by David Field
They got as far as Ludgate, where the local citizenry held them back in a skilful series of guerrilla tactics in which they made full use of their superior knowledge of the layout of the backstreets and alleyways so as to demoralise Wyatt’s men into deserting in droves. Wyatt surrendered and was consigned to the Tower and its torturers on the express command of Queen Mary, who was determined to obtain information — even if only from a man desperate to end the bodily agony — that Elizabeth had been behind the plot.
Wyatt held firm until he was finally hung, drawn and quartered on Tower Hill by an angry and frustrated Mary, who ordered that Elizabeth be closely confined under what amounted to strict house arrest.
Of the remaining rebels, only Henry Grey, Duke of Suffolk, attempted to put up a fight, with disastrous consequences. He and his wife Frances retreated back to their country estate at Bradgate and began gathering what forces they could among the loyal local populace, including Richard Ashton and a handful of his tenants. The plan was to head south-west, in the belief that enough rebels might still be found in troubled Devon and Cornwall. Had they taken the trouble to learn of the hasty departure from the realm of Sir Peter Carew they would have realised that their cause was already hopeless. As it was, they headed south with less than two hundred fighting men, in the belief that others would answer the call to arms as they progressed.
Richard Ashton spent the night before their departure wrapped in Kate’s arms, being reassured that he would be striking a blow for the release of Jane Grey and with her their daughter Grace.
‘I know that you regard yourself as a man of peace,’ Kate murmured lovingly in Richard’s ear, ‘but there comes a time when even the meek and mild must take a stance.’
‘You see me as meek and mild?’ Richard protested.
Kate hugged him harder. ‘No, I see you as a man with the courage to do what is necessary to protect those dear to him, and in this you display great bravery. It is easy enough for men of warfare to take up arms, but for those of your loving, peaceful and gracious disposition, it shows even greater courage to take to the field in order to oppose tyranny.’
‘You know that I am no soldier,’ Richard reminded her, ‘and that unless God is with me every step of the way, they will bring me back to Knighton — if at all — across the saddle of my horse?’
‘I grieve to think of that,’ Kate responded tearfully, ‘but even more do I grieve to think of our daughter locked inside the Tower — perhaps even encased in irons — and none lifting a finger to save her. I may not have given birth to Grace, but I love her dearly as my own. Please bring her home, Richard.’
Her pleas were still echoing in his memory as their pathetic force was refused entry to Coventry and Henry Grey opted to surrender rather than lose the lives of his men needlessly in an assault on the town. They were held in the town gaol until John Brydges arrived a week later with a contingent of soldiers from the Tower, in order to convey them south on charges of high treason.
The night before they were due to be loaded into the carts that would take them away to a certain and ignominious death, Richard couldn’t sleep. He stirred restlessly in the straw that had been laid on the communal cell floor and tried his best to recall the days in which he had been closer to the workings of the royal mind and had learned Statecraft from his mentor Thomas Cromwell.
It was, so far as he could recall, only following upon a finding, or confession, of guilt of treason, that men were deprived of their estates and their families cast out into the wilderness to starve, or rely on the Christian charity of others. If he could avoid either a trial or the ministrations of the Tower torturer, then Kate and Thomas would not lose Knighton to the royal wrath, regardless of what fate might lie in store for Grace.
But there was only one way he could think of to avoid what undoubtedly lay ahead when they got him to the Tower, and that was his own death before they could reach it. Suicide was a mortal sin, but what if he were to die as part of the aftermath of their recent defeat? Surely God would overlook such a weakness on his part, and had they all not been warned by the Tower Governor, as he yelled at them only that afternoon, that any attempt at escape would result in death?
The following morning, hollow eyed for lack of sleep, the prisoners were led up into the blinding light of a summer morning that forced them all to squint defensively. The prisoners, although bound at the wrists, had been left free to walk to the wagons by the untying of their ankle bonds and they were not roped together. Summoning up every ounce of courage at his command, Richard made a run for it and was therefore able to make a hundred yards start on the guards before they realised what was happening. One of them raised a firearm and took careful aim and Richard landed face down in the dust with a large hole in his back. As his grip on life faded rapidly, he uttered a final silent prayer for his beloved Kate, Grace and Thomas, before it all went black.
Grace placed her arms around Jane and hugged her tightly while they both sobbed their hearts out. Not only were they now confined in a single, cold and barely furnished room with only one bed somewhere in the Bell Tower, immediately behind the bearable chambers they had once occupied in the Lieutenant’s House, but they had just been informed by a reluctant Allan that Richard was already dead, having apparently perished during an escape bid, while Henry Grey was to be executed on Tower Hill in the near future and was currently incarcerated in the Bloody Tower that had such an evil reputation.
There was something else that Allan was holding into himself, but which sooner or later he would need to convey to the two girls. Before much longer, Allan would have to reveal that Jane and Guildford were marked for death.
