B009RYSCAU EBOK Page 14

  “And who is behind all this?” Frances whispered.

  “Who else but Bishop Gardiner and the Duke of Norfolk?”

  Norfolk. Why was he always at the heart of trouble and terror? Bess wondered.

  * * *

  IN THE MIDST OF THE PANIC SURROUNDING ANNE ASKEW, SIR WILLIAM Cavendish came to Dorset House to discuss Bess’s suit with her.

  “I have filed what is needful,” he said, “and Edward Seymour has said that he will put in a word on your behalf.”

  “Thank you, sir. And how kind of Lord Hertford,” Bess said. “When will the matter come to court?”

  “It could be weeks or months, but that’s all to the good as it gives us time to prepare. You will surely be called to testify, and that can rattle the nerves of anyone.” Sir William smiled at Bess, and in his presence, she felt more calm and safe than she had in a fortnight.

  “May I ask you something, sir?”

  “Certainly.”

  “This business with Mistress Askew . . .” Now that she had begun, Bess didn’t know what to say.

  “Shocking and terrible.” Sir William’s face was grim.

  “It all makes me feel so frightened. I wonder who might be next, to be questioned, to be . . .”

  Bess was shaking, and Sir William put a steady arm around her shoulders.

  “Of course you do. Who would not?”

  “Do you mean that you worry, too?” Bess whispered, looking up into his warm gray eyes.

  “I do more than worry. I fear, sometimes.”

  Bess stared at him. “You do?”

  He nodded. “When sands are shifting as you walk, it is hard to know where to put your feet.”

  “Then what do you do?”

  “Keep your head about you. Keep your counsel. Speak your mind to no one that you do not trust utterly.”

  “How am I to know who to trust?”

  “Let them prove themselves to you.”

  Who did she trust beyond question? Her mother and the rest of her family. Lizzie. Jane, of course. She looked back at Sir William, his face gentle and patient, and recalled Frances Grey’s admonition that she think about Sir William as a possible husband. Yes, she trusted him, too. And that, more than anything else, was important to her in a man she thought of marrying.

  “Thank you, sir,” she whispered. “You are a good friend to me.”

  He smiled. “I cherish those words, Bess. And I will strive to be the best friend to you that I may be. Always.”

  * * *

  A FEW DAYS LATER BESS HEARD HARRY GREY TELLING HIS WIFE that the queen’s sister and two more of her closest friends, Lady Lane and Lady Tyrwhitt, had been arrested.

  “They searched their rooms for heretical books, or aught else they could find to do them damage.”

  Bess thought of Jane’s translation of the queen’s book. What other works might she own that could be considered dangerous? Would Frances Grey hide their books? Was she safe from the reach of such inquiries?

  “What has become of them?” Frances Grey asked.

  “They were set free again, but there may be more attacks to come. And Anne Askew has been condemned to burn as a heretic.”

  Bess felt herself grow faint, and held fast to the chair she stood behind.

  “She was offered mercy if she would recant her beliefs,” Harry Grey said, “but she refused.”

  “Then she will die?” Frances’s voice was little more than a whisper.

  “Aye. The only question now is who else may be brought down. For Gardiner and Norfolk and their faction greatly fear and resent the queen’s influence on the king and the prince, and I fear would do anything they can to harm her. It is like Cromwell and Anne Boleyn all over again.”

  Bess thought of Queen Catherine’s warm smile. And she thought of Cat Howard, how innocent she had been of the destruction that was about to fall on her. Like a lamb to the slaughter. And she thought of Anne Askew, facing death by fire.

  “What shall we do?” Frances cried. “I am to wait on the queen in a few days’ time.”

  “Then you must go,” her husband told her. “But for your life, do not discuss anything that could cause the least whisper of suspicion.”

