Later
I have watched a young girl die, and I have made a new friend, both on the same day! We ordinary Tower people weren’t allowed near the scaffold – we’re not important enough – but we stood against the walls and towers around the edge of the Green. I could have watched from my garret, but I would have heard nothing. I stood with Sal next to the entrance to the Beauchamp Tower, where Guilford Dudley was imprisoned. He was to be executed first, but on Tower Hill. We would miss that, so we thought we’d try to get a good view of him as he came out.
It was mid-morning when the guards fetched him. Everyone fell quiet as he came up the steps on to the Green. I clearly heard him mutter to his companions, “Pray for me, oh, pray for me.” As he was led away I glanced at the windows of Lady Jane’s lodgings. I wondered if she was watching and how it must feel to watch her husband go to his death, knowing that she would shortly go to hers.
It seemed no time at all before Guilford’s covered body, dumped on a cart, was wheeled back into the Tower and up to the Chapel of St Peter’s. His head lay apart from his body, wrapped in a bloody cloth.
Sal suddenly leaned forward and looked past me, a stupid grin spreading over her face. I turned to see what she was looking at. It was Tom.
“I saw it happen,” he panted. “I thought if I were quick I could get back in time to see this’n, too.”
“How did he die?” I asked.
Tom held out one hand palm up, and chopped the other one down sharply across it. “Like that.”
Stupid fool. “No, did he die well, like a gentleman?” I asked. Tom told us Guilford’s speech was short, then he knelt to pray and “howled his eyes out”. Mercifully, his head was taken off with one blow.
A woman nearby hushed us, and pointed. Coming up the slope towards us was the tiny, black-clad figure of Lady Jane Grey, dark against the grass. She read from a little prayer book – I had hardly ever seen her without – and her lips moved slightly as she walked. Her women followed, weeping.
She mounted the scaffold so bravely, and I clearly heard her first words. “Good people, I am come hither to die, and by a law I am condemned to the same. The fact, indeed, against the Queen’s highness was unlawful, and the consenting thereunto by me. . .” I heard little more, for I was sobbing myself by then. I don’t know why. I have never cried at an execution in my life – she just looked so sad and alone. And none of it was her doing. It was all caused by scheming men (and her horrible mother), greedy for power and riches.
I could scarcely see through my tears, and was much comforted when I felt a strong arm around my shoulders. I leaned into it, and there was no guessing who it was for I could smell him. I wiped my eyes and glanced sideways at Sal. She looked as if she could have battered my brains in, which was also a comfort to me.
The Lady Jane had finished talking. She gave her gloves and kerchief to her woman, and her book to the Lieutenant, who must have been good to her for her to do this. Then she stood for a moment, still, as if she was savouring her last moments on God’s Earth. A gust of wind blew the smell of the river across the Green. It must have smelt like freedom.
After the executioner had knelt to ask her forgiveness, Lady Jane knelt, too, on the straw and spoke to him. At dinner Father told us that she said, “Will you take it off before I lay me down?” and he replied, “No, madam.” She meant her head.
She tied a cloth around her eyes and reached for the block. It was horrible. The poor girl could not find it, and even where we were, we heard her cry, “What shall I do? Where is it?” A woman nearby muttered, “Help her, someone.”
Someone did indeed help, guiding her hands to the block. The only sound to be heard was quiet weeping. Jane laid down her head, spoke a few final words of prayer and – it was done.
So much blood.
There was a hush as I have never heard before – if that makes sense – and then, once more, only weeping, as the tiny body was lifted down to join her husband’s for burial in St Peter’s. Father came across and took my hands. “Such a little neck,” he murmured. “They are always such little necks.”
I have tears in my eyes again now, and the candlelight seen through them makes stars, so I cannot see to write.
13th February 1554
I feel better today and must write about my new friend. When Tom saw Father coming yesterday, he darted off, closely followed, I might add, by Sal, much to my annoyance. As Father walked me back to our house, we were joined by Master Lea, from the Mint, who said, “I should like your daughter to meet my niece, newly arrived from Chelsea. They are of a similar age.”
Father said, “Matilda would be happy to make your niece’s acquaintance.” Huh, I thought, Matilda would not. Who wants to have to make conversation with a country bumpkin, and talk of nothing but cows and hay?
I could not have been more wrong! Frances Lea is the greatest of good company. She makes me laugh until I cry, which was most welcome yesterday. I have permission from Father to spend the whole of today acquainting her with the Tower. This has made Mother cross, because I am supposed to sweep my room, which I have not done since early last summer, and she says it is disgusting. Better still, it has made Sal furious. I will hide my book carefully this morning, in case she decides to come up and make mischief.
