But the admiral would hardly have measured his political cunning by his looks or magnetism. In his own view he possessed just the sort of daring —backed by years of tough soldiering and leading men at sea—that England's parlous condition called for. It was a shaky situation at best, with a child on the throne, a wrangling council to guide him and, brooding over all, the irascible figure of Edward Seymour, Lord Protector, whose grip on the reins of power was none too firm.
The boy-king was a charming miniature—a slender, doll-like child dressed in the plumed hat and velvet doublet of a king. He wrinkled his child's brow in a frown and stalked up and down the presence chamber in stiff-legged imitation of his father, but his father's regal profanities sounded pathetic in Edward's high-pitched voice, and the son was painfully lacking in the father's robust physique. Edward looked fragile, and inspired concern. Everyone worried over him, from the councilors who had contingency plans ready in the event of his death to the citizens of the capital who expected to see his delicate, jewel-studded figure from time to time and, when they missed it, were quick to infer the worst. At age twelve the king
wrote in his journal that ''because there was a rumor that I was dead, I passed through London." 4
Intellectually precocious like his half-sisters, Edward became in time so facile a linguist that he was able to converse in fluent Latin even on scientific subjects. He made considerable progress in Greek as well, and in modern languages—though the imperial ambassador, when advised that the king's Latin was better than his French, remarked that "he seemed to me to understand one just as little as the other." 5 Certainly his linguistic accomplishments exceeded those of his councilors; Dudley, when forced to comment on Edward's revised statutes for the Order of the Garter, composed in impeccable Latin, admitted with some embarrassment that he could only "guess at" their merits. 6
Yet Edward's education was intensely practical, and if he was allowed to indulge his gift for languages—he enjoyed taking notes on the sermons he heard, writing the English words in Greek characters—he was also trained to command. A solid foundation in geography was essential to a king who would in time lead armies and govern fleets, and young as he was, Edward could reel off all the bays and harbors of the French and Flemish coasts, together with the ports and coastal towns that overlooked them. He knew too the tidal patterns of the major rivers, and what size ships could negotiate them, carrying what number of men. Arms and armaments were given careful study—in the abstract, for the king was held too precious to risk his life in the tiltyard—along with military history and strategy. And he memorized the names of his leading subjects, the nobles and gentry whose contingents of fighting men were mustered in time of war to form the royal armies.
Every effort was made to surround Henry VIII's successor with the formality and decorum his father had demanded. There were the same elaborate spectacles, the tilts, masques and plays that had dazzled visitors to the court of King Henry. There was the same numerous royal household, from the French cook to the court painters, the corps of medical men— fifteen in all—and the dozens of musicians that provided dance music while the king dined and filled the privy chamber with soft ballads when he sought solitude. Exaggerated deference was paid to the king's person. Where Elizabeth had bowed three times to her father, she bowed five times before her brother, who barely acknowledged her obeisances and excluded her—as he did all his relatives—from sitting with him under the canopy of royalty. Yet despite all this, the little king was in truth a somewhat ridiculous figure in his brilliant plumage and glittering jewels. The reverence paid to him was artificial; his court held the illusion of rule, not its substance. For no one forgot that, wherever the king went, the Protector
went with him, and in truth it was Edward Seymour's word that governed all.
The Protector and his haughty, prepossessing wife occupied the palace apartments normally reserved for the queen. This suited the duchess well (Edward Seymour had taken the title duke of Somerset when his brother Thomas became Baron Seymour of Sudeley), for she claimed a tincture of Plantagenet blood and thought it only natural that her rank should reflect her husband's supreme position in government. The Protector too found the accommodations appropriate, though while his wife was obsessed with status his own obsessions were with subduing the Scots and tightening his hold on the direction of affairs.
