by Mary Hoffman
There was a betrothal in April and by the end of May, Jane was married to Dudley and Katherine to the son of the Earl of Pembroke. I was pleased to see two of my young pupils wed. Little Mary was too young at eight to be more than betrothed but I was glad of that, as the husband chosen for her was a grizzled old soldier with a terrible wound on his face.
Once she was a married woman I ceased to teach Jane; she was now living with her husband’s family at Durham House. But one day she sent for me in my capacity as chaplain. I was no longer a pastor at my church because my child was conceived out of wedlock, but Jane and I shared beliefs and she knew she could trust me.
Jane had momentous news.
“It seems Northumberland has found another way to have Edward make me queen,” she said, after first ensuring we were alone and not overheard. “The king leaves his crown to me and my male heirs.”
“Male heirs?” I said, shocked by the extent of Northumberland’s influence over the dying king. “There is little time for you to have one of those. I think you will be queen very soon, my lady,” I said and went to kneel to her.
“Don’t!” she said sharply and then put her face in her hands. “I don’t want it and I don’t seek it. But I know you will understand that I think perhaps God is calling me to that duty. To preserve the new religion. Think what would happen if the king’s half-sister Mary became queen instead. She would outlaw all the changes the king has made.”
Neither of us mentioned Edward’s other half-sister, Elizabeth, but she was on our minds. Whoever knew what that haughty princess really thought? But, at least she was closer in her religious views to the dying king than his other sister would ever be.
“Both sisters are confirmed illegitimate,” said Jane. “And Edward won’t name them as heirs. He is happy that I am married to an Englishman already and can’t be ruled by a foreign husband as they might be.”
Even then I could see what a dangerous road lay ahead for this young girl. She was just sixteen and the powerful men around her – her father and father-in-law first among them wanted to press this heavy weight on her, not just of a royal crown but of all the warring factions in England.
“We are to move from here,” said Jane, setting her shoulders determinedly. “We are to live in Catherine Parr’s house in Chelsea.”
“You will be happy there?”
“Perhaps.”
Within days, King Edward was dead. He was not quite sixteen. When the Privy Council went to tell Jane she was queen, she wept at the weight of her responsibilities.
I was honoured to accompany Jane and Dudley on the barge to the Tower. She was wearing a green velvet gown, all printed in gold, and wore a white headdress covered in jewels. Dudley stood beside her, dressed in silver and white. They made a handsome couple, but so young! As the barge reached the Tower and the great guns sounded, I felt afraid to hear this small figure of a girl-woman proclaimed queen. No one cheered and my heart felt icy within me.
I had to return home to my wife, who was close to her time. In the days that followed, news of the outside world reached me sporadically, as I became a father for the first time. My son Giovanni – John in the English tongue – was a healthy, bawling child, eager for milk.
Later I heard that in this short time as monarch, Jane showed her strong will when the Privy Councillors suggested making a crown for her husband.
‘Why?’ she had asked. “He won’t be king. I’ll make him a duke, if you like, but nothing higher. If I am queen then I intend to rule as one, not have a husband make my decisions for me.”
But soon news came that made such choices beside the point. The Lady Mary had declared herself queen and was gathering supporters all over the country. Jane was a usurper, according to Mary, and the ‘rightful monarch’ was now heading to London with a great train of armed followers.
Just nine days after Jane had been proclaimed queen, Mary was accepted by all, including the treacherous Dukes of Northumberland and Suffolk, Jane’s own family. The Tower had changed from a royal palace to a prison for Jane and her husband.
I begged to be allowed to visit her, something that later put me in my present danger. I found her calm.
“If I am to die, so be it,” she said. “I would rather lose my life than return to the old religion with its crucifixes and cannibalism!”
She was truly a woman young in years and old in wisdom.
My lady’s mother, the duchess, pleaded with the new queen for the life of her daughter and husband. They were old friends, in spite of their religious differences. And it might have worked, if the duke hadn’t plotted again to put Jane back on the throne.
