Secrets of the Tudor Court Boxed Set

37

The clatter of hooves on the cobblestones in the courtyard at Esher had me rushing to the window. My first reaction on hearing so many horses arrive at speed was apprehension, but it took me only a moment to recognize Will. At once, my heart beat faster. He swung off his horse, throwing the reins to a groom, and abandoned the riders who’d accompanied him to race toward the nearest entrance. Tears of joy flowed down my cheeks as I hoisted up my skirts, ignored the restrictiveness of my whalebone corset, and ran for the stairs.

Will met me before I was halfway down, catching me by the waist and lifting me into a smoldering kiss. He smelled of sweat and leather and horses, but I did not mind in the least. He was real. He had come back to me, safe and sound.

“I died a hundred deaths fearing for your safety,” he whispered. “You are well? You have not been ill?”

“There was sickness everywhere, but I was spared.” I ran my hands over his arms, his chest. “And you, Will?” I could scarcely believe he was really with me again. I’d known he was to return sometime in August, but sailing ships must wait upon wind and weather. And sometimes, they sank.

Will had left for France on the twenty-second of May. It was now mid-August. We had been apart for three long months. We barely stopped kissing long enough for me to direct him to the bedchamber I had chosen for us and furnished in his absence, but he needed no guidance to find the bed.

Hours later, we still could not stop touching. It was as if we both needed proof the other was really there.

“I had not thought the separation would be so difficult,” Will said as he tenderly stroked one finger down the side of my face. “We endured time apart before.”

I smiled, content just to look at him, now that our lustful longings had temporarily been satisfied. But one question nagged at me. “Have you already been to court?”

He chuckled. “Only because Hampton Court was on the way here. I left the rest of the embassy behind in Dover, all but a few outriders, and rode ahead. I made my report to Warwick in the briefest manner possible. It is as well he is an old friend. He knew how anxious I was to be reunited with you.”

Yes, I thought. Beneath the title, Warwick was still the man, John Dudley, who had married Jane Guildford, his childhood sweetheart. Will and I were fortunate in having their friendship.

“We must both return to court soon,” Will murmured, his lips close to my ear. His hands were busy elsewhere, making me shiver with longing even though a moment earlier I’d been sated.

“Must we?”

He laughed. “Never tell me you did not miss being at the center of things!”

“A little, perhaps. But I missed being with you more.”

We had exchanged frequent letters during our separation, but the written word was no substitute for speaking face-to-face. Our reunion was both tender and passionate, and for the best part of the next two days, when we were never apart, we shared our separate experiences. I found the courage to tell him of my new insight into myself and found him accepting. He swore once again that I was all he needed to be complete. I believed him. I believed him, too, when he promised to put a stop to Anne Bourchier’s scheme to take her father’s estate away from Will. In spite of my best efforts, her lawsuit had not been dismissed.

Once Will and I returned to court, life went on much as it had before—full of entertaining amusements, secret intrigues, alarming rumors, sudden betrayals, and new rewards. John Dudley, Earl of Warwick, was elevated in the peerage to Duke of Northumberland. Henry Grey, Marquess of Dorset, was created Duke of Suffolk, claiming that title in the right of his wife, Frances Brandon, since the deaths of both her half brothers of the sweat had left the title in abeyance. When the Earl of Warwick became Duke of Northumberland, his oldest son—Jack Dudley, Lord Lisle—was created Earl of Warwick in his own right. Will’s brother-in-law, Lord Herbert, became Earl of Pembroke. Other honors were granted, too, both titles and knighthoods. Will received no greater title, but he was granted a bishop’s palace, formerly the property of Stephen Gardiner, bishop of Winchester, the same prelate who had once tried to have Queen Kathryn arrested for heresy.

Winchester House was located in Southwark, just across London Bridge from the city, and it boasted its own wharf, called the Bishop of Winchester’s Stairs. I stepped off our barge, the small one with the striped awning, and stared up at the house in delight.

“It is magnificent,” I breathed, impressed by its fine stone walls.

The interior was even more spectacular, containing as it did so many large, well-proportioned rooms, all of them luxuriously furnished. The bishop had been fond of Flemish tapestries, Turkey carpets, and well-cushioned chairs.

We moved from the great hall along a narrow passage and entered the enormous kitchen, where gawking servants did not seem to know what to make of us. Will made a short speech, informing them of the property’s change in ownership. Most looked relieved. Having a master in prison had to be unsettling.

