A crown in darkness : a novel about Lady Jane Grey

by Mullally, Margaret, 1954-

  Jane shrugged nonchalantly. 'like divorce or killing, I dare say it's easier after the first time, but then Your Majesty would have more first-hand experience of that than I.'

  'Get out,' Mary ordered, between shuttered teeth. Then, much louder: 'Get out! Out of my sight!'

  One of the guards gripped Jane's elbow, but she shook him off angrily, saying that she could walk without his cloying assistance. There was a merciful dullness in the steady beat of her heart as she accompanied them through the dark galleries and down the wide stairs. She remembered how, in earlier days, the galleries had been crowded with ladies in flowing velvet gowns, noblewomen presenting their daughters at Court, servants and messengers and teasing, laughing gallants who liked nothing better than to compete with each other in the arts of writing verse and seducing women. The interview had been absurdly fruitless, both for Mary and for herself. She felt suddenly very old and very tired.

  It was cold in the barge and Jane sat alone beneath the canopy, feeling the brisk night wind on her face. Then she was crying bitterly, hopelessly.

  'The tide is against us,' one of the boatmen muttered. Jane was glad. She wished violently that they could all be drowned right now, but the barge arrived at the Watergate without any difficulty.

  Meanwhile, in the Queen's apartment, Gardiner stepped out from behind the hangings, beaming with satisfaction.

  'Have I proved my point?' He enquired softly.

  'I - I am still not convinced,' Mary said, and began to pace up and down the room, hands folded behind her back, looking very much like her dead father.

  'Not convinced!' Gardiner all but screamed. 'Not convinced when that brazen little imp abused Your Majesty so abominably. Madam, I beg you to consider.'

  'And I beg you to consider, my Lord,' Mary said haughtily, 'that you are speaking of my cousin and, traitor though she is, she has royal blood in her veins. I'll thank you to speak of her with more respect.'

  'It is hard to respect someone who insults my Sovereign Lady,' Gardiner crooned. 'And she was, if you will pardon the expression, brazen.'

  'She was a little blunt, I confess,' Mary admitted, puzzled. 'But — well, she showed extraordinary pluck in saying — er, what she said. I can't help but admire her, even if I can't bring myself to like her.'

  And Gardiner was too stupefied to press the matter further.

  For the next few days, Jane waited apprehensively for the news that she was to die. She spent most of her time on her knees, praying for strength to meet her end with courage and dignity. Henry VIII had hired a swordsman from France to behead Anne Boleyn, so that there would be no clumsy bungling. Dare she ask Mary for the same privilege, or would such a request only enrage the Queen?

  When two or three days passed and still nothing had happened, she assumed that Mary's honesty had won the day. She wept again, but this time with relief.

  'Yet it can still happen,' she reminded herself. 'I must be prepared to die - any day.'

  She took up her life of learning and reading, finding great solace in her music, although all too often she would lapse into dreams of Aylmer and Bradgate.

  Cynics considered Jane a fool, though an unaccountably brave one. It was difficult to tolerate someone who apparently set so low a premium on her own head. But she appeared to have the courage of a young lioness.

  The Protestants loved her and mourned her misfortunes. They were ready to proclaim her as a martyr of their Faith, should she be put to death. Jane wore a brave face and pretended to be indifferent to what they all thought of her.

  Chapter 17

  Mary knew that it was her duty to marry and provide the country with an heir, and this she fully intended to do, but she was aware that, in view of her family history, she could very possibly die childless. Elizabeth, although she had been placed next to Mary in their father's will, had not yet proved herself to be a Catholic, and her legitimacy was disputable. Mary was determined that the Crown should never pass to the half-sister whom she considered a nefarious pagan.

  The French were in favour of Mary Stuart, the child-Queen of Scots, who was also married to the French dauphin, Francis. The Spanish, concerned chiefly with opposing France, felt that the Lady Katherine Grey ought to be named successor. Mary also approved of the latter, for Katherine was among the most amiable and obedient of her ladies. Renard, who was by now the Queen's evil genius, pointed out that fourteen-year-old Katherine was young and docile enough to be converted to the Catholic faith. Mary treated the beautiful, well-behaved girl with especial kindness and Katherine, as always, responded to kindness: her meekness and her eagerness to please were soothing balm after her sister's hurtful insolence.

