That same day, John’s man came from Greenwich. “Your Grace, my lord has charged me with a message. It is time to tell the lady Jane.”
I thanked him and summoned my daughter-in-law and Guildford to me. Guildford was out riding, but Jane came almost instantly—to my surprise, it being her usual policy to dawdle when I asked for her. “Your Grace, I was just going to come to you. I would like a few days to visit my mother.”
“I am afraid it cannot be.”
“Why on earth not? You promised that I could see her as often as I wished.”
I swallowed. “You are aware that the king is very ill.”
“Yes. They say he is dying. Has the lady Mary been summoned?”
“No. She has not been. She is not his heir.”
“Not his heir?” Jane stared at me. “Who on earth is, then?”
“You are. He has decreed that you will rule after his death.”
“He has disinherited his sisters? Both his sisters? Who told you this?”
“The king himself, and my husband.”
“I don’t believe you.”
I was beginning to wonder whether this girl was as intelligent as she was made out to be. “Why would I lie about such a serious matter, when I could so easily be proven wrong? I heard him tell your mother the same thing. Go to her if you wish. She will confirm it for you.”
“Then I will.” Jane turned around with a great swishing of skirts.
“But hurry back,” I called. “If—when the worst happens—you must be on hand to proceed to the Tower.”
A little while later, Guildford sought me out. “Mother? Where did my bride run off to in such a hurry? Or dare I ask?”
“Guildford, I have news for you.”
“She’s asked for an annulment?”
“No. This is not in jest, my son. The king has made your wife his heir. She will rule England when the king departs this life, which I fear will be soon.”
“You mean it is true what I have heard, that the lady Mary will not be allowed to succeed to the throne?”
“Yes. What else have you heard?”
“Not much. Some say that the lady Elizabeth will be chosen; others are saying the little Queen of Scots. Some are saying that Father will marry the lady Elizabeth and take the throne himself. I laid out the whoreson whom I heard saying that, actually. But this is the first I’ve heard that my wife is to be queen.” Guildford blinked. “What will that make me? King?”
“I believe Parliament will have to decide it. And, of course, the queen,” I added dutifully.
“But you think I’d make a good king, don’t you, Mother?”
“You have not been brought up to it any more than she has,” I reminded my son. “We must see what happens, Guildford. There is no precedent in England for this sort of thing. It may be that you are made a duke. Or that you are known as king consort. First, you must talk to your wife.”
Guildford, who apparently was already planning his coronation, scowled at the thought.
***
Several days passed, and my daughter-in-law had not returned from Suffolk Place, even as news came from Greenwich that the poor king was much worse. I sent a messenger to Jane and received a grand reply from the Duchess of Suffolk: the lady Jane was gathering strength to assume her new duties and preferred to remain at Suffolk Place.
This would not do. Jane might be Edward’s heir, but she was also a bride, with a husband she seemed to have forgotten about entirely. What sort of behavior was this for a future queen? I sent an equally grand reply back to Jane and her mother. After both of us mothers had acted up to our rank as duchesses (it was difficult to believe we’d held the titles for less than two years, I thought proudly), we at last reached a compromise: Jane, who did seem to be suffering from the strain of her impending role, would go to our house at Chelsea, where Guildford would join her.
Instead, Guildford was still with us on the morning of July 7, when Henry Sidney arrived with the dawn. He did not even stop to embrace his wife, whom he had not seen in weeks. “The king is dead.”
Instinctively, I started to cross myself, but stopped just in time.
“He died between eight and nine last evening, in my presence,” said Henry, wiping a tear from his eye. “Sir Thomas Wroth, his groom Christopher Salmon, and his physicians, Dr. Owen and Dr. Wendy, were there, as well. The king said a prayer of his own composition, then let me take him into my arms. He said that he was faint. Then he said only, ‘Lord have mercy upon me, and take my spirit.’ And the Lord did.”
We stayed silent for several moments in memory of the poor king, whom I prayed was now at last in the company of his gentle mother. Perhaps, I thought optimistically, he would even find comfort in his uncles Thomas and Edward. Then Guildford broke the quiet. “Should we tell Jane—er, the queen?”
“Not yet. The duke has expressly requested that the king’s death be kept a secret for a day or so, as was King Henry’s death. Everyone is to stay where he or she is for now. The lord Robert has been sent to bring the lady Mary to London.”
“To imprison her?”
“No. To explain to her why this must be, the duke says, and to explain the financial arrangements that have been made. She will be treated generously if she cooperates.”
Almost, I thought, as if she had been one of King Henry’s cast-off wives.
***
Over the next couple of days, we at Sion House received encouraging reports from John and the others at Greenwich. Only one unsettling piece of news arrived: Mary had abruptly left her residence at Hunsdon to head toward the coast of Norfolk, evading my son Robert. Was this journey coincidence, or had someone been giving her information? If it was the latter, was she once more planning to escape abroad? While we waited to hear more of Mary’s moves, there was little for us at Sion to do but to plan Jane’s coronation—and Guildford’s, for it seemed eminently reasonable he be crowned as her consort (at the very least). We were in the process of listing those we thought should be appointed to Jane’s household (scrupulously, we made certain all of her own relations were duly represented) when late on July 9, John ordered that Jane be brought from Chelsea to Sion.
