The Fallen Queen (34 page)

But there was reason to take heart; the night before her coronation, when I knelt to remove Cousin Mary’s gold-embroidered, rose velvet slippers, while Kate brushed and braided her long, lank hair in readiness for bed, hoping to coax the faded, dingy, orange and grey strands into holding a wave on her day of triumph, Cousin Mary dismissed her other ladies. She bade us to sit beside her and, with her arms draped affectionately about us, confided that she could not bear to have a pall of sorrow cast over the morrow, she wanted it to be a happy day for all, so we must banish our fears and know that Jane had naught to fear from her.

“An innocent girl should not suffer for the crimes and greed of others, and my conscience, and my heart, will not allow me to condemn unjustly. I know it may seem an unjust punishment, but your sister is safer where she is at present. She is housed in comfort and treated with great kindness. As soon as I am married and have borne a son, then, when no man can dare raise a banner in your sister’s name, to try to claim for her a crown I know she does not want, then it will be safe—for her and for me—to set her free. For now, I am protecting her by preventing any man from using her as his pawn; when I restore Jane to liberty I want her to be
truly free,
to know that no one can ever do that to her again. She is a young woman, not a weapon, and youth and beauty are fleeting,
I know,
and I want her to be able to enjoy them before they slip away.”

Jane was there, as we knew she would be, watching from her window, upon that sultry September morning when the long, splendid coronation procession assembled in the courtyard, led by Queen Mary seated resplendently in a golden litter in sumptuous ermine-bordered, gold-embroidered sapphire velvet and a dazzling coronet of jewelled flowers like a spring garden sprouting from the lost and faded glory of her hair.

For that occasion, I made two red silk petticoats trimmed with golden lace, for Kate and me to wear beneath our new crimson and ermine gowns. Upon each I embroidered three golden butterflies, working a concealed initial into the wings of each—
J, K, M.
When we emerged from the royal apartments, to take our places in the procession, we boldly went to stand before Master Partridge’s house, so that Jane could see us. We lifted our skirts to show our petticoats, the three golden butterflies, and we held up three fingers then pointed up to Jane, then back at ourselves, to show that we had not forgotten her, that we were still together, three sisters, and nothing could divide us.

“The brilliant one,” Jane mouthed.

Then it was Kate’s turn—“The beautiful one.”

Then mine—“The beastly little one.”

Jane watched us climb into a gilded chariot where a discreet crimson-carpeted step had been supplied to put me at an equal height with Kate. It was with glad and excited hearts that we waved gaily back at Jane as the trumpets sounded and the long, winding procession headed out the Tower gates to progress slowly through the city to Westminster Abbey. We blew kisses back to her, hoping to convey to her that soon,
very soon,
all would be well, we had the Queen’s word upon it, and she would soon be free, to live quietly with her beloved books and Guildford and perhaps—how Kate and I hoped!—learn to embrace the joys of being young, beautiful, and to taste and savour the fruits of love. We still believed that love was possible between Jane and Guildford; if Jane would only stop fighting desire as though it were a demon sent to tempt and torment her.

But we didn’t know then that Señor Renard was holding Prince Philip, the dazzling golden Spanish bridegroom, out, tantalizing, before Queen Mary, dangling the man whose portrait our royal cousin had fallen in love with like a carrot before a donkey’s nose, trying to compel her to condemn Jane, making it so that Mary must choose between Jane’s life and the love she had always longed for. But in those days our cousin was still clinging strong to clemency, wringing her hands, and crying, “I
cannot
find it in my heart to put my unfortunate kinswoman to death.” Vainly she tried to assure Ambassador Renard that “every requisite precaution will be taken before I set the Lady Jane at liberty.” But by these assurances he would not be placated, and Mary’s dream of marriage with her gold-bearded Spanish prince seemed to drift further and further away, until, I think, she too began to see that Jane stood between her and the most incredible, fierce desire she had ever known.

Jane was still a prisoner the blustery October day when she turned sixteen. We were afraid she would think that we had forgotten her, so we wanted to do something special to let her know that even though our bodies were apart we, her loving and devoted sisters, were always there with her in spirit. Through Mrs. Ellen, we sent her a rich plum cake and a beautiful but, by court standards, plain, new gown of the more modest cut Jane favoured. It was made of velvet of that most delicate hue of blue known as milk-and-water with its modest square-cut bodice edged with luminous moonstones. Mrs. Ellen ignored Jane’s protests and dressed her in it and brushed and crowned the red-kissed brown waves of her hair with a delicate pearl chaplet. With the connivance of Mr. and Mrs. Partridge and Sir John Bridges, we arranged that Jane be encouraged to walk in the walled garden after supper and enjoy the breeze off the river.

How Kate and I relished imagining the scene that followed! Kate pleaded a headache and to be excused from her duties that night, and I was allowed to stay with her, and we lay side by side on our bed, imagining Guildford Dudley clad head to toe in shining white stealing up behind Jane and gently cupping his hand over her mouth so she would not scream. With his own body, he would press her against the side of Master Partridge’s house, letting her feel his desire, and there, in the shadows of the weeping willow tree, sheltered by the lilac bush, lift her skirts and make sweet love to her. Even when the rain began to fall and the lightning flashed across the darkened sky, Kate and I imagined them clinging all the closer, feeling the full scorching heat of their passion in the chill of the autumn rain.

