Raven Queen

by Pauline Francis

  I will not make an exception now, I told myself. I will not.

  I knelt down to pray for Dudley’s soul.

  But as the roar of the crowd rolled around the hills like a summer storm, I got to my feet and rushed to the window. The axe glinted as it rose once, then twice, and the axeman held up the head.

  Dudley’s eyes would never dart up and down my body again. His nose would never sniff out power again. And his lips would never tell me again what to do.

  My fingers gripped the edge of the windowsill. “He has caused great misery to me and my family through his ambition,” I cried. “His life is odious to me. It was full of hypocrisy and so was his death for he gave up the new faith with his dying lips so that he might live another day.”

  Ellie scolded me.

  “Why should I not condemn my enemy?” I asked.

  “Walls have ears,” she whispered, “even if they are covered in tapestries.”

  My relief did not last long. Dismal thoughts came to plague me: Ned is with his Catholic Queen, drinking blood and eating flesh, and it repels me. He will no longer want me. His faith will plump out his feathers and he will preen and strut as they do.

  “Ned’s a faithful person!” Ellie said.

  “But you never liked him.”

  “Yes, I did, although I did not think your friendship was wise because of your father. But look where that’s brought you! And has your mother pleaded for you as she has pleaded for your father? No! I wash my hands of them all.”

  “Why does Ned not come to me?”

  “You’re a prisoner, my little one. Ned can’t ask for special favours. Have you forgotten what it is like out there? Tittle-tattle, plotting and power games, just as it was when Edward was King, and when you were Queen. Only the players have changed. Not the game.”

  I must see her.

  When we arrived in London, I was foolish enough to think that the Queen would let me see Jane. I did not allow myself to think that she had a husband, also in the Tower.

  Not only was I foolish, but I was naïve. I had forgotten that Mary was now the Queen of England. And soon she was no longer a bastard child. I was too young to remember the time when Henry the Eighth had divorced Mary’s mother to marry Anne Boleyn. But my father often spoke of Mary: how her parents’ marriage had been annulled; how she had been declared a bastard. Immediately after her coronation, soon after our arrival in London, Queen Mary’s first Parliament declared her parents’ marriage legal again.

  I am living at Whitehall Palace under the guidance of a man called John Feckenham. He is now the Dean of St. Paul’s and he will decide whether I am suited to the priesthood. I like him. He has a sensitive face, and his skin is grey around his neatly clipped beard – the skin of a man who has been shut away from the sun.

  The day we came by barge to Whitehall, the beauty of the palace took my breath away.

  “Whitehall Palace is not just a royal home, Ned,” Doctor Feckenham explained. “It is also the seat of government. It is like a small town. Anybody can walk in the public rooms and the gardens if they are well dressed and well behaved. But you must remember one thing: the Queen has to protect her privacy. The Lord Chamberlain has drawn up a strict list of rules. Anybody found in the wrong part of the palace will be punished.”

  Was he warning me? Was he reminding me not to ask for any favours?

  “Where does the Queen live?”

  “In rooms called ‘the secret places’. I can go there. You cannot.”

  The luxury of my life from that day on astounds me. Sometimes, as I lie on my bed gazing at the painted ceiling, the thought comes to me, Why did King Edward need to ruin my home when he had all this? Then I close my eyes and see my childhood bedchamber once more: the carved mantelpiece, the statue of the Virgin Mary to the right of it. I can smell the candle that always burned there.

  I am protected from the dirt and din of the London streets, although the smell of the Thames is always there to remind me that every stream that flows through the city brings its own share of filth. I rarely leave the palace, except to go to Mass at St. Paul’s Cathedral.

  Faith consoles me. As John Feckenham takes me under his wing, my passion for the priesthood returns and he sees it. I pour out my story to him. “I was born in a forest,” he says with a smile. “Feckenham Forest, in the county of Worcestershire. I am the last Catholic priest to be named after the place they were born.”

