'There are rumours concerning the Princess Elizabeth and Courtenay,' went on Renard. 'They say that those two plan to wed and, inevitably, seize the throne. They'll guide this country back to heresy.'
'That must never happen.' Mary was suitably horrified.
Slipping a sly look at her, the Ambassador continued; 'Your Majesty's troubles would be lessened considerably if you would only send that little usurper to the block.'
'You don't mean the Lady Jane Dudley — or Lady Grey, as I understand she prefers to be called.'
'I mean no other. Your Majesty.'
'But she's only a girl — less than half my age, too young a girl to die. And she's so clever.'
'She is a danger to the Crown and to Your Majesty's most precious person.' Renard brought his face closer to hers so suddenly that Mary sprang back in alarm. 'Her father, whom you have freed, will strike again. The Protestants would eagerly join forces with him, could he afford to bribe them. But I understand he lost a lot through the Lady Jane's downfall and he has always been a poor landowner. The man is a fool.'
'More foolish than vicious.'
'Forgive me for contradicting but Your Majesty is wrong. He is vicious and dangerous and the girl is just the same.'
'Jane isn't vicious. Stubborn she may be, but she has the kindest of hearts, even if she doesn't always show it. Why, my brother Edward loved her more than he loved anyone else. He used to call her "my Jane". I think there is something enchanting about childhood sweethearts.'
'Your Majesty knows best,' the Ambassador said frostily.
Mary burst into tears and laid her aching head on the table. 'I — I apologize. I didn't mean to be difficult. It's just that everything is so complicated and unpleasant and I don't know how to cope.'
Renard turned away from her, clenching his fists. God preserve him from these emotional women!
'Have I Your Majesty's gracious permission to retire?' he asked wearily.
'My permission is granted.'
Miserably, she watched him leave the bare little room that was so like a chapel. She was always unhappy when he was displeased with her. Her day was perfect if he so much as nodded his approval. Tortured by doubts, Mary sent for her sister.
'Why haven't you attended Mass yet?' she demanded, before Elizabeth had crossed the threshold.
'I have been unwell, madam.'
'A most accommodating reply. You are always unwell when it's convenient for you to be.'
Mary settled herself more comfortably in the exquisitely carved chair that had been given as a present to her mother from one of the Ambassadors. She always tried not to be too severe with her half-sister, but Elizabeth's cool sophistication irritated her. She felt at a disadvantage because it was impossible to guess what she was thinking.
Worst of all, Mary was wracked with sharp, bitter envy, though she strove to keep it under control. She envied Elizabeth her gaiety and flirtatiousness. She envied Jane Grey her serenity and spirit. And, what was harder to bear, both these girls were in the full flush of youth. Mary's youth had been squandered on tears and prayers and longing for the past; a series of hardships and nervous ailments. It had left her morose and bitter, her exhausting piety her one comfort. It had warped her judgement prematurely. She was aware of a perverse desire to destroy the youth of Elizabeth and Jane, as her own youth had been destroyed.
As a little girl, Mary had been the spoiled darling of the English Court. Her parents loved her and treasured her all the more because she was the one child who had survived their luckless mating, and she loved them. Her father, that ruddy, glittering giant, would carry her about in his arms, showing her off to important visitors. 'This girl never cries,' he declared, proudly tweaking off her cap so that her rich hair cascaded down her back. Yes, she had been happy then, until a slim young lady with great black eyes claimed her father's attention, and he became estranged from his wife and daughter.
Mary hadn't always hated Anne Boleyn. The lady was witty and lively, ready to play games with a lonely little girl. Of course, she wasn't a real lady, like Mary's own mother, but she was great fun and could invent the most exciting games. But soon she became the Queen's greatest enemy, and she hounded that unhappy lady from throne and palace with a ruthless cruelty that chilled Mary's blood.
'Mary shall act as maid to my child,' Anne had said boastfully when the little Elizabeth was born. 'She shall bend the knee to her and all shall know that she is the bastard and Elizabeth the future Queen of England.'
