The Queen's Favourite

by Laura Dowers

  ‘It’s not over yet,’ Henry Sidney said to Robert with a sigh. ‘We’ve now got to spend hours discussing the sermon that we’ve just spent hours listening to.’

  ‘Don’t remind me. My head’s killing me and my arse is numb. I could do with some fresh air. What about sneaking off and having a ride?’

  ‘We’d need an excuse.’

  ‘I know. Think of one, will you? Hey, where did he come from?’ Robert wondered as Thomas Seymour brushed hurriedly past him.

  ‘Edward,’ Thomas called, catching up with his nephew as he reached his chamber and clamping his arm around his shoulder. ‘A fine sermon, don’t you think?’

  ‘Very fine, Uncle,’ Edward said. ‘I didn’t see you in the chapel.’

  ‘Oh, I was there. At the back,’ Thomas lied. ‘I’ve got something for you.’ He delved inside his jerkin and pulled out a leather pouch. He threw it to Edward. ‘There’s ten pounds in there.’

  Edward, always short of money, thanked him with blushing cheeks and turned away to put the money bag in a box by his bed.

  ‘Not at all, my boy. Can’t see you going short, can I?’ Thomas stroked his beard thoughtfully. ‘Actually, Edward, there is something I wanted to ask you. It’s rather delicate.’

  ‘Speak, Uncle.’

  ‘Well, it’s about your stepmother. She has a fancy to marry again, and she’s worried about what you might think. You know how women are, once they get an idea into their pretty heads. She thinks you might object to her taking a husband.’

  Edward squatted to stroke his pet dog that had waddled into the room. ‘My father’s been gone such a short time.’

  ‘I know, Edward, and your stepmother feels his absence keenly. But she is a woman who needs a man about her.’

  ‘She’s lonely?’

  ‘I think so, yes.’

  ‘Well, I don’t want her to be unhappy. I’ll ask Uncle Edward what he thinks.’

  ‘No, don’t do that,’ Thomas said, too quickly. ‘I mean, it’s nothing to bother him with. Can’t you make a decision without having to run to him?’

  ‘Of course I can.’ Edward was indignant. ‘Very well. Tell her she may marry.’

  ‘Oh, my boy,’ Thomas clapped his hands and laughed. ‘I knew you would say that. But to be honest, Edward, I’ve stretched the truth a little. You see, the truth is,’ he paused and rubbed his beard again, ‘your stepmother has already married.’

  ‘Married? Without my permission?’

  ‘Well, you’ve just given it, haven’t you?’

  ‘But -,’ Edward protested feebly, ‘but she didn’t know I would.’

  ‘Does it matter?’

  ‘Well, who has she married?’

  Thomas chuckled. ‘Well...she’s married me. There now, I knew you would be pleased. You’re a good boy, Edward.’

  Thomas departed, shouting a goodbye that resounded along the corridor. Edward kicked at a stool, sending it spinning against the door and wishing it were his Uncle Tom.

  19

  Chelsea, London, July 1547

  Thomas Seymour stormed into the hall and bellowed, ‘Kate, where are you?’

  Katherine appeared on the upstairs landing. ‘Must you shout, Tom?’

  He took the stairs two at a time, striding past her into the bedchamber. Unbuckling his sword belt, he threw it across the room. It landed with a clatter on the floor. Sprawling across the bed, he listened to Katherine’s footsteps as she followed him into the room.

  ‘What’s he done now?’ she asked quietly. ‘He’ didn’t need to be named – she knew who would have upset her husband.

  Thomas clasped his hands beneath his head and stared up at the tester. ‘He won’t let me have the jewels.’

  ‘But they’re the queen of England’s jewels,’ she protested. ‘They’re mine.’

  ‘But Brother Ned, Kate, says as you are no longer queen, you have no entitlement to them.’

  She came to stand by the bed, her hand gripping the carved bedpost. ‘We must appeal to the king.’

  ‘I already have. He said the Protector knew best.’

  ‘Edward said that, after all you’ve done for him?’

  Thomas gave a careless shrug. ‘I’m going to need more money, Kate. My young nephew’s getting greedier by the day.’

  ‘It’s getting expensive, Tom,’ she warned.

  ‘I know, but the money isn’t just for Edward. I need it to pay Fowler.’

