A Crown in Darkness
A Novel about Lady Jane Grey
MARGARET MULLALLY
Copyright © 1975 by Margaret Mullally
All rights reserved
St. Martin's Press, New York, NY
Printed in the USA
ISBN: 978-0312177454
To Eileen Kennally, who gave me so much advice and encouragement.
Also to Rebecca, my niece.
The Noble Ancestry of Lady Jane Grey, within the Tudor Genealogy
This was thy home then, gentle Jane,
This thy green solitude; and here
At evening, from thy gleaming pane.
Thine eyes oft watched the dappled deer
(Whilst the soft sun was in its wane)
Browsing beside the brooklet clear.
The brook yet runs, the sun sets now,
The deer still browseth - where art thou?
Anonymous Eighteenth Century poem, written at Bradgate Manor.
Chapter 1
'The child is born, my Lord.'
Henry Grey, Marquis of Dorset, turned away from the window, where he had been gazing out across the sprawling green acres of Bradgate Manor, his Leicestershire home. It was seven o'clock on a rainy October evening in 1537. In the park the trees stood naked and shivering, but even in the damp and gloom of Autumn he thought Bradgate the most beautiful spot in England and it seemed fitting that his children should be born in the huge, rose-coloured house that his father had built only a few years earlier.
His eyes were eager as they met those of the slender young serving girl. 'Is it a boy?' he asked, his voice a little harsh with anxiety.
The girl swallowed hard. 'No, my Lord. A girl. She's very pretty,' she added hastily. 'The midwife says she's in perfect health. And the midwife says ...'
Dorset strode past her angrily, through the open door and into the gallery. A girl. He could have wept with disappointment. His first-born should have been a boy, not a girl. There had already been quite a few disappointments. Frances, his wife, had lost their first baby after falling from her horse. Although the physician had warned her that it was not advisable for a woman to ride during pregnancy Frances had merely thrown back her head and laughed scornfully. And when she had miscarried of the child, she had lost her temper and told the physician that he was an incompetent fool.
There had followed two other miscarriages, and they had only been married four years.
They wanted a son so badly - a son who would follow Frances's royal Uncle, Henry VIII, to the throne in due course, for Henry seemed to be no more successful than the Dorsets in the frustrating business of getting a male heir, and God knew, he had tried hard enough and often enough, with only two daughters to show for it — a girl by his first wife, Spanish Katherine, long since dead. Then another girl by that glittering termagant, Anne Boleyn, whose shrill laughter His Majesty still could not forget, though the lady had lain headless in her grave for more than a year.
The present Queen, Jane Seymour, was expecting to be brought to bed any day now, but Lord Dorset privately thought her chances of producing a lusty son were poor. She was as frail as a moth, sickly white, and her hips were childishly flat - never a good sign, Frances had said with relish, and she was usually right. Dorset shrugged and reverted his mind to his own domestic troubles.
His footsteps faltered as he approached his wife's bedroom. She would be furious at the birth of a mere daughter. Even in sickness Frances was fierce and her rages terrified him. During her pregnancy she had been more irritable than ever, and in fact he had been secretly afraid that her vile temper would harm the child. All he wanted to do now was avoid yet another scene.
But he must go in. Setting his features into nonchalant lines, he pulled aside the blue arras and stepped into the bedroom. A small maid, who had been combing his wife's dark hair, curtsied hurriedly and fled. Everyone in the room seemed to hold their breath. Even the hour-old baby seemed to sense that she wasn't really wanted and was now quiet in her cradle.
Frances lay, thoroughly exhausted on the bed, but tired and weak though she was, she looked angry and insulted. She bore an alarming likeness to her Royal Uncle, Dorset noted, as he raised her fingers to his lips. She had the same shrewd, hard eyes, the cruel mouth and high-coloured complexion that characterized the great monarch, but she had none of his magnetic charm or his tremendous sense of humour.
