Innocent Traitor (45 page)

A week passes and still Guilford has not returned, I thank God. After my illness and my ordeal in the marriage bed, I am fragile. Inside, I am numb, closed-up, and leaden-hearted, carrying my sorrow and shame locked away in my heart. I’m sure Mrs. Ellen is worrying about me, for she complains I am too thin and not eating properly, and that if I continue this way, I will never recover my strength.

I do not think I could care less.

CHELSEA, JUNE 1553

I am back at Chelsea now in the house filled with bittersweet memories of Katherine Parr. How happy I was then, and how sad it is that we do not always realize we are happy until happiness is gone. Now, instead of the late Queen’s kindly nurturing, I have to endure the harsh rule of my mother, who seems indifferent to my suffering and still takes every opportunity to criticize me. Now it is because Guilford has still not returned to see me; his absence must, of a certainty, be due to some fault in me.

At Chelsea I live quietly. With the King so ill, it would be wrong to do otherwise. I spend my days trying to absorb myself in my studies, and praying that I will not be disturbed by any visits from my husband. My wounds heal slowly, and to my utter relief my monthly course arrives as usual. I dare to hope that Guilford will not think it worth repeating the dreadful marriage act, since I was such a disappointment to him. After all, it’s not as if he is his father’s eldest son, with an obligation to carry on the family name; nor do I lack sisters who can provide my parents with grandchildren. If only they would all just leave me alone with my books and my letters, I would be content to let life, and the world, pass me by.

John Dudley,
Duke of Northumberland

GREENWICH PALACE, JUNE 1553

Lady Suffolk sends me regular bulletins on the Lady Jane’s health. I am concerned about this new daughter-in-law of mine. I was told she was a modest girl, but at first, to be honest, I thought she looked more sulky than shy, and I have wondered ever since if she will prove as amenable as I had hoped. Then there is her health, which is not good. She’s too thin for a start, and overprone to illness, which is more cause for misgivings. Truly, I fear, I have invested all my hopes in a weak and unpredictable vessel.

Fortunately the marriage has been consummated. Guilford has openly said so, although I was not pleased to hear today that, when he visited her at Chelsea, she refused him her bed. That is a serious breach of duty on a wife’s part, and one calling for me to act. But I must go carefully: the Duchess of Suffolk tells me that her daughter has some malady of the spirit that prevents her from making a full recovery from her recent illness.

I discuss the matter with my wife. Guilford has complained to her also of the wretched girl’s intransigence.

“I think she is very willful,” my good lady says. Of course, she will take Guilford’s part: in her eyes, he can do no wrong.

“Yes, that may be so,” I reply. “But could he be in any way to blame?”

“Of course not! He has merely claimed his lawful rights. Really, John, this foolish wench is making a lot of fuss about nothing, and I mean to visit her and tell her so.”

“No, wait. She’s been unwell, and it will not do Guilford any good if you interfere. He must sort this out himself—woo her back to compliance if need be. But first, I suggest we allow the Lady Jane time to fully recover her health. That’s why I had her moved to Chelsea—her father mentioned how happy she was there with the late Queen. Moreover, it’s close to London. I would like the Lady Jane near at hand in case she is needed.”

I look down on the wretched example of human suffering that was once the pride of King Henry. Edward VI is on the brink of the next world; I don’t need the royal physicians to tell me that. But it is a hard, drawn-out death. The boy has no rest because of his harsh, tearing cough. The putrid matter he brings up is black, viscous, and stinking. His feet and ankles have swollen to twice their normal size, and he can hardly eat anything. Sleep eludes him unless he takes the noxious cocktail of medicines and drafts prescribed by his doctors. He is beyond human help now.

“Your Grace, we can do nothing more,” Dr. Owen tells me.

“How long will he last?”

“A week or two at the most, I would say.”

And that, I know for certain, is not enough for all that must be done to secure the succession to the Lady Jane.

“Can you do nothing more to keep him alive?” I urge the doctors.

“My lord, we have done all we can. He is in God’s hands now. It is only a matter of time.”

With a brusqueness born of anxiety, I dismiss the physicians. Later, after a confidential interview with one of my agents, I am glad I have done so, because with what I have in mind, I do not want them poking and prying around, for I know that they will surely guess what is afoot. My priority is to keep the King alive long enough for my plans to mature, so that I can obtain the support of the great nobles of this realm and commit Edward’s sisters into custody. Above all, I must cozen His Majesty into lending some veneer of legality to what would otherwise, I am aware, be a blatant attempt to subvert the law of the land.

All this requires secrecy and time. Time, time, time. I am becoming obsessed with it and sick of worrying about it and the ever-present need for urgency. But my time will surely run out when the King dies, or soon afterward, since even I cannot keep the death of a sovereign a secret for long.

So I am profoundly relieved when my trusted agent—a man who is troubled by as few scruples as myself—comes to me with the name of a woman who may be able to prolong the King’s life.

“She’s a Welshwoman, Tegwyn Rhys by name,” says Yaxley. “She was left widowed and childless at a young age, so she came to London to seek work and inevitably turned to prostitution. I’ve had some dealings with her”—he reddens—“and found her to be bright and, shall we say, versatile. It got so that she was very much in demand and managed to stash away quite a bit of money, enough for her to abandon that profession and set herself up in a modest shop in Cornhill.”

“Where she sold?” I inquire.

“Potions. Cures.” Again his cheeks flush.

I lean forward. “For what?”

“All kinds of complaints,” says Yaxley, clearly uncomfortable.

“And your interest was?”

“To be frank, my lord, I’d been one of her regular clients in the past, and I used to drop in on her from time to time at her shop. Later, after I got married, I experienced some small difficulty—”

“Impotence?”

He squirms. “Something like that, yes. Tegwyn gave me a potion for it, which did the trick.”

