Authors: Alicia Rasley
Glancing down at the initial embroidered on the handkerchief, Tatiana answered softly, "I'm very proud."
"Well you should be. For he hasn't made a misstep yet, no, he's a careful one, the major. But now think, Your Highness. If he makes a mistake—he could be cashiered, at the very least. His career, his reputation, would be in ruins. Perhaps you both would be sent into exile." The countess shoved herself forward in her chair until her knees banged into Tatiana's. "Is that what you want for him? To be disgraced, like his father? If you truly care for him, can you cause him to go against his monarch, his oath, his honor?"
"I haven't asked that of him," Tatiana said brokenly, twisting the handkerchief in her hands. "There's nothing you have said I haven't told myself."
"Good girl. He has such a brilliant future. And instead of making him throw it all away, you could help him, you know."
To escape the countess's piercing gaze, Tatiana made a great show of choosing another biscuit from the tray beside her. But then she only crumbled the biscuit into her cold tea. "He doesn't want my help."
"Well, he doesn't have to know, does he? You would merely drop a word here, a word there. You will be a royal duchess, remember. Your influence, subtly applied, could ease his way. Of course, his merit would carry him. But all those brilliant men have their sponsors. And you could be Major Devlyn's sponsor, and even more."
Tatiana knew what the countess was suggesting, for she had been thinking the same ever since d'Annaud had said the words "cher ami." But she bit cruelly at her lip, for it was all so vulgar, as if all she wanted from Michael was passion.
"Once you produce an heir, you know, you will be free to live separately, to have your own friends, to have your own-"
"I understand." Tatiana raked her fingers across her aching temples. If only she had a home to run away to, like the little maid Betsy, a sanctuary, somewhere safe.
The countess regarded the girl's bent head with reluctant sympathy, finally reaching to smooth back a red curl. "I know it is very hard. But love calls for sacrifice, you know. You must try to be brave. Oh, Fallenwood will be arriving any moment. You remember, he arranged a special tour of the Tower of London for you. But if you would like to cancel, I shall tell him you are ill."
"No, no. I need diversion. I'll just go and change my dress." Tatiana tucked the handkerchief back in her pocket, then rose, straightened her shoulders and back as if gearing up for battle, and left the room.
***
Left behind, the countess called for quill, paper, and footman. She penned a hasty note to Wellesley, urging him to hasten about this business of getting the princess married to the prince. She paused, pen poised over the paper, while the vision of a gray-eyed wastrel named Nicholas Dane fleeted across her memory. She smiled faintly, then shook her head. Best not to mention Devlyn. Let him ruin his career himself, if he chose. She would not be to blame for it.
Chapter Seventeen
The huge black ravens that guarded the Tower wall called to each other with ugly shrieks. One swooped down from the wall and landed on the bare plot in the middle of the courtyard. "That's the Execution Ground," the guide intoned, pointing a long finger at the barren spot. He was a thin young man, impeccably dressed in unfashionable clothing, a student of history at Cambridge. "They executed the famous ones there. Henry the Eighth's wives, and the handsome Earl of Essex, and of course little Queen Jane."
"Queen Jane?" Tatiana echoed, her curiosity finally roused by a British monarch with that commoner name.
"Lady Jane Grey, he means," the Duke of Fallenwood interposed with a damping look at the guide. "We don't usually consider her one of our queens, for she didn't last and was not in the direct line."
The young guide looked aghast at his own daring, but he could not allow this to pass. "She was a Tudor, the great-granddaughter of Henry VII, which gave her a legitimate claim on the throne—though not a strong one, certainly." Turning to Tatiana he explained, "She was cousin to Edward and Mary and Elizabeth, Henry VIII's children. When young King Edward died, Mary promised to bring back Romanism and destroy the Anglican church. So Queen Janne was crowned as a Protestant monarch. But her reign lasted only nine days, until Mary and Elizabeth joined forces to have the throne returned to their family."
The princess's green eyes, huge and somber, lifted to the young guide and tempted him into breaking the rules. "Your Highness, this is not on the regular tour. But perhaps you would like to see what I have always considered a symbol of the sacrifices we make for love. With your permission?"
