A crown in darkness : a novel about Lady Jane Grey

by Mullally, Margaret, 1954-

  Back in bed, she lay shivering. How complicated her life had become, how much more difficult than learning Greek or Arabic. And always there was death, leering at her through clouds of emptiness, smearing her happiest moments with fearful panic. She would grip the edge of the counterpane, and the bed would shake with her sobbing.

  Mistress Ellen decided that it was time to have a talk with Jane. She chose a moment when the girl was reading a play, for the other ladies were downstairs, playing cards.

  'You are doing the wrong thing, my Lady,' she scolded.

  'You have no love for him, yet you sell yourself to him.'

  'How can I sell myself when I get nothing in return?'

  'You know very well what I mean,' Mistress Ellen said crossly. 'You give yourself coldly to him, and you know it.'

  'Never coldly, Ellen,' Jane corrected her. 'There are times when I almost love him. Something has bound us together — a tragic adventure in which he was my partner. The heavy forces of circumstances. Few married people are in love, yet they sleep together. Always, always you forget that I am married to him.'

  'I don't forget it, but circumstances have changed. It's now deemed treason for you to go to bed with him.'

  'It's only treason for me to have a child but — but we are careful.'

  'Nonsense! You astound me, madam. You refuse to lie with him when it's perfectly legitimate for you to do so, and now, when it's dangerous, you give in to him. Why, my Lady?'

  Jane sat sullenly before her, polishing her wedding ring with her thumb. 'I suppose I want to defy the Queen. Yes, that's partly why. The rest I can't explain.'

  'Truly, madam, you surprise me. You're no better than a harlot and you should be ashamed.'

  'Ellen, I know I encourage my servants to speak frankly, but I fear you forget yourself. What happens between Lord Guildford and myself is not your concern.'

  Mistress Ellen knew when to retreat.

  That very day, Partridge came to her room and told her that the country was unsettled. The name of Lady Jane Grey was being spoken with more respect by the Protestants. The Queen had commanded more rigid security in the Tower.

  'Does that mean that I can't meet my husband any more?' Jane asked.

  'I'm afraid so, madam. It would be too dangerous.' His broad, kind face was puckered with anxious sympathy.

  'It's all right. Master Partridge. I understand,' Jane said softly.

  The political unrest cooled down a little and Mary saw fit to send her Lord Chancellor on an errand to the Tower. Jane's heart sank at the sight of him, for she was convinced that this flabby, disdainful papist could never be the bearer of glad tidings. They viewed each other with mutual dislike.

  'Lady Jane, I hope I find you in good health,' Gardiner said pompously.

  'I am as well as can be expected,' Jane flung back pertly.

  He raised a shaggy eyebrow. 'Madam, your impertinence doesn't become you in the least. I will state my business briefly. Her Majesty, the Queen, wishes to interview you at Whitehall tomorrow night. She agrees with me that the meeting must be conducted with the utmost secrecy. Therefore, you will kindly refrain from shouting the news left, right and centre.'

  'I'm not in the habit of publishing my affairs abroad.'

  'A discreet female?' The square yellow face under the Bishop's hat was twisted with a wry smile. He coughed into his sleeve. 'A barge will be waiting for you at the Watergate at midnight. Sir John Bridges will see that you are prompt. Good day, madam.' He plodded away in a whirl of flapping robes.

  Jane stared dismally after him. Weak with excitement, she fell limply into a chair. Lady Throckmorton brought her a cup of malmsey.

  'Oh, my Lady.' Mistress Ellen emerged from her quiet refuge by the door. 'Oh, my Lady, this could mean freedom for you both.'

  'I hope so, Ellen.'

  'What should she say to Mary? And what would Mary say to her? she wondered. Oh, what a turmoil her life was in! But she would somehow try to face Mary frankly and fearlessly, stumble over every block of trickery. She would do it because she must.

  The palace of Whitehall slept in dark unconcern on that bleak night in December. In one window only did candles burn and at that window Queen Mary of England sat, staring mournfully at the unstarred blackness of the sky, twisting her hands in her lap. Elizabeth, sensing her insecurity, had recently left the Court and the Queen was tormented with suspicions concerning that young woman's behaviour. Elizabeth, child of Anne the harlot, was trusted by no one and she, in her turn, had the wit to trust no one. It must be a most unhappy situation, thought Mary, whose chief trouble was that she was too willing to place her trust in the wrong people, but it seemed not to upset Elizabeth.

