“That will displease the king even more,” she said sharply. “And I do not see why I should be the one to bear his first anger rather than you. Or better yet, Guildford himself. If he is man enough to marry and be a father, then he should be able to stand up and admit what he has done. Where are they?”
“I don’t know.”
“Don’t know—or won’t say?”
For a second, she saw the canny flicker in his eyes and was reminded that, anguished or not, Northumberland always played the game to his advantage. But what advantage could he gain from a willful son getting a royal girl with child and then having the gall to wed her in open defiance of the law?
Elizabeth turned her attention to Robert. “Why are you here?” she demanded. “To speak up for your brother?”
He hesitated, then squared his shoulders. “My father thought I might gentle your temper. I told him he was mistaken; that you would not welcome any words having to do with a young and hasty marriage coming from me.”
Her laugh was immediate, and bitter. She said to Northumberland, “At least one of your sons is wiser than you. I will speak to the king of this matter and persuade him to kindness—to the girl, at least. As for your son, he has made his marital bed. Now he must lie in it.”
As they bowed themselves out, Robert eyed her gravely and she wished—oh, how she wished!—that she had not been speaking as much about him as about Guildford.
9 March 1555
Whitehall Palace
There has been quite the scandal at court. Guildford Dudley and Margaret Clifford are married, and the girl is said to be already with child. She is not even fifteen! William was furious—not the shouting, throwing things kind of anger that I know how to deal with from living with his mother. No, this fury was deep and dark and terrifying even for the onlookers. The Dudleys sent Margaret to court on her own to face William, and I will not soon forget the girl kneeling before the king in supplication while I held my breath along with the rest. For once even I could not predict what he might do.
As Margaret Clifford’s mother is dead—and clearly she was not being well supervised—she has been sent to her aunt, Lady Suffolk, along with a contingent of royal guards to ensure that if Guildford attempts to contact his bride he will be found. He has still not had the nerve to show himself. Both Elizabeth and I have warned Robert that each day’s delay will only harden William’s anger. But in this matter, Robert appears to have little influence with his family.
The tempest has delayed Elizabeth’s and my planned departure for Syon House. With the Dudley family teetering on disfavour, William wanted to scrap our visit to Mary altogether, seeing as she is in custody at one of their homes and in the keeping of Northumberland’s oldest son. At last he agreed to let us visit, but not to stay at Syon House itself. We will travel directly to Richmond and make the short trip to see Mary as often as we wish.
I do not think it will be very often.
Three days after the women’s departure for Richmond, William endured a privy council meeting that was more than usually tense. In addition to the Duke of Northumberland, who sat brooding and watchful as if waiting for someone to badger him about Guildford’s folly, the Earl of Surrey was in attendance for the first time. The king had met less resistance than he’d expected from his uncle at naming Surrey to the privy council; Rochford had gone so far as to admit William’s wisdom in balancing England’s divided religious interests. Still, William kept his eye on the young man, wary for any sign of his grandfather’s arrogance or belligerence. Surrey looked unassuming enough; his clothing balanced nicely between the Earl of Oxford’s peacock extravagance and Dominic’s restrained simplicity.
Both Northumberland and Surrey sat quietly while other council members discussed the early items, which centered on the treasury and the unpleasant fact that William was rapidly running out of money. Though not himself so much as England, a point he was quick to make when William Cecil, Lord Burghley, began listing personal expenses as examples of items that might be scaled back.
Burghley’s voice was as inflectionless as his numbers. “In the last year, Your Majesty, you have spent two hundred pounds on books, five hundred pounds on fabrics, and more than eight thousand pounds on property…”
“All of which came from my own purse, not England’s coffers,” William interrupted, allowing a hint of displeasure to creep in. He was not going to permit Burghley to accuse him of plundering England’s treasury for his own pleasures.
But Burghley was not easily cowed. “And none of which would matter if your spending confined itself to such trifles. But the treasury is nearly depleted after the French campaign. There have been too many years of drought and bad harvests. Retrenchments will have to be made in public expenditures.”
“Then why are you troubling me with figures about books and fabric?”
Rochford intervened, his steady voice still holding more than a trace of authority. “Because your personal life should set the example for the people. You cannot cut back government posts and servants, not to mention increase taxes, while flaunting private wealth in a most public manner.”
Piqued by his uncle’s intervention, let alone the fact that he was correct, William ignored him and said to Burghley, “What is it you recommend?”
The treasurer’s answer was prompt. “A commission to study court expenditures and make recommendations for eliminating unnecessary spending. Now that we are at peace with France, there are certainly cuts that can be made. The sooner the better.”
“Fine.” William bit the word off to underscore his reluctance, though he knew it was a sensible plan and he was already turning over possible commission members in his mind. His father and Cromwell had proposed the Eltham Ordinances years ago and been lauded for their good sense. This was a chance to show himself as practical and civic-minded as they had been.
After finances, they arrived at the most common, and most rancorous, subject—religious discontent. Although it had been muted for the last four months by his betrothal to Elisabeth de France, Catholic resentment at Norfolk’s death and Mary’s house arrest ran deep, and they never knew when it might flare into something ugly.
Two weeks earlier, a prosperous family in York had been burned out of their home by a mob claiming they had sheltered a Jesuit priest some months before. If that were all, it would never have come to William’s attention, but the mob had been less than careful and, in their haste, neglected to ensure that the house was completely empty before they fired it. A twelve-year-old housemaid had died in the blaze—a girl with no ties to the Catholic Church, save working for a family who possibly sympathized with Rome.
Tensions had been running high in the North ever since—from the justifiably angry Catholics, who accused the mob of not caring whom they hurt, to the local cleric who had preached a sermon that as good as said the dead girl got what she deserved and anyone even speaking to Catholics was damned by association.
“The Lady Mary’s household has remained quiet on the matter?” William asked. The last thing he needed in this overheated climate was any kind of public statement from the half sister who most of Europe still considered England’s rightful ruler.
“It has,” Rochford said. “Your Majesty, do you mean to continue her house arrest indefinitely? Or is the Princess Elizabeth’s visit to her a sign that you will soon restore her some measure of autonomy?”
William looked at the Earl of Surrey, sitting stiffly where once his grandfather had sat and entirely mute until now. “What think you, Surrey?” he asked curtly.