  'She is pliant, that girl,' observed Renard, at one of his meetings with Mary. 'She ought to be easily moulded into a good Catholic.'

  'I don't want someone who is easily moulded,' Mary objected. 'She could just as easily be moulded back into a Protestant. No, Katherine is a very sweet girl, and I'm fond of her, but she hasn't much iron in her nature. The best thing I can do is to marry. You don't think that — well, that I'm a little old, do you?'

  'Nonsense!' Renard declared. 'A queen is never too old. And,' he added, seeing the disappointment in her eyes, 'you are still quite an attractive woman, Your Majesty, if you'll forgive my saying so, you have a rather touching air of innocence that most men love. It never fails to stir their protective instincts.'

  Mary blushed with embarrassment. 'You don't have to flatter me. I am not Elizabeth.'

  'But this question of marriage,' said Renard firmly, bringing the conversation back to practical matters. 'Has Your Majesty anyone in mind?'

  'I am still very undecided,' Mary confessed shyly. 'Can you suggest anyone? You are always so wise and sensible.'

  Renard inclined his head, accepting the compliment. He knew that his wisdom surpassed that of most men. 'I believe,' he said cunningly, 'that Your Majesty could not do better than to marry my master. Prince Philip of Spain. It isn't only because he is of such royal blood that all the ladies lose their hearts to him. He has charm, kindness, compassion and humour. And he understands women.'

  Mary's cheeks were scarlet. It was quite absurd, reflected Renard, for a woman of her age to blush like a fifteen-year-old virgin.

  'But he is much younger than I,' Mary said. 'He will think me elderly and shrivelled. His first wife was very young, I understand.'

  'Ah yes, she was a little too young for a man of my master's mature tastes. He found her frivolous, a green girl.' Renard did not add that Philip's wife had been very pretty, with a cloud of black hair and a perfect figure, and that he had loved her and mourned her very deeply when she died in childbirth.

  'I must consider,' said Mary.

  'Your Majesty is very sensible to do so.' He left her then, choosing his time well.

  Mary was seriously considering two suitors; Philip of Spain and handsome Edward Courtenay.

  She drooled over Philip's portrait. His eyes were pale and cold, but that, no doubt, was an error of the paint-brush, for the full lips sharply contradicted the passionless eyes. She had heard that he was quite short of build but then she was not tall either. Shyly she prompted Renard to talk about Philip.

  And Courtenay! For fifteen years Courtenay had languished in the Tower, because his father had displeased Henry VIII. Though he had managed to study a great deal and was a talented musician and master of several languages, he rode badly and tackled the long bow with little success. His sudden violent swing from sombre prison life to the rich splendour of the Tudor Court and the flattery of certain far-sighted nobles went to his head. He couldn't reciprocate Mary's tender affection, but her infatuation for him excited his vanity.

  One of Mary's misfortunes was her poor judgement of character — sad in a woman and disastrous in a queen. She could not see that Courtenay was a weak character, a conceited popinjay. His association with well-known harlots was hardly alluring to Mary, who upheld morality, but she continued to feel kindly disposed towards him
, her maternal instincts being trapped in the situation. Courtenay was a delicate young man, with blond, languid good looks but he lacked stamina.

  Antoine de Noailles, the French Ambassador, naturally preferred Courtenay to the Spanish Philip, and encouraged the Queen to marry him. But Renard, who exercised more influence over Mary, pressed the Spanish alliance, and in this, he was supported by the papist, Bonner. Although Courtenay was his ward, Gardiner also favoured Philip, not wishing to strengthen the Protestant cause.

  But Mary remained indecisive. The Council clung tenaciously to their waning patience as she wept and stammered and wrung her hands, constantly changing her mind.

  Renard spoke very sternly to her, reminding her of her duty to God and the country, and Mary, like a child anxious to please a pompous schoolmaster, eventually agreed to marry Philip.

  She sailed by night to the Tower where, in the beautiful Norman chapel of St John the Evangelist, she was married by proxy to Philip of Spain. Under the flattering candlelight, her lined and careworn face looked almost beautiful. She made up her mind then that she would love Philip, for she felt as if she already knew him and belonged to him.

