Her Highness, the Traitor

11

Jane Dudley

March 1549 to October 1549





With the last of the depositions completed, the king’s council had made the painful choice to bring formal charges of high treason against Thomas Seymour, which he refused to answer, and a bill of attainder had passed both the Lords and the Commons. An ashen-faced Somerset had signed his younger brother’s death warrant, his hand shaking, and on March 20, 1549, the Admiral, debonair as always, walked to the scaffold at Tower Hill.

His brother was not there to see his last moments on earth. He and the duchess had gone with the king to Greenwich, where the duchess had invited my husband and me to stay lest Somerset give way at the last moment and halt the execution. But as we sat down to breakfast on bacon, eggs, and cheese, it was clear the Protector’s mind was not on the delicious-smelling food, not even on the quince marmalade made by his own duchess, who liked to potter around in the kitchen from time to time.

“The fourth Edward had to put his brother to death,” said the Protector. “I wonder if he felt as I do today.”

“The Duke of Clarence was a menace to the king,” said John. He laid an arm upon Somerset’s sleeve. For the occasion, the Protector had dressed in black. “And your brother was a menace to our king—and to you. You heard what he was plotting.”

“The man gave you no choice,” the duchess said briskly.

“He would never have stopped plotting against you,” I added for good measure.

The duke sighed and stared toward the window, then at the clock on the mantle. “It must be about to take place.” He slowly spread some marmalade over his bread and took the smallest of bites. “Delicious,” he said tonelessly.

For the next hour or so, the men talked about the other problems in the realm, of which there were many at the time. John, normally a taciturn man, hardly stopped talking long enough for the Protector to form a thought, much less a response, while we women discussed our gardens and our children in false, bright voices. Then one of the duke’s servants knocked on the door and entered. “The Constable of the Tower wishes to inform you that the sentence has been carried out, Your Grace. The body has been taken to the chapel for burial.”

I felt the Admiral’s shade glide into the room and make himself comfortable.

“Go back and make certain that the body is treated with all due respect, as befits an uncle of the king,” Somerset said.

“Yes, Your Grace.” The man bowed and backed out of the room.

Somerset pushed his untouched food away, propped his elbows on the table, and wept into his hands. Anne left her seat and knelt next to him, her arm around him. “If he had asked to see me, this never would have happened,” Somerset said, his words barely intelligible through his tears. “I would have never allowed him to be put to death. Why did he not ask? Why did no one offer to bring him to me?”

“Edward, let us go to our estates for a few days. You need some rest and quiet; these past weeks have strained you unbearably. Come. Let us get ready now. The Earl and Countess of Warwick will understand.” We nodded our assent.

“No. I must tell the king that the sentence has been carried out. He cannot be allowed to hear it from someone not in the family. He will hate me for it, but he deserves to hear it from me.” Somerset chuckled bitterly. “He already hates me anyway. Do you know what the king said in his deposition? My brother told him that he would be able to rule without a protector within a couple of years, as I was growing old and would not live long. The king replied, ‘It were better for him to die before.’”

“The king did not mean what you think,” I put in even before the duchess could. “He is a boy, for all that he is a king, and boys speak callously in that manner. He merely meant that if you were truly ill, you should not suffer.”

Somerset ignored my gloss on the king’s comment. “And I must tell our mother. She will never forgive me. Thomas was her favorite son.” Somerset rose and ran a hand over his face. “She never liked me nearly as much as she did him. Just like the king.”

The duchess took her husband’s hand again. “But the people love you, Edward. They call you their good duke.”

The Protector’s face cleared, and something of a faint smile broke through. “It’s true,” he said. “They do.”

***

The summer of 1549 was one of the most frightening ones ever seen in England. Not since the Pilgrimage of Grace twelve years before had the country seemed so much in danger. There was anger in Cornwall and Devon about the new prayer book put out by the government and about the other religious changes, anger in Norfolk about oppressive and corrupt local government. Discontent in one county seeped into the next county, and there were a number of small risings, but the best organized had been in the area around Norwich. William Parr, Marquis of Northampton, had been sent to deal with it, and had failed miserably, losing many of his men in the process.

