Innocent Traitor (47 page)

CHELSEA, 3RD JULY 1553

We were anticipating another quiet day enjoying the summer sunshine in the gardens, but there’s been a great hurrying and scurrying here at Chelsea this morning because the Duchess of Northumberland has unexpectedly arrived. Now we have kitchen staff flying in all directions to prepare fitting refreshments for her, whilst I, my green silk gown hastily smoothed, perform the part of hostess in the great chamber.

Jane Guilford is a pale, insipid-looking woman whose mousy exterior belies her inner toughness and determination. I’ve known her for years, and I recall that, from childhood, she always aspired to greatness. Back in those days she was convinced, on the basis of a silly, unfounded rumor, that her grandfather Sir Edward Guilford was in fact the elder of the two Princes in the Tower, and therefore the rightful King of England. To utter such a claim during the reign of my late uncle would have been the direst folly, so Jane was obliged to keep quiet about it; whether she still believes such nonsense or not, I don’t know, but she certainly acts as if she were royally born.

Marriage to Sir John Dudley, as he was then, was not the glorious match she thought was her due. Orphaned by his father’s execution, and adopted by Jane’s kindly father, he was no great prize, yet their marriage has turned out to be remarkably happy and successful, and his extraordinary rise to power has no doubt been ample compensation for his tainted blood. Their union has also been abundantly fruitful. I suspect that the Duchess’s frustrated ambitions are now focused on her son Guilford, who, by the grace of God, will soon be our King Consort, and, in the fullness of time, the founder of a royal Dudley dynasty.

Very much on her dignity, the Duchess sweeps into the room and delicately kisses me on both cheeks. Inwardly I bridle: I cannot abide her presumption, for although we both enjoy the same rank, she is far beneath me by virtue of her birth. I wonder why she has come.

“You are welcome, my good sister,” I say, beckoning to the steward to serve some wine. “I trust you will do us the honor of staying to dinner?”

“That is most kind, but time is pressing, and I cannot.” The Duchess bestows on me a tight smile. I nod at the steward.

We seat ourselves on either side of the fireplace, which, on this warm day, is filled with flowers. After inquiring about the health of my family, the Duchess asks if “our” daughter Jane is at home.

“Yes, she is,” I tell her, “but she has not yet fully recovered her strength after her illness and usually takes a nap at this time. But if you wish, I will ask her nurse to fetch her.”

The Duchess does insist, and within ten minutes Jane has joined us. I am not pleased to see that she is wearing one of her drab black gowns, with only a simple pearl pendant, but at least she has not forgotten her manners, for she makes a pretty curtsy to her mother-in-law.

The Duchess is regarding her with disapproval. I’m sure she is thinking, and quite rightly, that the girl could make more of herself. Nevertheless, her ladyship attempts a frosty smile.

“I am come to tell you news of great import, my dear,” she says, “which will concern your mother also. It is my heavy duty to inform you that the King is dying. When God sees fit to summon him to His mercy, it will be needful for you, and the whole court, to go immediately to the Tower of London. You should know that His Majesty has named you heir to his realm.”

Jane looks blank. Did she not hear aright? She stands there, staring at the Duchess and looking stupid.

“Jane!” I bark. “Did you hear what Her Grace said?”

“Yes, madam,” she replies, still looking bewildered.

“Has the child taken leave of her senses?” asks the Duchess. “She appears to be dumbstruck. I said, Jane, that when the King dies, you are to be Queen and must remove to the Tower when you are summoned. It is customary for a new sovereign to stay in the palace there before being crowned.”

“But that cannot be!” Jane has finally found her voice, and I soon wish she hadn’t. “The Lady Mary is the rightful heir, then the Lady Elizabeth, and then my lady mother.”

“Not anymore,” the Duchess informs her. “His Majesty has set aside the claims of his sisters, and your lady mother has relinquished her own claim, so that you can succeed.”

“The King has done this?” Jane cries in a rare passion. “He would never order such a thing. Rather it is my lord of Northumberland who has done it, in defiance of both Parliament and King Henry’s will! This is treason, my lady, and I want no part in it. Nay, I will not listen further!”

And with that she rudely hurries from the room, to my utter mortification.

The Duchess is clearly trying to control her temper. “Her behavior is most immoderate,” she hisses. “I wonder you do not whip her for her impertinence.”

“Oh, I shall whip her, never fear,” I mutter.

“I am beginning to wonder if she is beyond your control,” the Duchess says tartly. “My son has already come to me with a string of complaints about her undutiful behavior towards him. Did you know she has dared to refuse him her bed?”

I had suspected something of the sort, judging by Lord Guilford’s petulant demeanor when he left Chelsea after his one and only visit. I did ask Jane about it, but met with a blank wall of silence: she said she had no idea why her husband was so out of humor.

I assume an innocent air for the Duchess’s benefit. “You are certain this is the case?”

“The marriage was consummated, there’s no doubt about that. Twice, in fact, I believe. But Guilford told me that Jane resisted him, and that she seems unaware that it is a wife’s duty to submit to her husband. Madam, it was your responsibility to ensure that she was prepared for marriage, and it appears that it was ill done, or not done at all.”

I grow hot with fury. How dare this woman lecture me on my duty? I am just about to rebut the accusation when I recall something that may be significant. More than once on the bridal night I heard Jane cry out, and I remember thinking that she sounded more distressed than the occasion would warrant. Perhaps Guilford—young, inexperienced, and therefore unsure of himself—was overrough and insensitive with her. Of course, it was her duty to endure it, and I suspect that her sullen and unwilling demeanor that evening may have gone some way toward provoking her husband, but whatever my private opinion of Jane’s conduct, no Lady Northumberland is going to berate me for my supposed failings as a mother!

