The Last Tudor by Philippa Gregory
I smile, thinking of my indomitable sister. “Yes, I remember it all.”
He sees the smile and takes it for himself. “You are the queen’s heir now . . .” he begins.
“She has not named me to parliament,” I caution him, one eye on the throne where Dudley has almost inserted himself beside her, so they are all but entwined like snakes, she almost sitting on his lap.
“You are the only Protestant heir,” he amends. “And the most liked by all the country. She called you her heir before all the court.”
I incline my head.
“If we were to marry,” he says very quietly to me. “If we were to marry again, as we did before, and to have a boy, then that boy would be King of England.”
I have a strange feeling as he says this, as if my stomach had turned over with a sudden grip of nausea or bubble of wind. I think—can this be the quickening of the child as he is named to his great place? Like Elizabeth in the Bible? Saints and sinners save me, I think! If that was my baby moving, then I have to be married, at once! And it might as well be Herbert as anyone. In fact, better Herbert than anyone, since he has come to me, since his father wants us to be married again, and Elizabeth can hardly forbid it since we were married before. It was an excellent match then; it is still good now. He wants it, his father wants it, the queen cannot forbid it . . . and I have to marry someone. Christ knows when Ned is coming home. Only His mother the Virgin knows why he does not answer my letters. She, like me, looked for a man to be the father of her child. She, like me, knew that she couldn’t be too choosy. I have to marry someone if I have a baby quickening inside me.
The lurch in my belly is so powerful that I cannot believe that he does not see it. I reach out to him, he does not know that I am gripping his hand for support. “Indeed, we have happy memories,” I say at random. I am sweating: he will see beads of sweat on my white face.
He takes my hand. “I have never thought that we were not married,” he says. “I have always thought of you as my wife.”
“I too, I too,” I say randomly. I wonder with sudden terror if this is the baby actually about to be born, if it is coming right now, before everyone. I must get to the back of the barge and find somewhere that I can sit down and grit my teeth and try to hold on, praying that this voyage of pleasure is over soon, and I can get to my room. I can’t let it come here. I can’t just void myself before the court! On the barge! On the royal barge! In my best dress!
He dips his head and shows me something in the palm of his hand. It is my old wedding ring, from our long-ago wedding day. “Will you take this back, for our betrothal?” he whispers.
“Yes! Yes!” I say. I almost snatch it I am so desperate for him to go.
“And I will send you my portrait.”
“Yes, yes.”
“And you will send me yours?”
“Yes, of course. But please excuse me now . . .”
“We are betrothed again.”
“We are.”
I am such a fool. That great heave was not birth but was quickening—but who knew that it felt so terrible? There’s nothing in the Bible to warn you that it feels as if you are about to die. But now it has happened to me, I know what it is. I am definitely with child, there is no denying it even to myself. Often now, I have this strange sensation of stomach-churning terror. The baby moves without my will, so sometimes I am lying in bed and my swollen belly gives a little jump and squirm and I can actually see the belly move as if I had a kitten hidden under my nightgown. But it is not a kitten—I would know what to do with a kitten, there would be no objection at all to a kitten—it is a baby and one that I am not allowed to conceive or grow or birth. But whether I am allowed or not, whether I want it or not, this child is coming, like a terrible unstoppable force, like a cloud of rain that rolls across open countryside, dark and forbidding and quite uncontrollable.
“Are you all right?” Mary asks me, with the frankness of a younger sister. “For you look as bloated as the queen when she is ill, and you are so bad-tempered these days.”
I long to tell her that I am in love with Ned but that I have heard no word from him. That he was supposed to go away for weeks but he has been gone for months. I long to tell her that we married, but he has deserted me and now I am with child and I can’t even complain of his treatment of me, since the marriage was a secret, and the baby an even more terrible secret, and I cannot bear to keep it secret any longer. And, in any case, sometime it must be born and then my secret is over and I am shamed as low as a strumpet whipped at the cart tail.
“I feel ill,” I say miserably. “I feel so very ill. Oh, Mary, I wish I could tell you how very ill I am.”
She hauls herself up to sit on the window seat beside me, her little feet sticking out. “You’ve not got a fever?”
“No, no, not an illness,” I contradict myself. “I just feel ill.”
“You are missing Ned?”
“Not at all.”
She frowns at me, her pretty face puckered as if she cannot understand me at all. “I have a friend, a secret friend, and I will not tell you his name; but I would never deny him.” She offers me her secret in return for my own. “He says that he loves me and I know that I love him. I won’t say more. This is just to show you that I can keep a secret, that I am a fully grown woman though very small. You can tell me that you love Ned and I can add it to my secret hoard. You can share your secret with me.”
I give a little moan of despair at the thought of my sister getting herself into the same terrible state that I am in. “Don’t speak of him,” I tell her. “Whoever he is, your secret friend. And don’t speak to him. Don’t keep him secret. Forget him. Don’t even dream of him. And if he wants to marry you, then tell him you can never marry without the queen’s permission.”
“She’s never going to let me marry.” Mary dismisses the suggestion with a sulky little shrug. “She’d be too afraid of me giving her a little heir to the throne. She doesn’t want a Tudor prince four feet tall.”
