Tudor Queen, Tudor Crown

by Jennifer Peter Woods

  The Succession must be secured! Northumberland boomed. Your majesty, he bellowed the words, your majesty must sign! He had dared to pick Edward’s hand up in an attempt to guide it so that the dying king might perform the deed. He managed to force Edward into tracing several words before the young king fought and withdrew his hand. It had taken Edward all of his energy and will to do so but he had struggled to free himself, succeeding too for the briefest of moments before Northumberland grabbed for his hand again.

  But Edward was not to be swayed. He curled his hands into fists and refused to open them. He fought on, his breathing labored, his face contorted, his rage rattling in his chest. If he could have struck Northumberland dead with the fury burning in his eyes he would have done so without compunction.

  Sign! His protector urged him, shoving the papers again into his hands. Discarding all pretence, Northumberland tried to browbeat Edward into submission. Urgency was upon him. The young king was dying and he needed the boy to give him the power so that he could play the kingmaker for the next monarch of England.

  Sign! They pressed him ceaselessly, until unable to bear the stench of the sickroom, they left. Edward had shivered and quivered through each torture-ridden moment. His pains were unbearable, the stench of his deteriorating body overcoming them all. It was no great secret; the king had started to shit himself and they were yet to change his linens this day.

  He cried, his tears rolling down his cheeks.

  Edward VI was laying in his own filth.

  The next cough that rattled through his chest came, seizing him, bringing up so much blood that he gurgled and gagged.

  He would not sign and so they would give him no relief. He firmed his jaw. He would hold firm. This, he determined, would be the last act of Edward VI. He would not sign. He would, through this last deed, fulfill his pledge to himself. He would no longer bow to Northumberland and his devices. He would be king and seize the power that had been denied him for all the years he had sat upon the throne. He would prove his power and his mettle by not placing his name to the tract brought before him. He would not give in to their threats or their glittering promise of relief.

  Shivering and quaking, Edward laid as dusk fell and night came upon them.

  His physicians kept their distance. They had very little care for him, the dying king. They bowed and groveled to his councilors, not him. So it was that the puddle of filth below Edward went dry before being made wet, again and again. There was no dignity here. He was a king being made to wallow in his own piss and shit.

  Then, to his surprise, the doors opened. He lifted his head. He was hoping for the arrival of attendants and servants. Have they come to tend me? He tried to see.

  But it was not the servants. Edward’s face fell. It was the vultures.

  The vultures had returned, and this time they were here in force. His ministers and parliament men had come too. A selected few strode into his sickroom while the others stood a respectful distance behind in the anteroom, the crowd spilling into the gallery beyond.

  With quick strides, the men opened the windows against the stench but they did not order anyone to see to the comfort of their king. With an imperious flick of the hand, Northumberland dismissed the physicians and Edward found himself surrounded by Cranmer, Richard Cox, John Gates and Northumberland.

  Kneeling down on the floor beside his sovereign, Northumberland positioned himself just so, careful to eschew the filth upon the bed. Prying the king’s arm away from his side, he made Edward cry out in pain. Uncaring of the king’s meager protests, Northumberland took Edward’s hand, enveloping it in his own. Edward wanted to recoil, he wanted to throw off his protector’s hand but he was too weak.

  Cox. Unfurl the king’s proclamation, Northumberland declared.

  Cox strode forth and presented the devise.

  As can be seen, the king though weak has this morning put his name to the remainder of the devise. As such, I have summoned these goodly men of the realm to bear witness to the king’s wish, Northumberland bent low over the king, bowing his head as if in supplication. We have come to bear witness to your majesty’s final will and testament. By your grace’s consent, this New Act is now law. If your grace most heartily approves, pray press my hand.

  Desperately, Edward tried to retract his hand, but he could not, so he did nothing, making his hand go limp in Dudley’s grasp. He had signed nothing and yet they claimed he had, he wanted to scream the words, forgery! Forgery and treason! But his throat remained locked. Northumberland leaned in close, bowing his head as if he was in prayer. After a moment, he lifted his head and announced: the king has given me his affirmation! Gasps came from the gallery.

