Innocent Traitor (50 page)
Panic mounts. An unpleasant jarring sensation in my head has me frantically looking for succor in what I know is to be my hour of trial. It passes, but leaves me feeling faint and shaky. With an immense effort of will, I try to steady myself, fearing that I will either pass out or even drop dead from fright in front of all these people. I pray for strength and guidance, and that God may reveal His will in this great matter.
The thought strikes me that perhaps this
is
the path that the Almighty, in His usual subtle way, has chosen for me. Is it possible that I, a poor weak vessel, am destined to be His instrument? His ways of working out His purpose are so mysterious as sometimes to appear incomprehensible to mere mortals. But how can I know whether this business is the will of God or the work of the Devil? I am desperate to understand! I must hope and pray for a sign.
I stand trembling at the foot of the dais as Northumberland wheels me round to face the company. There is a hush.
The Duke speaks in ringing tones: “As Lord President of the council, it is my sad duty to proclaim to you all the death of his most blessed and gracious Majesty, King Edward VI.” He pauses to allow this momentous, dread news to sink in. That poor boy! How I pity him…. But now is not the time to weep. Few of those present look surprised, and I suspect that most have already heard or guessed of the King’s passing.
Numb in my misery, I hear the Duke drone on, praising the late King’s virtues and giving thanks for his most Christian death. Then it comes: his late Majesty, in his wisdom, says Northumberland, devised a new will, which is to be enshrined in an act of Parliament, disinheriting his sisters and decreeing that whosoever takes them for his undoubted heirs is a traitor to both God and the realm.
All eyes are now on me. To my horror, I see Northumberland turn toward me.
“Be it known that His Majesty has named Your Grace as the heir to the crown of England,” he declares. “He has also appointed that your sister will succeed you in default of your lawful issue.”
All are silent. I stand mute, in agonized turmoil, reeling from the impact of his words and unable to respond in any way.
The Duke seems to take my silence for assent. He smiles. “Madam, your title has been approved by all the lords of the council, the great nobles of this realm, and all the judges of the land. There is nothing wanting but Your Grace’s grateful acceptance of the high estate that God Almighty, the sovereign disposer of all crowns and scepters—never sufficiently to be thanked by you for so great a mercy—has advanced you to.” He pauses, his smile becoming more strained as I remain apparently stupefied by my good fortune.
“Therefore,” he concludes, “you should cheerfully take upon you the name, title, and estate of Queen of England, receiving from us the homage that will shortly be tendered to you by the rest of the kingdom.” Now he falls on his knees, followed by everyone else present in the chamber, until I am the only person left standing, looking down on rank upon rank of bowed heads.
“Each one of us would willingly shed his blood for you, exposing our lives to death!” Northumberland assures me dramatically. But I cannot hear him properly. Waves of dizziness and nausea are engulfing me, and I crumple to the floor in a dead faint.
When I open my eyes, I am still lying there. I realize, aghast, that not one person, not even my mother or my husband, has stirred to help me. Is this what being a queen will mean? I am alone, utterly alone, and will be so for the rest of my life. This realization is just too much to bear, and my composure breaks. Lying on the floor, I bury my head in my arms and fall to weeping piteously, great racking sobs tearing at my body. This is wrong, I know it! We must surely be damned to Hell for all eternity, I along with them, even though I am forced to be their accomplice in this evil.
Northumberland is staring down at me without emotion. He clearly thinks me a foolish girl who does not appreciate her good fortune, but he makes no move to stem what, to him, and in these circumstances, must be an immoderate display of feeling. Perhaps he, and the rest, believe that I am suffering from shock after hearing of the death of my cousin Edward and trust I will soon remember that such loss of control is ill-bred and will compose myself.
There is no point in crying if no one takes any notice. I am sobbing softly now and after a few minutes, realizing they have no intention of comforting me, I wipe my eyes and sit up. The Duke stretches out a hand to support me, and I rise shakily to my feet. I know now, with surprising clarity and moral certainty, what I must do.
