The Queen's Favourite

by Laura Dowers

  He was alone for two days. On the third, his guard came in without his breakfast and told Robert to get up.

  ‘Why? Are you taking me somewhere?’ Robert asked, his fingers trembling as he hurried to pull on his boots.

  ‘The Tower’s filling up,’ the guard said, unlocking a door in the wall. ‘We’re having to put prisoners together to make room. Come on.’

  Robert grabbed his cloak, bundling it under his arm. ‘You’re putting me upstairs.’

  ‘That’s right. Up with your brothers. Won’t that be nice for you?’ the guard sneered, pushing him through the doorway.

  ‘Don’t you dare push me, you dog!’ Robert growled.

  His indignation amused the guard. ‘Boy, haven’t you worked it out yet? You’re nothing, you’re nobody. Soon, you’ll be out on Tower Hill on the scaffold pissing yourself, because your head is about to be cut off, after they’ve ripped your guts out first, mind. So, dog I may be, but I’m a dog that’s going to be alive this time next year. Now, are you going to walk up those stairs there or do I have to throw you up?’

  The door closed behind him. He blinked at the sudden brightness of the upper chamber. His brothers were sat around a small table in the centre of the room, playing at a game of cards.

  ‘Rob?’ Jack cried, coming towards him, his arms outstretched. Robert melted into his brother’s arms, burrowing his face in his neck and breathing in his warm, comforting smell. Then it was Ambrose’s turn to hold him. Guildford held back.

  ‘Oh, Rob, it’s good to see you.’ Ambrose pulled him to one of the stools and pushed him down onto it.

  Jack cradled his face and stared into his eyes. ‘Are you all right? They haven’t mistreated you?’

  ‘I’m well enough.’ Robert pulled his face away. ‘Jack, I’m sorry.’

  ‘Enough of that. It isn’t your fault.’

  ‘But if I had found Mary –’

  ‘It wouldn’t have made any difference,’ Jack shook his head. ‘Father lost the Council’s support. They betrayed him. Mary being free was unfortunate, but it’s not the only reason we’ve ended up here.’

  ‘Father’s here too?’

  ‘Over in the Garden Tower,’ Ambrose said. ‘Henry’s with him.’ Henry was their youngest brother.

  Robert swallowed. ‘What’s going to happen to us?’

  Jack glanced at Ambrose. ‘We’ll stand trial, and no doubt, will be found guilty.’ He breathed deeply. ‘After that –’

  He didn’t need to finish the sentence. They all knew what happened to traitors.

  The door opened and the cot bed from the downstairs chamber flew through the air and clattered in a heap on the floor. ‘Don’t expect anything else,’ the guard grunted. He pulled the door shut and locked it.

  ‘Have they no respect for who we are?’ Jack asked.

  ‘Not any more, it seems,’ Ambrose replied equably. He bent and tried to straighten the bed. ‘Gil, shove along so we can get this in.’

  Robert watched as his brothers re-arranged their prison furniture. His eyes stung with tears. ‘For us to come to this,’ he said.

  Ambrose straightened and looked at him. ‘It is to be expected, Rob.’

  ‘How can you say so? We are Dudleys, Ambrose.’

  ‘We are traitors, Rob,’ Ambrose countered, his voice rising. ‘Don’t you understand what we’ve done?’

  ‘What have we done, tell me? We’ve tried to preserve England as a Protestant country to save us from having a half-Spanish, Catholic woman as queen.’

  ‘Rob’s right, you know,’ Guildford said, falling back onto his bed. ‘After all, it was the king who wanted to change the succession –’

  ‘Exactly,’ Robert interrupted. ‘Father was loyal to his king, carrying out his orders. How can he then be called traitor?’

  ‘Edward had no right to change the succession,’ Jack said wearily.

  ‘No right?’ Robert cried in exasperation. ‘What does it mean to be king if one cannot create the law of the land?’

  ‘This is not a land of tyrants, Rob,’ Jack said, ‘where a sovereign can act without the consent of the people.’

  ‘He had consent, Jack. Parliament consented.’

  ‘Only after Father bullied them.’

  ‘If you’ve always thought that, Jack, why didn’t you say so to Father?’

