Her Highness, the Traitor

by Susan Higginbotham

  Somerset’s execution had been scheduled for eight in the morning, slightly earlier than was the custom, and the council had ordered the London constable to tell the populace to stay in their homes until ten in the morning. Despite this, as I rode from Ely Place to Tower Hill, the streets were full of people, all of them headed in the same direction as I.

  Knowing it would be unwise to make my identity known, I was accompanied by only one manservant, and I had worn a plain gown. Were it not that some of the officials recognized me and gave way to allow me to ride near to the scaffold, I might have been unable to see anything but a figure in the distance. Instead, I was close enough to see the duke’s face as he was led out to Tower Hill. It was slightly before eight; Somerset was punctual to the last.

  His hair and beard had been trimmed carefully, and he was elegantly and richly clothed; I’d not seen him dressed so finely since his daughter Anne married my son. Having climbed the scaffold, he knelt and prayed, raising his hands upward as naturally as if he were in his own chapel. As he made his devotions, the people stood still and silent, their faces solemn or streaked with tears. No one was jostling for a better view; instead, men stood with their arms around their wives, mothers with their hands on their children’s shoulders, supporting each other through this ordeal. Even the cutpurse I spotted nearby abandoned his prey to concentrate on the duke.

  Somerset rose and walked to the east side of the scaffold. For a moment, he and the crowd gazed at each other adoringly. Then Somerset sighed sharply and began his speech, the same sort of speech that had been heard on Tower Hill too many times. “Dearly beloved friends, I am brought hither to suffer death, albeit that I never offended against the king, neither by word nor deed, and have been always as faithful and true unto this realm, as any man hath been.”

  “Hear, hear!”

  “But I am condemned by a law whereunto I am subject, as are we all, and therefore to show obedience I am content to die, wherewith I am well content, being a thing most heartily welcome unto me, for which I do thank God, taking it for a singular benefit, and as great a benefit as ever might come to me any otherwise. For as I am a man, I have deserved at God’s hand many deaths, and it has pleased his goodness, whereas he might have taken me suddenly that I should neither have known him nor myself, thus now to visit me and call me with this present death, when I have had time to remember and acknowledge him, and to know also myself, for which thing I do thank him most heartily.”

  Somerset had begun to urge the people to stay steadfast to the king’s religious reforms and was warming to his theme, when there was a sudden noise, like a clap of thunder or an explosion of gunpowder. People who had been listening to the duke in utter silence screamed in terror. Some fled to nearby houses; others flung themselves into ditches. It was all my man could do to keep my own horse from bolting. Then Anthony Browne—the man who had helped me to my favored place near the scaffold—galloped up to keep order among the crowd.

  “A pardon!” a bystander shouted. “The king has issued a pardon!”

  “God save the king! He has issued a pardon!” The crowd, on the verge of riot a moment before, screamed with joy as men threw their caps in the air.

  “There is no such thing,” said a quiet voice from the scaffold. Somerset raised his hand, and the crowd froze. “There is no pardon,” he repeated. “I pray you all to be quiet and to be contented with my death, which I am most willing to suffer. Let us now join in prayer unto the Lord, for the preservation of the King’s Majesty, unto whom hitherto I have always shown myself a most faithful and true subject. I have always been diligent about His Majesty in his affairs both at home and abroad, and no less diligent in seeking the common commodity of the whole realm.”

  “It is true,” muttered the crowd.

  “I wish His Majesty continual health, with all felicity and all prosperous success.”

  “Amen,” murmured the people.

  “I do wish unto all his counselors the grace and favor of God, whereby they may rule in all things uprightly with justice. Unto whom I exhort you all in the Lord, to show yourselves obedient, as is your duty under the pain of condemnation, and also most profitable for the preservation and safeguard of the King’s Majesty,” Somerset continued. He gave a faint smile. “Forasmuch as I have had oftentimes affrayed with divers men, and have found it hard to please every man, therefore if there have been any offended or injured by me, I most humbly require and ask him forgiveness. Especially almighty God, whom through all my life I have most grievously offended. And whoever has offended me, I do with my whole heart forgive them.”

