The Queen's Favourite

by Laura Dowers

  John shook his head, unable to explain that it brought back memories of his father. The cold clung to his bones and he tugged his cloak tighter about him.

  Seymour studied his face for a moment longer, then looked into the crowd that was parting to allow the guards through. ‘Here he comes.’

  Henry Howard was thinner, his skin greyer than at his trial, but his arrogance was still evident. He walked tall, head held high. Cries of ‘God Bless You’ mingled with ‘Traitor’. As Howard drew near, he met both Seymour’s and John’s eye. He passed them without a word, and with heavy, thudding footsteps climbed the steep wooden stairs.

  He shuffled through the straw laid down to soak up his blood. The executioner, his face obscured to hide his identity, knelt and asked for forgiveness. Howard gave it, along with a gold coin. A priest began to read from his bible. The executioner thrust a blindfold before his victim’s face. Howard gave it a disdainful look and shook his head. He turned and looked over the crowd. John saw his breath coming fast, turning to smoke in the cold January air.

  ‘Good people, you come here to see me die, for I have been accused of treason. I tell you now, I have never been guilty of treason. I lay no blame for this injustice upon the king. He is the most kind and goodly prince beneath Heaven. The blame lies upon his advisors, those who spit venom upon their enemies and seek their removal, for their own benefit and advancement. I confess I have been rash in my youth and caused much offence, but none so grievous that I deserve to be stood here. God knows my heart and will judge me fairly, as my enemies have not. Good people, I beg you, pray for me.’

  Most of the crowd made the sign of the cross and a murmur of prayer bubbled up as Howard knelt and set his neck upon the curved block of wood. Howard’s bloodshot eyes, bulging from their sockets with strain, locked on John’s. ‘May you suffer,’ he hissed as the axe descended.

  John shut his eyes, bile rising in his throat. When he opened them, dark red blood was trickling over the edges of the planks and the crowd was roaring. He leant towards Seymour. ‘Let’s go.’

  He pushed his way through the crowd, glaring at anyone who seemed to offer resistance. It wasn’t until they had left Tower Hill behind and entered into the twisting streets around the Tower that John slowed down and Seymour was able to catch up with him.

  ‘Well, that’s him gone,’ Seymour panted, ‘and his father’s turn will come. So, that just leaves Bishop Gardiner and Thomas Wriothesley for us to worry about.’

  ‘Wriothesley’s not a problem,’ John said firmly, determined to get his mind back on work. ‘Like Paget, he sees the way the wind’s blowing.’

  ‘Just Gardiner then. We must be more vocal in our arguments against him when we speak with the king.’

  ‘Agreed. We need to get Gardiner removed from the Council of Regency.’

  Seymour touched his arm, and they both came to a halt ‘Actually, John, I have something to tell you about that. I don’t want to talk in the street. Come in here.’ He led the way into a tavern and selected a table by the corner, though John looked longingly towards the fire. ‘Two cups of sack,’ Seymour instructed the potboy, who hurried away, anxious to please men of quality. Seymour waited until the wine was brought, then leant forward, gesturing John closer. ‘William Paget has re-written the king’s Will to exclude Gardiner and the other Catholics on the Regency Council.’

  John was stunned. ‘On whose instructions?’

  Seymour paused a moment before answering. ‘Mine.’

  ‘The king doesn’t know you’ve done this?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘So it’s unsigned? What use is an unsigned Will?’ Seymour’s face turned sulky and John shook his head. ‘It’s a dangerous thing you and Paget have done. Damn it, Edward, we’ve just had a man killed for treason. Do you want to end up on the scaffold too? Why the devil didn’t you tell me what you were doing?’

  ‘I planned to. But it was during Christmas and you had your family about you -’

  ‘We spoke every day, Edward. Don’t say you couldn’t have found a moment to tell me. If for no other reason than that I should have been consulted.’

  Seymour raised his cup, knocking it against his lips painfully in his haste to avoid answering. He wasn’t about to admit to John that he had listened to his wife, who told him not to involve John. ‘It’s done now.’

  ‘Yes, isn’t it? And because of it, we better make sure we get the king to do what we want him to do, hadn’t we?’

  ‘Yes, John,’ Seymour answered meekly.

