My Story: Lady Jane Grey (My Royal Story) (9 page)

Am almost too dejected to write. How can I ever become the paragon of a daughter my parents desire? I dread each moment I spend in their presence. Nothing I do or say ever seems to please them. It is all, Jane, stand up straight, do not slouch, pray do not screw up your eyes when I talk to you. Whether I am merry, silent, speak, sew, sing, play, dance, study, I must do it so perfectly or else I am so cruelly taunted or threatened that I feel as if I am in hell. Do they wish to make me hate them? Nurse says it is for my sake they chastise me. I want to scream when anyone says that. But I know now it is not what she truly feels for today I heard her say to one of the maids: “My sweeting tries so hard to please. It hurts me to see it. They do not realize what a treasure they have.”

“Aye,” her companion replied. “She is much put upon. I would not like one of mine to be in her place, for all the riches in Christendom.” There! It is not just me who feels that they are too harsh.

What can have come over me? I blush to think of the things I said to Master Ascham when he came to bid us farewell today. (He is going to join the Emperor’s service in Germany.) He
found me at my books. “My lord and lady are hunting, sir,” I
said. They had been promised a good day’s sport and nearly all the household had accompanied them.

“It is a fine day for hunting,” he said smiling. He asked what I was reading.

“Plato’s
Phaedra
,” I said and showed him the page I had reached – where Plato finds courage to face his execution.

He seemed astonished. “Would you not rather hunt?” he asked.

“No! I would rather read Plato. He is my favourite writer.” I glanced out of the window. “They do not know what they miss,” I said. “And I would rather read than spend time in
their company,” I could not help adding, bitterly. And then
to my shame it all poured out. How harsh they were, how it was only at my books I found any happiness. Master Ascham was silent. Oh, why had I not kept my feelings to myself? He told me that my parents were proud of me. If only I could believe him.

I feel sad to think that it may be a long time before we meet again but proud that he still wishes to write to me – in spite of my words. He even said so to my parents when they returned. Ha!

It is late and I am tired, but I had to write that it is finished at last, my translation of Bullinger’s thoughts on marriage. Nurse says I will spoil my eyes, spending so many nights writing by candlelight, but I was determined to finish it by New Year and I have had so little time to work at it. The famous scholar Dr Ulm sent me the work in Latin and I have translated part of it into Greek. Dr Aylmer hardly had to help me at all. I pray that Father will be pleased with it. It is my New Year’s gift to him. Father prizes learning greatly. So I cannot think of a better gift for him.

Presented Father with my New Year’s gift for him. He told me he was delighted with it and says to everyone what a clever daughter he has. The unexpected praise makes me happy and I am proud that I took so much care over it.

The Lady Mary has come to town. The procession rode past our house on its way to Westminster. Fifty gentleman clad in black velvet rode in front of her. And behind rode around eighty ladies and gentlemen. All of them carried the rosary! That will make the Council choke on their dinner!

The servants say it is all anyone talks about in the taverns. Such a show of strength must comfort those who cling to the old religion, but it will not comfort the King or Council. (It does not comfort me either.) How dare the Princess defy them so openly? The last time she came I heard she and Edward quarrelled so badly that they both burst into tears. There are rumours that she has even considered leaving the country, but she would lose her place in the succession if she did. It frightens me to think that one day Lady Mary might be queen. I pray that Edward will have ten children to prevent such a dreadful fate ever befalling our country.

Sitting by the window, I can feel the spring sunshine warm on my face. In the courtyard below servants are beating the turkey carpets. It is a fine day for the spring cleaning – and for Father’s journey north. He has gone to take up his appointment as Warden of the Northern Marches. It is a great honour, though Mother would prefer him to stay at Court, and attend Privy Council meetings. That is where power lies. But Father is happier in the saddle than on Council business, which he finds very dull. He will need to spend much time in the saddle brokering peace with Scotland and overseeing the fortifications at Berwick. He will have a cavalry of 500 under his command, to help him put down any trouble on the border. There is bound to be some, for the Scots are a wild lot, I am told. I pray he will be safe, but I feel sure he is safer fighting the Scots than at Court. The Earl of Warwick grows daily more powerful, Elizabeth Tilney says. I cannot bear to see how devotedly Edward regards him. He trusts the Earl utterly.

