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  “The king’s own daughter-in-law!” Bess cried. Mary Howard, the Duchess of Richmond, was the widow of King Henry’s bastard son Henry Fitzroy. “Besides, I thought she was to marry Thomas Seymour.”

  “That was Norfolk’s plan, but she would have none of it, nor would Thomas Seymour. Surrey erred gravely in counseling her to angle for the affections of the king.”

  “Come, sit,” Bess urged him. He let her guide him to a chair before the hearth and took her hand and kissed it as she brought him wine.

  “Now tell me all,” she said, when she had got her own cup of wine and was seated beside him.

  “The king is at Oatlands, as you know. A few days ago he fell ill of a fever.” William lowered his voice. “His life is feared for. The council has been meeting at Edward Seymour’s house, which may tell you in what ascendancy he is. I think he and Dudley thought to make hay while the sun shone, or to strike against Norfolk and Surrey while the iron was hot, to mix my figures of speech. For they accuse Surrey now of seeking the throne himself.”

  “And does he?”

  “Likely not, but was ill advised enough to replace the coronet on his coat of arms with a crown. Of course he says he bears them by right of descent from Edward IV, and it may well be, but the appearance is all in these things, and it looks very bad. His sister has hurt him, too; she says he declared that if God called away the king the Seymours should smart for it. The implication was that he would be in a position to do them ill, for he would have governance of the prince. But what has finished him is that his friend—well, friend no longer—Richard Southwell has given the council information that is enough to convict him of treasonous plots against the king. And the king hasn’t trusted Norfolk since the Catherine Howard mess. It’s a wonder he hasn’t found reason to be rid of him before now.”

  Bess was afraid at the thought of yet another plot, more men swept into the maw of the Tower, more heads upon the block. But it was William’s patron Edward Seymour who had the upper hand, she reminded herself. And others who were friends of his and friends of the Greys. Surely this danger would not touch him or her.

  “What does it mean?” she asked. “What will happen?”

  “It means that Gardiner and Wriothesley and all their faction are down and will stay down. And for Norfolk and Surrey, it will surely mean death.”

  * * *

  THE TWELVE DAYS OF CHRISTMAS HAD BEEN SUBDUED, FOR THE king was very ill, sequestered at the palace in Greenwich and attended by doctors. Only the queen, the Lady Mary, and a few members of the privy council were let into the king’s bedchamber.

  Now the Grey household and a handful of friends were gathered for Twelfth Night supper. “You should have heard the king speak when he prorogued parliament on Christmas Eve,” William told Harry Grey, “chastising them like a schoolmaster over unruly boys. ‘Discord and dissension rule in every place,’ he roared, and ‘the Word of God is disputed, rhymed, sung, and jangled in every alehouse and tavern.’”

  “I fear me that the lion has roared for the last time,” Harry Grey said quietly. “Let us hope that the cub is sharpening his claws.”

  “The prince will be safe enough, and with wise heads around him,” William responded. “There are no more wolves, snarling and nipping at each’s heels now that Norfolk and Surrey are penned in.”

  After supper, Bess and William retreated to the parlor where they had spent so many companionable hours together over the past months.

  “Is the king really dying, then?” Bess asked.

  “He can’t last long,” William said, nodding.

  Bess hated the king for Cat’s death, for how he had frightened kind Queen Catherine, for his murder of the old Countess of Salisbury, and for the pall of terror that he had cast over England for so long. She imagined him as he must be now, his great bulk mounded over with bedclothes in a dark bedchamber, listening to the whispers of his doctors and councilors, and knowing that the one enemy he could not vanquish was hovering at the door. But as long as he breathed, she would fear him.

  “God keep His Majesty,” she whispered. “And grant him comfort if not longer life.”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Thirtieth of January, 1547—Dorset House, London

  BELLS WERE TOLLING ALL OVER LONDON. STANDING AT THE PARLOR window, Bess could hear the bells of the churches near Dorset House and the discordant tones from farther away, making the very air seem to echo with the clangor. King Henry was dead. As she gazed out over the city, she could feel nothing but relief and a slight sense of bafflement. How would England get on with a ten-year-old king?

