Read The Irish Princess Online
Authors: Karen Harper
Tags: #Ireland, #Clinton, #Historical, #Henry, #Edward Fiennes De, #General, #Literary, #Great Britain - History - Henry VIII, #Great Britain, #Elizabeth Fiennes De, #Historical Fiction, #Princesses, #Fiction, #1509-1547, #Princesses - Ireland, #Elizabeth
The Irish Princess (11 page)
I forced myself to look away and saw a tall, broad-shouldered man, as dark-haired as I was fair, standing alone at the very prow of the ship. Unlike me, he wore no cloak or cape but high boots, leather breeks, and a jerkin over a white linen shirt. Like me, he seemed to revel in the pitch and yaw of the ship as he looked ahead, not seeing or else not heeding us.
“Is that the captain?” I asked Alice.
“Not him. I’ll introduce you to him later—the captain, I mean. That is Lord Edward Clinton, sent along to test his sea legs, so I hear. A ward of the king, rising fast at court and even in Parliament, they say. Tied to Lord John Dudley, one of the king’s key men,” she went on, sounding puffed up just to know all that.
I realized Lord Clinton would be a good man to know. However many steps he was away from the king’s presence and power, I had to start somewhere.
“Am I forbidden to speak with others?” I asked, though if she said I was, I intended to make a fuss. “I have much to learn of England, and not only midland ways.” Midland ways, for Beaumanoir was in the English midlands, Alice had told me more than once.
“He’s from the far north, way up in Lincolnshire, almost to wild Scotland,” she said, with another wrinkle of her nose. “And,” she added, turning slightly away from Bates as if to shut him out from whatever tidbit of gossip she would impart next—I must admit I was all ears—“he helped himself immensely last year by wedding the king’s former mistress, Bessie Blount.”
I gasped, which seemed to stoke her fires to proceed. Did his marriage bring him closer to the king or build a barrier between them? I wondered. I knew nothing of mistresses, royal or otherwise, but I warranted I needed to learn that and so much more.
“You see,” she went on, “that means Lord Clinton is stepfather to Bessie Blount’s son by the king, a boy not much younger than Clinton, Henry Fitzroy, Duke of Richmond, the lad whom the king named viceroy of your country years ago and then wanted to make—”
“To make king of Ireland!” I blurted.
It hit me with full force then what a splendid opportunity this was. The man at the prow of this ship was the stepfather of King Henry’s bastard son, the one the king had desired to make our Irish king instead of my father!
“But when Fitzroy caught consumption, and because you Irish have such a damp, boggy climate, His Majesty changed his mind on that,” she informed me with a little shrug. “You see, the king’s former mistress had years ago been married off to someone else, and when she was widowed, her lands adjoined Lord Clinton’s—well, you know what I mean. And obviously, though she is older than her handsome husband—I hear he is but two and twenty—I believe she is still lovely and accomplished, or the king would hardly have given her a look in the first place.”
I tried to remember everything she said, all her meanderings, for it could be ammunition for later. Surely somehow this Edward Clinton of Lincolnshire had been put in my path as the first step toward my revenge.
Before Alice could respond or say me nay, though she and Bates were soon at my heels, I walked quickly away from them and approached Lord Clinton from behind.
“Good day, my lord,” I addressed him, then, with the sounds of wind and sloshing sea against the hull, had to say it louder. “Good day, my lord.”
He turned and looked at me, his eyes widening in surprise. He smiled, flaunting white teeth in his sun-browned face, a handsome face with a strong nose and blue eyes like the sea and slashes of dark eyebrows that seemed to work independently when he so willed it. Compared to the whey-skinned, light-haired Irish, he seemed almost devil dark.
Though his collar-length hair was raven-hued, up this close it shone almost bluish in the sun as it whipped about his wide forehead. He had the slightest hint of stubble on his cheeks but sported no beard. He said nothing for one moment, and we seemed to hang suspended, sailing together, without even the ship or sea under us. It was the first time in my life my stomach did a strange little cartwheel at the mere nearness of a man.
I told myself that was simply from the fact that I might have found my first mark, as Alice interrupted our mutual stares with formal introductions.
“I knew the lady was aboard,” he said to Alice, and took my hand in his large one with a little bow. “My lady Elizabeth Fitzgerald, I am pleased to make your acquaintance.”
No one else aboard had shown me that sort of respect, so I bobbed him a quick curtsy, telling myself I really wanted to slap the king’s man, however handsome and polite.
