Innocent Traitor (35 page)

“I don’t know why the council let her get away with it,” my lord replies, draining his goblet.

“The King has to be careful,” my lady points out. “He knows he risks the wrath of the Emperor if he takes any proceedings against his sister.”

“He has put a great deal of pressure on her,” my father observes.

“It is not enough. She is his subject, like the rest of us. That she should have her Mass is intolerable.”

“I fear for the Lady Mary,” I say.

“You do right to fear for her,” says my father with feeling. “She is courting the gravest danger.”

“I didn’t mean that. I fear for her soul. She is in peril, and she doesn’t seem to realize it. And she is imperiling the souls of all the folk in her household. I wish she could come to an understanding of the truth.”

“She was ever obstinate, like her mother,” my lady retorts.

“Someone should point out the error of her ways,” I persist.

“Many have tried,” my father says drily. “Even threats haven’t moved her. Let her go to perdition, I say. It’ll be her own fault.”

I am shocked at his flippancy. “In charity, someone must show her the way,” I insist.

“Are you suggesting that you yourself could succeed where others have failed?” my mother asks, grimly amused.

“If it were to save her soul, yes, I could try.”

“You? A girl of thirteen, to preach doctrines to a princess of thirty-four, no less? The very idea. As if she would listen to you. She would see it as gross presumption.”

“You just keep out of it, Jane,” my father instructs. “You mean well, but there may come a day when we need the Lady Mary’s favor, so it would not do to prejudice her against us now.”

“Very well, sir,” I say, but inwardly my heart burns with zeal to bring the Lady Mary to the light.

The next day, I am following Lady Anne Wharton, one of Mary’s ladies, through the empty chapel on my way to the royal lodgings, which lie beyond it. I am startled as Lady Anne stops and curtsies to the altar, on which is set what Catholics call the Blessed Host: the bread and the wine used in the Mass.

“Why do you curtsy? Is the Lady Mary in the chapel?” I look about me, fearing that I have neglected to show the proper courtesy to the Princess.

Lady Anne frowns. “No, madam. She is not here. I make my curtsy to Him that made us all.”

I cannot help feeling shocked at such blatant papistry, and at the dangerous ignorance of this poor woman. “Why? How can He be there that made us all, when it was only the baker who made Him?”

It is Lady Anne’s turn to be shocked. “My Lady Jane! That is blasphemy, to so denigrate the Sacred Host. Have you no respect?”

“I meant no offense, my lady,” I protest. “But I am of the belief that no miracle occurs in the Mass. The bread and wine remain just that, and only when the priest blesses them do they become symbolic of Our Lord’s sacrifice.”

“May God have mercy on you for your heresy!” she cries, and hurries me out of the chapel, as if I should contaminate it simply by being there.

The Lady Mary is not in her apartments. Later, I meet her in the gardens, walking her dogs; she is wrapped in a fur-lined velvet cloak against the cold wind. Her ladies trail behind her.

“My Lady Jane,” she says, extending her hand. Her manner is decidedly cooler than when we last met. As I make my obeisance, I realize that Lady Anne has probably told her what I said in the chapel. “I trust you are quite recovered now,” the Lady Mary continues. Her voice is frosty.

“I am quite well, Your Grace. I hope to resume my lessons soon.”

“You are well taught, child. But too well taught for your own good, and those who have had the rearing of you have much to answer for. Remember, a little knowledge is an unwise thing. And a little humility never goes amiss.”

I would like to speak out, but I dare not. My father’s injunction has stayed with me. So I bow my head meekly. “I am Your Grace’s most humble cousin.”

But the damage is done, and the rest of our visit passes in a rather strained atmosphere. Yes, I was unpardonably rude: even though I had the right of the matter, I should have held my tongue. I don’t know what demon gets into me these days. I was never so hot with my passions and my opinions when I was younger, but now I feel so strongly about things and surprise even myself! Mrs. Ellen says it is something to do with my age and that I must learn to temper my strong views and curb my tongue.

“Remember, there are two sides to every argument,” she tells me.

“But when it comes to faith, there can be only one,” I insist. “There is only one way to God, of that I am convinced.”

BRADGATE HALL, AUGUST 1551

The plague known as the sweating sickness has returned, as it does most summers. People are dying in the stinking streets of London, and the wealthier subjects of the King have fled to their country houses to escape the contagion. We are therefore at Bradgate, where my parents occupy themselves through the long summer days with hunting and entertaining. One of their guests is my lady’s young stepmother, Katherine Willoughby, Duchess of Suffolk. She arrives swathed in mourning, bringing news of great import.

Some years before I was born, on the day Anne Boleyn gave birth to the Lady Elizabeth, my grandfather Charles Brandon, Duke of Suffolk, married this Katherine Willoughby. She was then a great beauty, half-Spanish—her mother had been one of Katherine of Aragon’s ladies-in-waiting—and only fourteen years old. My grandfather was then forty-eight, but he was besotted with her. The new Duchess later became one of Katherine Parr’s ladies, which was how I got to know her well, and also a staunch Protestant. Before my grandfather died, she bore him two sons, Henry and Charles, my stepuncles.

Now the Duchess is at Bradgate, in great grief. Her two little boys, successive but fleeting Dukes of Suffolk, have both died of the sweating sickness. She weeps in my mother’s arms in the parlor. She cannot find the words to tell of her tragedy.

