Mary I and Jane Grey to Stuart Townend's version of Psalm 23 – my new favourite song... For those wondering, Jane quotes the Coverdale Bible of 1535, though I've modernised the spelling!

The Lord's my shepherd, I'll not want;
He makes me lie in pastures green.
He leads me by the still, still waters,
His goodness restores my soul.

Jane wanted to run from the room; to run from the room and never look back. To run from the room and throw herself down on the soft, forgiving peace of her eiderdown and weep and weep until she had no tears left in her.

But she knew she couldn't do that. As the Duchess of Suffolk swept her riding crop through the air one last time, and then tucked it back into the sash at her waist, dismissing Jane with an impatient wave, Jane knew she had to act every inch the Grey daughter, every inch the granddaughter of a Dowager Queen of France. If she didn't, things would be even worse for her next time.

Ignoring the wave of pain it sent through her, she swept down into a curtsy low and elegant enough to please even the most exacting of dancing masters.

"Your Grace," she murmured, before backing out of the room, eyes screwed half-shut against the tears of agony that were threatening to spill over.

She didn't let herself give in to her longing for tears either. Even in the privacy of her own rooms, she couldn't trust the servants not to betray her in her weakness. Not at Bradgate, where the Duchess ruled supreme. Instead, she knelt at her predieu, Coverdale's Bibles open at the Psalms before her.

The words spilled from her lips, soothing her, as they always did.

The Lord is my Shepherd, I can want nothing
He leads me in a green pasture and leads me to a fresh water
He quietens my soul and brings me forth in the way of righteousness for His name's sake...

When she had finished, Jane remained on her knees, peering up at the simple cross above the little altar. Sometimes she truly believed that, were it not for her faith, her utter conviction that one day, God would make things right for her and bring her home to him, she'd have gone mad, living under the brutal weight of her parents' expectations as she did. Her prayers and her books were her only escape and the prayers were safer than the books, for her parents were loather to tear her away from her devotions than they were to keep her from her lessons in the schoolroom.

A single tear dropped from the corner of her eye as she swallowed hard, bowed her head one final time and rose, squaring her shoulders to take up her duties once more. Her duties, not as Jane, daughter of the Lord, but as Lady Jane Grey, the eldest heiress to the Duke of Suffolk. She only prayed that the day would never come when the one contradicted with the other.

And I will trust in You alone,
And I will trust in You alone,
For Your endless mercy follows me
Your goodness will lead me home.

"And what will happen, Your Excellency, if I do not see fit to sign the Oath?" Mary looked up at the Imperial Ambassador, fighting to keep her voice from shaking.

"Your Highness," Chapuys leaned forward and dared to break protocol enough to take her hand, "I very much fear that, should you refuse, His Majesty will order you put to death."

Mary blanched. Furious denials sprang to her lips, but before she could voice them, she caught sight of the gravity in the Ambassador's eyes. He wouldn't lie to her. He, of all the men in England, wouldn't lie to her. Not now, not about this.

"But...His Holiness..."

"Will understand that Your Highness signs the Oath under extreme duress and will issue a dispensation annulling your submission as soon as the news reaches Rome."

Chapuys said nothing more, only waited for Mary to come to terms with what she had to do.

At last she reached for the quill and dipped it in the ink, her hand shaking so badly she could barely touch it to the scroll in front of her, much less draw it through the letters of her name.

When the act was finally done, she looked down at the parchment, white and drawn, eyes glassy with unshed tears.

"May God and my sainted mother have Mercy on me," she breathed.

He guides my ways in righteousness,
And He anoints my head with oil,
And my cup, it overflows with joy,
I feast on His pure delights.

"Take the crown, Jane," Guilford whispered, taking his wife's hand and gripping it so tight he knew he'd leave bruises. A pang of guilt shot through him at that thought, but Jane was staring at him with such desperation in her great dark eyes that he couldn't bring himself to care. "Take the crown."

"I can't! Guilford, I can't! It wouldn't be right; would pervert all manner of justice. What right have I to the throne?"

"You have the right of the late King Edward's deathbed wishes. He named you his heir. Not Mary, not Elizabeth. You."

"Did he really? Or did your father force him into it?"

Jane's whisper was pleading. Guilford closed his eyes. He wished beyond belief that he didn't have to lie to her now; that he could tell her the truth. But if he did that, she'd balk, refuse the throne. Without her support; the support of the Suffolk line to the throne, they'd lose to Mary within hours, lose their lands, their heads.

