by Susan Kay
Closing her eyes she tried to shut out of her mind the ugly rumours which were now filtering down into the countryside, rumours which said Katherine Parr had died of poison as well as a broken heart, poison administered by a husband who wished to be free once more; free to marry the Princess Elizabeth.
Was it true? She knew him to be ruthless and self-seeking, but was he really capable of such a deed? Or were his enemies, led by his own brother the Protector, spreading these rumours preparatory to destroying him? She felt as though she stood on the edge of a whirlpool, waiting for his hand to reach out and pull her forward into complete disaster. Love, passion, and death—her mother had trod the steps of that fatal dance; did the same music now await her daughter, the relentless, inevitable dance of death?
Shivering, she closed the casement and crouched down by the fire. His support in the country was growing steadily. It was just possible that he might gain the consent of the Council to the marriage, and if he did what was she going to say when he asked for her hand again? Once he would ask—only once—if she didn’t marry him now then he would marry someone else to further his ambition—perhaps Anne of Cleves or even Mary. Her blood throbbed hot with rage at that thought and her body cried out that she could not lose him again of her own free will.
“I hate him,” she said to the flickering fire. “I hate him.” But even in her own ears the words had the false unsteady ring of a lie.
* * *
On a dark drizzling day in November, as the King’s retinue wound its weary way through the muddy London streets to Parliament, Lord Russell, the elderly Lord Privy Seal, edged his horse alongside Tom Seymour’s to spit in a quarted deck whisper, “My Lord Admiral, there are certain rumours of you which I am sorry to hear.”
Tom cast a wary glance at the Protector, riding, so he judged, just out of earshot.
“Perhaps,” he said, deceptively pleasant, “you would care to tell me what they are, my lord.”
Russell sensed the mockery and stiffened. “It is said in many quarters that you hope to marry either the Lady Mary or the Lady Elizabeth…”
“Indeed!”
“…in which case,” continued the old man pompously, “I would say you seek the means to destroy yourself, sir.”
The Admiral slapped his horse’s side heartily and laughed—it seemed wise to laugh it off.
“Father Russell, you are very suspicious of me. Who’s been telling you these tales of marriage?”
Russell coughed delicately.
“That I am naturally not at liberty to say, my lord.”
“Naturally!” It was a sneer and the old man bridled accordingly.
“I advise you for your own sake, sir, to make no suit to either of these ladies.”
Tom could contain his irritation no longer.
“Good God, man,” he snapped, “isn’t it high time they were married—married within this realm rather than any foreign place—and why not to me, or to another raised by their father?”
Russell shot him a look of pitying contempt. “I tell you, to attempt such a match would destroy you utterly. Think of the King’s suspicions. Married to one of his heirs, he’ll think you wish for his death whenever you see him. And anyway,” he veered off at an angry tangent, “what the devil do you hope to have from either of them?”
“Three thousand a year,” said the Admiral, a little too promptly; he had looked into the matter with Elizabeth’s steward, Thomas Parry, some time ago.
The Lord Privy Seal snorted in disgusted amusement and steadied his restless horse.
“I can tell you now that whoever marries the princesses will have no more than ten thousand all told in money, plate and goods. No land at all. And what’s that to a man of your charges and estates if you match yourself there?”
The Admiral grew angry, suspecting a trick of his brother’s.
“They must also have three thousand a year,” he insisted furiously.
“By God, they may not!”
The Admiral resisted a very real impulse to knock the stubborn old fool off his horse.
“By God, none of you will dare say no to it!” he roared, and somewhere in front, the Protector glanced over his shoulder uneasily.
“By God, I will say no to it.” A nerve had begun to jump in the old man’s cheek, his eyes bulged and for a moment Tom thought he would fall to the ground in a seizure. “It’s clean against the King’s will. And I warn you, sir, to have a care how you go about your business!”
Tom caught his brother’s agonised glance and repressed the desire to laugh. This had been Ned’s idea of a subtle warning, no doubt, the futile roar of an elderly, toothless lion. If this was the best he could do in the way of threats, then the whole affair could easily be settled without bloodshed. Such pathetic opposition—Tom was almost ashamed to encounter it from his own kin.
And there was too much at stake to back down now, with Elizabeth almost his for the taking. Already he had the governess and her steward eating out of his hand. No word from Elizabeth herself, of course, but it would come, it would come. A fresh surge of buoyant confidence had suddenly swept away his earlier doubts of winning her. And if she wanted to play the coy maiden a short while longer he was willing to humour her, waiting until that little flame he had lit within her consumed the last of her inherent caution. A pity Katherine had caught them before and not after the act. He was a rogue but not quite a villain, and even while he thought that, he remembered his dead wife with sadness and a stab of regret for the cruel blow he had dealt her that day at Chelsea. Women! They were all so damnably possessive, wanting to own a man body and soul or else believing his love was false. Every man should have at least four wives—he hadn’t much time for the new or the old religion but it might be worth turning Moslem for that!
Well, there it was, the one lost to him now, the other still to be had—and he would have her, by God, he’d have her if he had to take the Council apart man by man to do it. He loved Elizabeth and had done so for an uncomfortably long time, but there was a double edge to his determination now. For if the little King should die—and he was a sickly child—that would leave him married to the heir to the throne. If he had his way, with all those men at his back, she would be Queen of England and then—he would be King, and there would be nothing left for Ned to protect.
So whatever happened now, he couldn’t lose. First secure the King’s person and make his demands from a position of real strength. He was almost ready now to strike—almost ready—just a few more weeks would see him in a position to force the Council’s hand—rabbits, the lot of them. They would give their consent to his marriage and abandon Ned—and if they didn’t, he would take the King and hold him to ransom. The lad wouldn’t mind—it would be a fine adventure for the poor brat. A nice lad—it could be a very satisfying partnership for them both. King or Protector—he’d settle for what came easiest—no point in provoking war. But if the boy died, he’d make damn sure Elizabeth was ready to step into his place.
