If only Edward could have held on just a little longer, just another year or so, in spite of Cardano’s predictions. But now, even if he lived into the autumn, it would still not be enough time. Edward was aware of the stories about how his father had moved heaven and earth to avoid a female succession. And now Edward was faced with the same dilemma. It had taken much persuasion, but Dudley had finally convinced the king that if a female succession to the throne there must be, then Jane was the only viable choice. No longer could Edward’s device say that the crown was to go to Jane’s male heirs; time had run out, and the throne must now go to Jane herself. Jane…virtuous, learned, unquestionably legitimate, Protestant; and above all, Dudley’s own daughter-in-law! She would be nothing more than a royal cipher for himself. No longer would he be merely Lord President of the Council; no, he would be Regent of England! He would be the ruler of England, king in all but name, until the son, his grandson, that Jane produced, came of age. Yes…that would suit him very well! Not only had he won all the battles, he had won the war. It was simply a matter of time.
But for all this to happen, Edward must die; the thought still had the power to grieve him sorely. There was nothing for it, then. Dudley heaved a ragged sigh. “I will summon the Council and the judges of the courts.”
# # #
The stench of the room and the noxious odor of corruption that emanated from the king’s person were at first overwhelming to those not accustomed to them. Dudley rarely left the king’s bedside, and so he was inured; much of the business of the monarchy was conducted there, and so the Council was used to it, if not hardened to it. But Sir Edward Montague, Chief Justice of the realm, and Sir John Gosnold, the lawyer that Edward had chosen to make his will, were looking very pale and green indeed, and held their sleeves to their noses.
To the unpleasant reek of the chamber was added the shock of Edward’s appearance. He had been such a beautiful child, and then a handsome boy; it was difficult to believe that this wan, scabrous, bone-thin creature was the fine-looking youth of just a few months earlier. The point had been driven home to Dudley when, at the insistence of the Council and to quell the rumors that the king was already dead, Edward had, the morning after his bread-and-bacon breakfast, appeared at the window of his chambers to show himself to the people who sat vigil outside the palace. The shock and disbelief on their faces at the sight of their king had likely done more harm than the good the defeat of the rumors of his death had done.
When all were assembled and standing around the king’s bed, Edward waved a tired hand at Dudley, signaling him to begin.
“My lords,” said Dudley. “The king has drafted a document that must be ratified by the Council and used to draw up his will. It is vital that the contents of this document remain a close secret…for now. The document lies on yon table. You may read it there, but you must not remove it from this room.”
Lord Montague, the Chief Justice of the realm, was nearing seventy, a great age; but he was still upright and slender, and his iron-gray hair was thick and luxurious. He loved his king; tears welled in his eyes at the thought of the boy’s death and at so young an age. But even more than that, the thought of defying the king’s last wishes was heartbreaking. He cleared his throat. “My lord,” he said. “I am sorry, but the king cannot make a will.”
Dudley’s eyes grew large and seemed to bulge from his head. “What say you? Cannot? Cannot? Would you defy your king?”
Lord Montague knew of Dudley’s tempers and rages; he had no wish to be the target of one of them. But the law was the law; was that not why he had been summoned?
Montague turned to the king. “Your Grace,” he said, bowing. “Have you perhaps forgotten that you are still a minor? King or no, a minor cannot make a valid will. I am sorry.”
Before Edward could answer, Dudley exploded in anger. “God’s eyeballs, man! Get you over to that table and read the king’s document, and let us hear no more of minors and what cannot be done! Go, all of you!”
Lord Montague remained impassive and nodded to the men of the Council. It was best to do as they were bid for the moment; they would meet later and discuss the situation, and what to do about it.
Dudley sat beside the king, waiting for the men to read and absorb Edward’s Device For the Succession. Opposition already! Was everything going to go wrong now, after going right for so long? The Device must be made into the king’s will, and the king’s will must be carried out to the letter. There was no other way. By hook or by crook, these men should be made to see that and agree.
