Текст книги "A Dangerous Inheritance"
Автор книги: Alison Weir
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Текущая страница: 9 (всего у книги 35 страниц)
‘We must pray it will not,’ Harry says. ‘Do not fret, darling. We have much to look forward to – especially tonight.’ I am reassured by his words. I am young and in love, and nothing shall stand in the way of my happiness.
The councillors return at last, and Pembroke joins us, unsmiling.
‘I must lodge here at the Tower tonight,’ he says. ‘There is a furious row going on in the Queen’s apartments. Jane is refusing to name Guilford king, and his mother is doing battle with her. In truth, I would rather be anywhere else. But you should all be getting back to Baynard’s Castle.’
The Countess summons her maid for her cloak.
The room is emptying and the courtiers leaving; there is nothing now to stay for. The Earl escorts us out to the Court Gate, where our barge awaits us. On the way, I am suddenly struck by a frissonof fear and the strong urge to run. I cannot explain it, for the fear is formless, and seems not to be connected with the momentous events of the past days. Is it a reaction to them – or is it a portent? I shiver. Fortunately, the feeling is fleeting. I put it down to my having drunk too much wine.
As the barge approaches the steps, Pembroke mutters, ‘Hearken, all of you. I do not like the situation in which we find ourselves. Mary has always been popular. Katherine, your sister is not known to the people, and her reception today was cool. They think she is the tool of Northumberland, and he is hated. This letter from the Lady Mary has divided opinion. During the council meeting I sensed a certain cooling off on the part of several lords, and there were even those who were openly suspicious of Northumberland’s determination that Guilford should be king. As I left the council chamber, the Earl of Arundel took me aside and said he feared that the Duke’s arrogance will be infinitely greater as father-in-law to the Queen than as Lord President of the Council. Then Winchester confided to me that he is only supporting Northumberland to preserve his own skin. Clearly, some lords are waiting on events.’
‘And you, Sir – where do you stand?’ Harry asks, his face troubled.
His father frowns. ‘I do not think it wise to be bound irrevocably to Northumberland,’ he murmurs. ‘If necessary, I will break with him. But not yet. I too think it best to wait to see who emerges triumphant.’
I say nothing. It is plain that Pembroke owes no true allegiance to either Northumberland or Mary, and certainly not to Jane; he is thinking only of himself and his future influence and prosperity. And that becomes even more brutally clear with his next words.
‘Harry,’ he says, as we prepare to make our farewells. ‘You must forget what I said earlier, because everything has changed. I absolutely forbid you to consummate your marriage. We may not wish to be allied to the House of Suffolk if events go against Northumberland.’
I am horrified to hear him say that; horrified and outraged. Does he not care one jot for my feelings? How dare he disparage my family! And is he not being over-pessimistic? Mary has no support to speak of, and Northumberland has sent men after her, so she may soon be his prisoner, and Jane will be the undisputed Queen – and then, yes then, I will remind my lord Earl of Pembroke how he insulted her sister. But for now, I am devastated, fighting to stem the tears. I will not look at Pembroke; I will not give him the satisfaction of seeing how he has wounded me.
Harry’s eyes flash. I thrill to hear him argue in a sibilant whisper, ‘Katherine is my wife and I love her! You cannot keep us apart like this, Sir. We are married!’
‘Marriages like ours are made for policy, boy,’ the Earl says evenly. ‘Love is not a consideration. If we need to extricate ourselves from this tangle, you will thank me that I did not commit you to this alliance. If the marriage is not consummated, it can easily be annulled.’
I am weeping bitterly now, not caring who sees.
‘I don’t want it annulled!’ Harry shouts, and the oarsmen in the barge look up at us, startled. ‘I want Katherine for my wife, and no other. Even if I did not love her, I could not make a better match. Remember who she is!’
‘And remember that she might soon be accounted the daughter and sister of traitors, you young fool,’ his father mutters.
