A Dangerous Inheritance (30 page)

A letter from Jane arrives. It is the first I have had from her since those short days of her reign—a lifetime ago now, it seems—and it will probably be the last. I seize it, hoping to read that she has changed her mind; but instead, she reminds me sternly that the New Testament is worth more than precious stones and will win me more than our woeful father’s lands, which we will surely lose when he is attainted for treason. She speaks of our being God’s elect, and set on the path of righteousness, even to the point of martyrdom. I am in misery, knowing she will die thinking me perfect in the new religion, when in fact I have betrayed it—and the ideals in which she firmly believes, and for which she is prepared to pay the ultimate price.

Reading on, I realize that she is already gone from us.

The letter falls to the floor. I see two little girls, dabbling their feet in the stream that runs through the gardens at Bradgate, playing hide-and-seek
amid the oak trees in Charnwood Forest, practicing their dance steps, and huddling together in the face of parental wrath. I see Jane as she was when I last saw her, slender and earnest, her red hair long and luxuriant, her skin creamy, apart from the freckles that have been the bane of her life.
Her life
, which will soon be at an end, when the living, breathing entity that is Jane Grey, with all its hopes, fears, beliefs, and everything that matters to it, will be no more.

I remember I should be attending on the Queen. I am late. I look in the mirror to make sure I am tidy. I hardly recognize myself, I look so wasted. My eyes are ravaged with crying, my face drawn, my hair dull and lifeless under my hood. I smooth it ineffectually and splash water from the basin onto my face, then try to rearrange my features into some semblance of composure.

When I enter the Queen’s chamber, she is alone save for an elderly priest.

“Lady Katherine, this is Abbot Feckenham,” she tells me. “I have brought him here because he has been with your sister. I pray he can give you some comfort.”

I find myself looking into the kindliest pair of eyes I have ever seen.

“How is my sister, Father Abbot?” I ask.

“Firm in her resolve and her faith, I regret to say.” The old man looks deeply saddened. “I did all I could to turn her mind, but she would not deny her God. Certainly He is a tower of strength to her. She declared she would not suffer me to tempt her beyond her power, yet when put to the test, she stood staunchly by her faith. Her steadfastness is an example to us all, even if it is misguided.”

“
She
does not believe that,” I say. The Queen glances at me sharply.

“No,” the abbot agrees, his thin voice hoarse with emotion. “She said it was not her desire to prolong her days, and that she does not despise death and willingly undergoes it since it is the Queen’s pleasure.” He pauses, and gazes on me with boundless compassion. “She told me these times have been so odious to her that she longs for nothing so much as death.”

The Queen looks so anguished, I can find it in me to feel sorry for her. “Katherine,” she says without ceremony, “there is something I
must explain to you.” Her eyes are troubled as she takes my hands in hers most kindly; it is as if we are no longer Queen and subject, but two women bound by tragedy.

“I do not seek your sister’s death,” she says, her eyes filling with tears. “I am constrained to it by my council and by Spain. They will not let King Philip marry me until the land has been purged of traitors. I know full well that Jane is no true traitor, but nevertheless she accepted the crown that was rightfully mine, and the late rebellion, which was partly led by your father, was raised in her name. It nearly cost me my throne, as my councillors constantly remind me. I have no choice! But I want you to know that I have done everything in my power to save your sister.”

She squeezes my hands and swallows nervously. “I sent my beloved Abbot Feckenham to Jane to persuade her to convert to the true faith. I have arranged to have her examined tomorrow by a panel of matrons, to determine if she is with child, when, again, I could spare her life. But that, I fear, is a vain hope. She and Lord Guilford have not been alone together for months. So I have no choice, God help me! But I tell you now, Katherine, that her death is something I shall regret to the end of my days. She is my flesh and blood too—and she is so young.”

I turn away, forgetting the courtesy due to my sovereign. I feel as if a torrent is building up within me, that I might scream and cry and never cease. But I struggle to control myself.

“Madam …” I falter. Until now I have not dared to ask this question. “When—When is it to be?”