When I knelt to receive Father’s blessing last night Father bid me be dutiful and obey my mother. I will do this best by keeping away from her. I quail to think that I am in her sole charge now.

The King and Council’s patience with the Lady Mary must be running out. As we prepare to leave the city for Bradgate news has come that some of her household have been arrested. Sir Anthony Browne is to be sent to the Fleet Prison for hearing Mass, and Lady Mary’s chaplain Dr Mallett is to be put in the Tower! If I were Mary I would be very afraid.

I have come up to the nursery to hide from Mother. She has not laid a finger on me but words can hurt as cruelly as blows. We have learnt that Edward is to wed the King of France’s eldest daughter. She is still a little child so they won’t marry for some years but Mother is furious. It is surely an end to all their hopes for me.

I was reading a letter from the scholar Bullinger when she entered my chamber. I was smiling at what I read and so engrossed that I did not notice Mother standing there. She asked what I had to smile about. Her voice was cold.

“Madam, I have had a letter from the scholar Bullinger,” I began nervously but she would not let me finish.

“Scholar!” she barked. “Scholar!” Her voice rose. “Is that all you think about? Books and old learned men? What about your duty to us?” Bewildered, I said nothing. My silence seemed to make Mother angrier. “Is it any wonder the King would rather wed a princess of France,” she said bitterly. She still storms about the house. Even my sisters have felt the lash of her tongue and have come to shelter with me in the nursery.

“Are you sorry?” Katherine asked when I explained why Mother was angry. I shook my head vehemently.

“No, I am glad. I would hate to be queen.”

Something made me turn round and I looked up, straight into my mother’s eyes. I do not know how long she had been standing there, but she must have heard what I said for she looked as if she could not believe her ears. Since then she has barely said a word to me.

I hate her! I do not think she loves me at all.

Mother is speaking to me again, but her manner is so cold my heart feels as if it is shrivelling inside me.

I have not felt like writing my journal, but I simply had to write it today. This morning the famous scholar, Dr Johannes Ulm, rode up to the house. Mother and my sisters are away, so I received him. I thought I would faint when I was presented to him as a most learned young lady. Father is his patron. When I am grown up I hope I will be patron to many learned men. Dr Aylmer thinks I will.

There are riots in the towns again this summer. People struggle to make ends meet. Cook complains that a pound of flour costs double what it did last year. No one in our household dares go out unless they are armed. And now – to add to people’s sufferings – the sweating sickness has returned to the country and spreads terror amongst us. The first case was reported in London on 9 July, and yesterday we learnt that one of our Leicestershire neighbours, Lord Cromwell, has died. I prayed that it was not the sweat that took him, too, but our physician confirmed it when he came this morning to attend on Mary. Mary woke sick in the night and Mother was terrified she had caught the sweat, but it is merely something she has eaten. My sisters do not know that the sweat has broken out. Mother made me promise to keep it from them, and I have kept my word. But it is hard. When I kiss my sisters goodnight I wonder if they will still be alive in the morning. And then there is the day to get through. This illness can strike so suddenly. You can wake feeling well and be dead by nightfall. It is a bad outbreak too. My friend Elizabeth writes that seventy died in London on 10 July and the very next day the number had swelled to 120! (Mother would not give me her letter until she was sure it was free of infection. Nurse says it proves she loves me. Humph. I think not.)

One of the King’s servants – a groom – has caught it, so the King has gone to Hampton Court. Only a few attendants accompanied him to try and prevent the contagion from travelling with them. I pray daily for my cousin Edward’s safety. It is awful to think how much hangs on the life of one boy. If he were to die… No! I will not let myself even think such a thing.

