Innocent Traitor (9 page)
“I heed you, Mrs. Ellen,” I say, all solemn.
In the small hours of the night, I wake up screaming, bringing Mrs. Ellen rushing in, all frowsty from bed and carrying a lighted candle.
“There now,” she soothes, cradling me in her arms, “it was just a bad dream.”
It had been a bad dream indeed. It had been so real that I woke up expecting to see the Queen’s headless body, with blood streaming from its ragged neck, stumble blindly through my door.
Frances Brandon,
Marchioness of Dorset
HAMPTON COURT PALACE, JULY 1543
There is a great throng in the holyday closet leading to the chapel royal, and it is unpleasantly hot. Here we all are in our damasks and velvets, perspiring profusely and marveling at my royal uncle’s irrepressible optimism. For today, His Majesty is marrying his sixth wife.
Standing beside my lord at the front, I press a handkerchief to my nose to blot out the stink of sweat. Only a foot or so away from us stands the King, resplendent in cloth of gold, and the woman he is taking in holy matrimony—Katherine Parr, Lady Latimer. The nuptials are being conducted by that toady, Archbishop Cranmer, and among the guests are the highest in the land.
The new Queen is no giddy girl like Katherine Howard, but a mature woman of thirty-one, russet-haired and comely, yet no beauty. Good seat on a horse, though, and an old friend of mine, being but five years older than I. Her two previous husbands were old men, to whom she bore no children, so she is well qualified to look after my ailing uncle. Whether he will get sons on her is another matter. The whisper goes that he is now so infirm with his huge bulk and diseased legs that he is no longer capable of getting a filly in foal, for all that he still goes out of his way to act the stallion, with his magnificent suits and thrusting codpieces, larger than any other man’s. But what he really desires, I suspect, is the soothing companionship that only a woman can give him. A nurse in his twilight years. And in Katherine Parr, with her quiet, kindly ways and her famously erudite mind, I believe he will find what he seeks.
It is well known at court, however, that Lady Latimer has not always displayed such gravity. Last year, after Lord Latimer died, she fell in love with the Lord High Admiral, Sir Thomas Seymour, younger brother of the late Queen Jane. These Seymours, upon whom I am now bestowing a gracious smile, are an ambitious, upstart breed. The eldest brother, Edward, Lord Hertford, has risen to power sheerly by virtue of his sister bearing the King a son, and he is now one of the most powerful men in the kingdom. And I make no doubt he will retain that eminence, being uncle to the future King.
The ambitious Sir Thomas is plainly jealous of his brother. He resents his power and influence and makes no secret of his opinion that Lord Hertford, who is noted for his high ideals and penny-pinching ways, should do more to advance his younger brother. But the truth is that Sir Thomas, for all his dark good looks and persuasive charm, is a volatile, untrustworthy schemer, plainly unfitted for high office at court. Lord Hertford knows it, and the King knows it. Nonetheless, the young buck is seen as a goodly fellow, and he has been appointed Lord High Admiral so that his impulsive, adventurous spirit may be put to good use.
Sir Thomas was not in love with Lady Latimer, we all knew that, but he had certainly realized that she was a rich widow with a good reputation, who would make a desirable wife for any aspiring nobleman. It was also obvious that she was ripe for the picking. And no doubt he thought that, after being married to two old men, she would appreciate having a lusty young one in her bed.
It was only two months ago, when Kate—or rather, the Queen, as I must shortly call her—and I were sitting in her lodgings at court, that she told me herself how she had fallen so wildly for Thomas Seymour.
“I had to fight him off—he would barely take no for an answer, Frances,” she confided. “And I…well, I wanted him. What woman wouldn’t? He’s so handsome and charming. But when he realized I wasn’t going to let him have his way with me, he spoke of marriage. Oh, Frances, you can’t imagine how happy I was. After two old graybeards, to whom I was nurse rather than wife, I was to have a young and virile husband. And then the King made known his interest, and Tom told me he had no choice but to withdraw. Soon afterwards, he was sent abroad on a timely diplomatic mission, and then His Majesty began to press his suit in earnest.”
