Her Highness, the Traitor

47

Jane Dudley

December 1554 to January 22, 1555





In December, my one son remaining imprisoned, Ambrose, is freed from the Tower. It is then, and only then, I keep my promise to Robert and let a physician examine me once the Christmas and New Year’s festivities have passed. What he tells me, I have figured out for myself long ago, without having to pay a fee.

When he leaves, I go to my desk and begin writing my will.

***

It is not hard to write my will once I get into the flow of it. Money to the poor, money to the prisoners in London’s various jails. Gowns to my dear John’s sisters, to my daughters, and to my daughters-in-law—all but Jack’s widow, who has proven only too eager to cut the last tie between my family and hers, except for the title of “countess” and her jointure lands. Those things will probably make her happier than anything I could give her, I tell myself, and write on.

John’s clock, ticking peacefully as I write this, will go to our daughter Mary. A tawny velvet jewel coffer to Susan Clarencius, a gown to Lady Paget, and a black enameled ring to Lord Paget: all were kind to me and helped me intercede for my boys, though none could save my John. I leave my lands to my children but remember, just in time, that all are under attainder and cannot inherit: I must leave my lands to my executors.

My green parrot, looking at me with interest as I write, I leave to the Duchess of Alba. She is a wealthy woman and will have no need for more fine gowns or beds. I have nothing else worthy of her.

I am not quite sure it belongs here, but I beg my executors to give my thanks to those men of the privy chamber who helped my sons, and to ask that they continue to do so. God, I know, will requite them for it.

It occurs to me that someone, after I am dead, may decide to open me up for embalming. That will not do. Although circumstances have forced me to assert myself when needed, I have not liked to be bold even before women, nor do I want any man’s hands upon me when I am dead. All I want is to be wound up in a sheet and put in a wooden coffin, then given such a funeral as my executors see fit, seeing that none of my children will inherit John’s forfeited title.

I would rather that my debts be paid, and the poor given their due, than that any pomp be showered upon my wretched carcass, that has at times been too much in this world full of vanities, deceit, and guile. For whoever trusts to this transitory world as I did, may happen to have an overthrow as I did. Yet I am smiling as I write these words, for each one of them brings me closer to my John.

***

My will is witnessed and safely in the hands of Henry Sidney, one of the executors. This feat accomplished, I am dozing when someone glides into my chamber. I open an eye. “Andrew!”

“Yes, it is I.”

“You are free?”

“Yes.”

This is indeed my brother-in-law Andrew, a man of few words. Imprisonment turns some men voluble after they are freed, but not this one. I push myself farther upright. “You have been pardoned?”

“No. I’m still in that no-man’s-land between prison and freedom. I’m on a bond for good behavior, and I daresay I needn’t behave very badly to find myself back in the Tower.”

“Jerome will be so glad to see you. Even with my sons back, he has still missed you. I have been afraid that he will pine away.”

“I’ll take good care of him.”

“I am sorry about the Clifford girl,” I say gently. Her engagement to Andrew was broken off after his arrest and trial; evidently God did not intend her as a Dudley bride. Perhaps it is just as well. She stands after the surviving Grey sisters in line for the crown.

Andrew shrugs. “Probably she would have talked too much anyway.”

My sons and Jerome soon follow my brother-in-law into the room. For a while, they sit around my bed, talking of a tournament Robert and Ambrose were in recently—thanks to the king, who had invited them personally to take part. Then they all drift away except for Robert. “I wanted you to know that I heard from the lady Elizabeth the other day.”

“I thought she was still under house arrest.”

“She is, but she has her sympathizers.”

“Robert, you are still under attainder. Not to mention a married man.”

“The lady Elizabeth and I are old friends, Amy knows that. And it’s not treason to send my good wishes to the queen’s sister, surely?”

“If you put it like that, no, but do be careful.”

“I will. I can’t help but think, though, that someday my friend Elizabeth will be queen. No, we haven’t spoken of it!” he says, forestalling my protest. “Not to each other or to anyone else. I’ll do nothing to shorten Queen Mary’s reign. But I think God means Elizabeth to rule, and years ago, she promised me that if she did, I would be one of the first she calls to her side.” He smiles at me as fatigue begins to make me sink back into my pillows. “It will be a golden age, Mother.”

***

Over the next few days, letters come while I slumber. Many of them are from people who have studiously avoided contact with me since John was arrested and who deem it safe to renew our acquaintance now that I am so soon to pass out of this world. Vanity, deceit, and guile, I think to myself and order Katheryn to toss them—the letters, that is—into the fire.

But there are other letters. My daughter Mary writes to inform me that while she was holding little Philip in the nursery and reading—it strikes me as entirely natural that my daughter should be doing these two things at once—the child grabbed the edge of her book and held it fast. He displays a most encouraging interest in the written word, Mary writes smugly.

Another letter, however, makes Katheryn, who is reading it to me, break out crying. Good Lord, I think, has the Earl of Huntingdon chosen this time to dissolve our daughter’s marriage to his son? “Tell me what it says.”

“It is from the Countess of Huntingdon. She writes that she is very sorry to hear of your illness, and that when you can no longer take care of me, she will welcome me to Ashby-de-la-Zouche as her very own daughter. She has set aside a pretty chamber for me there, which I may furnish just as I like. And there is a postscript by Lord Hastings, telling me he will come to take me there himself whenever I please. He calls me his very own sweetheart and his darling wife.”

I join my daughter in her tears, thinking that sometimes, the goodness of human beings can make one weep harder than their follies.

***

It is the twenty-second day of January, a miserable day outside. Even behind my bed curtains, I can hear the sleet coming down and the wind beating against my windows. Faintly, I feel sorry for anyone who is abroad on this bleak day, but I myself am quite content, for John’s clock ticks steadily and John himself is holding me tight in the bed we shared for so many years, keeping me safe from all that is without. Patience, his voice tells me. Soon.

All it took to bring him back to me was to do this, just as Anne Boleyn taught me so long ago. Why did I not try it sooner?

There are footsteps and a jumble of voices. “Has she been like this long?”

“Most of the day, my lords. I don’t believe she can last for much longer.” Nurse Stacy, my laundress who also attends me in my illness, adds uncertainly, “She received the last rites, my lords, when she could still respond to them. The Catholic rites, of course.”

Someone grumbles about this, but not too strenuously.

“Can she hear us?”

“You can try, my lords.”

Someone bends over me. He is speaking too loudly, really, for my hearing is perfect, but under the circumstances, I can be forgiving. “We have received our pardons from the queen, Mother.”

Pardons. I have done all I can do on earth for my sons; there is no need for me to linger here any longer. I start to smile, and just as my mouth crinkles upward, my John bears me away.