  She heard voices outside the room—Lady Dorset, and surely that was William talking to her. She smiled as they entered.

  “I must see to some things,” Frances Grey said. “Bess, come see me when Sir William has gone.”

  “Of course,” Bess said, but Lady Dorset was already on her way out of the room. William stood for a moment, looking slightly awkward, it seemed to Bess, before he came to her and kissed her. She gestured to the chairs before the fire where they had sat so often.

  “Edward Seymour has gone to Hertford Castle to bring young Edward back to London,” William said after a few moments. “The prince will be proclaimed king tomorrow.”

  “God save him, and grant him long life.”

  “Amen to that prayer.” He took her hands in his. “Bess, Edward Seymour is now Lord Protector, and he assures me that I will be reconfirmed as treasurer of the king’s chamber.”

  “I’m so pleased for you.”

  “Yes, I’m very well placed now with his support. The young king likes me well, and God willing, I will prosper in the new reign. Which brings me to the reason for my visit. Bess, will you consent to marry me?”

  Bess had known that William was likely to ask for her hand before long, but now the moment was here the proposal left her speechless for a moment. Marrying William would sweep her into an entirely new life, one she could not have imagined for herself only a few months earlier. She would be Lady Cavendish, wife to a man esteemed by the king and the men closest to him, stepmother to his children, and mistress of her own household. More than she had dreamed possible. William was watching her, and she noted with a surge of tenderness that his gaze held hope and also perhaps a little uncertainty.

  “Oh, William. You do me much honor. I will happily be your wife.”

  William kissed her hands, and then sank onto the chair beside her and, taking her face in his hands, kissed her deeply, in a way that he had never done before. His beard tickled her lips and she found that she liked it.

  “Oh, my dearest,” he said at last. “I am so glad.”

  Bess felt touched at the happiness shining in his eyes. A new world was opening before her and already she was sure she had made the right choice.

  “When will we be wed? And where will we live?”

  “I must be in London some of the time, and I will rent a house that will be comfortable for you, as now I only stay in lodgings. But I would like us to make our home in Northaw, where my girls are. They’ll love you, I’m sure.”

  Bess smiled to think of becoming a mother to William’s daughters.

  “As for when, perhaps in the summer? There will be much to do over the next months, as the young king’s council sets about their business. And of course there will be the coronation. So I thought better to wait until things are quieter. What say you to that?”

  Bess had a sudden pang as she thought of leaving young Jane Grey and her little sisters. That would be a difficult parting. Northaw was a day’s ride from London, and she would be busy managing the household and estate. Perhaps Jane could come to stay, she thought.

  “That suits me well,” she said. “It will give me time to plan and make myself ready for all that awaits me.” She had a sudden vision of her mother’s joy on learning the news and smiled at William. “I must write to my mother. She will be so happy. I cannot wait for her to know you.”

  * * *

  �
��NORFOLK HAS CHEATED THE HEADSMAN,” WILLIAM TOLD BESS ON a cold evening a month after the king had died.

  They stood side by side in the parlor, watching a late flurry of snow drift past the windows.

  “He will not die, then?” Bess asked. The Earl of Surrey had been beheaded on Tower Hill only a week before King Henry’s death, but though his father, Norfolk, had been condemned, he had not yet been put to death.

  “No,” William answered. “He was to be executed on the morning of the day that the king died, but the order was never given to send him to the block. I think they don’t know what to do with him now. No one dares send him to his death, lest taking that step should one day lead to his own. Not even the Duke of Somerset.”

