The Bradgate Heiress

By Derek Ansell

Chelsea, 1547. At ten years old, Lady Jane Grey arrives at Old Manor to begin her education with the Dowager Queen Katherine: widow of the late Henry VIII.

Jane is a bright, scholarly girl, but destined to reach early maturity and be manipulated and groomed by over-ambitious men. After being forced to marry Guildford Dudley - son of the Duke of Northumberland - the country is divided and Jane struggles to come to terms with her situation.

Meanwhile, her progress is watched from the filth-laden streets of London by William Hope: a shoemaker who is becoming ever more infatuated with her.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Next Chapter
• Release date: Jan 8, 2022
• ISBN: 4824106702

Book preview

PART ONE: A TIME TO LEARN AND A TIME TO PRAY

DOWAGER QUEEN KATHERINE'S DIARY. OLD MANOR, CHELSEA. MARCH 1547.

At the age of thirty five I have been married three times, once to a young man, once to an old man and once to the king of England and I am about to marry for the fourth time to the only man I have ever loved. Sir Edward Borough, my first, was sickly and died very young. My second, John Neville, Baron Latimer was very old and died soon after an illness. My third, King Henry VIII was sickly and old, had survived five previous marriages and died four years after we were wed. I became Queen of England for a brief spell although I had never sought such high office; I only wished to marry the one man I loved, Sir Thomas Seymour but the king proposed marriage and pressed hard for my acceptance and who am I to defy the monarch and refuse his suit?

By the time I married Henry he was no longer able to function as a man; we lived together to eat, sleep and sit quietly in peace; no other activity was possible. Much the same comments apply to my other two husbands, if for different or varied reasons.

Why did I marry any of these men? The simple answer is because they asked me and all offered advanced status and position, in the case of Henry, the highest in the land. But I can hold up my head and say, in all honesty and innocence, I did my duty by all of them; I nursed Borough in sickness, as I did Latimer in his turn and also as I did the king. I made a home and offered support and affection to Henry's son, our present King Edward VI, to Mary his eldest daughter and to little Elizabeth, his youngest. Elizabeth is here with me now, I have made a home for her here at Old Manor and would have taken in Mary also but she chose to make her own way and be independent and I wish her well of her decision. And this very afternoon I will welcome Henry's niece, the little Lady Jane Grey who I have been pleased to offer a home to. The child is the daughter of Henry Grey, the Marquis of Dorset and his wife Frances and she has never been content at home; she is a serious, intelligent, bright little girl who spends all her time in study and learning and, like myself, is dedicated to a love of God and the church.

Most of Henry's previous wives died badly. Two went to the block and had their heads removed, two were annulled and one, the only woman he ever truly loved, Jane Seymour, died very soon after giving birth to his only legitimate son and heir, Edward, now our boy king. Henry lies now, at peace, God willing, next to Jane in the chapel at Windsor Castle. It was by his command and I wish him well of it. Jane gave him the only things he ever wanted from a woman, love, peace, harmony and obedience, as indeed I hope I did also in my turn. Mine was, however, a marriage of convenience, as far as I was concerned.

I have lived and flourished, attained high social status but have never been content or happy. Yet I have few regrets and intend to make a new life with the man I love, Jane Seymour's younger brother Thomas, who has again proposed marriage which I have accepted. Sir Thomas was well looked upon by Henry after he married Jane and her older brother Edward was appointed Lord Protector. The younger sibling Thomas, was made Lord Admiral. He will be here, with me, later today and my heart will start to race and pound as it does whenever I am near him. He is a handsome man forsooth with big, dark, masculine eyes and a long, well -trimmed beard which I love to stroke. I sometimes feel weak and inadequate in his presence for I am slim and fair haired and physically weak but I am tall and, I hope, well attired and presented. We will, I hope fervently, share love, devotion and affection for each other for many years to come and I can begin to shut out the pain, tribulations and dissatisfactions of the past.

I am at peace, at last and if the future is unknown, as it must be, I am ever hopeful that my situation will change for the better. It is a cold but bright day today, blue skies but little sun as I stroll in my garden before dinner. The contrasting greens of the topiary shapes provide a colourful aspect as I walk along the avenues of bushes and then pause for a moment by a sundial. I think about Elizabeth. She is thirteen now and another serious, bright child who seems to spend most of her time in study and learning and in her case, I think, a rather strong will is developing. She will be one who wants and often gets her own way I'm thinking unless she meets an equally strong willed man to wed. I have seen little of her indeed in the last three days having left her to the mercies of her tutor and the servants. I must arrange to see her early this afternoon, after dinner and before the arrival of little Jane.