This last was directed at Fallenwood, and he was also not proof against the sad entreaty in the princess's eyes. "Lead on," he said with some resignation. "But do make it quick. We're expected back at Sherbourne House for tea."
The young guide led them past a row of decaying tenements—for the Tower Square had long been used for slum housing—to an immense masonry building with an entrance dug deep into the ground. Tatiana tugged up her blue merino skirts as she entered the cryptlike hall. The air was close and stifling despite the chill, and the darkness was undispelled by the torches along the wall. She shivered and took Buntin's arm. With an attempt at lightness, she remarked, "This is gloomier even than the Winter Palace's cellars, don't you think? It feels like a dungeon."
"That is, in fact, what it was," the guide put in, "a prison at any rate. This is Beauchamp Tower, named for Thomas Beauchamp, the Earl of Warwick, who was one of the first inmates here. Richard II invited him to dinner one evening, then arrested him as he ate his meal. A gross violation of hospitality, don't you think?" he added with an arch look at Tatiana. When Fallenwood glowered, the guide hastened on, "Warwick was clapped into irons and sent here, but lived long enough to be reprieved by the next king. Few of the inmates have been so fortunate." He stopped at the bottom of a steep stone stairwell to take a torch off the wall. Holding it up to illuminate the steps, he counseled, "Now do be careful here, Your Highness, the stairs are very narrow."
The treads were wide enough for only one climber at a time, and Tatiana knew Buntin would never be the pioneer. The princess took a deep breath as she considered the damp gray walls that seemed to close in as the steps advanced into the darkness. The royal prison—suddenly her sightseeing tour to the Tower was far from the diverting experience she had needed.
The guide cleared his throat politely, and not wanting to appear craven, Tatiana began her ascent. In her high-heeled half-boots, she picked her careful way up the furrowed stone steps, hearing Buntin's hesitant steps clatter behind her, and Fallenwood's grunting, and the guide's breathless recitation."We're climbing in the battlement turret now, which you can see from outside the Tower walls. Notice how thick the masonry is here. Escape was nearly impossible, as many inmates learned to their dismay."
The atmosphere was no less oppressive as they stepped out onto the deserted first floor. The guide held up his torch so they could survey the chill stone floor and the slits in the wall that passed for windows. Hanging heavy in the air was the miasma of dozens of lives and dreams destroyed in this royal prison. "This floor and the floor above it were used for imprisoning those suspected of plotting against the crown. Many of the prisoners made use of their time to carve their names into the wall. Come and see the most famous."
He paused at the door of an enormous square chamber, even now roughly and inadequately furnished with a wooden cot and a plank table of the Tudor era. The torch cast eerie shadows on the gray walls. "The five Dudley brothers were held here. You can see their crest carved in the wall there." Tatiana squeezed past him and went to trace the elaborate carving on the wall. A bear and a lion held between them a ragged staff, while the name of the carver, John Dudley, was inscribed just below. Around this was carved an intricate frame of flower garlands. In a low voice, she read the verse carved below:
Yow that these beasts do wel behold and se
May deme withe ease wherfore here made they be,
Withe borders eke wherin
4 brothers names who list to serche the ground.
"Not much of a speller, this John Dudley," Fallenwood said with a sniff, coming to join her before the wall. "And there must be something missing in that third line. Doesn't make sense."
"Ah, yes," their guide replied with satisfaction, for he had doubtlessly been waiting for just this opportunity. "Men have been puzzled for centuries over those missing words. I think, however, that I have deciphered John Dudley's intent."
Tatiana touched the empty space after that incomplete third line and asked softly, "What did he mean to say?"
The guide's meager chest expanded with pride at this attention, and from a royal princess, too. "I think he neglected to carve these words precisely because he hadn't much time, and they were the least important in the poem. I believe he meant the third line to read. `withe borders eke wherein there may be found."'
"That would rhyme," Fallenwood admitted. "And it does make more sense that way. But there's only the one name, John Dudley, to be found within the borders."
