A crown in darkness : a novel about Lady Jane Grey

by Mullally, Margaret, 1954-

  The meal continued in renewed amiability.

  'My dear little lady, have a care,' whispered Mistress Ellen, when she was bathing Jane's aching head in the quiet bedroom later that afternoon. 'That woman is vicious.'

  'Oh, Mary and I understand each other, in spite of everything,' said Jane casually. ::

  'I don't care. I will not have you put yourself at risk. If the King dies ...' But Mistress Ellen would venture no further than this. 'Madam, you and I know that the Catholic Faith is abhorrent to all God's true creatures, but must you be so outspoken? She knows no better! Why, it's all she ...'

  Jane had tiptoed across the floor and, as she thrust open the door, the startled face of Mistress Clarencieux, Mary's serving woman, peered out of the shadows.

  'Ah, Mistress Clarencieux, I thought I might find you here,' she said brightly.

  'Did you, my Lady?' stammered Mistress Clarencieux, somewhat disconcerted.

  'Ah, yes. You should have more regard for your health, mistress,' Jane went on. 'You've chosen rather a draughty spot for your afternoon nap. You had better run along to the Princess, I'm sure she's expecting you.'

  She stood in the doorway, watching the discomfited Clarencieux stumble along the gallery. Then she went thoughtfully back to her nurse.

  'Oh, my Lady, what shall we do?' whispered Mistress Ellen, frantically.

  'The struggle has only just begun,' Jane said, and she was right.

  As if to test her, Mary sent Mistress Clarencieux along to Jane's bedroom the next morning, before she was awake.

  'My Lady! My Lady! I have a present for you, from the Princess,' Clarencieux said joyfully.

  Jane's fair head slowly emerged from beneath the sheets. Dislike and sleepy curiosity mingled in her face as she recognized Mary's spy.

  'See, my Lady. Such a fine present.' The woman laid a large parcel on the bed.

  Suspiciously, Jane's fumbling hands unwrapped it. She uttered a little shriek as she unfolded a rose and gold brocade gown. It was a rich and beautiful garment, and Jane caught her breath, speechless with amazement and anger. The gown was accompanied by an aggravating little note.

  Jane, recalling the conversation at dinner the day before, was infuriated that Mary thought she could bribe her. The gift was an insult to her pride, to her courage and intelligence.

  'What shall I do with it?' she asked, very quietly.

  'Why, wear it, of course!' Mistress Clarencieux showed her astonishment.

  'I couldn't do that, for it would be a shame to go against my Lady Elizabeth, who follows God's word, to follow my Lady Mary, who is an enemy of God,' Jane tartly retorted.

  Afterwards, she often wondered why she had dragged Elizabeth's name into the dispute. But it was too late to ponder unduly. The bold words had been said, the dress returned to its giver, and the gulf between Mary Tudor and Jane Grey grew wider. The atmosphere was heavy with tension. Jane, in sheer defiance, wore exaggeratedly plain gowns and caps. She was carefully polite to Mary, but the cousins took care never to be left alone together.

  On the day before the visit was to end, Jane was accompanying Lady Wharton on a tour of the Manor. All was well until they came to the Chapel. Lady Wharton paused to curtsy at the door, looking pointedly at the surprised guest.

  'Is the Princess in the Chapel?' Jane asked.

  'No, madam.'

  Then why do you curtsy?' Jane did not intend to be patronizing. She had little knowledge of the Catholic Faith, but to the sensitive Lady Wharton her words sounded mocking.

  'I curtsy to Him that made me,' she explained piously.

  'What nonsense!' Jane said scornfully. 'For everyone knows that the baker made him.'

  Lady Wharton raised thinly plucked brows and gave Jane stare for stare, then went on her way, bristling with offended dignity.

  Everything has changed, thought Jane later that day, kicking her taffeta train fretfully. She looked pale and tired as she turned wearily, so that Mistress Ellen could unfasten her gown.

  'I hear you were rude to Lady Wharton,' Mistress Ellen observed sharply.

  'Not rude, Ellen. Frank,' Jane corrected her.

  'Let's not bandy with words, madam. You should guard your tongue, my sweet lady, or it will be the ruin of you one of these days.'

