Innocent Traitor (24 page)

“She loves him,” says my mother in a tone that conveys contempt for such weakness. “She had an eye for him before my uncle wed her. Now she’s allowed emotion to override good sense. I would have credited her with more wisdom.”

“Well, they have the King’s blessing, so there’s no point in criticizing them. It seems that Seymour is more in favor with His Majesty than I thought. And, if you think about it, their union may be to our advantage. Remember the Admiral’s proposal.” My father glances briefly in my direction. “Let this all die down, and I’ll reconsider the matter. After all, the Queen would make an excellent chaperone.”

In some way, I realize, this conversation concerns me. Could it be that the Admiral has proposed that I go to stay with the Queen at Chelsea? If that were so, and my parents were agreeable, which God grant, then I would be the happiest girl alive.

Queen Katherine Parr

CHELSEA, AUGUST 1547

My Lord and Lady Dorset were our guests at dinner today. Tom was right. As soon as our marriage was made public, Lord Dorset almost fell over himself in his haste to place his daughter Jane in our care. He is a suitor to us now! And so here we are, seated in the privy chamber drinking spiced wine and discussing the proposed arrangements.

Tom is in an ebullient mood.

“Only yesterday,” he is saying to his lordship, “Bishop Bale, who has the King’s ear, told me in confidence that he is convinced it is your daughter, the Lady Jane, whom His Majesty really wishes to marry.”

“Have you spoken with the King himself on this matter?” Dorset asks. I see greed and ambition plain in his eyes, and for a moment I wonder where this will all lead us, and whether we should have entangled ourselves in this coil.

“No, but as I said, I am in the confidence of those who have,” Tom answers urbanely. “Fear not, my lord, His Majesty will take my advice. He is not happy with the Catholic marriage that the council is forcing on him. I promise you, you shall see Jane placed in an alliance that is much to your comfort, if you will send her to us and appoint me her legal guardian. Then I will be free to dispose of her on my own initiative. In the meantime, Her Grace here will be as a mother to your daughter.”

“It will be my pleasure.” I smile. “Jane is a delightful child.” And if I can make her happy, even for a short time, then I will feel more at ease with myself for participating in this underhanded scheming.

“You wish to make her your ward?” Dorset asks cautiously, although he can scarcely conceal how eager he is to conclude this arrangement, which would make Tom Jane’s legal guardian, with full control of any lands and income she would inherit in the event of her father’s death. I suspect he is doing rapid calculations in his head.

“I do,” says Tom. “Name your price.”

“Two thousand pounds,” Dorset says bluntly, without hesitation. “On condition that you arrange Jane’s marriage to the King and to no other.”

Tom affects to be taken aback, although we have already surmised that a sum of this nature would be asked. “A vast amount, my lord.”

“But worth the investment, I trust, and the benefits to all, and to this realm.”

“Indeed,” Tom agrees. “Shall we say five hundred pounds as a down payment, five hundred on Jane’s betrothal, and the rest on her marriage?”

“Done,” says Dorset, as if he were closing on a land deal rather than what effectively amounts to the sale of his daughter.

“May I suggest that Jane join our household after Christmas?” I ask.

“That will give us time to prepare a suitable wardrobe for her,” says Lady Dorset, clearly pleased with the transaction.

“I am sure you do not relish the prospect of being parted from her when she is so young,” I feel compelled to say, knowing how unfeeling Lady Dorset can be toward her daughter, “so please feel welcome to visit her here at any time.”

“Your Majesty is most gracious,” replies the Marchioness, but I have the feeling that it is I, rather than Jane’s mother, who feel concern at the prospect of their coming separation.

There is no escaping that my lord’s good brother, Protector Somerset, is still in a huff with him. And, of course, he may well have more reason to be so, though he doesn’t yet know it. Nevertheless, an appearance of family unity must be maintained, for it would not do for the Seymours’ political standing to be undermined by an open rift. The Protector has therefore invited us to join him for a little jaunt along the Strand, to inspect the old Inns of Chancery buildings, which his lordship—prompted no doubt by his socially ambitious wife—plans to develop into a veritable palace for himself, to be called Somerset House.

We alight from our chariot at three o’clock and find ourselves at the point where the Strand joins Fleet Street. This is the part of town where many lords and bishops have their mansions, with gardens sweeping down to the river Thames; but looming between them, only yards away, is the Hospital of the Savoy, dilapidated and neglected, a haunt of beggars and cutpurses. The Strand is always busy with people making their way between the city and Westminster, and our grooms clear a path for us, waving back the passersby.

The exterior of Somerset House is swarming with masons, carpenters, and laborers, but inside it is near derelict, and we have to pick our way through the debris that litters the dusty chambers, I holding up my skirts to avoid soiling the rich cloth. Ned—as Tom calls his brother—is lamenting the King’s lack of enthusiasm for the French bride selected for him.

“His Majesty was plainly bored stiff during the council meeting this morning, even though he well knows that it is his duty to pay attention and learn how this kingdom is governed. He only woke up when the subject of his marriage was raised, and when we began extolling the virtues of the Princess Elisabeth, he interrupted to ask if she was rich, because he wants a well-stuffed and bejeweled wife, as he put it.”

We laugh. Edward is not his father’s son for nothing.

“Well, isn’t that what most marriages are all about?” says Tom.

