A crown in darkness : a novel about Lady Jane Grey

by Mullally, Margaret, 1954-

  Meanwhile, Tom Seymour was careless and debonair, and openly courted trouble. He had succeeded in offending the King, the Protector and his wife, and a generous portion of the Council. While Catherine was alive, she had managed to keep him out of mischief but since her death he had become impetuous. It was as though some perversity drove him blindly towards his own destruction, so that he uttered treasonable comments. Finally, on a windy day in January, the Duke of Somerset's men came to Seymour Place to arrest the Admiral.

  He had just returned from a long ride with Jane and, still splendidly cloaked, he greeted them scornfully.

  'A good morrow to you, gentlemen. I presume you rode with the devil's own speed in your eagerness, so perhaps you'd appreciate some ale.'

  'Our duty is to conduct you to London for a cross-examination, my Lord, not to revel with you,' snapped the Captain of the Guard.

  'Edward has done this,' whispered Lady Seymour, choking back her tears with some difficulty.

  'They can't keep me there, Mother,' Tom said, with a joviality he was far from feeling. 'I have done nothing to deserve this and, by God's own Soul, I shall tolerate little more infamy from them.'

  The Captain of the Guard, knowing that the remark was partially aimed at him, had the grace to wince. 'We must make haste, my Lord,' he protested coldly.

  'Damn your blood, man,' exclaimed Tom. He lifted the little Lady Jane Grey into his arms and kissed her.

  'Will you come back, Tom?' Jane's voice was very low. 'Or will they keep you in that dreadful place?'

  'Indeed they won't, sweetheart.' Tom's eyes flashed at the very thought of such humiliation. But he was pensive, as though he knew in his heart that this was the last time he would see her. Still in her blue velvet riding gown, Jane knelt at the window, watching him ride to the Tower, his brother's prisoner.

  'Why have they done this to him?' she demanded of Lady Seymour.

  'His brother Edward was always jealous of him,' muttered the old lady.

  'That is not the reason,' persisted Jane.

  'You ask too many questions,' Lady Seymour said and whisked out of the room without another word.

  'We'll have the Lady Elizabeth's governess and cofferer brought to the Tower for an examination,' decided Somerset. 'For I declare a more incompetent pair of dotards never trod the earth.'

  'Why those two in particular?' enquired John Dudley, Viscount Lisle.

  'Well, they are more likely to know how intimate the girl's relationship was with him.' Somerset spoke smoothly, easing a crease out of his doublet with studied nonchalance.

  'I hope so,' croaked Dudley.

  So, to the Tower came Mistress Ashley and Thomas Parry.

  'And now,' said the Protector, when this had been efficiently accomplished, 'for the Lady Elizabeth. Someone had better interview her at Hatfield House.' His shrewd gaze slid round the table. 'You, I think, Tyrwhitt.'

  Sir Robert Tyrwhitt leaped to his feet. 'I, Your Grace?' He gulped, looking like a startled goldfish.

  'Why not you?'

  Sir Robert's brows twitched nervously, but no inspiration came to him. He sat down heavily.

  'You will begin by informing her that Lord Sudley and two of her servants are imprisoned in the Tower,' said the Protector, with an irritating little smile of complacency.

  'Yes, your Grace,' panted Tyrwhitt.

  'And,' the Protector swept on remorselessly, 'note her reaction. That could clarify a great deal.'

  So Sir Robert took horse to Hatfield an hour later, where he was shown into the Princess's eating parlour.

  'Why,' he pondered unhappily, as he waited for the Princess Elizabeth to come from the schoolroom, 'was I of all men chosen for this ghastly mission?'

  It wasn't that he felt pity for the young girl. In fact, he rather disliked her; she was the viper-tongued bitch her mother had been and she knew how to make him feel distinctly uncomfortable. Furthermore, she seemed to find a malicious pleasure in doing so. Now here she was, a tall, slim girl of fifteen, with a mane of bright red hair and ice-green eyes that were almost deadly in their glittering coldness as they rested upon him curiously. She was as watchful as a cat, waiting for him to pounce on her.

