Innocent Traitor (48 page)

Sitting in the barge, watching the sun-sparkled water lap by, I cannot speak. It is obvious that my mother-in-law is highly displeased with me, and I suppose I can understand why, for I have been unpardonably discourteous. Yet I am not, under any circumstances, going to be a party to treason. I have resolved to resist becoming involved in their plots with every ounce of my being.

On arrival at Durham House I am shown to my chambers, which overlook the river. They are dark, being paneled in old oak and having small, diamond-paned windows. On the wall is a portrait of Katherine of Aragon, who lived here many years ago, the Duchess says. The picture disturbs me: it is not just my awareness of that Queen’s staunch Catholicism that makes me uncomfortable; it is also the knowledge that I have been chosen as the instrument through which unscrupulous persons mean to perpetrate a great wrong against Katherine’s daughter, the Lady Mary. Even though I deplore Mary’s religious beliefs, I know for a certainty that her right to succeed her brother is just and lawful.

Mercifully, Guilford is with his father at court, so I do not have to endure his company. But other trials are in store for me. In the evening I am violently sick again, and for the next two days I cannot keep even water down. I am in a very poor case, suffering painful and humiliating attacks of the flux, and ghastly stomach cramps. I even begin to wonder, yet again, if Northumberland and his insufferable wife are trying to poison me.

On the third day, plainly alarmed in case I die whilst in her care, the Duchess sends me back to my mother at Chelsea.

Here, in familiar and once-loved surroundings, I begin to mend.

The Lady Mary

HUNSDON, 4TH JULY 1553

Sir Robert Rochester and I are sitting in the room that serves him as both office and study at Hunsdon House. I frown, peering shortsightedly at the two letters I hold in my hand.

“My lord of Northumberland writes that the King my brother is getting better and suggests that I come to court to cheer him during his convalescence,” I tell Sir Robert. “Yet the Emperor’s ambassador informs me, in his letter, that His Majesty is thought to be at death’s door, and that I should under no circumstances come near the court. Now whom should I believe?”

“I think Your Grace knows the answer to that question. I would not trust the Duke.”

“I agree. I should like to see my brother, but if I go to Greenwich, I will be putting myself in a very vulnerable position. I am a lone woman, my health is not good, and I have little political influence and few friends there. But if I do not go, the Duke might smell a rat. And if the King
is
getting better, he might take my absence unkindly.”

“I have heard,” says Sir Robert, who has his own friends at court, “that there are those on the council who are sympathetic to Your Grace, and those who might be reluctant to offend you at this time. On consideration, my advice is to go to court as you did before, attended by armed men and a great retinue. Then you will see for yourself how His Majesty really is, and you should also be able to assess how much support you can count upon. Remember, madam, if the imperial ambassador is correct, you would be wise to be at hand to claim the throne as the rightful heir.”

“You speak sagely, old friend.” I smile. Dear Sir Robert: he has served me faithfully for years, and I know that his affection for me goes beyond mere duty. My welfare is always his chief priority.

“Then take my advice,” he says firmly, smiling back.

“I will. I shall summon my escort and leave for Greenwich today.”

John Dudley,
Duke of Northumberland

GREENWICH PALACE, 4TH JULY 1553

De Scheyfve, the imperial ambassador, keeps giving me odd looks. Calculating looks. As if he knows something I don’t. Or knows something I don’t want him to know.

Could it be that he has found out about the King’s device for the succession? And if so, who could have told him? The lords here are in the main an untrustworthy bunch, but they’re all in this with me up to their necks; should any fool betray me, I would hope that the rest would turn and savage him like wild dogs, but all I can do is pray that the ambassador’s price is less than the rewards any man hopes to gain when the Lady Jane is on the throne.

But if de Scheyfve has got wind of my plan to seize the Lady Mary as soon as the King is dead, he might warn her. And that will not do.

Time. It cannot pass quickly enough now. God, when will the boy die?

I have written to the Lady Elizabeth, who is staying at Hatfield House in Hertfordshire, informing her, as I informed the Lady Mary, that her brother the King is on the mend and invites her to court to bring him some good cheer.

God forbid that my foxy lady is too clever for me. Elizabeth’s as sharp as nails and is more likely than her sister to suspect a trap. If she doesn’t come to court, I’ll have to send soldiers to drag her here.

