Текст книги "A Dangerous Inheritance"
Автор книги: Alison Weir
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Текущая страница: 16 (всего у книги 35 страниц)
‘There’s much more to this treason than I at first thought,’ he said, his face haggard. ‘That traitor is uniting the malcontents, and he means business. I have no doubt that Lady Stanley and her friends have their fingers in the pie, aiming to further the ambitions of Henry Tudor. And my spies tell me that the Wydevilles are up to their necks in this. They say Buckingham would be another Kingmaker, like Warwick.’
Anne frowned. ‘This beggars belief,’ she said. ‘Buckingham put everything into making you king, and now he is working against you. I am at a loss to understand it.’
‘He misliked the deaths of Hastings, Rivers and Grey,’ the King said, ‘and he was not satisfied with his rewards. He is the kind of man who always wants more.’
‘And Henry Tudor can give it to him?’ Anne sniffed.
‘If Buckingham believes that, he’s a fool.’
‘What will you do about Buckingham, Sire?’ Kate asked.
‘Raise an army and march against him and his allies. Thanks to Norfolk, I have learned of this rebellion in good time to deal with it. There are many measures in place already, thanks be to God. And two can play at character assassination.’ He smiled waspishly. So he hadheard the rumours, and was ready to counteract them. That was just what Kate wanted to hear.
‘We will break the Duke, one way or another!’ Richard declared, his mouth set in a grim line.
Part Three
Knots of Secret Might
Katherine
1558. Hanworth, Middlesex.
LAST YEAR, HER Majesty, God comfort her, suffered yet another false pregnancy. Her grief was terrible to witness, but what was even worse was the anguished outburst that followed when King Philip let it be known that he was leaving England. When our poor mistress went to wave him off at Greenwich, she was in a state of near collapse, and nothing anyone could say or do could cheer her. And when the disgraceful news came that Calais, England’s last possession in France, had been lost in Philip’s useless wars, she became weak and ill, and retired into virtual seclusion.
Jane Seymour, never robust, has been unwell too, with an evil cough. Thanks to the concern of our good Queen, she is to leave court to rest at her mother’s house at Hanworth, near Hounslow, and I have been given permission to accompany her. My mother, who is herself not in the best of health these days, and spends much of her time at Sheen, will come with us, and is gladdened to be visiting her old gossip, the Duchess of Somerset; it will make a pleasant change for her.
‘Go with my blessing,’ Queen Mary says, her face dull with melancholy. ‘It will be good for you to get away into the country. My court is no place for bright young girls like you. I pray that the Lady Jane will soon be much restored. Give her our good wishes.’
I suspect that Jane is in a worse case than she would have us believe, yet her natural high spirits are not so easily suppressed. Riding beside her litter, I listen to her gay chatter and could believe that she is in high good health; God send it will be so soon.
It is at Hanworth that I meet once more the young man who is to be my joy – and my downfall, although I have no inkling of that to begin with, of course. Indeed, I have long thought on him purely as one to whom my sister Jane was once betrothed, and the brother of my friend. He has no place in my thoughts as we ride up the driveway and grooms come hurrying to take the horses, while the Duchess of Somerset’s chamberlain descends the porch steps to welcome us all.
The sumptuous palace of Hanworth was recently granted by her Majesty to my guardian, the Duchess of Somerset. It is a great house, built by King Harry for Anne Boleyn, and looks like an English castle, yet it is adorned with terracotta roundels of Italian work chiselled with goddesses of classical mythology. Indoors, it is a feast for the senses, with fine tapestries, gilded furniture and wonderful paintings of legendary heroes adorning the lofty ceilings of the principal rooms and staircase; and in the great hall, brilliant lights from the stained-glass windows reflect in myriad colours of sunlight on the marble floor. Everywhere there is the sweet scent of fresh rushes and dried flowers.
Jane is embraced and clucked over by her mother the Duchess, then carried off by an army of female servants and put to bed. The two dowagers, my mother and the Duchess Anne, well matched in strident character and choleric temperament, enjoy a lively reunion, which turns into an exhausting round of condolences, backbiting and competitive reminiscing. I escape into the fresh air.
The sadnesses and strains of the past months seem distant in this beautiful place, with its exquisite formal gardens, its broad green vistas across the hunting park, and the hot sun sparkling in the waters of the moat that encloses the imposing Renaissance house. But now, walking along an avenue lined with yew trees, I see an even more captivating vision.