I find my voice. I will not have my family’s honour impugned thus. ‘No traitors, my lord,’ I hiss through my tears, ‘but people zealous for the faith that you profess! My sister does not desire the crown. She has only accepted it because she believes it to be God’s will, and that she may preserve true religion in this land.’
Pembroke looks as if a mouse has just roared at him. But my blood is up, the blood of kings and princes, of King Harry and King Edward, and all the great monarchs back to William the Conqueror and Alfred. I will notbe treated as a nonentity! My parents would be proud of me if they were here, and as offended as I at the Earl’s attitude.
‘God’s will in the matter has yet to be revealed,’ Pembroke growls, ‘and until then, daughter-in-law, you would do well to hold your peace and pray for a happy outcome. In the meantime, do not defy my order. You may have to wait only a few days longer.’
Harry looks as if he is about to cry too, from anger and frustration; he is struggling to control himself. Without a word, he hands his mother and me into the barge and flings himself down on the cushions in the cabin. The boat rocks alarmingly, bumping against the steps.
‘Have patience, my children,’ the Countess counsels. But we’ve been patient long enough. Harry sits there stony-faced, and I cannot stop crying as the barge plies its short course along the moonlit Thames.
Kate
16th June 1483. Crosby Place, the City of London and Baynard’s Castle.
‘Your father has returned from the Tower,’ the Duchess told Kate, as they sat in the courtyard garden, working at their embroidery and enjoying the sunshine. A clatter of hooves, shouts in the street and scurrying grooms confirmed her words.
Gloucester rode into the courtyard and dismounted. ‘Bring wine!’ he called. ‘And keep White Surrey saddled but give her some water.’ Servants sprang to action. The Duke walked across to Kate and Anne, a dark figure with the sun at his back and the breeze stirring his long hair.
‘I cannot stay, ladies,’ he said. ‘I came only to tell you that York is to be removed from sanctuary.’
Anne eyed him warily. ‘The council meeting went well?’
‘It did,’ he told her. ‘I laid the matter of York before the councillors, and insisted it was bad for him and the King to be apart, and to have no one of their own age to play with.’
‘And did they agree?’
‘They did. So I proposed sending Cardinal Bourchier to the Queen, to command her to release her son. I reasoned that the Archbishop of Canterbury’s persuasions would carry much weight with her.’
‘That was well done, my lord,’ Anne said. ‘But has the Cardinal agreed to it? Will she receive him?’
‘It was Buckingham who saved the day,’ Gloucester related. ‘He told the Cardinal that the Queen’s stubbornness was prompted not by fear but by womanly contrariness. He said he had never heard of sanctuary children, and that a child of York’s age has no need of sanctuary, and therefore no right to it. That carried great weight with the Cardinal and the Council, and they sanctioned the boy’s removal. So I must go to Westminster. Lord Howard is commandeering boats and assembling soldiers.’
‘Soldiers?’ echoed the Duchess.
‘In case the Queen proves obdurate,’ the Duke said. ‘Never fear, it will only be a show of force.’
That afternoon, the Duchess summoned Kate. ‘Make haste, and get your maid to pack your gear,’ she commanded. ‘Your father has sent to tell me he has taken up residence in the Tower until the King is crowned. He has given orders that we are to move to Baynard’s Castle to lodge with your grandmother the Duchess.’
Kate’s heart sank. She hated the idea of her father being away from them at this time, when his life might be in peril. Of course, the Tower would be the safest place for him, but for her it was indelibly associated with the horrible end of Lord Hastings, and would forever be a sinister place.
That evening, as dusk was falling, the Duchess Cecily received them graciously, greeting them at the top of the imposing stairs that led up from the jetty. But as Kate had stepped onto those stairs, she had experienced a moment of blind panic and despair; so strong was the impression that she caught her breath. The horrible sensation persisted until she was inside the house, and only then did she feel like her normal self again. She wondered what it was that had made her feel so desperately sad and terrified, but she put it down to anxiety over her father, and the moment passed.
