CHAPTER XII 1551-1552 An anxious tutor--Somerset's final fall--The charges against him--His guilt or innocence--His trial and condemnation--The King's indifference--Christmas at Greenwich--The Duke's execution.

Aylmer had been so far encouraged by the success of his appeal to Henry Bullinger on behalf of his pupil that he is found, some seven months later, calling the Swiss churchman again into council. He was possibly over-anxious, but the tone of his communication makes it clear that Lady Jane Grey had been once more causing her tutor disquiet. Responding, in the first place, to Bullinger’s congratulations upon his privilege in acting as teacher to so excellent a scholar, and in a family so well disposed to learning and religion, he proceeds to request that his correspondent will, in his next letter, instruct Lady Jane as to the proper degree of embellishment and adornment of the person becoming in young women professing godliness. The tutor is plainly uneasy on this subject, and it is to be feared that Jane had been developing an undue love of dress. Yet the example of the Princess Elizabeth might be fitly adduced, observes Aylmer, furnishing the monitor with arguments of which he might, if he pleased, make use. She at least went clad in every respect as became a young maiden, and yet no one was induced by the example of “a lady in so much gospel light to lay aside, much less look down upon, gold, jewels, and braidings of the hair.” Preachers might declaim, but no one amended her life. Moreover, and as a less important matter, Aylmer desires Bullinger to prescribe the amount of time to be devoted to music. If he would handle these points at some length there would probably be some accession to the ranks of virtue.

One would imagine that it argued ignorance of human nature on the part of Lady Jane’s instructor to believe that the admonitions of an old man at a distance would have more effect than those of a young man close at hand; nor does it appear whether or not Bullinger sent the advice for which Aylmer asked. But that his pupil’s incipient leaning towards worldly vanities was successfully checked would appear from her reply, reported by himself, when a costly dress had been presented to her by her cousin Mary. “It were a shame,” she is said to have answered, in rejecting the gift, “to follow my Lady Mary, who leaveth God’s Word, and leave my Lady Elizabeth, who followeth God’s Word.”

It might have been well for Jane had she practised greater courtesy towards a cousin at this time out of favour at Court; but no considerations of policy or of good breeding could be expected to influence a zealot of fifteen, and Mary, more than double her age, may well have listened with a smile.

When Aylmer’s letter was written, the Grey family had left Bradgate and were in London. The Marquis had, some two months earlier, been advanced to the rank of Duke of Suffolk, upon the title becoming extinct through the death of his wife’s two half-brothers, and the tutor may have had just cause for disquietude lest the world should make good its claims upon the little soul he was so carefully tending. In November 1551 Mary of Lorraine, Queen-Dowager of Scotland, had applied for leave to pass through England on her way north. It had not only been granted, but she had been accorded a magnificent reception, Lady Jane, with her mother, taking part in the ceremony when the royal guest visited the King at Whitehall. Two days later she was amongst the ladies assembled to do the Queen honour at her departure for Scotland. It may be that this participation in the pomp and splendour of court life had produced a tendency in John Aylmer’s charge to bestow overmuch attention upon worldly matters, nor can it be doubted that his heart was sore at the contrast she had presented to Elizabeth, “whose plainness of dress,” he says, still commending the Princess, “was especially noticed on the occasion of the visit of the Queen-Dowager of Scotland.” 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.

“O Duke of Somerset,” he exclaimed from his seat, “you see yourself brought into the utmost danger, and that nothing but death awaits you. I have once before delivered you from a similar hazard of your life; and I will not now desist from serving you, how little soever you may expect it.” Let Somerset appeal to the royal clemency, and Northumberland, forgiving him his offences, would do all in his power to save him.122 Northumberland’s tardy magnanimity fails to carry conviction. But, besides his victim’s popularity in the country, it was reported that the “King took it not in good part,” and it was thought well to delay the execution, by which means his supplanter might gain credit for exercising his generosity by an attempt to avert his doom. Christmas was at hand, and it was arranged that the Duke should remain in prison, under sentence of death, whilst the feast was celebrated at Court.

In spite of the assertion that the young King had not been unaffected by a tragedy that should have touched him closely, there is nothing in his own words to indicate any other attitude than that of the indifferent spectator—an attitude recalling unpleasantly the callousness shown by his father as the women he had loved and the statesmen he had trusted and employed were successively sent to the block. Though, in justice to Edward, it should be remembered that he had never loved his uncle, there is something revolting in his casual mention of the measures adopted against him.

“Little has been done since you went,” he wrote to Barnaby Fitzpatrick, the comrade of his childish days, now become his favourite, “but the Duke of Somerset’s arraignment for felonious treason and the muster of the newly erected gendarmery;”123 and the journal wherein he traces the progress of the trial, varying the narrative by the introduction of other topics, such as the visit of the Queen-Dowager of Scotland and the festivities in her honour, conveys a similar impression of coldness. “And so he was adjudged to be hanged,” he records in conclusion, noting, with no expression of regret, the result of the proceedings.

