Legacy

by Susan Kay

  “No one could seriously believe it to be the King’s after this length of time.”

  “People believe what it pays them to believe,” sniffed his wife. “I’ve told you before—Tom’s a trouble-maker.”

  The Duke laid a hand on her arm in what was intended to be a conciliatory gesture.

  “And when he makes real trouble, my love, I swear I’ll deal with him, but in the meantime you must be patient. I can’t over-rule the King in this and brand myself a petty tyrant—you must see that!”

  The Duchess subsided, like a crocodile sinking beneath the surface of a muddy lake. It was true that she could safely wait. She was confident the Admiral would hang himself one day without her aid—she had merely to play him sufficient rope for the purpose.

  Disapproval of the Admiral’s match came from many quarters. From Beaulieu, where the Princess Mary was in residence, it came in the form of a stilted letter offering to take charge of Elizabeth.

  “If you want to go, my dear,” said Katherine sadly, “I shall understand your position. I’m afraid we’ve made things very difficult for you.”

  She went softly out of the room and left Elizabeth sitting at her writing desk with pen and ink. Her first impulse was to go—anything, oh, anything to get away from here. The effort of concealing her misery beneath a brittle cloak of gaiety was becoming insufferable. She must be pleasant to her stepmother, nonchalant with Tom, and charming to her cousin Jane Grey, who had recently joined the household, following some shady deal between the Admiral and her parents. She had Jane to be jealous of now, in addition to Katherine, and she was so taut with pent-up, socially unacceptable emotion that she felt ready to burst. Oh yes, she would go, and the sooner the better.

  Halfway through the letter of acceptance she paused and imagined the deadly, nun-like regime at Beaulieu. She had stayed with Mary too often during her childhood not to realise that she would be utterly bored within a week, supervised and corrected from morning till night. And if she left the easy-going hilarity of Chelsea where everyone now practised the fashionable Reformed faith, she would be under intolerable pressure to go to Mass. She could twist Katherine around her little finger, but she would never get her own way with Mary no matter how much she sulked or wheedled. At least at Chelsea she was with people she loved, however hopeless and painful that love might be. Katherine, who had been so good to her—and Tom. What torture could compare with that of not seeing him every day?

  She screwed up the letter and began again, this time on a formal note of refusal. Outside her window she could hear the Admiral’s voice and her pen began to fly across the page. She wrote politely but rather carelessly, declining Mary’s kind offer, and at the time never gave a thought to the offence her sister must automatically take from such a refusal. But years later she looked back on that letter, written in such ill-considered haste, and saw it as the pivot on which her whole existence had turned; for if she had gone to Mary then, the rest of her life would have been entirely different.

  But she did not go. She remained at riotous, sociable Chelsea, and was more riotous and sociable than anyone else among the gay company that enjoyed the Lord Admiral’s ample hospitality. She was a little older now, a little more mature and worldly wise, learning to hide her undesirable feelings and display an amusing front to the world. People turned automatically when she entered the room and gathered around her from choice, rather than courtesy. She began to enjoy the attention she excited among young men, and the Admiral, watching her enjoy it, struggled with his own angry emotions. So the little chit thought she was a woman of the world, did she, just because she had a wicked wit that sent her companions into convulsions of laughter. He’d seen her mother do just that, hold a little court at any gathering and the memory, for no accountable reason, angered him beyond endurance. He’d pull her down a step or two, by God he would—he’d treat her exactly as he used to do when she was four years old—and that would teach her to flaunt her charms at vacant boys and indulgent old men!

  Part of this policy was to appear unannounced in her bedroom and start the sort of boisterous horseplay that a man might acceptably show to any four-year-old girl, bounding on the bed in his nightshirt, pulling off the sheets, slapping and tickling and kissing her until she was hysterical with laughter.

  Only she was not four now, but nearly fourteen and at the bottom of his heart he knew he had not come to tease a child.

  “My lady! My lord, for shame!” The governess, now a respectably married lady herself—Mrs. Katherine Ashley—made a futile attempt to maintain order.