His overriding drive was to bring Scotland fully and finally under English control. Henry VIII had begun the task of subduing the autonomous Scots kingdom once and for all in the earlier 1540s, hoping to end Scotland's traditional strategic role as a "back door" for the invasion of England. For centuries the French had manipulated Scots politics to their advantage, making certain that they could at will use the country as a staging area for invasion or as a decoy when there was war between England and France on the continent. Henry had tried to end that danger, first by diplomacy and then, when his diplomatic arrangements broke down, by force.
The Protector had been Henry's vengeful emissary of war, burning Edinburgh and laying much of the surrounding countryside in ruins. Now was the time to make his final assault, for Scotland, like England, had a child for a sovereign and was weakened by faction. The young queen, Mary Stuart, had been betrothed to Edward VI but the Scots had repudiated the agreement; this, plus the everpresent danger represented by overriding French influence at the Scottish court and the monarchy's stubborn Catholicism, gave ample excuse for conquest. In the view of the Lord Protector nothing must be allowed to obstruct this purpose—not the threat of invasion from Charles V, whose power had never been greater and whose victory over the German Protestants at Miihlberg made him more of a danger than ever, not the ominous rumblings of rebellion in the countryside, above all not the rash whims of an irresponsible younger brother, hungry for power.
"My brother," Thomas Seymour remarked, "is wondrous hot in helping every man to his right, saving me." The Protector acquired an undeserved reputation for idealistic concern with the common people (he gave away all his lands around Hampton Court to farmers and smallholders), yet his humanitarianism was more apparent than real. In truth he was a ruthless autocrat, avid to dominate the council and determined to let nothing hinder his preeminence. "Angry and snappish" toward his fellow council-
ors, his sharp temper stung so deep it reduced even his thick-skinned colleagues to tears on occasion; he was a "dry, sour, opinionated man," unlovable and unloved. 7
Elizabeth, sister to the king and second in line for the throne, lived in the eye of the political hurricane throughout 1547 an ^ 2 548- Outwardly her life changed little. There were the hours of study, the practice in handwriting and music and needlework, the infrequent visits to court. No doubt adolescence brought inward turbulence, but scant record of it remains. On one issue alone she tested her leverage with her stepmother and Seymour, and won.
In January of 1548 her tutor Grindal died of plague. The shock of his death, compounded by the horror of the plague itself, whose every visitation spread fear, unsettled the household for a time but in a few weeks the issue of Grindal's replacement arose. A relative, also named Grindal, was proposed; Catherine and Seymour favored another candidate. Elizabeth preferred Ascham, whom she knew to be congenial and whose uniqueness of mind she may well have perceived. On her own initiative she spoke to him, then to her stepmother and her husband. The confrontation was swiftly resolved—perhaps with the intervention of Cheke, who favored Ascham—and Roger Ascham left Cambridge for Chelsea. 8
The contretemps over the choice of a tutor was symptomatic of the atmosphere of personal drama that was emerging at Chelsea. A love triangle was rapidly developing between Catherine, Elizabeth and Seymour, and the episode and its aftermath were to be the central turn of events of Elizabeth's girlhood.
It seemed harmless enough at first. As soon as he moved into his wife's house, Seymour began coming into Elizabeth's bedchamber very early in the morning, before she was fully dressed. As she gasped in surprise he would shout out a heart
y good morning and ask her how she was, then "strike her upon the back or on the buttocks familiarly" while she struggled, red-faced, into her petticoats. He took to coming even earlier, before she was up. He would burst into the room, throw open the bedcurtains and jump at the girl (who was very likely naked, nightclothes being a rarity in the sixteenth century for anyone out of childhood), making her squeal in delicious fear and dive down under the bedclothes. Once he tried to kiss her while she was in that vulnerable state, and Kat Ashley (who slept with her), seeing that he was going too far, "bade him go away for shame." 9
But she may well have been laughing when she said it, for Kat had a soft spot for Seymour and found him more amusing than dangerous. Before long Elizabeth regained the upper hand by getting up even earlier than usual, so that Seymour arrived to find her dressed, composed, and ready to
wish him a dignified good morning. But twice, Kat remembered later, the admiral and his wife had come in together and, finding Elizabeth and Kat still in bed, had tickled Elizabeth until she shrieked with helpless laughter.