“The crown is not my right,” I declare in what sounds like a high, childish voice. “This pleases me not at all. The Lady Mary is the rightful heir.”
There is a ripple of shocked excitement in the chamber. Northumberland’s eyes flash with anger. He cannot believe I have dared to defy him: a slip of a girl against a mighty duke. No doubt he thought he could deal with me easily and firmly.
“Your Grace wrongs yourself and your House,” he cries stridently. My parents, looking as appalled as he, and embarrassed, weigh in also.
“You are an ungrateful girl!” thunders my father, his face flushed. “Have you forgotten your duty to us, who have helped to order this for you? Not to mention your obedience to the will of his late Majesty, nor to the decision of your chief subjects here present?”
“You will do as you are told!” spits my mother.
“I must do as my conscience dictates,” I say firmly, determined to hold my ground in the face of their hostility and my fear and bodily weakness.
“And do you think King Edward, of blessed memory, would have acted in an ungodly fashion in thus willing the crown to you?” asks the Duke in a voice that suggests he is making an effort to show patience with me.
“He was ill, and not in his right mind, of that I am convinced,” I reply steadily. “And it appears he was overborne by others who look only to further their own ends.”
The mighty Northumberland is visibly taken aback by my candor; I doubt that many people have ever spoken so plainly to him, and certainly not his fellow councillors. Yet here am I, a mere girl, who owes him the respect due to a father, insinuating openly that he is corrupt and self-seeking.
My parents seem poised to swoop to the attack once more, their mouths open in protest, but suddenly, at his father’s nod, Guilford steps forward and lays his hand on my arm. I recoil at his touch, and the Duke frowns, but Guilford persists. Of course, he has a vested interest in my compliance, and no doubt the Duke has briefed him beforehand: how touching, the handsome young husband gently persuading his reluctant wife to do her duty.
“Sweet Jane,” he says gently. Now I know he’s playing a part. It’s even been scripted for him, as his next words prove: he’s probably been reciting his speech all day. “I pray you be mindful of your duty and accept this sovereign honor that God has seen fit to bestow on you. There is, I know well, no one more fitted by descent, learning, and religion for it, and it is clear that God has designated you to be the savior of His faithful people.”
I stare at him in astonishment. If a donkey had spoken, I could not be more surprised.
“The crown is not my right,” I repeat.
“Think,” Guilford goes on—his father is watching him closely. “Think on the good you can do for the true Church, and think also of what would happen to those of our true faith if the Lady Mary were to come to the throne. If you refuse the crown, you will be responsible for their fate. Think on it, Jane!”
God chooses the strangest instruments, for Guilford’s words strike home with more impact than I could ever have imagined. The Duke is looking at him with new admiration. Possibly Guilford said more than he was told to say, but it was enough to plant a doubt in my mind. The assembled courtiers appear to be collectively holding their breath, waiting on my response.
I struggle to collect my thoughts. I am wavering at the prospect of true Protestants suffering persecution for their faith, as they will surely do under Mary’s rule; the prospect makes my heart quail. My husband is right: I hold their fate in my hands.
What shall I do, Lord? I am praying inwardly. I am unfitted in every way for this high honor, which is not mine by entitlement, but I fear for Thy elect if I refuse it. Direct me, show me, I beg of You, what I must do.
“I must pray for guidance,” I say, and fall to my knees.
Although my eyes are shut, all must witness the struggle taking place within me. But the battle is quickly fought and won: I understand the Divine Will now. The true faith must take priority over a doubtful title. It is my duty to be its defender—there is no other course I can take. It is a bitter cup, but I must drink it; my fateful decision is made. Northumberland looks on approvingly as I open my eyes and call on God to be my witness: “If what has been given to me is lawfully mine, may Thy Divine Majesty grant me such spirit and grace that I may govern to Thy glory and service, and to the advantage of the realm.”
