'Aren't they beautiful?' Katherine said breathlessly. In spite of many weary hours of being fitted for her gown, she was still as excited as if seeing it for the first time.
'Far from it!' snapped her older sister. 'I hate white. If only I could wear black, but of course our dear mother won't hear of it.'
'Quite right too,' came a familiar voice from the doorway, and Lady Suffolk stomped into the room. 'It would be most improper for you to go to your wedding looking like a widow.'
'And it's sheer hypocrisy to pose as a dewy-eyed bride when I feel nothing — nothing but loathing and contempt,' cried Jane, almost beside herself with repressed emotion. 'Though sincerity and decency have never carried any weight with you.'
Lady Suffolk snorted violently, but controlled her urge to strike the pale face that looked at her so accusingly: the girl could not go to her wedding with bruises.
'You are overwrought,' she said. 'Perhaps Mistress Ellen ought to fetch you a tonic.'
Jane turned away. She had never realized until recently how vehemently she hated this hard, coarse, self-centred woman; how small and pale and insignificant she felt beside her elephantine majesty.
The Duchess of Suffolk removed herself, saying she hoped they would not be late for supper.
'Just think, Kate,' Jane said when she had gone. 'This is our last night at Bradgate. We may never see it again.'
'Oh, I expect we'll come back again,' Katherine said lightly. She did not particularly care if she ever saw it again.
'But it will never be the same again,' argued her sister. 'We won't belong to Bradgate any more. I used to tell myself that my children and my grandchildren would be born here. Now I know that can never be.'
'Oh, Jane.' Katherine seized her arm. 'Aren't you frightened of having children? One hears such lurid stories.'
Jane was silent for a moment. Never, to the end of her days, would she forget the shrill screams of Queen Catherine as she had writhed in the agony of childbirth. But then Catherine, despite her many virtues, had not been an outstandingly brave woman. Jane hoped that she herself had courage enough to meet her trials with dignity and to conquer her ignoble inclinations.
'No,' she said quietly. 'I am not frightened, but if I can help it, I will never have Guildford Dudley's children, for I know I could never really love them.'
'You won't refuse to go to bed with him!' Katherine was shocked by this unwomanly heresy, and over-awed, as always, by her sister's boldness.
Jane smiled grimly. 'Yes, I shall refuse. They can punish me in any way they choose but I shall never, never give in. Of course,' she added, less confidently, 'he can force me but if he has a grain of self-respect, he won't enjoy being treated as an ill-bred boor.'
'He is very handsome,' Katherine said, as though this was all that mattered.
Jane made no reply. Some streak of honour that parental cruelty had not beaten out of her battered against her conscience and forbade her to speak with further disloyalty of the boy who was to be her husband, whatever she might privately think of him. 'Tell Mother I don't want any supper, Kate,' she said. 'I'm going for a walk.'
The bloodstreaked sunset gave promise of a bright dawn; the dawn of the marriage she actively dreaded. At the moment, though, she was a single girl, breathing the final hours of her freedom, and her childhood. Tomorrow she would withdraw herself from this quiet world that she loved and become a woman whose sole function in life would be to breed heirs for her husband. Nobody would expect her to be clever or gifted. Nobody would care if her verses rhymed or her Latin endings were correct. She would be too busy running her own home. The thought of being mistress of a large household did not alarm Jane, she had frequently supervised the running of domestic affairs at Bradgate during her parents' absence, and had managed it smoothly. But she did care about losing her girlhood and becoming a staid matron.
This was her last night as Lady Jane Grey. Tomorrow she would be Lady Dudley.
'But I shall never think of myself as Lady Dudley. In my heart I am and always shall be Lady Jane Grey.'
She looked sadly across the orchard, where she used to talk and sing with Roger Ascham and John Aylmer in happier days. What was marriage? Standing by the wishing well, staring at the reflection of her tense white face in the still water, she tried to still her tormented thoughts. There was such an awful reality, such a set finality about the marriage relationship.
She would have welcomed it with the man of her choice, the man she loved. John Aylmer. But all hope of that was gone now. There would never be any marriage with Aylmer. She would be chained to Guildford Dudley for the rest of her days and, unless she was either very lucky or very stubborn, she would have to raise a crop of conceited brats just like him. And she would hate them all.