  ‘I did my duty by Father, Rob.’

  ‘As did I.’

  ‘Hardly,’ Guildford muttered.

  Robert turned on him. ‘What did you say?’

  Guildford shrugged. ‘I still say if you had caught up with Mary, we wouldn’t be here.’

  ‘You do blame me then?’

  ‘No, we don’t,’ Ambrose said, laying his hand on Robert’s shoulder.

  Robert twisted angrily out of his grasp. ‘He does,’ he spat, jabbing a finger at Guildford.

  ‘What does Gil know?’ Jack scoffed, glaring at Guildford to hold his tongue. But Guildford was in no mood to be silenced.

  ‘I know enough,’ he said, scrambling to his feet. ‘I know that if Father had succeeded, you would all have to bow your knee to me. And I tell you, I wouldn’t stand for any of your insolence.’

  ‘Bow our knees to you?’ Robert sneered. ‘I heard that your wife refused to crown you. Even she realised what a blockhead you are.’

  Guildford stamped his foot. ‘Oh, and I suppose you think you would make a better king?’

  ‘Well, of course I would,’ Robert said. ‘Can you be in any doubt?’

  ‘Quiet, both of you.’ Jack moved to stand between them and gave them each a shove backwards. ‘You fools. Do you think Father would be pleased to see us at each other’s throats?’

  ‘Maybe he should have considered what his actions would lead to,’ Guildford said.

  ‘Father isn’t to blame,’ Robert insisted.

  ‘How can you say that?’ Guildford implored. ‘No one who matters agrees with you. They’re probably already building his scaffold.’

  Robert swallowed, feeling sick. ‘They...they wouldn’t do that,’ he stammered, staring at Guildford. Guildford turned away, unable to look him in the eye.

  ‘Rob,’ Jack said quietly, taking his hand. ‘You must realise that it is likely.’

  Robert snatched his cold hand away. ‘No, Jack, they can’t. Not to Father. Never.’

  10

  The Tower, London, August 1553

  John Dudley pulled his cloak up to his chin and dug his fingers into his side in a futile attempt to press away the pain. It seemed almost constant now. Or did he imagine it? Had failure made it seem more real? He cursed Jane Grey for sending him out of London. That had been his undoing. Had he stayed, his fellow councillors wouldn’t have been able to stab him in the back. The stupid girl. He felt himself growing angry again and he knew it could do him no good, so he willed it away. After all, Dudley the queen maker! What a fool he had been to think he could have done it.

  He looked up as his cell door was unlocked and Stephen Gardiner walked in.

  Gardiner’s countenance still bore the pallor that five years imprisonment in the Tower had given him. But it was moments such as this, looking down at the man who had been instrumental in keeping him a prisoner, when Gardiner swelled with satisfaction at the hand justice had dealt him.

  John got to his feet and moved to stand before him. ‘My wife, Gardiner. How is she?’

  ‘The queen bears her no malice and she is safe.’

  ‘And my son, Henry. Where has he been taken?’

  ‘To the Beauchamp Tower. He is with your other sons.’

  ‘And are they well?’

  ‘I don’t know, nor do I care. I came only to tell you that your trial is set for three days hence. You will be found guilty. Both you and your sons.’

  ‘And what will follow?’ John asked cautiously.

  Gardiner looked him in the eye. ‘Death, of course.’

  ‘For me, yes, I understand that. But not my sons, please. They don’t deserve to be executed.’


  ‘Indeed? Are they not as guilty as you?’

  ‘They only did as they were told. They’re just children, Stephen.’

  ‘They’re men.’

  ‘They’re my sons,’ John said desperately. Gardiner looked at him with distaste. John composed himself. ‘There must be something I can do. Let me see or write to the queen. I will beg her to show mercy.’

  Gardiner sneered. ‘The Duke of Northumberland beg?’

  ‘To save my sons, yes, I will beg.’

  Gardiner considered. ‘There is perhaps one way.’

  ‘Tell me.’

  ‘Admit that your religion is false. Admit the error you have made in following the Lutheran heresy and return to the True Faith. Admit this and your sons may be saved.’

  John stared at him. ‘It’s not what I believe.’

  ‘Then you won’t do it?’