"He wanted you to have the throne," he lied, tightening his grip on her hands still further and willing her to believe him, "He wanted the same thing for England that we do. A world where faith alone is enough to save; where a shilling is actually worth a shilling, is made of pure silver and not copper dross plated over. He trusted you to carry that dream through. That's why he made you Queen and not Mary. So take the crown. You owe it to his memory."

Jane hesitated, "If you're sure. But you must promise to stand by me, whatever happens."

"Always," he promised huskily, "But do as Edward commanded of you."

Jane paused a few moments longer, then nodded shakily. She slipped her hand from his, tugging gently under his fingers until he finally let her go. She turned back to face the room, then crossed to kneel by the throne.

"For you, Edward," she mouthed, so that only Guilford could see.

"You'll do it?" The Duchess's voice was sharp. Jane nodded almost imperceptibly, lips pressed together so tightly as to be practically invisible.

Submitting to their ministrations, she let them place St Edwards' crown on her head and smear the precious chrism on her hair, hands, chest and feet. At the feel of it, slimy and pungent on her skin, she did flinch. This felt so wrong, it couldn't be right. Surely she wasn't meant to be Queen? Surely?

Yet...if Edward had asked it of her... she set her jaw. She was Queen now. This ritual made it so. Who was she to refuse the Lord's plan for her? If He had prompted Edward to leave the realm in her hands, then she'd rule it as best she could. She owed her Lord and the late King – her late cousin – that much, at least.

Mary sat high on the dais, smiling graciously down upon her Court. Her court! She, who had gone from being the pearl of her father's world to her little sister's lowliest maidservant to My Lady Mary, the King's daughter to Queen of England in her own right. She could scarcely believe it. in fact, even with the chrism oil glistening on her hair and making her hands threaten to slip on the sceptre and orb she was holding, she couldn't bring herself to breathe. She kept seeing the whole thing as a beautiful dream, one she didn't want to wake up from. She couldn't help but think that, any minute now, Lady Bryan was going to storm in on her with a screaming Elizabeth, tired and impatient and looking for any excuse to push the less pleasant parts of her duties on to Mary's slender shoulders.

Then the clarion call of a bugle rang through the hall.

Her champion, Sir Edmund Dymoke cantered into the centre of the room on a great bay gelding and threw down a gauntlet.

"If there is any man here present who dares to say that Queen Mary has no right to rule the realm, then let him come forward now and defend his claim with the force of arms against me."

Mary held her breath. But no-one moved. Indeed, after a few moments of tense silence, the Bishop of Winchester took a step forward and boldly called out "God Save and God Bless Queen Mary!"

It was roared back at him in a unanimous, full-throated bellow of joy.

Refusing to look at her half-sister who sat a half-dozen seats away from her, at a distant corner of the high table, Mary let herself beam down upon the cheering nobles, heart soaring.

It wasn't a dream after all. She really was God's anointed Queen. Queen of England, Ireland and France.

I will not fear the evil one,
For You are with me, and Your rod and staff
Are the comfort I need to know.

"Your Majesty, I beg you to reconsider! The Lady Jane is but a child. I realise her father has been beyond foolish, rising up against you like this, but surely the Lady Jane doesn't deserve to die for his crimes. Did the Lord himself not say, "Do not visit the sins of the father upon the child and forgive not seven times, but seven times seven?"

"Do not quote the scriptures at me, good sir. I know as well as you what they say!" Mary pushed back her chair and stood up. Her councillors scrambled to their feet as she swung away from the table and began to pace the room.

"I am thirty-seven years old. I have longed for a husband and children since I was but a girl of fourteen, yet the Lord has not yet seen fit to grant me my desire. And now, now He seems on the brink of doing so. Would you have me risk that dream for a single girl's life?"

"I would beg to remind Your Grace that the Lady Jane is Your Majesty's cousin. If Your Grace signs her execution warrant, it is not just any execution you are sanctioning, but the execution of a kinswoman. Surely no dream, however laudable, is worth committing that kind of sin?"

"I am thirty-seven years old," Mary repeated, "With every day that passes, my chances of becoming a mother recede still further. Need I remind you, my lords, that until I have a child of my own, my half-sister Elizabeth is my heiress? Need I remind you that, were she allowed to take the throne, she would undo all our good work towards bringing our beloved England back to the True Faith?"

