by David Field
‘And then the road to Tower Hill,’ Kate reminded him. ‘Please God that our Thomas doesn’t go down that road.’
Further north, the battle between England and Scotland was over almost as soon as it began. For King James, it was the final blow. He had lost his royal battle standard and his most experienced commander in the field. He withdrew to Falkland Palace, humiliated and racked by fever, only to be informed that Mary of Guise had given birth to a daughter bearing her name, rather than the son that James had been eagerly anticipating. His resistance to natural disease lowered even further by his depleted spirit, he died two weeks later at the age of thirty, leaving Scotland in the hands of a girl barely two weeks old.
Some of the higher born Scots prisoners were well cared for, in a gesture of magnanimity by King Henry, who had hopes of using them to convey good reports back to their fellow nobles who dominated the Regency of the Princess Mary of Scotland. In particular, the more elevated of them were invited to partake of the massive Christmas Day feast at Hampton Court Palace that was being hosted by the Lady Mary and graced by her Ladies. It had been left to one of them, Lady Catherine Parr, to devise the masques in association with Edward Seymour’s brother, Thomas.
Late in the afternoon on Christmas Day, as the trestles were reloaded with platters of fruits and sweets and the serving girls scuttled back to the Buttery for refills of their wine jugs, the diversions commenced. Acrobats and jugglers passed between the long tables, exploiting their talents in return for coin, while the musicians in the gallery struck up with light-hearted madrigals and folk songs to cause the assembled company to rejoice in their Englishness. Soon there would be dancing, but at the far side of the Banqueting Hall the stage was being set for the main masque of the day.
There was a brief fanfare and Thomas Seymour entered, wearing a red gown and with Devil’s horns on his head. He gave a sweeping bow and in a commanding voice he addressed the assembled company, with particular attention to King Henry, who was already well into his cups and leaning backwards in his chair in what was often the prelude to his falling asleep. Thomas Seymour was determined that this would not occur while he was in command of the revels.
‘My noble lords and ladies,’ he bellowed, ‘welcome to the Land of Misrule, where Gluttony, Pride and Lust have proved to be the Devil’s handmaidens and reduced the land to misery and despair.’
With an imperious wave he beckoned in the first of the silent mummers, recognisable members of the King’s Court, but draped in costumes appropriate to the roles they were playing. First came Gluttony, a grotesquely fat human egg of gigantic proportions, tottering on spindly legs and seemingly chewing on an oversized haunch of meat that was twice even its own size, before it fell flat on its back and wriggled its legs in the air, prior to being carted off, protesting, by four servers dressed in royal livery.
Next came Pride, dressed in an outlandish outfit that glittered with obvious fake jewels, mincing up and down and admiring itself in a massive hand mirror eight feet high. Peals of laughter greeted its humiliating demise, as liveried servers stepped forward with large pails filled with suggestively brown water, which they used in order to drench the character from head to foot. The costume, craftily constructed from thin vellum, collapsed in a soggy mess and revealed a bedraggled wretch clad only in brown shirt and hose, who ran out of the Hall in a pretence of concealing its private parts from public scrutiny, to hysterical cat-calls from the audience.
Finally came Lust, with a grossly exaggerated set of bosoms and face make-up reminiscent of a badly painted Fool. After prancing up and down for several minutes, beckoning invitingly to those watching the proceedings, the character was accosted by two liveried ushers, each armed with a spike on the end of a long pole, which they used to deflate the massive bosoms, revealed to be pigs’ bladders filled with water, that emptied with a rude noise as the ushers chased the character out with further menacing thrusts.
As the laughter died down, Thomas Seymour reappeared in a new floor-length costume of pure white, in the manner of an Archbishop’s chasuble. He raised his arms for attention and smiled broadly as he revealed the moral of the pageant they had been watching.
