The Queen's Favourite

by Laura Dowers

  John’s eyes narrowed. ‘You mean Henry Howard.’

  Seymour nodded. ‘He’s a reckless young man. In the last few years, he’s displeased the king on more than one occasion. It shouldn’t take much more to turn the king completely against him.’

  ‘So you’re hoping he will make a serious mistake?’

  ‘I am. So, we must keep our eyes and ears open.’

  ‘Oh, they’re open, Edward,’ John assured him, licking his lips as wings flapped and blood spilled. ‘They’re always open.’

  Whitehall Palace, London

  Anne Seymour pressed her ugly flat nose against the window pane. ‘There’s William Hampton again, disappearing into the bushes with that young girl from Frances Woolley’s little group. I told his wife about his secret trysts, but she didn’t seem to care. And there’s Knollys’s boy walking that damned dog again. You know, the one that bites my skirts whenever I pass. You said you would talk to him about the dog. Have you?’

  Her husband, to whom the enquiry was directed, did not look up from his desk. ‘Not yet, my dear.’

  ‘Well, when are you going to?’

  ‘When I have a moment.’

  ‘You’ve had plenty of time.’ She stepped away from the window and folded her arms. ‘I shall have to speak to him about it myself, I see I shall.’

  Seymour scratched his signature across a document. ‘Perhaps that would be best, my love.’

  Anne’s dull eyes widened. ‘Oh, I see.’

  Recognizing the signs of an impending tantrum, he added in a conciliatory tone, ‘I am rather busy, Anne.’

  Anne gave a snort of derision, gathered up her skirts and stamped past him, disappearing through a door into the small ante-chamber beyond. He was considering the possible benefits of following after her when the main door to his study was flung open and John Dudley strode into the room.

  ‘What the devil - ?’ Seymour blustered.

  John dropped into a chair before the desk. ‘He’s done it.’

  ‘Done what? Who? What are you grinning like that for?’

  John’s eyes glinted in the early morning sunshine. Its unforgiving light caught too the grey hairs upon his head, the creases at the corner of his mouth and yet, Seymour thought with not a little resentment, how handsome he was. His own mirror only showed a man with tired eyes and sagging jowls.

  ‘Henry Howard, Earl of Surrey, that reckless young man, has made the mistake we were hoping for, my friend.’

  ‘How? What has he done?’

  ‘He has had a portrait painted.’

  Seymour’s shoulders sagged. ‘A portrait?’

  John held up a halting finger. ‘It is a portrait with dangerous content.’

  ‘Well, stop being mysterious and tell me.’

  The grin vanished from John’s countenance; he became all seriousness. Moving the inkwell so he could lean on the desk, he began. ‘Howard has had himself painted standing beneath an arch with statues on either side. At the feet of the statues are two shields, and here is where it gets interesting. There are symbols and devices upon them that should only be borne upon the arms of the kings of England. No, wait,’ he held up his hand as Seymour made to interrupt, ‘let me finish. The earl himself leans upon a broken pillar. A broken pillar symbolising a broken house.’ John sat back in the chair, watching and waiting for Edward’s reaction.

  ‘A broken house?’ Seymour clicked his teeth. ‘The House of Tudor?’

  ‘Conceivably,’ John said with a shrug. ‘Couple that with the shields and what you have is treason.’

  ‘Treason?’

  John nodded. They sat in silence for a moment.

  ‘Is it enough?’ Seymour asked quietly.

  ‘We’ll make it enough.’

  ‘How did you find out about this?’

  ‘Through Paget. A friend of Henry Howard told Paget, Paget told me. Henry Howard should choose his friends more carefully, eh?’

  ‘But can we go to the king with this?’

  ‘I think we can. But we must choose our moment carefully, the king’s moods being what they are. My secretary is drawing up a statement even now.’

  ‘Could we go to the king today?’

  ‘Patience, Edward, let me choose the moment. I’ll know when the time is right.’ He rose and turned to go. Hesitating, he turned back to Seymour. ‘This is it, Edward. Our chance to get rid of the Howards.’

  Seymour gave the smallest of nods. ‘I hope so, John.’

