Tudor Queen, Tudor Crown

by Jennifer Peter Woods

  She is too far down the line to be of any use, Elizabeth consoled herself. She will never inherit.

  Turning her calculating mind away from the girl, Elizabeth focused her intent upon her brother’s new ministers. Tapping her fingers, she recalled their faces. Most of the men were her father’s old councilors. They were charged with executing the dead king’s will and now the same men formed the new Privy Council, acting as ministers to her younger brother. There was Archbishop Cranmer, Lord Wriothesley, Lord St John, the Earl of Hertford, Lord Russell, the Viscount Lisle and the brothers Seymour.

  The brothers Seymour, Elizabeth considered them, they were all powerful now.

  Edward Seymour, the Duke of Somerset and Thomas Seymour, the Baron of Sudeley. As uncles of the king they held the reins of power.

  Thought of the Baron made Elizabeth’s cheeks flame, take heed, take heed, she admonished herself. He was a dangerous man and she would do well to steer clear of him. Yet, there was no doubting his place at court, in this, the new reign of her brother, where already, the council had defied her father’s last edicts.

  It was no great secret, her brother Edward was too young to rule. Her father knew it too. Elizabeth pondered the matter and understood. She understood it all. Her father knew he was dying and that his heir was too young, far too young.

  Henry the king had feared for his legacy and for the Tudors to come, so he had the Duke of Norfolk and his son, the Earl of Surrey, arrested. The Earl of Surrey had meant to wed either Mary or even Elizabeth. If he had succeeded, there would have been bloodshed upon the king’s death in England.

  To curb that danger, her father had Surrey executed. Norfolk had been facing the same fate but the king died before his sentence could be carried through. Then, in the days that followed, the new lords of the council cancelled his execution for fear of inciting rebellion in the north, which had always been most loyal to the fallen duke. So Lord Howard lived on, a prisoner in the Tower, thumbing his nose at the king from this side of the grave.

  My father had feared the powerful Norfolk and his son, Elizabeth thought, because they were too close to the throne. But my father should have feared his ministers. For they defy him now, over and over.

  Henry the King thought that his ministers, those that had spent their lives obeying him would continue to do so after his death, and so he made his will clear as to how the new government should function after his demise. He would have the councilors ruling in Edward’s stead govern by vote. The will of the majority would be law. Further, Henry the king did not want the care of his son to fall to one man, a Protector, that would be giving one man too much power and it would jeopardize Edward’s kingship.

  To further ensure and secure his realm for his son, her father made it law that no daughter of his could wed without the consent of the council.

  As such, Mary and I shall never marry, determined Elizabeth, a slight smile on her face, the council will never agree to any match. They would never allow either of us to wed a foreign prince. The threat to them would be too great. Neither would they allow us to choose our husbands from the peers of the realm. They are gnashing their teeth now at the merest thought of one of them rising so high…

  To wed either Mary or Elizabeth would be a dream for any man with his eye on the throne of England. But the council was a bickering mess and Elizabeth doubts they would ever succeed in agreeing to anything much at all. But there was no denying the emergence of one man: the Duke of Somerset, Lord Edward Seymour.

  With the old king dead and buried, and after much persuasion and bullying on his part, Edward Seymour triumphed, bringing the men of his nephew’s council behind him. The men voted for Somerset, endowing him with the title and the powers of a Protector.

  Edward Seymour, surmised Elizabeth, was as good as king. All he lacks is the crown. So much for my father’s endless plotting, she scoffed. The old king was dead, no one feared Henry VIII now. They had bowed and groveled to him when he lived amongst them, but now he was dead, very, very dead and very much without his powers…

  My father’s England was much changed.

  Henry the king was dead and those that lived had defied him but there was naught the dead king could do about it. Some had tried to defend Henry’s will, but they, like Bishop Gardiner and Bishop Bonner had been sent to the Tower to keep Norfolk’s company.

