The Last Tudor Read online

  I spend hours on my knees in my rooms and my sister Katherine kneels beside me as I pray for guidance, my sister Mary beside her. Katherine is not at one with the saints. I can see that she is dozing and I dig her in the ribs with my elbow and she starts and says “Amen.” It does not matter. I must be staunch and true. Katherine is my companion and my sister. She can sleep, just like Saint Peter slept while Jesus was in an agony of spirit, even so I will take step after step towards a holy crown of sainthood.

  In response to Princess Mary’s claim to be the true heir, the council proclaims me as queen, and all the lord lieutenants are sent to their counties to make sure that everyone knows that the king is dead and I am his named heir. Proclamations are pasted all over London; preachers make the announcement from their pulpits.

  “Does anyone object?” I ask my father nervously.

  “No, no, not a word,” he reassures me. “Nobody wants the Spanish brought down on us, nobody wants to return to the rule of the Pope.”

  “Princess Mary must surely have some supporters in the country,” I say anxiously.

  “Lady Mary,” he corrects me. “You would think so—but no one has stood up for her, whatever they think privately. Of course, the country must be riddled with papists, but they are not declaring for her. John Dudley has ruled the roost for so long, he prepared for this. As long as the Spanish don’t try to meddle.”

  “We must muster an army.” I have no idea how an army is mustered.

  “We are doing so,” he says. “I shall lead them.”

  “No,” I say suddenly. “Truly, Father, I can’t do this without you. Don’t leave me with the Dudleys, not with Guildford and his terrible mother and father. Don’t leave me here with only Mother and the girls and no one to speak for me in the council. Mother says nothing against Lady Dudley, and Katherine is worse than nobody, Mary is too little. I have to have someone here.”

  He hesitates. “I know that your mother would rather that I did not ride against her cousin Princess Mary. And I am not a military man . . .”

  “John Dudley must go!” I exclaim. “It’s all his idea. It’s his plan. And besides, he put down the Kett rebellion only four years ago. He should be the one to go.”

  “Don’t get upset,” my father says, a wary eye on the flush of color in my face and my raised voice. He looks over towards my ladies and gives my mother a nod as if she must come and calm me.

  “I am not upset,” I say quickly. I have to reassure everyone, all the time. “I just need my family around me. Guildford has his: his brothers work for him, his mother is here, his father has done all this for him. Why should the court be filled with Dudleys, and you be sent away when I have only Katherine and Mary and Mother here?”

  “I’ll stay, don’t fret. God is with us and you will be queen. John Dudley’s force will take the princess, even if she gets to Framlingham Castle and raises her royal standard there.”

  “Lady,” I remind him. “Lady Mary. And it’s not her royal standard. It’s mine.”

  John Dudley holds a great farewell dinner before he leaves London, a strange combination of sinful boasting and sinful fear. His speech is not heroic. I have read enough history to know that a man about to march out to defend his faith and his queen should sound martial. Instead of declaring the justness of his cause and the certainty of his victory, he warns everyone that he is risking his life and reputation, he conveys a real anxiety instead of false confidence.

  Guildford and I are seated side by side, looking over the hall, the cloth of estate over my chair, not his, my seat raised higher than his, as his father threatens the council that he will betray them if they betray him. This is not the sort of speech that Caesar makes before he marches out to general acclaim, and so I tell Guildford.

  “These are hardly loyal Roman tribunes,” he replies scathingly. “Not a single one of them is trustworthy. Any one of them would turn their collar if they thought they were on the losing side.”

  I am about to explain why he is wrong when his father suddenly turns towards us, makes one of his grand oratorical gestures, and speaks of me. He tells them that I am queen of their enticement, forcibly placed on the throne rather than by my own request. Guildford and I blink at each other like a pair of owlets in a nest. What about my God-given destiny? What about my cousin’s right to will his throne to me? What about my mother’s legitimate claim, enshrined in the will of Good King Henry, handed over to me? Guildford’s father makes my coming to the throne sound like a plot, rather than an act of God; and if it is a plot, then it is treason.

