Innocent Traitor (2 page)

HAMPTON COURT PALACE, SURREY, OCTOBER 1537

It has begun, this labor that I, the King my husband, and all England have so eagerly awaited. It began with a show of blood, then the anxious midwives hurried me into bed, fearful in case anything should go wrong. Indeed, every precaution has been taken to guard against mishap. Since early summer, when the babe first fluttered in my womb and I appeared in public with my gown unlaced, prayers have been offered up throughout the land for my safe delivery. My husband engaged the best physicians and midwives and paid handsomely to have the soothsayers predict the infant’s sex: all promised confidently that it would be a boy, an heir to the throne of England. Henry insisted that I be spared all state appearances, and I have spent these past months resting in opulent idleness, my every whim and craving gratified. He even sent to Calais for the quails I so strongly fancied. I ate so many I sickened of them.

Most pregnant women, I am told, sink into a pleasant state of euphoria as their precious burden grows heavier, as if Nature is deliberately affording them a short respite before the ordeal that lies ahead and the responsibilities of motherhood that follow it. But I have enjoyed no such comforting sense of well-being or elation at the glorious prospect facing me, God willing. My constant companion is fear. Fear of the pain of labor. Fear of what will happen to me if I bear a girl or a dead child, as my two unfortunate predecessors did. Fear of my husband, who, for all his devotion and care for me, is still a man before whom even strong men tremble. How he could ever have settled his affections on such a poor, plain thing as I is beyond my limited comprehension. My women, when they dare mention the subject, whisper that he loves me because I am the very antithesis of Anne Boleyn, that black-eyed witch who kept him at bay for seven years with promises of undreamed-of carnal adventures and lusty sons, yet failed him in both respects once he had moved Heaven and earth to put the crown on her head. I cannot think about what he did to Anne Boleyn. For even though she was found guilty of betraying him with five men, one her own brother, it is horrifying to know that a man is capable of cutting off the head of a woman he has held in his arms and once loved to distraction. And it is even more horrifying when that man is my husband.

So I live in fear. Just now I am terrified of the plague, which rages in London so virulently that the King has given orders that no one from the city may approach the court. Confined to my chamber for the past six weeks, as is the custom for English queens, with only women to wait on me and the imminent birthing to brood on, I am prey to all kinds of terrors, so in a way it is a relief now to have something real upon which to focus my anxieties.

Henry is not here. He has gone hunting, as is his wont and passion, although he has given me his word that he will not ride more than sixty miles from here. I would be touched by his concern had I not learned that it was his council that advised him not to stray farther from me at this time. But I am glad, all the same, that he has gone. He would be just one more thing to worry about. His obsessive and pathetic need for this child to be a boy is more than I can cope with.

It is now afternoon, and my pains are recurring with daunting intensity, even though the midwife tells me that it will be some hours yet before the child can be born. I pray God that this ordeal may soon be over, and that He will send me a happy hour, for I do not think I can stand much more of this.

HAMPTON COURT PALACE, 12TH OCTOBER 1537

It has been three days and three nights now, and I am at the end of my feeble strength. Nothing in my life has prepared me for this agony. Not all the prayers, processions, and intercessions that are taking place in London, by the King’s order, can help me, for I am beyond help. There is just me and the pain. I have forgotten why I am here. I know only that if I scream loudly enough, someone will have to take the pain away.

Once, I heard the hastily summoned physicians whispering, asking each other if they should save mother or child. Even then, I was beyond caring, for I had heard one of them suggesting that the infant be cut from my body. It did not matter, so long as the pain ceased. But that was hours, years ago, and still I am suffering. They have not carried out their dreadful threat.

Now it is night. I am barely aware of the darkness outside the mullioned window. They have pulled aside the curtain to let some air into the fetid room, which is heavy with the stink of my labor. The doctors and the women huddle around my bed in a frantic conclave. I am ready to give up the ghost, but they will not let me.

The midwife presses a handkerchief to my nose. It smells of pepper and makes me sneeze violently. All of a sudden, the pangs begin again, stronger and stronger, consuming me with their ferocity. I lack even the power to scream, my mouth opening wide in a silent grimace. Something is happening, there is change in the rhythm of my body and an overpowering compulsion to bear down, to push. They are urging me to push, begging me. And as I push, making one last supreme effort, I am pushing the pain away; I am in charge of my own destiny. Then there is a violent wrenching: I feel as if I am being riven in half.

“A healthy, fair prince, Your Majesty!” cries the midwife in jubilation. But I feel nothing. All I want is to sleep.

Frances Brandon,
Marchioness of Dorset

BRADGATE HALL, OCTOBER 1537

Shouts from the courtyard below herald the return of the hunting party and wake me from slumber. It is late evening already. I must have slept for hours. My husband is here.

Beside the bed stands the heavy oak cradle carved with the Dorset crest, two unicorns ermined and hooped with gold, all painted in bright colors; within it lies my baby, now tightly swaddled and slumbering soundly. Beyond, seated in the glow of a candle and the dancing firelight, sits the nurse, Mrs. Ellen, stitching a seam on a tiny silk bonnet. I close my eyes again as I hear footsteps approaching. I would give anything to avoid having to tell Henry, my lord, that I have failed him yet again.

