by David Field
‘So far as I am aware.’
Edward sat deep in thought for a moment, then looked up at Jane. ‘I would deem it a great favour if you would join Lady Catherine in her final few weeks before giving birth. She did so much for me while married to my father and it grieves me to think of her as being alone at this time, while her so-called husband makes a fool of himself by playing unwanted court to my sister Elizabeth. Would you journey to Sudeley and take the Lady Catherine my best love and good wishes for a successful childbirth? It is her first and I hear tell that these things can be difficult, even for younger women.’
‘I’d be more than happy to keep her company, Edward, but it would mean that you and I would not have the pleasure of our regular meetings. And what of my governess and my companion Grace?’
‘You must of course take them with you. For myself, I will naturally miss our happy meetings, but it is a sign of the love and regard in which I hold the Lady Catherine that I would part with your gracious presence in order that she should have the benefit of it.’
Late that afternoon Jane returned to Durham House with news of the King’s wish that she and Grace join Catherine Seymour in her Gloucestershire retreat. Grace was not altogether happy to be leaving Allan behind in London, but kept her counsel and agreed that of course she’d be happy to accompany Jane, along with Mary Calthorpe. There was some initial concern that the journey might be too much for their aging governess, now well into her sixties, until Sir John Dudley gallantly offered his coach for the journey, along with an escort of his son Guildford, his squire Allan Bestwick, and three of his armed retinue.
This was sufficient to put the smile back on Grace’s face and four days later their coach rumbled through the dusty late summer gateway to Sudeley Castle, where a warm welcome awaited them all.
Catherine Seymour was now less than a month from her lying in and was overcome with tears when she heard that the girls had arrived at the request of the King. During their brief stay at Chelsea Manor she had grown particularly close to Jane, and the presence of her governess, who had a lifetime’s experience of child delivery behind her, was an additional benefit.
After two days it was time for their escort to depart back to London and Grace stood unhappily on the south terrace of the house, looking mournfully down at the coach that was being drawn up at the front entrance, with Guildford Dudley issuing instructions to the coachman. She was peering over the four foot high parapet in vain for a final sight of Allan when she heard a footfall behind her and turned to see him standing there, looking slightly uncomfortable. After a lengthy silence with their eyes locked on each other, it was Allan who spoke first.
‘Forgive me, but I could not leave without saying farewell and they said that you had gone up onto the terrace to watch the departure. Guildford is down there with Jane and ... well...’
‘Well what, Allan?’ Grace teased him.
‘Will you remember me fondly when I am gone?’
‘Why would I not?’
‘I know of no reason, but I ... I’ll miss you, Grace,’ he finally mumbled.
‘And I will miss you also,’ Grace said, before looking round carefully and adding, ‘And since there seems to be no-one else to view our parting, why don’t you kiss me and stop looking so awkward?’
Allan rushed over and folded her in his arms before planting a hot kiss on her lips. It was the first she had ever experienced from the lips of a young man and the world seemed suspended for a moment before she pushed him gently away with a smile.
‘Enough to see you on your way, Master Bestwick. I will remember you fondly and do you perform the same service for me. No frolicking with the kitchen girls in the stables.’
‘I leave that to the stable grooms,’ Allan said, before executing a most gentlemanly bow and taking his leave.
Thomas Seymour was experiencing an altogether less pleasant exchange with his nephew Edward, who had commanded his presence for reasons that required no imagination on Thomas’s part.
‘It is ungallant, unseemly, immoral and an insult to my stepmother, Uncle. What has overtaken your wits?’
‘Of what do you speak?’ Thomas offered hopefully, then regretted it as Edward thumped the arm of his chair in a manner that reminded Thomas only too well of the petulant temper that the late King was wont to display.