I am so horrified at the thought of this that I gasp at her. “But would you not have a child of normal size?”
“Who knows?” She shrugs her rounded shoulders again, a miniature coquette. “Who knows how these things happen? At any rate, I shall be sure to pick a tall lover to even things up.”
“Mary, you cannot have a lover! You cannot even joke about it. Swear to me that you will meet nobody. That you will put aside your secret.”
“Is this about Ned? Did you make a secret marriage?”
I clap my hand over her mouth and I glare at her. “Don’t say another word,” I say. “Really, Mary. Don’t say another thing. I have no secret and you must never have any.”
She pushes my hand away. “Hey-ho,” she says indifferently. “I’m not the flea in your bedding. No point pinching me. But I don’t gossip either. The secret that you don’t have is safe with me.” She wriggles to the edge of the window seat and makes a little jump to the floor. “But Henry Herbert is no match for you, mark my words. He’s a weathercock, that one: he goes wherever the wind blows. He does what his father tells him, and his father thinks of nothing but their family. Right now they think you will be named as heir by parliament, rather than Queen Mary, and take the throne when Elizabeth dies. That’s why they’re all round you as if they loved you. Don’t think that they do.”
“I don’t think anyone does,” I say bleakly.
Mary catches my hand and puts it to her cheek. “I do,” she says. “And I have a big heart. Bigger than Henry Herbert’s, anyway.”
“He’s my only hope,” I say bleakly.
“Are you really going to marry him?” she asks me incredulously. “Because, I warn you, he is showing a picture of you all round court, and saying that the two of you are betrothed. People ask me. I have denied it.”
My baby stirs as if to disagree. I give a little gasp. “I don’t dare refuse him.”
“Has he given you a ring?” Mary inquires.
“
“Ask the queen for permission to marry him while we’re on progress,” Mary advises. “She’s at her best when the court is out of London, and she and Dudley will be side by side all day—all night, too. Or why not ask Dudley to speak for you? He’s a lover himself this summer; he’s on the side of love against the world. He can’t argue caution, he’s rushing her into marriage as fast as he can. If it’s what you want. Though why you should want it, I can’t understand.”
I blink. “I’m not even packed,” I say irrelevantly. “I can’t find Mr. Nozzle’s traveling basket.”
“I’ll help you,” says my surprising little sister. “Stop crying. Ned’ll come home soon and reclaim you or you’ll marry Henry. Either way, you get a home and a husband. Somebody will love you for yourself. I do, anyway. What more do you want?”
ON PROGRESS: THE ROAD
TO WANSTEAD, SUMMER 1561
We ride out of London and stop the first night at the palace of Wanstead, where Lord Richard Rich, who abandoned Jane so promptly, welcomes us as the proud owner. Robert Dudley puts him to one side, lifts the queen down from her horse, and carries her over the threshold, as if it is his home and she is his bride. Elizabeth laughs in delight and Richard Rich manages a thin smile.
The servants have unpacked our clothes and jewelry, but everything at Wanstead is so fine that we will use their linen, and gold and silver plates. I see Elizabeth eyeing the rich parkland around the great house, and I know that the court will be hunting tomorrow. I will have to make an excuse; riding only ten miles has given me a stitch so painful that I can hardly stand when I am lifted down from the horse. I certainly can’t gallop behind hounds.
“Letter for you.” One of the Rich servants in livery bows and offers me a letter with my name on the front.
“A letter?”
For a moment, I don’t even take it. I stare at it with rising hope, then slowly, wonderingly, I put out my hand. I feel as if someone is handing me the key to escape from a prison of worry.
At last Ned has written to me—at last. Perhaps he has written from the coast and he has returned to England already and is riding north to find me. I am so glad to see his letter that I quite forget my resentment that it comes so late. It does not matter. Nothing matters. If he will come to me now, we can confess; I can break my betrothal to Henry Herbert and we can tell the queen, and all will be well. As little Mary says, so wise for her years: a home and a husband, what more do I want?
But then I see it is not Ned’s handwriting, nor his seal. As soon as I have it in my hand my hopes plummet. I leave the busy stable yard, where the grooms are taking the horses from the court and turning them out into rich meadows, and step into the garden, where the trees make a cool shade over a stone bench and I can sit and rest my aching back and read my letter.
It is from Henry Herbert. It is quite dreadful.
Having hitherto led a virtuous life, I will not now begin with loss of honor to lead the rest of my life with a whore that almost every man talks of . . .
I nearly drop the page. I think I am going to faint; I am breathless with horror. I read it again. He calls me a whore; he says that every man talks of me. I can feel my heart pounding and the baby in my belly has gone still, as if he too is frozen with horror at the insult to his mother.
“Ned,” I whisper miserably. I cannot believe that he should stay away and let this terrible thing happen to me. I cannot believe that our love affair should end up in this disaster: a baby in my belly and Henry Herbert—Henry Herbert of all people!—accusing me of being a whore.
You sought to entrap me with some poisoned bait under the color of sugared friendship yet (I thank God) I am so clear that I am not to be further touched than with a few tokens that were by cunning slight got out of my hands both to cover your abomination and his likewise.