  'Must I listen to your scoldings too?' Jane cried irritably. 'I regret that I seemed ungracious to my hostess, but I will not agree that I was wrong.'

  Mistress Ellen loved Jane a great deal but she was not blind to her faults and the unfortunate remark about the baker was, she believed, the very height of bad manners — and, what was worse, a muddy reflection on Mistress Ellen's qualities as a nurse. She tucked Jane into bed and bade her a chilly good night. Jane silently watched her leave. She could take her father's cuffs, her mother's blusterings and curses, even Lady Wharton's shocked disapproval, but Mistress Ellen's coldness hurt her, for she wanted admiration from those people she genuinely loved.

  As she was settling down between the cool sheets, the Lady Mary noiselessly entered the room. She wore a white silk bedgown which fell to her ankles, and she carried a rosary.

  'I came to make sure that you were comfortable.' The calm, gruff voice betrayed nothing, and Jane could not bring herself to look at Mary.

  'Yes, thank you,' she replied smoothly.

  'You seem tired. Have you had an exhausting day?'

  So she knew! Jane sat bolt upright, deciding that there was nothing to do but brazen it out.

  'I expect Lady Wharton has told you about the incident in the Chapel,' she remarked, and in spite of her efforts, her voice faltered.

  'She did mention it. Yes.'

  The conversation came to a standstill. Jane, feeling like a caged bird, looked about her in despair, her eyes moving restlessly over the oaken furniture in the room, which was bathed in shadow. She was sure that Mary was being silent only to embarrass her and so, recklessly, she stumbled on to prove that she felt no guilt for her part in the Chapel affair.

  'I disapprove of meaningless idolatry and I know God does. What sense is there in worshipping a piece of bread fresh from the bakery? For God can make man, but man can't make God.' Neatly the words bounced off her tongue.

  'I'm sorry you hold such views, Jane,' said Mary frostily. 'I fear that your upbringing wasn't as satisfactory as it might have been, but I feel most strongly that, though you have wavered somewhat in your religious beliefs, you might have a little respect for the common demands of etiquette and be discreet about your leanings towards heresy while you are under my roof. As matters stand, I consider your remarks in the worst possible taste.'

  'Religion is suffering,' Jane said. 'I have suffered, but not for God. You are lucky. Madam, for you have no one to govern you. You have no mother to harangue you, no father to beat and bully you. You are mistress of your household.'

  'Suffering?' Mary gave a hollow laugh. 'What does a child like you know of suffering? I have suffered. I had a mother, like you have, but I loved and respected her — so much so, that I sacrificed honour and human comfort when my father callously set her aside for a viper-tongued whore. I thought I would die of sorrow when she left this world, but I didn't. I was restored to honour when I agreed to accept illegitimacy. It was a shabby restoration, and it didn't make me happy. I can only be happy when I have truth and, you see, I knew that I was more legitimate than my half-sister, Elizabeth. I knew that my mother was the King's true wife, that she had been a virgin when she went to him, and I know he knew it. But I loved my father, even though I despised him for what he did. I knew he wasn't really like that. He was moulded into a bluebeard by — by Elizabeth's mother. She destroyed all good things. No,' she said, reverting to her earlier theme, 'you are very wrong, child, but I can't really blame you.'

  Jane knew then that Mary disliked her as much as she disliked Mary. Outwardly they parted on good terms, uttering promises of further visits, but both knew that there would be no more such visits.

  Mary stood on the steps in brave finery, watc
hing the retinue clatter away. A feeling of relief rather than regret swept over her. Her fingers twined about the rosary that was always at her waist. She smiled, but her smile was very grim.

  Summer paled into autumn — an autumn of sudden showers, sallow light and cold, slicing winds. The orchard at Bradgate was barren when Jane led Cicero, her greyhound, out for his daily exercise, but she flung back her hood and thrust her hands deep into her muff as she ran down the broad steps. Cicero would tear anyone to pieces if they molested her, she knew.

  Twigs and withered leaves crackled beneath her feet as the wind viciously whipped her hair about her face and neck. She shivered. But there was a beauty in the bleak scene, a charm about the mistiness. Even the leaves, wilting and falling from the quivering trees were lovely as they lay scattered on the woody path, like an ageing goddess in her last flush of beauty.