* * *

Simple pleasures suffice now that I have lived through three marriages and been made thrice a widow. I sit in the window alcove after dinner and look out at the gardens as I sip from a large goblet of wine. This gentle reverie can last an hour or even almost two at times and the servants know well enough never to disturb me, unless it is truly a matter of life and death. When at last I do summon a servant, I am beginning to feel refreshed and ready to continue my day.

'Ask the Lady Elizabeth to come down to see me,' I instruct Alice and she curtsies and hurries out of the chamber. The child enters looking bright and crisp in a black pinafore dress trimmed with gold thread. I bid her sit down, close to me.

'I've been neglecting you for the past few days,' I tell her gently, stroking her flowing red hair. 'I've been so occupied around the manor.'

'I've been all right,' she says blandly, with hardly any emotion in her voice.

I study her face closely as she turns her head to face me; she frowns and I notice that she seems very self- assured, confident and independent, all of which I find somewhat disturbing in a girl of just thirteen years.

'Your tutor informs me that you have been somewhat inattentive during lessons in the last few days,' I say, watching her face closely as I speak. She shrugs.

'Why?'

She shakes her head as if to convey an impression that she has not understood me.

'Has he said anything to disturb you as you study?'

She shakes her head again, looks down at the floor.

'I need to know Elizabeth,' I say, aware of the harsh tone of my voice.

When I finally draw it out of her after several attempts, it appears that she has been upset by his recent references to life in England under the old Church of Rome, before her mother became queen. She does not wish to hear about those bad times, she says and as God appointed her father as head of the state and the church, the previous situation should surely be buried and forgotten. I point out quietly but firmly that it is part of her continuing education to be aware of what went before, as well as after she was born. She scowls at me but makes no reply. I tell her quietly that she is progressing well generally with her education, showing strong aptitude to learning languages, writing good English and studying the classics. She is also working hard at learning music, specifically the lute and her sewing and embroidery are coming along satisfactorily.

'So why must I be instructed about that beastly woman who married my father before my mother?' She asks, sulkily.

'Because,' I say, acerbically, 'it is all part of your heritage and part of recent history and I require you to be fully informed.'

She glares at me but makes no response.

'Be assured of this,' I say with an edge to my tone. 'I promised your father I would ensure you received a full and thorough education and were brought up to be a noble lady and I intend to honour my commitment to the full.'

I disengage my hands from her hair and sit back. She squirms around on the floor in front of me and turns to sit facing me.

'Do you fully understand?' I ask.

'Yes,' she says, softly, after a pause and she shakes her head, tossing her hair freely.

'Good,' I say. 'You may return to your chamber.'

She rises and moves purposefully towards the door. I call her name before she reaches it and she turns once more to face me, brows knitted together.

'As I told you yesterday, your cousin, Jane Grey is coming to live with us. She arrives later this noon. She has been very unhappy at home and I want to make her feel at home and welcome here. I want you to be nice to her and treat her like a sister.'

'She is just a little child,' she says haughtily. 'And very dull and boring.'

'She is a very sweet little girl,' I reply, raising my voice, 'and I will not have her hurt or upset. Do you understand?

She glares at me again, her face set in a grim expression. I tell her that Jane has been harshly treated by her father The Marquis and, particularly by her mother Lady Frances and I am determined that she will find a loving home and family here. I must insist that Elizabeth treats her kindly, gently and with courtesy at all times.

'Do you fully understand?'

'Yes madam. I do.'

'You are nearly four years older and must set a good example.'

She nods slowly and I see by her expression she knows she must not vex me in this matter.

'You may go.' She departs hastily and I am left reflecting that she usually addresses me as 'mother' rather than 'madam' but she will come round in time and she already knows that I mean business. I must, however, tread carefully with her. Fully aware as I am of the trauma of her early years as a small child, having her half sister Mary assigned to wait on her like a servant when she was barely two years old and later, after the violent death of her mother, being declared illegitimate and then being shuttled around the country hither and thither, rarely settling long enough to call anywhere home. It is hardly the sort of early up-bringing to set up any small child for the future.

I settle back in my chair and let out a deep sigh. I call a servant and ask her to bring me more wine and sweetmeats.

