by Jean Plaidy
It was during the next year that I heard of the scandal concerning my sister and Thomas Seymour. I must say it did not surprise me—knowing them both.
I was sorry for Katharine. It seemed she was doomed never to be happy. Her husbands had brought her little joy. Nurse to two of them, and with the third she had been subjected to great terror, and when she thought she had at last entered into a happy union, she found she had married a philanderer.
There were many who might have told her that this was what she would find in Thomas Seymour, but that the Princess Elizabeth should be the one involved with him was quite unexpected.
I knew there had always been an attraction between those two. My sister had been born with a shrewd nature or she might have accepted him in marriage. She would see, though, that that would have been the utmost folly. All the same, she had had a fancy for him.
Had Katharine not been aware of the flirtatious behavior between her husband and Elizabeth? Or had she shut her eyes to that which she did not want to see? Had she made the mistake of regarding Elizabeth as a child?
The story came out. There were always servants to tattle. What had they thought when the Admiral made a habit of teasing the girl, kissing her, even coming into her bedroom when she was in bed and tickling her? It was unseemly, even though sometimes the Queen had joined in the game.
There was a great deal of talk about that occasion when the Princess came into the garden wearing a black dress which Seymour said he did not like because not only was it unbecoming but it was too old for her. She should remember she was only fourteen…or was it fifteen? In any case he would not allow her to wear such a gown. Of course, it was all supposed to be fun—another of those games which the Admiral and the Princess so enjoyed and in which the Queen often joined. But the Admiral had taken a knife and slit up the skirt so that the Princess's petticoats were visible; the game had grown wilder until the gown was slit in many places and the Princess was there in the garden in her petticoats.
“My Lord Admiral,” she had cried, “you have ruined my dress. You must buy me another.” And he had replied, “Most willingly.”
It was clear that the Lady Elizabeth and the Admiral had greatly enjoyed the romp.
Jane Grey was with them, for on the King's death she had joined Katharine's household. Katharine was delighted to have her; she would be easier to understand than Elizabeth; she was such a docile, gentle creature, and Elizabeth was so unpredictable. I often wondered what Jane thought of all the rompings in that household.
It was certain to come to an end sooner or later.
Meanwhile Katharine was having trouble with Anne Stanhope, Somerset's wife. The trouble was over a matter of precedence. Anne, as wife of the elder brother, thought her place should be before that of her husband's younger brother's wife, for, Anne said, Katharine was no longer in the position of Queen, particularly as she had married so hastily after the King's death.
I was amazed at Anne. I had always been friendly with her and had quite liked her, for I had always found her reasonable. Katharine was not a woman to give herself airs, and I was sure she did not greatly care about a matter of precedence. But I thought it was rather sad that there should be this conflict.
Katharine became pregnant about the same time as Anne Stanhope did, and I believe Anne had grand ideas for her child. She was already scheming for her daughter Jane, whom she wanted to marry to Edward. My brother had been meant for Mary of Scotland, but after Somerset had beaten the Scots at Pinkie Cleugh, Mary had been carried off to France, which put an end to that project. No doubt they would get him married as soon as they could; but he had a little way to go yet before he could produce an heir.
The quarrel between Somerset's wife and the Dowager Queen flourished, but then the scandal concerning Elizabeth and the Admiral came to such a stage that it could not be ignored.
Katharine was now several months pregnant. They say that is a time when husbands often stray. That would not apply to Seymour. He would be ready to stray at any time. But it so happened that the Admiral was not careful enough, and one day the Queen opened the door of a room and found Elizabeth in the arms of her husband; and this was no game. It was obvious that they either were, or wanted to be, lovers.
I felt so sorry for Katharine. Elizabeth had been foolish, but she was only fifteen years old and Seymour was a rogue. Even Katharine could not deceive herself any longer. She must realize that her husband was a philanderer and Elizabeth a wanton. Here she was, for the first time in her life, about to taste the joys of motherhood for which she had longed all her life; and they had turned it sour for her.
I cannot imagine what happened during the scene which followed, but I did know that Elizabeth's sojourn under her roof was over. It would have been quite impossible for the child to stay after that. She would have to go.
She was sent away with her governess, Mrs. Katharine Ashley, to Cheston, and afterward to Hatfield and Ashridge.
There was a fearful state of unrest throughout the country. People never take religion calmly, and I suppose one could not expect them to slip from Catholic to Protestant without an upheaval. My father had always supported the Catholic Faith, the only difference being that he was Head of the Church of England. But Edward believed in the reformed religion and most of those about him did also; and they were determined to make England Protestant.
According to the converts, everything about the old religion was evil; saints were reviled; priests were mocked; and the Pope to them was the Devil incarnate.
Nor was this confined to words. Churches were violated, beautiful stained-glass windows smashed, altars desecrated, and there was public contempt for the old religious practices.