He knows I am with child. He does not name Ned, but there will be others quick enough to ruin Ned’s good name with mine. I have to return Herbert’s gifts and beg him to keep silent. Clearly, he is furious with me for trying to entrap him, and I cannot in all honesty say that he is wrong and I am innocent. I can’t blame him for his outrage. I would have married him and used his name to hide my terrible shame. And, of course, in my heart I always knew that it would not have worked. I might have given birth before I got to the altar. I would have had to tell him the very moment that we were married and then he would have been as furious with me as he is now.
But then I would have been his wife and my baby would have had his name, and I would have won myself a refuge, even if it were temporary. But anyway, what else could I do? I thought that if I could just be a wife when I gave birth then that would be enough for me. My baby would have a name, I would have a husband. Now I will be openly shamed on the birth of my baby and named as a whore by a young man that I tried to marry and cuckold in the very same moment.
I drop my head into my hands and I cry into the page of his cruel letter. I really don’t know what I am going to do. I really have no idea what I should do now, and at this very moment, the baby gives a turn and sits heavily inside me, pressing on my belly so that I have to hurry to the garderobe at once to piss again. I think: my God, this is misery. I think: this is the worst misery that I could imagine, and it is happening to me. I was so very happy as Ned’s wife and Janey’s friend, as the queen’s heir and the saint’s sister, and now I am thrown down so very low. Very low. So low that I can’t quite see how I will ever rise again.
It is not difficult to persuade the ladies of Elizabeth’s chamber that I am not well. The strain in my face robs me of my girlish prettiness, and I cannot sleep at night, for the baby kicks and presses against me as soon as I lie down. I have dark shadows under my eyes and my beautiful creamy skin is spoiled with a rash of spots. Anyone would think me sick with a flux. I am swollen as if I had a dropsy and I am constantly aching in my back and in my groin. And every day, in attendance on the queen, I have to stand and stand while she sits and walks and dances. I have to curtsey with a straight back, I have to smile. I think that this is like a long torture, as bad as any instrument in the Tower, and that it would be better for me to confess and face my sentence than go on every day with these lies in my mouth and this constant pain. If they were racking me, it could hardly be worse.
The progress moves onward, from beautiful house to welcoming host, Elizabeth as merry as a pig in clover, with Robert Dudley at her side all day, dancing with her all evening and sleeping in an adjoining room at night. They are like young lovers, flirting and laughing, gambling and riding together. They are as happy together as Ned and I were—before she sent him away and condemned me to loneliness and shame.
I write to one of the maids left behind at Westminster and ask her to go to my chest in the treasure room, take out my jewel box, and send me everything that Henry Herbert gave me. I must get his stupid portrait back to him, and the locket with a lock of his hair. I have spent his money so I cannot refund him.
PIRGO PALACE, ESSEX,
SUMMER 1561
I hear nothing from my maid, and I am afraid that she has not had my letter, or she cannot find my things, or there is some muddle. Before I write again to tell her to hurry up and do as she is bid, the court arrives at my uncle John Grey’s new house at Pirgo. He is touchingly proud of his house, a royal mansion, given to him by the queen. He believes that such a mark of favor to him must surely spill over to me. He gives me prominent roles in the entertainments for the queen; he wants me to lead the dances. He cannot understand why I shrink from her attention.
“And you’re losing your looks,” he complains. “What’s the matter with you, girl? You’ve got fat. You can’t overeat until you are named as royal heir and declared by parliament. The queen has no patience for gluttons. We all want a pretty heir who looks like a fertile girl. But you look exhausted.
“I know. I’m sorry,” I say shortly.
For a moment I wonder if I can tell him that I am deep in a sin far worse than gluttony, but I look at his hard-chiseled face and I dare not tell him that yet another Grey niece has put herself on the wrong side of the throne.
“What’s that you’ve got under your cape?” he demands suddenly.
“My cat, called Ribbon,” I say.
He does not smile at the pretty white cat. “Ridiculous,” he says. “Don’t let my hounds see it; they’ll tear it apart.”
“Letter for Lady Katherine,” his groom of the servery says, and hands me a letter with the Pembroke crest. “Messenger waiting for a reply.”
“Oh, really?” my uncle cheers up in a moment. “Henry Herbert writing to you, is he? His father spoke to me a little while ago. Said that they might think of renewing your betrothal. Open it up, girl.”
“I would rather read it later,” I say. My mouth is very dry.
He laughs. “Oh, don’t mind me,” he says, and turns to the groom and speaks of the arrangements for the queen’s dinner while I break the seal and spread out the one page.
Without delay I require you, madam, to send me, by this bearer, those letters and tokens with my picture that I sent you or else, to be plain with you, I will make you as well known to all the world as your whoredom is now, I thank God, known to me and spied by many scores more.
I think I may be sick. I read the words and reread them. He knows I am on progress—does he imagine I carry his portrait with me everywhere? Poor fool: I suppose he does. How vain he is, I think wildly. How stupid. How glad I am that we’re not going to marry, and then I think: oh God, if we’re not going to marry, if he’s going to name me as a whore, what am I going to do?