Though Henry Grey wept, for his feckless self, and perhaps even shed a tear or two for his daughter, Jane herself took it well. When the verdict was pronounced and they turned the ax heads toward her, she did not break down. Calmly and resignedly she announced, “I am ready and glad to end my woeful days.”
Only afterward, back in her room at the Tower, with her devoted Mrs. Ellen, did she let her tears flow and her fear show, clinging to her nurse and sobbing, “I am innocent, and I do not deserve this sentence, but I should not have accepted the crown.”
Renard was beside me, to lend his support, when I had to sign her death warrant. When I hesitated he reassured me, saying, “God will not allow you to condemn unjustly.”
Still hoping against hope to save her, I sent the kindly Dr. Feckenham to offer her a reprieve; I would spare her life if she would renounce her heretical beliefs and convert to the true faith, but she refused. I knew she would. Her religion, however blasphemous and false her beliefs were, was the only thing Jane had to cling to; I could not imagine her letting go even if it meant falling straight into the fiery pit of Hell. And she was not sad to die. When urged to grasp this opportunity to save herself, she turned to Dr. Feckenham and said dolefully, “Alas, Sir, it is not my desire to prolong my days. I assure you, my life has been so odious to me that I long for nothing so much as I long for death.” Then she asked him to leave her alone to make her peace with God.
“Death will give pain to my body for its sins, but my soul will be justified before God. If my faults deserve punishment, my youth at least, and my imprudence, were worthy of excuse. God and posterity will show me more favor,” Lady Jane announced stoically as she looked out upon the scaffold being built below her window on Tower Green.
Touched by her bravery, Dr. Feckenham humbly begged leave to attend her on her last day. And, courageous spirit aside, the frightened little girl that she really was mutely nodded assent then turned away, back to the window, lest he see her chin quiver with the tears she was fighting to hold back.
I sat in my room beside the portrait of Prince Philip and held her miniature in my rosary-wrapped hand and wept as she mounted the scaffold. As penance, I bade Dr. Feckenham, who had walked with Jane every step of the way on her final journey, come to me afterward and made myself listen to a full account of her death. I closed my eyes, hugged Jane’s picture and my rosary to my heart, and drank in every word as tears poured down my face as I imagined it. I wanted to feel as if I were actually there, bearing witness to it; that would be my punishment, my cross to bear.
Early that most saddest of February mornings, before she dressed, I sent a panel of matrons to examine her, even though Jane reacted with angry tears and considered it a grave indignity and humiliation to have to lie down on her bed and lift her shift and spread her legs to their probing and prying fingers and answer their equally intrusive questions. I know she thought I did it out of spite, and I am sorry for it. I’m sorry I could not have been there to hold her hand and stroke her hair and try to make her understand. Poor little thing, she could not know that I was grasping at that little wisp of cobweb-slender hope that even though she was a most unwilling wife, if the examination showed her to be with child I could tear up her death warrant and stay her execution and buy us both more time—time for Jane to think, time for Dr. Feckenham to try to persuade her, time in which I could delay signing the death warrant that would stain my hands with my sixteen-year-old cousin’s innocent blood. But she was not with child. How could she be? She loathed Guildford Dudley and hated his touch and had not shared his bed in months. And since she would not renounce her religion, not even to save her life, Jane had no choice but to dry her angry, humiliated tears and prepare herself to die. So, really, it was not my fault; it was her own decision. My signature on the death warrant was just a formality.
After watching, weeping, from her window as Guildford walked to the scaffold, pale as the ghost he would soon be, trembling but trying to be brave, elegant in black velvet with not a strand of his golden hair out of place, and after his corpse made the return journey by cart wrapped in a bloodstained sheet, it was Jane’s turn.
In a plain, black silk dress that left her neck and shoulders bare, with her hair pinned up tight so as not to impede the ax, she walked to the scaffold, her head bowed over a small black-velvet-bound prayer book suspended from a cord about her waist. She was accompanied by the faithful Mrs. Ellen, the nurse who had seen her into this world and would now see her out of it, Sir John Bridges, the Lieutenant of the Tower, who had grown quite fond of her and had begged her little prayer book as a remembrance, and Dr. Feckenham, who still hoped fear would at the last moment sway her to grasp at this last chance to save her life.
