“I trust, sir,” he boomed above the roaring of the fire and the drunken shouts of the merrymakers, “the answer ye sent the King’s Grace showed a meeker spirit than ye’ve shown up to now?”
“Pity you didn’t break my seal and find out,” said Anthony. “Or, did you?”
Hoby’s massive face empurpled; he and the messenger had tried tampering with the buck-head signet seal, and found it stuck too fast.
“I mislike your tone,” Hoby said. “I asked a friendly question.”
Anthony bowed. “And it shall be answered. In my letter I again declined certain proposals and regretted that my wife’s condition prevents me from leaving Cowdray.”
Hoby was no fool, he knew that he was being suavely cozened, and yet . . . there was something attractive about this recalcitrant owner of Cowdray. The Browne men, father and son, were none of your sly, mealy-mouthed nobles—back three generations their stock had been as plebeian as his own. And this stubborn man’s plight was so hopeless, you couldn’t help a pang of sympathy.
Hoby drew away from the squire, who was trying to kiss Celia, and put his hand on Anthony’s arm. “Ye know there’s trouble brewing, sir, ye might not want to go to London, I can see that, but ye might go some other place, Cornwall, say—’tis far enough for safety—but don’t make a try for the Continent. Whole coast is watched day an’ night, not the meanest little fishing tub’ll get by unsearched.”
Anthony gave a grunt of surprise. “My dear Master Hoby, are you suggesting that I bolt? I know the ports are guarded, but I also know that all the approaches to Cowdray are, too. Around the fringes of my land there’s been appearing a rare lot o’ strange gamekeepers, peddlers, and even a few gypsies wi’ walnut-stained skins and oddly light hair.”
Hoby shrugged, he glanced about then spoke softly, “If ye went Trotton-Petersfield road, past Stedham—tomorrow night—it might so hap ye’d not be noticed.”
Really startled, Anthony examined the fat, bearded face. Flamelight jumped and wavered, he could not see the expression in the puffy-lidded eyes. “You laying an ambush, Master Hoby? Or are you prepared to wink at my escape?”
“I’m giving ye the chance,” Hoby muttered.
“
Why?
You loathe the True Faith, you’re hand in glove with the Duke—and the King.”
“Aye, sir, and I’ll do my duty . . . after this. ’Tis midsummer madness’s got to me, I’ll warrant. I’ve done plenty soldiering, but I mislike needless bloodshed, or frightening a houseful o’ women.”
“By the Mass . . .” Anthony breathed.
He saw that Hoby was sincere, and thereby how great must be his own danger if such a man were moved to pity, even momentarily.
“I thank you, Master Hoby,” he said quietly. “Kind actions are rare, and I’m grateful. But I’ll bide here in my own home and take whatever fate God sends me. Will you join me in a flagon?”
“Nay.” Hoby had already regretted his impulse, especially when he had heard the forbidden and sickening ejaculation “By the Mass.”
“Squire and I’ll be off now,” he said. “I fear we’ll not meet again in amity, Sir Anthony Browne.”
He called to the squire, who fancied he was making headway with that fair smiling little Bohun maiden, and left reluctantly.
The two men mounted and rode off.
“You’ve made a conquest, Celia,” said Anthony, with a thin smile. “He’d been a good match for you, once—but he’s gone heretic, the lickspittle!” Besides, there was not a penny to spare for the girl’s dowry, the generous gesture he had once thought of making. Anthony scowled past the great bonfire toward the fair where the last kegs of ale, the last savoury pies were being consumed. It had been a piece of extravagant folly to give them the fair this summer. Stephen had protested, and with reason, since Anthony had come to confide in him, and he knew his patron’s financial status. The expenses of the King’s visit a year ago would not have been embarrassing to a man of Anthony’s wealth had the usual continued to appear, but they had not. For months no messenger had come from his other manors in Surrey, or from Battle. Letters to his stewards received no answer. He had been quietly relieved of his remunerative office as county sheriff. On the home manor of Cowdray conditions had worsened. Cowdray sheep, Cowdray corn and garden stuff not only brought lower prices than was conceivable, but lately they did not sell at all. Anthony’s loyal shepherds’ and husbandmen’s weekly reports had gone from gloomy to dire. Even the Midhurst rents were laggard, many tenants had grown impudent, surly. Yet, he had proudly given them their traditional fair.
He turned suddenly to Ursula. “Is this as it was in your father’s time, Lady?” He waved towards the bonfire, then to the cluster of bright-colored tents and flowery booths. “Does it remind you of your girlhood?”
