Her Highness, the Traitor

32

Frances Grey

July 19, 1553





Harry watched wearily as the Duchess of Northumberland and Guildford raced out of the hall where my daughter and I had been dining with her ladies. “She’ll not get far,” he said. “The guard has orders to take her into custody. Guildford, too.”

“Why the Duchess of Northumberland?”

“She can be a hostage if the duke tries to flee the country or starts trouble down at Cambridge. I wouldn’t give two pence to be in his shoes at the moment. He’s a dead man, if you ask me.”

My food, served just moments before Harry had walked through the door, sat untouched in front of me. Now that the worst had happened, I found myself reacting with a strange numbness, almost as if I’d foreseen this happening all along. For horrid as this turn of events was, it was not entirely unexpected. The signs had been there: the coolness that had greeted Jane’s proclamation, the sullen silence of the crowd who had watched Northumberland leave the city with his army. Above all, there had been two more things: the people hated Northumberland, and they had loved Mary’s mother, Catherine of Aragon. No daughter of hers could ever be a bastard in their eyes.

How blind King Edward had been not to see that—but then again, he was a dying boy. Northumberland, nearly fifty, had no such excuse for not anticipating the people’s reaction. It was he, I realized as my numbness began to give way to anger, who had brought this catastrophe upon England and upon our family. It was he, then, who should have to face the consequences. Not my daughter.

The door opened, and Lady Anne Throckmorton, who had been serving in Jane’s stead as godmother at a christening near the Tower, started to kneel to Jane, then saw the cloth of estate lying waste on the floor. “Then it’s true what I heard?”

“Yes,” Jane said.

“Ah,” said Lady Throckmorton, “a sudden change.” She sat down and looked about. “Do you think they’ll be bringing us anything more to eat?”

I pushed my plate toward her. “Here.”

It soon became clear no more dinner courses were going to be brought to us that evening; the rhythms of royal life had ceased entirely. Even the musicians who normally played for us at dinner—most of them men who had served King Edward—were packing up their instruments and wandering off.

Then two men from the Tower garrison arrived and walked over to Harry. After conferring in low tones, they approached Jane. The shorter of the two cleared his throat and said, “My lady, the council has ordered that you be confined until further notice.”

“Yes, that is what Father told me.”

“You may take two ladies of your choosing with you, and three manservants will be appointed to wait on you.” He looked around. “The other ladies are free to leave, but I would advise not doing so until the morning. The crowd is boisterous.”

“I’ll go with you, my lady,” said Elizabeth Tilney, Jane’s companion since childhood. Ursula Ellen, a widow who had served Jane for the past several years, echoed, “Please, my lady, allow me to serve you also.”

“Then it is settled,” Jane said. “Where do we stay?”

“The second floor of Master Partridge’s house, my lady, overlooking the Green. It is comfortable and airy, and you will have ample space.”

“Then let us go there now,” Jane said. “I am tired.”

Jane took leave of Harry, after which he disappeared from the room—going off, I suspected, to weep in private. I then took my daughter in my arms, “When I can, I will beg Queen Mary to show mercy to you,” I said in a low voice. “She and I were friendly in the past, and I hope that I can appeal to that friendship. In the meantime, the best thing you can do is to write to her, explaining what has happened. Do not denigrate her religion, whatever you do. Write as her young and penitent cousin. And it would do no harm to let her know your fears about poisoning.”

“But I have no proof.”

“That should not stop you from telling the queen about your suspicions. Present them as such, and let her decide.”

Jane nodded.

I was on the verge of breaking into tears. How could I leave my daughter a prisoner in the Tower? But I could do more for her outside the Tower than inside it, I knew. Besides, Mary would be merciful to her sixteen-year-old cousin. She knew where the blame should lie, and if perchance she did not, I would make sure she did.