She had sailed forth into Thomas Seymour’s bed as lustily as a bride half her age; enamored and blinded by lust. Tales of the couple being chained to their bed for days on end had circulated through the court, and many had winked and laughed at Katherine Parr’s new vocation. She had fallen and fallen fast into the embrace of her young husband, and where she had hitherto practiced moderation and exercised modesty in all things; she had since revoked all those virtues, consigning them to the wind.
All the same, Mary could not help but pity the woman. All her husbands had been sickly or old, and they had brought her little joy. Katherine Parr had been ready to effect her rejuvenation with Thomas Seymour, but like her own father had been with Katherine Howard, Katherine Parr was to find lust sorry currency and bitter as gall.
For all the love and affection she showered upon Thomas Seymour, Katherine Parr now laid dead and buried.
The woman, who survived three husbands, one of them a king, could not survive Thomas Seymour.
Her luck had deserted her. She had been the Lucky Widow Parr for far too long. Once, twice, thrice, Luck had stood firm by Katherine’s side. But in this, her final trial, it abandoned her, leaving her to the sorriest of fates…
They say, one afternoon, the dowager queen happened upon Elizabeth and her beloved husband, the Baron Sudeley, in fervent embrace.
Large with child, Katherine screamed like a mad woman when she saw her husband and the girl who she had called her ‘beloved daughter,’ engaged in indecency. Undone by the shock, her pains came upon her.
Gasping and shaking with anger, she banished Elizabeth before promptly falling into bed, where she labored for days. The letters said Katherine Parr had suffered greatly. While she heaved and panted through her pains, she ranted and raved at her young husband, denouncing him. She cried tears of anguish. She cursed the man she had loved with such passion, reviling him, hurling abuse and calling him every foul word she could deploy.
At first, Thomas Seymour stayed by her side, but as the hours wore on, he found that he had neither the desire nor the inclination to be abused by a woman, so he left her.
Deserted, Katherine Parr brought forth her daughter alone and named her Mary. The lady became ill not long after and never rose again from the bed she once shared with Thomas Seymour.
Attended by her ladies and Lady Jane Grey, Katherine Parr, Henry’s last queen passed, cursing to the last the name of her husband, the faithless Baron Sudeley, who had left her in her hour of need.
And what of the husband? Mary scoffed, what of the man who wrought such havoc, not in one woman’s life but two?
Thomas Seymour had been at court.
Shrugging off his wife’s illness and heedless of the disgrace he had wrought, he returned to court, swaggering down the halls of Hampton Court like a cock at crow. When he was advised of his wife’s death he shed a few tears as was proper, thence, he buried her with all haste before applying to the council for the hand of the Princess Elizabeth. When that was denied, he asked to wed Lady Jane Grey.
Thomas Seymour was no mourning husband.
To him, Katherine Parr was dead, and good riddance too. Thomas Seymour was ready for greater things. He had what he desired from her; he had all her monies. Katherine Parr had committed to her will when their marriage had been in its bud, ceding unto him all her earthly riches. As such, her death had brought Thomas Seymour a handsome fortune.
He now had Katherine’s riches from all three of her husbands. It was his. It was all his. With his pockets overflowing with coin, he paraded himself before the council, his actions bold and his words even bolder. He wanted the Protector-ship and he made no bones about it, stirring trouble, rousing discord.
But his brother, the Lord Protector, would have none of it. Somerset could afford any rivals to his position. Wriothesley, Warwick and Southampton were proving to be formidable foes for the Duke and he had no time for his brother’s deadly meddling.
For all was not well in England.
The country was under siege, the parliament was fractured and opposition to the Protector’s rule was rife. Henry’s England was lost without his guidance. Everywhere discontentment reigned and at the heart of the people’s disgruntlement was that old and constant refrain: religion.