  John left, and Seymour sunk his chin into his hand. So deep in thought was he, that he did not notice his wife emerge from the room behind him, and gave a yelp of surprise when her hand clamped down on his shoulder.

  ‘Edward.’

  He looked up at her and read her expression. ‘I know.’

  ‘Can Henry Howard be such a fool?’

  ‘Oh, that man is fool enough for anything, Anne.’

  ‘And it will be enough to disgrace him? Is Dudley right?’

  ‘He usually is.’

  ‘So, what will happen?’

  ‘If the king reacts as we hope, Henry Howard should be arrested, tried and then…’

  ‘And then what?’ Anne demanded, her voice rising with impatience.

  ‘There is only one sentence for treason, Anne.’

  ‘Death!’

  ‘Aye, death. For treason, it is hanging, drawing and quartering, but as the earl is noble, the king would almost certainly commute it to a beheading.’

  ‘So we would be rid of one Howard. But what of the other? What of his father?’

  Seymour shook his head. ‘I don’t know. The son will be tainted and perhaps we can spread that stain to the father. John said nothing about the father.’

  ‘Edward,’ Anne murmured, ‘you don’t think you’re relying rather too heavily on John Dudley, do you?’

  ‘No, I don’t think so.’ He paused and looked at her. ‘Why, do you?’

  Anne shrugged. ‘I would just prefer it if you made some of the decisions. John Dudley has all the appearance of being the one in charge.’

  ‘I hardly think so.’

  ‘He restricts your access to the king,’ Anne continued.

  ‘The king enjoys his company more than mine.’

  ‘So John Dudley claims. Has the king said so? You are brother-in-law to the king, Edward, uncle to his son. How can the king not value your company?’

  Seymour fiddled with his quill, and said nothing.

  6

  Whitehall Palace, London, November 1546

  As soon as dinner was over, John rushed to Seymour’s side, smacked him on the shoulder and whispered in his ear that it was time. Seymour spilled wine over his hose in his hurry to follow John and caught up with him in the corridor.

  ‘Now?’ he hissed.

  ‘Now. I have just dined with the king and his mood is ripe for talk of treachery. Let’s get the statement and take it to him.’

  ‘You are sure, John?’

  ‘You’re not doubting me now, are you, Edward? Good God, man, where’s your spine? Or has your wife beaten that out of you as well?’

  ‘Watch your mouth, John.’

  John grinned unapologetically. ‘Wait,’ he said, as they reached his chamber door. He ducked inside while Seymour waited impatiently in the corridor, stepping from one foot to the other in his agitation. John joined him a moment later, a rolled up piece of paper in his hand.

  ‘Got it,’ he waved the paper at Seymour. ‘Come on.’

  Back they went to the Great Hall, past the idling courtiers and servants folding the tables away, on through to the king’s private apartments. The guards let them through without hindrance. The king sat by the window, one fat bandaged leg propped up on a footstool, a book in his hand.

  ‘John,’ he halloed, taking off his spectacles, ‘back so soon?’

  ‘I fear so, Your Majesty,’ John bowed.

  Henry’s forehead creased. ‘You fear? Why so?’

  John stepped forward and held out the roll of p
aper. ‘I have here a statement that I fear will distress you greatly, Your Majesty. It is a deposition given by a reliable witness regarding the actions of the Earl of Surrey.’

  Henry held out a hand for the paper. As he read, the fleshy neck and drooping cheeks flushed bright and the little yellowed eyes bulged from their sockets. ‘I’ll have his head for this.’

  John glanced at Seymour, who stepped forward and said, ‘Shall I make out a warrant for his arrest, Your Majesty?’

  Too hasty, you fool, John thought.

  Henry looked up, his expression changing. ‘You’d like that, wouldn’t you, Brother Seymour? Get him out of the way, eh? I know you have no liking for the Howards.’

  Seymour began to splutter a protest.

  ‘With respect, Your Majesty,’ John interjected, ‘you yourself have no reason to love them. Twice have they hurt your generous heart with women of that family, and so rumour has it, would have tried to do so again.’

  Both Seymour and Henry stared at him. ‘What are you talking about, Dudley?’ the king growled.

