XXV

But Styll as one all desperate,

To lead my life in misery,

Sith feare from hope hath lockt the gate

Where pity should graunt remedy;

Despair this lot assigns me ever

To live in pain, joy shall I never.

The rebellions of 1549 put an end to the Protector’s authority. His ability to maintain order had been discredited. His reputation, largely undeserved, as “the good duke” who had tried to correct the evils of enclosure had helped to incite the rebels. His popularity in the countryside was more than offset by the hatred of his colleagues at court, who saw him as incompetent, arrogant and dangerously near to forgetting that he was only the overseer of Edward’s government and taking the royal powers into his own hands. By the time the risings had run their course Somerset had made himself so odious that under Dudley’s leadership the Council moved as one to depose him.

During his time as Protector Somerset had one overriding preoccupation: to bring the Scots to heel and to establish a lasting peace between the two lands. He defeated the Scots at Pinkie Cleugh in September of 1547 in a battle more fearful in its carnage than that of Flodden three decades earlier, but his hoped-for goal of marrying Edward to the five-year-old Mary Queen of Scots was thwarted. The engagement was broken off and the heiress sent to safety in France, and Somerset now combined revenge and apocalyptic militarism in hoping for a war “to make an end to all wars.” His drawn-out enterprise against the Scots so obsessed him that he neglected more urgent threats from the empire and France. Charles V, irritated by the licensed piracy against Flemish merchants in English waters, was antagonized by Somerset’s Protestant innovations; beyond his concern that Mary be allowed to keep her Latin mass, he opposed the spread of Protestantism anywhere in Europe and considered it his duty to support its overthrow.

By 1549 England and the empire were at odds, leaving the English without a continental ally against the French. The new French king, Francis I’s successor Henri II, lost no time in profiting from Somerset’s preoccupation with the Scots. France and Scotland were traditional allies, and any war on the northern border had in fact to be waged on two fronts. But the Protector did little or nothing to fend off war with France. By ignoring the defenses of the English holdings at Calais and Boulogne he invited Henri to attack them, and in August of 1549, when Somerset had his hands full suppressing revolts at home, Henri took the outer fortresses of Boulogne. England and France were once again at war.

Somerset’s presumption, greed and hotheaded disposition made even more enemies than his myopic foreign policy. He was no more eager to enrich himself than many others in the Council, but his prominence made his peculation more obvious. He flaunted his wealth in ostentatious building projects, ordering two churches razed to the ground to make room for the palatial magnificence of his residence, Somerset House. He was given to inordinate fits of rage, lashing out at everyone around him and indulging what even his friend Paget criticized as his “great choleric fashions.” On one occasion Somerset roared out his anger at Richard Lee, a courtier who had the misfortune to displease him. When the cascade of abuse ended Lee was reduced to tears. He went weeping to Paget’s apartments, where after more tears he grew angry and complained that he had been treated far more harshly than necessary. And, Paget added, he “seemed almost out of his wits, and out of heart.”¹

As the months and years of Somerset’s rule passed his habitual look of melancholy deepened. He had not won his war to end all wars; his government was careening toward bankruptcy; he was surrounded by corruption and discontent. He was surrounded, too, by relatives and in-laws impatient to share the advantages of his power. His wife, “a woman of a haughty stomach,” coveted his wealth for their nine children and forced him to disinherit those he had by a previous marriage. His household was a turmoil of squabbling; at court he was hemmed in by petty skirmishes over precedence. Thomas Seymour refused to take off his hat in the presence of the duchess of Somerset; she in turn refused to hold his wife’s train. That Catherine Parr Seymour had once been queen was a circumstance her envious sister-in-law could not forgive, and the Protector was constantly besieged by his wife’s demands that he put Catherine in her place once and for all. These sordid quarrels came to an abrupt end when Catherine died in childbed and Thomas Seymour on the block. It was asobering solution to the problem and, for the Protector, a prophetic one. Seven months after he signed the warrant for his brother’s execution Somerset was himself arrested and imprisoned in the Tower.

An initial benefit of Somerset’s fall was that relations between Mary and the Council temporarily improved. Van der Delft heard a rumor that she might be made regent for Edward, but it was only wishful thinking on the part of her supporters.² Her support was sought when the Protector was ousted, but in keeping with her practice since Edward became king she took care not to ally herself with any faction or political policy. She had in fact been considering the possibility of escape. Earlier in the year she sent the emperor a ring, which he took to be a sign that she wanted to be rescued and brought to Flanders. He sent instructions to Van der Delft that she was not to be encouraged in this, both because of the logistical problems involved in getting her out of England and—here he was blunt—because he had no wish to pay the cost of maintaining her and the household she would require.

