UDLEY BE MADE
L
ORD
P
ROTECTOR IF
she dies,” Will told Bess that night.

“That is better than no direction, surely?”

He shook his head. “They promised it but I’m not sure they would make it so. Dudley has generated such resentment already I don’t see how he could control the wrangles that would arise if he were given such a position. And the privy council would be especially loath to give him the salary she directed, twenty thousand pounds per annum.”

“Dear God,” Bess said. “I could build another Chatsworth for that.”

“She also asked that Dudley’s man Tamworth, who sleeps in his chamber, be given a yearly pension of five hundred pounds. Of course there are murmurs that it is to buy his silence, even though she swore that as God was her witness nothing unseemly had ever passed between them.”

“I wish the poor lady had married him when first his wife died,” Bess said. “Yes, there are those who would not have liked it, but she might have had a child by now, and all these troubles prevented.”

“If she lives,” Will said, “I don’t see how she can continue to forestall a marriage. She must have an heir. We cannot come to this brink of danger again.”

The next day the queen broke out in spots, confirming that it was smallpox she suffered from. Dr. Burcot assured the queen’s court and council that the pustules, though alarming to look at, signified that she was out of danger. But the news struck a chill into Bess’s heart, for she had touched the queen when her illness was at its height. Would she now fall victim to the pox as well? She examined her hands anxiously, for that was where the red spots frequently broke out first, but saw no marks.

For another week the queen was confined to her bed, but as her health returned, so did her determination to act as she saw fit, whether her council liked it or not.

“She’s made Dudley a member of the privy council—and Norfolk,” Will said. “I suppose she thought no one could argue against Dudley as long as she raised his old enemy at the same time.”

“I heard that Mary Sidney has fallen ill,” Bess said.

“Yes, alas. And sadly there’s no mistaking that it’s smallpox—the spots are all over her face and hands.”

Bess felt a rush of nausea, thinking of how she would feel if she were in Mary Sidney’s place. She had examined her own skin anxiously each day, but no spots had appeared.

“Poor lady,” she said. “To be rewarded for her care of the queen in such a terrible way.”

By the end of October the queen was once more in health. In late November she summoned Parliament, and both the Lords and Commons petitioned her to marry or to designate an heir.

“Kate Grey’s name is raised again,” Will told Bess. “Maybe the queen will make the girl her successor after all, in spite of everything.”

But soon, it became apparent that Kate Grey had lost her final hope for the throne, for she was with child again, and on the tenth of February, 1563, she gave birth to a second son.

“The queen must be apoplectic!” Bess exclaimed. “That is—Edward Seymour is the father, I take it?”

“Aye. Apparently he bribed the guards to let him see Kate, and it appears they could not bridle their passion.”

“What will happen?”

“Edward Warner has been dismissed from his post and is made a prisoner.”

Bess felt a rush of sympathy for Warner, who had been as kind as he could to her in difficult circumstances.

“Seymour was brought before the Star Chamber,” Will continued, “and fined fifteen thousand pounds.”

Fifteen thousand pounds? Bess was staggered.

“All the wealth of the Seymours will never be able to pay such a vast sum,” she murmured.

“Worse, Kate is to be sent to her uncle John Grey at Pirgo, and the little boys taken from her. The queen swears that she and Seymour will never be allowed to see each other again.”

Bess tried to imagine being sequestered forever from Will and from her children. She would rather die than endure such heartbreak. She shivered, for she thought Kate was not strong and might well die of grief.

“Damn Edward Seymour for the harm he has done the girl!” Jane Grey’s face rose to her mind and she began to weep. “Why?” she pleaded with Will. “Why could Kate not have learned from Jane’s death and been more cautious? If she had only waited for the queen’s permission, she might have married Edward, had her babes, been heir to the throne, and lived in happiness. But she has doomed herself to misery, and her children to an uncertain fate.”

“She hasn’t your sense,” Will said, taking her into his arms. “Ah, Bess, if every woman had your wisdom, the world would be a happier place.”