The Duchess led them through a series of vast, splendid chambers, each more exquisitely appointed than the last, with tiled floors, stained-glass windows, vaulted ceilings and traceried windows. But there was little furniture, just the odd bench or chest.
‘I rarely use these rooms now,’ the Duchess told them. ‘I observe a conventual regime, and normally confine myself to my chamber and the chapel.’ Later, Kate got to see her grandmother’s chamber, a stuffy, dark room with a simple bed and a portable altar. In fact, the whole mansion was dark, hung with rich, gloomy tapestries that obscured much of the light and gave the lofty rooms a sad, oppressive air.
‘Three years ago, child, I decided to dedicate myself to God and take the Benedictine habit,’ Cecily explained, as Kate knelt at her feet by the fireside. ‘My life is now ruled by prayer.’ Looking at her, upright and frail, seated in her high-backed chair, her once beautiful features framed by a nun’s wimple and veil, and her only adornment and concession to her rank the enamelled cross at her breast, Kate had an impression of strength and piety. She wished she could unburden her fears to this old lady, who was clearly very wise and could see beyond the preoccupations and vanities of the world.
The following evening, as they sat in the solar after supper, she listened avidly as the Duchess Cecily told her stories of the old days, of the civil wars between the houses of Lancaster and York, and of an even earlier time, when Cecily had been young and renowned for her pride and her exquisite aristocratic looks.
‘They called me the Rose of Raby,’ she reminisced, ‘and that wasn’t all! The other name they used was Proud Cis, and I deserved it, I tell you. I had a very high opinion of myself in those days.’
York – she always referred to her long-dead husband as York, although Kate knew her grandfather’s name had been Richard Plantagenet – had adored her. ‘Fourteen children I bore him. Your father was the last but one. Nine of them are with God.’ Her face clouded; Kate thought she was thinking of Edmund, Earl of Rutland, dead in battle at seventeen, and George, Duke of Clarence, drowned in Malmsey wine in the Tower by order of his brother, King Edward. How terrible it must have been for the Duchess to have had one son killed by order of another.
Kate did not like to say anything; indeed, did not know what to say.
‘They put a paper crown on his head,’ the old lady went on, toying absent-mindedly with her rosary beads. Kate was nonplussed, but the Duchess Anne had warned her that her grandmother’s mind was apt to wander in strange directions. ‘He was their rightful king, yet they slaughtered him in battle,’ Cecily continued, ‘and, not content with that, they cut off his head and crowned it with that paper crown, then they set it on the Micklegate Bar at York. They mocked him! Our Lord enjoins us to forgive, but I cannot.’
Kate realised that the Duchess Cecily was talking about her husband York, who had been slain at the Battle of Wakefield more than twenty years earlier.
‘It was a terrible thing to do, my lady,’ she said gently. The elderly Duchess patted her head.
‘You’re a good girl, Kate,’ she said, ‘and I fancy you have a look of him about you. Your grandsire, I mean. Your father is more like him than any of my children.’ Her eyes were wistful. Then abruptly she turned to Anne and changed the subject.
‘The Duke my son sent word that young York has joined his brother in the Tower,’ she said.
‘I know,’ Anne replied.
‘Strange about Dorset disappearing,’ Cecily observed. ‘But he will have heard what happened after the Battle of Tewkesbury, when Richard had the Lancastrian leaders dragged out of the abbey to summary execution, saying it was his right as Constable of England.’
If her father had said he had the right, then he must have had. Yet her stepmother was looking uneasy, and her grandmother’s face was grim.
Anne broke the silence. ‘My lord has commanded me to take care of Clarence’s son, young Warwick. He will be a playmate for John.’
