XXIX

When they forth went, lyke men they were, most fearefull to beholde;

Of force and eke of pusaunt power they semed very stronge;

In theyr attemptes, also, they were both fearse and wonders bolde.

If god wolde have ben helper to such as stryveth in the wronge—

But at the last he helped us, though we thought it ryght longe.

The Nobles here proclaymed her queene, in voydyng of all blame;

Wherfore prayse we the lorde above, and magnyfie his name.

On July 4, two days before Edward’s death, both Mary and Elizabeth received messages summoning them to the bedside of their dying brother. Elizabeth did nothing; Mary, who had been staying twenty miles from court at Hunsdon, moved cautiously toward the capital, to give at least the impression that she meant to go to Greenwich as ordered. It is doubtful that she would have gone very much nearer, for she had been warned by a friend the previous day to go farther into the country for her own safety, and had already made plans to travel to Framlingham in Suffolk, where “she had confidence in her friends.”¹Scheyfve had no doubt that if she went to Greenwich she would be playing into Dudley’s hands. “It is to be feared that as soon as the king is dead they will attempt to seize the princess,” he wrote to his master in Brussels. On July 4 Scheyfve had just heard about the official designation of Jane as heir apparent; whether Mary knew of it we don’t know.

Mary reached Hoddesdon on the evening of July 6, the day Edward died, intending to spend the night there. But before the household was asleep a messenger arrived to say that the king was dead, and the summons was a trap.² Without waiting for dawn, she left Hoddesdon at once, stopping only to send word to the imperial envoys in London that she was on her way to Kenninghall. As Edward lay dying, the emperor had sent three special representatives to England, officially to inquireabout his condition but actually to oversee the transfer of power that he knew could not be long in coming. Two of the envoys, Jacques de Mar-nix and Jean de Montmorency, were to have a marginal role in Mary’s future, but the third, Simon Renard, was to influence the early years of her reign in a decisive way. Mary was relying on them to help her now, as she fled in the night with only two women and six gentlemen to protect her. The anonymous messenger may have told Mary that one of Dudley’s sons, Robert Dudley, was making ready to ride to Hunsdon with an escort of three hundred guardsmen to take her prisoner; perhaps to avoid meeting him on the highway she and her little retinue made their way along the Newmarket road, the route that led directly toward Yarmouth and the sea.

Dudley let it be known right away that instead of coming to see her brother as decency demanded Mary had “gone towards the provinces of Norfolk and Suffolk, being the coast opposite Flanders, with intent to involve the kingdom in troubles and wars, and bring in foreigners to defend her pretensions to the crown.”³ It was rumored that she had escaped to Flanders, and the duke, fearing that this was the obvious preliminary to an invasion by the armies of Charles V, put his navy in readiness. He sent seven heavy warships to lie off the Norfolk coast, to watch for any sign of ships from Flanders and, if the rumor proved to be untrue, to prevent Mary from escaping before she could be captured.

It was an awkward situation, for though Edward had been dead for nearly forty-eight hours no official announcement of his death or of Jane’s accession had yet been made. When the imperial envoys asked to see the king on July 8 they were told he was too ill to receive them, but it was obvious from the heightened pace of military activity in London that Mary’s dash for the seacoast was not the only climactic event of recent days. The emperor’s representatives knew in fact that Edward was already dead—Renard had found out the news the day before—and they watched with great interest as Northumberland and his confederates made their final preparations for war. The Tower was secured, and with it the largest cache of arms and other military supplies in the kingdom. The admiral, Lord Clinton, was put in charge of the Tower and its garrison, and he ordered all the great ordnance there hauled to the top of the White Tower and mounted for immediate use. In the prison itself the three most eminent prisoners—the old duke of Norfolk, Gardiner, former bishop of Winchester and Edward Courtenay, son of the ill-fated marquis of Exeter who had grown to manhood confined in the fortress-were ordered to prepare themselves for death.