He’s no fool, my uncle. Unlike Kate, poor, virtuous matron, who was beguiled by the blandishments of a self-seeking scoundrel.
“When the King proposed marriage to me,” Kate went on, “I was reluctant to accept. I did not want the burden of queenship. Truly, I feared it. With respect, Frances, for I know he is your uncle, His Majesty has not had a happy matrimonial career.”
“You speak truth there. But it has not all been his fault.”
“No, no,” she hastily agreed. “But revere him as I do, as my sovereign lord, I did not love him as I love—loved—Tom. God forgive me, but when the King asked me to marry him, I told him I would rather be his mistress than his wife.”
Her reluctance was understandable. The position of queen consort in this realm has indeed become fraught with hazards. It is now high treason for a woman with a dubious past to marry the King without first declaring that she has led an impure life. And once she is married to him, she must take care that, like Caesar’s wife, she remains above suspicion. With two of my uncle’s wives having gone to the block already, few ladies at court aspire to the honor of becoming his queen.
Yet here Kate is, standing by my uncle, receiving the congratulations of their guests, and merrily clasping his hand as he leads the way from the chapel, he staggering manfully on his ulcerated legs, broad and magnificent in his gem-encrusted short gown and feathered bonnet, with Katherine, a diminutive figure in crimson damask, leaning on his arm. In the privy chamber, where the wedding banquet is laid out ready, bride and groom are smiling broadly, in high good humor, extending their hands to be kissed as the lords and ladies, like so many peacocks, bob up and down before them.
“My Lady Dorset, we are pleased to welcome you,” says the new Queen as I rise from my curtsy. “I should be grateful if you would attend me tomorrow. I have need of ladies like yourself in my household.”
“I feel highly honored, Your Majesty,” I say, as my husband looks on approvingly.
“Frances will have you well organized, Kate,” chimes in the King, smiling. “Quite a formidable lady, my niece!” He grins at me as he says this, and I laugh.
“Your Majesty is too unkind,” I retort. I have a great affection for my uncle, whose character is in so many ways like my own. I know that many people are terrified of him, but he has always been kind to me, and I believe that, because I deal with him directly and approach him in the right way, I bring out the best in him. I can remember him as he was in the years before he was soured by constant matrimonial trials and his fears for the succession, and I can still detect something of that golden, athletic younger man beneath the layers of flesh and the puffy, ruined face.
The King invites us to accompany him on the hunt tomorrow, then moves off with his bride to circulate among the other guests. I suddenly find myself next to Anne of Cleves—still smelling a trifle high—who greets me in her deep guttural English and glances humorously in the direction of the royal couple.
“A fine burden Madam Katherine has taken upon herself!” she murmurs.
“I’m sure she will cope,” I say, tart. “His Majesty thinks very highly of her.”
“As he did of the late Queen, and most of the ones before her,” retorts Anne. “Excepting, of course, myself.” She smiles. “But I am not complaining. And I am delighted that my dear brother has found happiness at last.” It is an open secret that Madam of Cleves was not exactly displeased at being so unceremoniously dumped by the King. She did well out of it financially and now leads a comfortable life that is mercifully free from court intrigue. And she kept her head!
I smile back stiffly. I do not much like this German princess with her penetrating observations. Really, she should consider well that she is speaking to the King’s own niece. But Anne suddenly grasps my arm.
“I hope I have not offended you,” she states shrewdly. “I assure you, His Majesty has been very good to me, most generous. I am happy to be his dear sister and to stay in this lovely England.”
I incline my head and move on, reflecting that my uncle had not exaggerated—the woman smelled awful. Do they never change their body linen in Cleves?
I join my husband, who is deep in conversation with my cousins the Lady Mary and the Lady Margaret Douglas, who is a bridesmaid to the Queen.
“I am sure you are pleased to see your father, the King, so happily settled,” Henry says to Mary, as I take up my position at his side.
