Amy was boring and rather immature. She was always startled by any reference to sex, no matter how light it was. Robert loved to make bawdy jokes, and he liked them to be appreciated, but Amy's response to his 'vulgar jests' was usually a deep embarrassed blush or a delicate lifting of eyebrows. But then, had he married poor Jane, he would have been struck down with her. Early in marriage Amy's silliness had begun to bore him but she had, unwittingly of course, saved him from a ghastly end, and for that he must be grateful.
'I understand the Tower is soon to be graced with the presence of the heretic princess,' he said, his thoughts turning to the near future.'
'Do you advise my suggesting to Her Majesty that the illustrious prisoner should share my cell, purely in the interests of State economy?'
'No, but at least you can occupy your days planning her seduction when I've left you,' rejoined Guildford.
'If it's any comfort to you, Guildford, I don't believe my own end is far away. Neither shall I have a delectable wife to meet the axe and block with me, which is rather unfortunate, since the execution of Amy would be a service to mankind.'
Guildford wasn't Listening. He was carefully inscribing Jane's name on the cold stone wall. For hours he stood there, patiently carving each letter of her name. Why was he doing this? She would never see it. And if she did, she most probably wouldn't care.
Whilst Jane had been working furiously at her languages, Guildford had been chipping away at a very fine memorial to his family. It was beautiful and very elaborate, but, sadly enough, it was never finished. It consisted of a bear and staff facing a lion, and it was decorated with symbolic roses and thistles, accompanied by a brief verse.
You that these beasts do well behold and see,
May deem with ease wherefore here made they be,
With borders eke therein ...
The Brother's name who list to search the Crown!
He had begun the poetry ambitiously enough but, upon reaching the third line, had broken off in despair and uncertainty. Then Robert had chimed in with witty suggestions that distracted the young sculptor and put him in a frivolous frame of mind and, assuring himself that he was no scholar, he rushed boldly on to the fourth and final line.
There. His old tutor, Dr John Dee, would have been proud of him. Dee had always insisted that Guildford was the artist of the family, if not a devoted Master of the Classics and, mused Guildford, viewing his work with satisfaction, the old dotard was right.
But somehow his 'Jane' was more moving than the splendid family memorial. With its tender, forthright beauty and simplicity, it made the memorial seem gaudy in comparison. He had already carved her name twice, and was now engrossed on his third inscription.
Perhaps in centuries to come, people would look upon his writing, and though chapters of dank, dark history stood between his world and theirs, they would come to understand a little of what he felt, for all the love and devotion in his young heart was cut out and laid with simplicity on grey stone, and it revealed far more than streams of poetry could.
Maybe they would picture him as he was now, with the moist trickery of torchlight winding out to meet him from the various corners of the cell, throwing the patterns of dismal, solemnly dancing death across his fair hair and handsome, eager face.
Perhaps if Jane could have seen him then, gentle and without artifice, as his friends had always known him to be, she might have loved him.
Robert, in one of his rare serious moments, had said that she did love him, but she was too young and inexperienced to realize it.
Well, if there was any truth in that sentiment, he would never know, for neither he nor Jane would live long enough to learn the buried truth about their relationship. He remembered, then, something that he had read, something about buds being rudely torn apart and trampled. He didn't know why he should think of this now, but the thought had fled before he could decipher why it should be connected with his relationship with his wife.
The shadow of the axe loomed over Guildford's head, but he seemed not to care. He could think of nothing but the quiet, mysterious girl he had grown to love, but had never fully understood. What was it she had said on that night in the Royal apartments, when he came so close to making love to her?
'There can be little happiness for us together, for we're too unlike.' And then: 'When you are reasonable, my heart warms to you, but your aggressiveness freezes my very soul.'
Aggressive! She wasn't the first person to call him that, but it wounded him more deeply when it came from her cultured mouth. He had heard that she wasn't so readily frozen by that tutor of hers.
Guildford burned with jealousy as he thought of all the opportunities Aylmer must have had in the seclusion of Bradgate. But he knew that Jane was no wanton. And they had enjoyed their happy moments too. In that little room at Partridge's house, she had been soft and yielding. He had never forgotten their amusing conversations after their love-making, when she lay contentedly in his arms, her smooth hair trailing across his chest. But if she had given him happiness, she had also made him wretched. He was handsome, he could have married any girl in the kingdom, but he had married, and fallen in love with, a girl who loved and understood dusty books better than people.
He had not chosen to love her. If Cupid had consulted him on the matter he would have chosen to feel totally indifferent to her, but since this was not so, he must be tortured by his emotions. He thought of her by day and longed for her by night, and he learned, greatly against his will, that there was a lot of truth in the 'traditional ache of the heart'.
His love for her was so intense that it was almost a physical pain, worse than the pain of an axe falling upon his neck. Guildford was glad to die.
The great Tower of London loomed out of the dark night and the only sound straining from its walls was that of a young girl sobbing. Her peaceful world had been shattered several months past, and her body and soul were suffering the cruel torment of long accumulated tension.
Three young queens had been imprisoned in the Tower in eighteen years. Two had been beheaded. Tomorrow Jane must meet a similar death.