Henry the king had asked the people of England to swear their undying allegiance to him. He had asked them to entrust him with their mortal flesh as well as their immortal souls. He had promised to lead them to paradise and God’s green pastures through a path that only he could decipher. He had promised them glory unknown and a salvation that only he could guide them to. But his heir was too young to do the same.
Edward was too young to govern and his Protector, having no care for religion, left the matter of the country’s faith to Thomas Cranmer and his party, fierce, staunch Protestants all. Those who fled England years ago, fearing her father’s wrath at having dared to preach Protestantism were now all of them returned. Like writhing snakes, they coiled themselves around every diocese and every Holy See, ready to dispense their heretic’s teachings.
The list of the king’s new clergy signaled the torrent of Protestantism set to sweep the land. John Roger, Royal Chaplain to the King. John Hooper, Bishop of Worchester and Gloucester. Hugh Latimer, Royal Chaplain to the King. Nicholas Ridley, Bishop of London. And to top them all was the Archbishop of Canterbury, Thomas Cranmer, who now held sway over the religion of this land.
Cranmer has been unleashed and his vipers have returned. Crawling out from their dark cubby holes, they have converged and with all haste, they have been pushing and shoving through their dastardly reforms…
The foul things afoot in England made Mary’s eyes sting, we have fallen and fallen fast. Already, the new bishops were denying the people their rights. Every one was to worship according to the dictates of the new religion. Saints were no longer to be prayed to, their pictures were to be seized and destroyed. Shrines were to be demolished. A common prayer book was to be used. Masses were banned.
Upon such changes, Bishop Bonner and Bishop Gardiner rose up, denouncing the destruction being done to the king’s church. For their efforts, they were deprived of their liberties and cast into the Tower.
There had been turmoil here in England. Riots were rife. The people were boiling with anger. They could not abide by the new laws of worship that deprived them of their rites; the rites that good king Henry had deemed good enough to keep. From London, Wales, Norfolk, Devon to Cornwall, the people were up in arms.
But despite their anger, the strident reforms continued.
The Protestants had also been conducting their own inquest into the state of religion in England. Charges of Hersey saw many arrested and cast into the prisons, foremost amongst them were those inside the ranks of the new faith itself.
Their task was clear. They would purge England of the factionalized Protestants first before they get to the task of dealing with the Catholics. As for the Catholics, many had either fled or gone into hiding. Mary Tudor was the only one still standing tall.
Meanwhile, the trials of the Protestants progressed apace. At the order of the Bishops, heretic after heretic had gone to the flames, burned at the stake. Not three nights past, a Protestant woman by the name of Joan was sent to the fires. There was no mercy. John Rogers, the king’s chaplain had been adamant, the woman had to die. Denying her any chance of clemency, he went so far as to pronounce her death sorry payment for the sins she had committed against God.
Mary had scoffed at the man’s words when they were whispered into her ears.
John Rogers, may you find the same mercy you have shown this day from those that shall judge you when your time is nigh, Mary thought.
The righteousness of these supposed men of God made Mary want to retch, men such as Rogers knew nothing of religion or of the True Faith; they were pretenders all. They were making a mockery of England and the hearts and souls of this realm, and they were being allowed to do so to their heart’s content as the yo
ung Edward watched on, powerless and far too young to exert any influence of his own.
My father’s England has fallen, Mary lamented, it has fallen into the hands of godless men.
And while the religion of the land lay in disarray, there were other matters too, dire in their consequences, plaguing England. From farmers to landlords, the realm was embroiled in a war regarding the matter of land and tillage. Agreements for the common use of land and the device for the terms of rent and maintenance were in chaos. The sitting Council, unable to offer the people guidance or resolution, forced the common folk to take the matter into their own hands.
Convinced that the Protector and his council were protecting the lawbreakers, the farmers erupted and rebellion exploded forth from Mary’s lands. Led by Robert Kett, the men took to arms, ready to fight for their rights.
Only to be massacred.
The soldiers sent to suppress them were ruthless, carrying out their killings under the command of John Dudley, the Earl of Warwick.