On the tenth of July, late in the afternoon, Queen Jane was brought to the Tower and installed there, in accordance with custom, to await her coronation. It was a hollow ritual, with none of the excitement orpageantry of a state entry. Only a small crowd was present, and the few spectators watched in silence. A little later in the day two heralds and a trumpeter went through the city proclaiming Jane to be queen, and declaring that Mary, “unlawfully begotten,” and a papist, was not fit to rule.⁴ The announcement met with a melancholy response. “No one present showed any sign of rejoicing,” the emperor’s envoys noted, “and no one cried ‘Long live the queen!’ except the herald who made the proclamation and a few archers who followed him.” There were murmurs of dissatisfaction, and a few shouts of defiance. A young barman, Gilbert Pot, was arrested “for speaking of certain words of Queen Mary, that she had the right title.” The next morning Pot was solemnly set on the pillory and both his ears were cut off.

The girl who was now exalted to the throne was a thin, pale bride of sixteen whose complete surprise at finding herself queen was exceeded only by her dismay in discovering that she was expected to make her husband Guilford Dudley king. “I sent for the earls of Arundel and Pembroke,” she wrote to Mary later, “and said to them, that if the crown belonged to me I should be content to make my husband a duke, but would never consent to make him king.” Jane had an instinct for ruling, but she was treated as a powerless cipher by those around her. When she refused to give her husband a crown of his own his mother was furious, and “persuaded her son not to sleep with me any longer as he was wont to do.” Jane might have made a capable ruler in time, but for the immediate future it was up to Dudley to control the dissatisfied populace, dominate the disgruntled Council and give an illusion of majesty to the makeshift royal household in the Tower. He had expected this, and was gambling on his ability to deal with any emergency as it might arise. But there were two eventualities he had not reckoned on: that Mary might elude capture and gather an army of her own, and that he might have to leave London in order to deal with it.

On the same night that Jane was proclaimed a letter was brought to the councilors from Kenninghall. It was from Mary, and it was a forthright statement of her right to the throne. The letter proved that she had evaded Robert Dudley and his guard, and that she was committed to resist Jane’s usurpation. The councilors were “astonished and troubled” by Mary’s letter, but the next day brought even more disquieting news. Reports reached them from Norfolk that a number of nobles and gentlemen—the earl of Bath, the earl of Sussex, Sir Thomas Wharton, Sir John Mordant, Sir Henry Bedingfield—were either with her at Kenninghall or on their way to her there, and that in addition she had gathered to her banner “innumerable companies of the common people.” A force had to be sent to disperse this rebel host—for since Jane’s accession was hedged about with legal sanctions, Mary’s opposition was nothing less thanrebellion—but who could be spared to command it? Henry Grey, duke of Suffolk, Jane’s father, was an obvious choice, but the queen grew frightened at this suggestion and burst into tears; Suffolk would have to stay beside her in the Tower. The most feared commander in the kingdom was Dudley, and the councilors reminded him that only four years earlier he had won his greatest victory in the very region where Mary was now drawing her support. The battle of Kenninghall could be as glorious a triumph as the bloody field of Dussindale, they told him, and, seeing no alternative, he reluctantly agreed to go.

On the night of July 12 carts loaded with big and small guns, bows, spears, morris pikes, arrows, gunstones and gunpowder rumbled through the streets to the Tower, where Dudley’s army was gathering. There had been a muster that day in Tothill fields, to take in men “for a great army toward Cambridge,” where, it was said, the duke was going to “fetch in the lady Mary ... to destroy her grace.”⁵ Now all those who had agreed to join the muster for tenpence a day were formed into companies in the courtyard, and prepared to move northward. Two days later the duke marched out of London, having left to Suffolk the difficult task of representing him in the Council and keeping order in the city.

Dudley had with him some three thousand mounted men and footsol-diers, thirty cannon from the Tower, and as many cartloads of ammunition. He controlled the capital, the government, the treasury, and the queen. No commander was superior to him in experience or skill; he seemed to have every advantage. The imperial envoys gave Mary little chance to win against such odds. How could one woman prevail over such a concentration of power, they wrote to Charles V, even if she was the rightful queen?

