“What have you for ordnance?” I did not intend to hide under the bed while a siege was going on. I’d fired a pistol a time or two.

“Besides blackbills we have no weapons beyond four pikes and four or five handguns. We can hold them off for a time, but my servants are not trained soldiers.”

“Your sons are.” Or at least they’d been trained for the hunt and the tournament. “And I am an excellent shot with a bow.”

I had father’s full attention at last. “I am surprised you are not more enthusiastic about Tom’s plans. With Elizabeth Tudor on the throne, the Church of England will be restored and with it the legality of your marriage.”

“I’d not trust Tom Wyatt to organize a masque, let alone take back a country.”

Tom had always been a wildhead. I could not help but remember that he’d been one of the Earl of Surrey’s companions on the night they’d gone on a rampage in London, breaking windows and vandalizing merchants’ property. This was a game to him, albeit a deadly one.

Sir Edward Warner had talked of other rebel leaders in other parts of England. At least two of them had been betrayed to the queen’s men, since one was a prisoner and the other had fled the country. A third was Lady Jane Grey’s father, the Duke of Suffolk, who had never been known for either intelligence or ability. Their ill-conceived uprising had been doomed before it began, and Tom’s haphazard efforts to salvage the rebellion would only succeed in bringing good men down with him.

Cannon fired again. This time one of Father’s men was killed by falling masonry. Grimly determined to put a stop to matters before they escalated further, I went to the armory and found the small longbow I’d once used to defeat George in an archery contest. In spite of Father’s objections, I rejoined him on the battlements.

“Where is Tom Wyatt?”

“There.” Father pointed.

Mounted on a horse of a golden dun color, Tom wore a red velvet cassock and a red velvet hat decorated with broad bonework lace. An easy target. I lifted my bow, took aim, and let the arrow fly.

It struck him full in the chest . . . and bounced off.

“He is wearing chain mail under his cassock,” Father said mildly.

Chagrined, I lowered my bow. “He has to be stopped.” But my hands began to shake. The enormity of what I’d just tried to do overwhelmed me. I’d attempted to kill Tom Wyatt. I hadn’t even questioned the impulse until after my effort failed.

“Not by you.” Father took the bow and arrows away from me. “Not by any of us. I don’t want bloodshed, and if Tom has any sense, neither does he.”

“Then what is the point of this?” We ducked as several arrows sped our way. They clattered harmlessly against stone, never flying high enough to touch us.

“I made him angry,” Father said. “I warrant he understands my reasons well enough, and my actions did him little harm.” He grimaced as the next volley of arrows flew by, this time passing overhead with at least a foot to spare. “But he’s let his temper get the better of his good sense. He wants to punish me for going against him. A pity he couldn’t wait to take his revenge, for he’d be halfway to London by now if he had. This ill-advised battle is likely to cost him the war.”

“And if it does?”

“Then I will seem wise indeed to have sent intelligence to the queen’s men. Think of it as a game of chess, Bess. You must be able to think ahead and understand the consequences of your moves in advance of making them.”

I abandoned the battlements, heartsick, confused, and convinced that it was a great pity my arrow had not succeeded in dispatching Cousin Tom. Better to kill one man than let many die. I would gladly have had his death on my conscience if it had meant I’d not have to face losing those I loved.

The siege continued for six interminable hours. Three more of Father’s retainers were killed and others wounded. The defenses of the outer court fell, bringing the bombardment to the gates and drawbridge guarding the inner ward. But it was only when our ammunition was gone that Father finally surrendered.

Under a flag of truce, he went out to meet with Cousin Tom. He did not return. On Tom’s orders, Father was captured and his hands bound. He was put on a horse and the rebel army moved off, taking him with them.

A few minutes later, a single rider returned. My brother George entered the courtyard. He shot one horrified glance at the inner drawbridge, so battered it looked as if it would collapse at any moment. Then he addressed Mother, who was weeping silently, surrounded by her waiting gentlewomen.

“Father will be taken to Wyatt’s camp at Gravesend.”

“Will Wyatt attack London now?” John asked. I could tell he was itching to go with the troops.

“How can you support him when he’s just destroyed our home?” Mother wailed.

I wrapped my arms around her and glared at John over her head. “The queen won’t see the destruction here. She’ll only know that Father is with Wyatt now. All his sacrifice will be for nothing.”

John had the grace to look ashamed of himself. George couldn’t meet my eyes, but he wouldn’t stay, either. He rode off after Wyatt without saying another word.

As I watched him go, the glimmer of an idea came to me, a way to help both myself and my family. It was a march of some forty miles by land from Cowling Castle to Southwark. A boat could reach there much more quickly.

“Would you like to go to London, John? If we can get there ahead of the army and find someone who will listen, I may be able to convince the authorities that Father is with the rebels against his will.”

If not, then at least I would be in London. If I could find Will, I was certain I could persuade him to stay out of the coming conflict. With luck, we might even slip out of the city again. I was not sure where we would go, but at least we would be together and free.

His admiration of Wyatt shaken by the damage to Cowling Castle, John agreed to my plan. It promised more adventure than staying home with Mother and the younger boys. He and I and Griggs set out at dawn. I left Birdie behind in Mother’s keeping.

At first there were no boats to be had. We continued on horseback, hiding more than once to avoid small bands of rough-looking men who might have been part of Wyatt’s army or could just as easily have been brigands. I thought it best to avoid being challenged by either. We had reached Deptford before I was able to hire a tilt boat for the rest of the journey. Then there was a further delay while Griggs found a trustworthy lad to take the horses back to Cowling Castle.