  John Dudley marches northeast to Suffolk, and those of us left in London embark on the business of government, but it feels like masquing rather than ruling until we know that Lady Mary is captured. Guildford does not dispute his name or title but dines every day on his own, in state, enthroned like a king under a cloth of gold canopy, with fifty dishes coming out to him, to be distributed among the huge court he has invited to give the impression of greatness. Sometimes I feel, madly, that he is usurping my usurpation, a plot inside a plot, a sin upon a sin. He and his court of knaves drink to excess and are rowdy. I can hear the yelling and the singing while I am dining with my ladies in my rooms. This would be bad enough, since gluttony is a hidden danger to salvation, but worse than this is that Guildford gets news of his father and his brother before the news is reported to me.

  It is his brother Lord Robert who is raising troops against Lady Mary in Norfolk; it is his father, John Dudley, who is marching on her from London to Framlingham. Naturally enough, Guildford’s court is where the men go and ask for news; mine is a court of ladies and we are easily excluded. It is not that the messages do not come to me; they do come, everyone knows they must report to the monarch. But first they stop to tell the men. Of course, a queen’s court is bound to be the resort of ladies, but how am I to be a ruling queen if I am not at the center of the councils of men?

  This is a puzzle for me that I had not foreseen. I thought that once I forced myself to accept the crown of the King of England then I would have the power of the King of England. Now I understand that taking power as a queen is a different thing. Men have sworn their fealty on their bended knees; but they do not enact manly loyalty to a woman, and—truth be told—I am very small and slight, and even with God at my back I am not imposing.

  And these men are faithless. The very night after John Dudley marches out, I hear that William Paulet, the Marquess of Winchester, who was so foolishly quick to offer Guildford the crown, has taken himself off to his own London home without permission, and Katherine’s father-in-law, William Herbert, tries to leave as well. I will not accept this disloyalty against the will of God, and I send at once for the marquess and tell him to come back to his post.

  I call the Privy Council together and I tell them that I am locking the gates of the Tower every evening at dusk and I expect every lord of the council to be inside. I expect all the ladies to attend me, my sisters too, my mother and my mother-in-law, my husband as well. They have put me on the throne in the Tower, and beside the throne and inside the Tower they will have to stay with me. Only if we stand together, with the saints in heaven, will we triumph, as John Dudley marches towards Lady Mary like the devil claiming his own.

  William Herbert slinks back into my presence chamber, before midnight. I stay up late, my mother and my mother-in-law, Lady Dudley, with me. Even Guildford is with us, sober for once. Herbert’s son, still pale and sickly, comes in the room behind him, Katherine my sister half a step behind her young husband.

  “You have to stay here, my lord,” I say abruptly. “We need you here in case there is news. We may need to call a council at any time.”

  He bows to me but he says nothing. He has no defense.

  “And I expect my sister’s companionship,” I say. “You may not take her away without my permission.”

  I cannot stop myself glancing at my mother to see if she agrees with me. She nods; even Lady Dudley makes a little gesture of
agreement. Everyone knows that we have to stick together.

  “Nobody may leave,” Guildford says, as if I have not already made that clear. “It is my father’s wish.”

  We have to work together, we cannot appear disunited. We are the soldiers of God—we have to march in step—so the council meet, and we all agree that they shall write to Lord Richard Rich, who swore for me, but has now vanished, and remind him that he must stay loyal. The counties of Norfolk are wavering, the East is becoming uncertain. They are afraid that the sailors on ships in port will declare for Mary. They hold the meeting, they send the letter, but later in the morning Katherine comes to my rooms and pulls at my sleeve while I am writing, making me blot the paper.

  “Look what you made me do! What is it?” I ask her.