‘This land has been saved from the horrors of sin by the opening of its arms to the purity of true Faith. As you shall see...’ He opened his arms wide in a theatrical gesture and into the Hall rode a figure on a pure white donkey, dressed from head to foot in a white robe and sporting golden wings. On her head was a golden diadem that glistened with clusters of shimmering jewels and in her hand was a battle standard that proudly displayed the lion rampant of England, with Tudor Roses above and below it.
The assembly fell silent as the figure slid from the side saddle and extended her winged arms upwards in a wide arc of blessing. ‘I am the beauty of Faith and my arms are forever raised in protection of my loyal children as they follow the path of virtue and light through a world that is beset by wickedness. Rejoice in the birth day of the Redeemer and live forever in His precious light. And so I take my rest.’
Catherine Parr knelt daintily on one knee and bowed her head, as the applause rang out through the Hall. After at least a minute in this silent pose she raised her hand for Thomas Seymour to take and lead her gently out of the Hall to ongoing applause. Then they re-entered and took a bow, before Thomas led Catherine to where King Henry sat with his daughter, the Lady Mary, at his side.
Henry clapped his hands in appreciation. ‘That was well done, Thomas. Well done indeed. And who was your other charming player?’
‘This is my newest Lady, Father,’ Mary told him. ‘She is Catherine Parr, wife of Baron Latimer.’
‘She is welcome to Court.’ Henry nodded with a welcoming smile. ‘Bring her to see me on the morrow.’
Further down the table sat the giant bearded figure of Charles Brandon, Duke of Suffolk, with his Duchess, Catherine.
‘Who was the woman playing the part of “Faith”?’ the Duchess enquired of her husband.
He belched loudly before replying, ‘One of Lady Mary’s new clingers-on, I believe. Why do you wish to know?’
‘I would wish to make her closer acquaintance,’ the Duchess replied. ‘She showed courage, putting the old Church in its place like that.’
‘Is that what she did?’ Suffolk asked disinterestedly.
‘Clearly, that was her message. The blind old ways of mumbled Latin, with incense swinging through the air and seats in Heaven to be bought from a priest, now replaced with the purity of God’s truth and the dawning of the light on the road to salvation. I’m surprised the Lady Mary let her get away with it, although with that rogue Seymour as master of the revels, it’s likely that she had no idea of what was to come.’
‘Must you read Reformation messages in everything? So embarrassing when you call out in public and order the “Old Way” to heel.’
‘But that is where it belongs, Charles — under the heels of those who truly believe in redemption through the love of Christ and not the intervention of priests. I would meet this brave new Lady whom Henry’s pious shrew of a daughter may one day regret having clasped to her bosom.’
Two days later, the King’s Council was commanded to assemble and there was only one item for discussion. Following the abject surrender of Scotland’s army and the temporary goodwill that Henry had established with those left behind, after the death of King James V, negotiations had been taking place both in London and in Edinburgh regarding the terms upon which the two nations might hopefully learn to live in peace.
Scotland was now under the Regency of the Earl of Arran, ruling on behalf of the tiny girl born less than a month before the recent death of her father. The Princess Mary of Scotland would one day become its Queen, and Henry was hopeful of joining the two crowns for all time with the betrothal of her to his own son, Edward. However, there were voices raised against such a match in Council.
‘We would be exposing England to more Reformist heresy,’ Stephen Gardiner, Bishop of Winchester a
rgued.
Suffolk saw his chance and jumped in. ‘Not all reform is heretical,’ he argued with a smirk. ‘To assert so is to condemn His Majesty as a heretic.’
‘We do not condemn what has hitherto transpired,’ Thomas Howard, Duke of Norfolk, argued in defence of the impetuous Gardiner.
Henry raised his hand and it fell silent. ‘This has nothing to do with religion,’ he argued. ‘It has to do, instead, with the peaceful progress of this realm once I am gone. My physicians are wont to lie to me in order, as they see it, to preserve their heads, but I doubt that I have more than a ten year left in me, then the nation will be governed by a young man with no legitimate heirs of his own, unless he be married. My daughters have been excluded from the succession and unless urgent steps are taken to lengthen the direct legitimate line with male heirs, Scotland will inherit England through the descendants of my sister Margaret anyway. Better that we take the initiative and let Scotland marry into England through the male line.’
