The Last Wífe of Henry VIII

by Carolly Erickson

  The chancellor, shaken by the sight of the ring, obeyed. When he reached the king he fell to his knees.

  With a loud thwack King Henry brought the cane down across Wriothesley’s broad shoulders, while the guardsmen, their expressions impassive, looked on.

  “Fool!” he shouted. “Villain! Did you really believe I would let you arrest the queen? Vile whoreson dog!” he went on, bringing the cane down again and again. “Beast and traitor! If you ever threaten the queen again, I’ll put you and Bishop Gardiner in the stocks! I’ll have your heads! I’ll hang them high on the King’s Bridge, till they rot black and stinking like your foul black souls!”

  44

  NOT ALL THE WORMS, NOT ALL THE POULTICES OR PILLS I OR THE apothecaries could supply could save Henry, who finally succumbed to the decaying of his wretched body in midwinter of my thirty-fifth year.

  I mourned him. Yes, I mourned him—though I certainly did not want him back, and when the surgeons embalmed him with clove oil and myrrh and wrapped his corpse in cerecloth and velvet and laid it in his elmwood coffin I was relieved. I no longer had anything to fear from him.

  On the contrary, I had much to rejoice in, for the king had left me many chests of gold coins and jewels and more property than any one woman ever deserved. Having been very rich before, I was now twice as rich, so rich I could not comprehend my wealth, and in addition to being rich I continued to enjoy preeminent rank among the ladies of the court, though Tom’s sister-in-law Anne Seymour—now very grand as Duchess of Somerset—did not think I deserved my high status.

  In honor of Henry I wore his signet ring, the ring that had saved me from a heretic’s death, and with it another ring I had ordered my goldsmith to make, a death’s-head that resembled the king in his last years.

  I did not attend my late husband’s funeral but I did stand quietly beside his coffin as it lay in the candlelit presence chamber, under its golden pall, the Privy Chamber gentlemen standing guard nearby. And I wept for the old king, and all that he represented, good and bad. He was, after all, the only sovereign I had ever known, and I had known him very well indeed. With his death something solid had passed out of my life, and there was as yet nothing to replace it.

  The old king died in January, and by February the new king was crowned.

  Edward, nine years old but looking more like a boy of seven, put on the ermine-trimmed robes of a king and held the orb and scepter that Archbishop Cranmer offered him at his coronation, his teeth chattering from cold—or was it fear?—in the vast cathedral. Tom was among those who held the boy-king’s long train as he walked slowly along the aisle, trumpets blaring and choirs singing, at the conclusion of the long coronation service. Tom’s expression was unreadable, his face a mask of dark reserve. But I knew what he was thinking, for he had come to see me only days before at my riverside house in Chelsea, and he had been very upset indeed.

  “I’m being kept back from power, Cat! Held back by my hateful brother! Imagine, he calls himself Protector! Not regent, but Protector! As though all England lay under his sole care. No one chose him for this role, he chose himself.”

  Tom strode from one end of the large room to the other as he talked, his boots striking forcefully on the stone floor, his head thrust forward in anger. He barely glanced at me.

  “Henry wanted the entire royal council to hold the regency,” I reminded Tom. “He told me so. He said it was in his will. Of course,” I added, “he might have chosen to make me regent. I have had some experience in that role.”

  “You, Cat? Do you imagine that you could keep my domineering brother in line? He would cut you with his words.”

  “I can cut back, if need be.”

  “You haven’t seen him at his worst. He’s cold. Cruel. There’s no humanity in him. Sometimes”—Tom clenched his fists—“sometimes I think I could kill him.”

  I thought of Bishop Gardiner, who had been capable of such ruthless lack of feeling—not to mention treachery. Having escaped a traitor’s death because of his clerical status, the bishop survived—but was out of favor in the new reign, his conservative religious beliefs at odds with the more reform views of the Protector and the others on the royal council. And of the new king.

  Tom stopped pacing and sat down beside me, still talking of his brother.