Lord Clinton and I turned in unison, as if we had planned it, toward the narrow, plunging prow thrust out over the sea, which forced Alice and Bates to stand not with us but behind. Without even looking, I felt the shrouds and sails thrum with their power as the ship strained forward, toward England yet unseen. On deck or clinging to ratlines, the sailors seemed to disappear. Fine salt spray flew at us, but I didn’t mind, and he barely blinked at it.
“I think we’re in for a squall,” he said, pointing at some distant gray thunderheads. “But, you being Irish, I suppose you are used to rain. Your land would not be so green and fertile without it.”
“I am half English. And does it not rain a great deal in England?”
“It does, and it is green and lovely too.”
As he said
lovely too
, he looked at me and seemed to emphasize those words. I felt myself blush. I hoped he thought it was windburn on my fair skin.
lovely too
, he looked at me and seemed to emphasize those words. I felt myself blush. I hoped he thought it was windburn on my fair skin.
“I am regretful for your troubles,” he said, speaking just loud enough for me, but not my hovering keepers, to hear. His voice was deep and slightly raspy, and his intonation was a bit flatter than Alice’s or even my mother’s.
“I thank you. No doubt your family fares far better than mine these days.”
“I miss my family,” he said, as if I’d inquired about that and had not alluded to his rising star at the king’s court. “I am father to a new daughter my wife and I have named Bridget, and my stepson has not been well.”
Ah
, I thought.
Then perhaps King Henry is agonizing over his boy’s future, just as we fear for Gerald.
But my mind also snagged on the fact that Lord Clinton’s daughter’s name reminded me of Kildare’s patron, Saint Brigid. Was that a sign from her—though I reminded myself I did not believe in miracles—that this was indeed the man I should use to get closer to the king? But how? He was young and I was younger, and he was wed and—
, I thought.
Then perhaps King Henry is agonizing over his boy’s future, just as we fear for Gerald.
But my mind also snagged on the fact that Lord Clinton’s daughter’s name reminded me of Kildare’s patron, Saint Brigid. Was that a sign from her—though I reminded myself I did not believe in miracles—that this was indeed the man I should use to get closer to the king? But how? He was young and I was younger, and he was wed and—
“Lady Elizabeth, you are showing your sadness on your beautiful brow, but I understand why. Again, my condolences.”
I tried not to look at his mouth when he spoke, but it fascinated me. A taut lower lip but a fuller upper one. And his eyes, kind but probing, showed he was truly interested in my plight. When I blinked back tears, he evidently decided it was time to change our topic of conversation.
“I am on this voyage because my mentor, Lord Dudley, has suggested I might want to take service afloat,” he told me.
“Command a ship?”
“Yes, or a fleet someday. His Majesty is most adamant about building up his navy. We are an island, after all.”
We are an island
. His words echoed in my head, as did nearly everything he said. I was going to retort that Ireland, too, was an island, but I fell to thinking of myself, feeling—despite Magheen and certainly discounting Alice and Bates—I was an island at sea, soon to be adrift amidst English people and English power.
. His words echoed in my head, as did nearly everything he said. I was going to retort that Ireland, too, was an island, but I fell to thinking of myself, feeling—despite Magheen and certainly discounting Alice and Bates—I was an island at sea, soon to be adrift amidst English people and English power.
“If I were you,” I blurted, “I would take service afloat, for I think it would be wonderful!”
I could have cursed myself at that. I sounded such a child, and presumptuous that my opinion would be of any account to this king’s man.
“Then I shall weigh that in my decision,” he said quite seriously, though a little smile lifted one side of his mouth.
It began to rain, big, plopping drops from the gray clouds clotted even closer overhead. I felt crestfallen that I could not converse with him more to learn about his lord Dudley and the king. Saint Brigid forgive me, but I would have liked to have stayed up on deck with him in wind and rain as the ship plunged on, but Alice and Bates hustled me back down below.
The
Swiftsure
landed us at Liverpool before going on to London, much to Magheen’s relief and my regret. I looked for Lord Clinton as we disembarked and mounted waiting horses, but I did not see him again. I wondered if I ever would, for Alice had said that Uncle Leonard’s estate was at the edge of the deep forest of Charnwood, encircled by the River Soar, seven miles from the village of Leicester and three days’ hard ride to London. I pictured myself in eternal exile there, an Irish island in a thick, river-girt forest, never able to reach the power wielders of the realm who might be convinced to spare my family or upon whom I could wreak vengeance.