Suffolk headed a rebellion against Mary’s planned marriage to the king of Spain. Some people believe I was involved in it but I wasn’t. The only evidence against me was my love for Queen Jane, as I will still call her, and for the beliefs we shared.
There was only one possible outcome, once the rebel forces had been defeated. Jane would not change her religion, even though Queen Mary sent her own chaplain to persuade her.
I felt so proud of my lady’s bravery when I heard this. It would have saved her life to change but she was too steadfast for that.
Jane and her husband were beheaded on the same day, 12th February. Just a few weeks ago. And her father soon followed. Jane had given me her Greek New Testament to take to her sister Katherine, with the message: “Labour always and learn to die.” It was a lesson she had been learning herself for years, as I now see.
England is too dangerous for me now. So I am seeking safety for my family abroad. Who knows what the future may bring? Will someone save that poor country from the Popish religion that Jane chose to die rather than accept? Whatever happens, there will be much blood spilled and if I stay it might be my beautiful son that suffers for my beliefs one day.
The dark man’s son stirred in his arms while the mother still slept, worn out by their sea-voyage. The man looked out of the porthole that now showed the shore of France coming closer, and tears coursed down his face. Just remembering his pupil Lady Jane Grey filled him with pride at her bravery and deep sadness at her fate. He would never forget her until his dying day.
Why I Chose Lady Jane Grey
The Tudors never seem to be out of fashion! But rather than write about Henry VIII or Queen Elizabeth I, I felt drawn to this teenage girl who was so serious about her religion. Some people have described her as a pawn pushed about on the political chessboard by her powerful and ambitious supporters. I don’t buy that. Or the sentimental image of her as pathetic victim in the famous painting by Delaroche.
Jane Grey strikes me as a very determined young woman, willing to die rather than convert to Queen Mary’s Catholicism. It is a tragedy that she had to live up to that conviction, and so young, but I think she knew what she was doing and what the likely outcome would be.
MARY HOFFMAN
Lady Jane Grey Facts
Lady Jane Grey was born in 1537, though there is some disagreement about the month. The latest scholarship seems to favour May. She was the eldest daughter of Frances Brandon, the niece of Henry VIII, and Henry Grey, the Marquis of Dorset, who was later made Duke of Suffolk. The Grey sisters received a very good education and Jane was taught Italian by Michelangelo Florio, the narrator of this story. His son John later came back to England and became a friend of the Earl of Southampton; John probably knew William Shakespeare. Under the terms of Edward VI’s will, Jane was to inherit the throne and continue his religious reforms. When Edward died in 1553, his Privy Council, which included Jane’s father and father-in-law, told her she was queen and she went to the Tower of London to prepare for her coronation.
Jane’s period as queen was short-lived and she is often known as ‘the nine days queen’. Edward’s elder half-sister Mary claimed the throne and had much more popular support. After more plots and rebellions, Jane and her young husband were executed in 1554. Jane was only sixteen when she died.
The
Phoenix Bride
A story about Elizabeth Stuart
(1596–1662)
BY DIANNE HOFMEYR
‘Up then fair phoenix bride, frustrate the sun.’
John Donne
5TH NOVEMBER, 1605
THE CARRIAGE WHEELS SHUDDER through deep ruts. We travel with speed. Crouched on the floor in the darkness, we are jostled hard. I stretch up to peep around the heavy cloth drawn across the window. A sliver of moon tears at ragged clouds. If it rains now and we lodge in the mud, we are doomed. Soon it will be daylight.
Ann’s voice is close to my ear. “Don’t worry, my lady. We’ll escape.”
I grip Ann’s hand. “Tell me again what you overheard.”
“Your father, the king, and your brother, Henry – who was to accompany him to Parliament – are safe. The villain was discovered before harm was done. He was disguised as a coalman and standing amidst an abundance of gunpowder, in the bowels of Westminster, ready with a lantern and a slow match to blow the place to smithereens on the day of the Opening of Parliament.”
