Tudor Queen, Tudor Crown

by Jennifer Peter Woods

  She was using him to control her unruly ministers.

  Her lords, ministers and parliament-men were always at pains to remind her of her sex and now she would wield Philip against them, using him to balance their powers. With the weight of Spain at her back, she faced them head on, using her husband’s titles, kingship as well as alliances to secure and advance her cause.

  But the queen needed to guard against her husband too. He was no ignorant fool. He watched and he saw, his glittering Spanish eyes missing nothing, counting and calculating everything. Thusly the queen had to tread a fine line. She had to rely on her husband and her ministers. She had to pit the factions against each other so she could exert her control on them and achieve her ends.

  Like the most seasoned of tightrope walkers, the queen must play. It was a delicate game but the queen had to play. Play or lose it all.

  To fail would be to fall and to fall would be to die.

  So she needed to charm, bully and smile. She needed to be the dutiful wife as well as the mighty sovereign. She was required to play her roles, day in and day out, and guard against her husband, the wily one that was matching her word for word and step for step. Daily, this match they played goes back and forth, back and forth. They skirted each other, dancing an intricate dance of courtly intrigue. Despite the smiles, the gestures and the displays of geniality, there was much at work here and all of it carried with it profound consequences.

  But now their game was about to take yet another turn.

  Susan’s fists tightened.

  As soon as the Queen opened her eyes to begin the day, she would give her the news. There was no delaying it anymore. The queen needed to be made privy to the truth.

  The secret was out.

  The king’s agents had discovered that the queen had ceased bleeding.

  Despite their diligence and care, the king and his sources had managed to detect the secret. Talk of the queen being with child was running rife outside these chamber doors and on the morrow they would be forced to confront the rumors.

  Susan would that it be true. She would that the queen was with child. But both the lady and her trusted servants knew better. The queen had been wedded and bedded but there was no child in that belly, the queen knew, Susan knew and the one physician, Doctor Owens, sworn to secrecy, knew.

  For months now they had fought, dodging and hiding the truth to the best of their ability.

  They had failed.

  The king had been advised of his wife’s state and he was no doubt congratulating himself on his virility. It explained his absence from the queen’s chambers tonight. His duty was done. There was no further need for him to bed his wife.

  The King and his Spanish Dons had been closeted in his rooms for half the night, no doubt plotting their coming course. With a babe in the Lady’s belly, his place in England would be secured and his supremacy established. His blood would run in the veins of the babe and he would breed his way into the English monarchy and force his irrefutable stamp on it.

  Like a peacock, the King would strut on the morrow and he would be sure to make the queen’s condition known. Nothing would stop him from his course and there would be no negating him. Soon, his trusted physicians would come, thronging around his wife…

  The thought made Susan’s heart seize.

  How we shall fare, I know not. What the physicians will find, I know not either. What Susan knew for sure was that the queen’s path was about to take yet another dangerous turn. This would be a course that would lead the lady as well as England into territories unknown and its inevitable end would bring with it nothing but pain and unspeakable humiliation.

  1555

  JANE DORMER

  February

  She dashed out into the alley, following the throng to Saint Mary’s Street. The wind blew, picking up her skirts. The Queen had given her leave to come. With her heart beating fast, she followed the bursting crowd toward the market square.

  The burnings had begun.

  Bishop Gardiner and Bishop Bonner had been hard at work, and at last, the work to bring England back into the fold of the Mother Church would begin in earnest.

  John Rogers was the first to die. He had been one of Edward VI’s royal chaplains and a staunch Protestant, and for his many unpardonable sins against the One True Church he was sent to the stake on the fourth of this month. He was burned at Smithfield, the selfsame place where he had condemned others to be burned at. There, he was called to answer for his sins and he met his end, they said, bravely.

  On that, the day of days, Jane stayed by her queen’s side, the day of the first burning. The Lady had clutched at her swelling belly as the hour for the execution drew nigh, came and then went.