GREENWICH PALACE, 6TH JULY 1553

Henry Sidney, that faithful friend since boyhood, is keeping vigil by the King’s bed. He’s been sitting there for a long time, heedless of the fetid air in the chamber, from which most of us cannot help but recoil when we enter. He is visibly grieving for his young master, the tears trickling unashamedly down his cheeks.

Only one physician is in attendance, Dr. Owen. I fear it has been too dangerous to allow the rest access to the King. Owen poses the least risk, since he’s getting on now and his eyesight isn’t what it was. He served the late King Henry for years and has known His Majesty all his life, so his presence is a comfort to Edward. The good doctor has done what he can to make his patient comfortable, although his skills avail him little. I’m pretty certain he doesn’t suspect anything.

I stand at the foot of the bed, looking down on the King. It’s as well old Henry can’t see his beloved son. Edward’s wasted body is covered with sores and ulcers. He can no longer eat, so his stomach is fearsomely distended, and he retches frequently. Most of his hair has fallen out, and his once-fair skin is blotched and discolored. He is a living corpse. Fortunately, his periods of lucidity are less and less frequent: he either sleeps fitfully or lies there rambling deliriously. No one can understand much of what he says, but we can make out enough to realize that the King is still fretting about the future of the Church he has established.

“My lord,” whispers Dr. Owen. “In my opinion, His Majesty is in extremis. Do I have your permission to summon the other doctors to assist me in helping him die in peace? You will understand that I don’t want to shoulder the responsibility alone. Men are always too ready to point the finger in the wake of a tragedy, and I fear they might accuse me of malpractice or worse.”

“You have my permission,” I say reluctantly, telling myself that it must be safe now for the doctors to see the King. Presently they file into the room, looking grave. They know they can do little for him save give him useless drafts and pray for his release. (As I pray for it—God, I do pray for it!)

The physicians go through the motions of examining their patient, then withdraw to a corner to confer, looking like so many black crows in their somber gowns and bonnets. I watch them covertly and realize they are doing the same to me. I should dearly love to hear what they are saying, but their voices are too hushed. They are frowning, shaking their heads. Even if they do have their suspicions, they cannot prove anything. And, of course, it would be unwise for any of them to make wild accusations.

They move again to the bed and make a great play of checking the King’s pulse and mopping his brow. They ask for a specimen of his urine. It’s a charade, because they can do nothing to help him. His breath is coming in labored gasps, and he keeps coughing up bloody sputum. It cannot be long now.

Sidney is still weeping.

“Dear God,” he cries, “let my master be taken before his sufferings become unbearable!”

Edward stirs. Outside, a church bell strikes three o’clock. It’s a hot and sultry afternoon, and the room is stifling. The doctors fear that fresh air might bring with it noxious vapors, but young Sidney has had enough. Ignoring Owen’s protest, he goes to the casement and throws it open. Not that it makes much difference, for the air outside is so humid that the sluggish, clammy breeze that barely lifts the curtains offers little respite from the close atmosphere in the room.

As I look out, the sky suddenly darkens. We’re in for a thunderstorm, which is about to break any minute.

Perhaps sensing this, His Majesty wakes. Henry Sidney hastens to his side and lifts a wine cup to his lips, but he cannot drink.

“I thank you for your care of me, Henry,” he croaks feebly, and sighs deeply. “I feel so bad,” he falters. “I entreat God that He will deliver me.” Then, in a firmer voice, he prays aloud, “Lord, Thou knowest how happy I shall be to live with Thee forever; yet I would live and be well for the sake of Thy people.”

He turns his ravaged face toward Sidney.

“I am so pleased to see you near,” he whispers, and falls asleep again.

It is nearly six o’clock. The storm has been raging for two hours, and His Majesty has awoken once more. Henry Sidney and Dr. Owen are seated on either side of the bed, while I maintain my position at its foot. We have been joined by Edward’s chaplain, who is quietly reading aloud words of spiritual consolation from the Scriptures. It is clear that Death is at hand, hovering in the shadows.

The King makes an effort to speak, but cannot, for very weakness, yet he manages to whisper a last brief prayer. Weeping unrestrainedly, Henry Sidney takes the frail body into his arms and holds it close as Edward’s young life ebbs away.

At length, the rasping breaths cease, and Sidney tenderly lays the inert form back on the pillows, closes the eyes, and folds the hands over the still breast. As he does so, there issues from the brooding skies above a mighty clap of thunder. In the weeks to come, ignorant folk, bred to superstition, will assert that the storm was sent by old King Henry, in anger at the setting aside of his will.

The Lady Mary