by Brandy Purdy
In a panic, Mr. Parry broke free of them and threw off his gold chain of office from around his neck and wrenched the rings from his fingers and flung them higgledy-piggledy into the air, as he burst into frightened tears and wailed, “Would that I had never been born, for I am now undone!” before the guards again caught hold of him.
Kat and I tried to cling to each other but the guards tore us apart. And when Blanche Parry pleaded for them to tarry just long enough for her to run upstairs to fetch some proper warm clothes for Kat, shivering with cold and fear in her nightgown and cap, she was refused and soundly rebuked for trying to give comfort to one who was possibly a traitor.
“You have no right!” I heatedly exclaimed. Conjuring up the memory of my father and calling forth all my royal dignity, I stamped my foot indignantly, drew my spine up straight, thrust my shoulders back and my chin up high. “We know nothing of the Lord Admiral’s schemes! How dare you disturb the peace of my household in the middle of the night and manhandle my servants? My brother, the King, shall hear of this!”
With chilly eyes, and an even colder voice, Sir Robert Tyrwhitt turned to me.
“My Lady Princess,” he said with a mocking half bow, “in deference to your royal station, I offer you a choice—you may either walk out to my barge or be dragged and carried out by these guards and dumped into it like a sack of grain.”
Eyes blazing, I tossed my head defiantly, whipping my hair back over my shoulders, and turned to plant my velvet-slippered foot firmly on the bottom step. “I will walk without the chivalrous assistance you so kindly offer me, My Lord, but first, I will dress.”
His hand shot out to stay me.
“Mrs. Parry can pack what you need; I shall send word back of where to send it. But you must come now, My Lady Princess. We shall not tarry.”
Contemptuously, I jerked my arm free, shook back and smoothed down my hair and, clad in only my nightgown and slippers, walked boldly out into the frigid black night, with my head held high as if I were entering the King’s Presence Chamber in my finest array. Appearances are everything, and those who show their fear and weaknesses are most vulnerable.
Perhaps something in my demeanor impressed him, or some hint of compassion stirred him, or maybe he was trying to win my trust and, by extension, my gratitude, I really cannot say, but as I paused on the jetty before stepping into the barge, the icy wind, that seemed to burn and freeze at the same time, tugging viciously at my hair and gown, Sir Robert removed his own velvet cloak and draped it most solicitously about my shoulders. Contemptuously, I shrugged it off just as quickly and let it fall into the dirty, dark waters of the Thames as I stepped, unaided, into the barge and settled myself upon the velvet-cushioned seat.
I held my chin up high and stared straight ahead of me, biting my lips to prevent their quivering lest they think I shivered from fear as well as from the cold. Nor did I give them the satisfaction of asking where they were taking me; I would know soon enough. And if it happened to be the Tower, where my mother had gone before me, my body would not betray the truth that inside I cowered and cried like a frightened child, like the three-year-old I had been the day the French executioner’s sword ended my mother’s life. I was not only Great Harry’s daughter, I was Anne Boleyn’s as well, and, by heaven, I would show them all that that was a combination to be reckoned with! And, come what may, I would hold my head up high until the moment the executioner struck it off, if such was to be my fate!
But it was not to the Tower that they took me, but to my own house of Hatfield. But rather than let me go upstairs to resume my so rudely interrupted rest, or to dress or even don a robe, ease my bladder, or partake of a morsel of food or a warming drink, instead I was ushered immediately into the downstairs study by Sir Robert Tyrwhitt to begin the first round of questioning.
I knew what his game was; keeping me thus, he expected me to behave like what I was—a frightened and friendless fifteen-year-old girl, her nerves sorely jangled by an abrupt awakening and seeing her beloved governess dragged off to the Tower, with its numerous tortures and horrors, where the man she allegedly loved already languished. And as an added boon they hoped that my nakedness beneath my nightgown—one lone layer of white cloth without the rigid and respectable confines of tightly laced stays, stiff layered petticoats, covered by a proper gown—would make me feel even more vulnerable, and perhaps even conjure up memories of the wanton romps I was said to have indulged in with my stepfather, the Lord Admiral. Well, Sir Robert had met his match in Elizabeth Tudor. He might strip me naked, and leave me without sustenance until my belly howled like a banshee, but he would never take away my dignity! Stark naked I still had more backbone than the most rigorous corset either tailor or torturer could devise!
