The Queen's Favourite

by Laura Dowers

  ‘Bring some light,’ someone yelled. Almost immediately, a candle appeared. Other candles were held to the flickering flame and the darkness lifted.

  ‘Who is it?’ a new voice asked and Thomas’s heart sank. Please God, don’t let it be him.

  ‘Thomas Seymour,’ the guard said, entering the room.

  Edward Seymour stumbled into the room and stared down at his brother.

  ‘Yes, it’s me,’ Thomas snarled. ‘God’s Blood, but how this must please you, Ned.’

  John Dudley strode in, Robert at his elbow. He looked at the scene before him and suppressed a smile. Fixing a frown upon his face, he took hold of Edward Seymour’s elbow. ‘My lord, what’s happened?’

  Seymour turned towards him, eyes wide and staring. He gestured at his brother.

  ‘I see,’ John said grimly. ‘My lord, take yourself off. My son, Robert, will see to the king.’

  ‘But Thomas?’ Seymour managed to ask.

  ‘He will be removed.’

  ‘Yes, he can come with me.’

  ‘My lord,’ John said patiently, ‘your brother must be put under arrest.’

  Seymour raised frantic eyes to his. ‘No,’ he shook his head, ‘he can’t.’

  ‘He must. You know he must.’ Seymour continued to protest as John walked him out of the room. He gestured to the guard to take Thomas away.

  Robert stepped back as his father passed. The king was curled on the floor, cradling the dead dog in his arms, its blood staining the front of his nightshirt. Robert knelt and put his arm around the boy’s shoulder. ‘Your Majesty,’ he said softly, ‘you had best come back to bed.’

  ‘He...he killed him,’ he sobbed.

  ‘I know, Your Majesty.’

  ‘Why did he have to kill him?’

  ‘I don’t know. It was a wicked thing to do.’

  ‘I’ll kill him.’

  ‘Yes, Your Majesty.’

  ‘I will, Rob, I mean it. I’ll have his head cut off. I trusted him.’

  ‘We have all been deceived in your uncle, Your Majesty.’ He pulled the boy to his feet.

  The nightshirt clung to the small body and Robert felt blood upon his own hands. ‘We must wash you, Your Majesty.’

  ‘My dog must be buried, Robert.’

  ‘I’ll see to it first thing in the morning. And if it will make you feel better, I have a bitch at home that whelped weeks ago. The pups are old enough to be separated from her now. I’ll bring you one tomorrow. Shall you like that, Your Majesty?’

  ‘Yes,’ Edward sniffed. ‘I would. Not that another dog could replace...’

  Robert ushered him back to the bedchamber as the boy continued sobbing, and with the aid of Henry Sidney, stripped and washed him down. And if Henry wondered why Robert was fully dressed at such an hour, he made no mention of it.

  22

  Whitehall Palace, London, February 1548

  Secretary William Cecil watched his master read the report he had just delivered. He almost felt sorry for him. It couldn’t be easy, reading of a brother’s treachery.

  ‘I can’t –,’ Seymour began, but the words caught in his throat. He swallowed hard. ‘I can’t believe my brother capable of all this.’

  ‘It is quite incredible,’ Cecil agreed.

  ‘Kidnapping, piracy, counterfeiting, proposing marriage with the late King’s daughters. Cecil, this can’t all be true.’

  ‘Your brother has confessed it, Your Grace.’

  Seymour shook his head. Pointing to a section of the report, he asked, ‘What is all this with the Lady Elizabeth?’

  Cecil hesitated before answering. He liked Elizabeth. She was his idea of royalty; intelligent, charismatic and, most importantly, a Protestant. He was not eager to smear her character, for he believed there was great promise in her, but there was no denying that she had endangered her reputation. It would be best for her if all the blame could be laid on Thomas Seymour. ‘There is evidence that your brother behaved most inappropriately with her during his marriage to the late Queen Katherine. Apparently, he visited her in her bedchamber and played with her in bed. There is also an incident where he cut her dress to pieces while his wife held Elizabeth down. But I’m sure it was just all high spirits.’

  ‘It says here she bore him a child.’

  ‘That is only a rumour and one the Lady Elizabeth denies most vehemently. If you read further, she has demanded of Sir Robert Tyrwhit that a proclamation is made publically clearing her name of the slander.’

