Innocent Traitor (43 page)

As I am borne on my father’s arm into the chapel, the whole privy council of England rises to its feet. Northumberland is there, garbed in his customary black, and Guilford awaits me at the altar rails, a tall, resplendent figure in white satin, his fair hair flopping over his blue eyes.

This should have been a joyful occasion, the fulfillment of my hopes and dreams, but it is not. Not for me, anyway. I make my vows unthinkingly, not daring to reflect on their deeper meaning, and avoid looking at Guilford when he tries to catch my eye. I did not miss the glance of lustful appreciation he threw me when he caught sight of me in my wedding finery, and it fills me with trepidation. I can only be thankful—indeed, it is the sole thing I have to be thankful for—for my parents’ decree that he and I shall live apart for the present, on account of my tender years, or so I have been told. This is a little strange, for many girls are married at fourteen and sleep with their husbands from the first, but I’m not going to ask questions. It’s a welcome respite, and long may it last!

The nuptial ceremony is over—I am Lady Jane Dudley. The hated name is mine. We take our places for the feast in the great hall and are served course after course of rich and exotic food. I can eat little of it, but beside me Guilford is wolfing mouthful after mouthful with relish, and washing it all down with copious amounts of the best Rhenish. Presently, a troupe of players enters the hall and begins performing a masque portraying the god Hymen with his bridal torch, who dances suggestively with a bevy of adoring nymphs. It has barely started when Guilford announces that he feels sick and crashes out of his chair. A moment later he has spewed up his dinner, and a lot else, on the costly Turkish carpet and has to leave the room in an ignominious hurry, lest he further disgrace himself in front of the company.

I remain at table, mortified and embarrassed, pretending to watch the masque and wishing that this interminable evening would come to an end, so that I can return with my parents to Suffolk House, and retire to my virginal bed and the tender ministrations of Mrs. Ellen. I long to cast off my heavy gown, in which I am sweating profusely, and slither between cool linen sheets. But first I have to do my duty by my guests.

Farther along the high table, Katherine is radiant as she gazes into the adoring eyes of her groom. Clearly she and Lord William Herbert have struck up a warm rapport. He seems entranced by her, and justifiably so, for she is surely the beauty of the family, with her fair hair and her eyes the color of cornflowers. It’s a pity, then, that the consummation of their marriage is also to be postponed, since—to judge by the way they are behaving—they are ripe for it now. Perhaps they will find a means to outwit our parents.

At last the festivities come to an end, and I can take my leave of a very drunk Guilford and walk with my parents across the sloping lawns leading down to the river and our waiting barge. It’s a warm, starry night, and most of the company is tipsy and in high good humor. I have no inclination to join in their jesting. Despite the heat, I feel an inward chill: I am cold to my soul and doubt that the sun will ever shine for me again. The deed is done, I have been sold into bondage, and there is no remedy. I long to get back to my bedchamber and my books, the only comforts I have left.

Lady Jane Dudley,
Formerly Grey

SUFFOLK HOUSE, 27TH MAY 1553

Servants do gossip, and gossip travels swiftly, for London is a small world.

“I do not like what I hear,” says Mrs. Ellen, coming into my chamber one evening with some dried herbs to scatter in the clothing chests.

“What have you heard?” I ask, abandoning my book.

“You will remember, my lady, that on the night of the wedding, the Earl of Pembroke took his son and your sister to his London residence, Baynard’s Castle.”

“I do remember. I hear that Katherine is being housed there in palatial style and that my lord Earl cannot do enough for her.”

“And very proper too, I say. But already she has displeased him. I have it on good authority, from one of her maidservants, whose brother is a groom in this house, that on the wedding night Lord William was caught by his father in the act of stealing into her chamber, and she all undressed ready to welcome him. Well, the Earl ordered them both back to their separate beds, telling them they must be patient a little longer. He was not best pleased, I can tell you.”

“Poor Katherine.” I recall the radiant, ardent bride.

“I don’t like it a bit,” Mrs. Ellen repeats. “It’s not natural. The Lady Katherine is nigh thirteen, of full age to be a wife, and why she should not be one I cannot understand. It’s the same with you, and you’re even older. Is it that my lord of Pembroke does not trust your lord father, or your lord father does not trust my lord of Northumberland? In truth, that does not augur well for the future. Why make such marriages in the first place if you’re not willing to let husband and wife bed in the natural way?”

“Why indeed?” None of it makes sense. But, in very truth, I am quite content to leave things as they are and not ask questions.

SYON ABBEY, MIDDLESEX, JUNE 1553

I wake up in a strange bed. For a long time now, it seems, I have been inhabiting a shadow world, suffering—I vaguely recall—from constant vomiting, fever, and a humiliating looseness of the bowels. But today I am myself again, although weak and shivery.

“Thank God you’re looking better at last, child,” says Mrs. Ellen fervently, reverting from the formal title by which she must now address me to the old, familiar endearances, and stroking the hair from my forehead. “I do declare that there was a time when everyone feared you might die, so virulent was your fever.” Tears of relief are in her eyes. Was it that serious, then? I have blurred memories of leeches being applied to my body, to bleed me of evil humors.