“Tomorrow morning,” the Queen says. Her cheeks are wet. “Your lady mother knows.”

“I have promised your sister I will attend her to the scaffold,” Abbot Feckenham says. “It is the least I can do for her, and she wants me there, even though she fears we will never meet in Heaven.”

This is all too much for me. Forgetting that I am in the presence of my sovereign, I collapse into the abbot’s arms, howling my heart out.

“I will be there, child, never fear,” he soothes. “I will be with her to the very end.”

September 1483, York

York had been a triumph, but it had worn the little prince out. Everyone agreed that the healthy air of Middleham, to which he was used, was the best thing for him.

Kate had a lump in her throat as she stood with her stepmother, waving him off. She knew how keenly Anne felt the parting, but there was more to it than that. The duchess always looked pale and tired these days, and she had developed a slight but persistent cough. Kate feared for her.

She was sadly aware too that since Anne had cast doubts on the King’s claim to the throne, the old familiar closeness between stepmother and stepdaughter had diminished. Kate still loved Anne, and deeply respected her, but she was aware that Anne had distanced herself from Richard, and that relations between them were becoming increasingly strained. She knew that the Queen was thinking of taking up permanent residence at Middleham, as far as that fitted in with her state duties. That would mean that she, Kate, would have to live there too, for an unwed girl could not remain in a court of men.

She fretted constantly about the prospect of being parted indefinitely from John. If only they could be married! That would be the ideal solution. She must make it happen! Driven by the need for action, she confided in Mattie. Not that Mattie could be of much help, but at least she was willing to listen, and when it came to affairs of love, she showed herself to be Kate’s champion.

“My life would be empty without John,” Kate declared. “I cannot bear the thought of being so far away from him. I will
make
my father the King consent to our marriage. I will warn him about the earl’s possible betrothal, and beg him to speak to the Duke of Suffolk. But first, I
must
see my dear lord.”

In the end they agreed that Mattie would take a sealed message to John to tell him that Kate needed to meet with him urgently.

“What did he say?” Kate asked eagerly when Mattie returned later that day.

“Nothing. He wasn’t there. I left the note with his valet.”

Kate hoped that the valet was discreet.

“Don’t look so worried, my lady,” Mattie reassured her. “He thinks ’tis me in whom my lord earl has an interest—I gave him to believe that.”

Kate watched the hourglass marking the passage of time. She prayed that John would send word to her, or even contrive to seek her out himself. The waiting was pure torture.

He came at ten o’clock, cloaked and hooded, so that none would have recognized him. As Mattie closed the door on them, he held Kate strongly and tightly, and kissed her passionately. With that, the world receded and she was lost.

It seemed the most natural thing to lie down together on her bed, with the curtains drawn, and to kiss and caress each other with increasing ardor. It seemed so right for John to stroke her breasts through the thick velvet of her bodice, and to press his searching lips to the inviting cleft that disappeared into the neckline of her gown. When he ran his fingers over her hips and thighs, she made no protest. Nothing else mattered except the dizzying sensations that were consuming her and banishing all reason. And indeed, she would have let him do more, save for the fact that John himself, breathless and tousled, drew back, forcing himself away from her and grimacing as if he were actually in pain.

“No, my darling, we must not! I honor you too greatly,” he breathed in her ear. For answer, she clung to him more tightly until he groaned and pried her eager fingers away.

“Let be, sweetheart,” he cried, “or I will not be able to trust myself. Oh, my Kate, my sweet lady, I do worship you! It has seemed an eternity being apart from you.”

She was so rapt in wonder that she could not speak. He smiled down at her.

“We must be married!” he declared. “I will speak to my father and
make my position plain, and then I shall go to the King—if you will have me, of course.” He looked at her pleadingly.

“Did you need to ask?” she teased him. “Of course I will have you. And please speak to my father soon, or I might be banished to Middleham.”

“That I will not allow.” John stood up, straightening his clothes. “I will see my father in the morning.” Then, with a radiant smile, he executed a courteous bow and left her sitting on the bed, unable to believe how easy it had been.