We continued our exploration of the house, inspecting bedchambers—also well furnished—and stopping now and again to admire the view from the windows, especially those that looked out over the Thames. Downriver, I could see the houses crowded in cheek by jowl on London Bridge itself. Rising behind were the high, pale walls of the Tower.

“I wonder if Gardiner can see his former residence from his cell?” I mused.

Will laughed. “I hope he can, and drowns in his own bile for thinking about us in possession.”

“We’ve space enough for all manner of improvements,” I remarked.

A courtyard graced the land side of the house, together with a privy garden. To the west were a small orchard and a kitchen garden. It was difficult to believe we were in the center of an area as populous as any in London proper. Sounds from beyond the wall that surrounded the entire property were so muffled they were almost nonexistent.

“I am of a mind to add a gallery,” Will said, “and we could put a tennis court there.” He gestured toward an open space on the eastern side of the property. “And perhaps a bowling green. We can begin renovations at once.”

“What of the furnishings?” I felt a strong aversion to sleeping in the bishop of Winchester’s bed. “And I would like new wainscoting in the great hall.”

Will agreed to everything I suggested and I looked forward to weeks of absorption in the project, but I was soon distracted from such domestic pursuits by the news that Edward Seymour, Duke of Somerset, so recently freed from the Tower and restored to most of his former status—although not to the post of lord protector—had been caught plotting to the kill both John Dudley, Duke of Northumberland, and my own dear Will. It did not seem to matter to Somerset, or his wife, that their daughter was now married to Northumberland’s son Jack. They gambled on the chance of regaining control of King Edward’s government . . . and lost. The Duke of Somerset was arrested again, along with his duchess. So was his distant kinsman, Davy Seymour. I appealed to Northumberland on behalf of Davy’s wife, my old friend Mary Woodhull, and secured Davy’s release, but I had no sympathy for Somerset himself. He deserved a traitor’s death.

Will was present at his beheading. I thought it bad enough that I had to hear about it. Although men and women alike flocked to public executions, and this one, on Tower Hill, took place in a great square that could accommodate a considerable crowd, I could only feel relieved that noblewomen were not expected to attend such spectacles.

King and courtiers soon put the whole ugly affair out of their minds. The state visit of the regent of Scotland replaced Somerset as a topic of conversation. Marie of Guise, who was also the queen mother, was returning north after a visit to her daughter. When even younger than King Edward, Mary Queen of Scots had been spirited away to the French court a few years earlier to keep her from falling under English control. At the moment, however, France and England, and therefore Scotland and England, were at peace. It was safe for the French-born Scottish regent to visit the English court. Together with Will’s sister, Anne, newly Countess of Pembroke, and Geraldine Browne, and some sixty other ladies, I was chosen to greet Marie of Guise at Hampton Court and escort her to Queen Kathryn’s old rooms.

Although I enjoyed all these festivities, I could hardly wait for the regent to continue on her way back to Scotland. As soon as she left, Will and I could move into Winchester House.

All that winter I had my husband to myself, day and night, in our beautiful, newly renovated palace. And when Parliament convened, Will dealt handily with the troublesome lawsuit his first wife had brought against him while he was in France. He returned home from that day’s session with a light step and a grin so wide I was surprised his jaw didn’t crack. He slung an arm around my shoulders and gave me a smacking kiss on the cheek.

“Parliament,” he announced, “has just passed a private bill to confirm my right to the Essex inheritance.”

“And Lady Anne’s claim? Will she get anything?” If her marriage to Will was null and void, then they had never been wed at all. On cooler reflection, I’d had to admit to myself that there was some merit to her claim. If she had no husband, then it followed that she would then be her father’s sole heir. She was living, it was said, in great poverty, and we were certainly not in need of more property. We might spare her a crumb.

She betrayed Will, I reminded myself, absently touching my wedding ring. She forfeited her rights when she was unfaithful to him.

Will chuckled, well pleased with the outcome. “I’ve outsmarted her, Bess. The wording of this bill specifies that the nullity allows me to proceed as if the said Lady Anne had been naturally dead. Both our marriage and my claim to the Essex lands have been upheld. We have it all, my love. Just as we deserve.”

I should have been glad. I was glad. But after I’d taken my husband off to bed to celebrate, I surprised myself by feeling a spark of pity for Lady Anne.