The Secret Keeper: A Novel of Kateryn Parr

NINETEEN

Summer and Autumn: Year of Our Lord 1549

Winter and Spring: Year of Our Lord 1550

Syon House

Barbican House

Grimsthorpe

Lady Seymour, Edward’s wife, could not rid herself of Mary’s household quickly enough, now she had leave to do so. We were, to her, an infestation to be quickly flushed out. But I was determined to speak with her before we left, as she was Mary’s aunt and mine. Her husband had, at best, helped bring this down upon us, if in fact he was not the architect in chief.

I sent one of Mary’s servants with a note requesting an interview and, to my surprise, the duchess granted it. I met her in her fine sitting chamber. She had a page usher me in and seat me in the chair across from her. She wore one of Kate’s finer diamonds. I looked at it, and then at her, with revulsion, and I saw her acknowledge my recognition of the piece and her pleasure in my so doing.

“Mistress St. John. You asked to speak with me afore you depart for my Lady Suffolk’s London property, Barbican House.”

“Yes, madam,” I said. “I come to speak on behalf of the child. She is motherless, she is fatherless. She is now, more than ever, in need of family who will champion and protect her. I know not why Lord Thomas chose the Duchess of Suffolk as her guardian, but I am come to ask that you will assist in caring for her. In particular, for her financial needs. Her mother was once rich”—I glanced at the diamond around Lady Seymour’s neck—“but now Mary has naught.”

She smiled superficially. “You’ll be pleased to know that the council has voted to give Mary five hundred pounds per year for the upkeep of her household, as is becoming for the daughter of a queen. I shall ensure that the funds are delivered promptly to the Duchess of Suffolk.”

I nearly collapsed with relief. I took her hand in my own and kissed it, not caring that she had been cold to me and sharp with Kate. She would see to it that Mary was taken care of. “Thank you, madam,” I said. “I, I had not realized how rich in true Christian charity you are.”

She smiled condescendingly. “I shall see to it that Mary’s plate is sent along too.”

I thanked her profusely and returned to Mary’s chambers with hope. Five hundred pounds was a fair sum—enough to run her household with all the requisite tutors and educators, food for all, travel and servant expenses for Mary, and anything else she might need.

It was entirely possible that I would remain with Mary as governess, now that there would be no new wife for Lord Thomas, as Kate had envisioned, nor any widower come along to marry me, as we’d once imagined. I wished that there was a pleasant prospect for the future, but there wasn’t. I felt disheartened and downtrodden at the lack of possibility. I deeply loved the child, and always would, but this was not the life I had hoped for or desired. I would, however, see my vow to Kate through, and take care of Mary as long as need be. My loyalty now was as much or more to the sweet child herself as it had been toward Kate.

We were installed at Barbican House within the month. The duchess did not often eat with or entertain us, as she was oft occupied with flirting with her master of horse. She had a full staff of a hundred or more, many wellborn, and we fit in with her household and passed merry hours. I was surprised, then, that when I went to inquire about the pay for the staff for the month of July she dismissed her staff and closed the door behind them.

“I have not yet received any promised funds from the council,” she said. “I have been paying the staff out of my own purse thus far, and, as you can imagine, this is a great expense to me. I am in difficult straits financially, and Mary is yet another burden. This cannot continue.”

Difficult straits? She was clearly one of the richest women in the realm. And yet it was true that the five hundred pounds annually required for Mary’s household was a sum under which anyone may falter and should have been borne by the king.

“I have written again to Lady Seymour, who had promised me that she would ensure that the funds would come for Mary. She has yet to do so, and she has kept Mary’s plate for herself as well. ’Tis clearly an unsustainable position. I will write to Cecil and see if he can assist me in this. You may stay, Mistress St. John, as the letter is composed to see if there be anything in addition you care to add, as governess.”

Her secretary came with his quill and paper and she began to speak aloud. “It is said that the best means of remedy to the sick is first plainly to confess and disclose the disease, wherefore, both for remedy and again for that my disease is so strong that it will not be hidden, I will disclose myself unto you.”

