The House of Tudor

by Alison Plowden

  The Council were now shifting the attack, trying to accuse Mary of disobedience to her father’s will, but here they were on shaky ground. Mary, who knew the will as well as anybody, could reply with perfect truth that it bound her only in the matter of her marriage and, while they were on the subject, what about the two masses a day which her father had ordered for the repose of his soul? What about the four obsequies a year and the other ceremonies which were not being carried out? The provisions of the will were being carried out, was the rather feeble reply, but only insofar as they were not harmful to the present King. Her father had never ordered anything in the least harmful to the King, said Mary scornfully and, in any case, surely it was reasonable to suppose that he alone had cared more for the good of his son’s kingdom than all the members of the Council put together? This defiance brought the Earl of Warwick into the fray. ‘How now, my lady!’ he exclaimed. ‘It seems your Grace is trying to show us in a hateful light to the King our master without any cause whatsoever.’ She had not meant to do so, answered Mary but they pressed her so hard that she would not dissemble or hide the truth.

  Then she turned back to Edward. She hoped that, remembering their nearness in blood, he would show her enough consideration to allow her to continue undisturbed in the observance of her religion. In the last resort, she went on, there were only two things - soul and body. Her soul she offered to God, her body to the King’s service and she would rather he took away her life than the old religion in which she desired to live and die - and who then can have failed to hear echoes of the long-dead Catherine of Aragon? Edward, obviously embarrassed, said hastily that he had no desire for such a sacrifice and there the meeting ended. Mary, exhausted and shaking with nerves, asked permission to go home and permission was granted.

  Edward is usually said to have been fond of his elder sister, although direct evidence of this is pretty slender. He may well have retained some affection and respect for the woman who had helped to mother him in his babyhood; but to the boy in his early teens, just beginning to feel his power, Mary and her awkward conscience (only Tudor kings were permitted the luxury of awkward consciences) and her elder sisterly habit of telling him he was too young to understand were becoming an irritation and a nuisance.

  His own account of the matter is characteristically terse. ‘The Lady Mary my sister came to me at Westminster’, he wrote in his Journal, ‘...where it was declared how long I had suffered her mass against my will (he later crossed out these words) in hope of her reconciliation, and how now...except I saw some short amendment, I could not bear it. She answered that her soul was God’s and her faith she would not change, nor dissemble her opinion with contrary doings. It was said I constrained not her faith, but willed her as a subject to obey.’

  Edward took his responsibilities as the keeper of his people’s conscience with great seriousness, but it seems likely that the question of his sister’s conscience did not worry him too extremely. Mary, by contemporary standards, was already middle-aged. To Edward she must have seemed already old - she was, after all, fully old enough to be his mother - and her poor health was notorious. The King, notably unsentimental in such matters, probably reflected that the problem would soon go away of its own accord and, left to himself, might have been prepared, however disapprovingly, to let his sister go her own way. But, unhappily for Mary, she was now once again the heiress presumptive and her actions and beliefs were of political importance. It had suited John Dudley to ally himself with the extreme radical wing of the religious reformers, men who stood well to the left of Cranmer. He knew that the conservative bulk of the population, the silent majority, disliked much of what he was doing and agreed with the Lady Mary when she wished that everything had remained as it was at the time of her father’s death. Her example and her influence were important and so, as once before in her life, it was necessary to force her submission. And, as once before, Mary finally surrendered. By the autumn of 1551 mass was no longer being publicly celebrated in her chapel where, of course, any of her neighbours who wanted to come and worship in the old way, had always been welcome. Mary herself continued to seek the consolation of her religion, but in fear and secrecy behind the locked doors of her own apartments.

  The King’s relations with his younger sister were uncomplicated by religious differences, and, so it was said later, there was between them ‘a concurrency and sympathy in their natures and affections, together with the celestial conformity in religion which made them one, and friends; tor the King ever called her his sweetest and dearest sister, and was scarce his own man, she being absent.’ Protestant historians and propagandists writing in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries were concerned to present an idealized picture of this brother and sister, both such notable champions of the faith, and undoubtedly a genuine bond of affection did exist. Born on the same side of the great divide, Henry VIII’s two younger children shared the same sort of background, the same pattern of education, many of the same ideals. They corresponded fairly regularly and Edward always seemed pleased to see Elizabeth when she came to Court. But nevertheless, the depth of their relationship has undoubtedly been exaggerated. Apart from the barrier set up by Edward’s accession, the intimacy of childhood faded as he grew towards manhood. He had more exciting things to think about now than either of his sisters and, in any case, he naturally preferred to spend his leisure in sporting activities than in feminine company.

