Innocent Traitor (32 page)

BRADGATE HALL, MARCH 1549

News from London takes several days to reach us, but my father writes regularly from court, so we are kept abreast of events. He tells us that there is enough evidence to send the Admiral to the block, but that the council is staying its hand because it is deeply disturbed by reports of his relations with the Lady Elizabeth. I am shocked to learn that, although Elizabeth is being held in the comfort of her house at Hatfield, her servants, including Mrs. Ashley, have been sent to the Tower for interrogation. Poor Mrs. Ashley, she is not a strong character, I fear, and I tremble to think how she will fare.

My lord writes that Mrs. Ashley has confessed to scandalous goings-on at Chelsea, such as might lead God-fearing persons to suspect that the Lady Elizabeth is no longer as pure as she should be. My mother asks me if I knew anything of this, but I say truthfully that I saw nothing and keep my own counsel about my suspicions.

Now, even the Lady Elizabeth herself has been subjected to rigorous questioning, and she only fifteen years old. My father says she has given away nothing, nor said anything to incriminate herself and the Admiral. He writes that the council gave up in the end, realizing that the little minx, as he puts it, is too clever for them. Yet she remains under a cloud of displeasure and is to stay away from court and live in retirement. Before long I hear, to my great satisfaction, that she is ostentatiously attiring and conducting herself as a virtuous and sober Protestant maiden in an attempt to redeem her tarnished reputation.

But the Admiral does not get off so lightly.

My lady comes to my room one morning with a letter.

“You must prepare yourself for ill news, Jane,” she says. “Parliament has passed an act of attainder against the Admiral, condemning him to lose his life and possessions, and three days ago his head was struck off on Tower Hill.”

I feel sick. Involuntarily my hands go to my throat, as I shudder to contemplate what it must be like to meet such a dreadful death. I remember the Admiral as I knew him, a big, vital man, full of life and vigor. Now he has been cut down, literally, in his prime. At night, I find my sleep is haunted by nightmares similar to those I suffered in my early childhood after learning of the fate of Katherine Howard.

By day, my prayers are all for poor little Lady Mary Seymour, the baby daughter of the Queen and the Admiral, who is now orphaned and penniless, as a result of her father’s attainder. I hear she has been consigned to the care of my stepgrandmother, the Duchess of Suffolk. I shall miss her sorely, the sweet child.

And now there is covert talk of another baby, a baby that the Lady Elizabeth is rumored to have borne the Admiral in secret, and who was destroyed by agents of the council. I cannot believe that the Lady Elizabeth, who is so clever in many ways, could have stooped to such immoral and stupid behavior. Surely, in this case, the rumors are unfounded. I cannot credit them and am consumed with pity for my cousin, whose life, like my own, has been so cruelly turned around. Even if she had been seduced by the Admiral, the fault was his alone, for she was little more than a child at the time, and he not a man to be gainsaid. It doesn’t seem fair that she should suffer for another’s wrongdoing, but then life is not fair. That is a hard lesson I have already learned.

John Dudley,
Earl of Warwick

ELY PLACE, LONDON, AUTUMN 1549

Looking in my mirror, I see a bull of a man with cold black eyes. Not a handsome face, but then vanity has never been one of my vices. I’m a soldier first and foremost, with a talent for strategy that has served me well both in the field and in the council chamber. Some call me ruthless, and looking at me, you might well believe it, but I prefer to see myself as a pragmatist, for whom the end justifies the means.

I am ready now, ready to meet my guests, and I am soon seated at the head of the table in the richly appointed dining hall in Ely Place, my palatial London residence, regarding the soberly dressed noblemen and bishops around me with a shrewd eye. I believe I can trust them all.

“So, gentlemen, we are of one accord,” I say. This is not the first of our discussions; we have met before, and I have spoken with each man privately, so I am sure I can be candid.

Every eye is upon me.

“We are agreed, then,” I declare. “We want the Lord Protector replaced. His insufferable arrogance has alienated not only the King, but also many of his councillors.” Several are present, among them Archbishop Cranmer and the Earls of Arundel and Southampton, and I nod in their direction.

“Furthermore, he has pursued disastrous wars with Scotland and France. Far from covering England’s name with glory, these wars have impoverished and humiliated her. And his callousness in sending his brother to the scaffold is viewed by many—and by you yourselves, as you have told me—as nothing less than foul fratricide.” I pause for effect. “And as if this is not enough,” I thunder into the hush, “Somerset has angered numerous lords who might have been his friends by opposing the sensible policy of enclosing agricultural land, and by allowing his offensively liberal views to prevail in all aspects of government. It is enough. Somerset must go!”

“Somerset must go!” echo several voices. “Aye! Aye!”

I hold up my hand for silence.

“What England needs now,” I tell them, “is a firm hand, wielded by someone who will stand up to the Lady Mary, who has continued obstinately to uphold the Catholic religion. She still insists on celebrating Mass in the face of repeated censures and threats by the government, which she ignores, knowing that, if things get too hot for her in England, she can always appeal to her cousin the Emperor for aid. This is not to be tolerated!”

