Royal Inheritance (26 page)

There were times when I caught Father watching me, as if he had something he wished to say, but he never put his thought into words. I could only guess what stopped him, but my supposition made sense to me. If he had sworn an oath to the king never to reveal my true father’s name, then he would not break that vow, no matter how much he might want to.

That January was one of the coldest anyone could remember. The Thames did not freeze solid at London, as it had once when I was eight or nine, but the roads were covered in ice. Winds howled straight up the river from the sea.

Very early on one of those frigid mornings, the Earl of Surrey was taken out of his cell and out of the Tower and up Tower Hill to where the scaffold is. I saw it once, though not in use, since women rarely attend executions. It rose some four feet above the ground, a wooden platform reached by nine steps. I am told it was draped in black on the day Surrey died.

With the Howards in disgrace, I knew that the Seymours must be in the ascendant. If the king died with Prince Edward still so young, someone would have to act as regent. The queen was the most likely candidate, since she had governed in the king’s stead when he invaded France. But Edward Seymour, Earl of Hertford, had positioned
himself to play an important role in any new government. He was, after all, young Edward’s uncle. Sir Richard Southwell, having betrayed the Howards, now stood firmly in Hertford’s camp.

I considered appealing to Sir Thomas Seymour for help in reaching the king. Even though I’d still heard nothing from Jack, I was certain he would help me again by speaking to his master on my behalf. But I hesitated to entangle him any further in my affairs, especially if Sir Anthony Denny was not the only courtier to suspect that I had feelings for him. Sir Richard Southwell had betrayed Surrey and tried to convince the authorities to question Mary Heveningham. He’d throw Jack to the lions in an instant if he thought it would help clear the way for his son to marry me.

Instead, I concentrated on wooing Sir Anthony. I wrote to him. I sent him small tokens—a songbook, an artificial flower, and finally a pair of sleeves I had embroidered myself. I’d intended them as a gift for Jack, but winning Sir Anthony’s favor took precedence.

I was discouraged when I learned that the Earl of Surrey had also appealed to the king’s groom of the stool, dedicating to Sir Anthony one of the translations of the Psalms he had made during his imprisonment in the Tower. It had been accompanied by a groveling prefatory lyric but neither had done him any good.

In contrast to the earl’s plea, my persistence was rewarded. Sir Anthony Denny came to Watling Street, just as he had so many years before. He spoke first to Father and then to me. But this time when I set out for Westminster I left Father behind and Edith, too. Sir Anthony proposed to spirit me into the royal bedchamber and he did not want any witnesses.

“The king appears to be having one of his good days,” Sir Anthony told me as we slipped through passages I’d never known existed. We were in the “secret lodgings” behind the king’s official bedchamber, the rooms where His Grace could be truly private.
“King Henry arose this morning and allowed himself to be dressed, but he is far from well. One of the symptoms of his illness is the rapid shifting of his moods. You will have to be careful what you say. Do not, at all costs, annoy him.”

I saw what he meant about the state of the king’s health as soon as I rose from my obeisance and got my first good look at His Grace. The king’s face was a pale shade of gray. With his slightest movement, beads of sweat popped out on his brow. Although he was seated, I could see that his clothes hung loosely on him, as did his skin. He had lost a good deal of fleshiness during his illness. His leg, in which an ulcer had been cauterized not long before, was propped up on a footstool. It was heavily bandaged and gave off an offensive smell.

“It is well you have come, Audrey,” His Grace said. “We are prepared to acknowledge you.”

“Your Grace?” I could scarcely believe my ears. Was it to be this simple?

“Your mother was an attractive woman in her day. She . . . reminded me of someone.”

I remembered what Joanna had said of her resemblance to Anne Boleyn. I also remembered that the late queen’s name was never to be spoken in the king’s presence. Father had warned me about that.

“She said nothing of your birth,” the king continued, reaching for the box of comfits on the table beside his chair. “A more ambitious woman might have tried—well, no matter. No one could fail to recognize that color of hair for what it is.”

