Master Aylmer tried to be especially gentle with the sensitive little girl, and Jane helped her whenever she could, but Katherine was no scholar. The only serious subject in which she had any interest was religion although her interest in this was neither intellectual nor political, as was that of most people about her. Her rather naive piety was always to have the sweet simplicity of a trusting child.
Katherine had recently started a collection of pets, and she rarely went anywhere (except the schoolroom) without a flock of dogs, monkeys and birds and sometimes a few squirrels sidling happily behind her, and the entire household smiled on this quaint custom with amused indulgence.
Lady Dorset did not take a very tolerant view of her second daughter's incapacity for learning. She shrugged aside Aylmer's assurances that any attempt to hustle Katherine into a forest of learning would be futile. She wished to mould her children into personalities pleasing to her. She wished them to excel at all fashionable pastimes, and if talent wasn't in Katherine already. Lady Dorset believed it could be thrashed in. Had the Almighty succumbed to her will, Frances Dorset would have bred sons. However, the only boys she had given birth to had been brought into the world already dead or had died after a few choking, whimpering moments, much to her chagrin, and three girls remained. Because of her rage and disappointment in their sex, she was unnecessarily severe with them. She had no love for any of them. Jane she actually disliked. Her relationship with her eldest daughter was a perpetual battle of wills that was to become more violent and more intense as Jane grew older.
Katherine's docility stood in her favour, but she irritated her mother with her shallowness and her dreamy, conceited nature.
'You will learn, girl,' Marchioness of Dorset would scream, tugging at poor Katherine's ear.
'Madam, this is unnecessary,' Master Aylmer tried to intervene.
'And you! You, whom my husband has housed all these years. Who are you, to tell me how I must treat my children?'
'I only suggest, Madam,' Aylmer said suavely, 'that you allow me to supervise the education of the Ladies Jane and Katherine. I'm sure I can produce far better results if you don't interfere.'
Lady Dorset knew when to retreat. Aylmer was an excellent tutor, and she didn't want to lose him through her ill-temper, even if it meant humouring his wishes a little.
Mary, aged five, was the outcast of the family; the one who was discarded as having no intelligence, charm or beauty - all of which were valued very highly by her exacting mother. Her parents considered her unworthy of more than a very basic education, as her marriage prospects weren't very bright, so while her sisters were working in the schoolroom for hours each day, she had no companions, except for the spaniels, and she would wander listlessly about the park, while her bored young Irish nurse sat huddled over her embroidery nearby. She rarely made an appearance at Court, for Lady Dorset was ashamed of her ugliness and her awkwardness, and Mary knew this. Outshone by one sister's brilliant intellect and the other's brilliant beauty, Mary was made to feel a loathsome burden.
During the long lonely hours, Mary would weave a fantasy that her lank, pale red hair would twist into glossy curls, that the waifish look would leave her eyes, that her back would straighten and she would become suddenly tall and stately and arresting. But when her mother scolded her and abused her, she always scuttled off to the laundry closet, only to return hours later with red eyes and a dirty face and less confidence than ever.
All her life, Frances Dorset had been arrogant, domineering and ruthless. This, and her vicious temper, made her extremely unpopular in court circles. Some of the nobles actually feared her. She would never allow anyone to forget that she was the daughter of Mary Tudor, the beautiful, fascinating sister of Henry VIII.
When Mary Tudor was eighteen, Frances frequently reminded her daughters, she had been used as a marriage pawn between Henry of England and Louis XII of France. She was irrevocably in love with Charles Brandon, Duke of Suffolk, at the time, and passionately declared that she wouldn't marry the elderly King Louis unless her brother promised that, should her husband die, she herself might choose her next one. Henry, eager to pacify her, assented.
The old French king was almost hounded to death by the wilful girl he had taken to wife. Her moods changed swiftly and without warning, which was enough to drive the old gentleman to distraction, although it had its charm. But, worse than her moods and her sulks, she had a tireless store of energy and after a chaotic round of gaiety, Louis died from sheer exhaustion.