  Whitehall Palace

  ‘He said what?’ Anne Seymour’s reaction was exactly what her husband had expected it would be: incredulous, indignant, furious.

  ‘He said I should have consulted him,’ Seymour shrugged.

  ‘Who does John Dudley think he is?’

  ‘My superior, it seems.’

  ‘And I expect you just sat there and said nothing, like always.’

  ‘I suppose I did.’

  She gave a snort of disgust, her skirts dragging the rushes around as she paced the floor. ‘Why shouldn’t you make a decision on your own? You don’t answer to him. My God, I wish I had been there. I would have put him in his place. Did you tell him I told you not to involve him?’

  ‘Of course I didn’t,’ Seymour spat. ‘I can just imagine what he would have said to that.’

  ‘Oh yes, I know what the Dudleys think of me,’ she said with a proud nod of her head. ‘They think I rule you. Just because Jane Dudley is content to trot around after her husband, she thinks all women should do the same.’

  There were moments when Seymour wished his wife was like Jane Dudley; demure, soft-spoken, yielding. ‘The pity is,’ he paused, rubbing his hand across his forehead where an ache had begun, ‘I need him so much.’

  Anne stopped her pacing. ‘But do you really need him, Edward?’

  ‘While the king is still alive, I’m afraid I do, Anne.’

  ‘Well then, we have only to wait. When the king dies, you must seize your chance, and to hell with Dudley.’

  9

  Whitehall Palace, London, January 28th 1547

  Katherine Parr sank gratefully into the chair the page had brought for her and held a handkerchief to her sore eyes.

  ‘Honestly, Kate,’ Jane Dudley said, kneeling at her friend’s side, ‘I wouldn’t dare say this to anyone else, but think what a relief it will be when he’s gone.’

  ‘Oh, Jane, how can you talk so?’ Katherine said, blowing her nose. ‘He is the king.’

  Jane shrugged, turning her head as the floorboards moved beneath her knees. Thomas Cranmer was half-walking, half-running along the corridor, his loose, fleshy face unusually pink and moist. He came to a stop beside the women.

  ‘My lady,’ he said to Katherine, ‘why are out here?’

  This question was answered by a fresh assault of tears. Jane rose and leaning close to Cranmer, said quietly, ‘The king didn’t want her near him.’

  ‘Oh, poor lady.’

  ‘Have you been sent for?’

  ‘I have,’ he said, straightening the purple sash hanging around his neck. ‘I received a message from Edward Seymour.’

  ‘He’s in there now,’ she said, jerking her head towards the door.

  ‘Tell me, Lady Dudley. The king. How unwell is he?’

  ‘He was very bad a few hours ago, but we have heard nothing since. Seymour has allowed no one to enter.’

  ‘Then I had best go in’. Cranmer stepped past her and tapped on the door.

  Jane stood on tiptoe and looking over his shoulder, tried to see into the chamber as the door opened, but Seymour, his dour face even more grim in the half light, quickly shut it again. Jane mouthed a curse.

  ‘Jane,’ Katherine grabbed at her. ‘If Archbishop Cranmer has been sent for, then my husband must be very ill’

  ‘Kate,’ Jane said, kneeling before her once again and looking earnestly into her face. ‘The king is going to die. You know how ill he has been. It is onl
y a matter of time.’

  ‘But what will I do when he is gone?’

  ‘Why, Kate,’ Jane half-laughed, ‘you rejoice.’

  Katherine stared at her for a moment in horror, then raised her hand and laid a stinging blow upon Jane’s cheek. ‘How dare you? He is the king and I have loved him, though he has, I admit, given me little reason to. You will not speak so.’

  ‘Oh, Your Majesty,’ Jane protested, her eyes smarting. ‘I didn’t mean to upset you, only to relieve your suffering.’

  ‘Oh, no, you meant what you said. You forget, Jane, how long I have known you. You’re not like your husband, you always speak your mind.’

  Katherine turned away from her and began snuffling into her handkerchief. Jane rose once more, angry and hurt. She was tired of waiting and wished she had some news to send to John. With a glance at Katherine, she pressed her ear to the door but the wood was thick and she heard nothing. She almost kicked it in frustration.

  Seymour took Cranmer by the arm and pulled him inside. ‘Not long now,’ he whispered, glancing towards the bed where the king lay, blankets domed over the huge body.