  ‘Who’s Fowler?’

  ‘One of the king’s attendants. He’s working for me now, passing on money to Edward. He also says very pleasant and encouraging things about me to him.’

  ‘Not pleasant enough, it seems.’

  ‘Fowler does what he can.’ He looked at her through half-closed eyes. ‘Come here.’

  She smiled coyly. Hitching up her skirts, she climbed onto the bed. ‘Husband,’ she said, twirling her fingers in his beard, ‘you are very serious today.’

  ‘I’m tired.’

  She slid her hand beneath his shirt. ‘Too tired for this?’

  His lips twitched in weary amusement as he looked at her, the shy but passionate woman he had married. In the sunlight that streamed through the windows, her skin seemed dry and thin. The corners of her eyes and mouth had deep lines around them and he wondered why he had not noticed before how old Katherine had become. He placed her hand on his codpiece, an instruction.

  As she began to untie the laces, there came the sound of running feet and Katherine realised they were no longer alone. ‘Elizabeth,’ she cried, pushing away from the bed and pressing her hands to her flaming cheeks.

  ‘God damn you, girl,’ Thomas roared, ‘don’t you know how to knock?’ How despicably like her brother she looks, he thought; the same superciliousness, the same arrogance. Only the colour of her eyes was different. Edward’s were blue and pale, like his dear sweet mother’s. Elizabeth’s were black, like the Boleyn whore, and they seemed to Thomas just as knowing. Could she really be only thirteen?

  ‘You can’t talk to me like that,’ Elizabeth hissed, her fingers tightening around the book she had come to show her stepmother. ‘I am the princess Elizabeth.’

  ‘You’re the Lady Elizabeth,’ he corrected with a snarl. ‘No bastard can be a princess. And even bastards should learn some manners.’

  Elizabeth hurled the book at him. It struck him on the chin, and suddenly, his anger which had been bubbling away all day, boiled over. He lunged forward and grabbed her arms. As she pounded futilely against his chest, he pulled her towards the bed.

  ‘Tom, please,’ Katharine said, ‘she’s only a child.’

  ‘She’s a witch. And she needs chastising.’

  Elizabeth screamed as he forced her face-down over his legs and clamped her wrists together with one large, powerful hand. With the other, he grabbed the hem of her skirts and yanked them up over her waist.

  ‘Tom, no,’ Katherine cried in alarm.

  ‘By God’s Death, stop kicking, you little devil.’ He brought his hand down hard across Elizabeth’s pale buttocks and she cried out in pain. The imprint of his hand showed red on the smooth white skin. The sight of it urged him on, smacking her again and again, until his hand stung. He let go of her and Elizabeth slid to the ground. He shoved at her with his foot. ‘Get out of my sight.’

  Elizabeth, sobbing and pulling her skirts down, stumbled from the room.

  Katherine turned on him, her face white with shock. ‘Tom, how could you?’

  ‘I will be master in my own house,’ he panted. ‘I won’t have an insolent chit of a girl behaving like that.’

  ‘She meant no harm –’

  ‘Say nothing more,’ he warned her, tearing off his jerkin and throwing it to the floor. He forced her back onto the bed and covered her body with his own. ‘I will have obedience, Kate.’

  On her knees in the hallway, Elizabeth tried to catch her breath, tugging strands of hair from her tear-dampened face. When she heard groans from the bedroom, she turned back to the o
pen door, hoping they were cries of pain, that somehow she had hurt him, but what she saw made her breath catch in her throat.

  Katharine lay beneath Thomas, her eyes tightly closed, her body jolting with each thrust he made into her. He gasped and grunted, his face twisting grotesquely. She remembered a conversation from years before, when Robert Dudley had laughed at her ignorance and explained the carnal act to her. What he had described was an act of love, of mutual desire and pleasure. Surely he couldn’t have meant this!

  20

  Greenwich Palace, London, December 1548

  Robert shuffled the pack of cards and yawned. It was tiresome having no company. Henry Sidney had been ill in bed with a head cold for two days, Barnaby Fitzpatrick had been shipped off to France on a diplomatic mission and the king was busy translating a Latin text into English. Or was it an English text into Latin? Robert couldn’t remember.