‘We have the Scottish Regent’s consent to such a course, Your Majesty,’ Edward Seymour replied, ‘but it is well known that back in Scotland there are voices against it. There are many who would prefer a match with the Dauphin, to further strengthen the ties between Scotland and France. Strategically we should not let that happen, particularly since it is your intention to lead an army into France when the time is more propitious.’
Henry then turned to the hitherto silent Lord Chancellor, Thomas Wriothesley. ‘We can only test the water, Thomas, so draw up the final agreement in terms that will provide for the Princess Mary to live here in England under the wardship of some noble and his wife acceptable to the Regent Arran until her tenth year, at which time she will be allowed a grace and favour estate of her own until the marriage be celebrated. Then present it to Arran in such a way as to advise him that he has no choice and send him home rejoicing.’
‘What if our terms are rejected, Your Majesty?’ Edward Seymour asked.
Henry smiled unpleasantly. ‘Then we shall send you back to Scotland to boot more arses, Edward.’
III
Jane Grey kicked disconsolately at a clump of grass as the two girls wandered through the river meadow, heads down against the squally gale that foreshadowed a spring shower.
‘It’s always the same when Grandfather Brandon comes to visit,’ Jane complained. ‘I must stand before them and recite from the Greek or Latin that my tutor has forced me to learn. If I am tardy or resentful, my mother will pinch me until I do it, and then she will make me dance or sing, or take out my latest needlepoint and display it to the company. And my new grandmother will then make comment on how I conduct myself. ’
If she was expecting sympathy from Grace, walking sourly by her side, then she was destined to be disappointed. Grace’s education thus far had been of the basic sort, conducted by a local priest of whom her parents approved because he performed his religious duties in the English form. But his insistence on teaching in English meant that the mysterious world of the classical scholars was closed to Grace’s enquiring mind and she would gladly have changed places with Jane. Not just in order to learn more about what lay in the books that were kept in Jane’s schoolroom, but in order to receive tuition in dancing, needlepoint and the playing of musical instruments. Her parents were a simple, honest, straightforward country squire and his devoted wife, and her only other teacher a former nun whose main duties consisted of keeping both her and her friend Jane clean and presentable.
‘Why is your grandfather visiting you anyway?’ Grace asked.
‘He claims that he has something important to ask of my father and he has asked particularly that I be there. I promised to be good if you could be there too, and your father insisted that he be present in order to ensure your good behaviour.’
The two girls presented themselves for dinner in the Great Hall, suitably washed, scrubbed and attired under the stern supervision of Mary Calthorpe, and they were assigned to their usual side table, where they picked petulantly through the range of meats laid on the damask cloths that covered the trestle. Their awareness that they were the object of intense scrutiny from Jane’s family guests did nothing to improve their normally small appetites, and Jane in particular was apprehensive and resentful of the fact that once the meal was over, she would be called upon to ‘perform’. Grace, for her part, was jealous that Jane would then become the object of everyone’s attention.
‘She is perfect for the role,’ Suffolk told Jane’s father as he incised another slice from the home-reared venison on the platter in front of him. ‘There are no girls in the royal schoolroom — only a soppy boy called Barnaby whose sole function seems to be to take the cuts when Edward gets something wrong. Given the current state of our relations with Scotland, the proposed betrothal of its baby princess to our prince will come to naught and Edward has no real mind of his own. Nor does he show any inclination to reject choices that are made for him. All we need is for Jane to play the sisterly role at this stage and wait for them to grow fond of each other.’
‘And what will be the likely attitude of the royal sisters?’ Lady Frances asked.
‘Half-sisters only,’ Frances was remined by her step-mother, Catherine. ‘The Lady Mary is a grown woman and although she is one of Edward’s godmothers, there seems to be some distance between them, given her strict observance of the Catholic offices and his inclinations towards the more liberal sciences under the influence of his early tutors. As for Elizabeth, she is still the awkward, headstrong and to my mind far too flighty, baggage that she always was. Yet Edward seems to favour her more than Mary.’