  “My lord, I must insist you leave Her Grace’s room at once. People are beginning to talk.”

  “I can’t go without Her Grace’s express permission—she’s a very touchy young lady or haven’t you noticed?”

  Elizabeth, seeing his back turned, dealt him a resounding thwack with her bolster which sent him sprawling, barelegged in his night robe at Mrs. Ashley’s feet. She dived off the bed and began to beat him about the head until the pillow burst its seams and sent a snowstorm of swansdown into the air.

  “Mrs. Ashley, have you no shame for rearing this wretched Amazon?” he inquired sarcastically from the floor. “You might at least have taught her not to hit a man when he’s down.”

  “Is there a better time to hit him?” inquired Elizabeth, aiming a kick. He caught her bare foot and pulled her down on top of him. When at last he had managed to sit on her and kiss her hand with exaggerated humility, he made a mocking bow to Mrs. Ashley and clowned out of the room.

  Katherine was still in bed when he returned, listening with easy good humour to the sound of turmoil in the room above. He flung himself on his back beside her and she leaned over to pick the clinging swansdown out of his golden beard and hair.

  “What a fearful racket!” she said indulgently as she kissed him. “You must have roused the whole household.”

  “Do ’em good!” he retorted. “Early to bed, early to rise.” He returned her kiss playfully. “And speaking of rising—”

  “Oh, Tom!” She pushed him gently away. “You know we can’t—not now—it wouldn’t be safe.”

  He sighed, but lay back good-naturedly enough; she was right of course. To have conceived a first child after so many barren marriages was a miracle he would not put lightly at risk. He wanted a son—and yet August was such a long way off, a long time to be patient.

  Katherine sat up and pulled off her cap, allowing her hair to tumble freely round her shoulders.

  “I think you’re turning that girl into a positive hoyden,” she said lightly.

  He shrugged. “I’m only releasing her true self from its layers of gentle nurture. Oh, don’t deceive yourself, Kate—the girl’s a natural guttersnipe at heart, just like Boleyn. She may play the modest maid in your company, but behind your back those pretty prim lips spout words that even I would blush to use in mixed company. You might make a queen out of Bess, my love, but you’ll never make a lady.” He paused reflectively. “What she needs, of course, is a damned good beating!”

  “You’d never take a whip to her!”

  “Oh, wouldn’t I—who’s to stop me?” he teased. “I’m her stepfather, after all, her guardian—oh, Christ’s soul, Kate—if you could see your face! You silly goose—would I ever lay a hand upon her, save in fun? She’s only a child!”

  She’s only a child. It was his sole line of defence, to himself and to others, but it grew a little thinner every day; and one chill windy morning, in the formal gardens at Hanworth, he finally acknowledged that he was playing with fire. It began as just another romp and ended with ugly emotions showing through the frayed edges of his control—and all because she was wearing a black dress which reminded him unpleasantly of her mother.

  “Strange,” he said softly. “I don’t recall putting the household into mourning, do you, Kate? And no one wears black under my roof without my leave, certai
nly not a jumped-up chit of twelve.”

  “I’m fourteen,” snapped Elizabeth furiously. “You know I’m fourteen.”

  “Is that so, grandmother?”

  Katherine laughed. “Tom, stop teasing her. You make her life a misery these days.”

  “And what does she make mine I’d like to know? Listen—” He gave Elizabeth a push. “We’ve done with play-acting now, madam. Go in and put on something that doesn’t make you loot like a whore from the stews.”

  “Tom! That wasn’t called for, dear.”

  “I’ve had enough of her defiance,” he said brusquely. “I’ll have obedience in my own house or know the reason why. Go into the house, Elizabeth, and get changed at once.”

  “I won’t! I won’t be ordered about. I’m the King’s daughter.”

  “You certainly are, madam. And it’s time you began to behave like one.”

  She backed against a tree, looking desperately at Katherine, who shrugged her shoulders in an amused and helpless gesture.

