A Queen for nine days
By Janet Baldey
I
have never admired the month of February, even as a child its dripping skies
depressed my mood. Now, as I sit and
watch murky light creep into my dungeon, which I refuse to compliment by the
name of chamber, I realise at last the dawn has come. The last I will ever see. I could have wished that it were fair June
and that the sky were eggshell slashed by rose but ‘tis the dreariest month of
the year and if I were to look out of my casement there would only be yellow-grey
fog shifting around clouds the colour of ashes.
I have
not slept this long night, my limbs ache and my back screams. Why I could be
sixty and not sixteen. Old age has crept
suddenly upon me but it matters not, for soon I will be at peace. Across the
room, on thin pallets stretched out before the smoky remains of a peat fire,
are my two companions; loyal friends who haven’t faltered in their love for
me. Strange that it is only now that I
experience true kindness and that it comes from those not of my blood. A fit of shivering takes hold of me. It is so cold in this dank cell. Odd those thick stone walls cannot hold the
weather at bay. I long to liven the fire
but do not move lest I wake the sleeping women.
They need their rest – their strength will be tested today. I say nothing aloud but it is as if they hear
me in their sleep for both Mrs Ellen and Mrs Tylney, my dearest friends, stir
as if they are one. They stretch, one turns to the fire and the other to me,
concern settling upon her features.
“My
Lady, have you not slept? You are as
pale as a ghost and as cold too I shouldn’t wonder. One moment and I will boil a mug of hot
water. It will warm you if nothing
else. Come over to the table – look
there are some of your marzipan favourites left.”
I
do as she says and sit nibbling at a sweetmeat; it tastes like charcoal in my
mouth and I fight an urge to vomit. I am
neither hungry nor thirsty but lack the strength to argue.
Mrs
Ellen opens her mouth as if to speak and then freezes. A second later, I hear it. It is the same sound we endured the whole of
the previous day. They have finished my
husband’s scaffold and are starting on mine own. I shut my ears against it and turn to the Bible,
whispering its age-old Latin phrases to myself.
Their sweet cadences soothe and transport me to a place beyond this
hell.
I become aware that my friends have fallen
silent and are gathered at the casement, their faces straining to see. There is a rough roaring that fills my ears
as if it were the sea and I rise from my seat as the two women bow their heads
and begin to pray.
They
part as I reach the window. I know full
well who their prayers are for. My
husband Lord Guilford Dudley has met his fate and I grieve although our
marriage was not of my choice and we were ill-suited to each other. A wave of
sadness passes over me as I reflect that I hardly know what love is. Certainly,
my parents had no regard for me. At best
I was ignored and at worst I was pinched, bullied and forced into a marriage
that I sought not and which has led me to this sorry state. For my part, admittedly I did nothing to earn
their affection for I scorned their way of life, their gambling, their hunting
their fornicating, for it went against the word of the Lord and the teachings
of the Bible for which they had scant regard.
As to my mother, the Lady Frances Brandon, I
cannot remember a single kind word directed towards me, nor any affectionate
gesture only sly pinches, slaps and venomous glances. Whatever I did, it
pleaseth her not and from an early age I learned to creep away whenever I heard
the rustle of her skirts. Frequently, as I hid behind some dusty curtain, the
voices of gossiping servant girls would reach my ears. I learned that my mother was both hated and
feared. In tones sharp with malice she was described as a ‘slut’ and a ‘high
born whore, no better that she should be.’
At the time, those words meant nothing to me but they remain in my
memory and now I wonder, was I indeed my father’s child? For, if not, this might this explain his
complete indifference towards my fate.
Nevermind,
in the absence of my family’s affection something greater took its place. When I
was but four years I wandered into the family chapel and there saw the face of
Jesus for the first time. So much love
shone from his fair face that I was transfixed. At last, I had found my true
Father and one whose love was boundless.
I
am brought back to the present by the grating rumble of iron upon stone and know
very well what that sound portends. My
reluctant husband did not deserve to be parted from his head so young and in
his honour I stand and watch as a cart rumbles its way towards my tower
block. At first, a thin veil of rain shields
my view, then I see it. The body,
shrouded in a sack is strangely deformed and I can bear it no longer. This same
fate awaits myself and all the Latin verses in the world cannot help me
now.
“Oh
Guildford,
At last I compose myself and allow my ladies
to wash my face and dress me in a good dark dress and robe. I pick up my Bible again and am surprised to
see my grip is steady. I have prepared
my speech, each word of which has been carefully chosen and I trust it will
suffice.
I am comforted by the fact that Feckenham will
accompany me. Although not of my faith, he is a good and pious man and I know
he would catch me should I fall. Although failing in his purpose to convert me,
he bears no grudge and we had many interesting discussions. However, not once
did I falter even though conversion may have saved my life, of which I have had
too little. But I have no regrets, for what would my life be if I betray our
Lord?
Now we can only sit in silence, each of us
waiting for what must come and as we wait I realise that the silence is now
complete. They have finished the scaffold. I have not long now. My eyes begin
to brim until I catch sight of the face of our Lord and wonder why I cry. Soon I will be in his arms and suddenly, I am
filled with joy. I grasp the hand of each of my ladies and bid them not to
sorrow for am I not on the brink of something wonderful?
Copyright Janet Baldey