  I lose myself in the rapture of the Catholic Mass again and again. The pleasure of seeing the bread raised at the altar as Christ’s flesh is like water to a thirsty man wandering in the desert; the pleasure of my first confession for many years like being reborn.

  But underneath, there is a restlessness which I cannot contain.

  I must see her.

  Autumn fills me with gloom. It has blown in on a gale, stripping all the leaves. It is unbearable in London. No wood smoke scents the air, only the foul stench of coal watering my eyes, prickling my nose.

  We are walking in the gardens, John and I, the ones made of coloured gravel divided by green and white railings – the Tudor colours – and posts topped by heraldic beasts. Beyond, across the road called King Street, I can see men playing tennis.

  Feckenham walks me quickly, until we are alone. Then, for the first time, he asks me about Jane. Sometimes, as I talk, he places his hand on my arm and says, “It is not so terrible in the Tower. I hear that her gaoler is called Master Partridge and he and his wife care for her well.”

  I smile at the name. “It is the thought of her fear that I cannot bear,” I reply. “She does not know whether she will live or die. And she is afraid of a botched death. I wish I could see her.”

  “Do you love her more than God, Ned? Or do I have a future priest in front of me?”

  “I do not know,” I whisper. “It is more than six months since I saw her. Only two miles separate us, but we are in different worlds. And she is married – I keep forgetting.”

  He glances around and lowers his voice. “The Queen allows me to visit her. She hopes that Jane will turn back to the old faith.”

  “You are wasting your time, John.”

  “Perhaps, but we have become good friends. She is lonely and has enjoyed our discussions…”

  “…which are all about the bread and the wine!” I cut in.

  He nods. “Would you like to see her, Ned?”

  Happiness rises inside me, but I am suspicious. “Why would you risk such a thing for me? You are supposed to be persuading me to the priesthood!”

  “You have to be sure of your feelings.” He hesitates. “Be up early before dawn, Ned, and wait for me at the water steps. Cover yourself.”

  I lie awake all that night. I see Jane riding beside me, the wind showing the shape of her body; I see her glorious hair streaming behind her, her slender face alive with flashing eyes.

  Barges are already jostling for space on the river as dawn is breaking. I do not notice the journey, only that my hands are trembling so violently that I have to hide them under my cloak. I peer into the water, shocked by the look in my eyes. It matches the look I used to see in Jane’s.

  We reach the Tower. Under its walls lies an archway dripping water – Traitors’ Gate – where ravens blacken the sky above the rotting heads spiked there. The ravens always gather at the Gate to feast. They peck the soft parts first – the eyes and the lips. Then the nose. And soon the head is no longer human, just a grinning skull.

  One day my life might hang by a thread. For the first time, I truly realize the danger that Jane is in.

  She did not know that I was coming. She sits huddled by the window, dressed in dark grey, her shoulders slumped in a way I have never seen them. I notice that her thin cheek still bears the imprint of the leaded glass. Fine lines mark the corners of her eyes. She looks older, but not prettier. Her face is pinched by sadness.

  Her book slides to the floor as she sees me. She waits for me to speak, but I cannot find the words. I just sit at her fe
et and our shadows flicker and we could have been talking in the forest twilight. It gives me the courage to speak. “I have missed you.”

  It is enough. She holds me. “Where have you been?” She does not wait for my answer. “They have all deserted me, Ned. My mother, my father, Catherine, Ulmis, Bullinger. It is a strange thing, but all the Protestants I have known lately have shown themselves to be cruel. That is the hardest thing of all.” She stops suddenly, her eyes resting on my crucifix. “I am sorry. What my father did was wrong.”

  “It does not matter now.”

  “Your faith suits you, Ned. Look at me, all skin and bone and you...!” Her eyes fill with tears. “You will not want me now! I do not know what will happen to me, Ned. It is better that you forget me and become a priest.”

  I shake my head. “The Queen will not allow you to die, Jane. She is your cousin. And when you are free, we shall leave England.”

  “You need people of your own faith, Ned. I can feel your faith still burning like a fire inside you. Accept it as I accept mine. Do not deny God. He will not deny you.”