  The king had feasted the day away. He applauded the queen on her decision to at last set the executions in motion. For the health of his queen and that of his unborn child, he heartily urged Gardiner and his men to rid England of heresy and with all speed.

  All his life the king had lived and breathed under the Spanish Inquisition, therefore he had felt no compunctions in recommending the practices of his homeland to his wife. Indeed, he had deemed it a most divine and virtuous path to pursue.

  The great Isabelle and Ferdinand never shied from it, the king said unto his wife, your laws must be enacted and fulfilled to their fullest extent. Even Henri of France has shown himself a man of mettle when it comes to the matter of religion. He has been cutting off the tongues of those who have defiled Christ before sending them to the stake to receive their just reward…

  The king urged her, goaded her, over and over, to do the same. The queen’s pregnancy made the king bold with pride and he was ready and eager to make safe this stubborn realm for the arrival of his Catholic heir.

  The time had come. The Queen needed to show that she was firm enough to lead, that she had faith in God. She needed do the Mighty One’s bidding and answer the call of Christ. She needed root heresy out. So the queen gave the order. The urgency was upon her too. Jane saw it all. For the queen feared she was dying and with the good work barley begun, the queen hastened.

  For nigh on a year, the persons arrested on charges of heresy had languished in prison. Now, under the combined direction of Cardinal de la Pole, the queen, as well as Bishop Gardiner and Bishop Bonner the trials took flight.

  The queen never intended to shirk her duties to God. She had always known what needed to be done, and with her pregnancy, illness, progressing apace, she forged on ahead.

  There can be no more delays, she told her council, her eyes rimmed in red. There must be no more delay.

  So with the queen’s royal approval, the trials gathered apace, culminating in February with the first burning.

  The queen had taken the last and final step.

  She was ready to show one and all, here and abroad, that England meant to return to the fold of the Pope and her good work would be consolidated by these burnings. She would turn God’s opposition to ash.

  Our path shall be fraught before all comes right again, the queen promised, and with her sovereign’s words ringing in her ears, Jane bit her lip and took in her surrounds.

  She was nervous.

  She could feel the sweat gathering on her palms despite the frigid air surrounding her. She had never seen a burning before, even though she had attended executions aplenty. She had seen traitors hanged, drawn and quartered, but she had never witnessed a burning.

  Some suggested that the queen ought to give the heretics a traitor’s death. Anything but the flames, they said.

  Even Bishop Gardiner had his qualms. The gruesome nature of a burning made him reticent. He called for only the worst of the heretics to be sent to the stake. He told the queen that he feared for her as well as England if large numbers of common folk should be put to death in such a manner.

  He did not whisper the word ‘rebellion,’ but he did cite the examples of her forebears, bidding her take heed. The first of the Tudors, Henry VII, had sent no more than t
en heretics to the stake in all his twenty-four years as king. While Good King Henry, the queen’s own father had in all his thirty-eight years sent no more than ninety. Even in the throes of his religious reforms and his rigorous revolution of the Church, Henry VIII had been careful to keep the burnings few. The king killed many but he was sparing in sending heretics to the flames.

  A traitor is a traitor and no martyr must they make, Gardiner said, his old eyes solemn, your majesty must have a care, he warned.

  But to condemn a heretic as a traitor was blasphemy to the queen.

  To denounce a heretic as a traitor is to make the sin of the man answerable to not God but his or her sovereign, the queen said. A traitor’s death is reserved for those who have dared to offend the Crown, but a heretic’s death is for those who have betrayed the wearer of the Everlasting and Eternal Crown. Nay! The queen gave Gardiner her answer. The two cannot and will not be muddled! Our church is the Church of Rome! Not the Church of England!

