by Jean Plaidy
Seymour was preparing himself for a trip on the river that he might call on Lady Latimer. His short gown, girdled at the waist, reached his knees and was of rich blue satin. His dalmatica was adorned with the widest sleeves; his hose were of white satin and his cap sparkled with sapphires and diamonds.
He was pleased with his appearance; he was pleased with himself. It was good to be young, handsome and full of vigor, to have ambitions which, because he was by nature optimistic, he was certain would very soon be fulfilled.
Sir Thomas Seymour, the great sailor, was not yet the Admiral he intended to become. But that should come about very soon, he promised himself. The young Prince Edward idolized him; Uncle Thomas was his favorite uncle, and such as Uncle Thomas did not forget that one day little Edward would be King of England, and little Edward was not the sort to forget his favorite uncle. What a good thing it had been for the House of Seymour when the King's roving and most amorous eyes had alighted on his little sister Jane.
Dear Jane! So obedient. She had done just what her brothers had told her to. He was not sure that, in dying when she had, she had not done a good thing too; for the King would soon have tired of her, and who could say what might have happened if Jane had not made a perpetual shrine for herself in the King's heart by promptly departing after the birth of her son? It was so easy for a sentimental, conscience-stricken King to sigh and tell himself and his courtiers that Jane had been the only wife for whom he had cared, the only woman worthy to have been his wife. So, because accommodating Jane had died at the right moment, she was now safely buried, with her head on her shoulders, and all was set fair for the Seymour brothers.
There was one minor irritation in the life of Thomas Seymour at that moment. The Lady Latimer, in mourning for her husband, was not at court; and he must make the long journey to her house if he would see her.
Katharine. Fair Katharine. And rich Katharine. He was very fond of her. She was perhaps not so beautiful as some other women he knew, but she had other qualities. For one thing, she adored him so obviously. What a refreshing change she must find him after those gouty old widowers of hers. She had never really lived, poor soul. She had been a nurse, not a wife. How different she would find life if she were the wife of Thomas Seymour.
He thought of those mansions which were hers; he thought of her fortune; he also thought of her charming person. He would have proposed marriage to her immediately after my Lord Latimer had died but for one thing.
He was well aware that the Princess Elizabeth was only nine years old. But he could wait… six or seven years. And who knew what was going to happen in the course of seven years. The King had lived for fifty-two years, and those fifty-two years had been somewhat rashly spent. The kingly body was none too healthy. It was said that the hideous leg was the outward sign of inner evils. The King of France suffered from similar abscesses, and all knew of the life he had lived. Fifty-two were not a great many years, but so much depended on how those years had been spent. And then, when Henry died, there was Edward. Poor Edward! Poor, sickly, learned little boy! His uncles would control him, and England would be ruled by her Protectors; and who should they be but the boy's uncles? And if the boy should die—he certainly had not the appearance of one who would make old bones—and one of those Protectors was married to the King's daughter … It was not difficult to see the possibilities in that situation. Moreover, that redheaded little girl was not displeasing to him; and he fancied—for there was something of her mother in her—that he was not altogether displeasing to her, young child that she was.
“By God's precious soul!” he murmured. “I see great days ahead for the Seymours—and in particular for you, my dear Sir Thomas.”
One of his gentlemen came in to tell him that the King's page had brought a message for him. He was to go at once to the King's presence, and it seemed from the King's mood that it would not be wise to delay.
Cursing softly, Seymour went to the King's apartment, where he knelt in reverence.
“H'm!” snorted the King, noting the rich blue satin and the sparkling sapphires and how they made the sailor's eyes look bluer and more vivid in his suntanned face. There should be a law, thought the King, forbidding a King's servant to deck himself in finery rivaling his King's.
“I had word that Your Majesty desired my presence and I came with all speed.”
“You were wise there, brother,” said the King. “Wiser than you have been in some other matters.”
Seymour opened wide his blue eyes and looked at die King with astonishment. He was ready with his tongue too, the King noted.
“My Gracious Lord, if my unwisdom has offended Your Grace, pray let me know in what cause, that I may hasten to be wise.”
“Methinks,” said Henry, “that when I honor a subject with a small favor, that subject is apt to look for bigger ones.”
“It is such an honor to serve Your Grace, and Your Grace's smiles are treasured. You must forgive your loving subjects if, having received one of your royal smiles, they crave for more.”
“Smiles! It is not smiles some look for. Some enjoy lands and treasures, which not so long ago belonged to others.”
Seymour bowed his head. It was true that, as Jane Seymour's brother, he had received lands and riches from the despoliation of the monasteries; he had grown from a humble country gentleman into a rich courtier. Was the King planning to take away that which he had given? Seymour thought uneasily of another Thomas— Cardinal Wolsey—who had at one time been the richest man, next to the King, in all England; yet he had lost everything, even his life.
