A QUEEN OF NINE DAYS

BY HER GENTLEWOMAN

MARGARET BROWN

EDITED AND DONE INTO MODERN ENGLISH

BY

EDITH C. KENYON

LONDON THE RELIGIOUS TRACT SOCIETY 4 BOUVERIE STREET & 65 ST. PAUL'S CHURCHYARD, E.C.

Made and Printed in Great Britain by Butler & Tanner Ltd., Frome and London

CONTENTS

CHAPTER

Prologue

I Leaving Home

II My Champion

III Hiding from the Enemy

IV Better Happenings

V Lady Caroline talks with Me

VI Papistry or Protestantism

VII Sir Hubert and I

VIII Lady Jane Grey

IX Plato

X Queen of England

XI By the River

XII In the Tower

XIII At St. Paul's Cross

XIV The Crown Resigned

XV At Sion House Again

XVI In The Power of Sir Claudius

XVII The Prisoner in the Dungeon

XVIII On the Point of Being Wed

XIX Escaping from the Enemy

XX A Trying Experience

XXI Queen Mary's Boon

XXII With Lady Jane

XXIII Wyatt's Insurrection

XXIV Lady Jane's Death Sentence

XXV Some of Lady Jane's Last Words

XXVI Lady Jane's Execution

XXVII Conclusion. Home Again

Epilogue

PROLOGUE

It has been laid upon me as a very solemn duty by the late Lady Jane Dudley, or Grey as she is usually called, to whom I owe obedience and fealty born of love, which is all the more insistent because she is no longer here to claim it, that I should set forth, in the best language possible to one of my limited education, the stirring events that my eyes have witnessed and the true story, as it is known to me, of the short, sad tragedy of her life and death. And this being so, I will make no excuse for my boldness and presumption in attempting work which might well be left to learned and authoritative historians, especially as I remember that my dear lady said to me, Margery, others may write more learnedly on the matter, but loving eyes see further and more truly than those of the mere critic, and I would fain be represented to posterity as I am rather than as I am supposed to be. And, fear not, child, for though you are weak and humble in your own eyes, His grace and help are to be had for the asking, Who gives power to the faint, and to such

as have no might increases strength.' For my lady knew that this is a righteous task which she was setting me—the representation of truth, as we know it, is always righteous—and to those who do the like His promises never fail.

MARGARET BROWN.

CHAPTER I Leaving Home

It was in the month of May, in the year 1553, and I was a young girl, only seventeen, when my dear father—my mother being dead—astonished me beyond measure by disclosing the fact that I was to leave my home in Sussex and proceed to the city of London, there to become gentlewoman to a lady of high degree.

That was not the sort of life I should have chosen by any means, for my freedom was as dear to me as to any of God's creatures of earth, or sea, or sky. Having no mother, and with a most easy-going father and a brace of madcap young brothers, I had run wild all my life, and could ill brook the idea of being confined within four walls for the most part of my days, attired in the fine clothing of a grand lady. What compensations should I have for such joys as lying for hours on the soft turf of the Downs, looking up to the blue sky and making out pictures in the white clouds flitting across it, whilst I listened to the singing of the skylarks, or sitting beneath an overturned boat on the seashore, hearing the lapping of the waves and gazing across the Channel, with wondering speculations of the lands beyond those fair blue waters, or, on the other hand, rowing out upon the sea with my brothers, or riding with them at breakneck paces over hill and dale? What would they do without me, little Hal with his endless scrapes and foolhardy schemes, and Jack with his love of fighting and

passionate essays to assert the manhood latent in him? Notwithstanding my wildness, I was a softening influence in their lives, for there was in me ever, even then, the consciousness which is not very far from any of us that there is a Higher Law than even the sweetest promptings of our own fond wills. I never talked about it—father used to say, 'Many words show weakness in a cause'—much less preached to the boys, but I knew it was so and they were aware I knew it, and that was quite enough. They were good lads, and, as the serving men and women said, I had them at a word.

I did not like the thought of leaving my brothers, or my father, or, as I have said, my freedom and the skylarks, turf, sky, clouds, seashore and mystery of wild sea-waves, with the unknown lands beyond, but never thought of opposing my father's will, and, easygoing though he was, dared not question it; however, I went down to the parsonage to speak to Master Montgomery, our curate, of the matter, and, after listening to all I had to say, and cheering me with descriptions of wondrous sights to be seen in London, he uttered wise words, which stilled my trouble mightily.

