Her Highness, the Traitor

43

Jane Dudley

February 1554 to June 1554





For a day after Guildford’s death, I lay in my bed, utterly undone by the cruelty of this world. What was the point of going on? But after a day of weeping, I knew this self-pity could avail me nothing. I had four sons left on Earth. It was up to me to get them set free.

And so, a few days after Guildford’s remains were buried in an unmarked grave at the Chapel of St. Peter ad Vincula, I was back haunting the court.

It was hardly a promising place to be. In London, one could not turn a corner without running into a hanging corpse; the air was so rank with the smell of rotting traitors, no one went out without a pomander clutched to his or her nose. The lady Elizabeth, pale and ill, had been forcibly brought to Whitehall. Suspected of complicity in the Wyatt rebellion, she remained shut off from her sister. Rumors flew that she would soon follow Lady Jane to Tower Green, where the scaffold remained. Wyatt, in captivity, was being questioned daily, but so far had refused to implicate the lady Elizabeth, even, it was said, under torture.

In the midst of all that uncertainty, my daughter Mary and her husband, Henry Sidney, came from Penshurst. With them was Katheryn, who had been staying with Mary since John’s death. I had hoped that the change of scene might do her good. “Is Guildford really dead?” she asked as soon as she dismounted from her horse and embraced me.

“Yes, my child. He is with your father now. We will meet them both again, never fear.”

“That is what Lord Hastings said.” Katheryn sniffled.

“Lord Hastings wrote to you?”

“Yes, Mama, the most beautiful letter. It was very kind, and he sent me a pair of sweet gloves, too.” Katheryn extended her hands proudly.

“They’re lovely,” I said, sniffing the fine perfume emanating from the gloves. I, too, had had a letter, this one from Lord Hastings’s father, the Earl of Huntingdon. Although he had not broken off the betrothal, it was plain he held no great enthusiasm for it. He would leave the matter, he wrote me coolly, for his son to decide when he was a little older. Or, I had surmised, until a better prospect came along, which it was bound to do if the earl continued to rise in Mary’s favor. And if Reginald Pole, the cardinal who was Lord Hastings’s long-exiled uncle, returned to England, as expected, he would likely take an interest in the marital prospects of his nephew.

But I would not let these thoughts intrude upon the hopes of Katheryn, especially when she was still mourning her father and now Guildford. “So I understand you have business for the queen?” I asked Henry after we had spoken quietly of my dead son for some time.

“Yes. I am among those appointed to escort Prince Philip from Spain to England. I owe my appointment mainly to my ability to speak good French and Italian.”

I smiled. “There is no need to be modest in our company. I know you had served King Edward on embassies and had won praise.”

“Well, yes.” My son-in-law flushed, and Mary beamed at him. He leaned forward. “I do have hopes of turning this assignment to the good of our family. The prince will want English allies when he comes here, and I will do my best to impress upon him the advantage of allowing my brothers to go free and to serve him.”

My eyes filled with tears as Henry referred to my sons as his brothers. It was a precious thing these days, when so many others had distanced themselves from our family. Save for John’s half sisters and a few old friends, hardly anyone visited me except for a handful of paupers at mealtimes, which was just as well, because I barely had enough to feed the few guests I did receive. “If you can manage that, you will have my undying gratitude. For I am certainly making no headway,” I admitted. Time, it was said, could wear down a stone, but Queen Mary remained as obdurate as ever. It was me, I sometimes thought, who was being worn away. Riding for more than short distances tired me, and there were days when I had pains in my chest that would not cease. These were matters I preferred to keep to myself for now, however. There was no need to add my own secret fears to my family’s misery. I smiled at my son-in-law. “Running off with you was one of the best decisions my daughter ever made.”

***

Just a few days after Henry Sidney and the rest of the English embassy left for Spain, the lady Elizabeth came to the Tower, not as Mary’s guest but as her prisoner. I wondered whether she and her old friend, my son Robert, ever glimpsed each other there. Even after Wyatt went to the scaffold the next month, using his dying speech to exonerate both the lady Elizabeth and Courtenay from guilt, the queen’s sister remained a captive.

In mid-April, a few days after Wyatt’s death, I went to join the crowd of the queen’s petitioners and was placed on my usual stool. I was sewing a shirt for Hal (his wife sewed them, too, but not as well as I could) when the guard approached me. “Her Majesty will see you, Your Grace.”

I blinked. “Me?”

“Yes.”

After all of the months of waiting, I now had but moments to compose myself. I patted down my clothes, hoping I looked seemly. Quickly, I checked to see if the rosary I always carried to court was prominently attached to my girdle. Perhaps this was what John had had in mind in the first place when he gave it to me.

I sank to the ground in obeisance before the queen, fighting back the dizziness that had begun recently to overtake me when I changed position. “Rise, my lady.” I complied, swaying slightly as I did. The queen looked at me closely. “You are not ill, my lady?”

“I have attacks of giddiness at times, Your Majesty. They pass quickly.”

Mary quickly turned her attention to my waist. “We see you have embraced the true faith, my lady.” Her voice hardened. “Are you sincere in doing so?”

“It is not the religion I have practiced over the last several years, as Your Majesty knows, but I am reacquainting myself with its majesty and beauty. And I promised my husband I would follow his wishes and adhere to the Catholic faith.”

“Do you hear the Mass in your household?”

“I keep no priest in my household; I cannot afford to do so. But we go to our parish church faithfully.”

“You wished to put a petition to us.”

“Yes, Your Majesty.” I hesitated, wondering whether I was about to ask too much at a time. But who knew when if ever I might get to meet the queen again? Not even the lady Elizabeth had been allowed this privilege since arriving at the Tower. “I would like to ask that my sons, my husband’s brother Sir Andrew, and I myself be pardoned, and be allowed to show how loyally we can serve Your Majesty.”