‘My grandson Warwick is a backward child, as you will see,’ Cecily said sadly. ‘It is as well that his poor father’s attainder prevents him from ever inheriting the crown, for he would be next in line to the throne after the King and young York. But if anyone wished them harm, they might try to use Warwick for their own ends. Attainders can easily be reversed.’
Kate was beginning to feel very edgy about all this. It was fast becoming clear to her that being of royal blood and close to the throne was not just about honour, power and obligation; as her father’s anxieties over the past weeks had shown, it was about going in fear of your life, and in danger of the intrigues of others.
‘It is only ten days to the coronation,’ Anne was saying. ‘Then Parliament must decide whether my lord continues in office. We must pray that Dorset does not show his hand.’ She was pale with fear.
Kate and Mattie were walking through London when they suddenly encountered a procession led by none other than the Duke of Gloucester, astride White Surrey. Kate was astounded, not only to meet her father riding abroad, but to see that he had put off his black mourning clothes and was wearing a sumptuous purple robe. Behind him followed a huge contingent of his liveried retainers, all wearing his white boar badge.
‘There must be a thousand of them, as sure as I live!’ Mattie muttered. Realising instinctively that it might be better to preserve their anonymity, the two girls moved quickly to the back of the crowd, such as it was, for few were bothering to line the street, and even fewer to doff their bonnets. But the Duke did not see his daughter and her maid: he was bowing from left to right, intent on gaining the goodwill of the people, although he was enjoying little success, judging by the mood of the Londoners.
‘Look at him, acting like a king!’ one said. ‘I’ll be damned if he don’t seize the crown.’
‘I’d curse him with a fate worthy of his crimes,’ spat another. Kate was just about to round on the speaker, but Mattie grabbed her hand and pulled her away, diving down a side street. ‘Best not to say anything,’ she said, when they came to a breathless halt at the other end. Kate was angry, with the man for his unjust words, and with Mattie for depriving her of the chance to challenge him, but when she had calmed down, she realised that her maid had been wiser than she. Nothing she said now could disabuse people like that of their fixed opinions. Only her father could retrieve his reputation – and retrieve it he would, given time, she knew it.
London was becoming very crowded, its population swelled by an influx of great lords and their retinues, come for the coronation, along with many other visitors up from the country. Inns were full, cookshops busy, and thieves were doing good business: whenever they went out, Kate and Mattie saw the sheriffs’ men chasing after pilferers, followed by an outraged merchant or gentleman complaining indignantly of his loss. All was bustle and expectancy – and then, out of the blue, came the proclamation: the coronation was to be postponed. No reason or new date was given, and suddenly London was abuzz with speculation. Yet it was not long before it became common knowledge that preparations were still going on apace at Westminster, and everybody relaxed: there wouldstill be a coronation – the only question was when.
‘I wonder why it has been postponed,’ Kate mused, fingering the gorgeous blue damask gown that was now finished and hanging from its peg in her chamber, and wondering when she would get the chance to wear it.
‘I have no idea,’ the Duchess said. ‘My lord writes that the King’s coronation robes are ready, and that some dishes have already been prepared for the banquet in Westminster Hall, so probably this is just a minor delay.’
‘I hope so,’ Kate said fervently. She did not want her father’s detractors to be given any more cause to think ill of him.
Katherine
July 1553. Baynard’s Castle, London, and Sheen Priory, Surrey.
Against all the odds, it seems, the Lady Mary has eluded capture. In many shires, men are arming in her favour, not only Catholics but Protestants, loyal to King Harry’s daughter. The only heartening piece of news is of a rising against her in Cambridge, yet we hear no more of that.
‘Northumberland must act now if victory is to be ours,’ Harry says.
But Northumberland remains in London.
‘He dare not leave yet,’ says Pembroke grimly, on one of his rare visits home. ‘He does not have enough men, and is doing his utmost to recruit them. He has drafted a letter for Queen Jane to send to the lord lieutenants of the counties, commanding them to do all in their power to defend her just title.’ His tone is slightly ironic, as if to imply that her title might be anything but just.
