Innocent Traitor (34 page)

I dare not gainsay her further.

The knights in their polished armor and plumed helms thunder at full speed toward each other, lances couched. As they clash across the wooden palisade, the watching crowd cheers itself hoarse. My fingers tensely grip the window ledge of the gallery, where I am sitting with His Majesty and a small group of favored courtiers.

“He’s down! Sir Robert’s down!” cries the King, as one rider crashes to the ground.

I lean farther forward. “I hope he is not hurt, sir,” I breathe.

“I don’t think so.” Fortunately, the unhorsed knight is getting to his feet. He waves to the spectators and earns himself a round of applause. Meanwhile, the victor of the joust, Sir James Knollys, is approaching the gallery on his steed and doffing his helm with a flourish.

“Yours be the honor, my Lady Jane,” says the King, handing me a golden arrow to present to the knight.

I rise, blushing.

“For your valor, sir,” I say, handing the trophy to Sir James, who takes my outstretched hand, kisses it, and bows in courtly fashion.

“My thanks, fair lady,” he cries. “I am honored indeed!”

I sit down, abashed by such public attention, as he rides away.

The Marshal of the Joust is already consulting the names and shields on the Tree of Chivalry at the far end of the lists to see who will next enter the contest. Beside me, King Edward is fidgeting in his chair.

“I would it was me out there,” he says. “My father was a great champion of the lists—they would not have gainsaid him. But I—I am forever condemned, it seems, to be a spectator.”

“That is a shame, sir,” I venture. “Could you not insist on taking part? You are the King and must be obeyed.”

“Ah, Jane, how little you know.” He sighs. “They won’t let me joust in case I get killed. Then the Lady Mary would be Queen, and imagine what that would mean.”

He looks glum. It’s proving to be an uncomfortable afternoon, in more ways than one. My leather corset is tight and restrictive; it has not yet molded itself to my developing figure, and I sit rigid and stiff-backed on my stool beside the King’s cushioned chair, wishing I could properly breathe. Next to me, His Majesty sits morosely watching the joust and no longer seems to notice that I am here, or the presence of Lady Mary Dudley on his other side. If he does speak at all, it is only to comment on technical points to the young gentleman who stands behind us. Once or twice I catch the twinkling, admiring glance of this fair-haired Irishman, Barnaby FitzPatrick, whose blue eyes keep appraising me appreciatively behind his master’s back. I smile at him uncertainly, unsure whether it is proper to return a young man’s look. To be on the safe side, I try to keep my eyes on the tournament. I am all too aware of my mother, seated not far off, watching me with an eagle eye.

When the interval comes and refreshments are brought in on gold platters, the King turns to me. “I recognize that pendant. It was my stepmother’s. Master John painted her wearing it. She was a good woman. I miss her.”

“I too, Your Majesty,” I say wistfully.

“Her husband, however, was a foolish and dangerous man.” Edward’s voice is colder now. “He was a traitorous schemer. He killed my dog.” I cannot be sure which he regards as the worse crime. “Do you know he was plotting to have us betrothed?”

“I—I had heard something of the sort, sir,” I say warily.

The King looks at me uncertainly. “Several people consider it a good idea,” he declares in a lower voice. “I mean, that you and I should marry. My tutors have spoken well of it and tell me it is the dearest hope of many of our reformed faith. They offer numerous good reasons for such a match, and perhaps they are right. What do you think, my Lady Jane?”

Astonished that he should broach such a subject, I am struck dumb until I realize that the hopes of many people depend upon my answer.

“I—Your Majesty,” I say earnestly, “I will do whatever you and my parents wish. I have been told that I will one day make a very good marriage, but I never thought to look so high. Sir, I am your good servant, and I know my duty.”

“We all know our duty, Cousin,” Edward says severely, “but what of our personal inclinations?”

“Your Majesty does me too much honor. I scarce know what to say—” I break off, unsure of what he wants me to reply.