  On the day of King Henry’s funeral, Edward Seymour, now Lord Protector, had made himself Duke of Somerset. The other regents were ennobled, too. Seymour’s ally John Dudley was created Earl of Warwick and William Parr was made Marquess of Northampton. Thomas Wriothesley, who had successfully negotiated the perilous tides in which he had swum and come safe to shore under a new king, was now Earl of Southampton. King Henry had refused to include Thomas Seymour among the regents, but he, favored uncle of the new king, was now Baron Seymour of Sudeley Castle.

  “Events are moving fast,” William said. “Already the heresy laws are repealed. King Edward is a reformer.”

  Bess thought of Anne Askew and the other evangelicals who had died so recently for their beliefs, which were now quite legal.

  “And it’s an odd thing,” William said, “but the prophecy caught up with King Henry.”

  Bess turned to look at William. His face looked eerie in the flickering candlelight. “Prophecy?” she asked.

  “During the king’s great matter, as it was called, a friar preached a sermon to the king that if he cast away Queen Catherine to marry Anne Boleyn, dogs should lick his blood, as they had done Ahab’s. Well, on the way to Windsor, the king’s funeral procession stopped for the night at Syon, and the king’s body lay in the abbey overnight.”

  Bess felt gooseflesh shiver over her body. Syon Abbey was where Cat Howard had last been free, before she was bundled shrieking into the boat that would take her to the Tower and her death.

  “In the morning,” William continued, “it was seen that the lead coffin had ruptured and dark fluid had pooled upon the floor. A plumber was sent for to seal the coffin. His dog came along with him.”

  “No—!” Bess gasped.

  “Yes. When the guards came back into the abbey, they saw that the dog was licking the blood from the floor.”

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Sixth of July, 1547—London

  IT WAS A GLORIOUS DAY AND BESS TURNED HER FACE UPWARD TO the unbroken brilliant blue of the sky.

  “Not a cloud in sight,” Jane Grey cried happily.

  The tide was going out and the wherry moved swiftly in the sparkling water. They were returning to Dorset House from Whitehall, where Jane had delighted in an unfettered two-hour visit with her cousin King Edward. Bess had been touched to see Jane throw off the cares that usually seemed to weigh her down as she laughed and played. It was the first time she had seen the young king, usually so somber and stiff, behave truly like a boy. He had looked pale and fragile, though, and she had felt a tug at her heart at the thought that he reminded her of her poor Robbie.

  Jane put her hand in Bess’s. Her eyes were anxious.

  “Will you come to visit me in Chelsea?”

  “Of course,” Bess replied. “It’s just down the river, not on the moon.” But she felt a pang of sadness that she would no longer be living in the same house as Jane.

  In May, London had been shocked to learn that the widowed Queen Catherine Parr had secretly married her former suitor Thomas Seymour. They were living in Seymour’s manor house in Chelsea, with his mother and the queen’s stepdaughter the Lady Elizabeth. Harry and Frances Grey had recently agreed to Seymour’s proposal that Jane should become his ward and soon she would take up residence in the Seymour household.

  “My father says that Thomas Seymour wants me to marry the king,” Jane said. “But Edward Seymour wants me to marry his son, Edward. What do you think of that?”

  What Bess thought was that Jane would have little say in the matter. She had heard Lord and Lady Dorset discussing the struggle for power and growing animosity between Thomas Seymour and his brother Edward Seymour, the Lord Protector. The news that old King Henry’s will had placed the Grey girls in the line of succession to the throne after his own children had increased Jane’s value in the marriage market. She was now regarded almost as a princess, just as her parents had always treated her.

  “I think,” Bess said, pulling Jane into her arms, “that either of the gentlemen would be lucky to get you. I’m sure your parents will make a wise decision. But fortunately nothing needs to happen for the present.”

  “When are you leaving London?” Jane asked. Her voice was sad and Bess felt a lump form in her throat.

  “In August. Your mother has most generously offered that we should be married at Bradgate, you know. And then we’ll go to Northaw.”

  “I wish you weren’t going so far away.”