* * *

The carriage arrives on the circular pathway at three thirty. I glance out of the window and notice the Marquis's coat of arms in gold on the side of the shiny black coach. The footmen alight and go to open the door to let out the little Lady Jane and her nurse, Mrs. Ellen who, I am given to understand, has been with her since birth.

The little girl looks terribly pale and small, her white face shining out from the wrappings of her fur cloak. Mrs Ellen is a big, chubby faced woman with a warm smile; she will fit in nicely here, I think.

I bid a servant to bank up the fire with logs; the nights are still chill at the moment. I bid him instruct another servant to take Mrs Ellen to her chamber and bring the little Lady Jane to me as soon as she has shed her heavy cloak. Mrs Ellen I will interview later.

'Well Jane you are welcome indeed,' I say as she enters nervously and advances slowly towards my chair. 'I trust you had an agreeable journey?'

'Yes, madam,' she replies softly.

'Not too many bumps and potholes along the way?'

'Not too many madam.'

'Why don't you address me as aunt?'

She nods shyly in agreement. She is dressed in a long, cream coloured pinafore dress with fur trimmings. Her golden chestnut coloured hair is luxuriant and she is a very pretty little thing. I bid her come nearer and sit down. She does so, slowly, hesitantly, demurely. I smile reassuringly at her. 'Now Jane, you are to regard this as your home now and for the foreseeable future. You are very welcome here and you are among friends. You will have your lessons every day with our tutor and plenty of time to play or do whatever you want after dinner each day. Do you understand?'

She nods, very slowly and rather mournfully. I nod, I hope reassuringly and realise that I now have another young girl to take care of and treat warily. I have been advised that her parents are unreasonably strict, that they hound her constantly to do better and reach perfection and that, if it be true, seems an unreasonable expectation from a very young girl.

'You will study with the tutor every morning, after breakfast and prayers.'

She nods again, does not speak but her expression brightens. She tells me she enjoys studying, likes learning languages and is particularly fond of Hebrew and Italian. She also enjoys instruction in dancing and deportment and I know I must ensure that these lessons continue. She also says she likes all kinds of musical instruction, both instrumental and singing. I'm thinking though, looking at her, that she is far too young to absorb so much intelligence although noticing the way her face lights up as she tells me she likes reading Plato and other classics, there can be no doubt that she is a willing and happy pupil.

'What about playtime Jane?' I ask, gently. 'What games do you enjoy?'

She frowns, hesitates and replies that she likes to read and write.

'Yes but after your studies, for pleasure and play?'

'My pleasures are in reading and learning, prayers and studying the lute.'

I raise an eyebrow but say no more. I smile at her and wonder how she manages to look both self- assured and vulnerable at the same time. So I escort her out to the great hall and instruct a servant to help install her in her chamber and ensure she has all her books and possessions to hand and ask that Mrs Ellen comes to me when she has settled her charge.

Mrs Ellen arrives in my morning room brightly dressed in blue velvet and wearing a white ruff. Why she has chosen to dress up I have no idea. She looks flushed, no doubt from running around after young Jane and sorting out all her accoutrements. Her plump face is red but she attempts an open, confident expression.

'Come in Mrs. Ellen,' I say. 'I trust you had a good journey?'

'Yes, thank you very much Your Majesty.'

'There's no need for Your Majesty,' I say gently. 'When the king died, so did my title of queen, even if he tried to perpetuate it for my lifetime.'

She looks uncomfortable and so I smile and try to make her feel at ease. I ask about Jane over the past few years when I have had but little contact with her. Mrs Ellen confirms that the child is quiet and studious, somewhat withdrawn at times and very engrossed in religion and religious studies. I smile briefly, as I myself am very much involved with the English church and have published a small book of religious thoughts. I enquire about her temperament.

'She is the sweetest child m' Lady,' she says earnestly. 'But sorely tried.'

'Oh, how so?'

'It may not be my place to speak out m' Lady, but I must say as I find and in my opinion, the marquis and Lady Frances are far too hard on the little mite. She is pushed and prodded and badgered by them constantly to achieve perfection in everything she does and she simply cannot stretch to it.'

'Well she will have no such pressure on her here,' I say quickly. 'And you may depend on that.'

'And she is a little diamond in her learning ma'am. I've never known a child so engrossed in the words of the scriptures. And so bright, as bright as a button, she really is.'

'Well, the girl has quite a champion in you Mrs Ellen, 'I say, smiling. 'She won't go far wrong with you guiding her.'