  ‘She demands?’

  Cecil inclined his head in a sympathetic gesture. ‘She does, Your Grace.’

  Seymour shoved the report away and fell back into his chair. ‘Thomas will be tried.’

  ‘Indeed.’

  ‘And found guilty.’

  Cecil did not reply. They both knew what a guilty verdict could mean for Thomas.

  ‘The king will show mercy,’ Seymour said decisively.

  Cecil cleared his throat. ‘It is my understanding, Your Grace, that the king is in no way kindly disposed towards his uncle.’

  ‘He’s angry, Cecil. Thomas killed his dog. It was a foolish thing to do.’

  ‘It has been some little while since that incident, if I may say, and the king does not show any signs of forgiveness.’

  ‘What do you know of it?’ Seymour glared at him. ‘Who have you been talking to?’

  ‘No one, Your Grace,’ Cecil lied smoothly. He had in fact been talking to John Dudley, who had been talking to his son Robert, who in his turn, had been talking with the king. Cecil’s information was accurate. The king intended no mercy towards Uncle Thomas.

  ‘I’ll talk to him,’ Seymour said. ‘I don’t doubt that Thomas will have to endure some little time in the Tower, but nothing more. And anyway, a spell in there will do him some good, knock some sense into him. Yes, I shall talk to the king.’

  Cecil gave a tight smile, and said nothing.

  23

  Whitehall Palace, London, March 1548

  Seymour stood at his study window. Below him were the gardens, intricate, beautiful, but his eyes didn’t see them. Instead, he saw himself and Thomas as young boys playing Hoodman Blind while their sister Jane looked on. There had been no rivalry then, no jealousy, and no ambition. What had happened to those children?

  A shiver ran through him as he thought of that other child, his nephew, the king. He had talked with him, expecting mercy. Instead, he had discovered that Edward Tudor was every inch his father’s son.

  There came a knock at the door, and Seymour heard his name called. With dismay, he recognised the voice of John Dudley. ‘Your Grace?’

  ‘Yes, what is it?’

  John entered and closed the door behind him. ‘I’ve just come from the council chamber. We’ve been discussing the matter of Thomas Seymour and -’

  ‘How dare you discuss anything without my being there?’ Seymour turned on John.

  ‘You were aware we were meeting,’ John retorted. ‘Business must continue, even if members choose to absent themselves.’

  ‘I am the Lord Protector, Dudley. I am not a member of the council but its head. Nothing is talked about without me.’

  ‘We did think that perhaps it would be kinder not to involve you.’

  ‘Kinder?’ Seymour scoffed. ‘I’ve never known the Privy Council to be kind.’ He sat down at his desk and began sorting through his papers, as if John wasn’t there, as if he could will him away.

  ‘I have the warrant here, Your Grace,’ John persisted. ‘Will you sign it now?’

  ‘Warrant?’

  ‘For Thomas’s execution.’

  Seymour gave a little, mirthless laugh. ‘For God’s sake, John. I know he has to be punished -’

  ‘Punished?’

  ‘- but aren’t you taking this just a little bit too far?’

  ‘I don’t think so, no. Thomas Seymour has been tried and found guilty of thirty-three separate treasons. There is only one punishment.’

  ‘H
e’s the king’s uncle, John. What would you have the king do?’

  ‘What he must. Punish a traitor.’

  ‘You would have the king execute his own uncle?’

  ‘It is the sentence for a traitor.’

  ‘I know that, damn you.’

  John slapped the paper on the desk before Seymour. ‘The warrant.’

  ‘You expect me to take that to the king?’

  ‘You have no choice.’

  Seymour closed his eyes and sighed wearily. ‘He’s my brother, John.’

  ‘It’s unfortunate... but, still.’

  ‘I won’t do it.’

  ‘Edward –’

  Seymour slammed his hand down on the desk. ‘I will not condemn my own brother. You cannot ask it of me.’

  ‘I’m not asking.’

  ‘For Jesu’s sake, have you no mercy?’