  “Do you know what he did? He ordered me to appear before him—just as if he were king himself—and shouted at me as if I were a stable boy. He accused me of bribing Edward to win his affection. Can you imagine?”

  “You do give him money. You always have,” I said mildly.

  “Of course I do. He’s my nephew. I indulge him. But he loves me—not because I give him a few coins from time to time, but because he’s always loved me, ever since he was a baby. He always hated his uncle Edward. Nobody loves Edward, not even that haughty wife of his. You should hear her berate him!”

  I suggested that we walk in the riverside garden, hoping that the brisk air and delicate colors of the winter sunset might abate Tom’s indignation. But as we walked along the garden path between the leafless trees, his stride lengthened and the bitterness he felt rose in him again.

  “I can’t endure Edward much longer. I’ve reached my limit—and beyond. It’s time for action.”

  “Action?”

  “To rid England of the Protector.”

  I swallowed hard. “This is the first I’ve heard of your plans.”

  “What did you imagine I did with the money you lent me?”

  “You didn’t tell me. But I did think you would pay me back.”

  “I’ll tell you now,” Tom responded, ignoring my reference to his paying me back. A gleeful look came into his eyes. “I’ve bought a cannon foundry.”

  I was speechless.

  “Ten German armorers are at work even now, in Greenwich, making cannon for me, and having them transported to Sudeley Castle. I have established my armory there.”

  There was a long pause while I took in this astounding information.

  “You intend—to overwhelm the kingdom?”

  “There will be no need for that. Once my brother and his allies see that I am prepared—for anything—they will step aside and let the right man serve as regent for the king.”

  Tom smiled. His bitter anger had begun to dissolve. “All I need is another twenty or thirty thousand pounds in gold. To pay soldiers.”

  I shook my head. “If I gave you the money it would get us both killed.”

  He bristled.

  “I am a soldier, Cat, and you are not. I assure you I know what I am doing.”

  “Nevertheless I prefer to go on living.”

  He frowned at me, then sighed.

  “As you wish then. I’ll get the money another way.”

  “How?”

  “There are always ways of getting money, if you want it badly enough.”

  His words hung in the air, an implied threat. If I did not give Tom what he wanted, he would do something that would put himself in peril. But then, hadn’t he already taken drastic steps in recruiting a private fighting force from among his tenants and equipping them from a private armory?

  He took me in his arms.

  “Don’t desert me now, Cat. Not when I need you more than ever.”

  I felt myself yield to him. My body knew no other reaction. I was his, always his. Yet my mind resisted, faintly at first, then more strongly.

  “It would be a mistake—for us both.”

  For an instant he hesitated, then he relaxed his grip on me.

  “Perhaps you are right. I would not want my enemies to pursue you. Dear Cat, you must be my guide when I am led away by my passions. I know I am not prudent.”

  He kissed me, and for the first time that afternoon I felt I had my familiar Tom back again. But soon afterward he left me, eager to return to his dangerous plans, and I felt a stabbing at my heart, a warning, as I thought, that even the noblest of plans can fail and that Tom was far from being the noblest of men.

  45


  ELIZABETH, RED-CHEEKED AND SHINING-EYED, CREPT INTO MY HOUSE AT Chelsea by the scullery entrance just before dawn, with her dubious protectress Mistress Ashley trailing behind.

  Elizabeth was staying with me and I felt responsible for her. I had become aware, a little before midnight, that she was not in her bed and one of her bedchamber women had admitted to me that the princess had gone out in a barge and was last seen floating downriver.

  I had been waiting up for her to return ever since.

  “Elizabeth!” I called out as she tiptoed across the scullery floor. At once her body went rigid, and I heard her sharp intake of breath. In the same instant Mistress Ashley let out a little scream and attempted, so clumsily that she almost fell, to bow to me.

  “Wait in my bedchamber, Ashley,” I said. “I’ll deal with you later.” Too alarmed to protest, the frightened Ashley fled, leaving Elizabeth and me to confront one another.

