A Dangerous Inheritance (15 page)

Anne fell to her knees. “My lord, forgive me! I beg your pardon. The news of the execution was shocking. I did not fully understand the circumstances.” She was pleading with him. He looked at her impassively.

“I wish you both good night,” he said, and was gone.

Kate could not sleep. She lay fidgeting, her mind in turmoil, remembering that stark tableau on Tower Green. And when she did finally drift off, her dreams were of a soldier with a drawn sword, the final terror of a dying man, and dark blood soaking into the grass.

July 1553. Baynard’s Castle, London;

Syon House, Middlesex

It has been unbearably hot and thundery. Two nights ago there was a terrible storm, with raging thunder and hailstones red as clotted blood raining down. Harry and I, like most of the household, were unable to sleep, and as we moved from window to window, watching the tempest, we could hear our fearful servants warning that it was an omen.

The air has been thick with rumors. It’s even being bruited on the streets—and indeed, in the nether regions of Baynard’s Castle—that the King is dying, or even dead. It’s true, he has hardly been seen in public for weeks, but my father-in-law Pembroke was sanguine when Harry asked outright if His Majesty was ill.

“No, he is recovering,” he said. “He is able to walk in his galleries and gardens at Greenwich.”

But that’s not what Annie our cook says. I’m fond of Annie. I am
often in the kitchens and larders with my lady, learning how to govern this household that will one day be mine, and Annie enjoys a familiarity and freedom of speech with the earl and countess that comes from long years of service and skill at her craft. She’s a dumpy, homely soul with a short temper and a sharp tongue, but beneath it all, she has a warm and true heart.

Not long after my exchange with the earl, Annie went to visit her aging mother in Deptford one Sunday, but got caught up in a crowd of Londoners converging on Greenwich Palace, whither—concerned by the prayers for the King’s recovery posted on church doors that morning—they had made their way, bent on demanding to see him.

“Well, this gentleman came out and spoke to us,” Annie recounts, surveying with evident satisfaction her avid circle of listeners in the great kitchen. I’d come to find something sweet to eat, and she had given me a piece of marchpane and bidden me stay to hear her tale. “He said we was to go home, because the air was too chill for His Grace to come out and greet us. But we stood our ground, and some folks spoke up and said we weren’t leaving until we had seen him. He went away, saying he’d see what he could do, and we waited and waited, and then suddenly the King appeared at a window above us.”

She pauses for effect. Her audience is riveted, and she is savoring keeping them in suspense. Such dramas do not often enliven the daily lives of servants.

“Well,” she says, “I was that shocked. We all were. I mean, he was so thin and wasted. He had two attendants with him. I swear they were holding him up. You should have seen the change that come over that crowd. When the King waved and bowed to us, there were a few cheers, but you could tell most people was thinking the same thing. And when he’d gone, men were saying he was doomed. Well, you could see it, plain as day. Poor little King.” She dabs her eyes with her apron.

I hasten away to tell Harry.

“I thought there was something badly amiss,” he says, taking my hand as we stroll in the brilliantly blooming gardens with Sanders keeping a respectful distance. “His Majesty has not set foot outside his palace for ages.”

“But he is so young—not much older than I am,” I comment sadly.

“Death strikes young and old alike,” Harry observes. “We should live our lives to the full, and dread God. Heavens, I am beginning to sound like my parents!” But his smile touches his lips only. “What worries me is what will happen when the King dies,” he says, lowering his voice—there are gardeners scything grass nearby. “The next in line for the throne is the Lady Mary. She is a staunch Papist.”

I know this. I have often heard my parents deploring the Lady Mary’s fervent Catholicism. But I have also felt sorry for her. Declared a bastard after King Harry’s divorce from her mother, Katherine of Aragon, she has clung stubbornly to the faith of her childhood, even after it was outlawed when King Edward embraced the true Protestant religion. Since then she has lived quietly in the country, rarely visiting the court, a sad spinster who spends her barren days telling her beads and praying to her idolatrous images—or so my mother told me.