  She whirled round when Cicero suddenly barked and followed him down the leafy avenue. A darkly clad figure was approaching. Jane's heart missed a beat, and she stood as if rooted to the spot wondering why Cicero made no attempt to attack the intruder. As the figure came closer she recognized it as her tutor, John Aylmer, and she almost wept with relief and joy as he caught her to him and hugged her. The old throbbing ache engulfed her at the sight of him. Her small hands fluttered up his arms, to rest on his shoulders. She did not stop to question her gestures. It seemed right and natural that she should put her arms round him.

  'God's beard, why are you crying, my love?' Aylmer asked, lifting her chin with his thumb.

  'Am I crying?'

  'So much that I'm likely to have rheumatism in my shoulder all winter. Come, sweetheart, why so sad?'

  The question needed no answer. They were tears of joy. He was back and nothing else mattered. He was using the old endearments. Their brief coldness was over, forgotten.

  Chapter 10

  The old year was dying. At Court, the ladies and gallants were merry, concerned only with enjoying the Christmas festivities. For several nights there were masques, banquets and hearty feasting, in all of which the Dudley family played a prominent part.

  The nineteen year-old Princess Elizabeth reappeared, pale and subdued. Ever since the Seymour scandal, she had been posing almost as a nun, resolved to live down her reputation. Her bright red hair was strained back from her face, and she was innocent of jewellery or paint. The severely cut gowns that she chose to wear were whites and dull greys, yet there was something oddly dignified and attractive about their simplicity, even if they were totally alien to Elizabeth's true personality. Also she had discarded her dashing airs and no longer teased or flirted, though her cheeks would sometimes flush if a handsome courtier admired her.

  She won lavish praise from the leading Reformers, who upheld her as an example of maidenly modesty and sobriety - Elizabeth's plain dresses contrasted strongly and, many thought favourably, with her half-sister Mary's flamboyant attire. It seemed peculiar to some people that one as modest and inflexible as the Princess Mary should have such a girlish passion for bright clothes and jewels, but there it was.

  'One would think that, at her age, she would show a little more taste,' the King remarked as he danced with Jane Grey at Westminster.

  Jane glanced at him and saw at once how breathless he was, as though the leaping and bobbing and whirling that the dance demanded exhausted him. There would be little purpose in her suggesting that they rested a little, for Edward liked to pretend that he enjoyed robust health. She decided to show a little cunning.

  'Your Majesty, I'm afraid I feel a little dizzy,' she gasped, holding her hand to her brow. 'I really must rest. I expect it's the heat in here.'

  Edward's thin face showed his concern, for in spite of their recent differences, he was very fond of his cousin Jane. He took her hand protectively and led her to a window.

  'Fetch some cool water for the Lady Jane,' he called to an interested page. Then he turned to her, beaming. 'Have no fear, Jane. I shall look after you.'

  Jane smiled helplessly up at him, congratulating herself on her subtlety — tact was not usually one of her virtues.

  She was with him when, later that day, he received Elizabeth and gave her his blessing.

  'It delights my heart to see you again, sister,' he said, as Elizabeth bowed her bright head over his hand.

  Elizabeth smiled meekly and expressed her gratitude that a mighty monarch such as he should have time to waste on his poor humble sister.

  'The welfare of my sweet sister Temperance is always close to my heart,' he told her.

  His reception of Mary was not quite so warm. The young King viewed his eldest half-sister haughtily and did not speak for some minutes, while the stumpy, sandy-haired figure knelt before the Chair of State.

  'Welcome to Court,' he said. 'I was uncertain as to whether you would deign to accept my invitation.'

  'I could not deny myself the opportunity of seeing Your Majesty again,' Mary answered, but Edward waved his hand irritably, indicating that he had heard such words too frequently.

  The words of a loyal and obedient subject,' interposed an arrogant voice and the Duke of Northumberland came striding towards them, amid bows and curtsies. Mary was surprised by the respect that was accorded this thin, energetic man with the hard black eyes and she smiled slightly, realizing in a flash the extent of his power. An upstart Duke, she thought, with a touch of Tudor contempt. By God, he would learn that the daughter of Henry VIII was no mean power to be reckoned with.

  'What a pity,' barked Northumberland, 'that the Lady Mary isn't equally obedient in other matters. I refer, of course, to religion, in case you were in doubt.'