“Nay! Nay!” The response is unanimous.

I stand up and lean forward, resting my hands on the table.

“We need a ruler who will steadfastly maintain and promote the Protestant religion. One who is sufficiently experienced in a military capacity to ensure that England’s security, and her reputation in Europe, are protected from any Catholic threat.”

“Aye! Aye!”

They look questioningly at me.

“But who should that ruler be?” The speaker is my good colleague, the Marquess of Dorset. No great politician, but loyal and well versed in intrigue, and a useful ally to have, given that his wife has a claim to the throne, and that they have three marriageable daughters with rich and valuable Tudor blood in their veins.

“We must give that due consideration,” I reply, but in my view there is only one man in England who can do all these things, and that is myself.

“It should be yourself, my Lord Warwick,” Dorset declares, and is enthusiastically and flatteringly echoed by a dozen voices.

“I see you are all of the same mind, gentlemen,” I say. “I am gratified that I can count on your support.”

“We pledge it,” they assure me.

“I am grateful.” I sit down. “Now, our first task is to plan when and how the Lord Protector should be removed.”

Later, when the rest have gone, Dorset and I share a flask of hippocras before the dying fire.

“I know what people say about me,” I muse. “That I am the son of a traitor. But I’ve never let the injustice of my father’s execution prevent me from being loyal to the Crown. Fortunately, I’ve fared rather better than my father. And I got where I am today on the strength of my own abilities.”

“You’ve done very well,” acknowledges Dorset. “Master of the Horse, Lord High Admiral, privy councillor. There’s none more influential on the council.”

“I thank you, my lord. And I have been blessed in my wife and children. Of the thirteen she’s borne me, seven yet live.”

“And five are handsome, strapping sons,” says Dorset wistfully. It’s well known that he has been disappointed in his expectations of a male heir. “You are lucky, sir, that God has so blessed you, and that your children have found favor with the King and his sisters. We all noticed how, when she was at court, the Lady Elizabeth and young Robert were inseparable.”

“Yes, God has been bountiful. But this is no time to be complacent, Henry. I have my enemies too, and they are only too happy to go about smearing my reputation.”

“What man has not risen to power without making enemies?”

“I know my reputation for toughness is not entirely undeserved. I am aware that many of the men who are pleased to call themselves my friends are simply scared of crossing me.” I smile. “Of course, at times it has been necessary to use a degree of, shall we say, intimidation when building up alliances, but I have taken care to temper this with bonhomie and open-handedness.”

“Any man who would rule must display a certain ruthlessness,” observes Dorset. “Bonhomie on its own never won battles.”

“Never underestimate the power of calculated bullying and veiled threats! It’s my conviction that, when it comes to politics, a tender conscience can be an inconvenience. Somerset has a conscience, an unfashionably liberal one, and look where it’s got him. He’s arrogant too, although that’s no bad thing in a ruler, almost a necessity. I too can be arrogant, and to far deadlier effect, but when it comes to laying my quarry, I can pile on the charm at will. Unlike Somerset, I am not burdened with scruples. What has to be done has to be done. Let them call me greedy and ruthless and accuse me of looking only to my own interests. Every man worth the name does the same, especially those of us who inhabit the court.”

“If something stands in your path, you must eliminate it, by fair means or foul,” says Dorset, looking me straight in the eye.

“Indeed.” I smile grimly. We both know that I intend to be the supreme power in England. By God, no one is going to stop me, and Dorset means to back the winner. He knows I have the young King in my hand, thanks to a policy of calculated friendliness and deference, and that with his confidence in my pocket, I am unassailable. Let none dare offend me, for they will find me a dangerous adversary.

We are prepared to use force, but when it comes to it, Somerset puts up only a weak show of resistance. He knows he is no match for me.

Now he is a prisoner in the Tower, and I am Lord President of the Council and the effective ruler of England.

Lady Jane Grey

BRADGATE HALL, JANUARY 1550

Outside the window the landscape is white, hidden under a blanket of snow. A horseman, swathed in furs, is riding through Bradgate’s main gate into the courtyard. I watch as the steward hurries out, clicking fingers at stableboys and greeting the unexpected guest.

It is Master Roger Ascham.

I knew he was expected. Dr. Aylmer, in joyful anticipation, told me a week ago that he would be coming.

“Sadly, Jane, it is not in the happiest of circumstances,” he confided. “Master Ascham wrote to me that he was weary of the Lady Elizabeth’s service, the backbiting and intrigues in her household, and the resentment of her treasurer, Parry, who went behind his back to poison the Lady Elizabeth’s mind against him. It is as well, he says, that her formal studies had come to an end on her sixteenth birthday, since, if he had not been quick to resign, he would certainly have been ignominiously dismissed. For the Lady Elizabeth believed all Parry’s lies.”