  'Poor Edward,' she thought, dizzy from the wine-glow. 'I hope he'll forgive me.'

  Edward Courtenay pouted discontentedly, realizing that his dreams of a crown would never materialize, and joined the group of Protestants who were shouting against the Spanish alliance.

  Sir Thomas Wyatt, son of the famous poet, called a meeting at a small house in London.

  'Gentlemen,' he began, when his guests were all seated, 'I think you all know why you've been summoned here. Her Majesty has married a Catholic prince and I foresee nothing but misery and persecution for those of our faith. Are we to stand by like helpless morons and watch our England being turned into a massacre ground for Protestants?'

  'Not while there's breath in our bodies,' declared the Duke of Suffolk, seeing another opportunity to set his daughter Jane back on the throne.

  Wyatt rose and walked across the room. Opening the door, he peered into the narrow passage. It was empty. 'We're safe to continue,' he reported, returning to his chair.

  'Now, since the Queen appears to be blind to reason, we must resort to action. And if we are to prevent this monstrous calamity, we have no alternative but to rise in arms against the Queen, even though she is God's anointed. We must brandish the Sword of Justice.'

  'If a woman can bear a sword,' chuckled one of the men, 'my Lady Elizabeth should bear it first.'

  At last, all the arrangements were made. The armed risings in Leicestershire, Kent and Wales were to be led by Wyatt, Suffolk, Sir Peter Carew and Sir James Crofts. Edward Courtenay was to lead the Devon rising.

  William Thomas had already formed his own plot to assassinate the Queen. He discussed the matter with Sir Nicholas Arnold. 'I know of a certain John Fitzwilliam who might be persuaded to perform the act,' he said, 'and it would certainly end all this bother.'

  Fitzwilliam, when approached, reported the matter to Wyatt and asked for his advice. But Wyatt did not approve of the proposed assassination: he wanted only to capture Mary and place either the Princess Elizabeth or the Lady Jane Grey on the throne, with as little bloodshed as possible.

  Somehow, news of the forthcoming rebellion leaked out, and the Government was ready for attack. It was discovered that the Princess Elizabeth was also involved in the conspiracy, which infuriated Mary. Wyatt sent word to her at Ashridge, advising her to move to Donnington Hall in Berkshire, and to surround herself with armed guards until the rebellion was over. Cautious as ever, Elizabeth ignored the advice. It would be best to seem ignorant of the plan, lest it fall through. She would do what she always did when in doubt - lie low and wait.

  Mary ordered her to return to Court. Elizabeth wrote back meekly, pleading that she was too ill to leave her bed. As it happened, her illness was genuine this time and her part in the plot was as innocent as that of Jane and Guildford, Jane being a figurehead, like Elizabeth, and Guildford being Jane's husband. But Mary was too familiar with her sister's wiles: too often Elizabeth had used the excuse of poor health. Mary's reply was to send her personal physicians, Doctor Owen and Doctor Wendy, to examine the lingering invalid.

  The prisoners in the Tower waited fearfully, avid for any scrap of news. For them, the outlook was gloomy. Lady Jane Grey walked up and down her prison room, angry tears spilling down her white, tense face.

  Would Suffolk never learn? He had practically whipped her all the way to the throne once before but he had failed to keep her there. Surely he must realize that he couldn't possibly succeed again. Oh, damn his stupidity! It would be his death and hers. Why, why was her family so absurd?

  Mary was advised to flee from Whitehall but she refused. Instead, she publicly appeared at the Guildhall and, with her blunt candour, appealed to the loyalty of her subjects. Her speech was so beautifully worded and her conduct so noble and dignified that many of them were moved to tears. There were delighted murmurs of 'King Harry's Own'.

  These strange, unpredictable people, with whom Bluff King Hal had always been popular, in spite of his villainy, now swore to avenge his daughter, regardless of her papacy.

  Upon entering London, Sir Thomas Wyatt was confronted by such a multitude of angry subjects that he was forced to surrender. The mob was clearly on Mary's side: they were not going to permit anyone to harm her. Wyatt was arrested and clapped into the Tower.

