B009RYSCAU EBOK Page 21

  “Splendid.” Jane Dudley gestured Bess to where a small table was arrayed with cakes and ale.

  Bess reflected that surely Lady Warwick had never wondered where her next meal was coming from or whether she would have a roof over her head come nightfall.

  “I trust all your family is well?” she asked, arranging her skirts.

  “Yes. I could scarce believe it when I heard that the rebels had taken Norwich, and I was quite concerned, as you may imagine, until I received a letter from my husband, letting me know that he was safe.”

  “How did they manage to capture it?” Bess wondered. Norwich, with a population of twelve thousand people, was second in size only to London.

  “There were more than fifteen thousand of the rogues, and they had sufficient artillery to open fire on the city walls and answer the bombardment from the city through the night.”

  “No wonder the men that William Parr took were not enough to vanquish them.”

  “No, fifteen hundred men, even with mercenaries among them—Italians, John said—were not equal to the job.”

  “Poor Sheffield,” Bess said. “Poor Lady Sheffield.”

  Edmund, Baron Sheffield, had been killed by the rebels in a pitched hand-to-hand battle in the streets of Norwich, prompting Parr to retreat with his men, not stopping until they reached Cambridge.

  “When John set off for Norwich,” Lady Warwick said, “he took fourteen thousand men with him, a real army—Welshmen, Italians, and those terrible landsknechts—and he wrote that the battle was as fierce as anything he saw in Scotland or France. But of course he won the day.”

  Bess thought of the families of the poor men who had gone to fight, waiting in vain for their husbands and fathers to return. “William said that many were killed.”

  “Three thousand of the enemy, John reckoned, and more than two hundred and fifty of his men. He hanged some fifty of the rebels right there, on the oak trees beneath which they had gathered.”

  Bess could imagine the terrible sight of the men swinging from the oaks, flies buzzing around their corpses in the summer heat.

  “John captured Robert Kett and his brother the night after the battle,” Jane Dudley said, biting into a chunk of gingerbread. “They’ll be sent here to the Tower to be tried.”

  What chance did they have at trial? Bess thought. Of course they would hang. She was glad her children were at Northaw, with plenty of food and surrounded by loving family and servants. They would never have to know the gnawing fear and humiliation of poverty.

  She glanced at Jane Dudley, her face serene as she sipped her ale. No, she had never feared that her children might go hungry.

  What people am I got myself among? Bess asked herself. I’m not like them, whatever trappings I may put on. Do they know that, and despise me for it?

  She adjusted the rope of pearls that draped over the rich sheen of her bodice, a present from William a fortnight earlier on the second anniversary of their marriage. The solid heft of the pearls and the silky feel of them under her fingertips reminded her of how far she had come. She could sympathize with the poor, but do what she must, she would never be one of them again.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  First of December, 1549—Northaw, Hertfordshire

  IT WAS ONLY MIDAFTERNOON, BUT ALREADY IT WAS GROWING DARK outside. A rumble of thunder rattled the windows. Bess gathered her robe more tightly about her, shivering, and held Jane Grey’s letter closer to the candlelight.

  My dear Bess, I was so distressed to receive your news that dear Temperance has been ill.

  Bess glanced at the cradle where Temperance slept. The baby’s fever was gone now and her breathing was even, but still Bess was worried. Temperance seemed more frail than Frankie had been at the age of five months. Bess had put aside her plans to visit her mother at Hardwick for Christmas, for she was not willing either to subject Temperance to the danger of traveling or to leave her behind when her health was precarious. She closed her eyes.

  God, please keep my child safe. Punish me if I have sinned, not my innocent babe, for I could not bear her loss.

  She took up Jane’s letter again.

  Such changes there are. You know that John Dudley has at last knocked Edward Seymour from his place and locked him in the Tower on charges of treason, claiming that he plotted against the lives of the other councilors. Dudley has now made himself lord president of the privy council and has such sway over my cousin the king that my father—now on the council himself—says that Dudley effectively rules.