  He pounced. 'The Lord High Admiral has been arrested and detained in the Tower, where he awaits trial.' He uttered each syllable as though it tasted luscious in his prudish little mouth. He was eagerly watching her face.

  Fear and hatred flickered in her eyes, and were gone so quickly that he was uncertain whether they had ever been there.

  He tried again. 'It is said in certain quarters that you are with child by him — an opinion that is shared by many and which has caused those of us who are concerned with your welfare much distress.'

  'Then I will go to Court and prove that I am not,' flashed Elizabeth. 'Furthermore, I shall write to the Lord Protector and tell him so. I refuse to be insulted and humiliated by you — you who are nothing but a ...' She broke off at this intriguing point, suddenly remembering that his power was greater than hers and that it was his duty to report her words and actions. He could destroy her in one sentence. Her smirk alone conveyed her contempt for him.

  'Thomas Parry and Mistress Katherine Ashley are also in the Tower,' added Tyrwhitt with a sly grin. 'They have plenty to say about your conduct, my Lady.'

  Elizabeth caught her breath, then sneered. 'Under dire torture, I expect.'

  'His Grace the Protector has abolished the use of the torture chamber,' he reminded her.

  'How can one know what happens in the privacy of the Tower, where a man's screams for mercy are heard only by his tormentors?' said Elizabeth, and down the years there echoed the shrieks of the young musician, Mark Smeaton, whose torture had led to the betrayal of Anne Boleyn.

  Discomfited, Tyrwhitt brought the fruitless interview to an end. He tried to break her resistance down again the next day, but he failed miserably.

  'I do assure Your Grace,' he wrote carefully to the Protector, 'She has a very good wit and nothing is gotten of her but by great policy.'

  But Elizabeth, true child of the Tudors, was too cunning to respond to any policy that he might employ. She was now virtually a prisoner at Hatfield House. She was surrounded by spies, the chief of whom was Lady Tyrwhitt, and she loathed all of them, while taking care to elude their wily traps. She dared not sleep at night, for fear that she would murmur something about her romps with Tom. Under the strain, she became tense and nervous and weepy. Her face grew thin, her eyes became dark-circled. She feared for Tom and she feared for herself. She knew that both their lives were in danger.

  Chapter 7

  Jane was on her way home to Leicestershire. She had been reluctant to leave Seymour Place and had written to her mother, declaring that it would seem most ungrateful to withdraw herself from Lady Seymour's care, especially after the latter had been so kind to her, and at a time when she had need of friendship.

  Lady Dorset, however, anxious to disentangle her family from the disgraced Seymours, wrote back, urgently repeating her commands. Jane could almost see her mother's impatient frown behind the harsh, strident strokes of her handwriting. She had no alternative but to obey.

  Inevitably on the journey to Bradgate, her thoughts turned towards Sir Thomas Seymour. The outlook for him was very bleak, so everybody muttered, and execution was inevitable. Jane shuddered and drew her furs about her more snugly. Her heart ached for him, as once it had ached for his unfortunate wife. She forgot that she had ever resented his cool deception of poor Catherine Parr. She remembered him only as the merry, kindly Admiral who used to ride races with her across the plain and let her win occasionally, even though she always reproved him for doing so. She remembered him teasing her, comforting her when she awoke screaming from her nightmares and lastly, on that bleak wintry day when he had swept her into his arms and kissed her tenderly before leaving with the Duke of Somerset's men. Yes, it would be the block for him. Thirty-three charges had been trumped up against him, including Piracy and High Treason.
He hadn't even been granted the justice of a public trial, for Parliament chose to pass a Bill of Attainder.

  'There's no justice left in England,' Jane thought bitterly.

  She was a little surprised at the vengeance with which she hated the Protector, who was so eager to send his brother to the block yet expressed great anxiety that the lowest of the King's subjects should be treated fairly. As for Edward Tudor, who had received nothing but kindness from his Uncle Tom, he was perfectly willing to sign the warrant that would send the handsome Admiral to his death. 'Thank God I didn't marry that callous, ungrateful little rat.' Jane almost spoke the words aloud.