  Elizabeth had by this time pretty well succeeded in living down any unfortunate impression left behind by the Seymour scandal - at least among those people whose opinions mattered. She had adopted a severely plain style of dressing which suited her elegant figure admirably and won golden opinions from leading Protestant divines, who commented approvingly on her maidenly apparel - such a dramatic contrast to those society ladies who persisted in going about ‘dressed and painted like peacocks’. The visit of Mary of Guise had awakened a new interest in French fashions but the Lady Elizabeth would alter nothing, keeping ‘her old maiden shamefacedness’. She was, of course, setting a fashion herself, eagerly followed by such high-born Protestant maidens as her cousin Jane Grey.

  Elizabeth came up to London about once a year between 1549 and 1552. ‘She was most honourably received by the Council’, wrote the Imperial ambassador Jehan de Scheyfve acidly, ‘who acted thus in order to show the people how much glory belongs to her who has embraced the new religion and is become a very great lady.’ But apart from her carefully spaced public appearances, Elizabeth was living quietly in the country, dividing her time between her Hertfordshire manors of Hatfield and Ashridge. One reason for this retired existence was her own indifferent health. As a little girl she had always been remarkably fit - there is no mention even of ordinary childish ailments - but ever since her separation from Katherine Parr in the spring of 1548 she had been poorly on and off’, suffering from recurrent severe attacks of migraine and catarrh. Probably this was largely of nervous origin -the effect of shock and strain on an adolescent girl. But Elizabeth also found her symptoms provided a useful excuse on occasions. Her other, and perhaps more compelling reason for avoiding the limelight was her determination to avoid any involvement in any controversial issue while the political situation remained so fluid.

  Elizabeth’s innate good sense had saved her at the time of the Admiral’s downfall, but that episode had left an indelible mark on her and had taught her some valuable lessons about discretion and caution and dissimulation - about the necessity of keeping one’s mouth shut and one’s feelings to oneself in a hard, unforgiving world. ‘Her mind has no womanly weakness’, wrote her ex-tutor, Roger Ascham, to his friend the Rector of Strasbourg University, ‘her perseverance is equal to that of a man and her memory long keeps what it quickly picks up.’ Ascham, of course, was referring with justifiable pride to the princess’s wide knowledge of the classical authors, her ability to speak ‘readily and well’ in Latin and moderately in Greek, not to mention her fluency in modern languages, an
d certainly Elizabeth contributed her full share to the sudden intellectual flowering among the third and fourth generations of the house of Tudor. But that brilliant mind could also apply itself to the strictly practical problems of survival and the retentive memory long keep its hold on matters other than Greek grammar. Fortunately for herself and for posterity, Elizabeth remembered and profited by lessons learned outside the schoolroom before she was sixteen. She had her eighteenth birthday in September, 1551 - an age when it was unusual for such a princess to be still unspoken for - but she was content to wait, biding her time and keeping a low profile until she saw more clearly what the future might hold for her.

  What the future held for Elizabeth and Mary Tudor, and for the people of England, depended entirely on Edward who was already becoming a factor to be reckoned with politically and who, if he survived, would soon be casting off” the tutelage of his Council. If he survived...Edward was not the big, strong boy his father had been and his fair colouring and slender physique promoted an impression of fragility, so that emissaries of Catholic powers - alarmed by evidence of his increasingly belligerent Protestantism - dropped hopeful hints in their letters home that the King of England was delicate and not likely to live long. In fact, at fourteen, the King seemed healthy enough. He was now showing every sign of developing the family passion for outdoor sports and spent every spare moment on the tennis court, in the tiltyard or shooting at the butts, and his Journal contains frequent references to various interesting sporting events. The Spanish ambassador reported that the King was beginning to exercise himself in the use of arms and enjoyed it heartily. The French ambassador complimented him on the dexterity of his swordplay, declaring that his Majesty ‘had borne himself right weir and receiving the modest reply from Edward that it was a small beginning but as time passed he hoped to do his duty better.