  “Where have you been?” I asked the girl.

  Instead of responding the princess turned toward me, regarded me coolly, and drew herself up to her full height—which was nearly the same as mine. I saw a glint of stubbornness in her eyes and took note of the willful tilt of her chin.

  She has her father’s strength, I thought to myself. And her mother’s wantonness.

  In that moment, by the light of the smoking candles guttering in their sconces, I saw that Elizabeth was wearing the tight bodice of pale yellow silk that I had given her three years earlier, on the day of my wedding to her father. It clung becomingly to her long, lean torso, reminding me that she had developed into a woman—and a woman with more than a little of her mother’s allure.

  “Are you spying on me then?” She spoke defiantly, challengingly.

  “I ask you again, where have you been?”

  “On the river. With Uncle Tom.” As soon as she said his name she blushed, her lips upturned in a girlish grin.

  “Were there others with you?”

  “A few others.” Her words were neutral, factual. But her expression told me what I most feared to discover. They had been alone.

  “We had the moon with us,” Elizabeth blurted out, and then giggled.

  She’s tipsy, I thought. He’s given her wine to drink, and she’s tipsy.

  “Go to bed, Elizabeth. We will talk further in the morning.”

  “Why don’t you go to bed? You look tired—and old. Fatigue does not become you. Staying up all night is only for the young.” With that she left me, her challenging words festering in the air between us.

  The incident left me deeply troubled. What was Tom doing? The old gossip about Elizabeth having borne Tom’s child no longer seemed so absurd. What if he had seduced her? What if, because of the consequences of that seduction, they were compelled to marry? Where would that leave me, betrayed and brokenhearted?

  I wept for a day. But then, gathering my courage, I began to seek answers.

  I summoned Mistress Ashley and berated her for allowing Elizabeth to go out with Tom on the barge at night.

  She collapsed in tears. “But she pressed me so!” she said when she had stopped sobbing. “She would not leave me be!”

  “The next time she presses you to let her do something you know is not right, not seemly, you take her by the ear and bring her to me.”

  “She defies me.”

  “Punish her then.”

  Ashley shook her head, and made a vain effort to wipe the tears from her cheeks. “Punishing her only makes her more defiant.”

  “Ashley, I once saw King Henry force her to crawl the entire length of a great chamber on her hands and knees. I thought then that he was being cruel. I think now that he may have been right in what he did.”

  I became more gravely concerned when I talked with Thomas Parry, a sober, gray-haired man of business who oversaw Elizabeth’s financial affairs and held the title of cofferer. I went to see him about her household accounts, which had recently shown a great increase in costs for dressmakers’ fees and expensive stuffs.

  “Aye, she’s been spending a good deal,” he told me. “She said she had her brother’s permission, so I didn’t question it. Now that her brother is king, he favors her in many things. I paid the bills. Besides, ever since she had her rights restored she’s been much better off, in terms of her income, as I’m sure you know. King Edward has given her lands in the West Country and some patents on spices and the treasure trove from Fowey to the Hamoaze.”

  Lands in the West Country, I thought. Where Tom is recruiting his army of loyal tenants.

  “Has Lord Thomas Seymour borrowed any money from the princess?” I asked.

  “Odd that you should mention him, milady. He has been making inquiries like yourself, into her household accounts and the like. He asked me to show him what lands she held, and what her yearly rents were from her estates and patents. And he asked me something else too. What would you say to letting me have Wandelsford and Reddingfield in exchange for my Clapwell and Agensborough estates, he said. That way the princess’s lands and mine would be next to one another, and both could be administered together.

  “Well, I said to him, I don’t know about that, sir. You’d have to speak to the Protector about that. And then he swore, not liking me to mention his brother the Protector, and he’s never said anything more about it since.”

  “And have there been any loans?”

  “Not so far as I know of, milady. I hope the princess has got more sense than to lend Lord Thomas any money, what with his reputation for spending it faster than he gets it.”

  “Thank you, Parry,” I said. “You have been a great help.”

