The Queen's Favourite

by Laura Dowers

  Winter had made the road to Hatfield crisp and hard, and riding in the dead of night ensured the journey was not without peril. Many a horse stumbled and nearly threw its rider. It was a cold and miserable party that drew rein outside the red brick palace as the new day began to dawn.

  A guard darted out from the entrance porch and pressed the tip of his halberd against the chest of Seymour’s horse.

  ‘Stand back, man,’ Seymour ordered, his arm tightening around the prince, who he held in front of him on the saddle.

  ‘Identify yourselves,’ the guard insisted.

  ‘I am Edward Seymour, Earl of Hertford, and I have here Prince Edward to see his sister, the Lady Elizabeth.’

  The guard immediately lowered his weapon and called for the hall door to be opened. Seymour dismounted and pulled the prince from the saddle. Cold and weary, the boy made no protest as Seymour propelled him inside the house. Boys began to appear from the stable yard, pulling jackets and shaking straw from their hair. Robert thrust his reins into the hand of one boy and hurried after the prince.

  The great hall was rapidly filling up as Hatfield realised it had visitors. Yawning servants grumbled as they were hustled out into the cold night to unpack the carts. Hot wine and food were called for and Robert found himself being divested of his cloak and gloves.

  He looked around for Seymour and the prince, just in time to see a door to a small chamber closing upon them. He was wondering where he could find some ink and paper to write to his father, when someone called his name. He looked around and saw Elizabeth, standing on the stairs, clad only in her nightdress with a thin shawl around her shoulders.

  He strode toward her. ‘Bess.’

  ‘What’s happening?’ she asked, her red hair falling about her face. ‘Why are you here?’

  ‘Your brother’s here. Edward Seymour brought him. I don’t know why. Bess, can you get me some paper? I need to get word to my father.’

  ‘What has your father got to do with this?’

  ‘I need to tell him what Seymour’s doing,’ he said impatiently. ‘Ink and paper, Bess, please.’

  ‘Dudley!’

  Robert turned. Seymour had come back into the hall, light from the inner chamber spilling onto the floor. His eyes flitted between Robert and Elizabeth. ‘Do not detain the lady. Lady Elizabeth, would you kindly come in here?’

  Unhesitatingly, she obeyed, pulling her shawl tighter as her bare feet slapped upon the brick floor. She slipped past Seymour and disappeared into the room. Robert heard the prince call out her name. Seymour slowly closed the door behind him, his eyes never leaving Robert’s.

  12

  Hatfield House, Hertfordshire, Early morning

  The routine of the household had been disrupted by the new arrivals. Elizabeth’s lessons had been cancelled and the servants wandered around, their duties mostly neglected as they gossiped. The prince’s company had been given rooms, with extra beds crammed in to accommodate them all, and they resumed their sleep, filling the silence with snores.

  All but one, for Robert remained awake. Tiredness had completely deserted him, his mind buzzed with activity and his muscles twitched with a desire for movement. And a joy that after months of having nothing to report, he finally had something to tell his father.

  He lifted the latch, opened the door, and peered out. The corridor was empty. The house seemed quiet. With a deep breath, he stepped out into the hallway and tiptoed across the floorboards, which mercifully made no noise. He had found out where Elizabeth’s rooms were from a pageboy whose eyes glinted at the coins Robert pressed into his palm, and he made his way to them now. Reaching the door, he knocked softly. A few seconds passed, some murmurings from within, and then a voice hissed through a crack in the wood. ‘Who is it?’

  He recognised the voice. ‘It’s Robert Dudley, Mistress Ashley.’

  ‘The Dudley boy, my lady,’ he heard her say. A moment later, the door opened and Katherine Ashley jerked her head at him to enter.

  Elizabeth stood by the bed. Her eyes bore the signs of weeping and her thin lips pursed and puckered.

  ‘What’s happened?’ he asked.

  She shook her head, unable to speak.

  ‘It’s the king, Master Dudley,’ Katherine said quietly. ‘He’s dead.’

  A sob burst from Elizabeth and she buried her face in her hands. Katherine hurried over and pulled her into an embrace. ‘Look what you’ve done,’ she scolded Robert. ‘She had settled before you came.’