  John looked down at his feet. ‘It has been rumoured that the Earl of Surrey had entreated his sister to …’ he paused in disgust, ‘to make herself pleasant to you.’

  ‘Pleasant?’ Henry snorted.

  ‘In short, Your Majesty, to gain access to your most private person.’

  Henry’s colour rose once again. He struggled out of his chair. ‘I will have his head,’ he growled. ‘To sully his own sister’s honour, to impugn mine! Has there ever been such a rogue? Am I to be continually plagued by these Howards?’

  ‘I beg you, sire, put an end to their malicious plots,’ Seymour said. ‘And but think, if they threaten you so, may they not threaten the sacred person of the prince, your son?’

  ‘Yes, yes,’ Henry nodded vehemently, ‘they would threaten him. The father too, then. Send them both to the Tower. Dudley, I trust you to see it done.’

  John bowed. ‘You can, Your Majesty.’

  7

  Whitehall Palace, London, December 1546

  Prince Edward had been invited to court for Christmas, and he and his companions looked forward to the change of scene and the entertainments they would be able to attend. But a few hours at Court made them wish they had stayed at Hunsdon.

  The arrest of the Howards had created a hushed, anxious atmosphere. People whispered that if the foremost peers of the realm could be arrested on a charge of treason for nothing more than having a portrait painted, then no one was safe. The king grew ever more irascible and unpredictable, and even the prince came out from an interview with his father, pale and shaking.

  Everyone at Court seemed to be living on nerves. Robert’s parents had seemed preoccupied and paid him little attention. Worse, he had made himself a trouble to his father, by attacking Edward Seymour.

  Rollo had accompanied Robert to court, as he accompanied him everywhere now. Rollo was urinating in the corridor when Seymour passed by, and he had kicked the dog. Rollo’s yelp had alerted Robert, and he had rushed out into the corridor and delivered a thump upon the back of his pet’s attacker.

  Seymour had boxed Robert’s ear, sending him tumbling to the floor. Fortunately for Robert, his father had come along at that moment, frowned down at his sprawling son and had listened to Seymour’s suggestion that the boy receive a severe whipping for daring to strike one of his betters. John had, so far, forborne from acting upon it, but Robert knew he was in disgrace, for his father had hardly spoken to him and his mother had done nothing but find fault with him, cursing him for being a trouble to his father at such a time. Robert had wondered aloud why the time should be different from any other and his mother had shot him an impatient look.

  ‘You have heard that Norfolk and his son have been taken to the Tower, Rob, or has that unimportant event passed you by?’

  ‘I do know that,’ he had protested sulkily.

  ‘I’m very glad to hear it. Your father has been instrumental in bringing this about and he doesn’t need distractions from you. Striking Edward Seymour! My God, Rob, what were you thinking?’

  ‘He kicked Rollo.’

  ‘I don’t want to hear any more about it,’ Jane declared. ‘And you stay away from your father if you don’t want that whipping. He’s got a lot on his mind.’

  So Robert had stayed out of the way. And yet another dinner in the Great Hall came around, where his father talked in whispers with Edward Seymour, and his mother in earnest with the queen. Robert leant against the wall and looked on.

  ‘You look fed up,’ Henry Sidney observed, smacking him on the shoulder by way of a hello. ‘Hardly fun and games, is it? Look at Edward.’ Henry jerked his chin towards the top table, raised on a dais where the prince sat alongside the king. ‘He still looks scared to death. And, oh my, look who’s sitting next to him.’

  Robert gave him an exasperated look. He was aware he talked of Elizabeth Tudor rather too often and the boys often ribbed him for it. Elizabeth sat next to her brother at the high table, eating very little, her pale brown eyes darting from one person to another.

  ‘She’s looking this way.’

  ‘I can see that, Henry.’

  ‘Why don’t you go to her?’

  ‘I can’t just go up to her and start talking, you numbskull. She’s with the king, unless you hadn’t noticed.’

  ‘Go on,’ Henry grinned. ‘I dare you.’

  ‘Don’t be stupid.’

  ‘You’re scared.’

  ‘I am not.’

  ‘Prove it.’

  Robert looked up at the dais, then back to Henry. ‘All right. I will.’ He made his way through the crowd, and stepped tentatively up to the table, approaching it from the side, hoping that the king would not notice him.