Mary took no comfort from her brief rapprochement with the Council. She was treated with greater deference than before, and there were small signs that the Protector’s restrictive policy toward her had been replaced by a more relaxed attitude. Sir Thomas Arundell, a gentleman “of the old faith” whom Somerset had kept from entering Mary’s service in the past, now made his request again, this time with the approval of the Council. Because Arundell had been an important figure in the plot to depose the Protector Mary did not at first accept him into her household, but she noted the significant reversal of Somerset’s position.³

Still, to Mary the brief months of closer accord with the Council in the fall of 1549 were only an interlude between tyrannies. Somerset was out of the way, but Dudley was pushing himself to the fore; it was only a matter of time before he would impose his own style of control over the Council and the king. Both within the government and outside it she saw only mounting chaos, criminality and unrest, along with calculated destruction of the old faith. The rebellions in the countryside had been subdued, but not entirely suppressed, and the economic conditions that had triggered them were growing worse. As long as the “disorder among nobles and peasants” continued, she told Van der Delft, no improvement in the religious situation could be expected. She had come through the recent upheavals personally unscathed, and her confrontation with the Protector over her use of the Latin mass had not put her in real danger. But she saw herself in the eye of a storm which might at any moment break with fury over her head. “She thinks she is the only person here exempt from scandal and trouble,” the ambassador wrote after a conversation with Mary. She was waiting to see what the Council would do next, he said, “not without apprehensions.”⁴

Mary was apprehensive on several levels. On the political level, she feared the subtle Dudley more than the overbearing Somerset; he was shrewder and even more unprincipled, and lacked Somerset’s pretense of courtesy toward her. Where religion was concerned she had even more to fear. Beyond the issue of her private worship there was the threat of the vague “Marian faction” that some in the Council saw forming around her, and the everpresent reality that she, a Catholic, was heir to the throne. As one member of the Council put it, Mary was “the conduit by which the rats of Rome might creep into their stronghold.”

But Mary was looking beyond the human dimension. In trying to understand events in England she was turning more and more to theological explanations, and to analogies from the Bible. She saw the rebellions in the west and north as signs of divine displeasure, and believed that the worst was still to come. If the men in power continued to destroy the church and persecute the true believers, then God’s punishment was to be feared in the form of a revolt so widespread and so devastating it could not be suppressed. England was like Egypt in Moses’ time, she said. The English Catholics, like the Israelites of that day, were pleading for their freedom, but in vain. “He hath hardened the hearts of the councilors as he did pharaoh’s,” Mary said to Van der Delft in an oracular tone. And she feared he meant to loose plagues on England more harmful than any the Egyptians had endured.⁵

In December relations between Mary and the Council took a new turn. Elizabeth was brought to court, “received with great pomp and triumph,” and conspicuously entertained in Edward’s presence. Because Elizabeth did not hesitate to conform to the religious decrees—she had never known any faith but that of Henry VIII’s church—she was being favored over Mary, who remained at a house thirty miles from London. There Mary received a letter in the king’s hand inviting her to join her brother and sister at court for Christmas. Mary suspected a trap. There could be only one reason for the invitation, she told the ambassador: to force her to celebrate the holiday according to the Protestant observances. “They wished me to be at court so that I could not get the mass celebrated for me,” she explained, “and that the king might take me with him to hear their sermons and masses. I would not find myself in such a place for anything in the world,” she added. She excused herself on grounds of ill health, and made plans to visit the palace after the holidays, when she would be free to stay in her own London house and hear her chaplains say mass without hindrance. But she would stay only four or five days even then, to avoid becoming entangled in a theological debate with the king. She had heard that Edward was being encouraged to pose as an authority on religious questions and to be very vocal in his opposition to the Roman faith.⁶

There was no doubt in Mary’s mind about who was encouraging him. Dudley was clearly using Edward to carry out his own designs, remaining behind the scenes yet carefully manipulating the course of events. He was a master of the art of court politics, having risen to eminence at the court of Henry VIII despite major disadvantages. He began life with a grave handicap. His father, Edmund Dudley, was beheaded at the very start of Henry’s reign, leaving the eight-year-old John Dudley friendless and deprived of his inheritance. Another courtier, Edmund Guilford, later took over the boy’s education, and he made the best use of his cleverness in attaching himself successively to the service of Charles Brandon, Wolsey and Cromwell. He managed to profit by the patronage of the cardinal and the Lord Privy Seal, while avoiding the consequences of their fall from favor, and by the end of Henry’s reign Dudley had become a Knight of the Garter, Lord High Admiral, and the most respected soldier in England.