  ‘It’s not his fault.’ Elizabeth pulled herself away and wiped her cheeks savagely. ‘Robin,’ she held out her hand to him.

  He took it, feeling the wetness on her fingers. ‘I can’t believe it.’

  Elizabeth slid her hand from his and climbed beneath the bed covers, pulling them up to her chin. ‘I wish it weren’t true.’

  ‘And Edward?’

  ‘Edward’s pissing himself,’ she said with a hollow laugh, pulling at strands of hair that had stuck to her face. ‘He’s terrified that he’s now king.’

  ‘He is only nine years old, my lady,’ Katherine said sternly.

  ‘Yes, I know. Rob, you will look after him, won’t you?’

  ‘I’ll do what I can.’

  Her brow creased. ‘You wanted paper earlier, didn’t you? Kat, get him some.’

  Katherine fetched paper, ink and a goose quill from a chest beneath the window and handed them to Robert. He hitched himself up on the bed and smoothed out the blankets to make a flat space. He pushed Elizabeth’s feet away, leant forward on his elbows and dipped the quill in the ink.

  ‘What are you writing?’ Elizabeth asked, squinting at the page.

  ‘I’m telling my father what Seymour has done. I don’t know why he’s done it, but I’m damn sure he’s done it in secret.’

  Elizabeth sniffed. ‘I asked him why he brought my brother here and he said it was so we could be a comfort to each other.’

  ‘And you believe that?’

  ‘We are a comfort to each other,’ she said indignantly. ‘Edward needs me and I need him.’

  ‘So why are you not together now? Or did his tears not last as long as yours?’

  Elizabeth swallowed, suddenly doubtful. ‘Seymour said he would look after him.’

  ‘I’m sure he will. Now,’ Robert surveyed his letter, ‘not my neatest hand, but I don’t think Father will scold me for that.’

  Elizabeth kicked at him beneath the sheets for him to move as she nudged herself down the bed. ‘What can your father do? Seymour has every right to be with Edward. He is his uncle.’

  ‘My father likes to be kept informed.’ Robert folded the letter and tucked it inside his doublet. He looked at her. ‘Are you alright?’

  She looked away and shrugged. ‘I’ll have to be, won’t I?’

  ‘She will be well enough,’ Katherine said, smoothing Elizabeth’s hair. ‘Now come on, Master Dudley, time you were gone.’

  ‘I’ll see you later today,’ he promised, jumping off the bed and heading for the door. ‘I am sorry, Bess.’

  She smiled thinly at him. ‘I thought you weren’t going to say anything kind to me.’

  ‘Try to sleep,’ he suggested.

  ‘I’ll try. Good night, Robin. Morning, I mean.’

  The door closed upon him. As he turned away, his breath caught in his throat. Edward Seymour stood before him, so close Robert could taste his breath.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘Visiting,’ Robert answered quickly.

  ‘And what have you to do with the Lady Elizabeth?’

  ‘We’re friends. She told me why you’ve brought us here.’

  Seymour’s eyes narrowed. His hand shot up and grabbed Robert’s jaw, his fingertips digging into the skin. ‘Don’t go behind my back, ferreting out information to send to your father. Always remember, I have the prince’s love. I haven’t forgotten our last encounter, boy. First chance I get, I’ll have you replaced.’ He shoved Robert away. ‘Now, get back to
your room.’

  Robert glared at Seymour, but his courage quailed beneath the anger in the man’s eyes. He hurried back to his chamber. Falling against the closed door, he let out a shuddering breath. He squeezed his doublet, heard the crinkle of the letter he had stowed there and felt a tingle of satisfaction. If Seymour had wanted to frighten him into inaction, he had failed.

  Robert manoeuvred his way back to his bed, careful not to nudge the protruding limbs of his roommates. He propped himself against a pillow and reached to open the shutter so that the light and the fresh night air would keep him awake. While he waited for Hatfield to rouse itself again, he plotted a suitable revenge for Edward Seymour that only a boy of fourteen could dream up.

  13

  Whitehall Palace, London, January 29th 1547

  John Dudley barely glanced up from his desk as the door opened. ‘How is the queen?’

  ‘Still crying. She’s gone to her room for a lay down.’ Jane yawned, peering through the leaded-glass window at the grey sky. ‘What time is it?’