Striding towards me is a slender young man of middle height with a hound bounding along by his side. The man is dark-haired, and better looking than I have ever realised, with an angular face, a strong aquiline nose, deep-set eyes and a firm jaw, and he is wearing hunting clothes of good-quality cloth. His face is, of course, familiar: I have seen him often at court, and he used to visit my father’s house when my sister Jane was alive. This is the Duchess’s eldest son, Lord Edward Seymour, he who was once betrothed to poor Jane. How different her life and mine would have been had she married him. She would be living today.
‘Ho, Sirrah!’ Lord Edward cries to his hound, as we draw nigh, and the ungainly beast comes reluctantly to heel before it can bother my little lap-dogs. The young lord’s beautiful heavy-lidded eyes – a startling blue against his dark hair – twinkle at me as he makes a brief bow.
‘To which fair lady do I have the pleasure of addressing myself?’ He smiles, his voice seductive and melodious. I had thought Harry handsome, but the effect that this vision of robust masculinity is having upon me is startling.
‘Do you not remember who I am?’ I ask him, a little teasing.
‘Yes, of course. You are the Lady Katherine. I remember you well. My mother told me you had arrived when I came down from London today, and I was hoping to see you. You have fine weather for your visit.’
His eyes are saying far more than his lips. I read in them admiration and undisguised interest.
‘It is a pleasure to see you again, my lord,’ I say formally.
‘A pleasure for me too, indeed,’ he responds, his smile as dazzling as the sunlight. ‘Shall we take a turn around the gardens? If you are not too warm, that is.’
I assent readily, and as we traverse the neat gravelled paths, his dog bounding joyously around us on the leash, and my silky darlings nestling in my arms, we make the kind of conversation expected in polite circles. Later, Lord Edward escorts me back to the house to visit his sister. We find Jane fully dressed and much amended.
‘I am joining you all for supper this evening!’ she informs us. ‘Just try and stop me!’
A week has passed since then, and Jane is almost her old self again. We have fallen to our usual laughing and giggling, and she takes great pleasure in showing me over the house and its many nooks and crannies.
Edward – or Ned, as Jane calls him – is displaying more than a brotherly interest in me. There comes a hot August day when, walking to the gardens with my dogs and my lute, I see someone ahead, waiting for me. It is Ned, standing there in a fine lawn shirt and slashed and padded buff-coloured breeches, holding his bow and arrows; he has been practising at the butts. His shirt is open at the neck, and the sight of a faint dusting of black hairs and the sheen of sweat on his tanned chest excites me. It is years now since I stopped mourning the loss of Harry, stopped longing for him and wanting him. I have learned perforce to live a chaste life, troubled only by naughty dreams that leave me restless and unfulfilled. But of late, it has been Ned who has started to feature in those dreams.
‘Shall we walk down to the lake?’ he asks, offering me his arm. We converse lightly of songs we both know, and mutual acquaintances, but there is something more subtle going on as well. Amidst the mulberry trees, the heady scent of the rose bushes and the beds bright with gillyflowers drowsing in the golden afternoon sun, we manage to convey, by smiles that promise much, the touch of our hands as he guides me down a pretty flight of marble steps, and the language of our eyes, that we like each other very much.
Seated on a stone bench by the rippling, sparkling water, we tell each other our life stories. Ned already knows something of mine, and I am touched by his sensitivity in skirting over the tragedies that have blighted my family. He says nothing of his broken betrothal to Jane, or what came after. But he does ask about my marriage.
‘You were wed to Lord Herbert,’ he says. It is a statement, not a question.
‘Yes,’ I say, remembering Harry’s sweet smile and the curly hair through which I once loved to run my eager fingers, and marvelling yet again that conjuring up these images no longer causes me a pang, even though they are reminders of what is missing from my life. ‘But our marriage was dissolved.’
‘So I heard. Did you love him?’
The question is unexpected; but I am aware that it matters to Ned.
‘Yes, very much,’ I say. ‘But that was a long time ago.’ Even now, I feel disloyal saying those words.
Ned looks at me with compassion. ‘That must have been a terrible time for you,’ he says gently.
‘It was. I had lost my sister and my father, and then I lost the husband I loved. I was thirteen, and did not know how to cope. Truly, I thought I might drown in grief.’ Suddenly tears are welling in my eyes, and I bend my head so that he shall not see.