  “I do, too. And of all the people I’ll be leaving behind, I’ll miss you most. Perhaps you can come to visit.”

  The clamor of steel striking stone rose over the water and they both turned to look at the north bank of the river, where a small army of men was at work on the grand new house that the Earl of Somerset was building.

  “He tore down a church,” Jane said, shading her eyes against the sun. “It scarcely seems right, even though it was a Papist church.”

  “No,” Bess agreed. King Henry’s break with the church and the dissolution of the monasteries had resulted in church properties all over England being turned over to private hands, but it made her sad to think of the destruction of so many beautiful buildings that had stood for so long.

  “You won’t forget me, will you?”

  Bess turned back to look at Jane. There were tears in Jane’s eyes, and Bess could not hold back her own tears now.

  “Of course not. You’re like a little sister to me, sweeting.” She took Jane’s face in her hands and kissed her forehead. “Now listen to me. I want you to remember this when I’m not near to remind you of it. You’re a smart, loving, brave girl. No one who has met you could help loving you. Certainly they could never forget you. You’ll be at my wedding, and we’ll see what we can do to arrange for you to come stay at Northaw later this year. But even when we’re apart, you’ll be at the center of my heart.”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  First of August, 1547—Dorset House, London

  BESS STARED AGHAST AT HER MOTHER’S LETTER AND READ IT through again.

  It grieves me greatly to tell you of a matter involving your sister that touches me to the heart, and which I pray may not cause harm to you. Alice’s husband accuses her of playing him false, and has cast her out of his house. I hoped that once his temper cooled, all could be resolved. But he is not only adamant that he will not take her back, he has sold his family’s old lands, “rather than let bastards be his heirs,” as he says.

  How could Alice be so stupid? Bess wondered. To risk the loss of husband and home by committing adultery—what could she gain by it but shame and grief, not only for herself but for all her family? Two families, for Alice’s husband Francis Leche was related to Ralph Leche, stepfather to Alice and Bess.

  Bess threw the letter down and paced, her mind whirling. Was it really true? Perhaps Alice’s husband was wrong. But if it were true, what would William think? Would he fear that if her sister could deceive her husband, so might Bess? She felt trapped, afraid to tell him, but fearing that if she didn’t tell him and he later learned of the matter he would know she had done as much as lie to him, which would look as if she had something to hide. No, she would have to tell him, and pray that it did not cause him to reconsider marrying her. She cursed Alice for putting her in such a p
osition, and took up the letter again.

  The land that Francis sold has been in the Leche family for generations, and adjoins lands that your father owns, so the family is suing to overturn the sale and have the land returned to them. Unfortunately, Thomas Agarde, who bought the lands, has connections with Thomas Seymour, the Lord High Admiral, who has taken up his fight.

  If Thomas Seymour was involved, Bess thought, it was very possible that William would hear of the matter. On the other hand, perhaps William would be able to convince Seymour that the Leches should have their land, which Francis Leche, in his anger, had sold at a bargain price.

  * * *

  “I SEE.” WILLIAM’S FACE WAS GRAVE WHEN HE LOOKED UP FROM THE letter from Bess’s mother, and Bess watched anxiously as he paced.

  “I would never . . .” she began, but could speak no more, and wept with frustration and fear.

  William came swiftly to where she sat and stooped to look into her face. “My Bess, dry your tears. Of course I don’t doubt that you would be ever faithful. You are not your sister.”

  “I can scarcely believe it’s true, what they say of her,” she said. “But I thank you. For understanding, and for not . . .” She buried her face against his chest, comforted by his familiar scent—wool and soap, cedar from the chests in which he kept his clothes, and a faint whiff of horse.

  “No, I don’t question you. I was just pondering how to put this question before my lord.”

  “You mean that Edward Seymour might concern himself with whether the lands should be returned to the Leches?” Bess’s hopes rose. Just then sunshine falling through the windows grew brighter as the cloud covering the sun drifted away, and she smiled and wiped her tears.