14th February 1554
Such good times yesterday. Frances now knows everybody there is to know in the Tower and, being much more forward than I, is likely to be of great use, for she can talk her way into anything. I just hope she can talk her way out of anything, too! Both Mother and Father are doubtful about her being a suitable friend, but she charms them, too, and as Mother said, “She is a far superior friend for you than that stinking boy Tom.” They’ll never understand all the things I like about Tom – the way he listens to me, and is all consideration and gentleness – and it’s just not worth arguing with them about it. I wonder what Frances will think when she meets Tom. If I decide she can meet Tom. The last thing I want is another rival for his friendship!
The news this evening is that Princess Elizabeth is being brought to London by Queen Mary. I hope they do not think Wyatt’s rebellion was anything to do with her. On the other hand, if they do think that, she will surely come to the Tower, and I may see her. Seeing the Lady Jane give her prayer book to a gentleman yesterday reminded me of my book.
On close inspection it is clear that some pages have been carefully cut from the beginning of the book, but I have found some writing! Scratched out, it is true, perhaps by a needle, but there is enough to see that there are two letters. There is an A. The second is less clear, and at first I thought it to be R, but now I am sure it is B. AB, the initials of Anne Boleyn!
My heart aches a little. I see now that the ink on the letter was smudged by the Queen’s tears as they fell on the last word she ever wrote to her darling little daughter.
17th February 1554
Mother told me today that she is with child. Does she think I am blind?
23rd February 1554
Lady Jane’s father, the Duke of Suffolk, was beheaded on Tower Hill today. Frances, Sal and I went, but it was a cold day and a dull occasion. There have been many executions in London since the rebellion, and people cannot always spare the time from their work to attend the spectacles. They say that London Bridge has never been adorned with so many heads on spikes as these last two weeks. At least the high Tower walls keep the worst of the wind from us, which could bring the stench right in. I shall go to see them when the weather is warmer, as it is only half a mile away. Queen Mary has ordered that the bodies of all the traitorous rebels should be hung where people can see them. It’s lucky it is cold just now – it is surprising how little time it takes for flesh to rot and become infested with maggots, which is a revolting sight.
I hear that Princess Elizabeth has only just reached Whitehall Palace. The journey took so long because she is not well at present.
> “It is likely the Lady Elizabeth may not live to share her next birthday with you, Tilly,” William told me. “The talk is that she was involved with Wyatt. Dangerous work for one so near the throne. The Queen will not tolerate it.”
For once he speaks sense.
26th February 1554
Father attended Thomas Wyatt, as he is not sleeping. This is hardly surprising as his life is surely in the greatest danger, and he is being questioned daily. From what Father hints at, these meetings are painful and prolonged. Frances says she believes he is being tortured. I do not like to think of such things. Mother is tired and asked me to wait up to give Father his supper, so I listened carefully when he talked with William over his ham and bread. “Wyatt insists the Lady Elizabeth was not part of his rebellion,” he said.
“But he did write to her?” asked William.
“It seems so.”
“Undoubtedly, he asked her to join him in restoring a Protestant monarch – herself – to the throne,” William said, his silly head nodding wisely (he thinks).
“Do not repeat those words outside these walls, boy,” Father answered sternly (which made me worry about my loose talk to Frances). “We do not know what the letter said, and he himself insists that the Lady Elizabeth did not write back. She simply said she would do as she should see cause.”
Clever Elizabeth! She will be no man’s puppet.
12th March 1554
I am so busy that I have come to bed exhausted and have not had the energy to reach up for my book until now. Mother says my work is being done well, and she now allows me more time to spend as I wish, as long as I do not go near “the dung-shoveller”. I work well to help Mother. I so want both her and this baby to live, but I also work well so that I may meet with Frances. I still see Tom around the Tower, but he is being worked harder and harder and has less time for me now, just as I have less time for him. He and Frances have had few chances to meet so far, and she shows no regret about this.
Frances and I do many things together, but when Father asks what we have been doing, I find it hard to say. “We walk and talk,” I begin, and he says, “What do you talk about?” and I reply, “Nothing in particular.” And so it is, but we seem to talk about nothing in particular for hours!
After Suffolk’s beheading the other week, we were given permission to walk into the city. Sal had to return to the house to attend to the boys, which left Frances and me alone to explore – her first real visit to the city outside the Tower walls. She was amazed at how the houses “huddle together” as she put it. It seems that in the country there is space and grass to spare, and cottages stand apart from each other. She says London is noisy and it stinks. I think the country must stink equally, for everyone there keeps pigs and cows which, as all the world knows, would fill the land with dung if there were not people like Tom to clear it away.
Frances wanted to stop and look at almost every shop or stall we passed, and was surprised at how many there are. She was a little afraid because there were so many people, and thought them most unfriendly. “In Chelsea,” she said, “everyone knows everyone else.”
“Like in the Tower,” I replied, for if the Tower is not just like a village, I do not know what is.
A lad of about our age sauntered past and grinned at us. Frances smiled back, but I poked her in the ribs and frowned at her, for he looked like a common rascal to me. As indeed he was, for next second, he plunged his hands into an egg-woman’s basket, and pulled out two in each hand.
