By the second week of June, it was obvious to Edward VI that he was dying. The cause was probably not tuberculosis, as used to be thought, but a bacterial pulmonary infection contracted months earlier. It was most likely a complication of the chill he was reported to be suffering from in mid-February. As he was previously a strong young man, the disease took some time to reach its awful, but inexorable, conclusion. The symptoms show that renal failure and septicaemia eventually overwhelmed his entire system. Today, a simple course of antibiotics administered early in his illness would have prevented this deadly infection. Instead, he was condemned to a painful and protracted passing from a life that had seemed full of promise.
The last weeks were dreadful. Edward could not rest unless strong sleeping draughts were administered, and his head and feet swelled. His scalp was shaved, his nails fell out and the stench of the sputum he continued to bring up nauseated even his most devoted servants. Though little could be done to alleviate the indignities of death, his intellect remained clear. His one consolation, amid all this suffering, was that the country he ruled was now freed for ever from the yoke of the papacy in Rome and the uncertainties over religious practice his father had bequeathed him. Those men in whom he had confidence, principally Cranmer and Northumberland, would, he believed, uphold his uncompromising devotion to the new religion. But there was one vital question of state that demanded his attention, as his life ebbed away. To be sure that there was no going back, he must take an audacious step. He must alter the succession to the English throne.
It had begun as an intellectual exercise, the sort of hypothetical problem suitable for the clever mind of Edward VI. There could be no more important consideration than the future of his own dynasty.We do not know whether the topic was entirely of the king’s choosing or whether it was developed following discussion with William Thomas, an Oxford graduate of reformist ideas who was working with Northumberland in training the king for government. For many years, historians drew a direct line between the document entitled
My Devise for the Succession
and the crisis of summer 1553. It was viewed as the moving force for a sinister plot, masterminded by Northumberland when he knew Edward was mortally ill. But this is to confuse cause with effect. The duke was not so cunning, nor nearly so well organised, as those who sought to vilify him after his fall believed. Archbishop Cranmer told Mary subsequently that Northumberland had never raised with him the idea of changing the succession. He said the impetus came from the king and other council members, and he had no reason to protect Northumberland once Mary was on the throne. As with the moves against Anne Boleyn nearly two decades earlier, Cranmer merely wanted to represent the truth as he saw it.
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The
Devise
was originally written no later than January 1553, at a time when there was no reason to expect the king’s imminent death. It proposed a radical change to the order of succession laid out by Henry VIII and put on the statute books by Parliament in 1543. At one stroke, Edward disinherited both his sisters, stipulating instead that the throne pass to the male heirs of Frances, duchess of Suffolk, and then to the male heirs of the Lady Jane, her eldest daughter. Jane was educated according to the new religious ideas and she was staunchly anti-Catholic. This made her an attractive alternative to Mary. The king had realised for some while, perhaps since the disastrous Christmas of 1550, that his elder sister would undo all the religious changes of his reign if she were ever to succeed to the throne. He was not willing to die in that knowledge. His reasons for rejecting Elizabeth as well were logical rather than theological. Given the order of succession in the 1543 act and Henry’s will, disinheritance of Mary implied disinheritance of Elizabeth too. This textbook exercise did not allow family feelings to get in the way of the needs of the state. Edward was perfectly willing to trample on the rights of Mary, who had loved him all his life, and Elizabeth, who had shared his schoolroom and his religious ideas. They were women and as such inferior. Though the 16th century produced many capable women rulers, Edward’s views were entirely in tune with the times in which he lived. Nor should it be supposed that, when he first wrote the
Devise
, he saw any inconsistency in bringing forward the claim of the women of the junior branch of the Tudors. He merely assumed that his cousin Jane would, when she married, produce male children.The nearest male heir, Margaret Douglas’ son Lord Darnley, was no more than eight years old and a Catholic.The king would never have passed his throne to a child being raised in the old religion.
All this had already taken shape in Edward’s mind when Mary came to court four months earlier. But no one else knew of it, except perhaps for William Thomas.The king would hardly have provoked his sister by inviting her thoughts on what he had written. In fact, he was already seeking to marginalise Mary through observing a polite indifference to her Catholicism, thus minimising the damage she could do publicly as the regime’s main opponent. At the same time, he took steps to remind his other sister of her doubtful status by giving Elizabeth’s main property in London to Northumberland. Durham Place, the scene of Jane Grey’s nuptials, had very recently been Elizabeth’s town residence, and she was not amused by its loss. All this was part of the king’s flexing of his muscles, readying himself for a time when power was entirely his.
When it became obvious to Edward that he did not have long to live, the
Devise
assumed an altogether different significance. It was no longer a dissertation on what might happen; it was a practical blueprint for England and a balm for his troubled spirit. Robbed of his own future, he would now take the step that would make his sisters historical footnotes. For were they not both bastards as well as females, and therefore doubly unfit to rule? They would remain for ever as his father had originally intended at the time of Edward’s own birth, the Lady Mary and the Lady Elizabeth, not princesses of England. It required only one small change in the wording of the
Devise
to bring about the result he so fervently desired.
