Her Highness, the Traitor

22

Frances Grey

August 1552





Had someone told me in the summer of 1552 that it would be the last one I would spend at Bradgate, I surely would have lived it differently. I would not have passed my days indoors, sewing or listening to music or reading or playing cards, for those were things I could do anywhere. Instead, I would have spent my days in our gardens and in our parks, breathing in the sweet fragrance none of our other properties, no matter how grand, could match. I would have sat on the grounds at dusk and watched the rays of the dying sun cast a mellow glow upon the red brick walls of the manor house. I would have taken off my stockings and waded through the cool streams like a young girl, and tried to see if I could balance myself on the thick log that had fallen across one of them. I would have said a last good-bye to my little Henry, sleeping in the chapel with his father’s ancestors. But no one around me could foretell the future, so I spent that summer like any other.

It was indeed a rather ordinary summer. Harry was with the king on his progress through his southern estates. Jane was devoting herself to her latest course of study, learning Hebrew, and had quite pushed Plato aside, which I thought would undoubtedly have annoyed that august gentleman. Twelve-year-old Kate was rapidly developing into a young woman, and a very pretty one at that; it was clear she would be the family beauty. To her mixed irritation and pride, she had started her monthly courses. Mary, at seven, was the size of a girl two years younger, but she was perfectly intelligent and could sew almost as well as I could. For myself, I enjoyed paying and receiving visits from my various friends and relations.

In early August, my stepmother was one of my visitors. The last time I had seen her, soon after the death of my brothers, she had been almost immobile with grief and shock. Now, no longer wearing mourning for her two sons, she had gone further and put on an elegant green gown, which made her look younger and more handsome than she had appeared in several years. “There is something I must tell you, and I won’t dawdle about it,” she said before she had barely cleared the threshold of my private chamber. “I am remarrying.”

I mentally surveyed all of the eligible single men and widowers among the nobility. No name came instantly to mind: all I could summon up were either too old, too young, too poor, too Catholic, too remotely situated, too testy, or (it had to be admitted) too homely.

“Don’t trouble yourself,” Katherine said, seeing my difficulty. “I am marrying Master Bertie.”

I goggled at her. Richard Bertie was Katherine’s gentleman usher, who had handled her business affairs since the death of my father. An Oxford graduate, he was unquestionably a clever and trustworthy man of business, but… “Master Bertie?” I said stupidly.

“No doubt you are going to tell me that he is not of my station, that he aspires to my hand only for my wealth, and that I am disgracing my title by marrying him.”

“I—”

“Well, I say fie on that! Master Bertie is a gentleman of good abilities and unimpeachable character, who has been kindness itself since my poor boys were called to God. Why shouldn’t I marry him? It is true, as you say, that he is meanly born—”

“Katherine! I haven’t had a chance to say anything yet,” I protested. “You are carrying on this argument quite adequately all by yourself.”

“True,” Katherine admitted.

“But I must admit I am shocked. With your beauty and wealth—”

“I could marry a man who would perish on the scaffold. I want no nobleman who will involve himself in this miserable business of running England. I want only to be left to enjoy my estates in peace, and perhaps to bear more children. Master Bertie can help me do the first most adequately, I have learned, and as for the second, I shall be quite happy to find out. I have been lonely since your father died, for all my resources, and I shall be glad enough to have a pair of warm feet in bed next to me once again.”

“Have you asked permission of the king?”

“Yes. I have not received a reply yet, but he is on that progress of his. I have no doubt that he—or that is, Northumberland—will approve the match, unless perchance Northumberland was minded to marry me to one of that brood of his. And that I think most unlikely, given the young ages of his sons. Now that I think of it, actually, I am surprised that Northumberland hasn’t tried to match up your Jane or Kate with one of his boys. Is Harry arranging a match for your Jane?”

“Not that I know of.” I found that although Jane was certainly of a marriageable age, I did not want to think of the matter of her wedding, of my girl lying in a stranger’s bed. “But we are getting off the topic. How did Master Bertie propose to you?”

“Well, as a matter of fact, I asked him to marry me. Oh, it wasn’t quite as bold an undertaking as you might expect. He’d been making sheep’s eyes at me for some time, although in the most discreet and proper way.”

I snorted with laughter.