  Lady Jane's father was found cowering in a tree. The death warrants mounted on Mary's table, waiting to be signed. Wyatt's rebellion was a failure, but it sealed Jane's fate.

  The Queen was distressed. She disliked Jane, who had on many occasions flouted her, but she had no desire to send an innocent young girl to her death. Her Council urged her to sign the warrant for Jane's death. While she lived, England could not hope for peace and Mary knew this. But still she was reluctant. It wasn't only her conscience that withheld her. Admiration, respect for family ties struggled against hate.

  But, although she tried desperately hard to forget them, visions of the past kept springing to her mind. Resentfully, she remembered the fatal visit when Jane had grossly offended her. She remembered so clearly the occasion when Lady Wharton had escorted Jane to her chapel.

  As they had passed the altar. Lady Wharton had genuflected respectfully.

  'Is the Princess present in the chapel?' Jane had asked, looking curiously about her.

  'No, my Lady.'

  'Then why do you curtsy?'

  'I curtsy to Him that made me,' had been the reverent reply.

  'What nonsense!' Jane had retorted scathingly. 'For everyone knows that the baker made him.'

  Lady Wharton had reported the conversation to Mary, whose dislike for Jane had heightened.

  Mary tried to think logically, which wasn't easy for a woman of her calibre. She wanted no trouble for Philip when he arrived in England in a few months' time. The people were likely to be hostile, she knew, and that would have to be accepted. But while Lady Jane Grey lived, there would be risings in her name, regardless of her personal innocence. Had Jane unbent a little and accepted the Catholic faith while she had the opportunity, she would not have been considered a very great danger by the Council, but since she would have to spend the rest of her life in prison ... no, it would be safer and perhaps kinder to behead her now.

  Mary had been truly merciful at the beginning of her reign but men such as Suffolk failed to appreciate it. When Northumberland's plot had fallen through the previous summer, she had granted Suffolk, one of the most guilty of the participants, a full pardon, in exchange for an oath of future loyalty, but no sooner had the despicable man been set free than he struck again. He and his fellow conspirators deserved their bloody end, but Guildford and Jane were to receive bitter justice.

  Yet, after all this time, Mary now had the opportunity to avenge herself on Jane, to repay her for every slight. Her lips were set in a grim line as she prepared the death warrant for 'Guildfor
d Dudley and his wife', finding a certain amount of wry pleasure in her undistinguished choice of title. It was a rankling insult which neither Jane nor Guildford would forgive easily.

  It was not really necessary to execute Guildford. Being the son of an upstart, he was not of royal ancestry, as Jane was. There had never been risings in his name. But Mary, whatever her pretensions to Christian charity, had inherited her father's capacity for cruelty. She was vindictive and malicious. She had begun her reign in tolerance and sympathy, but now she was wielding the axe of her power as ruthlessly as her dread sire had done. She tried to forget the little girl, Jane, smiling and excited as she danced about her bedroom on Christmas morning because her cousin Mary had laid an expensive necklace about her throat; tried to forget it because now she had to slice through that throat.

  Jane was sitting at supper when Sir John Bridges was announced. She half rose from her chair but her body suddenly felt weak and liquid as she fell back, her head spinning.

  'Why is he coming, Lady Throckmorton?' she choked.

  The older woman laid a reassuring hand on the girl's shoulder. 'Be at peace, dear madam. I dare say it's some trivial matter, perhaps a change of furnishing or a new waiting woman.'

  'Pray God you are right. But my heart tells me otherwise. It's as though something terrible and unknown, unborn in my mind ...' The poor girl broke off in a babble of words that meant nothing.

  She let out a cry of dismay when she saw that Bridges was accompanied by Master Feckenham, the Queen's confessor.

  'What news do you bring, kind Master Bridges?' Jane moved towards him pleadingly, but stopped half-way.

  Bridges cleared his throat, began to speak to her, and then looked away. Feckenham was untroubled by any qualms of conscience. He adopted a grave expression, which was never difficult for him.

  'What I have to say to you, madam,' he began, 'may come as a shock, but I fear my ill tidings were inevitable. I have here a warrant for your execution.'