“What I mean,” says the King, coming to my rescue, “is, would it please you to marry me and become Queen of England?”

“Your Majesty need not ask.” I feel my cheeks grow hot. “It is the greatest honor any lady could wish for, and more than my desire.”

There is an uncomfortable pause. Have I said too much? My mother is watching us intently from her place nearby. I can tell she is desperate to know what we are saying.

Edward sighs. “Unfortunately, I cannot ask it of you. For state reasons, I am betrothed to the Princess Elisabeth of France, and my councillors are of the opinion that those state reasons override all other considerations. But I wish you to know that, were I just Edward and you just Jane, I would prefer to marry you. We accord well together and have similar views. The Princess is a Catholic, and I will have to change her opinions. God send she does not prove stubborn. Kings,” he adds sadly, “cannot make their own choices. I wished you to know that.”

“I understand, sir.” I am startled—is this an end to all my parents’ grand schemes?—and strangely relieved. I have a feeling that marriage to this cold, haughty, insensitive youth would be no easy life. And I have no wish to be Queen of England, although I would have embraced it if God had shown me that my duty lay that way.

“Oh, one thing more,” says the King, wiping cake crumbs from his mouth and reaching for his goblet. “This conversation is to remain privy to ourselves only.”

“Of course, sir.” The last thing I would do is tell my parents. I am quite happy to let them go on thinking that my marriage to the King is a possibility. At least that will deter them from looking about elsewhere for a husband, which will in turn buy me precious time before I submit to the bonds of wedlock.

TILTY, ESSEX, AUTUMN 1550

The masque goes on interminably. Although the Earl of Oxford’s players are among the best to be found and provide a lavish spectacle with wonderful costumes and scenery, I cannot enjoy it. A throbbing headache torments me, and although I often suffer thus with my monthly courses, they are not the cause of it this time. A weariness and lassitude portend that I am, as Mrs. Ellen would say, “coming down with something.”

Trying not to betray my discomfort, and fighting my urgent need to sleep, I look surreptitiously along the high table to see if any other guests are showing signs of boredom. Our hosts, Lord and Lady Willoughby, great landowners in this part of Essex, are sitting there with bright smiles on their faces, nodding appreciatively in time with the music. After leaving Oxford, my parents took us to stay at the houses of several noble acquaintances, before settling in for two months as guests of their friends, the Willoughbys. In a couple of days we will be returning home, much, I suspect, to our hosts’ secret relief, and this splendid banquet and entertainment have been arranged to mark the end of our stay.

Between Lord and Lady Willoughby sits the Lady Mary, who has ridden over from her house at Newhall to grace the proceedings as guest of honor. She too seems to be enjoying herself, but it is hard to tell if she is happy. The Lady Mary is thirty-four and looks much older. There are lines of disappointment and sorrow on her face, a few gray streaks in her red hair, and she is as thin as ever. Everyone knows that life has not been easy for her, especially during the last few years; she has fought a bitter, ongoing battle for her Mass, and although she is misguided in her beliefs, she must have suffered greatly through it. I have heard it whispered that, earlier this year, she was on the point of escaping from England to seek shelter with her cousin the Emperor, but was deterred at the last minute by friends who warned her that, should the King die without heirs, her chances of succeeding to the throne would be severely jeopardized if she was not in England. So here she is, still defying her brother and the council.

Although she knows that my family is of the reformed faith, the Lady Mary greeted us warmly enough today. She might deplore our conversion as much as we do her obstinacy and error, but her sense of kinship is plainly strong, and when she raised my mother, her cousin, from her curtsy, she kissed her affectionately. “How do you, my Lady Dorset? Well enough, I hope. And this is your daughter, Lady Katherine, is it not? She is a fair maid, I declare, favored with beauty. May the blessed saints guide her, for earthly comeliness can lead to earthly temptations. And this of course is Lady Jane.”