  The Lord Protector was in charge now and change was afoot. The new council favored the protestant faith, and to Elizabeth’s estimation, the country would no longer be able to keep to the vision her father had for his Church of England. Where her father had sought to strike a balance and bring the factions of the two baying faiths to heel, her brother was too young to do the same. The reformation would begin in earnest now in Edward’s England.

  She peered out from the alcove in which she was hidden. The sun was setting. Elizabeth turned her face toward its waning rays. Much had changed since her father’s death. She was no longer the girl she had been. She too was altered.

  She was older now and she needed to be far wiser in the ways of the world. She needed to learn and she needed to learn fast. For her father’s guiding hand was no more. He was dead. He was gone.

  They no longer had a father to guard their interests. He was dead. As for their brother, he was a child, a puppet to his uncles and ministers.

  It was a new world, fraught with dangers for a daughter of a dead king. Her and Mary both, they were not quite princess and not quite bastard. Their existence and their positions were convenient yet ambiguous, desired yet feared.

  Elizabeth cast her eyes over the dowager queen’s gardens.

  Katherine Parr. Elizabeth had liked her well. As such, she had accepted the dowager queen’s invitation to live in her household with alacrity. Chelsea was to be their haven and Elizabeth had come here hoping for refuge.

  Elizabeth crinkled her nose. But this was no refuge and the Dowager Queen was no queen. For Katherine Parr was now Mistress Seymour.

  Her father had been laid to rest a month before it was made known to one and all that the queen in her sorrowful black was casting off her mourning. She was going to take another trip down the altar.

  Indeed, Katherine Parr was now a wife again and most happily too, to the brother of the Lord Protector.

  What falsity is this? Elizabeth was shocked and scandalized.

  There was no mistaking the truth, Katherine Parr had nursed her father, wept over his death, consigned him to the ground, dried her tears and thence promptly thrown herself into the embrace of Thomas Seymour. She took all of her father generosity, everything that he dowered her with and poured it into the lap of another man.

  Such faithlessness, Elizabeth thought, the woman was to be condemned. But it also made her wonder. It made her wonder at Thomas Seymour’s draw and his powers of allure.

  How can he, a man, make a woman forget all decorum and faith for the sake of his touch? Her cheeks flamed of their own accord, but then she knew the answers to such queries already, she knew them, felt them and breathed by them…

  She stiffened as she felt his presence. They had been meeting at this precise spot and at this precise hour for many days now.

  Thomas Seymour. She was afraid of him. She was weary and fearful but excited and enthralled.

  I am suppose to be a most modest maiden, she kept reminding herself, but every day she would come back to the appointed spot, at exactly the appointed time, without fail. She could not help herself.

  I am a girl who values learning, clarity of the mind and all things prudent, and yet I am here, waiting for a man, this man…

  She had come into the dowager queen’s household mystified and curious about this new marriage. She had cast her eyes over Katherine Parr’s new groom and saw a man for the first time through a woman’s eyes.

  Her stepmother was in love, madly so. And soon, Elizabeth began to wonder over the mysterious cause behind Katherine Parr’s perpetual smile. She had seen Thomas Seymour emerging from his wife’s ro
oms at all hours of the day. She saw how the woman clung to the man and soon she began to observe him too.

  He was a handsome man, Elizabeth supposed, with a soldier’s heavy build and brash manners. All the maids had sighed over him, and little by little, Elizabeth could not help but sigh a little too.

  She closed her eyes. She could scent his pomade, fresh and heady. He was her senior by twenty years and more. He was a man of the world and he was a man with a wife. But she could not resist him.

  He pulled her to him and she went willingly, falling into his embrace. Boldly, his hands roamed her person. He set his mouth to her neck, making her quiver.

  Elizabeth opened her mouth on a tremble of bliss. She had not been long in the dowager queen’s household before he began to notice her too. A hint here and a look there, and soon he began making advances toward her. Elizabeth had never shared a house with a man before. There had been attendants and chamberlains to be sure but never a man like Thomas Seymour. A man with such heat, she stifled her moan as she bit her lip, a man with such bold, eager hands.