Indeed, what was the alternative? Must he point it out to them? Surely at least the men of the Council knew that when Edward died…it was no longer if, merely a matter of when…that they would all face a day of reckoning? What vengeance would a Tudor queen wreak on the men who had maltreated and abused her so, exploited her brother, and enriched themselves with titles, lands, and money at the expense of crown and country? For that was how Mary Tudor would see it. He should have put her in the Tower when he had the chance! It would have meant calling the emperor’s bluff, but in retrospect, he could not help but feel that he ought to have taken the risk. And even if their own personal safety was at risk should Mary ascend the throne, again he had to ask himself, what of England? The religious settlement undone, himself and the Council undone, were as nothing compared to laying England open to Hapsburg domination. It was almost certain that Mary would marry a foreigner to consolidate her position; she was sure to marry the emperor’s nephew, or his son, the moment she came to the throne. Jane was already married to an Englishman. Mary had taken no decision, indeed had taken no other advice for years, save that of her foreign cousin. There was no reason to believe that she would do any differently should she become Queen of England.
When the men had read the document, they returned to the king’s bedside, grey-faced and grim. It was far worse than they had been led to believe. Murmuring amongst themselves around the table where the document lay, they had agreed that no man on the Council should take up the argument; it was best for the men of law to do so. Lord Montague, as the Chief Justice, agreed to represent them all. It was evident that the Duke of Northumberland was not open to suggestion of any sort, but perhaps he could reason with the king…
“Well?” said Dudley impatiently.
Ignoring the duke, Lord Montague inclined his head to Edward. “Your Grace,” he said. “As I have said, in England it is against the law for a person who has not yet reached his majority to make a will. However, that is not the only issue.”
Dudley opened his mouth to speak, but Edward held up his hand. “Go on,” said the king.
“Your Grace,” Lord Montague said, “the succession has been fixed by law. The late king’s Act of Succession was made law by Parliament; that act has never been repealed, which it would have to be in order to alter the succession. I am sorry, Your Grace, but we can accede to neither of your requests. A minor cannot make a will, that is the law; and the succession cannot be altered except by repealing the current Act of Succession, and replacing it with another, using due process of law. To do otherwise would be…treason.”
Dudley’s face turned a dangerous shade of puce and his hand went instinctively to his sword hilt, even though he wore no sword. And then he chanced to look at Edward. Suddenly he realized that his own brand of persuasion might not be needed.
Edward sat up in the bed, leaning on his palms to steady himself. His face was bright red and his eyes glittered dangerously. “Treason?” he shouted. “Who cares for treason, my lords, when so much is at stake? Am I to die knowing that my realm is to be plunged into chaos? Am I to die fearing that a foreign power will absorb our sovereign state as if she had never been? Am I to die without protecting my people from the whore that is Rome? Are we to backslide into the dark times of paying Peter’s Pence and the ignorance of allowing our poor to surrender their precious coins to grasping priests for meaningless indulgences and fairground tricks? Statues that cry blood! Vials o
f Saint Mary’s milk! Bah! And you would defy me, knowing that this is the fate of England if you do not act?” Edward’s voice had been for a year and half that of a man full grown; the putrid matter that he had been coughing up had made the timbre of his voice raspy and hoarse. He was in danger of losing his voice altogether after his outburst. His chest heaved in breathlessness and indignation.
Lord Montague, who up until now had been the voice of calm reason, suddenly began to weep. He made no sound; the slow, heartbreaking tears of old age rolled silently down his furrowed cheeks. After a few moments he took a deep breath and said quietly, “Sire, we are your servants and have no desire to defy your will. We are only men who fear for our necks, yea, for our very lives.” And what the king was asking them to do! Even if it were not against the law and the basest treason, how could they put their names to so foul a deed as allowing the king to disinherit the daughters of Henry VIII of England? The flesh and blood, the direct descendants of the old king, despite any shortcomings they may bear as a result of their distaff sides? Suddenly inspiration visited him. Surely some compromise could be reached with the Princess Mary? Lord Montague understood Edward’s fears for the realm; the question of religion and the possibility of Hapsburg domination were very real concerns for all of them. But he knew, and Edward knew, who would really rule England should the Princesses Mary and Elizabeth be excluded from the succession and replaced with Jane Grey Dudley. It certainly would not be Lady Jane or her non-entity of a husband! If Dudley as Duke of Northumberland was all but king now, what would it be like when Edward was gone, and none to say him nay?