  'Don't ask me why!' she cried, her voice strangled by a sob. 'I only know that if my conscience is to find rest, I must see her and, if need be, hear of her guilt from her own lips.'

  'As Your Majesty wishes,' Stephen Gardiner said frigidly. 'Do you want me to leave you or would you prefer me to stay?'

  'I'd rather you stayed. You can hide behind the hangings,' whispered Mary. 'Perhaps,' she added, 'perhaps God will help me to make my decision. He has always guided the hearts of those who sincerely sought His assistance.'

  Somebody scratched earnestly at the door. The Queen paled visibly and nodded to Gardiner, who darted behind the arras. The slim, masked and cloaked figure who was ushered into the chapel-like room was almost unrecognizable. Her hair was strained back beneath a beaded hood, and her mouth was a slash of ivory beneath the subtle black mask. Only the lovely grey eyes, huge and glittering with fear through the slits in her mask, proclaimed her as Lady Jane Grey.

  Mary motioned her to remove the mask and cloak. She did not intend to let the girl hide behind their secure blackness. Lady Jane Dormer, Mary's most trusted lady-in-waiting, stepped out from behind the door to assist the prisoner. For a moment, Jane Grey was dazed, startled by the sudden appearance of this old enemy. Dislike was apparent on her face. It wasn't fair of Mary to spring so many surprises on her when her nerves were so raw.

  She knelt before the Queen and waited for her to speak. She tried to compose her features into demure lines, but her heart was thudding with terror, and Mary's suspicious eyes were trying to bore tiny holes into her mind. She had carefully rehearsed what she should say, but naturally she must wait for the Queen to speak. Why didn't she speak?

  Thank you, Jane, you may leave us,' said Mary, stretching her lips into a smile as she fondly regarded Lady Dormer.

  Jane Dormer curtsied dutifully and retired to an antechamber, to listen at the door.

  Mary Tudor studied the young white face before her and was grimly satisfied to note that there was no wilfulness apparent there now. Imprisonment must have subdued her pertness and her pride.

  'So,' she said at length, 'you have just come from the Tower.'

  'Yes, Your Majesty,' Jane answered meekly. 'By your clemency that is so.'

  'Don't speak too soon of clemency, for you are not yet free.' Mary's face clouded with craftiness. 'You will never be free, cousin, unless you can convince me that you wish me no ill, nor ever have.'

  The prisoner stiffened warily. She, who was usually so fearless and outspoken, felt her bold spirit quake before this vindictive woman. Every nerve was strained with fear and, underlying fear, a hurtful sense of shame. She opened her mouth in an effort to defend herself, but Mary icily waved her into silence.

  'I will hear your account of the foul plot that was carried out almost successfully last summer, and the part that you played in it.'

  'I have already explained what happened in a letter to Your Majesty,' Jane reminded her.

  'Nevertheless, I'll hear it now. It's far easier to be glib when hiding behind a quill and ink, but, face to face with a person, I know if they are lying.'

  'And what would Your Majesty have me tell you?' Jane wanted to know. 'I believe I gave all the information that was available.'

  'I would like to know what possible explanation you can ha
ve for your disgraceful behaviour. You, who are proclaimed as a glowing candle of intelligence and integrity, have proved yourself a false traitor and I wish to know why. I can't believe that you are really wicked.'

  Jane glanced up cautiously at the Queen. Behind the harsh, drawn features, she saw years of heartache and suffering. It was little comfort to know that she had helped to add to this unhappy woman's troubles. She felt a blinding rush of guilt. She could have stood out against Northumberland and his ruthless schemes. But, screamed her reason, what would that have achieved? I've never wanted to be a martyr, and I'm too selfish to die for a woman I dislike. It would have been sheer hypocrisy. But she could have done it.

  All the delicately prepared words were lost in the cold mist that had settled over her brain and she fumbled about for them, fruitlessly, blind. She tried to speak, to explain to Mary why she had done it and what her position had been, but the broken words that tumbled from her poor, shivering lips were incoherent.

