by David Belbin
I never swore in front of John Cheke until, one day, we found ourselves discussing the way churches used to be before my father’s time. John said there were still churches in England with stained glass windows, showing Christ’s crucifixion. Nowadays, all such images were considered blasphemous, Our Lord being too holy to depict.
‘God’s Blood,’ I said. ‘Tell me where they are. I’ll go and smash them up myself!’
John’s warm, freckled face turned cold. ‘Who taught you to say those words?’ he asked.
‘Why, a king may swear. My father…’
‘I’m not talking about your father,’ he interrupted. ‘I’m talking about a ten-year-old boy.’
‘Kings always swear, so I’ve heard.’
‘They do not!’ John kept at it until I had to admit that one of my friends had put me up to it, though he knew better than to ask me for his name. By the next day, however, he had found it out. When Barnaby Fitzpatrick was brought for punishment, I tried to deny that he was at fault.
‘Forget it,’ Barnaby whispered. ‘I’ve already confessed.’
I watched as Barnaby removed his shirt, then took six lashes from the whip. I shuddered with each strike. When it was done, I removed my own shirt. John Cheke shook his head.
‘I take it you know what a whipping boy is?’ he asked.
‘I do,’ I said, my voice rising in panic. ‘But nobody has them any more.’
‘The Duke of Richmond had one,’ Cheke said, raising the whip again.
This was a name rarely mentioned at court. I wasn’t sure why.
‘You are the anointed of God,’ John went on. ‘No man on Earth can punish you. You, in particular, need a whipping boy to pay for your misdeeds. Seeing your friend suffer will be punishment enough for you.’
‘No. Stop!’ I pleaded.
‘I will do it, Your Grace,’ Barnaby offered, as the weals on his back grew redder. ‘It would be an honour.’
‘I can’t let you,’ I said, stripping off my shirt. ‘Punish me, sir. I beg you!’
John put down his whip and told Barnaby to put his shirt back on. ‘I think you’ve both learnt your lesson,’ he said. ‘Let’s hear no more of it.’
From that morning on, Barnaby Fitzpatrick was my best friend.
5 The Admiral Wants a Wife
‘Tell me about the Duke of Richmond,’ I whispered in the dark. ‘Who was he?’
I was talking to Fowler, my Gentleman Usher. He was a clever man. Uncle Thomas trusted him completely, so I did the same. I had even arranged for Fowler to sleep in the same room as me. No one else was within earshot.
‘The Duke of Richmond was your brother, Your Grace,’ Fowler whispered. ‘He died before you were born – he was only seventeen. His mother was one of the first queen’s maids-of-honour.’
‘And did he have a whipping boy?’ I asked.
‘Yes, but he never took a beating. It was a kind of joke,’ Fowler told me.
Then he changed the subject. There had been gossip at court that Uncle Thomas was lazy and greedy, and Fowler wanted me to know that it was untrue. Though Thomas was Lord Admiral, it was true that he stayed in court rather than travel with the navy, but that was to look after my interests. There was another thing, Fowler said. The Lord Admiral was anxious to get married.
‘Would Your Grace be pleased if he married?’
‘Yes, very well pleased,’ I said.
‘Who would Your Grace like him to marry?’ Fowler went on. I thought carefully. Marriage was a serious business. Uncle Edward’s wife was a horrible, stuck-up woman who everybody hated. I wanted better for my favourite uncle.
‘My Lady Anne of Cleves,’ I suggested first.
To explain about Anne of Cleves, I have to tell you about my father’s marriages. When the Pope wouldn’t annul his first marriage to Catherine of Aragon (Mary’s mother, who could have no more children), my father broke away from the Catholic Church. He formed the Church of England instead, which made it possible for him to divorce his queen. His next wife was Ann Boleyn, Elizabeth’s mother. She cheated on him, which is treason. So she was beheaded. Then came my mother, Jane Seymour, who died after having me. Then came Anne of Cleves, a choice he regretted straight away. The marriage was quickly annulled. After Anne came Catherine Howard, who also cheated on him. Beheaded. Finally, my stepmother, Catherine Parr.