“Your Grace,” he said quietly, “perhaps we can parley with the Princess Mary? Mayhap we can gain her agreement not to undo that which has been done regarding religion, and her promise not to marry a foreigner? Perhaps…”
If any one of them had ever entertained the thought that Edward was not as much a Tudor as his formidable father had been, they were, once and for all, disabused of that notion.
“Christ on the Cross!” roared Edward. “Enough! You will do as I ask! Leave my presence this instant and do not return until you have used the mandates in my Device to draft my will! Now go!”
Hunsdon, Hertfordshire, July 1553
The only sounds that could be heard were the droning of the bees on the roses and the constant undulating, grinding noise of cicadas. All else was quiet. There was not a sound of human voice, nor the echo of a footstep. And yet she was not alone. The others knew her mind, faithful servants! …and were holding back, waiting for her to be ready.
The window seat in the solar facing south was Mary’s favorite place of all at Hunsdon. On a sunny summer’s day such as this one it was the warmest room in the palace. Strange that it was July and yet the north rooms still held a chill.
The palace itself was situated just east of the church, and if one leaned far enough, one could just see its spire. Mary had not allowed the church at Hunsdon to be despoiled, and so it still held its beautiful altar; but all the images had been wrapped in sailcloth and removed to the palace for safekeeping. If Dudley knew of this, he had done nothing to prevent her. How she longed to visit the chapel one last time before setting out! But she dare not; the timing of their ploy was critical and in not too many more minutes she must say goodbye to Hunsdon and set out on her journey. Who knew where it would take her, and when…if…she would ever see Hunsdon again?
In her hands Mary held the parchment that had started the wheels of this day’s plans in motion. It was a summons to court, politely worded, as all the Council’s communications had been of late. The Princess Mary’s presence was requested by her brother the king, who was now much improved in health and asking for her. When the letter arrived Mary had sent a fast rider to Elizabeth at Hatfield. Had her sister received a similar request? And if so, what were her plans? The summons was a trap, but she dared not say so in her message; Elizabeth was clever and would know, just as Mary knew. But Rochester was getting nervous, and did not want to wait for Elizabeth’s reply. He was anxious that they should set out as soon as possible.
Mary sighed. That was, indeed, good advice. She must be seen to be compliant with the Council’s request. If Dudley had taken great pains to put her off her guard these last months, it had certainly taught her a good lesson; she was about to respond in kind. For she would appear to set out, with all her household, heading south towards London. She would reach Hoddesdon, a mere seven miles away, where her favorite mare …thanks to Dodd’s talent as an ostler when he was a lad…would throw a shoe and lame herself. Such a pity…they would have to spend the night... And then in the wee hours, under cover of darkness, a much reduced escort of three of her women (for form’s sake) and six men of her household, all young, swift riders, handy with a sword if needs be…would set out on a swift ride north to Cambridge, stopping for nothing.
For Mary knew that Edward was not much improved, that he was very ill indeed and near death. Scheyfve had kept her informed of Edward’s condition through the good offices of his spy, and she knew without doubt that the end of her brother’s life was drawing nigh. At that thought a thick, slow tear made its way down her face. She longed to see Edward one last time, but sentiment must not be allowed to take precedence over practicality; if she went to London she knew without doubt that she would be imprisoned in the Tower and possibly executed.