  ‘Robert!’ Elizabeth halloed loudly, making his cheeks redden as all eyes at the table turned to him.

  He bowed. ‘My lady.’

  ‘Come up here,’ she commanded, pointing to the floor beside her. ‘It’s about time you came over,’ Elizabeth chided, turning her pale, pointed face up to look at him.

  ‘I would have liked to come sooner, but I wasn’t sure I should.’

  ‘So, why have you come now?’

  ‘Henry dared me.’

  Elizabeth giggled. ‘Well, I’m very grateful to Henry, whoever he is. How have you been, Robin?’

  A chair was placed behind Robert by a servant and Elizabeth bid him sit. ‘I’ve been very well, Bess. And you?’

  ‘I sometimes get terrible headaches, and then I’m in bed for days, but mostly, I’m well. But Rob,’ she said, lowering her voice, ‘how do you think the king looks?’

  Robert peered around her and cast a surreptitious glance at the king. The flabby cheeks shone with perspiration and the hand shook as it lifted a cup of wine to the pink lips. ‘I don’t know. A trifle hot, perhaps.’

  ‘Don’t lie to me,’ she said earnestly.

  ‘In truth, I do not think he is very well, Bess.’

  ‘Nor do I.’ She bit her lip, her pointy teeth turning the thin skin white. ‘I’m worried, Rob. What if he were to die?’

  ‘Then Edward would be king.’

  ‘Edward, king! Look at him, Rob. Does he look like he can rule?’

  ‘I don’t mean now. When he’s older.’

  She looked down at her hands in her lap. ‘I don’t think Edward will be much older before he’s... Oh, Rob, I’m frightened.’

  He reached for her hand. ‘I don’t know what to say to you, Bess.’

  ‘What shall I do when the king is gone?’

  ‘I’m sure my father will look out for you, Bess.’

  She gave a little laugh. ‘You are so foolish, Rob. It will be my brother’s uncle who will take matters into his own hands, you can be sure of that.’

  ‘My father’s very important, Elizabeth,’ Robert drew himself up. ‘And very close to the king. In fact, were it not for him, Henry Howard and his father wouldn’t be imprisoned, and what’s more, he and Seymour
are trying ...’ he broke off, realising he was about to say too much.

  ‘What?’ She grabbed his wrist, her nails digging into his flesh. ‘What do you know?’

  ‘Nothing. Let me go, Bess, you’re hurting me.’

  She looked into his face for a long moment. ‘What could you know?’ she sneered, looking much older than her thirteen years. She pushed his arm away. ‘You can go now.’

  Robert got to his feet, unsure whether to bow or not, so compromised with a deep nod of his head and hurried back to Henry.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ Henry asked. ‘Were you arguing?’

  ‘No, of course not.’

  ‘It looked like you were.’

  ‘Well, we weren’t. It’s just that Elizabeth thinks she knows everything and she doesn’t.’

  ‘And you do?’ Henry raised a sceptical eyebrow.

  Robert snatched a goblet of wine from a passing servant. He drank the cup dry. ‘I know a damn sight more than Elizabeth.’

  8

  Tower Hill, London, January 19th 1547

  Birds circled overhead, black bodies against the grey sky and dogs sniffed around the feet of the spectators, hoping for scraps of food. They lifted their legs and urinated against the upright wooden posts of the scaffold, while the crowd swelled and the stench of unwashed bodies grew denser. They shouted and laughed in expectation of the morning’s entertainment.

  A crow swooped, perched on a wooden post and cawed loudly in John Dudley’s ear. He winced and flapped his arm at the creature. It let out a cry of indignation, jabbed its beak at his face and retreated to a further post.

  Seymour jiggled on the balls of his feet. ‘Never mind the bird.’

  ‘It’s an ill omen,’ John said.

  ‘Of course it’s an ill omen. But for Henry Howard, not for us.’

  ‘Must you be so damned cheerful?’

  Seymour stared at him, his dark brown eyes hard. ‘What’s the matter with you? We both worked to see him here. It was your evidence that got him arrested. And now you baulk at this.’ He gestured at the scaffold.