Innocent Traitor (16 page)

Much more gratifying than this cloying concern is that, of late, she has taken to questioning me closely about Jane’s welfare and education and seems more than ordinarily interested in the child.

“I should be pleased if you would summon Jane to court to stay with us for a time,” she bids me. “I long to hear for myself how she is progressing with her lessons.” This is a signal honor, and an opportunity not to be missed to bring Jane once more to the attention of the King. Who knows what might come of it? Perhaps Jane is already singled out for special favor.

I must stress to her that much hangs upon her good behavior at court. She must do everything in her power to please the Queen, and if by chance she should meet with the King, she is to impress him—if possible—by her mien, her decorum, and her learning.

My lord is most gratified to hear of Her Majesty’s kind invitation. He and I spend a fraught evening drilling into Jane instructions as to what she must and must not do at court. Fortunately, she is well grounded in courtesy, but we are determined to ensure that she misses no chance to get herself noticed.

Of course, the ignorant chit does not seem to appreciate the significance of this visit, although I suppose we can hardly blame her for that, since she is unaware of our great plans for her future. Like all girls of her rank, she has been told that her father will one day arrange an advantageous marriage for her, although naturally we have forborne to name the one who we pray will be her prospective bridegroom.

It does not escape me, however, that a slightly mutinous look is on Jane’s face when we have finished reciting our commandments. Plainly, she resents being instructed in her duty. That must be stopped.

“Look at the Queen like that, and she will dismiss you at once, I make no doubt!” I thunder. “God’s blood, will the child never learn humility?”

“Heed your mother, Jane,” Henry says wearily, clearly not wishing to become any more involved than is strictly necessary. He has given up a whole evening’s gambling to deliver this lecture and is impatient to be gone.

“I will do my best, sir,” Jane replies, but I begin to mistrust her meekness.

Lady Jane Grey

WINDSOR CASTLE, AUTUMN 1545

Windsor is an old castle, too drafty for habitation in the winter, but in the warmer months it is a fine residence. The Queen is fond of taking her ladies for picnics in the Great Park, and as we sit on the grass beneath a fluttering, gay silken canopy, she tells us tales of Herne the Hunter, whose ghostly presence is said to haunt the woods here. This is the third afternoon this week that we have come to this place—Her Majesty wants to make the most of the last warm days of the year.

Most mornings see me closeted with her for an hour in her private chamber, our two heads bent over my copybooks and translations. Her Majesty is kind to praise my work.

“I’m impressed to see you so advanced for your years, Jane,” she has said more than once. “Rest assured, I shall do all in my power to bring your talents to ripe fruition.” I bask in this unaccustomed approval.

The Lady Mary is also in attendance on the Queen, although the Lady Elizabeth, having quarreled most impertinently with her father the King, has been sent away to repent her disrespect. I know the Queen is concerned about her, for His Highness’s anger shows no sign of abating.

I am sorry not to have the company of the spirited Lady Elizabeth, because the Lady Mary is nowhere near as entertaining a companion. She is as old as my mother and talks endlessly of the Virgin Mary, the blessed saints, and God’s will. Her disapproval of the King’s religious reforms is plain, although she dare not criticize openly. It seems to me that she is living in the past, and I pity her, since it is futile. Everyone knows that the Pope in Rome is no better than the Antichrist, and the Lady Mary is foolish to think differently. As my lady mother says, you cannot put the clock back.

It is odd because the Lady Mary behaves in many ways like a nun, yet when evening comes, she loves to sing, play, and dance, and her clothes are of the richest fabrics. She affects bright colors and a profusion of jewelry and looks like a princess to me. But one evening, I heard a lord mutter behind me, “She looks like an overdressed, overstuffed doll.” And when gentlemen are present, she is always awkward and blushing in their company. Yet she makes no secret of her great desire to be married and have children; she loves children inordinately and is godmother to many, including my poor baby sister. Of course, at twenty-nine, the Lady Mary is an old maid, and far too old to be married. Nor will the King allow it, I am certain, since although her bastard status has debased her value in the marriage market, my mother says he will not consider any husband of less than royal rank, and there are no takers. Of course, a woman must have a husband, so her future looks bleak.

The Lady Mary therefore lavishes love and presents upon her younger siblings and her godchildren, and on me too, now that I am come within her circle. She says I am pretty, a gifted child, an accomplished child, and strokes my cheek. I feel sorry for her, but I am stiff and ill at ease in her company. I cannot warm to her, although I wish it could be otherwise.

One evening, the Queen summons me and takes from a drawer a printed book, bound in the finest tooled leather. On the title page is written “Prayers and Meditations, collected out of Holy Works by the Most Gracious and Virtuous Princess, Katherine, Queen of England.”

“You wrote this, madam?” I breathe in wonder.

“I did.” She smiles. “And His Majesty approved it.”

I look at her in awe. That a woman should have written a book, much less have it printed for everyone to read, is astounding.

“This is a marvel,” I declare.

“It was a labor of love,” says she, “and if it brings some small comfort to God-fearing souls, then I shall be content.”

The King enters the chamber, and although I am used to seeing him now, I am still abashed and tremulous in his presence. As we sink into curtsies, I notice that he does not look well today; in fact his countenance is gray, although he seems cheerful enough.

“No ceremony, Kate. I see you are showing our great-niece your book.”

