Her Highness, the Traitor

42

Frances Grey

February 8, 1554, to February 23, 1554





I did not see my girl die at Tower Green, and for that I will never forgive myself. I should have had the courage she did.

Harry’s part in what became known as Wyatt’s rebellion had been short and disastrous. Ill prepared for the sudden change of plans, short of money and men, and suffering from poor health, my husband had tried his best. With the help of his brothers, he had issued proclamations against the danger of the queen’s Spanish marriage and managed to get Leicester to shut its gates against the queen’s supporters. But the queen in her letters to the counties claimed he was trying to put Jane back on the throne, which was only too easy to believe. The Earl of Huntingdon, whom Harry had hoped would support his cause, arrived instead in pursuit of him. With the walls of Coventry closed against him, Harry had divided his money with his fifty followers and had determined to flee abroad. Aided by a servant, who brought him food, he had hidden in the hollow of a tree on our property at Astley until he could leave without being detected. But Huntingdon’s dogs had sniffed him out, as they also did his brother John, who was found hiding under a stack of hay. On February 2, Harry was Huntingdon’s prisoner; on February 10, he was back in the Tower, where he heard the news I had learned two days before: our daughter was to be executed.

I begged to see the queen. But this time her door, and her heart, were shut as firmly against me as they had been against the Duchess of Northumberland the summer before. My daughter would be given the chance to meet with the queen’s chaplain, John Feckenham, who would attempt to save her soul. That was all.

There was nothing stopping me from seeing my daughter die. Oh, I would have had to get permission to get into Tower Green, but surely a mother would have been allowed that privilege. But I did not dare. Perhaps I feared I could not stay sane after seeing such a sight; perhaps I feared something more mundane, that I might collapse and embarrass my daughter in her last moments. Instead, I spent the night, and much of the morning, in prayer, though I knew Jane hardly needed my intervention with the Lord. It was Adrian Stokes who went to the Tower that Monday, February 12, first to see Guildford Dudley die on Tower Hill and then to see Jane die on Tower Green.

It was past noon when Master Stokes arrived at Sheen, where Kate and Mary sat with me in my chamber. With him were my daughter’s waiting women, Ursula Ellen and Elizabeth Tilney, both of their faces creased with tears. We women came together in a wordless embrace as Master Stokes slipped from the room.

Later that day, when prayer had made me strong enough to hear about my daughter’s last hours, Jane’s women and Master Stokes told me of them. For three days, Feckenham, a kindly man, had disputed theology with Jane and found her intransigent. But approaching death had softened Jane, and when Feckenham, unable to convert Jane and unable to persuade Mary to pardon her, had begged to do her the last service of accompanying her to the scaffold, she had agreed. Wearing the same black dress she had worn to her trial, Jane had walked to her place of execution calmly, reading from the book of Esther as her ladies trailed sobbing behind her. Only the sight she had seen a little while before, that of her husband’s headless body being carted back from Tower Hill, had discomfited her, and that only for a short time.

On the scaffold, my daughter had given a speech, which Master Stokes had scribbled down himself for me. In my chamber, I listened as he delivered it in his Leicestershire accent:

Good people, I am come hither to die, and by a law I am condemned to the same. The fact, indeed, against the queen’s highness was unlawful, and the consenting thereunto by me: but touching the procurement and desire thereof by me or on my behalf, I do wash my hands thereof in innocence, before God, and the face of you, good Christian people, this day. And therewith I pray you all, good Christian people, to bear me witness that I die a true Christian woman, and that I look to be saved by none other means, but only by the mercy of God in the merits of the blood of his only son, Jesus Christ: and I confess, when I did know the word of God I neglected the same, loved myself and the world, and therefore this plague or punishment is happily and worthily happened unto me for my sins; and yet I thank God of his goodness that he hath thus given me a time and respite to repent. And now, good people, while I am alive, I pray you to assist me with your prayers.

“She knelt and said the fifty-first Psalm, with Feckenham helping,” said Elizabeth Tilney. “Then she rose and thanked him for keeping her company. She said that during the last three days she had been more bored by him than frightened by the shadow of death. Then she said that she hoped God would reward him for his efforts.”