  'No, I am not in doubt,' Mary said sharply. 'But I was unaware that I must obey the whims of my Lord of Northumberland. For whims they most certainly are. I know a genuine man when I see one.'

  'Madam, as a loyal and devoted subject of the King, I consider it my duty to look to his interest,' Northumberland said patiently. 'We want no more traitors in England and if you have any grand illusions of dying in the splendour and glory of Martyrdom, rid yourself of them. The State Treasury cannot meet the expenses of martyrdom at present. However, you are forbidden to hear Mass.'

  'Who forbids me?'

  'I forbid you,' put in Edward.

  Northumberland inclined his head approvingly. 'And now. Your Majesty, I'll conduct you to your bedroom. You must be thoroughly fatigued by these feminine tantrums.'

  'How dare you!' shrieked Mary, to the astonishment of all present. 'You Councillors get above yourselves these days. Kindly remember that my father made you from nothing.' She bobbed a quick curtsy before the King and ran weeping from the room.

  'Such drama,' observed Paget, with a dry smile.

  'She'll return to the country,' Edward declared smugly, 'I can't have such goings-on at my Court.' He coughed violently, then signalled to his attendants to carry him to his bedroom.

  And Lady Jane, watching, thought: 'Death is in his face!'

  She lay in her bed at Bradgate Manor, unable to sleep, although it was long past midnight. The clock that had once belonged to her grandfather, Lord Thomas Grey, ticked rhythmically from the shelf, a gentle background to her thoughts.

  That afternoon, John Aylmer had kissed her. He had said that her eyes were the clear grey guiding stars to understanding. Did he really love her or did he merely think her a charming child who had won his affection? Jane fancied she would never know, and she knew she would never dare ask him. 'He knows I love him,' she told herself, and turned over in bed, prepared to drift into a relaxed sleep.

  Alas for her hopes! She was rudely shaken out of her pleasant drowsiness by the sound of horses' hooves briskly slapping the stone-flagged courtyard. This noise was followed by a long low whistle and then the drone of lowered voices.

  Jane darted out of bed and ran to the window. She was truly amazed at the sight which met her eyes. There, beneath her window, in the full moonlight, stood her father with the Duke of Northumberland and two oth
er men whose dark shapes she did not recognize, since their backs were turned to her.

  'They're planning some devilment,' Jane thought, leaning out a little farther in the hope that she might hear what they were saying.

  Suddenly one of the men glanced up towards the window and let out an angry exclamation. Jane sprang back in alarm.. She was certain she had been seen. Her hands were trembling and her feet were purple with cold. Shivering and very puzzled, she crept back to bed.

  Next morning, the Duke of Suffolk shot a sly glance at his eldest daughter as she took her place at breakfast.

  'You look tired, child,' he observed. 'Didn't you sleep well last night?'

  'No, I did not.'

  'Ha! Do you think I didn't see you, peeping and prying at your window?'

  'God's death, Father! If your visitors hadn't made such a row and wakened me, I would never have troubled to investigate,' returned Jane impatiently.

  The Duke's face was foxy as he said, 'And aren't you curious to know why they came at such an hour?'

  'Why should I be? They were obviously your visitors, not mine. It doesn't concern me.'

  'Ah, but it does. It concerns you deeply.' Suffolk paused, watching the effect of his words on Jane. She looked surprised but went on eating her bread and honey nonchalantly.

  'We were discussing a marriage between you and the Duke of Northumberland's son, Lord Guildford Dudley.'

  'Guildford Dudley!' Her face was as white as parchment. She stared incredulously at her father.

  'I see you are too moved to utter your gratitude,' continued Suffolk airily. 'But I understand, my child. The marriage is to take place as soon as possible and you'll begin preparations for the event as soon as the contract has been drawn up and signed.'

  Jane rose from the table and stood before him, quite regal in her defiance. 'I will not marry him,' she stated, her young face becoming very hard. She was determined to have her way in this matter and her father, noting the obstinate set of her jaw and the slant of her eyebrows, was suddenly reminded of Frances. 'I will not marry him,' she repeated. 'Firstly because I am precontracted to my Lord of Hertford and secondly because my heart is plighted elsewhere.'