My chin shooting up as if my nose would bump the moon out of the sky to make way for the sun, I swept past him and settled myself in the most comfortable chair by the fire, flipped off my damp, cold slippers, and stretched out my toes to the toasty warmth.
“You have questions, Sir Robert? Well, let us get on with it then since they are apparently so urgent that you must roust me out of bed without tarrying even long enough for me to dress myself properly against the cold.” I paused and coughed meaningfully into my hand. “If I have caught cold, rest assured, I shall know exactly where to fix the blame.” To emphasize my point, I leveled accusing eyes straight at him.
“Urgent indeed, My Lady Princess,” he began. “Your paramour . . .”
“My what, Sir?” I instantly interrupted.
“The what is your paramour, My Lady Princess,” Sir Robert retorted sharply. “And before you interrupt me again to ask who I mean I shall tell you that it is the Lord Admiral, Sir Thomas Seymour, to whom I refer.”
“You are misinformed then, Sir Robert. I have no paramour. Furthermore, I am a princess of royal blood, the daughter of Henry VIII”—I gestured to the majestic portrait of my scowling, seemingly invincible sire hanging above the mantel, his meaty, bejeweled hands curled into fists as he glowered out at the world from the confines of the gilded frame—“and as such I may not entertain suitors without the consent of the Council, as surely you know, being a member of said Council and, unless you know more than I do, none has ever sued for my hand.”
“The Lord Admiral did ask for your hand, My Lady Princess,” Sir Robert informed me, “and was refused, rebuffed actually, to be quite candid. He did not take it well. He also petitioned for the hand of your sister, the Princess Mary, and was refused permission to court her as well. And was ‘laughed out on his arse,’ to use the crude expression that was bandied about when after the Council’s rebuke he went courting the Lady Anne of Cleves. I was told he was actually chased away by a barrage of onions hurled from the windows by that lady’s servants when he attempted to infiltrate her bedchamber in the guise of a footman bringing her an early morning repast of cakes and ale.”
I did not let Sir Robert see that this was news to me. Tom had never mentioned Mary or the Lady Anne of Cleves except in passing when he told me about how my brother had once suggested them as possible brides for him when he connived, with the devious assistance of his man Fowler, to secure royal approval of his marriage to Kate. Nor had Mary in her rigidly polite letters ever mentioned any such dealings. There had been, much to my regret, a coldness between us since I had chosen to remain at Chelsea with Kate and Tom after their surprisingly sudden marriage which had outraged Mary’s inflexible sense of propriety. I had meant to write to her, to try to thaw the coldness, but in my reckless passion for Tom I kept putting it off.
“The Lord Admiral was my stepfather,” I calmly explained to Sir Robert, “the husband of my late lamented stepmother the Dowager Queen Katherine, and I was never privy to what business he had with the Council. If he ever asked for my hand, he never deigned to discuss the matter with me personally, so you might add presumption to his list of alleged crimes.”
“He already stands accused of three-and-thirty counts of High Treason, Princess;
do you not think that sufficient?” Sir Robert parried.
“Three-and-thirty!” I arched my brows. “How flamboyant! One would think an Englishman would show more restraint! It shows a want of good taste, to say nothing of good judgment! Do you not agree, Sir Robert?”
“Yes, Princess, I entirely agree; a most apt assessment for one so young.” He nodded grudgingly.
“Oh my lord, how you do flatter me!” I cried, slumping back in my chair with my hand upon my heart in parody of a swoon.
He fixed me with a cold, stern, and reproachful stare. “I do not have time for flattery, Princess, or levity either.”
He then went on to enumerate Tom’s various crimes as I shook my head, clucked my tongue, and feigned surprise at his foolishness, interjecting from time to time a litany of amazed comments.
“A Lord Admiral of England consorting with pirates?”