  “We’re leaving,” she says in a tiny whisper. “I have to go right now. My father-in-law says so.” She shows me her pet monkey in the crook of her arm. “I have to put Mr. Nozzle in his cage. He has to come, too.”

  “You can’t go. I told him, I told them all. You were there, you heard it. You all have to stay.”

  “I know you told them,” she says. “That is why I have come to you, now.”

  I look at her. For the first time in our lives I look at her and see her not as a slightly irritating younger sister, part of the familiar landscape of Bradgate, like a pale rose in the garden that I pass every day, but a real girl, real as me, a young woman, suffering as I am suffering. I look at her white face and her dark emotional eyes and the strain that she is showing, and I feel no sympathy but much irritation.

  “What’s the matter with you? Why are you looking like a wet May Day?”

  “They’re all coming with us,” she says miserably. “Lots of them, anyway. Your council—the Privy Council—they’re coming with us to Baynard’s Castle. They have agreed with my father-in-law, William Herbert, to meet there. They are leaving you and going with him. I am sorry, Jane. I can’t stop them . . .” She trails off with a little shrug. Obviously, she can’t stop the lords of the land doing as they think fit. “I did say that they should not . . .” she begins feebly.

  “But I commanded them to stay here! What do they think they are going to do at your house?”

  “I am afraid that they’re going to proclaim Lady Mary.”

  I just look at her, aghast. “What?”

  She looks back at me. “I have to go, too,” she says.

  Obviously, she has to obey her young husband and his all-powerful father.

  “You can’t.”

  “Can we ask someone?”

  She is so ridiculous. “Ask who? Ask them what?”

  “What we should do? Could we send a message and ask Roger Ascham?”

  “The scholar? What do you think he could do? Now that my Privy Council is running away with your father-in-law, and proclaiming a papist as queen?”

  “I don’t know,” she snivels.

  Of course she doesn’t. She never knows anything.

  “Father has to tell them,” she says in a whisper. “The Privy Council. Father must tell them not to come to Baynard’s Castle and turn against you. I can’t.”

  “Well, tell him to tell them! Fetch him here now!”

  “He won’t. I already asked. Our lady mother won’t.”

  We are silent for a moment, more like sisters than we have ever been before, united in apprehension as it dawns on me that the right thing does not always happen, that the saints do not always march unstoppably to heaven, that the godly do not necessarily triumph, that the two of us have no more authority than little Mary. The monkey, Mr. Nozzle, pulls her handkerchief from her pocket and presses it into her hand.

  “What about me?” I ask.

  I see for the first time that there are tears in her eyes. “I don’t suppose you could come, too?” she says. “Come to Baynard’s Castle with everybody?” She gives a gulp. “Say you’re sorry to Lady Mary? That it was a mistake? Come with me?”

  “Don’t be stupid,” I say harshly.

  “If you and I were to say it was all a mistake? If I were to back you up and say you didn’t mean it? That they made you?”

  I see her tighten her hold on the jacket of her pet monkey, as if he might give witness, too.

  “Impossible.”

  She shakes her head. “I didn’t think you could,” she says, and hands me her damp handkerchief and goes without another word from the room.

  I look around me. Now I see that some of my ladies are missing and now I realize they have been absent since prayers this morning. My rooms are thinning out; people are deserting me.

  “You are none of you to leave here,” I say harshly, and the heads bob up, as if they are all planning to run away from the Tower as soon as I am out of the room. This is infidelity, this is false faith. I think that women are especially inclined to dishonor. I hate them for it, but I can do nothing against them now. I cannot imagine how they can live with themselves, how they can pray. God will repay them for infidelity to me, His daughter. The mills of God grind slow; but they grind exceeding fine, as these great ladies and their dishonest husbands will learn.

  We process to dinner as usual. Guildford sits beside me on a lower chair, the golden cloth of estate extending over me. I look around the hall—there is no buzz of conversation, nobody seems to have any appetite. I could almost shrug. They all wanted this—why would they regret their own actions? Surely, they know that this world is a vale of tears and we are all miserable sinners?