It crossed Dorset's mind that he should have been anxious about her while she was in labour, but he had felt nothing save a mild sense of relief that she would be out of his sight for a few hours. Even her agonized screams had not aroused his pity. With Frances he felt feeble and sexless, his emotions half-dead. Getting her with child had been a slightly repellent task as he loathed sleeping in the same bed with her, and inwardly shrank from any form of intimacy.
'Well, madam, you're looking very fine for a lady who's given birth but an hour since.' He forced a careless joviality into his tone, but his eyes refused to meet hers.
Frances shifted her weight irritably on the bed. 'I'm well enough,' she answered sulkily. 'But it should have been a boy. I wanted a boy. This girl is of no use to us. We shall have to endure her faints and giggles and primping until she's old enough to make an advantageous marriage.'
'Well, my dear, marriages can be very useful things.' Dorset laughed nervously.
Frances glared at him, but she was too tired to argue.
Meanwhile, Dorset had ventured across the room towards the curved wooden cradle, where the new baby now lay sleeping peacefully. The midwife had bathed her tiny red body in warm wine and the wet-nurse had fed her at her breast, since no high-born lady would think of spoiling her figure by suckling her own babies. The child looked healthy and contented, and there was a faint rosy glow on her skin. Dorset was surprised and pleased that she lacked the red, wrinkled look common in most new-born babies and found himself overwhelmed with tenderness and excitement at her smallness. He had certainly not expected to feel like this about a mere daughter.
'Is there anything wrong with her?' he demanded of the midwife, who stood nearby.
'No, my Lord,' answered the midwife, rather smugly. 'The labour was quite normal, no complications whatsoever. The child's breathing is quiet and regular. She seems quite perfect.'
Dorset looked pleased. 'We shall call her Jane, as a compliment to the Queen,' he announced, his face glistening with pride, and the sight irritated Frances, who was still sick from the memory of her birth pangs. How dare he accept defeat so cheerfully! It was grossly inconsiderate of him not to have made any kindly references to her health. And he might have kissed her.
As an afterthought, Dorset consulted his tired wife. 'Shall it be Jane then, my dear? It would be diplomatic to christen her after Queen Jane, don't you think? Or would you prefer Mary for your mother? Or ...'
'You may call her whatever you wish,' Frances snapped.
'What do you think of Jane as a name for my daughter?' Dorset enquired of the midwife.
The good woman looked uncomfortable. 'My Lord,' she said, trembling, 'I don't like it.'
'Why ever not, pray?'
'Lady Jane Grey has a tragic ring,' replied the midwife unctuously. 'Believe me, my Lord, that poor child is doomed.'
Lord Dorset would have dropped the child had a quick-witted maid not darted to the rescue, and even Frances was sufficiently roused from her bored lethargy to raise a threatening eyebrow.
'Get out of here,' roared the Master of Bradgate. 'Get out of here, you half-wit, and don't ever come back!'
The midwife sidled past him, muttering beneath her breath that
time would prove her right. Dorset followed her out shortly afterwards without another word to his wife.
The baby began to cry and Frances felt a flash of contempt for her small daughter. Sharply, she ordered the nurse to take her away to the nursery. Left alone, she felt hollow with despair. Why, why had the child not been a boy? Frances disliked and distrusted her own sex. All females were her natural enemies and an infant daughter was no exception. Frances herself was more like a man than a woman, with her striding impatience, her steely determination and her cruel will, her tireless love for outdoor sports. She didn't understand women and so they irritated her. Even her own mother, the lovely Tudor princess whom she'd grudgingly adored, had annoyed her at times because she seemed incurably romantic.
She had little doubt that the child Jane would be everything that she despised in women. And, what was worse, she had probably inherited her father's vanity and weakness of character.
Weak still from the ordeal of childbirth, Frances could make no effort to stifle the hard lump that rose in her throat. She felt the hot tears gather in her eyes and slide, unchecked, down her cheeks. Burying her face in the embroidered cushions, she wept.