  Bess recalled John Dudley’s face in the firelight as he had sat at her supper table the previous summer, his dark eyes watching Edward Seymour like a cat watching its prey. And now he had pounced, and Seymour was mewed up in the Tower like a rat in a trap. One near king had been replaced by another, who had been his friend. Dudley is our friend, Bess thought. But how sure a friend? Must we do something to affirm our allegiance? And if he should fall? What then?

  So many fears made her head ache. She turned back to Jane’s letter.

  Happier news is that Kate and Mary and I visited our cousin the Lady Mary last week and had a most enjoyable time. She is like a kindly aunt to me, praising my music and my little skill at languages.

  Bess was grateful for the Lady Mary’s attentions to Jane Grey, who blossomed like a dry flower when it is watered at any show of love and approval.

  Dear Bess, when are you coming back to London? I miss you every day and long to seek your counsel in so many things. With love, your little sister, Jane.

  As always when she thought of London, Bess was of two minds. She enjoyed the bustle of the place and the feeling of being so close to important things happening. And it was exciting to have a growing circle of friends that included the most powerful people in the land. But when she was in town she longed for her children, the company of Jenny and Aunt Marcella, and the quiet of the country. Yet once there, she itched to know what she was missing, and she and William paid a few well-placed informants to keep them apprised of the doings at court when they were away from London. Money well spent, William said, and she heartily agreed.

  Second of February, 1550, Candlemas—Northaw, Hertfordshire

  Bess clutched the little bundle to her chest, her face bent so that she could press her cheek against the cooling cheek of baby Temperance. The child had died two hours earlier, slipping away in her sleep, leaving the world as peacefully and silently as the petals of a flower drift to earth.

  Bess sat in her bed, propped against the cushions, the flickering light of two dozen candles all that stood between her and the immense blackness that loomed outside the windows, enveloping Northaw Manor and her very soul.

  Candlemas marked the middle of winter, halfway between the winter solstice, the longest night of the year, and the coming of spring. The beeswax candles that had been blessed at the church that day gave off the scent of honey, recalling to her mind warm days with bees buzzing amid the clover blossoms, but tonight it seemed that cruel winter with its cold and darkness would never end. And what did it matter? How could she ever smile again, ever hope to rise from her bed again, now that her precious Temperance was gone?

  She lifted her head at the sound of footsteps. William came and sat beside her on the bed, and wiped Bess’s tears from the baby’s cheek and then from Bess’s.

  “The pain grows less in time. I know it’s hard to believe, but it does happen.” His voice was gentle.

  Bess thought of the five children he had lost, and the two wives who had left him a widower.

  “How have you borne it?”

  “I don’t know.” He shook his head. “I suppose I have put my head down and moved forward, one step plodding after another, as I have faced everything in life. For if we do not move forward what is there to do but lie down and die?”

  He pulled Bess into his arms, the still bundle between them.

  “But don’t you leave me, Bess. That I think would be beyond my enduring.”

  �
�Never. I will do as you do, and believe that in time the grief will cease to be a searing fire.”

  “It will. In time it will become only a small flame within your heart, giving warmth and light that never go out.”

  Bess took comfort in the sound of his heartbeat within his chest and his breathing near her ear.

  In the midst of life we be in death, the new Book of Common Prayer said. And, Bess thought, in the midst of death, in life.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Twentieth of December, 1550—Northaw, Hertfordshire

  IT HAD BEEN THREE DAYS SINCE BESS HAD GIVEN BIRTH, BUT SHE still felt as if her insides had been scooped out with a sharp spoon and cast aside. The bearing of her first son had been even more difficult than Temperance’s birth a year and a half earlier. William, concerned for her safety and that of the baby, had taken the precaution of engaging not only the midwife but a surgeon. Bess’s labor had seemed to go on forever and she had first feared she would die and then hoped that she would, if only the pain would end. But both she and little Henry had survived.

