The Last Tudor

CHEQUERS, BUCKINGHAMSHIRE,

WINTER 1565

Agnes Hawtrey has no great kindness for me, since my keep comes out of her housekeeping, and her neighbors who visit her for Christmas cheer may not meet me. She gains nothing from having me in her house; she cannot even exhibit me. But since I am the only person other than her old aunt and cousin who would appreciate the gossip that she hears from London, she has to come to me, for she is bursting to speak.

“I have to tell you,” she says. “I have to tell someone—though you must never tell my lord, nor anyone, that I have spoken with you about the queen.”

“I won’t hear anything treasonous,” I say quickly. “I cannot listen.”

“This isn’t treason and it’s general knowledge,” she says quickly. “Lord Robert Dudley has proposed marriage to the queen and she has agreed to marry him at Candlemas!”

“No!” I say. “You must have heard it wrong. I would have sworn she would never marry him, nor anyone.”

“She will! She will! They are to marry at Candlemas.”

“Where did you hear this?” I am still skeptical.

“It’s widely known,” she says. “Sir William told me himself, but I also had it from a friend of mine who has a cousin in service to the Duke of Norfolk, who swore that the marriage must never take place but cannot prevent it. Oh!” She suddenly starts as the thought comes to her. “What about you? If she marries, will she release you?”

“There is no reason why she should not release me now,” I say. “I am hardly a rival to her for Lord Robert’s affections. But certainly, if she is married and if she were to have a son, there would be even less reason to keep me confined or my sister. If she marries, perhaps she will allow her ladies-in-waiting to marry, too.”

“What a wedding it will be!” she exclaims. “Surely, she will have a pardon for prisoners for her wedding.”

“Candlemas,” I say, thinking of Thomas, cramped in his cold cell, lying on the damp floor, starved. “That’s not till February.”