Many reasons were urged rendering it advisable that the Duke should take the field in person. He had been the victor in the struggle with Kett, of which Norfolk had been the scene, and enjoyed, in consequence, a great reputation in that county, where it seemed that the fight with Mary and her adherents was to take place. He was, moreover, an able soldier; Suffolk was not. On the other hand, it was impossible for Northumberland to adduce the true motives prompting his desire to continue at headquarters; since chief amongst them was the wisdom and prudence of remaining at hand to maintain his personal influence over his colleagues and to keep them true to the oaths they had sworn. In the end he consented to bow to their wishes.
“Since ye think it good,” he said, “I and mine will go, not doubting of your fidelity to the Queen’s Majesty, which I leave in your custody.”
More than the Queen’s Majesty was left to their care. The safety, if not the life, of the man chiefly responsible for the conspiracy which had made her what she was, hung upon their loyalty to their vows, and Northumberland must have known it. But Lady Jane was to have her way, and the Council, waiting upon her, brought the welcome news to the Queen, who humbly thanked the Duke for reserving her father at home, and besought him—she was already learning royal fashions—to use his diligence. To this Northumberland, surely not without an inward smile, answered that he would do what in him lay, and the matter was concluded.
At Durham House, next day, the Duke’s retinue assembled.[168] In the forenoon he met the Council, taking leave of them in friendly sort, yet with words betraying his misgivings in the very terms used to convey the assurance of his confidence in their good faith and fidelity.
He and the other nobles who were to be his companions went forth, he told the men left behind, as much to assure their safety as that of the Queen herself. Whilst he and his comrades were to risk their lives in the field, their preservation at home, with the preservation of their children and families, was committed to those who stayed in London. And then he spoke some weighty words, the doubts and forebodings within him finding vent:
“If we thought ye would through malice, conspiracy, or dissension, leave us your friends in the briars and betray us, we could as well sundry ways forsee and provide for our own safeguards as any of you, by betraying us, can do for yours. But now, upon the only trust and faithfulness of your honours, whereof we think ourselves most assured, we do hazard and jubarde [jeopardize] our lives, which trust and promise if ye shall violate, hoping thereby of life and promotion, yet shall not God count you innocent of our bloods, neither acquit you of the sacred and holy oath of allegiance made freely by you to this virtuous lady, the Queen’s Highness, who by your and our enticement is rather of force placed therein than by her own seeking and request.” Commending to their consideration the interests of religion, he again reiterated his warning. “If ye mean deceit, though not forthwith, yet hereafter, God will revenge the same,” ending by assuring his colleagues that his words had not been caused by distrust, but that he had spoken them as a reminder of the chances of variance which might grow in his absence.
One of the Council—the narrator does not give his name—took upon him to reply for the rest.
“My Lord,” he answered, “if ye mistrust any of us in this matter your Grace is far deceived. For which of us can wipe his hands clean thereof? And if we should shrink from you as one that is culpable, which of us can excuse himself as guiltless? Therefore herein your doubt is too far cast.”
It was characteristic of times and men that, far from resenting the suspicion of unfaith, the sole ground upon which the Duke was asked to base a confidence in the fidelity of his colleagues was that it would not be to their interest to betray him.
“I pray God it may be so,” he answered. “Let us go to dinner.”