Innocent Traitor (53 page)

At length, after fumbling about in the semidarkness for a time, Guilford manages to unlock the door.

“I bid you good night, madam,” he says quietly. “Let us hope your womb soon quickens with our son, then we can abandon all pretense that we enjoy our coupling. For my part, I would rather roger a poxed tart from the stews of Southwark. At least they fuck with a smile on their faces.”

I steel myself to ignore his taunts and his coarse language. I no longer care what he says or does. It doesn’t matter anymore. I am detached, contained in my own private world where he cannot reach me. It is my last refuge.

By the evening of my third day in the Tower, the strain of it all is beginning to tell on me. There is still no word of the Lady Mary’s whereabouts, and the councillors are growing ever more anxious. The longer Mary remains at liberty, the more likely it is that she will be able either to escape abroad—if she has not already done so—or raise support for her claim. Of course, there is no way of knowing how many would rally to her. Every man here knows his neck is at risk until she is taken. Not to mention my own neck. But Mary will surely understand that I was forced to accept the crown against my will, and that I had no choice in the matter. She must understand that.

At present, I am not primarily concerned about the Lady Mary. I have a far more immediate and pressing worry, for I fear I am slowly being poisoned.

The first symptom I noticed was my hair falling out. Not just the odd strand here or there, but great clumps that leave bald patches. Then I began suffering griping pains in my belly and lost my appetite. Now my skin is beginning to peel. Anxiously I recall what I have heard of King Edward’s terrible sufferings in the weeks before his death:
his
hair fell out, and
his
skin peeled. Of course, this could have been caused by the consumption that killed him, but there are other, more sinister rumors—rumors that accuse Northumberland of hastening the King’s death by arsenic poisoning.

Could he be doing the same to me? Does he mean to be rid of me, troublesome thorn that I am, so that he can set Guilford up in my place, a more malleable puppet to dance to his tune? Surely even the Duke could not expect the people of England to allow it! Yet he is a frightened, desperate man, whose crucial schemes are in jeopardy, and I myself am causing him further problems. I am aware he was deeply displeased by my initial rejection of the crown, and that he has certainly resented my outspoken defiance expressed in several ways since. I know that he is angered by my categorical refusal to make Guilford King; he cannot be happy either about my more personal objections to Guilford as a husband. All in all, the Duke has got himself a bad bargain in exchange for setting me up as Queen, and he surely guesses what fate I have in mind for him once I am crowned. We are locked in a power struggle, middle-aged opportunist and untried girl, and we both know it. Hence I think it is not illogical to fear that Northumberland is trying to do away with me.

I dare confide in no one. I am glad now that my involvement in state affairs is minimal, for it means that I can stay in my chamber for most of the day and have as little to do with the Duke as possible. At dinner, I take care to eat only from the same dish from which he helps himself, and I have all my food assayed by a food taster. In the evening, I send Mrs. Ellen down to the kitchens to supervise the preparation of my supper.

Yet still my hair continues to fall out, and my skin to peel.

Henry Fitzalan,
Earl of Arundel

THE TOWER OF LONDON, 12TH JULY 1553

Long after the Queen has retired, a group of us, all members of the privy council, gather in my lodgings and sit drinking late into the night. Thrown together with these men in the claustrophobic atmosphere of the Tower, I have become aware, during the past day or so, that some are of like mind to myself. A hint here, a muttered remark there, and here we all are, closeted together in secret, confessing our fears for the future.

“I, more than most, have little reason to love Northumberland,” I say resentfully. “After Somerset fell, he had me imprisoned on the flimsiest of charges. I was utterly humiliated.”

“Your lordship did regain his place on the privy council,” the Marquess of Winchester reminds me.

“Aye, but at the price of my own integrity, I fear. I am asking myself—I, whose family can be traced back to the Conquest—how I could ever have allowed myself to become a tool of this upstart Dudley. And what concerns me is that the Duke is becoming infinitely more arrogant as the father-in-law of the Queen than he ever was as mere President of the Council.”

The Earl of Huntingdon, in whose veins runs a thread of royal blood, and whom some secretly considered to be a viable alternative to the Lady Jane, although he is further in blood from the royal line, agrees with me.

“I am even more worried about the influence of that blockhead Suffolk, who knows of little but horses and hounds,” he confides. “And I am certain I do not want Guilford Dudley as King.”

The Marquess of Winchester heartily concurs. “It was that, above all, that convinced me that the Duke has gone too far. The whole scheme looks suspicious. This is less about preserving the true religion than about keeping the Dudleys in power.”

“It’s just a transparent plot to put the Dudleys on the throne,” I growl. “We’ve all been hoodwinked.”

“Who would you rather have on the throne then, Guilford Dudley or the Lady Mary?” asks Huntingdon.

“The Lady Mary has the best and most rightful claim,” answers Winchester. “I always knew it, but when it came to approving King Edward’s device for the succession, I had my own skin to consider.”

“As did we all,” I chime in, as anxious as he to exonerate myself from complicity in Northumberland’s plot. “And now might has prevailed over right.”

“There is still no word of the Lady Mary,” says Huntingdon.