I know six marriages seems like a lot but, to my mind, only two wives count: my mother, whom my father loved (he is buried beside her), and Queen Catherine, who was a kind of replacement and a good stepmother to me and my sisters. Not surprisingly, Elizabeth didn’t like to talk about the six wives business. Legally, my sisters were bastards.
I changed my mind about Anne of Cleves. If my father hadn’t found her attractive enough seven years ago, my uncle was hardly likely to now.
‘No,’ I said. ‘I would like him to marry my sister Mary, to change her opinions.’ Mary, twenty years older than me, was a devout Catholic. Uncle Thomas was a convinced Protestant.
Fowler whispered that he would pass this on and we both went to sleep. But I’d made a terrible mistake. My uncle couldn’t marry Mary, I realised, as I tried to drift off. For if I were to die, she would become queen, and he her consort. Whether he meant to or not, Uncle Thomas would, therefore, benefit by my death. For him to marry Mary would be treason.
A few days later, Fowler again brought up the subject of a wife for Uncle Thomas. ‘Your uncle wants to know if you would support his being a suitor to Queen Catherine. He will ask if you could write to her on his behalf.’
Since my accession, Queen Catherine, my stepmother, had moved to her own palace in Chelsea, where she had two hundred servants. I missed her. I used to see more of her than I did of my father. Recently, though, she’d had a big row with my uncle Edward and his wife. They wouldn’t allow her to keep the crown jewels that came to her when she’d married my father. As Protector, Uncle Edward was always near me, so Catherine didn’t visit me often. Elizabeth was staying with her. I was jealous that my sister was still close to our stepmother.
I’d heard the court gossip. People said that Queen Catherine had been in love with my uncle Thomas before my father declared an interest in her. She had now outlived three husbands. At thirty-five, she was still a good-looking woman. If she and Thomas were to marry, I would see more of her, and of Elizabeth. The marriage would also keep my favourite uncle close by.
So I wrote the letter Fowler asked for. I didn’t worry what Uncle Edward would make of it. He had enough to do as Protector.
Soon after that, Queen Catherine came to see me. This great woman, the one I used to call ‘mother’, now knelt before me.
‘Your Grace,’ she said to me. ‘I need your blessing. You know that I have been attached to Thomas Seymour, the Lord Admiral, for a long time, but that a higher power intervened.’
The ‘higher power’ was my father, not God.
‘Do you wish to marry him?’ I asked.
‘Sir, I meant to wait two years, but your uncle is a man of such passion…’ She hesitated, and I waited for her to finish. ‘We were secretly married last week.’
‘I see. ‘My father had only been dead for five months.
6 Pocket Money
As Protector, Uncle Edward worked long hours. I wasn’t invited to Council meetings, so I barely saw him. At times, I felt like I was king in name only. One day Uncle Edward asked to see me on urgent business. He had a face like thunder.
‘Your uncle Thomas has secretly married Her Majesty the Queen,’ he said.
‘He did so with my permission,’ I lied.
Uncle Thomas ought not to have married my stepmother so quickly. After all, only five months after the King’s death it was possible for the Queen to have been carrying my father’s child. She had apologised to me for her hurry. She had explained that this came from her love of Thomas and assured me of her love for me. I’d written my stepmother a letter, supporting her marriage. But we had agreed to keep this secret from
Uncle Edward, knowing he would not approve.
John Cheke has told me, more than once, that secrets can soil the soul. However, a king has to keep secrets. They are part of his power, and his burden. Now the secret was out. Uncle Edward stared at me, waiting for further explanation. He expected me to fill the silence. But a king does not need to explain himself, that was another thing my tutor had told me. So I said nothing more.
Uncle Edward did not conceal his anger. There were thirty years between us. He ought to win any argument. But I was king. Without my support, who was he?
‘The Council won’t like it,’ he said.
‘He is your brother. Surely you will defend him.’
‘Thomas is my brother but he has his flaws. He is arrogant and greedy and far too attractive to women for his own good.’
‘Then best he settle down. He couldn’t choose more wisely than Queen Catherine.’
