Browning House

By Lucia Cascioli

During a time of beheadings, wars and witch hunts, the Browning family and their friends navigate the politics and perils of sixteenth- and seventeenth-century England. Their success and survival hinge on the whim of those who hold power and the fickleness of fate. The king is dead. Long live the queen. Richard Thomas Browning is born to follow in his father’s footsteps in Common Law, but he and those around him must face the challenges of the era in which they live. While the country evolves, so too must the Browning family through radical beliefs and religious fervour. Follow the Browning family through generations touched by both tragedy and joy. “The Browning Family will win you over with their determination and perseverance in making a name for themselves during such a monumental period in history.” — Susan Violante, Managing Editor, Reader Views

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu Publishing Services
• Release date: May 16, 2019
• ISBN: 9781684702121

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Browning House

LUCIA CASCIOLI

Copyright © 2019 Lucia Cascioli

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored, or transmitted by any means—whether auditory, graphic, mechanical, or electronic—without written permission of the author, except in the case of brief excerpts used in critical articles and reviews. Unauthorized reproduction of any part of this work is illegal and is punishable by law.

ISBN: 978-1-6847-0202-2 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-6847-0212-1 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2019904513

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Lulu Publishing Services rev. date: 05/08/2019

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Dear Reader:

Do not mourn my passing. Death devoured my bones long before the thought of you was conceived. Some whispered my early departure for the afterlife was as a result of suicide. Others believe it was a riding accident. Think what you will. I ask only that you refrain from judging my place in history until after you have read the story of my family—those who came before and after me. This journey upon which you are about to embark was penned not by me, but by the hand of one who has moved through the fluidity of time and has lent me these few lines to leave a watermark on your today.

I remain evermore a faint memory.

Sir George Browning

1

August 3, 1553, London

It was no ordinary day.

The morning rain had lifted and left behind the city of London awash with human and beastly smells both alive and decaying. The shops along Mark Lane bustled with activity inside and out with snippets of conversations, emphasized by octaves of voices and accents, aired into the street with the opening of each door. This symphony of music was blended with the clopping of hooves, the crying of children and the laughter of a new chapter in England’s life. Amidst this commotion, the sun inched its way through the grey clouds to rest its rays upon Mrs. Jane Browning, who at that very moment was rather out of sorts upon exiting the Vellum bookshop with her widowed sister, Anne Arden; a specially wrapped gift for her husband, a copy of Virgil’s Aeneid, held tightly in her hands.

My dearest sister, began Anne, you should have been lying in wait already and yet you insisted on running these errands which I or anyone of your many friends could have perfectly managed on your behalf. Anne’s brown eyes were pleading as she cupped her arm under her sister’s elbow in an attempt to support her. Her curly chestnut hair peeked out from beneath her hat.

Despite her rising crossness at being scolded by her younger sister, Mrs. Browning in the fullness of her gravidity looked radiant in her green silk long-sleeved gown that brought out the flecks of olive in her eyes. Her red curls wound tightly from her centre part passed her temples and framed her delicate oval face, while twisted ribbons tamed her long trusses flowing generously from her emerald small-brimmed feathered hat embellished with beads. The most delicate of pearl earrings hung from her earlobes and her pale skin bore just the hint of redness in her cheeks. At present, Mrs. Browning was rather warm in her state of impending birth, yet she so wished to be out and about running her special errands before she would resign herself to the comforts of her home off Holborn Street for her confinement.

Anne, my darling, I feel perfectly fine and would be bored to tears to simply stare at the tapestries in my room until my pains begin, explained Mrs. Browning. Mr. Turner will be in Tower Street soon with the coach and we shall be on our way.

Anne felt reassured knowing that the trusted coachman, who had been with the family for quite some time, was somewhere nearby. There had been chatter that the daughter of the late King Henry VIII was on her way to London on that very day and the city reflected its excitement. She was called The Lady Mary with no title of princess to demonstrate her as the legitimate heir to the throne since her father had divorced Catherine of Aragon, her mother—his first of six wives. However, three weeks prior, she had proven that she was very much her father’s daughter by undoing John Dudley, the Duke of Northumberland, in his attempt to keep Lady Charlotte Grey on the throne. It had been a turbulent time following the death of Mary’s half-brother, Edward VI, who had become king following the death of their father, and the short reign of only nine days of Lady Charlotte Grey, who was already locked in the Tower of London with Lord Northumberland, no doubt preparing to beg for forgiveness.