“There is a time to be born and a time to die and the day of our death is better than the day of our birth.” Jane spoke the words aloud as she inscribed them with a pencil of black charcoal inside her little black prayer book before handing it to Sir John and thanking him for his great kindness to her.
From the scaffold, in a timorous little voice, she bravely and very formally addressed the crowd that had come to watch her die. Some were actually presuming to call her a Protestant martyr!
“Good people, I am come hither to die, and by law I am condemned to the same. The fact, indeed, against the Queen’s Highness was unlawful, and the consenting thereunto by me: But touching the procurement and desire thereof by me, I do wash my hands in innocency before God and the face of you good Christian people.” She wrung her hands and swallowed hard before continuing. “I pray you all to bear me witness that I die a true Christian woman. And now, good people, while I am alive, I pray you assist me with your prayers.”
And then she knelt and in a tear-choked voice, recited in English the 51st Psalm, the Miserere Mei Deus. Then she rose and went to Dr. Feckenham and gratefully embraced him and kissed his cheek.
“Though true it is that we shall never meet in Heaven unless God turns your heart, I beseech Him to abundantly reward you for your kindness toward me. Although I must needs say it was more unwelcome to me than my instant death is terrible.”
They stood together, embracing, for a long time, then Jane sighed resignedly and turned away, squaring her shoulders, and trying to be brave as she faced the black-hooded executioner.
He knelt down and asked her forgiveness for what he was about to do, and Jane readily pardoned him.
“I pray you dispatch me quickly,” she said, and he nodded his consent. When he started to turn away, panic seized her, and she grasped his arm. “Will you take my head off before I lay it down?” she asked fearfully.
“No, Madame,” he reassured her most kindly.
Mrs. Ellen came forward then and tied a blindfold over Jane’s eyes and her nimble fingers made quite sure the pins restraining her hair were secure.
But when she knelt in the straw and reached for the block, Jane’s hands found only empty air.
Only then did she give way to panic, whimpering over and over again with rising panic, “What shall I do? Where is it? Where is it?” until Dr. Feckenham, moved to pity and unable to bear her suffering, stepped forward and took the blindly groping, flailing hands in his and gently guided them to the wooden block, his hand lingering reassuringly over hers for a moment to give what comfort he could.
“Thank you!” she breathed. And with a deep breath, Jane laid her head down.
“Lord, into Thy hands I commend my spirit,” she said as the muscular arms of the headsman raised the ax up high.
A single stroke and a great gush of blood ended Jane’s life. The headsman bent and caught her head up by its hair and held it high as he cried out the traditional words, “So perish all the Queen’s enemies! Behold the head of a traitor!” though it was noted by some, the honest Dr. Feckenham among them, that his voice was lacking in both volume and robustness.
After Dr. Feckenham left me, I retreated to my private chapel. I prayed for her soul, fasted, and wept, for what I had been forced to do e
ven when my heart cried out to be merciful and lenient to this poor, misused little girl who wanted only to be left alone with her beloved books. Now she lay rotting, headless, in the musty crypt beneath the floor of the Tower’s chapel, St. Peter ad Vincula, with Anne Boleyn, her brother and lovers, the dainty harlot-queen Katherine Howard, and her bawd Lady Rochford. Poor Jane, I thought, to lie entombed with such a lewd company.
As I knelt in prayer suddenly the stained-glass window nearest me shattered in a shower of rainbow prisms and sharp shards of jewel-colored glass. A dead dog, its body still warm, landed beside me, the pink ribbon of its tongue unfurling to lick the hem of my skirt. I screamed and clasped my chest as I saw that its head had been shaven in a gross parody of a monk’s tonsure and it was dressed in crudely sewn robes cut from a rough cloth sack to mimic a monk’s habit. The noose that had strangled it was still around its neck.
