Innocent Traitor (46 page)

“Your Majesty, the Lady Mary must never come to the throne.” I speak urgently and sincerely, my fears plain in my voice. There is no time for mind games now.

“I know,” answers the King, no less urgently. “But my father and Parliament have so ordered matters that her accession cannot be avoided. She is my legal heir.”

“She is a bastard, sir, and in law a bastard cannot inherit the crown. I have taken advice on this. Your Majesty has the power to disinherit her, and I pray you will do it. So much is at stake.”

“You do not need to remind me, my lord. If there is any lawful way out, I assure you, I will take it.”

“It requires only Your Majesty’s signature on a legal document.”

“Then we shall have it drawn up.” Edward pauses, breathless. “Tell me, my lord, if the Lady Mary is removed from the succession, shall the crown go to my sister Elizabeth?”

I answer smoothly. I am prepared for this. “Sir, she too is a bastard; if the Lady Mary is disinherited, the Lady Elizabeth must be also. Mark my words, as unmarried female sovereigns, one or the other of them would certainly marry a foreign prince and thereby surrender not only England’s independence but also all her ancient rights and privileges. Your Majesty should consider again and again. Kings owe protection to their subjects and must defend them from such calamities.”

“Then who should succeed us? The Duchess of Suffolk? She is next in line after our sisters.”

“It is a possibility, I agree. At least she’s a good Protestant, and she’s married to an Englishman.” I hesitate. “Shall I summon her?”

“Yes, do. We would speak with her and see what mettle she has to carry on our great work.” He coughs painfully, hawking up phlegm, and waves me away.

The Duchess rises from her curtsy and listens gravely to what the King is saying. I have warned her of what she is about to be asked, and together we have rehearsed her reply.

“Your Majesty,” she says at length, “I must confess I have no wish to be Queen. I am a weak woman, unfitted for the task. With your consent, I hereby relinquish my claim.”

“That leaves Your Majesty’s cousin, Lady Jane Dudley,” I say, after Lady Suffolk has withdrawn.

Edward nods slowly. The afternoon’s discussions have exhausted him.

“Since she married my son Guilford, I have come to know her better, and I can say with surety that she has matchless qualities that befit her, more than any other, for this high dignity. Your Majesty will doubtless recall the agreeableness of her conversation, and her zeal for religion. She has imbibed the reformed faith with her mother’s milk, and she is married to a loyal Englishman of wealth and probity. Your Grace, I know, has always held this excellent lady in affectionate regard.”

“Indeed I have,” agrees Edward. “But while she certainly embodies all the requisite virtues, she is not of my father’s line.”

“Sir,” I say severely, “you are bound by your duty to God to lay aside all natural inclinations towards your father’s House. Yet remember, the Lady Jane has Tudor blood by virtue of her descent from your grandfather, King Henry VII, and she was born in lawful wedlock, unlike your sisters. And there is a precedent for her succeeding in her mother’s lifetime, for did not that same King Henry VII, of blessed memory, succeed whilst his mother, who had the prior claim, was still alive?”

“You speak the truth. My lord, I must confess I am beginning to like this proposal you have laid before me, for it seems to offer real hope for England’s salvation. But I am tired now and cannot discuss it further. I will think on it when I have rested. Attend me tomorrow morning to hear my answer.”

I withdraw. In the anteroom to the bedchamber I encounter Edward’s closest friend, and gentleman of the privy chamber, Sir Henry Sidney.

“How is my master, my lord?” he inquires anxiously. “He had a very bad night. He was in terrible pain.”

“A little amended.” I smile. “Sir Henry, if you wish to do His Majesty a service, you can entertain him, when he wakes, by singing the praises of the Lady Jane Dudley, making much of the high esteem in which she is held by all for her character and her piety.”

“Yes, my lord, of course.” He seems nonplussed at this request. Hopefully he will conclude that I am seeking some patronage for my daughter-in-law. Poor fool, he would never guess the truth.

But the King needs little convincing. When I return in the morning, he has had himself propped up on the pillows and is once again, briefly, his father’s son.

“Your Grace,” he announces, “we have decided to agree to your proposal that the Lady Jane should succeed us. Have our clerks draw up our will, or whatever document is required, and then bring it here for us to sign.”

Inwardly jubilant, I hasten away to do my sovereign’s bidding. Later, I present him with a draft of his will, in which is enshrined the new order of succession: the crown is to be left to the Lady Jane and her heirs male. The King reads it over, sends for writing materials, and laboriously and shakily copies out the text in his own hand, signing it with a travesty of his usual flourish.

“Praise be to God, we may now sleep peacefully in our beds at night,” I say fervently. “Sir, one thing: I want you to rest assured that, even though the Lady Jane is married to my son, in this matter my chief interest is in the welfare of Your Majesty’s realm.”

“I know that well, my lord. We have both worked hard to establish true religion in this kingdom, and I know everything will be safe in your hands after I am gone. Now I can die content, in the knowledge that our labors have not been in vain.”

But there are still the formalities to be dealt with. The Lord Chief Justice, the Solicitor General, the Attorney General, and all the lords of the council have been summoned to the King’s bedside to ratify his new will. There are protests from the judges that this document cannot overturn an act of Parliament, and that it is high treason even to attempt to alter the act’s provisions, but I firmly override them.