“If he’s already caught, why are we fleeing?”
“There’s more to the plot.”
“More?”
“I heard the names Robert Catesby and the Wright brothers. They planned to lure your guardian from Coombe Abbey on the pretence of a stag hunt, so they could—”
But the horses swerve. There are muffled shouts. The sound of heavy gates swinging open. Hooves clip cobblestone.
Ann twitches the curtain. “We are here!”
“Where?”
“Within the walls of Coventry.”
I grab her by the shoulder. “Go on. So they could – what?”
But we are interrupted again as the horses pull up abruptly. The doors of the carriage are flung open. We are lifted out by pikemen and set down next to the stamping, snorting horses whose eyes are wild and whose nostrils flare with foam. There is no time to take in my surroundings. We are hurried through the dark with the sharp clip of metal-capped boots against cobble and the clank of armour. Flares of light catch on the sharp tips of the men’s pikes but their faces are in shadow. No word is spoken.
I find myself in a dark hall hung with tapestries. I hear the thud of a heavy door and a bolt being thrown into place behind us. The metal-capped boots march off. At the far end the only light comes from a huge fire burning in a stone hearth. A panel of carved Tudor roses is thrown into heavy relief with the words PALACE YARD carved above them. Clusters of pale-faced maids stand about the hall. Eyes darting about. Hands fidgeting.
Something is amiss. I spin around to confront Ann. “What haven’t you told me?”
She shakes her head. “You’re not supposed to know.”
“Know what?”
She whispers close to my ear. “They plan to steal you.”
“Steal me? Who?”
“The men who planned the stag hunt to lure your guardian away – Catesby, the Wright brothers and some other Warwickshire men. They’re Catholics. They want you for a Catholic queen.”
“Me? Elizabeth Stuart? A Catholic queen? But I’m a Protestant. And besides I’m much too young to be queen.”
“They plan to marry you to a Catholic prince. So your guardian rides out to capture them. And here behind the walls of Coventry, you are safe.”
Despite the warmth of the fire, I shiver.
Ann pulls me close. “Don’t worry. The plan is foiled. The 5th day of November in the year of our Lord, 1605, will be remembered for ever. The king and your brother are safe. And so are you.”
“What a queen I would be by such means! I’d rather have died alongside them in the Houses of Parliament.”
AUTUMN, 1609
I have come to make my farewells. I have loved each bird and given each a pet name.
I halt my horse in front of my favourite, Flamboyant – named for his bright green and red plumage. He was brought back alive from a hot land but died in the cold mists of England. Even the work of the most artful taxidermist could not revive his splendour. Now he is bedraggled and pinned to a tree. The rain and wind have taken the sheen from his feathers and the glint from his eyes.
I sweep the French hood back from my face. “Farewell, Flamboyant.”
My breath comes out in puffs against the cold air. This garden was once my classroom. My guardian fixed maps and drawings next to each bird that died, to tell me of the exotic places they once came from.
Swans glide across the mirrored lake. There’s no time to take the rowboat to the island but I see the dome of the aviary glistening with its mosaic of glass pieces. I think of my other birds still alive, perched on branches behind the gold mesh. The song of a Golden Oriole pierces the silence. She is calling for her mate.
“Lady Elizabeth,” Ann tugs at my cloak. “Pull up your hood before you are recognised. Your chamber women will find your bed empty and your grooms will discover three horses gone – then what? You’ve said your farewells. We must hurry. We’ve a long journey ahead today.”
My breath seems sucked from my body. The abbey has been my childhood home. I think of all I’m leaving behind – my aviary, the midwinter breakfasts by candlelight, the games of shuttlecock, the feasts of marchpane smuggled to us by the pastry cook, even the tapestries of beasts around my bed and my farthingale armchair with its Turkey work done by my ladies.
“I’ll miss Coombe.”
“There’s no time for sadness. You’re going to court to find a suitor. Your beloved brother, Henry, will be there.” Ann blushes as she says his name. She is tongue-tied in the presence of my brother. “Henry will be at Richmond. You at Kew. Your parents at Whitehall. With tournaments and banquets and masques devised by your mother, you’ll see him often.”