“They succumbed within days of each other,” she sobs at length.

My parents’ eyes meet over her shaking shoulders. This news, terrible though it is, is of great significance to them, for my mother is now her father’s only remaining heir and, as such, inherits his title and wealth. As her husband, my father may hold that title in her right—which means that they are now Duke and Duchess of Suffolk, raised to the highest echelon of the peerage.

As soon as poor Lady Suffolk has retired for the night, my lord calls for wine to toast his advancement.

“Who would have believed it?” says my lady delightedly. “Not that I do not mourn my little brothers. But God moves in mysterious ways, and always for a purpose.”

My father pours the wine and hands round the goblets. Even Katherine gets one.

“To their graces the Duke and Duchess of Suffolk!” he cries.

We drink the toast.

“You know what this will mean for us all?” my lady says to Katherine and me.

“Will you have to wear coronets?” Katherine asks.

“Yes, but only on state occasions,” says my father, smiling.

“Dukes and duchesses take precedence over all other ranks of the nobility at court,” my lady explains. “We will enjoy many privileges there. We will be entitled to lodge in one of the most comfortable apartments, to have more servants attend on us, and to keep more horses in the King’s stables.”

“And I believe we’ll also get a bigger daily ration of bread, ale, fire-wood, and coal,” chimes in my lord, grinning broadly.

“Most important of all,” continues my lady, ignoring him, “is the likelihood of our enjoying greater influence with the King and with his Grace of Northumberland. And for that reason, Husband, I think we should take ourselves to court without delay. I hear His Majesty has removed to Richmond.”

“We should leave at once,” he agrees. “First thing in the morning. Have our chests packed now.”

“What of Lady Suffolk?” I ask.

“Oh, dear, I had forgotten…,” says my mother. “Not to worry. She can stay here as long as she likes. You can look after her, Jane.”

They have been back at court a week, and I am wilting under the strain of having to console poor Lady Suffolk when the messenger arrives.

“Our lady mother is ill,” I tell Katherine, after reading my father’s letter. “They thought it was the sweating sickness at first, and it was feared that she would succumb within hours.”

“Poor Mother!” cries Katherine, concerned.

“Fortunately not. It’s just a low fever. But I am summoned to Richmond to help tend her and cheer her convalescence.”

“You might see the King,” Katherine says, her eyes shining with excitement.

“I might.”

“Can’t I come?” she asks wistfully.

“No, sweeting, I’m sorry. My lord writes that you must play the hostess in my absence.”

She looks crestfallen.

“And you must look after Mary too. We can’t leave her all on her own.”

I embrace my sister. “If I could stay here, I would. I have no taste for court life. But I am commanded and must go. I have no choice.”

“I would I could change places with you.”

“So do I!” I say fervently.

Frances Brandon,
Duchess of Suffolk

RICHMOND PALACE, SURREY, OCTOBER 1551

It is October, and I am perfectly recovered, ready to enjoy my new status as Duchess of Suffolk. With the arrival of colder weather, the sweating sickness has abated, and the councillors and other nobles have returned to court. At last Henry and I begin to enjoy the privileges of our ducal rank and can revel in the deference shown us, and in our new prominence at court feasts and state occasions. We are closer to the King than ever.

Others, also, are enjoying the benefits of advancement within the peerage; the Earl of Warwick, plainly determined to consolidate his power by rewarding his supporters, has had the King make several new creations. William Herbert, that was Queen Katherine’s brother-in-law, is Earl of Pembroke; William Paulet is Marquess of Winchester; and Warwick himself is made Duke of Northumberland to ensure his seniority above his colleagues. Others have received knighthoods.

Henry says that the Duke of Somerset, the former Lord Protector, who was released from the Tower some time ago to serve his King once more (albeit in a humbler capacity, and provided he cooperates with the new regime), sees in this distribution of honors a move by Northumberland against himself, since his has been of late a lone voice of protest against John Dudley’s rule.

Northumberland is too quick and deadly for Somerset. He accuses him in council of treason and consigns him again to the Tower. Few emerge from that place once after being tainted by treason, let alone twice.

The mood at court is subdued, as the council busies itself in assembling a case against the fallen Duke. It is lightened somewhat in November by the news that Marie of Guise, the Queen Regent of Scotland, is to grace the English court with her presence on her way back from France, where she has been visiting her daughter, the young Queen of Scots. Great preparations are being made for the Queen Regent’s reception, and entertainments are being planned. Accordingly, we order ourselves sumptuous new clothes.

John Dudley,
Duke of Northumberland

RICHMOND PALACE, AUTUMN 1551

“Your Majesty,” I urge the King, “we should invite the Lady Mary.”

“Whatever for?” asks Edward coldly. “We are most displeased with her.”

“Ah, but Your Majesty could take advantage of her presence at court to have her questioned once more as to her obstinacy over the Mass and her dealings with the Emperor.”

He thinks about this.

“True.” He nods. “It might be politic. In fact, my lord, I shall speak to her myself.”

“Excellent,” I say, beaming. The Lady Mary is a threat to my own position, and I want her eliminated as soon as possible. I know she hates me, for I have hounded her over this matter of the Mass. And if Edward was to die childless, the Lady Mary would be Queen and her revenge swift. The sooner the boy is married and the father of a son, the better.