The guide nearly burst with pride, extending his thin hand in a flourish. "Oh, but look at the garlands within the frame. The other brothers' names will be found there. The rose is for Robert Dudley, the gillyflower for poor young Guilford, the honeysuckle for Henry, the acorn for Ambrose. So their names were represented pictorially. And of course, John Dudley carved his own name."
"Ingenious," Fallenwood replied with grudging enthusiasm, turning away from the carving to address their guide. "Just ingenious. I suppose Dudley hadn't much else to do with his time but think up riddles like this? You must publish a monograph on the subject, young man," he decided. From his waistcoat pocket he pulled a gold card case emblazoned with his coat of arms. "Here is my card. I will speak to a publisher on your behalf." He turned from the guide, who was regarding the card reverently. "Don't you think this fascinating, Your Highness?"
Tatiana let her hand fall from the mysterious carving and curled her fingers into a fist. She turned finally and asked the guide, "Why were they here? And what became of them?"
"Well, it was all because of poor Queen Jane. They were the sons of Northumberland, the man who placed her onto the throne. John, the carver, was reprieved but never released, and he died here. Robert became the great Earl of Leicester, who was Queen Elizabeth's favorite. And poor Guilford, well, he died for love, you know. His execution was inevitable, for he had married Lady Jane Grey, and so, after her brief reign, they were both condemned. Northumberland, I think, had planned on Guilford reigning eventually, so he couldn't be let to live."
Very bold now, the guide took the princess's arm and led her across to the table. Above was a cruder carving, the letters IANE. "Guilford carved her name there, do you see? The
I
is the way they used to style a
J
. They were held separately—Jane was confined in the Yeoman Jailer's house on the western side. But Guilford dreamed of her, and longed for her, and carved this in remembrance of her. Then one day, he was led out to be executed. Poor Queen Jane looked out her window and saw his headless body being taken away for burial." He stepped back, gratified by the princess's gasp. "It was a terrible sorrow for her, and they say she was glad to follow him into death soon afterward. And that is what that carving means, Your Highness, how great are the sacrifices we make for love. Young Guilford loved his Jane, although it cost him everything."
The little inscription—IANE—swam before Tatiana's eyes, and she raised her hand to find tears on her cheeks. I never cry, she reminded herself, but the sad little name carved into the stone still wavered. Ah, the longing of that name, of that act, of the boy vowing his love for the girl who destroyed him.
"Trust me," Michael had whispered, and his rough hand had touched her cheek so gently, so lovingly. Somehow that gesture meant more than every kiss he had given to her and taken from her. Oh, he must love her, she couldn't have imagined that. But she couldn't have imagined that love could hurt so sharply. If he loved her, losing her would devastate him. But having her would mean an end to the life he had made for himself through years of hard work and sacrifice. And years later, would they both regret the lives lost, the nations betrayed?
"Think of it." The guide's voice was deeper now, almost theatrical. `'Perhaps only hours after he carved that, Guilford was executed, all for the crime of loving a woman too near the throne."
With a gentle finger, Tatiana traced this mark of fidelity as thousands of lovers must have down over the centuries. She knew, with the passion of truth, that Lady Jane Grey would rather have given up the husband she loved than to make him suffer so. However willing Guilford was to die for love, she would never have asked that. That was love, painful, clear, agonizing love, each of them willing to sacrifice all for the other.
Once Tatiana thought love would make her happy. But it was killing her. She stood in front of that little monument to love, her head bowed, oblivious for the moment to Fallenwood's uneasy glances and the guide's courteously continued recitation. Eventually the pain receded into a dull throb and she drew a ragged breath.
She was not an ordinary girl, able to give and receive love freely, but a princess; like Lady Jane Grey, merely a pawn in an endless game of chess played by powerful men. And she couldn't let Michael be another victim of her cursed royal birth.
As Buntin pressed a fine lawn handkerchief into her hand, Tatiana almost laughed through her tears. Buntin never lost sight of the proprieties. A princess should not cry in public even if her heart was breaking. Tatiana dashed at the tears on her cheeks, then turned back to the men with a sunny smile. "How silly you must think me, turning into a watering pot before your eyes! But it was such a sad story, and so well told, and I always cry at sad stories, don't I, Buntin?"