It was a relief to William to leave Wales behind, even on an unpleasant errand. He nearly changed his mind a dozen times on his way to Beaulieu, but whatever Dominic might claim, he had a sense of duty. Especially where family was concerned.
His own guards saluted as he rode into Beaulieu. Although he had recently allowed Mary to return to her favorite residence, he kept his half sister under guard, still wary after last year’s maneuverings. Rochford might be doubtful of the late Duke of Norfolk’s intention to rebel last autumn, but William could never rest easy while Mary was alive. There would always be unscrupulous, power-hungry men to use her.
He was greeted by John Dudley, Earl of Warwick. Despite Guildford’s arrest and the Duke of Northumberland’s continuing absence from court, William had seen no need to relieve Warwick of his position. Northumberland’s oldest son had done a creditable job overseeing Mary’s house arrest and should not be punished for his father’s arrogance. Six years older than Robert, Warwick was much more like their father—blunt and straightforward and, most importantly, a devout Protestant who took seriously his task of keeping Mary from fomenting further rebellion.
“Your Majesty.” He bowed, not quite as gracefully as Robert would have managed. “The Lady Mary is ready for you in her privy chamber.”
“How is she?” William asked as they walked together through the quadrangular palace. His father had built much of it after acquiring it from his future father-in-law a decade before Henry even thought of Anne as his wife. Ironic, William often thought, that Beaulieu was Mary’s favorite home. Though likely it had to do with their father’s stamp on the architecture and the many remnants of his seal in various interiors.
“The heat does not agree with the Lady Mary, but then neither does the cold nor the wind nor the rain.” There was a hint of his brother’s humour in Warwick’s voice, but he was far more respectful than Robert. “She has been low in spirits, Your Majesty. I know your visit will cheer her.”
I doubt it, William thought grimly. Not with the news I bring.
He saw at once what Warwick meant when his sister curtsied to him. He raised her up and studied her face. Though she had gained weight in the last few years, her cheeks today were gaunt and her deep-set eyes feverish. “I am sorry you have not been well,” he said, truthfully.
“I will be all the better for your presence,” she answered.
“Please, sit.”
Mary’s privy chamber was a reflection of the woman: richly decorated but somber, almost old-fashioned, in its feel. Even the air felt heavy in here. William did not wonder that his sister was often ill if she spent so much time brooding in this chamber. It was a shrine to crucifixes and representations of martyrdom, and he thought cynically that if all the Reformation had done was remove this depressing décor from England, it had been worth it. They were alone today, at William’s politely worded command, for he wanted only to deliver his news and be done with it.
When they were both seated—Mary in a cushioned chair nicely judged to be almost but not quite the equal of the king’s—William said, “I do apologize that I have not been to see you before. It has been a busy time, particularly with the prolonged visit from the French.”
“And now our sister returns the favour with a tour of France,” Mary replied with a thin smile. “I am certain Elizabeth is enjoying herself.”
“Elizabeth is my personal representative to the French court. She is tasked with ensuring an appropriate respect for England and our current peace treaty.”
“The treaty that will tie you to the French king’s daughter.” Mary spoke neutrally, but that in itself was damning.
“How can you not approve of my betrothal to Elisabeth de France? She is Catholic.”
“And if that was why you chose her, I would rejoice, brother. But the girl is too young to hold out against you. Your council will force her to raise your children in heresy and thus damn their souls before they are even born.”
William drew a breath to steady himself. He did not enjoy fighting with women. “That is not the point of this visit, Mary. I have some news for you, news that I fear you will find unpleasant.”
She tilted her head in query, one hand restlessly fingering the rosary she wore at her waist. The expression on her face might have been patience but was more likely stubbornness.
“Edmund Bonner has been convicted of treason. He will die at the stake two days from now.”
She blinked once, the only betrayal of her feelings. “Burning at the stake is not the penalty for treason.”
“He was also convicted of heresy.”
“Oh, William.” Now there was true emotion in her voice, a plea of anger and sorrow. “How can a follower of the True Church commit heresy? It is not for you to say—”
“Itisfor me to say. I am Supreme Head of the Church, Mary. That is never going to change. We will never return to Rome and their corrupted popes. I allow you to worship as gives you comfort, but do not press me. My leniency is not unlimited.”
“I must speak as my conscience demands—”
“And that is why you are, and will remain, under house arrest. I will not allow your conscience to endanger my people or my throne. I am sorry for you, Mary, but this is the life you have chosen. As long as you cling to the past, you will remain locked away. But remember—that is your choice. I do not make it for you.”
She paused, breathing heavily, and William was smitten by the reminder of her poor health. At last, she said simply, “I will pray for you, brother, as I never cease to do.”
“And I welcome your prayers as coming from my own dear sister. Rest well, Mary.”
William was so anxious to get away from her cloying religious devotion that he did not even stay the night.
After their dispute in Wales, Robert Dudley was not surprised when William told him he was not welcome to accompany him for the rest of the king’s progress. He was not the only one; Rochford, too, had been sent packing. One by one William’s picking us off, Robert thought, and grimaced. He wished uneasily that Dominic were in the country. The new duke might be humourless and inflexible, but those very qualities made him a good ballast for William’s mercurial moods.