  “You can’t make me do anything,” she muttered sullenly.

  “Oh, can’t I? We’ll see about that!” He grabbed her roughly and pushed her into Katherine’s arms. “Hold her for me while I teach her a lesson she won’t forget.”

  He whipped out his little jewelled dagger and knifed the full skirts to ribbons. Finally he took hold of the bodice and ripped it down the front, exposing her bare breasts. When he had finished he was panting. There was a glazed look in his eyes and his hand was shaking.

  Elizabeth and Katherine stared at him in silence and in the cold wind Elizabeth began to shiver. He sheathed his dagger and tried to laugh nonchalantly.

  “You wouldn’t change it, so I changed it for you,” he said inadequately. Still they stared at him and suddenly, filled with shame, he lost his temper completely. “God’s death, girl, don’t stand there like a bloody Bedlamite. Get inside the house and cover yourself decently.”

  “Yes, go along, dear,” said Katherine shakily. “I’ll be up later.”

  As he watched Elizabeth run up the gravel path to the house, he put a guilty arm around his wife and thought: It’s got to stop!

  * * *

  Mrs. Ashley was leaning over a clothes press when Elizabeth came into the room. She straightened up, turned round and stiffened with horror.

  “What in God’s name—”

  “Before you ask,” said Elizabeth haughtily, “it was the Admiral who did it.”

  “The Admiral!”

  “Yes—and don’t take that tone with me, Ashley! It wasn’t my fault. The Queen held me while he cut it up. I tell you the Queen held me.”

  But she would not look at Kat as she said it.

  * * *

  Kat Ashley had never aspired to discipline. She had lost the whip hand with Elizabeth more than ten years ago and she had been endeavouring to lead her wilful charge ever since, with about as much success as a bumbling general attempting to command his army from the rear. Now she was forced to admit to herself that the Princess was galloping away from her ineffectual rein like a wild, unbroken mare. She had been unable to stop the girl slipping out on a barge after midnight on some wild jaunt of the Admiral’s, and an uncomfortable premonition of impending disaster had begun to weigh heavily on the governess’s mind.

  That premonition eventually saw her standing alone in the Admiral’s private study, patting nervously at her coif while her small anxious eyes roved over the maps strewn across his desk, over anything in fact which would postpone the necessity of looking into his handsome face.

  “My lord—” There was an absurd wobble to her voice, but suddenly the panelled room seemed remarkably small and the Lord Admiral uncomfortably near. Kat was a little afraid of provoking that magnificent rage of his at such close quarters. “My lord—forgive me if I speak out of turn—”

  He looked up and gave her a wry smile.

  “Get on with it, woman—I haven’t got all day, you know.”

  “My lord—I don’t mean to question your intentions and, of course, it’s not my place to give you advice—”

  “Perfectly true,” he remarked sardonically, “but I sense you intend to give it anyway. Speak out, woman, for God’s sake—I’m not going to slit your throat.”

  “I have to warn you that there’s a great deal of talk—damaging and slanderous talk—concerning the Lady Elizabeth and—and you, my lord.” She took a gulping breath. “My lord—to come alone, bare-legged, to a maid’s chamber—tickling, slapping—and kissing—I beseech you to have a thought for her good name and leave off these morning visits.”

  He exploded out of his chair with his favourite oath and Kat took a hasty step backwards.

  “By God’s precious soul, madam, I’ll not be told how to conduct myself in my own house by a gossiping busybody of a servant. I’ll lay the whole matter before the Protector first. God knows, we’ve had our differences over matters of state but he wouldn’t stand by and see me slandered like this.”

  “But, my lord—” wailed Kat.

  “Out!” he roared. “Get out before I forget you’re a lady!”

  Kat went to the Queen and voiced her fears, but Katherine laughed uneasily and merely promised to chaperone her husband’s early-morning visits to Elizabeth’s bedroom. Had she not been pregnant, she might have reacted more strongly, but the growing child had made her lethargic and complacent. She would handle this in her own way; she would not be stampeded into acting harshly by malicious gossip. And it would be all right in the end. Many a middle-aged man had a passing fancy for a teenage girl—But it’s me he loves, I know it’s me. I mustn’t let this get out of proportion.