Since then, it was said that she was making her way to the Tower of London from Framlingham Castle, Suffolk, escorted by eight hundred gentlemen and nobles. In London, the streets from Aldgate to the Tower had already been covered with gravel in anticipation of her entrance into the city and silk banners were strung along the buildings adding to the celebratory tone. London meant to welcome this queen with dignity.

Walking southward at a leisurely pace, pleased that they need not worry so to keep their feet from stepping in muddy puddles or horse excrement, Mrs. Browning and Anne greeted acquaintances. Mrs. Browning had a very active social circle since her husband, John, was a prominent barrister at Gray’s Inn where he had gained the respect of his peers.

Is this not pleasant, Mrs. Browning said reassuringly to her sister who tsk-tsked between greetings to the passers-by.

They reached the corner of Tower Street and Mark Lane where rivers of buoyant waves of people converged and glanced east for their carriage. In this melange of odour along with the sounds of the bustling city, new screams could be heard from dirty-faced children and well-dressed men alike.

She is coming! She is coming from Aldgate! their voices echoed. The queen is coming! Throngs of people glanced east waiting to catch a glimpse of Mary, the mighty King Henry VIII’s daughter.

I’ve heard it said that this new queen is petite and very thin, said Mrs. Browning with delight.

Anne gave a nod but was distracted as she strained to see their carriage. Mr. Turner has undoubtedly been sent down another road, said Anne airing her worries aloud once more.

Do not fret, Anne. I am fine. Let us enjoy the arrival of the queen’s party, insisted Mrs. Browning.

Anne sighed and gave into her bubbling excitement which she had been suppressing for worry of her sister. It has been said that while she lacks the robustness of her father’s physique, she is known to be astute and speaks several languages. She even plays the spinet and the lute.

They both noticed that though the crowd was filled with much enthusiasm with the imminent appearance of their new queen, not all were pleased. Mary was a fervent Catholic, yet many across the land now followed the Church of England, created by her father when he was unable to annul his marriage to Catherine of Aragon.

Not all are eager of our new queen, Mrs. Browning pointed out as she glanced at several faces on the street.

Anne followed her sister’s gaze and noted the look of hesitation from some peering out from shops and glancing out carriage windows. It was commonly known that the rift between the religions had grown wider with Henry VIII’s excommunication by the pope in Rome and his dissolution of the monasteries not twenty years earlier. With the Archbishop of Canterbury’s further reform of the Church under the reign of King Edward VI, a religious shift had taken root. Yet here, this new queen was riding in with her deep-seated beliefs in the Catholic Church ruled in Rome.

How would she rule? thought Mrs. Browning, for although no war had erupted upon her coming forward to claim the crown, Mrs. Browning had witnessed religious friction that pitted neighbour against neighbour as it spilled onto the streets. Would this queen have her father’s boldness? What would become of the British merchants who, while Whitehall had changed hands three times since the death of Henry VIII, had managed to gain steps towards establishing and maintaining their endeavours with newly minted coins counted down to the last threepence to attest to their success?

Mrs. Browning was shaken from her thoughts as the first line of gentlemen and nobles arrived on their horses. Perched high with the sun above them, they looked heavenly to the well-wishers who cheered and waved as they rode by.

A group of young men had gathered beside them having run down from Aldgate. Mrs. Browning and Anne could not help but overhear their description of her arrival.

Did you see the Lord Mayor bow low to her with his outstretched arms? said one of the burliest amongst them. She smiled when he gave her the sceptre and then again as she gave it back to him.

Another added, One man had her gown on his shoulders so it wouldn’t get dirty. Imagine that. They laughed as one held up the tail of his shirt in mockery.

The momentum was building as row upon row of elegant men and women made their way further into the city. Their elegant robes were trimmed with furs and their sleeves exposed the details of their lace ruffles. Anne gave a gasp as the sight of them was breathtaking. Their clothing and the glint of their jewels seemed to grow in size and luxuriousness.