She sat by the window, staring into the night, across the green where tomorrow morning they would hastily build a scaffold, and slay her on it. Tears fell, unchecked, down her face, the grave, youthful face that was too pale for beauty. Her cheek rested on her hand. She sighed and tried to fasten her straying thoughts on prayer, but her thoughts were all for herself. Why shouldn't they be? She must walk to that fatal spot tomorrow, and die a lonely, painful death. She would meet that death with courage because she must. Until then, she would allow herself the luxury of a few tears.
She had never wanted to be Queen. Again and again she had raged against the injustice. It couldn't save her, even though her innocence was an established fact. Mary Tudor's security must be intact, and Jane's very existence threatened to undermine it. She must die for the crimes of her unscrupulous parents, who had brought her to this pass.
She had signed away all her earthly possessions. She had written to her sister Katherine, whom she had outshone and excelled, the member of her family whom she had loved best.
To her father she had previously written: 'Although it has pleased God to hasten my death by you, by whom my life should rather have been lengthened, yet can I patiently take it, that I yield to God mere hearty thanks for shortening my woeful days, than if all the world had been given into my possession with life lengthened at my own will.'
She would have him believe that she desired death rather than permit him the satisfaction of knowing the width and depth of her fear, a fear too cold and sickening to be subdued.
She sent for Sir John Bridges, some of her old serenity returning to her as she waited for him to arrive. He was hardened by experience, and recently Gardiner had reprimanded him for his leniency with Lady Jane Grey, so he strove to be firm with her on this last night of her life, but to no avail.
Jane had long ago detected that spark of humanity that othe
rs might not have noticed, or managed to wring from him. He knew that she knew, and his mask crumbled before her.
'My Lady, is there nothing I can do to comfort you? ' The very kindness of his tone stabbed at her swimming emotion.
Jane shook her head, fighting back her tears. 'What news have you for me?' she asked.
'My Lord Guildford once again invites you to sup with him in the Beauchamp Tower. The Queen has given her written permission.'
'Once again I must refuse,' said Jane. 'Tell him that I don't mean to be unkind but I deem it wise to refuse this. I would rather that he remembered me as I was, not as I am now.'
The lieutenant bowed and would have departed, but for a restraining hand on his arm. He turned around slowly and was confronted by a sad face, streaked with tears, so white and pathetic in the candlelight.
'Sir,' she began, 'I beg you, let me pray awhile in the chapel of St. John the Evangelist. Surely you won't deny me this small privilege on the eve of my death?'
'It shall be as you wish, my Lady.'
She knelt before the altar and laid her aching heart open to the God whom she had loved since childhood. She implored him to have mercy on her poor husband. 'And let us know eternal happiness with Thee in Paradise. Amen.'
For surely He understood that she was innocent. If not...but Jane trusted God. He had never really betrayed her. He had let her suffer, it was true, but He knew that her young shoulders were strong enough to carry her burdens. Her courage was entirely her own, but she believed that His guidance had helped her to keep her spirits afloat. Here in this beautiful little chapel, where Queen Mary had been hastily married by proxy to Prince Philip of Spain, Jane Grey felt that she had drunk to the very dregs of grief, fear and humiliation.
Now a fresh terror struck her. What would they do to her body after death? She closed her eyes and recalled all the grim stories that Mistress Ellen had told her. She recalled all that Edward's nurse. Mistress Penn, had told of such doleful ceremonies. Her headless body would be thrust into a cart and wheeled across the yard to the little chapel of St. Peter and Vincula, where it would be thrown into the grave that her enemies had dug for her. There it would lie, for countless ages, beside the corpses of Anne Boleyn, her brother George Boleyn, Catherine Howard, Lady Rochford, Sir Thomas More and all the other tragic personalities who gave the chapel its unhappy atmosphere. The Duke of Northumberland would also be there and so would Guildford.
Her poor, bleeding head would be placed on a pole over the River Thames so that all passers-by might look upon it and know that she was a traitor.
It wasn't fair. It wasn't fair!
Back in her room, she called for ink and paper and fell to writing another letter to her father, for she was already beginning to regret her harsh accusations. She could even spare compassion for him. He had never had her courage. He could not face unknown eternity bravely.
'The Lord...continue to keep you, that at the last, we may meet in heaven...your obedient daughter till death.'
She did not write to her lady mother for, even in her new calm, she was unable to conquer the dislike and resentment that the thought of her aroused.
She then began to write her dirge, a dirge which sobbed out the uncertainty of the young. Writhed with bitter fury against a world that had never been just or kind to her, and lashed out a deeply cutting reproof for those enemies who would gloat with relish over her tragedy.
'Think not, O Mortal, vainly gay,
That thou from human woes are free.
The bitter cup I drink today.
Tomorrow may be drunk by thee!'
She paused, staring at the words in dismay. Then her angry quill raced on, sketching the long pent-up emotions.
'Harmless all malice if our God be nigh,
Fruitless all pain if He His help deny.
Patient, I pass these gloomy hours away,
And wait the morning of eternal day.
