Her Highness, the Traitor

21

Jane Dudley

April 1552 to May 1552





In early April, the king gave all of England a terrible fright: he fell ill of the measles and the smallpox. Some cruel people said it was God’s wrath, punishing him for allowing the death of Somerset; others openly wondered whether the lady Mary would soon become queen. But the king soon shook off the illness. By St. George’s Day, there was almost no sign he had been ill, except for a few stray pocks on his face.

With the king well mended, John and I traveled to Otford Palace in Kent, to spend a few days relaxing in the country before John went to the North on the king’s business. With us were our children and their spouses. Even those who served the king, like my older sons and Henry Sidney, had obtained a few days’ leave. There was more than enough room for us. Otford had once been the palace of the Archbishops of Canterbury, one of whom, William Wareham, had built a palace there to rival Cardinal Wolsey’s Hampton Court. So successful had he been that some years later, King Henry had taken a fancy to Otford, and the current archbishop, Thomas Cranmer, had obligingly, and sensibly, given him the palace. Recently, King Edward had given it to John. I could not walk around the vast expanse of Otford without thinking of my childhood home of Halden, also in Kent but a world away from the grandeur here.

“Is it true that you’re to marry the Earl of Cumberland’s daughter?” Robert asked Guildford one evening as we had settled in what once had been the archbishop’s private quarters.

“Father wants me to,” Guildford said gloomily.

“Most men wouldn’t complain about marrying an earl’s only child,” John said dryly. “Particularly men who are fourth sons.”

“But the girl’s never been out of Yorkshire!” Guildford said. “I hear that her father’s practically a recluse there.”

“There’s a romantic story about that,” said Mary. “Do you want to hear it?”

“Oh, please!” said Katheryn.

“His father built a tower and a gallery just to welcome his wife, the lady Eleanor,” Mary said. “She was the younger sister of the lady Frances, you know. The earl fell passionately in love with her.”

“‘Passionately!’” mimicked Hal. He gave a mock bow when Mary glared at him. “Go on, Sister.”

“He fell passionately in love with her,” continued Mary. “But then she fell ill and died. The earl was heartbroken. He would not eat or take drink, and finally he fell so ill that he was given up for dead. He was actually laid out for burial, when his men saw signs of life in him and managed to revive him. But he was so weak after that, he could drink only milk from a woman’s breast.”

“Ugh,” said Hal.

“I hope he paid the lady well,” said Robert. He nudged Ambrose. “What sort of annuity do you think that would rate?”

“Depends on how handsome the earl is,” Ambrose said.

Mary raised her voice. “After a few weeks of that, he recovered, but he has never ceased to grieve for the lady Eleanor, whom they say was as fair as her mother, the French queen. His daughter is very dear to him, as her only child, and they say he is reluctant to see her married.”

“Thank God for that,” said Guildford. “Perhaps I won’t satisfy his tastes.”

“He has an excellent library,” Mary offered consolingly.

“If he does consent, I’ll most likely have to live at Skipton Castle with them, among the sheep,” Guildford said. “And the girl probably speaks with a northern accent.”

“And kills and skins her own supper each night,” said Robert.

“And has a tail,” added Hal.

“Look on the bright side,” Jack advised. “If all she’s seen are the northern men, you’ll probably look to her like King David.”

“The negotiations are not far along at all,” said John, who had been enjoying this banter thoroughly. “There will be plenty of time to civilize the young lady before your wedding, should her father and I reach an agreement.”

“Just don’t drink the milk at Skipton Castle,” Hal advised. “God only knows where it comes from.”

I decided it was time to take this conversation to a higher level. “Perhaps we might have some music,” I suggested. I looked at Ambrose’s wife, who played the lute beautifully. “Maybe you can play for us?”

Nan, who was always glad to perform, obliged, and soon all of my daughters and daughters-in-law were singing, even the Countess of Warwick. Her scratchy little voice was not exactly melodious, but thanks largely to the kindnesses of the other ladies in my family and Jack, she had become a little more amiable lately, so I listened and forced myself not to wince when she hit a high note. Besides, I had a surprise planned. When the singing was done, I held out a book to Anne. “I obtained this the other day, Anne. I thought you might want to read it to us, as we have not heard it.”

Anne stared at the book. It was of her own authorship, a collection of verses she and two of her younger sisters had written to commemorate the death of the learned Marguerite of Navarre. It had been published in Paris two years before. “How did you get a copy of this?”

“Jack gave it to me. Will you read it? The French verses,” I added hastily. “I do not know Latin, and I would like to understand what is being read.”

Anne hesitated, but the vanity of authorship proved uppermost, as I had hoped, and she stood to read us her and her sisters’ production. I wondered at the beginning, when her voice faltered when reading of Marguerite’s death, whether I might have been opening a wound, but she quickly regained her composure and read with a feeling that touched me.

Begin to bear in your hand the honor of the victorious palm branch, both because you won and because you were strong.

By this time you are standing before the stronghold of the throne; now you are adoring the Might of God; you shout greetings to the One Alone who sits in the stronghold.

You are holding in your hand true offerings, a casket of real incense and simple prayers not without understanding.

Now a Divine One joined to the celestial choir, you will not fear thirst or hunger, cold or heat.

“That was beautiful,” said Mary before I could speak. “I wish I could do as well as you and your sisters, Anne, and I am older than you.”

Anne blushed and looked pleased. That night, for the first time since her marriage to our son, she let me give her a good-night kiss on her cheek as we made our way to our various bedchambers.

***

I fell asleep that night in the arms of my husband. Late, late that night, a scream awakened me from a pleasant dream. “What is it?” I said, blinking as John and I untangled ourselves to sit up and stare around. Then the first thought of a loyal courtier came to mind. “The king? Is the king ill?”

My door slammed open without a knock. “My lady—my lord—forgive me. The lord Ambrose’s lady is dreadfully ill.”

Throwing on just enough clothing to hide our nakedness, we rushed to Nan’s chamber, where Ambrose sat clutching his wife in his arms. She was shivering and covered with sweat. As we came in, she glanced at us vaguely, as if not quite understanding who we were. “She was fine earlier tonight. We even…” Ambrose’s voice trailed off. “Her illness came on just a short time ago.”

John’s physician pushed into the chamber and pried Nan out of Ambrose’s arms. After examining her, he told us what we had all suspected: our daughter-in-law most likely had the sweat. John promptly gave orders that the rest of the household be kept far away from Nan’s rooms, which was a simple matter, given the size of Otford.

For the rest of the night and day, we attended on Nan. To John’s fury, in our absence, one of Nan’s waiting women allowed her to rise to sit upon the close stool, which brought on a fainting fit, and, we thought, certain death. She quickly revived, however, and by midmorning seemed to be past the most serious part of her illness. But by noon, she was markedly worse. Finally, at six in the evening, she breathed her last in Ambrose’s arms.

Every now and then, I felt an ache for the old religion, for the practice of saying prayers for the dead. I felt it now as I saw this lovely young woman, who less than four-and-twenty hours ago had been strumming her lute and laughing at my sons’ jokes, lying motionless and cold on her bed. Superstition such prayers might have been, perhaps, but—

I touched Ambrose’s shaking shoulder. “Now a Divine One joined to the celestial choir, you will not fear thirst or hunger, cold or heat,” I recited softly.

Ambrose nodded dumbly, my words small comfort to him. Then Robert—who like the rest of my children had been barred from the sickroom—walked in and knelt beside his brother. “Come with me,” he said after a while, and gently led Ambrose away.

A few days later, we left Otford Palace, never to return. The next spring, John exchanged it for other land. It was too large to keep up properly, he explained to the king.