I wondered if I should tell him what Joanna had said about the other redheaded man. I decided against it. The king seemed to have no doubt but that he was my father.

“Your Grace, John Malte—”

“Malte is a good and loyal servant. It was best for you that he
raise you, for we could not claim you then, no matter how much we might have wished to.” He offered me the box. “Take one. Green ginger. Good for settling the stomach.”

I scarcely tasted the sweet. And it was my mind that roiled.

With the knowledge I had gained in the intervening years, I understood the king’s reasoning. He had been at a precarious point in his relationship with his future queen when he discovered me weeping in the passageway. Anne Boleyn would not have taken kindly to the news that His Grace had fathered another child, especially if she learned that Joanna bore such a close resemblance to herself.

I did not condemn the king for the choice he’d made. I’d had a good life as the daughter of his royal tailor. Part of me wished I truly was Malte’s child. If I were simply Audrey Malte, Sir Richard Southwell would never have taken an interest in me.

“Mayhap we will let it be known that you are my child,” King Henry said. “We would use our influence on your behalf. What boon would you like, child? What do you desire above all things?”

“To marry where I choose.” The words were out before I could stop them.

The king frowned, as if trying to remember something. “Are you not already betrothed?”

“No, Your Grace. There has been no formal contract.”

He indicated a floor cushion and I sat. In this position, much nearer the king’s bad leg, I had to take shallow breaths to keep from gagging.

“Tell me, Audrey, if you were permitted to choose, what man would you have?”

His kindly demeanor and sympathetic tone of voice lulled me into answering honestly. “Master John Harington, Your Grace—the gentleman you yourself sent to me as a tutor.”

In the blink of an eye, the king’s expression changed from benign
to thunderous. A ferocious scowl replaced the avuncular smile. “Harington? No. He will not do. Fancies himself a poet like Surrey. Traitors all around us,” he muttered.

Frozen in horror, I stared at His Grace. Sir Anthony had warned me, but I had never expected the king’s mood to shift this rapidly. I dared not utter a word for fear I would once again say the wrong thing.

“We had heard of the earl’s musical and literary gatherings. So innocent. Or so they seemed. In truth, he met allies in order to conspire against us.” The king leaned forward until his face was only inches from mine. Spittle appeared at the corners of his mouth. “You were part of that circle. You and Harington. Deceitful child! You would use your royal blood to usurp me, just as Surrey tried to claim the throne for himself.”

“No!” Horrified by the accusation, I sought the words to defend myself but I had no idea what to say. “Your Grace—”

“You’ll get no more from us than you have already. We will never acknowledge you as our daughter. You have betrayed us!”

He seemed on the verge of charging me with treason, and Jack along with me. I do not know what would have happened next if Sir Anthony Denny had not intervened. He had been waiting at a discreet distance but had been near enough to see the sudden shift in the king’s demeanor.

He’d had long years of experience dealing with the king. Somehow, speaking in such a low voice that I could not make out his words, he calmed his royal master. When Sir Anthony signaled me to leave, I made my escape.

I was shaking so badly that I could barely manage a curtsey. My legs trembled as I backed out of the royal presence. I collapsed against the wall of the passageway as soon as a closed door separated me from His Grace.

I do not know how long I huddled there, afraid of the king’s wrath but also fearful of getting lost if I tried to find my own way out of Whitehall. When Sir Anthony finally came for me, he took me by the shoulders and led me to a small room nearby. He made me sit and sip some aqua vitae.

“The king will take no action against you, Audrey. I promise you that.”

“Why was he so angry, Sir Anthony? I am no threat to him. Surely a bastard has no claim to the throne.”

“Did your tutors teach you history along with music and dancing?”

I shook my head. I’d read stories of King Arthur and I knew that we’d fought many wars with France over the centuries, but I was woefully ignorant about most of England’s past.

“The king’s father’s claim to the throne came to him from his mother, Lady Margaret Beaufort, and she was descended from a son, born out of wedlock, to one of the sons of King Edward the Third. John of Gaunt later married his mistress and legitimized their children. They and their descendants were barred from the succession, but when the first Henry Tudor enforced his claim by winning the crown in battle, he proved that it was not impossible for the progeny of a royal bastard to gain the throne of England.”