The light patter of swiftly running feet sounded along the path as the Lady Mary Grey emerged from the setting dusk. A nervous, unattractive child, she was bewildered by the world and uncertain of herself, and she seemed to come to life only in the presence of her. sister, Jane. The people whom she met often went out of their way to be kind to her but Mary, acutely sensitive, knew that their kindness veiled smug, hateful pity, as though they were thinking, 'Poor little wretch!'
Her parents usually ignored her and when they did condescend to address her it was usually to deliver a scolding or to rap out a brisk command, and the servants took their cue from the Master and the Mistress. Katherine was too shallow to pay much attention to her dull little sister. Knowing herself to be outstandingly pretty, she was too tactless not to parade the knowledge, much to Mary's disadvantage and discomfort. Katherine wasn't unkind by nature, she was simply rather selfish and lacking in imagination.
So it was to Jane that the lonely little girl turned for comfort. Jane had no notion what it was like to be ignored, since her parents never would forget about her, but she saw that Mary was unhappy and so she tried to help her. Mary would have been in awe of her accomplished eldest sister had she not known that Jane's headstrong, defiant personality cradled the kindest of hearts. It was Jane who tried to shield her from beatings, who hotly rushed to her defence when anyone teased or scolded her. Mary could feel comforted simply by being near her.
'Oh Jane, I've looked everywhere for you,' she panted. 'Mother says you must go to bed early tonight so that you will look fresh tomorrow.'
'Don't talk to me about tomorrow,' said Jane, her voice almost savage.
'But, Jane, you are very lucky to marry Guildford. Lots of girls would cut up their hearts to marry him.'
'Then I should indeed feel honoured,' Jane replied with the shadow of a smile. 'But all that I can feel for him is a dislike and a sort of resentment.'
'Then it's true,' Mary said. 'It's true what people are saying.'
'And what are people saying?' Jane feigned nonchalance.
'That you're in love with the Earl of Hertford or — well, perhaps the King. They say that you would never refuse marriage with Lord Guildford so staunchly unless you loved someone else.'
'Now, Mary, you mustn't be such a sentimental little fool,' rebuked Lady Jane, turning her head so that her scarlet face was hidden in the dusky grey shadows. 'There never was anything but friendship between Lord Hertford and myself and as for His Majesty ...' She laughed, but went on sadly; 'Love is the most perverse form of self-destruction. One rarely hears of eternal love, except in fairy tales, which is fortunate, for life is too precious to be frittered away on regretful tears and sighs. The only love to which we are faithful is self-love, though few people realize it and fewer still want to realize it. Love is a powerful illusion that has kept a few remnants of compassion and generosity alive all these centuries. If that illusion is ever shattered, we will all want to destroy each other.'
Mary stared at her blankly. 'Well, I don't know.' She led the conversation on to a more earthly plane. 'I think I should like to be married but I shouldn't care very much for the celebrations. They make me nervous.'
'There's no reason why they should,' Jane
said gently. 'You must not care so much about other people. Nobody's worth it. I expect you're looking forward to marrying Cousin Arthur.'
'Hmm! I would much rather marry a stranger. There's nothing romantic about marrying someone you've known almost since birth.'
'Isn't there?' thought Jane darkly, but naturally didn't say it aloud. 'Well, Mary, I think we'd better go indoors,' she said. 'I'm beginning to feel hungry in spite of everything, and I suppose I ought to be getting ready for tomorrow.'
Jane decided to have her supper alone in her room, despite her father's express command that she take her place in the great hall.
'Oh, let her be!' Lady Suffolk said, rather surprisingly. 'It's her last night as a spinster.'
'Spinster!' Jane was indignant. 'Why, I...'
Then she realized that her mother was trying to goad her into a quarrel, to distract her from her melancholy thoughts. Lady Suffolk was rarely so thoughtful.
'I expect she feels she can afford to be kind, as I shall soon be out of her hands,' Jane told herself, never able to credit her mother with unselfish motives.
Minutes later, her supper was sent up to her.
When Lady Jane was undressed. Mistress Ellen dismissed the maids who were only too eager to go, finding it difficult to restrain their giggles. Their mistress's supercilious attitude towards married bliss was so unromantic that they could not fail to be amused.