The marriage between Lord Henry Grey and Lady Frances Brandon was no different from other marriages of the Tudor nobility; purely political, far removed from anything resembling love or affection. In some cases, the husband and wife were fortunate enough to become reasonably fond of each other in time, but this was not so between Henry and Frances.
Henry Grey's maternal grandmother was Elizabeth Wood-ville, who, after the death of her first husband. Lord Henry Grey, had married the amorous Plantagenet King, Edward IV, and borne him several children. Frances was the eldest daughter of Charles Brandon, Duke of Suffolk, and Mary Tudor, the King's favourite sister.
The young Frances had not been beautiful and her loud voice, her coarse laughter and violent temper did little to enhance her attractions. Yet she was handsome enough, in a heavy, florid way and, of course, she had a generous dowry.
The Duchess Mary loved her daughter very much for, though Frances was turbulent and unruly, she was so obviously of Tudor temperament. But Mary was essentially a realist, and she despaired of ever finding a husband who would accept the girl's temper and arrogance and so Henry Grey seemed a godsend. Frances did not turn up her nose when she was offered to Lord Henry Grey, since she saw in him a vast opportunity to achieve her worldly aims, and so she married him and went to live at Bradgate.
He was a clever, handsome bridegroom, but he could not touch her heart. He did not even trouble to find a chink in her armour, so disinterested was he in her as a person. Bradgate was the only thing he really loved, and Frances could not understand his passion for the proud red house that was surrounded by orderly gardens and overlooked six miles of park.
Though by no means an analytic woman, Frances knew that she could not hope to find full satisfaction in a partnership where there was neither love nor respect. The only things she had in common with Dorset were her ambition and her tireless energy.
Queen Jane Seymour gave birth to a fragile baby son only a few days after the Lady Jane Grey was born in Bradgate. Shortly afterwards, she fell into a high fever and, before the week was out, she was dead.
'Poor lady, she was too delicate for the ordeal of childbirth,' sighed a black-clad Charles Brandon, who had brought the news to Bradgate Manor. They've called the prince Edward.'
'And is he expected to live?' Frances enquired in her forthright way.
Brandon glanced at his daughter, whose moody face troubled him far more than he cared to confess.
'He is being well cared for and it is thought that good nursing will pull him through the early years. And what about your little one? I've not yet had the opportunity to see her.'
The baby Jane was brought to him on a large crimson and white cushion.
'The child is fair,' commented Brandon, stroking the soft cheek of his grandchild. 'I suppose your husband is pleased?'
'Oh well, what can you expect?' Frances sounded petulant. 'If he had his way, he'd croon over her cradle night and day, but I won't allow it - not with a girl. Later, when there's a boy ...'
The baby squalled indignantly, for it was time for her feed and Charles laughed. 'Well, my dear, she seems to have your spirit and while I agree that a son would have been preferable,
the little wench is sound proof that you can bear children. I only wish, Frances, that you and your husband loved each other as your mother and I did.'
Frances scowled. Although he had mourned his beautiful wife sincerely when she died two years before, her father had wasted little time in replacing her with the witty Lady Willoughby. Frances could remember her mother pleading with him not to leave her alone so frequently, but he hadn't cared. She also remembered hearing her mother weeping desperately late at night, when she fancied that everyone else was asleep — Mary Tudor, who had been so merry and wilful and proud.
Frances noticed now that her father's once firm features had become slack, his red face fleshy and sensual. He was also putting on weight rapidly. It was from him that she had inherited her broad shoulders and large thighs.
'Henry and I get on well enough,' she said tartly. 'Although, of course, I would rather he had more stamina.'
Charles Brandon let out a roar of laughter. 'My dear Frances, I'm quite sure you couldn't tolerate being married to a man who refused to let you bully him,'
With anyone else, Frances would have lost her temper, but somehow she respected her big robust father, who was every inch as selfish as she was. Instead, she said sulkily, 'You could never bully my mother, yet you seemed to like her.'