  ‘Mercy?’ John spat, blood rushing into his cheeks, his black eyes flashing. ‘When I was nine years old, I watched my father’s head cut off to the sound of the cheering mob, all so King Henry could enhance his popularity with his people. My father was no traitor, yet he was branded one and my family lived in ignominy for years. I’ve had to work hard and crawl my way back to favour, and you beg for mercy for your treacherous brother, who’s not worth the shit he walks in. You waste your breath crying for mercy. Mine’s all spent.’ He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘And isn’t this sudden display of brotherly love rather out of place? I’ll wager this is all just for show and truly all you feel is joy that you’re finally going to be rid of him.’

  With a roar, Seymour pushed against the desk. It turned on its side, papers and quills tumbling to the floor. John stumbled backwards, shocked, as Seymour landed a punch on his jaw and he dropped to the floor. Seymour kicked at him, weak, ineffectual kicks that John easily blocked. He grabbed at Seymour’s ankle and pulled, so that Seymour lost his balance and fell backwards against the wall. In an instant, John had jumped up and held Seymour by the throat. He drew back his arm, fingers curling into a fist. The fight went out of Seymour and he sagged beneath John’s hold.

  ‘I’ll forgive you for that,’ John panted, ‘because I understand you’re upset.’ He released his grip and Seymour slumped to the floor. John snatched up the warrant. ‘Now, will you sign this?’ Edward turned his head to the wall. ‘Then I’ll go to the king. I doubt if he will have any qualms about signing it. You can explain yourself to him.’

  ‘No, stop!’ Edward grabbed at John’s leg. ‘I’ll sign it, I’ll sign it.’ He scrabbled around on the floor, found a quill and jabbed it in a puddle of ink. John handed him the warrant and Seymour scratched his name on the bottom. ‘I am the king’s loyal servant,’ he whimpered, trying to blow the ink dry. John snatched it from his hands.

  ‘Good for you,’ he sneered and stepped over Seymour’s legs to the door. Seymour heard his footsteps heading towards the king’s apartments. He reached out and pushed the door shut. Resting his forehead upon his knees, he wept for his brother.

  24

  Whitehall Palace, London, June 1549

  John Dudley yawned and wondered what the time was. It had been dark for several hours, so he reasoned it could be one or two in the morning. He rolled his head, wincing as bones cracked in his neck. He looked across enviously to William Paget, who had fallen asleep hours before, his head resting on his arms.

  It was a disturbing, worrying time for the council. A recent law, the Enclosure Act, had caused outrage. Land that had always been free and open to the people and their animals to graze upon was now fenced in at the whim of the landowners, who wanted to create deer parks and gardens. With their livelihoods under threat, the people revolted and began tearing down the hedges and fences, fighting to defend their rights and take back control of the common land. A successful uprising in Cornwall had soon encouraged others to act.

  John rubbed his knuckles against his weary eyes. Opening them, William Cecil came blearily into focus. ‘What news?’ he asked of Cecil peremptorily.

  Cecil took a seat next to him. ‘I’m getting further reports of uprisings. In Essex, Hertfordshire, Oxfordshire, Suffolk...The list goes on, my lord.’

  ‘Jesu,’ John breathed. ‘How far is this going to spread before the Protector decides to do something?’

  ‘He’s in his office issuing orders,’ Cecil replied.

  ‘Aye, and they’ll contradict all the orders we’ve been issuing, Cecil. God only knows what’s going through Seymour’s mind. First he’s against the Enclosure Act, then he’s for it, then he’s against it again. Is it any wonder the people think they’re not breaking any laws when even the Protector can’t make up his mind as to what’s legal and what is not? My own parks have been attacked, Cecil. My pasture land ploughed up and sown with bloody oats.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear it.’

  ‘I could bear it better if we had a plan to deal with these rebels. Even Paget,’ John gestured at the snoring man, ‘has told the Protector he’s making bad decisions, but Seymour won’t listen.’

  ‘My master has certainly changed for the worse since the death of his brother.’

  ‘He was never one to listen kindly to advice before, now he turns a deaf ear to even his closest friends.’

  ‘Have you tried, my lord?’

  John gave a short, hard laugh. ‘He won’t listen to my advice.’

  The chamber doors suddenly burst open. Paget awoke with a snort. Seymour strode in.

