Lady Jane Grey and Her Times

by Ida A. Taylor

Perhaps, too, the master looked back with regret to the quiet days of uninterrupted study. The Dorset household, when not in London itself, were now to be chiefly resident at Sheen, within reach of the Court. Jane, too, was growing up; Aylmer was young; and to the “gentle schoolmaster” the training of Lord Dorset’s eldest daughter may have had an interest not wholly confined to scholarship or to theology. It is nevertheless impossible to put back the clock, and the days when his pupil could be expected to devote herself exclusively to her studies were irrevocably past.

Meantime the hollow treaty of amity between the two great competitors for supremacy in the realm was to end. In the spring of 1551 Somerset and Warwick were on terms of outward cordiality, and a marriage between the Duke’s daughter and the eldest son of his rival, which took place with much magnificence in the presence of the King, might have been expected to cement their friendship. But by October “carry-tales and flatterers,” says one chronicler, had rendered harmony—even the semblance of harmony—impossible; or, as was more probable, Warwick, suspicious of the intention on the part of the Duke of regaining the direction of affairs, had determined to free himself once for all from the rivalry of the King’s uncle. Somerset had again been lodged in the Tower, to leave it, this time, only for the scaffold.

On the question of his innocence or guilt there has been much discussion amongst historians, nor is it possible to enter at length into the question. The crimes of which he stood accused were of the blackest dye. “The good Duke,” as the people still loved to call him, was charged with plotting to gain possession of the King’s person, of contriving the murder of Warwick, now to be created Duke of Northumberland, of Northampton and Herbert, and was to be tried for treason and felony.

Many and various are the views taken as to the guilt of the late Protector. Mr. Tytler, most conscientious of historians, after a careful comparison of contemporary evidence, has decided in his favour. Others have come to a different conclusion. The balance of opinion appears to be on his side. His bearing throughout the previous summer had been that of an innocent man, who had nothing to fear from justice. But justice was hard to come by. His enemy was strong and relentless—“a competent lawyer, known soldier, able statesman”—and in each of these capacities he was seeking to bring a dangerous competitor to ruin. It was, says Fuller, almost like a struggle between a naked and an armed man.[120] Yet, open-hearted and free from distrust as he is described, Somerset must have been aware of some part of his danger. His friends amongst the upper classes had ever been few and cold. The reformers, for whom he had done so much, had begun to indulge doubts of his zeal. Become possibly weary of persecution, he had tried to make a way for Gardiner to leave the prison in which he was languishing, and, alone of the Council, had been in favour of permitting to Mary the exercise of her religion. These facts were sufficient, in the eyes of many, to justify the assertion made by Burgoyne to Calvin that he had grown lukewarm, and had scarcely anything less at heart than religion.

He was naturally the last to hear of the intrigues against him, and of the accusations brought in his absence from the Council-chamber. An attempt, it is true, was made to warn him by Lord Chancellor Rich, by means of a letter containing an account of the proceedings which had taken place; but, carelessly addressed only “To the Duke,” it was delivered, by a blunder of the Chancellor’s servant, to Norfolk, Somerset’s enemy. Surprised at the speedy return of his messenger, Rich inquired where he had found “the Duke.”

“In the Charter House,” was the reply, “on the same token that he read it at the window and smiled thereat.”

“But the Lord Rich,” adds Fuller, in telling the story, “smiled not”; resigning his post on the following day, on the plea of old age and a desire to gain leisure to attend to his devotions, and thereby escaping the dismissal which would have resulted from a betrayal of the secrets of the Council.[121]

By October 14 the Duke was cognisant to some extent of the mischief that was a-foot, for it is stated in the King’s journal that he sent for the Secretary Cecil “to tell him that he suspected some ill. Mr. Cecil answered that, if he were not guilty, he might be of good courage; if he were, he had nothing to say but to lament him.” It was not an encouraging reply to an appeal for sympathy and support, and must have been an earnest of the attitude likely to be adopted towards the Duke by the rest of his colleagues. Two days later Edward’s journal notes his apprehension.

The issue of the struggle was nevertheless uncertain. In spite of his unpopularity amongst the nobles, and though, to judge by the entries in the royal diary, the course of events was followed by his nephew with cold indifference, Somerset was not without his partisans. Constant to their old affection, the attack upon him was watched by the common people with breathless interest, accentuated by the detestation universally felt for the man who had planned his destruction. Hatred for Northumberland joined hands with love for Somerset to range them on his side. The political atmosphere was charged with excitement. Could it be true that the “good Duke” had designed the murder of his rival, who, whatever might be thought of him in other respects, was one of the chief props of Protestantism? Had the King, as some alleged, been in danger? The trial would show; and when it became known that the prisoner had been acquitted of treason, and the axe was therefore, according to custom, carried out of court, his cause was considered to be won; a cry arose that the innocence of the popular favourite had been established, and the applause of the crowd testified to their rejoicing. It had been premature. Acquitted of the principal offence with which he stood charged, he was found guilty of felony, and sentenced to death.

The verdict was received with ominous murmurs, and, in a letter to Bullinger, Ulmis states that, observing the grave and sorrowful aspect of the audience, the Duke of Northumberland was wary enough to take his cue from it, and to attempt to propitiate in his own favour the discontented crowd.