  Cecily came into the chamber bearing a covered cup.

  “A nice warm posset, my lady.”

  She helped Bess to sit up against the bank of pillows and bolsters, and tucked the bedclothes snug around her chest before going to the cradle.

  “He’s sleeping well,” she commented. “Calm. No fever or aught like that.”

  “Yes, the Lord be praised,” Bess agreed.

  “Will you have no other supper, your ladyship?”

  “No,” Bess said, holding the steaming cup against her chest. “This is all I can manage now.”

  She could feel some strength returning to her as the warm liquid went down. Cecily poked at the fire and added another log to it, and drew the shutters closed against the darkness enveloping the land outside.

  “Sir William asks if you’re well enough to see him.”

  “Of course, thank you, Cecily. Ask him to come in directly.”

  William stopped to smile down at the baby in the cradle before he settled himself carefully on the bed beside Bess and leaned down to kiss her.

  “How’s my brave girl?”

  Bess hadn’t seen William since the previous evening and had missed him, and his presence made her feel better. “Much better today, my love.”

  “Good. I have several pieces of news that I think will please you. Harry Grey, John Dudley, and the Lady Elizabeth have all sent word that they will stand as godparents and will be here for the christening.”

  He looked proud and Bess smiled at him, reaching out a hand to stroke his luxuriant whiskers.

  “That’s wonderful. Two of the most powerful men in England and the king’s sister, honoring our son.”

  “Our boy is off to a good start. Which brings me to the other tidings. The master mason came today. I told him what kind of house we want to build at Chatsworth, and tomorrow we’ll ride over so that he may see the land and begin to draw some plans.”

  A few months earlier, the Leche family lands that Alice’s husband Francis had sold so precipitously had come up for sale, and at a good price, as Edward Seymour had said they would. William and Bess had inspected the property, which included not only the manors of Chatsworth and Cromford with their houses and land, but nearly twenty surrounding villages, and had immediately determined to buy it. Francis Agarde had accepted their offer of only six hundred pounds, and now there lacked only the final signing of documents, which they expected to take place within a few days. The land lay not far from Hardwick, a week’s journey from London, through rough and remote country.

  “Chatsworth will be our bulwark against the storms,” William said, getting up to inspect the baby in his cradle, “and a fitting inheritance for our son.”

  Bess smiled at the thought of baby Henry a grown man, with children around him. And then thought of those children grown old, with grandchildren of their own. She was pleased at the idea that Chatsworth would be the seat of the Cavendishes down through the centuries.

  “Oh, and what think you of this?” William asked.

  He fished within his doublet and drew forth a swatch of fine woolen cloth, a deep and vivid blue that made Bess think of cornflowers in a summer field.

  “For the servants’ livery?” Bess asked, fingers caressing the smooth stuff. “It’s lovely.”

  The number of servants in a household was a measure of its grandeur, and outfitting the household in livery was a mark of even higher rank. Bess thought of how impressive she had thought the Zouche servants in their livery when first she had gone to Codnor Castle.

  “Goodness, William, what heights we are risen to!”

  William took her hands in his and kissed them.

  “I’m glad you’re pleased, wife. I’ll get the tailor in as soon as may be. Perhaps we may have some suits made by the time of Twelfth Night.”

  “My mother will be so proud.” Bess smiled.

  “I’m glad she’s coming for Christmas. I hope it will cheer her.”

  Bess’s stepfather’s face came into her mind and she said a prayer for the peace of his soul. He had died only a few weeks earlier, never quite recovered in body or spirit from the years he had spent in debtors’ prison.

  “I wish my father could have seen our Henry,” she said.

  “I know. But at least he lived to see Frankie, and to know you were well bestowed and comfortable.”

  “Oh, William.” Bess reached out her hand and he came to her and kissed her. “You are my rock and my salvation. Whatever may come, I can face it as long as you are at my side.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Fifteenth of November, 1551—Newgate Street, London

  MOTHER! THANK GOD YOU’VE ARRIVED SAFELY! AND DIBBY and Meg, just look at you!”