  'Then,' Mary said, 'perhaps you can explain this.' She lifted a paper from her table. It was crumpled from much handling, and Jane started as it was thrust under her nose. Jane was aghast. It was the very document that she herself had signed on that fatal night last summer, when Northumberland's cold, uncompromising sword was at her throat. It was the vulgar and insulting document, arrogantly signed by 'Jane the Queen', which called Mary and Elizabeth bastards in no uncertain terms. The words sprang up accusingly before her eyes.

  'The feigned and untrue claim of the Lady Mary, bastard daughter to our great-uncle, Henry the Eighth, of famous memory!

  'And forasmuch as the said limitation of the Imperial Crown of this Realm, being limited as is aforesaid to the Lady Mary and the said Lady Elizabeth, being illegitimate the marriage between the said Henry the Eighth and the Lady Katherine, mother to the said Lady Mary, and also the marriage between the said Henry the Eighth and the Lady Anne, mother to the said Elizabeth...the Ladies Mary and Elizabeth are to all intents and purposes divested to claim or challenge said Imperial Crown or any other honours ...'

  'Can you deny that you were an active participant in Northumberland's plot? Can you deny that this treacherous paper bears your signature? Can you deny it?' Mary cried, and to Jane's dismay, she burst into tears. Loud, agonized, frustrated sobs came tearing from her bruised heart.

  Gardiner, intently eavesdropping behind the tapestry, began to quiver with rage and disgust. How dare the Queen so far forget her dignity as to debase herself like this, and in the company of the pale-faced scholar who was, assuredly, her deadliest enemy. 'All women,' he vowed, 'are fools.'

  But in spite of their many differences Jane could feel some pity for Mary. How humiliating for her to weep before someone she loathed!

  Mary, choking back her sobs, lifted puffy red eyes that bore not the faintest trace of forgiveness. 'Because of you, my Kingdom is threatened,' she hissed venomously. 'While you live, all hope of guiding my country back to the harbour of Rome must lie dormant.'

  'I think you are being unfair,' Jane blurted out, thoughtlessly.

  'And what right have you to question the Queen's justice, my Lady Jane?'

  'It isn't so very long ago since you were forced to sign a paper against your personal judgement.' The girl paused, biting her Up, trembling at the enormity of her daring. Then, overcome with horror at her own rashness, she wanted to burst into terrified sobs but she could not, would not, cry before Mary, for to do so would be to lay herself open to the Tudor cruelty.

  'Pray continue,' Mary ordered frostily.

  'Well, you were forced to agree that your father acted correctly when he divorced your mother and married Anne Boleyn,' gabbled Jane, not daring to think. 'You agreed that he was Head of the Church and that you yourself were illegitimate. Has Your Majesty forgotten that? You were young and you had no wish to die. I also wanted to live.'

  Mary was quite stunned by the girl's impertinence. Her next impulse was to roar thunderously at the brazen creature who, not content with snatching her throne away from under her very nose, now took it upon herself to upbraid her for that youthful folly which had always been on her conscience. But Mary was basically an honest woman, a just woman, and she had a weakness for honesty in others.

  'If I had forgotten that I was considered illegitimate by some,' she said, 'you took great pains to remind me and I dare say you expect gratitude.'

  'No,' Jane murmured. 'I know how greatly I have offended Your Majesty but I had hoped that the bitterness of your own experiences might have caused you to spare a little sympathy for mine.'

  'I preserve my sympathy for those who deserve it and you are not listed among that chosen few.'

  Jane had nothing to say to this.

  'Have you anything else to say for yourself?' Mary demanded.

  'Only that I crave Your Majesty's pardon most sincerely and though I deserve no mercy for having signed myself Queen, I beg that you will pardon my Lord husband, for he is innocent.'

  'His judges found him guilty.' Mary's face tightened. 'God knows, I've no desire to send an innocent young man to his death but you, cousin, are little inducement to mercy. Surely you must see that?'

  'I see that Your Grace bears an ancient grievance against me,' retorted Jane, with a startling glimmer of her old spirit. All humility had deserted her. Her great eyes were naked and tortured.