  ‘God knows.’

  She leant over his shoulders and pressed her cheek against his temple. ‘Have you been to bed?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Look at me.’ He tilted his face to hers. ‘You have black circles under your eyes, John.’

  ‘So have you. You should go to bed.’

  ‘Will you come?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘I don’t know what we think we can do,’ Jane said, pulling off her headdress and tossing it into the bowl of a chair. ‘All of us sitting up, waiting for the king to die.’

  ‘What else should we do?’ John growled, rubbing at his eyes.

  ‘I don’t know. But I suppose Cranmer will send word, if there’s any change.’

  ‘Cranmer?’ John looked at her. ‘Why will Cranmer send word?’

  ‘He’s with the king.’

  ‘Who else is with him?’

  ‘I don’t think anyone else is in there. Edward Seymour left hours ago.’

  ‘Where did he go?’

  ‘To his rooms, I suppose.’

  ‘He didn’t say?’

  ‘Not a word, barely even looked at me.’

  ‘It’s strange that he would leave. How was his manner when he came out?’

  ‘He was in a hurry, like always. What does it matter?’

  John’s skin prickled. ‘Something’s happening,’ he murmured, buckling on his sword. ‘See who that is,’ he ordered as there came a knock on the door.

  ‘A letter for Lord Dudley.’ A young boy, his clothes speckled with mud, held out a sealed letter to Jane.

  She took it and gave him a penny. ‘It’s from Robert,’ she said, recognising the handwriting. ‘For you.’

  John snatched at the letter and tore it open. ‘The devil,’ he breathed.

  ‘What’s Rob done now?’

  ‘He’s kept me informed, Jane, which is more than you have done. Rob writes that Seymour’s at Hatfield Palace. He’s already been to Hunsdon and taken the prince.’ He crushed the letter, the wax seal cracking in his hand.

  ‘So now he has both the prince and Lady Elizabeth under his control,’ Jane said. ‘I told you, you couldn’t trust him.’

  ‘You said Cranmer’s in there,’ John said suddenly. ‘My God, Jane, the king must be dead.’

  John rushed past his wife and ran to the Privy Chamber. He threw open the door, making Cranmer jump and scramble to his feet. ‘My lord.’

  ‘Archbishop,’ John greeted him absently, his eyes looking past him to the king, lying silent and grey in the bed. ‘How long?’

  ‘The king died just before midnight.’

  ‘But that was hours ago. Why has it been kept quiet?’

  Cranmer raised an eyebrow. ‘I wasn’t aware it had. I haven’t left this room. Edward Seymour asked me to stay with the king.’

  ‘Seymour’s left the court, Cranmer. He has custody of the prince and is now with him and Elizabeth at Hatfield.’

  ‘Well, he is the boy’s uncle, my lord. Perhaps he thought the prince would need comforting when he heard of his father’s death.’

  John barked a laugh. ‘What kind of comfort could Seymour provide? Come now, we both know why he’s done this. The prince is too young to rule. Now Seymour has him, and Seymour does not like to share.’

  ‘I assure you, my lord, I do not know his motive for leaving. But,’ he paused and tapped a long finger against his lips, ‘if, as you seem to suggest, Seymour aims to become Lord Protector, should we oppose him?’

  ‘Protectorships have a poor history in this country, Archbishop. That’s why the king stipulated that a Council of Regency should rule in the prince’s minority.’

  ‘You allude to the Protectorship of Richard of Gloucester. I hardly think such a comparison is complimentary or apt. And you do surprise me, my lord. I had thought you were Edward Seymour’s close friend. It does make me wonder why you are so aggrieved. Tell me, is it truly concern that the king’s Will may be disregarded, or resentment that you seem to have been left out of Seymour’s plans?’

  ‘My God, what a courtier you have become, Cranmer,’ John sneered. ‘And I thought you were the only man at Court with integrity.’

  ‘You doubt my integrity, I think, because I speak uncomfortable truths.’

  ‘I doubt you because I think Seymour’s made you an offer, promised you something if you kept this quiet.’

  Cranmer bridled. ‘There were no offers and no promises, my lord. Now, you must excuse me.’