  ‘It’s no small thing you’re asking of me.’

  Gardiner turned to the door. ‘Then I see no point in my remaining.’

  ‘Stephen, wait,’ John halted him. ‘Will it really save them?’

  ‘The queen is not vengeful, Dudley,’ Gardiner replied with a hint of regret. ‘Your life is forfeit. But a public recantation of your faith will save your sons, I promise you.’

  John had to believe he spoke the truth. ‘Then I will do it. I only hope God will forgive me.’

  Gardiner’s lips twitched. ‘You’ll be able to ask him soon enough.’

  11

  Tower Hill, London, August the 22nd 1553

  This was the way his father, Edmund, had died. John had been there, that day, so many years ago, on Tower Hill as a small boy, crushed between the bodies of the spectators. The sound of the cheers as his father’s head was hacked off had stayed with him, haunted his dreams. Now the cheers were for him, an eager mob shouting for his head to be hacked off. He was so tired, he could almost be glad his life was soon to be over, if it weren’t for his family. He hadn’t been allowed to see his wife or his daughters since his arrest, and his last sight of his sons had been a torment to him.

  It had been no more than an hour ago, when the Tower guards had hustled him from his cell to the chapel of St Peter ad Vincula, and sitting in the pews had been his boys. He saw confusion on their faces, wondering what they had been brought there for. They had no notion that they were to witness their father’s betrayal of their faith. He could still hear them calling out to him.

  John moved to the block, shuffling through the sand and straw laid down to soak up his blood. ‘Do you forgive me?’ the executioner asked, his face made ghastly by the black mask worn to disguise his identity.

  ‘Yes,’ John answered wearily. Yes, he thought, I forgive you, you’re paid to do this. But I don’t forgive them, those bastards who have made my life a lie and dishonoured me before my children. I will never forgive them, even if I burn in Hell for it.

  Someone stepped up behind him and a white cloth was thrown over his eyes, making him flinch. A knot was hurriedly tied and John felt hands on his back, guiding him to the block. His trembling legs gave way and he fell onto his knees, gasping at the jolt of pain shooting through his spine. A few more minutes and bodily pain would be nothing to him. He leaned forward, feeling for the curve in the wood. As he lowered himself, the blindfold slipped and fell down around his neck. It made him shudder to look again upon the baying crowd, with his head so near to the red-stained stump of wood. He sniffed in an attempt to hold back his tears, but it didn’t work. God damn you, he chided himself, as they flowed so obviously down his hollow cheeks. His fingers fumbled at the knot, untying and re-positioning it, this time tying it so tight it dug into his skull.

  He thrust his neck into the hollow and shouted, wanting to be heard above the roar of the crowd, ‘Jesus, into your care, deliver me’.

  He spread his arms, the signal for the executioner to strike. He felt the cold metal of the blade against the back of his neck as the executioner marked out his target, then a terrifying few seconds, an exquisite shock of pain and the world went black.

  Jack, leaning against the fireplace, closed his eyes. He had just seen the cart carrying his father’s body returning from Tower Hill. He had stood alone at the window, he alone had seen it and he didn’t mention it now. ‘It’s done,’ was all he said. Henry rushed to him, pressing his face against Jack’s chest.

  Guildford, his face white, swallowed. ‘Is Father de–’

  ‘Yes, Gil,’ Ambrose cut him off sharply, then adding more kindly, ‘Yes.’ He turned to look at Robert. Robert lay on his side on the bed, his back to the room. He was shaking. ‘Oh, Rob,’ Ambrose whispered, and moved to the bed. He reached out a hand and stroked the thick black hair.

  Robert flinched beneath his touch. Jerking upright, he knocked Ambrose’s hand away. ‘I’ll never forgive them,’ he said, his black eyes fierce behind his tears. ‘Not as long as I live.’ His face suddenly crumpled. ‘What am I going to do without him, Am?’

  Ambrose looked across at Jack, hoping he had an answer, but Jack lowered his eyes. ‘I don’t know, Rob,’ Ambrose said sadly.

  ‘For Christ’s sake, what’s the matter with you?’ Robert grabbed at him. ‘Why aren’t you angry?’