'It wouldn't have been safe to bully your mother, even if I had felt so inclined. She was a wildcat and God help any man who tried to dominate her — including her brother, the King. As you say. Lord Henry lacks stamina but I've no doubt he has other admirable qualities that your unobservant eye has overlooked. Time will show.'
Frances, thoroughly bored by the conversation, which had taken a philosophical turn, reached for an apple from the dish of fruit and sweetmeats that had been left on the table beside her bed, and began to munch heartily.
***
Frances recovered from Jane's birth with unladylike ease and it was not long before she was sweeping through the house like an angry tropical storm, finding fault with the servants and quarrelling with her husband. She made no secret of the fact that she didn't love her baby daughter, and she refused to hold the child in her arms, even in the face of her relatives' disapproval. People were beginning to say that she was unnatural, but they were careful not to offend her. Most people were afraid of Frances. Lord Dorset was basically an easy-going man, but his temper began to shorten under the strain of his wife's vicious tantrums. At first, he adored the baby girl and spent hours beside her cradle, crooning over her charms and marvelling at her good behaviour.
'You're a fool,' Lady Dorset spat the words at him. 'Why waste such doting affection on a mere girl child? Why not give me sons?'
Give me sons, give me sons! It was the cry of the age. Jane Seymour had obeyed the King and borne him a son, but the ordeal had cost her her life. Henry Grey turned away from the cradle, his heart sick and desolate. He wanted to vent his frustration on someone and, being weak, chose his defenceless child. She had come between him and Frances. She had spoilt their chances of ever being happy together. She was the cause of all the strife in his home. From that moment his feelings changed towards Jane. She was never again to have such a strong claim on his emotions.
Meanwhile she thrived and a nurse was found for her — a steady, short-spoken Norfolk woman named Mistress Ellen, a respectable widow who had never been able to bear children and was therefore prepared to devote her life to the children of another woman. She soon loved Jane possessively, as Frances never could. Jane, who was inclined to be nervous and rather secretive at home in early years, soon grew to trust her nurse. It was Mistress Ellen who taught her to ch
ant nursery rhymes almost as soon as she could speak and later to write her first letters. She felt safe with Ellen.
When Jane was two years old, her mother gave birth to another daughter. This time Lady Dorset shed no weak tears. She cursed everyone in the household, with the inevitable exception of herself, and shouted that her husband must be half-impotent. That girl was christened Katherine.
Jane was three years old when she was formally invited to her Great-Uncle's Court — a giant step forward, as her mother proudly exclaimed. Frances herself bundled Jane into her chemise and kirtle, and her best velvet gown with the silver lace. She twisted the child to left and right, clicking her tongue in dissatisfaction, for Jane was not beautiful or even particularly pretty. She was small and very pale, and there was a sprinkling of freckles across her infantile nose. Those freckles offended Frances more than anything else, for they were then believed to be a serious defect. However, although Frances scrubbed them vigorously with all kinds of concoctions, the freckles stubbornly remained. In fact, Jane's only strong points seemed to be her wide, dark grey eyes and her fair hair, which was long and glossy and had a touch of red in it, inherited from her Tudor grandmother.
Her expression was habitually solemn, for she seldom laughed. A strict upbringing had made her precocious beyond her years, and she was frequently in the company of adults, who made no attempt to curb their frankness. Already, at the age of three, she showed signs of great intelligence and determination.
Her appearance at Greenwich Palace excited little enthusiasm, for few people were interested in a daughter of the domineering Frances Brandon. She was presented to the King, who tweaked her ear playfully and said she was a bright child, then he introduced her to his wife — his fifth, as Mistress Ellen whispered.
Jane stared, round-eyed, at the girl who sat on the King's left. Catherine Howard was eighteen years old, and looked younger. She was small and sparkling, with a lively, arresting face. Her dancing eyes were of the clearest green, and a dimple played on each side of her mouth when she smiled, which was often. She had a warm, impetuous, uninhibited personality, and Jane liked her at once.
A crown in darkness : a novel about Lady Jane Grey Page 1