'Child,' he said, laying his hand gently on my head, 'listen to me. This call which has come to you is not of your own seeking, therefore it must be from Him Who alone was found worthy to hold the Book of Life—the lives of His people—in His hands. He Who called Rebekah from her water-pot and David from his sheep, Elisha from his ploughing and the praying women of Jerusalem to follow Him to the Cross, is surely calling you to do some special work. It may be lowly in its nature, or it may be great, but whatever it be, it is surely work that you and no one else can do. Like the little maid who was carried away into captivity and did great things for her master Naaman, the Syrian, so, it may be, you, too, may carry help and healing to some afflicted one amongst those whom the world calls mighty. And remember,' he added very earnestly, 'remember that you can do nothing in your own strength, but that with the help of the Holy Spirit, which is given to those who ask for it, all things will be possible.'

I went away, feeling very solemn and almost more frightened than encouraged, and it was a relief to my over-charged heart when, as I was going home with great soberness, I encountered Hal, bareback on his black pony, tearing along like wildfire, and calling to me to follow, as there was a ship passing in the Channel, and so I ran after him down to the beach; and what with one thing and another, I did not give Master Montgomery's words their full consideration until the time came when, being far away from him, I found my thoughts recurring to them.

Before I set off to London City there was great to-do amongst the women servants in making me sufficient garments for a lady's wardrobe, and it was a wonderful sight to see the things they got together and the way they wished to dress me. I did not like it very much, for I did not think I should ever be able to skip and play and ride bareback attired in that fashion, but my father said I was a child and knew nothing about it, and they were women and ought to know what they were doing; so we left it all to them, and I put off the thought of wearing their handiwork as long as possible.

The day before I went my father informed me about those to whom I was going. It seemed the Duke of Northumberland, knowing my father, Sir Henry Brown, with whom he had been in battles in their younger days, had sent for me to come and be one of the gentlewomen of his daughter-in-law, the young Lady Jane Grey, newly married to his fourth son, Lord Guildford Dudley, in London City. My father said that it was a great distinction for me to be selected out of scores of other country maidens for the work, and that if ever I had speech with the noble duke I was to thank him heartily for his favour towards us—this I promised readily, not knowing what manner of man that was whose doings were afterwards an enormous factor in working dire woe to those I loved. And then my father went on to say that business of importance would prevent his going with me on this my entrance into the big world—oh, father! I saw through that, for was it not from you I inherited the nature which loved home and freedom better than the life among great people of exalted rank?—but he said he would send me

with old and trusty servants, who would take me safely in a horse-litter from our town of Brighthelmstone[1] on the south coast, all the long way to Sion House, in Isleworth, near London City, where my Lady Grey was residing at that time.

[1] Now called Brighton.—ED.

And the next day, after a troubled leave-taking from all I loved so dearly, I suffered him to bestow on me his blessing, which he did with many words of touching kindness, and put me in the litter.

I must confess that I did not perceive very much of the road we went over during the first part of my journey, owing to a weakness which came on in my eyes and a sickness and dejection of spirit such as I had never previously known, and my good maid Betsy proved to be very annoying for talking over much, which was indeed her wont when excited, and making doleful laments about the dangers of the way and the roughness of the roads that, without doubt, somewhat impeded our progress.

But afterwards, after a long while, I felt better and could think less miserably of my father's tender blessing and of the sudden breakdown and loud crying of poor Jack and the afflicting disappearance of Hal, who I knew had hidden himself in order that he might get over the parting in secret, and the crying of the woman servants we left behind, and solemn faces of the men and the waving of Master Montgomery's old hat as we passed the parsonage, so that by the time we neared a neighbouring castle I could even look admiringly upon it. We stayed that night at Horsham, in a queer little inn kept by a monstrously fat innkeeper and his exceedingly thin wife, who at another time would have amused me greatly by her fussiness and servility.

And the next day we proceeded on our way, passing many strange and curious places, but meeting with no brigands and no mishap at all until it chanced that, on the King's highway, we came upon a group of unruly, wild-looking men and boys, who were dragging a poor old woman, with great violence, towards a large pond.