Mary marked the name, marked and noted. The carnage in the lands loyal to Mary was horrid and those not murdered in the skirmishes were hanged.
The new council, stunned by the challenge from the common folk was now governing with an iron fist. Wherever there was trouble, soldiers were sent. The people were being quashed and their blood spilled. But the anger was still rising. The people were seething.
Still, England’s troubles did not end there.
Beyond English soil and to the north, war with Scotland was draining the royal coffers too. There, the standing army needed to be fed, clothed and armed. They had won a victory or two but the Scots were now trying a new tactic. They were now seeking to expedient a certain matter so that they could curb the Protector’s invasions.
The Scots had betrothed their infant Queen of Scots, Mary, to the French Dauphin. In one brilliant stroke, they had aligned themselves with England’s oldest enemy.
And by all accounts, Henri of France was most desirous to protect his alliance and his foothold on this isle. To diverge the attention of the Lord Protector from his headlong path into Scottish lands, they said the French king was on the verge of launching an attack on the English held Boulogne.
So it was, from the north, east, south and west and all the way to the shores of France, England was under siege. Discord, war, fear and anger were rampant.
The Duke, the Lord Protector was besieged.
He needed to be rid of his brother and he needed to be rid of him with all haste. He could not afford any further distractions. He needed to make safe his realm and his protectorate.
Mary folded her hands in her lap. So the plan to rid England of Thomas Seymour was hatched. But though Thomas Seymour was a brash fellow, he was no fool. He knew the plot against him was gathering apace. In a final gamble, he decided to take Edward prisoner.
Thomas Seymour was discovered in Edward’s chambers at Hampton Court on the night of January sixteenth, armed with a sword. Mary shook her head. The man thought to either succeed in his ill-fated task or die trying. Upon entering the boy-king’s privy chambers, he was greeted by Edward’s snapping spaniels, barking and hollering to high dungeon. In a rage, he slew one of the king’s dogs but that was the only heinous deed he was able to perform that night.
With the king’s guards alerted by the dogs, Thomas Seymour’s plot to take the king hostage folded like a house of cards. Outnumbered twenty to one, he gave in and was taken to the Tower.
Thirty counts of treason were laid against him. The man would die. As soon as it could be contrived, Somerset would see it done.
Poor Edward. Mary lamented. Father. If you can only see what has become of your England. If you can only see the deeds of your ministers in whom you placed such trust!
Mary suspected her brother would endure many more such attacks on his person ere he came of age. It would be a long time before he could take the reigns of kingship himself. But when that day arrived, Mary wondered too about those that held the power in his stead. Would they be willing to relinquish their authority?
As for Henry’s daughters, Mary understood that Thomas Seymour would not be the first man, or the last, to seek to wed either Elizabeth or any of her father’s heirs. Everywhere, those that ruled were seeking to consolidate their power at Edward’s expense.
Royal blood was being sought and it was being sought with a vengeance. The right alliance and the right son or daughter born in wedlock would give a minister seeking to launch himself into higher places just the right stone upon which to balance his feet. The men of the Privy Council were scrambling over themselves to secure their place.
But Warwick, Mary noted, was the man to watch.
The man was ambitious and he was a Dudley. He had wit and he was an able soldier. He held troops and many were at his command. Mary marked him also as the man who once struck Bishop Gardiner in the face during a session of council. Warwick was a staunch protestant and he had no place and no patience for Gardiner’s reasoning.
Warwick.
Warwick and Somerset. The names ran, turn and turn about in Mary’s mind.
The Earls of Warwick and the Dukes of Somerset had all been kingmakers. Edward IV and Henry VI had held their thrones with the aid of their Warwick and Somerset, and though a hundred years had passed since those days, the men that occupied these titles were still as ambitious and dangerous as ever.
Now, in her brother’s reign, the stage was set for yet another war between Warwick and Somerset. This time the players were John Dudley and Edward Seymour. Neither of the men had inherited their titles by blood, only by greed. They were no relations to the Warwicks and Somersets that came before them. Instead, they had chosen and conferred those titles upon themselves during the great scramble after her father’s death.