Wyatt’s army had already reached Southwark by the time I caught my first glimpse of London Bridge. At first I couldn’t believe my eyes. The gates had been shut and the drawbridge had been cut down. An entire span had been demolished to prevent the rebels from crossing into London proper. Guns mounted on the broken ends were aimed across the open space toward my cousin’s men.

“Looks as if someone’s already warned the queen,” Griggs observed.

“I wonder if we’ll be allowed to land,” John said.

But the tilt boat docked without incident on the downriver side of the bridge, and we disembarked.

“What now?” John asked. My tall, strapping brother seemed at a loss.

I did not answer, dumbstruck by yet another unexpected sight—two men marching a third, in restraints, toward the Lion Gate of the Tower. The prisoner was my father.

“He must have escaped from the rebel camp and hired a wherry to cross the river,” I murmured.

“But if he reached London and warned the queen, why is he under arrest?” John asked.

“Because Queen Mary’s men will arrest anyone the least bit suspicious until this is over.” Saying the words aloud gave them added meaning. “Will,” I whispered.

I started to run, heading for Carter Lane. They’d arrest Will. I had to warn him, if I wasn’t already too late.

John and Griggs followed. We had just passed the Hay Wharf and I was about to turn north along Bush Lane when Griggs swore.

A glance behind us showed me what he had seen. I stopped dead in the middle of Thames Street to stare. The rebels had set fire to one of the buildings on the Southwark side of the river. It was the property of the much-hated Bishop Gardiner now. That was reason enough for them to destroy it. But it gave my heart a painful wrench because it was my former home, Winchester House, that was ablaze.

Turning my back on the dreadful sight, I hurried up Bush Lane, then left into Carter Lane toward the Chequer Inn, the great house known as The Esher, and the much smaller one Sir Edward Warner owned. My steps faltered when it came in sight. I knew even before I reached the door that Will was no longer there.

Aunt Elizabeth did not keep me in suspense. Her voice hoarse with her own despair, she blurted out the news I had been dreading.

“They were arrested a week ago. Will and Edward both. The moment word of Tom’s plans reached the queen, she ordered them both confined in the Tower.”

46

The city rallied behind Queen Mary. We heard that she gave a stirring speech at the Guildhall, then retreated to the Palace of St. James—the house King Henry had built in the middle of the open fields west of Whitehall. Tom Wyatt and his army dithered on the Southwark side of London Bridge, then marched upriver in search of another way across the Thames.

“Every other bridge will have been broken down as well,” I said when Griggs brought the latest news to the house in Carter Lane. My aunt and I huddled there, afraid to venture out. Although she was Lady Warner now, some of her neighbors knew of her connection to the rebel leader. Others had seen her current husband taken away by the queen’s men.

Aunt Elizabeth was bitter. “My son’s father raised a fool,” she lamented.

Wild rumors proliferated until no one knew what to believe. Then the weather conspired to make everyone’s life a misery. Shrove Tuesday dawned dark and wet and the downpour soon turned the streets into great water-filled pits. I could only imagine what quagmires the roads outside the city had become.

The next day dawned bright and numbingly cold.

“The Earl of Pembroke and Lord Clinton took Wyatt straight to the Tower after he surrendered,” Griggs reported, “and Thomas Brooke with him.”

“What of William and George?” I asked.

“Captured but not yet in the Tower.”

“Is there any news of Will or my father?”

“Nothing, my lady.” Griggs scratched his large, slightly flattened nose and frowned. “But that’s good news, isn’t it? It would be all over London if they’d been hanged.”

I took what comfort I could from that.

Two days later, the bodies began to appear—executed rebels hanging on every city gate, in Paul’s Churchyard, and at every crossroads. The remains were left in view for a full day as a warning and then were replaced by more victims of Queen Mary’s vengeance.

Lady Jane Grey and Lord Guildford Dudley were executed on the twelfth of February. On the nineteenth, my brother Thomas was sentenced to be hanged, drawn, and quartered at Maidstone. I did not understand why he had been singled out, but I was sick at heart that all his youth, his promise, would be snuffed out even before he attained his majority.

On the twenty-third of February, Lady Jane Grey’s father, the Duke of Suffolk, was executed.

Aunt Elizabeth and I supported each other, moving through those terrible days with little to sustain us but prayer. No one came near the house in Carter Lane. Only Griggs went out to dispatch letters and bring back news and supplies. It was early March before any of the frantic messages I sent to Will’s wife, Viscountess Bourchier, finally produced a reply.

This time when I went to court, it was to see the queen.

Queen Mary received me in a private room, seated in a chair on a platform under a canopy. She was surrounded by russet-clad ladies, Nan Bassett among them. Anne Bourchier was present, too, dressed in finery befitting her rank. Music played softly in the background.

The last time I’d seen Her Grace, she’d come to court to visit her brother. She had been a splendid sight then, but she was dressed even more extravagantly now. Her gown was a rich mulberry red embroidered with hundreds of pearls. Rings glittered on every finger. And yet, all the rich trappings in the world could not disguise the air of melancholy that clung to her. If she was relieved to have retained her throne, she did not show it. Instead she looked as if the burden of ruling England had already worn her down.

I had heard she’d been crowned king as well as queen and wondered if that made her responsibilities greater. Once slender, then thin, now she appeared emaciated. The lines in her face were deeper, and her skin was so pale that I could see the veins in her forehead. Had she been anyone but the person who held my husband’s life in her hands, I might have felt sorry for her.