But Jane always knew how to spoil a good dream. The next day Mrs. Ellen told us that, after their passion had been spent and Jane had pushed Guildford into a mud puddle, she rushed into the Partridges’ kitchen, soaked to the skin, breathless, and bedraggled, and frantically sought lemon juice and vinegar. She had made a great mess, which she did not tarry to clean up, attempting to pour both into a wine bottle, then bolted up the stairs to her bedchamber, ripped off her sodden clothes, and flung herself naked upon the bed. She spread her legs wide, and, with a rage-fuelled brutality akin to rape, shoved the long, slender neck of the bottle inside her cunny, thrusting her hips high as she poured its tart, stinging contents inside her.

When Mrs. Ellen tried to intervene, fearing that Jane would do herself an injury, Jane snarled like a mad dog and slapped her hands away, shouting, “Leave me be!” and Mrs. Ellen quietly withdrew to sit upon a stool in the corner. Later, when Jane lay curled upon her side and wept because the mixture stung and burned her inside, and she ached from the bruising force of the bottle she had thrust into her secret centre, she rejected all Mrs. Ellen’s attempts to comfort her and ordered her to get out.

“Leave me be! Leave me be!” she sobbed to the rhythm of Mrs. Ellen’s softly retreating footsteps.

When I heard about it later, I sighed and shook my head and felt the salty prick of tears stab my eyes. There was a battle betwixt angels and demons raging inside my sister, so heated, confused, crowded, and clouded by smoke and writhing, warring bodies, sometimes it was impossible to tell good from bad, friend from foe, or who would triumph in the end. I loved my sister, but I despaired of ever understanding her. Why must she fight against herself and push away any who would love and comfort her? Why did she relish the role of victim and stage her life for sacrifice? Why did she reject pleasure and choose pain time and again?

These questions I can ask, but never answer, and I wonder sometimes if Jane even could. Perhaps the truths were too deeply buried to ever be unearthed. Some things are not meant for the plain light of day and prefer to dwell in darkness; some things are better left hidden no matter how much curiosity needles us.

9

O
n a bitterly cold November morning, Kate and I huddled together in our furs and stood amongst a great crowd on a busy London street to watch Jane and Guildford walk to the Guildhall in London, where they were to stand trial. We tried not to be afraid. Everyone said it was just a formality. Proper form must be observed, and since Jane had technically committed treason, albeit most unwillingly and under duress, she must still be condemned, but everyone knew the Queen intended to assert her royal prerogative and issue a pardon.

Though the people stood and stared, and did naught to shatter the peace of that bitingly cold morning, a number of halberdiers in uniforms as bright as blood splashed on the snow surrounded the prisoners, each man walking with the gleaming head of his new-polished axe turned out to show that the accused had not yet been condemned. We tried to catch Jane’s eye, but she kept her head bent over the black velvet prayer book she held open before her, her lips moving silently over the words I hoped would give her enough comfort to see her through the coming ordeal. She wore stark, unadorned, black velvet, with an equally plain hood with a black silk veil fluttering in back. Mrs. Ellen and Mrs. Tylney, also clad in austere black, followed a few steps behind. Mrs. Ellen held a black velvet cloak lined and collared with fur over her arm, and when she saw Jane shiver, she unfolded it and started to step forward.

But Guildford, walking beside Jane, a vision in black velvet slashed with white satin and festooned with pearls, with a gay bouquet of pinks, violets, and his favourite yellow gillyflowers cut from silk to brighten the winter gloom pinned festively to his feathered hat, fell back a step and took it from her. He moved behind Jane and most tenderly draped it around her thin, trembling shoulders. But Jane never even looked up, much less glanced back, and I sincerely doubt she uttered even one word of thanks. Guildford, with a sorrowful expression, let his hands fall from where they had lingered on her shoulders and fell back in step beside her.

Kate and I clung together and waited, our eyes never once leaving the doors of the Guildhall. I don’t think even a half hour passed before they opened again and the procession emerged to make the return journey to the Tower. Although we knew what to expect, it was still like a hard slap that left us reeling. This time the axe heads were turned to point toward Jane and Guildford, and the silent masses fell back with pitying and horrified gasps, some even daring to softly mutter “God save you!” to the condemned. Kate clutched my hand hard. “It’s just for form’s sake, it’s just for form’s sake,” she kept repeating, as though by sheer repetition she could convince herself, and me.

Why should it not be true? After all, we had no reason to doubt our royal cousin. Though, in truth, I would have felt much better if, during the times we had spent with her, Jane had responded with a loving sweetness and sincere gratitude instead of rudeness and hostility. Every time I looked back and remembered Jane’s behaviour at Beaulieu that Christmas I felt sick to my very soul. I could still hear Jane taking Mary’s lady-in-waiting to task for curtsying to the Host, quipping about the baker making Christ, and noisily breaking wind while Cousin Mary regaled us with stories of the saints’ lives. Deep down a part of me feared, though Cousin Mary would deny it and try to bury it beneath layers of politeness, that Jane had indeed turned our kinswoman into a secret enemy. If it came down to a choice between a sulky girl who turned her back on priests and farted when told how the pious and worthy virgin Saint Lucy had plucked out her own eyes when her pagan betrothed admired them and cried, “Here, take them! Now leave me to God!” and a golden Spanish prince, handsome, lusty, and devout, we all knew who our royal cousin would choose. I had seen the way her eyes devoured his portrait; it was the same way Father looked at plates of marzipan and Guildford Dudley, and our lady-mother regarded Adrian Stokes, the same hungry intensity, subtle and slow-burning, biding its time, trying to be patient while waiting to burst into passionate flame.