  Then, in April 1552, the King developed a high temperature and a rash. He himself later recorded, ‘I fell sike of the mesels and the smallpokkes.’ This would surely have been a lethal combination and Edward’s illness was probably a sharp attack of measles. He made a good recovery and was able to attend a St. George’s Day service at Westminster Abbey, wearing his Garter robes. On the thirtieth the Court moved down to Greenwich and Edward held a review of his men-at-arms on Blackheath. On 27 June, apparently in his usual health and spirits, he set out on an extended progress through the south and west. The progress was a triumphant personal success for the King and Edward, who had never before travelled so far from London, thoroughly enjoyed himself. But the programme was an exhausting one and people noticed that he was looking pale and thin. In fact, that unlucky bout of measles, coming just at the most dangerous age for Tudor boys, and followed by a strenuous summer, had fatally weakened him and by the time he got back to Windsor, a few days after his fifteenth birthday, tuberculosis was already established. By Christmas it was obvious that he was far from well and a more than usually elaborate round of festivities was organized to distract attention from this disturbing fact. When Mary came to London at the beginning of February, Edward was running a temperature and it was three days before he was well enough to see her. Jehan de Scheyfve reported that the princess was received with noticeably more attention and courtesy than on previous occasions, the Duke of Northumberland himself going down to the outer gates of the Palace of Westminster to welcome her. Edward was still in bed and Mary sat beside him while they chatted amicably about safe subjects - the thorny topic of religion was not mentioned.

  Edward stayed in his room for the rest of the month. He seemed, wrote de Scheyfve, *to be sensitive to the slightest indisposition or change’ and suffered a good deal when the fever was on him. In March he rallied temporarily and was able to open the new session of Parliament, although the Lords and Commons had to go to him and a much curtailed ceremony was performed within the precincts of the palace. The doctors, who remained in constant attendance, made reassuring noises but those courtiers who had not seen the King since Christmas were horrified by the change in him. He had become thin to the point of emaciation and his left shoulder seemed higher than his right. On 11 April 1553 Edward was moved out to the purer air of Greenwich, but de Scheyfve wrote that he was no better and the ambassador heard from ‘a trustworthy source’ that his sputum was ‘sometimes coloured a greenish yellow and black, sometimes pink, like the colour of blood’. A month later, de Scheyfve had another grisly bulletin for the Emperor. ‘The physicians are now all agreed that he is suffering from a suppurating tumour on the lung...He IS beginning to break out in ulcers; he is vexed by a harsh, continuous cough, his body is dry and burning, his belly is swollen, he has a slow fever upon him that never leaves him.’

  The government was making every effort to conceal the gravity of the King’s condition, but it was impossible to stop the rumours spreading. Mary wrote anxious letters begging to be allowed to visit him and Elizabeth made a determined effort to reach her sick brother. Some time that spring she had actually started on the journey to London but was met on the way by a messenger purporting to come from the King, who ‘advised’ her to turn back. After this, there was nothing to be done but return to Hatfield and await developments. She continued to write to Edward but it is doubtful if any of her betters ever reached him. Having once faced the fearful fact that the King’s illness was mortal, the Duke of Northumberland had gone to considerable pains to separate him from his sisters. He wanted no outside influence brought to bear on the dying boy and was anxious to prevent either of the princesses from hearing of his plans for their future.

  Northumberland’s power would end with the King’s death - the best he could expect from Mary and her friends was political extinction, the worst an early appointment on Tower Hill - and since no one believed he would give up without a struggle, the Court and City seethed with nervous speculation. At the beginning of May John Dudley took the first steps towards securing his position by announcing the betrothal of Lady Jane Grey to his youngest and only remaining unmarried son, Guildford. Bearing in mind that Henry VIII had willed the crown to the so-called Suffolk line after his own children, the intention behind this move could hardly be mistaken.