Ned’s hand – tanned and lean-fingered, with delicate dark hairs – closes over mine.
‘I understand perfectly,’ he answers, his own voice a little unsteady. ‘My father died on the block. It’s not just losing them that grieves you, but the manner of their deaths, and I still have nightmares about that.’
‘I too,’ I chime in with feeling, turning my hand to clasp his, as I perceive the pain in his eyes.
‘It’s the loss of family standing that follows,’ he goes on. ‘Feeling as if you are somehow unclean because your father was branded a traitor. Being shunned by the court and society, as if you too are tainted with the same dishonour. My family had ascended to greatness by the time I was born. I was tutored with King Edward himself, and considered noble enough to marry your sister, a princess with royal blood. When my father was attainted by Parliament, they passed an Act, prompted by pure malice, to limit my inheritance. I was restored in blood only when Queen Mary came to the throne, and even then I was barred from bearing my father’s titles.’
‘I was a wife but no wife,’ I add bitterly. ‘I was kept from the husband I loved. I paid a heavy price for the crimes of others.’
Ned stands up. ‘We should not be so mournful, Katherine. Come! Let me show you something cheerful.’ He pulls me to my feet and leads me back through the trees to a pretty knot garden enclosed by fragrant hedges of lavender, hyssop, marjoram and thyme.
‘Isn’t it a little paradise?’ he asks, as we stroll arm in arm between the beds of marigolds and violets, as naturally as if we had known each other all our lives. ‘It is my favourite place on earth. I spend a lot of time here.’ We stop to admire the riot of glorious colours and sniff the fragrant scents of Dame Nature at her most bountiful. Our dogs – they are friends now – gambol in the sun.
‘Forgive me if I have said too much,’ I say, feeling as if I have overstepped all kinds of bounds. ‘It’s just that we share a sad history, and you understand how I feel, and have been so kind as to listen.’
‘And will be kinder still, if I am let,’ Ned murmurs, his beautiful eyes holding mine. He stoops, plucks a marigold and presents it to me with a courtly bow. His gaze becomes more intent.
‘You are so very beautiful,’ he breathes. ‘You looked to me like a heavenly vision coming towards me along the yew walk that day. They told me you had grown into a charming young lady, and they did not lie. But you are so much more than that, my dear Katherine – if I may …’
My heart has begun to beat very fast. I want him – not in the desperate and naïve way I wanted Harry, but as an older and wiser young woman who knows that this man is the one. And so it seems the most natural thing in the world to go into his arms in the healing peace of his magical garden.
It seems that our idyll will last for ever. My sweet Ned cannot do enough for me. Safe and happy at last in this beautiful place, and far from the court with its tainted air, I find that I can love again. In Ned’s arms, I am healed.
Thrown together by circumstance, we snatch every opportunity to enjoy our freedom. With Jane often in tow, we spend long hours riding around the estate and the deer park where once King Harry hunted buck and hare with Anne Boleyn. We wander laughing through the orchard and along the hedgerows, filling our baskets with ripe fruit or cramming it in our mouths, giggling as the juice runs down our chins. We visit the aviary and try to teach the birds to talk. We throw stones in the moat, seeing who can make the biggest splash. We are young and silly, yet it matters not. The only people we have to please are ourselves.
We might be running wild, Ned and I, but we are well behaved, tempted though we might be to be otherwise. We frolic shrieking in ourgarden, as it has become, or in the long grass, Ned tickling me and I fighting him off, yet we cannot ignore the needs of our bodies, and tickling often turns to cuddling and kissing. Such sweet caresses we share as we lie together under God’s great blue Heaven! Whenever we are alone, which we contrive often, we slowly savour the delights of fingertips on skin, tongue on tongue, cheek on cheek, and Ned’s urgent hands wandering adventurously over my bodice and skirts. As we cling to each other, I can feel his hardness against me, even through the stiff material of his codpiece and my petticoats. Yet that is as far as it goes. Always one or both of us will pull back; for it seems that our spacious days at Hanworth must go on for ever, and that we have all the leisure in the world to enjoy each other.
There are, of course, other reasons for our caution. I am reluctant to abuse the hospitality and kindness of Ned’s mother, knowing it would reflect badly on her, my good guardian, if I was discovered to have fallen from virtue under her roof. And Ned respects me too much to tumble me like a lewd dairymaid, even though he is mad for me.
