Thunder continued to rumble at intervals and following it flashes of heat lightning lit the room. The day was so dark that the candles and sconces had had to be lit.
It was for the queen to speak. Mary regarded the two men. Paget held two scrolls tied with red ribands and from which myriad seals dangled, and Arundel held a large velvet-covered box. The silence was becoming oppressive; the only sounds were the howling of the wind and the rolling thunder, closer now than it had been, but not the booming strike that had set the ground shaking when she was at the gates of the castle. It was evident that both men were feeling the discomfort of kneeling on the stone floor. But that was nothing to an arrow wound or losing life or limb to cannon fire! Her heart smote her as she thought of what her victory must mean in terms of sheer human misery, for it must be victory or they would not be here.
“How now, gentlemen,” she said. “What news?”
Arundel cleared his throat. This would be the most important speech of his life. “Your Grace,” he said. “I have come hither on behalf of the entire Council to impart glad tidings to you. Your Grace is proclaimed queen in London, just as you demanded. We have here a proclamation, signed and sealed by all the Council, the members of which abjectly beg your forgiveness.” And with that he turned to Paget, who handed one of the scrolls up to Sir Robert. Rochester walked the short distance to the dais and handed the scroll to Mary. “It is the submission to Your Grace of all the Council, who await the queen’s pleasure.”
Hah! thought Mary. You do not want to know my pleasure at this moment! Should she visit on the men of the Council their just punishment, she would have no one left to advise her! But the truth was, she needed them as much as they needed her. She was about to speak, but Arundel still had the floor, and before she could respond, he spoke again.
“Your Grace,” he said, with genuine tears in his eyes, “we none of us wanted the Lady Jane as queen. But His Grace King Edward insisted; I was there and heard his demand to proclaim your cousin queen upon his death with my own ears. And later read as much in his will, signed and sealed.”
“My brother was too young to make a legal will,” said Mary. “All knew this.”
“Forgive me, Madam, it is true that we all knew as much, but we dared not say His Grace nay.”
Arundel had suddenly developed a habit of randomly placing his hand to his neck; Mary wondered if he was aware of it. It reminded her of her own recent tendency to biting her nails. An unexpected wave of sympathy washed over her. Of course he was afraid, all of them were, and they should be! But in her heart she knew what the men close to her brother had discovered; fragile, pale, physically weak he might have been, no spitting image of the formidable King Henry, but she had no doubt that her brother had possessed the Tudor temper in as great a measure as had their august father. She had no doubt that the men of the Council had not dared to say Edward nay. But if not for Dudley, they might well have had the courage to do so once he was gone.
Still she said nothing, so the earl continued. “Also, Your Grace, we have here a warrant for the arrest of the Duke of Northumberland, on charges of treason.”
Again Sir Robert plucked a document from the willing hands of Paget, and brought the scroll to Mary.
She read it and then looked up. “But the document is not signed and sealed,” she said. “And therefore has no effect.”
A look of triumph flushed Arundel’s face as he drew breath and said, in his booming voice, “It will have, Your Grace, as soon as you sign it and seal it with the Great Seal of the realm.” At this he raised up his arms and proffered the velvet box.
Mary caught her breath. The Great Seal! And a warrant for the arrest of John Dudley! Never had two items come together with more force! Her first instinct was to call for quill and sealing wax; but she remained calm and aloof.
“All of this is welcome news,” she replied blandly; so blandly that for a moment a wave of fear so terrifying washed over Arundel that he thought he would swoon, like a green girl on her wedding night. “But at what cost, I ask you?”
For a moment Arundel forgot his fear and blinked like an owl at sunrise. In his confusion he asked, “C-cost, Your Grace?”
Mary pounded her fist on the solid arm of her throne. “In men!” she shouted. “In lives!”
Arundel stared back at her transfixed. “Th-then…you did not know?”
Mary’s eyes went wide. “Know what?”
Arundel arose from his knees without leave to do so, hardly aware of what he had done. “Your Grace has won a resounding victory, but no men, no lives have been lost. You are proclaimed Queen of England by the will and demand of your loving subjects, without a drop of blood ever being spilt.”
“N-not, you say?” asked Mary, her voice, her hands, her whole body suddenly shook as if with an ague. A bloodless victory? No battle, no men mangled and bleeding, no wives and mothers mourning for dead husbands and sons, that she might wear the crown? She stood up and cried, “God has wrought us a miracle!” She strode to the edge of the dais and Sir Robert leapt forward to hand her down.
At that moment Mary felt a sudden uprush of emotion such as she had never before experienced. In a voice still unsteady she said, “I must to chapel. I must hear a Mass. I must thank God for this marvel!”
# # #
In the chapel, Mary knelt and rose and made all the rote responses she knew so well to the singing of the Mass, but try as she might, part of her mind kept wandering off. Finally she gave up and let her mind divide between the two occupations.
Forgiveness…that must be her watchword. There must be no vindictiveness associated with this miracle that God had wrought for her and the people of England. Some punishment must be meted out; that much she had learnt from her father. To forgive all might be construed as weakness, squeamishness, perhaps as female delicacy; that must not be. As much as she might like to appear magnanimous, such high-minded notions could not be extended to such as Robert Dudley. The duke must suffer the consequences of his actions.