  Edward tried to shake his head, his throat worked, a thousand denials trapped in his chest.

  Northumberland spoke again, loud enough so that his words carried. To again satisfy your grace and all those assembled, I most humbly ask your grace to oblige us once more. I ask that your majesty squeeze my hand not once but twice to make into law this new devise for the succession of England!

  If Edward could have struck Northumberland down he would have, but he was limp and powerless.

  The king consents! Northumberland announced all the same. Then, turning to the retinue behind him, Northumberland dared to make a mockery of Edward VI not twice but thrice. By God and the mortal souls of all those gathered, I trouble your majesty once more to apply pressure to my hand if your grace wills us to henceforth defend to the death your majesty’s New Act of Succession!

  After an imperceptible moment and yet another unseen press of Edward’s hand, Northumberland stood, his eyes shining in victory, the king has pressed my hand, giving me his consent on all three counts. Bless your majesty! England is secured!

  Overcome with the boiling fury bubbling forth from his soul, Edward arched off the bed in rage. The air rattled in his chest and when he tried to draw in air, he sputtered. He felt something erupt inside of him as his body sank weakly back down into the bed, his wrath shining from his eyes.

  But Northumberland cared not. Satisfied with what he had achieved, he stood. They were ready to leave. The deed was done. Those in the gallery erupted into murmurs and with immediacy Northumberland and his men strode forth to tame their tongues and insist upon their loyalty.

  Before the doors to the king’s privy chambers were closed however, the Protector turned, ordering the squires to act. The king’s stench is unbearable. Clean him up, he said in disgust before strolling out. At his order, the servants rushed in and set about their task. They were crude in their actions, paining Edward with their rough handling of his person. He won’t be their king for long and they knew it. A king was only as good as the power he wielded and Edward had none.

  A dying king was no king.

  He was too weak. He could do nothing but allow them to do with him what they would. Bumping and paining him, they shifted him roughly. He was powerless, defeated.

  Death. It was upon him and though he feared it, he beckoned death closer for the blessed relief it would be able to offer. He had been brow beaten into sullen defeat. He was wracked by anger and sorrow. He would die alone and unloved. They had no more use for him. They had what they wanted.

  Tears fell from his swollen eyes, silent and hot.

  The servants, their tasks done left silently, leaving behind one ancient crone, with her back too bent, her hands too gnarled, her eyes too weak and her ears too hard to be of any use. The great doors, carved of good solid English oak now slid to a close, encasing the king in silence.

  The woman settled in for the night, sitting on a stool by the fire.

  Already, it is like a tomb, he thought, this is my end.

  Turning his head and hiding his face away from the old woman, Edward sobbed, gasping in silence.

  They had used him; used him and abused him, making him dance like a puppet to their tune, tugging on the strings embedded into his flesh, forcing him to give them everything they wanted. They had done it, all
of them, from his uncles Seymour to Northumberland, they had all used him to further their own ends, and they have made me do so to the very end.

  He cried, cried and cried.

  Now that his life was nearly spent, they had no more use for him. They had the new devise to the succession and Edward VI was as good as dead to them, as good as dead.

  They have discarded me, like a lame horse, a blind cat or an old shoe. No better than a dog, am I. No better than a dog. Edward heaved as his tears marred his vision.

  They have cast their eyes toward more fertile ground, toward yet another puppet that will dance to their command. Jane Grey. They have chosen her and they shall use her, abuse her and kill her with their greed.

  And what of me? Edward, Edward Tudor? He wept. I have led a life of defeat.

  They had defeated him, taking away his pride and his dignity, tearing them from him.

  I shall never have my revenge, he sobbed. He was alone and he was without friends, and soon he would oblige them all by dying.

