by Susan Kay
He swung round with an unpleasant smile. He had his own designs on the royal children and Dudley could keep his long grasping fingers out of that pie. His hot glance fell suddenly on the Lady Elizabeth and with a shock he stared at her, as though seeing her for the first time. The pert child he had left behind three years ago was gone, and instead he saw a girl on the brink of womanhood, quite striking now with her bold colouring and slim figure, not exactly pretty, but handsome enough in a mysterious way. She had grown up behind his back. For the first time in three years he forgot the woman he had lost to the King and thought how very pleasant it might be to know another. She must be twelve by now, young for marriage it was true, but then she was always notoriously quick to learn and he was an able tutor, heh? Once he’d bent that fiery little will to his own, he’d have the warmest bed in Christendom and a powerful trump card to play if necessary in the next reign against his own brother.
But how best to go about it? Was it wise to suggest such a marriage to the King, who so lately had regarded him as a rival in the bedchamber? The mood of the court had not been wasted on him. He had seen at a glance that the King was more dangerously unpredictable than he had ever been. Better to wait a while before sticking his neck out in what might prove to be a distressingly literal fashion. He had waited three years—he could wait a little longer, wait and watch her grow into a woman. He’d always had the softest of spots for the wretch—courting her would be the best sport yet; and possibly the most profitable.
He looked up at the sound of a sudden skirmish, in time to see the little monkey, frightened by the attentions of so many strangers, bolt up the nearest tapestry, chattering with fear.
“Robin will get him down,” said Elizabeth’s voice at his shoulder. “Animals like him, did you know that? He can do anything with a horse.”
Tom watched the boy with hostility. He didn’t like the warmth in her voice, or the boy’s dark good looks. Good with horses—he knew what that led to more often than not.
“You like him, don’t you,” he remarked, keeping the edge out of his voice with an effort.
She blushed. “Oh—not particularly.”
Now he was thoroughly alarmed. It was the first time he had ever seen a blush on the cheeks of this brazen little madam.
“You know, of course, that his grandfather was a traitor.”
Her blush deepened to crimson. “Not a real traitor,” she said hastily.
“He died on the block and I didn’t hear anyone at the time complaining about it. I’m damned if I know what the sons of a low-born knave are doing here in the first place. I should have thought your father could provide you with better company.”
She had a guilty look which infuriated him. By God, he had not come home a day too soon by the look of things. He put his hands on her shoulders and tilted her chin upwards.
“Get your governess and I’ll take you riding. I’ve got a new mare for you to try.”
As they walked to the door, Robin stepped across their path and offered the monkey with a gesture that suggested arrogance. The boy had an odd look on his face that might have been resentment.
“Don’t forget your monkey, sir,” he said, and looked pointedly at Elizabeth as he said it.
Tom clapped him roughly on the shoulder.
“Oh, you’d better keep him, young man.” In his eyes was the hostility of like poles repelling. “I fancy he’ll be quite at home with your family. Haven’t Dudleys been apes for more than three generations?”
Elizabeth laughed and put her hand on Tom’s arm and Robin watched them walk away down the corridor together, the magnificent courtier and the half-grown girl, silhouetted against the bright sunlight. Humiliation, rage, and jealousy filled him with the urgent desire to kick something.
For the rest of his life he would see, at intervals, those two bright mocking figures laughing at him as they walked together down an endless dark corridor in his mind.
* * *
Katherine Parr had lived on borrowed time for the best part of three years and all the signs now were that time was rapidly running out. Increasing ill-health worked on the King’s moody temper, caused him to take out his catalogue of grievances against his wife and multiply them daily. Another barren wife! A wife moreover who would not see thirty again and sported opinions on religious reform. Barren and opinionated—what a miserable combination of faults!
He began to lend an ear to the tales of her enemies, Gardiner and Wriothesley, both working for her downfall. “She succours heretics, Your Majesty—”
Interesting that, and possibly useful. He filed the knowledge for future reference. And soon the rumour was all over the court that the King smiled very warmly on the widowed Duchess of Suffolk.
“They’re taking bets on the date of the wedding,” said Robin Dudley heartlessly, but Elizabeth did not smile; she had not smiled for a long time. She was stiff with tension, bracing herself against another tragedy, for this Queen too had been endlessly kind to her so that slowly, unwillingly, she had come to care. She was afraid to go into her stepmother’s apartments and see Katherine’s hunted face, that sick despair, that utter hopelessness.
The waiting was unbearable, a steady growth of choking tension until rumour said at last the most dreadful thing of all. The King had signed a warrant for the arrest and interrogation of Katherine Parr. There would shortly be a seventh wife.
The dreadful news felled Katherine to her bed with a hysterical fit that shook the palace. Elizabeth crept to the Queen’s bedside but the dreadful staring eyes which greeted her bore no recognition and she was swept out of the room by a horde of panicking women. Robin found her wandering aimlessly in the garden, white and silent, like the sole survivor of some terrible disaster. They sat in silence on a stone bench and he tried in vain to make her smile. Presently she was sick. He took her to her governess, who thanked him curtly and shut the door in his face and he saw no more of her until the crisis was over.