'What is the matter? Oh, Betsy, see!' I cried. 'What are those men doing to that poor old woman? Look! they are dragging her to that pond! Poor creature! They will hurt her!'

'Mistress, 'tis only a witch!' cried Betsy, who had been told to call me Mistress now that I was going to be a great lady. 'Suchlike do much harm,' she continued. 'They sell their souls to the devil for gold; they meet each other on broomsticks riding through the air, and plot mischief. From such may we be delivered!' she went on fervently. 'They had better be drowned!' she concluded.

'No, no. 'Tis cruel! Tell Humphrey to stop.' And I myself called to the men to stay the horses bearing my litter, and looked out full of sympathy with the poor old creature. Was there no one to stand up for her, no one to stay this rough horse-play which was going on? Master Montgomery had always taught us to treat the aged with reverence, and therefore it seemed truly shocking to me, as also most alarming.

'Forsooth, Mistress Marg'et,' said Joseph, my lacquey, coming to my litter, ''tis the country roughs that are just wild to drown yon old witch.'

'But they shall not!' declared I vigorously; 'they shall not! Stop it, Joseph! Stop it at once!'

'Mistress, I cannot! The men are just mad! Hark at their shouts! They are wild to do it.'

'They shall not do it!' cried I. 'Tell them, Joseph, that Mistress Margaret Brown forbids it.'

Joseph and Timothy, the head man, and John, the other lacquey, looked timidly towards the crowd of excited men and boys who were shouting, gesticulating and urging on each other to drag along the old woman with cuffs and kicks.

I got out of my litter and looked round. It was such a beautiful country, on one side great woods just bursting into leaf, on the other green meadowland, threaded by a silvery stream and studded here and there with blossoming hawthorn trees. Nowhere could I see a house, yet some there must be not far distant, judging from the crowd of men and boys. Alone, with my few servants, what could I do? Who would have suspected that in such a lovely place there could be doings so outrageous?

'I must speak to them, Betsy,' I said, and across my mind flashed the thought that perhaps Master Montgomery was thinking of some such work as this when he spoke of that to which he believed I was being called.[2]

[2] Young people are usually in haste. They always aim to reach the end of things at once; they cannot wait.—ED.

'Oh, no, mistress! You must not, indeed you must not interfere!' cried the terrified woman.

'Hold thy tongue, Betsy,' said I. 'I shall go to them and speak,' and in my heart I prayed for help where Master Montgomery said it would never be denied.

And then I advanced towards the roughs, who turned to look at me in amazement.

In a tone and in a manner of authority, for my father always said that it was no use speaking otherwise to knaves, I bade them cease from persecuting a poor old woman who might be innocent of all offence, and passionately adjured them to refrain from violence.

The effect of this was marvellous. Releasing their victim, they fell back, and she, poor soul, knelt on the grass before me, crying out for mercy and catching hold of the border of my gown.

'What has she done?' I asked.

A Babel of voices answered. The old woman had brought disease on Farmer North's cattle. She had turned her evil eye on a young woman who had straightway sickened and died. She had looked on a man as he rode to market and his horse had run away, thrown him off and killed him. Last of all she had spirited away her own orphan grandson, a boy of great promise, who had been committed to her care by his deceased parents and of whom she had professed to be very fond. This young man was believed to have been sent through the earth to the abodes of the lost.

'I did not do it, lady! I did not! Saul was the darling of my old age. I know no more than they where he has gone. I am no witch. Ask the minister; he knows.'

This and much more cried the poor old dame in quavering tones.

'Listen to her. She is innocent,' I said authoritatively to the rascals, who were recovering themselves and again holding out threatening hands. 'She is a poor old woman, very lame and infirm.'

That did not touch them, so I seized a weightier argument.

'Have you not heard,' I said, 'of One Who laid His hands upon the sick and lame and made them whole? Jesus had compassion on the multitude. He took pity on the infirm. He laid His hands on them and blessed them. He——'

'He sent the devils into the swine, so that they ran into the sea,' interposed a man's voice grimly.

'The devils? Yes. But not the man out of whom they were driven. He sat at Jesus' feet, clothed and in his right mind.'

'True! true!' cried several voices.

It really seemed as if mercy were going to win the day. But at that moment, with a tremendous noise, a number of men and boys came round a bend in the road, dragging forward a wretched object whose head was hidden in a man's jacket.

