A Dangerous Inheritance

There was no reply.

I lost my appetite and grew thin. I wished myself dead and buried.

Just once was I permitted to write to Ned. It must have rent his heart to read my brave words, reminding him of the stolen hours we lay with joyful hearts as sweet bedfellows in the Tower, and assuring him we would do so again, I was certain of it.

I wrote again to the Queen and Mr Secretary, appealing to them to relieve me from my continual agony. They ignored my pleas, and I was so crushed with disappointment that I took to my bed, coughing and feverish. I wept ceaselessly. I vomited and brought up foul phlegm, and my guardians trembled in case I had consumption. They feared I might die in their charge.

My cheeks grew pale, my cough more troublesome. My longing for my sweet lord and my son became a physical pain. I exchanged several secret letters with Ned, thanks to the ruses of my maids, receiving in return touching tokens of his devotion. But our separation was killing me.

My cough grew worse. I developed pains in my chest. Eating so little, I grew thi

*

I am racked by another attack of coughing. In my mirror I see dull eyes, cheekbones high in a hectic face, hands near transparent, and a gown that is now much too big, hanging on bony shoulders.

I feel my strength ebbing. I am now spending more time in bed than in my chair. My appetite has gone completely. My gaoler’s wife, Lady Hopton, pays me anxious visits, asking after my health, while Sir Owen sends for the Queen’s own physicians to tend me. He will not let it be said that I died for lack of care in his house.

I look at little Tom and feel anguish at the thought of him being left alone and motherless. Please God, I pray, do not let me die! I am but twenty-seven years old, and I need to live for my children, and for my love. I am convinced the very sight of Ned could make me well. And my little Edward … My arms ache for Edward.

I have beseeched them to let him visit me. He is six now, and it is four long years since I saw him. But they say it is not possible. Does my sweet lord know how ill I am? Will I ever look on his face again? Just once is all I ask. Just a glimpse of him to take to Heaven with me. For I fear that is where I am bound, very soon. I keep recollecting what my sister wrote to me from the Tower: Trust not that the tenderness of your age shall lengthen your life, for, as soon as God will, go the young and the old.

What did I ever do to deserve such trials? I but did what countless women do – I fell in love and married. Yet I am still being punished for that, and I know in my bones that the Queen will never release me now.

This morning, when I cough, there is blood on my kerchief. I stare at it, disbelieving; here is my executioner. I sit up shaking, my heart pounding. Not me, oh Lord, please, not me!

I sit there nervously on the edge of the bed, feeling like I am dying anyway, awaiting – and dreading – the next spasm. When it comes, there is another bright red streak: not as much as before, but still alarming. In a panic, I call Lady Hopton and she sends again for the physician.

*

‘What is wrong with me?’ I ask the doctor.

‘It is phthisick,’ he says gravely. ‘A disorder of the lungs. I prescribe rest and pleasant pastimes. Take the air, read books, do a little embroidery or play cards.’

‘My lady will take no pastime,’ Lady Hopton says. She has insisted on standing by through every consultation, like a gaoler. What does she think I will do? Plot treason? I am a sick woman! All I want is to be well again. But I have no energy for anything. I can barely raise the pen to write this journal.

Dr Symonds is brisk. ‘Then give her asses’ milk and snails in shells to prolong life,’ he orders, and my lady nods. He has not reassured me. I dare not ply him with more questions, for fear of what he will answer, for he spoke of prolonging my life. I am not such a fool that I ca

January, in the year of grace 1568, comes in like a lamb. The parkland beyond my casement is still green, the bare trees unladen with snow. It is unseasonably mild.

I have been confined to my bed for three weeks now, too weak to get out of it. I am resigned now, ready and prepared for the inevitable end, and aware of the need to make a good death, to satisfy the world that I was a worthy and devout woman.

I feel my strength ebbing. My women watch around the bed through the night hours, as I ceaselessly recite psalms and prayers for the dying. I thank God I am going to Him with no malice in my heart. My last thoughts will be of my loved ones, Ned, Edward, and little Tom, who has crept beside me on the bed and snuggled into the crook of my arm, his face stained with tears. Young as he is, he is aware that something is badly wrong. Maybe someone has told him his mother is dying. He knows what death is.

Dawn breaks. I realise I have been praying all night.

‘Madam, be of good comfort,’ says Lady Hopton. ‘Your strength is a marvel to us all. With God’s help, you shall live and do well many years.’

‘No, no,’ I tell her, ‘there will be no more life for me in this world. But in the world to come, I hope to live for ever. For here, there is nothing but care and misery, and there is life everlasting.’

I summon up every vestige of energy to pray some more, to ease my passage. My maids enjoin me to sleep a little, but there is no point. Soon, I shall rest in that endless sleep from which there is no waking.

I start to feel myself slipping away.

‘Lord, be merciful unto me,’ I murmur, ‘for now I begin to faint.’

‘She is cold,’ someone says, and I feel the women rubbing my hands and feet.

‘My time has come,’ I murmur weakly. ‘It is not God’s will that I should live any longer, and His will be done, not mine.’ I kiss Tom’s sweet head, and someone carries him away. When next I see him it will be in Heaven.

I call for Sir Owen Hopton. I want him to be able to report to the Queen that I made an edifying end – and I have two final requests to make of him.

‘Good Madam, how are you?’ he asks, gazing down with pity on me.

‘I am going to God as fast as I can,’ I tell him. ‘I pray you all to bear witness that I die a good Christian. And I ask God and all the world forgiveness for my sins.’ I pause, breathless. ‘I beseech you, Sir Owen, to promise me this one thing: that you yourself, with your own mouth, will request the Queen’s Majesty that she forgive her displeasure towards me. I confess I have greatly offended her, but I take God to witness I never had the heart to think any evil against her. And I entreat her to be good to my children, whom I give wholly unto her Majesty; for in my life they have had few friends, and they shall have fewer when I am dead, except her Majesty be gracious to them.’

Sir Owen bows his head. ‘I will do it,’ he promises.

‘Another thing, Sir,’ I whisper. ‘I desire her Highness to be good unto my lord, for I know that my death will be heavy news to him; and I beg her Grace will be so good as to send him his liberty to comfort his sorrowful heart.’

Again, my custodian nods, a touch reluctantly this time.

I make a final effort. There is one last thing I can do for my love.

‘Sir Owen,’ I say, ‘I ask you to deliver from me certain tokens to my lord. Give me the casket wherein my wedding ring is.’

I take out the ring I had for my betrothal. The diamond is as glittering and unfathomable as it was on that day, eight years ago, when Ned first put it on my finger. ‘Good Sir Owen, send this to my lord. This is the ring that I received of him when I gave myself to him, and pledged him my troth.’