  * * *

  IT WAS A BEAUTIFUL SUMMER’S DAY WHEN BESS AGAIN MADE THE journey to Whitehall by boat with Frances and Jane Grey, but a cold lump of fear lay in the pit of her stomach. They made their way through the rooms of the palace to the queen’s privy chamber. The mood among the ladies there was vastly different from what it had been on their previous visit, she thought. There was little chatter, and what talk there was took place in lowered voices. The queen was attired in dark gray, and the color seemed to have been drained from her face. There was no preaching and no reading. The ladies worked at needlework, their eyes on the bright skeins of silk in their laps and the lengths of linen stretched in embroidery hoops in their hands.

  Bess was relieved to find Lizzie in the queen’s chamber, for perhaps Lizzie would be able to tell her more reliable news than she had heard. They had just gone to sit together on a window seat when a man’s voice interrupted the quiet hum of conversation.

  “Your Majesty, the king commands your presence in the privy garden.”

  Bess thought the queen went even paler than she had been, and saw her fingers tighten on the arms of her chair, but when she spoke, her voice was calm.

  “Then we shall with all obedience attend him.”

  She rose and her ladies fell in behind her, following her down the stairs and outside like a flock of ducklings after their mother.

  The king stood in the garden where Bess had spoken with Lizzie when she had been at the palace last. He was even more stout than he had been when last she had seen him, and it appeared that his head was almost bald under his jeweled cap.

  “Madam.” He held out a hand to the queen and she went to him, curtsying deeply as she put her hand in his.

  The queen’s ladies stood uncertainly as the king led the queen away down a path among the bordered flower beds. He was limping, but seemed to be taking care not to lean on the queen for support.

  Suddenly Bess heard heavy footsteps, the sound of many booted feet marching. She turned and saw that a party of guards was approaching, the blades of their halberds glinting in the sun. At their head strode Thomas Wriothesley, the Lord Chancellor. The man who had himself turned the crank on the rack, breaking the frail body of Anne Askew. A wolflike smile was on his face, and even from this distance, Bess heard the queen gasp.

  This was just what had happened on that dreadful day at Hampton Court, Bess recalled with vivid clarity. She had been dancing with Cat Howard and her ladies in the queen’s chamber when just such a troop of guards had arrived. She and Lizzie exchanged a terrified glance.

  The king let go the queen’s hand and stepped away from her. She stood all alone, terror etched on her face. Bess wanted to run to her, to protect her. But what could she do, against three dozen armed men?

  But the king was advancing on Wriothesley, his face contorted with anger, and now it was Wriothesley who looked confused and afraid. He dropped to one knee and bowed his head as the king snarled down at him. Bess couldn’t hear the words, but the king’s face was that of a savage animal. Wriothesley began to rise and was clearly pleading with the king, but the king raised a hand as if to strike him, and Wriothesley fell to his knees in complete submission.

  “Arrant knave, beast, fool!” the king shouted. “Take your pack of dogs and begone!”

  Wriothesley scrambled to his feet, gesturing the guards to follow him, and they retreated in disorder.

  Bess looked to the queen and saw the look of intense relief wash over her face, instantly replaced by a careful mask.

  The king stumped back to the queen’s side and she raised her eyes to his.

  “Alas, my lord, what has your poor chancellor done to anger you so?” Her voice and face were all innocence. “I will be a suitor for him, for surely his fault was occasioned by some mistak
e.”

  Bess held her breath. What a gamble on the queen’s part, she thought, not to let on that she had known Wriothesley’s purpose. Would it anger the king?

  But the king patted the queen’s hand. “Ah, poor soul,” he said, a lopsided smile cracking his face. “Thou little knowest, Kate, how little he deserves this grace at thy hands. On my word, sweetheart, he hath been to thee a very knave, so let him go.”

  * * *

  THE KING KEPT THE QUEEN WITH HIM IN THE GARDEN FOR A TIME, but it appeared obvious to Bess that his leg was paining him, and the only reason he did not dismiss the queen and return to where he could be comfortable was to disguise the fact that he had only wanted her there while he played the scene with Wriothesley, for it had indeed seemed like something out of a deadly masque.

