by Deryn Lake
They sat facing one another, watching everything sliding about the place, and grabbing at the bottle as it careered from one side of the table to the other.
‘Is the worst over?’ Zachary asked eventually.
Two eyes, set in a riverbed of wrinkles, looked at him appraisingly.
‘The wind will blow out if that is what you mean.’
‘Yes, that is what I meant. But why do you question? Is there some other danger?’
‘We’re being driven towards the Mediterranean.’
Zachary looked at the Captain blankly. ‘What do you mean?’
‘I fear we are being blown too near the Greek coastline, Sir. Towards the ports of the Ottoman Empire.’
He need say no more; Zachary was now only too aware of what the man was telling him. The mighty Ottoman Empire, ruled from Constantinople by the Sultan Suleiman, known as the Magnificent, stretched over vast territories from Egypt and Persia in the south to Hungary in the north. With total control of the Mediterranean Sea, Suleiman’s ships, under the leadership of the Sultan’s most famous captain, Khaireddin Barbarossa, harried the coasts of Spain and Italy. The Mediterranean was not safe for anyone when Suleiman’s ships were prowling and to be driven off course in that direction was a serious matter.
‘As soon as there’s a glimmer of light and a drop in the wind, I’ll make for the Straits of Messina.’
The narrow strait between the toe of Italy and Sicily’s rugged coast had grown increasingly popular with sea captains attempting to avoid Mediterranean waters.
‘Yes,’ answered Zachary distractedly, having a sudden vision of a fleet of ships with a great piratical figure at its head. ‘Yes, I think you should.’
The Captain stared at him enquiringly, believing in his passenger’s powers and having personally encountered many strange and inexplicable things at sea.
‘Do you have a premonition of disaster, Doctor?’
‘I have the feeling we should run for it.’
‘If we get that chance.’
‘Does Barbarossa plunder, then kill?’
‘On the contrary,’ answered the Captain, and smiled a cynical smile that deepened the lines about his eyes to valleys. ‘One can’t help but admire the man. He plunders, commandeers the ship for further use, then takes the men as slaves. He wastes nothing, I assure you.’
‘Slaves?’ questioned Zachary, with certain dreads already upon him.
‘Yes. Either to be used at sea or as part of the Sultan’s work force. There are Englishmen alive and working in Constantinople even as we speak.’
‘Can’t they escape?’
‘Those who have tried have lost their heads. Suleiman hates what he terms insubordination.’
‘Then pray God Barbarossa’s fleet is elsewhere.’
‘The prayer of every merchant who must trade with Venice or Milan or any other part of Italy.’
‘But don’t his ships harry Spain as well?’
‘Of course. The Sultan has created the great pirate Governor of North Africa. Everything has been made easy for Barbarossa.’
Zachary’s blood was already running cold with the certainty of what lay ahead. ‘Captain, I fear the worst.’
‘So do I. But there’s only an hour till dawn.’ He stood up. ‘I’ve spent enough time on chat, Sir. I’m going back on deck.’
‘I too.’
In the open it could be seen that the ship now carried no canvas and was riding the waves like a child’s toy. But what greater menace lurked safely in harbour, ready to put to sea as soon as the tempest abated to pick up the spoils the wind had brought?
Zachary’s mind raced quickly ahead. If capture lay in store then he must ensure that he did not end up a galley slave or worse. An impression must be made on his captors so that he could insist on being brought before the Sultan himself and there plead his case.
Rapidly returning to his cabin, the astrologer took from his chest all his magical artefacts, wrapping them in a cloth which he placed in the deep pocket within his cloak. Beneath them he thrust the purse given by the Grimanis then, last of all, hid a jewelled dagger, lethally sharp. Finally, having changed his shoes for boots, Dr Zachary went back on deck to see what the dawn would bring.
Though the violent weather had blown the ship off course it had also kept others in harbour, for as first light came there were no sails visible. Yet even as the Captain ordered that canvas be hoisted and the vessel make the most of the wind, which had now dropped to moderate, the lookout called, ‘Ships on the starboard bow,’ and they all craned to see.