  Bess welcomed her mother and sisters to her home, enveloping her mother in her arms, feeling like a little girl again as she leaned her head on her mother’s shoulder.

  “Oh, my dear girl, look at you!” Elizabeth Leche stepped back and smiled at the sight of Bess’s swollen belly. “Another son, I’ll be bound!”

  “I think so, too, but of course I’ll be happy either way.” She shook her head in disbelief at how her younger sisters had grown since she had seen them last. Dibby was now sixteen and Meg fourteen. “Goodness, you’re both all grown up.”

  Bess saw her mother and sisters settled into a comfortable chamber at the back of the house, away from the noise of the street.

  “I’ve brought you some honey and jams,” Elizabeth said, pulling several small pots from their wrapping.

  “Lovely, a little piece of home.” Bess lifted a pot to her nose and sniffed. “I almost feel I can smell the blossoms on the trees when I eat Hardwick honey.”

  Bess thought her mother looked tired, and there was more gray in her hair since she had last seen her. She herself found it exhausting to travel the hundred and fifty miles between Hardwick and London, and glad though she was to see her mother, she wondered if the trip had been too much for her.

  “How was your journey? Not too wearing?”

  “Nothing more than the usual. It is a long way but I’m always happy to make it knowing you and William and the babies are at the end of it.”

  “Frankie and little Harry are sleeping now, but you and I can have a good visit before supper. Harry and Frances Grey are coming this evening. I hope you feel up to being in company?”

  “Oh, my! Yes, of course. I can still scarce believe they’re the Duke and Duchess of Suffolk now. What a terrible state of affairs led to that.”

  Frances Grey’s sixteen-year-old half brother, the young Duke of Suffolk, and his younger brother Charles had died of the sweating sickness within an hour of each other in July. As they were the last of the male Brandons, King Edward had bestowed the dukedom on Harry and Frances Grey.

  “Yes,” Bess said, sadness gripping her heart. She thought of the two boys laughing and running in the sunshine when they had been at Northaw for Frankie’s
christening.

  “And you were there for the ceremony! You will have to tell me all about it.”

  “Yes, at Hampton Court. It was very grand, and other friends of ours were also honored. John Dudley was made Duke of Northumberland, the Lord Treasurer William Paulet became Marquess of Winchester, and William Cecil was knighted, along with another secretary and three gentlemen of the privy chamber.”

  “Oh, my Bess, I’m so proud of you.” Bess’s mother kissed her cheek. “This is exactly what I hoped for you when I sent you off to Codnor all those years ago. You’re a great lady now, with a fine gentleman for a husband, a grand house, and noble friends who will stand by you in time of need.”

  My friends will stand by me if they are able to stand themselves, Bess thought.

  The face of Edward Seymour flashed into her mind. He was imprisoned in the Tower and even though there was little foundation to the charges that John Dudley had laid at his door, he would likely be executed for treason. Just like his brother Thomas. Who would be next? Bess wondered. How long would Dudley manage to stay atop the heap, with so many contentious dogs nipping at him from below?

  “I’m happy to say that all has come out well for Lizzie,” Bess told her mother. “Parliament annulled William Parr’s marriage in March, so now Lizzie is his true wife, and Marchioness of Northampton!”

  “What a triumph for her,” Bess’s mother said. “I would enjoy seeing her again.”

  “We’ll pay them a visit,” Bess promised. “They’re living in Southwark, in the old palace of the bishops of Winchester.”

  “A palace. Think of that.”

  “She almost holds the place of queen now,” Bess said. “As the king is not married, and Jane Dudley dislikes public events, it falls to Lizzie to welcome ambassadors and preside over court festivities.”

  More turning of fortune’s wheel, Bess reflected. Who could have foreseen that Lizzie would rise so high, when only a short time ago, her condition had fallen so low?