Heedless of the tears that now streamed down her face, except vaguely conscious that the pink roses lining the window blurred into a soft haze in her tear-blindness, a progression of memories marched through her mind. Her father’s unabashed jubilation the day Edward was born, and her own sadness that she had, at last, been replaced in the succession; but hard on that, when she held her baby brother in her arms she had fallen instantly in love. Edward’s golden beauty; the way he used to grab at her nose with his translucent little starfish hand; as he grew, his first steps, his first words. Then a procession of darker memories; the night she had plunged him, in utter desperation, into the tub of icy cold well-water, trying to bring down the fever that threatened to snatch him away; the first time he had shrunk from her because she was a Catholic, and his mind had been corrupted by his Protestant tutors; the times he had threatened and harangued her about her religion. And all that, replaced in her mind by the time not so long ago when he had led her into the throne room and they had clung together alone, just the two of them, mingling their tears; and he had promised to make everything right when he was grown and could rule on his own. But now, she knew, he never would. Edward might be dead already, and she not even know. It was too much to be borne…
“Your Grace,” said a soft voice. “It is time. We must go.”
Mary looked up and saw Jane Dormer, sweet, young Jane; a good Catholic, a fine girl. She was sixteen and still not betrothed. When all this was done with, she would have to find Mistress Dormer a husband deserving of her. “Is all in readiness?” asked Mary, unobtrusively wiping away the tears and smoothing her skirts.
Jane bobbed a curtsey. “Yes, Your Grace, and Sir Robert’s pacing is wearing a hole in the carpet.”
Despite herself, Mary laughed. That was the charming thing about Jane; she had a wonderful sense of humor and could make one laugh even in the direst of situations. Which this was. Mary took one last look around the solar. Jane had brought her traveling cloak and was holding it up for her. She slipped her arms through, shrugged into the garment and walked slowly out of the room without looking back.
London, July 1553
The royal barge was making little headway upriver; the tide was against them. Jane leaned on her father’s shoulder, struggling to stay wakeful. The heat, the buzz of insects and the gentle rocking of the boat all conspired to send her into a doze. The gauzy curtains had been pulled aside and tied back to take advantage of any breeze that might stir, but there was none. From her vantage point on the cushioned bench at the rear of the cabin, she could see the beads of sweat on the brows of the oarsmen as they struggled against the c
urrent.
Guilford was sprawled inelegantly in one of the chairs that faced the bench. His mouth was open and every now and then a sound escaped his lips that was part snore and part snort. Disgusting! He was handsome enough, but that Jane found him wanting intellectually was an understatement of monumental proportions. It was a puzzling paradox that under certain circumstances, she found him, there was no other word for it, irresistible.
Her wedding night had been an interesting revelation. She knew well enough what to expect, and it was a good thing; her mother had told her nothing, and Jane believed that she had deliberately sent her in what her mother thought was complete ignorance to her ordeal. Guilford was not used to shrinking virgins, his tastes ran to eager serving wenches and prostitutes; this information Jane had gleaned from listening at doors, a favorite pastime. She was not supposed to know of such things as prostitutes, but she did.
She had steeled herself to endure what must be endured. But then an interesting thing happened. Guilford was a skillful lover, and before long, Jane was as eager as any serving wench to experience the remarkable sensations that Guilford produced in her. Over the past weeks it was almost as if they had each developed into two different people. In the daytime they despised each other; she scorned him for a spoilt, uneducated oaf, and he detested her for a pedantic prig. But at night, when the bed curtains were drawn and they were alone, the other Jane and the other Guilford came together and experienced incredible rapture. They were truly the one flesh that was spoken of in the bible.
They had been at Suffolk Place when the summons came. Edward wished to see his cousin. This was not so very surprising; Jane and Edward had shared a schoolroom and had their intellectual pursuits in common. Thomas Seymour had even tried to arrange a match for them, but that had come to nothing. As much as they liked each other, Edward believed that it was his duty to marry a foreign princess for the good of the realm, and the match with Elisabeth of France had been arranged instead. Jane was sorry that Edward was not long for this world; she loved him as friend, as cousin, as king.
The Baker's Daughter Volume 2 Page 22