Jane must have won her small rebellion, for she plunked herself onto the bench beside me and snatched up a skein of silk. “All this is because I am married now,” she said to me. “A matron must have a larger wardrobe than a maid.”
A ridiculous explanation for cloth fit for a sovereign. I smoothed the silk in her agitated fingers before she could tear it, and found her skin ice cold.
A halo of light touched the window above Jane’s head, the rising sun, but the brightness immediately dimmed as a cloud passed over it. Inky darkness seemed to surround Jane, eating the golden light like a hungry malaise.
I shivered suddenly, sucking in a breath.
The duchess, who’d hovered to keep watch on Jane, forced my head up with a hard hand under my chin.
“What is the matter with Mistress Rousell?” the duchess demanded of Jane. “Is she ill? If she is ill, she must go at once. You cannot take sick.”
I was exhausted and longed for bed, but I held my tongue. If the duchess sent me scuttling back to Hatfield, there would be nothing to report to Elizabeth except that Jane was having new clothes made, and that her mother loved to harangue her.
The duchess mercifully released me, and I shook my head. “I am not ill, Your Grace, I promise you. I had a long journey and not much to eat, and this room is close.”
“She ought to sleep,” Jane tried. She put a chilled hand on my forehead, and it was all I could do not to shrink away from her.
“No,” I said quickly. “I will carry on.”
The duchess regarded me, stone-faced, but ceased her questions.
I sewed. Jane helped, or pretended to, but she was fairly useless this night. Pins slipped from her nerveless fingers, and I could not trust her at all with the scissors.
The duchess did little but storm up and down the room and demand servants fetch wine and cakes, which she devoured without offering any to Jane or me. Jane flinched at the mere sight of the food, but I, healthy and in no danger of becoming queen of England, was quite hungry.
Though the duchess and Jane believed themselves to be secretive, I knew quite well that I sewed Jane’s coronation wardrobe. Though I saw no evidence of stately robes and ermine, the gowns that would come from these cloths would be worn at banquets, balls, and ambassadorial visits Jane would attend after her crowning.
The weight of the dresses would crush her. I predicted Jane would collapse when she had to face the mass of people in Westminster Abbey, no matter that the Duke of Northumberland and her mother stood behind her to prop her up.
I could better see Elizabeth in these gowns, her slim, upright form regal and strong. She’d watch with steely eyes as her ministers as well as ambassadors from foreign lands bent knees to her.
Edward’s dying deed, however, might ensure that Elizabeth never wore the robes of a queen.
The dawn light that had brushed the window grew brighter as the duchess swallowed her cakes and Jane and I quietly worked. By the time the chamber was fully lit, we heard horses and the heavy tramping of boots in the courtyard below.
I had not thought it possible for Jane to become any more pale, but her face went as white as linen. She began to sway on her stool, a small noise of terror in her throat.
The duchess marched to Jane and jerked her to her feet.
“Get up. Stand. Meet them. And you.” She kicked my bench over as I scrambled up beside Jane. “Do not sit in her presence. Ever. Do you understand?”
I held my breath, understanding very well. They were going to do it.
The ambitious, turbulent, handsome Dudleys, aided and abetted by Jane’s parents, were going to turn England upside-down.
I thought of Robert Dudley and the wicked kiss he’d shared with Elizabeth just before his wedding. I wondered, as Elizabeth had, if he were party to this conspiracy to keep Mary and Elizabeth from the throne. Robert stayed mostly in Norfolk these days, when he didn’t attend Parliament, but his father could have compelled him to obey.
The duchess nearly dragged Jane from the chamber. With no one watching me, I followed, keeping well behind the crowd of servants who scrambled after Jane and her mother.
The Tower’s large hall was now filled with men—the Duke of Northumberland himself, the Duke of Suffolk eyeing his approaching wife in trepidation, and Northumberland’s sons, Guildford Dudley and Robert, in Norfolk no longer.
Gentlemen of the king’s council tarried in the hall as well, along with William Cecil, his nervous gaze darting about, and the aged William Paulet, who held himself steadily in the tumult.
A canopy had been set up at one end of the great hall, which I recognized as King Edward’s cloth of gold. My heart thumped as I squeezed among the crowd, unnoticed.
Northumberland held a paper that dripped with seals, including the large red one of the dead young king. He waited for silence, though I had the feeling every single person in that room already knew exactly what he would say.
“This Devise,” Northumberland began in a loud, clear voice, “was drawn up by Edward the King of England and signed by his council not many days before he died. For yes, as I stand before you, I bring you grievous news. King Edward is dead. Long live Queen Jane!”