Mary's voice rang with tension and her councillors shuffled uneasily, avoiding both her piercing gaze and one another's. Moments passed and no one spoke. At last, Mary strode to the door.

"The Prince of Spain will not set sail for England until the Lady Jane is dead. Without the Prince of Spain, a Catholic Succession is impossible. The safety of English souls is at stake, my lords. Is a single girl's life too high a price to pay for the salvation of an entire country?"

She swept from the room before any of them could respond.

Despite the composed, determined face she put on for her councillors, however, Mary's mind was whirling. She couldn't help but feel as though she was floundering in a sea of her own making; that events had spiralled out of her control far too fast for her to do anything but react like this.

As always when she felt ill-at-ease, her feet took her to kneel before the altar in her private chapel.

"Lord...Father...I beg you...Look down upon your humble servant...Guide me...Oh guide me...Let me know what it is You want me to do..."

The words spilled out of her mouth so fast they were little more than a scarcely intelligible blur. Her heart was pounding and her hands so slick with sweat that her fingers slipped more than once on the smooth pearls of her rosary, once almost sending it clattering to the flagstone floor.

She couldn't tell how long she knelt there, repeating the same desperate prayers over and over. Gradually, however, her heartbeat returned to normal. Her mind cleared, leaving only two thoughts that she could focus on with any clarity.

The Spanish marriage had to take precedence over everything else. Everything.

And for that, Lady Jane Grey, innocent pawn in her father and father in law's plots though she might be, had to die.

"My Lady?"

The sombre voice broke into Jane's prayers and a hand brushed her shoulder in a not-unpitying manner, "I'm sorry, but it's time."

Jane nodded and rose slowly to her feet, smoothing down her black velvet gown.

"Do not weep for me, Dr Feckenham," she said softly, seeing the way the elderly priest's eyes were glistening. "I truly believe God has meant for things to be this way. How can I refuse His call, if He intends for me to die for my faith? I tell you, this day I die a true Christian woman, for I look to be saved by no other means than His mercy through the merit of the blood of His only son Jesus Christ."

She allowed him to lead her out to the block, not even flinching as they passed her husband's body coming back from the scaffold on an open-top cart.

Mounting the steps, she recited the fifty-first Psalm, pronouncing every syllable with the deep, slow, clear reverence it deserved, before embracing and whispering, "Go with God, sir. May He satisfy every wish of yours. I trust that He will do so. This is not the end. Not for either of us. After all, you must remember, sir, that the soul takes flight to the world that is eternal... invisible. But there arriving she is sure of bliss, and forever dwells in paradise."

Then she allowed her women, many of whom were weeping openly at the their young mistress's composure, to tie a black silk blindfold around her eyes and guide her hands to the block.

"Into thy hands, Lord Jesus, I commend my spirit," she murmured.

She felt a swish of a breeze tickle the back of her neck and then the world went black.

And I will trust in You alone,
And I will trust in You alone,
For Your endless mercy follows me,
Your goodness will lead me home.

Mary heard the cannon blast echoing from the Tower and knew what it signified even before the herald arrived at her door.

"The Lady Jane is dead, Madam," the young man murmured solemnly.

"May God have mercy on her soul," Mary replied, crossing herself. She rose and went to the window. As she stood before, gazing absently at the ground spread beneath her, a jolt of icy dread suddenly froze her heart. Had it really been worth it? Had Jane's death really been that necessary? Could she not have saved her? Found some pretext to declare her innocent, despite her stubborn refusal to recant her heretical faith?

Her knuckles went white as a second jolt went even deeper into her heart. Jane had been innocent, a mere scapegoat for her relatives' treachery. Whatever her father's crimes, Jane herself had been innocent. And she, Mary, had let herself be pressurised into signing the poor child's death warrant. Would God ever forgive her for that?

Without even realising it, she let a hand trail down to rest on her flat, empty belly.

Of course it had been worth it. Jane's death meant Phillip would come to England. He would marry her and fill her belly with his good, strong Catholic seed. He would sire a son on her; a son to keep Elizabeth from the throne and England from backsliding into heresy. And God would smile on her for it. In His mercy and righteousness, He would understand that the ends justified the means and he would bless her for her piety and her love for Him.

"Yes," Mary told herself firmly, "It's all worth it. Or it will be, at least. When Phillip smiles at me and kisses me as our son squalls in his cradle, it will all have been worth it.

And I will trust in You alone
And I will trust in You alone