But what Renard and the others did not take into account was the power of popular feeling. Dudley was hated; Mary was adored. As earl of Warwick, the dark presence behind Edward, and now as duke of Northumberland, father-in-law of the spurious queen they did not accept, John Dudley was “the tyrant,” the “bear of Warwick,” the man many suspected of poisoning the king in order to bring the crown into his own family. “The duke’s difficulty is that he dares trust no one, for he has never given any one reason to love him,” the imperial ambassadors admitted in a dispatch written while Dudley’s army was camped in Cambridge.⁶ Mary, on the other hand, was now reaping the full measure of popular loyalty. There were some who fought for her because they hated “the ragged bear most rank,” Dudley, but most joined her because, in their minds, she had always been princess of England, and this was the first opportunity they had been given to fight in defense of her rights.

At about the time Dudley left London Mary rallied her forces at Framlingham in Suffolk, a large, strong castle that had belonged to theold duke of Norfolk but had recently come into Mary’s possession. Its forty-foot walls were eight feet thick, and crowned with thirteen square towers; the highest watchtower provided a good view of the sea. Here dozens of gentlemen brought their horsemen and their retainers and mounted knights, in numbers that grew astonishingly from day to day. With the thousands of peasants from Norfolk and Suffolk that swelled the ranks Mary had an army of nearly twenty thousand by July 19, plus an abundance of ordnance and provisions. Those who could not fight for her sent her money, or mercenaries, or carts full of bread, beer and freshly slaughtered meat. And one by one the towns of the southeast proclaimed Mary to be queen, and not Jane; the biggest of them, Norwich, declared for Mary as early as July 12.

In some places, to be sure, loyalty gave way temporarily to expediency. Armed bands from Framlingham would ride into a town, proclaim Mary to a delighted crowd, and then ride on; “as soon as they were departed the inhabitants, for fear of the Council, proclaimed Jane anew, and all were in arms in the greatest confusion in the world.”⁷ But there was no wavering at Framlingham itself, where, “to encourage her people,” Mary rode into the camp to give orders for the expected battle with Dudley’s forces. Her appearance was greeted by “shouts and acclamations,” and her troops threw their helmets into the air and shot off their guns wildly, crying out “Long live our good Queen Mary!” “Death to traitors!” The noise and excitement made Mary’s horse unmanageable; she dismounted, and walked the entire length of the mile-long camp on foot, followed by her nobles and ladies, “thanking the soldiers for their good will.”⁸

If Mary spread confidence and encouragement among her troops she felt little herself. She was in communication with the emperor’s envoys, and looked to them to provide support for her cause by whatever means they could manage. “Destruction was hanging over her head,” she told them, unless they or the emperor helped her. If she had known of the disarray in Dudley’s camp, though, Mary would surely have taken heart. The duke had stopped at Cambridge, unable to go on because of the threat of a rising in London if he moved farther north. He mistrusted his troops, his captains, and the people who every day “muttered against him” and prepared to declare for Mary as soon as he had moved on. There were quarrels between prominent men over which candidate was the true queen, and the duke himself got into a violent argument with Lord Grey that came to blows. Grey left Dudley’s camp and joined Mary, and a good many others did the same. With his military effectiveness drastically reduced—he could only fortify Cambridge and send out small bands to levy peasants and burn the houses of those who supported Mary—the duke took the desperate step of calling in French aid. He senta relative, Sir Henry Dudley, to offer Henri II the precious English territories of Calais and Guines in return for a force of picked troops. There was no sign of the reinforcements the Council had promised to send him, but Mary’s camp was said to be growing larger and stronger every day. Three thousand French soldiers from Boulogne would tip the balance in Dudley’s favor.

While he waited for word from France the most dramatic event of his struggle with Mary took place in Yarmouth harbor. The seven ships he sent to guard the Norfolk coast took shelter there in stormy weather, and while they lay at anchor one of Mary’s captains, Sir Henry Jer-ningham, went to Yarmouth and rowed out to address the sailors. He succeeded in arousing feelings of loyalty to Mary; “from their natural love toward her,” they “rose against their captains in favor of the queen,” shooting off their artillery and shouting “Long live our Queen Mary!” This mass mutiny gave Mary a decisive advantage. The following day the camp at Framlingham was augmented by two thousand sailors and the hundred great cannon from the seven warships riding at anchor in the harbor.