  In these, his last remaining moments, Edward thoughts turned to his family.

  He had no comfort and no family by his side. And here, in this, his final hours, he wept an endless torrent of tears. He cried for his sisters, he cried for his father and he cried too for the mother he never knew. Here in this moment he was not Edward VI. He was no king. Here, in this moment and in this instant, he was just a boy and he was dying.

  ELIZABETH AGED TWENTY

  July

  The king had expired.

  She paced the halls of Hatfield House, her hands fisted. The sun was shining but England was in mourning. They had lost their king. Good King Henry’s son was dead and now great change was afoot.

  With a strike of his pen, Edward had barred both Mary and Elizabeth from the succession, naming Lady Jane Grey and her line instead as his successors.

  Elizabeth’s lips thinned, Jane Grey brother? For the love of God, you would choose Jane Grey over your sisters?

  Her brother Edward was faithless.

  He had been faithless to his sisters. The proof was in his last great act. Some said he had been making changes to the succession since the early days of May. Others said he had been pondering the matter and making amendments ever since the beginning of his reign.

  Elizabeth scoffed. He was barely nine years of age when he began his reign.

  But she had read the accounts from the ambassadors and the missives from those upon whom she relied and they had all reported the same sorry tale. The king had been adamant. He would not see his good work undone.

  They said that he had feared his father’s bastards. They said the young king had predicted that his sisters would bring England nothing but ruin.

  They must never take the throne, the king was purported to have said. No good shall come to England if they do.

  Thus, her brother entrusted Northumberland and Cranmer with the task of enforcing his final act of succession. And Northumberland, like the most honest and deserving of servants, vowed to see the final order of his king carried through.

  Elizabeth paced the long gallery, her mind turning, calculating.

  The whispers said the king directed the final copying of his last testimony in May, whereupon, he urged his ministers, Cranmer and Northumberland, to direct his edicts, urging them to issue his will as patents.

  They said some one hundred and twenty peers, bishops and noted persons laid their name upon the papers, bearing witness to the king’s last great design. Not only that, the king announced his new devise for the succession to his most trusted servants, bidding them to defend it with their life.

  Northumberland, Elizabeth quirked a brow, had challenged any man there that day refusing to do the king’s will to combat. They say he demanded satisfaction from each and every one of those gathered for the ceremony, one after another, until every last minister and peer took the oath.

  To further affirm Lady Jane Grey’s claim to the throne, Edward had his sisters declared bastards.

  Bastards. Elizabeth wanted to laugh. It was my mother who paved the way for Jane Seymour and her son. Without my mother, Mary would have been our father’s one and only heir!

  She shook her head. Bastards. Her brother had thought them no better than the Grey girl who was scarce seventeen. Folly! What follies have you concocted brother? Now England must go to war! Good English blood will be spilt. You have spat upon our father’s will! Elizabeth fumed. How will you face our father in God’s kingdom? How will you face our forebears? Forsooth, you will have to hang you head in shame!

  With a simple stroke of his pen Edward VI struck his sisters from the succession and with it came the threat of civil war. Conflict was afoot in England and the people were fearful. All around her beloved Hatfield, in Hertfordshire and beyond, terror ran rampant. The people had had enough of wars. They had a belly full of discord and strife. They wanted it to end.

  There were those who remembered Good Henry VII and the civil war he had fought to end. Lancaster and York, those two houses had plunged England into despair; a despair that the Tudors ended.

  But now, the Tudors were in strife. Another battle was afoot and the people feared it. Already the year had been wet and talk of failing crops and famine was rife. The people were angry and scared.

  Elizabeth had heard her servants’ gossip, witnessed their doubts and noted their qualms.

  But the war, she determined calmly, should there be one, will by necessity be short. For this time, the heirs were few. Men were scarce. There were only women: Mary, Elizabeth and Jane. There were no Richards, no Edwards and no Henry’s left. And it was clear whom the people favored. The people wanted Mary Tudor. They wanted Katherine of Aragon’s daughter as their Queen. They were flocking to Mary. It was clear who held the tide of the people’s favor.