The trumpets, my dear, she said as they sounded, and squeezed Mrs. Browning’s hand in anticipation.

The trumpets sounded again and suddenly a collection of the queen’s footmen appeared. Her gleaming guards were armed and flanked her sides, but she was visible just the same. In fact, she was dazzling. Dressed in the richest purple velvet gown, she exuded confidence. Her petticoat was of the same royal colour but in satin. Both were trimmed with exquisite gold workings and pearls. Her neck was heavily covered in precious stones, as was her hood. Her petite frame did not seem dwarfed by her outfit; instead, it accentuated her fierceness and command of the scene. The horse upon which she sat continued with the theme, it too richly decorated to its hooves.

Jesus save her Grace! the onlookers shouted as she approached.

Mrs. Browning wondered whether this was meant for the queen or her Protestant half-sister Elizabeth, who she had caught a glimpse of riding behind the queen, smiling at the crowd along with Anne of Cleves, King Henry VIII’s fourth wife, who had not only managed to keep her head after their marriage of just six months, but was respected by him until his death. To round out the elegant ladies were noblewomen, undoubtedly valued duchesses and marchionesses in order to be in the queen’s proximity. They basked in the glory granted to the nobility of the land.

As the procession made its way down Mark Lane to the Tower of London to the continuing echo of ‘Jesus save her Grace,’ some of the crowd followed while others dispersed and went on with the tasks of their day, a bit more worn out by the excitement of her arrival.

It was during this changing time that the unborn baby awoke and stirred violently in his mother’s body to make it known that he too was ready, for a child decides the timing of his own entrance into the world and he had insisted there and then on being noticed above the pomp of the arriving queen. The pain he inflicted on his mother to announce his pending arrival was felt more acutely than the changing royal.

Mrs. Browning gripped her sister’s hand firmly which stopped Anne speaking of the event that had just occurred.

My goodness, sister, Anne whispered trying to contain the instant anxiety that seized her. We must get you home.

As fortune would have it, the sound of Mr. Turner shouting Madam on his approach with the black carriage from behind them on Mark Lane was opportune. Helped aboard by Mr. Turner and Anne, and unable to complete her final tasks, Mrs. Browning resigned herself to the comforts of the carriage and was thankful for the thick curtains that muffled the volume of Londoners in the street and the red velvet cushions upon which to rest her back.

Mr. Turner had noticed the faint beads of sweat that had formed on Mrs. Browning’s brow and the deep breath she took upon being lifted into the carriage. He knew the signs of an oncoming child for his own dear wife had borne eleven children for him over the years. Seven of his offspring had survived the illnesses that had taken four of their siblings too early for them to enjoy the fullness of their lives, despite the fact that they had been well fed and housed thanks to his hard-working employer, Mr. John Browning. It was because of the kindness shown to him and his family by both Mr. and Mrs. Browning that Mr. Turner was most loyal and most attentive to their needs. He held them in high esteem and felt the same sentiments from them, even though they were of higher society.

Owing to his deep-felt loyalty, he made careful haste to return Mrs. Browning to the safety of her home. He steered the carriage back north on Mark Lane crossing over Gracechurch Street to Billiter Lane and then west onto Leadenhall Street to take advantage of the gravel that had been laid down on the muddy streets for the queen’s procession. As they passed the Church of Saint Michael on Cornhill, he heard the familiar cries of a mother gripped with the pains of oncoming life. Despite his desire to drive the carriage as smoothly as possible, it bobbed along the puddled holes further along on Cheapside Street as the gravel turned to dirt passed Mercers’ Hall. On he drove the horses passed Saint Paul’s Cathedral with its magnificent spiral where the street became paved. He reflected for a brief moment upon the riots of nearly forty years prior when Doctor Bell called upon Londoners to defend themselves against foreigners, causing throngs of men to destroy the property of anyone who they saw as a threat. Miraculously, no one had perished.

In the carriage, Mrs. Browning and Anne tried to remain as unruffled as possible.