Or rather, you believed in it so much that it did, I reflect. “So what has all this to do with His Majesty?”

“Well, my lord, after that, whenever I or my wife needed any physic, I went back to Tegwyn’s shop. Her prices have always been reasonable, and her cures often work better than those expensive ones prescribed by the court physicians. I became a good customer, you could say. Well, more than that.”

“You frequented her bed as well as her shop?”

He nods. “We’re good friends. I could talk to her about anything; she’s that kind of woman. Yesterday, I was sitting in the shop as she was locking up, and we were talking about how dangerous some drugs can be. I was surprised to hear her say that arsenic, while it can be deadly, can also prolong life, if used in the right way.”

Understanding dawns. This is what I have prayed for.

“Summon her to Greenwich at once,” I command. “I want to talk to her.”

The woman sits before me in my paneled closet. She looks awestruck by her surroundings; of course, she’s never been in a palace before. She’s comely in her way, if you like the overblown-rose type, but her eyes are sharp. I read in them intelligence and cunning. It takes a fox to know a fox.

“I have been told that you can help me,” I say.

“I can try, sir,” she says. “Is it a confidential matter?”

“Very confidential. Not one word of what we say must be repeated beyond these walls.”

“You can trust me,” she says, low. “Is it a—you know—personal matter?”

I laugh briefly. “Oh, no, nothing like that. Much more serious. Tell me, Mistress Rhys, how come you are so gifted in curing people? My man William Yaxley has been singing your praises to the skies.”

“I got it from my mother, sir. Seventh child of a seventh child, she was, and regarded by many as a wise woman with a gift for healing. She taught me all kinds of lore.”

“I take it all this is quite legal?” I fix my stare upon her. “No magic, no witchcraft?”

“Oh, no, sir. Just herbs and simples.” The flush on her cheeks tells me she is lying, and that there’s a great deal more to it than that. “I rely only on time-honored remedies.”

“And poisons? Master Yaxley mentioned arsenic.”

Ah. I’ve got her there. She looks like a hare cornered by dogs.

“I’ve never harmed anyone,” she protests.

“I’m sure you haven’t, but others might wonder. That’s why I think you will help me.”

“Help you?” she echoes.

“Yes. I understand you can prolong the life of someone who is ill.”

“Prolong life?” she asks, plainly baffled.

“Yes, by the use of arsenic. Is that correct?”

“Well, yes, I—” She is more on her guard now. “I’ve heard it can be done.”

“But you have never used it yourself for such a purpose?”

“Never, sir. Never.” The emphasis suggests she is lying.

“Then how come you told Master Yaxley that it could be done?”

“I just repeated something I’d heard about years ago. From an old monk.”

Clever touch, that. Most people nowadays would believe any monk capable of such infamy.

“Well, wherever you learned it, what I want to establish is, would you yourself know how to use arsenic to prolong life?”

“I daresay I could,” she says slowly, considering. “Is it for yourself, sir?”

“No.” I take a deep breath. “It is the King’s Majesty whose life we are discussing.”

“The King?” She gasps, her eyes terrified.

“Indeed, sadly so. He is dying, and there are urgent matters of state for him to attend to. I fear, however, that God will call him to Himself before these can be brought to a satisfactory conclusion, and that the kingdom will then be plunged into chaos. If you can help His Majesty, Mistress Rhys, you will be doing England a great favor.”

“I can’t,” she says, plainly horrified.

“Why?” I ask, trying to conceal my impatience.

“I can’t. It would be cruel.”

“Madam, I am asking you to prolong the King’s life, not end it.”

“The old monk told me,” she says, picking her words with care, “that to administer arsenic in this way can cause the greatest suffering and pain to the patient. Sir, you must realize what it will mean for that poor boy, King or not. It would be callous and inhuman—akin to torture, you might say.”

“But will it prolong his life? And for how long?”

“It would assuredly prolong his life, and probably for a week or more, maybe even a month, but—oh, sir—at a terrible cost. I beg of you, do not do it.” Her vehemence tells me she has seen the suffering she describes firsthand. But I cannot afford to heed her remonstrances.

“Would you be prepared to take over his treatment? From today? You will be handsomely rewarded, of course.”

The woman slumps in her chair. “And if I refuse?”

“Well, Master Yaxley has been rather free with his confidences. Inquiries might need to be made….” I allow her a moment to think about this. She must know that the penalty for witchcraft is death.

“I will do it, then.”

I can feel my shoulders sagging with relief. “Good. But remember,” I say sternly, “speak of this to no one. There must be utter and absolute secrecy.”

The King looks gray. His young face is disfigured by a grimace of pain, and his frail body is unnaturally bloated. The stench in the royal bed-chamber is worse than ever, as if he is rotting already, and it is all I can do not to clamp my handkerchief to my nose as I approach the bed.

“Your Majesty, there is an urgent matter I need to discuss with you,” I begin.

“Pray proceed,” croaks Edward.

“Sir, I am very concerned about the succession. In the interests of preserving the true faith, would you not agree that it is the duty of a good and devout prince to set aside all considerations of blood and kinship where there is any risk of endangering the spiritual welfare of his subjects? Sir, I fear that, if a king were to do otherwise, after this life, which is short, he might be punished for it at God’s dreadful tribunal.”

“I know that well, my lord Duke,” says the boy with feeling. “I worry about it constantly. The prospect of my sister Mary succeeding is even more terrible to me than my present sufferings and approaching death. It haunts my thoughts and robs me of the peace of mind that would allow me to prepare my soul in quietness for eternal judgment. God has given me this sacred trust, to lead my people to the true faith, and in abandoning them to a Catholic ruler, I feel I am betraying both Him and them. I am relieved to hear that you share my concerns.”