Prisoner of the Queen (Tales From the Tudor Court) (7 page)

The
quarrel between Princess Elizabeth, Jane and me still played vividly in my mind. She’d called us pawns. She had been right.

Once more
Father would seek to put us all in danger, and there was naught that we could do about it. Even my own mother had not been able to persuade him otherwise. I never thought my father capable of such treachery. Certainly there had been whispers but I never thought it possible. To put his daughter on the throne… It would be the end of us all.

My fingers play
ed nervously with my skirt, twisting the fabric, wrinkling the delicate folds into a mess Mother would certainly disapprove of.

On the barge, we heard pe
ople shout from the shores their approval of Jane’s ascension, while Jane made an illustrious progress from Westminster to the Tower of London. She waved at the townsfolk as we passed. But all the while, dark, stormy clouds gathered overhead. Big fat droplets of rain spilled on our heads as we rushed for cover from the quay and through the gates of the Tower. Thunder cracked and lightning streaked across the sky amidst the sounds of cannon fire, signifying the queen had arrived. Heralds declared the proclamation of Jane’s rule to the crowd, who grew restless and wet, above the sounds of nature and man. I could not have been the only one who saw this as a bad omen.

A shudder passed
through me, and I took a long deep breath to calm my anxious self. We were quickly ushered inside to warmth, where maids took linen towels to our persons to dry off the bits of water clinging to our velvet gowns and headdresses, even the tips of our noses.

Jane stood still and stoic as her maids carried out their duties and the other ladies surrounding her giddily talked of the men in their
green and white livery. I saw in her eyes something was changing, taking root there. Several minutes later, her stolid countenance dropped, and a rare smile crossed her lips.

Jane was a conundrum.
For in private, one moment she gave this triumphant smile, and the next moment fear filled her eyes, her lips pinched together as if she were ill. In the face of others, she remained stoically resolved to take the crown if it was God’s will. Her reluctance genuine as was her bouts of joy.

My throat tightened painfully, my chest hurting from not breathing. If Father’s
plan to take the crown did not work—and I admitted to having extreme doubts—we could all be killed. Executed. I still recalled the heads on spikes protruding from the top of London Bridge in warning to any who entered the formidable city.
Please, let our futures not be grim. Let Jane rule until she’s old and gray. Let us all rejoice in this! My sister,
Queen of England! We, the most powerful family in the land. There will be feasts, dances, dresses, jewels.
I felt my heart stop just thinking about it all.

For certes,
our dear cousins, Princess Mary and Princess Elizabeth, would not stand aside while a usurper took over what they deemed their birthright. But Jane’s army and guard would protect us. The law of the council would protect us.
They must!
At least, until they bowed to Princess Mary’s rule, for she would not bow down to Jane with a fight.

I’ve heard t
he servants whisper of Princess Mary gathering troops and preparing to march on London. I’d met my dear cousin years before. She was an angry woman—embittered with the trials of her station, the wrongs done to her. Behind Mary would be thousands of retainers set on destroying us. We must stand our ground, or we would all be locked in the Tower. We would all be led to the scaffold or the gallows for having gone against her, for having strayed from the Catholic faith she so revered.

London, all of England, w
ould stand for us, would they not?

I folded my hands with
in my gown to keep anyone from seeing how they trembled. For I was uncertain now… The minds of people changed so readily.

Why did King Edward have to die so young?
A chill snaked its way up my spine. Mary would seek out her retribution, it was only a matter of time. I might yet follow him to an early grave.

Outside the bells tolled and
the sun dipped low toward the horizon around London. Bright orange light shone through as the backdrop against the many buildings, and fingers of smoke from chimneys reached up to scratch at the horizon. I wished to be out there, anonymous in the streets of London. Anywhere but here in the Tower. We were not prisoners yet, but I am still not sure if I will see the light of day beyond these small stony windows if Mary persuades the people to her cause.

The room suddenly grew quiet
, except for the rustle of gowns. I turned from gazing out the window as a woman of admirable countenance crossed the threshold. Dressed in a gown of black velvet and silver tinsel cloth, she held her head erect, shoulders squared. Her very presence dominated the air I breathed. Her light hair was pulled back tight beneath her headdress. She emanated both poise and grace but also something else, something much more severe. I recognized her instantly—Lord Beauchamp’s mother, the Duchess of Somerset.

She met my gaze, as I had been staring openly, and I wanted to pull my
eyes away, but I found I could not. Her eyes were cold, and it seemed as though I stared into the very depths of hell. Her lips barely moved a fraction, and only because I stared did I surmise it was a smile. At that moment, I felt wise and aged beyond my dozen years, for I realized this woman, so painfully thin, skin drawn taut, perhaps had seen hell, had been there and come back all the stronger for it. For is that not what being at court for so many years could do to a body?

I shuddered.
Pray thee God, do not let me become so!

“Your Grace,” Northampton spoke
with a sneer.

I wanted to slap that evil look from his face. How dare he look down on such a woman?
“We are so glad you were able to answer our summons.”

“
I follow the orders of my king, my nephew, and no one else. And yet, when I arrive, I find he is not the one who summoned me, for how could he, being in his grave?” Her words were clipped, accusing.

Had no one informed
the Duchess of Somerset—aunt to King Edward—that he was dead? She was a legendary woman in my mind, having fought so hard for her husband, and in the end he had been betrayed, executed—and by the very man who sneered at her.

“You
r Grace, we sent a messenger, but you were not in residence.”

“I was visiting friends in the north.” Her
steady gaze studied each man in turn as if she played a game of chess. “Who wrote me the summons?”

“I did, Duchess.” Northumberland stepped forward.

“Are you playing king, Your Grace?” Her lips twitched again in the semblance of a smile.