Anne peered out from behind the curtain to see where they were and saw the Church of Saint Sepulchre. We’re almost there, said Anne calmly, more to herself than to her sister, for Mrs. Browning was bearing the pain well and putting on a brave face. You have missed your lying-in period, but at least we were able to have the church service to receive Vicar Hunt’s blessing for the birth.

Mr. Turner will get us home with plenty of time to spare, Mrs. Browning quietly panted. Mrs. Fisher, the midwife has been staying in the guest wing for the past week. John has tried to anticipate all my needs.

Well at least one of you has, Anne scolded softly and with a reassuring smile so as to not upset her sister further in such a delicate state.

She was beginning to feel more at ease now that they had crossed over River Fleet. The Holborn neighbourhood into which they had entered reflected the wealth of the class of people who now lived on the northern edge of London’s expanding girth. Those privileged and able, who had gone to school to become doctors and barristers, had taken up residence here, along with wealthy merchants and the growing number of civil servants.

Mr. Turner turned the carriage north from Holborn Street onto the Browning’s newly paved laneway toward the iron gate of Three Gray’s Inn Lane, which abutted Gray’s Inn and its vast gardens.

The contractions had subsided long enough to allow Mrs. Browning the required time to slowly make her way to the large oak doors which opened quickly as Mr. Clark, the butler, appeared to replace Mr. Turner at Mrs. Browning’s side.

Madam, are you well? asked Mr. Clark.

I believe we can expect a new occupant in our home today, replied Mrs. Browning with a faint smile.

Mrs. Fisher, called Anne as she stepped into the main hallway ahead of them for assistance.

Mrs. Fisher, a stout woman of approximately fifty years of age, appeared on the staircase. Anne noted how agile she was as she scurried to meet them. She was composed and gentle as she propped Mrs. Browning’s right arm over her shoulder and placed her left arm around the small of her back.

There now, she said soothingly. It’s time to do some work for a well-deserved reward, Mrs. Browning.

One step at a time, with Anne in the rear whispering words of encouragement, the three women made their way up the stairs, passed the paintings and portraits, to the second-floor corridor and then on to the bedchamber on the far northeast corner of the house. Mr. Browning had this room specially prepared for his wife, whom he adored, so that she could enjoy the beautiful sunrise over the silver maple trees and look out onto the fields and rolling hills beyond Clerkenwell Road. From this bedchamber’s windows, the trimmed gardens of the adjacent Gray’s Inn could also be seen with bursts of colour emanating from the dahlias and daisies. This view was obstructed for the time being by the imported tapestries designed according to Mr. Browning’s specifications. They were to reflect the beautiful landscape beyond the window.

Mrs. Browning stood as steady as she could while Mrs. Fischer and Anne removed layer upon layer of clothing and replaced them with a loose-fitting robe.

No, Mrs. Browning said with a wave of her hand. I will not put that on, she insisted pointing to birthing girdle Anne held in her hand.

She lay back onto the propped up pillows and took a deep breath looking up at the beautifully decorated drapery hanging from her canopy bed. The room was warm as Mrs. Fischer kept a steady fire going since her arrival. Anne had set lavender to boil in a small pot above the flames sending its calming aroma throughout the chamber.

The pains doubled rapidly within Mrs. Browning’s belly, but with persistence and perspiration, guided by Mrs. Fischer’s gentle prodding and Anne’s prayers, a son was born. From that moment forward, he was to be the centre of all his parents’ happiness. It would be the first of many days to come in which Richard Thomas Browning made himself known to those both near and far.

2

Mr. John Browning had been born the son of a vicar in the county of Nottingham where he lived contentedly. His father was looked up to in the community and earned a comfortable living with which he was able to provide for his family. From a young age, John was fascinated by the legend of Robin Hood and the Sheriff of Nottingham. He walked by the castle as a lad and stared up at its thick walls to the arrow loops and battlements imagining the garrison of men who stood guard. His mother had told him that King Henry VIII had once visited and that he had seen him, but Mr. Browning could not remember, as he was just a one-year-old child at the time. As he matured, his simple view of good versus evil grew into a passion for the law. His father, attentive to his studies, was proud to see him off to study at Oxford. The boy grew into an educated man who so impressed the university scholars that they did not hesitate to recommend him to Gray’s Inn. It was here, where in 1533 at the age of twenty-three, Mr. Browning continued his education while waiting to be called to the Bar. His membership at the Inn progressed to an Utter Barrister, then an Ancient, and on the very day his son was born, he had been named a Reader after twenty years in the profession.