  “He speaks of Northumberland,” a man called. “The wicked Duke of Northumberland, who has put him wrongfully to death!”

  Somerset raised his hand again. “I once again require you, dearly beloved in the Lord, that you will keep yourselves quiet and still, lest through your tumult, you might trouble me. For albeit the spirit be willing and ready, the flesh is frail and wavering, and through your quietness I shall be much quieter.”

  The crowd obeyed instantly, and Somerset said, “I desire you to help me with my prayers,” then knelt and prayed. Rising afterward to shake hands with everyone on the scaffold, including the sheriff and the Lieutenant of the Tower, he presented the executioner with a bag of coins and stripped to his doublet and shirt.

  With the rest, I watched in awe as Somerset slowly untied his shirt strings and allowed the executioner to turn down his collar, then covered his face with his handkerchief. He laid himself flat on the ground, only to have to rise again and remove his doublet, which was obstructing his neck, at the command of the executioner. “Lord Jesus save me,” he said, lying down once again. “Lord Jesus save me. Lord Je—”

  Even before the executioner raised Somerset’s head, the crowd surged toward the scaffold, terrifying my horse. As I struggled to bring her under control, and to fight down the nausea that was engulfing me, I realized what they were doing: dipping their handkerchiefs in the duke’s lifeblood, which was seeping through the boards of the scaffold. The bloodstained handkerchiefs would become relics, like the bones and fingernails of the saints the faithful used to treasure.

  “My lady? Shall I take you home now?”

  I shook my head. My cheeks, I realized, were damp with tears. “No. Take me to the Tower. I wish to see the duke’s widow.”

  ***

  In those days, John’s power was such that I could go almost anywhere in England I chose, except perhaps to the king’s private apartments. No one challenged me, therefore, as I passed through the Tower gates, having finally managed to make my way through the crowd that was still trying to catch the very last droplets of Somerset’s blood as Somerset’s body and head were bundled into a cart and taken to the Tower chapel for burial. But the guards outside of the Duchess of Somerset’s lodgings did shake their heads warningly as they ushered me inside. “My lady, she may be trouble.”

  “I will take my chances.”

  Surrounded by her ladies, Anne Seymour was slumped on a chair, her luxurious brown hair wild around her face. She was not even dressed properly, but was in her nightclothes. “Get out,” she hissed.

  “I came to see if you needed anything,” I said, realizing as I spoke how stupid a remark that was. What could I do for her? Resurrect her husband? “I mean, to see if you needed any physic, or some spiritual comfort.”

  Anne shook her head vaguely and gathered her robe around her more closely. She seemed to have forgotten she’d ordered me out. “I saw them bring him back just now,” she announced.

  I looked to her ladies for confirmation. “Aye, Your Grace, she did. She wouldn’t let us keep her from the window.”

  “There was so much blood,” Anne said, staring at the wall. “He must have left most of it on the scaffold, but there was plenty in the cart.” She gave a macabre laugh. “Who knew that a man could hold that much bl
ood? Not me. Now I do. They didn’t even bother to wrap his body in a sheet. Just the head.”

  “How in the world could you let her see that?” I whispered.

  “We would have had to hold her by force to stop her. She was wild.”

  “They let me visit him last night,” Anne continued. “We read to each other for a while and we held each other tight and kissed, just like it was when he first started courting me. He married me for love, you know. Other men didn’t want me. They said I was too outspoken and that my father couldn’t give me a large enough portion to make up for that, and then when I turned twenty, they said I was too old.” Tears were spilling down her cheeks. “But he never thought any of those things. He thought I was perfect. In all the years we were married, he never raised his hand against me, or even raised his voice to me. He loved me.”

  “I know he did,” I said gently. Anne’s shoulders were shaking, and I put an arm around her.