But what of her cousins? Could she murder…no, it would not be murder, it would be justice… Very well then, could she stand by and see her cousin Jane, her own flesh and blood, executed? She had never been fond of Jane; and once a remark of her cousin’s had come to her ears that Mary would never be able to stomach, or to forgive. When Jane had been staying with her at Hunsdon, one of her ladies had curtseyed to the Host as she passed the open door of the chapel there. Jane had asked the woman why she curtseyed when no one was there, and the woman had replied that she curtseyed to He who had made her. Jane, who was possessed of a quick wit that some found quite droll, had rejoined that she was confounded; did not the baker make the communion wafers? To insult the Host in such a manner was unpardonable, and Mary had never forgiven the girl that remark, although her cousin was unaware of it. Still, despite her blasphemy, the girl was just a child, and had been…Mary was sure of it…merely a puppet in hands of the duke of Northumberland, her powerful father-in-law, and her father, the duke of Suffolk.
And what of Frances? What indeed? As much as Mary would like to pretend that Frances had been compelled to do the bidding of her menfolk, as would most women, she was not blind to the fact that it was Frances who ruled her husband and not the other way around.
Still, no one could expect her to kill her own cousins; as long as they smelt Dudley’s blood and perhaps a few of his captains, that should be enough. The rest would be consigned to the Tower, but that was as far as she need go. She was queen by the will of God and the demand of her own people; it was a defining, joyous moment, and she wanted nothing to cast a pall over it. She would never forget the anxious, nervous days of waiting to find out if, after all she had been through, she was to be allowed to be queen; that frantic time when her fate lay in the balance as the situation hung fire would live in her heart until her last hour. But God had seen her through and she would not bathe that glorious triumph in blood, death and spiteful malice. She had in mind something quite the op
posite!
No, it must be some beautiful, shining offering with which she would repay God for the miraculous gift that he had given her. She was in no doubt that her amazing triumph was the direct result of divine intervention and it stood as testament of the mandate for the fulfillment, at long last, of what she had always believed to be her life’s purpose. She believed that it had always been her destiny, and now it was also her divine duty, to restore the Kingdom of England to Rome and to the true faith. God had given England back to her and now she must in turn give England back to God. God had worked a miracle for her and she must repay his trust. And she knew exactly how she must do it.
London, July 1553
North and east of London the weather had been wet and the roads muddy and barely passable, but as they neared the city, it was evident that the rains had not reached so far south. Caked with mud, Dudley now tasted the dust that the warm wind had been blowing in their faces since early that morning. As his horse trudged along, barely aware of his surroundings except for the constant irritant of dust in his eyes and mouth, he tried to think, to look back at where he had been and how things had come to such a pass.
As a Reformer, he had read much of the bible, an activity forbidden to those who followed the Church of Rome; his favorite book, even before the Psalms, was the book of Proverbs. One he remembered in particular; ‘Pride goeth before destruction and an haughty spirit before a fall’. Had he been prideful and haughty? He supposed he had. He was a royal servant, self-interested, of course, as were all men except the ascetics; but utterly loyal to the crown. At least that was the way he had always viewed himself.
Thinking back over it all, he thought he could remember the very moment when he had veered onto the path of self-destruction that he now walked. It was the moment that he realized that he wielded power above the ordinary, and that that power could be used to his own ends. Married to that thought had been his life-long desire to avenge his father’s unjust execution; the two thoughts had fused, and had seemed to fit so well together; but now he was about to reap a bitter harvest for it. It was written in the book of Romans, and he who had read Holy Scripture should have heeded the words: ‘Vengeance is Mine, saith the Lord; I shall repay.’ He had not listened; and now the wrath of the crown was about to descend upon hm.
And he had made other mistakes; how clearly he could see them now! Why could he not see them before, he wondered? For instance, the way the people had always cheered the princess whenever she came to town, in the days when he and the Council had harangued her so persistently about her religion; how could he have overlooked this and so miscalculated the mood of the people? It was evident that Mary was loved, and that love had only grown over time, whereas he was hated, and the animosity of the people for him had also grown over time. But he had not heeded the dislike of the people, thinking it of as little account as their love for the princess.
He had not anticipated any resistance at all from Mary; another grave error on his part. He believed that the emperor, when pushed to it, would not come to her aid, and that thus abandoned, she would have no means by which to confront the situation and fight for what she believed to be her rights.
But the worst mistake of all was at this very moment on its way to the French court; a letter, under Dudley’s own personal seal, offering Henri of France the return of Guines and Calais if he would send troops to assist in upholding Jane’s sovereignty. Jane had authorized the offer but Jane was no longer queen, and such a monumental blunder could only be deemed treason by Queen Mary. To cede lands won in battle to a foreign power to support civil strife! It would have worked had he prevailed; the people would not have liked it but there would have been nothing they could do. Now he was undone and if his messenger were caught with such a damning thing in his possession then all was indeed lost.