Mary skilfully evaded marriage with Louis' successor, Francis I. Charles Brandon came to France and, at Mary's insistence, they were married hastily and in secret.
Henry was furious when he heard of this latest breach of etiquette. But he couldn't feel angry towards his favourite sister for long and he soon forgave the daring couple and bade them return to his Court, where all three of them laughed heartily over the escapade. Mary's portrait remained at Bradgate long after she died. Every time Frances looked at that pretty, mischievous face, she would remember her mother telling her that one day she must be Queen.
'Not much chance of that happening,' Frances reflected darkly. Then she would think of her accomplished eldest child, and hope soared in her heart.
'A crown for Jane,' she sighed, one evening after supper. 'How I wish that could be.'
'The time will come, my beloved,' her husband assured her, patting her hand gingerly.
'But when?'
'We must be patient.'
'I'm tired of waiting,' was his wife's sharp reply. 'What if Somerset and that haughty sow of his marry their daughter Jane to the King? She wouldn't be the first Queen by the name of Jane Seymour.'
'Edward would never have her, clever though she might be,' declared Dorset.
'I can't picture him raising much objection.' Frances stared past him, through the open window, to where Jane was playing shuttlecock with Katherine in the grounds below. She felt almost kindly towards the girl as she watched her slender figure move with such exquisite grace in the pink and gold sunset. 'What a queen she will make one day,' she said, an almost fond look coming into her eyes.
Her husband, sensing the softness of her mood, placed an arm about her stout waist. Frances had the Tudor tendency to fat. 'Everybody marvels at her learning,' he admitted.
'And when she is Queen, this country can look forward to a complete break with Rome — no more half measures. Our daughter will be the guiding star of the Reformation.'
'And you and I, wife, will rule England through her.'
An angry flush mounted the woman's rather coarse, floridly handsome face. 'She needs a strong rein, Harry. She's more mettlesome than any of the colts in my stables.'
Dorset nodded vigorously. 'But come now, my dear, enough of such depressing talk. We must watch in silence for our opportunities. We must find suitable supporters.'
They exchanged slow smiles of understanding, and strolled arm-in-arm out of the hall.
Leicestershire was at its best on that radiant morning in summer and, riding at a leisurely pace along the path which would pass the beautiful old Parish church, Roger Ascham felt completely at peace, released from the pressures of London life. The monks had long since departed from the Priory of Ulvercroft, which had been suppressed shortly before Lady Jane Grey had been born in the neighbouring Manor of Bradgate, yet it had somehow retained its forbidding, awe-inspiring atmosphere.
Ascham whistled softly and patted his mount's glossy chestnut neck. He was happily looking forward to meeting his little friend, Jane Grey, again. There was something endearing about the girl; she was such a quaint combination of maturity and childishness. Her solemnity, her peculiar wisdom that was the product of both instinct and observation, her keen sense of right and wrong, were those of an adult, but she had the unsophisticated frankness of a child.
Secretly he envied his colleague, Aylmer, his industrious pupil. Of course, the Princess Elizabeth was clever, and a credit to him, but she was vain and ped
antic and could be frivolous. She was also full of pretence. Jane knew what she was, accepted herself as such and made no attempt to deceive those around her that she was anything else. She loved learning, deeply and faithfully. She breathed courage and resourcefulness from her books, and they helped to enrich her already ripe young mind. Thus, he came to Bradgate — Bradgate which was, surely, the loveliest of Tudor homes. It stood in proud red elegance, gazing down at Charnwood Forest, while fertile, sloping valleys lay at its feet.
Riding beneath the oaks in the park, Ascham's thoughts still lay with Jane. 'The man who marries her will have won a jewel,' he reflected, pausing to allow his horse to drink from the clear brook.
In the distance, a shrill trumpet sounded, startling the serene silence. 'Merciful Lord!' exclaimed Ascham, and an alarmed squirrel bounded neatly across his path. 'Here comes Lady Dorset herself.'
A hunting party, consisting of the Dorset family, their guests and most of their servants came into sight. All were clad in the Tudor livery of apple-green and white.