With a great effort I rise to my feet, mount the dais, and sit down on the throne, gripping the velvet armrests.
The Duke bends to kiss my hand, his relief—and his irritation—evident. Looking down on his bowed head, I feel a wave of revulsion, and it is all I can do not to snatch my hand away. I resolve that, at the earliest opportunity, I will rid myself of the hated Dudleys.
Coolly I nod my acceptance of the Duke’s homage and watch him retire, making way for the next in the long line of lords and officers seeking to offer their allegiance. It gives me a frisson of pleasure to see Guilford on his knees before me. From now on, I decide, he will treat me with courtesy and respect, or I will send him away.
My father glowers as he bends his head and mutters under his breath, “A fine dance you have led us all, madam!” My mother, waspish in victory and determined to have the last word, is standing at my elbow.
“Queen you may be,” she whispers, “but you’ll not forget your duty to your parents. And after today’s sorry performance, I look to see some improvement in your conduct. You have shamed us all.” Strangely her sharp tongue has lost its power to move me. I realize I am now in a position where I may choose to ignore it, and it dawns on me that queenship will have one advantage at least—that of keeping my parents, and particularly my mother, at a safe distance. And let them dare gainsay me!
But this is small compensation for the unsettling feeling in my bones that, however good my reasons, I have done wrong in accepting a crown that can never rightfully be mine. I fear I have been imprudent, but it is too late now. I have made the hardest decision of my life. I have charted my course and must now stick to it, whatever tempests threaten, and however my conscience troubles me. I will endeavor to be a good and merciful queen, and a champion of the true faith.
It feels strange to be sitting in my high seat and listening to my—yes,
my
—privy councillors acquainting me most deferentially with the arrangements for my state entry into London, which is to take place tomorrow. Although it is customary for a new monarch to go in procession through the city streets to be acclaimed by his or her subjects, my councillors feel that, with the Lady Mary still at large, the proclamation of my accession, followed by my reception at the Tower of London, shall be sufficient for the present. Northumberland says the Tower is the safest place for me, and the council too, just now; and of course it is traditional for a sovereign to lodge there prior to being crowned.
I do not question these arrangements: it seems as if it is all happening to somebody else and does not concern me. Nor do I dare ask what will happen to the Lady Mary when they catch up with her. If they catch up with her. For if Mary succeeds in reaching the coast, she could take ship to the Emperor’s dominions and there raise an army in support of her claim, a Catholic army that might well be used to force this kingdom back to obedience to Rome. The very thought keeps me true to my chosen path.
It is late now, and after such a momentous day I feel drained.
“My lords, I will retire now,” I announce, surprising myself and, clearly, my hearers with the ring of authority in my voice.
Guilford stands up with the rest. His constant presence at my side throughout these past hours has irritated me, yet I realize that, short of being unpardonably rude to him in public, there is nothing I can do about it.
“Allow me to escort you to your chamber, madam,” he says courteously, making his obeisance with a flourish. The hair flopping forward over his face does not quite conceal the glint of lust in his eyes. Doubtless he finds the prospect of bedding the Queen of England stimulating. Northumberland and his Duchess are watching me closely, as is my mother. Well, I am learning to dissemble. I will give them no cause for criticism.
“I thank you, my lord,” I reply coolly, giving Guilford my hand. Together we walk past the bowing lords of the council, as the doors of the state chamber are flung open for us. Beyond them, Mrs. Ellen is waiting.
“Your Majesty,” she says with a formal curtsy that startles me.
“Attend me, please,” I respond gratefully. I turn to Guilford. “I beg you to excuse me, my lord, but I am weary beyond measure after this long day’s business. I bid you good night.” The doors behind us are still wide open, and the lords are beginning to spill out of them. Guilford has no choice but to acknowledge defeat: he will not risk the shame of his wife’s rejection being made public. He bows again and kisses my hand.
“Good night, madam,” he says, meekly enough, but his expression is petulant.
Queen Jane