  “I am used to lying low in the shadows. I can do it again.”

  She leans forward and kisses me, a kiss like leaves fluttering against my skin. I kiss her back. “None of it matters, Jane, except my love for you. Statues, incense, prayer books, Bibles…they are all made by man.”

  The silence that follows is broken only by the sound of Ellie weeping quietly.

  Fear, deep and dark, engulfed me. Only Ellie’s arms stopped me from fainting to the floor.

  I am to stand trial for treason – with Guildford and his brothers. Not my father. He has already been pardoned and fined twenty thousand pounds.

  Following tradition, Guildford and I walked from the Tower to the Guildhall, he a few steps in front of me and in front of him, four hundred guards carrying halberds, that most cruel of weapons: half sword, half axe. So many men, and just for us. Ellie was not allowed to go with me and it was like leaving my shadow behind.

  I could not look ahead, for the Gentleman Warden of the Tower walked in front of us, his blade turned away from us in a symbolic gesture. And I could not look to the side, for people jeered and shook their fists and called out, “Traitors!” So I read from the Bible at my belt, but Guildford stumbled so often that he fell into line with me. He was almost crying.

  “This is my father’s fault,” he said.

  “And my father’s too!” I replied. I pushed him away from me. “Do not shame me by crying in public.”

  We pleaded guilty. We had no choice. After all, I had worn the crown of England, although against my will.

  Guildford gasped as the sentence was given. Hung, drawn and quartered.

  I stood still. Burning or beheading, whichever the Queen decides.

  As we walked back to the Tower, the executioner’s blade is turned towards us. When will it be? Today? Tomorrow? Next year? It will hang over me until… I shiver. A wind was blowing across the river catching the last leaves and they lay on the ground like pools of shining blood.

  This morning, the Queen summoned me to her Presence Chamber. It is many weeks since I have seen her and she has changed. I know already that she has decided to marry King Philip of Spain and unite two Catholic countries, but I do not know how much love has softened her.

  She tells me that she has decided at last: she will free Jane.

  “The trial was only for show,” she explains. “I had to prove to the people that their new Queen was made of stern stuff. Now they have forgotten all about it.”

  I tremble. “And Guildford?”

  “The marriage will be annulled.” She smiles. “You should have told me how you felt about my little cousin, Ned, not Doctor Feckenham. I would have understood.”

  I kneel and kiss her hand and thank her all muddled up together.

  “I think we have just lost a priest.” She laughs kindly. “But I am so happy that I want everybody to be happy.”

  “May I tell her, Your Grace?”

  She frowns and I take a deep breath as she replies, “Si, pequenito. Si.”

  Snow softens the winter bleakness as I arrive at the Tower. Everything is white, glinting in the frost, mingling earth with sky, silencing all sound.

  They have given us fifteen minutes together in the Queen’s garden. As I wait for the guards to bring her, I watch a raven huddling on the oak, half-hidden by a creeping mist. Snowflakes swirl around his head, sticking to his feathers, softening the branches even more.

  She is dressed in black, pearls at her neck, a hooded cloak. I swirl her round until my head is giddy. “You will have to wait for your paradise. Queen Mary has forgiven you!”

  Her frown deepens. “For what, Ned? A life with Guildford! I would rather die!”

  My heart turns over with love for her. “The Queen is annulling your marriage to Guildford. You will be free, Jane.”

  She stands still with shock. “So we shall both have what we want,” she whispers. “I shall be free of the Dudleys. You can be free in a Catholic England. Who would have thought it, Ned? God has finally answered our prayers.”

  A hissing like the sound of angry geese forces us to turn round and look up. High on the roof of the Beauchamp Tower stand the Dudley brothers, mingling with the ravens already perching there. Each wears the black of mourning like snow spattered feathers ruffled by the frosty wind.

  We turn our backs to them.

  The clock on the White Tower chimes once and the guards come to claim her. Jane clings to me. “When will they let me leave?”