The most important result of the defection of the sailors was its effect on the Council. Suffolk had locked all the councilors in the Tower to await the outcome of the battle they expected any day. But when they heard of the mutiny at Yarmouth they began to believe that Mary could win after all. The Treasurer of the Mint escaped and went toward Framlingham, taking with him all the money in the privy purse. Emboldened by his act, the Council members “resolved to open their bosoms to one another” and reconsider their swom loyalty to Dudley. Few of them had been sympathetic to the change in the succession; they had sworn to uphold Edward’s Device (in Dudley’s altered version) but “under constraint.” Now, with their consciences goaded by the thought of what Mary might do to them if she did win out over the duke, they decided to turn against him. On July 18 they offered a reward for his arrest—a thousand pounds to any noble, five hundred to any knight, and one hundred to any yeoman who would confront him and demand his surrender. The next day a dozen of the Council members broke through Suffolk’s guard and met at Pembroke’s house—the old royal residence of Baynard’s Castle—to make their plans. Arundel made a persuasive speech in Mary’s behalf, and a further inducement came in the form of a rumor that 150 London gentlemen pledged to Mary had made a pact to seize the Tower—a venture that would almost certainly have led to the first bloodshed of the conflict.

After informing the Lord Mayor and the imperial ambassadors of their intentions, on the afternoon of July 19 the councilors came withoutwarning into the public square, preceded by their macebearers, and proclaimed Mary queen of England.

The news came as a glorious surprise. “As not a soul imagined the possibility of such a thing,” an eyewitness wrote, “when the proclamation was first cried out the people started off, running in all directions and crying out: “The Lady Mary is proclaimed Queen!” Before long the news had been carried to all quarters of the city and out into the countryside, creating astonishment at first—for to speak in favor of Mary had been punishable by death—and then a mad display of joy greater than any in living memory. “For my time,” one contemporary wrote, “I never saw the like, and by the report of others the like was never seen.” The bells, “which it had been decided to convert into artillery,” began to ring and never stopped for two whole days; their clamor was so great that “there could no one hear almost what another said.” Suddenly the streets were full of people, tossing their caps in the air without caring where they came down. Men with coins in their purses threw them to the crowd, and women leaned out from their windows and flung down pennies; when the earl of Pembroke tossed up his cap it came down in a shower of angelettes. For the first time in years there was a genuine feeling of hopefulness in the air, and everyone, even the most dignified of Londoners, forgot themselves in celebrating it. Eminent citizens, “being men of authority and in years, could not refrain from casting away their garments, leaping and dancing as though beside themselves”; they joined the more ordinary folk in “singing in the street for joy.”

When night fell bonfires were lit in every crowded street, and the drinking and banqueting went on throughout the night, “with great rejoicing and music.” “I am unable to describe to you,” a visiting Italian wrote to a friend, “nor would you believe, the exultation of all men. From a distance the earth must have looked like Mount Etna.” A Spanish writer found a more devout metaphor for the eruption of joy in London that night: “it seemed as if all had escaped from this evil world, and alighted in Heaven.”⁹

As the bells rang and the wine flowed freely, the duke of Suffolk came quietly out of the Tower, unarmed, and ordered his men to lay their weapons down. According to one account, he noisily proclaimed Mary himself before returning to Jane’s apartment and tearing down the cloth of estate that had been hung over her chair.

In Cambridge, Dudley gave up without a struggle. With his own hands he tore down the sheets proclaiming Jane posted at the street corners, and, waving his white truncheon, shouted “Long live Queen Mary!” and threw down his weapons. That night his chief confederates Northampton and Clinton, and 140 of the knights who had led his troops,made their way to Framlingham to give themselves up to Mary, while Arundel and Paget rode to her camp from London to “ask her pardon for the offense committed in the reception of the Lady Jane.” According to the imperial envoys, they craved pardon in the traditional ritual demanded by so serious a crime, on their knees and with daggers turned toward their stomachs.¹⁰

Arundel’s first act of penance was to seize Dudley, who was by this time a doomed man. All of his associates had deserted him; even his servants were so frightened of sharing his fate that they “tore his badge from their arms in order not to be known as his men.”¹¹ The earl of Pembroke had gathered several hundred armed horsemen to oppose the duke if he had tried to resist, but they were not needed, and precautions were now taken to secure the capital against any disturbance that might be caused by his troops as they straggled back southward. All the weapons that had been in private hands were taken back and stored in the Tower; the municipal guard had been reinforced, and roadblocks were set up to control access to the city.¹² Everything was in readiness for the triumphal entry of the true queen.