  Her devoted Kat had warned her against men like him, but Elizabeth was helpless. For the first time in her life, Elizabeth was disobeying the wise words of her Mistress Kat. Since the first day she allowed herself to notice the sweet scent of Thomas Seymour’s pomade, she had lied and performed a great many covert acts that failed to lend themselves to reason. And though she feared that she would one day rue her disobedience, she could not cease in her dangerous pursuit.

  So this is lust, Elizabeth told herself, succumbing to the heat of his embrace, this is lust.

  Elizabeth shivered. She could not but wonder if Katherine Parr was the same way when she was with this man. Was she as helpless as her? As filled with this nameless need? Was her mind as blank and robbed of all thoughts, devoid of all sense? All her questions fled when she felt him sweep aside her hair, bearing her nape fully to his heated mouth.

  Sweetheart, he called her and she melted in his embrace. I dare swear that my Mistress Elizabeth has missed me. He chuckled, superior and smug.

  She turned so that she could see him. He loomed behind her, mysterious and male. He was unlike any man she had ever encountered. He desired her and he made her desire him. He had stirred something inside of her; dredged some dark unknown passion from the depths of her being and made her bow, bow to him, his knowing smile and his roving hands.

  I have not missed you, she lied, in truth, she hissed, remembering the news that she heard this morning, I have not spared a thought for you at all.

  You wound me beyond measure, he feigned, I would rather die a thousand deaths than be forgotten by my sweet mistress.

  You care not for me, she accused, her eyes shining. I know it all.

  He grasped her hand, what do you know, my heart?

  I know what you have done, she said, her eyes flashing in anger. You have purchased the wardship of Lady Grey.

  And why should that trouble you? He laughed, holding her tight.

  Elizabeth pouted. Jane Grey. The two of them were of an age and Elizabeth’s fears were writ upon her face, easy for Thomas to decipher.

  I care not for that cow-faced creature, he kissed her lips. She is nothing to my Elizabeth.

  She sighed, I detest her.

  He chuckled. She will bring me a good living that is all. Better me than Warwick.

  Where is the queen? Elizabeth breathed through parted lips.

  She sleeps, he said before sealing his mouth to hers.

  His kisses seared. Elizabeth moaned.

  The babe tires her, he murmured as he drew his mouth away from hers. She leaned forward toward him, wanting more, making him smile.

  Do not jest with me! She turned away from him, angry.

  He answered by pulling her to him, sealing her back to his front and holding her tight. I dare not, he whispered into her ear, his breath hot, I dare not.

  His mouth followed a bold path down her throat, going all the way to the tops of her stomacher where her budding breasts rose and fell in cadence to the rapidity of her excitement.

  It was folly. The man was another woman’s husband and she was committing a sin condemned by God. But her body refused to heed reason, Thomas made her burn and for all her quick wit and learned mind, here, in his embrace, they were forfeit.

  His intentions were without honor, he was afterall, a husband to another woman.

  But I am also a king’s daughter, not some common tavern wench, Elizabeth thought, I should not allow myself to be thus handled…

  His hands sank lower, making her whimper despite herself.

  He was bold, very bold and her body loved him for it.

  So it was, here in the privacy of this alcove where they had contrived to meet almost every day, Thomas Seymour made free once more with the body of the Lady Elizabeth. And instead of fleeing from the advances of such a man, she gave in, succumbing to him against all her better judgment and sense.

  When she was in his arms she had neither the will nor the inclination to fight him. She was only a girl and she was in love. Her woman’s instincts were awakened, stirred and roused, and she would never be the same. She clung to him, his very presence inciting every fiber of her being to vibrate with want.

  Oh Thomas, she bit her lip, crying out with desire.

  Behind her, Thomas Seymour anchored her to him, his lips twisting in a satisfied smiled.

  The girl was his. He held her to him and played her like a master. He knew his way around a woman’s body. He knew where to touch, caress and lick. She mewled, clinging to him, eager for more. Audaciously, he lifted her skirts and cupped the seat of her femininity. She gasped, inhaling sharply.

