Brandy Purdy (26 page)

As soon as Jane was proclaimed Queen, Northumberland had sent his son Robert out, riding proud and arrogant, confident that he could never be defeated, at the head of an army of five hundred men to capture Princess Mary, but she eluded him. So it was imperative that someone else, someone more experienced, go, and bring her back to the Tower, a captive in chains. Northumberland wanted to send Father and had persuaded the Council that this was the wisest course. Northumberland knew that he was the glue holding this fragile reign together, and without him to threaten, domineer, and intimidate the Council their instinct for self-preservation would assert itself and they would flee to throw themselves on the mercy of Mary, even if they must forfeit their church spoils to save their lives.

Northumberland sent word, asking that Jane rise and receive the Council as they had business of the utmost importance to discuss with her; business that could not wait even one more day.

Mrs. Ellen and Mrs. Tylney tenderly raised her from her sickbed and covered her nightshift with a robe of ermine-bordered crimson velvet. They led her to sit in a gilded chair and bathed her face and hands with rosewater, while Kate brushed her hair. I brought a golden circlet for her head, but Jane mutely pushed it away. At a nod from Mrs. Ellen, I ran to let in the Council, but at the door I suddenly looked back. What a woebegone little figure she was! Sitting there, her bare toes barely brushing the floor, pale-faced and wretched, her eyes deep-sunken and dark-circled yet bloodshot and rimmed in red from weeping. Impulsively, I ran back and fetched a footstool and knelt to set her little white feet upon it. Only then did I open the door.

They strode in and, after kneeling to show their respect, stood around my sister’s chair like a flock of blackbirds, solemn-faced in their long black robes. All except Guildford, who was the last to arrive, sauntering in, a vision in gold-decked rose satin with Fluff purring in his arms. After bowing curtly to Jane and dutifully kissing her limp, fever-damp hand, he went to sit on the window seat and amuse himself by dangling a string for Fluff to bat his paws at, appearing utterly indifferent to what the Council had to say.

When Northumberland told Jane that Father must leave, to lead her army and fight for her throne, Jane fell to weeping, insisting that “no,
we
”—for the first and only time I heard her invoke the royal
we
—“have need of him here! He must tarry here in our company!”

She sat there hunched in her chair, looking
so
small in that voluminous red robe, shuddering and sobbing, I thought assuredly those black-robed men were moved by pity. Father forced his way through their black-robed ranks and gathered Jane in his arms, holding her tight, as her shuddering gradually subsided, and her sobs turned to hiccups, assuring her that he would not go, that he would never leave her.

He drew his trusty comfit box from his doublet and gave Jane a piece of candied ginger to suck, and then he turned to address the Council. “Gentlemen,” he announced, “I shall tarry here as my daughter desires and my Queen commands!”

They huddled together, voices rising high then dropping low, and thus it was decided that Northumberland should be the one to go. But it was not pity that moved them, it was just another one of those games that powerful men play, a canny maneuver to get Northumberland out of the way, to break his hold and set them free. No one cared what became of Jane.

Finally they bowed and, in solemn silence, filed out, with only Northumberland lingering long enough to glower at Jane and say, “You will regret this.” But Jane, slumped weakly in her chair, seemed not to hear. And then he too was gone.

Father tenderly gathered Jane in his arms and lifted her from her chair. She laid her head gratefully upon his shoulder, and, still sucking on the thumb-sized nugget of crystallized ginger, he carried her back to bed. He laid her down and sat beside her, stroking her hair and telling her a story about a plain little oatcake who sat weeping at the roadside because all the other pastries were prettier than she was, crowned or filled with fruits and nuts, sprinkled with cinnamon, drizzled with honey or rich dollops of cream. Then along came a gingerbread minstrel with black currant eyes and a red currant smile, gaily adorned in red, gold, and green marzipan motley, skipping and prancing down the road, playing his flute and singing his song as he went his happy-go-lucky way. Seeing the oatcake damsel’s distress, he knelt before her and gently asked, “Why do you weep?” When she sobbed out her wretched plight, he promised that she would be the most beautiful of them all. He took cream and dyed it pink with berry juice and slathered it upon her and decorated her with sliced strawberries, pale green gooseberries, and black currants. Then all the other pastries crowded around and proclaimed the little oatcake plain no more. She was so fair, in fact, that nothing would satisfy them but that she must become their queen.