A smile touched Mary’s lips. It was a wonder to her that one man should have chosen Warwick as his title with the other taking Somerset. Only two generations ago, one Somerset, Harry Beaufort had faced Richard Neville, the Earl of Warwick, with deadly consequences. Beaufort had been the chief advisor and ally of the soft-spoken Henry VI, while Neville, the Earl of Warwick had been the warrior instrumental to Edward IV, the then Duke of York’s ascension to the throne.
Henry VI.
Henry V was a king who took England to the heights of glory. No one could have ever imagined Henry V having a son like Henry VI.
But Henry VI came to the throne young. Quashed and bullied by his ministers, he became a man weak and plagued by illnesses of the mind. He was young, very young, just like my brother Edward, Mary grimaced. Such precedence made her fear for her brother. He had been a bright child with a sunny disposition but he was king now, thrust into the game of power.
And a deadly game it was too. History made for sorry reading when it came to young kings.
Edward V, the young son of the warlike Edward IV had come to the throne young too. Too young, far too young, and his uncle Richard had found the chance too tempting to forgo. Locked in the Tower with his younger brother, Edward V and his sibling met with mysterious ends, disappearing into the fortress, never to be seen again…. But then the villain in that piece had been Richard III, a duke in his own right. His claim to the throne had been every bit as strong as that of his brother’s sons. Such is not the case for the Seymours. They have no royal blood running through those veins, none...
Mary frowned. Still, no matter the happenstance, danger lurked.
Weak sons followed strong fathers; the endless contest for the English throne had proved the saying true. And young boys made for the most deadly of kings.
Mary sighed. Danger. It hovered, haunting them all.
As such, Mary avoided court with vigilance. It was no place for her, not with the Protestants running amok. She would live a quiet life. So here she was, a quiet observer of the goings on in England. It was not her place nor was it within her power to effect change in the Lord Protector’s England.
The only boon she asked of her brother was fo
r him to allow her and those of her faith to continue with their methods of worship. She would suffer no handicaps and terms to be placed upon her immortal soul.
So far, her requests had been with steely silence.
Mary cast her eyes over the letter she penned for her sister Elizabeth. She squinted.
Lately, her eyes had been failing. Things from a distance seemed to elude her and the affliction was only growing worse.
Such is the consequence of old age, she mused. But Mary was not well. She often had pain in her sides, when the dagger like ache attacked, she would be sent headlong into a paroxysm of coughing and wheezing.
She inhaled deeply and winced at the prodding pain rearing its head. Sometimes the air would refuse to fill her lungs and she would be reduced to a state of wretchedness that even the doctors could not assuage.
Perhaps my time shall be soon, she thought, mayhap I would not last the year. She was not afraid to go where so many had gone. Indeed, when the pain was too much she would often long for the relief of death. But for now she breathed still, breathed and lived.
With her hand pressed into her side, she brought the page she had writ closer to her so she could make out the words. She read slowly, contemplating the missive.
She had no doubt that her letters were being intercepted and read. Elizabeth was being kept under guard in the household of Sir Anthony Denny.
Mary took the delicate parchment in her hands. With brusque efficiency, she reduced the letter she composed to waste. Her words would not reach Elizabeth. They were being watched, their every move recorded and their every word noted. They were prisoners in their brother’s England.
Indeed, a careful eye was being kept upon the two daughters of the dead king, the heirs to Edward VI, because everyone feared the heir.
It had been the fondest desire of my father to have heirs, Mary thought with a wiry tilt to her lips. He had wished to father an infinite number of them. He had wanted his house to overflow with children.
Mary understood his desire. In times of peace, a king should populate his lineage with as many heirs as he could beget. But in times of strife, heirs were poison. They were the objects of suspicion. They were like thorns waiting to be plucked.
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