I do not need Harry to explain to me what will happen if Mary becomes Queen. Any fool could foresee that the whole country will be forced to turn Catholic again, and where will that leave Northumberland and those who have supported him, not to mention the reforms of the past six years? What of his ally Pembroke? Indeed, what of my own father and mother, stout Protestants both? And it dawns on me that we are all—even the little, unimportant people like myself and Harry, Jane, and Guilford Dudley—enmeshed in this web of loyalties and convictions.

On this balmy summer evening the sky has a golden tinge and the setting sun is reflected in the rippling water as the earl’s gilded barge glides upstream on the Thames. Everything looks tranquil and peaceful. Would that my mind could be too.

My lord of Pembroke has told us only that we are going to join the court at Syon House, and ordered us all to wear black. Has the King died? Surely, then, we would be going to Greenwich, in the other direction?

Seated in the plush cabin, doleful in our mourning garb—so at variance with the golden beauty of the day—Harry and I exchange glances. My lady the countess speaks of pleasantries only; even if she is aware
of the purpose of our outing, she gives no clue, for she obeys her husband unquestioningly. Pembroke grunts in answer to her prattle; he is much preoccupied with his secret thoughts.

At Syon, we leave the barge at the landing stage and walk up to the former nunnery, passing between the service wings to the steps that ascend to the magnificent Italianate mansion built by Protector Somerset on the site of the abbey church. Here, an usher is waiting to conduct us through a great chamber hung with tapestries to the presence chamber, which is crowded with lords and ladies, all in black. Their ranks part as Pembroke leads us to the farther end of the room, where a throne is set up on a dais beneath a cloth of estate bearing the royal arms of England. The King must be coming! He must be better, praise be to God. Perhaps he will announce the death of Northumberland and declare himself of an age to rule unaided. Oh, I pray it will be so! Then we will not have to worry about the Lady Mary ascending the throne—and maybe Harry and I can now be allowed to live properly as husband and wife.

People bow as we pass, and some stare or nod in our direction and murmur to their neighbors. Then I espy my parents waiting for us near the dais. I have not seen them since my wedding, nearly two months ago, and kneel to receive their blessing. They raise and kiss me, more affectionately than they ever have, and exchange warm but muted greetings with the earl and countess.

Then my father and Pembroke excuse themselves, saying they must join the other privy councillors in the great hall. They will be waiting to attend on the King when he arrives.

Lord Guilford Dudley joins us. As he greets us haughtily, I am struck by his arrogance. But where is Jane?

“My sister—is she well?” I ask.

“Much amended after a fever,” he replies, but I cannot probe further as there is a sudden fanfare of trumpets, and the courtiers hasten to arrange themselves in order of rank, the greatest standing beside us, nearest the dais. As a respectful hush descends, a small procession approaches through the throng. I crane my neck to glimpse the King, and see the privy councillors processing into the chamber and taking their places near us at the front; but behind them, instead of His Majesty,
Northumberland comes into view, escorting—goodness gracious, he is escorting my sister Jane! She looks confused, alarmed even, a tiny, slender figure in her high-necked black gown, her red hair blazing loose about her shoulders. Beside me, I can sense my mother puffing up with pride. Guilford is staring speculatively at Jane, but she is oblivious. I see the bewilderment in Harry’s face—it must mirror my own.

But where is the King? Why all this pomp and ceremony if he is not here?

Northumberland steers Jane toward the dais. The privy councillors bow as she passes, and suddenly everyone in the room is making an obeisance to her. I am so clean amazed that I forget to follow suit until my mother gives me a sharp pinch.

Jane’s white face registers fright. She trembles and shudders as the duke hands her up the step to the dais, where she stands, awkwardly self-conscious, looking as if she would rather be anywhere else. She seems not to be aware of any of us.

What is the matter with her? Were all these lords and ladies to bow to me, I should revel in it!

Northumberland turns to face us. His face is solemn.

“As Lord President of the Council,” he says gravely, “I do now declare to you the death of his most blessed and gracious Majesty, King Edward VI, whom God has now called unto Himself.”

He pauses so that we can digest this heavy news. I find that I too am shaking, for fear of what might happen now that the Lady Mary is Queen, and I look back toward the door, expecting her to enter. But why has Jane been brought here?