A letter was brought to us this morning bearing the saddest of tidings. The young Duke of Suffolk and his younger brother Charles are both dead. The sweat took them fast. The Duchess, their mother, was away when they fell sick. She returned home with all speed but the elder boy was dead by the time she reached them, and his brother died soon afterwards. Lady Suffolk, the letter says, is prostrate with grief. She refuses to leave the boys’ chamber and will not eat, sleep or talk. She is certain that their deaths are punishment for her sins, but this is a dreadful punishment indeed. She has no children of her own now to console her. And little Mary Seymour, the Queen’s baby, died last year, before her second birthday.

Mother wished to go to her to offer comfort. But Lady Suffolk refuses to see anyone at all. “Oh, that I am spared such a fate,” Mother murmured. And then to my utter astonishment she took me in her arms and held me close as if she was frightened to lose me.

I am happy happy happy!

Mother has despatched a letter to Father with the news. I asked to send a few lines by it and she took the letter from me without a word. Her mind is clearly occupied elsewhere.

Father has resigned his post as warden and returned to Bradgate, his task unfinished. “How could I keep the peace without the men or arms a commander needs!” he complained to Mother. I am just relieved Father returns unharmed. But I suspect there may be another reason why he has come back so hastily. When I tried to tell him about Dr Ulm’s visit and the copy of Bullinger’s
Decade
which he had brought me, Father waved me away with a “Not now, Jane. I have more weighty matters to attend to,” and I saw a smile pass between him and Mother. What these weighty matters are I do not know, but both he and Mother are in great good spirits.

Katherine is practising the virginals, hitting the same notes over and over until I want to scream. She is annoyed because I was cross with her for frightening Mary. She told her that we will be able to see the heads of traitors rotting on London Bridge from our new home, Suffolk Place. We are soon to move there because Father is to be made a duke. Our new home comes with the title. Father has grand plans for it, but I do not want to live there any more than Mary does. It is huge – more like a castle than a house – and I used to think it was haunted. But there have been no new cases of the sweat in the city for some time now, so at least we should be safe from that.

I have put my sewing aside. It is a tangled mess. Tomorrow I will begin again. I am embroidering a kerchief for my friend Elizabeth Tilney. But this evening I could not concentrate on it at all. My eyes were drawn to the game of chess my parents were playing. As I watched them move the pieces back and forth across the board I suddenly had the oddest feeling that my sisters and I were like pieces on that board – to be pushed hither and thither as our parents please. And now that Father is to be Duke of Suffolk he will be even more important than before. It makes me shiver. What will that mean for us?

Father is anxious that we return to Court so we are remaining at Bradgate just until my new gowns are ready. I have barely grown at all and will have to wear my chopines at Court, Mother says, or no one will be able to see me. They are very fashionable but I hate them. Great clumpy things that I can hardly walk in without wobbling. If only I was taller.

There have been more arrests. Sir Frances Englefield and Sir Edward Waldegrave are in the Fleet Prison for hearing Mass, and Mary’s own household comptroller has been sent to the Tower.

That sends a strong message to the Lady Mary that her defiance will not be tolerated.

Lady Jane Seymour is being talked of as a bride for the King. “How can that be? The King cannot marry the daughter of a disgraced duke?” I said to Elizabeth Tilney. “And is he not to marry the King of France’s daughter?” Elizabeth shrugged and said she was merely repeating what she had heard.

“So the Duke is as ambitious as ever,” I murmured. Lady Jane Seymour is only nine, but very clever.

Elizabeth looked meaningfully at me. “It is what is said, but where is the source?” she said and I saw her head nod towards the Earl of Warwick. I was sorry to see him there. The Earl has been appointed Warden of the Northern Marches in Father’s place and I had hoped he would have ridden north by now. What can be keeping him at Court?