Innocent Traitor (59 page)

“Madam, forgive my plain speaking, but this is sheer folly,” he declares to my surprise. “The Emperor is of the opinion that, to make all safe in England, you should rid the land of these traitors. Do not be too tender of their youth. They are a threat to your throne.”

“I have spoken, Ambassador, and I will not go back on my word once given,” I say sharply. “Besides, I am of the opinion that my sister, Elizabeth, poses the greater threat. Yes, she has been at my side since I was proclaimed, and none showed greater joy when I was crowned, but she excuses herself from attending Mass on the lightest pretext, and I fear she is secretly plotting to marry Edward Courtenay. I need not remind you that Courtenay himself has a claim to the throne. No, Elizabeth is far more dangerous than Jane Dudley will ever be.”

“Madam, that is madness!” Renard splutters. “Forgive my plain speaking, but I have heard from my spies that the Duke of Suffolk, whom you have rashly allowed to go free and unpunished, is rumored to be plotting a rebellion. I have also learned that recently, out of your great clemency, you have given permission for the Lady Jane, condemned traitor though she is, to go out of the Tower for walks on Tower Hill. Madam, that is ill-advised. It would be very easy for her father to abduct her and set her up once again as a rival queen.”

“She is well guarded,” I insist, “and I doubt the Duke could command enough support for a rebellion.”

“Do not make the mistake of underestimating the strength of the opposition to Your Majesty’s proposed marriage to Prince Philip. Many of your subjects are already disaffected, I am saddened to say.”

“That is as may be, but my mind is made up,” I declare firmly. “I will not have the blood of an innocent child on my hands.”

I dismiss Renard forthwith. My head is aching and I cannot face more arguments. He is doing his best to wear me down, but I am resolved to stand firm. If what he says about Suffolk proves to be true—I will order the Duke to be watched—then I will double the guards on the Tower. But it is not in my nature to be cruel, and until that happens, I will allow the Lady Jane what freedom I can. Perhaps Renard is right and Tower Hill is too accessible. It might be wiser not to take any risks.

Lady Jane Dudley

THE TOWER OF LONDON, DECEMBER 1553

The air is bitingly cold, but I am enjoying myself. It is exhilarating to wander at will about Tower Hill, browsing among the stalls of the street vendors, or watching the constant traffic along the Thames. My guards stand a little way off, chatting and laughing.

Guilford, they tell me, is allowed similar outings, but we are no longer allowed to meet. The government will not run the risk of two convicted traitors, husband and wife, plotting an escape. Being unable to see Guilford does not bother me, although I do feel some spark of pity for him, shut up in the freezing Beauchamp Tower in the depths of winter. Mrs. Partridge reports him broken in heart and spirit by the thought of the death sentence hanging over him.

The promised pardons have not yet been granted, but it is surely too soon to expect them. There is much unrest at the prospect of the Queen’s marriage to Prince Philip, and on Tower Hill I hear rumors that the people will rebel against it. I pray God they do not do so in my name.

When I return to my lodgings, I find Sir John Bridges waiting for me. He bows courteously, but his kindly face is grave.

“Madam, I regret that these walks outdoors must cease,” he says without preamble. “The council wishes you kept out of the public eye just now. There are good reasons for this, but, as I am sure you can appreciate, I am not at liberty to discuss them.”

I am crestfallen. My little outings were such a joy to me, an unexpected favor. Now I am to be cooped up in my prison again, and the prospect is hardly bearable. I fear that this is a bad sign, a step backward in the direction of more rigorous incarceration, not forward toward my promised liberty; and it may betoken that my pardon could be rescinded as easily. As I gaze miserably at Sir John, there is a pounding in my head, and the world shifts. To my horror, I realize that I cannot see him properly: it is as if part of my vision is blocked off. Shocked and shaking, I sink into a chair, blinking and trying to focus my eyes. But the blind spot stays there still.

“Madam, are you ill?” he inquires, plainly concerned at my distress.

“I cannot see properly!” I wail. Mrs. Ellen and Mrs. Partridge hasten over and peer into my eyes.

“There is nothing to see,” says Mrs. Ellen, shaking her head. They are all crowding around me now, solicitous and comforting, but my terror deepens as the blind spot explodes in a pattern of brilliant, zigzagged lines, which dance and flicker across my vision. I feel sick and dizzy and cannot face sipping the ale they are offering me.

I am made to lie on my bed. The cold winter light hurts my eyes, so Mrs. Ellen draws the curtains. It is half an hour before the frightening disturbances fade, leaving me tremulous and drained. No one can offer any explanation for them until Mrs. Tilney returns from visiting Mrs. Underhill.

“Why, it’s a megrim you’ve got, my lady,” she tells me. “I suffer from them myself. They’re unpleasant, but harmless. My mother had them on and off for years, but lived till she was sixty. You’ll probably get a nasty headache, but it’ll soon go.”

I only half-believe her and lie here weeping. She is right about the headache, which comes on soon afterward. It is the worst I have ever had, and I feel utterly wretched. Nothing exists beyond the pain, and several times I vomit into a pail held by Mrs. Ellen, who never leaves my side, but sits patiently wiping my brow with a cool, damp cloth.

In the morning, I am miraculously restored to health, much to my amazement, but two days later I suffer another megrim, and then two more in the space of a week. Sir John, out of concern, summons a physician, who confirms Mrs. Tilney’s diagnosis, but admits there is little he can do.