“And the oatcake was so grateful to the gingerbread minstrel that she married him that very hour, with a mincemeat pie presiding as their minister and a pair of fruit suckets as witnesses, and made him her king. In a grand ceremony attended by all the pastries, comfits, custards, cakes, pies, wafers, and sweetmeats, the fat and wobbly red jelly archbishop replaced the gingerbread minstrel’s motley marzipan fool’s cap with a crown of gilded marzipan and gave him a cinnamon stick scepter and a sugarplum orb to hold, and he took his place proudly beside his queen as everyone cheered and threw curls of candied orange peel and raisins in the air. And they all lived happily ever after in their pink, spun sugar palace and had a dozen spice cake babies.”

“Thank you, Father,” Jane said sleepily as her eyes fluttered shut, and he bent to stroke back her hair and press a kiss onto her fevered brow. And then—Oh, Father!—he went and spoiled this tender moment by turning to Guildford, who had come to stand leaning against one of the gilded bedposts and listen to the story, hanging enthralled on every word.

“That is the
most beautiful
story I have
ever
heard!” he sighed, pressing a hand over his heart. “It makes me want . . . it makes me wish . . .”

“Yes?” Father asked eagerly as though his entire future hung upon Guildford’s answer.

“It makes me wish that I had a piece of gingerbread right now!” Guildford exclaimed.

“Then let us away to the kitchen and see if we can find some,” Father said, and gallantly gave his arm to Guildford. Like two naughty children, they hurried away together, with Father confiding to Guildford that he had made the cream that iced the oatcake pink in honor of the beautiful rose satin doublet Guildford was wearing, leaving Jane to slumber obliviously as her time as England’s queen was fast running out.

After Northumberland rode out, regal as a king himself, at the head of his army, with his handsome dark-haired sons—Ambrose, John, and Robert—all of them in feathered helms and gleaming new silver breastplates, it all started to fall apart.

First the Treasurer absconded with all the gold, rushing to lay it at the feet of the woman he considered the rightful queen, and then the other councilors followed. They gathered in their black robes and gold chains around the Great Cross in Cheapside and filled their caps with coins and flung them high into the air. As the people scrambled for this bounty, the Council proclaimed Mary Tudor “the one true queen” and cried, “God save her!” Then they were off, racing as fast as their horses could carry them, to kneel before Mary and declare their loyalty unto death, insisting that they had only followed Northumberland and acknowledged the usurper Jane out of fear for their lives and the well-being of their families.

From her stronghold, the thick-walled, impregnable castle of Framlingham, where Mother Nature provided a feminine touch to relieve the starkly martial atmosphere with golden irises blooming in vast profusion around the moat, Mary Tudor sat regal and straight-backed in her purple velvet, surrounded by tapestries depicting the life of Christ, and announced that she would give £1,000 worth of land to any man who captured Northumberland. Thus was the doom of the most unpopular man in England sealed; it was only a matter of time, and everyone knew it, even the man himself. On the march to capture Mary, Northumberland looked back and realized all was lost. He no longer had enough men to mount an attack; they had been slipping behind the hedgerows and scurrying into the deep gullies, making their way back home to their families or else deserting to Mary. He had no choice but to turn back. He dismissed his men and said, “Go where thou wilt,” and walked boldly into the Cambridge marketplace. He filled his cap with all the gold coins he and his sons had upon them and flung the contents high in the air, as they all cried out, “God save Mary, the one true queen!”

The Dudley men were soon arrested and led back to London in chains as the people hissed and reviled them, shouting, “Death to the traitors!” They pelted them with horse turds scooped from the street, rotten eggs, and cabbages; some even brought their chamber pots to hurl the contents at the detested Dudleys, who walked tall and proud through this rain of filth as though they were being showered with gold and silver.

On the days when Jane, through sheer will, dragged herself from her bed, she sat listlessly, wan and feverish, upon her unwanted throne, decked in her undesired finery, tensely awaiting the end, watching the number of her attendants steadily dwindle. And Guildford, to whom she had contemptuously thrown the dukedom of Clarence, like a bone to a dog, kept to his own rooms, dining in state with his ducal coronet perched upon his golden head while his musicians played, having fittings with his tailors, and filling the Tower with an ungodly screeching as Maestro Cocozza diligently plucked out the scales on the ivory keys of the virginals.