She heard the note of appeal, and smiled at him, thinking how much of the boy was left still in this big handsome man. “’Tis much
more
lavish, sir,” she said gently, “
we
had no tents and banners, nor much music.
We
fed them only cider and bread.”
She saw that she had pleased him, though he sighed. “Aye, those were simpler, happier days . . .”
Ursula started to say that the past always seemed simpler and happier, then checked herself. There
had
been nothing in her girlhood to match Anthony’s troubles. Both religion and throne had been as fixed as the sun’s daily swing across the sky.
“The Lady Jane seems better, sir,” she said. “Since yestere’en she’s not puked once. ’Tis perhaps the camomile gruel I give her. D’ye know, I believe she has a surprise for you! I believe there’re two babes i’ her womb!”
Anthony jumped. “Holy St. Mary!
Twins?
By God, what a wondrous thought!” He considered this news excitedly. “Two heirs at a clip, for me, for Cowdray! ’Tis true, Jane’s belly’s vast this time, much larger than last year. And ’tis true there’ve been portents. My best mare dropped two foals last week, and I found two spiders on my pillow yestermorn. Ah, Lady, I thank you!” He bent quickly and kissed her.
Ursula pressed his hand. “Better not tell her. It may not be so, and the poor soul is much afeared already. She suffered a great deal last time. Oh, I wish Master Julian were here . . .” added Ursula impulsively.
Anthony raised his eyebrows. “Surely, the good doctor wouldn’t concern himself with midwifery?”
“I presume not, but he knows many potions to relieve pain, and has a tender heart . . . despite . . .” Her voice trailed off. The last meeting with Julian in Southwark had shaken her. “I wonder if he
has
cured His Majesty. Master Julian was very confident.”
“We must pray so,” said Anthony, though his spirits plummeted again. Whether or not the King recovered, Anthony’s personal plight would continue. May God blast that bugger Northumberland, he thought, then turned on his heel and strode back into his mansion.
O
N THURSDAY, JULY 6,
at dusk, Edward died in Henry Sidney’s arms. He died after saying quite clearly, “Lord have mercy upon me—take my spirit.” His own former royal physician, Dr. Owen, bent over the hideously decayed body, and shaking his head, whispered to Sidney, “At last, poor royal youth—it is done. I believe I could have saved him, Sir Henry, had I not been banished for months. The Duke was misguided to dismiss me. . . .”
“Hush!” Sidney said. Tears ran down his cheeks. He eased Edward’s body on to the pillow, tenderly folded the contorted gangrenous hands as best he could on the shrunken chest. He drew up the embroidered coverlet. “Stay with him,” said Henry, “I must tell his grace, who wants the utmost
secrecy
at present. Silence about—” He pointed to the body.
Dr. Owen’s mouth thinned. “Aye—I’d forgot you were the Duke’s son-in-law—and though my antipapist convictions are strong enough, I mislike this hole-and-corner death. No last rites, nor even prayers—’twas far different when his father died.”
Henry flushed, he started to reply when they heard above the palace a tremendous thunderclap. Lightning flared into the death chamber.
“’Tis a warning, Henry Sidney!” cried the old doctor. “Tell his grace to heed it!”
“’Tis an ordinary July storm,” answered Henry, his voice trembling, and he hurried down to the council chamber where the Duke and Sir Nicholas Throckmorton were privately supping.
Wat Farrier guessed at the King’s death only ten minutes after the Duke heard of it. Wat was outside the palace’s back kitchen, near the washhouse when Betsy, one of the laundry maids, came scurrying down from the royal apartments bearing a hamper of filthy stinking linen. During these last days her errands of this nature had been frequent, the King was incontinent, and his yeoman of the chamber must continually change the sheets and bedgown.
Wat had taken the trouble—no unpleasant chore since Betsy was amorously inclined—of seducing the girl, and she greeted him with a mixture of pleasure and fear. “He’s gone—” she whispered, as she dumped the soiled linen in a vat. “I heard ’em say so as I lingered be’ind the arras, arter Gib ’anded me these.”
“Ah-h,” Wat breathed. “Ye certain, m’dear?” She nodded, then jumped at another thunderclap, which was followed by a roar of wind through the open passage. Wat gave her a warm kiss. “Thankee, lass.”
“Ye’re not goin’ out i’
this?
” she cried.
Wat did not bother to answer. He darted to the servants’ courtyard, where his tethered stallion was snorting and shivering in the downpour. He spurred the beast, and galloped toward London. The storm had driven all the citizens indoors, he had the streets to himself. In an hour he reached the goldsmith’s shop on Lombard Street.