It had been left to my husband—newly risen from a sickbed, for his health had been poor that year—to save Norwich from its fate. It was not from John but my sons Ambrose and Robert, who had served under him, that I had learned of my husband’s deeds: how he had told the city officials he would either save it or die in its service; how he had urged the rebels to accept a pardon and save their own lives; how, having been refused, he had proceeded to slaughter the rebels; how, wishing to spare the survivors, he had ridden into their midst in person to demonstrate the sincerity of his renewed offer of pardon; how he had executed the leaders of the rebellion but refused the demands of the town officials that he punish even more widely. From my sons, not my husband, I had learned the city of Norwich had declared that each year on the anniversary of the battle, its citizens would close their shops and give thanks for Norwich’s deliverance.

The Protector had not shown similar gratitude. When John asked that our son Ambrose, who had been one of the first to ride against the rebels, receive as a reward for his good services the reversion of certain offices, he’d been refused in favor of one of Somerset’s own friends. Every request John made of the Protector, no matter how easy it would have been for him to fulfill, was refused.

After these slights, John said little to me, and I did not question him. I knew it was just a matter of time before he came to me, and in mid-September, he did. “I don’t know what to do, Mouse.”

Even though I had been anticipating that John would confide in me sooner or later, I blinked, both at the admission and the use of my childhood name, which I’d begged John to stop using when I became a grown-up young lady of twelve. “John?”

“The Protector. This can’t continue as it is, Jane. He’s unfit for his office. I have kept telling myself he’ll grow into the position; it’s not what he was raised to do, after all. He was raised to be an ordinary knight—as was I.” John’s mouth twitched upward faintly. “He’s been far too willing to make concessions to the rebels, at the expense of the gentry. He’s carried on about their grievances so much, one would think he’s one of them. Jane, I care about the people! I truly do. Do you think I don’t feel for the common man? But Somerset takes it too far; the rabble can’t have the rule of the land. Is he trying to make his own nephew less secure on the throne? And it’s not just his behavior toward the rebels; it’s his behavior toward those who are governing the realm with him. Once—twice—I have seen him reduce grown men to tears. Not weaklings, but men who have fought bravely on the battlefield. He doesn’t seek advice from the council very often, and when he does seek our advice, he ignores it. He’s become worse since he executed his brother, too. More prone to anger, more sharp tongued, more uncompromising. Maybe he’ll be more like himself when the guilt over Thomas Seymour’s death eases, but when? We’ve some years to get through until the king comes of age or is old enough to be declared to be of age. Can we afford to wait all these years on the hope the Protector improves? If we keep letting him drag us into the mire, can we pull ourselves free?”

“Are you saying he should be removed as Protector?”

“Yes, I am, and I am not the only one. Trust me, much of the council is of the same mind. But it is tearing at my soul, for we have been friends, and I know him for a good man. I know also he means well toward the king, too; he loves the boy, for all he can’t show it that well. But he is sowing the seeds of disaster, and if this keeps up, it will be left for the king a few years from now to reap them, if he hasn’t already.”

“Do you think he will agree to step down?”

“Aye, that is the crux of the matter. Probably not; he’s too proud.” John snorted. “Paget has taken it upon himself to send him long letters of advice, he tells me. I saw a copy of one. I can’t say I’d be pleased to get such letters myself, but Somerset hardly seems to notice them. I suspect he doesn’t even read them.”

“So he will have to be forced out.”

“Yes. I don’t want to do it. More than anything, I don’t want to shed blood—his or mine or anyone else’s. But this can’t go on. I’m torn, Mouse.”

“You must choose between your friendship with Somerset and your duty to the kingdom—and to the king. That’s what it comes down to, isn’t it?”

John looked at me and sighed. “When you put it that way, there’s no choice at all, is there?”