In the shift of power that took place after Henry’s death Dudley took the safest possible course, acquiescing in Somerset’s assumption of the office of Protector while quietly amassing influence of his own within the Council. The victory over the Scots at Pinkie was, militarily, Dudley’s victory, and his crushing of the northern rebels at Dussindale made him a hero once again. He was energetic, bold and restless, and possessed a remarkable capacity for intimidation. At the same time, however, he was a man of considerable cunning. His cleverness was such “that he seldom went about anything but he conceived first three or four purposes beforehand,” one diplomat remarked. Dudley seems to have combined the bluff, athletic physical endowments of Suffolk with the mental adroitness of Cromwell. By 1549 he had come to represent decisiveness and authority, while the Protector was seen as muddled and ineffective. With Somerset in the Tower Dudley was moving to the forefront of the Council, and its policies were becoming his.

Van der Delft thought at first that Dudley’s leadership might prove to be a change for the better. He had been opposed to the ultra-Protestant Somerset, and had allied himself with the Catholics in the Council in plotting his fall. It was Mary who deflated the ambassador’s hopes, pointing out that Dudley was “the most unstable man in England” and that only envy and ambition, not religious motives, had prompted the coup. “You will see that no good will come of this move,” she warned Van der Delft, “but that it is a punishment from heaven, and may be only the beginning of our misfortunes.”⁷

Mary’s prognosis was soon borne out. Protestants were calling Dudley the “intrepid soldier of Christ,” “the thunderbolt and terror of the papists,” and it was apparent that he had no intention of moderating Somerset’s religious policies or improving the lot of English Catholics.According to the ambassador, Dudley saw the church as no more than an object to be despoiled. He “spends freely and possesses a small income,” Van der Delft wrote, and had to find money wherever he could. He was reputedly meeting with the new bishop of London, Nicholas Ridley, and Thirlby, bishop of Norwich to claim a share in the spoils of their sees. The cargoes of foreign merchant ships were an even better source of illegal income, and here Dudley “thrust his hand in deep” as often as he could. He ordered ships seized, searched and relieved of their goods; the merchandise was sold at once, and the owners quickly found that all form of protest was futile. In March Van der Delft learned that an imperial treasure ship had been taken whose cargo of bullion from the mines of the New World was valued at four thousand crowns.

Dudley’s principal associates were William Parr, marquis of Northampton and Henry Grey, marquis of Dorset. Northampton, an undistinguished courtier and mediocre military commander, was currently trying to live down a scandal; he had married a second time before the complications arising from his first marriage had been resolved. Dorset, whom Van der Delft called “a senseless creature,” was a relentless if unskilled intriguer who had been heavily implicated in Thomas Seymour’s escapades and was now trying to advance by attaching himself to Dudley. The earl in turn cultivated Dorset for his exalted family connections. Grey had married Frances Brandon, daughter of Charles Brandon and Mary Tudor. His three daughters were cousins to the king, and stood next to Mary and Elizabeth in the succession. Thomas Seymour had promised Dorset he would arrange a marriage between the eldest of them, Jane Grey, and the king, but failed in his plan. Now the royal heiresses were being brought within the circle of Dudley’s influence—an alteration that was to prove fateful for Mary.

To make Dudley’s supremacy in the Council complete Somerset was also added to his clique. The former Protector was now released from the Tower and allowed to live in his own house in London. He had signed the articles brought against him, admitting malfeasance and mismanagement of his office, and it was unlikely he would pose any political threat to Dudley, but just to make certain the earl set about to bind Somerset to him by a marriage alliance between the two families. In June, Dudley’s eldest son married Somerset’s daughter Anne; two months before the ceremony Somerset was restored to membership in the Council.