I blinked. My daughter had made a joke on the scaffold?

“She gave Thomas Bridges her prayer book, then handed me her gloves and handkerchief,” Elizabeth continued. She still clutched the gloves. Mistress Ellen was stroking the snow-white handkerchief, embroidered crookedly JG. “The executioner offered to help her untie her gown, but she gave him a look and had us ladies do it. Then she forgave her executioner and—and begged him to be quick. He promised her that he would, and he also promised her when she asked that he would not take her head before she lay down.

“The only time she lost her composure was when she put on the blindfold and couldn’t see where to put her head. She fumbled around the block. None of us thought to help her—it was as if we would be sending her to her death. So someone finally stepped forward, and she tossed her beautiful hair in front of her, to bare her neck, and said, ‘Lord, into my hands I commend my spirit.’ And the headsman was quick.”

“Everyone on Tower Green was weeping,” Master Stokes said. “There were no cheers.” He paused to give me time to weep, but I reached a point beyond tears. “The lieutenant gave me some things,” he continued. “Another handkerchief of your sister’s for you, Lady Mary, and this for you, Lady Katherine.”

Mary sniffled into the handkerchief while Kate stared gloomily at the New Testament in Greek Master Stokes handed her.

“There is a letter written in it to you, Lady Katherine,” Adrian said. He handed another little book to me. “And there is one written inside here for you, Your Grace.”

Late that night, I read my letter. Jane’s letter to Kate has since been published. It was an exhortation to the godly life, kindly meant but perhaps misaddressed to a pretty young woman who wanted only to marry a kind young man and have his children. Mine never has been published and never will be, for it was of little interest to the greater world, only of immeasurable consolation to me. It told me my daughter loved me and she would pray for me in the next world to have the courage to face the trials to come. On that bleak February night, this was what I needed to hear. I wear that book on my girdle today, and when I need heart, I only have to open the book and hold it before my eyes. It will be placed in my hands when I am laid in my grave.

***

On the same day Jane died, gallows rose ominously everywhere around London. Even they would not hold all of the men who would die for their part in Wyatt’s rebellion; some would be hanged in their own doorways.

Harry’s trial came five days later. I did not go; my heart was too bitter against him. It was not only that I held him responsible for Jane’s death, by far the worst of his sins: he had wreaked other destruction, as well. With his treason, all the worse after he had been forgiven for his role in the events of last summer, he had blighted my other daughters’ futures. What men of substance would want to marry them now?

And he had blighted my life, too. Bradgate, where my baby son and daughter lay at rest, was forfeit to the Crown: never would I be able to visit their graves. So were the rest of Harry’s lands. For the time being, I had a home at Sheen, but that was bound to be taken from me any day. I would soon be like the Duchess of Northumberland, who I had heard was living on the queen’s sufferance at Chelsea and selling her plate to keep her increasingly small household fed.

All this, when I had pleaded on my knees for Harry to abandon Wyatt’s cause and make his peace with the queen. Why, for once in his life, couldn’t he have listened to me?

The verdict came as no surprise: Harry was found guilty, after he argued that preserving the realm from strangers was not treason. The Earl of Arundel, who had arrested Northumberland, sentenced Harry to death. He was to die on February 23.

I pleaded for Harry’s life, but more, I am ashamed to admit, for form’s sake than out of affection; in my grief and anger, I truly did not care much whether my husband died. Yet a more impassioned plea would probably have not met with any better result. I heard nothing from the queen until the morning of February 22, when she sent word that if I wished to see Harry before his death, I could.

“Should I go?” I asked Adrian Stokes, who sat preparing a list of horses and stable goods I hoped to keep for myself and my daughters.

“You are thinking of not going, Your Grace? It may have been his last request.”

I winced at the reproach in his voice. “I cannot forget that it is his folly that brought us to this. If only he had listened to me.”

“He is the father of your children. The lady Jane loved him dearly.”