On the advice of François van der Delft, I remained in obscurity— though I did not need him to tell me to do that. Of course, there would be those who rose in anger against the new ideas; and I was next in succession; it was well known that I was an ardent Catholic. True, I had accepted my father's supremacy in the Church, but that was to save my life, and in my heart I had never agreed with it. Those who deplored the way the country was going would look to me.
It was an alarming time. It is always a dangerous situation when the king of a country is a minor, but when there is religious conflict—and one of such magnitude—the times are indeed perilous.
There was, of course, the Emperor. But for his powerful presence I should have been dispatched long ago. I was his cousin, so there was the family tie; and, more important, I was next in succession and I should be the upholder of the Catholic Faith. In England, good Catholics must be hoping that Edward would not long survive; they would certainly pray that he would never marry and have offspring, for then it would be my turn, and this period of aberration, this straying from the fold, would be over. Triumphantly, I would bring England back to that fold, which she should never have left.
So I remained away from Court, and it was conveyed to me discreetly that there would be no interference for the time being in the manner in which religious observances were carried out in my household.
So, in the seclusion of my manors, I lived quietly, seeing François van der Delft whenever possible and learning all I could about what was going on in the country.
I often thought of Katharine and wondered what she was feeling. She would have her child, and I believed that would give her great comfort. Poor, sad lady! Indeed, I might apply this to myself. Life was harsh to some of us.
I thought a great deal about Elizabeth and wondered how she liked being sent away in disgrace. She would make excuses for herself—she would be like our father in that. How deep had her feeling for Seymour been? What a situation! As a princess second in line for the throne, she was old enough to realize that her cavortings with Seymour might have had results.
Anne Stanhope, Duchess of Somerset, gave birth to a boy. I hoped Katharine would be lucky. But when had she ever been lucky? I could imagine her…brought to bed… longing for her child, and all the time nursing her re
sentment against her husband. I hoped Elizabeth felt some qualms of conscience. How could she have behaved so in her own stepmother's house! It was hard for me to understand… not so much that she should have a fancy for the man, but that she could so far forget her honor, her destiny. I was well aware that Elizabeth had her eyes on the crown. There was a certain sparkle which appeared in them every time it was mentioned. She was healthy; she was young; how could she have risked throwing it all away for a philanderer like Seymour? Perhaps she thought she could have both. She was greedy, my sister.
Katharine gave birth to a little girl. I wished her well. Seymour would have preferred a boy. Do not all men? But Katharine, I knew, would be content with the child, whatever its sex.
Then came the sad news. Katharine had fallen into a fever soon after the child was delivered. One of my women heard afterward from Lady Tyrwhit, who was attending her, what had happened.
“Poor soul,” Lady Tyrwhit had said. “She told me she knew she would not leave her bed. The Admiral was there. He seemed to be overcome with grief. He tried to comfort her but she turned away from him, and spoke not to him but to me. She said, ‘I am most unhappy, Lady Tyrwhit. Those I love have cared not for me. They mock me. They laugh at my love. They wait for my death so that they may be with others.' It was pathetic to hear the poor lady. The Admiral tried to soothe her but she would not listen. He said he would never harm her, and she answered that she thought he did not speak the truth. He begged her to remember that they loved each other and how they had wanted to be together more than anything else. She said to him coldly… oh, so coldly, ‘You have given me some shrewd taunts.' Then she turned to me and said, ‘I do not think I shall live. I do not want to live.' He wanted to lie beside her on the bed and hold her hand and tell her he loved her, to beg her to live, but she turned from him, and I told him he must go for he disturbed her rest.”
Lady Tyrwhit had wept when she told this, and when I heard it I myself felt near to tears. Very soon after that Katharine Parr passed away—such a good woman, who had never done harm to any. Life had been cruel to her.
There was change all about us, and no one knew from one day to another what would come next.
THOMAS SEYMOUR WAS one of the most reckless men I ever heard of. It was certain that he must sooner or later come to disaster. He should never have risen to such a high place—nor would he but for the charms of his sister. He lacked the good sense of his brother Edward. His were the handsome looks, the dashing personality, the ability to attract people to him; but without good sense such attributes can be dangerous.
They certainly were in his case. He had sought to charm the King and become his favorite uncle, and this he had done. That was when Edward was a child, but having had kingship thrust upon him, he had now come to a certain maturity. Frail he might be, but he was learned beyond his years; he had the pride—and, yes, the arrogance of a Tudor; although attracted by good looks he was not entirely bemused by them.
After the death of Katharine, Seymour appeared to have his feet firmly set on the slippery path to disaster.
He should have been content with his spectacular rise. His brother Edward had become the Protector of the Realm and was therefore the most important man in the country; and he himself had received great honors. But, as I said, the man was a fool and like most fools he estimated himself too highly.
He had begun his reckless acts by his marriage before the King was cold. It had been said that, if the marriage had been productive from the start, there might possibly have been a doubt as to the paternity of the child, and that could have been a very grave matter. However, that did not arise. But Seymour was a man who made wild plans and acted on them before he had had time to consider them. He had resented his brother's supremacy and had tried to win Edward's affection for himself alone. All his misdemeanors were revealed after he had gone too far and was under restraint.
