Her Highness, the Traitor

16

Frances Grey

July 1551





In early July, as I sat sewing with my daughters, I received a message from Harry, who was with the king: the sweating sickness was about. By no means were the girls and I to leave Bradgate, unless the sickness reached Leicestershire, in which case we were to move to one of our more isolated manors.

I stared at Harry’s scribbled message and fancied I was sweating already. “What is the matter, Mother?” Kate asked.

“The sweating sickness.”

“The what?”

“Like the plague,” Jane said knowingly.

“Not quite,” I said. “It does not produce the tokens the plague does, and it is not as deadly as the plague, but it is close. A person can be dead from it within hours. It causes lethargy and a great deal of sweating. That is why it has that name.” I looked at Jane, almost expecting her to contradict me or roll her eyes at the obviousness of my remark, but she merely nodded.

“Have you had it, Mother?”

“No. There has not been a major outbreak since 1528, when I was about Kate’s age. I was lucky. Some people in my father’s household did contract it. They died.” I stared at my sewing. “It is a strange illness. It is more likely to strike rich households than poor ones. Indeed, the lady Elizabeth is lucky to be here. Her mother, Anne Boleyn, was stricken when she was, er…being courted by the king.” I put down my sewing. “It is odd the way things work out. Had the sweat taken Anne, as some certainly hoped it would, King Henry might have never remarried, and Mary might be queen today.”

“And we would all be clutching rosaries and praying before saints,” said Jane acidly. “Thank goodness the sweat spared Mistress Boleyn.”

***

We were lucky at Bradgate. No one fell sick, although some of our neighbors in Leicestershire were not so fortunate.

Then a messenger wearing the livery of Katherine Brandon appeared at the house. I knew as soon as I saw his downcast face that some misfortune had befallen my stepmother. “It is the Duke of Suffolk and his brother, my lady.”

My fifteen- and thirteen-year-old half brothers, my father’s sons by his marriage to Katherine, had been studying at Cambridge. “They are ill?”

“They are with the Lord, my lady. They perished of the sweat.”

“Lord have mercy,” I whispered. They were Katherine’s only children.

“When the sweat came to Cambridge, they left immediately for Buckden, but it was too late. They fell ill hours after their arrival. Their death was very quick. My lady was sent for, but they had expired before she arrived. The eldest died first, and the younger followed just a half hour later.”

The twins, we had nicknamed my brothers, for even though they were a couple of years apart in age, they had been inseparable. “They died together, at least. It would have been cruel for the Lord to have left only one alive.”

“Aye, my lady, and they both died as dukes, as the younger inherited the elder’s title in his remaining half hour of life. They will be buried as such.”

I nodded sadly. My father’s dukedom, awarded him by King Henry before my parents married, had died with my brothers. There would be no other Duke of Suffolk—unless, as Harry pointed out when he came to Bradgate a few days later, the king chose to give Harry himself that title.

“How can you think of such a thing at a time like this?”

“I’m sorry, my dear, but the possibility does spring to mind.” Harry patted me on the hand. “Be honest, Frances. You probably thought of the matter yourself.”

“Yes,” I conceded. “But it’s poor taste to speak of it at this time.”

“All right, my dear.”

We were to leave the next day to visit Katherine at Grimsthorpe. Harry, hearing of my brothers’ deaths, had hastened to Bradgate, heedless of the sweat still ravaging the countryside. That had to count in his favor, I reminded myself.

“Sometimes, I wonder which is worse,” said Harry. “For a child to be taken as an infant, like our Henry, or for one to be taken as a young man, like your brothers. At least the Duchess of Suffolk got some time with her boys, got to see how they turned out. Not that I’m trying to make light of her grief, or yours. I know they’ll be sorely missed. I was fond of them myself.”

“You still mourn for our Henry?” I asked.

“Most certainly I do. Every day. You never realized that?”

I could not say the word “no”; it sounded as harsh as the July sun boring through our windows. “I suppose I never did.”

“Well, I do. Give me credit for some feeling, Frances.”

I said nothing, and we went about our separate business for the rest of the day until late in the afternoon, when I appeared in Harry’s study—usually forbidden to anyone but my husband. He was not reading one of his books, but weeping into his hands. “I’m sorry, Harry,” I said.

Harry nodded and took me into his arms. Holding each other, we cried for different things—him for our loss of many years before, me for my brothers—but we cried, at last, together.