“I am, sir.”

“And what do you make of it, Jane?”

“I think it is a wonder, Your Majesty, that a woman could be such a clerk as to write a book.”

“Oh, Her Highness doesn’t just write books,” he retorts with a twinkle, “she debates the points with me beforehand, then steals my arguments! Indeed, I am sorely beset. It is wearying to have a doctor for a wife.”

Queen Katherine laughs.

“It is because I would not presume to boast greater knowledge than Your Majesty,” she protests. “I merely desire to test my arguments against one who is a far better theologian than I.”

“Hmmm,” sniffs the King, settling back into his chair. “You are a flatterer.”

The Queen sits down on the opposite side of the fire. I stand there, unsure whether I am welcome to stay.

“Sit down, sit down,” says His Majesty, waving me to a stool.

“Would you like Jane to play for you, sir?” asks the Queen. “She shows great promise.”

“Aye. Fetch the lute from over there, child. What will you play?”

Aware of the honor being done me, I falter, “Whatever pleases Your Majesty.”

“Play what you know best.”

I seat myself, thinking rapidly. Then inspiration comes. I begin to strum, and as I start to sing, the King joins in with a high tenor voice:

As the holly groweth green, and never changeth hue,

So am I, e’er hath been, unto my lady true.

Green groweth the holly, so doth the ivy,

Though winter blasts blow never so high, green groweth the holly.

As the song finishes, the Queen claps her hands. “Bravo, both of you! That was well sung and played.”

“You like that song, Jane?” asks the King.

“I like it very well, sir.”

“And do you know who wrote it?”

“I believe it was yourself, Your Majesty.”

“Zounds!” he exclaims. “Now I will never know your true opinion of it.”

“Oh, but it is a superb composition, Your Majesty!” I cry.

He smiles, well pleased at my sincerity. Then suddenly the smile fades and his broad face turns an alarming shade of purple. His hands start flailing about, clutching at his throat, and he crumples forward in his chair, emitting strangled little sounds.

The Queen flies to his side, her face fraught with consternation. She grabs his shoulders and tries to raise him upright.

“Sweet Heaven!” she gasps. “Jane, help me.”

I leap to assist, putting all my weight beneath one of his shoulders, but the King is so heavy and bulky that we cannot shift him sufficiently to see his face in the light or check his breathing. What if he dies? I ask myself, and perhaps the Queen is thinking this too, she looks so frightened. But he is not dead, he is groaning helplessly, so I run to the guards outside the door. Soon my great-uncle is being carried to his bed, and the doctors are summoned.

I can see that the Queen is greatly worried, but she maintains her composure and asks me to play something soothing while we wait to hear the physicians’ verdict. I am still strumming when they come to tell her that His Majesty has had a seizure, but is now conscious and able to take some physic. He has been bled to expel the evil humors from his body, and his urine has satisfactorily been tested. He is now, they declare, in the hands of God, and if he rests and partakes of a simple diet, he might well make a good recovery.

All the court entertainments are canceled, and the Queen finds that her calming presence is constantly required at her husband’s bedside. Ill, bored, and frustrated, he needs her diverting company. There is nothing for it—I must return home. While I am relieved that my great-uncle is recovering from his alarming malady, I cannot help grieving that my happy idyll with the kind Queen is at an end, at least for the present.

I realize that I hate and dread the prospect of going home.

Frances Brandon,
Marchioness of Dorset

BRADGATE HALL, WINTER 1545–1546

The King’s recovery has been slow. On Christmas Eve, he was still confined to his chamber, and the yuletide season—usually the occasion for lavish feasting and merrymaking at court for twelve festive days—was set to be a quiet affair. The Queen dismissed her married ladies to their homes, and that is how I came to be back here at Bradgate, where we now keep Christmas.

I am worried about the Queen and voice my concerns to Henry late one evening as we share a cup of spiced wine in our chamber.

“She sits with the King and ventures to dispute with him on religious matters,” I tell him. “Some of the things she says are quite controversial, but His Highness does not seem to notice. She says he enjoys these disputes, for they keep his mind lively. But I have heard talk that the Catholic faction at court, especially Bishop Gardiner and Lord Chancellor Wriothesley, have expressed concern that the Queen is openly infecting the King with heretical views.”

“And is she?”

I nod and lower my voice. “I fear so. She is often in the company of my good stepmother, the Duchess of Suffolk, and the Seymour brothers—did you know Tom Seymour was back at court?”

“She’s not so foolish as to dally with him?” says Henry, incredulous.

“Oh, no. But you may guess for yourself what kind of opinions they hold. Rabid reformists, if not Protestants, one and all. And there are others of her ladies, in particular my Lady Dudley and my Lady Lane, who bring in certain books, which are kept in a locked cupboard in the Queen’s closet. Sometimes she and those two ladies read them privily. Of course, none of us would betray her—as both you and she know, I’m sympathetic to her views—but she takes a fearful risk.”

My lord looks alarmed. “I’m all for reform too, and I think that much of what Luther preached made sense. I’m also heartened to see that the Seymours have influence over the Prince. Mark me, when the King dies, things will change, and probably for the better. But that’s in the future. What I’m concerned about is the present. If the Catholic faction moves against the Queen, others will fall with her, or at least come under suspicion. Look to yourself, Frances. Don’t go near those books. If anyone asks, you know nothing about them.”