But he already knows. The expression on his face as he enters the room tells me that. He is a man easily overruled in many matters, but this is one that touches his pride, and his nobility.

“A girl,” he says brusquely, “and all to do again. Why God should not favor us is beyond me. We go to Mass regularly, we give out charity by the dollop, we lead a Christian life. What more can we do?”

Lying flat on my back sets me at an immediate disadvantage. Profoundly grateful that I have not suffered tearing during the birth, I ease myself up. Even so, Henry is looming over me like a stiff caricature of outraged manhood.

“The child is healthy, at least,” I say coldly, “and with God’s grace, a brother shall follow her. I know my duty.” And you, my lord, the son of a mere marquess, need not remind me, the daughter of a queen, where that duty lies.

I can see in his eyes that, despite himself, he admires my dignity and resolve. Even now, exhausted as I am in my childbed, I know he desires me and finds me alluring, even though I am not beautiful in the conventional sense. He likes my auburn hair—Tudor hair, he calls it, and I suspect that is part of the attraction. He thinks my lips are sensual, he admires my dark brows, my tilted nose, my determined chin. Even after bearing three children in four years, my twenty-year-old body, large-breasted and wide-hipped, still has the power to arouse him, especially with those breasts made more voluptuous by pregnancy. But he is not thinking now of the lusty delights in which I am usually so willing a partner. Instead, Henry looks at his little scrap of a daughter and has to smile, for she looks so like her royal great-uncle, the King: she has the same red-gold hair, determined little mouth, and blue-green eyes, which, for all that she is but newborn, are regarding him with what seems to be uncommon intelligence.

I am surprised to see the saturnine, finely chiseled features form themselves into a grin.

“A pretty wench,” I venture.

He nods, straightening, a calculating light in his eyes. “Indeed. We shall make her a brilliant marriage, to bring glory on our house. And in the meantime, Frances, we shall make merry getting her a brother. As soon as you are recovered, of course.”

“Of course. As I said, I know my duty.”

“One can always combine duty with pleasure,” he smirks. The worst moment has passed. Both of us are making light of our terrible disappointment.

Our as-yet-unnamed daughter—we are arguing, because Henry wants Katherine after his mother, and I want Frances, or Jane, for the Queen—is a week old today. She is a good baby, taking her feeds with vigor from the wet nurse, and sleeping regularly already. She rarely cries. I, on the other hand, am restless and uncomfortable, enduring the ache of engorged breasts, and the leaking of milk through the bindings applied to them by the midwife, who says that it should dry up in a few days. That’s not soon enough for me.

Today it is crisp and cold, but bright. By late afternoon, the sky framed by my window is suffused with the golden light of the setting sun. Below this vast sky lie the fertile acres of the Bradgate estate, stretching far away into the distance. I am sitting in a chair, gazing out upon the sparkling lake and the wilderness beyond it. In the distance I can glimpse the thatched roofs of cottages.

I like this place. I am aware that there are those who think I married beneath me, but there are many compensations, not the least of which is a virile and like-minded husband, who shares my hopes and ambitions. And then there is this house, this mellowed, turreted redbrick mansion with its courtyard and gatehouse, its rooms richly furnished in the latest fashion, and its patchwork of gardens and arbors, in which it is a delight to take the air.

Suddenly, I want to be outdoors. I was never one to sit at home reading or embroidering, which most girls of my rank are encouraged to do. For me, walking, riding, and hunting are essential. And I have had enough of this wretched, stuffy bedchamber.

“My cloak!” I snap. I will defy madam midwife and go out, just for a short walk. With one maid in attendance, I brave the stairs and then, with increasing boldness, sweep out of the house, hoping that the midwife is watching disapprovingly from a window. Not that she would have dared to try to stop me.

I thank God as I cross the outer court that I have suffered no injuries from the birth. I have known women left in great and lasting discomfort. But I am strong. I feel almost myself again.

I am walking now in the shadow of the great gatehouse. At either end of the range facing me stand two lofty towers, built by Henry’s father, the second Marquess of Dorset. They make the Hall look imposing. Passing through the gatehouse, I turn away from the tiltyard on my left and enter a door in a wall on my right, which leads to a pretty garden where roses normally flower in summer. I sit for a while on a stone seat, enjoying the sharp autumn sunshine that lends a roseate glow to the red bricks of the wall and the manor house beyond.

I am not left for long to enjoy my escape. Not five minutes have passed before I hear a horse’s hooves galloping along the approach that leads to Bradgate. Its rider wears green and white livery: the royal Tudor colors. Whatever news he brings will be important, that much is certain. I rise to my feet and hastily retrace my steps to the house, where I find that my lord has already summoned our household to assemble in the great hall.

“This is news of great moment, Frances,” he tells me. “All must hear it.”

We sit together on the dais, as the hastily convened ranks of ladies, gentlemen, household officers, grooms, pages, chamber attendants, kitchen staff, and servitors part to allow the King’s messenger to approach us. The vast hall, with its great oak-beamed roof and tapestried walls, is a-hum with expectancy; everyone, from the stiff-necked chamberlain to the lowliest potboy, cranes forward to hear.

The mud-spattered rider drops to one knee before us. Although his words are meant for both of us, it is to me that he defers—me, the King’s own niece.