THE THAMES AND THE TOWER OF LONDON, 10TH JULY 1553
Soon after midday the flotilla of barges draws away from Syon steps. Ahead go those bearing the privy councillors and the chief officers of the royal household, whilst the state barge emblazoned with the royal arms of England brings up the rear. I am seated in its cushioned and canopied cabin, the curtains tied back so that my subjects can get a good view of their new Queen. My gown and headdress are in the Tudor colors of green and white, embroidered with gold thread and encrusted with jewels that glitter in the blazing afternoon sun. Beside me sits Guilford, dazzling in a suit of white satin trimmed with gold and silver. He is holding my hand and rather overacting the part of attentive husband. If he bows his head again when I speak to him, I think I will scream. But even his presence cannot make this real.
Behind us sits my mother, clad in crimson velvet and perspiring heavily. She has been designated my trainbearer on this great occasion. I can sense from her pursed lips and rigid bearing that she is still mightily displeased with me, but this is the least of my worries.
I am, I have to admit, nervous, because the news from the city is not good. This morning, the royal heralds proclaimed me Queen in three places: by the Eleanor Cross in Cheapside, on Tower Hill, and outside Westminster Hall. But the people received the news in silence, stony-faced. The Duke has sent bands of armed guards into London to deal with any disturbances, yet this does not prevent some naughty fellows shouting out from the riverbank that it is the Lady Mary who should be queen. For this, they will later be sentenced to have their ears cut off and stand in the pillory. It is not an auspicious start.
As the barges glide downriver, I see more clusters of people along the shore, but there is no cheering. The mood is hostile, and most stare insolently at me or gawp incredulously. I feel intimidated by their silence and antipathy and dare not wave or even acknowledge them by a nod of the head. The journey seems endless, and with relief I see the great white bulk of the Tower looming in the distance.
“Nearly there,” says Guilford unnecessarily. “You should put on your chopines now.” I reach for the three-inch-high clogs at my feet; I have been told I must wear them to give me height so that I can be seen by those at the back of the anticipated crowds. I begin to wonder if there will be any crowds at all.
As the barges pull in toward the Court Gate at the Tower, the cannons along the adjacent wharf salute me with a deafening report. Assisted by Guilford, I alight from my barge, my mother holding up my heavy train, then take my place beneath a canopy of estate borne by six waiting peers. Followed by the lords of the council, I walk in procession through the Tower precincts, which, to my utter astonishment, are packed with people, all craning their necks to see me. Even more amazing, some are actually cheering!
“God save Queen Jane!” they cry, throwing their bonnets in the air. “God save Your Majesty!”
Heartened by this, I press on, smiling, although my knees feel weak and my heart is pounding.
At last, the entrance to the palace is in sight. Here, the elderly Marquess of Winchester, Lord High Treasurer, waits with Sir John Bridges, the Lieutenant of the Tower, to receive me. The Marquess falls creakily to his knees to present me with the great keys of the Tower, but before I can take them, Northumberland, standing nearby, snatches them up and himself places them in my hands. His action is blatantly symbolic, as if he himself confers upon me the privileges of sovereignty. I bridle inwardly—his arrogance is breathtaking!
But there is no time for feeling indignant, for I am now being escorted up the stairs into the White Tower, the massive keep built by William the Conqueror to guard the city of London. We proceed to the presence chamber, where a vast throng of noblemen and ladies fall on their knees as I enter. Among them, I glimpse the pretty face of my sister Katherine; she is with her young husband and his father, Pembroke. As I seat myself on the throne, my lord father and Northumberland approach me and, kneeling, officially bid me welcome to my kingdom.
These formalities completed, at the Duke’s bidding I lead the court upstairs to the Norman chapel dedicated to St. John the Evangelist. Here I am supposed to give thanks to God for my accession. Yet, as I kneel on my cushion before the altar rails, I find I cannot pray, for my thoughts are in too great a turmoil. I try desperately to recapture the sense of conviction I felt when I accepted the crown, when I believed I would be God’s instrument in saving His faithful, but it eludes me now, when I most need it. How can I give thanks to God for this crown to which I have no true title? It would be dishonest, and He is never deceived. And while I compound my sin, He might turn His face against me. Indeed, my inability to commune with Him now might be the first indication of His disfavor. I know in my heart that I have wronged the rightful heiress, the Lady Mary. I feel bereft and alone; without God to sustain me, I cannot bear this burden.