I thank her heartily for her information and tell her I will see her at supper when she will bring little Jane down to me. She leaves me and I go out into the grounds where it is fresh but brightening somewhat before the onset of evening. Thomas will arrive very soon and will doubtless cheer me up; he usually succeeds in doing so. Meantime I have been charged with the further education and deportment of the Grey's daughter and I will not shrink from that duty.

With my forthcoming marriage in a few short weeks and another little girl to look after in the manor this indeed is the start of a new phase in my complex life.

THE DIARY OF WILLIAM HOPE. MINCING LANE, LONDON MARCH 1547.

I am resolved to keep my own diary and jot down the daily happenings. All that seem to me of interest that is. Today, like any other since my schooling ended, I spend in preparing and cutting leather; soaking it in water to soften it and finally cutting out the shapes that my employer, Mr. Candleman, instructs me to do. The smell of it makes my eyes water and I hate it. After all these years of working with it the odour, mixed with the smell of earth and straw, rushes, the dust swirling in the workplace and the oppressive perspiration of myself and fellow workers, is repugnant to me.

Nearly time to pack up and head home but I see Candleman approaching, past the benches of Thomas, Edmund, Henry and Edward, my fellow workers and he hands me a patch of soft grey fabric and a blank shape.

'Cut this out for me Will,' he says gruffly. 'And take great care. This is a very good quality leather for a special pair of shoes I am making for a high born lady.'

'Yes, Mr. Candleman, I say and lay the piece out on the bench. It is very light and feathery to the touch and has obviously been treated somewhere before he acquired it. I sniff irritably, get the scent of the leather piece in my nostrils and then set about cutting the shapes he wants, very carefully. By the time I finish it is late and everyone except Candleman and I have gone home. He has started extinguishing the candles and I hurry the pieces over to him. He takes them, looks down and makes a sort of grunting noise. I tell him I will be on my way now and he nods perfunctorily and carries on with his candle rounds.

It is raw in the street outside, colder than usual for March and no sign yet of spring weather. Night has closed down the streets into chill darkness and I hurry along, trying to avoid puddles of mud and excrement on the pitted ground surfaces. As I approach a familiar ale house I hear the sound of a hurdy-gurdy playing bright airs and the lights from within look attractive suddenly. I enter, trudge through the mud streaked straw and order a tankard of strong ale. The landlord, a beefy man with red, raw arms and a bald head, serves me, nods at me without smiling and I look around the bar.

Two or three working men in smocks are swilling ale contentedly and listening to the gentle airs being played softly by the hurdy-gurdy man in the corner. One heavily built man with a face and hands far redder than the landlord is half listening and half in conversation with his companion, a young woman in a dark cloak who smiles up at him every so often, doubtless agreeing with his outbursts. I sigh, recognising that look, the face of a man who works at turning the spit in the kitchen of a nobleman or somebody of high rank. I take a draught of ale and my throat feels instantly refreshed. My father worked all his life turning a spit in the unrelenting, fierce heat of a noble's kitchen, roasting an ox or boar or pig for consumption by the people of the manor. He died aged thirty eight last year, worn out, burnt out, almost literally and never knew a full day of peace in his life. I could never do his job and it almost makes me think charitably about leather. Almost!

I turn and try to focus my attention on the musician and drink my ale at my leisure. I drain my tankard and make my way out into the chill night air and direct my footsteps towards Mincing Lane. It is late and my mother will not be pleased that I have stopped to take ale rather than hurrying home to the supper she has cooked. I swerve suddenly and only just in time to avoid the contents of a chamber pot from an upstairs window soaking me. It is getting colder and colder by the minute. When I arrive home my mother is busily stirring the big pot over the fire but she looks round, annoyed as I enter the kitchen.

'Where on earth have ye been, William?' she asks irritably. 'You must have left the shop an hour ago.'

'Not quite mother,' I say smiling. 'But I stopped for a cup of ale as I was parched.'

It is always best to tell her and be done; she would smell it on my breath anyway.

'Just like your father,' she tells me, grimly,' wasting money on ale when we are dreadfully short of money.'

'If my father hadn't taken a drink on his way home he would have burnt his throat to a cinder,' I say, testily and I go and pour water from the pitcher to wash my leathery hands.

'You'd better sit at table,' she responds wearily and looking unwilling to continue an argument. 'It's ready now.'