  “I loved him, too. I knew he would advance, but that’s not why I married him! I could have been happy to stay plain Lady Seymour. I would be happy to be that now, if that would bring him back to me.” She touched the pillow beside her. On it laid a little book. “He must have given me something to make me sleepy, because I fell asleep in his arms when I was in his chamber, and when I awoke, I had been carried back here. He told his guards that he couldn’t bear to say good-bye to me and asked them to tell me not to be angry with him for not waking me.” Anne shook her head. “As if I was ever angry at him in his life. With plenty of other people! But never with my dear Edward. And he did leave something for the children and me to remember him by. The constable sent it to me this morning.”

  She picked up the little book—a nondescript almanac. Written in Somerset’s careful handwriting was:

  Fear of the Lord is the beginning of wisdom

  Put thy trust in the Lord with all thy heart

  Be not wise in thine own conceit, but fear the Lord and flee from evil

  From the Tower, the day before my death

  E. Somerset

  On the verge of tears again, I cleared my throat. “Anne, I will do my best to see that you are freed soon. Or at least sent to live with one of your sisters-in-law, or your mother, where you will have people who can ease your grief and offer you comfort. I shall talk to my hus—”

  “Your husband!” Anne pushed my arm away and stood. “How dare you mention that devil to me? He was the one who brought my dear husband to this, with all of his plots.”

  “He did not! Your husband was plotting against mine, and you know it.”

  “Only after your husband poisoned the king’s mind against my husband. My Edward loved the king. He was the apple of his eye. He used that very phrase! But first Thomas Seymour sought to tear them apart, and then your beast of a husband did. They ruined everything.” Anne balled her hands into fists. “He sent you here, didn’t he, you vixen? To taunt me, or was it to spy upon me? Did the two of you hope I would betray some secret? Well, I’ll give you your money’s worth. I want your husband dead for what he did to mine, and I’ll have you dead, too, if they let me out of here. Is that enough for you?”

  I backed into a corner. “You don’t mean what you’re saying, Anne. You have undergone a great shock. I know in a day or so you will think better of it.”

  “Don’t mean it? By God, I’ll strangle you here, you bitch!”

  She grabbed me by the throat, evading her ladies’ efforts to stop her, and shook me while I screamed for the guards and tried to shake her off me. Finally they prized her away. She stared at me in pure hatred as they dragged her back. “I curse you,” she said. “I curse the entire house of the Dudleys. May you suffer what I have suffered today!”

  “You had best go, my lady. She’s wild.”

  I needed no persuasion. I picked up my skirts and stumbled down the staircase, Anne’s curses and screams ringing in my ears.

  ***

  “She threatened you?” John stared at me.

  I’d not wanted to tell John about my encounter with the duchess, but my manner when I returned to Ely Place had been too agitated to escape the notice of my household, someone in which had sent for John. I had been too shaken to formulate a lie when John arrived in my chamber, where I had been put to bed with a warm brick next to my feet. “She is half-mad with grief over her husband, John.”

  “And what’s this?” John’s hands found the marks of Anne’s fingers on my neck. “Christ! Did she attack you?”

  “She did not know what she was doing.”

  “By God, the bitch should hang for this!”

  “No!” I sprang out of bed and sank to my knees. “Please don’t harm her,” I begged, looking up at John. “There has been so much death. Please! Promise me.” My voice reached a higher pitch. “Promise.” I turned my head and started sobbing.

  John lifted me up and helped me back into bed. “I will not harm her. I promise.”

  “Oh, thank you, John.”

  “But I’ll be damned if I ever let her see the outside of the Tower. She can rot there.”

  I made no argument.

  John sat in bed next to me, stroking my hair as I calmed down. “Jane, you should not have gone to the execution. It could have been dangerous for you.”

  “I know. I am sorry.”

  “He died bravely, I suppose?”

  “Yes. Very bravely.”

  “One day I will ask you for the details. Not today.”

  I nodded as John went on talking. “There were good reasons not to go. One was that I might appear to be gloating. The other one was that the crowd might riot if they saw me. But the real reason is that I am a coward. I could not bear to see him die. He was the first true friend I had as a young man.”