  “Shush…do not think about that now. Soon.”

  “Where will I go?”

  “Across the sea! With me!”

  “Imagine not seeing any land! What if I am seasick?” She holds me once more. “I am nearer to my dreams of freedom than I have ever been, Ned. They will not slip away from me this time.”

  I kiss her. “No, I shall not let them. You shall live the life you want. Until I see you again, may God go with you.”

  “And with you,” she replies.

  They take her in. I stand there until the next chime, until the snow hides her footprints as if she has never been there.

  Whispers reached me through the January mists, through cracks in the walls, through gaps in the tapestries, forcing me to look across the river, hoping that the men I could see were the ghosts of my imagination and not Protestant plotters. There were many Protestants who did not want Mary on the throne of England. I had always feared they would rise against her and put me back on the throne.

  Now I faced my fear. Thomas Wyatt’s men, arrived from Kent to overthrow Mary, thronged the banks of the frozen Thames, unable to cross London Bridge because the Queen had ordered four houses in the centre to be destroyed.

  Some of the men tottered onto the ice, confident until they were half-across and it creaked and cracked, plunging them to the river bed, already ice-blue. The men behind them scrambled back to the bank. Then, with great weariness, they trudged away, towards Richmond, to another bridge.

  Worry furrowed Ellie’s face like a winter field. She knew my misery and had matched it with her own as she heard me weep, heard me tear at my skin with my nails.

  That evening, a single halo circled the moon. Always a sign of a storm, Ellie warned. The sky over the Tower deepened to orange and the ravens fell silent. All night long, hailstones drummed on the glass and the wind howled, and as soon as it was light, I ran to the oak tree. It was still standing proud and straight, but at its crown was a gaping hole. I fell to my knees on the muddy ground and wept.

  The raven made his way carefully through the debris. I held out my hand, hardly breathing, and it came to me, its feathers lustrous in the rain, its beak open to drink in the droplets.

  “Be off with you, devil bird!” The raven flew off and I looked up to see a tall man in the mist. I thought it was John Dudley’s ghost and in a sense it was, because Guildford loomed in front of me.

  “What do you want?” I a
sked.

  I did not know that he was capable of such anger. The words spilled from his bloodless lips like berries from the raven’s beak. “Innocent Lady Jane, misunderstood and badly treated, weeping in her tower for her loss of freedom, Lady Jane who never wanted to be Queen…” He stopped for breath. “Oh you are clever, My Lady, far cleverer than I am. You are on a par with my father. You are two of a kind. But you have put us both in danger now. I curse the Greys and the day I ever met them!” His anger astonished me. Then he cried, making no effort to wipe away his tears and they splattered to the ground.

  “What have I done, Guildford? Tell me!” I moved closer and I smelt his fear.

  “No! You tell me!” He spat in his rage.

  “I do not know what has happened, Guildford, and that is the truth. If you know, tell me, I beg you.”

  My words calmed him. “Your father is being brought to the Tower as a prisoner.” I steadied myself against the oak. “Whilst Wyatt was marching on our city gates, he was in Leicestershire – raising an army…to overthrow Queen Mary, along with Wyatt. He wanted to proclaim you Queen again.” His lips curved into a sneer. “You may as well lie down over that oak branch now and let them chop off your head.”

  I did not remember how long I stayed there, only that Ellie came to me and draped a cloak around my shoulders. “My father has betrayed me a second time,” I muttered. She rubbed my hands and feet, gave me hot milk and honey, pinched my cheeks to bring back the blood.

  But I was lifeless.

  I learned later that when he failed to raise an army, my father ran away and hid in a hollow tree where hunting dogs sniffed him out.

  He had truly lost his head. And now I could lose mine. Terror consumed me.

  “Soon my life will hang by a thread,” I whispered to Ellie. “How many blows of the axe will it take to kill me?”

  I cannot sleep for all the commotion. Cutting, sawing, hammering. There are gallows everywhere for Wyatt’s men, stark against the winter sky – even in the churchyards.