  But Northumberland could not be so easily dismissed. He was otherwise charged and he was determined to set the king’s will in motion. In truth, he was so bent on his task he had set his plans in motion before Edward gasped his last, for as the young king lay dying, a summons was writ and sent to Mary in Hunsden, bidding her to ride for Greenwich and attend her brother.

  Mary, sensing a trap had set out from Hunsden without ado, but not for Greenwich. Instead, she headed straight for her estates in East Anglia where she knew she would be safe from the machinations of John Dudley.

  The lady had ridden fast. She was as good as a man upon a horse, urging her party onwards towards safety, the news had reached Elizabeth’s ears in the wee hours of the morning of July the fourth.

  Mary was no fool. A trap had indeed been waiting for her at Greenwich. If she went to their brother’s deathbed, she would have been seized and sent to the Tower. But Mary was fast and she had managed to outwit her enemies. Northumberland had thought to count on her love for her brother. Using the dying king as bait, he had been certain of his success but when Mary failed to arrive as predicted, Dudley panicked, dispatching some three hundred men to Hunsden to seize her. With Northumberland’s son at the head of the contingent, the soldiers had stormed Hunsden only to find their quarry gone.

  Mary had retreated and retreated fast into her strongholds. The people there were hers and they had tasted Northumberland’s brutality when he came to quash the Kett rebellion years before as the Earl of Warwick. They didn’t have a taste for Northumberland’s rule and they would gladly spill their blood for Mary and her cause.

  Time and chance, pondered Elizabeth, time and chance. The wheels of fate are turning and there is everything to play for.

  Edward VI was pronounced dead on the sixth of July.

  From East Anglia, Mary wrote to the Privy Council, demanding to be proclaimed Queen on the ninth.

  On the tenth, the Privy Council instated Jane Grey as the new sovereign of England. On that day, no bells were tolled, nor were there cheering crowds. The masses gathered in the streets were quiet, silent. One boy who had dared to utter the name of the Lady Mary was arrested and punished. They cut off th
e boy’s ears, Elizabeth grimaced, and so Queen Jane’s reign began.

  Queen Jane. The very thought made Elizabeth’s ire rise. When the news reached those beyond England, Mary’s uncle, the Holy Roman Emperor was outraged. The king of France however had been perplexed. Who? Who is this Jane Grey? Henri II remarked when the name of the new successor to the English throne was made known to him. And while those beyond these shores watched the folly in England unfold, Elizabeth paced.

  They had asked her to declare her allegiance. Cast your lot, they told her, will you stand with your sister Mary or with Queen Jane?

  Elizabeth snorted. She would never bow to Jane Grey. To suggest that she would was an insult. She was the daughter of a king and she would demand her right to the succession. She would be subservient to no one but her sister Mary.

  Should Mary fail in her quest, I shall take up the cause. I could be the next Queen of England. The thought made her head spin, fear and excitement warring in her breast. ‘Tis was her birthright but now she was closer to the throne than ever. She was but a couple of steps away.

  Be calm my heart, she told herself. She knew what it was she had to do. She needed to watch and observe, that was her task, and so she paced and waited, paced and waited. She kept her silence. Quietly, she observed every piece being played, preparing herself.

  Northumberland and Mary, Elizabeth’s mind pondered the odd couple, they must duel, one shall win and one shall lose. One shall rise and one shall fall, but whom?

  The people were flooding in from the country to lend their aid to Henry’s eldest daughter. The common people had declared themselves for Mary Tudor.

  Northumberland needed to capture Mary and place her under his power with all haste if he was to gain victory. But the man was afraid of leaving London. The council he presided over was fragmenting and fragmenting fast. Not every single lord was willing to follow his lead. Already, Arundel, Southampton, Pembroke and others were chomping at the bit.