'A witch! A witch!' yelled the newcomers, brandishing their sticks.

'And we have another! Ha! ha! ha!' laughed and shrieked the men and boys beside me.

Then I perceived that the newcomers were led on by as evil-looking a young man as you could see anywhere. His dress showed him to be a knight, but anything more unknightly than his manner and his conduct could not well be found; he seemed just like the knaves who formed his company, and an ill-looking lot they were, with scarcely a whole garment among them.

'Oh, mistress,' said Timothy, who had left his horses that he might have speech with me. 'Yon is Sir Claudius Crossley, who is said to be your father's sworn enemy. I pray you make haste and get into the litter before he recognizes you. Then we will drive away as fast as the horses can take us.'

'Save me! Save me, lady!' cried the old woman, clinging to my feet, as my hands tried to drag her away.

How could I desert her? It was hard on my servants, but I would not listen to their advice. For I saw nothing, heard nothing but that pitiful old woman, with her despairing cries to me to save her, and the menacing crowd of villains thirsting for her life.

CHAPTER II My Champion

I began to speak again to the villains, repeating much that I had said before, with even greater earnestness.

Sir Claudius Crossley stared at me, and listened for a moment or two with a bewildered air. Then perceiving the drift of my words, he rudely shouted to me to shut my mouth, and, signing to his men, they caught up the old woman at my feet and bundled her along to the side of the other victim, interposing several of their broad backs between me and the poor old creatures.

The road being now completely blocked by the shouting men and boys, my servants closed round me and literally carried me back to the litter. In truth they were themselves of the opinion that the old women were witches, who had sold themselves to the devil for a term of years, and ought therefore to be put to death.

I was perforce obliged to sit in my litter, but it could not proceed because of the crowd which blocked the way. I would not look towards the wretched scene, but Betsy would not refrain from telling me every detail of what was taking place with the supposed witches and their enemies.

'Both old women are witches, mistress,' she cried. 'I thought so, and now I know it; they are ugly as sin. The men are making them confess. The way they do it is to pull their hair and screw their wrists until they say for what sum the devil has bought their souls, and for what length of time they have bound themselves to serve him. No, mistress, Timothy will not allow you to interfere. He promised Sir Henry that he would take you safely to Sion House, near London, and he means to do it. Now, mistress, they are tying the witches' thumbs together—the two of them are being tied together by the thumbs, I mean—and now they are going to throw them into the water. If they do not sink, they will know they are witches, and will force them under; if they sink, they will drown, so there will be an end of them in any case.'

'Oh, this is terrible—terrible!' I cried. Putting my head out of my litter, I called to the ruffians to cease their cruelty. 'It is murder,' I said; 'it is nothing but murder! "Thou shalt do no murder."'

But I might as well have spoken to the wind, which was beginning to rise in fitful gusts.

The mob—for by this time the crowd had become a howling mob—was in no mood to be stayed from proceeding to extremities. A shower of mud and stones was flung at my litter and its attendants, one of the men-servants receiving a blow upon the shoulder, which might have put it out of joint, being most violent.

'Wait till we have drowned the witches, then we will come for you!' shouted Sir Claudius cruelly.

'Ay, ay, sir!' chorused many voices.

This was alarming. My servants put their heads together, muttering their fears. I overheard them saying that they had seen the witch looking hard at me as she begged for mercy, and that I might be doomed, and what could three men and a woman do against more than a hundred ruffians?

'Mistress,' said old Timothy to me at length. 'We can do nothing against so many, and unfortunately we have already incurred their anger. Far better would it be, therefore, for us to turn and flee whilst they are occupied in drowning the witches.'

'Flee! Do you mean that?' exclaimed I.

'Yes. Yes, mistress dear. And quickly—quickly! It is our only chance.'

And Timothy looked affrightedly at the angry faces of the mob.

'Nay. But that is cowardly!' I cried, 'to run away and think only of our own skins when the weak and old are being murdered!'

'We shall be murdered ourselves in a few more minutes if we stay here,' muttered the old man. 'Child,' he said, forgetting my new dignity, which indeed profited me nothing just then, 'it is to save our lives—yours, the most precious of all. How could I face Sir Henry again if you were killed?'