'The man doesn't breathe who doesn't love your Ladyship,' replied Tom lightly. 'But your father, the great Duke, wouldn't hear of marrying his daughter to a Seymour. You must realize that, my dear.'
'I will have my own way,' she said between shuttered teeth, her thinly plucked brows twisting into sharp lines. Her eyes had become hard and narrow.
'What a bitch,' thought Tom. He looked into her suddenly distorted face and saw all the vindictiveness she seldom showed to the world. Marriage with her! Never. But what fun to make her his mistress, and how humiliating for her father and her brother!
His body swayed close to hers. He felt, rather than heard, the swift intake of her breath.
At that moment, the Chapel bell began to chime reprovingly, as though to drag them back from carnal to spiritual thoughts. Cursing, Tom remembered that he must attend the King to evensong.
He kissed her gently on the lips, then left her.
Mary leaned against a door, clutching the sides of her skirts as she watched his virile figure striding into the distance, until it was a mere smudge at the end of the gallery. Her complacency soon fled when the door against which she was leaning was pulled open and she tumbled into the little room immediately beyond.
'So, you slut! You think you can cavort with Seymour when my back is turned. Well, madam, you can think again.' Her brother's face glowered down at her as she blinked in confusion and tried to drag herself to her feet, as though in dreadful pain.
'For the love of God, Harry, you might show a little care,' she pleaded, ruefully rubbing a bruised shoulder. 'I'll be scarred for life now.'
'Must you always exaggerate everything?' Surrey mocked. 'And what do you expect when you behave like a wanton with one of the country's most notorious rakes?'
Mary scowled at him. 'I dislike your impertinence.'
'And I despise your stupidity. How can you, a Howard, so far forget yourself as to think of marrying a man so much beneath you?'
Mary couldn't think of an intelligent reply, so she retorted feebly, 'You shouldn't have been eavesdropping.'
'And why shouldn't I? I can think of no better way to keep myself informed about Court intrigues, since one can't trust one's spies to be loyal. If you knew how much eavesdropping goes on here at Whitehall, you'd be shocked beyond all hope of recovery.'
'I have never been engaged in such a ridiculous discussion in all my life,' said Mary, and thrusting her chin high, she made one of her regal departures. She went directly to the Duke of Norfolk and, without shilly-shallying, broached the matter.
'Father, we haven't enjoyed the King's favour since my dear cousin Catherine died on the scaffold.'
Norfolk lifted a startled eyebrow, but merely grunted.
'The Seymours are powerful and can, if they decide, ruin us utterly,' Mary went on. 'Surely if we tried to make amends, by allying our house with theirs, we'll renew our importance.'
'And what kind of match did you have in mind, girl?' the Duke enquired calmly. 'Hmm?'
Mary's confidence was wilting. 'I — I had thought of myself and Sir Thomas Seymour, since his elder brother is already married.' Her restless eyes fell before her father's gaze.
'And since when have you been so fond of Tom Seymour?' he asked sternly.
'Father, I protest ...'
'Then you suggest we employ a policy of "if you can't beat them, join them"? A weak attitude, I would have thought. But how noble of you to offer yourself for the salvation of your family.'
Mary, staring sullenly at her father, said nothing. She wondered whether to cry, or to stage an angry scene, but she knew that would be unwise. He had an uncomfortable knack of seeing through her facades and of ripping them to shreds with his wry tongue.
Still Norfolk was thoughtful. There was some truth in what his daughter said. In fact, he was ashamed not to have thought of it himself. Putting his arm around her waist, he drew the girl close to him. 'Sweetheart,' he coaxed, 'you may as well confess it. You're in love with Seymour, aren't you?'
Mary bowed her blonde head. 'Yes, I do love him,' she cried. 'You've no idea how much. I'd cast my bones to the wind, I'd swim to France and climb the highest mountain, if only he'd marry me.'
'Yes, yes, so shall it be. Dry your eyes, girl, and do stop that dreadful noise. I must say' — his voice became husky and sentimental — 'I find it difficult to deny my sweet daughter anything.'
'Father!' Mary's eyes were shining ecstatically and she would have thrown her arms about his neck, but the Duke curtly stopped her.