The old nurse mopped her brow distractedly and turned to face the pale, slight girl who had always been her special favourite. She expected tears, cries and anguished protests, but all Jane's tears had been shed in this very room weeks ago. She felt no urge to cry: there were no tears left. Her nerves had tightened, but it seemed that they would unwind with a vicious snap at any moment. She knelt on the bed, staring directly before her with the cool veiled eyes of a stranger.
'Won't you tell your old nurse what's troubling you, lovey?'
asked the plump matron. Her eyes were soft with anxiety. 'It's something more than this marriage, isn't it?'
'It is nothing that you can solve,' answered Jane, briskly. 'I'll go to my wedding tomorrow but I'll go as a creature of stone and nothing can ever hurt me or touch me again.'
With these brave words, Jane Grey threw her exhausted body into the bed and Mistress Ellen, with a sidelong glance of reproach, tiptoed away to the servants' quarters.
Jane had not been asleep for many hours before she began to toss frantically in her unconsciousness and low, deeply hurt moans tore from her body. In her dream, Tom Seymour was with her; Tom of the merry, twinkling eyes, the chestnut beard and the great breezy laughter that could set anyone at ease.
But Tom was in the Tower, and was going to die. How could he laugh so carelessly when he was going to die? Catherine Parr was crying because she was going to have his child and he didn't love her. No, he had never loved her, for love didn't exist. Then Tom's laughter faded, Catherine's sobs died and Jane was alone at Bradgate Park.
It was a nightmare that had disturbed her countless times, and it was frighteningly familiar; the beautiful oak trees, butchered by cruel axes and the careless, clumsy hands of unfeeling men. The pollarded oaks were crying like abandoned babies, crying for protection, and she couldn't help them. She wept in fright but nobody heard her.
This time it was different. The park was crowded with oddly dressed people who stared with vulgar, detached curiosity at the poor trees, but didn't really care.
'Why has this been done?' Jane cried. 'Who has dared to harm my trees?'
But nobody answered her. It was as though they neither heard nor saw her, for these people were of another age; an age that was to come - and she was dead. The people whom she knew and admired and loved and detested were also long since dead and these curious men and women, these shadowy children of unborn time, had taken their places in the world.
Lady Jane Grey was but a name to them — a dusty corpse, a sad-eyed, youthful face staring from aged canvas. Lady Jane Grey was a tragic tale of long ago, a tale that spelt mystery, and they didn't care to investigate that mystery. She knew then that it was she, not they, who existed only spiritually, that she was headless and would remain so for all eternity.
She awoke screaming like a mad creature. It was almost as if she were a little girl again and Tom Seymour's strong arms were around her, soothing and protecting her. But it was not Tom's voice that penetrated the fog of her terror.
'You were crying in your sleep, lovey,' Mistress Ellen said, rocking the young girl in her arms. 'Was it the old nightmare?'
'Yes, only much, much worse,' sobbed Jane. 'I dreamed I walked into the future and saw people who haven't been born yet. And they were all walking about Bradgate as if they belonged there. It was terrible. God save me, it lives with me still.'
'Nightmares often take a while to die, child. I'm afraid Master Aylmer used to work you too hard and it has made you nervous, but you must try to relax. You don't want to look dull and tired tomorrow, do you? Now lie down and go to sleep.'
'I dare not,' cried Jane, blue-lipped and shivering.
Mistress Ellen talked to her of trivial matters for a few minutes then, believing her to be somewhat pacified, padded back to her own room. But long afterwards, Jane lay staring warily into the candlelight. She was determined not to sleep and her very fear made her wakeful.
However, as night scraped its way round the clock, unwilling drowsiness stole over her and she slid into a calm, brief sleep.
Chapter 12
The white flowers of May were pressed into Jane's hands as she stood beside her husband in the banqueting hall at Durham House. Sixteen virgins in nymphean white gowns stood behind her. Dazed, eyes blinded by unshed tears, she turned her head to see who had presented her with the nosegay but he had disappeared into the confusion of merry, rather tipsy guests.
She wore a green velvet headdress set with precious stones, but no veil, and her hair fell in a glossy mass down her back. Her gown was white satin, square-necked and wide-sleeved, as was fashionable. Her skirts were bell-shaped from the waist down. Over her gown, she wore a silver mantle. It was a very splendid gown, encrusted with a tasteful amount of jewels that had belonged to her ancestors, but she hated it, for it radiated a gaiety that she was far from feeling.