There was a strange incident in the garden after the household had moved from Chelsea to Han worth. The three were together, and Seymour, whether in earnest or out of malicious playfulness, began shouting at Elizabeth and scolding her, and taking out a knife or dagger, slashed at the black gown she was wearing—she was in mourning for her father—until he had cut it to ribbons. Elizabeth tried to run from him but Catherine held her while he finished the job. Then, when the gown was "in a hundred pieces," she let her go, and Elizabeth ran to Kat and told her what had happened. Whether Elizabeth was frightened or merely annoyed by the incident Kat did not say; all she remembered was that her young mistress explained that she couldn't help what happened, "for the queen held her, while the lord admiral cut it." 10
As the months went by Seymour became more provocative, and the game grew more elaborate. He took to coming to Elizabeth in his scanty dressing gown, "barelegged in his slippers," and pestering her while she was studying. When Kat complained to him that "it was an unseemly sight to come so barelegged to a maiden's chamber," he lashed out at her angrily, then went away without making more of it. But when one morning he besieged Elizabeth and all her waiting maids, who took refuge together behind the bedcurtains, and refused to leave until Elizabeth came out, there was such commotion that the servants shook their heads over the gross impropriety and complained vociferously to Mistress Ashley.
The scandal broke. The gentlewomen heard all from the waiting maids, and the gentlemen from the gentlewomen. Seymour's intentions were obvious; his reputation made them plain. And Elizabeth, it was said, was so infatuated with him that she was shameless before him, and was more pleased at his boldness than affronted. Anyone could see that she "bore affection" to him, that she blushed when his name was spoken and forgot all her lessons in modest behavior. If Seymour's indiscretions were allowed to continue the worst might happen. After all, Elizabeth was attractive and nubile, and she was, presumably, her mother's daughter. Perhaps the worst had already happened. The whispers became more suggestive.
Much as she disliked it, Kat decided to confront the admiral once and for all. She met him in the gallery at Chelsea, and told him plainly that the house was full of scandalous gossip, and that the servants of the saintly queen, accustomed to her piety and decorum, were offended by the indecencies in Elizabeth's bedroom. Elizabeth herself was being accused of unchastity; her reputation was suffering.
Seymour exploded. "God's precious soul!" he swore, he would not have such tales spread. He would complain to his brother the Protector how he was slandered, and things would go on exactly as they were, for he "meant no evil."
But instead of subsiding, the scandal grew, augmented now by the queen. Why Catherine could not intervene to restrain her loutish husband is a mystery. But even if she feared to provoke him she could have talked privately to Elizabeth, or, if all else failed, sent her to another house. Instead, possibly because she felt she had already lost out to Elizabeth in the battle over the admiral's favor, she preferred to cause further trouble for her stepdaughter.
She told Kat Ashley a suspicious story. Seymour, she said, "looked in at the gallery window, and saw my Lady Elizabeth cast her arms about a man's neck." Alarmed, Kat rushed to Elizabeth's chamber and accused her. She burst into tears and shook her head in denial, and when she could speak she swore she was innocent, and called all her women to witness on her behalf. They backed her up, and Kat, on reflection, decided to believe them. After all, no men came into Elizabeth's quarters besides Seymour but her schoolmasters, and they were certainly no seducers.
After thinking it over Kat saw through the queen's ruse. Catherine was jealous, much as she hated to admit it. She would not lower herself to ask Kat to spy on her husband, but she knew that if she cast doubt on Elizabeth's chastity Mistress Ashley might guard her more closely, and so prevent misconduct. 11
As the web of intrigue tightened around Elizabeth her training in womanly modesty went forward. She had reached the age when such training had immediate relevance. As a child she had learned to mimic the walk, speech and courtesy of a virtuous woman; now the mimicry merged, albeit imperfectly, with authentic habit. At thirteen and fourteen sex loomed as an everpresent temptation, infatuation as a deluding pitfall, honorable marriage as a young woman's apotheosis.