She came on August 3, having stayed at Framlingham until all the rebels had been taken and sent on under guard to the Tower. Then, disbanding her army but keeping several thousand men to guard her on her way to London, she set out toward the capital. From Cornwall Sir Peter Carew sent seven hundred horsemen to form part of the royal guard; Elizabeth rode out to join her sister with another thousand gentlemen, knights and ladies in her retinue. On the day of her entry Mary stopped at a house in Whitechapel to exchange her dusty clothing for the finery she loved so well. She put on a gown of purple velvet, cut in the French fashion, with velvet sleeves. Under it was a kirtle of purple satin, thickly set with goldsmith’s work and large pearls. Her foresleeves were covered with rich stones, and over one shoulder she wore an ornamental baldric of gold, covered with pearls and gems. The stones on her headdress were even more dazzling, and her horse’s trappings were of cloth of gold, embroidered in rich designs. The train of her gown was so long that it had to be carried by Sir Anthony Browne, riding behind her and “leaning on her horse, having the train of her highness’ gown hanging over his shoulder.”¹³

Thus arrayed Mary rode through London, preceded by more than seven hundred mounted men, with “a great number of strangers all in velvet coats.” All the king’s trumpeters, heralds and sergeants at arms rode with her, and behind her, splendidly dressed and with guards of their own, came Elizabeth, the duchess of Norfolk, the marchioness of Exeter, and the rest of her ladies. The spectacle loosed another wave ofemotion, nearly as great as that which had greeted Mary’s proclamation two weeks earlier. As she passed through the streets they were “so full of people shouting and crying Jesus save her grace, with weeping tears for joy, that the like was never seen before.” At Aldgate she was met by the Lord Mayor and Recorder, who knelt to welcome her and presented her with the scepter of her office, “in token of loyalty and homage.” She returned it with a gracious speech of thanks, “so gently spoken and with so smiling a countenance that the hearers wept for joy.” After this Mary made her way toward the Tower, past the waits playing on the battlements of the gate, and other musicians playing and singing “which rejoiced the queen’s highness greatly.” As she neared the Tower the guns shot continually “like great thunder, so that it had been like to an earthquake,” and at Tower Gate she greeted Norfolk, Gardiner and Courtenay, who were kneeling to ask her pardon. Then in a last gesture of good will “she came to them and kissed them, and said, these be my prisoners.” She went into the royal apartments then, where she would stay awaiting her coronation.

In the weeks since the remarkable collapse of Dudley’s attempt to make Jane queen the staunchest Protestants in London had begun to predict calamity in the religious life of the nation. “Several preachers, certain Scotsmen in particular, have preached scandalous things of late to rouse up the people,” Charles V’s ambassadors reported, “going so far as to say that men should see Antichrist come again to life, and popery in the land.”¹* That Mary associated her amazing triumph with God’s purposes for herself and England was certainly true. One account of the climactic events of July, 1553, told how, as soon as Mary heard the news of her proclamation, “she caused a crucifix to be placed in her chapel, being the first which had been set up publicly for several years,” and sang a Te Deum with her followers.

But the overwhelming sense of pious gratitude she felt was mixed with a more complex emotion. It was a dawning confidence in the harmonious blending of divine will and popular politics—a growing certainty that her reign was to be the agency for bringing England back to a spiritual equilibrium it had not known since the early years of the century. Along the roads between Framlingham and London she had seen time and again the same inscription at every crossroad; it was repeated in the placards and banners that decorated London at the time of her royal entry. The phrase expressed perfectly the conviction she now claimed: “ Vox populi, vox Dei”—“The voice of the people is the voice of God.”