Jane encourages us. I have seen her watching me approvingly as I frolic with her brother. And one day, as we are out walking, and he is striding ahead with his bow, she sidles up to me and whispers, ‘Ned has asked me to break with you the subject of marriage.’
I stare at her. It would suit her ambition – and that of her mother – to have him marry one who is close in blood to the throne, for the Seymours have had a taste of royalty and are hungry for more. And yet I cannot suspect her of mere calculation, for her warmth towards me is unquestionably genuine, as is her love for her brother. Were he to wed one in whom ambition and affection were combined, she – who lives through him, forbidden her own marriage – would be the happiest lady alive. Apart from me, that is!
‘Well,’ I say, ‘I would he would break it himself.’
‘I toldhim that it was not the office of a sister to play Cupid!’ She giggles. ‘But you would not be averse?’
‘I will think on it,’ I say, and race ahead to catch up with Ned.
There comes a day of glorious weather when Jane is picking blackberries some way off, and Ned and I are sitting at the edge of the lake, with our dogs lazing beside us. I marvel once again how far I am removed from the sad girl I was four years ago. That girl was miserable and defeated, thinking there was nothing left for her in life. But not now. Oh, not now! That girl is in love.
My bare feet are splashing in the water, my skirts pulled up over my knees, exposing my sun-browned legs. Ned has his fishing rod, but has not caught anything yet.
‘Katherine,’ he says, ‘I must return to court soon.’
I am shocked. This idyll cannot be allowed to end, nor the world to intrude upon it. ‘For long?’ I ask plaintively.
‘I must take my rightful place there,’ he replies, not looking at me. ‘This summer has been the best of my life, but I cannot remain here in idleness when there are honours to be won.’
‘I would you did not have to go,’ I whisper.
‘I must make my way in the world, Katherine,’ he tells me. ‘And maybe I have more need now to store up treasure for the future.’ He looks at me meaningfully, and I realise what he means. ‘When I go to court, sweetheart, I want to take with me your promise that you will become my wife.’
I can see the longing burning in his eyes. How could I ever resist him? He is my Adonis, and so fine and comely in every way. To be his wife will be a foretaste of Paradise; indeed, who would need Paradise, having the love of such a one on Earth?
I cannot speak. Ned takes my hand and raises it to his lips. ‘Say you will, Katherine!’ he urges.
All other considerations fly away on the summer breeze: the Queen’s wishes, my mother’s, my royal status, the succession …
‘How could I not?’ I whisper, and then I am in his arms, lying on my back on the lush grass, his mouth devouring mine with kisses. He is perfection, I think, melting with happiness, as I clasp him ever tighter and surrender to the pleasure of being close to him. And there the Duchess finds us, as she strides across the park with her dogs.
She does not berate us, or beat us with her cane, as I fear for a moment she will, as we scramble to our feet and stand there flushed, aware of our dishevelled state. Instead she bids us put on our shoes and follow her back to the house immediately, then goes striding ahead.
‘Fear not, sweetheart,’ Ned says. ‘We have done no wrong. We will be married, I swear it. My mother will agree, I have no doubt, and when I get to court, I will obtain the Queen’s permission. Be strong! All will be well, you’ll see.’
We stand before the Duchess in the great hall. She sits regal in her high-backed chair, like a queen sitting in judgement, with a keen-eyed Jane standing behind her – and she comes to the point straight away.
‘Tell me, Ned, what are your intentions towards Katherine?’
‘I love her, my lady,’ he tells her, taking my hand, and I thrill to hear the pride in his voice. ‘We have reached an understanding. We wish to marry, when it shall please you and the Queen.’
‘So, my son would have another Grey bride. It might please me, but it may not please her Majesty,’ the Duchess says. ‘You might be wise to forget all about it.’ I tremble at that, yet I sense she would be delighted if this marriage came to pass.
‘You know that you risk angering the Queen by this entanglement? And that she might be angry that it has gone so far without her sanction? She has no child of her body to succeed her, and many look to Katherine as her heir. But Katherine is a Catholic, and Mary is unlikely to countenance her marrying a Protestant, for a wife must be subject to her husband, and the Queen’s chief concern is to preserve the Catholic faith in England. So it is not a good time to be thinking of marriage. The answer would be no, however kindly her Majesty might look on both of you.’
‘I will wait for as long as I must to make Katherine my wife,’ Ned vows, and turns to me. ‘It will be worth it, my lady, will it not?’
‘I would wait for ever for you, my lord,’ I declare.