“Is
that
why Sir Richard wants me to wed his son? He’s mad if he thinks his grandchildren might one day usurp some future king. King Henry has three children born in wedlock and surely they will have offspring of their own.”

“Even failing that, there are others in line to inherit, all legitimately born. I do not know what Sir Richard thinks. I can only attempt to explain the king’s reasoning.”

“His reasoning is faulty!”

Eyes wide, I clapped my hand over my mouth. I had not meant
to criticize His Grace, but it was clear to me that King Henry’s mind was no longer as clear as it should be. Was that why the Earl of Surrey had died? Because the king imagined Surrey was plotting against him? Given the irrational outburst I had just endured, I could well believe it. My hands started to shake again and I hastily hid them in my lap.

Sir Anthony cleared his throat. “When you speak of faulty reasoning, I presume you refer to Sir Richard’s logic.”

I seized upon that interpretation. “Yes. Sir Richard. I . . . I only wish to understand why he is so determined upon my marriage to his son. If it is true that the Earl of Surrey died because he thought he had a legitimate claim to the throne, how can anyone in his right mind wish to admit to possessing a single drop of royal blood?”

“The earl was indeed guilty of treason,” Sir Anthony said in a tone that brooked no argument. “He flaunted his remote connection to the throne in the form of a new coat of arms. Nobly born he may have been, and renowned as a poet, but he was ever the fool when it came to reining in his impulses. He overstepped himself once too often and he has paid the price.”

With that, Sir Anthony offered me his arm to lead me out of the palace. We had almost reached the water stairs, where a boat was waiting to take me back to London, when he stopped and turned to face me.

“Listen and listen well, young Audrey. You are the king’s child, although he will never acknowledge you now. That may or may not matter to Sir Richard Southwell. Thanks to the properties granted to you jointly with John Malte, you are a considerable heiress. No matter whose blood flows in your veins, the man who marries you will be very wealthy indeed.”

M
y grandfather was the king of England.” Hester spoke the words in a hushed voice.

Her eyes, so like her father’s, glittered with barely suppressed excitement. Although she had listened without interrupting to the rest of the story, her face had been easy to read. She reacted first with awe, then with delight, to Audrey’s revelation that the king himself had confirmed her royal inheritance.

“Close kinship to the Crown is a burden, not a gift.”

Audrey’s severe tone had no effect. Hester’s enthusiasm could no longer be contained. She hopped off her mother’s bed and danced a jig around the chamber. “I
will
go to court! Could I be one of the queen’s maids of honor, do you think? Surely your
sister
could do that much for her niece.”

“Half sister,” Audrey corrected her, “and you are too young to be a maid of honor even if such a thing were possible.”

Where had the child come by such an ambition? Audrey thought back on the stories she and Jack had told their daughter
about life at court. Had they made it seem too appealing? Of a certainty, that had not been her own intent when she’d begun her tale in Stepney.

Hester had heard only what she wanted to hear. Audrey supposed she’d been just the same as a girl. No one could have told her, even at eighteen, that the life she envisioned for herself might not be as perfect as she anticipated. Hester was only eight. Was it any surprise that she failed to appreciate the danger?

Audrey leaned back against the bolster, gathering strength to reason with her daughter. In her present state of euphoria, Hester would want to share the discoveries about herself with everyone at Catherine’s Court. That could not be allowed.

“Hester,” she said severely, “this must remain our secret. You cannot reveal what I have told you to anyone.”

“Why not?” She stopped dancing.

“Because, at present, Queen Mary, although she suspects the truth, has no proof of it. Her Grace is no friend to us, Hester. It is to our advantage that she not be reminded of the possibility she might have a second half sister.”

“But I want to go to court.
You
went to court when you were only a little older than I am now. I want—”

“Hester!” The girl’s mouth snapped shut but there was a mutinous look in her eyes. “Do you remember what happened after King Edward died?”