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Authors: Eliza Knight, E. Knight
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allow our line to die with her. I must, for the sake of my family, remain free and clear.
“Make haste, my lady.” The warder ’s voice sounded strained, as if he held back emotion.
I turned from the vision of my sister, straight-backed as she gazed out her tiny window, and left the chamber. It did not go unnoticed by me that the warder locked Jane in, and he saw my narrowed gaze at his actions.
“ ’Tis the way of things, my lady. Orders from Queen Mary.”
Queen Mary. Already, Jane was forgotten.
I nodded, thinking how only just that morning, Jane had been queen. The warder ushered me down the narrow, dark, winding staircase. With each turn he made in front of me, his torch disappeared. I was left in darkness until I caught up and could see again, only for him to turn and once more my world went black. I held my skirts high, as the pace was fast, and I was afraid if I didn’t get my skirts completely clear of my slippered feet, I would trip and fall to my death, and then I’d never leave this place.
The stench of disease, rotting food and people, urine, feces , and, oddly, salty water filled the tower like a cloud, and we waded through it, every few feet a new and grossly exaggerated smell assaulting my nose.
Once at the bottom of the stairs, we exited the White Tower into the inmost ward, the crisp night air hitting my face, and with it a new smell—panic and fear. Men and women scrambled to exit the Tower—soon to become a prison to my sister and any other traitors who went against the new queen. Horses whinnied and men shouted out orders.
The warder took my elbow, steering me through the crowds and beneath the portcullis at Wakefield Tower. Once through, his pace quickened, and I had to run to keep up, my slippers providing no protection against the stoned path, sharp bits of rock digging into the soles of my feet.
We entered the darkness of St. Thomas’s Tower, the scent of the wharf strong and insulting. Blood rushed through my ears, and my breathing labored with exertion and panic. Before I realized what was happening, my estranged child-husband gripped my other elbow and led me to the barge, which housed the Pembroke arms and several retainers.
I collapsed against a cushioned bench as the barge lurched down the Thames much more quickly than I was used to.
As we approached the quay near Baynard ’s Castle, I heard the quiet whisper of my father-by-marriage to Henry, “Your marriage to a traitor’s daughter will not do, boy.”
But the b arge came to a sudden stop, and my body pitched forward, only to be caught by one of the Pembroke retainers, who steadied me.
I was quickly ushered from the barge and to my quarters, wondering if , I too, would be locked in, as Jane had been.
What could Lord Pembroke have meant with his uttered words? Did he mean to see me cast in the Tower with my sister? Did he mean for me to suffer as a traitor? Apparently, the exchanged vows and marital contract meant nothing to m y father-by-marriage, and young Henry would be powerless to defy his sire.
I stood, somber, numb, and barely lucid as my maids undressed me and put me to bed —to my relief, my room was left unlocked. But my eyes would not close. All I could do was stare at the ceiling and wonder when the guards would rush into my room to arrest me.
Although I was of royal blood, I never wanted to wear the crown. How could I make certain everyone saw that? How could I make certain my father’s ambitions were not pressed upon me? I had no royal aspirations! I wanted not to be called Majesty! ’Twas blasphemy!
All I wanted wa s to live a peaceful life. Serve my sovereign. Dabble with my herbs and poultices. Help those who could not help themselves—whether poor or sickly. Seek love within my marriage, if it was possible, and raise a family.
“I am a most loyal subject!” I said to the darkened ceiling, wishing Queen Mary could hear my uttered words.
A rustling sounded came from beyond my bed. “My
“Make haste, my lady.” The warder ’s voice sounded strained, as if he held back emotion.
I turned from the vision of my sister, straight-backed as she gazed out her tiny window, and left the chamber. It did not go unnoticed by me that the warder locked Jane in, and he saw my narrowed gaze at his actions.
“ ’Tis the way of things, my lady. Orders from Queen Mary.”
Queen Mary. Already, Jane was forgotten.
I nodded, thinking how only just that morning, Jane had been queen. The warder ushered me down the narrow, dark, winding staircase. With each turn he made in front of me, his torch disappeared. I was left in darkness until I caught up and could see again, only for him to turn and once more my world went black. I held my skirts high, as the pace was fast, and I was afraid if I didn’t get my skirts completely clear of my slippered feet, I would trip and fall to my death, and then I’d never leave this place.
The stench of disease, rotting food and people, urine, feces , and, oddly, salty water filled the tower like a cloud, and we waded through it, every few feet a new and grossly exaggerated smell assaulting my nose.
Once at the bottom of the stairs, we exited the White Tower into the inmost ward, the crisp night air hitting my face, and with it a new smell—panic and fear. Men and women scrambled to exit the Tower—soon to become a prison to my sister and any other traitors who went against the new queen. Horses whinnied and men shouted out orders.
The warder took my elbow, steering me through the crowds and beneath the portcullis at Wakefield Tower. Once through, his pace quickened, and I had to run to keep up, my slippers providing no protection against the stoned path, sharp bits of rock digging into the soles of my feet.
We entered the darkness of St. Thomas’s Tower, the scent of the wharf strong and insulting. Blood rushed through my ears, and my breathing labored with exertion and panic. Before I realized what was happening, my estranged child-husband gripped my other elbow and led me to the barge, which housed the Pembroke arms and several retainers.
I collapsed against a cushioned bench as the barge lurched down the Thames much more quickly than I was used to.
As we approached the quay near Baynard ’s Castle, I heard the quiet whisper of my father-by-marriage to Henry, “Your marriage to a traitor’s daughter will not do, boy.”
But the b arge came to a sudden stop, and my body pitched forward, only to be caught by one of the Pembroke retainers, who steadied me.
I was quickly ushered from the barge and to my quarters, wondering if , I too, would be locked in, as Jane had been.
What could Lord Pembroke have meant with his uttered words? Did he mean to see me cast in the Tower with my sister? Did he mean for me to suffer as a traitor? Apparently, the exchanged vows and marital contract meant nothing to m y father-by-marriage, and young Henry would be powerless to defy his sire.
I stood, somber, numb, and barely lucid as my maids undressed me and put me to bed —to my relief, my room was left unlocked. But my eyes would not close. All I could do was stare at the ceiling and wonder when the guards would rush into my room to arrest me.
Although I was of royal blood, I never wanted to wear the crown. How could I make certain everyone saw that? How could I make certain my father’s ambitions were not pressed upon me? I had no royal aspirations! I wanted not to be called Majesty! ’Twas blasphemy!
All I wanted wa s to live a peaceful life. Serve my sovereign. Dabble with my herbs and poultices. Help those who could not help themselves—whether poor or sickly. Seek love within my marriage, if it was possible, and raise a family.
“I am a most loyal subject!” I said to the darkened ceiling, wishing Queen Mary could hear my uttered words.
A rustling sounded came from beyond my bed. “My
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