“In light of our positions, I suppose he just couldn’t come out and ask, as a man of my own station might do. So I finally just called him to me on business, and after we had finished discussing the revenues of Grimsthorpe, I said, ‘Master Bertie, have you ever considered marrying me?’ And he admitted that he had. And so it was all arranged.”

“What if he had said no?”

“Oh, I doubt he would have dared,” said Katherine cheerfully. She smiled. “But I would have been very sorry if he had. For the truth is, I love him.”

***

Soon after Katherine left us, we moved to our house at Sheen, not far from London. No sooner had we arrived than it began to rain constantly, keeping us confined inside. When a clear morning finally dawned, therefore, I was eager to venture out for a ride, especially as I had developed a headache. My daughters were as restless as I was. Even Jane asked that her horse be brought out.

The fresh air, however, did nothing to ease the pain in my head. Instead, the ache spread to the rest of my body, and I found myself having to think about the simplest details of riding my horse, as if I were a novice.

“Mother?”

I blinked. “What, Jane?”

“I asked if Father had told you when he might be coming here.” Jane looked at me more closely. “Are you unwell?”

“It will pass.” I clutched the pommel of my saddle as a wave of dizziness suddenly overtook me. “If we can just rest for a moment—”

Jane brought her horse to a halt. “My lady mother is ill,” she called. “We must turn back.”

“It is really not—”

“Now,” said Jane.

Master Stokes, who had been riding a little ahead of us with my daughter Mary, wheeled around. In almost a single motion, he dismounted his own horse and swung himself onto mine, taking the reins as I slumped back against his shoulder.

***

By the time Master Stokes carried me into my chamber, I was burning with fever and had a sharp pain in my chest. “Don’t disturb Harry,” I begged as my ladies stripped me of my clothing. “He is so busy on the king’s affairs, and he will be annoyed if he is called for nothing.”

In hours, however, I was past caring if Harry, or anyone else, was called or not. I saw figures that I vaguely knew were my daughters and servants, and I was conscious of people giving me physic from time to time, but otherwise, I was oblivious to all that went on about me.

At some point, I felt someone stroking my hair, followed by the pressure of a large hand on mine. The Lord himself, I thought dreamily, and drifted off into a tranquil sleep. When I woke, the hand was still upon mine, and my mind felt clear. I blinked. “Harry?”

“The one and the same, my dear.”

“You came.”

“Of course I came. They told me you were ill. Indeed, we thought you would die. The chaplains have been praying for you, day and night. The girls have been miserable, worrying about you.”

“Even Jane?”

“Especially Jane. She’s worn herself out, tending you.”

“I am glad to hear that. I mean—”

“I know what you mean.” Harry lifted his hand from mine and patted me on the cheek. “Don’t tire yourself with talking. All sorts of people have been inquiring about your health. The lady Mary, the Duchess of Northumberland, your stepmother, the Marchioness of Northampton… The marchioness has an idea in her head about our Jane’s marriage, by the way.”

“Marriage?”

“She thought that we might consider matching her with one of Northumberland’s sons. Guildford, perhaps; they’re close in age.”

“But he’s the fourth son! Jane can do much better than that.”

“True. I think she was just talking to divert my attention. Anyway, we can speak more of it later. I won’t tire you with it at present.” Harry started to rise, then sat back down. “I’ve been thinking. When you get strong enough again, my dear, maybe we can start trying for another child, more often than we have lately. If, of course, you’re willing. Perhaps after what happened to Queen Catherine, you might find it risky—”

“I am willing, Harry. Very.” I took his hand in mine. “I love our daughters, as I know you do, too, but I should like to give you a son. We could name him Edward, like every other little boy in England.”

Harry smiled.

“And,” I said daringly, “even if I were not to have a child, I would like to lie with you more often. We did a great deal of that when we were first married.”

“Nearly every evening.” Harry took a strand of my hair in his hand. It was a point of pride with me that it had not faded much with age, but was still as bright as it had been in my girlhood. He stroked it, as he had before. “We were quite the pair in those early days.”

“We can still be so.”

Harry stood. “Then I must let you rest now, my dear.” He kissed me lightly on the cheek and headed toward the door. Then he turned. “I was frightened that I would lose you, Frances. I’m thankful to the Lord that I didn’t.”

So was I. I settled down to sleep, dreaming of new beginnings.