  When at last the queen returned to her privy chamber with her ladies, she retired to her bed. Frances Grey huddled in a corner whispering with the Duchess of Suffolk and the queen’s sister, Lady Herbert. Bess took the opportunity of going to Lizzie, and they retreated to the window seat. Bess gazed at the garden below and shivered despite the warmth of the day.

  “She knew it was coming,” Lizzie whispered.

  “She knew?” Bess was shocked.

  “Well, she had known she was in grave danger and that it had passed. Though seeing the guards must have given her a turn.”

  “I would think so. It did me.” As Lizzie shared a pillow with the queen’s brother, she likely knew more about what had gone on than almost anyone. “What has happened,” she asked, “that she knew she was in peril?”

  “A few days ago, one of the queen’s servants found a paper on the ground which proved to be a warrant for the queen’s arrest. He brought it to her, and she could see that it was real, and signed by the king. Her weeping was lamentable to see.”

  How terrified the queen must have been, Bess thought. She had the examples of Anne Boleyn and Cat Howard before her, and knew well enough that the king would not hesitate to put her to death.

  “Dear God,” she cried. “Upon what cause? Surely he does not suspect her of playing him false, like . . .” Cat Howard’s terrified eyes came into Bess’s mind. She could not speak Cat’s name and blinked back tears. Lizzie took her hand and Bess knew that Lizzie, too, must be recalling that terrible day at Hampton Court. And she must have been afraid for her own safety, too.

  “No, not that,” Lizzie said. “The accusation was heresy.”

  “Then Dr. Crome, and the books . . .”

  “Aye, but there was more than that. The queen has been in the habit of taking the king’s mind from his pain by engaging him in learned discourse, debating theology.”

  “An odd sort of comfort! Why doesn’t she just bring him a warm posset?”

  Lizzie smiled wanly. “Perhaps she will now. Anyway, when she saw the warrant, she was distraught. Dr. Wendy, the king’s new doctor, came to calm her, and he warned her that Bishop Gardiner and the Lord Chancellor were plotting to undo her.”

  “Thomas Wriothesley again.” Bess shuddered.

  “Dr. Wendy said that her exhorting the king to further do away with popery had angered him, and that Gardiner had played upon his mind and argued that she was a serpent in his bosom, a heretic who defied his authority and would dissolve the politic government of princes and teach the people that all things ought to be in common. He told the king that all who believed so deserved death, no matter how high they might be.”

  Bess thought of the queen’s face alight with passion as she had read from her book.

  “But surely she didn’t plot against the king?”

  “Of course not. But don’t you see—the power of the reformists is growing, and it threatens the conservatives like the bishop. They hate and fear the queen because of her influence with the king, but more importantly”—she glanced around and lowered her voice—“her influence with the Prince of Wales. For he will be king ere long.”

  “They fear what will become of them if the evangelicals have control of Edward.”

  “Yes. And it will only get worse, William says. For the king’s health is worsening.”

  Bess looked around to see who was within hearing. She longed to ask what Lizzie knew about the king’s decline, and what might happen when he died, but that was a dangerous subject for discussion. She glanced once more down at the privy garden, where the shadows were lengthening across the lawns and flower beds.

  “What did she do to save herself?”

  “Dr. Wendy counseled her that if she conformed herself to the king’s mind he might be favorable to her. But still she wept, and the king, hearing of her dangerous state, himself came to comfort her.”

  Bess would have laughed if the image of the bloated king sitting at the bedside of the wife whose death warrant he had signed were not so horrible.

  “She told him that she feared he was displeased with her and had forsaken her, but he patted her hand and crooned and said it was not so.”

  The calculating and vicious liar, Bess thought.

  “When he had gone,” Lizzie whispered, “she bade us get rid of any forbidden books, and told us that pleasing the king was all her care. That night she went to him, and when he sought to trap her, like a cat with a mouse in the kitchen corner, by bringing up matters of religion, she told him that she believed with all her heart that God had appointed him as supreme head of all. ‘Not so, by Mary!’ he said, and told her that she was become a doctor who thought to instruct him. She told him that her meaning had been misunderstood—she had only sought to distract him from his pain, and that she was but a woman, with the weakness of her sex, and that she happily submitted to his better judgment as her lord and head.”