  The great door at the end of the hall opens, and my father comes in, walking stiffly as if his knees are sore. I look up but he does not smile at me. He moves towards me; the conversations die away and the room falls silent as he comes on.

  He stands before me, his mouth working, but still he says nothing. I have never seen him like this before, I have a cold sense of dread that something terrible is about to happen. “Father?” I ask. Then suddenly, he reaches up and gets hold of a corner of the cloth of estate and tugs so hard at it that the posts that hold it steady over my chair fall sideways like cut timber, with a clatter, and the awning rips.

  “Father!” I exclaim, and he rounds on me.

  “This place does not belong to you. You must submit to fortune,” he says suddenly.

  “What?”

  “You must put off your royal robes and be content to live a private life.”

  “What?” I say again, but I am playing for time now. I guess that we have lost, and he has chosen this strange behavior—more like a masque than a father speaking to his beloved daughter—so that it can be reported that he took down the cloth of estate with his own hands. Or perhaps words fail him; they don’t fail me; they never fail me. “I much more willingly put them off than I put them on,” I say. “Out of obedience to you and my mother I have grievously sinned.”

  He looks as stunned. As if the flapping awning had spoken, or that block Guildford, who gawps at my side.

  “You must relinquish the crown,” my father says again, as if I am arguing for keeping it, and he goes from the room before I can reply. He does not bow.

  I rise from the throne and walk away from the tattered canopy. I go to my private rooms and my ladies follow. I see that one of them pauses to speak to my father’s servant.

  “We will pray,” I say as soon as the door is closed.

  “I beg your pardon,” the woman says from the back. “But your father sent a message to say that we can leave now. May I pack my things and go to my home?”

  In the quietness of the deserted rooms I can hear the cheering from outside the Tower gates. The fathers of the city have commanded that there shall be red wine flowing in the fountains and every fool and knave is getting drunk and shouting, “God save the queen.” I go and look for my father. He will know what I should do. Perhaps he will take me home to Bradgate.

  At first I cannot find him. He is not in the throne room, nor in the royal rooms behind the throne room. Not in the presence chamber, nor in the private rooms. He is not in
Guildford’s quarters, which are quiet for once. Even Guildford is subdued, playing cards with only half a dozen cronies. They rise to their feet when they see me and I ask Guildford if he has seen my father and he says no.

  I don’t stop to ask why he is so pale and strained, why his rowdy companions are so unusually quiet. I want to find my father. He is not in the White Tower, and so I go outside and run across the green to the chapel of Saint Peter in case he is praying alone before the small silent altar; but he is not there either. It takes me a long time to walk to the stables, and just as I enter I hear the bells of Saint Paul’s pealing over and over again, a jangle of noise, not the hour, not the chimes of the hour, just a full peal over and over, and then all the other bells join in, a cacophony, as if all the bells of London are ringing at once. Beyond the walls of the Tower I can hear people shouting and cheering. The ravens burst from the trees of the Tower gardens and from their hidden perches all over the Tower and swirl up at the noise like a dark cloud, a foreboding thundercloud, and I clap my hands over my ears to block out the noise of the ceaseless shouting bells and my sudden fear of the cawing birds. I hear myself say irritably: “I have no idea what this noise is for!” But I do know.

  I run into the stable yard like a poor girl, my hands to my head, my skirts muddy, and find my father is on the mounting block, hauling himself into the saddle. I go to the horse and put my hand on his rein.

  “What is happening, Father?” I have to yell over the noise of the bells. The gate to the stable bangs open as half a dozen lads abruptly run out, leaving it unfastened. “What in the name of God is happening now?”

  “We’ve lost,” he says, leaning low down from the saddle to put his hand on my head, as if he is blessing me in farewell. “Poor child. It was a great venture; but we’ve lost.”