Innocent Traitor (31 page)

A bigger fish? Whom can he mean?

A footfall from above interrupts my listening. Clasping my hands decorously on my stomacher, I advance into the room to greet our guest.

I lie sleepless in bed, thinking on what I have learned. Thanks be to God I am not, after all, the object of the Admiral’s matrimonial ambitions! But it is evident that he is pursuing an even more foolhardy scheme. Whom can he mean by a bigger fish but the Lady Elizabeth? Is he mad? She would not stoop to have him; nor, I am sure, would the Protector and the council allow it, which proves that it must be a stupid and wicked plan. I am beginning to realize that not all adults are as wise as they would have us children believe.

HANWORTH, NOVEMBER 1548

One of my greatest pleasures is playing with the Admiral’s baby daughter. Little Lady Mary is now two months old, and her rosy face breaks out in gummy smiles when I approach her cradle and say hello. I like nothing more than to take over from the rocker, gently lulling the baby to sleep, or making her wave her chubby arms in excitement as I play peekaboo or shake her gold rattle at her.

Lady Seymour has come to the nursery today to make her inspection and question the lady governess and wet nurse as to her granddaughter’s progress. Satisfied that all is well, she sits by the fire sewing, rocking the cradle with her foot, while I kneel on the hearthrug, gazing at the sleeping infant.

“These are dreadful times we live in,” she says tetchily. “All change, for change’s sake. I dread to think what the world will be like when this little one grows up. I thank God I won’t be there to see it.”

I let her ramble on in this vein for a while. There is little I can say by way of an answer.

“I know what my son is plotting,” she says suddenly. “I wish he’d desist. It’s dangerous meddling in these affairs. But he’s too headstrong by far. Won’t listen to me.”

“I must do what my parents command,” I say defensively, feeling that in some way she thinks I am at fault too.

“What are you talking about, child?” asks the old lady. “I wasn’t referring to that madcap scheme to marry you to the King. No, I’m talking about my son’s foolish ambitions concerning the Lady Elizabeth.”

Her indiscretion alarms me, and I quickly look up to see who is within earshot. But fortunately we are quite alone, the nursery staff having taken advantage of our minding the baby and gone off to do tasks elsewhere.

“The Lady Elizabeth?” I ask.

“Aye. He wants to marry her, don’t you know?”

Of course, I had guessed. But I am nevertheless shocked.

Two weeks have passed, and the gossip is rampant. The Admiral’s schemes are now the subject of common speculation—I’ve even heard people talking about it in the street when I go with Mrs. Ellen to the shops in nearby Feltham. They say that the Admiral has launched himself on a headlong course toward disaster. Surely it is just a matter of time now before my parents take fright and recall me, which fills me with dread.

This talk of marriage to the Lady Elizabeth is exceedingly dangerous. Even I know that it is high treason to marry a princess of the blood without the sanction of the council, so surely the Admiral must know it. But I fear he has made his intentions all too plain.

People in this household are saying that the Lady Elizabeth can hardly be averse to the idea in view of what went on between them before.

“What did go on between them?” I ask Mrs. Ellen.

She hesitates. “Jane, this must go no further, because if it did, several people would get into trouble. There was some illicit dalliance between the Admiral and the Lady Elizabeth, when we were living at Chelsea. The Queen stepped in before it went too far and sent the Lady Elizabeth away. Now, it seems, the Admiral would like to revive his connection with her.”

Of course. I had suspected as much.

“Read this letter, Jane,” says Mrs. Ellen. “It’s from Kat Ashley.”

Mrs. Ashley writes that her young lady has said she will not refuse the Admiral, if the Lord Protector and the council give their blessing.

“If you ask me,” Mrs. Ellen says tersely, “the Admiral has no intention of asking for it. I’ve even heard it bruited about that he hopes to be in his brother’s place before very long. I fear it is only a matter of time before someone points a finger at the Admiral and accuses him of treason.”

That is a terrible prospect.

“Shouldn’t someone warn him of the danger?”

“That one? He enjoys it, dicing with danger! Do you think he would listen? His mother’s already tried remonstrating with him. He told her to get back to her embroidery.”

“But someone should do something…” I think of that dear little baby, sleeping innocently in her nursery. “For the Lady Mary’s sake.”