'That will do. I can't promise anything but I'll mention it to His Majesty and, of course, to Seymour. Now run along, girl. You've wasted enough of my time.'
'Anne Askew was burnt at the stake this morning, Your Majesty,' announced the Bishop of Winchester, his cold eyes wandering from Henry to Catherine, whose face was drained of colour. He continued slyly, 'Unfortunately, she didn't disclose the names of fellow heretics. We tried only a short while ago to persuade the lady gently but she remained adamant in her decision to conceal important information. She received a fair trial, as Your Majesty knows, yet she ...'
'All prisoners receive fair trials,' interrupted the King sharply.
Catherine's heart pounded hopefully. Evidently Henry was in a peevish frame of mind and when these foul moods were upon him, he found fault very easily. Therefore, unless the Bishop showed a little more diplomacy, he might find himself in the uncomfortable position in which he was trying to place her.
'All prisoners receive fair trials,' repeated Henry. 'You are not, I trust, implying that the level of justice in this land is not as high as it should be, my Lord Bishop?'
'Your Majesty, I was but stressing the fact that this woman was tried as justly as previous prisoners, yet she persisted in flaunting her heresy. Her judges were very lenient, knowing how it grieves your most clement Majesty to inflict punishment on these tiresome rebels.'
Henry nodded sadly.' 'Tis so, 'tis so. Justice is the brightest jewel in my crown and I always act according to God's will.'
'Nobody can doubt Your Majesty's piety.'
Henry looked suspicious, but decided it unwise to pursue the subject. 'So be it,' he grunted.
He glanced at the woman who sat beside him, nervously coiling her hands. She looked depressed and unwell. Moreover, he had become convinced that she was both frigid and barren and for that he hated her. He couldn't understand why she wasn't responsive in bed, nor why she never expressed any affection for him.
His voice rose to a deafening bellow. 'England is hungry. She is hungry for princes to govern her when I can no longer be her guardian and father. She is unhappy, for there are men — and women — who confuse and baffle her with defiant theories. I tell you this; there are too many heretics meddling with the preachings of Luther and I will not have it. I will not tolerate heresy in this land or, by the Virgin's soul, blows will flow and flesh will bum.'
'Your Majesty's faithful servants are dealing with this problem,' Gardiner murmured, and though he was addressing the King, his eyes rested on the Queen, who tried to look defiant, but failed.
'I don't doubt it, my Lord Bishop, I don't doubt it, but peeping and probing and nudging like a crowd of half-witted chambermaids planning to steal a slice of beef will not produce any positive results. Heresy must be stamped out. But of what avail? I have too few heirs and when I die there'll be conflict. My God, it seems that I am cursed.' The Royal fist hammered on the table. The Royal eyes sank into layers of puffy flesh.
Gardiner desperately attempted to placate the King. 'Your Majesty's virility was established in the eyes of your people when Elizabeth Blount gave birth to your son, the late Duke of Richmond.'
There was a truly petrifying silence. It had been a grave mistake to refer to the King's bastard son when Henry was in this virtuous mood and Gardiner had, of course, implied that the existence of Edward would not suffice. In the best of tempers, Henry did not care to hear the low state of his son's health commented on, however indire
ctly, and now he looked positively murderous.
Gardiner had intended to insinuate that Catherine was to blame for the fruitless state of the Royal marriage but though she realized this, Henry took a totally different view.
'It would seem that smugness overcomes your tact today, my Lord,' snarled the King. 'Why so?'
Gardiner prepared to deliver one of his sugary speeches, but Henry would have none of it. 'Enough! I don't want to listen to your therefores and wherefores. If anyone is going to speak now, it shall be me. My Queen looks sickly. What is the matter, Catherine?'
'I feel a little sickly, Sire,' said Catherine. 'Perhaps I need a little fresh air.'
'Perhaps,' agreed Henry maliciously. 'For it's too late in the day for this sickness to be a sign of pregnancy, isn't it?'
Catherine was speechless. '''Go now,' ordered Henry. 'Go and pray to God, that He'll bless our marriage with a son.'