“I will speak with Jane,” I say through clenched teeth, “but I have good reason to believe that Guilford is to blame for her reluctance.”

“Guilford?” The Duchess is almost screeching. “Madam, how dare you blame your daughter’s shortcomings on my son, who has tried his hardest to win her love! He is in no way to blame—it is she who is at fault. You have only to recall the willful manner in which she flounced out of this room. Guilford has assured me that he has shown her every consideration. He does not deserve this unwifely treatment.”

“Really?” I am on my mettle now. “Well, madam, from what I heard on the wedding night—and my lord and I were lying just along the gallery from their bedchamber—your son was repeatedly hurting our daughter. I heard her cry out, not just once, which might have been expected, but several times.”

“I am sure you exaggerate. Guilford would not hurt her intentionally. He is a kindly boy.”

I pull a derisive face.

“This is insufferable,” the Duchess fumes. “You cannot even see what is under your nose—or you will not. Well, I must tell you that I have confided to the Duke my husband my concerns about the Lady Jane, and he has ordered that she is to come and stay with me at Durham House until she is summoned to her great destiny. Both of us think she needs framing to her new duties, and parents are often not the best people to do it, being too tender of their child’s feelings.”

Even I, angry as I am, can see the irony in this: that I, who have ever been strict with my daughters—for their own good, mark you—should be accused of being too soft with them. If it were not so insulting, it would be laughable. Yet this is no light matter, and I am in a corner. Northumberland is all-powerful, and his word is law. Besides, a wife’s place is with her husband. I realize I have no choice but to let Jane go to Durham House.

“Very well,” I say icily. “I will have her gear packed.”

Lady Jane Dudley

CHELSEA AND DURHAM HOUSE, 3RD–5TH JULY 1553

There is a frosty silence as my mother and the Duchess of Northumberland wait for Mrs. Ellen to finish packing my traveling chest.

“She will not need much,” the Duchess instructs. “I do not anticipate that her sojourn with us will be long.”

“We’ll await you downstairs, Jane,” my lady says, escorting Her Grace of Northumberland from the room.

Alone again with Mrs. Ellen, I throw myself on the bed and burst into a distraught passion of weeping.

“If only you knew, dear Mrs. Ellen, what is in store for me!”

My nurse hastens to comfort me. “Hush now, my lamb. Nothing’s as bad as all that.” But her voice betrays her anxiety.

“I am forced to live with Guilford,” I sob, the words coming brokenly between shuddering storms of tears. “You could not imagine…”

“Oh, but I can, pet, I can,” she says sadly. “Some men are like beasts. I’m not blind, Jane. I saw your bruises, and the blood on the sheets. I guessed he’d been rough with you.”

“He’s an animal,” I say, weeping. “No, that’s unfair to animals. They but act instinctively. We humans are supposed to be rational beings, but he showed no finer feelings. And there’s no way out. I am bound to endure it.”

Mrs. Ellen is weeping too. “Oh, my precious child—that you should be at the mercy of that callous, brutal youth—”

“But there’s worse,” I cry, “far, far worse.”

“In the name of God, what?” Sorrow gives way to alarm in her face.

“They are going to make me Queen.” I sit up. “When King Edward dies.”

Mrs. Ellen looks aghast.

“This is Northumberland’s doing,” I continue, my tears subsiding as anger takes the place of sorrow. “Of course, I will resist it. I will not let them do this. I refuse to cooperate.”

“But how can the Duke bring it to pass?” she asks, incredulous.

“I do not know, save by underhand dealings and subversion of the law. And the law says that the Lady Mary should succeed her brother. She has the unassailable right. I know what her accession will mean, but I cannot be a party to depriving her of that right. And anyway, I should hate to be Queen. I am a private person. I do not want to live my life in the public glare, nor do I relish the burdens of sovereignty. Power and glory hold no attraction for me.” The unfairness of it all hits me forcefully. “Oh, Mrs. Ellen, why does God visit me with so many miseries? All I ask is to live my life in peace.”

“It is not for us to question the will of God.”

“I tell you, dear nurse, this cannot be the will of God. He would not permit such an unjust thing to happen.”

I sit twisting my hands. There is much to be done if I am to be ready to depart with the Duchess anon. Mrs. Ellen makes a visible effort to pull herself together and drags out my gowns. I make no move to help her; ordinarily, when I am going away, I pack my own books and personal things.

“I don’t want to go,” I say, breaking down again at the sight of Mrs. Ellen snatching clothes from pegs and presses. “I do not want to live with Guilford, or his parents. His mother hates me, and I fear his father. I cannot comprehend the sheer effrontery and awfulness of what they have all been plotting: I want nothing to do with it. I am no traitor.”

There are no words of comfort that can still my raging heart. Mrs. Ellen knows that. She does not attempt to gentle me with trite platitudes; instead, she puts her arms round me and holds me tight for a space, neither of us saying anything.

When she finally delivers me to the Duchess, I am still tearful and angry. Yet I dutifully kiss my mother farewell and kneel for her blessing.

“Remember your duty,” she says briefly. Clearly there is no help to be had from that quarter.

My mind in a turmoil, I meekly follow the Duchess to the splendid barge moored by the jetty; it will take us along the Thames to the Strand.