‘You know of what I speak!’ Edward yelled. ‘Not only was it the talk of London and the sole topic of whispers behind raised hands here at Court, but now I have a letter from my sister Mary, complaining of what she calls “the wanton and immoral behaviour of my sister Elizabeth with a married man whose wife is about to be delivered of a child.” To whom do you imagine she is referring, Uncle? How many married men of your acquaintance, whose wife is about to give birth, do you know who recently had access to the Lady Elizabeth? And why has my stepmother taken herself from your company in order to give birth well out of your presence?’
‘It was horse-play only,’ Thomas muttered in self-defence.
‘What was only horse-play?’ Edward demanded.
Thomas chose his words carefully. ‘Thanks to that gaoler of a governess, poor Elizabeth knew of no light-hearted diversion. So I took pity on the poor girl and would play games with her once she retired for the night.’
‘“Games”, Uncle?’ Edward demanded, red in the face. ‘Pray advise me what “games” a grown man plays, dressed only in his nightshirt, with a girl of fourteen?’
‘I would tickle her feet and on one occasion I chased her round her chamber and smacked her bottom when I caught her.’
‘And she was presumably clad in only her nightgown?’
‘Naturally, since she had retired to her bed.’
‘Presumably you were clad in more than your night attire when you visited her at Cheshunt?’
‘Naturally. And during such visits, we merely walked in the garden.’
‘Where you were seen with your arm around her waist and she resting her head on your shoulder. More than once, it seems. This was reported to the Lady Mary, who was so incensed at what she, in her pious virtue, regarded as little less than a seduction, that she ordered Elizabeth back to Hatfield and doubled the guard as a protection against your further approach to her sister.’
‘With all due respect to the Lady Mary, Edward, she has the soul of a nun and the imagination of a playwright. Were you to ask the Lady Elizabeth herself, she would freely confirm that there was nought of lewdness about our behaviour.’
‘Of course she would,’ Edward pointed out, ‘since she fears our sister’s wrath. You are hereby ordered to have no further communings with the Lady Elizabeth. None whatsoever. Not even so much as a letter of enquiry regarding her health. Am I understood?’
‘Certainly, Edward.’
‘Certainly, Your Majesty,’ Edward corrected him in a warning tone, and Thomas repeated the phrase with his head bowed.
‘To further ensure your good behaviour in that regard,’ Edward continued, ‘you are commanded to journey down to Sudeley, in order to be by the Lady Catherine’s side when she delivers your child. Lady Jane Grey is already down there, so she does not lack friendly company, thanks to my efforts. But it is your place to be there also, and while you are safely in Gloucestershire, certain persons in Hertfordshire will be free of your unwanted attentions. And your loyal response to that command is?’
‘Yes, Your Majesty,’ Thomas muttered before being dismissed from the presence, cursing quietly under his breath all the way down the corridor to the rear entrance to Hampton Court Palace. It was clear, in his mind, that Edward was being forced into a life that contained little light relief and no worthwhile contact whatsoever with those of the opposite sex. He was obviously apprehensive of incurring the ire of his older sister and no longer had the comforting presence of Lady Jane, with whom he was quite possibly in love without realising it. Well he, Thomas, would take steps to remedy that oversight and when he could finally demonstrate to his naive and over-protected nephew that he was ma
ster of his own destiny and could, as King, live his life precisely as he chose, the fortunes of one of his uncles might well rise much higher than those of the other.
But first he had to travel to Sudeley and pretend that he cared.
The unheralded arrival of Thomas Seymour at Sudeley threw the household into a flutter. Catherine gave orders that Thomas was to be provided with his own suite of rooms, preferably far away from hers, and she took Mary Calthorpe quietly to one side and instructed her to be doubly mindful of her duties to guard the two girls in her care from even the suspicion of immoral behaviour. Jane spent almost every day in Catherine’s company anyway, while Grace would take a horse from the stables and, with an armed escort drawn from the Seymour household, demonstrate her growing enthusiasm for exploring the surrounding countryside on horseback, wondering in her more withdrawn moments whether the rolling Cotswold Hills by which Sudeley was surrounded were anything like the river meadows of Attenborough that Allan had described to her.
