Innocent Traitor (62 page)

THE TOWER OF LONDON, 8TH FEBRUARY 1554

In the morning, there is a visitor for me. I am disconcerted to find a Catholic priest waiting in the parlor. The old man smiles as I enter, and his still-handsome face lights up with an uncommon radiance. Against my will, I find myself drawn to him.

“Good day, my daughter. I am Dr. Richard Feckenham, Abbot of Westminster. The Queen has sent me here to speak with you.”

“Forgive me, Dr. Feckenham, but I am of the reformed faith. I do not see what we could have to say to each other.”

“Please hear me out.”

I sit down. “Out of courtesy I will hear you, sir, but please remember that I die tomorrow. I have but little time, and many things to do.”

“You could have all the time in the world.”

“What do you mean?” I am startled.

“I mean that you have it in your power to save yourself from execution. That is why I am here.”

“To save myself?” I whisper in awe. “What must I do?”

“You must convert to the Catholic faith. The Queen offers you a reprieve in return for your soul and the prospect of eternal salvation.”

I cannot speak for a moment. I am desperately fighting with my conscience. I do so long to live!

“This is a most refined form of torture,” I say at length with some severity. “To offer me an earthly life in return for depriving me of the means to attain eternal life. I cannot accept.”

“Do not be so hasty to throw your life away. Think on it—for more than fifteen hundred years countless men and women, many of greater intelligence and understanding than you, have followed the true faith. Were they wrong? Are they damned for all eternity just because one man, Martin Luther, comes along and denies some of the tenets of that faith? You know your Bible, I am sure, and you must know that Our Lord appointed St. Peter to be His vicar on earth. How then can you, a mere child, deny the authority of the Pope, who is St. Peter’s successor and the ultimate and true authority on matters of religion?”

“I can and do deny it. How can
you
accept that a piece of bread and a cup of wine become the actual body and blood of Jesus Christ? It is against all reason.”

“Yet you accept, my lady, that Our Lord rose from the dead, and that too is against all human reasoning. Jesus Christ did not ask us to find rational explanations—He enjoined us to have faith. Those are two very different things.” The priest sighs. “I can see us going round and round in circles, and your time is precious. Use it wisely, I beg of you. I accept that you have your own convictions, even though I know you are sadly in error. Would you at least promise to think over what I have said? Death is a very terrible thing at your age—and you have everything to live for. Believe me, God does not need your soul yet. You are young, and youth is dogmatic. An old man such as I has learned to question his convictions. I will go now, but promise me that you will think it over.”

“I will, Dr. Feckenham, if only because, however misguided, you mean to be kind to me. But I do not think I will change my mind.”

“Then I pray that God will change it for you,” says the Abbot as he rises to take his leave.

Queen Mary

WHITEHALL PALACE, 8TH FEBRUARY 1554

Dr. Feckenham has come straight to me from the Tower.

“What did the Lady Jane say?” I ask apprehensively.

“She is an obstinate girl, madam, but a very brave one. I was most impressed with her. Not once did she falter or break down during our conversation, though I could see that the prospect of life was most pleasing to her.”

“Yet she will not abjure her heresy?”

“Not yet, madam. I need more time, and so does she. If you would, of your clemency, grant a three-day stay of execution, I think I might make some progress with her.”

“I pray God you do,” the Queen says with feeling. “I do not want to send an innocent child to the scaffold.”

Lady Jane Dudley

THE TOWER OF LONDON, 8TH FEBRUARY 1554

I am at my prayers again.

“Deliver me from temptation!” I beg. “I so desire to live, and my flesh shrinks from the ax, yet I know I could never embrace the Roman religion. I pray that I might not deny Thee, O my God. Be unto me a strong tower of defense. Suffer me not to be tempted above my power. I beseech Thee, let me stand fast!”

I am interrupted by a knocking noise and shouts from outside. I stand up, feeling a little dizzy, for I was unable to face breakfast this morning. Looking out, I can see some workmen unloading timber from a cart, while others are hammering nails into planks laid out on Tower Green.

They are building a scaffold for me, I realize. It is another jolt into reality. I begin trembling, fighting down the rising panic. I must not, I
must
not lose control.

All afternoon the banging and clattering go on. It is impossible to pray or read, so I go downstairs and sit with Mrs. Partridge in the kitchen at the back of the house. Where once she would have welcomed me warmly, this good woman is now awkward in my company, but there is something I have to ask her.

“Mrs. Partridge,” I say, looking directly into her eyes, “do you know why the Queen has suddenly ordered my execution?” Mrs. Partridge’s obvious discomfiture tells me that she does know, so I go on, “It is bad enough having to die, but far worse not knowing why. The Queen had promised me a pardon. Why did she change her mind?”

Mrs. Partridge is reluctant to say anything, but at length I coax from her the truth.

“It was your father. He was one of the leaders in the late rebellion. He meant to make you Queen again.”

Understanding dawns. I see now why the Queen considers me a danger. I, who would not willingly harm a hair on Her Majesty’s head. It is my own father who has done this, and I who am to pay the price of his folly and treachery. I am appalled, and nothing that Mrs. Partridge may say can comfort me. I weep for a long time.

Presently, when the workmen have laid down their tools and gone home, I go upstairs, not daring to look out the window. I do not want to see the scaffold they have built. Besides, I have farewell letters to write to my family and friends and must put myself in the right frame of mind.