I turn my head away. I have nothing to say to my father-in-law. I hate him. But in a few days, God willing, he may have to come craving my forgiveness. I am looking forward to that moment.
In the meantime, I need distractions to take my mind off my anxieties. One morning – much encouraged by the news that Northumberland has mustered an army at least two thousand strong – I open the little silver casket in which I keep jewels, letters, poems and the bundle of papers I found in the turret room. First, I take out the gold pendant. Even though it is of a style long out of fashion, and frowned on these days, I would that I could wear it. It is so beautifully wrought, and the sapphire is a heavenly blue. As I hold it in my hand, it feels alive, vibrant! Guiltily, I hang it around my neck – and immediately am swamped by that awful sense of despair that I had before. It is a terrible feeling – as if all hope has gone and only death remains. Clawing at the chain, I struggle to extricate myself, and my breath is coming in short gasps when I finally succeed in tearing off the pendant. Surely it isbewitched! I must never put it on again. And yet – it is so beautiful, and seemingly harmless when I look at it lying on the table. I stare at it for a bit, then make up my mind. Wrapping it in a scrap of taffeta from my needlework basket, I thrust it to the bottom of my casket, resolving that there it shall stay.
I wonder if sheexperienced those feelings – that girl in the blue dress. I still dream about her sometimes, dream of her reaching out to me, as if she wants something. But I never discover what it is; I always wake up. I have her painting in my bedchamber now – Harry asked the Earl if I could. I am convinced that she is Katherine Plantagenet, Richard III’s daughter. I hope that horrible sensation of despair has nothing to do with her. Who knows how many people have worn that pendant since?
I turn to the bundle of papers. I have been meaning to read them properly, but events have overtaken me. I need time and concentration, for they are written in an ill hand, very cramped and hard to decipher. Because of what I saw on the stairs to that tower room where I found the papers, I have come to believe that someone wants them to be read.
The first few lines are in bigger, clearer script. I can read them easily; I have, indeed, done so several times, and memorised them, for they are startling, and of some import. I read them again, wondering.
These lines I write for posterity. It is said that King Richard murdered his nephews in the Tower of London, so that he could usurp the throne. But that is surely a calumny, put about by his enemies, which in these days may not be denied.
There is more, but the handwriting suddenly becomes minuscule, almost illegible. Given the preamble, I suspect that what I have before me was once highly controversial, even dangerous, and probably kept hidden by its author.
I am sitting at the table in the parlour trying to make out the next line when Harry comes in and flops down beside me.
‘Phew! Archery practice is hard work in this heat,’ he grumbles, mopping his brow with his sleeve. ‘What’s that you have there, Katherine? Oh, it’s those papers from the chest. May I see?’
I show him the first page. ‘What do you make of that?’
He reads, exhales and raises his eyebrows.
‘It’s about Richard III. Look, there’s a date – 1487. But he was killed at Bosworth in 1485.’
I peer closer. Yes, there is the date 1487 right at the foot of the page – and I can just make out the words ‘appreh’ and ‘Raglan Castle’. Most of the bottom lines have faded away.
‘It must have been written by one of my ancestors,’ Harry says.
‘Would they have known something about the fate of the Princes in the Tower?’
‘Who knows? What is there to know? King Richard murdered them.’
‘Whoever wrote this didn’t think so.’
Harry shrugs. ‘But we don’t know who wrote it, or why, so how can we judge it? And Richard was a wicked, evil man. We may thank God that Henry Tudor vanquished the bloody tyrant at Bosworth.’
‘I suppose anyone claiming in 1487 that Richard was innocent would not have been popular.’
‘They’d have been laughed at, or worse!’ Harry sniffs. ‘It would have been rash, even perilous, to write such nonsense. Yet my forebears of the time were staunch Yorkists, loyal to Richard’s house. They evidently found something to admire in him, and maybe they didn’t believe the rumours that the Princes had been murdered. My great-uncle was married to Richard’s daughter; he was also in the service of Richard’s son; and he got word to Richard that Henry Tudor had landed.’