At the very end of August, Catherine went into labour and after some initial difficulty that Mary Calthorpe put down to the fact that she was giving birth for the first time at the age of thirty-six, she was delivered of a girl they called Mary. Her husband Thomas seemed to take an interest in the infant and would regularly attend at Catherine’s bedside to enquire as to her health. When she had been incapable of rising from her childbed for four days, a worried Mary Calthorpe told Thomas that she suspected childbed fever and banned him from further attendance at Catherine’s bedside. The only regular visitor she was allowed was Jane, who looked on with a feeling of helpless horror as she witnessed the daily decline of the lady who had been so generous towards her.
On the fifth day, Catherine held out a weak hand and grasped Jane’s. ‘When I am gone, will you see to the mourning?’
‘Of course,’ Jane replied tearfully, ‘but no more talk of your death, I beg you.’
‘It is all that there is left to talk about,’ Catherine replied with a weak smile, ‘and I do not grieve my passing. And neither will that snake Seymour, who married me for who I am and what I owned, all of which will be his on my death, when he will look for a new bride who is much younger and who can offer him more than mere wealth. Beware of his charm, Jane, for you may be the one he sets his designs upon.’
‘Me?’ Jane asked in astonishment. ‘Why me, pray?’
Catherine smiled knowingly. ‘You are comely and you are young flesh, which Seymour prefers. But even more importantly, you are a royal princess, through your mother. Her mother was the Princess Mary Tudor, the aunt of our current King and it was well known in those days that Mary was King Henry’s favoured sister. King Edward has ever shown you preference and — forgive me, but you must be advised — there are rumours that he sees you as a royal bride when he comes fully into his own. Seymour knows that and will no doubt seek your hand ahead of any such betrothal. Do not ever doubt your attraction as a bride and do not undersell yourself to seducers like Seymour.’
When Jane fell silent, Catherine felt compelled to confide further in her.
‘You need not grieve for my passing, since I am glad to be taken out of this life. I had four husbands, one of them a king, and now I leave a daughter to follow behind me. As for the husband I also leave, I fear that he will show her no love, but will regard her solely for the match that can be made for her when she is of age. I have sent word to Catherine Suffolk, asking that of the love she bears me she take the child into her household, and I would ask that you ensure that this occurs. As for my so-called husband, have nothing to do with him, and for the sake of your reputations take yourself and your friend Grace back under Warwick’s protection without delay.’
The following day, the light of life faded from Catherine’s face and Jane sat sobbing quietly, holding her cooling hand, with Mary Calthorpe’s hand resting on her shoulder in a gesture of comfort. Grace also consoled her and assisted in the preparations for the funeral, at which, at Seymour’s request, Jane acted as chief mourner. During the mourning period, an urgent despatch was sent to London and the day after the funeral the Dudley coach swept up the driveway of Sudeley, with Guildford and Allan riding proudly behind it at the head of a small contingent of armed men.
As they turned from stabling their horses, they saw Grace standing quietly to one side of the stable entrance. Guildford made his excuses and walked away after his formal acknowledgment, and Allan and Grace stood facing each other. Allan grinned and jerked his head backwards to where the horses were being rubbed down.
‘I trust that you did not frolic with the stable grooms in my absence?’
‘I am no kitchen girl,’ Grace replied. ‘But welcome back, Allan Bestwick, and pray remind me of what I have been missing.’
As Guildford was bowing his respects to Jane at the front door to which she had come to welcome his return, he saw her eyes widening in shocked surprise as she looked over his shoulder. He turned and saw Grace and Allan in a tight embrace, followed by a lingering kiss.
‘I believe that they get on quite well together,’ Guildford observed laconically.
XIV
It was a clear, cold, moonlit January night, three months after Catherine Seymour’s funeral, as Thomas Seymour alighted from the private wherry he had commissioned, with a whispered request for the wherryman to await his return. He worked his way through the ornamental privy garden that led from the Thames up the gentle slope towards the ground floor apartments of Hampton Court Palace that housed King Edward, scuttling between hedges and statues, flitting from shadow to shadow as he worked his way towards, and finally under, the walls.
