by Deryn Lake
Somerset backed his way out, genuinely depressed, wondering how he could stand another nine years of such behaviour. Henry VIII had been dead two months but his legacy lived on everywhere. If the Lord Protector was to bring the realm through the difficult years that lay ahead of it, he had to muster every ounce of strength and patience he possessed.
He thought, as he got into his barge to go to Temple Bar, that perhaps he had already made one mistake in keeping Norfolk alive. The Council had argued for three days after Henry’s death as to what should be done with the old warrior, and it had been Seymour’s voice that had saved him. Now Thomas Howard was serving a term of indefinite imprisonment in the Tower and it was privately hoped that nature would help the Council out of their dilemma. But with spring in the land and the stir of bravery that goes with new beginnings, the last person that anyone was thinking of was Norfolk. Unless of course it was Cloverella, become important in her own right since the disappearance of Dr Zachary.
I must see her, thought Edward in a rush of conscience. I must see her and enquire after those two boys she is raising. Perhaps she could do with help regarding their future.
And then he realised that with his largely increased household and the plans he had for building a grand new house on the banks of the Thames, there could be room in his establishment for two bright lads.
‘I shall seek her within the week and make an offer to place them,’ Edward Seymour muttered to himself as he stepped ashore at his landing stage and just for a moment, and an irresistibly pleasing one, savoured the power of largesse and what it was like to think and act as a King.
Chapter Thirty-Five
There having been such a severe February and cold March, April by contrast was very soft and sweet, yellow with sunbeams and warm as newly-baked bread. Enjoying the sunshine and leaning out of her wide-open window, through which came the sound of all six of her daughters, the youngest still toddling, happily playing in the gardens below, the Duchess of Somerset gazed about her with certain satisfaction.
The beautiful grounds of her mansion, Chester Place, which included orchards and a paddock, ran down to the river Thames, but these already seemed paltry in comparison with the lands that were to be attached to the new home presently being built for the exalted Seymours. For Somerset House was to be not so much a family dwelling place as a palace. Not only was Chester Place to be demolished to make way for it but many other buildings as well, for the huge residence was to occupy some six acres with additional acreage in the landscaped grounds.
Unfortunately, thought Anne with a contented sigh, this house is simply not adequate for our position in the world.
With one more sweeping gaze she left her vantage point and settled herself comfortably to read a newly arrived letter, a letter which by its royal emblem endorsed, if anything needed to, how very far Anne Stanhope had progressed from being a gentlewoman of, first, Katharine of Aragon then later Anne Boleyn. Cracking apart Princess Mary Tudor’s seal with a winner’s smile, the Duchess of Somerset read the opening words, ‘My good gossip’. Her smile deepened. To be on such highly familiar terms with the heir to the throne, let alone aunt to the King himself, was to have arrived at the peak of society.
In some respects Anne Somerset’s retention of the good looks of her youth, despite many pregnancies and births, had much to do with her increasing foolishness. It had only been a few years since the Earl of Surrey had fallen in love with her and made the fact blatantly public. In her very rejection of him Anne had skilfully encouraged the man, so that though she had appeared in the eyes of others to be the hapless victim of a passion-crazed poet, she had mutely spurred Surrey on to greater excesses, that all might notice and remark her beauty and power. The affair had revitalised her marriage too, Edward being consumed with jealousy and half suspecting her of succumbing to Surrey’s blandishments. The fact that her husband’s first wife had been unfaithful to him had not softened Anne’s heart in the least, in fact she had cleverly neither denied nor confirmed that she and Henry Howard had been to bed together.
Now the Duchess continued to read Mary’s letter. ‘And thus, my good Nan, I trouble you with myself and all mine; thanking you with all my heart for your earnest gentleness towards me …’
It was not difficult to be gentle towards a Princess of the blood royal, particularly when she was rather plain; gruff and ailing, Mary was hardly likely to compete with Anne in any way at all. But for the other two royal ladies, the two who lived in the Dower House in Chelsea, Anne had no liking. Katherine Parr, as far as the Duchess was concerned, was a parvenue who had obtained by her wiles the title of Queen Dowager, and was paid far too much attention as a result, while Elizabeth, that pale-faced skinny girl with unbecoming orange hair, stared too much. Though she had served the girl’s mother, the Duchess had no liking for the daughter, whose dark eyes rested on her as if they could see through to the bone.