  I took John’s hand. “England will be more at peace for this, John. We will move past this. We have to.” I hesitated. “Did you see the king today?”

  “Yes. I asked for his forgiveness. He frowned and said, ‘What else could you do, my lord?’” John rose and kissed me on the cheek. “I must go back to Westminster. There’s business to do before Parliament opens tomorrow. You sleep, and stay out of trouble.” He headed toward the chamber door, then turned with a slight smile. “Did you know where they buried Somerset?”

  “In the Chapel of St. Peter ad Vincula, of course.”

  “Yes, but do you know who he lies between?” I shook my head. “Anne Boleyn and Katherine Howard. If those aren’t an odd threesome, I don’t know what is.”

  20

  Frances Grey

  January 1552 to February 1552

  With the court festivities of Christmas over, the girls and I returned to Bradgate. I was glad to be there, for despite all of the determined gaiety, London was a gloomy place that January, the impending fate of the Duke of Somerset casting a pall over everything.

  Even in the comfort of my home at Bradgate—my husband’s inheritance, but a house I had come to love as my own—I was despondent after the duke’s death, not so much for the duke but for the sake of his eldest son, Edward, Earl of Hertford. I had met him at court a time or two and had found him to be a charming yet serious-minded young man, who might be particularly suitable for Jane as a husband. Indeed, after the Thomas Seymour debacle, Harry, anxious to make amends with Somerset, had suggested Jane might marry Hertford, but the negotiations had been desultory at best and had died out altogether when Harry aligned himself with Northumberland. Now the Earl of Hertford, son of a traitor, was worth little as a husband, unless the council chose to restore him to his father’s forfeited estates. But I was sorry not only for the loss of the young man as a potential match for Jane, but also for his own bereavement.

  Jane did not give any indication of what she thought about the loss of her potential suitor, and I did not ask her. Since I had overheard the conversation she h
ad had with Ascham the previous summer, my manner to her had been more distant and cool. I no longer lost my temper with her, but I no longer asked the sort of questions about her studies that had always made her roll her eyes at me. My manner at times toward her had been so astringent, I had seen her blink in puzzlement, which I am ashamed to admit gave me a certain petty satisfaction. When Aylmer, distressed at the pleasure Jane had taken in decking herself out in fine robes and curling her hair for the visit of Mary of Guise, asked that his mentor in Zurich, Heinrich Bullinger, address a few words to Jane about the manner of dress suitable for a young lady professing godliness, I did not even protest that Jane hardly needed such instruction. Even when the lady Elizabeth was named—much to Jane’s annoyance—as an example to be followed, I kept my counsel. “Master Aylmer knows best about these things, and you must follow his advice,” I said sweetly.

  “But he is telling me I spend too much time with my music, and you have always encouraged me to spend more time on it!”

  I had, not only because I loved music, but also because it was something I could understand. “He knows best,” I repeated. “Not me.”

  ***

  In early February, John Aylmer hurried into my chamber. It was about the time of the week that he usually reported on my daughters’ studies, and in which I tried to formulate intelligent questions, so I at first thought nothing of it when he was announced. Then I saw his face. “My lady, the lady Jane is acting very strange. I have never seen her thus.”

  I asked no questions, but followed him to the chamber where Jane had her lessons. She was in her usual place, surrounded by books, pen, and parchment, but she was slumped over her desk listlessly. “I don’t want to study,” she said, lifting her head at my approach. “I’m tired.”

  Her sulky voice was slurred. For a moment, I thought she might have smuggled some of our wine to her room and drunk it undiluted, as my sister Eleanor and I had once done in our youth on a mutual dare. But no. There was no smell of wine, and John Aylmer had been at university; he would know the effects of drink when he saw them. I looked at Jane more closely. She was perspiring, though the February day was a particularly bitter one. Suddenly fear clawed at my heart. “Don’t you feel well?”