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.
[Illustration:
From a photo by Emery Walker after a painting in the National
Portrait Gallery.
EDWARD SEYMOUR, DUKE OF SOMERSET, K.G.]