We waited in trepidation.
The guns of the Tower were trained on Southwark, but I could not allow them to be fired, even though Wyatt and his men were sheltering there. I had to consider the little houses and the people living in them. How could I fire on my own people? It was no fault of theirs that they were in the line of fire.
Wyatt must have been getting uneasy. One day passed … and then another. The bridge was too well guarded for him to cross; if he attempted to storm it, there would be bitter fighting and the village of Southwark would be destroyed. I imagined that at this stage he was wishing he had never been caught up in this rebellion. He had only meant to raise men against the Spanish marriage, and when the others had deserted, he had found himself the leader and it was too late to turn back. He was an honorable man; there was no pillage and looting in his army.
He must have realized that he could not fight his way across the bridge and therefore must leave Southwark. It was with relief that we saw his army on the march, although we knew that would not be the end; he would attempt to cross at another point.
We heard that he was at Kingston. He was in a quandary, for the rain was teeming down, the river was swollen and the bridge had broken down. Nothing daunted, Wyatt set his men to repair the bridge, which, in the heavy rain, took hours; but at length, after much toil and skill, it was sufficiently repaired to allow the men with their ammunition to cross the river.
All these delays and difficulties had had their effect on the men. It is a tribute to Wyatt's leadership that he kept them together. But at least he must congratulate himself. He had arrived with his army—albeit not in the condition it had been in when it left Southwark. But he was now on the Middlesex side of the river; he had successfully crossed, and London lay before him.
I was awakened once more in the night to hear that he had reached Brentford. Several of the guards were in the streets beating drums—the signal for citizens to be out of their beds and to prepare.
Then he reached Knightsbridge.
The Council told me I should go to the Tower, but I refused. I would stay at Whitehall. I knew the people must see me. If I went to the Tower, it would seem as though I were afraid and should have to protect myself. I did not want that. I must show the people that I was prepared to face danger, as they must.
Instinct told me that Wyatt was a desperate man. He must have believed that there were enough Protestants among the population of London to come to his aid, and that someone would open the gates when he had been at Southwark. I believed it was my action in staying with the people of London, and showing them my confidence, which had made them rally to me.
It seemed to me that I had acted on inspiration from Heaven, and I thanked God for those men who were loyal to me on that day. I had come near to a disaster which would have changed the face of history. Wyatt was a strong man with deep convictions; he was a leader, but the odds were against him. Perhaps he had ill luck. Perhaps it was that God intended me to live and fulfill my mission. I believed that, at the time, and I have gone on believing it.
Pembroke was magnificent. He was a skilled general. As Wyatt made his way toward St. James's, Pembroke kept his forces in hiding; and when Wyatt's forces had passed along unmolested, Pembroke and his men sprang out and attacked them in the rear. Winchester, another of my good commanders, was waiting ahead for him, so that he was between Wyatt and Ludgate.
The fighting was fierce. I was in the gatehouse, waiting, watching, desperately anxious for news.
A messenger came hurrying in. “All is lost!” he cried. “Pembroke has gone over to Wyatt.”
“I don't believe it!” I cried. “Pembroke is no traitor.”
“Wyatt is close. Your Majesty must take a barge at once. You could get to Windsor.”
“I will not go,” I said. “I shall stay here. Let us pray, and the Lord will save the day for us. I know in my heart that this will be so. I put my trust in God.”
I felt then that He was the only one in whom I could put my trust.
That was my darkest hour.
It was not long before the news reached me. The rumor was false. Pembroke was no traitor, as I had known he could not be. Wyatt's men, dispirited, cold, dirty and hungry after their experiences at Kingston, were no match for my men. They knew it, and when such knowledge comes to a soldier, he is a defeated man.
I wondered what Wyatt's thoughts were as he battled there at Ludgate; he must have realized with every passing second that his cause was a lost one.
Sir Maurice Berkeley called to him to surrender.
“If you do not,” he said, “all these men whom you have brought with you will doubtless be killed— yourself, too. Give in now. It may be that the Queen will show you mercy.”
Wyatt hesitated, but only for a moment. He knew that he had lost and he gave up gracefully.
Sir Maurice took Wyatt on the back of his horse and rode to the keep where I was watching, so that I might see that the leader of the rebellion was his prisoner.
My first thought was, “We must give thanks to God.” And, taking my women with me, I went to the chapel, where, on our knees, we gave thanks for this victory.
I was exultant. To me it meant confirmation of my dreams. God's purpose was clear to me. I prayed that I should be worthy to complete my mission.
NOW WAS THE TIME for retribution.
Wyatt was in the Tower. Although there was no question of his guilt, he was not executed immediately, because it was hoped that he would incriminate others—mainly my sister Elizabeth and Edward Courtenay.
At the Old Bailey, as many as eighty-two persons were judged and condemned in one day. In every street in London hung the bodies of traitors— a grim warning. This continued for ten days, and there were so many executions that men had to be cut down from the gibbets to make way for others. As Wyatt came from Kent, it was thought necessary to let the Kentish people see for themselves what happened to traitors. Men were taken there, and in the towns and villages their bodies were set up on gibbets or in chains.
Renard had told me frequently that the leniency I was inclined to show was dangerous. There would always be such insurrections while Lady Jane lived—and I could see that that was true. I knew I must agree that she be brought to the block.
I was wretched. I should have rejoiced. Our victory over Wyatt was complete, and yet, because it must result in so many deaths, I was unhappy. God had shown me how to act, and I had followed His instructions but I wished there need not be this carnage.
I told myself that these men were traitors, and they all knew the risk they ran when they took up arms against the anointed sovereign. It was the thought of Jane which haunted me, but I knew my advisers were right. While she lived, this sort of thing could happen again. It was better for her to die than that thousands should lose their lives because of her.
So at last they prevailed on me to sign the death warrant.
Guilford Dudley was taken out to the block the day before her. It was unnecessary cruelty to make her watch his execution from a window in the Tower. I did not know of this until after it had happened. There were many of my courtiers who regarded me as a soft and sentimental woman who let her heart rule her head. I should not have forced that cruelty on Jane, for, in my view, it served no purpose. Die she must, but I wanted it to be done with the least possible discomfort to her.
There were many to tell me how she went to her death, how she came out to Tower Green, wondrously calm, her prayer book in her hand, looking very young and beautiful. And as she was about to mount the scaffold, she asked permission to speak. When this was given, she spoke of the wrong done to the Queen's Majesty and that she was innocent of it.
“This I swear before God and you good people,” she added.