“Allowing them free rein in exchange for a share of their spoils?”
“For shame!”
“The dread pirate Thomessin was his boon companion?”
“They actually sat at table together for a moonlit banquet on the pirate’s flagship and the Lord Admiral sang bawdy English tavern songs and danced for him?”
“Surely not ‘Cakes and Ale’ again, Sir Robert? Verily, the Lord Admiral seems to sing but one song!”
“This reflects badly upon England and our navy as well as upon the Lord Admiral!”
“Embezzling the Royal Mint? Coin clipping? Oh my! How brazen!”
“The keys were not pilfered but given to him by the royal locksmith? Well, apparently the Lord Admiral’s charm must extend to locksmiths as well as ladies and pirates!”
He went on to tell me that my mad, rash-brained Tom had been apprehended after sneaking into the royal apartments at Hampton Court in the dead of night to put in motion a harebrained scheme in which he planned to sneak my brother from his bed, to carry him away and marry him to the Lady Jane Grey before anyone noticed he was missing. He had intended not to return him to the palace until the marriage had been consummated so none could annul it. But his scheme had been thwarted by my brother’s spaniel, Hector, who roused the guards by barking. The faithful canine paid for his loyalty with his life when Tom discharged his pistol right between its beautiful brown eyes, thus rousing those in the palace who had not already been awakened by the dog’s barking, and causing my brother to burst into tears and fly at his once favorite uncle, pummeling him with his fists and screaming, “You killed my dog, now I will kill you!” before he collapsed on the floor cradling the lifeless body of the only one whose loyalty he never doubted, staining his white nightshirt with its faithful fast-cooling blood.
Tom was dragged away by the palace guards, shouting back over his shoulder that he would bring Edward “a new dog tomorrow! Don’t despair, Nephew, I shall bring you a whole kennel full of dogs—brown dogs, and black dogs, white dogs, and red dogs, yellow dogs, parti-colored, striped, and spotted dogs! Dogs with long hair and dogs with short, dogs with bristly hair and silky soft! Stop crying now and smile for Uncle Tom,” he cajoled, “and tomorrow I shall bring you dancing dogs and singing cats, all dressed in clothes and funny hats!”
“Poor Edward!” I sighed. I could see him in my mind’s eye, weeping as he hugged his murdered pet, wondering if there was even one honest man in England who would gladly and selflessly see him to his majority without being blinded by self-interest and ambition or the honeyed words and bribes of court factions.
“There is more, Princess, much more,” Sir Robert said, and went on to tell me that Tom was also under suspicion of having poisoned his wife. Witnesses claimed that he had added a mysterious white powder to her wine, and the way he had forced the dictation and signing of her will was most suspicious, to say nothing of callous and unkind. I learned that he had also planned to invite the entire Council and their wives to a lavish banquet at his London house that would also turn out to be their last supper. In a dark-humored touch, he had even procured a large tapestry depicting the Last Supper to be hung overlooking the banquet table. The banquet was to be held ostensibly to make peace with his brother, but at the last moment Tom had planned to have his cook fall ill, thus necessitating him to send an urgent message to his brother, begging to borrow his own cook for the night else the dinner be ruined. The plan was to administer poison and lay the blame on his brother’s cook and, by extension, upon the Lord Protector himself, thus neatly disposing of all Tom’s enemies in one fell stroke.
Sir Robert also told me that Tom had three lists, which he would whip out at a moment’s whim and show to anyone, even strangers on the street or people passing him in the palace corridors. The first list consisted of the names of Tom’s friends as well as acquaintances who liked him, the second list included the names of men who disliked Tom and favored his brother instead, and the third were those whose preference was either uncertain or for neither. Tom saw it as his mission to move as many names as possible from the second and third lists onto the first. He also kept a map that denoted in solid black ink the parts of England where he was more popular than his brother, and in black spots those where his brother was preferred, and in stripes those areas where neither held sway, so Tom could clearly see the parts of the nation he needed to work on winning over to his side, his goal being to someday see the whole map painted solid black.