She likened her guardianship of Mary to being slain with disease!

“I am in tight financial circumstances,” she continued. “All the world knoweth what a beggar I am, and now most especially if you will understand, because the queen’s child hath layen, and still doth lie at my house, with her company about her, wholly at my charges. I have written to Lady Seymour at large, that there be some pension allotted unto her according to my lord grace’s promise. And yet, nothing comes despite my pleading.”

Of a sudden, I recalled to me Kate’s bitter comment that Lady Seymour “promises her friends many comings and performs none.”

“Now, good Cecil, help at a pinch all that you may help. Will you plead on behalf of the allowance allocated for the queen’s daughter, to be sent to me at once? Additionally Lady Seymour hath promised that certain nursery plate should be provided for Mary. See to it that you attend to this with haste, dear Cecil, as the child’s mistress, along with the maid’s nurse and others, daily call for their wages, whose voices my ears hardly bear, but my coffers much worse.”

She looked at me. “Have you more to say, Mistress St. John?”

I seethed with the implication that I came daily as a lowborn beggar but also felt shamed for all that we were required to beg on Mary’s behalf. “I would only respectfully remind the council, which is much bent, and rightly so, upon religious reform, that Saint James reminds us that pure devotion that is undefiled before God is to care for orphans and widows in their distress.”

I turned and held her gaze and she mine. She knew I lightly rebuked her as well as them but I did not care. “I should like to visit my Lord and Lady Herbert, if I may, the queen’s sister, to plead for their intervention upon this matter. I shall leave the babe in the careful hands of her nurse and other attendants.”

“’Tis a fine idea,” she said a little dismissively.

I sent a messenger requesting a meeting with Lady Herbert, the queen’s sister, and arranged to see her the following week. She met me in the oak-paneled room of Baynard’s Castle, the whole house of which had been given to her as a gift by the queen.

“’Tis good to see you again, Juliana,” she said. Her warmth toward me gave me much hope. “How does my niece?”

I smiled. “She thrives. She can now roll over well on either side, and she has several teeth that harry her nurse. I read to her, often, especially from Kate’s work, and she is in all manner a joy. Do come and call upon us and see for yourself.”

“I will,” she said. There was a silence. I knew she waited for me to broach the subject of our visit.

“You may be aware that the council had voted to allocate five hundred pounds for Mary’s care,” I said. “And yet, none comes.”

She looked genuinely disturbed. “Has the Duchess of Suffolk approached them?”

“Many times.”

“I fear I do not see how I can assist in this.”

“If, by some evil token, the funds are not forwarded to the duchess, and she is unable to care for the child, will the babe have a home with you here?”

She sat quietly for some time. “I wish it were, but I do not think that is viable.”

“But why not?” My voice raised. “Did not Kate take your young son into her household and care for him out of her own privy purse?”

Lady Herbert nodded. “She did. But his care was not so dear as the care for the daughter of a queen. I am sorry. I wish I could help, but Lord Herbert will not agree to it, of this I am certain. But I will pray for a ready and meet solution.”

“Lord Herbert has himself been enriched in all manner by Kate’s marriage to the king. Mayhap he could sell one of the manors settled upon him as a result of that bounty and provide the yield to Lady Mary.”

“He will not do thusly, Juliana. I am certain.”

I stood up and snapped on my riding gloves. “Then there is little more to say, my lady. But I thank you for seeing me.”

She smiled sadly and saw me out. I rode home; the serving men who rode with me lathered their horses keeping up.

The next day the duchess asked me what I had learned from the Herberts and when I told her she did not seem surprised.

“I shall write to the queen’s brother,” I said, hope rising again. “And see if he might speak with the council on this matter.”

“He has a weak back for such a burden,” the duchess said. I curtseyed slightly and left.

Within a week I received a letter from William Parr’s wife, Elisabeth, saying that, regrettably, they would be unable to assist. The lord protector was still enraged over their marriage and they were in no position to plead a case and might not long have a household together in which to raise a child. Elisabeth suggested the Seymour family.

