Innocent Traitor (37 page)

But my gift from the Lady Mary is the most splendid of all.

“Her Grace wishes to see you, my lady,” says Clarencieux, eyeing me warily. I cross the room to where the Lady Mary is seated on the dais beside our hosts. A pile of unopened gifts lies to one side of her chair, while those she has received and unwrapped lie strewn on a table on the other side, a jumble of rich fabrics, jewels, and plate.

“Ah, Jane.” She smiles as I make my curtsy, then reaches down and picks up a rectangular package wrapped in silver tissue from the pile on the floor. “With my good wishes and my blessing,” she says, presenting it to me.

“I thank you, madam.” I pull off the wrappings, revealing a silver coffer. Inside is a magnificent necklace of great rubies interspersed with hanging pearls. I gasp with delight—I have never owned anything so beautiful or valuable.

“Your Grace, I thank you most humbly,” I say warmly. Her generous gift has touched me. “I am overwhelmed by your kindness and bounty.”

“I thought you would like it, Jane.” Mary smiles. “It will suit your coloring.”

My mother joins us, eager to see what I have been given, and her eyes stretch wide when she see the jewels.

“Madam, you are too generous!” she exclaims. “Jane, I hope you are sensible of the value of such a gift, and that you have thanked the Lady Mary’s Grace sufficiently!”

“She has indeed, Frances,” says my benefactress. “And I am sure Jane knows that the value of a gift lies not in its cost, but in the goodwill and affection of the giver.”

“Indeed, I know it well, madam,” I reply. And I will try, I vow, to be worthy of that goodwill and affection.

We finally retire in the small hours of the morning, and before I go to bed, I cannot resist trying on my new necklace. Mrs. Ellen helps me with the clasp, then stands back to see the effect. But as I gaze at my reflection in the candle-lit mirror, I am startled by the stark image that confronts me, for in the flickering light the red stones look disconcertingly like gouts of blood around my neck.

“What’s the matter, Jane?” asks Mrs. Ellen. “It looks wonderful.”

“Do you see it?” I ask, shuddering.

“See what? My dear child, what are you talking about?”

“The rubies…they look like blood.” My voice is husky, trembling.

“Nonsense!” Mrs. Ellen is brisk. “Pull yourself together. It’s just a trick of the light—and your vivid imagination!”

“Take it off!” I say urgently.

“Jane, don’t be silly,” she replies impatiently.

“Take it off!” I fumble ineffectually with the clasp. “Help me!”

“I don’t know what’s got into you,” Mrs. Ellen mutters, unhooking it. “It’s a beautiful necklace. You’ve got yourself into a state over nothing.”

“Let’s put it away.” I am surprised at myself. I usually scorn superstition as nonsense, but I am filled with a terrible sense of dread, as if what I saw in that mirror portended something awful.

TOWER HILL, JANUARY 1552

I didn’t want to come, but my father insisted. Not only is this to be a salutary lesson in what happens to traitors, but it is supposed to be riveting entertainment. I know I shall not find it so. How can watching another person’s suffering be entertaining? I don’t care that lots of people from court are come to see the spectacle—I do not want to be here.

But I am here. I had no choice. At least my lord insisted that we, like nearly everyone else of noble birth who is present, go in disguise. We are done up against the cold in voluminous hooded cloaks lined with fur, such as prosperous city merchants wear, and I am warm despite the bitter chill.

Behind me, I am conscious of the grim bulk of the Tower of London, a place that has witnessed much tragedy and misery and has become notorious since two queens, Anne Boleyn and Katherine Howard, met their bloody ends there. Few who enter the Tower’s portals as prisoners ever go free: there is no escape but via the block or the noose—or worse. I’ve heard terrible tales. Torture is not lawful in England, but it is said that several wretches have endured the horrors of the rack and the thumbscrews in that place. Then there is rumored to be a cell called the Little Ease, in which a man may not stand or sit or lie down, since it is too small to permit it. If I were confined in such a cell, I would go mad, I know it. I shudder.