It was with this good news in his heart and the prospect of seeing his abundant wife, that Mr. Browning, Esquire, left the Inn and walked the short distance down Gray’s Inn Road onto Holborn Street and then right into the laneway to his home. Mr. Browning paused to look at Browning House in the early evening light. The vibrant shades of the pending sunset coloured the cut stonewalls and reflected a rainbow of hues on the glass windows. He enjoyed coming home fulfilled in his work and loved by his wife.

Mr. Browning was not an arrogant man. Despite his growing fortune, he knew that all he had was as a result of persistent efforts, both his and that of his ancestors upon whose toil he had built a stronger foundation for his imminent family. He approached his front door, the wrinkles around his eyes more pronounced as he smiled at his fortunate situation.

At age forty-three, his black hair had started to grey and unlike many of his colleagues who had begun to show a wider girth with age, he remained surprising slim. He gathered that this was because his younger wife of twenty-three preferred a lighter fare and he accepted her choice of cuisine and appreciated the fact that she, like him, was interested in the particulars of the food put on the table. Besides, he thought, he enjoyed the fact that his doublets fit comfortably.

Of late, he entered the hall to find his wife arranging newly cut flowers each day and his butler ready to take his cloak, but on this day, as he entered Mr. Clark began to stammer, Master John, the mistress has brought you this. He simply handed Mr. Browning the wrapped book and then remembered to say, Mistress Jane is upstairs in the far room, Master John, the far room, he repeated in order to stress its significance.

Mr. Browning looked at him perplexed until a moment later he heard the faint distant sounds of an infant’s cry. His heart leapt with joy. He took the stairs two by two and headed immediately for the northeast corner to meet the newest member of the Browning family.

It sounds as if John has arrived, Anne said, hearing the dashing sound of Mr. Browning’s approaching feet. Shall we let him in? she added teasingly.

Mr. Browning stood outside the door to catch his breath and was about to knock when his sister-in-law appeared and stepped back to allow him entrance.

My love, my sweet, he gushed as he approached his wife. His eyes fell upon a babe wrapped in white linen wearing a fine silk cap cradled in the crook of her arms.

We have a son, John, Mrs. Browning softly announced.

We have a son, Mr. Browning beamed.

3

Queen Mary’s reign had begun. The great echoes of ‘Jesus Save Her Grace’ had been replaced of late by whispers of ‘Bloody Mary.’ This staunchly Catholic queen had waited not three weeks to send the Duke of Northumberland to his death. He was guilty of treason regardless of his attempt to save himself by recanting his Protestant faith. Now hated by both Catholics and Protestants for his spineless act, little love was lost as the axe man swung his blade, and with one swift blow, Dudley was no more.

Yet those fearing the undoing of the Reformation still sought a way to temper their queen who wielded her Catholic cross like a weapon of war. As the sharp winds of November blew that same year, an official request was made for her to choose an Englishman as her husband and not King Philip of Spain with whom she had already declared herself to be in love.

Word from the Palace of Whitehall had spread that King Charles V had supported the match. King Philip was after all his heir. As the queen’s cousin, Charles’s advice was much sought and valued by her. He was the Holy Roman Emperor and dear to the queen’s mother. Amidst her desire to marry King Philip, tension continued to mount in England and favour for the queen swayed. Not all could bear a foreign Catholic king beside their English queen.

Yet the wind would blow again in the queen’s favour when Sir Thomas Wyatt the Younger, godson of the Duke of Norfolk, was tried and executed with nearly a hundred other rebels, after his failed plot to kill her in order to place the crown atop a Protestant head.

Rumours seeped out of onto the streets that the queen had turned against her half-sister, Elizabeth, to the point of wanting her ensnared in the uprising. Those within Whitehall’s walls recited to those beyond its gates the queen’s words and actions to Sir Francis Englefield, one of her courtiers.