  And there were other worries to distract her; increasingly strained relations with the Protector for one. Goaded by his wife, Somerset was refusing to hand over the jewels that the old King had left to her—why, he had even confiscated her wedding ring. Tom had been furious; there had been another bitter quarrel. And now Tom was talking of redressing his wrongs, with the little King’s help, in Parliament, making the present session “the blackest that ever was in England.”

  He had remarked, in public, on the ease with which a man might steal the King from beneath his brother’s nose.

  “You must not say these things,” begged Katherine, wild with anxiety. “Don’t you see how it could be misunderstood?”

  “Don’t fret, my sweet. Ned can’t see beyond the end of his nose—he never could!”

  No, thought Katherine fearfully. But his wife can!

  * * *

  “A chance remark,” said the Duke of Somerset uneasily, “is hardly evidence, my dear.”

  The Duchess glared at him. “It’s a chance remark, is it, when someone speaks of abducting a king? In my day we called it treason! How much longer are you going to sit on your reforming backside waiting for that rogue to bring you down?”

  “I have absolutely no evidence—”

  “Then find some, you pompous fool. God knows there’s rumour enough to hang him ten times over.”

  The Protector chewed his pen and stared darkly out of the little latticed window. Oh yes—there was certainly rumour—crooked negotiations with Jane Grey’s father—that very unhealthy interest Tom showed in the Lady Elizabeth. There was talk of condoning piracy, of debasement of the coinage, of the Admiral’s desire to employ ten thousand men a month.

  And what might he want with ten thousand men at his back?

  The Protector turned to look at his wife with narrowed eyes. She was a hard bitch, but shrewd; he trusted her judgement.

  “I shall have my brother put under surveillance,” he said quietly. “Will that satisfy you?”

  The Duchess smiled coldly.

  “For the moment,” she said, and left him to brood.

  * * *

  There was no stepping back from the precipice this time;
Tom had known it the moment he entered her room and found her alone with her hair loose.

  Afterwards he blamed that hair, rippling in long red waves around her pale face, inflaming his desire, and wondered if she had heard his step in the corridor beyond and deliberately removed her coif to make herself look so abandoned and irresistible. He never knew the answer, never had the opportunity to ask it. He only knew that he wanted her, suddenly, urgently, beyond caution and common sense and decency; and that as suddenly, urgently, she wanted him.

  He opened his arms to her as he had done so many times across the years, but this time it was no child they closed around. And he knew that whatever price he had to pay for this stolen pleasure it would be worth it.

  It was not difficult to get her to the floor; she sank slowly, willingly, beneath him while he opened her mouth with his own. She wore a loose morning gown, no farthingale or petticoats, nothing to impede his urgent exploring hand. His touch sent a violent spasm through her body and deep in his mouth he felt her gasp. His finger worked with practised skill. Warm, moist, ready—oh, very ready.

  He bunched the skirts high about her breasts, burying his face in her taut, bare skin; and it was there that Katherine found them, just in time to stop that moment of wild surrender.

  He sprang up, as though her gasping exclamation had stabbed him in the back like a knife blow, and his bronzed face was crimson beneath its golden beard.

  “Katherine!”

  “Yes,” she said, in a strange, flat little voice. “Katherine,” and went out of the room.

  The Admiral ran after her and Elizabeth was left alone on the floor, burying her face in the dirty rushes, hiding from a shame that was too great to be borne.

  * * *

  Katherine said, “She’s fourteen—scarcely more than a child and just old enough to bear you one. Were you out of your mind?”

  He was silent, shamefaced as a little boy caught stealing from his mother’s purse.

  At last he said awkwardly, “It meant nothing.”

  She stared at him.

  “You think it nothing to despoil a girl second in line to the throne? You think your brother will call it nothing?”