A Dangerous Inheritance

Words fail me. I am looking into an abyss. My world is coming to an end.

I sway on my feet, and my mother steadies me, her hands on my shoulders, tenderer than I have ever known them.

‘But the Queen gave her royal word!’ I wail. ‘We trusted in that. How can she go back on it?’

‘Things are different now.’ She sits me down on a stool and half collapses into a chair, trembling. ‘I don’t know what I can do. I feel so helpless. Your father – I can live with that. But Jane! She is a child. She has done nothing but what she was bid. Oh, God forgive me, that I ever consented to Northumberland’s stupid, stupid plans!’ Suddenly we are both sobbing helplessly in each other’s arms, devastated by this tragedy that is overtaking us.

When my tears finally subside, I find myself beached on a strange shore, where nothing makes sense any more.

‘Jane is i

‘The Queen knows that,’ my lady says, dabbing her eyes. She is now recovering her composure and striving to be the controlled, practical mother I have always known.

‘Her Majesty has capitulated, for her councillors will not hear of her exercising clemency in the wake of the rebellion,’ she says, bitter. ‘She has signed the death warrants. She said the least she could do was to break the news to me face to face. She wept, and assured me that this is the last course she ever wanted to take, but that she has no choice. But she has promised to do all she can to bring about a reprieve. Tomorrow she is sending the Abbot of Westminster to the Tower, to persuade Jane to convert to the Catholic faith. If she consents, her life will be spared.’

I remember the staunchness of my sister’s faith, her scathing comments about the Pope and his cardinals, her contempt for those who compromise their religion for worldly considerations. Dear God, let her not be so dogmatic now!

‘Oh my lady, do you think she will?’

‘I pray for it. But she was ever a froward, difficult girl. I just pray that God guides her to make the right decision.’

*

God has indeed so guided her: but it was the right decision for Jane, not for the rest of us. That she – a young woman of seventeen, young and comely, and with her life ahead of her and so much to live for – could willingly embrace death for the sake of the finer points of a creed is to me beyond comprehension. Does she care at all about us, her loved ones, who are suffering the tortures of the damned on her account? One word, one little word – and her life would be given back to her. Why can she not say it? Why?

A letter from Jane arrives. It is the first I have had from her since those short days of her reign – a lifetime ago now, it seems – and it will probably be the last. I seize it, hoping to read that she has changed her mind; but instead, she reminds me sternly that the New Testament is worth more than precious stones and will win me more than our woeful father’s lands, which we will surely lose when he is attainted for treason. She speaks of our being God’s elect, and set on the path of righteousness, even to the point of martyrdom. I am in misery, knowing she will die thinking me perfect in the new religion, when in fact I have betrayed it – and the ideals in which she firmly believes, and for which she is prepared to pay the ultimate price.

Reading on, I realise that she is already gone from us.

Live to die. Trust not that the tenderness of your age shall lengthen your life, for, as soon as God will, go the young and the old. Labour always and learn to die. Deny the world, deny the devil and despise the flesh. Take up your Cross. As touching my death, rejoice, as I do, that I shall be delivered from corruption and put on incorruption. Farewell, dear sister. Put your only trust in God, who only must uphold you.

Your loving sister, Jane Dudley

The letter falls to the floor. I see two little girls, dabbling their feet in the stream that runs through the gardens at Bradgate, playing hide-and-seek amidst the oak trees in Charnwood Forest, practising their dance steps, and huddling together in the face of parental wrath. I see Jane as she was when I last saw her, slender and earnest, her red hair long and luxuriant, her skin creamy, apart from the freckles that have been the bane of her life. Her life, which will soon be at an end, when the living, breathing entity that is Jane Grey, with all its hopes, fears, beliefs and everything that matters to it, will be no more.

I remember I should be attending on the Queen. I am late. I look in the mirror to make sure I am tidy. I hardly recognise myself, I look so wasted. My eyes are ravaged with crying, my face drawn, my hair dull and lifeless under my hood. I smooth it ineffectually, and splash water from the basin on to my face, then try to rearrange my features into some semblance of composure.

When I enter the Queen’s chamber, she is alone save for an elderly priest.

‘Lady Katherine, this is Abbot Feckenham,’ she tells me. ‘I have brought him here because he has been with your sister. I pray he can give you some comfort.’

I find myself looking into the kindliest pair of eyes I have ever seen.

‘How is my sister, Father Abbot?’ I ask.

‘Firm in her resolve and her faith, I regret to say.’ The old man looks deeply saddened. ‘I did all I could to turn her mind, but she would not deny her God. Certainly He is a tower of strength to her. She declared she would not suffer me to tempt her beyond her power, yet when put to the test, she stood staunchly by her faith. Her steadfastness is an example to us all, even if it is misguided.’

‘ Shedoes not believe that,’ I say. The Queen glances at me sharply.

‘No,’ the Abbot agrees, his thin voice hoarse with emotion. ‘She said it was not her desire to prolong her days, and that she despises death and willingly undergoes it since it is the Queen’s pleasure.’ He pauses, and gazes on me with boundless compassion. ‘She told me these times have been so odious to her that she longs for nothing so much as death.’

The Queen looks so anguished I can find it in me to feel sorry for her. ‘Katherine,’ she says without ceremony, ‘there is something I must explain to you.’ Her eyes are troubled as she takes my hands in hers most kindly; it is as if we are no longer queen and subject, but two women bound by tragedy.

‘I do not seek your sister’s death,’ she says, her eyes filling with tears. ‘I am constrained to it by my Council and by Spain. They will not let King Philip marry me until the land has been purged of traitors. I know full well that Jane is no true traitor, but nevertheless she accepted the crown that was rightfully mine, and the late rebellion, which was partly led by your father, was raised in her name. It nearly cost me my throne, as my councillors constantly remind me. I have no choice! But I want you to know that I have done everything in my power to save your sister.’

She squeezes my hands and swallows nervously. ‘I sent my beloved Abbot Feckenham to Jane to persuade her to convert to the true faith. I have arranged to have her examined tomorrow by a panel of matrons, to determine if she is with child, when, again, I could spare her life. But that, I fear, is a vain hope. She and Lord Guilford have not been alone together for months. So I have no choice, God help me! But I tell you now, Katherine, that her death is something I shall regret to the end of my days. She is my flesh and blood too – and she is so young.’

I turn away, forgetting the courtesy due to my sovereign. I feel as if a torrent is building up within me, that I might scream and cry and never cease. But I struggle to control myself.

‘Madam …’ I falter. Until now I have not dared to ask this question. ‘When – when is it to be?’

‘Tomorrow morning,’ the Queen says. Her cheeks are wet. ‘Your lady mother knows.’