‘Is it the Ottoman fleet?’ asked Zachary, knowing the answer already.
The Captain screwed up his weather-beaten eyes. ‘It looks mighty like it, Doctor.’
‘Can we outrun them?’
‘I think it very unlikely. They have powerful galleys, we rely on our sails.’
‘Then capture seems certain?’
‘You should know, Dr Zachary,’ answered the Captain with a wry smile. And then, in spite of everything, the two men laughed spontaneously as the fleet of Suleiman the Magnificent, under the command of Khaireddin Barbarossa, started towards them like a pack to the kill.
Chapter Thirty-One
The renewal of the wars with both Scotland and France in the years that followed Thomas Seymour’s departure from England, though suiting the purpose of many, brought anguish to others. Queen Katherine Parr, knowing that Tom was in the thick of the fighting, having been appointed First Master of the Ordnance and later Vice-Admiral, would daily pray for his safe return and hope that he still loved her, for their farewell meeting had been just that: Katherine had not set eyes on him since. Though he had been back to England, Thomas had remained with his ships, keeping well away from Court. Was he being discreet or had he simply lost interest?
The Queen had often longed to ask Edward Seymour how his brother fared and the temptation had been almost overwhelming. In 1544 when Henry Tudor himself had sailed for France, he had appointed Katherine as his Regent, with Edward, Lord Hertford, as one of her three counsellors. They had been thrown into almost daily contact until, mercifully, Hertford had been once more recalled to the front, and Katherine had been out of danger of indiscretion.
The Duke of Norfolk and his son, the Earl of Surrey, had definitely looked on the wars as a means of gaining face after the Catherine Howard debacle, and at first the Earl had won victories and gained splendid praise. Yet an ill-judged battle and an ignominious defeat brought a change of attitude on the King’s part and his command at Boulogne was removed from him, Surrey’s place being taken by the man he hated more than any other, Edward Seymour. Thus the Earl and his father, who had earlier received a similar rebuke over Boulogne, came out of the affray without honour.
The raids in Scotland and the resulting bitter reprisals came to their terrible end in the autumn of 1545 but the war with France dragged on until June 1546. Queen Katherine, at her daily prayers, begged that this would be the finish of it; that her life could resume in tranquillity; that her fears for the safety of Thomas Seymour could now be allayed for good. And though this part of her prayer was answered, her pleas for tranquillity were not heard. Something so terrible that she had not even considered its possibility was about to befall her.
Since her marriage three years earlier, Katherine had lived a blameless life. By God’s great mercy Henry Tudor’s enormous girth and premature ageing had put paid to any sexual relationship between them and the Queen had thankfully slipped into the role she knew so well. But her enforced celibacy had not made her foolish. She had looked at the floor when handsome courtiers were around and pointedly spent her time with reformers of the new religion, earnestly discussing theology for hours on end. Her care of the King had been exceptional and she had personally overseen his enormous consumption of medicaments and to the application of both plasters for the spleen and olive oil ointment suppositories, to say nothing of fomentation sponges for dressing his leg. In 1544, just before Henry had
left for France, Katherine had moved her bed to a small chamber near his when he was seriously ill. She had been a model of kind and good behaviour, even to the point of allowing Eustace Chapuys, the venerable Spanish Ambassador, finally retiring from diplomacy overseas, to take private leave of the Princess Mary. Yet still an enemy worked against her.
In the early summer of 1546 the Privy Council had launched itself into a heresy hunt. Several people had been summoned for examination, including Anne Askewe, daughter of a Lincolnshire knight whose husband had ordered her from the house when she had been converted to the Protestant faith. Under interrogation the wretched girl had admitted to receiving money from Anne Seymour and Lady Denny, a matter that was noted by the Council though no action was taken against the two ladies. It had then occurred to Thomas Wriothesley, already planning his position when the King died and the child Edward came to the throne, that the Queen might also be involved. And what better move than to discredit the Prince’s stepmother, already proving a strong influence on the boy? Lord Chancellor Wriothesley promptly ordered Anne Askewe’s removal to the Tower.
