Her Highness, the Traitor

23

Jane Dudley

January 1553





Lady Page is here with your ladyship’s New Year’s gift.”

I sighed. I myself had prepared a New Year’s gift for Lady Elizabeth Page, a pair of gloves, but I knew full well this was not the present she was hoping for. She wanted her daughter, the Duchess of Somerset, released from the Tower.

It had been the surprise of my life to meet Lady Page, for only in coloring was she like her elegant daughter, the duchess. Where Anne Seymour was tall and slender, Lady Page was short and ample, what men called “comfortable,” and their differences did not end with their lack of physical similarity. Only in one respect were the women alike: they both made excellent comfits, as I had found over the past year when Lady Page first began to cultivate my favor—though I like to think I would have been kindly disposed toward her even without the jams she brought me.

Her efforts had brought her only partial success. I had prevailed upon John to let her visit her imprisoned daughter, and she now came and went from Anne Seymour’s Tower cell as she pleased, often spending days at a time there. Over the summer, she had made it her mission to “cheer up” her daughter’s quarters with her own tapestries, of the sort last fashionable in the seventh Henry’s time, and she was known to disapprove of the Turkey carpet Anne had been allowed to take with her into captivity. It bred fleas, she had told anyone in the Tower who would listen, and it had been a triumph for her in August when she had found one nestling in its folds.

Try as I did, though, I could not move John to release the duchess. It was not just that she had threatened me, he explained—though I suspected this lay at the heart of his intransigence. The duchess had plotted against him with her husband, and might plot some more if freed. If she were a man, she would have certainly been executed, as had her half brother.

I had no answer for this, for John was entirely correct. Indeed, I was not certain why I kept pleading for the duchess’s freedom, save that I pitied her in her widowhood and felt sorry for her children, especially the Countess of Warwick.

Besides, it would take a heart of stone to refuse Lady Page, now being ushered into the room and bearing the usual jar. She curtseyed to me, which always made me feel guilty, and handed me her gift—strawberry jam. “A little token, Your Grace, in appreciation of your kindness to me this past year.”

“Thank you. I know I will find it delicious,” I said, quite truthfully. Also quite truthfully, I said, “I wish I could have done better for you. I know your daughter wishes she could be with her children.”

“She misses them, but I must say it is her husband she grieves for, every day.” Lady Page sighed. “And her brother.” Her half brother, Michael Stanhope, was Lady Page’s son. He, too, had died on the scaffold a few weeks after the Duke of Somerset.

“Perhaps the council will agree to free the duchess this year,” I said encouragingly. “I will certainly do all I can to promote it.”

“I know you will, Your Grace.” The old lady gave another sigh. “But sometimes I despair. My daughter has a good heart, but she can be difficult. I often tell her that if she could have kept a civil tongue in her head, perhaps she would have been freed by now. But of course she doesn’t want to hear it. Daughters don’t, as you probably know.”

“I do indeed. I will keep trying. And in the meantime—” I handed Lady Page the gloves. Dutifully, she tried them on. They fit—barely—but I knew well she would never wear them. They would go instead to her glove-loving daughter in the Tower. “Happy New Year, my lady.”

“And a happy New Year to Your Grace, as well. I hope it is a good one for you.”

“And for you as well, my lady.”

***

George Ferrers had proved such a successful Lord of Misrule the Christmas before, the king had invited him to reprise his role. He had worried openly he might not be able to repeat his triumph of the previous year, but so far the festivities had exceeded expectations. On New Year’s Day, there had been a joust of hobby horses, and tonight, Twelfth Night, there was a triumph of Venus, Mars, and Cupid.

With my daughter Katheryn at my side, I settled back contentedly, watching the small boy who was playing Cupid, complete with golden wings, try desperately to evade the clutches of the marshal and his band. This New Year’s was so much happier than the one before. Somerset lay peacefully between his two queens at the Chapel of St. Peter ad Vincula. England was more stable and prosperous than she had been for several years, thanks to John and the council. The king himself, who had turned fifteen in October, was becoming more active in government each day. There were plans to declare him of majority when he turned sixteen, a day I looked forward to desperately. Then John—home sick at the manor of Chelsea the king had given us as a country home near London—could lead a more tranquil life. His continuing ill health and the melancholy it always inspired in him were the only things that troubled my mind that Twelfth Night.

A burst of laughter made me turn my attention back to the stage, where Venus, trailed by her ladies, was attempting to rescue Cupid. Having employed all of her considerable charms upon the marshal without success, Venus retreated and conferred with her ladies. Then, as the court cheered them on, the ladies pelted the marshal and his band with tennis balls. Soon the marshal and his cohorts lay vanquished on the field.

Cupid ran into the waiting arms of Venus, while the sound of trumpets signaled the grand but tardy entrance of Mars, who surveyed the carnage around him shamefacedly. Heaving a noble sigh, he slowly lifted his helmet off his head, as if to crown Venus with it, but Venus would have none of it. Backing away in terror, she was on the verge of being cornered by Mars, when Cupid, having rushed around behind the god of war, shot an arrow at him. Pierced by it, Mars put his helmet back on his head and embraced Venus and Cupid at once.

The audience clapped, none more vigorously than the king. As the applause died down, I heard another distinct sound. The king coughed, and coughed again.

He sounded, I realized as the players took their final bows, perfectly horrid.