“She was the only person who meant anything to him, I think sometimes. And his stupidity killed her.”

“Your Grace, if you do not go and wish him well, you may forever regret not having made your peace with him in this life.” I shook my head, and Master Stokes continued. “You know that is true, or you would not be asking me for my opinion. Go, my lady. He and you will both be better for it.”

I sighed. “Will you go with me? I do not think I can face the Tower by myself.”

“I was going to offer to accompany you, Your Grace.”

***

Harry sat at a table, reading, when I was shown into his cell. Before his rebellion, he had been tending toward stoutness; now, he looked thinner and coughed when he spoke. His doublet was torn and dirty. It must have been what he was wearing when he was caught hiding in a tree. “Is that all you have to wear?” I said as he rose.

“I’m saving my best for tomorrow. It’s not much better, but it’s clean.”

“I will have some things sent over for you this afternoon.”

“Thank you.”

I looked around the chamber. Save for a few books—some, I supposed, sent from Jane’s rooms after her death—it was comfortless. I could have at least thought to inquire about my husband’s material needs after he was taken prisoner. “I would have sent some of your things here to you earlier, if you’d asked for them.”

“I didn’t want to trouble you.” Harry looked at the ground. “Truth is, I wasn’t sure you’d come here today.”

“I wasn’t sure, either.”

“I know you must hate me for what I did. Trust me, I hate myself for it. It never occurred to me that Jane would be in danger.”

“It should have.”

“Yes.” Tears were running down Harry’s face. “I saw her die, saw her pay the price for my folly.”

“You watched?”

“From beginning to end.” He indicated the window seat behind him. “I could see everything from there.”

For the first time, I realized Harry’s chamber looked directly onto Tower Green. I glimpsed Jane’s scaffold, still standing, before I quickly turned my head. “The guards made you watch?”

“No. I made myself watch. It was the worst punishment I could think of, other than having to swing the axe myself.” Harry wiped his hand against his eye—he had no handkerchief—and continued, “I saw Guildford walk to the scaffold, too. They were both so calm, Frances. They’d looked more uneasy the day of their wedding.” He reached for a small prayer book that was lying on the table. “This is what Jane brought to the scaffold. I can’t give it to you. Jane inscribed it to the lieutenant, as he had become fond of her, and he will be keeping it for himself. But there are two messages there for me, one from Guildford and one from Jane. I keep reading them. They have brought me indescribable comfort.”

Harry turned to first one page of the book, then to the other.

Your loving and obedient son wishes unto Your Grace long life in this world, with as much joy and comfort as ever I wished to myself, and in the world to come joy everlasting. Your most humble son till his death.

G. Dudley

The Lord comfort Your Grace, and that in his word, wherein all creatures only are to be comforted. And though it hath pleased God to take away two of your children, yet think not, I most humbly beseech Your Grace, that you have lost them, but trust that we, by leaving this mortal life, have won an immortal life. And I for my part, as I have honored Your Grace in this life, will pray for you in another life. Your Grace’s humble daughter,

Jane Dudley

My husband carefully folded the little book and smiled. “Writing those messages was the only thing I think the two of them ever cooperated in together. Poor Guildford. Jane wouldn’t even see him before their executions. The lieutenant told me she preferred to focus on spiritual matters, but it would have been kind for her to say good-bye to the lad. I would have liked having him as a son-in-law. I got on rather well with him. I always thought our Jane was rather unfair to him. The worst you could say of him was that he wanted to be king, and I daresay he’d have done a better job of it than that turncoat Courtenay would have.”

“I wonder how their marriage would have turned out.”

“Probably better than ours, I fear. I haven’t been the best husband in the world.”

“You weren’t that bad,” I protested.

“No, I didn’t beat you, I didn’t shout at you, and I was never unfaithful to you, but I sometimes think I could have been more to you.” Harry sat on the window seat and drew me to sit beside him, our backs to the scaffold. “I was remembering our wedding night. I took you with all of the finesse of a Southwark tomcat. You cried for hours.”

