Her Highness, the Traitor

37

Jane Dudley

August 22, 1553





I did not sleep that night after leaving John at the Tower. I stayed in my chamber, praying and weeping. When dawn came, I dried my eyes and dressed, using more care than I had as of late. Then, followed by Henry Sidney, my daughter Mary, and my ladies, I took Katheryn’s hand and walked out to the garden, where we sat watching as the sun broke over the Thames.

The church bells tolled seven, and John’s half sisters joined the vigil. Eight, and a couple of my cousins came to sit with us. Nine—the hour John was to proceed to the scaffold.

I fingered my rosary. It was a string of beads to me, nothing more, but it was a string of beads my John had held, at least. Unbidden, the Latin prayers I had said as a much-younger woman came back to me, and I began to repeat them in a whisper. Perhaps John, dying his Catholic death, was saying them, too.

The sun was high in the sky when John’s servant from the Tower arrived by skiff at Chelsea’s landing. As I went to meet him, he took off his cap and held it to his heart. “It is done, Your Grace. I am most heartily sorry.”

I realized then that the entire household had come out to the garden, the same garden where Catherine Parr and Thomas Seymour had courted and giggled in what seemed now to be a more innocent time. Everybody stood silent, their heads capless and bowed. Some were weeping. I managed to command my voice. “Please take the rest of the day to mourn my husband,” I said, blinking back tears. “He was a good and fair master.”

“Aye, he was,” my servants muttered.

Henry Sidney took Mary into his arms, while Mistress Blount offered similar comfort to Katheryn. Maudlyn Flower took my arm. “Please go in and lie down, Your Grace. I will give you something to make you sleep.”

I shook my head. “I would like to walk for a while. By myself.”

“My lady…”

“I need to be alone.”

I turned away and set off walking aimlessly down the bank of the river. Someone from my household was protectively dogging my footsteps, I soon realized, but he stayed at a respectful distance, so I did not care. Most of the time, I was crying. At last, I grew so tired I could walk no longer, so I sat on the riverbank, where I childishly hugged my knees and watched the watercraft go by. Most people in London travel by water, John’s seven-year-old voice informed me.

How cruel my father had been, to marry me to someone I would come to love so dearly.

Grief, I found, would not keep me awake. Too exhausted from my sleepless night and from weeping and walking to hold my eyes open for long, I drifted off. For a few happy hours I was transported to my childhood in Halden with John until a touch awoke me. “My lady? It’s getting ready to rain. Please let me take you home.”

I looked up to see one of my servants, leading my horse. I nodded and let him help me to my feet and into the saddle. Then, as the rain began to fall, I rode back to a home to which my John would never return.