Catherine left the closet with outward calm. As she stepped outside, she heard Gardiner say, 'It is a tragic thing when wives are sullen and ungrateful.'
'Indeed, but then I seem destined to be unhappy in my marriages,' came Henry's churlish reply.
Catherine knew that Henry was anxious to rid himself of her on one pretext or another. He had already beheaded two wives on charges of Adultery and High Treason. Perhaps in this case he'd accuse his consort of Heresy, to be a little more original.
She sought out Jane Grey and told her to accompany her on a stroll about the grounds. Jane sensed that the Queen was distressed, but she said nothing.
'Rest awhile,' Catherine said, seating herself on a bench. 'I'm a little tired. Read to me, child.'
Jane obediently opened an Italian romance which she hoped would amuse the Queen. But Catherine sat motionless, her hands clasped in her lap.
'Your Majesty seems distressed today,' Jane murmured, glancing up as she flicked a page over with her thumb-nail.
Catherine saw the pity in the little girl's eyes and was touched by it. 'It's nothing, Jane.'
Her voice broke on a sob and she embraced Jane impulsively. She loved this child as her own daughter. If only ... if only she could have children, not only because her- warm, tender nature craved them, but because her position on the throne would be more secure.
Tears of sympathy flooded Jane's eyes. If this was what it meant to be Queen, she would never marry Edward, though her father might beat her and her mother curse her.
'There, Jane, you mustn't weep for me.'
Heedless of the rain which had begun to fall heavily, Catherine clung to Jane, weeping bitterly, while Jane tried to suppress her shivering. Somewhere inside the palace a sweet voice was singing one of the King's very own compositions.
'O Western wind, when wilt thou blow
The small rain down can rain
Christ, if my love were in my arms
And I in my bed again.'
Those were words he had composed at the very height of passion for his tragic sweetheart Anne. Catherine pressed a hand to her throbbing brow. How suddenly had the wind changed for Anne!
'Because she could not give him a living son,' cried Catherine, aloud.
Jane felt numb with misery. Her friend was almost cracking under stress and there was nothing she could do, nothing anyone could do, to help her.
Chapter 4
Little Jane Grey was disturbed and when she felt this way she liked to walk alone in a quiet spot.
The tension in Her Majesty's apartments was so acute that it seemed to stab her in the chest whenever she breathed. Everybody was silent, yet watchful, waiting for the worst to happen. Sometimes, when Jane was alone, she thought she heard somebody's breath quicken, or the beating of a frightened heart. Then she would open her mouth to scream, but realized, just in time, that it was her own pulse and breathing that panicked in the uneasy silence.
Henry was displeased with Catherine and had not been near her for days, and the rumour that he was contemplating a seventh marriage was rife in the Court. Jane was not a stupid child. She had mature powers of perception. It was a known fact that the heretic Anne Askew was a close friend of Her Majesty, and it was strongly suspected that she had passed on to Catherine several books on theology which were strictly forbidden but had somehow been smuggled into the land.
Several of the Queen's ladies had been mentioned during the investigations and even Jane's name had arisen more than once. The King would not be pleased, Catherine's enemies chuckled, to learn that his great-niece was being encouraged to dabble in heresy.
Anne Askew's rooms had been searched and the illegal books found there. She was arrested and, shortly afterwards, escorted to the torture chamber in the Tower. Never before had a woman been set on the rack, although men had been racked frequently in the past, in order to extort information from them.
Jane knew that Anne had been racked in the hope that she would disclose information which would lead to Catherine's downfall. Anne herself was a woman of little importance: her taste in literature could not possibly interest the King. Jane was certain that the Catholic party intended Anne's persecution to be the prelude to Catherine's destruction.
But Anne Askew, although not a prudent woman, was an outstandingly brave one. She steeled herself and withstood the temptation to break down and confess.
'Names. Give us names, woman.' Chancellor Wriothesley grasped a handful of her hair and twisted it until she gasped. Then he rapped out an order for the rack to be turned again. But still Anne, drained and broken and tortured, told them nothing.
Disgusted, the King ordered her death and she went proudly to that death, defiant and scornful even when the flames embraced her disfigured flesh.