“These things sometimes seem to coincide with the female courses,” he explains. “Are you menstruating at present?”

“I am not.” In fact, I have not seen my courses since I came to this house a prisoner.

The doctor looks at me with pity. “It is also a fact that megrims occur when a patient is inordinately troubled, or of an anxious disposition.”

All of us know the heavy sentence I am under. “I suffered the first megrim immediately after being told that my outings had been curtailed,” I say quietly.

He shakes his head sadly and summons the Lieutenant. “My professional opinion, sir, is that this young lady is under immense strain and that it is making her ill. She needs good food, fresh air, and peace of mind. Of course, it is not my place to advise you, but if I were in your shoes, I would see my duty clear.”

“I will write to the council at once,” Sir John promises.

The megrims have ceased, and I thank God for it. And I have Him and the Queen’s Grace to thank for once again being able to breathe in the open air and walk on the crisp, frosty grass of the Lieutenant’s garden. I can stay out of doors here until my fingers are blue, if I please, before reluctantly returning to warm myself before Mrs. Partridge’s great fire.

My circumstances have improved, but I remain somewhat dejected. I am sixteen and shut away from normal life. I have my books, but I have now read them all several times and have not the means to order more. I am listless, in need of something I cannot put a name to. It might be freedom that I desire, but it feels as if there is something else lacking, something more fundamental. One day, when this is all over, I should like to go and live in the country, perhaps at Bradgate, which seems now to belong to another life, a life I took so much for granted. How strange it would feel to go back now.

I wonder what it would be like to be married to a good man who could love me, cherish me, and protect me from all the misfortunes that life can bring. Someone who would be willing to encourage my intellectual interests and be a kind father to my children. It occurs to me suddenly that I would like to have children one day.

It is all a fantasy, of course. I am married to Guilford, and he too has been promised a pardon. He has no part in my dreams, yet I am tied to him for life and there is no way out. I expect that, after our release, we may learn to rub along together, both softened by this great ordeal. At least he is no longer as arrogant and unfeeling as he once was.

But neither of us has yet received our pardons, and I cannot help but wonder if they will ever arrive.

Thinking of Guilford, I call to mind the inscriptions he told me he had carved. In a mood of melancholy and despair, I take example from him and, using my silver paper-knife, chisel one of my own Latin verses into the plaster of my bedchamber wall, for the benefit of posterity:

To mortals’ common fate thy mind resign;

My lot today tomorrow may be thine.

I hope for light after the darkness.

I lay down my knife, my arm aching with the effort of carving, slump on my bed, and fall to weeping.

Frances Brandon,
Duchess of Suffolk

SHEEN, SURREY, 22ND DECEMBER 1553

“What’s that letter you are reading?” I inquire of my lord.

“It’s from Edward Courtenay, the Earl of Devon, that was in the Tower from boyhood, and who was a suitor to the Queen.”

“What does he want?” I ask, surprised.

“It seems he’s angry at his rejection by Her Majesty. He tells me he has thrown in his lot with Sir Thomas Wyatt.”

Wyatt, a Protestant gentleman of Kent, has already been in touch with my lord; he has set himself up by stealth as the leader of those who oppose the Spanish marriage. Last month he wrote to Henry telling him that he could rally many people to his cause, if need be, and begged my lord to join forces with him. Prudently, Henry refused.

“Courtenay writes that during the past weeks Wyatt has enlisted enough support to convince him and others that a popular rising against the marriage would not only be feasible, but would probably be successful too.”

“For God’s sake, don’t get involved!”

But Henry ignores me. “The Earl says here that their plans are well advanced. There are to be four simultaneous risings on the same day, Palm Sunday, which will fall on the eighteenth of March next year. Wyatt will lead the men of Kent, Sir James Crofts those of Hertfordshire, and Courtenay and Sir Peter Carew the men of Devon.”

“And what of the fourth uprising?” I ask, fearing the answer.

“Courtenay writes that they want me to lead it. I am to raise the men of Leicestershire.”

“If you do, you’re a bloody fool!” I cry.

“Listen, Frances,” says Henry patiently. “It’s a sound plan—”

“Like Northumberland’s was?” I interrupt furiously.

“Much sounder. Listen, and hear me out. The four armies will march on London, overthrow the Queen’s treacherous advisers, then force her to repudiate the match with Philip of Spain. Courtenay stresses that no harm is intended to Her Majesty, and that he and all the other leaders are her most devoted subjects. There is no element of treason in this plan.”

“My lord, are you telling me that you are planning to engage in a rebellion against the Queen, when our daughter is yet languishing in the Tower under sentence of death? You are mad.”

“This is not against the Queen, Frances. It’s a demonstration by her loyal subjects against the man she proposes to marry.”

“And you think she’ll make the distinction when your armies are converging on London?” I snap. I am beside myself. “God, Henry, you are a fool. Can’t you see that Courtenay’s real aim is to marry the Queen himself? And as for Wyatt, I have my own suspicions about him.”

“And what are they, pray?” His voice is cold, faintly patronizing.

“I’ve no proof or evidence to go on. Call it female intuition, or what you like, but I fear that Wyatt has some hidden agenda of his own.”

“Nonsense, Frances. Your imagination is running away with you.” He turns to face me. “I’m sorry, my dear, but I will not be deterred. I will not bow the knee to the Prince of Spain.”