  'We haven't far to go now, my Lady,' announced Mistress Ellen, breaking in on her thoughts.

  Jane roused herself to murmur some dutiful reply. It was so long since she had been home, and her absence had made her realize how passionately she loved the warm red brick manor house at Bradgate. As a little girl, she had associated home with tears and quarrels and conflict with her parents. Now, as an alert and sensitive eleven-year-old, she remembered walled orchards and tall, arching trees, the silvery stream that shivered through the huge garden. There were stately, cool avenues fringed with trees and deer roamed through the spacious park. Soon it would be springtime and she would sit by the wishing well with her friend and tutor, John Aylmer, and read Plato as she loved so much to do. Jane's spirits were somewhat uplifted as she and her retinue of servants came clattering into Leicestershire. Some of the cottagers' wives came hurrying out to greet her with little cakes that they had baked especially for her. Though these simple-hearted people might detest the hard sharp ways of Lord and Lady Dorset, and with good cause, they were fond of their three little daughters. Their warm gestures of affection touched Jane's heart.

  'This day the Lord High Admiral of the Fleet mounted the scaffold on Tower Hill and laid his head on the block. His body still lies there.'

  Elizabeth's limbs were trembling as her enemies brought her the news. Her blood ran cold through her veins. Her first impulse was to scream; anything to release the agony that tortured her senses. But Elizabeth was not an impulsive person. No matter how difficult the situation, no matter how acute the danger, she could always employ admirable restraint when it was essential for her to do so. And it was essential now.

  Venomous eyes watched her, boring into her, waiting for her to burst into tears, or swoon. But any display of emotion would betray her. She knew that.

  Strange that she couldn't cry, even if she had wanted to. Her body felt numb with shock. In a moment she would wake in her bed and find Kat Ashley bending over her, saying, 'Hush, hush. Madam, it was nothing but a dream.' But even Kat was gone from her, and only hostile men and women stalked about her house, where once there had been friends. It was no consolation to think of all the punishments she would inflict on these people if she were Queen. For now she might not live to be Queen.

  But she must speak. She could not have them report that she was too stricken with grief to make some comment on the death of the man whom they said had been her lover. So she rallied her forces into some semblance of dignity and turned cool eyes upon them. 'This day,' she said calmly, 'there died a man of great wit but very little judgement.'

  She had chosen her words well, for they could only stare after her, dumbfounded, as was her intention. She retired from the room in triumph.

  As Sir Robert Tyrwhitt later remarked to his wife, it was unnatural. A female should have cried, unless she were entirely without feeling.

  He could not know that, on leaving the parlour, Elizabeth ran to her bedroom and, dragging the curtains about her wide bed, she threw herself down upon the counterpane and buried her hot face in the cushions, weeping brokenly. She had never felt more alone.

  For many weeks, Elizabeth was desperately ill. It was thought she must surely die, for her spirits had never been lower. Sick and dazed from the cruel tragedy of Tom's death, she seemed oblivious to her surroundings. Her pride and dignity and reputation had been stripped from her. The people of England, whom she had hoped to rule one day, no longer loved her. They thought her a little slut, a threat to happy marriages.

  'But I am not,' Elizabeth swore, the first flicker of emotion stirring inside her. Elizabeth was a survivor, a fighter, and she fought her way back to health, if not to peace of mind. She would prove to everyone that she had the gift of greatness when the opportunity arose. Meanwhile she must live with her memories, and her memories were chilled ghosts. She must work at her lessons, with one goal in mind — the throne.

  Jane was considered a dismal failure at home. Her parents blamed her for not having encouraged Seymour to marry her to the King or, as the next best thing, to himself.

  'Would you have me the wife of a man whom the Lord Protector chose to call a traitor?' demanded Jane, tears springing to her eyes, for the pain and sense of loss that had dug into her heart since Tom died was still with her. 'Besides which, you were very hasty to break off all connection with him when he was in trouble. It wouldn't do for your daughter to be housed by a man who is of no further use to you, would it? Lord Sudley was good to you, and to me, but when he became a wretched prisoner of State, you made no effort to help him because he was a rusty tool. And you could so easily have helped him if you'd put your mind to it.'