“He won’t listen to the likes of us,” sighs Mrs. Ellen. “We can but pray that matters have not advanced so far, and that he wakes up to reality before it’s too late.”

SEYMOUR PLACE, LONDON, JANUARY 1549

All is in uproar; the Admiral has been arrested and is held for questioning by the council. It was true, I fear: he was plotting to overthrow the Protector, his brother. Yet the manner of his arrest was shocking.

Lady Seymour, near broken in grief, sits in the great chamber, as her maid dabs her temples with lavender water, and tells the tragic tale, as she had it direct from her son, the Lord Protector. Nearly everyone in the household, from the chamberlain to the kitchen boys, has crowded into the room to hear it. I am on my knees at Lady Seymour’s feet, holding her gnarled hands tightly, in a vain attempt to comfort her.

“It began when Fowler went missing,” she says. “You know, Fowler, by whom my lord sent money to the King from time to time. The Admiral told me he was worried because Fowler had not come back. In fact, the man had been discovered on his secret errand and taken before the council for questioning.”

She shudders. “The next thing was that the Admiral himself was summoned by the Lord Protector. My own sons, both of them, and the one summoning the other! Tom was ever a hothead—he refused to go. He wrote back to say it was not convenient. Then he told me, only a few nights ago in this very room, that he felt a net was being tightened inexorably about him. He decided to take drastic action.” She pauses, breathless. “He took the reckless decision to seize the King.”

“But how would he manage such a thing?” I gasp.

“He had forged keys to His Majesty’s apartments, madam,” sniffs Lady Seymour, reaching for her handkerchief. “Fowler got them for him, in return for a substantial bribe. So he was able to enter the King’s lodgings by stealth in the dead of night, with the intent to kidnap His Majesty. With such a valuable bargaining counter in his hands, none would have dared gainsay him.”

There are tears in the old lady’s eyes, but she bravely presses on with her story. Some of the ladies are crying, others shaking their heads incredulously. I find myself weeping too; I was fond of the Admiral, for all his faults.

“As ill luck would have it,” Lady Seymour is saying, “although the guards were asleep outside the door of the King’s bedchamber, His Majesty’s spaniel began barking furiously as the Admiral let himself quietly into the room and made to attack him. Stupidly, he shot it dead with his pistol, and after that there was no hope for him. The guards came running, and the King, who was horrified at the killing of his pet, ordered Tom’s arrest.”

“But the King is a friend to the Admiral!” I cry. “He loves his uncle.”

“He lifted no finger to save him,” whispers Lady Seymour. She bends her head to hide the brimming tears.

How can this be? I ask myself helplessly. Surely the Admiral will be saved—his own brother and nephew would not condemn him? He has often said how close he is to the King. That must count for something.

“But there is more,” says poor Lady Seymour. “At every opportunity Tom has voiced loud criticisms of his brother’s rule. He has even gone so far as to build up a following of his own, with a view to overthrowing the Protector. He offered bribes to many in an attempt to buy their support. He even kept a chart on his closet wall. I saw it there myself and wondered what it was for. It made no sense to me. But it was a list of the names of the men he had cozened and those whom he had yet to approach. To keep such a thing so openly—it beggars belief!”

How foolish the Admiral has been. And how unthinking of the consequences of his rash and ill-considered actions.

“Then there is the marriage he planned with the Lady Elizabeth,” continues Lady Seymour, shaking her head. “He boasted too openly about it. Now she herself, and her servants, are to be questioned.”

Mrs. Ellen looks at me in alarm. I know her thoughts are with Mrs. Ashley. And what of Elizabeth herself? Will her wit and her courage avail her now?

By all reports, the pile of incriminating depositions against the Admiral mounts daily, and I fear there can be little doubt of his malevolent intentions toward his brother, or that he is a danger to the realm. There is much talk of his impertinent plot to marry the Lady Elizabeth, and it is even known that he was scheming to marry me to the King; they say he meant to rule through us, as the power behind the throne, and I can well believe it, although I find the very idea shocking. I feel so used, as if I myself had never mattered to him, and I wish my name were not being bruited about so shamefully by the gossipmongers, for I have done nothing to deserve it.

Lady Seymour plans to take me to Wulfhall, the family seat in Wiltshire, to escape the gossip and the scandal, but we are still at Seymour Place in London when my father’s messenger arrives and seeks me out.