Whilst God assists us, envy bites in vain.
If God forsakes us, fruitless all our pain.
I hope for light after the darkness.'
For she had lived in darkness for too long. In the darkness fate had reached for a crown and laid it on her head. At night the darkness folded her into unspoken horrors, teasing her with sinister dreams. It seemed to Jane that, all her life, she had been groping for the light, the light of knowledge, understanding, happiness. Tomorrow she would vanish into the darkness of death, and there, if God was at all merciful, she would find her light.
She looked round the room. She was alone and the candles flickered waveringly. To the very end she would fear the dark.
She read her dirge aloud. She fetched her lute and quietly set the words to music, but still they made no sense to her tired mind. She yawned wearily. Although she wanted to make the most of the precious few hours that were left, she was very tired. In the ante-room Mistress Ellen had fallen asleep over her sewing. Anxious not to disturb her, Jane pushed her books aside and laid the lute down for the last time.
She laid her head on the table and, like a little girl, cried herself to sleep.
As Guildford left the Beauchamp Tower early next morning, he glimpsed a white face at an upper window of Master Partridge's house. A brief glance passed between them, but it was enough to stir painful emotion in both their hearts. He waved to her and she waved back, warmed to tenderness and admiration by his reckless courage. He was very handsome, and he looked so young and noble in his white doublet. Guildford! He had never played her false. He had wanted her for herself, not for her literary wealth.
Guildford had said goodbye to his brother Robert. To the last minute the relationship between the brothers was teasing and jovial.
'You have certainly dressed yourself for the occasion,' Robert had said, eyeing the doublet with envy.
'I have my public image to consider,' returned Guildford, combing his hair at a leisurely pace. 'Kindly smooth this crease from my sleeve, dear brother.'
They faced each other, aching with misery but pretending not to care.
Robert extended his hand. 'I'll assist you with my prayers, for I think you'll have need of them. And, Guildford, wait for me. We sinners need each other for moral support.'
Guildford shook his brother's hand, and if their fingers trembled, they ignored the fact.
He accompanied the surly body of guards down the steps for the last time. And Robert, left alone in the empty cell, struggled against his unmanly sobs.
Guildford stared at the scaffold that was being built on the green. He turned inquiringly to Bridges.
'Is this for my wife?'
'Yes, my Lord.'
'I'm sorry for that, Bridges. Thank heaven I shall die first.'
A lump rose in his throat. 'My Jane!' he whispered, moving on. 'My poor little Jane, for whom I would die a thousand deaths to save her from the axe.'
He was never to see her again in this world. He would go to his grave loving her. His inscription remained on the wall of his cell "JANE". The girl to whom it was dedicated would never lay eyes on it, but many others would.
Their marriage was deeply lamentable. Perhaps it should never have occurred. She had never loved him, although he had tried hard to make her.
He overheard two guards discussing the morning’s executions.
'The little Lady Jane ought to die like a lamb,' vowed one.
Guildford swung round, startling them. 'No, she won't, she'll die like a lioness,' he declared savagely.
The scaffold on Tower Hill was surrounded by people, rich and poor. One of the halberdiers had to make a narrow path towards the scaffold by brandishing his staff and shouting roughly. Guildford was sickened by such evidence of blood-thirstiness. People jostled to get close to him. A red-faced fish-wife shouted some coarse obscenity and another woman commented on his good looks. The young man felt a rush of hatred but he held his head high. He was graceful and arrogant, and he had nothing to say to the onlookers.
He fell to his knees, shouting, 'Pray f
or me, pray for me.'
The bandage was tied about his eyes, blinding him to the vulgarity and indecency that swarmed round him. He heard the sound of heavy feet trampling in the straw. The executioner was coming towards him. He knew what to do. His head rested on the block. He threw back his arms as a signal that he was prepared.
The axe struck and an incredulous 'ooh' rose from the crowd as the blond head rolled forward.
A woman began to cry. Her husband glared at her. 'Stop howling, woman. You knew what was going to happen, didn't you?'
'Better take her home,' advised an onlooker. These affairs can make women a little queasy. I know my wife ...'
'No, I want to see what happens next.'
Guildford's body was literally dumped into a cart and pushed through the excited throngs, who stretched out curious hands to touch him.
One of the women who had come to watch the execution stood a little apart from the rest. She was very fashionably dressed, but she was silent and her eyes were swollen with crying. She returned to her litter, half swooning against the shoulder of her maid. Her Guildford, her favourite son, was dead. She had loved him better than she had loved her husband, for she saw in him everything that she herself would have chosen in a mate. She had given him everything, including a queen. And he hadn't even noticed her as she stood by his scaffold.
'Courage is superior to all other virtues,' Jane mused, 'except perhaps Faith and really Faith and courage are as one.'
She had not stirred from her post by the window all morning. Outwardly, she was calm, although horror and apprehension were apparent in her eyes when the cart passed under her window, carrying the headless corpse of Guildford Dudley. Mistress Ellen screamed aloud, unschooled for so ghastly a sight. Jane bore it bravely.
A crown in darkness : a novel about Lady Jane Grey Page 30