“None indeed,” I said sadly.

***

No one wanted bloodshed, but for a few frightening days in October, it seemed as if that would be exactly what we would get. Forces gathered around John and his allies in London, while others gathered around the Protector at Hampton Court. Every spare chamber at Ely Place was crammed with the council members and their entourages, to the puzzlement of both my youngest daughter, Katheryn, who could no longer play hiding games in its once vacant spaces, and of Jerome, who asked plaintively one day when all of the grim-faced strangers could be expected to leave. “Soon,” I said hopefully, while I hurried off to ensure yet more provisions were brought in for our many house guests. Civil strife, I was finding, lessened no one’s appetites.

The war over the few days, however, would be fought not with swords, but with pen and paper. From Ely Place, the council sent letters to Somerset; from Windsor Castle, where he had hastened with the reluctant king, Somerset sent letters to the council. Everybody, it seemed, was writing to everybody. The printers of London had never been happier; both sides were furiously producing handbills, which still could be found gracing the walls of sundry buildings weeks after all had ended. As the days wore on, John received a letter from the Protector himself, begging him to remember their old friendship, and I received a letter from the Duchess of Somerset, begging me to use what influence I had with my husband. But there was nothing John could do other than to assure Somerset he did not seek his blood, and nothing I could do other than to send a similar message to the duchess. Meanwhile, the men at Windsor were rapidly deserting Somerset’s cause, and on October 11, he was arrested without putting up any resistance.

Three days later, Somerset was escorted to London as a prisoner. John did not watch him enter the city, half because he felt it unseemly, half because he could not bear to see his old friend brought low. I was of a baser nature, though, and of a more curious one, so I went. I have been repaid threefold for my idle gawking that day.

The council had taken care not to humiliate the duke—no longer Protector, for that position had been abolished the day before. Somerset wore fine clothes and was mounted on a good horse, and the only thing that marked him as a prisoner was the armed guard of three hundred men that ringed him. He gazed at the men surrounding him reprovingly yet sadly, as if they were well-loved children caught in a bad act. Only when a group of poor people cheered did his austere features soften into a smile.

Not far from me, a plainly dressed woman stifled a sob as the duke passed by. I stared at her, and stared at her even harder when, the duke having ridden past us, she began weeping openly. The Duchess of Somerset might have stripped off her jewels and hidden her carefully tended face and figure underneath someone else’s drab clothes, but she could not conceal the love she plainly bore for the prisoner heading off toward an uncertain future.

I moved to her and touched her on the shoulder. She gasped then turned a ravaged face to me. “You are enjoying this, Lady Warwick?”

“No. I am very sorry for all this.”

The duchess stared after her husband. “He thinks I am at my brother’s house in Beddington. I promised him I would not come to see him brought to London as a prisoner if it came to that. I little thought that it would. But it may be the last I ever see of him alive.”

“I told you, Anne, my husband does not seek his life.”

“He cannot bear to be in the Tower long. He will be miserable and cold there. His health will suffer.”

“I have it on good authority that the council is arranging for him to be comfortably housed there. He will be treated as his rank deserves. You have nothing to fear.”

“I miss him.”

I had no response to that. Instead, I said, “I will do everything in my power to see him freed.”

“And restored to his protectorship?”

I had to smile at the duchess’s presumption even in the face of disaster. “That I cannot promise. But I will try my best to have him restored to you and your children.”

“I thank you,” Anne said. For the first time I could recall in our long acquaintanceship, her expression was a humble one. She looked back toward her husband, but his figure had long disappeared from view. “And can his favorite cook be with him in the Tower? My husband is very particular in his eating habits.”

***

“I have made a promise today, John.”

“Oh?”

“To the Duchess of Somerset.”

John groaned eloquently.

“I promised her that I would use my influence to see her husband released from the Tower.”

“Released from the Tower? He’s not even there yet; his quarters won’t be ready until tomorrow. I’ll say one thing for you women—you don’t waste time.”

