The passionate tudor, p.42
The Passionate Tudor, page 42
After the merest pause, the crowd erupted in a wild ovation. Caps were thrown in the air, and some people were weeping. It was evident that their loyalty to their Queen was greater than their aversion to her chosen husband. Mary herself felt tears welling up, knowing that she had won over public opinion.
“Oh, how happy we are, to whom God has given such a wise and learned Prince!” exclaimed an impressed Gardiner, as she descended the steps.
“There never was a more steadfast lady than your Majesty,” murmured Renard, those handsome eyes gazing at her admiringly.
After that, men came flocking in their thousands to fight the rebels. It was as well, because Wyatt’s army, now thought to be seven thousand strong, was advancing steadily. But it was halted at Southwark, where the citizens had been working through the night to make London Bridge impassable. Wyatt had to content himself with sacking the Priory of St. Mary Overie on the Surrey shore, and nearby Winchester Palace.
Nonetheless, London was in tumult. The Lord Mayor ordered that every man must stand at his door, to be on watch for the rebels. The Queen’s speech was being read out by heralds in every part of the city to inspire courage in the citizens. Some were running around in panic, the women weeping in fear, pulling their children and maids into their houses, and barring the doors. People were donning armor as shops were shut and boarded up.
Fear and alarm were tangible in Whitehall Palace, too. Armed guards thronged the Queen’s presence chamber, while her ladies wept and wailed, wringing their hands in terror, convinced they were going to be raped or murdered. But Mary kept a cool head. She had ordered that she be informed of every development.
“Place your trust in God,” she urged those around her. “If He is for us, who can be against us?”
Her councillors pressed her to have the Tower guns fired across the river at the rebels, but she refused to allow it. “We cannot have the innocent people of Southwark killed!” she protested. Evidently Wyatt had anticipated that his forces might be bombarded, because he marched them upriver toward Kingston. There he crossed the Thames and moved back along its northern shore to Tyburn, outside the city walls.
When news of his advance reached Whitehall, the Council issued every member of the royal household with arms and begged Mary to make her escape by river.
“No!” she told them. “I will tarry to the uttermost. If I were a man, I would be in the field in person!” She took up a position at the window in the gallery over the Holbein Gate, calmly ignoring the tumult in the palace, the slamming of doors and the running and shrieking of her women. There was no sign as yet of Wyatt’s army, but it could not be long before it appeared. The Earl of Pembroke and Sir Humphrey Clinton had been dispatched to St. James’s Park with ranks of cavalry to bar its way. It was frustrating not knowing what was happening, but an hour later, Gardiner joined Mary at the window.
“Madam, there has been a brief skirmish, but it is said that Wyatt’s men are exhausted and reluctant to fight. Many have deserted. He himself has taken a small detachment off in the direction of Charing Cross.”
Mary’s heart skipped a beat. He was so close! Her women started wailing again, and their cries were echoed in other parts of the palace.
Suddenly, several guards burst into the gallery. “Your Majesty, get down!” roared their captain. “They are shooting arrows into the palace precincts. All is lost! You must get away!”
“No!” Mary cried, staying where she was. “I am not moving one foot out of my house!” She marveled that she was so calm; such courage must be a gift from God.
“Fall to prayer,” she told everyone, “and I warrant you we shall hear better news soon.” So saying, she led her women to the chapel and sank to her knees.
* * *
—
“Wyatt is taken!” Gardiner was standing at the chapel door, looking disheveled but triumphant.
Mary rose to her feet and curtseyed to the crucifix on the altar. “Praise be to God, for He has worked another miracle.” Behind her, the women were weeping with relief.
“He was taken at Temple Bar,” Gardiner related, as they walked to the council chamber along galleries crowded with courtiers all eager to congratulate the Queen. “He’d been cut off by Pembroke’s force from the rest of his army and was trapped. He just gave himself up, meek as a lamb. His followers have been rounded up and arrested.”
“Have him taken to the Tower,” Mary commanded, feeling a little faint. The ordeal had taken its toll of her, but she would be all right in a few moments.
* * *
—
It was obvious that her councillors had been thoroughly frightened.
“Madam,” Paget said, as she faced them at the board, “we feel we must point out that this rebellion is the result of your being over-merciful at your accession. In future, you must harden your heart and show your subjects that you are not to be intimidated, because your leniency has almost cost you the throne.”
At any other time, Mary would have bridled at such presumption, but her councillors, to a man, had just amply demonstrated their loyalty, and she knew they had her interests at heart.
“I will take your advice, my lords,” she said. “Never again will I show clemency to traitors. I will not cease to demand of the law that it strike terror into those who venture to do evil. Nor will I tolerate heresy in my realm any longer, for we have seen how it can lead to seditious plots against me.”
Unswervingly, she agreed that the leaders of the revolt should suffer death as an example to other would-be rebels.
When the meeting ended, she summoned Renard and told him of her resolve.
“They are right,” he declared. “It is no longer the time to exercise mercy. Your Majesty should proceed firmly against all heretics from now on. It is fitting that you intend to exact such a fearful vengeance.” He paused. “I urge you also to rid yourself of other persons who might become a focus for rebellion. I mean Lady Jane and her husband.”