Then it was all over. It lasted just nine days; people would later speak of it in awe as “the nine days’ wonder.” I remember so well that tense, hot day, July 19, 1553, when Jane, in gold-embroidered, spice-orange velvet, sat tensely upon her throne beneath the crimson canopy of estate, which seemed to weep golden tears, as all the bells in London rang, and an ecstatic nation, delirious with joy, danced in the streets, flung their hats high in the air, and cried, “Long live our good Queen Mary, long may she reign!”

Wine flowed freely in the conduits, strangers embraced strangers, and nine months later many babes would be born, and the female ones christened
Mary
in honor of the woman whose ascension they had been celebrating during the conception. Suddenly the great, carven double doors slammed open and Father rushed in, golden spurs jangling noisily on his high leather boots, a big, sticky bun clutched in each hand, and his mouth rimmed and auburn beard crusted thick with cinnamon and sugar like hoarfrost. At first we could not understand what he was saying and stared at him blankly, trying to puzzle out the mumbled jumble of pastry-muffled words. He quickly gobbled down one of the buns to free one hand and swallowed hard, wiping his mouth with his tawny velvet sleeve. He strode across the room to Jane. Ever one for a dramatic gesture, Father leapt up and ripped the canopy of estate down from over Jane’s head. “You must put off your regal robes, my daughter, and content yourself with a private life,” he said with a crestfallen sigh before turning to the remaining bun for consolation.

“I much more willingly put them off than I ever put them on,” Jane answered. “Out of obedience to you and my lady-mother, I have grievously sinned. I most willingly relinquish the Crown.”

But Father wasn’t listening. He crammed the last bit of bun into his mouth and pulled a jet-beaded rosary from his pocket, and out he ran, waving it wildly in the air for all to see, ignoring Jane’s plaintive question, uttered with a sense of great relief as she slumped back gratefully against the velvet cushions of her unwanted throne: “Father, may I go home now?”

But it was too late, Father was already gone, and I doubted he had even heard. I caught a glimpse of him from the window, dancing a joyful jig on Tower Green, waving his rosary in the air, and shouting, “God save Mary, the one
true
queen, long may she live and reign! Ho there, you, old woman by the gate! I’ll have two more of those buns; I think they must be the best in London!”

When Guildford wandered in and was told what had just happened, he just shrugged. “Here today, gone tomorrow.” He sighed. “Now where is Maestro Cocozza? Now that the Devil is done tempting me with the lure of a golden crown, it’s time for my music lesson. I must work even harder now. Since I am a duke’s son, I have always had to work
very
hard, to prove myself, as no one takes me seriously, so this is
really
a blessing in disguise. Just think how much harder it would be if I were King; then they would only applaud out of politeness and to flatter me. I could croak like a frog or yowl like a cat in heat and they would still throw roses at my feet and tell me how wonderful I am. But I don’t want that—I want them to
really mean it!
I want people to hear my voice and
weep!
Because it’s so beautiful,” he added as an afterthought, lest there be any misunderstanding.

While Guildford’s voice was soaring zealously over the scales, displaying a great zest to conquer, Kate skipped in. She was wearing a new gown of “ashes and embers,” which she twirled prettily to display. A pert, little, round, feathered hat of dark gray velvet trimmed with orange roses crowned her cascade of coppery curls, long ropes of black pearls swung and clacked about her neck all the way down to her waist, and her favorite fire opals flashed against her throat, breast, and fingers. She was carrying the most adorable little dog, a tawny bundle of fluff with eyes like black buttons and a turned-up tail that it fluttered like the most graceful plume. Kate had even tied an orange satin bow around his neck.

Jane was by then lying listlessly on her bed, stripped down to her shift, with a cold cloth draped over her brow, trying to ease her pounding head and cool the persistently simmering fever that stubbornly refused to leave her, but she raised her head long enough to chide Kate for being so pretentious. “Embers and ashes indeed!” she scoffed. “Why not just call it dark gray and orange since that’s obviously what it is?”