  He looked out of the window and saw John Fowler idly kicking gravel from the path onto the lawn. Robert unhooked the latch and leant out. ‘John,’ he halloed, ‘nothing to do?’ Fowler shook his head. ‘Come in then and play some cards.’

  ‘What do you want to play?’ Robert asked as Fowler took a chair on the other side of the table.

  ‘Anything, I don’t mind.’

  Robert dealt the cards. ‘You seem to be getting on well with the king lately. He must like your company.’

  ‘I suppose so. Although it could be because of his uncle as well.’

  ‘The Protector?’

  ‘No,’ Fowler shook his head. ‘Thomas Seymour.’

  ‘Oh, you’re friendly with him, are you?’

  ‘He places a great deal of trust in me, yes.’

  ‘I’ve never seen you with him.’

  ‘No...well...you wouldn’t,’ Fowler said uncomfortably. ‘He likes to keep our friendship quiet.’

  Robert grinned. ‘Oh, yes?’

  ‘Don’t be filthy, Dudley, it’s nothing like that. I act as intermediary between him and the king.’

  ‘Doing what?’

  ‘He gives me money to give to the king. You know how short the Protector keeps him.’

  ‘Does the Protector knows you do this?’

  ‘Good heavens, no.’

  ‘But surely the king has mentioned it to him?’

  ‘The king is most anxious that he doesn’t find out, because he is sure the Protector would put a stop to it. To tell the truth, Dudley, the king is growing mightily tired of the Protector.’

  ‘You’re very well informed, John,’ Robert said admiringly. ‘To have the confidence of the king and his uncle. Thomas Seymour must think very highly of you.’

  Fowler preened. ‘I flatter myself he does. He wouldn’t entrust me with his plans else.’

  Robert’s heart quickened. ‘And what plans are they?’

  ‘To have the king all to himself.’

  ‘How does he expect to do that?’

  ‘He has a key to the Privy Chamber…’ Fowler broke off abruptly. ‘That is, I don’t really know, Dudley. Whose play is it?’

  Robert plucked a card from his hand and laid down a knave. ‘Mine, I think.’

  ‘So, he’s got a key, has he?’ John Dudley tapped his quill thoughtfully against his chin. ‘What do you think he means to use it for, Rob?’

  ‘I think,’ Robert began tentatively, not wanting to sound foolish, ‘that he plans to abduct the king.’

  ‘I think you’re right. I wonder if his wife, Katherine, dying in childbirth hasn’t unhinged his mind.’

  ‘We could put more guards on the corridors to the Privy Chamber.’

  ‘We could,’ John nodded slowly, ‘but I wonder if we should?’

  ‘Why should we not?’ Robert asked frowning.

  ‘I’m just wondering whether it might not be better if we allowed dear Uncle Thomas to carry out his plan.’

  ‘You’re not serious, Father,’ Robert said. ‘We can’t allow the king to be taken prisoner.’

  ‘Well, I wasn’t thinking of letting it get quite that far. Just allowing Thomas to make the attempt should be enough.’

  ‘How can I help, Father?’

  John considered for a moment. ‘Anything he tries will be at night, I think, so he will try to take the king whilst he is abed. Did Fowler give you any idea how soon Thomas will try it?’

  ‘No. He shut up when he realised what he was saying. I could try again -’

  ‘No,’ John held up his hand, ‘say anything more and he may go running to Tom. We’ll relax the guard on his rooms of a night, maybe even leave one of the doors open. Ah,’ he jumped to his feet and exclaimed, ‘I’ve got it! The king sleeps with his dog on the bed, doesn’t he? And the little monster always barks at anyone who comes in the room, yes?’

  ‘Always,’ Robert confirmed.

  ‘So, lock the dog outside the king’s bedroom, just outside mind, in the next room. Thomas will find it easy to get into the king’s apartments and he’ll get cocky. He’ll get to just outside the bedchamber and then the dog will start barking and the whole corridor will be roused and we’ll catch him red-handed. And that,’ he patted Robert’s face playfully, ‘will be the end of Uncle Tom.’