Mary was about to say no, very firmly, for she had given her word that she would not harm them, but then she remembered that she had sworn never again to be merciful to traitors.
Renard had seen her hesitate. “Madam, did you know that Jane’s father declared for her during the rebellion?”
“Yes,” she said, “but she cannot be blamed for that. She was miles away, and not involved in his treason.”
Renard was implacable. “Madam, as long as Jane lives, she will prove a thorn in your side. Your councillors are of the same opinion; I have talked to many of them. And I have to tell you that the Emperor will not permit Prince Philip to come to England until she is removed.”
That news fell like a blow.
“Then,” Mary said, choked, “it seems I have no choice, for nothing must be allowed to jeopardize the alliance between our countries.”
Renard gave a somber smile. “You have made a very wise decision, Madam, and demonstrated true statesmanship. His Imperial Majesty will be most impressed.”
* * *
—
Ruthlessly quelling her conscience, Mary gave orders that the sentence passed on Jane and Guildford be carried out two days hence, then steeled herself to sign the death warrants, giving orders that the condemned couple be told to prepare themselves. She tried not to imagine how it must feel to be told—in the springtime of your life—that you were to die imminently. She was the Queen and must harden her heart.
Nevertheless, she could not sleep that night. She could not send that young girl to her death, she could not! And then, just before dawn, a way out presented itself. If Jane could be persuaded to embrace the true faith, she would not only save her soul, but could never again be a focus for Protestant dissidents.
First thing in the morning, Mary sent the learned Richard Feckenham, Abbot of Westminster, to offer Jane a reprieve in return for her conversion to the Catholic faith. He was a kind old man, and if anyone could move her, it would be he.
She sat at her desk in deep agitation, unable to concentrate on the state papers before her, which had piled up during the rebellion. It was afternoon before Feckenham returned.
“Madam,” he said, looking pleadingly at her, “I think I am making some progress with the Lady Jane. If you would agree to postpone the execution for three days, I believe I can bring about a change of heart in her.”
Mary was suffused with relief and gladness. Another soul won for Christ! She could see herself explaining to Renard and her councillors that this was a significant development, and that the right and only course was to spare Jane the axe.
“If you succeed in your holy mission, I will let her live,” she told the abbot, who hastened back to the Tower.
When he had gone, Mary learned that Jane’s father, Suffolk, had been discovered hiding in a hollow tree in his hunting park in Warwickshire, and was being brought south to London. All the rebel leaders had now been rounded up. She sat reading the reports and the confessions as the room grew chill and the February dusk closed in. She had just risen to add a log to the fire when Abbot Feckenham returned. She knew from his sad demeanor that it was not good news.
“I fear the Lady Jane is too steadfast in her beliefs to abandon them,” he said wearily. “She treated me as if I was Satan come to tempt her. Alas, I can do no more, Madam.”
“You have done your best,” Mary assured him sadly. “We have both tried to save her, but she has sealed her fate. We can do nothing now but pray for her.”
“The Lieutenant of the Tower told me that, unlike Jane, Lord Guildford Dudley is in a state of collapse, and weeps and rails against his fate. He has begged to say farewell to his wife, and I said I would pass on his request.”
“I grant it,” Mary said. “I will send the order to the Lieutenant and tell him that the executions are to be carried out on the morning of the twelfth of February. Guildford shall suffer on the public scaffold on Tower Hill. Jane, on account of her royal blood, shall die on Tower Green.”
“I promised her that I would accompany her to the scaffold,” Feckenham said. “She agreed, for I think she has conceived a fondness for me, yet she is adamant that there will be no last-minute conversion.”
“Nevertheless, your presence will be a comfort to her,” Mary said, suppressing the urge to cry.
* * *
—
When the morning of the executions dawned, she arose feeling ragged, for she had not slept again. Pulling on her night robe, she knelt at her prayer desk and prayed for Jane’s soul, remaining there until the dread hour had passed. By then, her handkerchief was sodden.
She was dressed and composed when Feckenham arrived.
“The Lady Jane died bravely,” he said. “It was over in an instant. I am sure she knew nothing about it.”
Mary crossed herself. “God rest her soul. And thank you, Father Abbot, for your kindness.”
Still feeling shaky, she sat in council that morning, for there was much business to be done, yet it was hard to concentrate. Only when she heard Gardiner mention the Lady Anna of Cleves did she give the lords her full attention.
“Madam,” Gardiner said, “we have received information suggesting that the Lady Anna was privy to the plotting of the rebels and intrigued with her brother, the Duke of Cleves, and the King of France to help the Lady Elizabeth gain the throne.”
Mary could hardly believe it of placid, amiable Anna, but the councillors laid before her letters hinting at her involvement.
“We ask your Majesty’s permission to wait on the lady and question her,” Gardiner said.
“Very well,” she replied, “but I cannot believe she would do such a thing.”
They regarded her almost with pity, as if she was being a foolish woman to ignore the possibility of treachery, and she was tempted to remind them of their own treason in supporting Lady Jane.
