Prisoner of the Queen (Tales From the Tudor Court) (12 page)

Mrs. Helen
only nodded and proceeded to hand me a sugared date. I bit into the sweet fruit and chewed slowly. “Mother says she will not allow me to marry again until the deed can be done in truth, and the Duchess of Somerset agrees. Queen Mary demands that I continue my education and, praise God and his disciples, accept the Roman Catholic faith. I shall journey to court soon to attend her.”

“That is nice
, my dear. I am sure you will be looked after well.”

I nodded and bit into another
date. I hoped Mrs. Helen was right. I had not had correspondence with the queen myself to make judgment on how I would be received. Jane still languishes in the Tower, along with her husband and now, again, my father.

Lady Anne returned, her face pa
le. She came to stand before me, so tall and straight, her eyes as dark as her gown. “Katherine.” Her voice sounded strained. “There is some news.”

My stomach
churned, and the dates I’d eaten threatened to expel. I put the other date I’d picked up back on the trencher.

“
News of Wyatt’s Rebellion has reached the queen’s ears, as has your father’s part in it. They march on London at this moment. Queen Mary’s council has succeeded in persuading her to seek out and punish those involved.” She took a steadying breath, and my heart sank. “Jane and Guildford were found guilty of their charge of high treason. Guildford’s brothers were also found guilty—all are sentenced to death.”

My lungs strained against my held breath. “What?” I choked out. I felt as though the blood of my entire body rushed to my feet. The room spun. “
But the queen has said she would grant them pardon.”

Anne nodded, her expression
skeptical.

“What should I do?”

“Pray.” The duchess left within minutes.

But I could not move. I remained in my chair for what seemed like hours. In reality, I
had no idea how much time passed.

Mrs. Helen
approached, placing a light hand on my shoulder. “Should you like to take a turn about the garden, my lady? I will fetch your mantle, ’tis not too cold as yet. The fresh air may have your appetite coming back.”

I shook my head. How could I walk outside in the fresh air
, or even think about eating, when my sister was locked away in a Tower, sentenced to death?

February 1, 1554

“Oh, dear God,” I breathe out, for I couldn’t find my voice. I ran to the chapel, my knees weak, bile rising in my throat, my lungs unable to fill with air. I stumbled over the threshold and down the aisle until I reached the altar, dropping to my knees, ignoring the pain of a ragged piece of stone on the floor cutting into my flesh.

“Our Father, which art in heaven, hallowed be thy
name. Thy kingdom come. Thy will be done in earth, as it is in Heaven. Give us this day our daily bread. And forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive them that trespass against us. And lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil—” My voice cracked, and a torrent of emotion whipped through me. I could no longer recite the Lord’s Prayer as I’d been taught from the moment of my birth, only lament to the most Holy of Holies, that He have mercy on my sister! “Oh, Jesu, have mercy on us! Oh, Lord God, have mercy!”

Thomas Wyatt
the Younger, the upstart, who should have been banished from England years before, had undone us all! He had signed the warrant for my sister’s death.
Wyatt’s Rebellion.
And my own father!

“Lord, I pray to you! Show the
queen my sister’s innocence. Do not let her once again be blamed for the evildoing of men!”

My father
’s actions were perhaps the most vile of treacheries. How could he have joined in Wyatt’s Rebellion?

My hands
shook as I held them up in supplication, and tears streamed down my face. I didn’t feel the cold, even though I’d left my cape in my chamber. Father’s actions were paramount to running me through with his sword. I sank all the way to the floor, my head resting on the cold stones.

And t
o think the queen had said she would let Jane go free… My sister should never see the light of day again.

To be so utterly out of control… To have no say. To be able to do nothing…

The rebels marched on London as I breathed this breath. They would soon meet with the queen’s army, and I prayed they would relinquish their weapons and go in peace rather than battle it out, for we all knew what the outcome would be: The queen would win.

February 11, 1554

“My lady, this package has arrived for you.” I sat up in bed as Mrs. Helen handed me a paper-wrapped package with twine tied around it. “’Tis from your sister. One of the guards delivered it here himself, said she gave it to him this night and bid him deliver it to you. I told him you were abed, but he insisted.”

My fingers shook as I took the package.
Mrs. Helen lit several candles and then stood expectantly, as though she would watch me open it.

“Leave me,” I said
quietly.

Mrs. Helen
stood a moment longer, assessing me, before she left the room.

I had no
t slept in days. Not since the queen had finally ruled that Jane, her husband and my father were all to die.

After Wyatt
’s Rebellion she could no longer keep them alive without the threat of more rebellions. I was not angry with the queen, for I understood her politics. I understood that she had been put to the test, and if she were to continue to rule, my sister must not be on this earth. Men—my own father!—had gambled with Jane’s life—and lost. She had not agreed to the rebellion. The queen, in her mercy, had granted Jane a pardon and promised to release her from the Tower as soon as a royal heir was birthed. We were so close… And now all her promises were shattered.

“Damn you, Father!” I sa
id vehemently to thin air. We, his children, were merely pawns, and now he had lost us to the other side. “Selfish, foolish man.”

Jane
would die tomorrow.

The
recognition of that hit me with the force of a gale wind. I dropped the unopened package onto my bed and rushed from my room. Running from whatever it contained. Images of us as younger children standing together, knowing we two were there for each other—I could not let her die alone. Not without me.

Down the spiral staircase I flew and out the
great doors of the manor toward the stables. The moon shining high lit my way. I cared not for the cold, or that I was only in my nightrail. I had to get to Jane. My bare feet froze against the crisp cold of the grass. Sharp rocks protruding from the ground jabbed painfully at the soles of my feet.