‘I think that my wife was enquiring whether or not Jane would be resented by either of the sisters, were she to be introduced into the schoolroom,’ Henry Grey intervened.
Catherine shot him a resentful look. ‘It will surely be for her to demonstrate, by her learning, that she is a fit companion for a young prince. Their ages are the same and, from what I have been informed, her accomplishments are gently demonstrated and she would provide him with no challenge. Merely sweet friendship that will hopefully mature into something deeper.’
‘You ask a great deal of a young girl,’ Grey protested.
Catherine smiled sweetly as she took her husband’s hand and kissed it. ‘It was how dear Charles and I met, when I was his ward. What began as gratitude and warm respect developed into something much more enduring.’
It was all that Henry Grey could do to restrain himself from arguing that it had more to do with Suffolk’s notorious lust than anything more paternal or platonic.
Further down the table, Richard and Kate Ashton were exchanging differing predictions as to what might lie in store for their own daughter.
‘It will do her no harm to learn more fashionable ways,’ Kate was arguing, ‘and we are promised that Grace may remain at the Brandon house in London, as a companion to Jane when she is not at Court.’
Richard Ashton snorted and nodded towards Catherine. ‘She was once resident at the Brandon house, when it was the biggest whorehouse north of the river. Catherine, Duchess of Suffolk, as she now is, was once an innocent nine-year-old heiress whose wardship was sold by King Henry to that libertine Suffolk at a time when Henry was in debt to his armourer. By the time she was fourteen, she had been bedded by the old goat and the price of her silence and ongoing acquiescence to what was occurring between the sheets was the title that she now proudly wears like a battle wound.’
‘Charles was once your friend,’ Kate reminded him, ‘and thanks to him you remained safe with me when Norfolk was seeking to silence you.’
‘I am well reminded of that,’ Richard replied testily, ‘but that doesn’t mean that I’m prepared to expose my daughter to all the debauchery of the Court and those who hang around it.’
‘You surely make too much of the risk,’ Kate argued. ‘As I understand it, our daughter Grace is merely being invited to reside in the Suffolk household in order to be a companion to Jane and as a
sort of chaperone for her. Does it not work in the reverse direction? If Grace is to be a guardian of Jane’s virtue, will Jane not likewise preserve Grace from any evil that might cross her path?’
‘You are forgetting that there will be times when, according to Suffolk’s scheming, Jane will be in the Prince’s company at Hampton Court Palace, or wherever else he may be accommodated. Who then will be guarding Grace?’
Any further conversation on the subject was silenced when a nervous page clapped his hands for attention and announced, ‘The Lady Jane will now graciously demonstrate to us the depth of her learning in the languages of the classical scholars.’
Jane, after a reassuring squeeze of the hand from Grace, rose from her place at the table, armed with a freshly printed and bound folio of the works of Plato and walked unsteadily to the head table, to stand in front of another of their guests, the scholar Roger Ascham, who had recently been responsible for instilling classical learning inside the somewhat defiant head of the young Lady Elizabeth.
Aschem nodded encouragingly as Jane piped her way through the passage she had learned rote-fashion, then drew to a tentative halt and curtsied graciously as the spattering applause spread round the Hall, led by her father.
‘Well?’ Catherine Suffolk enquired anxiously of Ascham.
Aschem smiled indulgently. ‘She is well learned, for a girl of her age. More advanced than the Lady Elizabeth, despite the difference in their ages, but not so far advanced, I conclude, as our young Duke of Cornwall.’
‘But can she learn alongside him?’ Catherine persisted.
Ascham inclined his head. ‘That will depend upon King Henry, will it not? In terms of scholarship, perhaps, but would I be correct in surmising that you are not so much concerned regarding your granddaughter’s development as a scholar as you are regarding a developing relationship with the royal heir?’
