Earthly Joys

Summer 1633

It was an easy pregnancy for Jane this time, and the work at the palace was easy for her husband since in May the king left England on a grand progress north.

“He has sucked all the praise he can from the English,” J said sourly to his wife. “He has to go to the poor Scots to see them dance to his tune.”

She nodded but did not reply. She was sewing baby clothes on the terrace in the warm June night and John was within earshot.

“Have you heard how the king’s progress is going?” she asked.

J nodded. “He went riding and hunting as he traveled up the north road. And everywhere he goes there are feasts and knighthoods and processions. He sees the country turn out to greet him and he thinks that all is well.”

“And is it not?” Jane asked. Her hand went gently to the soft curve of her belly. “With Parliament dissolved and the country at peace? Is it perhaps only a few men like you, J, who are not content with this king?”

J shrugged. “How can I say? When I meet a lecturer or a traveling preacher they tell me of men arrested for talking out of turn and for complaining about unjust taxes. I know that there are more papists in the city than I have ever seen before and that they are allowed to hear Mass in the very heart of the kingdom. I know that the king’s best friends are papists and his wife is a papist and the godparents of his child are papists. And I know that our own vicar at Lambeth is at odds with the new Archbishop of Canterbury, William Laud, who is bishop of everywhere it seems, and now archbishop overall. But you are right – there are no voices raised against it – maybe it is just me.”

Jane leaned forward and touched his brown cheek. “And me,” she said. “I don’t thank the archbishop for ordering how I should pray. And Father is furious about the taxes. But there is nothing anyone can do. There’s no Parliament – who can tell the king that he is doing wrong?”

“Especially not when the fools troop out and throw roses down in the road before his horse,” J growled crossly. “And when he touches a bunch of poxed fools for the king’s evil and convinces them they are cured by his hand.”

Jane was silent for a moment. “I want to believe that better times are coming,” she said.

The wistfulness in her voice caught J’s attention. He took her hand and put his other hand gently on her belly. “They are for us,” he said reassuringly. “Whatever is happening for the king and his foolish court. A new baby on the way and the garden growing well. These are good times for us, Jane, and better times coming.”

John’s prediction of a grandson was accurate. Jane gave birth to a large-boned brown-haired baby in the middle of the afternoon of a warm September day. J was picking apples at the farthest end of the orchard, finding the cries of Jane’s labor quite unbearable. John and Frances were keeping each other company looking for the early fallen chestnuts down John’s little avenue.

“We’ll roast them,” Frances teased her grandfather with the cleverness of the bright three-year-old.

“They’re not sweet chestnuts.” John fell into the trap. “They’re no good for eating.”

“It’s no good as a tree then,” she said innocently. “I don’t like it.”

“Oh, Frances…,” John started and then he saw the bright twinkle in her eyes. “You are a wicked girl!” he pronounced. “And I think I will beat you.” He started to run toward her and she picked up her little gown and ran out of his reach, down the avenue of trees toward her father.

“John! J!” It was Elizabeth’s voice, calling from the terrace. John saw his son’s white face turn toward the house, then his slithering fall down the ladder, and then his run, past his daughter and his father, up the avenue toward the house.

“Is she all right?”

His mother’s face alone was reassurance enough. “She’s fine,” she said. “Very tired. And you have a son.”

J gave a little yelp of delight. “A son!” he yelled down the avenue where Tradescant was limping up with Frances bobbing in his wake. “A son! A boy!”

John checked and a broad smile spread across his face. He turned to Frances. “You have a brother,” he told her. “Your mother has given birth to a little boy.”

She was on her dignity, the powerful dignity of the three-year-old, and determined to be unimpressed. “Is that very good?” she asked.

John scooped her up and swung her to her usual place on his back. “It’s very good,” he said. “It means our name will last forever, with a son to continue the line. Sir John Tradescant of the Ark, Lambeth. It sounds very well indeed.”

“I shall be a Sir too,” Frances said, rather muffled with her face pressed into his back.

“Yes, you will,” John said agreeably. “I shall make sure that the king knows that you need a knighthood, when we next speak.”