Raven Queen (14 page)

Go with her, I tell myself, and you will know what is happening to Jane.

Mary is tapping her fingers on the table. “
Will
you…?”

I accept.

“That is wise of you,
pequenito
,” she says. “Where else would you go?” She pauses, but I only bow and mutter my thanks. “Since I am old enough to be your mother that is what I shall be,” she continues. “You will come with me as my son. If anybody asks, we are visiting your father’s grave.”

We are on the highway before the sun has barely cleared the treetops, riding like the devil, as if Dudley already pursues us, and we arrive as the last rays of the sun glint on the moat of the castle. Thirteen towers are silhouetted against the darkening blue and salt scents the air.

“You see, Ned, a perfect place for a siege!” she boasts. “My father gave me this castle. Perhaps he knew what might happen one day. And if Dudley comes too close, I can take a ship to safety – to Spain.”

Men begin to arrive before dawn. I watch them all day. They come across the fields, a mass of men of every age. They each carry something they can use as a weapon; sticks, stones, knives, axes, scythes. The drizzling sky does not dampen their enthusiasm. They settle in the fields like locusts, eating and drinking and shouting, “I’m for Queen Mary!” By the third day, there are almost forty thousand men camped around us. Some move on towards Cambridge to meet Dudley, others stay to defend the Lady Mary.

She sobs and smiles and goes outside to pray with them, for them. She holds an open air Mass such has not been seen in England for more than twenty years, and not in my lifetime. I reel from the splendour of it all. Statues are hauled from the dungeons, dusted off and brought back to life.

As darkness falls, small fires light up the land. Then I pray for Jane constantly – pray to God to keep her safe.

Other men of noble rank ride up to the castle keep. I hear them declare themselves: Sir John Mordant, Sir William Drury, Sir Thomas Wharton, Sir Henry Bedingfeld… Some have ridden from the west country, some from London, some only a few miles. Their names mean nothing to me, but I know now that they have all faced great danger to support the Lady Mary.

We are hearing morning Mass in the castle courtyard when the thought comes to me suddenly: if Dudley captures the Lady Mary, will he know who I am? If he finds out I have escaped from prison, I shall feel the rope around my neck for the second time. But it will not end there. I will be taken down, half-dead, and have my belly ripped open.

I am swaying on my knees in agitation, when horse hooves thud beyond the drawbridge. We all get up from our prayers to look. A single rider, clouded in dust, is forcing his way through the camp.

He declares himself: the Earl of Arundel come to tell us that Dudley has surrendered to Mary’s men; come to tell us that he is loyal to her and nobody else.

The drawbridge is lowered and the Lady Mary goes onto the bridge to meet him. He dismounts and bows and his magnificent voice falters with emotion. “Dudley knelt down in the marketplace at Cambridge and swore his loyalty to you. The people want
you
. They never wanted Jane. You have been proclaimed Queen in London, Your Grace!”

Queen Mary raises her crucifix to the sky, her face streaming with tears. “At last, Lord!” she cries. “At last!” She takes a deep breath. “And the traitor Queen?” she asks.

Arundel’s lips smack with satisfaction. “A prisoner, Your Grace.”

My mind clouds over. Sweat gathers in the nape of my neck, dampening my shirt. My breath escapes in a long sigh. The Queen turns in an instant, her eyes flickering over me.

Then they leave me there. I stay on my knees and never have I prayed so loud and so long.

All day long – the ninth day of my reign – people pressed closer to the gates of the Tower and pelted the guards with sticks and stones. When the guards forced them back, they surged forward again. Now my fear of my people was as great as my fear of the Dudleys. I ordered all the gates and doors of the Tower to be locked and the keys brought to me.

“Save me, Lord, from evildoers. They are always plotting evil, always stirring up quarrels. Their tongues are like deadly snakes; their words are like a cobra’s poison. They have laid their snares. And along the path they have set traps to catch me. Hear my cry for help, Lord!”

Why was my father not here to protect me? From time to time, I glimpsed him on horseback in the street. Then a cloud of dust rose up as he rode off again.

Everybody had deserted me, as Dudley’s men were deserting him across England. The members of my Privy Council had left the Tower, each with his own excuse.

As the summer air grew chilly and drizzle clouded the sun, bonfires were lit outside. Church bells boomed across London and people sang as they celebrated in the streets.

That evening, I dined alone for the first time. Suddenly my father appeared in the doorway, tugging his beard, his eyes wild. I wondered if he had been drinking. He walked across to the table, reached above my head and tore down the royal canopy.

Jana Non Regina
. Thanks be to God.

“So we are free of the Dudleys at last,” I cried. My chest relaxed. I got up, dizzy with relief, and relief made me forgiving towards my father. “Can we go home now, Father? Please.” He did not speak. Anger rose in me as it always did when he refused to answer my questions. “You are to blame, Father. What are you going to do to help
me
?”