“I’ll fetch her,” offered Mary. She winked at her brother. “King Guildford would probably scare her off if he went in person.”
Guildford gave a regal scowl.
Presently, Mary returned, escorting Jane into the room where John conducted business, and a short time later I saw John, the Duke of Suffolk, the Marquis of Northampton, the Earl of Arundel, the Earl of Huntingdon, and the Earl of Pembroke arrive. Guildford went to meet them. My friend the Marchioness of Northampton had been deputed by the council to bring the Duchess of Suffolk to Sion, and they arrived just as John’s man came to my chamber. “The men want the ladies to join them,” he said succinctly.
We charged—“hastened” would give the mistaken idea we were delicate about it—into John’s chamber. There Jane stood, surrounded by a group of kneeling men. “Mother!” she cried, turning so sharply poor Northampton was assailed by her skirts. “They are telling me that the king is dead! Is it true?”
“It is true,” Frances said gently. “The king has gone to God.”
“Well, of course it is true,” I put in irritably. “Why would all these men be kneeling before you if it were not?”
Jane recovered to give me an icy stare, and I realized my place. “Your Majesty,” I said, and knelt so low to the ground that every bone in my being protested.
John craved Jane’s permission to allow the company to rise. She gave it in a distracted manner, and John, reading from a long sheet of parchment, outlined what all of us knew already: the king had disinherited his sisters in favor of Jane. Once again, we all knelt, the men promising to defend Jane’s right to the throne with their very blood.
&nb
sp; Jane stared down at us. Then she sank to the ground and began weeping, but only as long as was proper. After she prayed in silence, she accepted Guildford’s proffered hand and rose to her feet. “I have not sought this crown, which is too great a weight for a person as insignificant as myself. But if it is rightly and lawfully mine, I beseech His Divine Majesty to grant me such grace and spirit that I may govern to his glory and service, and to the advantage of the realm.”
“Long live the queen!” we shouted.
***
After Jane accepted the crown, there was an interminable banquet that was far more memorable for its awkwardness than for the quality of the fare. The queen alternated between looking confused when the other guests did her honor and looking annoyed when they did not. No one seemed quite to know what to do with Guildford, the new royal consort, who finally ended up sitting at a table with his brothers, all of whom I suspected were drinking too much wine. John and the Duke of Suffolk sat with the rest of the royal councilors, most of whom had a dazed look on their faces. Only the Marchioness of Northampton appeared entirely happy. “Who would have thought my matchmaking would be for a queen?” she asked rhetorically.
When the banquet had at last ended, John followed me to my chamber. “Well, we’ve carried out the king’s will. I hope we’ve done the right thing. I realized at the banquet tonight that I really know very little of Lady Jane—I mean, Queen Jane. Oh, she’s learned, all right, but is England safe in her hands?”
“The king thought it would be.”
“Yes. I hope he’s right. I wish he’d been given more time, so that Parliament could have given its approval of these arrangements.” Tears came to his eyes. “I still can’t entirely believe he’s dead. I was fond of the lad. I kept hoping for a miracle.”
“I am sure it will all be well.”
“I hope so. I keep picturing King Henry glowering down at us from heaven, asking what we were doing listening to a mere boy.” John sighed and kissed me good night. “With that image in mind, I believe I’ll keep to my own chamber tonight.”
30
Frances Grey
July 10, 1553, to July 12, 1553
The day after accepting the crown, my daughter held her first council meeting, and asked me to join her. The Duchess of Northumberland was in the same room at the time, and naturally took this as an invitation to her own self, as well.
The meeting had just started when an elderly man, his quick breathing indicating he had been riding hard, entered the room. I recognized him from my visits to Mary as Thomas Hungate, one of her servants. Hungate did not kneel when he saw Jane, but handed Northumberland a letter. “From the lady Mary, who is at Kenninghall.”
The council appeared to have quite forgotten about Mary. Northumberland gave Hungate a killing frown, but broke the seal. “This is the main point of it,” he announced after scanning it. “‘Wherefore, my lords, we require you and charge you, for that our allegiance which you owe to God and us, that, for your honor and the surety of your persons, you employ yourselves and forthwith upon receipt hereof cause our right and title to the Crown and government of this realm to be proclaimed in our City of London and such other places as to your wisdoms shall seem good and as to this case appertaineth, not failing thereof, as our very trust is in you.’”
“Good Lord,” murmured the Duchess of Northumberland. “She intends to fight for the crown.”
Northumberland tossed the letter aside and fixed his eyes upon Hungate. “We, as Queen Jane’s loyal councilors, will compose an answer, but you will not deliver it, my lord. It was unwise for you to throw yourself away upon this embassy. For your impertinence, the council must lodge you at the Tower until your mistress is in safe custody.”
“Aye, lodge me there if you will, Your Grace, but it will not stop my mistress. The crown is rightly hers as King Henry’s eldest daughter, and the people know it. They will fight to defend my good and gracious lady.”
Northumberland beckoned to the men standing guard by the council door. “Take him away to the Tower,” he commanded.
