A series of high offices followed in rapid succession: military commander of the Scottish borders, high admiral, governor of Boulogne, envoy to the King of France. More a man of action than a diplomat, he had inherited much of his father’s dynamism and self-confidence, with only some of the abrasiveness. By the time the boy-king Edward VI succeeded in 1547, John Dudley had become indispensable; he was quickly made the Earl of Warwick and Lord Chamberlain, joining the inner circle of the government. Given a small army to crush a rebellion in Norfolk, he then used it to depose the leader of the regency council. Now enjoying the title of Duke of Northumberland, John Dudley had become the most powerful man in England.
But then came the fall. On his deathbed, the 15-year-old king instructed that the succession should skip over his sisters Mary and Elizabeth, passing instead to his cousin Lady Jane Grey (a great-granddaughter of Henry VII). And John Dudley could not fail to be a supporter of Lady Jane, as she had only just married his son. First the Privy Council sent John with a small force to capture Mary, a task which conveniently took him out of London; then it declared that Mary was the rightful Queen after all, and issued a warrant for his arrest. His execution for treason duly followed.
For the second time in the snakes-and-ladders game of Tudor politics, the Dudleys had slithered back to the bottom of the board. This time it was the executed man’s widow who gradually restored the family’s position, through much canny string-pulling via networks of friends. And it was the most talented of her sons, the sporty and (we are told) good-looking Robert Dudley, who put the family back in the limelight by attracting the romantic interest of the young Queen Elizabeth.
Did he have sex with the Virgin Queen? Did she give him a secret promise of marriage? The total lack of evidence left plenty of scope for rumour. The gossip took an unpleasant turn when Robert’s wife died in curious circumstances, apparently after falling downstairs. Tired of being toyed with, and worried by his own lack of heirs, he eventually remarried – foolishly trying to keep it a secret from the Queen, earning an explosion of rage when she found out. But the son of that second marriage died at the age of three, so on Robert’s death the Dudley story came to an end.
Joanne Paul’s account of this family is rich and compelling. She manages to hit that sweet spot where scholarly history overlaps with dramatic storytelling; she conjures up the look and feel of Tudor life, down to the clothes, the medicines and the furniture, while also being a skilful filler-in of political background.
Sometimes, admittedly, the scene-setting becomes a little overdone. I began to weary of dramatic opening sentences, where the explanation of what is going on is held over until much later on the page: “The traveller rode into the small town of Abingdon…”; “London was awash in fanfare and celebration…”; “The young woman entered the queen’s great chapel at Whitehall.” In the acknowledgements she thanks Dan Jones for telling her to read books on screenwriting – oh well, at least we have someone to blame.
But despite that formulaic element, this is a book that knows how to hold the reader’s interest. Whether or not you have ever succumbed to Mantelmania, you will find yourself drawn in, fascinated, and richly informed.
The House of Dudley by Joanne Paul is published by Michael Joseph at £25. To order your copy for £19.99, call 0844 871 1514 or visit Telegraph Books