“My lady, I only wrote summoning you to the side of your new
queen.” He held out his arm, palm up, indicating Jane, who sat beside her new husband Guildford in two great polished throne chairs. “Majesty, Queen Jane, the Duchess of Somerset.”

The
duchess’s gaze flicked to Jane, but she did not move. I could scarcely believe it. Would the woman not bow to her sovereign?

Slowly, and briefly, she dipped to a
curtsy. She did not wait for Jane to tell her to rise, instead she stood erect of her own accord, her gaze focused on Jane’s.

“I served another Queen Jane b
efore you, Majesty. Would that you could have known her.”

My sister
’s chin lifted, as if the reminder of the pious mother of our late king, her namesake, was something offensive to her.

“I would have you serve me, Your Grace, and your daughter Jane
, as well. She and I were both named for the late Queen Mother,” our new queen managed.

I had to force my mouth to remain closed. Jane appeared intimidated by
the duchess, something I’d never seen before. She had felt the need to explain herself to a point. It was odd, and unnerving.

“If Your Majesty commands it.”
Lady Anne’s gaze still did not waver.

Jane thrust her chin forward.
“I do.”

“
May I speak freely, Majesty?” The duchess raised a brow in challenge, as if she would make her request no matter Jane’s response.

Jane inclined her head
in regal fashion, and I suspected it was because she could not find the words to cross her tongue.

“Why is it I bow to you and not the Princess Mary?”

A collective gasp rose up in the room. My mother’s eyes widened, but there was not fear there, instead a deep-rooted respect. I understood then, my mother’s feelings for the Duchess of Somerset. They’d been longtime friends, or allies at least.

Northumberland and my father both took a step forward
, as if they would apprehend the duchess, murderous looks on their faces, but Queen Jane held up her hand.

“It was the king
’s Device for the Succession, his dying edict that the heir to rule in his stead be a true evangelical prince—in my case, a princess—and not return his rule to the breast of Rome.” Jane’s voice ran cold, as it often did when she spoke of religion, her beliefs. “Do you not agree?”

Her question to
the duchess was a challenge, and I watched the interplay with fascination and bated breath.

The
duchess pursed her lips and made a clucking noise with her tongue. “Who am I to question the will of the sovereign lord?”

She bowed her head, her gaze cast to the ground
, and she dipped into a curtsy again. When she rose, I had the distinct impression that she had closed off a part of herself.

“Shall you summon me when your court is ready,
Majesty?”

“It is ready now, Your Grace.”

The duchess nodded once and then asked to be excused so she might prepare her servants for the move to court.

July 11, 1553

Jane proved to be just as violent in her monarchy as our late uncle, Henry VIII, and his son Edward VI. Only this morning in London, a young boy of fifteen summers, who shouted out that Mary was the rightful queen, was arrested and brought to the Tower. But he wasn’t housed in the opulent kingly rooms my sister occupies. He was tossed into the recesses of the dungeon, the dark, the place where rats, disease and the whip rule.

All for showing loyalty to someone else.
’Twas treason, true. But he was only a boy. Can a boy, an ignorant common boy at that, be made to take responsibility for something so rash? Would the Princess Mary treat us this way if she broke through our lines? We were greater than a common boy… Or did that make our fates all the more precarious?

My sister
Mary shuffled into my room, bent over more today than yesterday, and slumped into a chair.

“Have you heard the news, sister?” she asked.

“What news?” I was curious, for Mary was only seven, and what news could she have heard?

“They
’ve cut off the boy’s ears. Left him mutilated.” She wrinkled her upturned nose in disgust and fingered her ears.

I
was shocked that Jane would authorize such poor treatment—even though she’d proved already that she held a stern and vicious countenance. “Will he be released?” I ask, my voice breathy with horror.

“Yes, and his folly is to be made an example of.
” Mary sat forward with excitement that for once she was the one with the news. “No one in London, nor the whole of England, will ever naysay Jane’s right to rule, less they want to be earless, too.”

I nod
ded, because I could not speak. The idea made me sick. Mary’s joy over it made me sick. She was only seven. Who had filled her ears with the wonders of violence? The boy was not much older than I was, and now he would walk around, his appearance permanently mutilated into something monstrous, for people like Mary, and the council, to stare after and sneer at. Better that he should be hanged than to have to live the rest of his life branded a traitor.

Was Mary merely excited that her own deformed figure was no longer the center of ridicule?

I gripped the cross at my throat and mumbled a prayer.

I
hoped this was not a sign of the way things would be. That Jane was acting out of fear, that she’d be merciful when her reign was secure. I knew Jane was better than this. She was pious. I’d thought Jane would rule with a more gentle hand. Was this Northumberland’s and the rest of the council’s doing, or did she truly harbor such cruelty within her?

July 19, 1553

Nine days had passed since the day I was elevated to sister of a queen.

The Tower bells toll
ed relentlessly, in warning and in celebration.

Jane
’s chamber was a quiet, somber place. Outside, the sun shined no longer, and only a few candles were lit within her room.

She sa
id nothing, only stared at the wall, her eyes distant, a forgotten book in her hand. Her husband, Guildford, paced the room with frantic steps. Every once in a while, he knelt before Jane and rested his head, whispering fervently. It was an odd thing to see a man lament at his wife’s lap—especially Guildford, who more often than not simply stared at his own reflection, preening like a peacock. He begged for her forgiveness, but for what, I did not know. Even more heartbreaking was that Jane did not acknowledge him, merely stared over his head as if he was not there. When they’d married months prior, she had not wanted to be bound to Guildford. There was hope they’d grow closer over time, but it obvious they had not. Whatever fondness she’d held for him had dissipated with the impending end to her rule.