  The queen could not be persuaded. She would dismantle her father’s church. He had created the Church of England of which he was head, making each and every woman, man and child in his realm answerable to him in all things. He was king over the souls as well as the earthly bodies of those within his realm. To betray him was to betray God and he had sent those who denied him to their deaths as traitors to God, but above all as traitors to him and his sovereignty.

  I would claim no such right. The queen announced to her council, these men and women would answer for their charge to God and God only. They are not traitors to the Crown; they are the betrayers of God and His Church and they shall atone for their sins as it is prescribed by the Pope, God’s anointed here on Earth!

  Thusly, with Gardiner’s words drowned out by her convictions and with the blessing of the Pope, the queen ordered the burnings of those who had poisoned her realm, starting with those that were most guilty.

  John Rogers had been first, followed by a fellow preacher, Lawrence Saunders. And now it was John Hooper’s turn. Like those before him, Hooper was stripped of his ordinance for being a married man, cast into prison, tried and sentenced before being sent to the stake.

  The queen ordered him to be burned in the Cathedral Square of Gloucester. He would die in his own diocese. He had preached his poison here and Jane was going to bear witness to his end. She had followed the procession that led Hooper from London to his native county.

  Jane’s heart was thudding fast. The square was filled with people, jostling for a better look. Everywhere she turned there was another person shoving and pushing, fighting for a better spot from which to watch the coming execution.

  Led by her brother, Jane soon found herself ensconced on the balcony of the College of Priests. From here, she was able to garner a good view. Her heart thundered. She closed her hands tight over the rosary she held. The sun had just dawned and as the appointed hour of eight drew nigh, the crowd grew more and more raucous.

  The mood was foul, the people restless. Towering above them was the stake. It had been erected the night before. It stood, poised to receive its live, human fodder. Bundles of faggots had been readied and stacked to one side. They were to be laid around Hooper once he had been tied to the stake.

  A rousing cry from the crowd had Jane leaning over the stone balcony. She squinted, settling her eyes on the coming procession. With his shorn head and long white chemise, Hooper came into sight, his feet bare and his demeanor sedate. The crowd pushed and struggled and the queen’s soldiers fought hard to keep them subdued.

  The people called out to their bishop of old. A multitude of cries rose, reaching Jane’s ears.

  The order of the queen was not to linger and as soon as Hooper was led to his place at the stake, his sentence was read. A last chance at redemption was also offered him: the Queen’s Pardon. If he swore his allegiance to the One True Church, he would be offered clemency from his sovereign as well as God.

  Those gathered shouted at him, asking him to change his ways, to renounce his faith, but Hooper shook his head. He waved at the man offering him a chance at life, be gone! For the sake of my immortal soul, away with it!

  Jane swallowed hard. Why did he not renounce his heretic’s ways? She asked her brother. Why does he persist in his folly? Like Rogers before him, Hooper refused to recant his faith.

  These men, her brother said beside her, they think to be martyrs! Never fear! The queen will pull them out of England like the weeds they are and once they have answered for their sins, the people will see the right of it! They will turn their souls back to the Mother Church!

  Seeing the fear on his sister’s face, he spoke on, such is the way of every great Catholic Kingdom. Evil prevails, seeking to thrust themselves upon unsuspecting victims. Only through such purging, he waved his hand over the scene below, shall we cleanse, renew and maintain the sanctity of the Church.

  Jane watched on, wide eyed as Hooper was tied to the stake.

  Brusquely, the soldiers set the bundles of tinder around Hooper’s feet.

  With his mouth moving in prayer, Hooper called out to God, begging Him to have mercy on his soul as a torch was thrust into the kindling around his feet. Smoke rose and the crackle of fire could be heard.

  Around them, gusts of wind blew and as the fire built, Jane could see flames dancing red over the extremities of the condemned priest.

  Jane’s toes curled inside her shoes.

  Hooper prayed, loud and clear, his voice ringing as he implored God to come to him in his hour of need. The heat of the flames licked and climbed around him slowly, making his skin swell and what was left of his hair shrivel and char.