Uncle Edward abruptly changed the subject. We were about to send our armies in to attack Scotland and he wanted me to be engaged to the Scottish queen, Mary, who was only five years old. I’d never met her, but I didn’t argue. We talked briefly about the economy, which was in trouble. My father had made millions from selling off land belonging to monasteries, but all that and more had been spent on wars with Scotland and France.
Next, we discussed the Church. Money wasn’t all that important to me, but religion was. Religion was about the things that mattered most. Uncle Edward supported me in making Protestantism the religion of England. He was putting our enemies in the Tower. Some people said he was too soft for not executing them. But Uncle Edward was a kind man. I agreed with him: heretics should be given time to change their views, not burnt at the stake. My God was a forgiving God.
At the end of our interview, I brought up the subject of money for my personal use. ‘You have everything you need,’ Uncle Edward told me. Before I could say more, he claimed that he had urgent business to attend to, and left.
Most of my friends had pocket money. I wanted to be able to treat them. When Barnaby gave me a gift, I wanted the means to give one back. I wanted to be able to reward Fowler, my Gentleman Usher. But I had no pocket money. Uncle Edward said that, as king in a time of financial crisis, I should set an example of economy. But I still needed some money of my own. My uncle Thomas was much more generous with money than Uncle Edward. So, that night, I asked Fowler.
‘Is there any way my uncle Thomas can get me more money?’
Fowler said he’d see what he could do.
Soon after, Uncle Thomas visited, handing me two guineas the moment we were alone. ‘If Your Grace needs anything,’ he said, ‘you have only to ask.’
Then we discussed my becoming engaged to the little Scottish queen. The marriage would seal the kingdom into a Great Britain: England, Scotland, Wales and Ireland.
‘It will never work,’ Thomas told me. ‘The Scots will rebel, as they always do. An engagement will only cause you grief. When the time comes for you to marry, there is only one girl I recommend. Your cousin, Lady Jane Grey.’
I knew Jane, a pretty, intelligent girl my own age. She was fifth in line for the throne. Although her parents were living she had recently joined the household of Uncle Thomas and Queen Catherine. But, as King, I would have to marry for political advantage. There was no reason to marry Jane. I thanked my uncle for his advice and asked after his new wife – my stepmother.
‘She sends her warmest wishes, Your Grace, as does your sister, Elizabeth.’
He bent my ear about the crown jewels which my stepmother had been given on her marriage to my father. Uncle Edward’s wife still refused to let the Queen have them. I had already learnt that it was best to stay out of arguments which did not directly concern me. We agreed that Uncle Edward’s wife was a liability. Thomas attacked his brother’s meanness.
I defended Uncle Edward. ‘The whole country is in terrible debt.’
‘But my brother is not. Do you know what land he took when he became Protector? Or how many thousands he’s already spent on Somerset House?’
I didn’t know. (Somerset House was a palace my uncle was building for himself on The Strand. Two churches had been demolished to make way for it.)
‘You know your father never wanted one man to rule the country for you?’
I didn’t know that either. But I decided not to take sides in this debate, for I loved both my uncles. And I couldn’t ask Uncle Edward for his point of view, because he was away, leading an attack on Scotland.
My best friend, Barnaby Fitzpatrick, was soon going to be a guest at the French Court. I would miss him, and wanted to give him a parting gift. I told Fowler to tell my uncle Thomas that I should like some money now.
Soon after this, Uncle Thomas came himself, unannounced. (Somehow he had managed to have keys made for every room in every palace.) He brought me a huge sum, forty pounds. This allowed me not only to buy Barnaby a new suit of clothes, but also to reward my good tutor, John Cheke, and, of course, Fowler. Both were very grateful.
A few days later, when Parliament was sitting, Uncle Thomas came to see me again. He wanted me to write a letter to the Council about his wife’s jewels. I had to think carefully.
‘If the cause is good,’ I told him, ‘the lords of the Council will allow it. If it is ill, I will not write it.’ Before he could argue further, I asked him to go. I went at once to see John Cheke, who told me I had done right.