The duke tells us that King Edward, in his wisdom, took great care to defend his kingdom from the Popish faith—and to deliver it from the rule of his evil sisters.

I gawk at that. Surely it is rash of the duke to provoke the Lady Mary by such treasonous words. But there is more …

“His Majesty intended to pass an Act of Parliament,” Northumberland continues in ringing, even challenging, tones. “He was resolved that whoever acknowledges the Lady Mary and the Lady Elizabeth as heirs of the crown should be accounted traitors, for the Lady Mary was disobedient to him in regard to the true religion. Wherefore in no
manner did His Grace wish that they should be his heirs, he being able in every way to disinherit them.”

There is a shocked hush. People glance at each other, stunned. Only the councillors look complacent; they, of course, must have known about this for some time. I hardly dare look at Jane, but when I do, I notice her shivering again, and now the duke turns to address her. “His Majesty hath named Your Grace as heir to the crown of England. If you die without issue, your sisters will succeed you and Lord Guilford.”

Jane—our Queen? I cannot believe it! It is the best and most marvelous news I have ever heard. And her sisters next in line to the throne? That means
me
, and Mary, of course, poor hunchbacked Mary, who rarely sets foot outside the house. But this is impossible. It cannot be true, surely? But it is, it is!

Jane looks as dazed and uncomprehending as I feel; she too is clearly stupefied. But me—I am bursting with excitement and finding it very hard to stand as still as becomes the solemnity of the occasion. No wonder our mother is preening! She knew about this, no doubt, and probably schemed for it—she has ever been ambitious to a fault for her blood. And my father is looking highly satisfied with himself, like a tomcat that has caught a mouse. Father to the Queen! That will suit his vanity.

Jane has still said nothing. Northumberland, with a touch of exasperation in his voice, informs her that her title has been approved by the privy councillors, the peers, and all the judges of the land. “There is nothing wanting but Your Grace’s grateful acceptance!” He adds that she could never sufficiently thank God, the disposer of crowns and scepters, for so great a mercy, and should cheerfully take upon her the name, title, and estate of Queen. Then he falls heavily to his knees and offers her his allegiance, whereupon we all kneel and do her reverence, I still unable to believe that this is happening.

Jane suddenly keels over in a faint, crumpling in a heap on the dais. I expect people to rush to her aid, but no one moves. I want to go to her but am paralyzed with uncertainty, for if she is Queen, her person is sacred, and it would be presumption to touch her. The duke stands looking down on her. I watch her face, willing her to come to her
senses. To my relief, her eyes open and she blinks. Lying on the floor, she starts crying bitterly, making no effort to get up. What on earth is she
crying
for? She should be rejoicing and praising God to the skies for her great good fortune!

Everyone is silent, waiting for her to compose herself. For several minutes the only sound in the room is Jane’s muffled sobbing—and then my mother’s audible, impatient sigh.

“She weeps for the King,” murmurs the Countess of Pembroke.

Jane stops crying. She gets awkwardly to her feet. Her eyes are red and her shoulders shaking, but she faces the duke with determination.

“The crown is not my right,” she declares, her voice surprisingly firm. “It pleases me not. The Lady Mary is the rightful heir.”

My gasp is audible in the shocked silence. Northumberland loses patience with Jane. “Your Grace does wrong to yourself and to your house!” he fumes, as our father and mother step forward angrily.

“Remember your duty to us, your parents!” my lady snarls. “And to my lord duke here, your father-in-law, and to the King’s will, and to those who are now your subjects!”

“No,” Jane says defiantly, just as if she is sparring with our mother over her apparel, as of old.

My mother flares in anger. “You owe me obedience, daughter, and you will do as you are told!”

The courtiers are watching, agog.

“No,” Jane says again. Northumberland is clearly finding it hard to conceal his fury.

Now Guilford steps forward and bows very low. Rising, he lifts his finger to caress Jane’s tearstained face and stroke her arm, but she shakes him off.

“Do as the noble lord my father asks, I pray you,” he urges. “Much good can come of it. We need a new defender for our faith.”

“Leave me be!” Jane cries, and falls to her knees, lifting her joined hands. “Give me a sign, Lord!” she beseeches. “Tell me what I must do.”