But the condemned girl would say nothing further, even when racked. Bored with her lack of cooperation, Wriothesley and his friend Sir Richard Rich worked the rack themselves, until all Anne’s joints were distorted and the Lieutenant of the Tower, in a panic, hurried to the King to absolve himself of responsibility for the girl’s torture. Though she was later burned at Smithfield for heresy, not naming the Queen, the Lord Chancellor was still not content.
A sick old man, bored and irritable, was ideal material for Wriothesley’s serpent tongue and in no time he had Henry peevishly angry at his wife’s strong opinions and progressive theological views. Books in Katherine’s apartments were secretly searched and the scene was finally set for Henry to sign bills of attainder against Katherine and her ladies so that they could be brought to trial.
Thinking about it now, two months later, Katherine suffered wave after wave of violent hatred. That monstrous invalid, who had taken away her one true love, had cruelly turned against her, whereas she had given nothing but devoted service to him and his children.
‘You evil man,’ she whispered to herself. ‘You deserve what you get.’
If Fate had not been on her side Katherine might now be facing death. But there had been an extraordinary twist of events. Wriothesley had accidentally dropped the papers concerning her and the servant who found them had taken them direct to the Queen. Reading with horror that a bill for her attainder was prepared, Katherine launched into such violent hysterics and storms of weeping that the noise was audible throughout the Palace of Whitehall. Henry, much alarmed, had sent Dr Wendy to find out the cause of the commotion and by a clever move Katherine had out-manoeuvred Wriothesley in one stroke.
The following morning, clean-faced and looking penitent, she had gone to Henry and begged his forgiveness for holding any views of her own on any subject at all. The words had stuck like suet in her mouth but Katherine was desperate to stay alive, to marry Thomas when the obese mountain of flesh heaped in a high chair, its leg stuck out on a stool, finally had the good grace to die.
Then had come her touch of genius. ‘Your poor leg, Sire,’ she had said, fluttering over his dressing, ‘why I swear it needs fomentation.’
‘You have become a doctor, Kate,’ Henry had answered, ‘to instruct us as we take it, and not to be instructed or directed by us.’
Busily unwrapping his dressings, she had answered, ‘Indeed that is not true, Your Grace. But you see I only argue with you to distract you from your great pain and to learn the true doctrine from your lips. For it is my honest wish to obey and serve you and devote my life to nursing you back to health.’
Henry’s eyes, which nowadays remained permanently only half open, had looked at her moistly. ‘Is this true, sweetheart? Are those the only reasons why you argue with me? To comfort and to learn?’
‘Yes, Your Grace,’ Katherine had answered meekly.
‘Then perfect friends we are now again as ever at any time before.’
With her face buried in bandages; Katherine had allowed herself the luxury of a secret smile.
That afternoon Wriothesley and a detachment of guards had come to arrest the Queen and her ladies from the Palace. The Lord Chancellor found her in the gardens and was just about to clap his hand on her shoulder when the King himself had reared up from behind a hedge.
‘You arrant knave, you beast, you fool,’ Henry had hissed, ‘dare not to lay your hands upon the Queen. Begone before I have you put under arrest.’
‘What a moment!’ thought Katherine now. And she thanked God for sparing her with a miracle.
It was nearly the end of summer and an important few days at Court lay ahead. Admiral d’Annebault, the French King’s emissary, had come to London to ratify the peace treaty and Henry was preparing to meet him with much pomp and splendour. The royal children were to be present, even Prince Edward, now nearly nine years old, whom Katherine had persuaded Henry to include more in Court affairs.
But none of this truly concerned her and not even the terrible recollection of her danger two months ago could dampen the Queen’s spirits. For Thomas Seymour was to be present at the Admiral’s reception. Today the lovers were to see one another again after more than three years apart.