“We will consider a pardon for you, as you were but an obedient wife. Your sons and Sir Andrew must wait our further consideration and consultation with our council.”

“I thank you, Your Majesty. While my sons continue in confinement”—prison, I decided swiftly, would sound too harsh in the queen’s ears—“may I request that they be allowed to hear the Mass?”

“The guards at the Tower do not report that they have shown any signs of embracing the true faith. Why, your son Guildford refused a priest.”

He was sixteen, dying for a conspiracy he knew nothing of. Would you deprive the boy of that one last satisfying act of defiance? “He was young and foolish about such things. My older three sons have greater understanding of these matters, being, well, older, and my youngest son will likely follow their example.”

“So you believe they will hear Mass if permitted to?”

They will if they have the sense God gave a sheep, I thought. “I should like to have them given the opportunity, Your Majesty.”

“We shall consider it.”

“Thank you, Your Majesty. There is one more matter—my livelihood. I have the support of my daughter Katheryn and of my late husband’s youngest brother, Jerome, who is a natural. There is a household dependent upon me, as well. All have suffered for my husband’s treason.” John, forgive me. “Your Majesty has generously allowed me the use of Chelsea, but we are in straitened circumstances. I would ask that you allow me to enjoy some of the lands that formed my jointure.”

“Bring a petition in the Court of the Exchequer, and it will be attended to.”

“Thank you, Your Majesty.”

I started to drop to my knees, but the queen forestalled me. “You need not trouble yourself,” she said in a voice that held more warmth than it had before.

I thanked her again. Impulsively, I added, “I am very happy Your Majesty’s marriage is coming to fruition. There is no greater happiness than the married state.”

“We shall soon find out,” Mary said dryly. “God be with you, my lady.”

“Your Majesty? I do have one last request.”

“Yes?” Mary’s voice was sharp again.

“I would like to visit my husband and my son in their resting place.”

***

I said my prayers over the body of Guildford, who lay a distance from the high altar at the Chapel of St. Peter ad Vincula, and dutifully added a prayer for his wife, as well, although she probably would not have approved. Then I walked a few feet forward, where, in graves marked only by four small crosses, lay two dukes between two queens: Anne Boleyn, the Duke of Somerset, John, and Katherine Howard. The silliest queen in Christendom, I heard John say. Perhaps lying next to her for all eternity, instead of me, might appeal to his sense of humor. I hoped so.

“I miss you so much, my love,” I whispered. “I try to put a brave face on things, but it is very hard. But I am making progress with the queen, you will be glad to hear. I have finally been allowed to see her, and she didn’t outright refuse to free our sons. That is something, at least—”

I heard a rustle behind me. Standing at a respectful distance, clad in black, was the Duchess of Somerset. “I am sorry to have disturbed you,” she said. “I usually come here at this time. I will leave you in private, if you wish.”

“There is no need. I was just leaving. The Countess of Warwick is well, I hope?”

“Yes. She visited the Earl of Warwick not long ago. She said he was in good spirits, all things considered.”

“I am glad to hear that.” I started to move away.

The Duchess of Somerset stopped me. “I am glad to have found you here. Do you remember me cursing your husband?”

“How could I possibly forget? And you got your wish.”

“I saw how foolish a wish that was when I came to visit my husband and saw your own husband’s newly made grave beside his. His death did nothing to fill the void in my heart, and your grief made mine none the lesser.” Anne reached out her hand to me. “I wish you the best. I hope with all my heart that your sons are soon free. They are fine young men.”

“Thank you,” I said, not trusting myself to say more without giving way to emotion. I once again turned to leave, but the duchess again stopped me.

“I quite often talk to my Edward here, too,” she said softly. “It does me more good than anything. Stay here until you have told your husband all you wish to tell him. I will leave you alone to do so.”

***

In May, I received my pardon, and in June, I was allowed some of my jointure lands and the manor of Hales Owen. Now I could live more comfortably and, better yet, have something to pass down to my children. My sons were also allowed to hear Mass, though how enthusiastically they responded I did not know. At least it gave them another opportunity to pass out of the Beauchamp Tower, and if they heard Mass in the right spirit, it might please the queen to pardon them.

I had another source of interest that June: my daughter Mary, who had remained with me at Chelsea while Henry was abroad, appeared increasingly indisposed, in the best of ways. I watched with satisfaction as she waved away her food and dozed over her embroidery, as she wrinkled her nose at every strong smell. Finally, I could bear it no more. I pulled her aside one morning and asked, “Have you had a monthly course lately?”

“No. Do you think—”

I poked my daughter’s bosom, which was noticeably fuller. She winced, and I nodded with satisfaction. “Having borne thirteen children, I can think of no other possibility.”

Mary came into my arms and began crying. (Moodiness, I thought approvingly.) “Child, what is wrong?” I said.

“Everything has gone so badly for our family lately. What if my baby dies? What if I die?”

I was silent. Five of my own offspring had died as children, some as mere infants. Two of King Henry’s queens, Jane Seymour and Catherine Parr, had been claimed by childbed fever. There were many more examples I could bring to mind, though I did not care to. “I can only tell you that you must hope for the best, and not give in to despair,” I said finally. “I thought it would claim me when your father died, and then again when your brother died, but something brought me through. I can only assume that it is the Lord who did that, and that he also had a reason for taking away those I loved so much. What it is, I could not possibly guess. It would be kind of him to tell us occasionally, but perhaps we would not want to know the answer.” I patted Mary’s cheek. “You are healthy and young, but not too young, and those are two things in your favor. I, for one, intend to rejoice in this coming birth.”

Mary smiled faintly. “I do, too.” She paused. “But would it be too much to ask that there be no cheese allowed in the house until my child is born?”