  What a cool head the queen must have, Bess thought, to make such a speech, knowing that her life depended on it.

  “She told William, and he told me,” Lizzie continued, “that then his face broke into a smile, and he cried, ‘Is it so, sweetheart? And tended your arguments to no worse end? Then we are perfect friends, as ever at any time heretofore!’ Then he kissed her and told her it did him more good to hear those words than news of a hundred thousand pounds coming to him, and he would never again doubt her.”

  “Then why,” Bess asked, “why did the guards come?”

  “I expect that was to pay Wriothesley back for his interference,” Lizzie said. “He’ll be lucky if he doesn’t lose his head.”

  * * *

  WHEN BESS RETURNED TO DORSET HOUSE WITH FRANCES AND JANE Grey that evening, she felt drained, as exhausted as though she had been laboring in the fields. She was finally beginning to recover her spirits the next day when the Duchess of Suffolk paid a call on Frances Grey, with news that made Bess shiver with terror.

  “Anne Askew is to be burned tomorrow,” the duchess said. “Along with John Lassels and two other evangelicals.”

  “And there is no one who can save her,” Frances Grey said, dropping into a chair. “For now the queen cannot speak for her, nor any in high places, for fear it will end with them on the flames.”

  Bess said a silent prayer for Mistress Askew. And let this horror end there, she begged. Let it not touch anyone more. Keep the queen safe, and Lady Dorset and Jane and Lizzie. And me.

  The next afternoon Harry Grey returned from Smithfield to tell his wife what had happened that day. Frances Grey sent away her six-year-old daughter Kate, but Jane would not go.

  “I want to hear it,” she said. “For surely Anne Askew is a true martyr, and if she can suffer death for her faith, I can hear of it.”

  “Very well,” Harry Grey said heavily, and turned once more to his wife.

  “She wore naught but her shift, and she was carried on a chair to the stake because she could not walk, so cruelly had they broken her on the rack. They bound her to the stake with chains.”

  “Was there a great crowd?” Jane asked, her face white.

  “There was. And as the flames were lit, some called out that she deserved her death, but more wept in pity
and raised their voices in prayer. Nicholas Throckmorton and his brother were among the crowd, and they shouted encouragement to her, saying that she did not die in vain.”

  “The queen’s own cousins,” Frances murmured. “I hope she will not suffer for their words.”

  “Bishop Shaxton was there,” Harry told her, “and preached at the lady, and once she cried, ‘There he misseth, and speaketh without the book.’”

  “How could she have the heart to do so?” Bess wondered.

  Harry Grey met her eyes. “She showed great bravery. She didn’t scream until the flames mounted to her chest.” Bess’s stomach heaved with horror. “Someone had provided her with a little bag of gunpowder, which hung around her neck, and by God’s mercy it went off soon, and so she died. The others lasted longer.”

  A log in the fireplace crackled and Bess clapped a hand to her mouth as nausea gripped her.

  “A great lady,” Jane said quietly. “I pray that I might show such fortitude were I ever in such circumstances.”

  “Don’t speak like that!” Bess cried, pulling Jane into her arms. “You will never be in such peril!”

  “I pray not. But if I were, I would remember Anne Askew, and that would give me courage.”

  Lizzie and Doll came to visit Bess at Dorset House in early September. Since Bess had last seen her, Doll had been widowed, and had recently married John Port, a justice of the common pleas. Lizzie had been with the queen at Hampton Court Palace, where there had been ten days of celebrations in honor of the visit of the Lord High Admiral of France to ratify the new peace treaty between the two nations.

  “Was it like when Anne of Cleves came?” Doll asked. “What a sight that was!”

  “Not quite as grand, but still impressive,” Lizzie said. “Monsieur d’Annebaut brought two hundred gentlemen with him, and when Prince Edward rode out to meet him, he was accompanied by eighty gentlemen in gold and eighty yeomen of the guard.”

  “Prince Edward greeted the French!” Bess exclaimed. “Not the king?”