Dudley’s primacy in the government was unobtrusive, but unmistakable. He was rarely seen in public, preferring to stay in his house and avoid the streets and crowds of the capital. Sometimes he claimed to be ill—Van der Delft thought this was only a pretense—but it was noticed that even at these times the Council members went to his house every daywithout fail to “learn his pleasure.” “[Dudley] is absolute master here,” the ambassador wrote categorically to the emperor. “Nothing is done except by his command.”⁸ Meanwhile the king and his courtiers were kept amused by a revival of the martial sports Dudley was known to favor. In January of 1550 a tournament was held with the grotesque theme “that love shall be hanged.” At one end of the tiltyard a scaffold was erected, and a gallows. On a ladder leading to the gallows stood a richly dressed woman representing Love, whose fate was to be decided by the outcome of the fighting between the contestants at the barriers. When one of the challengers was successful she advanced one step nearer the hangman; when a defender was victorious she stood down a step. The young gentlemen of the court defended Love valiantly against the challengers, three Italians led by one “Captain Julian”; presumably Love was saved.⁹

The early months of Dudley’s rule were notable for the increasing division of political influence along confessional lines. “The most dangerous crime a man can commit is to be a good Catholic and live a righteous life,” Van der Delft commented. “People do not make inquiry of a man’s name, but merely ask whether he belongs to the new or the old religion, and he gets treated according to his faith.”¹⁰

Mary’s household reflected this religious polarization. Service to Mary became a mark of piety among the Catholic nobility. “Her servants are all well-to-do people, and some of them men of means and noblemen too,” Van der Delft explained in one dispatch. They boasted of their connection with her, and competed for places even in the lower ranks of her staff. Membership in Mary’s household assured them of being able to practice their faith, and to hear her chaplains say mass. She had as many as six chaplains at any one time, among them doctors of theology and “men of irreproachable conduct.” Noblemen looking for situations for their daughters urged Mary to give them places among her maids of honor. Jane Dormer, who came into Mary’s household during Edward’s reign, told how “in those days the house of this princess was the only harbor for honorable young gentlewomen, given any way to piety and devotion. It was the true school of virtuous demeanor, befitting the education that ought to be in noble damsels.”¹¹

Jane Dormer’s description implies a prim and sanctimonious atmosphere that was foreign to Mary, but there can be little doubt that, with no queen at court and only the unsettled rivalries of the Council members and their wives to set the tone in the royal residence, Mary’s establishment must have appeared to be an oasis of seemliness. She liked order and expected it of those who served her, and she was a diligent mistress who checked up on her officials and looked over their records herself. What impressed visitors most, though, were the religious services, performed regularly and often, and attended by the entire household. As the physical destruction of the symbols and monuments of the old faith continued Mary’s vigorous displays of fidelity to the mass were keeping the hopes of English Catholics alive.

After Dudley had been in power for a few months the emperor instructed his ambassador to reopen the matter of arranging a marriage for Mary. As a preliminary he wrote to the old ambassador Chapuys, now an invalid taking the waters at a spa far from the imperial court. Charles asked his former ambassador to recall all that he could about the marriage negotiations in which he had been involved during the previous reign, and to speculate on the probable attitude of the present Council toward new proposals. In his reply Chapuys was dubious about the possibility of convincing Dudley and his colleagues to agree to any proposed marriage. The same obstacles that had hampered negotiations in Henry’s reign—the need for the bridegroom to swear to the invalidity of Henry’s marriage to Katherine of Aragon, the question of Katherine’s dowry, the issue of whether or not Mary would be allowed to leave England—were still present, and the worrisome condition of England’s relations with the continental powers created further complications.

England and France were still at war, though there had been no actual hostilities since the Protector’s fall. For their part the French were sowing distrust between England and the empire by insisting that, before long, Charles would invade England and depose Edward, setting Mary on the throne and—a new element in the scenario—marrying her to his son Philip.¹² For these reasons Dudley and the others were “prey to an infinitely greater amount of fear and suspicion” than Henry had been, and would be much more reluctant to make any match for the heir to the throne. At the end of his letter Chapuys added a personal note. Nothing would please Mary more, he felt sure, than a revival of the marriage negotiations. She “has no other desire or hope than to be bestowed at the hands of your majesty,” he assured the emperor, urging him to reopen the matter for her sake. That Chapuys believed Mary to be eager for marriage is of great significance. She claimed more than once during the 1540s that she preferred not to marry, but the ex-ambassador’s statement to the contrary supports the view that her expressions of disinterest were only a matter of form. Chapuys knew Mary as well as anyone ever had; if he thought marriage was among her fondest hopes, his opinion must be givena great deal of weight.¹⁸