The procession is late. The crowd grows restive.

“You know, the King agonized for weeks before signing the warrant,” my father tells us.

“Doubtless my lord of Northumberland put much pressure on him,” my mother says.

“Somerset
is
his uncle,” my lord reminds us. “He has already been constrained to send one uncle to his death. But the Duke warned him again and again that to show mercy would be unwise, and that he cannot permit such seditious traitors to flourish.”

Suddenly the cry goes up: “He’s coming! The good Duke is coming!”

It takes some considerable time to march the condemned man through the vast crowds assembled around the scaffold. The mood of the mob is angry.

“If I were the Lieutenant of the Tower, I’d be worried in case my prisoner is snatched from his guards and spirited away,” says my father. “I wouldn’t put it past them.”

Yet the little procession successfully pushes its way through the press of humanity, and Somerset mounts the steps to the scaffold. It is strange to reflect that a man who once wielded such power, and who even sent his own brother to his death in this same place, could be brought so low. A tall fellow in front shifts position, and I can see the wooden block, standing in the straw. I shudder again. What must the poor Duke be thinking as he looks upon it? How must it feel to know that, within minutes, you will be dead, your life severed at the neck? It is too horrible to contemplate.

“Now, Jane,” my father is saying, “according to custom, a prisoner always makes a speech from the scaffold, preferably confessing his guilt and praising the King’s justice, and asking the people to pray for him.”

Sure enough, the Duke has stepped to the rail of the scaffold and is holding up his hand to hush the crowd, but before he can open his mouth, the people begin yelling, “Reprieve! Reprieve!” as a small troop of soldiers can be seen approaching at a gallop across the Tower’s drawbridge.

The Duke of Somerset stares at them disbelievingly. He must, poor soul, have prepared himself for death, have steeled himself for the final blow of the ax. His face registers shock and longing: he must desperately desire to live.

We can see the headsman, sinister in his black hood, speaking to his assistant. The soldiers are nearly at the scaffold.

“Reprieve! Reprieve!” the crowd is chanting, parting ranks to let the troop through.

“My Lord Lieutenant, there is no reprieve,” announces their captain in a loud voice. “The Governor of the Tower thought it prudent to send reinforcements in case of any trouble. You men, surround the scaffold!”

There is a furious roar from the crowd. The Duke looks as if he might faint; how terrible for him, having to face the renewed reality of death after having his hopes so cruelly raised. Yet in a firm voice he calls for the people to be quiet and delivers his prepared speech. Then he raises his hand once more.

“I am the King’s loyal subject!” he declares.

In all too short a time the grim formalities are dispensed with, and he kneels in the straw before the block. I have to close my eyes, I cannot watch, but beside me I can sense that my parents are tense with expectation. There is a pregnant silence, a sickening thud, then roars and screams of disapproval. When I dare to look again, heaving, shoving bodies are scrambling beneath the scaffold, and hands are frenziedly dipping handkerchiefs and cloths into the blood that drips through the boards, seeking a relic of their hero.

“For sure, he is a martyr!” a man cries.

“A true martyr for the Protestant faith!” another yells.

I stand, nausea rising, unable to bring myself to look upon the mangled thing that lies on the scaffold. Around me, men and women are shouting and weeping in a frenzy. I swear that, at this moment, there is no more hated man in London than he who has supplanted the Good Duke—His Grace of Northumberland.

WESTMINSTER ABBEY, APRIL 1552

It is cool in Westminster Abbey. We have sat here in our privileged places near the altar waiting a long time for the arrival of the King. Today is St. George’s Day, and although, by law, saints’ days may no longer be observed in England, St. George is regarded as a national hero. He was certainly no papist priest or martyr, but a knight-errant who embodied the ideals of chivalry still held dear by the King and the nobility, and therefore it is thought right, and indeed patriotic, to celebrate his feast day.