A few more days later, Uncle Thomas was back yet again, full of his usual gusto. He had some advice for me. ‘You must take it upon yourself to rule, nephew. For you are wise beyond your years and would rule as well as other kings. Then you may give your men whatever you want.’
I didn’t know how to reply. People were always complimenting my intelligence, my maturity. But I was only ten and I needed money. I wanted to be a generous king.
Seeing me hesitate, Uncle Thomas went on. ‘My brother is old, and I trust he will not live long.’
‘Perhaps it were better he should die,’ I said, regretting the words as soon as they were out of my mouth. I was fed up with Uncle Edward, but did not want him dead.
‘All you have to do is speak. The Council will listen. You could rule, as other kings do.’
How true was this? I didn’t know. I didn’t want to know. I wasn’t ready.
‘I am well enough,’ I said, dismissing the idea. Uncle Thomas changed tack. ‘My brother keeps you as a beggar king. Who else do you need to give money to?’
It was true. I’d spent the forty pounds he’d given me only two weeks before. There was a long list of people to reward. Not just Cheke and Fowler but a tumbler and a trumpet player and a book binder and many more. I couldn’t resist listing them for Uncle Thomas. He promised to reward each one for me. Then he had something else to ask.
‘If anything is said against me, don’t believe it until I speak to you myself.’
I promised. For I was learning never to believe anything, or anyone.
7 Trouble
I was soon out of money again. It became all too easy to scribble a note to my uncle Thomas asking for more. Fowler hinted that I should write other letters, too, praising Uncle Thomas as Lord Admiral. I knew what Uncle Thomas wanted. He didn’t think it was fair that Uncle Edward, as Protector, had so much power when he, as Lord Admiral, had so little. There was little love left between the two men. Since Uncle Edward wouldn’t share power with him, Uncle Thomas meant to take control another way. And he had his supporters, both on and off the Council.
As king, I thought I was above the fray. But one day, at Hampton Court, Uncle Thomas paid me an unexpected visit. He spoke with his usual charm. Even so, I sensed that he was on edge.
In his casual, familiar tone, he told me: ‘Your debt to me now stands at over a hundred pounds, but no matter. I need your help. That letter to the Council I mentioned…’
The threat in his words was barely concealed – the price of my pocket money was his wife getting back her crown jewels. I shou
ld have known, I thought. Only I was wrong. He wanted much more.
‘The time has come. My brother has wasted so much money. He has treated you badly. All you need do is ask the Council to transfer the Protectorship to me.’
He gave me his widest smile. When he was like this, my uncle was impossible to refuse. I told him that what he was suggesting appealed to me.
‘Good, good. Here, I have a letter already made out. All you have to do is sign it and I, personally, will take the letter to the Council.’
‘But Uncle Edward is away in Scotland. How would it look?’
‘I don’t care how it looks! Do you want me to be Protector or not?’
‘Of course I do,’ I said, though I was beginning to have doubts. I loved Uncle Thomas dearly, but I made excuses. I said that I really ought to check the wording of the letter with John Cheke.
‘Why, the man’s a mere schoolmaster,’ my uncle complained, though he must have known that John was one of the most educated men in the land.
‘I insist,’ I said, trying to sound regal as I read the note before me.
My Lords, it said. I pray you to favour my Lord Admiral mine uncle’s suit.
I left Uncle Thomas with the impression that I supported him. In a way, I did. But a few words with John Cheke convinced me of my own mind.
‘This is far worse than I thought,’ he said. ‘You must take no more money from him. You must not see him alone. And you must sign nothing.’
‘My uncle Thomas shall have no bill signed or written by me,’ I promised.
That night Fowler talked of Uncle Thomas in glowing terms. He went on about what a great Protector he would make. Then he told me that Thomas was going to give over his manor, Sudely Castle, to me. The Lord Admiral would not benefit by becoming Protector. But if my uncle was so generous, why was he using a hundred-pound debt to scare me into supporting him? I pretended to sleep, but couldn’t. I didn’t know where to go for advice. My friend Barnaby was gone. My other uncle was in Scotland. Fowler was Uncle Thomas’s man. My stepmother was married to the Lord Admiral. The only person I could talk to was my tutor.