  'Silence!' roared Dorset, quivering with rage. He glared at his daughter who stared back, unperturbed. Her self-possession infuriated him. 'Go to your room.'

  Jane was only too relieved to escape from her father's presence. She fled to her bedroom and remained there for the rest of the afternoon, thinking about poor Tom and trying to understand the feeling of emptiness and futility that had tormented her ever since his death.

  Dorset and his wife had not abandoned their hope of setting their defiant daughter on the throne. In fact, making Jane a queen had become quite an obsession with them. They talked about it incessantly in the privacy of their elegant Leicestershire home, and very possibly dreamed of it by night. Their policy was simple. Jane was to stay away from the Court for the time being. They were rather uncertain of the rebellious young intellect who flung tart remarks at them, regardless of punishment, and generally upset their code of thought. They agreed that it was best for her to be near them, so that they were aware of her actions. They themselves would watch events and be ready to grasp their opportunities. Meanwhile, Jane was to work hard at her lessons so that, when her time came, she should not disgrace her family by her lack of culture.

  Jane, now twelve, did not object to this arrangement. She loved learning better than anything else, except Bradgate, and somehow Bradgate and learning walked hand-in-hand. The gentle, gracious red house and the peaceful groves induced study. Although it is true that Jane had a natural leaning towards the Classics, John Aylmer must be given some credit for having awakened these instincts so thoroughly and for having guided and encouraged them with such patience.

  His technique of teaching met little competition in Tudor England, for it was quite different from that used by his colleagues.

  He admired Jane very much, and took enormous pride in her intelligence and her talents. Because of this, he was inclined to work her very hard and, as a result, she was inclined to headaches. Some people said that he expected too much from her, but he knew what was within her intellectual grasp and seldom attempted to press her beyond this. In actual fact, Jane overworked herself for, while her family were engrossed in cards and hunting, she would steal away to the schoolroom and bury her head in a volume of Greek philosophy until dinner time. Like most quiet children, she felt the pressing need of a refuge when the scrambling, bustling ways of the world became too confusing, and books were her refuge. During those silent hours her tired mind could turn inward, to a world that was real only to her.

  John Aylmer and Lady Jane Grey worked together as a team, and certainly nobody could accuse either pupil or tutor of being lax. From their delightful unity there evolved a deep satisfying emotion which was shared by each of them.


  'This notion that women are inferior to men is old-fashioned and absurd,' he told Jane. 'They can be their equals if they but allow themselves to be, but too many of them choose to cling to futile traditions. They're brought up to believe that they must be meek, vapid creatures and so they never venture to test their wits.'

  'I consider myself inferior to nobody,' Jane declared proudly, with an air that might have seemed pert in another person.

  'But then,' observed Aylmer, with a subtle smile, 'you are a girl of rare spirit. You're made of the kind of material that few men are made of and you've learned what few of them have learned.'

  'What is that?'

  'That education is the key to success and fulfilment.'

  His words made her heart glow. She would be successful, she would become the Queen of the Classics, famed throughout Europe for her scholarly attainments.

  Aylmer must have guessed her thoughts for he continued, 'It would surprise numerous women if they knew their intellectual strength. But I think you will prove to be an exception.'

  Jane heartily concurred and from that day she tackled her books with fresh fervour. She and her ten year-old sister Katherine continued their education under Aylmer. It was based on Luis Vives' De Ratione Studii Puerilis Epistolae which, Aylmer explained to his young pupils, had originally been prepared in honour of Queen Katherine of Aragon.

  Deeply impressed, Jane devoted herself to working furiously, encouraged by Aylmer. He was delighted by her progress. Scatter-brained Katherine on the other hand lacked her bright sister's aptitude, and the hours of studying were agonizingly boring for her.

  'You would do well if you would only concentrate more, my Lady,' Aylmer would say, handing her back her carelessly written exercise. 'You must re-write this.'

  'But it's so difficult,' protested Katherine, her dark blue eyes filled with tears.