“Live to die,” I exhort my sister Katherine.

Deny the world, deny the Devil, and despise the flesh. Rejoice at my death, as I do, for I shall be delivered from corruption and will put on the mantle of incorruption. Farewell, dear sister. Put your sole trust in God, Who only must uphold you.

Your loving sister, Jane.

Early in the evening, Dr. Feckenham returns with the news that my execution has been postponed until Monday.

“Her Majesty desires that you have more time in which to consider your conversion. Again, she promises you mercy if you will agree to it.” He looks surprised to see me so dismayed.

“Alas, sir, it was not my desire to prolong my days. I was prepared to die tomorrow. As for death itself, I utterly despise it, and Her Majesty’s pleasure being such, I willingly undergo it. I assure you, my time on earth has been so odious to me that I long for death.”

The Abbot looks deeply moved. Surely he cannot feel so distressed at the prospect of someone dying? After all, a Christian is supposed to rejoice when a soul goes home to God, as I am trying to do myself. Yet he looks as if he is on the verge of weeping.

“I have another suggestion to make,” he says. “Believe me, I understand your doubts—”

“I have no doubts!”

“My lady, I am doing my very best to help you save your life, and your soul. Will you not hear me out?”

“I beg your pardon,” I say, suddenly humbled. “Pray go on.”

Dr. Feckenham smiles at me. “It has occurred to me that it might be helpful to set up a debate between yourself and some Catholic scholars and churchmen, here, in the Chapel of St. Peter ad Vincula. You could hear their arguments, make answer yourself, and with God’s grace you might even be persuaded to change your mind.”

“I doubt that. Dr. Feckenham, it would be a waste of my valuable time. Such a disputation might be fit for the living, but not for the dying. Please leave me alone to make my peace with God.”

The Abbot takes my hands in his and looks deep into my eyes. In his, in this moment, I see a compassion and understanding rare in a human being, and my resolve weakens.

“I beg of you, give yourself this last chance. I beseech you. You have everything to lose—and all to gain. Just think, if you were wrong in your beliefs, would it not be a terrible thing to die for them, and to die in error?”

“All right, Dr. Feckenham,” I agree, capitulating. “Set up your debate. I will attend, if it pleases you.”

THE TOWER OF LONDON, 9TH FEBRUARY 1554

Under guard, I walk back from the chapel with Dr. Feckenham, averting my eyes from the scaffold on which I will certainly die on Monday. Inside, I am rejoicing that I have remained true to myself and strong in my beliefs. It was a trial I could have done without at this time, for I was calm in my faith and needed no tempests to disturb me. They tried to put doubts in my mind and break my resolve, and every time I refuted their arguments, I was aware I was being an advocate of my own death. But I was given the strength to hold fast to the truth, and for that I am truly thankful.

The old priest’s face is infinitely sad. Alone of my inquisitors, he was gentle with me. But he failed to move me, and he looks as if that failure will haunt him for the rest of his life.

It is I who break the silence as we near the Gentleman Gaoler’s house, where the Abbot must take his leave of me forever. There are tears in my eyes once more. “I weep, sir, because we shall never meet again. Not on this earth, nor even in Heaven, unless God turns your heart.”

Choked with grief, he lays his hand on mine.

“I have one request, my lady. Might I accompany you to the scaffold?”

I am immediately suspicious. “Has the Queen commanded it?” I want no last-minute attempts at conversion, not at that time.

“No, madam. I myself humbly request it. I cannot go with you all the way on your journey, but I would go as far as I might.”

Such kindness disarms me; it is almost too much to bear. He is a truly good man, for all his wrongheaded religious convictions.

“Of course you may,” I say warmly.

He is suddenly brisk again, clearly desperate that I shall not see how moved he is and give way myself.

“You must go in, my daughter. I am sure you have much to do.”

“Yes, indeed.” I blink back tears. “I have not finished my farewell letters, and I must dispose of my few poor possessions. Then there is the matter of a gown for—for Monday. It should be black, but mine are somewhat worn.”

“My lady, for your virtue and goodness, God would receive you in rags,” Dr. Feckenham blurts out. “Farewell.”

He turns abruptly and walks away. Shortly afterward, in the privacy of my room, I give way to my terrible distress. Then, when I can cry no more, I force myself to get up and attend to practical matters.

THE TOWER OF LONDON, 10TH FEBRUARY 1554

“Your father is here in the Tower!” cries Mrs. Ellen, coming into my chamber. “He has been discovered and brought here under arrest.”

“What happened?” I ask, catching my breath.

“After the rebellion, your father fled to Bradgate, where he snatched up a few possessions before going to ground. But the hue and cry was out, and it was not long before the Earl of Huntingdon—”

“Who was once his friend.”

“Yes,” she says simply. “Not anymore, evidently. The Earl discovered him hiding in a hollow tree trunk at Astley Park in Warwickshire. He was very disheveled, frozen stiff, and ravenous with hunger. Then the soldiers came.”

“Where is he being held?”

“Mrs. Partridge wouldn’t say.”

“Perhaps it is as well. They will not let me see him, and anyway, it would be painful to both of us. He will not escape the Queen’s justice this time. He is doomed, just as I am.”

“
He
has deserved it,” Mrs. Ellen cries bitterly.