“I should desire to guide Prince Edward well into adulthood,” she said, and her sister came up behind her and put a hand on her shoulder, a warning hand, no doubt. “Come what may.”
I kept my face steady and expressionless—I had learnt my court lessons well—but I knew what she intended; indeed, her ladies had whispered it among themselves. Her Grace meant for the king to name her as regent should the king die afore Prince Edward reached adulthood, which was likely. Should she bear the king a second son, that would be a near certainty.
Two of Kate’s little spaniels were quarrelling about her feet and she lightly kicked in their direction to temper their misbehavior.
“Should you like me to walk them for you tonight?” I asked. “I have no other duties, if Lady Herbert gives me leave.”
“That would be delightful,” Kate said. “You are thoughtful, dear heart.”
I am here to be useful in all I do. Kate brightened her countenance and took her leave to charm an ill, restless, and often intemperate king.
We gathered in her chambers a bit later than typical the next day, but many of her ladies were present; oft times we were a small gathering, as many tended to their own households and children. Lady Seymour was there and, after ascertaining that the ladies present were friendly, made a soft announcement. “My husband has heard that there are letters being circulated about you, Your Grace, and that they pertain to your nourishing heresy.”
“Who dares write such a thing?” Kate whispered angrily.
“Wriothesley,” Lady Seymour said. “But there are others.”
Kate waved her away with her hand. “I have just spent a most satisfactory night with His Majesty and find it difficult to believe he would lend an ear to slander against his wife.”
Wriothesley had tended the fire of his hatred toward the queen since she had penned that unfeeling note to his wife after the death of their son.
Lady Seymour shook her head and though she were no particular friend to me, I sympathized with her as she had undertaken to share a confidence with the queen at risk to herself—a confidence that had been lightly dismissed.
“Mistress Juliana?” The Countess of Sussex put her hand on my shoulder and shook me slightly. “The queen has just asked you to read.”
“I’m sorry, my lady. What shall I read?” The queen, confident of her sway over His Majesty, handed a copy of Tyndale’s forbidden book to me. I locked eyes for a moment with the countess afore choosing a selection that Father Gregory had marked for me some years before with his vestment threads, in the Acts of the Apostles.
“‘And we entered into the house of Philip the Evangelist, which was one of the seven deacons, and abode with him. The same man had four daughters, virgins, which did prophesy.’”
I glanced again at the countess before continuing on through the passage that prophesied about the terrible death of Saint Paul, who was to be delivered up to his enemies.
“‘Then Paul answered and said: “what do ye weeping and breaking mine heart? I am ready to be bound, but also to die” … after that, we made ourselves ready.’”
“Thank you, Mistress Juliana, that is satisfactory.” Lady Herbert came and took Tyndale away from me. I held my suddenly empty hands out in front of me but for a moment and then curtseyed and stepped back. As I did, I noticed Lady Rich, a friend of Gardiner, had stepped into the room.
I did not know if I had been immediately relieved of the reading because of the sudden presence of one of the enemy, Lady Rich, or because of my melancholy choice of passages, which, I realized too late and to my horror, might have presaged the mortal level of danger that the queen was in. The other ladies soon went about their business, fading into and out of the queen’s chambers.
The Countess of Sussex, who I knew had prophesied, drew near to me so only we two could hear one another. “Did you choose that passage because of my presence?”
“In part.” I cast my eyes down.
“Those so called have the duty to act or speak when so compelled, depending upon if they have a word of knowledge kept private or that of utterance shared with others,” the countess said softly.
“Yes, my lady. I understand.”
Her Grace called her sister to her later that night when the chambers were nearly devoid of other ladies, then one of them called over a page, who gave her a letter opener. Lady Herbert took the opener and, out of his sight, used it to twist and befuddle some of the locks in Kate’s jewel cases till they no longer moved smoothly. Then she gave it back to him.
“No matter how I pry, I am not able to fix some of these worn locks. Please call for His Majesty’s locksmiths that we may have new ones installed.”
Within a week the locks on her cases had all been changed; only the queen and Lady Herbert had the keys. This was provoked, I was sure, by the alarming news of the circulating letter. All copies of forbidden books, religious and otherwise, were placed in the lower drawers of the jewelry boxes and from that moment on we kept all of our reading to that which His Majesty approved.
I was relieved that Kate was out of apparent danger.
I stopped by Dorothy’s chambers on my way to my room one day after dining and knocked. I’d missed our friendship and suspected that she felt awkward for having found me after John Temple’s assault. I wanted to put her at ease, and enjoy our friendship once more.
“Oh, Juliana.” She stood by the door, not moving to make way for me to enter.
“May I come in?”
“I’m so sorry, but I am about to leave on an errand for Lady Tyrwhitt.”
“Dorothy,” I began, in a quiet voice, “I am right sorry you had to stumble upon me after Sir John’s terrible assault. I know it’s made things uncomfortable between us, and I wish them to be as they ever were.”
She grew even paler, if it were possible. “Oh, yes. Well. We shan’t talk of it again.”
“I know you shan’t tell a soul, don’t worry. And I haven’t either,” I reassured her.
“We shall have to find some time to read together, or sew, soon,” she said. “But I fear I shall be late for Lady Tyrwhitt, so I must take my leave.”
“Certainly,” I said afore continuing to my room. I feared that, rather than make things better, I had instead made them worse.
I made my way to my chamber, expecting another dull afternoon and evening as the king had no entertainment planned, but to my surprise, Elisabeth was there waiting for me. “Sir William has taken his leave for Baas Manor and I find myself free for some time. Should you like to ride?”
“I would indeed,” I said, and we dressed in our riding outfits and made our way to the stables. Because her father was noble and rich and her paramour was the queen’s titled brother, she had ready access to the horses and she took me through St. James’s Park. We returned to sup in our rooms and gossip, and we made plans to have the seamstress visit us the very next week to order a new gown each. I gave silent thanks to my mother for her gift of a purse. I was gladdened, too, for the gift of Elisabeth’s friendship and the promise of her more constant company. That night I slept deeply for the first time since I’d returned to court.
In May, my Lord Norfolk’s son, Henry Howard, Earl of Surrey, one of the highest-born men at court, spoke up loudly against the conservative preaching during Lent. The king, tired and ill and in no mood to brook impertinence from the Howards, had Surrey examined before the council at Greenwich.
“The council asked, specifically, about the queen,” one of the ladies relayed to a small circle of the queen’s household in a private dinner one evening not long after. Gossip of the matter had already popped up like smallpox throughout the court so we were not surprised.
“Did his own father lay the trap?” Elisabeth asked her.
“Possibly. They will be battling bitterly till the axe whispers one of their names, or like as not, both, for their right wages. Surrey was told that he would be offered clemency if he would confess other talk in the queen’s chambers.”