She ladles out a large bowl of stew for me and a much smaller one for herself. The aroma of it drifts up to my nostrils, pleasant, fragrant and so much more welcome than the acrid smell of leather and perspiration or even ale. She is a natural, plain cook and can do wonders with a large supply of artichoke and onion, cabbage and the remnants of a large salt beef joint she has been eking out for almost two weeks. What other spices and peppers she adds I know not but she always manages to make it delicious and satisfy my healthy appetite after a day of work in the leather shop. I eat swiftly, hungry now after the rigours of the day's work and the boost of appetite occasioned by the tankard of ale I drank.

My mother is watching me carefully as we eat, as she always does. She looks to me to be far too buxom now, having gained considerable girth since my father died last year. We may be poor in this house but there is always plenty of good food available, she sees to that and ensures I provide most of my earnings to pay for it. I glance up at my mother's round face and grey streaked black hair and catch her eye inadvertently.

'Still cutting out leather?' she asks, between mouthfuls and I stop eating and glare at her.

'Yes, of course,' I say. 'That is my job after all.'

'It's high time you were sewing and making shoes,' she says. 'If you ask me.'

'Well nobody asked you,' I tell her.

'You've been sweeping, cleaning, dampening and cutting for years now,' she says, irritably. 'How old are you now, 18? Time you were a tradesman at the very least.'

'Mr. Candleman will move me up in time.'

'In time?' she intones sarcastically. 'What time will that be then? When the cow jumps over the moon?'

I don't respond. She can be very irritating but I know she is suffering and has not got over the early demise of my father. She is here alone in the house every day and her health is not good. She cannot do much other than the preparing and cooking she loves so much. I tell her how good the stew is and receive just the wisp of a smile but no words. Then we sit round the fire with a cup of mead each and she mentions the floor and how mucky it has become so I promise to help sweep it out and bring in some fresh straw to put down by the weekend. It is the least I can do.

DOWAGER QUEEN KATHERINE'S DIARY. OLD MANOR, CHELSEA MAY 1547.

A beautiful spring day with sunshine and a blue sky and fluffy white clouds above. Sitting out in the grounds here in the village of Chelsea is one of the most delightful country areas I have ever encountered and I would not exchange it for any spot on earth at the moment. I am really content as I sit here, near the sundial and watch the man who is now my fourth husband, Thomas, playing balloon ball and putt ball with young Elizabeth. I note that she is very competitive and scowls deeply if Thomas performs with more skill and vigour than she can muster but she should understand that he is a big strong man and she is but a wisp of a young girl of thirteen.

A couple of birds squeal suddenly overhead and swoop down and then fly off in anger, which diverts my attention momentarily. When I look up I see Elizabeth putt the ball through the iron hoop and let out a little squeal of delight, pleased with her prowess. Thomas chuckles and tells her she was lucky with that shot but she stamps her foot and shouts angrily that she planned to do it exactly the way it happened. There is more laughter from both of them and as they are obviously enjoying their game and the fine weather, I feel content for the moment. Until I remember, suddenly, that Jane is not with us.

I rise and walk back along the path towards the house. Thomas glances up at me as I pass and pulls a face of mock horror, indicating Elizabeth and I smile briefly and enter the manor. Jane sits in the window alcove, very still, looking small and neat in her summer gown with her red hair brushed out and her attention deeply focused on her book.

'Jane,' I say, approaching her, 'whatever are you doing here still, it is a lovely day outside.'

She looks up at my face and seems momentarily frightened before giving me a weak smile. I sit facing her directly.

'Why not come outside and play balloon ball with Elizabeth?' I ask. 'Lessons finished over an hour ago.'

'No thank you,' she says softly. 'I like to read.'

'Like to read?' I expostulate. 'You've done nothing but read, study and pray ever since you first arrived here.'

'I want to learn' she says looking serious and I can see she is sincere.

'Yes, I know you do,' I say gently and take her hand. 'But you need rest and play as well. And sunshine which, as you know, we don't get too much of in these parts.'

I ask her if she will put her book down and come out into the gardens with us but she shakes her head fiercely and looks momentarily frightened. I was going to instruct her to come out into the grounds but relent, tell her not to overdo it and strain her eyes, and return to my garden seat. Thomas is inspecting an avenue of shrubbery as Elizabeth, now solitary, concentrates on putting a ball through a hoop alone.

Thomas walks back to the pathway and approaches my bench.

'Well husband,' I say quietly. 'It is fine weather withal.'

'It is indeed,' he replies and sits down next to me.

'It seems funny addressing you as husband,' I tell