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.
38
The remainder of that year passed rapidly. Will was busy at court and I was often there with him. On several occasions I served as the king’s hostess when he entertained foreign visitors. We visited Lady Browne at West Horsley in May, and in July King Edward embarked on a royal progress that lasted into September. Will and I went along, although we often detoured to stay at our own houses along the way rather than be crowded in with the rest of the court. When the progress ended at Windsor, Will and I settled in at Esher. Jane Northumberland and her husband were at Chelsea, Queen Kathryn’s dower house having been granted to the duke.
In October I attended Lady Browne’s wedding. For her second husband, Geraldine had chosen a baron, Lord Clinton. He was also lord admiral of England, having replaced Tom Seymour in that post. This was his third marriage. His first, much older wife had been King Henry’s cast-off mistress Bessie Blount. He’d been her second husband. By her first she’d had a daughter, Elizabeth Talboys. Young Elizabeth had become Baroness Talboys in her own right on the death of her brothers and, a week after her stepfather’s remarriage, she wed Lord Ambrose Dudley, Jane Northumberland’s second-oldest surviving son.
Since many matrimonial connections were similarly complex, they served to strengthen political alliances. Good parents looked for security when they arranged their children’s matches. I had remained close to Jane Dudley who, as Duchess of Northumberland, now had precedence over me at court. I knew that her youngest son’s wife had been chosen for her fortune. A month after Lord Ambrose’s wedding, Lord Henry Dudley married thirteen-year-old Margaret Audley, a great heiress. She was also the niece of Henry Grey, the new Duke of Suffolk, giving the Dudley family a connection to royalty, since Suffolk’s wife, Frances Brandon, was one of the daughters of Henry VIII’s sister Mary.
Lord Robin Dudley had wed a few days after his brother Jack married Anne Seymour. He’d persuaded his parents to let him choose his own bride. Robin seemed happy with his choice, but I felt sorry for Jack. His wife blamed his father for her father’s execution and her mother’s imprisonment. I pitied the young woman, but I felt far sorrier for my old friend, who had to live with a woman who hated him.
Mary, the eldest surviving Dudley daughter, was married to Sir Henry Sidney, one of King Edward’s boon companions, and had been for some time. The daughter Jane had given birth to when I was in her service, Temperance, had died. Lord Guildford Dudley’s nuptials would likely be next. Northumberland had been negotiating for months with the Earl of Cumberland for his daughter Margaret’s hand. Margaret was the only child of Frances Brandon’s late sister. Once that match was made, only seven-year-old Lady Katherine Dudley’s future would remain unsettled.
The court celebrated Yuletide that year in lavish style at Greenwich Palace. There was hawking and hunting and no fewer than six masques to entertain us. I gave Will a ring that cost me £100 but considered every penny well spent when I saw the pleasure on his face. The last thing we had to worry about was money. We reckoned his annual income at above £5,500.
In early February, Princess Mary arrived in London with a retinue of two hundred people to pay a formal visit to her brother the king. She was met by one hundred of the king’s men, who escorted her to St. John’s Clerkenwell, where she had a house. King Edward was unwell, suffering from a painful cough and a fever. This postponed their reunion for a few days, but in expectation of that meeting all the highest-ranking ladies of England—or at least those within traveling distance of Westminster—had gathered to escort the princess to court. As we had when the regent of Scotland visited, we would provide a glittering backdrop for Princess Mary when she rode up to the gates of Whitehall. I spent the night before the procession at Durham House, Northumberland’s great mansion on the Strand.
“The Earl of Cumberland has refused his consent for a marriage between his daughter, Margaret Clifford, and our Gil,” Jane confided.
Durham House stood just in the middle of the curve of the Thames, a fact of which I was well aware since Jane and I stood looking out of one of the turret rooms located on either side of the water gate. I had fond memories of the other and had to force myself to concentrate on what my old friend was saying.