Northumberland may not even have known that the
Devise
existed before June, but he now saw a way in which he could safeguard his own position and calm his king, as Edward struggled to fend off death for a few weeks longer. Instead of ‘the heirs male of the Lady Jane’, the phrase ‘the Lady Jane and her heirs male’ was inserted, probably at the duke’s suggestion. Edward’s Protestant cousin would become queen, even though her mother, the closer claimant, was still alive and still of childbearing years. Quite why Frances of Suffolk was written off in this way has never been explained, but she must not have tried to push her claim over her daughter’s. Her subsequent behaviour gives the impression of someone who was always rather anxious for her own skin, so perhaps she reasoned that if the venture did not succeed, she would be better off at one remove from it. She would obviously have been a less attractive proposition to the duke of Northumberland, who saw in this manipulation of the succession a way in which his ascendancy could continue, uninterrupted. Through a happy accident of timing, the duke’s new daughter-in-law provided him with the means to retain power when Edward was gone. Once seized by the idea, he committed to it wholeheartedly. He did not have the luxury of a period of reflection or doubt. The changes to the succession must be put in place swiftly and with unanimity, to ensure a smooth transition from Edward to Jane. There might be doubts raised, voices murmuring in corridors and corners, and they needed to be silenced. Mary and Elizabeth would object, but what could they do? And both resided close enough to London for them to be easily apprehended. When the hour of the king’s death was close, he intended to summon them to court and, once there, they would be in his power.
There were now two difficulties to be overcome and they were almost mutually contradictory. The first was to change the succession legally, with the consent of council and then through Letters Patent. More time and wider support would have been needed to get the changes agreed by Parliament, and this was clearly not an option. As it was, many of the council, and the law officers in particular, were greatly disturbed by what was being proposed. On 12 June, the Lord Chief Justice, Sir Edward Montagu, caused consternation by announcing that he would not be party to anything involving changes to the succession. There was, he said, succinctly, ‘the danger of treason’. His delicate conscience and legal obstinacy infuriated Northumberland, who was never slow to offer violence in word and demeanour when opposed. He called Montagu ‘traitor before all the council and said that in the quarrel of that matter he would fight in his shirt with any man living’.
6
His aggression made many present uneasy for their own safety, but still there was sufficient opposition for a compromise to be proposed. Mary should be offered the crown but must undertake not to change religion or replace any of the current ministers. This proposal showed a regard for legitimacy but was not met with much enthusiasm.
The legal wrangling angered the king. Edward refused to be thwarted; Mary must not inherit his throne, he told the judges when they appeared before him on 15 June. Neither would he countenance Elizabeth, the daughter of an adulteress, as his heir. His cousin Jane was a lady of high virtue and sound religious convictions. She would support the growth of ‘the religion whose fair foundation we have laid’. The sight of this angry, desperately ill youth summoning up the last shreds of his energy to berate them swayed the judges. No doubt they were also conscious of Northumberland scowling in the background.They capitulated, agreeing to help the king draw up his will.
When it was known that the legal establishment had submitted to the king’s demands, the doubters gave way. Reluctance was suppressed in the comfort of collective responsibility, which the king absolutely required. Opposition would have been treason, giving an excuse for a wide-scale purge that would have removed anyone who questioned the king and Northumberland. The argument that both Mary and Elizabeth were illegitimate probably carried more weight than highlighting the religious issues surrounding Mary personally. The Letters Patent were already drafted before the king’s confrontation with the judiciary. They stated that the marriages of Katherine of Aragon and Anne Boleyn were ‘clearly and lawfully undone’.This meant that Mary and Elizabeth were ‘unto us but the half blood, and therefore by the ancient laws, statutes and customs of this realm be not inheritable unto us, although they were legitimate, as they be not indeed’. It was also easy to play on old fears about the effect of a foreign marriage, should either woman become queen. A ‘stranger’ would impose foreign laws on England, ‘which would then tend to the utter subversion of the commonwealth of this our realm, which God defend’.
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But this was not a new argument and, whatever the convoluted legalisms about the status of Edward’s sisters, the provisions of the Act of Succession of 1543 and Henry VIII’s will were being flouted. Edward VI was actually attacking legitimacy by claiming to uphold a different interpretation of it.
Northumberland also knew his colleagues on the privy council. He had it in his gift to reward as well as bluster. In mid-16th-century England, a delicate conscience meant political annihilation and personal ruin. So the duke appeased his critics with grants of lands, always so much more attractive than principles. Eventually all the council and the judges, with the exception of Sir James Hales, signed the Letters Patent, as did the mayor and alderman of London.The victory was facilitated by Northumberland, and served his own purposes, but it was still very much the king’s. Using a mixture of persuasion and threats, Edward was able to stage his own coup d’état in the final weeks of his life.
There was, however, a major difficulty, and it could not be overcome by personal pleas or the spectre of the scaffold. Although the council was sworn to secrecy, so momentous a change to the succession was impossible to conceal.Those troubled by the machinations, whether supporters of Mary or enemies of Northumberland, were careful not to be caught in open discussion, but word, inevitably, got out. The unity Northumberland tried to invoke was, as he well knew, fragile. The other steps he took to underwrite his power, the arming and provisioning of the Tower of London and the readying of the fleet, were impossible to conceal. Rumours about what would happen after Edward’s death began to circulate in southern England. Too many people knew what was intended. Northumberland’s courting of the French was also bound to attract attention in the diplomatic community. The new ambassador in London, Antoine de Noailles, relayed to Henry II what Northumberland had told him on 26 June:‘that they had provided so well against the Lady Mary’s ever attaining the succession, and that all the lords of the council were so well united, that there is no need for you, Sire, to enter into any doubt on this score’.
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This Anglo-French cosiness made the emperor very edgy. Mary had wondered for some time why her cousin was silent. It was just as well that she remained unaware of Charles V’s real assessment of her situation, since she would not have found any encouragement there.