Soon, it seems that we might indeed wait for ever. Ned goes off to court, leaving me to mope at Hanworth without him, driving poor Jane crazy with my need to speak ceaselessly of my beloved – although mostly she encourages it. The days turn into weeks, and still I languish bereft, surviving from letter to letter. I have those letters under my pillow; they are creased from constant reading and the kisses I cover them with. Ned writes so lovingly, so ardently; I can hear his voice murmuring the tender words.
There is no point in remaining in the country any more. I cannot bear being at Hanworth without Ned. Jane is better, and we have prolonged our excuses for too long. And so we return to court. Here, Ned and I see each other only infrequently, for neither of us wants to be thought in any way disloyal to Queen Mary. We have to be content with furtive embraces snatched in secluded corners. And, more often than not, someone is coming.
Kate
November 1483. Middleham Castle, Yorkshire.
It was a hard winter, and the wind whistled around Middleham like a vengeful boggart, but that was the least of their troubles. Daily, the Queen and Kate looked for news from the south. It was frustrating, and frightening, being immured here in Yorkshire, not knowing what was happening.
There had been messengers, riding lathered and weary up to the castle from time to time. They brought news that Henry Tudor’s fleet had sailed but had been driven back towards Brittany by a great storm. On that day, Kate had gone to the chapel with Queen Anne and her brothers, and they had all thanked God on their knees for His mercy and grace.
Next they heard, the King had proclaimed Buckingham a traitor and a rebel, but that had not deterred the treacherous Duke from raising his standard and marching south towards the River Severn, clearly aiming to meet up with other traitors in the west and south. But the King had put a price of a thousand pounds on his head now, and had advanced from Leicester at the head of a great army.
Kate was desperate to know what was happening, but Anne had withdrawn into herself. The cold weather, the constant damp and the draughts had made her cough worse, and she looked pale and weary. She was at her happiest when helping Edward with his lessons, or telling him stories by the fire. Then she became much more animated. But at other times, she would not discuss the present situation. True daughter of the Kingmaker that she was, she said she would face with courage whatever came. But her anxiety was graven in new lines on her pale face for all to see.
For ten days, gales swept vengefully over the troubled kingdom, then the weather settled and a wintry sun came out, bringing in its wake another messenger sporting the white boar badge. There had been no battle, he said; there had not been any need for one. The gales had done the King’s work for him. Buckingham’s men had deserted, and the Duke had sought refuge in the Forest of Dean, where one of his tenants betrayed him. After that, his rebellion had collapsed.
‘He was taken to the King at Salisbury, Madam,’ the messenger told the Queen. ‘Henry Tudor had again attempted a landing at Plymouth, but once he heard of Buckingham’s capture he fled back to Brittany as fast as he could.’
‘And Buckingham?’ Anne asked.
‘The King came to Salisbury with his army, and the Duke was tried and sentenced to death. He begged an audience with King Richard, but it was denied him, for there were fears that he might try to assassinate his Grace. Then the Duke suffered execution in the market place.’
Anne and Kate crossed themselves.
‘God be praised that the King my lord is safe,’ Anne said. ‘Are any other traitors to be put to death?’
‘Six, I believe, Madam,’ the messenger answered. ‘But the word is that many will be attainted when Parliament meets after Christmas. Madam, the King requests that you now repair to London with the Lord John and the Lady Katherine.’
Anne was quiet on the journey south; once more she had torn herself away from Prince Edward, who was to remain in the north as his father’s nominal representative. Yet as they passed through the towns and villages of Yorkshire, the Queen put on a brave smile, and nodded and waved graciously to the people who flocked to see her, cheering heartily. But when the little procession moved further south and approached London, the people came more often to stare sullenly, or to call out against King Richard and ask what had become of the sons of King Edward.
Katherine
November 1558–January 1559. Sheen Priory, Westminster and Whitehall Palace.
The Queen, overburdened by her tragedies, is in a decline, God save her, and has little need of my services now, wanting to be tended only by her oldest and most faithful servants. She has given Mary and me leave, with her blessing, to visit our mother, which is why we are now at Sheen, lodging with my lady and our stepfather, Mr Stokes.
My mother has always been an indomitable woman, but her health is not good these days, and I grieve to see her strong constitution failing. It is hard to see mortality encroach on one’s parent, and to find that the roles are reversing, with her now leaning on me, instead of the other way round. It is against Nature, this tragic reversal, yet I am glad to be a strong arm and support for my lady, for she has softened in these last years – and her life has not been easy.