She saw her mother, uncomfortably stout in pink silk, but positively foaming with triumph.
'She looks like an oversized cat,' thought Jane, and tried to draw a little vengeful satisfaction from her disloyal reflections. She was acutely conscious of Guildford Dudley's tall figure at her side. He was handsome enough, she admitted grudgingly. Tall and agile, light of build, his movements portrayed a youthful vigour that just missed being elegant. His blond hair curled on his shoulders, framing a face that managed to be both arrogant and sensitive. His fair skin glowed with animal health.
Jane noticed that many of the pretty women who danced at her wedding were eyeing him seductively. Instead of feeling righteous indignation, she was dryly amused. Guildford, however, did not see them. Today, his handsome face wore a moody expression, for his bride made no secret of her dislike for him. All his life he had been petted and adored by his doting mother. It was a new experience to be openly slighted by a woman and it injured his masculine conceit.
She would learn who was her master, he resolved, as they led the next dance, which was a stately pavane. Gravely, they circled the hall, he strutting and brazen, she evidently bored. But despite his determination to despise her, he was captivated by her strange charm. He had come to her, brimming with self-assurance and she was tearing down his confidence.
Finally, in exasperation, he told her: 'I don't like you any more than you like me. I only married you for my family's sake.'
'Since that is so,' Jane coldly answered him, 'you will not be offended if I refuse to share your bed.'
'Madam, personal feelings do not lay the foundation for our sexual relationship,' Guildford said, with some of the scathing contempt he had shown her at Bradgate. 'Our duty is to
produce heirs to succeed us.'
'You'll have no children by me, my Lord,' Jane replied scornfully. 'I'm determined that my children will never be tainted with Dudley blood.'
'Your insults hardly do credit to your noble lineage.' Jane shrugged at this and he grasped her shoulder so hard that she winced.
'If you're unfaithful to me,' he said in a sinister voice. 'If you're ...'
'You'll never frighten me.' Jane whisked scornfully out of his grip. She glanced up at him, thinking that the hard mockery which had almost subdued her in the garden at Bradgate was not evident today. She couldn't understand that he was miserable and uncertain. She merely despised him because she thought he was relenting. For some reason, she suddenly felt very unhappy and fled from the banqueting hall, not caring that such behaviour would incur the wrath of her parents.
'How I wish I'd married someone else,' Guildford said as his spritely sister Catherine came fluttering into sight.
Catherine had married the Earl of Huntingdon's son that day, and was already falling victim to his charms. Her pleasure in her own good fortune had made her insensitive to the feelings of those about her. She flashed a gay smile at her brother. 'You're already in love with her,' she observed flippantly. 'And it appears that she doesn't return your passion. Alas, brother, that Cupid should pierce your susceptible heart with one of his malicious arrows. Can there be anything as painful as unreciprocated love?'
'You've been drinking too much malmsey,' Guildford snarled, glowering at the vivacious Catherine, who was learning to sport the flippancy for which the young Dudleys were so famous.
'Why not take a mistress?' Catherine suggested.
'Thank you,' returned Guildford. 'But I think not.' Guildford's firm belief in marital fidelity made him quite unique in his times.
Catherine shrugged carelessly and skipped blithely away on her husband's arm.
Like Jane, Guildford did not believe there was such a thing as a perfect marriage. He watched his elder brother Robert flirting with the beautiful Katherine Grey, regardless of the fact that the young girl was newly a bride. Katherine lifted her guileless blue eyes to his face and laughed sweetly, pretending not to understand his improper suggestions. Guildford looked with pity towards Robert's wife. Amy Robsart, who was hurt by his inattentiveness and too young not to show it. Amy was plump and rather sweet, but she failed to attract men. She lacked Katherine Grey's beauty, his own sister Catherine's high spirits and the charm and character of his wife, Jane. A shy country girl, she looked and felt out of place in these elegant surroundings. Robert had once imagined himself to be in love with her, but he had long since realized his mistake. He found her tolerable, though, for she never caused him any trouble and had never once reproached him for flirting with the servants. If she was unhappy about his neglect of her, she wept softly into her pillow instead of berating him. She had the sense to know that hysterical scenes never moved him.
A crown in darkness : a novel about Lady Jane Grey Page 19