“What the devil is that infernal noise?” glowered the King, listening with increasing irritation to the dreadful shrieks which echoed from the adjoining apartments. “It sounds like an animal in a snare.”
The nervous doctor paused in the act of winding a bandage around the King’s leg and met his master’s shrewd gaze.
“Your Majesty, it is the Queen who cries.”
“The Queen, the Queen?” blustered Henry. “What the devil ails the woman? Am I to have no rest in my sick-room?”
There was silence in the chamber. No one dared to meet his eyes. Henry sat back in his huge chair and glared at his attendants. What was this, eh? Did she know about the warrant—had some fool blabbed before he was quite ready to spring the trap?
Well, now he came to think about it perhaps he had been a shade too hasty. He was in a low state of health today and could have used a wife about him. She had gentle fingers had Kate, and a soothing manner—not much to excite a man’s flagging interest it was true, but just at this moment his pain was of more significance to him than sexual desire. And Kate was a good nurse. Of course, she’d had the effrontery to question him on one or two religious issues and by God he was not about to be taught in his old age by a wife—but really, was it worth the upheaval to get rid of her? No doubt, after this fright, she’d be none too eager to question him again and the prospect of a grateful, repentant wife ministering to his cantankerous wants had a certain appeal. No need to put on any show for Kate, no need to woo and charm a selfish kitten like my lady Suffolk. He had himself conveyed to her bedside in the great wheeled chair that was now necessary whenever he wished to hoist his enormous bulk around the palace, and cleared up this stupid misunderstanding between them. And when Chancellor Wriothesley with forty halberdiers marched into his presence next morning to arrest the Queen he was most considerably put out. The unfortunate man was blasted thence by a royal bellow of rage and went away to inquire furiously how it w
as he had not been told that the King and Queen were “perfect friends” once more.
Wriothesley complained bitterly to Bishop Gardiner, who shrugged and told him to bide his time. There would be other opportunities to rid themselves of Katherine Parr and her Lutheran leanings. Elizabeth, as she looked at her stepmother’s pinched, grey face, knew it was true. She watched that race against time, Katherine’s life against the King’s, in an agony of suspense and prayed with fierce desperation that God would see fit to take her father before he got the chance to change his mind.
And He did. Even Henry could appreciate the fine irony of it as he lay on his deathbed and told his wife that “It is God’s will that we should part.” She knelt and wept, not very convincingly, and if he had had the strength left he would have laughed and told her not to play the hypocrite—it didn’t become her. And so they parted on amicable terms. Tom Seymour was waiting outside the chamber when she came out. He had an odd, preoccupied look which she thought she understood; she was careful not to smile as she passed on her way.
And so the old lion died. Having restored both his daughters to the succession with a despot’s calm disregard for logic, Henry Tudor departed this world, apparently entirely reconciled to all the evil he had perpetrated while resident in it.
“His Majesty died in the faith of Christ,” said Cranmer smoothly and his bland expression challenged anyone to deny it.
So he was dead. A little boy stood devastated by the news that he was King of England and turned to his youngest sister for support. Edward cried so pitifully that Elizabeth found tears stealing down her own cheeks and Lord Hertford, watching them with a jaundiced eye, decided they must be separated immediately; he didn’t like the influence she wielded over the boy. Within a week, Elizabeth found herself at Chelsea Palace with her stepmother.
The moment Henry had breathed his last, Hertford had taken command. The King’s will had dictated a Council of Regency during the minority of his son; Hertford kept Henry’s death a secret for three days while he manipulated the legal details, emerging at the end of it as Lord Protector of the Realm and Sole Governor of the little King’s royal person. By February he was Duke of Somerset and the whole of the Council was beneath his heel. Somewhere in the course of usurping power for himself, he remembered his younger brother Tom, and tossed him the post of Lord High Admiral to keep him quiet.
When the news was announced, John Dudley leaned back in his chair at the council table and picked his teeth delicately with an ivory toothpick to conceal a smile of satisfaction. He had seen the murderous look on Tom’s face and he was well pleased. He knew resentment when he saw it and what it heralded in an ambitious, headstrong man. The Seymours would drive each other along the inevitable path of self-destruction without any helping hand. And when the power feud between the King’s uncles was over there would be rich pickings for anyone with the stomach and intelligence to take them.
The new Earl of Warwick knew he could afford to wait a little longer for the lion’s share.
Chapter 4
Tom Seymour had spent the last five years waiting for the King to die. Now that moment had come only to see him cheated of his rights by a smug, posturing elder brother who skulked self-righteously beneath the mantle of Lord Protector. When he heard that news Tom could have slit the throat of every creeping, lackspittle on the Council, and he moved swiftly to consolidate what was left of his own influence. Casually, as though it were a matter of small importance, he broached the subject of his marriage to the Princess Elizabeth with the Council. It was turned down so flatly and furiously that even Tom saw it would be certain death to proceed with the matter any further.