Spring is blossoming outside, but I am wearing my customary black, much to my mother’s evident disgust. Fortunately, by the time she saw me, it was too late to change. I am gratified to see that the abbey has been stripped of all its idolatrous Roman ornaments. Even so, it is still lavishly appointed by Protestant standards, but it is the greatest royal mausoleum in the land and houses the tombs of many kings and queens.

My mother frowns at Katherine, who is simpering at a handsome youth sitting near us in the nave. This impudent young man is making sheep’s eyes at us both, and my mother nudges my father sharply, alerting him to what is going on.

“I wouldn’t worry, my dear,” he murmurs. “That’s the Earl of Pembroke’s heir, Lord William Herbert. No bad catch for any young lady of good birth.”

“He’s too cheeky by far,” snorts my lady, unbending.

“It’s just his age. They’re all either moonstruck or randy as tomcats. I recall that I was the same. But there’s no harm in him eyeing up our girls. A young lord of his rank will know that it can go no further. Unless, of course, his father and I come to some agreement. How would that please you?”

“For Jane?” asks my lady. I look at them, startled.

My father bends his head close to my mother’s ear. “No, for Katherine. There’s a bigger fish to fry for Jane.”

My mother silences him with a look.

This brings to mind a conversation that took place between my parents a month or so ago, when we were all three taking our ease after supper in the winter parlor at Bradgate.

My lady was harping on, as she does from time to time, about the likelihood of my marrying the King.

“But you are forgetting, my dear, that he is still betrothed,” my father pointed out.

“Betrothals can be broken, and often are,” she retorted. “Wait until he is declared of age, and then we’ll see. I haven’t given up hope. But to be plain with you, I can’t see Northumberland relinquishing power when the King comes of age. Not without a struggle.”

“Oh, I don’t doubt he intends to remain chief minister, and who could blame him? We’d all do the same, given the chance. But even he must realize that the King has to grow up and come into his own. And if I know His Majesty, he’ll assert his authority sooner rather than later. He’s already growing restive at being subject to his councillors. Mark my words, he’ll be another such as his father, given his head.”

“I’ll wager he’ll be even more of a fanatic than King Henry,” my mother declared. “My late revered uncle burned heretics, but mainly because they espoused beliefs that conflicted with his policies. With the son, policy takes second place to religious principles.”

“Our daughter is of like mind, in case you hadn’t noticed,” said my father wryly, looking at me.

“Oh, she’s just difficult for the sake of it,” retorted my lady testily, missing the humor. “I don’t know what gets into her.”

Sitting here now, in the cool of the abbey, I reflect that it would be wonderful to be Queen, if only to be able, just once, to put my mother firmly in her place!

The trumpets sound the arrival of the royal procession, and the entire congregation rises to its feet. The King passes along the nave, preceded by the Knights of the Garter, whose feast day this is. Edward’s slender figure seems engulfed by his blue velvet Garter mantle. He was unwell recently, and it was first given out that he was suffering from an attack of the measles; then they announced that he had smallpox. I conclude that, as his pale skin shows no sign of pockmarks, it must have been measles after all. His resumption of royal duties hopefully betokens a good recovery, but he still appears tired and seems to have lost some weight, although it is hard to tell in those robes. I’m sure his face looks thinner.

Fortunately, the court is soon to leave Whitehall for Greenwich, where the fresh air will hopefully bring back some color into His Majesty’s cheeks. I know that many lavish entertainments are planned, and rumor has it that the King is to be permitted to tilt at the quintain—the nearest they will ever allow him to jousting in the lists. Then, from Greenwich, the court is to depart on a long summer progress, so that His Majesty can see—and be seen by—his subjects throughout the south and west of England. I fervently hope he will have recovered his strength by then.

On my knees in the abbey, I pray that King Edward makes a full and speedy recovery. I do this not so much because I am fond of him—it is hard to be fond of one who is so detached and cold—but because it is unthinkable that the Lady Mary should ever come to the throne.

John Dudley,
Duke of Northumberland