He left without a word. I ran after him. “What about me, Father?” The guards would not let me pass. “What shall I do, Father?” I called again from the top of the steps. But he had gone.

Ellie came and I held her to me, crying and laughing at the same time. “It is over! It is over! I have been Queen for nine days and I have kept my head!”

“A puppy doesn’t open its eyes for nine days,” she replied. “But what will happen on the tenth day?”

I picked up my Bible and opened it at Psalm 124: “‘
Let us thank the Lord,
’”
I read out loud
, “‘
who has not let our enemies destroy us. We have escaped like a bird from a hunter’s trap; the trap is broken, and we are free!
’”

A loud cheer sounded in the street. We looked through the window. My father was standing on Tower Hill calling to the crowd, calling out Mary’s name and they cheered him. I waited for him to come back for me, but he climbed onto his horse and rode towards London.

I was still at the window when four guards came into the room. Their message was simple: I was now a prisoner of Queen Mary.

It is mid-afternoon when we reach London. The journey has exhausted us all, humans and horses. As we approach the city gates, a stench hits my nostrils, a stench of dirt and decay that rises from the River Thames curving to our left. I have never seen a river like this. It is so wide and so rough that foam floats on the water between the fishing boats.

At last I have reached the city where Jane is. I know that she is a prisoner and that I shall not see her, but I am happy just to be closer to her.

We have hurried for one reason: to see John Dudley brought to the Tower as a prisoner. The crowd presses forward, taking us with them.

I am now used to the sight of lords and dukes and earls – they have passed through my new life daily. But I have to confess that John Dudley is an imposing sight, even as a prisoner. A scarlet cloak covers him and, to my surprise, his sword still glitters at his thigh. Four of his sons ride behind him, cowering as dung spatters their father.

The woman in front of me has a pocket full of plums. She takes one out and throws it at Dudley’s feathered cap. It wobbles, then falls off, and his rumpled hair shows grey. His horse slows down and for a second, I look into his eyes which seem to ask, “What am
I
doing here?”

No soft plums for me. I pick up a stone, raise my arm as if I am striking with my axe, and hurl it. My aim is true. He gasps as his skin splits open. His horse, feeling the reins slacken, bolts.

That is the last I see of him, lying low across his horse’s neck, holding on for dear life.

It is that time of day when light is fading into dusk, when birds begin their nightsong, when the mind is prey to bitter thoughts.

Everybody has forgotten me! Where are Ulmis and Bullinger now? Ned was right. They were only interested in me as long as I was on the throne of England! Even my parents have not been to see me.

Be strong, I told myself. Queen Mary arrives in London tomorrow and she will surely set me free.

I glanced in the looking glass to remind myself who I was. I was startled. My brown eyes bulged in my thinned face, my hair hung limp and lustreless.

Would Ned still want me?

The streets, strewn with flowers, began to bustle long before dawn. Tapestries and banners fluttered from windows. People carried placards scrawled with Latin:
Vox populi, vox Dei
. “The voice of the people is the voice of God,” I explained to Ellie. How different my arrival had been. These people wanted Mary as they had not wanted me.

As London sweltered under the hottest summer day that year and the Thames was shallow and stinking, trumpets sounded over the riverbanks and hoarse voices called out, “God save Her Grace!” A loud cheer rose up. Guards craned their necks. Ellie held me tightly as I leaned through the window.

Queen Mary’s procession was magnificent. Hundreds of men in velvet coats and rows of elegantly dressed ladies led the way, their dainty shoes crunching on the newly laid gravel.

Then I saw my Queen, her face shadowed by a jewel-trimmed hood, her purple velvet dress hung over a gold and pearl encrusted skirt. Behind her rode a beautiful young girl with long red-gold hair like mine, dressed from head to toe in white embroidered with silver leaves. Her green velvet headdress was studded with diamonds. The Lady Elizabeth.

As the Queen passed over the drawbridge of the Tower, I saw her face clearly. How thin it had become in the few months since I had seen her. Even her robes could not make her dazzle. Her face was marked with an unhappiness as deep as my own.

Then I saw Ned.

He was riding a grey horse behind the Lady Elizabeth. The last time I had seen him he had been a shadow in the chapel, whispering to me in the candlelight, filling my head with words I wanted to hear: love, freedom, a future.

He rode tall and straight, looking ahead as he had that first day. He did not turn his head to the crowd like Elizabeth, who always sought attention. Blue, green, silver. These colours flashed in front of my eyes, as bright as a peacock’s.

My heartbeat quickened at the sight of him. Did he know where I was? Did he know that I was watching him as I used to from my bedchamber? I waited, holding my breath.

As he neared the White Tower and the procession slowed, he put his fingers to his lips.

How strange it was! The Catholic Queen living opposite the former Protestant Queen, unable to face each other, like the poor twins born on the day that Edward died.

I did not see Ned again.

And three days later, the royal party left for Whitehall Palace.