  He turned his back on John and recommenced his prayers for the dead king. John had to bite down on his tongue to control the anger swelling up within him. It irked him that Cranmer was right. He had been left out of Seymour’s plans, and he certainly didn’t like it.

  14

  Whitehall Palace, London, February 2nd 1547

  The executors of the king’s Will had been summoned to the council chamber. Sir Anthony Denny, Sir Anthony Browne, Sir William Paget, Archbishop Cranmer, all took their places at the long table, each shifting along the benches as more of their colleagues arrived.

  John Dudley breezed in. ‘Good morning, gentlemen,’ he greeted the company, taking a seat at the end of a bench. He looked around the table. ‘Wriothesley not here?’

  Cranmer glanced at him. ‘Not yet, my lord.’

  John nodded, noting the cool, dismissive tone. Cranmer evidently held a grudge from their previous meeting. ‘And what of Edward Seymour? Any news from him?’ He waited while Denny and Browne exchanged glances. So, they’re in with Seymour too, he realised. He bit the inside of his cheek, a curb on his resentment.

  ‘I,’ Browne said with emphasis, ‘have not had anything from him today.’

  ‘I see,’ John said. ‘Ah, here comes Wriothesley.’

  ‘Damn cold out there,’ the Lord Chancellor declared as he strode in, the red tip of his long nose testament to the weather. ‘There’s ice on the river, and the boatman took an eternity to row me back here.’ He sank into his chair at the head of the table.

  ‘Well, you’re here now,’ Cranmer said with a polite smile.

  ‘Yes, I am. And as I’ve had a very tedious morning at the House of Commons, I would like to get this business over with as few interruptions as possible. Now, I have informed the Commons of the death of King Henry and disclosed the contents of his Will. The main point of which is that Prince Edward, his natural and legitimate son, succeed him to the throne. In regard to the prince, he is being brought to London by his uncle, Edward Seymour, and they will arrive at the Tower ….’ He looked around for information.

  ‘Later this afternoon,’ Denny supplied.

  ‘Yes, so we had all better be there to welcome him.’

  ‘To welcome the prince or Seymour?’ John wondered aloud.

  Wriothesley shot him a quizzical look. ‘The prince, obviously.’

  John gave him a playful smile and waved him to continue.

  ‘While we are all here,’ Wriothesley said, his
brow creasing in irritation, ‘we may as well discuss the fact that the prince is in his minority and cannot rule alone. We must therefore consider a regency.’

  ‘The queen,’ Cuthbert Tunstall, a small man with wide, watchful eyes, suggested. ‘She has acted as regent before.’

  Wriothesley rolled his eyes. ‘For a matter of mere months, Tunstall. The prince is but nine years old, almost seven years away from his coming of age. We cannot trust the governance of the country to a woman for such a length of time. And fortunately, King Henry foresaw that he might die whilst the prince was still a child, and in his Will he suggested a Council of Regency.’

  There was silence for a long moment.

  Then Cranmer spoke. ‘From the way you phrase it, Sir Thomas, a suggestion, are we to assume that the king appreciated there might be problems with such a council?’

  Wriothesley pouted. ‘He realised that it might be unmanageable.’

  ‘So,’ Browne said, ‘if not the queen as regent, and possibly not a council, then that leaves only a protectorship.’

  ‘I personally favour a Council of Regency,’ Wriothesley said hurriedly.

  ‘In my opinion,’ Denny said, ‘a protector would serve the country much better.’

  ‘I agree,’ Browne said.

  Cranmer inclined his head. ‘I too.’

  ‘And,’ Denny said, ‘I think we need look no further for a protector than Edward Seymour.’

  Others voiced their approval. Wriothesley glowered. John bent his head to hide his consternation. Had Seymour primed all of the men around this table but he and Wriothesley?

  ‘Oh, that reminds me.’ William Paget held his finger in the air, insisting on their attention. ‘As keeper of the king’s Will, I was, quite naturally, privy to its contents. King Henry had begun to make arrangements to bestow titles on several members here present, in recognition of their services to him, which I’m sure Edward Seymour would feel duty bound to honour were he to assume the office of protector. However, if a Council of Regency was to take over, those elevations might have to be re-considered, as I think it would appear self-serving to bestow those titles on ourselves.’