“No matter, Your Grace. I shall see you and your fellows there soon enough when my lady is in her rightful place. Mark me well.” He turned to his guards. “You have your orders. Take me to the Tower, where I shall await the lady Mary’s coming in majesty.”
He strode out, practically dragging the guards, who were backing out of Jane’s presence as her rank demanded, in his wake. The Duchess of Northumberland stared at their departing figures and suddenly began to cry.
So did I. The man had sounded so unnervingly sure of himself…
“I think, Your Majesty, that it was a mistake to have the duchesses at the council meeting,” Harry said. He rose and offered each of us a hand. “They take these idle threats too much in earnest. Come, ladies. I believe the queen will excuse you.”
In the oversized chair that was serving as a makeshift throne, Jane nodded. “You are excused.”
***
Despite the disquiet occasioned by Mary’s letter, servants had scurried about all morning, making the Tower ready for my daughter’s arrival. At two that afternoon, the royal barge—fitted out nearly as magnificently as it had been in my uncle Henry’s time—docked at the royal stairs at the Tower.
Nothing Jane owned was splendid enough for the occasion, so some of Catherine Parr’s robes, long in storage, had been brought out for Jane and hastily altered to better fit her youthful figure. I bore my daughter’s lengthy train as we processed toward the Lion Gate, a clutch of spectators standing by. Harry, Northumberland, and the other councilors had gone to the Tower earlier that day and awaited Jane at the gate, on their knees.
A boom, made even more startling by the silence of the spectators, caused me to almost drop the train I was carrying. “Just a salute from the guns, Mother,” whispered Kate, walking close by. “Don’t be frightened.”
Yet I should have been; it was the last time my girl would ever walk beyond the walls of the Tower as a free woman.
***
That afternoon, Jane, pen in hand, sat at a desk in the Tower’s royal lodgings. Unused since King Edward had been crowned six years before, they had been hastily put in order but still looked slightly seedy. Beside her was a stack of letters ordering officials of each of England’s counties to resist the usurper, Mary. Each letter bore the signature “Jane the Quene” in upright letters with an exuberant tail to the “Q.”
As Jane added yet another letter to the pile and started on the next, the Marquis of Winchester, William Paulet, entered the room. With him was a procession of servants bearing velvet-covered caskets. “The royal jewels, Your Majesty,” Winchester said to Jane. “There are more elsewhere, but these are what came immediately to hand.”
Jane might be a queen, but she was girl enough to squeal at the jewels that were handed to her, one by one, for her inspection. There was a muffler of black velvet, hung with chains of gold and garnished with pearls, rubies, and diamonds. There was a clock engraved with a crowned rose and the motto Dieu et mon droit. There was a brooch, showing a lady coming out of a cloud. There was a gold toothpick shaped like a fish.
And there was the small crown, with ten large pearls, surrounded by pointed diamonds, set on points of gold. It was covered with rubies, diamonds, and emeralds, so many I lost count, and an enormous sapphire. “Having been a child yourself at the time, Your Majesty may not recall that three crowns were used during King Edward’s coronation—the crown of Edward the Confessor, the imperial crown, and a crown made personally for the king,” Winchester said. “This is the latter crown. As it was made to suit the king when he was a lad, it is more comfortable than the others. Would Your Majesty like to see if it suits you?”
Jane shrank back, no doubt thinking, like me, that the crown of a king who died at age sixteen could only be unlucky. “No. It was made for a child. We should pre
fer our own crown.”
“So it shall be. I shall order that one be made.” Jane nodded her approval, and the marquis hesitated. “Does Your Majesty wish that one should be made for Your Majesty’s husband, as well?”
The Duchess of Northumberland, who had been seemingly lost in admiration of the clock, turned around sharply.
“We have not decided on this matter,” Jane said.
“It is something that Your Majesty ought to decide,” said the Duchess of Northumberland.
“So we shall,” Jane said. “Send our husband to us.”
***
I heard no more about the matter of Guildford’s crown until the next afternoon when the Duchess of Northumberland stomped into my daughter’s presence chamber, her small figure trembling with rage. Remembering just in time to kneel to my daughter, she sprang up when ordered. “What is the meaning of this, Your Majesty?”
“You must explain yourself.”
“I should hardly think an explanation is warranted. My son tells me that Your Majesty and he agreed that he should be made king, provided that Parliament consented. And then, barely a half hour after he left your presence, you sent the Earls of Arundel and Pembroke to him with the message that Your Majesty would make him a duke, but never king. That is outrageous! You cannot tell my son one thing at one hour, and then another at the other.”
“How dare you tell us what we can or cannot do?”
“It is Your Majesty’s duty as a wife to honor and respect her husband, queen or no queen! It is but right that he be crowned, at least as Your Majesty’s consort.”
Guildford Dudley hastened in, followed by his brother Hal Dudley and by his feeble-minded uncle Jerome, a harmless sort who was more or less treated as the Dudleys’ pet. I had heard various members of the family explain Guildford’s new status to him, but none seemed to have succeeded in making him grasp it. “Mother!” Guildford protested. “You promised that you would not interfere.”
Her Highness, the Traitor Page 23