All this Jane pondered over as she wandered aimlessly about the grounds of Hampton Court. Her face was very grave beneath her jewelled hood. It must be a sorrowful thing to be a Queen, she thought. She was startled out of her solemn ponderings by the sight of Chancellor Wriothesley striding into the courtyard. Even from that distance, her sharp eyes could see the pleased complacency in his usually hard, unyielding face. Fleet with fear, Jane ran into an alcove, pressing herself into the shadows so that he wouldn't notice her. She hated him because he was the Queen's enemy. She feared him because he had tortured Anne Askew with his own brutal hands.
Wriothesley was in fact very pleased with himself. He had just managed, by sheer brilliant diplomacy, to persuade the King to agree to a move which would be strongly beneficial to the Catholic party. Glorious days stretched before him - days of power and riches and the beaming sunlight of Henry's favour.
As he passed Jane, some papers dropped from his sleeve and fell with a gentle thud to the ground. For one awful moment, Jane was afraid that he would stop to pick them up and see her peeping out at him, but he went blithely on his way, humming a song. When he had passed out of sight, Jane darted out of her hiding place and snatched up the papers. With a quick glance to left and right, she ran to a secluded spot of the gardens, where she could peruse the papers without fear of being disturbed.
Her eyes widened. She clapped her hand over her mouth in horror. It was a mandate for the Queen's arrest and it bore the King's signature. Jane caught her breath, her brain whirling rapidly, uncertainly. What should she do? She needed the advice of an older person but who could she consult? One could never know who to trust in this weather-vane Court, for Gardiner and his friends had their spies stationed everywhere. To tell Catherine herself would only cause the woman more anguish and her nerves were all but frayed as it was. And yet she must be warned.
Jane slipped the papers inside her bodice and sped back to the palace, praying that nobody would stop her and question her. Luckily nobody did. She arrived in the Queen's apartments, flushed and panting.
Catherine Parr, seated at her embroidery frame, glanced up in surprise. 'Why, Jane,' she said, 'what has happened? Are you ill, child?'
Jane flung herself at Catherine's feet and, looking up at the sweet, tranquil face of her mistress, she began to cry.
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Catherine lifted the girl to her feet and placed an arm about her. 'Now, Jane, I see something has distressed you. Tell me. Perhaps I can help you.'
Silently, Jane drew the mandate from her bodice and handed it to the Queen. Catherine fell limply into a chair, her lips blue against the chalky whiteness of her skin.
'Madam, what is it?' squealed Lady Tyrwhitt, making a movement towards her.
'God help me,' whispered Catherine. She rose from the chair and went into the bedroom. Jane would have followed, but Anne Herbert gripped her arm, holding her back.
'Leave her. She'd rather be alone.'
Minutes later, the sound of wild sobbing could be heard from the bedroom.
'Remember Catherine Howard', one of the ladies said, her voice strained. 'She cried and cried, but nobody helped her. God save the Queen.'
'Do stop babbling,' Lady Herbert scolded briskly. 'And you, Jane, run along to the schoolroom until somebody sends for you.'
'But Her Grace the Queen,' Jane argued. 'She ...'
'She wouldn't want you to stay here. Now do go.'
Jane would have persisted, but as poor Lady Herbert looked so worried, she went in search of the Prince.
Edward was in the schoolroom with young Barnaby Fitzpatrick, the son of an Irish Peer. Barnaby was the Prince's whipping boy which meant that, on the rare occasions when Edward's lessons were unsatisfactory, Barnaby had to be whipped, since the heir to the throne could scarcely be expected to suffer such indignity. Nevertheless the Irish boy accepted his fate with a cheerful lack of resentment. He was one of the most mischievous, lovable children at Court — in fact, Edward's favourite playmate. Edward looked upon him as a hero and as it delighted Barnaby to be so favourably regarded, theirs was an amiable relationship.
'Edward,' began Jane, for Edward had insisted that, on informal occasions, no ceremony should stand between them, 'Her Majesty is very unhappy because she fears that the King is displeased with her. Isn't there anything we could do to help her?'
A crown in darkness : a novel about Lady Jane Grey Page 5