Mrs. Ellen plumps the pillows and raises me gently in the bed. Then she pulls off my sweaty shift and replaces it with a freshly laundered one. My exposed body looks thin and wasted; of course I have not been eating. When I am decent again, Mrs. Ellen rebraids my hair. I ask for my mirror, and she hands it to me. One glance reveals skin stretched taut over delicate cheekbones, and eyes overbright with the aftermath of fever. Surprisingly, I am not ill pleased with what I see, for illness has lent a strange, ethereal beauty to my face.

I remember that I fell ill at Suffolk House three days after my wedding.

“I do think, Jane.” says Mrs. Ellen, as we discuss it later, “that your collapse was caused by nervous strain and unhappiness. I don’t believe there was anything more to it. Do you remember what you were saying at the time?”

“No, I do not,” I murmur. “What did I say?”

Mrs. Ellen’s voice drops to a whisper. “You thought that it was due to something more sinister. In your more lucid moments, you expressed the fear that His Grace of Northumberland did not like you and was trying to poison you.”

“I said that?” I am shocked.

“You did indeed. Naturally we all dismissed it as an absurd fancy, the ramblings of a mind crazed by sickness. In fact, the Duke and Duchess, and your husband, all expressed their deep concern and sent regularly to inquire after your health. And then, when your condition deteriorated alarmingly, the Duke placed his mansion here at Syon at your parents’ disposal, because the air is more healthful in these parts than in Southwark.”

I realize I am in the former abbey of the Brigittine nuns, by the Thames at Isleworth. The nuns were turned out by my great-uncle during the dissolution of the monasteries. The Duke of Somerset, and Northumberland in his turn, took possession of their house, and a glance around my bedchamber with its fine furniture, rich carpet, and rare tapestries suggests that they both turned it into a very comfortable residence indeed.

Mrs. Ellen places a clutch of papers on my bed. “The Duke and his family wrote to you.”

I pick up the papers and peruse them. They are heartening letters, expressing concern, a sincere desire for my return to health, and the hope that I will soon be back in London. I am tempted to feel touched by such overt kindness, but remind myself that it doubtless springs purely from self-interest.

There comes a morning when I am strong enough to join my parents and sister Mary for a slow stroll along the gallery, as it is too wet outside to venture into the gardens. We inspect the many portraits that hang there; among the sitters are several we know personally, or recognize, and my mother is particularly taken with a group portrait showing her grandmother Queen Elizabeth of York with her four young daughters kneeling behind her. She points to the third daughter in line.

“That’s my mother, Mary Tudor. How fair she was,” my lady remarks, gazing at the pretty child with long blond curls.

“Think you it is a true likeness?” asks my father skeptically. “Her sister Katherine is shown as a full-grown child, yet you told me she died an infant.”

“I can see a likeness,” says my mother, considering. “Perhaps the artist was told to make Katherine look like her sisters.”

Suddenly, shockingly, an ax wielded by a bloody hand comes crashing through the wooden paneling next to the portrait. My mother has the rapid presence of mind to push my father aside to avoid his head being cloven in two, before he is even aware of the danger. Mary and I scream in horror—later, Mary tells me she thought it was a spectral apparition, although it looked horribly real to me. But as my father reaches for his sword, the ax crashes to the floor and the gory hand is withdrawn through the splintered gash in the wood.

Tentatively my lord examines the rough slit; behind it is a dark, empty cavity. He shouts for strong men to attend him with cudgels and axes, and when they come hurrying, he directs them to chop down that section of the paneling. Within minutes, holding aloft a lantern, he is able to enter the space behind. We peer through to a hidden passage with bare stone walls. My father disappears down it, his retainers at his heels, still brandishing their weapons.

“Careful!” cries my mother in alarm. We girls are huddled together in terror, fearful of what might ensue.

After a time my lord returns, grim-faced.

“God, it’s dark and dank in there,” he exclaims. “There’s only room for one man at a time to get through. The passage leads to a spiral stair, which we descended until we came to a cellar. And there we found our axman. These good fellows here laid hold of him, and by the tried and trusted method of pointing my dagger at his throat, I extracted a confession from him. It seems he was once a lay brother here at Syon, and that he has nourished his bitterness at its dispossession these past thirteen years. He said he’d survived by doing odd jobs as a laborer, and on the occasional charity of the local people. He longed, he said, for the chance to have his revenge on the House of Tudor and was gratified to hear that the King’s own cousins had taken up residence at Syon. This morning, he slipped into the house unchallenged, made his way to the south gallery, and was gratified to find that the secret passage and stair were still there behind the paneling, untouched by the renovations. And there he hid, his ax grasped in his hand. It was meant for you, my dear.”

My father puts an arm around my mother’s shoulders. I have never seen her look so discomposed: she is fighting to retain her customary dignified manner.

“Is he still down there?” she asks, her face pale. “I hope you’ve tied him up!”

“As it happens, my dear, he’s quite dead,” my lord tells her. “He managed to wriggle free, grabbed my dagger, and stabbed himself with it.”

The men exchange glances. My father fixes them with a steady gaze. I cannot take this all in.

“Take him away tonight and bury him at a crossroads,” he commands them. “He has offended God by taking his own life, so he may not rest in hallowed ground. He tried to murder my good lady here, and he almost murdered me.” The men seem about to say something, but he stills them with another look. “Say no more about this to anyone. I do not wish to cause my wife and daughters any further distress. If anyone asks what you are about, say you found his body in the woods.”

They leave, and my father hurries us back to our private chambers, permitting no further questions. And that is an end to the matter, although I am left to wonder just what did happen in that cellar, and whether murder was committed this day after all.