feet dangling well above the floor. I dropped a curtsey. “Perhaps you have seen our uncle, my lady?”
Though I am a short woman, it was still necessary for me to take care when I arose that I did not look down at the king. “Yes, Your Majesty.”
“He brought us some money,” said Edward cheerfully. “He’s always bringing us money. But did he tell you the news?”
I bit my lip. “No, Your Majesty. I hope things are well with us in Scotland?”
“We had a victory!” the king announced. He slid off his chair and waved me over to a map lying on a table. “Here, at a place called Musselburgh. We killed ten thousand Scots. My lord of Warwick was ambushed before the battle,” he added.
I froze.
“But he escaped,” the king assured me quickly. “Oh, I would have told you immediately if he had not! He charged at one of them—Dandy Carr—and chased him for twelve score at spear point. He would have run Carr’s horse straight through if his horse had been just a little slower. They must have very fast horses there.”
“My lord was not hurt, then.”
“No, no. The battle was joined the next day. See, my lady?”
I gazed at the map as the king recounted the battle with boyish gusto, my mind focusing only on the news that my John was safe.
Only when I was on my knees in my chapel, giving thanks for my husband’s safety, did it occur to me to wonder why Thomas Seymour was giving the king money.
6
Frances Grey
December 1547
I know you’re taking me into the chapel, Harry,” I protested, adjusting my blindfold. “There are those two steps. Where else could I be?”
“Patience, my dear, patience.” Harry led me forward a step or two, and I brushed against something that could only be a chapel pew. “There!”
Harry untied my blindfold, and I stared around me.
While I had been visiting friends, Bradgate’s chapel had been completely whitewashed. The images of saints that decorated the walls had been obliterated; the altar had been stripped of its finery. “Well? How do you like it?”
“It’s bare,” was all I could manage.
“Well, of course it’s bare,” Harry said reasonably. “All of that frippery gets in between us and the Lord.”
I turned my eyes again to the blank wall on my left. It had borne an image of the Virgin, commissioned by Harry’s grandfather, the first Marquis of Dorset, when he built Bradgate Hall in the last century. He must have found the best workman in Leicestershire for the task; perhaps he’d even chosen someone from London. Probably he’d come in regularly to check the progress of the work. His children and grandchildren had gazed at it countless times over the years as they squirmed in chapel; some had seen it when they were married or when their own children were christened here. And now with a brush stroke it had vanished, to be replaced by blankness. Bradgate was Harry’s ancestral home, not mine, but I felt as if I had been robbed of something. “It shall take some getting used to.”
“Better sooner than later, when abolishing idolatry and superstition is concerned. And this is only the beginning.” Harry looked around our stark chapel with satisfaction. “It’s a new world, my dear. Our Jane will be so pleased when she sees it.”
“No doubt she will.”
“Oh, and I hate to have you go away so soon, but you’ve an invitation, and I suppose it must be accepted. It’s from the lady Mary. No doubt you’ll get your share of images at her place.”
***
The lady Mary and I were first cousins, and close in age; aged one-and-thirty that autumn of 1547, she was only a year or so my senior. She was, in fact, my godmother, though of course being a mere babe herself at the time, she had christened me by proxy. When she was small, I had been brought to the princess’s household to play with her from time to time. Even when the failure of her mother, Catherine of Aragon, to give the king a living son had combined with the dark eyes of Anne Boleyn to
Though I am a short woman, it was still necessary for me to take care when I arose that I did not look down at the king. “Yes, Your Majesty.”
“He brought us some money,” said Edward cheerfully. “He’s always bringing us money. But did he tell you the news?”
I bit my lip. “No, Your Majesty. I hope things are well with us in Scotland?”
“We had a victory!” the king announced. He slid off his chair and waved me over to a map lying on a table. “Here, at a place called Musselburgh. We killed ten thousand Scots. My lord of Warwick was ambushed before the battle,” he added.
I froze.
“But he escaped,” the king assured me quickly. “Oh, I would have told you immediately if he had not! He charged at one of them—Dandy Carr—and chased him for twelve score at spear point. He would have run Carr’s horse straight through if his horse had been just a little slower. They must have very fast horses there.”
“My lord was not hurt, then.”
“No, no. The battle was joined the next day. See, my lady?”
I gazed at the map as the king recounted the battle with boyish gusto, my mind focusing only on the news that my John was safe.
Only when I was on my knees in my chapel, giving thanks for my husband’s safety, did it occur to me to wonder why Thomas Seymour was giving the king money.
6
Frances Grey
December 1547
I know you’re taking me into the chapel, Harry,” I protested, adjusting my blindfold. “There are those two steps. Where else could I be?”
“Patience, my dear, patience.” Harry led me forward a step or two, and I brushed against something that could only be a chapel pew. “There!”
Harry untied my blindfold, and I stared around me.
While I had been visiting friends, Bradgate’s chapel had been completely whitewashed. The images of saints that decorated the walls had been obliterated; the altar had been stripped of its finery. “Well? How do you like it?”
“It’s bare,” was all I could manage.
“Well, of course it’s bare,” Harry said reasonably. “All of that frippery gets in between us and the Lord.”
I turned my eyes again to the blank wall on my left. It had borne an image of the Virgin, commissioned by Harry’s grandfather, the first Marquis of Dorset, when he built Bradgate Hall in the last century. He must have found the best workman in Leicestershire for the task; perhaps he’d even chosen someone from London. Probably he’d come in regularly to check the progress of the work. His children and grandchildren had gazed at it countless times over the years as they squirmed in chapel; some had seen it when they were married or when their own children were christened here. And now with a brush stroke it had vanished, to be replaced by blankness. Bradgate was Harry’s ancestral home, not mine, but I felt as if I had been robbed of something. “It shall take some getting used to.”
“Better sooner than later, when abolishing idolatry and superstition is concerned. And this is only the beginning.” Harry looked around our stark chapel with satisfaction. “It’s a new world, my dear. Our Jane will be so pleased when she sees it.”
“No doubt she will.”
“Oh, and I hate to have you go away so soon, but you’ve an invitation, and I suppose it must be accepted. It’s from the lady Mary. No doubt you’ll get your share of images at her place.”
***
The lady Mary and I were first cousins, and close in age; aged one-and-thirty that autumn of 1547, she was only a year or so my senior. She was, in fact, my godmother, though of course being a mere babe herself at the time, she had christened me by proxy. When she was small, I had been brought to the princess’s household to play with her from time to time. Even when the failure of her mother, Catherine of Aragon, to give the king a living son had combined with the dark eyes of Anne Boleyn to
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