  By now, this far into their acquaintance, she was well accustomed to his roaming hands and audacious acts. With the next exhalation, she sank herself deeper into his embrace.

  With practiced ease, he danced his hands over her and just as he knew she would, she harkened to him, digging her little nails into his forearms as he, Thomas Seymour, made her pant with sinful, wicked delight.

  1549

  MARY AGED THIRTY-THREE

  Sister. Have a care. A woman is nothing without her virtue, Mary wrote.

  Exhaling, Mary pondered Elizabeth’s predicament, her hand absently rubbing at her sides.

  Yea, Mary had admired a lord or two of the court in her younger days, but she had never allowed nor welcomed any advances toward her person. She could not tolerate such disrespect. She had always conducted herself with decorum. She had never allowed nor sought the attention of any man.

  Danger and ruin; those were the things that lay in such a path.

  There had been those who sought to press their suit for her hand, but none had ever dared to trespass the bounds of etiquette. In those days, year after year, they assured her that she would be wed to a husband of her father’s choosing, and she had waited and waited for the day to come. It never came.

  Her father might be dead but her hand was still not hers to bestow on a man of her choosing. The matter of her marriage was a matter for the council.

  So it was, at the age of three and thirty, Mary Tudor was still a maid.

  She was an old woman now

  And no one cares for an old maid, she mocked.

  Mary was also no pliable female. She knew her own temperament. She was not one to be overcome by passion and lust. She did not think herself capable of such sentimentality. She was not a woman cast in the mould of Anne Boleyn or Katherine Howard. Nay, she was not a woman to inspire the lusts of men. Nor was she a woman who could play the part of a docile wife, like Jane Seymour or her mother. She didn’t want to spend her life bowing to a man, a husband.

  Nay, she was her father’s daughter and the thought of submitting to anyone was repugnant to her.

  Furthermore, even if she should feel so inclined, the council would never allow her to marry a man of her choosing. They feared her and the destruction she would bring upon them should she grow strong, empowered by a c
atholic husband.

  Conversely, Mary knew she couldn’t, in good conscience, submit herself to a Protestant peer of their choosing. So she reconciled herself to the truth: she would not wed and she would likely remain so for the rest of her days.

  She had no problem submitting herself to such a destiny. In truth, she was more than ready to embrace it with equanimity. She was prepared to dedicate herself to God and the people of England.

  But Elizabeth was young and unlike Mary, susceptible to the sins of the flesh. And while Mary knew she was no Elizabeth to be beguiled by the wooing of a man such as Thomas Seymour, she understood the allure the man exuded.

  Thomas Seymour. The man had power, he was handsome and he was a seasoned wooer of women. A girl, no matter how virtuous, would be a sorry opponent for such a man. Such, Mary thought, is the folly of youth. Yet, mayhap, Mary pondered, mayhap age has naught to do with it at all.

  The Dowager Queen, Katherine Parr, had taken Thomas Seymour’s well-aimed dart and thrown herself upon his mercy at the ripe age of six and thirty. All her worldliness had proved no match against a man such as he; the self-same man who now threatened to bring Elizabeth to ruin.

  For a woman who had been thrice brought to wife, Katherine Parr displayed none of the sense that her stately age and high station in life should have commanded. Instead, she had galloped her way into Thomas Seymour’s bed, with all haste, upon the death of her last husband, the king.

  Mary shook her head. The woman for all her supposed goodness and piety had managed to shame her father, the king, in death. Where all his other wives had suffered and paid for those strikes, either real or imagined, against her father’s manhood while he had been alive and powerful enough to retaliate, Katherine Parr had managed something else entirely.

  She had bowed and played the dutiful wife while it was politic to do so but as soon as he gasped his last, she trampled and spat upon him. She had given the king one last disgrace to add to his name. She was the one to strike the final blow against the man who valued his manhood above all else during the long course of his life.