Ned frowns. “Naturally, but it’s still good form to maintain some pretense that there’s more to the business than that. It was the bluntness of the boy that was so startling, for all his seriousness, and most of the lords were having trouble stifling their amusement. Of course, I was able to tell him that the Princess will bring a great dowry—we are negotiating on that point at present. And I stressed that the most important advantage she will bring to himself and his realm will be the lasting friendship of France.”

“Which he swallowed whole, I take it?” snorts Tom. “And pigs might fly.”

Ned shoots him a withering look. “We need France just now. But the King went wittering on about misliking the Princess’s religion and insisting it be understood by the French that he expects her to convert to the true faith. As Supreme Head of the Church of England, he pointed out, he cannot marry a heretic.”

Tom’s face registers smug satisfaction.

Oh, well done, Your Majesty, I think. We have just the bride for you up our sleeves.

Ned is still grumbling as we cross the cracked flagstones of the courtyard. “Then that crafty Warwick said he had no doubt that His Majesty would be able to persuade her she was in error, but His Majesty picked up the irony in his voice and shot him a sharp look. But I know what the boy really wants, because he told me before this new marriage was ever suggested.”

Both Tom and I look at the Protector with interest. I can guess what my husband is thinking.

“What does he want?” he asks carefully.

“He wants to follow his father’s wishes and marry Mary, Queen of Scots. And when I pointed out that she is betrothed to the Dauphin, he retorted that betrothals can be broken and that anything could happen between now and the time he reaches fourteen, which is when he intends to marry. He’s been brought up on dreams of gaining Scotland, which he rightly said would be his if he married Queen Mary.”

“The French will never break the betrothal,” I say. “They have Scotland within their grasp.”

“Exactly,” replies Ned. “We have to be realistic.”

We concur. And it is not realistic to expect our increasingly fanatical little King to accept a Catholic bride, especially when there’s an excellent Protestant one in the offing.

All things considered, Tom’s daring scheme is falling beautifully into place.

Lady Jane Grey

BRADGATE HALL AND CHELSEA, JANUARY 1548

Christmas has come and gone, and at Bradgate my chests lie almost packed, ready for my departure for Chelsea. My heart is singing. Since I was informed that I am to join the Queen’s household, I have not quite been able to believe my good fortune, nor that I am really about to get away from the intolerable durance of my life under my parents’ roof, from the taunts, the criticism, the slaps, the cruelty. I am to escape at last.

I thank God fervently every day for the great mercy He has shown in placing me with the Queen, whose kind heart and gentle manner make her the easiest person in the world to love. Also, I pray to my utmost power that nothing will occur to prevent my going to Chelsea, which sounds to me like a very paradise, and that God will not account me too overburdened with blessings, for I am taking with me those I love best in the world, faithful Mrs. Ellen and dear Dr. Aylmer.

I cannot help but wonder why I am to go to the Queen at this time. My mother says it is usual for girls of my rank to be sent to live in a noble household to learn the social graces and complete their education, yet I have a strange feeling that there is some other reason, some advantage to be gained from it by my parents. Well, time will tell. I am the beneficiary now, whatever the future holds.

Fortunately, the scandal surrounding the Queen’s marriage to the Admiral has been all but forgotten, at least in this household, but just in case my parents were still entertaining any doubts on that score, the Admiral wrote to say that his mother, old Lady Seymour, will be joining his household to assist the Queen in overseeing my welfare and will treat me as if I were her own daughter. And for company, he added, I will be fortunate in having the society of the Lady Elizabeth, my royal cousin. I am so happy I can hardly sleep for excitement.

When the day of departure arrives, my mother swoops regally into my chamber and quizzes Mrs. Ellen and the maids to make sure that everything that should have been packed has been, and that nothing has been forgotten. Then she turns and looks me up and down. This morning I asked Mrs. Ellen to dress me in a simple gown of black velvet with sleeves lined with white samite. Few jewels adorn my attire, and my headdress is a plain black French hood and veil. I have recently read that it becomes a virtuous Protestant maiden to dress modestly and discreetly.

“And where do you think you are going dressed like that?” demands my mother, bearing down upon me. I stand my ground. Soon I will no longer have to put up with her bullying.

“I see nothing wrong with my attire, my lady. I thought it looked seemly enough.”

“Everything’s wrong with it. You look as if you are in mourning. For Heaven’s sake, you are going to stay with the Queen! Out of respect for her, have the decency to dress the part! It’s not as if you can rely on your own beauty to blind others to the fact that you cannot be bothered with your appearance. Really, you should know better!”

“On the contrary, my lady, I have taken care with my appearance,” I say quietly. “I am sure the Queen will appreciate that I desire to dress as becomes a godly Protestant maiden. I have read that fripperies and gewgaws are but papist vanities.” There, I have said it, the thing I have been itching to say ever since I read it. I know I have been rude; the implied insult is clear, because my mother herself is wearing a gown of crimson satin embroidered with gold and edged with pearls and other gems. She is also dripping with jewels.

I wince as my mother’s palm lashes my cheek, but I make no murmur. She is breathing heavily, red in the face.

“You will apologize for that, girl, on your knees.”

I say nothing.

“You insulted me, you impertinent minx! Now you
will
kneel and beg forgiveness, and then you will change into some fitting clothes and leave worrying about such things to your betters. You will not gainsay me. I’ll hear no more of such nonsense.”