Ah well, he thought; all was likely lost in any case. He recalled the day of his ignominious arrest, when Arundel and Paget had ridden into Cambridge, the queen’s warrant in their hands. He had not resisted; to even try fighting at this point would have been utterly pointless. He had surrendered immediately to the royal will, urging his captains to lay down their arms and yield. He had stood in the market square and shouted loudly for Queen Mary, throwing his cap high into the air along with the people of Cambridge.
But when he had gone down on his knees at the sight of Arundel and Paget, begging that they sue to the queen on his behalf for mercy, Arundel curtly informed him that there would be no mercy for such as him. This, from a man who had sworn not a week before to spill his own blood if necessary for Dudley’s cause! He had suspected that as soon as he left London to fight for Jane’s crown that the Council would turn against him. He had tried to make Jane see sense, but she would not, and insisted that her father should stay and he, Dudley, go forth to fight the princess. Well, now Jane was undone as well, and she would likely take poor Guilford with her.
It was then that he knew that it was hopeless. The best he could hope for was a quick death.
But oh, what of his sons? In his mind the cry was desolate, but he could not yet bring himself to voice his fears for them aloud. His own death he could somehow reconcile himself to; but merciful God, please spare my sons…
He became aware of a dull roaring noise and lifted his head. They were approaching the outskirts of the city. A scant guard had been needed to see him from Cambridge to London, but it appeared that the populace knew of his imminent arrival and had turned out to see him brought low. In the distance Dudley could see the lines of halberdiers holding back a throbbing mass of people.
His son Ambrose rode by his side and they exchanged worried glances. There was nothing for it but to put a brave face on it. Dudley straightened his cap and drew his cloak about him, twitching it into place. It was difficult to believe that this was the same clothing, now dirty and worn, the sumptuous red velvet cloak that had been so magnificent now mud-spattered and torn, in which he had ridden forth in triumph just days before.
At first the angry mob only shouted oaths and hurled insults, but very soon they began to hurl more solid objects; rotten vegetables and filth flew through the air and most of it found its target. The guards struggled to keep the people back, or surely he and Ambrose would have been rent in pieces.
The sun was setting and the alleyways were darkening as they made their slow, doleful way south to the Tower; torches were lit, and in the firelight the people’s angry countenances appeared distorted; demonic. Shouts of “Traitor!” could be heard. But he was no traitor; he had only done what he thought was right, and what was best for the people of England. And then a thought struck him with such force that it was like a blow to the stomach. If God were on his side, then why had the princess triumphed? For the first time he felt his confidence leave him and with that he seemed to become an empty shell.
After that he seemed almost divorced form the chaotic scene around him. He did not resist the pummeling and pounding, did not even try to retrieve his cap when a particularly violent buffet caught him unawares. It all seemed to be happening to someone else. The screams of the horses rearing in terror, the shouts of the people, the clang of weapons crashing against each other as the pikemen sought to keep the throng in check, all receded and he became very calm. Some took this for disdain and in their fury shouted even more blood-curdling oaths; “Death to the traitors!”…but Dudley did not even flinch when a stone cut his cheek, or when, on the street of the butchers, he and Ambrose were pelted with rotten eggs.
Suddenly he could take no more, and rising in his stirrups he shouted, “Good people, we ask your pity!” But this appeal seemed to anger the crowd even more than their perceived disdain, and they cried out even louder against them. He happened to glance over at Ambrose and saw that there were tears streaming from his eyes, although his son made no sound and his face was impassive.
Would this nightmare never end?
Finally they reached the Lion Gate of the Tower, and there the crowds were thicker than ever.
By this time Dudley hardly dared to look up, for he had found that making eye contact with the angry mob only increased their ire towards him.
But out of the din of neighing horses, shouting men, the metallic clash of weapons and the creaking of the mighty drawbridge, which was being lowered that he, his sons and his captains might be admitted, he heard a plaintive cry.
“John! Oh, John, do heed me!”
He looked up to see his lady wife, distraught, in tears, being jostled by the crowd, but standing her ground like a tigress. “Jane!” he cried. “Wife!”
Ambrose saw her, too, and in vain they reached out their hands to each other, but could not get close enough to touch.
Above the clamor Dudley shouted, “What news of Robert?” His youngest son but one had gone to Bury St. Edmunds as part of his vanguard, and he had heard nothing of him or his fate since.
“Captured,” cried Lady Dudley. “Safe in yon Beauchamp Tower with Guilford!” Unable to reach out far enough to touch hands with her husband, she had clasped them to her breast. Her mouth was distorted in her anguish, and the tears flowed from her eyes.
“Fear not!” he shouted to her. “And go to Mass!”
There had always been an extraordinary connection between them; in a room full of people they could communicate with nothing more than a look or a gesture. There was no time for such subtleties now; Lady Dudley knew exactly what her husband meant. Their only hope of reprieve lay in recanting their Protestant faith and once again adhering to Catholicism. She did not argue or question, indeed, never even thought to do so. Her husband had spoken and she would do as he bid her.
The drawbridge fell with a mighty thud and without hesitation the party of captives, their horses having been taken from them outside the gate, marched across and were lost to her sight. But heedless of the distance now widening between them, she still held out her arms.
The Baker's Daughter Volume 2 Page 30