“The Lady Anna is close to the Lady Elizabeth, is she not?” That was Paget.
“She is close to me, too,” Mary said. “But go and question her, to satisfy yourselves.”
“Thank you, Madam, we will,” Gardiner said. “Alas, there is the more pressing matter of your sister to be dealt with.”
“Indeed,” Mary replied. “She is still at Ashridge, still pleading sickness.”
“I propose that some of us wait upon her there with two of your Majesty’s physicians, to determine whether she is as sick as she claims to be.”
Mary nodded. “A very wise course to take, for I feel certain that she was somehow involved in Wyatt’s rebellion.”
The lords murmured their agreement, to a man.
“Instruct the doctors to take my own litter with them and bring her to court if, in their professional opinion, she can be safely moved.”
“Then there is the matter of Courtenay,” Arundel said. “He is guilty of treasonable negligence in failing to help prevent Wyatt’s forces from entering London. He should be behind bars.”
Mary duly signed the warrant for his arrest they handed her. “Let him be imprisoned in the Tower,” she ordered. “And have Lady Exeter banished from court.” She could not be seen to be consorting with the mother of a traitor.
The two deputations set off later that day. Watching from a gallery as they rode out of the courtyard, Mary turned to Renard.
“You too believe that Elizabeth is implicated?” she asked.
“I do,” he replied vehemently. “And this illness she pleads—could it be that she is with child by Courtenay?”
Mary stared at him, shocked. “I hardly think so…”
“It is what people are saying. If your Majesty thinks that is far-fetched, you should be aware that Messire de Noailles is putting it about that she is ill because you tried to poison her.”
“I beg your pardon? How dare he say such a thing of me? I will demand his recall!”
Renard shook his head. “That, Madam, would be to give his spoutings a credence they do not deserve.”
* * *
—
When the lords returned from their visit to the Lady Anna and asked to see the Queen, they appeared more disgruntled than relieved.
“We got nothing out of her,” reported Gardiner. “She stated she has no knowledge of these affairs and has had no contact with the Lady Elizabeth since the coronation, and that she would never do anything to jeopardize the favor that your Majesty shows her. She maintains that she is your loyal subject and will ever remain so.”
“Maybe she is. After all, there is no good evidence to the contrary.”
“All the same, we cannot clear her of suspicion,” Gardiner said, “and so it would be wiser if your Majesty withdrew your favor while we keep her under surveillance.”
Mary sighed. They had her in a corner again. She did not want to freeze out Anna, but it was probably wise to do so for the present. After all, she had a far bigger problem on her hands.
The Ashridge deputation reported that the physicians had diagnosed bad humors in Elizabeth’s water, yet pronounced that she was able to travel to court. She had protested that she would not be able to endure the journey without imperiling her health, but the lords had insisted, and she was now making her way by slow stages to London, apparently complaining all the way. Mary did not envy those accompanying her; she was aware of how difficult Elizabeth could be.
She knew that her councillors—and Renard—wanted her to deal with her sister as she had dealt with Lady Jane.
“Madam,” Renard declared, his tone urgent, “I fear that the Emperor and Prince Philip will never have any peace of mind until two more heads have fallen, those of the two people most able to cause trouble in your realm. You know who I mean. Only when those traitors have been removed will your Majesty need have no fear for your crown.”
Gardiner was also pressing Mary to proceed against Elizabeth. “By ridding yourself of her, you will be showing mercy to the whole commonwealth.”
When Mary shrank from what he was suggesting, he rounded on her, never a man to mince words. “This is foolish! Have Wyatt rigorously questioned, and I guarantee he will reveal the Lady Elizabeth’s involvement in his conspiracy.”
“Let it be done, then,” Mary muttered, stung by his anger. “What news of Courtenay?”
“He has admitted nothing, even when brought face-to-face with Wyatt, except that a servant of his had gone to France without his permission—a likely story, Madam.”
Mary was inclined to agree with him. “Have him questioned again.”
Chapter 32
1554
Elizabeth had arrived at Whitehall. Immediately, Mary dismissed most of her sister’s attendants and refused her plea for an audience, sending to say that she must first be examined by the Council concerning her recent conduct. For now, she was to remain in her apartments, isolated from the rest of the court and heavily guarded.
“I will not see her,” Mary told her dear cousin, Margaret Lennox, who was visiting court and providing some light relief in these dismal days. It occurred to Mary that Margaret would make an admirable queen and a worthy successor to herself—she was a staunch Catholic, of impeccable lineage, and had two healthy sons—and she began to toy with the idea of setting aside Elizabeth.
“You’ve put her in rooms below mine,” Margaret said, her eyes twinkling mischievously. “Let’s give her a small taste of the discomfort she has caused you!”
Over the next few days, she turned one of her rooms into a kitchen, so that Elizabeth would be continually disturbed by cooking smells and the noisy banging and crashing of pots and pans. Margaret was unrepentant—and gleeful. Perhaps scenting a crown, she began seizing every opportunity to denigrate Elizabeth to Mary and report every snippet of gossip that tended to confirm her guilt.