  21

  Greenwich Palace, London, January the 16th 1549

  ‘Good night, Your Majesty.’ Robert bowed to the small, thin figure beneath the bedclothes. He looked about him, at Henry Sidney climbing into a pallet bed on the floor, at the dog sniffing around the edges of the room. He pulled the hangings together, enclosing the king in his bed. Waiting until Henry was settled, he moved to the dog and placing his foot behind its hind legs, gently nudged the animal towards the door. ‘Goodnight,’ he said softly, nodding to Henry that he could snuff out the candle.

  He pulled the door shut behind him and locked it. The dog seemed unperturbed that he was away from his master, but Robert knew that he would soon scratch at the door if he wasn’t given somewhere soft to sleep, so he untied his cloak and threw it on the floor, bunching it up to make a bed for the dog. He whistled softly and the dog trotted towards him. Grasping the sturdy little body, he lifted it onto the makeshift bed. He waited to see the dog settle before moving out into the hallway where he locked the door, making sure the Yeoman Warders saw him do it. His room was a little way down the corridor. He made his way to it, laid down on the bed without undressing, and waited.

  Thomas had run across the gardens, almost slipping on the dewy grass, holding his sword against his hip to stop it jangling. Now he was at the door, waiting for Fowler to let him into the palace. He wondered how long he had been standing there; cold was creeping up his legs and his nose was frozen. He also wondered if he could really go through with the night’s business. Good God, Tom, he chided himself, you’re kidnapping a king. But then that thought put a smile on his face, for the sheer audacity of the plan was something to be proud of.

  He jumped as he heard the heavy bolt drawn back. A moment later, the door opened and Fowler stuck his head out of the black interior. His eyes widened as he saw Thomas.

  ‘What?’ Thomas asked with a roguish smile. ‘Did you think I wouldn’t come?’

  Fowler gestured Thomas inside. As he closed the door, Thomas’s strong hands gripped his arms and spun him around. Fowler smelt the wine on his breath as Thomas said, ‘You’re not going to let me down, are you?’

  ‘No, my lord,’ Fowler assured him, though there was a tremor in his voice.

  ‘I’m glad to hear it. Now, come on.’

  They soon reached the main corridor of the king’s apartments and Thomas was surprised to see only one guard on duty. It made him stop and stare, so that Fowler nudged against him and asked an urgent ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘Only one guard,’ Thomas whispered through clenched teeth.

  Fowler peered over his shoulder. ‘So? That makes it easier, doesn’t it?’

  ‘I...,’ Thomas hesitated, ‘yes, I suppose it does.’ Pushing the small feeling of unease to the back of his mind, Thomas strode towards the
door. The guard turned his head but Thomas nodded at him and he looked away. Inserting his key into the lock, Thomas and Fowler stepped inside.

  They darkness became total as the door closed behind them. Thomas’s heart beat painfully in his chest and he heard the rushing of blood in his ears. Then there was another noise, loud and jarring. The dog had awoken and was barking furiously at the intruders. In the small room, the noise seemed to emanate from everywhere, and Thomas stretched out his arms to find the source. His hand came into contact with something hairy and warm. Sharp teeth bit down, piercing the flesh of his hand. Blood burned as it broke free of the skin. Pain made him foolish. Thomas pulled out a pistol and shot blindly, the report deafening in the little room. The shot must have found its target for the animal gave an ear-splitting whine of pain and collapsed on its side, its little legs scrabbling at the air.

  Thomas probed inside his purse, trying to find the next key. His bloodied fingers closed around it, and he thrust it into the lock, cursing as he heard shouts from the corridor.

  ‘My lord,’ Fowler squealed, tugging at his cloak.

  Thomas shrugged him off and he opened the inner door. A cry of alarm came from Fowler, but he didn’t look back. His eyes were on the bed, that enclosed box that held his prize. But before it stood a boy with his sword drawn, the tip pointing at him. It was all so absurd, he realised in a rush. How could he have hoped to succeed? He threw back his head and laughed, even as hands grabbed him and forced him to his knees.

  ‘Is the king hurt?’ someone shouted from the corridor.

  ‘The king is unharmed,’ Henry Sidney answered, his voice shaking with fear.

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘The king’s spaniel,’ a guard replied. ‘It’s been shot.’

  A cry of anger and pain came from the bed. The curtains were torn apart and the young King stumbled out, tears streaming down his red cheeks. He flew past Thomas into the other room.