“My lady, the Marquess commands you to make ready with all haste and return with me to Bradgate. My lord has told me that, this very day, the Admiral was taken to the Tower of London. He says this is no place for you to be.”

He turns to Lady Seymour, who has dissolved into heartrending sobs. Poor old soul, she had not known that her son had been sent to the Tower.

“I am truly sorry to bring you this news, madam,” says the messenger. “I wish I could give you further tidings, but I only know what my lord has told me. He is at court just now, but he wishes the Lady Jane to return to her mother in Leicestershire. I should be grateful if you could give orders for her gear to be packed ready for her departure.”

With a great effort, Lady Seymour recovers herself and summons Mrs. Ellen, who hears the news with an obviously heavy heart. She must guess how sorrowful I feel at the prospect of being returned to my mother’s care, but there is no gainsaying my father—nothing that anybody can do. I cannot compromise my birth, my blood, or my marriage prospects by remaining in the household of a suspected traitor, nor can I risk my family’s honor being tainted by association with him.

My face set, I stumble blindly upstairs to my chamber, where the maids are already dragging out chests, garments, books, and other possessions, the detritus of the happiest year of my life. My belongings lay on the bed, looking pathetic and out of place. Dr. Aylmer comes in to see what all the commotion is about, and when I lift my face to tell him, he sees my tragic expression and spontaneously takes me into his arms and hugs me.

“Fear not, Jane,” he says. “I will be with you, and we will have our theology, philosophy, and literature as consolations.”

“I don’t think I can bear it,” I whisper against the woolen hardness of his chest, feeling uncomfortable at this unaccustomed contact with a man, yet still appreciating his strength and warmth.

“God never sends us tests He thinks we cannot bear,” soothes Aylmer, “and remember, we never come to the kingdom of Heaven but by troubles. You must go home now, but another place is waiting for you. Think on this. In the meantime, you are a princess of the blood, and you must frame your mind towards marriage, accepting the path that God means you to follow. I doubt not that many others before you have railed against their fate, but that they made the best of what destiny brought them. And you must do likewise. Now, hadn’t we better pack your books?”

BRADGATE HALL, JANUARY 1549

“So you’re back,” says my mother, eyeing me appraisingly. “You haven’t grown much in the time you’ve been away, although you’ve got a better color, and you’re beginning to fill out.” Her eyes fall on my budding breasts, just apparent beneath the smooth black velvet of my bodice. “I see you’re still wearing those somber clothes,” she sniffs.

“It is out of respect for the late Queen.”

“Christ, child, court mourning ended two months ago! You must change, put on something more becoming. Doubtless your insistence on going about garbed like a papist nun had some bearing on the Admiral’s failure to arrange your marriage. The King took one look at you, I’ll wager, and changed his mind.”

“Nay, my lady,” I answer defiantly, “I fear the Admiral exerted less influence over His Majesty than he liked to think.”

“He was a fool,” says my mother with feeling.

“But I think he will pay dearly for it. What will they do to him?”

“What they do to all traitors, I expect,” she answers grimly. “He will lose his head.”

“Then I am sorry.” I falter, for truly I had grown rather fond of the Admiral, who was always kindly and funny and never uttered a harsh word to me. The prospect of him kneeling at the block, waiting for the blow to fall, is too horrible to contemplate, and I wince.

Suddenly my lady’s hand is gripping my shoulder, shaking me.

“Don’t waste your sympathy on the likes of him,” she hisses. “He is best forgotten. Your father regrets ever having become involved with him and has laid evidence against him before the council. Now you must put all this behind you and frame yourself to obedience and virtue.”

I lower my eyes.

“Off to your room, child. I have things to do, and you will need to help Mrs. Ellen unpack.”

She turns away to her writing table. She has not seen me for weeks, but she has already forgotten that I am here.

At night, I cry myself to sleep. It is not often that I give way to tears of self-pity, but it seems that my life stretches out before me as one long, unending tunnel of misery. Nothing has changed. I doubt my lady even missed me that year I was away. I know it is my duty to love my mother, but at this moment I can feel only hatred for her, and it is a terrible feeling, for I know I must be displeasing God by my undutiful thoughts. So I lie awake, praying for help and understanding, and wishing beyond reason that I could be back at Chelsea in the tender care of the Queen. But, alas, those days are gone forever, and I do not think I shall ever be as happy again.