  ‘Dudley, you must go to Norfolk. A rebellion has broken out there and one of the damned landowners is leading it. Lord Northampton, who I sent there to maintain law and order, is in my office, quivering like a jelly, because they chased him out. So I want you to go there and finish the job I sent him to do. I expect you to leave immediately.’

  ‘I’ll talk with Northampton first.’ John pushed past Seymour, disappearing into the darkness of the corridor.

  ‘Very well,’ Seymour called after him. He looked at Paget, who jumped up from his seat. ‘What the devil are you doing?’

  ‘Nothing, Your Grace,’ Paget protested.

  ‘Well, you should be doing something, you lazy dolt.’ With that, he turned on his heel and stormed back to his office.

  Paget stared open-mouthed after his retreating figure. Cecil gave Paget a sympathetic smile and followed after his master.

  25

  Stanfield Hall, Norfolk, July 1549

  Amy Robsart plucked one last flower to complete the daisy chain. Giggling to herself, she arranged it on the head of the boy asleep beside her on the grass. Yawning, she too lay down, making a pillow of her arms. She knew it was getting late and she was expected home, but it was very pleasant to be able to lie back and do nothing with the sun warm upon her face.

  Ned snorted and woke up. Lifting his head, his pale blue eyes puffy and red-rimmed, he noted with some surprise, ‘I fell asleep. What are you laughing at?’

  ‘Nothing,’ she lied.

  Suspicion mounting, he raised his hand to his head and felt the floral crown. He threw it away with a snort of disgust. ‘You let me lay there with that on my head?’

  ‘Oh, don’t be cross, Ned, there was nobody to see. Come, you’re still sleepy. You can lay your head on me if you like.’

  The offer placated him. He lowered himself to her lap and she began to run her fingers through his thin, fair hair.

  ‘They’ll be looking for me soon,’ she said.

  ‘They know you’re with me.’

  ‘But we have visitors this evening.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The Earl of Warwick and some of his officers.’

  ‘The Earl of Warwick, John Dudley himself, eh? Aren’t you honoured?’

  She gave him face a harmless slap. ‘My father is honoured.’

  ‘They’re coming because of Kett, I suppose?’

  ‘I suppose so.’

  Ned plucked a blade of grass and stuck the end in his mouth. ‘Robert Kett and his men tore my father’s fences
down, you know?’

  Amy frowned. ‘I don’t understand. Kett’s a landowner like your father. Why would he join men who are against the landowners?’

  ‘Father says Kett was never one of us. He has always been a nuisance.’

  ‘Well, I think Robert Kett has a point. After all, what right do the landowners have to stop the people letting their animals graze where they always have?’

  ‘Amy!’ Ned knocked her hand away and sat up. ‘You’re talking against your own kind when you say such things. Your father and mine.’

  ‘I’m only saying I don’t think it’s fair.’

  ‘Well, keep your opinions to yourself. If the Earl of Warwick heard you –’

  ‘Oh, he won’t be paying me any mind. I’ve had instructions from Father. I’m to be obedient and quiet, and amusing too, if I can manage it. To tell the truth, Ned, I’m dreading meeting them. I’m such a stupid girl. What can I possibly say or do to amuse them?’

  ‘You’re not stupid, Amy.’

  Amy smiled tenderly at him. ‘You don’t have to be kind, Ned. I know I’m not clever or accomplished. I can’t read and I can barely write my own name. I can’t compare with London girls, I’m sure.’

  ‘I wouldn’t want a London girl.’

  ‘Oh, but you do want me?’ she said coquettishly.

  ‘You know I do, Amy.’

  ‘I know nothing of the sort. It’s been such a long time since you kissed me, I thought you no longer cared.’

  ‘I didn’t dare to. I thought you might not want me to kiss you again. I suppose I should have asked –’

  ‘Why must you ask? Why can’t you just kiss me, Ned?’

  ‘Amy,’ he said, shocked, ‘you sound like a wanton.’

  She glared at him. ‘Passion, Ned, I want you to have a passion for me. So much so that you can’t help yourself.’

  ‘You want me to kiss you now?’

  ‘God a ‘Mercy, yes.’

  Ned licked his lips and looked about him, checking they were alone. He leaned closer to Amy and kissed her, his lips sliding clumsily over hers. She broke the kiss before him.