“’Tis time!” he shouted through the crack which finally opened to his banging.
The crack widened enough to admit Wat, and the goldsmith spoke from the shadows. “Tom’s waiting,” he said in a thin quavering voice, “an’ I’ve kept his horse on the ready.”
“Make haste!” Wat cried. “They sent her a summons yesterday. I saw the messenger go. She’s probably left Hunsdon, Tom may meet her anywhere along the London road.”
The goldsmith glided to his safe, and took out a small ebony box. Wat peered over his shoulder, to satisfy himself that it was the buck crest ring. “Tom must put it in her
own
hand. Has ’e the wit and nerve?”
“He’s my grandson,” snapped the goldsmith. He hobbled to another room. Wat heard the shaky voice giving urgent instructions, and then a horse’s whinny, followed by pounding hoofbeats on the cobblestones.
“Bigod,” said Wat as the goldsmith returned, “hope he stops her. They’ve laid a subtle trap—those shitten traitors.”
“No more—I wish to hear no more,” the goldsmith whispered. “I’ll thank ye to leave. If aught goes wrong, I’ve ne’er set eye on ye in my life. Nor your master. Tell him.”
“Ye’ll be glad enow fur the reward if all goes well, old bag o’ bones,” said Wat with a snort, but he quitted the shop, and mounting his wet bedraggled stallion returned to Greenwich and the dingy wharfside inn to await developments.
He had two days to wait, and then the whole of London was rocked by the news. King Edward was dead, and Jane Grey Dudley was proclaimed Queen of England—at the Tower, on St. Paul’s steps, at Charing Cross and Westminster. The city’s few remaining bells were set to pealing. The news was greeted with boisterous huzzahs and cries of “Long live Queen Jane!” from the archers the Duke had carefully planted amongst the crowd. Shocked protests were suppressed by force. On the whole the Londoners were dazed. Rumor and speculation there had been for weeks, but fact was different. Even many of the Protestants were appalled. Who
was
Jane Grey Dudley? An undersized, though—it was said—learned chit of sixteen. A half cousin of Edward’s, descended from the daughter of Henry the Seventh. But what of his
sisters,
especially the Lady Mary’s Grace. And even the Lady Elizabeth? They were of King Harry’s own get. At least Mary was certainly born in true wedlock from a royal mother. But she was papist and half Spanish, and the poor young King had set aside her claim by will. The placards all over London announced this. At Paul’s Cross Bishop Ridley preached a jubilant sermon lauding Queen Jane.
Of more personal interest to Wat was the information that Sir John Gage, Anthony’s aged and eccentric grandfather, had at once been removed as Constable of the Tower, Lord Clinton replacing him for the occasion. Wat, remembering his chats with Clinton’s valet, said, “Aha!” and laughed dourly.
Wat waited around in Greenwich for five more days. Betsy was of no further use to him. She could no longer eavesdrop profitably, since all the court had removed to London or the Tower, to prepare Queen Jane for her coronation. Betsy’s only news was dismal. The King’s body lay neglected and unwatched in his chamber, where the stink had grown so horrible that the servants would not enter.
Wat haunted the docks. Sailors and fishermen always brought tidings, and he spent most of the money Anthony had given him loosening tongues with pints of ale. At last, on July 14, he was rewarded. A fishing smack from Yarmouth sailed smartly upriver on a following breeze. She was loaded with herring commissioned for the palace, and her master, though wary at first, soon could not contain his excitement. The Princess Mary was at Framlingham Castle in Suffolk! East Anglians of all degree were rallying around her. She had been proclaimed the rightful Queen at Norwich.
“Bigod, has she in truth?” Wat cried, betrayed by relief into a triumphant shout. He lowered his voice. “How’d she
get
to Framlingham?”
The fisherman sucked ale foam from his lips and grinned. “Ah—they say she was
warned
at Hoddesden. Somebody warned her of a trap. She turned back and went skitterin’ north to her palace at Kenninghall, an’ Northumberland’s men arter her. But she got clear, an’ hightailed it to greater safety at Framlingham—brave as a lion, like her dad. She’ll get her roights, that one will. They’re all solid for her up Yarmouth way.”
“God bless her,” said Wat on a great sigh of relief. “I’m off to join her,” he said suddenly. “She’ll need every able man!” He looked around the pot room defiantly, ready to fight arrest, aware that as matters stood his assertion was treason. Instead, he was cheered. Ale mugs thumped on tables. Several voices shouted, “We’ll join wi’ ye, Wat!”