The subject had come up in a Council meeting as early as October, but when in response to the emperor’s instructions Van der Delft formally reopened negotiations for the Portuguese match in the spring, he met with an odd response. The intended bridegroom was Dom Luiz, brother of the king of Portugal and a longtime suitor for Mary’s hand. To the ambassador’s amazement the Council members now professed notto know whether Dom Luiz or his nephew, Dom Juan, was to be considered. They hemmed and hawed over the problem, excusing their ignorance by saying that all the pertinent information had been given to Somerset while he was Protector, and not to any others in the government. Then, laying aside the pretense of confusion, they announced that in any case only Dom Juan would be an acceptable husband for Mary. Dom Luiz, despite his high rank, lacked sufficient lands or territories to support “so great a lady” as Mary and to provide for their children.

“We should be quite ready to pursue the matter if it were a question of the son and not the brother,” they all said at once. But Dom Luiz was definitely not suitable.

Van der Delft looked pained, then affronted. “My lords,” he said to the Council, “see how misguided you are; for in the whole of Christendom there is no match so suitable and well balanced as this one, and my Lord the Infante of Portugal is by no means so ill-provided with lands as you suppose.”¹⁴

Dudley was probably not present during this exchange, though the feigned confusion over the identity of the suitor was his idea. Not long afterward Van der Delft came before the Council once again, to ask once more for letters of assurance promising Mary free exercise of her religion, and this time he encountered such vocal and undiplomatic opposition from Northampton that even his colleagues were alarmed. As usual the granting of written assurances was denied, and the issue of Mary’s highly public worship was raised. The Council took the position that she had only been given permission to hear mass in her chamber, with two or three of her serving women. When the ambassador protested that Somerset had explicitly extended the permission to cover her entire household the marquis broke in irritably. “I have never heard anything said except that she alone might be privileged to do so,” he snapped, “but with two or three of her women.” Furthermore it was stressed that even this permission was only a temporary act of leniency, granted because of Mary’s ignorance and incapacity, that might be withdrawn at any time, especially if she continued to cause scandal by allowing her entire household to be present whenever mass was said. The term the Council members used to define Mary’s condition was imbecility—the same word her father had used about her long ago. “To succour her imbecility,” they would continue to permit the mass until she learned more about the Protestant usages and could be persuaded to adopt them. When Van der Delft quietly observed that Mary could never be brought to “burden her conscience by forsaking the ancient religion,” Northampton interrupted him again.

“You talk a great deal about the Lady Mary’s conscience,” he burst out. “You should consider that the king’s conscience would receive a stain if he allowed her to live in error.” He went on in the same vein,growing more heated and turning the discussion into a monologue on the worthlessness of Catholicism. He finally became so angry that the others had to calm him, bringing the meeting back to its starting point and reiterating their flat refusal of the letters of assurance.¹⁵

There could be no mistaking the import of this exchange. Parr’s outbursts had been meant to convey Dudley’s impatience with Mary, and Van der Delft understood very clearly the menace behind them. The tightening of restrictions around Mary’s religious privilege was ominous; most likely it meant that before long she would be deprived of even her private mass. When the ambassador went to see Mary at the end of April he found her almost in despair. She had heard “through some good friends” that her household staff was in future to be excluded from all Catholic services held under her roof. Soon she would be ordered to conform to the Act of Uniformity. She would refuse, of course, and then a dread and quite probably fatal stalemate would ensue.

“When they send me orders forbidding me the mass,” she told Van der Delft, “I shall expect to suffer as I suffered once during my father’s lifetime. They will order me to withdraw thirty miles from any navigable river or seaport, and will deprive me of my confidential servants, and having reduced me to the utmost destitution, they will deal with me as they please.”¹⁶ Whether she realized it or not Mary was describing not only the torments of her own bitter adolescence but the isolation, semi-imprisonment and hopeless suffering her mother had endured when she too opposed the law in the matter of her divorce. Like Katherine, Mary now swore to remain faithful to the path she had chosen. Nothing could induce her to give up the mass. “I will rather suffer death than stain my conscience,” she said with the simple, unwavering firmness she had heard in her mother’s voice long ago. “I beg you to help me with your advice, so that I may not be taken unawares.”