1554–55, the Court

In this bitter spring that has followed hard upon the tragedies, the world seems dead to me, and the budding blooms and glorious flowering of Dame Nature are no more than cruel mockery. My soul is consumed by loss: husband, sister, father, all taken brutally from me. There can be nothing good for me in this life now, and I sometimes wish that the grave would swallow me too.

My dreams are of blood-spattered axes and the mutilated corpses of the beloved dead, or of Harry and me in those brief, bittersweet weeks we had together; Harry, my love, who is gone from me as surely as if Death had done his work upon him too. How dare the flowers open out their beauty to the heavens; how dare the lambs gambol in the fields; how dare the gentle warmth of the breeze caress my face like a lover, when all is lost to me?

The Queen has been uncommonly kind to me, my mother, and my poor sister Mary. She has done everything she can to support my lady in her grief, and has even restored to her some of the lands and manors confiscated by the Act of Attainder that condemned my father. Of course, there is between the Queen’s Grace and my lady a wary courtesy, for how could it be otherwise, when the one has sent the other’s husband and child to their deaths?

Her Majesty’s bounty has extended to me too, for she has bestowed on me the most generous pension of eighty pounds a year, which has made me financially independent. And, because my mother is much preoccupied with settling her own affairs, and consumed with sorrow as well, the Queen has charged her loyal friend, the Duchess of Somerset, to keep a watchful eye over Mary and me. Her Majesty, seeing the poor, downcast case in which we languish, has judged it neither fair nor fitting to keep us with her at court. For my part, I can no longer abide the poisonous atmosphere of that hateful place, where all has turned to tragedy and others rejoice in the fall of my house. And so I and my sister Mary go to lodge with the Duchess of Somerset’s family at Shelford Priory, near Nottingham. I go willingly, thankfully.

The duchess, who was born Anne Stanhope, is the widow of Edward Seymour, the late Lord Protector, who was brother to Queen Jane. Her Grace is a strident woman, a high-nosed snob with the pride of Lucifer, and ceaselessly ambitious for her children, of whom she has nine yet living. Still, she is a kindly guardian, and content to leave Mary and me to our own devices, so long as we do not disturb her peace. The duchess herself was a prisoner in the Tower for two years following her husband’s execution, and was liberated only last year by Queen Mary, so she relishes her freedom, and cannot bear any constraint upon it.

Summer comes with heartening news: my mother is appointed Lady of the Privy Chamber to the Queen, and soon afterward Mary and I are commanded to put off our mourning and join her there, to serve Her Majesty once more. I go reluctantly. I am still grieving for Jane, still yearning for Harry, still mourning my lost hopes of a crown. The way I am feeling, it matters not where I am or what I do. I struggle to perform my duties, but my mother tells me it will do me good to concentrate on something other than my grief, so I do my best to give satisfaction to the Queen, hard though it is for me.

The Lady Elizabeth is in the Tower. It is a great scandal. The talk is that she was secretly involved in Wyatt’s rebellion, and will shortly be accused of treason and sent to the block, going the way of her mother. That rouses me a little, but I am in no mood to gloat over an enemy brought low: I can only feel for her. Yet the investigation drags on and
on, and still the council does not proceed against Elizabeth. Next we hear, she has left the Tower and been moved under house arrest to Woodstock, where the Queen—who has no love for her sister these days—means to keep her out of mischief.

Gradually, as I reaccustom myself to the routine of Her Majesty’s daily round and my duties, I begin to take pleasure in small things once more. My dogs, for example—they have been my one comfort through all this. And there are others. Sometimes, when there are festivities at court, we are allowed to leave off our regulation black or tawny gowns and borrow finery from Her Majesty’s own wardrobe. It is while trying on a selection of elegant beaded or beribboned dresses with some giggling maids of honor that I learn to smile again, and begin once more to enjoy the camaraderie that exists in the privy chamber and the maidens’ dorter: the merriment, the music, the sweetmeats, and the endless games of cards and dice.