  “Do you think they’ll marry, milady?” the cofferer asked me, unwilling to end our talk. “Is that why he was asking all those questions about her lands and income?”

  “I don’t know, Parry,” I managed to say, my spirits plunging. “It will be up to the king to decide whom the princess marries.”

  “And the council, don’t forget. Which means the Protector. I heard Milord Seymour and his brother quarreled over that, with Milord Seymour saying he could marry any woman he liked, even Princess Mary or Princess Elizabeth, if only he had the king’s blessing, as it were, and the Protector saying no he couldn’t, that the council had to approve.”

  I managed to end our interview without showing my dismay over what I had learned, but I could not sleep that night, and the next day I went in search of Tom.

  I made the journey to Whitehall and found him engaged in a loud argument with a Roman moneylender, Signor DiGiornatta, a familiar figure at court as he lent funds—at usurious rates of interest—to officials and nobles who often overspent. They were in the Watching Chamber, adjacent to the room where the royal council customarily met, and Tom was shouting, the Italian responding in a lower, more controlled tone.

  “I tell you I must have it, all twenty thousand of it, within a week. I have already promised ten to—to a business colleague, and the other ten I owe to others of your wretched band of moneylending scoundrels as interest on loans.”

  “Nothing would give me greater pleasure, il mio barone, but you see, you must first return the sum I lent you only last month. That was our agreement, as I remind you.”

  “Yes, yes, I know. But things have changed. My plans have changed. By God’s precious blood, nothing is as it was under the late King Henry. Nothing whatever! Can’t you see that?”

  Tom’s exasperation seemed to reach a peak, and he ran out of words.

  “Perhaps if milord barone could ask his distinguished brother, II Protettore, for some money—”

  “If I hear that name again I’ll—” Tom began, but a deeper, more commanding voice cut him off.

  “You’ll what, little brother?”

  Edward Seymour, Lord Protector of the realm, entered the Watching Chamber with half a dozen men close behind him, and at once the guardsmen who stood by the door dropped to their knees. Ignoring me, the Protector walked briskly toward Tom, his black velvet cloak sw
aying behind him.

  “This is a private matter between me and Signor DiGiornatta. It doesn’t concern you,” Tom snapped.

  “On the contrary, everything that goes on at this court concerns me. Why are you attempting to borrow more money, when you are so deeply in debt already?” Edward Seymour stepped between his brother and the Italian, his eyes fixed on Tom. Tom glared back, saying nothing.

  “Signor DiGiornatta,” Edward said, his intense gaze still locked on Tom, “we have done with you here, for the time being.”

  “As you like, Prottettore!” The Roman bowed to Edward’s broad back and left the room.

  “And I have done with you!” Tom hissed, and turned to follow the moneylender. But before he had gone a step Edward reached out and roughly grasped his arm.

  “No, little brother. You are not dismissed. I want an answer to my question and I shall have it.”

  Tom wrenched his arm free and straightened his green damask doublet, its gold threads shining.

  “If you must know,” he said in a lower tone of voice, “I have incurred much expense since taking on the barony As Lord Thomas Seymour I could live on the income from my estates. As Baron Seymour of Sudeley I cannot.”

  “We both know the true cause of your debt. The men, the arms you are buying. You are not discreet, little brother. Much is known.”

  I stood where I was, near the great double doors that led into the Watching Chamber, with the guardsmen, who had resumed their posts, standing nearby. Others had come into the chamber, no doubt seeking the Protector, for he was constantly besieged by clerks with papers that needed signing, messengers with news, petitioners hoping to win his favor. We all waited in silence for the tense confrontation between Tom and his brother to run its course.

  “Uncle Tom! Uncle Tom!”

  The high, thin child’s voice rang through the vast room as the king, a diminutive figure in a doublet and hose of white satin, ran in and approached Tom and his brother. Edward was flushed and out of breath. He ignored those of us who knelt to him and, seeking Tom’s side, reached up and took his hand.