“Jane, I
’m coming,” I vowed, tripping in the dark on something.

My hands came out to catch my fall,
cruel pain zinging up my arms as rocks sliced into my palms. I pushed to my feet, hearing the rushing feet of guards behind me. But still I kept running. I would go to the Tower this night. I would go to her!

Strong hands caught me around the middle, swinging me up into the air. I fought against the force that would hold me back, kicking, punching.

“Let me go! Jane needs me! Put me down, you—bastards!” I’d never cursed before, and I didn’t even flinch now. “Bloody bastards!”

“My lady, stop,” one of the guards urged, before my fist found his flesh.

“My lady, you must stop!” another said, helping the first guard to subdue me.

The men carried me
, kicking, screaming, into the house, only to be assailed by Mrs. Helen.

“What on earth are you doing to a princess of the blood? To my lady!” Her voice was strong and broke through my fit of hysteria.

Uncontrollable sobs still threatened to rack my body, and I trembled. I had no energy left. The guards set me down, and I took a deep, shuddering breath, trying to calm myself. I did not normally react in such a violent way, and mortification sank in.

“
I’m fine now. Simply tired.” I tried to be stoic, running hands through my hair and seeing my bloody palms too late.

The guards gazed on me with mixed expressions of sympathy and weariness.

“Oh, my dear,” Mrs. Helen said, sympathy in her eyes. “Come upstairs.”

Mrs. Helen
shooed the guards away and ushered me upstairs to my chamber, where she cleaned my hands and feet. I crawled into bed when she was through and my kind maid covered me, then ordered my fire to be stoked higher.

I rolled over, unwilling to look at any of the
servants. I wanted to be alone in my grief. Mrs. Helen shooed everyone from the room, and even my companion disappeared somewhere.

Something crunched beneath my ribs. I reached to grab the package delivered just this night. In my hands was Jane
’s parting gift to me.

I stro
ked a hand over the solid front, finding strength in the bold lines of her script.

I could not open it.

How could I? To open it would have been accepting her fate, and I was not sure I could. I was nearly choking on my heartache.

I curled up in my bed, pillows fluffed behind me, and slowly unwound the twine. The paper fell open
, and Jane’s favorite tan leather-bound Greek Testament fell into my hands. A breeze came through my bed, ruffling the counterpane and bed curtains. I looked up sharply, expecting to see the ghost of my sister standing at the foot of my bed, but there was nothing there. Not even the shadows formed by the light of my candle danced. It was as if everything in this room waited on bated breath for me to open Jane’s Testament. To see if she wrote something for me inside its glorious pages.

There in Jane
’s perfectly neat calligraphy was a letter on the blank pages.

I have sent you, good sister Katherine, a book, which though it be not outwardly trimmed with gold, yet inwardly it is more worthy than precious stones.

Trust not that the tenderness of your age shall lengthen your life, for as soon as God will, goeth the you
ng as the old.

My good sister, let me entreat you once again, to
learn to die. Deny the world, defy the devil and despise the flesh. Delight only in the Lord. Be penitent for your sins, but despair not. Be like the good servant and even in midnight be waking, lest when death cometh he steal upon you like a thief in the night and you be with the evil servant, found sleeping and, lest for lack of oil, ye be found like the first foolish wench and like him that had not the wedding garment, ye be out from the marriage.

A smile crept over my lips. Jane’s reference to the parable of the Wise and Foolish Virgins was not just a reference to morals and corruption, but a tender moment in our childhood. A moment before she’d been whisked away to court, and any semblance of a carefree child could no longer be seen—the once-joyous smile and singing child was a stoic future queen.

We
’d sat one night upon the floor in front of the hearth, and Grandfather Charles Brandon, the great Duke of Suffolk and favored friend of the king, had come to visit. The snow had fallen hard and deep, covering the ground up to one’s knees, and so our guests had been bade to stay. His Grace had called all the children—me, my sisters and our two cousins Henry and Charles—to the hearth, where he’d begun to spin a tale.

We
’d laughed at his interpretation, as it had been a story told to us before by the priest one morning during the sermon, but his telling of it had been so fierce, and His Grace had made the tale more fun. He’d even knelt on his knees in a moment of drama and begged the fabled wise virgins for oil, then nimbly jumped to shout his reply of “Nay!”

I laughed
, and for a moment the bitterness of life’s circumstances were gone and I relished what time Jane and I had had. In my mind, I embraced her and sent a prayer up to God that he would embrace her, too.

As touching my death, rejoice as I do and believe that I shall be delivered from corruption and put-on incorruption, for as I am assured that I shall for losing of a mortal life find an immortal felicity. Pray God grant that you live in His fear and die—

I could not make out the next few words, as the ink was smudged, and when I ran my finger over the distorted letters, I thought for a moment I might still be able to feel her tears as they fell on the parchment in her book. Tears sprang from my eyes, and as I batted my lashes to make them go away, a tear of my own mixed with Jane’s smudged letters all the more. And then I had to set the letter aside as fear and anguish overtook me, for I would never be able to ask Jane what those words had been. I would never know.

At length, I pressed my chemise to my face to swipe away the tears, pressed my fingers to my temples and tried to rub away the ache.

I took several steadying breaths and then picked up the Testament again. For Jane. I would read for her, because her words had been so eloquently put together, because I could not abstain from it. I had to read what she had said. Her wisdom, I’d known she possessed, but to this depth, I had not envisioned. She truly had been a queen, whether she was claimed a usurper or not, Jane could have led this country and seen to the souls of every man, woman and child.