  'You were always insolent and defiant, even as a child. I tried to tell myself that you were not to blame, that it was your parents who influenced you, or that Protestant tutor of yours, who at the moment is so artfully dodging the heretic hunters.'

  'He means no harm,' cried Jane, a swift blaze of fear for Aylmer blotting out all panic for herself and for Guildford. Would Mary punish him? Not death, she prayed. Not that for Aylmer.

  Mary looked suddenly wan and defeated, drained of all desire to live and fight her Godly battles.

  And Jane, looking into the lined, tired face before her, saw not the Queen but a cruelly ill-used, disappointed creature whom life and laughter had passed unconcernedly by. She saw the weary and battered result of a tragic, brave, obstinate adolescence and a deprived womanhood.

  Tom by pity and remorse, Jane bent her head and let the tears she had withheld so long flow. Her hood fell back, revealing the glossy, Tudor gold hair. In that hour, Jane was stripped of the last shreds of proud restraint. But Mary the Queen, baffled and suspicious, could not credit her cousin with unselfish motives. The girl was playing for royal sympathy.

  There'll be no sympathy from me,' thought Mary dismally. 'She hasn't only sinned against me, she has sinned against God, and that I can never forgive.'

  'Once,' the Queen said huskily, 'once I gave you a gown of cloth of gold. You never wore it.'

  'There's no need to ferret into my past to find an excuse for putting me to death,' Jane cried, stung to mad fury. 'The fact that I once deprived you of the orb and sceptre has been thought sufficient by your Council, most of whom are far more treacherous than I have ever been, so please don't concern yourself or disturb your conscience on my behalf.'

  The frank, impulsive words, so characteristic of Jane, had been uttered, and no force on earth could unsay them now. Realizing too late the damage she had done, she clapped her hand over her mouth in horror, yet somewhere in the depths of her soul, she felt a fierce burning of triumph. With distorted amusement, Mary had bullied her, baited her, tossed her life about heedlessly, only to cast her down into hopelessness again. She had gladdened her heart with hope and then snatched that hope away again. But what Jane had said was true and those bold, stinging words, cruel and taunting as they were, would haunt Mary down the years. They would burn into her ears and, though Jane might die for her taunts, she would have the power to mock Mary Tudor even when she lay cold in her grave.

  The Queen's face was contorted with rage. There was real venom in her eyes, and Jane winced before it. Her whisper was more terrible than her fear, for it made Jane think of a deadly snake.

  'For years I ha
ve borne your pert, uncharitable behaviour, thinking that your courage would eventually triumph over your audacity and make you a great and noble lady. I was wrong. You are not brave, for rudeness comes as naturally to you as breathing, and you have no honour. You came here tonight in the hope that you could cajole me into sparing you from the block, and you shielded behind the excuse of your husband. But your heroic sentiments didn't fool me. Lady Dudley. You don't give a fig what becomes of him so long as you go free. They tell me that when you were flaunting through London, masquerading as a Queen, he couldn't hide his love for you but you went out of your way to hurt him, with your false virginal airs. I know you to be no virgin, madam.'

  Jane swayed slightly with horror, wondering if Mary knew about the meetings with Guildford. She became certain of this as Mary's searching gaze swept over her figure, looking for signs of pregnancy.

  'Truly, madam, I'm not as black as you paint me,' she answered very quietly.

  'I say you are no virgin!' Mary shrilled, her cheeks purple, her eyes bulging. In that moment, she looked like an insane creature. Jane struggled against the nausea that suddenly rose inside her.

  The mad moment passed. Mary, convinced that nothing could come of Jane's remaining there, proceeded to ring the small, pear-shaped bell that stood on a nearby trestle table.

  Take my Lady Jane back to the Tower,' she cried, as the guards re-entered. 'I see that reasoning is too good for her.'

  But Jane was not yet through. She had another shaft to fling. Curtseying serenely, she spoke again to Mary, her voice low, yet startlingly clear.

  'Madam, even my death will not win you back the love of your people. There are many who hate you and, before you leave this world, their number will have increased chaotically. I wish you good health and a long reign, for I have no hate for you. Indeed, I pity you. I'd rather die a million deaths than stand in your shoes.'

  'Even you would be hard put to enjoy dying a million times,' sneered Mary.