Swiftsure
landed us at Liverpool before going on to London, much to Magheen’s relief and my regret. I looked for Lord Clinton as we disembarked and mounted waiting horses, but I did not see him again. I wondered if I ever would, for Alice had said that Uncle Leonard’s estate was at the edge of the deep forest of Charnwood, encircled by the River Soar, seven miles from the village of Leicester and three days’ hard ride to London. I pictured myself in eternal exile there, an Irish island in a thick, river-girt forest, never able to reach the power wielders of the realm who might be convinced to spare my family or upon whom I could wreak vengeance.
After two days’ jogging ride, I saw a grand mansion emerge from the trees of Charnwood forest. I gasped aloud. A long gravel lane led toward a massive gatehouse and two turreted towers that stood like sentinels over a distant, sprawling manor of rosy brick, with its windows blinking in the sun.
“No,” Alice said to me from her mount with one dog in each saddle pack, “that’s Bradgate, not Beaumanoir. It is the country seat of Lord Henry Grey, your kin, but more important, his wife, Frances Brandon, is niece to the king. They have a one-year-old daughter, Lady Jane, though I reckon they wanted a boy, as ambitious as they are, and rightly so, if the king does not have a legitimate son, but only his two daughters. I tell you,” she added, lowering her voice even more and nearly leaning out of her saddle toward me, “little Lady Jane Grey, through her mother’s royal blood, stands fifth in line to King Henry’s throne, should anything befall his daughters, Mary or Elizabeth, but they are out of favor anyway. You see,’tis said he’s even wearied of Queen Anne now too and seeks another.”
This time I was so weary that her prattle barely sank in. I warranted that if the king of England threw off his lawful first wife, he could dispense with another, the one I’d heard called “the Boleyn whore.” But I already knew who Henry Grey was, for I had been schooled in Mother’s royal relations as well as my father’s. It was a veritable spider’s web of Grey kin: Henry Grey’s great-grandmother was also mine, so we were second cousins, and I would be a third cousin to their young child, Lady Jane Grey.
“But I’m sure you’ll meet the Marquess of Dorset—that’s Lord Grey’s title—and the marchioness soon,” Alice went on, “for they oft hunt deer in these woods and stop by Beaumanoir for sustenance or a respite. Oh, yes, they love to hunt.”
My eyes sought the mansion at the end of the other fork in the gravel lane, the home of my now hated enemy Lord Leonard Grey, but the place where my dear mother, sisters, and brother awaited. I could barely keep myself from spurring my mount onward. So close to my loved ones at last, I even forgot my hatred of the king for a moment.
We passed through a gate in a waist-high stone fence and rode on. Also built of rosy brick, though not as large or grand, Beaumanoir emerged from trees, hedges, and gardens. At least a dozen deer grazing on the lawn scattered as we rode in. My heart beat so hard it almost shook me in the saddle.
I looked up and saw Cecily’s face pressed to an oriel window and waved at her madly. Edward, his legs so much longer than I remembered, came tearing out the double doors, screaming, “She’s here! She’s here at last!” Mother and Cecily hurried out, Mother weeping with her arms wide open. I dismounted and threw myself into her embrace.
“My darling girl. My darling, beautiful girl,” she kept saying as even Cecily hugged me and Edward patted my back so hard he almost hurt me. Over Mother’s shoulder, I saw Margaret run out, gesturing to me with our hand signals that meant,
Miss you, love you!
Miss you, love you!
And so I was really in England at last. Not home, not ever home, but now on the dangerous wilderness path I must somehow learn to tread.
CHAPTER THE EIGHTH
D
uring the rest of that terrible summer, I tried to settle into life in rural England, but I felt pent up with frustration and fury. Overseen by our strict tutor in the schoolroom with Edward and Cecily, I missed Gerald wretchedly and worried for my Irish uncles and Thomas. Mother had nearly sealed herself away, frantically writing letters to Uncle Leonard begging him to show Thomas mercy, for he had surrendered with hopes of a pardon and was being sent to England. She also wrote letters to Thomas Cromwell to spare my uncles and Thomas; letters to Princess Mary, whom Mother served when the princess was a child and not cast off yet by the king; letters to her cousin Henry Grey, who was at court.
uring the rest of that terrible summer, I tried to settle into life in rural England, but I felt pent up with frustration and fury. Overseen by our strict tutor in the schoolroom with Edward and Cecily, I missed Gerald wretchedly and worried for my Irish uncles and Thomas. Mother had nearly sealed herself away, frantically writing letters to Uncle Leonard begging him to show Thomas mercy, for he had surrendered with hopes of a pardon and was being sent to England. She also wrote letters to Thomas Cromwell to spare my uncles and Thomas; letters to Princess Mary, whom Mother served when the princess was a child and not cast off yet by the king; letters to her cousin Henry Grey, who was at court.
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