Her Highness, the Traitor

29

Jane Dudley

June 1553 to July 9, 1553





Over the next few days, life went on as usual in my household, as I obeyed the king’s wish and did not tell the lady Jane of the king’s plans. It was not a difficult matter keeping the secret from Jane, for knowing she was to be queen would surely puff up the girl more than ever. It was Guildford I longed to tell.

It could not be kept a secret for long, I foresaw. The justices had protested when the king had ordered them to give proper legal form to his devise. So sharp had their opposition been that John, straining under the impossible role in which he had been placed, had thrown off his doublet in front of the entire council and threatened to fight in his shirt any man who dared to defy the king. Calming himself, he had instead gone and spoken to the king, who summoned the recalcitrant justices to his side the next day. Then Edward himself had demanded, in a fury that had left him prostrate afterward, that the justices and the council carry out his wishes. Nearly all of the justices and the councilors had then engaged themselves, in writing, to carry out the king’s wishes.

Several days later, the justices produced the document, bearing the king’s great seal, which made Lady Jane Grey the heir to the throne. A hundred and two men signed it—the Archbishop of Canterbury, the Bishop of Ely, dukes, earls, viscounts, barons, knights, lawyers, the Lord Mayor and aldermen of London.

They signed the document, and when it suited their convenience, most of the cowards forswore it.

***

The council had summoned Parliament to meet in September—the quickest this could be done, as elections would have to be held—but few believed the king would live to see it. By the latter part of June, he spent most of his time flat on his back, gasping for breath. John had even brought in a wise woman to save the king, with his permission, but she seemed only to make him worse, and was soon dismissed.

That same day, John’s man came from Greenwich. “Your Grace, my lord has charged me with a message. It is time to tell the lady Jane.”

I thanked him and summoned my daughter-in-law and Guildford to me. Guildford was out riding, but Jane came almost instantly—to my surprise, it being her usual policy to dawdle when I asked for her. “Your Grace, I was just going to come to you. I would like a few days to visit my mother.”

“I am afraid it cannot be.”

“Why on earth not? You promised that I could see her as often as I wished.”

I swallowed. “You are aware that the king is very ill.”

“Yes. They say he is dying. Has the lady Mary been summoned?”

“No. She has not been. She is not his heir.”

“Not his heir?” Jane stared at me. “Who on earth is, then?”

“You are. He has decreed that you will rule after his death.”

“He has disinherited his sisters? Both his sisters? Who told you this?”

“The king himself, and my husband.”

“I don’t believe you.”

I was beginning to wonder whether this girl was as intelligent as she was made out to be. “Why would I lie about such a serious matter, when I could so easily be proven wrong? I heard him tell your mother the same thing. Go to her if you wish. She will confirm it for you.”

“Then I will.” Jane turned around with a great swishing of skirts.

“But hurry back,” I called. “If—when the worst happens—you must be on hand to proceed to the Tower.”

A little while later, Guildford sought me out. “Mother? Where did my bride run off to in such a hurry? Or dare I ask?”

“Guildford, I have news for you.”

“She’s asked for an annulment?”

“No. This is not in jest, my son. The king has made your wife his heir. She will rule England when the king departs this life, which I fear will be soon.”

“You mean it is true what I have heard, that the lady Mary will not be allowed to succeed to the throne?”

“Yes. What else have you heard?”

“Not much. Some say that the lady Elizabeth will be chosen; others are saying the little Queen of Scots. Some are saying that Father will marry the lady Elizabeth and take the throne himself. I laid out the whoreson whom I heard saying that, actually. But this is the first I’ve heard that my wife is to be queen.” Guildford blinked. “What will that make me? King?”

“I believe Parliament will have to decide it. And, of course, the queen,” I added dutifully.

“But you think I’d make a good king, don’t you, Mother?”

“You have not been brought up to it any more than she has,” I reminded my son. “We must see what happens, Guildford. There is no precedent in England for this sort of thing. It may be that you are made a duke. Or that you are known as king consort. First, you must talk to your wife.”

Guildford, who apparently was already planning his coronation, scowled at the thought.

***

Several days passed, and my daughter-in-law had not returned from Suffolk Place, even as news came from Greenwich that the poor king was much worse. I sent a messenger to Jane and received a grand reply from the Duchess of Suffolk: the lady Jane was gathering strength to assume her new duties and preferred to remain at Suffolk Place.

This would not do. Jane might be Edward’s heir, but she was also a bride, with a husband she seemed to have forgotten about entirely. What sort of behavior was this for a future queen? I sent an equally grand reply back to Jane and her mother. After both of us mothers had acted up to our rank as duchesses (it was difficult to believe we’d held the titles for less than two years, I thought proudly), we at last reached a compromise: Jane, who did seem to be suffering from the strain of her impending role, would go to our house at Chelsea, where Guildford would join her.

Instead, Guildford was still with us on the morning of July 7, when Henry Sidney arrived with the dawn. He did not even stop to embrace his wife, whom he had not seen in weeks. “The king is dead.”

Instinctively, I started to cross myself, but stopped just in time.