“I couldn’t bear it, John. She had gone to watch Somerset being brought into the city, and she was weeping. I felt pity for her.” I put my arms around John in the bed we were sharing. I could feel the bones in his back more easily than I could a couple of months ago; he’d been hardly eating, and some days could scarcely keep anything on his stomach. Somerset, at least from my vantage point on the street, had looked less worn for his ordeal than did my husband. “I told her that you would receive her if she came and spoke on his behalf. Did I presume?”

“Yes, to put it mildly. Tell me, my dear, have you made any other promises on my behalf to the duchess, or to anyone else, I should know about? Issued pardons?”

“It is only seeing her, John.”

“And seeing her again and again, no doubt, until this business is resolved. It won’t be quick, I suspect, no matter what you and the duchess must think.”

“She loves Somerset very dearly and is utterly devoted to him. It is her best quality.” I ran my hand along John’s back. “Surely she can’t be blamed for trying to help him. I would do the same for you if you were in trouble, John.”

John sighed. “Very well. I’ll see the woman.”

***

A few days later, Robert and Guildford wandered into my chamber. Robert cocked his head in the general direction of the chamber where John received visitors. “Is she still here?”

“Still,” I said grimly. The Duchess of Somerset had presented herself at Ely Place that morning, dressed in a less matronly fashion than usual and wearing, I suspected, a bit of paint on her face. Though she always was impeccably dressed and groomed, this was a step too far. I had said she could come to see my husband, not that she could look beautiful doing it.

“How long has she been here?” asked Guildford.

“Too long,” I muttered. “I fear she will be taxing your father’s strength,” I added hastily. “He has not been able to shake off that stomach disorder of his.”

Robert, from whom I could hide nothing, shot me an amused look. “What if we send Guildford in there?” he suggested. “I’d go myself, but it would look too obvious. Guildford can go in there to retrieve something he’s left. He’s always leaving things around the house, anyway.”

“Not lately,” Guildford protested.

“But you have that reputation. Go in there for—for your Greek grammar. That’s it! Stay there and search for it a little, so you’ll be able to tell us what feminine wiles and snares the duchess is using.”

“Feminine wiles and snares?” Guildford’s brow crinkled.

“Never mind about that,” I interjected. “Just tell us what she’s doing in there.”

“And there’s a bonus,” Robert added. “Father will think you’re actually working on your Greek.”

“I do work on my Greek.”

Robert and I rolled our eyes in unison.

“All right,” Guildford said. “I’ll go.” He headed out of the chamber, then turned. “What if Father asks me about my Greek tonight?”

“I’ll cover for you,” Robert promised.

Presently, Guildford loped back into the room. “It was tragic, Mother. She was kneeling before Father. I think she had been crying.”

As long as she wasn’t sitting in his lap, I thought.

“She had a bunch of letters in her hands, from the duke, I guess, and was reading from one of them. Father was listening and nodding.”

“Agreeing with her?” Robert asked. “Or trying to stay awake?”

“I don’t know,” said Guildford. “The duchess started telling me about her brilliant daughters, and I decided it was time to leave. I couldn’t find a good excuse to linger, anyway, once I found my book.” He held up a volume that showed little signs of wear. “It was there, actually.”

“Maybe you should study it, then,” said Robert. “In case Father asks about it.”

“You promised—”

“Well, yes. But now, there’s something I need to speak to Mother about. Privately.” Robert practically pushed Guildford out of the room. “Go play a game of tennis with Hal.”

A baffled-looking Guildford left the room. Robert let the sound of his departing footsteps fade away. Then he said in a low voice, “I’m in love.”

My heart sank. “The lady Elizabeth. Robert, she is not for you. The second-highest lady in the land—”

“Calf-love,” Robert said firmly. “No. Amy Robsart.”

“Who?”

Robert reached in the pouch at his side and pulled out a locket. “I sent a man to paint this of her,” he said reverently, carefully opening it and laying it on my outstretched palm.