“So will you!”
She blushes all the more.
I give her a teasing smile. “Don’t worry. I’ll write to him. I’ll banish those lists of ugly princesses they plan for him to marry – especially the de’ Medici with their daughter Christina. My brother will never marry a Catholic.”
Throughout my stay at Coombe, I have written to my brother. Letters tied with coloured strands of silk floss – royal blue, grass green and amethyst – twisted with silver thread and sealed with my Scots lion rampart. Letters in different inks – even gold – in different styles of writing as was my mood, and often in French or Italian to impress him. He sometimes answered. Sometimes didn’t.
“Here! Thomas! Make a stirrup of your hands so we may get down.”
I step into my groom’s cupped hands. He keeps his eyes lowered perhaps because of my chemise but out of the corner of my eye I notice he takes Ann by the waist as he lifts her down.
“Give me your dagger, Thomas.”
“My dagger, your ladyship?”
“You heard. Is it sharp?”
“Honed to perfection to protect your ladyship.”
“I’m glad you are both coming to court with me.” I stab the tip into the flesh of my middle finger. A garnet of blood forms. “Hold out your finger, Ann.” I grip it and stab. “Now press against mine. Swear by our joined blood you will be my friend for ever.”
Thomas is smiling.
“I should make you swear, Thomas, not to tell my minders of this morning’s escapade.”
“My lips are sealed, your ladyship, without the need for blood.”
“Good! Then help me on to my horse again. We will race each other back to the abbey. I’ll wager that neither of you win. A string of pearls if you do.”
SEPTEMBER, 1610
Once we are settled at Kew, Ann and I see Henry often. We attend banquets, tournaments and masques where he appears as a most handsome Oberon, in a costume designed by Mr Inigo Jones. And Henry has a ship built – the Prince Royal. It’s England’s largest man-of-war. The letters HP – Henry, Prince of Wales – are embossed on the bow, alongside the white plumes of his insignia. The figurehead of St George stretches out from the bowsprit.
We assemble at the Woolwich dockyard for its launch. My father
is moody – his stomach troubled by dining on too many grapes. My mother is wearing one of her most elaborate wigs, bedecked with rubies and pearls. Difficult to cope with in such a wind. I want to laugh but I dare not. She has taken her dressing very seriously. So has Ann, for different reasons.
The high wind is keeping out the tide. The ship is stuck and will remain so until the wind calms. My heart aches for Henry. He has set great store by this day. Our party and all the attendants return to Greenwich Palace, but Henry stays behind with the Lord Admiral. I look back and see him standing there with the gilt cup still full of the wine that was to be used to name his ship.
I would calm the winds for him, if I could. I would stamp the ocean flat and call in the tide.
In the same month of September I receive my first proposal. It comes from the king of Sweden. He is eager for a bride for his son, Gustavus Adolphus.
And so it begins. I move from Kew to Hampton Court to receive the ambassadors of my suitors. Portraits arrive in advance. Ann and I pore over the miniatures as we hide between the clipped hedges of the maze.
I shrug. “I’m fifteen. Perhaps too old? Perhaps like my godmother Elizabeth, the past queen, I’ll never marry.”
Ann flaps a piece of parchment under my nose. “Never marry! You’ve ten suitors on this list!”
She reads the names as if announcing them at a banquet, holding up each miniature in turn.
“Gustavus Adolphus of Sweden.”
I shake my head. “He’s Protestant and will inherit the throne of Sweden. But his country is at war with Denmark, my mother’s country of birth. Besides, Sweden is too far away.”
“Frederick Ulric of Brunswick-Wolfenbuttel.” Ann raises an eyebrow. “Hah! Can you live with the title Wolfenbuttel? What about Prince Maurice of Nassau, Prince of Orange?”
“According to my parents, he’s too inferior. According to me, he’s too old! He’s over forty…”