But Anne Somerset’s true bête noir was her brother-in-law, Thomas. Deep down in her soul, so deep that she could no longer consciously remember it, Anne had once had a desperate fancy for him, loving his carefree looks and manner, falling under the spell of his wild blue eyes. Whether he had actually slighted her or whether she had imagined he had done so, again had been forgotten. But Anne’s former feelings for him had become soured and now she hated him desperately, longing to see him discomfited and degraded. Subtly, the Duchess poured poison about Thomas Seymour into the ear of anyone who would listen, whenever she had the chance.
Mary’s letter finished, Anne got to her feet again, staring out of the window once more at her six daughters. Though producing sons was obviously not her strongest asset, the Duchess had two surviving and that was enough to ensure the Seymour line continued. Nevertheless, if she did not feel it would ruin her social life at this interesting stage, Anne might consider trying to produce a third, naturally asking Princess Mary to be his godmother.
The Duchess picked up her letter again. It was signed, ‘Your loving friend during my life.’ How well that sounded, thought Anne, contentedly contemplating her inviolate position as friend and kinswoman to the mighty.
*
In the late afternoon of the same day, during a very moderate but refreshing shower, Katherine Parr picked up her pen and wrote to Lord Seymour, as she very often did. The Dowager Queen was now in such a frenzy of love that she hardly knew which way to turn. Convention decreed that as a King’s widow there should be a really decent interval before she married again, yet her loving but respectable heart longed to be Thomas’s lawful wife. He, on the other hand, cared nothing for the niceties, urging Katherine to marry at once, determined to wear down her resistance, promising that he would woo his nephew and the Council into full agreement.
Lord Seymour had already bribed John Fowler, a member of the Privy Chamber, to ask the King casually whom Edward thought his uncle should marry. Unfortunately the boy had come up with all the wrong answers, suggesting Anne of Cleves and then Princess Mary, a fact which had sent Thomas into gales of laughter, though Katherine had not thought it funny at all.
Now, not having seen him for a few days, she was trying to be cool, writing sensibly that he must also seek approval for the marriage from the Lord Protector who, if he denied to sanction their alliance, would then look foolish if the King and Council agreed.
Frowning sternly, or trying to, Katherine wrote, ‘My lord, whereas you charge me with a promise, written with my own hand, to change the two years into two months, I think you have no such plain sentence written with my hand.’
How hard it was to be cross with him even in a letter. Yet Katherine knew perfectly well that she had not agreed, in writing or any other form, to marry him in two months’ time. She sighed and continued, ‘When it shall be your pleasure to repair hither, you must take some pain to come early in the morning, that you may be gone again by seven o’clock; and so I suppose you may come without suspect. I pray you let me have knowledge overnight at what hour you will come that your portress may wait a
t the gate to the fields for you.’
Katherine added a few more sentences then ended ‘By her that is, and shall be, your humble, true and loving wife during her life. Katherine the Queen.’ She sealed the letter then pressed it with her device, ringing a small handbell for one of the servants, wondering just how she and Thomas would get over the enormous difficulties that faced them. Yet what could really happen? Neither the Protector nor the Council could remove their worldly goods or titles. Only the threat of ostracism hung over them and that could easily be borne by two people in love. Still, Katherine was not easy, fearing some strange revenge, some quirk of fate, that might yet harm them somehow.
There was a light tap on the door and thinking it to be a servant, Katherine half rose, the letter clutched in her hand, but it was Elizabeth who stood framed in the doorway, her dark eyes gleaming, her skin very white. In this April light she seemed iridescent, glowing from within.
‘Well, dear Kate?’ she said.