“There will be soon, make no doubt, and it may not be what Northumberland wants to hear,” puts in Pembroke. “With every day that passes, his position grows more precarious. Until I know which way the wind is blowing, I’ll not let my boy consummate his marriage to Lady Katherine Grey. If the Lady Mary prevails, I’ll have it annulled.”

Queen Jane

THE TOWER OF LONDON, 13TH JULY 1553

Late in the morning, Northumberland himself brings a sheaf of documents for me to sign. He is obviously under some strain and makes a visible effort to appear his usual urbane self.

“A slight problem, Your Majesty,” he begins, with what proves to be breathtaking understatement. “I learned last night that the traitor Mary is still at liberty, and it was decided in council this morning that Your Grace should dispatch orders to all your lord lieutenants in the shires, commanding them to defend your just title to the crown, and to assist you in the apprehension of the Lady Mary.”

I nod, guessing that the situation is worse than he cares to disclose.

“Very well,” I say, and put pen to parchment. Then I look up, innocent as pie, at the Duke.

“Tell me, my lord, is it not possible for
you
to lead an army against my cousin? You are an experienced soldier, and ably fitted for the task.”

He is astonished at my boldness, and momentarily at a loss.

“Nothing would please me more, madam,” he stutters, “yet my duties compel me to remain here in London.” That’s a lie, I’m sure. He is frightened to leave the Tower, but of course he can’t admit it. “Today, madam, I have put in hand arrangements for a general muster of troops at Westminster, and my officers are busy even as we speak, recruiting more men. Every man is to have a month’s pay now.”

It all sounds providential and grand, but I’m not stupid: I can guess he is only paying the soldiers handsomely in advance to ensure that they do not desert, should it come to civil war. And where, I wonder—considering the emptiness of my treasury—is the money coming from?

Later, Northumberland returns with some councillors, beaming.

“Two thousand men stand ready to defend you, madam, as well as the Yeomen of the Guard, who will remain here. I have placed at the army’s disposal thirty great guns from the Tower arsenal.”

“Then we may sleep peacefully in our beds tonight,” I observe.

“Indeed, madam. Furthermore, five warships are to patrol the coast of East Anglia to prevent the Lady Mary from escaping by sea.”

“Is there further news of her whereabouts?”

“Yes, madam. She is at Kenninghall still, where a few lewd and base persons have rallied to her banner. Yet Your Majesty has no cause for fear, since your army will shortly be ready to march into Norfolk to put down this rebellion.”

I look directly into his eyes. Here is my chance to be rid of him.

“And who will lead it?” I ask challengingly.

“I suggest your lord father, madam.”

“My father?” I echo. “Oh, no, my lord, I could not spare him.” And taking a handkerchief from my sleeve, I pretend to dab away a tear.

The Duke does his best to reassure me. “Your father is the finest soldier I know. No other is as experienced. You may be certain he will deal with these rebels in no time and come safely home to you.”

“No,” I say, putting my handkerchief away and sitting straight-backed. “You, my lord, are the best man of war in this realm. It is you who should lead my forces.”

Before Northumberland can open his mouth to protest, Pembroke, Arundel, Huntingdon, and Winchester all break out in a chorus of approval, which is most heartening to hear. The Duke looks staggered. Now he must know he is beaten. He must also guess, as I do, that they are beginning to turn against him. They too want him gone, and in a position to take the blame if things go wrong. Taken at the head of an army, in open rebellion against his rightful sovereign, what chance would he have? Whereas these lords left in the Tower could brazenly lie to absolve themselves from any willing part in his conspiracy.

I suspect the Duke has deliberately lied to me and his colleagues as to the extent of Mary’s support. If he has so speedily mustered an army of two thousand men, her forces must be great: he would not need as many to put down a few yokels.

“I am Your Majesty’s to command, of course,” Northumberland is belatedly saying, breathing heavily. “I will do as you ask.”

“I thank you most humbly,” I reply demurely. “I pray you use your diligence and wish you Godspeed.” This victory to me, then, and it might well prove the crucial one.

But Northumberland must have his revenge. Without consulting me, he announces almost immediately that I and my husband are to be crowned in Westminster Abbey a fortnight hence.

I am outraged as I sit here, impotent, on my throne. Have I not expressly refused to make Guilford King? But the Duke is determined to ignore that, so anxious is he to secure his own position before his departure. Wait, I counsel myself. Just wait, and have patience. Soon he will be gone, and I will have more freedom to order affairs myself. The lords will almost certainly support me—witness how they did so today, to devastating effect—and I conclude that they must be as resentful of the Duke’s tyranny as I am. And there is always the possibility that his lordship may never return.

Northumberland is still speaking. “Henceforth, any servant approaching either the Queen or her lord husband will do so on bended knee, and both will be addressed as ‘Your Grace.’” He turns to the throne and bows.

“Your Grace,” he tells me, “an envoy has been sent in your name to your good brother the Emperor to announce your undisputed succession and to declare to him how the traitor Mary is bent on disturbing the peace of the realm.”

I incline my head regally, whilst responding with a touch of sarcasm, “Let us hope that will be sufficient to deter the Emperor from aiding and abetting our enemies.”

THE TOWER OF LONDON, 14TH JULY 1553

The next morning, I am aware of a buzz of activity in and around the Tower. Emerging from my chamber, I am informed that the Duke has ordered his troops to muster outside Durham House and is preparing to depart.