“Thief!” she cried. “Thief!”
Frances stared open-mouthed as the boy took a few steps backwards and waved the eggs in the air, his grin bigger than ever. “He seems to be taunting the old woman,” she said.
As it turned out, that is exactly what he was doing. Other stall-holders and shopkeepers came to see what the egg-woman was shrieking about, saw the lad and gave chase. Then did he run! And as soon as they had all turned a corner, a great gang of boys tore through the street grabbing at anything they could lay their hands on from the untended stalls. An upended basket was turned over and a goose escaped and chased after the boys, trying to peck their heels!
We laughed at the cheek of the boys, and wandered through the streets, never too far from the Tower, though. Frances found it hard to keep her feet out of the muck on the floor and keep her eye on windows above. It was only my quickness that saved her twice from being drenched by someone’s watery slops.
We grew tired and hungry, and went back to my house for a bowl of pottage, which she pronounced the best she had ever tasted.
“Good,” I said. “I made it.”
That surprised her, I could see. Sal must have told her I am a bad cook.
The news at home was that the Queen is now formally betrothed to Philip of Spain, which will infuriate Thomas Wyatt, should he hear about it. I am sure he will, for the warders will delight in telling him.
17th March 1554
My wish has come true but I pray that God and Princess Elizabeth know that it is not in the way I would want. For a barge has been sent to bring her here, to become a prisoner in the Tower! I am slightly annoyed that I discovered this from Frances, but I am excited that I may be able to see the Princess – if she is allowed to walk about, there will surely now be an opportunity to give her the letter. I offered to take Harry and Jack out to chase the ravens (I did not say that exactly), and spent much of the afternoon wandering past the privy gate, where the steps lead down into the water. She has not arrived, but Frances says she will be here tomorrow. I hope Frances is not full of wild fancies, like Sal.
I am not pleased with Sal, for she told Mother I let the boys too near the water. I don’t know why Mother believes everything Sal says, and takes her word against mine. It was true this time, though.
18th March 1554
Such excitement! At this very moment, Princess Elizabeth is dining with the Lieutenant in his lodgings. Only the warders and Tower dignitaries were allowed to watch her arrival, and they all tell different stories, but everyone says she is proud and dignified. I admire that lady so much, I cannot put it into words.
I brought Frances up to my room, which she said was plain but she understood why I liked it. “I have little privacy with my aunt in and out all the time, fussing,” she said.
We took turns at the roof hole to look out through the rain to see if we could see the Princess, but we did not. When we went downstairs I asked Mother if I might walk back a little way with Frances. The answer was no, but Frances begged her, “Please! I am still new to the Tower and afraid to walk alone.” She put her head on one side and Mother said, “Oh, very well, but be back in an instant, Tilly.” We ran off and asked the first Yeoman Warder we met what had happened.
“Poor lady was frightened,” he said. “She announced to all who would listen that she is as true a subject of the Queen as anyone now living. Some of the warders felt so bad about what we had to do that they knelt before her.”
“Did you?” Frances asked.
“What do you think?” he said. “If Queen Mary, God bless her, does not give England an heir, the Lady Elizabeth might one day be our queen.”
Frances whispered to me, “He did.”
The warder gazed across Tower Green, to where Lady Jane’s scaffold still stood. “She is right to be frightened.”
He spoke truth, I told Frances. “Princess Elizabeth’s own mother entered the Tower as a prisoner, and never left.”
Her eyes widened. “Never? Then where is she?”
I put my lips close to her ear. “Under the floor of St Peter’s.”
Frances turned green and looked down at the ground.
3rd April 1554
I hate Frances Lea! I thank God that I never confided in her about the letter. She has betrayed my trust.
I noticed that Princess Elizabeth walks daily, high up along the battlements between the Lieut
enant’s Lodgings and the Beauchamp Tower. She takes this exercise whatever the weather and, when it is as windy as it was today, it must be very chilly up there on the roof. Frightening, too, for it overlooks the scaffold site.
There was a moment today when I saw her hooded head above the wall. No one else was around. “Quickly!” I said and, grabbing Frances’s hand, I pulled her across the green towards the wall and called in the loudest whisper I could manage, “My lady!”
And the Princess Elizabeth herself actually leaned out and looked straight down at me! Just then a man’s voice said, “What is it, my lady?” and she jerked her head back.
I pulled Frances in close to the base of the wall and we pressed ourselves against it. I almost stopped breathing. Voices above murmured for a moment, and then all was quiet.
“What were you thinking of?” demanded Frances.
“I need to talk to her,” I said. “I want to give her something.”
“What?”
I could have bitten my tongue in two. “Nothing.”
“You said something,” said Frances. “Something’s not nothing.” She put on that wheedling face she uses to get her own way. “Tell me!”
Bloody Tower Page 6