Yet I must, I
must,
for the court is rising to its feet and there are further ceremonies over which I must preside. Promising myself that, as soon as I am alone, I will kneel and crave forgiveness and guidance, I resolutely compose myself and lead the way back down to the presence chamber. Here I sit enthroned again, flanked by Guilford and, at my own request, Mrs. Ellen, who henceforth is to be my chief lady-in-waiting. Next to her stands a family friend, Mrs. Tilney, who will also attend me from now on.
Now the Marquess of Winchester and other lords advance, bearing on velvet cushions the crown jewels, brought up from the Tower vaults for the occasion. I stare at the crown, that same crown that was worn by my late great-uncle King Henry, who had it made, having decided that the diadem worn by his predecessors was insufficiently magnificent for his greatness. His crown is set with the jewels taken from that earlier crown of the Plantagenets; they wink and glisten in the light of scores of candles.
I panic. This is not mine! I have no right to it, whatever anyone says. To accept it is to court disaster, I am sure of that. So when the Marquess lifts the crown and makes to place it on my head, I recoil.
“My lords,” I say firmly, though I am shrinking inside, “this crown has never been demanded by me or anyone acting in my name.” I place some stress on the word
my,
looking pointedly at Northumberland. “It is not your place, my lord of Winchester, to offer it to me or to set it on my head. I tell you, I will not wear it, for it is not mine.”
The Duke frowns and looks exasperated, but Winchester—who is, after all, a practiced diplomat—ignores the substance of my words.
“Your Grace may take the crown without fear,” he says avuncularly. “I merely wish to see how it becomes you, and if it fits.”
I am aware of Northumberland and my parents glaring at me, and my courage fails me. I nod, and Mrs. Ellen steps forward. She removes my headdress and unbinds my coiled and plaited tresses. The Marquess now places the crown on my head, and the courtiers break out into hearty applause. Again I feel faint and grip the arms of the throne to steady myself. It is done, for better or worse.
Winchester is speaking, but I pay him little heed, so I’m not sure if I actually heard him say that he means to order another crown for Guilford. Later, alone in my apartments with Mrs. Ellen, I discover that I did hear aright, and I am perturbed and displeased. How I wish I had been in a fit state at the time to make it plain to all that I have no intention whatsoever of making Guilford Dudley King.
I sit at the center of the high table, toying with my food. All around me, at this banquet given in honor of my accession, lords and ladies are animatedly chattering, apparently enjoying themselves, while I, the focus of it all, feel detached and unreal. Guilford, on my right, is bored with playing the devoted husband and pays more attention to his mother, who sits on the other side of him, flashing the occasional frosty look in my direction.
To my left sits Northumberland. His outward good humor seems forced; he looks strangely deflated. Perhaps he feels less in control of the situation than he could wish. The Lady Mary is still at large, and if she flees abroad before Lord Robert Dudley catches up with her, it will almost certainly mean war. But my father warns that England’s depleted treasury cannot bear the expense of defending the realm from invasion.
“If the Emperor does choose to lend the Lady Mary his support, we will all very likely be doomed,” he predicts gloomily.
I have decided to put myself in God’s hands; I will not give way to my fears. But the Duke cannot hide his anxiety. He had expected me—I make no doubt—to be docile and easy to manipulate, a willing tool in his hands; it must be disconcerting for him now to discover that I am nothing of the sort. I am determined not to be governed by him and have resolved to start as I mean to continue. He must not be allowed to go on believing that his rule will continue indefinitely, for I mean to declare myself of age and be rid of him and his whole family at the earliest opportunity. Kings before me have attained their majority at my age, fifteen—King Edward did—so there is no reason why the Duke should rule in my name. He must know that I mean to assert my authority and do what is right and needful.
The noise in the dining chamber has reached a babel when a messenger from the Lady Mary is announced. A hush falls as the Duke beckons the man to come forward and takes from him a letter. After breaking open the seal and perusing it rapidly, my lord rises to his feet, his dark brows beetling.