I gazed at a limning of a pretty blonde girl of about Robert’s own age of seventeen. Though the artist was obviously skilled, the girl herself looked to me much like every other pretty blonde girl in England, but I kept quiet on this point. “She’s lovely. But who is she? I don’t know of any Robsarts.”

“She’s John Robsart’s daughter.” He anticipated my next question. “He’s a man of substance in Norfolk. He’s been sheriff there. We stayed at his place at Stanford Hall while we were marching to Norwich this summer. Amy and I got to talking. When Father had finished that business with Kett’s men, we stayed at Stanford Hall again, and we got better acquainted.”

“Robert. Have you got this girl with child?”

“No! She is a virgin. I don’t want to seduce her. I’ve never even tried. I want to make her my wife.”

I stared. Substantial John Robsart might be, but his daughter was no suitable match for an earl’s son, even an earl’s younger son, and Robert knew it as well as I did. “Robert—”

“I know, I know! I could find a bride with better breeding or a better dowry. But I don’t want such a bride. I want Amy. I’ll be miserable without her. And she wants me. Not marrying me will break her heart.” Robert gave me his most earnest look, one he had perfected over the years and that never failed to work its intended effect. “She might pine away without me and die. It does happen, you know.”

“The streets of London weren’t piled high with unhappy lovers the last time I looked.” But Robert had me, and he knew it. “It will be your father’s decision, in any case. But for what it’s worth, I won’t oppose the match.”

“I knew you wouldn’t.”

“I suppose you want me to speak to your father.”

“Yes. Oh, I could speak to him—but you’re a woman. He’ll see reason more quickly if it comes from you.”

“I should think that you wouldn’t want him to see reason, because if he does, he’ll never approve of this unsuitable match. But I will speak to him. I seem to be much in demand for that type of thing lately.”

“That’s because you’re good at it, Mother.”

“Flatterer. Save your blandishments for Amy.”

***

“Oh, her,” John said.

I found myself mildly disappointed I had not provoked more of a reaction. “You know?”

“I guessed. They spent a lot of time in each other’s company that evening, I noticed, and when he found out that she helped brew the family ale, he took an inordinate interest in the brewing process. So he fancies himself in love with this girl?”

“Yes. I am to intercede with you for their marriage.”

“A love match. I can’t say that I put much faith in them. Look at King Henry, besotted with Anne Boleyn and later that silly Howard girl. And Queen Catherine, losing her good sense over that rascal Thomas Seymour. I could think of others if I put my mind to it, I daresay.”

“But there were so many other things wrong with those matches besides them being made for love. Robert and Amy are alike in years, with no prior attachments or entanglements like the king had, and they are doing the right thing by seeking our blessing, instead of marrying in secret like the queen did. And how is their love match different from any other? They will have to mature together, just as we matured together when we were first married.”

“I don’t remember us being that immature when we married.”

“Well, I do. Do you remember how I could not do the household accounts to your satisfaction until two years into the marriage? How hateful I was to you when I first got with child?”

“True. You were a terror. And I was a tyrant.” John smiled fondly. “I’d shut it out of my memory. But we are getting away from our son. It’s hardly the sort of marriage I wanted for him. He could do better.”

“We have other sons who can make good marriages.”

“Unless they all decide they need love matches, too, with the first pretty girl they see.”

“Does that mean you give your consent?”

John grimaced. “Probably, unless I have an attack of common sense. The lad did good service at Norwich; I suppose he deserves something as a reward. Besides, he’s headstrong. If I forbade the marriage, he’d probably marry the girl secretly. Some Norfolk connections wouldn’t hurt our family, I suppose, and Robsart’s a sensible man. One could have worse relations. So I suppose we might as well make a fine wedding of it.”

I hugged John.

“But this is as low as it goes,” warned John. “If Guildford or Hal decides to marry a tavern maid, he’ll get no sympathy from me.”