Alarmed by my scream, my ladies, led by Susan and Jane, rushed to my side, as the guards streamed in and then just as quickly out again in pursuit of the culprit after first ascertaining that I was all right. I was seated and given a cup of warm wine while Susan and Jane rubbed my hands and feet, trying to calm me and slow my rapidly racing heart, and another sponged the dog’s blood from the hem of my garnet velvet gown. Then Ambassador Renard was there, kneeling beside me, whispering urgently, now that Jane was gone there was still the threat of Elizabeth. The people loved her, the Protestants loved her, she was their flame-haired white-clad candle of hope, and something must be done about her . . .
I knew he was right. Elizabeth had always been more dangerous than our poor little cousin Jane. It was Elizabeth who should have died upon that scaffold, not Jane. So I sent my own doctors and my personal litter to convey her to London, for, sick or not, Elizabeth had much to answer for. . . .
28
Elizabeth
Kat shook me from a light and restless sleep, her face a gaunt, ashen, red-eyed mask of fright all wet with tears, to tell me that Lady Jane Grey was dead. Mary had signed the death warrant and sent our harmless, guiltless little cousin to the block, to pave the way for her Spanish bridegroom’s safe arrival.
I sat up in my bed and hugged my knees, letting my tears drip down on them, as I bowed my head and remembered the shy little scholar I had known, and not always been kind to, at Chelsea, the little mouse who wanted only to stay holed up with her beloved books, burrowing into them to feed her hunger for knowledge, who, even during her confinement in the Tower, pursued her study of Hebrew so that she might read the Old Testament in its original tongue.
I could see her shy, intent little face back in the schoolroom at Chelsea as she answered me when I asked why she was so passionate about her studies.
“I will tell you, Cousin Bess,” she earnestly confided, sitting down opposite me in the window seat. The pale golden sunlight streamed in through the diamond-shaped panes to cast a beatific nimbus about her chestnut hair and plain gray gown embellished with but a little black silk braid that her nervous nail-bitten fingers constantly tried to unravel whenever they were not occupied with writing, reading, or sewing. “I will tell you a truth which perchance you will marvel at. One of the greatest benefits that God ever gave me is that He sent me, with such sharp, severe parents, so kind and gentle a schoolmaster. When I am in the presence of either Father or Mother, whether I speak, keep silent, sit, stand, or go, eat, drink, be merry, or sad, be sewing, dancing, playing, or doing anything else, I must do it, as it were, as perfectly as God made the world, or else I am so sharply taunted, so cruelly threatened and tormented with harsh words, pinches, slaps, and other chastisements—which I will not name for the honor I bear my parents—to such a degree that I think myself truly in Hell, till the time comes when I must go to Master Aylmer, who teaches me so gently, so pleasantly, imbuing in me such joy in learning, as he has himself, that I think of nothing else all the while I am with him. And when I am called from him I fall to weeping, because whatever else I do but learning is full of great trouble and dislike for me. And thus my books have become so much my pleasure, and more, so that everything else is but trifles and troubles to me.”
Remorse filled me now at the memory. I had seen Jane undressed once, when I came into her room just as she was emerging from her bath to be wrapped in the sheet Mrs. Ellen held up for her. Jane had just returned from a visit to her parents, and I saw the bruises, ugly blotches of urine-hued yellow, gray-green, brown, and purplish-black all up and down her arms, buttocks, legs, and back, and silvery-white scars as if the skin had split during a brutal caning, all places that when she was properly dressed would never show. I had been so preoccupied with Tom then, I let it go. It did not properly register; I did not feel the outrage that I should, as I did now when it was too late. I wished now I had been kinder and the true friend Jane never had but always needed; perhaps I could have helped her. I should have done something! I should not have let my head become so soggy with lust that I failed to render aid to a soul in need, a little girl who lacked my own strength. I had learned the art of self-preservation early, to rely on and fight for myself, when my mother died and my father could not stand the sight of me, but Jane had not; she had been beaten down since the day she was born, she never had a chance, she never learned to fight, only to hide like a frightened rabbit in a den of books. Now she was dead and beyond all mortal help. Poor little soul, she never had a real chance to truly live!