Late that night I sat in my chamber, braiding and unbraiding my hair whilst I thought, letting the candle burn down to a soft disc. Was there no one interested in this delightful child, whose mother had done so much for them? And after all, Mary was cousin to the king.

As I finally dressed myself for bed, I realized something with a start. So am I.

The Duchess of Suffolk sent us to her estate in Lincolnshire, Grims-thorpe. It was less expensive there, she said. She also cut Mary’s staff back to her nurse, Mrs. Marwick; myself—who drew no salary; Lucy and Gerald; and a handful of others. “It is temporary,” she said, “and not sustainable. The child will soon need tutors, instructors, and expensive gowns and shoes. Cecil will apply to have the taint removed from Mary’s name and her titles and funds restored to her. Her household can,” she said pointedly, “repay me at that time.”

I nodded solemnly, fervently hoping that funds would be forthcoming for such a repayment.

The duchess did not accompany us to Grimsthorpe; instead, she remained in London with most of her household spending time and money with Cecil for Stranger churches. These were being built so that those who were persecuted for their reformed faith on the Continent would have somewhere to worship, and mayhap stay, once they reached England’s shores.

As we rode out of London, I remembered the Countess of Sussex’s prophetic vision about the king’s death. He had been on the throne two and one-half years. If her prophecy was correct—and she had always been true—he was halfway through his reign. I hoped that those building the Stranger churches were themselves prepared to flee to Stranger churches when the Lady Mary became queen. The rest of the way to Lincolnshire I thought about what would become of my sister, Lady Mary Seymour, daughter of absolute reformer families and presently with no money, no title, and no protector who would think to snatch her to safety as he fled the country if need be.

In October, when the leaves progressed from green to gold to russet, I received another visit from Dorothy Tyrwhitt. She and two servants had traveled an achingly long day to come to me.

I embraced her and stoked the fire in the chamber I’d had set aside for her in Mary’s rooms.

“It is cheerless here,” she said, noting the small staff, the empty hallways, and the distinct lack of furniture and tapestries in many of the rooms. The duchess kept her best pieces with her in London. “This is no place for you nor for a child. I had not imagined you as a governess. You were always so spirited!”

“’Twill be better once the duchess is in residence, assuredly,” I said, avoiding her comment about my station, which, I admit, did not seem suitable for my disposition or inclinations. “I’m sorry I cannot offer you much of interest,” I said. “But our cook is fine and is particularly good with the venison, which is well aged. Please rest, and then after we sup we shall walk together.”

We strolled the autumn gardens, relishing the cold, like ice on a burn, arm in arm, as we had so many years ago at Lady Latimer’s, and she shared gossip of London and the court. “Lady Herbert, the queen’s sister, is with child again,” she said.

“I wish her a safe delivery.” I swallowed the grudge I had toward her for Kate and Mary’s sake and Dorothy talked on of other tidbits of our friends and acquaintances.

“I was eager to visit with you, of course,” she said. “But more importantly, I want you to know what is happening in London because it will affect Mary. I have not forgotten our friendship.”

I puffed a breath of steam into the still air and said, “What is happening in London?”

“The lord protector is about to fall,” she said.

I stopped dead. “No. How can this be?” And then I recalled that my brother had predicted this very outcome.

“He’s alienated everyone with his arrogance and theft. He withdrew, abducting His Majesty to accompany him, to Windsor Castle and issued a proclamation for help. The king wrote that, as far as he were concerned, Edward Seymour had jailed him. ‘Methinks I am in prison,’ he said.”

“Did Seymour not learn from Lord Thomas’s attempt to do the very same? What did the council do?” I stepped around an abandoned bird’s nest that had fallen from a high branch and broken upon impact.

“They had the lord protector arrested and taken to the Tower.”

“On what charges?”

“The king himself said, ‘ambition, vainglory, entering into rash wars in mine youth, negligent looking on Newhaven, enriching himself of my treasure, following his own opinion, and doing all by his own authority.’”