  Fisting her hands, Jane swallowed. Her heart was pounding in her chest, the sound echoing in her ears.

  Heretics had to die, but her heart clenched at the suffering of the man below them. The winds that were feeding the fire now whipped and blew, stirring the tinder, dampening the flames.

  A fizzle could be heard as the fire failed to catch on further. The soldiers saw the fault and sallied forward to thrust more torches amongst the wood, and as smoke once again began to rise, Hopper coughed, his face smeared with the rising, coiling soot. Time seemed to stop as all of them watched the priest suffer.

  The man was ready to die but the tinder around him refused to oblige. It crackled and popped, picking up momentarily to offer him the promise of a quick delivery only to die down once more.

  Still, above it all the steady voice of the man could be heard. Jesu. Sweet Jesu. Deliver me. Jesu, have mercy upon my soul, Hooper moaned.

  Around Hooper the crowd took up a rousing cry, the faggots are green! The faggots are green! Those at the front saw it all and they shook their heads as the man’s sufferings grew.

  Hooper’s legs were darkening now, he was singed and his flesh was threatening to burst through his blistered skin.

  Good People! Pray let me have more fire! Hooper now called. In God’s name let me have more fire!

  Why do they not dispatch him faster! Jane cried as tears filled her eyes. Help him! Help him! She said to her brother.

  With strident steps, her brother left the balcony for the crowd below. While the fire continued its half-hearted cackling, he made his way toward the executioners. At his direction, a third set of kindling, riddled with gunpowder, was set about Hooper’s feet and lit to give the bishop a speedy death.

  As the first crack of ammunition came from within the midst of the last stacks, Hooper jolted, his skin bursting under the onslaught.

  This third and last fire now fed the first two. The riot of flames kicked, surging higher, burning with more strength, but the wind continued to hinder Hooper and while his lower body burned, the fire refused to consume his vitals, keeping him alive and in the throes of torture.

  The smell of searing skin and melting flesh was enough to force Jane to her knees. She knelt now, her eyes fixed upon Hooper while she moved her lips in silent prayer. The rising smoke stung her eyes. She coughed, tears escaping her e
yes.

  She bit her tongue as she saw Hooper raise an arm to beat at his chest. The man kept all of his screams and cries held deep within. He allowed not even one to escape. Repeatedly, he pounded his fist over his heart as if to order it to cease beating.

  Lord Jesu have mercy on me. Lord Jesu receive my soul, came the constant refrain from his mouth. But soon his lips began to melt and as they dissolved under the force of the flames, his tongue began to swell and blister, denying him any further utterances.

  Jane retched.

  With his lips shrunken, Hooper’s face slowly disintegrated, eaten by the roaring fire. With his right arm he continued to beat at his chest until that arm fell, detaching from his torso like a hunk of burnt meat. Switching to his left, he continued to beat at his chest, but that arm was on fire too. With precision, the flames proceeded to peel back the layers of his skin. The fat from his body melted, cackling and crackling in the fire. Consuming his remaining hand, the fire danced along his wrist, then his arm before travelling all the way to his shoulder.

  Without both arms gone now, Hooper fought on. He stayed resolutely erect.

  As the hour continued to pass them by, the fire continued its torture and Jane watched, her eyes disbelieving as Hooper became reduced to nothing but a human head and torso. She heaved as Hooper’s bowels fell out and thereupon she could watch no more. She turned away from the sight, her lips numb as she murmured over and over, sweet Jesu. Sweet Jesu. Sweet Jesu.

  When Hooper’s head finally fell forward and he gasped his last, her brother went to find her. With her knees weak and her mind reeling, Jane clung to him, her tears falling and falling fast.

  SUSAN CLARENCIEUX

  May

  Little Jane Dormer had not been the same since her return from Gloucester. Susan knew why, but they didn’t speak of it. None of them dared.

  The queen had ordered more and more burnings.