Katherine knew it was wrong, knew that she should have been strong and adult, but somehow Elizabeth had wheedled out of her the truth about Thomas. In a moment of weakness, Katherine had confided the secret of her love and then awaited the girl’s ice-cold fury. But, strangely, it had not come. Instead there had been a toss of the head, which had instantly reminded Katherine of Anne Boleyn, and a knowing light had appeared behind the hazel eyes.
‘You deserve some joy. My father was not easy, was he?’
Katherine had not answered, merely staring at Elizabeth in amazement, wondering what she was really thinking. Because one never knew with her; the pale face, the dark eyes, a strange combination at the best of times, could look positively mask-like on occasion.
But with a stunning change of subject all Elizabeth had said further was, ‘Aren’t you glad the wretched Wriothesley has fallen out with the Protector?’
‘Er, yes, of course,’ Katherine had stumbled over her words, completely taken by surprise.
‘But I think Lord Somerset should have had him killed. Men like that always come back, don’t they?’
‘Sometimes,’ Katherine had answered.
Now she looked at her stepdaughter with a half-smile and said, ‘Well, what?’
‘Is he coming? Is it to be all love and madness or long face and sadness?’
‘How poetic,’ Katherine said with a laugh. ‘I think he is coming. This letter asks him to let me know at what time.’
‘Then it must be sent at once,’ Elizabeth whirled to the door and Katherine wondered again at the child’s incredible thinness. ‘Hawkin, if you please. Her Grace the Queen has an important letter. Would you see that it is taken immediately to the address inscribed.’
Elizabeth turned again to her stepmother and behind her back Katherine saw the servant roll his eyes. It was true that the Lady Elizabeth had grown more imperious since being reinstated in the line of succession, after her brother and his heirs and Mary and her heirs, and today she seemed in the mood for giving orders.
‘Now, dear Kate,’ she said, ‘you must decide what you are going to wear for your tryst?’
With a laugh, Katherine pulled the girl into her lap, wrapping her arms round the slender waist and kissing the bony cheek.
‘You are enjoying this aren’t you, you little wretch? Now why, Miss Meddle Mouse? What does it matter to you if I see the Lord Admiral or not?’
‘Because,’ answered the girl in a burst of laughter, ‘I love schemes.’ She dropped her voice to a whisper. ‘My mother loved them too or at least I think she did.’
Katherine grew slightly uncomfortable. ‘Why do you say that?’
‘Because she schemed her way on to the throne, didn’t she? But then, of course, she schemed her way right off again. I wouldn’t have done that. I would have made sure that having got there, I stayed.’
‘Yes,’ answered Katherine softly, ‘I think you would.’ She pulled Elizabeth close to her. ‘Do you often think about her?’
‘Lately I have,’ the girl answered truthfully. ‘And I don’t really know why. Perhaps because I am beginning to grow up.’ She bent over and kissed Katherine’s mouth. ‘But you are the sweetest mother of them all. I want you to be happy.’
‘Then come with me and look at clothes. You may choose my finery. That is, should the Lord Admiral decide to come.’
‘Oh, he will come,’ answered Elizabeth certainly. ‘He’s mad for love, is that man.’
And she kept to herself the fact that he had flirted with her when she had not been a great deal younger than she was now, and that Tom’s bright eyes, whenever he had looked at the girl, had held an expression in them that he could not disguise.
He is in love with Katherine, thought Elizabeth wisely, but it is I who drive him mad.
*
Several weeks later than he had intended, Edward Seymour set off to see Cloverella, journeying by river through a showery day. Above his head blue-black clouds dominated the sky, so that the buildings on the riverbanks seemed white and exciting, the spires of the churches glistening with raindrops, the earth black with water. Daffodils were everywhere, green and gold, and the Protector noticed at least one vivid clump of late crocuses, purple as the sky above them, yet threaded with vivid yellow, like marchpane.
Nesting birds were in full throat, a blackbird singing its song amongst the trees of Zachary’s garden, clinging to a thin branch, bobbing and dancing in the wind as if it had no fear. Somewhere a storm thrush called out its high anthem, exciting and wild. It was a pagan sound, blood-stirring and raw.