“I was afraid that it would always be that way, that’s all. But it did get better.”

“Well, I’m glad to hear that much. I wanted you, you know. That’s why I broke off my betrothal with Arundel’s sister to marry you.”

I turned to him, shocked. “I was always told that was your mother’s doing.”

“No, it was mine. I insisted upon it, and my mother had no choice but to agree. You were the king’s niece, of course, and I liked that, but I also liked you more than I did Arundel’s sister. You had the better nature, poor girl.” Harry turned aside and coughed.

“You’re ill.”

“A bit. I should have asked you to bring along that potion of yours. It always put me right. Did I ever tell you that?”

“Yes,” I lied. I touched his forehead. “You’re feverish, too.”

“I’ll feel better this time tomorrow.” Harry sighed. “My brothers are here, too, you know. I’m glad my mother isn’t alive to see this. She never did approve of much I did to begin with, and now she would be furious with me.”

“Has the queen tried to get you to convert?” I said, hoping to divert my husband to a less gloomy subject.

Harry managed a smile. “Oh, yes. As a matter of fact, I’ll be visited by a priest later today, I hear. I’ll be damned if I will join the Papists. At least I can do that much right by our girl.” He squeezed my hand and rose. “I am glad you came, but I think I should be alone now, so that I can prepare myself to make a good end. Who accompanied you here?”

“Master Stokes.”

“I thought so.”

I bristled. “Harry, you were unjust to him—and to me—the other day. I have never been anything but a faithful wife to you. He has never spoken or acted with anything but the greatest respect for you.”

“Yes. It was wrong of me, I suppose. But there are times I’ve wondered, especially since I’ve been here, whether he might fancy you in his bed.”

“It is all in your imagination.”

“Maybe,” said Harry. “But it would be pleasant to have been right about something for once in my life.” He drew me to my feet and placed a hand on each of my shoulders. “Thank you for coming, Frances. Pray for me, my dear. I shall need it.”

“I shall.”

“But not after I am dead. Superstition.”

“I won’t,” I promised.

“I’d prefer you not to come tomorrow, in case you were planning on it. I’d rather you remember me as I was in less awkward circumstances.”

“All right, Harry.”

Harry swallowed. “And will you be so kind as to forgive me for the wrongs I’ve done to you and the girls? It’s a kindness I know I don’t deserve, but it would make these last hours better for me.”

I thought of Harry watching as our daughter died. He was right: there had been no greater punishment he could have undergone than that. “I will, Harry.”

“Thank you.” Harry smiled at me. In his relief at being forgiven, he looked almost boyish again.

Master Stokes had also been right; it would have haunted me forever if I had not bothered to come to say good-bye. “I’m glad I came here.”

“So am I.” Harry kissed me, more gently than passionately, and then led me to the door, where Master Stokes stood outside, talking with the guards. “Take care of her, Stokes.”

“I will, Your Grace.”

Harry gave me a knowing, almost mischievous look, and raised his hand in farewell.

***

“The duke bore his execution bravely,” Master Stokes reported to me the next day. “He was steadfast in his Protestant faith to the end, even though the queen sent a priest to accompany him. He made a short speech, very dignified.” An odd look came across his face.

“What is it? You are not hiding something?”

“No. Well, there was a moment just before he climbed the scaffold, he tried to keep the priest from following him. They got into a shoving match.”

Yes, that was my Harry.

“And at the end, just before the duke took off his gown and doublet, a man popped up on the scaffold and asked, ‘My lord, how should I get the money that you owe me?’ How he managed to get up there, I have no idea. The duke didn’t lose his temper. He just said, ‘Good fellow, trouble me not now, but go to my officers.’ He was a good man, Your Grace, and deserved a happier fate. I shall miss him.”

So, I realized when I prepared to climb into my empty bed that evening, would I. Instead of settling into bed, I dropped to my knees and, breaking my promise to Harry, prayed for his soul.

It couldn’t hurt. And if he was already in heaven and didn’t need my prayers, he surely wouldn’t hold a grudge against me for offering them anyway.