“He died between eight and nine last evening, in my presence,” said Henry, wiping a tear from his eye. “Sir Thomas Wroth, his groom Christopher Salmon, and his physicians, Dr. Owen and Dr. Wendy, were there, as well. The king said a prayer of his own composition, then let me take him into my arms. He said that he was faint. Then he said only, ‘Lord have mercy upon me, and take my spirit.’ And the Lord did.”

We stayed silent for several moments in memory of the poor king, whom I prayed was now at last in the company of his gentle mother. Perhaps, I thought optimistically, he would even find comfort in his uncles Thomas and Edward. Then Guildford broke the quiet. “Should we tell Jane—er, the queen?”

“Not yet. The duke has expressly requested that the king’s death be kept a secret for a day or so, as was King Henry’s death. Everyone is to stay where he or she is for now. The lord Robert has been sent to bring the lady Mary to London.”

“To imprison her?”

“No. To explain to her why this must be, the duke says, and to explain the financial arrangements that have been made. She will be treated generously if she cooperates.”

Almost, I thought, as if she had been one of King Henry’s cast-off wives.

***

Over the next couple of days, we at Sion House received encouraging reports from John and the others at Greenwich. Only one unsettling piece of news arrived: Mary had abruptly left her residence at Hunsdon to head toward the coast of Norfolk, evading my son Robert. Was this journey coincidence, or had someone been giving her information? If it was the latter, was she once more planning to escape abroad? While we waited to hear more of Mary’s moves, there was little for us at Sion to do but to plan Jane’s coronation—and Guildford’s, for it seemed eminently reasonable he be crowned as her consort (at the very least). We were in the process of listing those we thought should be appointed to Jane’s household (scrupulously, we made certain all of her own relations were duly represented) when late on July 9, John ordered that Jane be brought from Chelsea to Sion.

“I’ll fetch her,” offered Mary. She winked at her brother. “King Guildford would probably scare her off if he went in person.”

Guildford gave a regal scowl.

Presently, Mary returned, escorting Jane into the room where John conducted business, and a short time later I saw John, the Duke of Suffolk, the Marquis of Northampton, the Earl of Arundel, the Earl of Huntingdon, and the Earl of Pembroke arrive. Guildford went to meet them. My friend the Marchioness of Northampton had been deputed by the council to bring the Duchess of Suffolk to Sion, and they arrived just as John’s man came to my chamber. “The men want the ladies to join them,” he said succinctly.

We charged—“hastened” would give the mistaken idea we were delicate about it—into John’s chamber. There Jane stood, surrounded by a group of kneeling men. “Mother!” she cried, turning so sharply poor Northampton was assailed by her skirts. “They are telling me that the king is dead! Is it true?”

“It is true,” Frances said gently. “The king has gone to God.”

“Well, of course it is true,” I put in irritably. “Why would all these men be kneeling before you if it were not?”

Jane recovered to give me an icy stare, and I realized my place. “Your Majesty,” I said, and knelt so low to the ground that every bone in my being protested.

John craved Jane’s permission to allow the company to rise. She gave it in a distracted manner, and John, reading from a long sheet of parchment, outlined what all of us knew already: the king had disinherited his sisters in favor of Jane. Once again, we all knelt, the men promising to defend Jane’s right to the throne with their very blood.

Jane stared down at us. Then she sank to the ground and began weeping, but only as long as was proper. After she prayed in silence, she accepted Guildford’s proffered hand and rose to her feet. “I have not sought this crown, which is too great a weight for a person as insignificant as myself. But if it is rightly and lawfully mine, I beseech His Divine Majesty to grant me such grace and spirit that I may govern to his glory and service, and to the advantage of the realm.”

“Long live the queen!” we shouted.

***

After Jane accepted the crown, there was an interminable banquet that was far more memorable for its awkwardness than for the quality of the fare. The queen alternated between looking confused when the other guests did her honor and looking annoyed when they did not. No one seemed quite to know what to do with Guildford, the new royal consort, who finally ended up sitting at a table with his brothers, all of whom I suspected were drinking too much wine. John and the Duke of Suffolk sat with the rest of the royal councilors, most of whom had a dazed look on their faces. Only the Marchioness of Northampton appeared entirely happy. “Who would have thought my matchmaking would be for a queen?” she asked rhetorically.

When the banquet had at last ended, John followed me to my chamber. “Well, we’ve carried out the king’s will. I hope we’ve done the right thing. I realized at the banquet tonight that I really know very little of Lady Jane—I mean, Queen Jane. Oh, she’s learned, all right, but is England safe in her hands?”

“The king thought it would be.”

“Yes. I hope he’s right. I wish he’d been given more time, so that Parliament could have given its approval of these arrangements.” Tears came to his eyes. “I still can’t entirely believe he’s dead. I was fond of the lad. I kept hoping for a miracle.”

“I am sure it will all be well.”

“I hope so. I keep picturing King Henry glowering down at us from heaven, asking what we were doing listening to a mere boy.” John sighed and kissed me good night. “With that image in mind, I believe I’ll keep to my own chamber tonight.”