“It were well that he should die,” Edward had told the Duke’s brother in those earlier childish days when incited by the Admiral to rebel against the strictness of the discipline enforced by the Protector. But, under the mask of indifference, it may be that misgivings awoke and made themselves apparent to those who, watching him closely, feared that ties of blood might vindicate their strength, and that at their bidding, or through compassion, he might interpose to avert the fate of one of the only near relations who remained to him. It appears to have been determined that the King’s mind must be diverted from the subject; and whilst the prisoner was awaiting in the Tower the execution of his sentence, special merry-makings were arranged by the men who had the direction of affairs at Greenwich, where the court was to keep Christmas. Thus it was hoped to “remove the fond talk out of men’s mouths,” and to recreate and refresh the troubled spirits of the young sovereign. A Lord of Misrule was accordingly appointed, who, dubbed the Master of the King’s Pastimes, took order for the general amusement, though conducting himself more discreetly than had been the wont of his predecessors, and the festival was gaily observed. By these means, says Holinshed, the minds and ears of murmurers were well appeased, till it was thought well to proceed to the business of executing judgment upon the Duke.

In whatever light the ghastly contrast between the uncle awaiting a bloody death in the Tower and the noisy merry-making intended to drown the sound of the passing-bell in the nephew’s ears may strike students of a later day, it is likely that there was nothing in it to affect painfully those who joined in the proceedings. Life was little considered. Men were daily accustomed to witness violent reverses of fortune. The Duke had aimed over-high; he was a danger to rivals whose turn it was to rise; he must make way for others. He had moreover been too deeply injured to forgive; and, to make all safe, he must die. The reign of the Seymours was at an end; that of Northumberland was beginning. Two more years and their supplanter, with Suffolk and his other adherents, would in their turn have paid the penalty of a great ambition, and, “with the sons of the Duke of Somerset standing by,” would have followed the Lord Protector to the grave.

There was none to prophesy their fate. Had it been otherwise, it is not probable that a warning would have turned them from their purpose. For they were reckless gamblers, and to foretell ruin to a man who is staking his all upon a throw of the dice is to speak to deaf ears.

So the merry Christmas passed, Jane—third in succession to the throne—occupying a prominent position at Court. And Aylmer, fearful lest the fruits of his care should be squandered, looked on helplessly, and besought Bullinger, on that 23rd of December, to set a limit, for the benefit of a pupil in danger, to the attention lawfully to be bestowed on the world and its vanities; a letter from Haddon, the Duke’s chaplain, following fast and betraying his participation in the anxieties of his colleague by an entreaty that, from afar, the eminent divine would continue to exercise a beneficent influence upon his master’s daughter.

Meantime the day had arrived when it was considered safe to carry matters against the King’s uncle to extremities, and on January 23, six weeks after his trial, the Duke of Somerset was taken to Tower Hill, to suffer death in the presence of a vast crowd there assembled.

Till the last moment the throng had persisted in hoping against hope that the life of the man they loved might even now, at the eleventh hour, be spared; and at one moment it seemed that they were not to be disappointed. The Duke had taken his place upon the scaffold, and had begun his speech, when an interruption occurred, occasioned, as it afterwards proved, by an accidental collision between the mass of spectators and a body of troops who had received orders to be present at the execution, and, finding themselves late, had ridden hard and fast to make up for lost time. This was the simple explanation of the occurrence; but, to the excited mob gathered together, every nerve strained and full of pity and fear and horror, the sound of the thundering hoofs seemed something supernatural and terrible. Was it a sign of divine interposition?

“Suddenly,” recounts an eye-witness, “suddenly came a wondrous fear upon the people ... by a great sound which appeared unto many above in the element as it had been the sound of gunpowder set on fire in a close house bursting out, and by another sound upon the ground as it had been the sight of a great number of great horses running on the people to overrun them; so great was the sound of this that the people fell down one upon the other, many with bills; and other ran this way, some that way, crying aloud, ‘Jesus, save us! Jesus, save us!’ Many of the people crying, ‘This way they come, that way they come, away, away.’ And I looked where one or other should strike me on the head, so I was stonned [stunned?]. The people being thus amazed, espies Sir Anthony Brown upon a little nag riding towards the scaffold, and therewith burst out crying in a voice, ‘Pardon, pardon, pardon!’ hurling up their caps and cloaks with these words, saying, ‘God save the King! God save the King!’ The good Duke all the while stayed, and, with his cap in his hand, waited for the people to come together.”124

Whatever had been Sir Anthony’s errand, it had not been one of mercy; and when the excitement following upon the panic was calmed the doomed man and the crowd were alike aware that the people had been misled by hope, and that no pardon had been brought. It is at such a moment that a man’s mettle is shown. With admirable dignity Somerset bore the blow. As for a moment he had participated in the expectation of the cheering throng the colour had flickered over his face; but, recovering himself at once, he resumed his interrupted speech.

“Beloved friends,” he said, “there is no such matter as you vainly hope and believe.” Let the people accept the will of God, be quiet as he was quiet, and yield obedience to King and Council. A few minutes more and all was over. Somerset, in the words of a chronicler, had taken his death very patiently—with the strange patience in which the victims of injustice scarcely ever failed; the crowd, true to the last to their faith, pressing forward to dip their handkerchiefs in his blood, as in that of a martyr. The laconic entry in the King’s journal, to the effect that the Duke of Somerset had had his head cut off on Tower Hill, presents a sharp contrast to the popular emotion and grief. The deed was, at all events, done; Northumberland had cleared his most formidable competitor from his path, and had no suspicion that the tragedy of that winter’s day was in truth paving the way for his own ultimate undoing.

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