My amazement showed clear upon my face, and Sir Robert hastened to assure me, “I know for a fact these documents exist. Sir Thomas unwisely showed them to several men at court who, in their dedication to assuring the safety of the King and realm, brought it to the Lord Protector’s attention. They were also upon his person when he was taken.”
With every word I was discovering more and more what a fool Tom was. His efforts to obtain more supporters were . . . childlike, to put it bluntly. I could easily imagine him saying to his brother, “More people like me than like you!” and putting out his tongue to punctuate it.
But I had little time to ponder this as Sir Robert was now telling me that, whenever he was in London, Tom frequented a particular tavern, where, after a few cups of their finest brew, he would leap up onto the bar, throw off his codpiece, and flamboyantly flaunt his well-endowed masculinity. Brandishing his cock as he strutted back and forth along the bar like a proud cockerel, he would belt out at the top of his lungs a boisterous ditty of his own composition that seemingly consisted of countless repetitions of the same two lines:
O My cock is bigger than my brother’s!
O diddle diddle diddle all the day!
He would vigorously urge the other patrons of the tavern to join in. “Everybody sing!” he would shout, waggling his cock at them and declaring, “He deserves a serenade!”
When he tired of singing, Tom would empty his purse into his hands, fling the coins up into the air, letting them fall where they would, and invite all the women in the tavern to “Come and get it, my pretty whores!” and launch himself from the bar onto the nearest table occupied by women of dubious repute, causing the table to splinter and collapse beneath his weight, not that the proprietor particularly minded; Tom was so free with his gold that they could not help but be fond of him and look forward to his visits, and by the time his reign of table-diving was ended by his arrest, he had furnished the Jolly Mermaid with a whole new set of tables and chairs. In fact, so well-regarded was he by the proprietors that they had even painted him onto the shingle-sign outside, embracing the mermaid from behind, cupping a bare breast and kissing her cheek.
It angered me that I blushed, for I knew that was Sir Robert’s aim in telling me this; he wanted to shock me, to provoke some visible reaction. He wanted me flustered, angry and confused, perhaps even jealous and hurt over Tom’s philandering. But I was past that. I was embarrassed for Tom, as I would have been for any fool who comported himself in such a manner, but I was past caring about what he did and whom he did it with. The Lord Admiral’s ship was sinking, and my only goal now was to save myself and my servants from go
ing down with it.
“The man is obviously quite mad,” I said. “Heaven help him, for no one else will.”
I knew that Tom’s madness would not save him; my father had repealed the law against executing the insane for High Treason for the benefit of the vengeful and treacherous Lady Rochford, who had falsely accused my mother and Uncle George of incest, when she lost her wits in the Tower after her role in abetting that poor silly girl Katherine Howard’s adultery was discovered.
“I daresay he will soon stand before a higher judge than Parliament.” Sir Robert nodded. “But now, let us concern ourselves with you, My Lady Princess,” he continued in a crisp, businesslike tone. “Now that you know what the Lord Admiral stands accused of, you must answer for your role in it.”
“That I can do in one word, Sir Robert—none! I had no part in it whatsoever, no part at all!” I firmly declared. “Do you honestly think, My Lord, that I would be involved in anything so absurdly foolish? The man obviously had more courage than cunning, but it was not enough to carry the thing off!”
“Everyone plays the fool sometime, Princess. You are no exception to the rule.” Icicles hung from every word Sir Robert uttered. “However”—he clapped his hands and came to stand before the fire, rubbing them together and holding them out to warm—“you are young, and be grateful for it, for therein your salvation may lie . . .”
“In my youth, My Lord?” I queried. “Not in my trust and faith in God and the following of His commandments?”
“Youth excuses much, Princess. Those with more experience of life may be, in some instances, more tolerant of the foibles and follies, the mistakes and missteps made by persons of more tender years, including the breaking of God’s commandments as well as Man’s laws. And, My Fine Lady, I have reason to believe that you may have broken some of both. Adultery, for instance; the Lord Admiral was another woman’s husband when he first became your lover.” He walked to a table nearby and brandished a sheaf of papers. “I have many reports from the late Dowager Queen’s household at Chelsea . . .”