  At first the plan encountered some unexpected opposition from fifteen-year-old Lady Jane. After the arrest of Thomas Seymour, Jane had been reluctantly obliged to return home. Her only escape would be marriage but she disliked Guildford Dudley, a conceited, oafish youth and his mother’s darling, and she considered herself already promised to the young Earl of Hertford, son of the late Protector. Her protests did her no good. Her deplorable parents set on her in unison and the marriage duly took place at Durham House on Whitsunday, 21 May. At the same ceremony, Jane’s younger sister Katherine, now thirteen, was married to Lord Herbert, son and heir of the powerful Earl of Pembroke, and one of Northumberland’s daughters, another Katherine, to Lord Hastings, heir of the Earl of Huntingdon. This triple wedding, designed by John Dudley to forge a triple-strength chain of alliances, was ‘a very splendid and royal’ occasion, attended by ‘a great concourse of the principal persons of the kingdom’. It had been given out that the King himself would be there, but Edward was by now in no condition to leave his bed. According to de Scheyfve, writing on 11 June, he was now obliged to lie flat on his back all day. He could keep nothing on his stomach and was living ‘entirely on restoratives and obtaining little or no repose’.

  By this time, in fact, the wretched Edward, suffering as much, if not more, from the remedies being inflicted on him as from his disease, was very near his end. But there was to be no merciful oblivion for England’s Treasure, or at any rate not yet. Somehow Northumberland had to keep him alive until their joint dispositions for the future were complete. Early in June the Duke had taken the unprecedented step of dismissing Edward’s doctors and bringing in a wise-woman, who undertook to cure the King if she was given a free hand. This woman, whose name is not recorded, proceeded to dose her helpless patient with ‘restringents’, which probably included arsenic and wh
ich had the immediate effect of producing a rally. In the long-term, her ministrations caused Edward’s limbs to swell, his skin to darken and his hair and nails to fall out; but while the temporary improvement lasted, he and John Dudley worked together over his Device for the Succession which was to disinherit Mary and Elizabeth, pass over Frances Suffolk and bequeath the crown directly to the Lady Jane and ‘her heirs male’.

  Northumberland generally gets all the blame for this blatant attempt to set aside the direct line in order to further his own ambition, but Edward needed little urging to disinherit his elder sister - he was only too well aware that the Catholic Mary would lose no time in trying to undo all the work of godly reform carried out during the past five years. Elizabeth was rather different, but it would be difficult to remove one of the princesses without the other and Elizabeth, however good her intentions, might very well find herself obliged to marry a Catholic prince. Both the princesses, in fact, were liable to acquire foreign husbands who would gain control of affairs and ‘tend to the utter subversion of the commonwealth’.

  As soon as everything was in readiness, Northumberland, who was not a deliberately cruel man, got rid of the quack and allowed the royal physicians back into the sickroom. Edward had now taken no solid food for nearly three weeks, his fingers and toes were becoming gangrenous and the boy, born in such joy and hope fifteen years and nine months ago, longed only for death. Release came during the late afternoon of 6 July, when the last Tudor king died in the arms of his friend Henry Sidney.

  Edward VI was the first committed Protestant King of England - a fact which unfortunately tended to overshadow everything else in the minds of his contemporaries - and the flood of eulogies on his godly wisdom and government, his zeal in abolishing ‘the deformities of popish idolatry’ and overthrowing ‘the tyranny of Anti-Christ’ have very largely succeeded in obscuring the reality of the living, breathing boy. Perhaps the most interesting, because disinterested, appreciation comes from an outsider, Girolamo Cardano, an Italian mathematician and physician, who saw and talked to the King in the autumn of 1552 when a trained observer could already discern ‘the mark in his face of death that was to come too soon’. Cardano could report at first-hand on Edward’s ‘singularly perfect’ knowledge of Latin and French and could easily believe that he was equally proficient in Greek, Italian and Spanish. ‘Neither was he ignorant in logic, in the principles of natural philosophy, or in music. There was in him lacking neither humanity, the image of our mortality, a princely gravity and majesty, nor any kind of towardness beseeming a noble king. Briefly, it might seem a miracle of nature to behold the excellent wit and forwardness that appeared in him being yet a child.’ And yet, Cardano insisted, he was not exaggerating. If anything ‘the truth is more than I do utter’. They met several times and discussed, among other things, astronomy and the causes of comets. Cardano was deeply impressed by his grasp of and interest in the liberal arts and sciences, his sagacity and his ‘amiable sweetness’. ‘By this little trial’, he wrote, ‘a great guess may be given what was in this King.’