“It is a blessing after what happened with the others,” she replies, peering at him intensely with shortsighted eyes. Mary, at twenty-seven, is a year older than I am; but where I am strong and healthy, she is a tiny, thin woman, plagued by ill health, imagined or chronic, and whatever bloom she once had has long since dulled, blasted by tragedy and disappointment. Today, she is wearing a tawny gown of figured corded damask, its white lawn undersleeves banded with crimson velvet. Her frizzy red hair is parted severely under her French hood, and her thin fingers are fiddling anxiously with the gold prayer book that is attached by a ribbon to her girdle.
I feel a certain pity for Mary, but I can’t help being irritated by her. She’s had a hard life, and it is true that the King treated her with great severity when he put away Katherine of Aragon, but then the wretched girl had been so stubborn, refusing to acknowledge that her mother’s marriage had been unlawful. One does not defy the King thus and get away with it, and my uncle kept her apart from her mother to teach her obedience. He would not let Mary visit Katherine, even when the old Queen was dying. Instead, Mary was proclaimed a bastard, the fruit of an incestuous union, and sent to wait on her half sister Elizabeth, Anne Boleyn’s child, who had just been born. What surprised us all was that Mary, who had been thwarted of marriage and motherhood by her debased status, quickly developed a touching affection for Elizabeth. And she was kind to her when Elizabeth, in her turn, was declared baseborn after Anne Boleyn’s fall. It is astonishing that, despite their mothers being deadly rivals, these two sisters have so much in common and are evidently devoted to each other. Furthermore, both are deeply fond of their brother, Edward.
Neither of the King’s younger children is here today. Prince Edward, now five years old, is at Havering, and the Lady Elizabeth is at Hatfield. They are missing a merry occasion, but then I suppose that, as ever, His Majesty is fearful of them catching some contagion through overmuch contact with the court.
As I load my plate with gilded marchpane and candied oranges from the buffet, the consort of musicians in the corner begins playing a stately pavane. But no one is dancing. Instead, there is a babel of chatter, as goblets are replenished and the courtiers circulate, regrouping as their fancy takes them. The King sits on his chair of estate, his new Queen on a stool to his right, and beckons favored courtiers in turn to converse with them. From time to time, he takes his bride’s hand, raises it to his lips, and kisses it, his blue eyes narrowing playfully in lust. For all his infirmity, there is still much of the old Adam left in my uncle, and I make no doubt that he will hasten Kate away to bed as soon as he may.
I watch this touching byplay out of the corner of my eye, as Henry and I discuss the events of the day with the Earl of Hertford, brother to the late Queen Jane. Then I am rudely jolted back to the world of politics by his lordship’s venturing into more contentious matters.
“You heard about the treaty, Dorset?”
“Treaty?” Henry looks nonplussed.
“Then you’d better keep this under your bonnet,” Hertford says, lowering his voice and leaning forward so that we can hear him. “His Majesty has just signed a treaty with the Scots providing for the betrothal of the Prince to their little Queen.”
I am truly shaken by this. Last year, the Scottish King, James V, died, leaving as Queen of Scots his infant daughter, Mary. I was aware that my uncle had been scheming to marry her to the Prince and so unite England and Scotland under Tudor rule, and when we heard that he had sent envoys to the Scottish Queen Regent in Edinburgh to ask for her daughter’s hand, we were appalled, but I never really thought the Scots would agree to it. So this is a bitter blow to my lord and me, who have long cherished the hope that Edward would marry our Jane, and I am hard put to keep the smile on my face.
“Of course,” says Hertford, “the Scots do not want it, but they do not have the forces to resist. It is feared, though, that the Queen Regent will try to enlist the help of the French in order to break the treaty, but she must surely know that that will mean war.”
“She’s a woman,” my lord remarks, “and women have little judgment in such matters.” I throw him a look, but I know better than to argue with Henry in public. He can be so pig-ignorant and tactless. I might be a woman, but I’ll wager I understand more of this matter than he does. Subtlety was never his strong point.