There was a flower bed between him and the casement window that he knew could be forced with the metal bar that was tucked into the belt of his tunic, along with a pistol. As he stepped gingerly into the flower bed in his cautious approach to the window that, by his calculation, gave access to King Edward’s bedchamber, there was a flurry of movement near his feet and a growl, followed by a sharp bark. His nerves screwed up to breaking point, Thomas drew his pistol and fired and with a pitiful whine the royal Spaniel puppy rolled onto its side and died.
Suddenly Thomas was surrounded on all sides by hulking shadows armed with halberds, swords and daggers, calling upon him to drop his weapon or else he would be run through a dozen times. As he stopped and raised his hands high in the air, throwing his pistol onto the path behind him, someone produced a lantern whose light temporarily blinded him, while a voice called out, ‘That’s him! That’s Seymour! Hold the traitor!’
As they led him towards the south gate and the dungeon, he cursed his own incompetence. When news ran riot through the guardhouse, thence to the kitchens and from there to the bedchambers and audience rooms and out into the London streets, that Baron Seymour of Sudeley had been caught in the act of an attempt on the King’s life, only John Dudley, Earl of Warwick, had to feign surprise.
Long before Edward Seymour arrived, the rest of the Council had agreed, with the King’s enthusiastic consent, that the enquiry into Thomas Seymour’s undoubted attempt on King Edward’s life should be conducted by Thomas Wriothesley. For one thing, he was a trained and experienced lawyer, and for another he clearly had no love for the Seymours, one of whom had been instrumental is his dismissal as Lord Chancellor and the other of whom — the one under investigation and in peril of his life — had only ever treated him with contempt.
He was also known to be an unrepentant Catholic and therefore opposed to the Seymour faction who dominated the Council and the tutors responsible for the King’s education. This made him trusted by the Lady Mary, who had penned one furious missive after another to London when she heard, third-hand, of what was widely believed to have been an attempt on Edward’s life by an upstart philanderer who had made attempts on the virtue of her younger sister Elizabeth, no doubt as the result of all the lewd and licentious tendencies of the Protestant beliefs by which her childhood had been polluted. Mary was also demanding that the possible invol
vement of Elizabeth herself in the plot be investigated to its fullest and no-one but the pious and vinegar-faced Wriothesley would be able to satisfy her that the task had been undertaken with sufficient thoroughness.
Edward Seymour was advised of the decision as soon as he arrived, late, at Council and he nodded without any attempt at argument. He had come to regard his brother Thomas as an embarrassment and a threat to his own continued dominance of affairs in Council, and his wife, for one, would rejoice when Thomas went to the scaffold, as he seemed destined to do. Being found at night with a loaded firearm, only feet from where the King was lying asleep, required a great deal of explaining away and so far there had been no such explanation.
The Council meeting resolved to attaint Thomas on multiple charges of treason that required no trial ahead of an execution that would follow as a matter of course. Edward Seymour listened solemnly to the King’s litany of examples of Thomas’s failure to obey his commands, his attempts to bribe Edward with money and gifts, his flirtations with Lady Elizabeth while his wife was burdened with pregnancy, and his open jealousy of the success of his older brother.
‘The Earl of Southampton, my Lady.’
Princess Elizabeth rose from her needlepoint and indicated the chair next to hers, while calling for wine to be served.
‘Sir Thomas,’ she asked politely, ‘to what do I owe this unexpected visit?’
Wriothesley was not one for the indirect approach, which perhaps accounted for his relative failure to acquire — or to retain for any length of time — high office in a Court that favoured forked tongues.
‘You were presumably advised that Thomas Seymour was executed for treason?’
‘Indeed, and my heart grieved to hear it,’ Elizabeth replied innocently, unaware of the perilous ground she was treading.
‘Did it indeed?’ Wriothesley asked as his face set in displeasure. ‘Could that be because of a certain affection that had arisen between the two of you?’