Mary would never forget the hated indignity of being under the same roof as her exalted baby sister; of being banished to her room when her father visited the younger child.
She hated Elizabeth, hated and envied her, because she had supplanted her, Mary, in the King's affection. But how she pitied the child when her mother was executed, and she couldn't understand her sudden disgrace.
'Why is it that yesterday I was the Lady Princess and today only the Lady Elizabeth?' the bright little girl had demanded of the Governor of her household.
The Governor had made no reply.
Mary naturally found some satisfaction in her sister's downfall and she could not find it in her heart to accept Anne Boleyn's plea for forgiveness. She could never forgive those smarting insults, and she would always hate Anne, even though the woman lay cold and headless in the grave and could no longer hurt her. But she tried to be kind to Anne's little daughter. Over the years, she had done her best to be kind to Elizabeth, but she could never love her. There were too many memories and Mary set great store by her memories.
It always seemed to Mary that Anne Boleyn looked scornfully from her child's eyes. She saw it now as Elizabeth stood before her, silent and watchful, like a cat.
'When,' she enquired harshly, 'may I expect to see you at Mass?'
'As soon as Your Majesty feels sufficiently fortified to endure my exceedingly dull company.'
Cautious though Elizabeth habitually was, she could not resist teasing her middle-aged half-sister a little. She lowered her eyes so that Mary could not see the malice dancing in them.
Mary decided to pass over the rather baffling reply. She rounded on to another track.
'Displeasing rumours are in circulation. They concern Edward Courtenay and yourself.'
Elizabeth blushed hotly at that. 'I haven't heard them,' she protested.
'Your complexion has become a delicate shade of pink. I'm going to give you some sound advice, my girl. If you are wise, you will not marry Courtenay.'
'I have no intention of doing so,' Elizabeth flared, her patient restraint on the wane.
'Lying in wait for better things?' Mary smiled grimly. 'Our cousin Jane is a tragic example of unsuitable marriage. You should learn from her mistakes — though how long that girl is to live, I can't say.'
Elizabeth was silent, uneasy.
'And you,' went on Mary, cutting Elizabeth, with the cold, relentless lash of her voice. 'You who are suspected of being a heretic — who can say how long you will live?'
Very frightened now, Elizabeth fell to her knees and cried, 'May the earth open and swallow me up if I'm not a true Catholic.'
Mary waited, eyeing her floor nervously. When nothing happened she heaved a long sigh and waved Elizabeth out of her presence.
Jane was white with terror as she stood before her judges in the Guildhall on that bleak November day. She gazed along the line of peers. Pembroke, Arundel, Shrewsbury, Rich, Huntingdon and Darcy. Gardiner and Paget sat on either side of Norfolk, the Lord High Steward. Nine of them altogether! And nine was her unlucky number. Her case was hopeless and the trial a cynical farce to cast a flimsy veil of justice over the fate they had all planned for her. These men had already agreed to find her guilty, especially Gardiner, who hated her, and who carried more influence with the Queen than any other minister.
Sitting at the bar with her husband and Robert, her brother-in-law, Jane somehow seemed apart from the rest of them — innocent and unspeakably sad in her black cloth gown,
her hair hidden beneath a French-styled coif. The black, instead of making her look older and more sophisticated, merely called attention to her youthfulness.
Silently, she listened to Guildford as he argued with the judges and reluctantly she found herself smiling at his impertinence.
'I confess,' said Guildford, with unashamed arrogance, 'that I have offended the Queen's Majesty, but since my late father acted by the authority of the King and his Council, can you honestly call that treason?'
'We can, without a doubt,' rejoined Norfolk, in chilly tones.
'In which case His Majesty, King Edward, was guilty of treason. Aren't you rather distorting justice, my earnest Lords?'
'King Edward was only a sick boy, and obviously browbeaten by those who should have known better. Yes, Lord Guildford, I refer to your father.'
'But many of the judges here present gave my father their support,' Robert pointed out.
'Oh come, my Lord, this won't do.'