  Cranmer peered at the king. The face seemed thinner, for the flabby cheeks had fallen away from the long-hidden bones and there were hollows in the cheeks where pink plump flesh had been a week before. The king’s eyes were closed and ragged breaths were being drawn in through the small thin lips.

  Gathering up the skirts of his vestments, Cranmer knelt beside the bed. With great gentleness, he lifted the king’s hand into his own. ‘Your Majesty,’ he said softly. ‘Can you hear me?’

  Henry’s eyelids fluttered but remained shut and Cranmer knew that the end was indeed near. He closed his eyes and began to pray.

  Seymour watched, his hand pressing against his jerkin, feeling for the key that was tucked inside, the key to the box that held the king’s Will. His heart beat faster at the thought of the coming hours, what he had to do, who he had to trust. He hated that he had had to involve others in his plans, but as he had told Anne, he couldn’t execute the plan without Anthony Browne and William Paget, for Paget kept the chest containing the king’s Will and Browne, as Master of the Horse, had access to the stables. He wondered if the horses were ready. Browne had said they would be, but what if they weren’t? No, he would trust Browne. The man had said the horses would be there, so they would be there. But it was the waiting… this damned waiting. And then there was Jane Dudley right outside the door. She mustn’t get wind of what he was doing, or she would go straight to her husband and then he would have John Dudley to deal with as well.

  The king suddenly opened his eyes and drew a long, painful breath. The cold fingers gripped Cranmer’s with a strength that made the bones crack. Biting back the pain, Cranmer leaned closer so his face was inches from the king’s.

  ‘Your Majesty. The reform of the church. Am I to continue with it?’

  The little mouth puckered, like a fish gasping for air. No sound came forth, and the beady eyes looked into Cranmer’s with fear.

  ‘Am I to continue, Your Majesty?’ Cranmer persisted. ‘Say Yes and your soul will be saved.’

  The head gave a feeble shake, not a negative but a gesture that meant speech was not possible by this once roaring man. The hand released, clutched and released Cranmer’s once more. It fell back upon the blankets, even as the head sunk deeper into the pillow. The eyes closed. The king was dead.

  ‘He squeezed my hand,’ Cranmer said breathlessly. ‘He squeezed it. He meant Yes.’ He turned, his eyes seeking Seymour’s. ‘He meant Yes.’

  Seymour, his hands, knuckle white across the foot of the bed, hissed ‘He’s dead? You’re sure?’

  Cranmer held out an unsteady hand and placed it beneath the king’s mouth and nose. After a moment, he looked up at Seymour. ‘He is dead.’

  Seymour let out the breath he had been holding. ‘God bless his soul.’

  ‘Amen. Should I get the queen?’ Cranmer asked.

  ‘Not just yet. Cranmer,’ he said, leaning over the bed and looking hard into Cranmer’s face. ‘Can I trust you?’

  Cranmer managed to look hurt and bewildered at the same time. ‘My lord, I would have thought that an unnecessary question.’

  ‘No man can be trusted entirely, not even a man of the cloth, Cranmer. Now listen to me. I want this kingdom to continue the same way as you, in the Reformed faith. I cannot countenance a return to Rome. The prince is just a young boy. If the wrong men get hold of him, who knows in what ways he will be influenced. You know what men are.’

  ‘Indeed.’

  ‘And I am the prince’s uncle, do not forget that. We are of the same blood. Who better to guide the new king?’

  ‘Our sovereign lord is not even cold. Have you forgotten that so soon?’

  Seymour smacked his hand on the bedpost. ‘Confound me, Archbishop, how can I forget it, when I see him before me? I talk of the future. The king is dead, Cranmer. Long live the king.’

  ‘It seems to me you act with unseemly haste, my lord,’ Cranmer retorted, kneeling once more. ‘Do what you must, it is not my concern.’

  ‘But you will keep the death of the king to yourself? A few hours, Cranmer, that is all I need.’

  ‘I am praying, my lord. I daresay I will be praying for hours for such a man as the king was.’

  Seymour breathed a sigh of relief. ‘I must leave for Hunsdon at once.’

  ‘My lord,’ Cranmer called over his shoulder as Seymour grabbed the handle of the door. ‘Please be kind to the prince.’