Before the death of my father, Thomas Seymour had been a constant visitor to Edward's apartments; he had supplied the boy with pocket money and treated him with mingling respect and affection in a manner which had won the boy's affection and rendered Thomas the favorite uncle. When Edward was King and Somerset Protector, Thomas had talked slightingly of his brother and had tried to persuade the young King to take the government into his own hands. He, Thomas, would be beside him to help in the task. Edward listened, but he was not the simple boy Thomas evidently believed him to be.
Thomas had thought it would be a good idea if Edward married Lady Jane Grey, who was being brought up in his household. Naturally it occurred to him that, with two such children, whose affection he had won, the government of the country would be in his hands.
As soon as his wife was dead, he renewed his courtship of Elizabeth. Thomas Seymour's greatest weakness was in underestimating the intelligence of others.
How I wished I could have talked with my sister at this time. How I should have loved to know what was in her devious mind! Marry Seymour? No. That was not for Elizabeth. She had flirted with him in her stepmother's house because she was attracted by the man—most women were, and Elizabeth was not immune from masculine charm—but that had been a game to her. The practiced seducer had not understood that he was not in command of the situation.
My sister Elizabeth was one who learned her lessons, and learned them well. She had no intention of making the same mistake twice.
Scheming against his brother, trying to win the confidence of the young King, trying to persuade Elizabeth into marriage, Seymour was a menace and a traitor to authority.
There was something else against him. He had used his position as Lord High Admiral to amass a fortune. A year or so previously he had set out to capture a certain pirate known as Thomessin who used the Scilly Isles as a base when he intercepted and robbed ships of all nations. The pirate could not stand out against Seymour's superior forces and was quickly captured; but when Thomessin explained to Seymour the profitability of privateering, the Lord High Admiral agreed to turn a blind eye to these activities in exchange for a share of the profits.
Somerset had offended certain of the landowners throughout the country, and Thomas sought the friendship of these people. He then had the idea of building up a force of his own, and for this purpose he indulged in devious practices with Sir William Sherrington, a rogue such as himself, who was vice-treasurer of the Mint at Bristol. This man had made a fortune by clipping coins and other nefarious actions. Seymour, conniving at this, obtained control of the Mint and was therefore able to build up a store of ammunition. His boast was that, in addition to this store, he had 10,000 men who would spring to arms at his command.
Even the most indulgent of brothers could not have allowed this to pass, and Somerset was certainly not that. He sent for Thomas, saying he wished to talk to him. Guessing what that conversation would be about, Seymour did not appear. There was only one action to take, and Somerset took it. Thomas was arrested and imprisoned in the Tower.
That was when the story of his misdemeanors was brought to light, and very soon Sherrington, with Elizabeth's servants, Kate Ashley and Thomas Parry, were also in the formidable fortress.
Sherrington, Ashley and Parry were released but the arrest of her close servants must have been a shock to Elizabeth. Seymour was found guilty of treason; counterfeiting coins and his dealings with pirates and those whom he believed to be the King's enemies could all be called treason.
The end was inevitable. On the 20th of March he was taken out to Tower Hill and the handsome head which had charmed so many was severed from his body.
My thoughts were with Elizabeth. How much had she cared for him? I was very anxious to hear how she had received the news of his execution.
I did hear, for several had been present when she was told. She had shown no emotion. All she said was, “He was a man of much wit and very little judgement.”
Yes, she was one who learned her lessons quickly and well. I doubted she would ever again come so close to disaster through
a man.
THERE WAS A NEW king in France, for shortly after my father died, François Premier had followed him to the grave. In his place was Henri Deux—a very different man from his father. If he lacked François's culture, he possessed immense physical energy. Soon we were at war with him.
The Protector had concentrated his efforts on the war with Scotland, and France and Scotland were allies. The little Queen of Scots was now being brought up in the Court of France as the bride of the Dauphin, and our possessions in France were being attacked. Hence our involvement in an unpopular war.
The people were in rebellion. Many objected to having a new religion forced on them. There were risings in Essex, Norfolk and Oxfordshire. In Cornwall churchgoers insisted on priests bringing back the Mass. I heard that rebels were massing in Devonshire and were ready to march.
Cardinal Pole's name was mentioned. “Bring him back!” was the cry.
I was getting worried. So was François van der Delft. Although it was comforting to know that so many people regretted the passing of the old religion and wanted it brought back, the more vociferous people became in its defense, the more dangerous was my position.
I knew that I was closely watched; they had not forbidden me to worship as I pleased, but that was only due to my powerful relation, the Emperor. I was certain that, but for him, I should have lost my head long ago.
There was trouble about matters other than religion. The country was in a state of upheaval. Food was not plentiful, and what there was of it was highly priced. There were great grievances over the enclosure of land which previously had been common land and open to everyone. In some places it was being fenced off by the lords of the manors; but those who had been grazing their cattle on it for years declared it belonged to the people.