The Protector shielded his eyes and looked up to find the thrush, but as he did so it started to rain, not a shower but a downpour. It was a soaking, driving rain, falling full in his face and making him wet to the skin in a matter of seconds. The oarsmen crowded into the barge’s cabin as best they could, though it was far too small to house them all, but Edward plodded up to the house, enjoying himself as he had not for a long time. Something rough and rare stirred his soul at this primeval wetting, this complete return to nature, the flowing of water and tears and sweat. For he wept a little as he walked, tears of gratitude for having climbed so high, tears of sorrow that it was now too late to change his life’s direction.
The two boys he had come to see, having spied him from the house, were waiting in the doorway with towels, and Somerset marvelled at their likeness and yet their dissimilarity. Jasper was beautiful, changed, fourteen years old and dark as the blackbird whose distant song could still be heard. A humorous quirky face, bright with intellect, smiled up at him. Sylvanus though, had retained his youthful rosy charm, two vivid forget-me-not eyes still shining out of a merry round face, though the golden curls of childhood had now turned quite shockingly red.
‘Well,’ said Edward appreciatively, ‘you are two likely fellows if ever I saw any.’
They grinned simultaneously and in that their likeness showed. At that moment they could have been twins.
I wonder what the King would make of them, thought Somerset, and some perverse streak in him decided upon the introduction.
Cloverella awaited him in the hall and her cousin thought she had come a goodly way from the days of their youth. The little gypsy thing with eyes almost bigger than she, had turned into a poised and beautiful woman, very well dressed and obviously in command of her life. But there the Protector pulled himself up short. No woman as calm as this could have lost someone she loved dearly.
‘Is Zachary still alive?’ he burst out, even while towelling his head.
Cloverella smiled and nodded. ‘He has been located by an agent of the French King based in Constantinople. My husband is a prisoner of Sultan Suleiman, unable to escape but apparently enjoying every second of his captivity.’
Edward stared at her in astonishment as she went on, ‘You know Zachary, my dear cousin. He could talk his way into anything — and he has! He is now the Sultan’s chief astrologer.’
They both laughed uproariously, the Protector dripping water on to the fl
oor in an ever-increasing pool from his sodden garments.
Cloverella looked contrite. ‘I forget my good manners. Come and change your wet clothes. There is plenty of Zachary’s peacock garb left behind and you are most welcome to help yourself.’
It was with some difficulty that Somerset managed to find a doublet and hose of sober colour, Zachary’s penchant for rainbow shades never being more apparent than when riffling through his clothes press. But eventually, dressed in a too-small outfit of dark green, Edward descended the stairs to find that a light meal had been prepared in his absence and Cloverella and her stepsons awaited his arrival.
‘Seriously,’ he said, as he sat down, ‘can nothing be done to help Zachary? Should I open diplomatic channels?’
‘I think,’ answered Cloverella, equally grave, ‘that King François had already started to do so before his untimely death. But now with the Dauphin come to the throne I do not know what will happen. Yet I feel Henri must be friendly to me for I have already received an invitation to attend Court.’
Somerset stared. ‘I knew that Zachary was well established in French high society but I did not realise that you …’
‘I have a friend there,’ Cloverella replied casually. ‘Comte Lucien Harfleur is my contact.’
‘Harfleur? Was he not part of the Admiral’s delegation last summer?’
‘Yes, the same.’
‘Then how …’
‘He came to see Zachary on behalf of the King. François wanted his horoscope cast and I offered to do it in Zachary’s absence.’ Cloverella’s dark brows drew together. ‘It was not easy. You see, I foresaw the French King’s death.’
‘What did you do? What do you do in those circumstances?’
‘In that particular event I said nothing. In other cases it depends entirely on the facts. But it taught me one thing, Ned.’
‘And what is that?’
‘Never again to read for friends or family. I can see now that it is far too dangerous.’