Allan had learned of Mary’s wild rage when advised of the involvement of Henry Grey in the Wyatt Rebellion designed to replace her with Elizabeth and free Jane Grey. It was a rage fuelled by fear, Allan speculated, since Mary had been said to have been suspicious of Jane almost from the time of her first arrival as a companion to Edward. Jane had often recounted how Mary had sat glaring while she and Elizabeth had formed a natural friendship, and Allan surmised that she had needed little persuasion that ‘the Grey girl’ was somehow part of the plot to raise Elizabeth to the throne over her older sister. The Greys were also notorious Protestants and to a suspicious and tortured mind like Mary’s this was all that was needed to persuade her that she had been too generous by half to Jane and her husband in not ordering their executions immediately after their trial.
Allan had been instructed that Jane and her ‘maidservant’ were to be moved from the comparative luxury of their current accommodation immediately after breakfast the previous day, to make way for the Lady Elizabeth. The Bell Tower had been chosen because it was close at hand and had a vacant chamber on the second level. It was also only a short walk from there to Tower Green, where — or so Allan was informed as he tried to keep the shock from his face — Jane would be dispatched on the block immediately after Guildford had been launched into eternity by the same mechanism, but on Tower Hill for the entertainment of the mob.
Allan had suffered the mental torment of seeing Jane and Grace locked behind the heavy oak door of their bleak new surroundings with its barred window that looked over the top of their former residence directly onto Tower Green. He had opted to advise them at that point of the fates of their fathers and had scuttled out of the cell as the howling began, leaving instruction that the prisoners were to be fed once they appeared to be in a fit state to eat.
A further week passed until Allan was told the fateful date — 9th February — and he was about to summon up the courage to tell Jane when he was advised that the date had been put back by three days, for two reasons. The first was in order that Guildford might be executed the same day; and the second was that Mary had given an order that Jane be offered the opportunity to save her soul — if not her neck — by converting to the Catholic faith.
This left Allan with no alternative but to disclose what he knew, in order that Jane could be fully aware of the
scheduled attendance upon her of Mary’s current personal chaplain, John Feckenham.
Grace looked up at Allan and smiled when he entered the chamber. ‘Allan, could you prevail upon our host to inspect our meals before they are sent here? Or even better, to taste them for himself? If we are to starve like this for much longer, we will be dead anyway and the Queen will regret that she showed us mercy in the first place, only to allow us to wither away to nothing. Or is this terrible treatment — hopefully — one more kick before she sets us free? Have you heard something of our impending release, perhaps?’
This had to be the moment, Allan decided, but when he opened his mouth it felt as if his tongue was glued to his upper palate. His eyes bulged slightly, then tears poured down his face and he sank to the floor sobbing pitifully.
Grace rushed over to him and held him upright in her arms. ‘I know I smell awful, Allan, but let me hold you. Then tell me what ails you — are you ill?’
Allan tried three times to get the words out, then finally his tongue seemed to loosen itself and out came the dread news he had been keeping to himself for almost a week. ‘Oh, dear God, help us all! I ... I have to tell you ... no, I can’t do it. God help me, I can’t do it!’
‘What is it, Allan?’ Grace demanded. ‘Have there been more deaths?’
‘Not yet ... but ... but...’
Jane’s fate-deadened voice came across the narrow chamber like a church bell tolling for a funeral. ‘Is it Guildford?’
Allan nodded and looked pleadingly into Grace’s eyes, hoping she could work it out for herself. Suddenly she stiffened and looked blankly back at him as she whispered, ‘It’s Jane as well, isn’t it?’
‘Yes,’ Allan blurted out. ‘On the 12th — next week. Both of them. Guildford on the Hill and Jane on the Green outside.’
XXVIII
A drum beat slowly and regularly, its heavy thud reverberating off the walls and towers of the fortress begun five centuries earlier by a Norman invader. The solemn procession walked to its beat out from under the shaded entrance of the Bell Tower into the bright sunlight of Tower Green, in the centre of which a masked executioner waited, his axe propped up against the block that would receive Lady Jane Grey’s neck.
Guildford had already gone ahead of her earlier that morning, in front of a jeering mob on Tower Hill who hadn’t really known who he was anyway, only that he was yet another traitor whose very existence was a threat to the newly crowned Queen Mary. As his body had been brought back inside the Tower grounds on a cart, discreetly covered by a cloth and with the head between the knees, Jane had only been able to view it from a distance, which was a mercy, given the amount of blood that had already seeped through the cloth covering.
Jane’s procession was led by Allan, by agreement with the Lieutenant, who was delighted to find at least one Captain who didn’t shrink from execution escort duties. Immediately behind him was the chaplain who had failed to convert Jane to Catholicism, despite three days of rigorous debate that had at least taken her mind off what lay ahead of her. The man of God had been impressed by her open honesty and the genuineness of her simple faith, while she in turn had found comfort in the man’s humanity and gentle grace, and had asked that he be there when she went to meet her Maker.