Robert was found guilty and sentenced to death. As he was led from the hall, a woman cried, 'The son of the rogue who slayed the good Duke of Somerset is condemned.' Others took up her cry of rejoicing but some of the spectators felt a twinge of pity for the handsome, careless Robert Dudley.
And now Jane was being tried for her life.
'Do you confess that you. Lady Jane Grey, being the third claimant to the throne after the late Edward the Sixth, did wrongfully take the crown from our gracious sovereign lady, Queen Mary?' Norfolk fired the question.
'I admit that I usurped the throne,' Jane answered truthfully. 'But I did so under great pressure. It has never been my desire to rise above my station, which has always been most satisfactory.'
'That we should listen to such hypocrisy from you,' Arundel marvelled. 'You who are nothing but an upstart, an arrogant usurper, a dark threat to this realm.'
'How dare you insult me! I was forced to be Queen.'
'And did you not sign yourself "Jane the Queen"? Did you not permit others to refer to you as "Jane Regina"?'
'I did not want to be Queen!' Jane cried. 'They threatened me. It isn't fair. It isn't fair!'
Tears welled into her eyes. She lowered her head and wept, for a brief moment unashamed, because she was only sixteen and she wanted to live. Could her cousin Mary really be so pitiless? But then, it wasn't Mary who really wanted to kill her. It was the self-seeking men who surrounded her and whispered poison into her ear.
'Drama will not help your case, madam.' There had been a smirk on Arundel's face when Jane had wept quietly all through the reading of the letter which Northumberland had sent to Mary from the Tower last summer.
'The story of my short reign is a drama,' Jane said, becoming disdainful. 'And you, I recall, played a prominent part in it. You were among those who bullied and nagged me, who swore to defend me, to fight for my cause and, if need be, shed your blood in the dust for me. Well, you betrayed your noble vows. You are incapable of honesty. You, my Lord, who paid homage to me crawled on your belly to Queen Mary when it was convenient to do so and I won't be tried by a man who had twice been a traitor.'
She heard them draw in their breath. For a brief second, she thought she saw Arundel turn white with shock, but his face closed and his old eyes steeled against her.
'My Lady Jane, you are not here to judge me. Rather am I to judge you, if you'll permit me to do so.'
His voice, nasal and contemptuous, scraped her senses as the trial dragged on throughout the rest of that afternoon. Outside, the pale sunlight slowly petered away and the crowds, bored by the slow pomposity of the proceedings, melted back to their homes. Only the idle and the most interested stayed to learn the outcome. Few wished the young usurper well.
Jane infused all that was spirited in her into her fight for life. She had always fought, although she had often been defeated by the multitudes. She knew she was clever and had enough force of character to improve her life, if only it wasn't snatched away from her so soon.
She wanted to live. At that moment, she didn't particularly care what became of Guildford and Cranmer. Nothing mattered but that she should go free. She would go home to Bradgate.
Now the peers were prevaricating. The sentences had been determined, but the men were debating the manner in which they were to be passed.
Guildford was pronounced guilty. He heard his sentence without flinching, an amused little smile playing on his lips. And now ...
'Guilty by my faith,' declared the first peer, striking his chest and regarding the prisoner solemnly.
Dizzily, Jane grasped the bar, as she was sentenced to die by the axe at the Queen's pleasure. She tried to scream 'NO', but the scream was a feeble whisper. Her body felt wet and cold, and there was a loud ringing noise in her ears. She must not faint here! Not here.
Somebody laid a warm, encouraging hand over her quivering one. Through a sick, dazed mist she saw Guildford smiling down at her. As always, contact with him steadied her cracking nerves and somehow she smiled back at him.
Jane hated herself for having cared so little whether or not he lived. They had risen together. Now they must fall together. Taking courage from her husband, Jane turned to her judges. She saw at a glance that they were licking their lips, waiting for her to faint or weepily protest. She jerked her chin high and forced her words to come with dignity.