“Your Majesty, my lords and ladies, you shall hear what the traitor Mary has to say.” He reads the whole defiant letter aloud. After lamenting the death of her dearest brother the King, the Princess writes that no one can be ignorant of the provisions of the Act of Succession. Then, using the royal plural, she continues:
It seems strange that, our brother dying, we had no knowledge from you thereof. We had conceived great trust in your loyalty and service, but nevertheless, we are not ignorant of your consultations and the provisions you have forced through. We understand that political considerations may have moved you to act thus, so doubt not, gracious lord, that we take all your doings in gracious part, and will remit and fully pardon them. Wherefore we require and charge you, for that allegiance which you owe to God and to us, that you cause our right and title to this realm to be proclaimed in our city of London and other places, as our very trust is in you.
The silence that greets these words is broken only when my mother and the Duchess of Northumberland begin lamenting how Mary had obviously been warned in advance of the plan to apprehend her, and wondering who got word to her.
“Of course,” Northumberland declares, “we will ignore her outrageous demands. How can we proclaim her Queen when Queen Jane here is already acknowledged the rightful ruler?” He turns to me. “Rest assured, madam, my son Lord Robert will track the Lady Mary down and take her prisoner. I assure you, she is a lone woman who has no friends in this realm and poses no serious threat to your throne. And now, I pray you, my good lords and ladies, continue with the feasting.”
He sits down, but for all his brave words, his discomfiture is plain to see, and I notice also that few councillors have the appetite to finish what is on their plates.
The messenger is still standing before the high table, looking uncomfortable. Northumberland beckons to one of the Yeomen of the Guard, who stand to attention behind us.
“Have that man put in a dungeon,” he says in a low voice. Then he looks again at me. “Madam, I will summon the privy councillors to a meeting this night. We will draw up a document repudiating the Lady Mary’s claim and have it published, so that there can be no further dispute over the matter.”
“I hope, my lord,” I say sweetly, “that that will indeed be the case.”
The state apartments in the Tower, which are situated between the keep and the river, are old and have been little used since the last century. Their decaying splendor is that of a bygone age: the walls are gaily painted with heraldic designs in indigo and vermilion; floors are laid with checkered tiles; the narrow, arched windows are filled with stained glass; and the furniture is in the Gothic style. Yet I find myself occupying some state apartments that are more modern than the rest; my bedchamber boasts linenfold paneling, a tester bed with embroidered hangings, and mullioned lattice windows. There is a beautiful frieze of gamboling putti below the gilded and battened ceiling.
As Mrs. Ellen turns down the covers, I stand in my nightgown, waiting for her to brush my hair. I notice that the linen pillow-covers are embroidered with the initials
H
and
A.
“Whose initials are those?” I wonder.
“I think they stand for ‘Henry’ and ‘Anne,’” says Mrs. Ellen shortly. “Mrs. Tilney was telling me about it. Her cousin waited on Anne Boleyn when she occupied these rooms before her coronation—that would have been twenty years ago. They were refurbished especially for her. Mrs. Tilney says that Anne also lodged here before her trial.”
“But she was a prisoner. Surely she was not housed in the palace?”
“She was at first, but she was moved to the Lieutenant’s House after being condemned to death. From her window there, she watched them building the scaffold on Tower Green. She and her ladies didn’t get much sleep those last nights, because of the noise made by the workmen.”
I shiver, despite the night’s being warm. “Poor lady. I cannot imagine how she must have felt. They say she faced death bravely.”
“Oh, yes, she had courage, for all her faults.”
“I don’t suppose many people have slept here since.”
“Only King Edward, madam, on the night before his coronation.”
I sit down so that Mrs. Ellen can attend to my hair.
“I don’t like this place,” I confide to her. “It disturbs me. So many bad things have happened here. Anne Boleyn, Katherine Howard, and those little Princes who were murdered by Richard III. Aylmer told me that they never found their bodies, so I suppose their bones must still be here somewhere. I think the Tower is an evil place, Mrs. Ellen, and I shall be glad to leave it.”