“Obedience to the King’s will can never be treason,” I declare.

“But this device, as His Majesty is calling it, has no validity in law,” objects the Lord Chief Justice.

Edward’s bloated face flushes with fury.

“Raise me! Sit me up!” he commands, his voice rasping. His attendants hasten to obey.

“I will hear of no objections,” he tells the assembled lords sternly. “Make quick dispatch!”

It is several days, however, before the final version of the will is signed by the King, and the councillors and judges give their unwilling consent to it. Even those who wish to see the Lady Mary dispossessed are doubtful this is the right way to proceed. But I suspect that another concern lies behind the general antipathy: several lords are jealous of my power, but are too fearful for their own skins to oppose me openly. So I decide it is prudent to provide some indemnity for the future. I insist on the lords signing a second document, drawn up by me, in which they promise to support the future Queen Jane to the utmost of their power and undertake never at any time to swerve from this resolution.

And there I have them.

I am still concerned that the Emperor, on learning of the Lady Mary’s exclusion from the succession, will attempt to intervene on her behalf, and therefore, as a precaution, I swear all the lords to secrecy. Then, thinking that there is no harm in discreetly preparing the ground in England, I order that prayers for the King’s sisters are henceforth to be omitted from church services. Too late, I realize that this is a mistake, for it signals my intentions to the Emperor’s ambassador. Why else would the Emperor promptly send three special envoys to England merely to inquire after the King’s health? No, they have instructions to protect the Lady Mary’s interests, I am sure, and if it comes to it, they will probably make representations on her behalf and try to persuade me from my chosen course.

I fear they are destined to failure and disappointment.

I look down dispassionately at the living corpse on the bed. The King is in mortal agony, that is obvious, and his constant prayer is that God will think fit to deliver him from this torment and grant his speedy release to Heaven. His body, skeletally thin, has swollen up like a pig’s bladder: his stomach is distended, his legs bloated. His skin is turning a livid purple and black in places, and gangrene has attacked his extremities. His nails and hair have fallen out, and he can hardly breathe. Speech is now especially difficult for him.

Mistress Rhys is looking pleadingly at me from the other side of the bed. She has just told me, in the privacy of my closet, that she can take no more of this.

“I have done as you asked,” she cried, “and shut my ears to his pitiful cries. Why can you not leave him to die in peace? He’ll not last much longer anyway, so what is the point of prolonging his agony?”

I nod at her. I have no further use for Edward now, or for this woman. I lead her from the bedchamber and back into the closet, where I hand her a heavy bag of coins.

“For your services. Remember, not a word of this to anyone, or there will be consequences.”

“Yes, sir,” she replies, suitably frightened, but obviously relieved to be free of her duties, and unable to conceal her eagerness to see how much is in the purse.

“It is late. You may stay in the palace tonight, but you must leave at first light.” I summon one of my retainers. “Take this lady to her lodging. First door on the left in the outer court, third floor up.”

I watch them leave. My man has his orders. Mistress Rhys has been assigned an attic room above an empty courtier apartment that is scheduled for renovation. The attic is clean but sparsely furnished, quite sufficient for her needs. But of course she won’t be using it for long. In the small hours of tomorrow morning, my precise orders will be carried out. Her body can then be disposed of under cover of darkness.

The retainer has been told he can keep the purse. That should keep him quiet.

GREENWICH PALACE, 2ND JULY 1553

Despite my precautions, rumors that the King is dying have proliferated throughout the land. To avoid panic or alerting the Lady Mary, I issue regular soothing bulletins announcing that His Majesty is out of danger and recovering his health; I even say that he is taking the air in the gardens at Greenwich, or exercising in the galleries of the palace. These fool no one, I’m certain—a king must be visible to his people, and Edward has not been seen in public for months.

Today I am furious to be informed that in London posters bearing prayers for the King’s recovery, which are normally requested only when a monarch is at death’s door, have mysteriously been nailed to a number of church doors in the city. Who put them there is anyone’s guess, but they have their effect. Before long, huge crowds are converging on Greenwich Palace, on foot or by barge, demanding to see their sovereign.

I order the park gates to be closed and send a gentleman of the privy chamber to calm the crowd.

“Go back to your homes!” he cries above the clamor. “His Majesty is resting. The air is too chilly to permit him to come out of doors and greet you today.”

But the crowd will not disperse.

“We want the King! We want the King!” the people chant, their mood growing uglier by the minute.

“What shall we do?” The lords of the council are clearly frightened.

“We will give them what they want,” I mutter grimly. I march into the King’s room and order his appalled servants to get him up and dress him in his rich robes. He protests feebly at such treatment, but I’m in no mood to be opposed. The mob outside could prove a danger to us all. So the wasted body is dragged from the bed, wrapped in a velvet gown and feathered bonnet, and propped up at the window, its head lolling forward, its eyes unable to focus.

I can see in the people’s response their realization that he is doomed. They are struck silent, dismayed and shocked. After a short while they begin quietly drifting back to London. There will be no more hopeful bulletins.

Frances Brandon,
Duchess of Suffolk