'I am relieved, for though I'm only a girl, I'm weary of a life that offers nothing but pain. I did not expect justice at your hands, my Lords, and neither did I receive it. I thank you most kindly for the patience with which you appeared to judge my case, and wish you a good afternoon.'
Having left the Guildhall, Jane was forced to walk in a humiliating procession through the streets, while crowds of people gathered to stare at her. Some people jeered but, for all the attention Jane paid them, they might not have been there.
One of the officials carried the axe, as such a ceremony demanded. The gleaming blade was turned towards her, but even this didn't appear to disturb her.
She was transported down the river in a heavily guarded barge. Shivering still with fright and dismay, she stared at the rippling grey water remembering how, in happier times, she used to dawdle along this very river, though in a much grander barge, eating fruit dabbed in wine and reading poetry with her friends. She drew her thoughts up sharply. What use had she for her memories now?
When they made her enter the Tower through the Traitors Gate, she swooned, and when she came to, the Earl of Sussex was patting her wrists and her gown had been loosened.
'You fainted, madam,' he said, in answer to her astonished expression. 'Here drink this.'
He held a flagon of wine to her lips. Jane sipped obediently, and slowly a rich glow warmed her, even though her legs still trembled and his voice sounded far away.
Mistress Ellen was waiting for her in her bedroom. Jane, still feeling giddy, stumbled thankfully into her arms and began to cry. 'I have to die, Ellen,' she screamed, clinging to her nurse as if she were the one solid thing left in a nebulous world. 'They are going to cut off my head.'
Mistress Ellen and Nan put her to bed.
'It was awful,' gulped Jane, when she was feeling a little calmer. 'They were all against me, I didn't have a chance. And then I had to walk through the streets, and the women publicly branded me as a criminal of the lowest order, while men ogled me as if I were a prostitute to be sampled whenever it pleased them.'
Jane could not sleep that night. She knew, now, that her old nightmare was symbolic.
After death, would her forlorn ghost return to Bradgate Manor in search of the head that was soon to be severed from her shoulders? And would she find that the oak trees in the stately groves had been beheaded, as she so often had in the dream?
But why should anyone want to harm her beloved trees?
Perhaps the gardeners at Bradgate, who all loved her, would be so grief-stricken when they heard of her execution, that they'd strike the heads from the trees, just for revenge.
Revenge
! It was what everyone seemed to want. Well, Mary would have her sweet revenge when Jane's learned head rolled in the straw. But it would never make her happy.
Chapter 16
Life in the Tower was not really unpleasant for Jane. Master Partridge had fallen victim to the charm of his illustrious prisoner. Her tender years aroused his pity, and he was deeply moved by the dignity with which she bore her trials. As for Jane, she was grateful to him for his tolerance and the gentle respect he accorded her. In no time at all, they were fast friends.
Suffering had left its mark on Jane. The tartness of the past few years was rarely in evidence those days. She was gentle, subdued, attentive to her servants. There now lingered about her an air of fragility which many people thought beautiful. Unobtrusively, she moved through those uncertain weeks, reading, writing, praying, giving what she could of herself and breathing the scent of life's restored value.
'She is more like a Queen now than ever she was during her reign,' Partridge reported.
But there was nothing queenly about the vehement, reproachful letter she wrote to Harding, the tutor of her very early years. Under Edward VI, Harding had been a stalwart Catholic hater, a leading Reformer who had strongly influenced the child Jane, but now that Mary had mounted the throne, he was anxious to prove himself a staunch Catholic, and even went as far as to denounce his former pupil.
Enraged by this hypocrisy, infuriated by the insulting things that Harding had written about her, Jane's angry quill raced across the paper, stabbing out insults, such as 'deformed imp of the devil', 'sink of sin' and 'white-livered milksop' at the unabashed turncoat. She discovered that she had a passion for releasing her emotions in ink.
Still, for the most part, Jane was quite serene. She knew that she could fare worse and there could be no kinder gaoler than Partridge. Sir John Bridges also treated her with as much respect as he dared.
A crown in darkness : a novel about Lady Jane Grey Page 25