“Will the lord protector survive this?” Our situation grew more dire.

“Tristram says yes, but only for a little while. Seymour has been released from the Tower and even now he is fawning on the Lord Dudley, who has taken his place as lead on the council. His wife approached Lady Dudley practically on bent knee whilst the lord protector was in prison. She invited her to sup with her, presented her with a fine diamond, and asked Lady Dudley to speak to her husband on behalf of Edward Seymour. Lady Dudley did so, and Seymour is free. For now. But Tristram is having us leave London because he says this fragile peace will not last long, mayhap not last past the marriage, this coming spring, of the lord protector’s daughter and Dudley’s son John.”

I nodded. I should have liked to have seen Lady Seymour on bent knee.

“As you and the child are so closely aligned with the Seymours, I wanted you to have a care. All who have been their supporters begin to flee now, for Dudley’s camp. To be associated with them in any way will truly become, soon, a taint of its own.”

I hugged her, grateful for her warning and the time, money, and effort it had taken to deliver it. Like the jackdaws scared up from Seymour Place to roost at Syon, Edward Seymour’s home, the courtiers would now take wing from Syon toward Dudley’s residence. Dorothy knew nothing of how this further jeopardized the babe, nor me. The Duchess of Suffolk had said she would soon run out of money for Lady Mary, though we were shut away with little left; she had made one final application to the council on Mary’s behalf and it would be heard in January. We returned to my rooms and Dorothy told me of the reformist work that her husband was involved in. And then, I knew that if I dared, I could repay her gift to me with a gift of my own.

“Do you hold faith in prophecies?” I asked her.

She nodded. “’Tis in Scripture, so of course.”

“I shall share something with you that you must not pass along, excepting to your husband, of course,” I said. “This is a confidence you must keep.”

I did not say it to shame her for her last indiscretion—and she knew that—but rather to protect the countess.

“The Countess of Sussex told me, and Kate, of a vision she’d had that foretold Anne Askew’s racking and death. Exactly as it later happened.”

Dorothy leaned closer. “This be truth?”

I nodded and lowered my voice further, though there were none around that I knew of and we were well away from the manor. “But shortly afore she left the queen’s household she shared another prophecy with me. She had foreseen that the king would not reign for more than five years.”

Dorothy grimaced. “And then … Queen Mary.”

“And then Queen Mary,” I said, “who has no love lost for the reform or its champions. Have a care. Tristram is well-known.”

She nodded solemnly. “Mayhap because of this prophecy, evil has fallen upon the Countess of Sussex.”

“What evil?”

“She was questioned by a commission for errors in Scripture.”

“Never! She held completely to the text.”

Dorothy nodded. “’Tis possible some have heard of her prophesying, and did not find it agreeable or understand it. Wriothesley convinced Sussex that his wife had been adulterous and bigamous. The countess claimed innocence, and of course she is innocent, but her husband threw her out. She lives in poverty, even now, in a foul, miserable corner of London. She has some friends and supporters—including my Lady Suffolk’s sons, at Eton—but ’tis a difficult time, a difficult place. So now you know why I will be especially careful.”

Wriothesley had played the lyre whilst Anne Askew burned and then helped Gardiner chase down the queen to near death. Now he incited against the Countess of Sussex. “I grow chilled, of a sudden,” I said as I tucked her arm in mine and we made our way back to the house in silence. Inside, though, I was in turmoil over what had befallen the countess, who had foreseen the king’s death, considered treasonous, and yet was compelled to speak. She had no protector. Neither did I. I had to determine what next to do.

Late in January, after celebrating the New Year in London at court, the Duchess of Suffolk returned with a small retinue to Grims-thorpe. She did not intend to stay but came to check on her property and the handful of servants tending it, and apprise me of unwelcome tidings. She called me into her receiving chamber, which had been warmed with tapestries she’d brought for her visit.

“Cecil applied to the council on behalf of Lady Mary,” she began, “at my instigation. The council removed the taint from her and made her eligible to inherit all of her properties that had not been returned to the crown or otherwise assigned.”