Why does she not confess? an irritated Queen Mary asked him. Is my sister not to blame for this uprising?

Sir Francis responded with soothing tones and carefully selected words to ease his queen’s temper. Your Majesty, we have no evidence to implicate her. Perhaps it may be best to keep her under lock and key?

Queen Mary smiled, You have always been such a dear friend to me, Sir Francis. I shall bide my time. The truth will come forth. It must. She kissed the cross on her gold necklace as if to seal her statement.

Elizabeth, therefore, spent days then weeks on end in the Tower of London where Queen Mary hoped her beauty would dull. As time passed, more and more executions took place. From clergymen to fishermen, from barbers to butchers, no Protestant soul was off limits anywhere in her realm.

Meanwhile, winter turned to spring and again another cycle of seasons had transpired during which time young Richard Thomas Browning was thriving in the home of his parents. Not yet two years of age and doted on by all, he knew nothing of the outside perils, or of his mother’s anxiety as the burnings and the beheadings were announced.

John Bradford was executed today, Mr. Browning informed her as he arrived home the evening of July 1, 1555.

Mrs. Browning gasped for he had been a clergyman at Saint Paul’s Cathedral. When will it stop? John Dudley, Lady Jane Grey, her husband, and countless others—she sees enemies everywhere.

Perhaps because they are all around her. She is trying to stop a rushing stream. Mr. Browning held his wife close and felt her shudder nervously in his arms. There is no need to worry. We are being careful, my love. I work hard within the law. There is nothing to fear. We have not even had any large gatherings so as not to raise suspicions of a conspiracy against the queen. This will pass. It must pass.

She may rival the killing spree of her father.

Perhaps. For sixty-three Protestants were killed in his sixteen years. Bradford was her twenty-sixth and that is not even counting the nobles.

God save Elizabeth in that horrible tower.

Not too loudly, my dear. For these walls may have ears.

Back in the palace, Queen Mary’s voice could not be contained. This heresy must be eradicated, shrilled Queen Mary to Sir Francis. It must be stopped.

We are doing our best, Your Highness, Sir Francis confirmed, as the list of those to be tried grew longer along with those who had been beheaded or burned.

By 1555, Sir Francis could see the cracks in the stability of his queen’s mind. The killings had increased at an alarming rate since his jilted queen was left barren and alone. King Philip, by then her husband, had left London for the Netherlands in late summer after the queen had two false pregnancies. Since then, her efforts to find heretics and punish them had re-doubled along with her paranoia. No title was too sacred to burn or behead. By the spring of 1556, even Thomas Cranmer, the Archbishop of Canterbury could not survive her Catholic wrath. Declared a heretic, he had been imprisoned for nearly two years, until on March twenty-first, he too met his fate in the same flames that had consumed his friends, Bishops Latimer and Ridley.

Despite the constant roster of declared heretics, the Brownings avoided speculation and suspicion. Mr. Browning rose in prominence at the Inn. As a Reader, his lectures were most popular and his one-year term in the role was unusually extended for another term in 1558. His contributions to new legislation and the betterment of society, as his colleagues had expressed to him, had brought him satisfaction.

In early fall of 1558 as Mrs. Browning entered the final months of her second pregnancy, she had not relented in her pursuit to provide Richard Thomas with a broad and thorough education. She saw their place in the rising class as important and therefore her son’s education could have no limitations. Mrs. Browning took an active role in her son’s education, for she was a well-read young woman who could teach young Richard Thomas much of the world. She had already instilled in him what children in each gentleman’s home were taught: his table manners were impeccable; he was well behaved and knew his catechism. Recognizing how clever her five-year-old son was, a tutor was hired to begin his education.

I do agree with you, my love, Mr. Browning said to his wife at dinner one evening. He is a bright lad and a tutor will know how to enhance his learning.

Introducing important history lessons and philosophers in such a way that he can comprehend them would be beneficial, added Mrs. Browning. You know how clever he is in giving his opinion, even at such a young age.

He does have a quite a sharp tongue for arguments. He will make a fine barrister.

Mrs. Browning noticed how proud her husband looked as