Though she would have dressed finely in any case, Katherine now put on her new gown with pride, knowing that it suited her, that she glowed in red. Amongst all her many expensive jewels, Tom’s little garnet ring twinkled humbly on her finger. But nothing sparkled as she did herself, made even more attractive by excitement and pleasure and, above all, the anticipation of seeing him.
The Queen made her stately entrance into Whitehall’s great reception room only after the courtiers were assembled, and as she slowly progressed amidst a blare of trumpets, Henry hobbling beside her and the royal children including Prince Edward at her back, Katherine kept her head aloft and her eyes steadily in front. But once seated on the high chair she allowed herself to look about. She saw Tom at once, still bowing, his red hair glistening in the brilliant light. All the love came back, sweeping her from head to foot, reminding her of the magic she and he had found together. Just for a second their eyes met and all her earlier fears were banished. In one sweeping glance he told her that he still loved her, but after that did not look in her direction again.
The Admiral’s entrance, flanked by his supporters, and the florid and formal speeches that followed his arrival, passed over the Queen’s head. She sat in a blur of happiness, hoping that she was not grinning foolishly, and longing for the evening when a great masque, which would allow her to move about the Court freely, had been arranged to impress the Frenchman with the English Court’s magnificence.
Finally nightfall came and the Queen and her stepdaughters, all three in evening gowns and fantastically masked, stepped out as the music began. They knew their role: to surround the French admiral and lead him out to dance, with much laughing and teasing. To disguise who they were, the royal trio were to be joined by nine other ladies, similarly masked, so that the Admiral would be more than confused. Elizabeth, now in her teens, thought this great sport but Mary, suffering as always from indifferent health, considered it embarrassing and wished that she had not agreed to take part.
From behind her mask Katherine watched Thomas, laughing and talking and looking everywhere but in her direction. Had she been mistaken? Had that long stare meant something else? She must find out, whatever the result. To go through further months of torture, uncertain and frantic, was more than she could endure at this stage of her life.
The twelve dancing ladies had surrounded the Admiral and he was being led out, with much Gallic bowing and hand kissing, to open the masque. When he had picked one of them to partner, the others would be free to choose a partner of their own. Katherine prayed that d’Annebault would not seek her out, thus leaving her at liberty to go to Thomas, but this was not to be. The Frenchman had obviou
sly recognised the Queen despite her disguise and was bowing elaborately before her, so that it was Elizabeth who went sailing past, red hair glinting through her headdress, to raise Tom to his feet.
Thank God she is still a child, thought Katherine fervently, unaware that in her formal green dress, her youthful breasts flattened by her pearl-sewn bodice, her adolescent body made more shapely by her farthingale, Elizabeth’s sexuality shimmered like a flame.
‘You’ve grown up, my Lady,’ said Thomas, accepting her with a slightly mocking bow.
‘How do you know who I am?’ asked a voice from behind the mask.
‘By your little ways,’ he answered, laughing.
‘Do you make fun of me, Sir Thomas?’
‘Would I do that, my Lady?’
‘Indeed you would, Sir.’
The music was speeding up and suddenly she had fallen into his arms, reminding Thomas vividly of the time he had ridden behind her and felt the same strange thrill as he did now. So his perversion had not gone away, he was still attracted to little girls. But then Thomas realised that he was being hard on himself. It was only this one particular little girl and he had never, in all conscience, laid a finger on her. If it was indeed a perversion then it was a very mild one. But still she did attract him and he danced extra close to her, feeling the beat of her heart in the region of his ribs as the music grew to an exciting climax.
‘Well done, my Lady,’ he said as the breathless dancers laughed and clapped.
‘I enjoyed it. May I dance with you later?’
It was said ingenuously and Thomas grinned joyfully. ‘I would be honoured, Madam.’ He bowed to Elizabeth as she walked slowly away.
He stood undecidedly, longing to ask his real love to dance and wondering if it would cause any comment if he did so. The Court was riddled with spies and his vow that he would do nothing to endanger either of them still held good. But yet the temptation was great and this was, after all, a masque. With sudden determination Sir Thomas strode to where the Queen chatted with the French Admiral, and made a bow.