He asked her all the same though, just for the amusement of watching her reaction; and was rudely disappointed. She was as prim and wooden as a doll beneath his caressing hand and told him she had neither the years nor the inclination for marriage. He could not begin to imagine why the idea threw her into such a rage, when every time he caught her sidelong glance upon him he could feel it heavy with silent worship. Vexed and curiously hurt, he rode back from Chelsea in a grey mood to drown his irritation in malmsey.
She refused me! That little chit had the damned effrontery to refuse me!
He went to bed that night, more drunk than he had ever been in his life; but by morning he had almost forgotten it. Reality had him in a painful grip that left little time to spare for the nursing of injured pride. Every day that he wasted saw Ned a little firmer on his stolen pedestal. Maybe he could not have a princess—but he could have a Dowager Queen and that was no little prise.
So, night after night, he rode in secret assignation to Chelsea Palace, but now it was not Elizabeth he met in the windswept darkness at the postern gate. He took Katherine with pleasure and a clear conscience; a few weeks later they were married in secret, without the Council’s consent. And as soon as the ceremony was over, he persuaded his wife to let him break the news to Elizabeth alone.
“But, Tom, don’t you think perhaps it would be better—”
“Was I not a highly successful diplomat?”
“Of course you were, but—”
“Then you may safely leave this delicate little matter in my capable hands.”
An hour later, Elizabeth curtsied dutifully to her new stepfather, her eyes downcast, her face wooden, her whole body stiff with furious grief held barely in restraint. She looked suddenly so young that the old tenderness almost checked him—almost, but not quite. He had dwelt unscathed behind the mighty fortress of his charm for more than thirty-five years. Her rejection had undermined the foundations of his confidence, shown him an unfamiliar reflection of himself—the tarnished hero, past the first virile flush of youth, who no longer conquered all. He intended to enjoy this.
“You have been avoiding me,” he observed smugly, looking down on her bent head.
“My lord flatters himself,” she said between clenched teeth. “Why should I take the trouble to do that?”
“Why indeed?” he mocked. “Unless, of course, you’re jealous of my marriage. Though why you should be, when I offered you first refusal, I really couldn’t say.”
She lifted her shoulders with a show of indifference.
“Had I known the Lord Admiral was merchandise for auction I might have been persuaded to bid for him.”
He smiled slowly. He liked a sharp answer when it cost him nothing to hear it.
“What a nasty cruel little tongue it has to be sure—and a temper to match it! Take a lesson from your mother, my little coquette, and learn to say No with less conviction if you want your suitors to knock again at your door. I’m not the only man who won’t ask you the same question twice.”
She twisted free of his hand, and ran out of the room, leaving him in a state of rueful amusement.
Five minutes later Katherine swept through the door, saying with gay agitation, “I knew it, I knew it—I should have told her myself—oh, Tom, what have you done to her?”
“Nothing,” he said hastily. “Why, what did she say I’d done?”
“She didn’t say anything,” cried Katherine. “She walked past me as though I wasn’t there. I knew she’d take offence. It’s so soon after her father—think how it must look in a child’s eyes. We should have waited longer for decency’s sake—a year at least. Oh dear, I did so want her to be happy here with us—such a sad, sad little life, pushed from one to the other, never belonging—Tom, you must win her over. Why, I thought she liked you!”
“I thought so too,” he said, a trifle grimly. “Perhaps my famous charm is beginning to desert me.”
“What an idea!” Katherine laughed. “She’s just a strange, difficult child who needs a lot of understanding. Be kind to her, Tom, for my sake, and you’ll come to love her as I do.”
He coughed. That was fine irony, if she only knew it. He knew a fleeting moment of shame and dismissed it; what she didn’t know
would do her no harm—and it was true he ought to show an interest. He put his arm around Katherine good-humouredly and half listened to her voice as it went on, soaring in little leaps and bounds of happy concern saying, “So reckless and impulsive,” saying, “With so many enemies,” saying, “You must take care”—
But he never took care, he despised caution and everything associated with its pursuit, a miserly attitude to life. Caution was his brother Ned personified, afraid to enjoy today for fear he might not enjoy tomorrow so well. Part of him acknowledged that Katherine was right, their hasty marriage had offended those in high places and they would do well to watch their step for a while. He kissed her with hearty affection; he promised to mend his careless ways and went straight out into the garden in pursuit of his stepdaughter.
* * *
The young King approved of his stepmother’s new marriage; he was arguably the only person at the court to do so and his approval was an effective shield against the Admiral’s critics, the most vociferous being the Protector’s wife.
A heated exchange of words took place in the Duke’s private quarters—not in itself a remarkable event; marital harmony had always eluded Edward Seymour. His first union had ended in divorce and his present wife was a notoriously rapacious woman, insatiably ambitious and insufferably haughty. Whatever enemies the Duke failed to make for himself, his Duchess made for him; and her hostility to Tom had long amounted to an obsession. Once again, against his better judgement, the Protector found himself driven to intercede on his brother’s behalf.
“Anne, it’s hardly a crime to marry a rich widow.”
“The King’s widow!” she insisted stonily. “What if there should be a child?”