“But it is not of lands that we would speak,” went on Henry. “We have been hearing rumors of your conduct, Seymour, and we do not like what we hear.”
“I am deeply grieved, Your Grace.”
“Then that is well. And, hark ye, we shall look to you to mend your ways. We have heard rumors of your gallantry, Seymour. You know what store I set on virtue….”
Seymour bowed his head even lower. It would not do for his master to see the smile which played about his mouth, and, try as he might, Thomas Seymour could not prevent its appearing there. This model of virtue! he thought. This husband of five wives— this lover of how many women! Yet in his own eyes the King remained a figure of virtue. After all, he had always put away one wife before the official ceremony of taking another, even if it meant cutting off her head.
“I know, Your Grace,” said Seymour craftily; “and if I have offended, I crave your pardon and Your Majesty's clemency. I would remind Your Majesty that it is not easy for a humble subject to follow the example of his King.”
Henry looked sharply at the man. Insolence? Was that it? He softened in spite of himself. Liking the fellow, he could not help it. Yes, he had a liking for Tom Seymour as he had had for others. Thomas Wyatt, for instance, who was reputed to have been the lover of Anne Boleyn; Thomas Wolsey was another who had had his regard. Dear Thomas Wolsey! A good servant. Henry had long persuaded his conscience that Wolsey's decline and death lay at the door of Anne Boleyn, as did the execution of that other favorite, Thomas More. There was yet another Thomas who was beloved of the King—Thomas Cranmer. How different was pious Cranmer—rather sly, sensitive Cranmer—from this handsome braggart who now stood before him. Perhaps he liked Cranmer for his very cunning, for his clever way of extricating his King from troubles; and he liked Tom Seymour because he was amusing, because he seemed a pale shadow of a youthful Henry.
“There has been too much gallantry, my lord,” went on Henry. “It extends, we hear, from the lowest to the highest. Take care, brother.”
“I know not what tales have been brought to Your Gracious Majesty, but whoever uttered them …”
“Lied in his throat, I don't doubt you will tell me. Let us hope that you are right.”
“I can assure Your Gracious Majesty that it is so.”
“And,” went on the King, “that you, my lord, have never raised those handsome eyes to the Princess Elizabeth, our
daughter?”
“My Gracious Lord…”
“Ah, you would have need of our gracious leniency if we found you guilty of such folly.”
“I beg Your Grace to listen to my side of the story.”
“We are listening.”
“I would not presume to raise my eyes to one so near Your Grace.”
“That is well. Eyes raised to the sun become dazzled, brother; and dazzled eyes see not clearly the dangers that lie ahead. Do not allow yourself to be blinded. Neither the Princess Elizabeth nor the Lady Jane Grey is for you, brother.”
“Indeed not, Your Majesty. If I seemed to admire these two, it was as charming children and …”
“Then all is well. You may leave us, brother.”
Seymour bowed, retired and went from the palace to his waiting barge.
He was sweating a little under his fine garments, particularly about the neck. Necks were so sensitive. How many times did the gentlemen about the King fancy they felt the touch of the ax there? One day a man was in high favor, his ambitions promising fulfillment; the next day he was being rowed to the Tower and taken through the Traitors' Gate. It had happened to so many whom he had known.
That interview meant that, at present, he must curb his hopes. The redheaded Princess was not for him… at present. He must forget the little Lady Jane. But there was still the rich widow waiting in her late husbands mansion; and very rich she was, and comely too. He had developed an insatiable taste for riches since his sisters elevation. A rich wife today was a more exciting prize than a royal one in seven years' time. Much could happen in a day, an hour. How much more could happen in seven years!
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the
product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously.
Copyright © 1954, 1970 by Jean Plaidy
Reader's Group Guide copyright © 2009 by Three Rivers Press, an imprint of
the Crown Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc.
Excerpt from The Sixth Wife © 1953, 1969 by Jean Plaidy
All rights reserved.
Published in the United States by Three Rivers Press, an imprint of the
Crown Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York.
www.crownpublishing.com
THREE RIVERS PRESS and the Tugboat design are registered trademarks of
Random House, Inc.
Crown Reads colophon is a trademark of Random House, Inc.
Originally published as St. Thomas's Eve in hardcover in slightly different form
in Great Britain by Robert Hale Limited, London, in 1954 and in the
United States by G. P. Putnam's Sons, New York, in 1970.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
eISBN: 978-0-307-45262-7
v3.0
Table of Contents
Cover
Title Page
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Copyright
