Her Highness, the Traitor - By Susan Higginbotham Page 0,72

moment by speaking further, and possibly saying the wrong thing. My daughter had lived, and lived to smile at me. That was enough.

21

Jane Dudley

April 1552 to May 1552

In early April, the king gave all of England a terrible fright: he fell ill of the measles and the smallpox. Some cruel people said it was God’s wrath, punishing him for allowing the death of Somerset; others openly wondered whether the lady Mary would soon become queen. But the king soon shook off the illness. By St. George’s Day, there was almost no sign he had been ill, except for a few stray pocks on his face.

With the king well mended, John and I traveled to Otford Palace in Kent, to spend a few days relaxing in the country before John went to the North on the king’s business. With us were our children and their spouses. Even those who served the king, like my older sons and Henry Sidney, had obtained a few days’ leave. There was more than enough room for us. Otford had once been the palace of the Archbishops of Canterbury, one of whom, William Wareham, had built a palace there to rival Cardinal Wolsey’s Hampton Court. So successful had he been that some years later, King Henry had taken a fancy to Otford, and the current archbishop, Thomas Cranmer, had obligingly, and sensibly, given him the palace. Recently, King Edward had given it to John. I could not walk around the vast expanse of Otford without thinking of my childhood home of Halden, also in Kent but a world away from the grandeur here.

“Is it true that you’re to marry the Earl of Cumberland’s daughter?” Robert asked Guildford one evening as we had settled in what once had been the archbishop’s private quarters.

“Father wants me to,” Guildford said gloomily.

“Most men wouldn’t complain about marrying an earl’s only child,” John said dryly. “Particularly men who are fourth sons.”

“But the girl’s never been out of Yorkshire!” Guildford said. “I hear that her father’s practically a recluse there.”

“There’s a romantic story about that,” said Mary. “Do you want to hear it?”

“Oh, please!” said Katheryn.

“His father built a tower and a gallery just to welcome his wife, the lady Eleanor,” Mary said. “She was the younger sister of the lady Frances, you know. The earl fell passionately in love with her.”

“‘Passionately!’” mimicked Hal. He gave a mock bow when Mary glared at him. “Go on, Sister.”

“He fell passionately in love with her,” continued Mary. “But then she fell ill and died. The earl was heartbroken. He would not eat or take drink, and finally he fell so ill that he was given up for dead. He was actually laid out for burial, when his men saw signs of life in him and managed to revive him. But he was so weak after that, he could drink only milk from a woman’s breast.”

“Ugh,” said Hal.

“I hope he paid the lady well,” said Robert. He nudged Ambrose. “What sort of annuity do you think that would rate?”

“Depends on how handsome the earl is,” Ambrose said.

Mary raised her voice. “After a few weeks of that, he recovered, but he has never ceased to grieve for the lady Eleanor, whom they say was as fair as her mother, the French queen. His daughter is very dear to him, as her only child, and they say he is reluctant to see her married.”

“Thank God for that,” said Guildford. “Perhaps I won’t satisfy his tastes.”

“He has an excellent library,” Mary offered consolingly.

“If he does consent, I’ll most likely have to live at Skipton Castle with them, among the sheep,” Guildford said. “And the girl probably speaks with a northern accent.”

“And kills and skins her own supper each night,” said Robert.

“And has a tail,” added Hal.

“Look on the bright side,” Jack advised. “If all she’s seen are the northern men, you’ll probably look to her like King David.”

“The negotiations are not far along at all,” said John, who had been enjoying this banter thoroughly. “There will be plenty of time to civilize the young lady before your wedding, should her father and I reach an agreement.”

“Just don’t drink the milk at Skipton Castle,” Hal advised. “God only knows where it comes from.”

I decided it was time to take this conversation to a higher level. “Perhaps we might have some music,” I suggested. I looked at Ambrose’s wife, who played the lute beautifully. “Maybe you can play for us?”

Nan, who was always glad to perform, obliged, and soon all