“This is marvelous, my lady,” I said, flooded with joy to the point where I felt light-headed. But her countenance was not enthusiastic and I quickly became grounded again.

“It would be,” she said, “if there were any properties or money left. Alas, others have already carved up her properties, incomes, and purse. Mary has nothing left to inherit, as it has all been given to or taken by them who will not gladly return it.”

I sat down without being asked to, and she did not correct me. “But she is the king’s cousin; surely he will insist.”

“The king has no power in this, Mistress St. John. Power lies with those who received the bounty. Nor does His Majesty, I am sorry to say, seem to have sundry warmth for family, and has even, of late, taken to spurning his own sisters.”

I nodded glumly. “So Mary is …”

“Penniless. And I cannot afford her upkeep in London, assuredly. Mayhap Grimsthorpe for a while. But I cannot keep her in this style, and as there is no money for her, I am sore vexed.”

Within the week I dismissed Mrs. Marwick, whose milk had begun to dry up in any case, and hired a local girl to help with the child, who was beginning to prefer bits from the plate to milk. I did not ask for pay for myself, using instead money I’d saved from that earned whilst in Kate’s service, which would last a little longer. My Lady Suffolk agreed to pay Lucy and Gerald, for some meager clothing and some shoes as Mary was now toddling about, and for a handful of other servants. It was an unreasonable expense, I know, for her to have taken on an entire household on her own, and yet none stepped forward to help. It was not sustainable, and truly, she, too, had tried. I did note, though, that her Christian charity was more concentrated upon large buildings for strangers and not the helpless child of a friend.

“Mayhap I can plead with Lady Seymour, the child’s grandmother?” I asked.

“She’s been asked,” she said. “And refused. I think her cares now all be focused on her favored son, who is besieged.”

“I have a certain … personal interest from which I might plead with her,” I said.

The duchess looked up at me. “Yes, yes, now I do recall that Lord Thomas Seymour was, well … I see your point. Quite. Yes, mistress, if you desire to plead your case to her, do write. And send one of my messengers, if you like.”

I spent the next weeks rehearsing how I might best appeal to a woman who loved me and my mother not, and who had already bluntly refused help to her own grandchildren. As far as I could see, this was Mary’s last hope.

In late May a messenger came from Barbican House, the duchess’s London residence. I had asked her for funds for Mary’s clothing and an increase in the money required to feed her small staff. She replied that the clothing would have to do, for now, and that I should not expect her to return to Grimsthorpe until after the June wedding of Lady Anne Seymour, the daughter of the tottering lord protector, to John Dudley, son of the Seymours’ rival and enemy. All of London would be present for the festivities.

“Will there be a response, mistress?” the messenger asked me.

“Yes,” I said. “I shall have it to you tomorrow.” I did not have any idea what I was going to say. I prayed for direction but, I admit, worried that there would not be an answer forthcoming as we had been left on our own for so long. I dressed Mary in a slightly too-short gown and hose and took her hand.

“Walk, Am?” she asked me, her face delighted, as it always was when we took our daily stroll. Lucy had done up her hair in some small curls anchored by ribbons at the base of her scalp and she looked angelic.

“Yes, dearest, we’ll go for a walk.” She called me Am, not being able to say Juliana, and I took her first to the stable as she loved the horses best. When we got there, one of the stable boys waved us away.

“Do not bring the child here,” he said, a worn look upon his own face, “nor come yourself. Jemmy’s got tha plague and he was here just yesterday. It arrives right regularly in the summer now.”

I hurriedly backed away from the stables, picking Mary up and clutching her close to me, quickly making my way to my own room, not to her chambers. Jemmy’s wife was her new nurse. I called Lucy to me.

“Did you know Jemmy is suspected of having plague?”

“No!” Her eyes looked toward the stable, where Gerald sometimes worked.

“Gerald is in the house,” I said. “But we must dismiss Mrs. Tiller, his wife, till we know she does not have it.” I hurriedly scribbled out a note and put some money with it. By evening, the little household thrummed with fear, scattered among Grimsthorpe’s many long corridors. There was not enough kitchen staff to light the hearth so we ate cold platters.