Women who died virgins, ran the words of a sixteenth-century song, were doomed to "lead apes in hell." Yet to lose one's virginity before marriage was the most dreaded of tragedies. The Spanish humanist Vives, who had tutored Catherine Parr in her youth and whose treatises for young girls Elizabeth no doubt read, was expansive on the tormenting climate of suspicion a tarnished reputation produced. Once a girl loses her virginity, he wrote, everyone continually gossips about her, and men who might otherwise have offered to marry her—among them good, affectionate potential husbands—avoid her completely. She cannot hope to marry; worse still, she brings shame on her parents, who are inevitably blamed for her
weak character. So deep is her humiliation that she becomes afraid to look anyone in the face, and even when she is alone the nightmare continues, for she is "ever vexed with the scourge of her own conscience." Imagined injuries compound actual ones. "If anybody speak softly," Vives warned, "she shall think they speak of her. If she hear talk about loose women, she shall think it meant for her." Of course, men who live unchaste lives suffer in the same way, "but women fare worse," Vives wrote solemnly, "because they be more timorous of nature and their offenses be reckoned fouler." 12
Lest any young woman think herself immune from the temptations of the flesh let her never forget that sentiment, not lust, is most women's downfall. She allows fond liking for a man to gain possession of her thoughts. Yearning overcomes her; she forgets herself, she grows giddy in the presence of her beloved, and speaks immodestly to him, out of others' hearing. Then, without realizing it, she slips into sin. Love, Vives taught, "confounds and blinds her wit and reason, so that she shall not see or know what is done, but suffers herself to be wholly led and drawn at love's pleasure."
"This affliction of love strikes everyone," Vives went on, "but especially women. Therefore they need to take the more care that it should not steal upon them. For mostly it comes unawares, when the woman neither cares nor minds what is happening, and receives it as a sweet and pleasant thing, not knowing what and how perilous a poison lies hidden under that pleasant face." 15
Unless a young woman is on her guard constantly against infatuation she will be lost. For most girls the penalties were grave: sickness, begging, the street. Why, Vives asked, do so many girls "willingly drown themselves in this great sea of wretchedness, from which come so many brothels and so many harlots, yea, and from honest families too?" But even the king's sister was not above such suffering, for her disgrace, should she lapse, would be all the greater because of her rank and responsibilities. A woman of Elizabeth's station above all should avoid even the most innocent encounters with men, kn
owing the risk she ran. Infatuation itself, as Vives saw it, was a form of unchastity; if a woman allowed herself to fall in love she had already tainted her purity. "A maid should not be proud because no man hath touched her body," he wrote, "if many men have pierced her mind."
Such precepts warred with Elizabeth's feelings for Thomas Seymour, whose boisterous roguery laid siege to her fragile defenses. Compounding the conflict were the admiral's ambivalent affections: though married to Catherine, and bound to love her, he preferred Elizabeth—or so Kat Ashley told her often enough—and would marry her if he could. That his heart was committed to her, even though his vows had been made to her step-
mother may have given Seymour more the character of a suitor than of a potential seducer in Elizabeth's eyes. Catherine's evident jealousy reinforced this view, and in a way the rivalry and strain between the two women may have acted to legitimize Elizabeth's feelings for Seymour.
Yet his feeling for Catherine was not negligible, so the servants believed. A story circulating in the household led them to say that he was the most jealous of husbands. He had been coming up the stairs to see his wife one day, and as he approached the closed door leading to her apartments he saw one of her grooms come out with a coal basket on his arm. He made a great show of anger, roaring out his displeasure that the groom and Catherine had been behind the closed door together while he had been outside, and pretending to be beside himself with jealousy. But it was all bluster, said half in amusement, Kat told Parry later; no one who knew the admiral well took him literally. 14
The first Elizabeth Page 8