  ‘I am angry,’ Ambrose retorted, stung by the accusation. ‘Do you think you’re the only one who loved him?’

  ‘Oh God, I wish they’d killed me with him.’

  ‘Don’t say that,’ Jack scolded, giving Henry’s head a savage caress. ‘And don’t believe what Father said in the chapel. He only did it to try and save us from the same fate. It hurt him to say what he did, but he did it for us. That’s the kind of father he is…He was. And have you thought of Mother? How must she be feeling?’

  ‘Oh, God, Mother,’ Robert looked up at Jack. ‘Will she be all right?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Jack said. ‘I worry about her. But at least she’s at liberty and she’s got Mary to look after her.’

  ‘They didn’t have to do this,’ Robert said, punching the mattress. ‘They could have just kept him a prisoner. Why’d they have to kill him?’ His sobs began afresh. Ambrose pulled him close and held him tight.

  ‘Because that’s what the Catholics wanted,’ he said bitterly. ‘A human sacrifice to their religion, so they can say, ‘Look, even the Duke of Northumberland admitted he was wrong and we are right.’ They’re heartless bastards, Rob. Every one of them.’

  Jack nodded his agreement. ‘The sooner that bitch Mary is dead and Elizabeth sits on the throne, the better.’

  12

  Whitehall Palace, London, February 1554

  Simon Renard, the Imperial Ambassador, looked down at the woman sitting in the chair and felt sorry for his master, the king of Spain. This was the woman King Philip was going to marry and an older, uglier and less appealing woman than Mary Tudor, Renard couldn’t imagine.

  ‘No. I can’t do it.’ Mary slapped her hand down on the pommel of her chair. ‘They’re innocents.’

  Stephen Gardiner moved away from the window. ‘Jane Grey and her husband were never that, Your Majesty. Madam,’ he continued with a sigh at her expression, ‘this rebellion of Wyatt’s has shown how insecure your hold on power is.’

  ‘I am loved,’ she declared, rising from the chair and squaring up to him. ‘My people supported me against Dudley.’

  ‘Indeed they did,’ Gardiner agreed, bowing his head.

  ‘And Wyatt claims to have only been protesting against my marriage to King Philip, not my right as Queen.’

  ‘What he claims and what he would have done once he had achieved power, Your Majesty, who can say?’ Gardiner shrugged.

  ‘I still don’t see why it involves my cousin Jane and her husband.’

  ‘Her father was free to join the rebellion,’ Renard pointed out, reminding her of her former ill-judged mercy in not imprisoning him too. ‘And had Wyatt succeeded, the Duke of Suffolk would have put his daughter on the throne once more. While that girl lives, she is a constant danger to your secu
rity and while she lives and has a husband, she is a perfect candidate for a queen.’

  ‘I agree with Senor Renard, Your Majesty,’ Gardiner said. ‘The Grey girl is a threat to your throne and your life. You have shown great mercy in allowing her to live this long.’

  ‘She is my cousin,’ Mary protested.

  Renard and Gardiner shared a look, Gardiner urging him to speak. ‘Your Majesty, I do fear that my master, King Philip, will not feel secure in a country whose citizens are allowed to rise up against their sovereign without fear of punishment.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Mary asked with a look of horror.

  ‘I mean King Philip may not agree to your marriage, Your Majesty.’

  ‘But he must. We are betrothed.’

  ‘Alas, these arrangements are easily undone.’

  ‘No, no, he must come here. My heart is given to him. He must, he must.’

  ‘Then you must sacrifice your noble feelings towards your cousin, Your Majesty,’ Renard said in as sympathetic an expression as his face could muster. ‘Jane Grey must die.’

  13

  Beauchamp Tower, London, February 1554

  ‘Help me,’ Guildford screamed, grabbing at the cloak Jack wore to keep out the cold.

  Jack wrenched it from his hands. ‘There’s nothing we can do, Gil.’

  ‘But you can’t let them kill me. I didn’t do anything. Why do I have to die?’

  Ambrose stepped away from the door. ‘They’re coming,’ he said.

  The door opened. The Lieutenant of the Tower, Sir Jack Brydges, stood in the doorway, two halberdiers behind him. ‘It is time,’ he said, staring at Guildford.