The messenger came to find me. “I be leaving in the morning, miss, no later, seeing as …”

I nodded. “I will have my response ready.”

That night I stayed in Mary’s room watching for any sign of the shivering or hot flesh that predicted the onset of disease. Who would have whisked this child to safety if I had not remained? There were truly none, save I, who loved this child, whose mother had so readily loved so many. They had divided the carcass of her inheritance, devouring it shamelessly for themselves. The king, whom Kate had loved so gently till the end, had not a word on behalf of his cousin. Gardiner, the wolf, would be set free when the Lady Mary came to power as queen and then the lambs the duchess spoke of so easily would not be merry.

I read to Mary in her room after her servants had been dismissed and she was quiet in her cradle. I often told childish stories to her, and tickled her and laughed at silly antics, but this night I chose her mother’s book once more so she could know something of Kate. I began at the place where I had last left my own reading. Within ten minutes I began to tire and had almost closed the book when I arrived at a passage that startled me anew.

“But our Moses, and most godly, wise governor and King, hath delivered us out of this captivity and bondage of Pharaoh. I mean by this Moses, King Henry the eighth, my most sovereign favorable lord and husband …”

I then closed my eyes. Did you really think the king to be Moses, lady? Moses noble, leading his people, or Moses ill tempered, striking out to murder?

Of a sudden, I was pricked with the desire to read of the account of Moses for myself. I reached into the cupboard in which I kept Mary’s books and pulled out a copy of holy writ. I opened it to the second book of Moses, called Exodus, and read with opening eyes. Though pharaoh had commanded the children be slain, the midwives had cunningly hid them whilst claiming they were dead so they would not perish. And for their good works, they were promised by God households of their own. I closed my eyes in a rapture of certainty as I realized who was sent, in particular, to look after the child Moses, floating on the river.

His older sister.

Who knoweth whether thou art come to the kingdom for such a time as this?

My heart quivered with excitement and would not be stilled. I would not have to wait about any longer, allowing time and chance to overcome us. I stirred from the torpor that the mannerisms of court had lulled me into and determined to take action. I set Mary down and made my way to Lucy’s chamber. She was already abed in her knitted cap but she came to the door anyway.

“I have something to ask of you,” I said. I told her of my plan and asked if she, and Gerald, too, would be willing to assist me.

“Ooh, I’m certain of it,” she said. Her face gleamed. “Who can ye get ta help us, then?”

“I need someone who knows how to smuggle.”

“The child’s father is dead,” Lucy reminded me.

“Someone of good character who knows how to smuggle,” I said, amending it.

“Your father is dead too,” she said. “God rest him.”

My eyes opened wide. “You knew my father smuggled?”

She nodded. “We all did. He did ri’ by it, though, not for profit, only for others.”

I shook my head and pressed on. “There is one other.”

“Tha man wi’ the strawberries,” she said, grinning widely. “I knew you’d come back ta him. You don’t lose lightly.”

I grinned back. “But I don’t know if he will help. And he is like to be married already.”

“He will help anyway,” she said. “I told ya, he be a man.”

The next morning I sent the messenger off to London with a letter for the duchess saying that, as plague had hit Grimsthorpe, I was taking Mary with me to Wulf Hall to plead with her grandmother in person. Then I handed him a second envelope.

“If you promise to get this letter to Lady Fitzgerald Browne at Horsley within a day, I shall pay you a month’s wages in advance.”

He took the letter, and the money.

“You must keep this to yourself,” I said. “Or I shall find some way to come back and reclaim the moneys.”

“I will do as you say, mistress.” He left quickly, spurred on not only by money but by fear of contagion.

I watched him as he rode away, the horse’s hooves sponging heavily in the mossy green, the horse’s meaty flanks flexing as they made speed out of the property. I sank to my knees in the damp field and prayed, but with hope now, not caring if I ruined my gown.

Whom have we now but You?