The illustrious cavalcade halted to greet Ascham. 'A merry good morning to you,' Lady Dorset called, beaming broadly. Her temper was always at its best when she was in the saddle. She was, observed Ascham, grinning at the thought, a very horsy woman.
'A merry good morning to you, my Lady,' he said politely, bowing to Dorset and smiling at Katherine and Mary. 'Where is the Lady Jane?'
'Oh, she prefers to bury herself in her books rather than enjoy the fresh air,' Lady Dorset explained. 'She would have sulked and spoiled it for the rest of us had we forced her to come along, so we left her at home. It's little wonder the child's so pale.'
'May I see her?'
'God's death! I don't understand you scholars.' Lady Dorset cracked her hunting whip against her thigh. 'Very well, go to her. You will find her in the schoolroom. Mary,' she thundered, turning to her youngest child, 'sit up straight, girl. You'll look like a camel in a few years' time.'
Katherine began to giggle but, meeting her mother's reproving eye, thought better of it. Mary bowed her head, pink with self-consciousness.
'Why not join us?' Dorset suggested to Ascham.
'Thank you, my Lord, but I have been riding since early this morning and am thoroughly tired. I'd much prefer to talk to the Lady Jane.'
'There's no accounting for taste,' the Marchioness sneered, taking this as a personal slight. She nodded curtly to Ascham and shouted to the company to pass on.
Ascham stared after her with abhorrence. He found her an odious woman. And as for Lord Dorset, Ascham had little sympathy to spare for feeble men who permitted their wives to dominate them.
As the Marchioness had predicted, he found Jane in the schoolroom. He paused in the doorway and, drawing in his breath, regarded the small scholar with astonishment and admiration, for he knew that he would never choose to study on such a stiflingly hot day.
She sat patiently at her desk, a solitary, earnest figure in a low-necked, wide-skirted gown of pearl grey silk, her fair head conscientiously bent over Plato's Phaedon. She did not look up until he coughed gently. And a warm smile of pleasure darted across her face. She would have risen to meet him, but he had already crossed the room, and was lifting her hand to his lips.
'What is this?' he questioned, peering curiously over her shoulder. 'Plato? Dull reading for so young a maid.'
'I like it,' answered Jane, bracing herself against his frown.
He turned his full, questioning gaze upon her and saw fierce loyalty and determination on her features. It occurred to him that, admirable though her tireless devotion might be, it was not fair. Why must this bright young creature suffocate herself in this bare room, turning from warmth and laughter to the lonely world of literature? How could she choose to follow Plato and other bearded ghosts, when more carefree pastimes beckoned from an outer world.
'You are so young, so lovely,' he blurted out. 'How can you possibly wish to study so diligently, even in the absence of Master Aylmer, rather than ride with the others in the park?'
'I think all their sport in the park is but a shadow to the pleasure I find in Plato,' Jane said, with astonishing tolerance. 'Alas, good folk! They never have known real pleasure.'
'And how is it that you have found this true knowledge of pleasure, madam?' Ascham was amused by the solemn sagacity of this remarkable young scholar, yet touched in spite of himself. 'What chiefly allured you to it, since few women and not many men have arrived at it?'
'I will tell you.' There was a note of passionate intensity in Jane's voice. 'I'll tell you the truth, and you may well marvel at it. One of the greatest benefits that God ever gave me is that he sent me, with such sharp, severe parents, so gentle a schoolmaster. When I am with either of my parents, no matter what I am doing, it must be done as perfectly as God made the earth, or else I am so sharply taunted, so cruelly threatened, sometimes pinched and nipped, and other things, which I will not mention for the honour I bear them, so that I think myself in hell, until the time comes when I must go to Master Aylmer, who teaches me so gently, so pleasantly, with such pure allurement to learn, that I think all the time of nothing unpleasant while I am with him. And when I am called away from the schoolroom, I feel like weeping, because everything else I do but learning is full of trouble and fear. And this, my book, has given me so much pleasure that, compared with it, things that others call "pleasure" are only trifles and troubles to me.'