‘I don’t suppose he was very popular with Henry Tudor afterwards.’
‘He made his peace with the new King,’ Harry tells me. ‘You see, he was rather like my father. He did not fight at Bosworth. He was said to have turned up late, but I suspect he waited to see which way the wind blew before committing himself. It is a regrettable family trait, I fear.’ He gives me a rueful look. ‘But it was as well, because King Henry craftily dated his reign from the day of Bosworth, so that all who fought for Richard were traitors. My great-uncle kept his earldom. He was a canny man.’
I look at the papers again. ‘So he could not have written this.’
‘He wouldnot have written it!’ Harry is adamant. ‘Henry Tudor was suspicious of all those who had been close to Richard. William would have had to go out of his way to prove his loyalty to the Tudor dynasty. Anyway, I think this was written by a woman. A man would not have tied these papers up with a ribbon.’ He dangles the tawdry, fraying thing.
‘I have it!’ I say, but am silenced when the Countess enters the parlour, obviously bursting with news.
‘My lord has sent word. Northumberland is to ride to Norfolk at the head of the army, to take the Lady Mary. He has said that Jane and Guilford shall be crowned in Westminster Abbey within this fortnight.’
‘Hurrah!’ cheers Harry, and my heart leaps! The Duke must be sure of victory if he is planning a coronation. I can start to think about a new gown – and, which is far more precious, bedding openly with Harry!
‘Good news at last,’ I breathe. ‘But did not the Queen refuse to have Guilford crowned?’
‘That might be the price of the Duke’s support,’ my lady says shrewdly. ‘Now, Katherine, I should like you to come to the still room to help me make some honey. I’ve got some lovely lavender in, and if we’ve time, we can mix some balms and salves too. And, Harry, I have word from the stables that your new courser has arrived. You had best go and check that you are satisfied with him.’
My husband disappears in an eager hurry, and I tie up the little bundle of papers and put them back in my wallet before hastening after my lady’s retreating back.
I am not allowed to go out. My lady is adamant. There are rumours of a mutiny in Yarmouth against Northumberland, and armed men prowl the streets of London.
‘They are deserters from the Duke’s army,’ she says. ‘The mood of the people is ugly. They suspect these deserters of being spies, sent by him to seek out dissidents.’
‘The soldiers are deserting?’ I ask in alarm. How swiftly the wheel of fortune turns.
‘Yes.’ She is tight-lipped. I know she feels sorry for me, but her first loyalty is to her lord. ‘They complain they have not been paid. Our steward heard some of them spouting forth in a tavern. And he heard something else, my dear – something I think you should know.’
We are alone in the quiet of the still room, making scent with the rest of the lavender – a scent I shall never want to smell again.
‘What is it?’ I ask, sharper than I had intended because of my fears.
‘He heard people saying that the Lady Mary is marching on London with a force of thirty thousand men, and that most towns have declared for her and proclaimed her queen.’ The Countess looks unhappy. We might all be casualties of Northumberland’s ambition.
We sit late after supper that evening, going over and over the latest news and its possible consequences, as the candles burn down and, beyond the open latticed windows, the sun disappears, leaving a soft, velvety sky studded with stars. It grows late, but none of us are ready to sleep. In fact, I doubt I could sleep. I keep dwelling on Jane, shut up for her own safety in the Tower. Has she heard these disturbing reports? Does she realise that, if Mary wins, she might be branded a usurper and traitor? She, who never wanted her crown! Does Northumberland realise what he has done? And our parents? Did it ever occur to them, when they abetted him in this grand scheme, that they might be putting their daughter in danger – and themselves? And that there might be evil consequences for me too?
‘I do fear for my sister,’ I blurt out.