Next in the pathetically small group came Jane herself, seemingly calm and collected when compared with the quietly sobbing Grace by her side, wishing that she had never been born. She’d needed no additional persuasion when Jane had asked that she accompany her to the block, and nothing on God’s earth would prevent her from performing this final service for her lifelong friend. But as she tried to avoid looking at what lay ahead waiting for them in the centre of Tower Green, her mind kept replaying images of two little girls rolling down the grassy bank towards the fishpond, playing at ‘prisons’ inside the milking parlour, or hiding from Nanny Calthorpe between the birch trees in one of the many small copses on the Bradgate estate. Now they were grown women and it had come to this simply because of who Jane was and the actions of those who couldn’t let her be herself, instead of some valuable bargaining piece on a treacherous table.
The procession came to a halt and the executioner stepped forward, as tradition required, and sought her forgiveness. Jane replied in a husky voice that she would forgive him provided that he did what he had to do quickly, and he assured her that he both could and would. As required, Grace handed him the small bag of coins with a shaking hand, and Allan leaned between them with the blindfold.
‘Where do I go?’ Jane asked in a barely audible whisper.
The executioner nodded towards the wooden block, smeared brown with the indelible evidence of previous use.
Allan whispered to Grace that she would need to apply the blindfold, and with shaking hands Grace placed it over Jane’s eyes and began her attempt to tie it. But she was trembling so violently that her shaking hands couldn’t form the knot, so Jane reached calmly behind her and tied it herself. Then she walked a few paces forward with her arms outstretched like a sleepwalker and stopped.
‘Where’s the block?’ she asked.
Allan stepped from behind them, took her arm gently and led her to a position in front of the ominous lump of wood. Then he assisted her into a kneeling position and once again she reached out gropingly into the open air in front of her.
‘Lower,’ Grace told her in a choking whisper and finally Jane’s hand came into contact with the block.
Once she was positioned, the executioner picked up the axe that had been resting on the side of the block and indicated with a gesture of his head that everyone should step back. Allan led Grace gently back a few paces, then deliberately turned her head round and muffled it against his shoulder.
There was a flash of metal in the bright sunlight and then a swishing sound, followed by a squelching thud and Grace collapsed in a dead faint into Allan’s waiting arms.
Grace came around as they were carrying her back into the chamber she had shared with Jane, and her first action was to call out for Allan. As his face appeared in front of hers with a look of deep concern, she asked if she had just awoken from a bad dream.
‘I’m afraid not,’ he replied. ‘It really happened.’
‘So Jane’s dead?’
‘Yes.’
‘God rest her soul.’ Grace said, then gave herself over to heartbroken sobs as Allan rocked her gently in his arms. After a while she stopped and looked around her. ‘Is this the chamber I shared with Jane?’
‘Yes,’ Allan replied, steeling himself for what had to come next.
‘Did you bring me here because I fainted?’
‘Yes.’
‘When can I go home?’ When it fell silent, Grace gripped his arm fearfully. ‘Am I next?’
‘Not so far as I know, but my orders are that you’re to be held here awaiting further command from the Queen.’
‘But she can’t suspect me of anything, surely?’
‘Who knows? They say she’s raving mad.’
‘Will you still be able to be my guard, even though I’m not as important as Jane was?’
‘You are to me,’ Allan reassured her as he leaned forward to kiss her.
XXIX
Allan continued to call regularly, during his off-duty hours, at the Grey house in The Minories, where those who remained of the Dudley and Grey families still met in their mutual misery in what had become an almost unthinking ritual as one tragedy followed another. There were now two widows — Jane Dudley and Kate Ashton — sharing a chamber on the upper floor and recently joining them around the supper table as they tried their best to eat in order to keep up their flagging spirits was Frances Grey, tearfully awaiting a date for husband Henry’s execution. There was also the gloomy prospect that once Henry Grey was executed, his estates would be forfeit to the Crown and they would all be seeking somewhere to begin what was left of the rest of their lives.
Kate Ashton was hopeful that since Richard had never been attainted with a charge of treason
, and had not lived long enough to be tortured into confessing it, they might all find temporary sanctuary on the modest estate of Knighton, and in this they were being encouraged by the seemingly inexhaustible Mary Calthorpe, in her seventy-second year, as physically fragile as a sparrow, but with an indomitable spirit born of an unflagging faith in the mercy of the God she would soon be allowed to worship in the way she had practised while in holy orders.
It was Mary who ordered the servants around, Mary who commissioned food from tradesmen for as long as the Grey credit remained good, and Mary who insisted that they eat at least one meal a day, ‘to the glory of God’, as she justified it. It was also Mary who seemed to sag when told by a downcast Allan that Grace was still being held in the Tower on unspecified charges and that ‘the mad old bitch’ Queen Mary seemed determined to make executions on Tower Hill a daily form of entertainment for the mob.
‘But the poor wee lamb hasn’t done nothing except be a friend to poor Jane, God rest her soul,’ Mary protested as she made the sign of the cross across the threadbare smock that encased her bony chest.
‘Any friend of Jane’s seems to be suspect,’ Allan explained, ‘and if the Lieutenant finds out that Grace is my intended, I’ll be next on the list.’
‘So there’s no way you can get her out of there?’ Mary asked.