Jane paused, breathless after so long a speech. She was paler than ever, and her large eyes were troubled. When she opened her mouth again, her voice was low and defiant. 'I don't care if you tell my parents what I have said. It is the truth.'
'I thought you trusted me.'
'I do,' protested Jane, confused. 'I only fear that you will think me disloyal and unfilial and despise me for it. But then, if they were to confront me and demand that I repeat my words, God save me, I wouldn't lie, though they would most likely strike me down.' At this point, a huge tear splashed on to the smooth surface of the desk. For years, she had kept mute about the morbid tyranny she endured. It was soothing now to release her tension in the presence of a man whom she knew to be her friend. Throbbing with emotion, her voice went on: 'Do you suppose I haven't tried to love my parents? But I am no saint. I can't ever love a person who bullies and threatens me. I can't — I can't find it in my heart to forgive them now, it has continued too long and the blood of the martyr does not flow in my veins.'
'You are a brave child and I love you for it, but I didn't come here to make you sad. Come now, I would have you sing to me.'
'I'll do so later. Not now. Tell me, how is everyone at Court?'
'They seem to change very little,' he replied. 'The King, however, overtaxes his strength, I fear.'
'And my Lord Protector?'
'His Grace reigns supreme.'
'And always will,' Jane added boldly. 'Edward Seymour is such a weakling.'
'Hush now, it isn't wise to talk thus, even if there is nobody else to hear us.'
At his request, she showed him some of her poetry and Latin prose, and he expressed admiration, and said that he hoped she would write to him in Greek.
'Of course I will, but please don't mention it to my mother, for she always insists on reading my letters and I detest her interference.'
'She'll not hear of it from me.'
The door opened and Master Aylmer sauntered in. He smiled at Jane and greeted Ascham jocularly. 'It's far too nice a day to stay indoors. I suggest we go down to the orchard and take a lute with us.'
'An excellent idea,' approved Ascham. 'I couldn't help noticing those cherry-laden trees as I was passing. They looked most inviting.'
Together they went, laughing and joking, down the wide steps and out into the lush green grounds, a perfect trio who, because their interests were fundamentally alike, could always be relied upon to blend harmoniously.
'Our friendship can never wane, it will only prosper as the years pass,' Jane thought as she slipped a co
nfiding hand through each friend's arm.
Jane sat on a low bough of a cherry tree, setting her skirts gracefully about her. She felt happier than she had been feeling since Sir Thomas Seymour's death.
'These cherries are uncommonly good,' was Roger Ascham's verdict as he munched contentedly. 'I must remember to take some back to Court with me if,' he added hurriedly, 'my Lady permits.'
'Take them by all means,' Jane said. 'Otherwise the servants will steal them, or we'll have cherry pies with every meal.
Mother deplores waste so much.'
'How long are you staying here?' Aylmer enquired of his colleague.
'Oh, about three days, during which time I intend to do nothing but sing tunelessly while I play my lute and loll about in the sun.'
The three days passed far too quickly and all too soon Jane was standing beside Roger Ascham in the schoolroom, trying to seem cheerful.
'You should do well, Jane, if only you don't alter your ways.' Ascham spoke softly, his eyes flickering over her youthful face, searching her revealing eyes. He understood her so well, and he had noticed much more than she had imagined during the past three days. He had observed the tenderness in her tone when she spoke of Aylmer, how soft and brilliant her eyes were when he was near her. He realized, with a little shock, that part of the reason for working so furiously at her lessons (although she didn't fully understand it herself) was because she wished to please her tutor and draw yet closer to him. He was startled to realize that her youth and her innocence could be penetrated. He wanted to warn her, but could not bring himself to do so: she was too young, too vulnerable. Instead he kissed her gently and said, 'Oh well, I must be off.'
Jane stood on the steps beside her tutor, watching his departure. She felt downhearted, but it was not until he and his horse were a mere blob at the end of the avenue that she remembered something. 'Oh, he's forgotten the cherries.'
Aylmer let out a roar of delighted laughter, much to her surprise and annoyance. 'Never mind, sweetheart, he can take some next summer.'
A crown in darkness : a novel about Lady Jane Grey Page 13