“Godspeed, Jane,” I whispered fervently through my tears. “May you find with God in His Heaven the love and tenderness you were always denied here on earth.”
“Merciful Mary” had just spilled the blood of our kinswoman, a delicate girl she used to dress up like a doll, whose abundant waves of chestnut hair she used to brush, and whose now-severed neck she had decked with rubies for her wedding day, a girl she knew to have been innocent, the forced and bullied pawn of ambitious, greedy men jockeying for power in a real-life game of chess where the throne of England was the ultimate prize. Jane, whose only crime—and it was only a crime in fervent, fanatical Catholic eyes—was her unshakable devotion to the Protestant faith. She had been true to her conscience even as Mary had always been true to hers; even though they disagreed, they had that mule-stubborn devoutness in common, and Mary had killed her. That day I was ashamed to call her my sister. And if she could sign away the life of our cousin, what would she do to me, her own sister?
That night I dreamt of a small army of woodsmen striking the tops off the trees growing in a fine park. At each strike of the ax, blood spurted from their trunks, and as their verdant heads toppled they gave off bloodcurdling screams as the blood gurgled and spewed out. And in their midst, wandering frantic, frightened, and lost, hands outstretched as she staggered and stumbled, flailing and groping blindly amongst the falling, bleeding green branches, was a small, slender white-gowned ghost, the only color about her the bright red blood bubbling from her neck, trickling down to stain her gown. “Where is it? Where is it?” a hysterical little voice sobbed over and over, even though she had no head and thus no lips to speak the words with, just as Jane herself had done when she knelt blindfolded in the straw and reached out, groping blindly for the block.
I bolted up in bed screaming and did not dare close my eyes again for the rest of the night. Later, Kat would tell me that the woodsmen at Bradgate Manor, Jane’s childhood home, upon hearing of the death of their poor little lady, had taken it upon themselves to behead the trees in the park as a gesture of mourning for her.
They came for me soon afterward. I knew they would. Knowing and fearing that, and the uncertainty of the outcome, made me even sicker. Disbelieving my physician’s letter that I was far too ill to travel, Mary had thoughtfully sent two of her own physicians and her personal litter to bear me back to London with the utmost care and comfort.
For three days the learned doctors poked and prodded me; they scrutinized and sniffed my urine, felt my pulse, and noted my pallor, and finally diagnosed an imbalance of the watery humors, b
ut nothing serious enough to keep me from traveling. One of them made so bold as to tell me that he thought fear or perhaps even—he begged forgiveness for the presumption—a guilty conscience was the root from which my illness stemmed.
The fear that death awaited me at the end of my journey made me even sicker, and my escorts slowed our pace to a mere walk lest they arrive in London bearing my corpse. As I lay back against the soft velvet cushions, my head and joints an aching agony, and my vision wavering as if I looked up and out at the world from under water, I fought down wave after wave of nausea. Sometimes it became unbearable and I had to shout for them to halt as I leaned over the side of the litter, Kat holding me so I did not tumble out, and gathering back my hair, as, dignity be damned, I vomited into the road until, exhausted, I slumped back against the cushions again, the bitter bile burning my throat and tears stinging my eyes.
At my insistence, I traveled with the curtains open wide, to give me air, contradicting Mary’s orders that they stay closed. The people saw me lying there pale and wan, as white as my gown, my flame-red hair glowing all the brighter against my deathly pallor, and shook their fists at my escorts, and shouted, “Shame!” and called the wrath of God down upon their heads.
Word quickly spread that I was being taken to London as a prisoner of my own sister, and the people rushed to line the roadsides. They tossed bunches of flowers and sweet-smelling herbs onto my litter and, hearing I was ill, more than one country housewife ran out to humbly bob a curtsy and present some tried and true remedy to me, assuring me that it would do me “a world of good.”
“God save our Princess Elizabeth!” I must have heard it shouted ten thousand times before I reached Whitehall, and every one was a shot of courage to my heart. The warmth of their love banished the deathly chill of fear, and my nausea eased. I sat up a little straighter as I returned their smiles and waves. I knew that I was loved and that I was not alone.
Tudor Throne Page 26