  10

  Hunsdon Palace, Hertfordshire, The same night

  Edward grunted in his sleep and kicked out at Robert again, raking toenails down his calf. Suppressing the urge to kick back, Robert turned over, yawning.

  How he hated these nights when it was his turn to sleep with the prince. He pulled at the blankets that Edward had pulled over to his side of the bed and wondered what time it was. Too early, he imagined and mentally cursed the moment when the sun would rise and bleed through the wooden shutters. He fancied he heard the thrum of horses’ hooves, but that was nonsense. He punched a dent in the pillow and laid his head back down.

  But then there was a pounding, reverberating through the walls. Someone was banging on the front door.

  Robert sat bolt upright in bed, ears pricked. He heard a murmur of voices below and then the sound of someone running up the staircase, heavy footsteps tramping along the corridor, stopping just outside the door. A pause and then the latch lifted and the door swung open.

  Robert tried to see into the darkness as someone said softly, ‘Bring a light.’

  A candle was handed over and as the flame flared, Robert recognised the intruder. Edward Seymour stepped into the room and held the candle high. ‘Who are you?’ he demanded

  ‘Robert Dudley. What’s wrong?’

  Seymour’s gaze travelled beyond Robert to the boy who was propping himself up on his elbow.

  ‘Who’s there?’ the prince asked, his speech thick with sleep.

  ‘It is your Uncle Edward,’ Seymour answered, bringing the candle nearer his face.

  ‘Uncle? What are you doing here?’

  ‘You have to get up and dress, Edward,’ Seymour said, grabbing the blankets and

  pulling them off of the two boys.

  ‘But it’s cold, Uncle,’ Edward protested, reaching for the blankets. Seymour held them fast.

  ‘I must insist, Edward. You, Dudley, help the prince to dress. I’ll see to the other arrangements.’ He spun around, flicking wax across the coverlet, and hurried from the room.

  Robert climbed from the bed, grabbed his hose and hurriedly pulled them on. Sensing no movement from the bed, he turned his head. Edward sat unmoving, goose bumps pimpling his legs.

  ‘Aren’t you dressing, Edward?’

  Edward shook his head. ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘Neither do I, but your uncle meant what he said. And if he comes back and you’re still sitting there…
’

  ‘I’m not afraid of my uncle.’

  Robert sat back down on the bed. ‘I wonder why he’s here. He didn’t answer you when you asked, you know?’

  ‘I don’t care why. I’m not going anywhere.’ Edward threw himself back on the bed.

  ‘You must, Edward.’ Seymour had returned. Crossing the floor in two strides, he grabbed the boy’s thin arm and yanked him upright. ‘I will tell you why later, when things are…,’ he shrugged and shook his head, ‘...when they are better. Now, please, get dressed.’

  Seymour waited in the corridor, leaning over the balustrade and watching the servants bustle in the hall below.

  ‘Is the prince ready?’ he asked as Robert came out of the chamber.

  ‘He’s just coming.’

  Edward appeared, pulling a heavy fur-lined cloak tighter about him and casting a surly glance in his uncle’s direction.

  ‘Ah, good,’ Seymour tried to smile kindly. He placed a hand at the boy’s back and steered him toward the stairs. ‘Come along, Edward.’

  ‘Rob,’ someone hissed. Robert turned to see Thomas Cobden hurrying towards him. ‘Rob, what’s going on?’

  ‘I don’t know, but Edward Seymour is up to something. You should have seen how he was with the prince.’

  ‘He burst into our room, shouted at me and Henry to get up and start packing.’

  ‘I know, I heard him. He hasn’t even said where we’re going.’

  ‘I heard that other man,’ Thomas nodded towards the hall where a tall man with a green feather plume in his hat bowed as the prince and Seymour walked past, ‘Browne, I think his name is, say Hatfield.’

  Robert grabbed Thomas’s arm. ‘Hatfield? Are you sure he said that?’

  ‘Yes, I heard him. Why? What’s at Hatfield?’

  Robert grinned and smacked him playfully on the arm. He skipped down the stairs, throwing the answer in a shout over his shoulder. ‘Elizabeth!’

  11

  Hatfield Palace, Hertfordshire, January 29th 1547