My lady often likes to reminisce. It is one of the few pleasures left to her, and I indulge her by listening. She invariably harks back to the days of her youth and my grandmother, King Harry’s sister. ‘They called her a paradise, and she was. You have seen her portraits, so you’ll know what I mean. You have her sweet nature as well as her pretty face, and I dare say you will break a few hearts in your time.’
I have sat here for so long and I can be silent no longer: I have to break it to my lady about Ned and me. Arch-intriguer and ambitious as she has been, her teeth have been drawn, and this time, I know, caution will be her watchword.
‘Ho-ho, my girl, what is this?’ she cries, with her old asperity. ‘Looking to wed, are ye? You have been previous!’ But I can tell she is delighted, all the same, for she does not reprove me further for proceeding so far without her sanction. Nor did I fear she would, for once she was content enough to have Ned betrothed to Jane, and she has long been fond of him. Her father was his godfather; and even after Jane was wed to Guilford, my lady continued to call Ned ‘son’ whenever they met.
‘Madam my mother,’ I urge, ‘this marriage is so precious to me that I beg it be handled carefully. I would not wish to prejudice a happy outcome. You see, I am in good hope that very soon our cherished dreams will be fulfilled, and in the happiest of ways.’
‘Wherefore spring these hopes?’ my lady presses.
‘Ned writes that the Venetian ambassador says openly that, when the time comes, I will be able to claim the crown unopposed, for Queen Mary, who distrusts and hates the Lady Elizabeth, favours my succession. My lady, will you help us?’
‘Aye, Katherine. I owe it to you, after all that has happened. But now I must rest. We will speak further about this later.’
It is a frosty November morning. My lady is still abed – she sleeps in late these days – and Mary and I, warmly cloaked and pink-cheeked, are for the stables to feed titbits to our mares and see them cosily blanketed in their stalls. Beyond the courtyard wall we hear the trundling of carts making their way to the City of London, and the clip-clop of hooves. Then another sound breaks the peace of this early hour – the distant toll of church bells.
I look at Mary. ‘What’s that?’
She claps a hand to her mouth as the chimes ring nearer and louder, and are taken up by other bells nearby; they will have been ringing already across the City and in outlying parishes, and soon they will be tolling out their heavy news throughout the land of England.
My hour, I believe, has come.
We go back into the house and change our clothes, putting on black out of respect for her Majesty. I kneel with my mother and all our household in the chapel, praying for the repose of the soul of our beloved Queen Mary; and I shed tears for that kind lady. Yet all the while I am bursting inside with excitement and the pressing urge to hasten to court and claim what is rightfully mine. For now I am queen at last, and all the power and glory that was so quickly and cruelly snatched from Jane is to be mine. And Ned will be mine too! There is no one to forbid it. And Elizabeth, and Pembroke, must bend the knee to me. I cannot wait for my reign to begin.
Yet the decent formalities must be observed, both here at Sheen and at St James’s Palace, where her Majesty lay at the time of her death. The Council must be allowed a space to convene. The events and processes leading to my proclamation will unfold in God’s good time. I steel myself to wait patiently for the lords to attend upon me, or for a summons to court.
By mid-morning, I am in a frenzy of anxiety. Surely I should have been sent for by now? I cannot keep still, but keep pacing up and down my chamber, wringing my hands. I must know what is going on.
In recent weeks, I have heard talk that the courtiers were abandoning the dying Queen and making for Hatfield to wait upon the Lady Elizabeth, anticipating that she would soon succeed. Well, they will soon learn that they have miscalculated; and if Elizabeth thinks to profit by their support, and deny me my rightful title, she must think again. Yet I will be merciful to all, even her. My reign will begin not with accusations and ill-will, but in a blaze of glory and acclaim. And I will find her some good husband to keep her under control.
In the end, I can bear the waiting no more. Wrapping myself again in my cloak, I tell my mother I am for St James’s Palace, and order the barge to be made ready for me, summoning my maids and urging the boatmaster to make haste.
When we alight at last at Westminster, I see that huge crowds of people have gathered there. Surely I should have received a summons earlier, or some word from the Privy Council? But maybe they did not know where to find me. I push my way through the press of people, desperate to get to St James’s; and then I espy a herald stepping up on a mounting block and unravelling a scroll of parchment.