Although she kissed me on both cheeks and has shown great courtesy to me since, I sense a certain chill from her. Perhaps she is aware of how much I deplore her for adhering to the Roman faith and insisting on clinging to the old, discredited ways, when we have all been shown a new and truer way to God. I watch her as she sits there, absorbed in the masque, a spare, stiff-backed little woman who is dressed gaudily and extravagantly, as I would expect a Catholic to be. She is too openly emotional, too quick to burst into laughter at the antics of the players. And too ready to burst into tears, or so my mother says. I have seen for myself how she dwells far too much upon the past, forever making embarrassing references to her “sainted mother,” or brooding on remembered hurts. She peppers her conversation with allusions to her faith—to “Our Lady” or “the blessed saints”—as though she is unaware of the King’s wishes or the demands of the law. It seems to me she goes out of her way to provoke those of us who have embraced the true religion.

At last the interminable evening ends, and we make our way back to our lodgings.

“The Lady Mary has invited us to visit her at Newhall when we leave here the day after tomorrow,” my mother announces as we cross the courtyard. I stifle a groan.

The next morning, I awake with a high fever and know little of what is happening until three days later, when I am myself again, although much weakened. Mrs. Ellen has been tending me and is obviously pleased to see me making a recovery.

On the fourth day, I am better still, although as yet unfit for travel.

My lady mother looms beside the bed. “I am glad to see you improved, Jane. I think you should get up for a bit. We have delayed our departure for Newhall because of your illness and cannot keep the Lady Mary waiting any longer. I’d like to see you ready to travel in the morning.”

“But, madam,” protests Mrs. Ellen, “the Lady Jane is still quite weak. It will be two days at least before she can travel.”

My lady looks at me with narrowed eyes. “She looks healthy enough to me. I don’t believe in mollycoddling children. Now, Jane, get up, have something to eat, and prepare yourself for the journey tomorrow. We really must move on.”

After she has gone, I slide slowly out of bed and stand up. My head is spinning and Mrs. Ellen has to hold me steady to stop me from falling. I sink into a chair by the fire, and she hastens to put a shawl round my shoulders, then brings me some warming pottage. As I spoon it up, she sits watching me.

“You don’t want to go to Newhall, do you, Jane?” she asks perceptively.

“No. It is a Catholic house. And I don’t think the Lady Mary likes me very much.”

“I understand that. But, Jane—you wouldn’t pretend to be ill just to avoid going there, would you?”

“No, I would not,” I say truthfully. “I am indeed feeling poorly. But I also know my duty to my parents.”

“I never doubted it,” she says, smiling. “Yet I could tell your lady mother had her suspicions. Now, eat that up—it’ll do you good.”

I am still weak and light-headed when we climb into our coach in the morning, having taken our leave of Lord and Lady Willoughby. And as the unsprung vehicle trundles off on the dirt track that passes for a road, bound for Newhall, I sit there fighting the rising nausea and longing for my bed.

NEWHALL, ESSEX, AUTUMN 1550

Newhall is impressive! It’s a vast perpendicular palace with a five-hundred-foot-long façade, beautiful oriel windows, and spacious courtyards. My great-uncle Henry VIII owned it, and improved it, so my father says, at enormous cost. It was he who set up the colorful royal arms above the entrance door, and thanks to his bounty, the palace boasts luxurious royal apartments, a fine long gallery, and a tennis court.

I cannot but marvel at the splendor in which the Lady Mary lives, although I know that she is the heiress presumptive to the throne and a great magnate in her own right. Yet I am shocked at the all-too-obvious reminders of her popish beliefs that taint the beauty of the house. There are even statues of saints in the chapel, which must offend any good Protestant, never mind flout the law. I am relieved therefore when my parents decline, politely but firmly, to attend Mass, because it means that I must follow their example. Nevertheless, I take care not to offend my good hostess and plead illness as an excuse.

“She breaks the law with impunity,” my mother observes to my father. Almost the entire household is in the chapel for compline, and we are at leisure in the privy chamber. Katherine and Mary have gone to bed, but I have been allowed to stay up for a little.