Harry reaches for my hand. His eyes are kind and full of compassion. ‘Do not worry, sweetheart. All is not lost yet.’
‘The Lady Mary is known to be a merciful princess,’ the Countess says. ‘She will understand that Jane is young – and that she did not want to accept the crown.’
Her words strike a chill down my spine. It is as if she believes it is a foregone conclusion that Mary will triumph.
The door opens and the Earl walks in. He looks haggard and weary, and sinks into his great chair at the head of the table.
‘Greetings to you all,’ he says flatly. ‘Is there any wine left?’
My lady picks up the ewer and pours. Her husband downs his goblet in one go. ‘More. I need it.’ The Countess pours again.
‘What has happened?’ Harry asks.
‘Northumberland is facing ruin,’ his father replies grimly. ‘He is finished, and it is only a matter of time before he is taken.’
I start to shake. Harry grasps my hand tighter.
‘But all may not be lost,’ the Earl is saying. ‘Most of us on the Council are ready to declare for Mary. We have seen how the tide is turning.’ He looks at me. ‘Your father, my dear, has been doing his best to prevent us from leaving the Tower. Fortunately, the Master of the Mint managed to escape with all the gold from the Queen’s privy purse, which he was taking to Mary’s supporters in London.’
‘And you have escaped too, my lord, thank God!’ the Countess cries fervently.
‘Aye, by the skin of my teeth. When my lord of Suffolk heard how great an army was poised to march on London, he had his daughter proclaimed all over again, then ordered the gates of the Tower to be locked – not to keep Mary’s forces out, you understand, but to keep us privy councillors in! He trusts none of us. But if Mary wins, we stand to be accused of high treason. You all know the penalty for that.’
There is a chilling silence. I hardly dare breathe.
The Earl continues: ‘Yet I cannot think that Queen Mary will arraign and execute almost her entire Privy Council, especially if we now declare for her. Who else is there to help her rule? She is a woman: she will need advice and support. So yes, my dear, I made my escape before they locked the Tower.’
You might have made your escape, I think bitterly, but you have left my poor, defenceless sister to face the consequences of your actions. I rise, sketch the briefest of curtseys and murmur a frosty goodnight. I must get to my bedchamber before I say too much and disgrace myself.
I am making my way to my lonely bed, in great torment, when there is a resounding banging at the door to the water-stairs. Hastening in alarm to the hall, I hear men’s voices commanding, ‘Open, in the name of the Queen!’
The Earl arrives at the same time, with Harry and the Countess behind him, and nods to the porter to open the door. There are soldiers with pikes outside.
‘What is the meaning of this?’ Pembroke thunders.
‘Sir, we are sent by the Queen,’ the captain says.
‘Which queen?’ Pembroke barks.
‘Why, Queen Jane, of course,’ the man responds angrily. ‘We are sent to escort you back to the Tower, where you are to attend upon her.’
‘And if I refuse?
‘My lord, we would not wish to use force, but our orders are to see that you obey the Queen’s command.’
‘Very well. My cloak.’ He turns to a servant, ignoring the frightened faces of his household, which has clustered around, alarmed by the banging and shouting. The cloak is brought and the Earl steps out into the night.
Two anxious days later, he is back.
‘It is finished,’ he tells us, as my heart plummets wildly. ‘Northumberland sent news of reports that the Lady Mary was advancing with an army forty thousand strong. His men were deserting like rats, and he urged us to send reinforcements – but there are none, even if we were so inclined. The usurper Jane – or rather her father, Suffolk – ordered the guards around the Tower to be doubled, but there was no point, for the guards were refusing to force people to stay. I, and several others, walked out unchallenged. In fact, Jane gave us permission to leave; I told her we were going to ask the French ambassador for aid for Northumberland. Suffolk wanted to come with us – he’s no fool – but it would be dangerous to be associated with him now, so we told him we would have him executed if he abandoned the Queen his daughter at this time.’