So the wild plans rioted in his mind and he ignored those tentative warnings to put them aside. Again he approached Parry on the subject of Elizabeth’s lands. They were inconveniently placed and he would prefer them in the West Country, adjoining his own.
“Get her to make suit to the Duchess and have them changed,” he told Parry, but when that blustering gentleman returned to London, he dodged the issue until Tom lost his temper.
“Did you tell her what I want her to do?”
Parry looked uncomfortable and twisted his cap in his hands. “That I did, my lord—and begging your pardon, sir—but she flatly refused to do it.”
“I see.” The Admiral turned away curtly and poured himself some wine. Why was she making difficulties? Was it true—was it really possible—that she didn’t want him after all?
From that moment he became anxious and ill at ease; he had lost a measure of s
elf-confidence and, as a result, began to intrigue more clumsily than before, taking less care to cover his tracks. Things were getting tense in London. Mrs. Ashley was brought up from Hatfield and rebuked by the Duchess for lax conduct in her post; Parry was increasingly vague about his mistress’s intentions.
“You God-damned hedger—are you keeping something back from me? Don’t you know your own mistress?”
“No, sir, that I don’t.” Parry fingered his thick neck, which was tender from the Admiral’s angry grip. “No one does. She’s so close, I’d swear she doesn’t even know herself.”
“I don’t believe you’ve even tried to pin her down—she’s only a girl—what are you afraid of, man?”
“You don’t know her, sir, that’s obvious, if you can ask me that. And you’re wrong, my lord—I asked her outright what she would do if the Council gave consent to your marriage with her.”
“Well—what was her answer?” He saw Parry’s face and was suddenly filled with fear.
“Did she refuse—did she?”
Parry looked at the floor.
“She said she would do what God puts into her mind.” He stole a glance at the Admiral, fearing to see anger. “I don’t know what to make of it, sir. What do you think it means?”
Tom strode to the window and thumped his hand on the thick glass pane. After a while he said darkly, “I’m damned if I know.”
* * *
At Hatfield, the Christmas celebrations had ended with a wine-sodden night in the Great Hall and Mrs. Ashley, having seen her young lady to bed, returned on unsteady feet to find Mr. Parry sitting alone by the hearth in a reasonably amicable stupor.
“Time for a night-cap,” he said and poured her a large tankard of mulled wine.
Mrs. Ashley sank into the chair opposite and accepted the tankard with an amenable grunt.
“Here’s to the New Year, Mr. Parry—let’s pray it brings about what we all desire between my little lady and my lord.”
“Amen to that,” said Mr. Parry with feeling. This continual jogging to and from London to meet the Admiral was no joke in winter weather.
Mrs. Ashley kicked off her tight shoes with a resentful movement.
“Always supposing I’m still here to see it, of course,” she said darkly.
He watched her carefully over the edge of his tankard. She had returned from London extremely ruffled and he often wondered exactly what the Duchess of Somerset had said to put her in such a temper.
“The Duchess, eh?” he prompted.
“Yes—Somerset’s cow!” Mrs. Ashley emptied her tankard and set it down. “The things she said to me that afternoon—you wouldn’t believe it, Mr. Parry. Only told me I wasn’t fit to have the governance of a king’s daughter.”
“She never did!”
“Oh, yes—and gave me to understand there’d be another in my place before long. You should have seen Her Grace’s face when I told her—well, you know how loyal she is to me—it took me a while to calm her down, I can tell you.”
Parry nodded. “Stands to reason, she’s fond of you. You’ve been a mother to her all these years.”
“That I have and I’m proud of it. Not that it’s been easy, mind. Such a time she’s given me this last year, one way and another. I can tell you, Mr. Parry, devotion like mine takes its toll on a woman. I’ve not had a quiet night’s sleep since this whole sorry business with the Lord Admiral began.”
Parry nodded with understanding and the candlelight shone on the chain of office as it hung suspended over his ample chest.
“Ah yes,” he murmured knowingly, “the Lord Admiral, eh? I must say I’ve often noticed the goodwill between the two of them.”
Mrs. Ashley kicked him gently. “I’d put it a bit stronger than goodwill! Oh, yes—I know the situation well enough and I’d wish her his wife of all men living. And I dare say he’ll bring it to pass with the Council soon enough, he’s the sort of man who always gets what he wants in the end. Not that it’s best spoken of too freely, you understand—not with the Duchess watching like a hawk. Indeed, she gave me such a charge on the subject that even now I hardly dare speak of it. But of course I know you can be trusted, Mr. Parry—just fill that tankard again, if you wouldn’t mind.”
Parry leaned forward obligingly. This promised to be interesting.
“I must say,” he murmured with a discreet cough, “there’s a good deal of bad rumour going about concerning the Admiral.”
“Pooh—there’ll always be rumour about a man like him and rumour’s never anything but bad.”
“Well—it’s said he used the late Queen Katherine very badly. There’s even talk of poison.”
Kat choked on her wine and the steward thumped her heartily on the back.
“Talk!” she managed to exclaim at last. “That’s pure malicious gossip spread by his enemies. And we know who they are. Mind you, he made too much of Her Grace, there’s no denying that. Ah, Mr. Parry—“she leaned back comfortably in her chair, wriggled her toes in the firelight and gave him a knowledgeable wink—“the things I could tell you.”
The logs shifted in the hearth and the candles burnt low as that soft reminiscing voice rambled on without a pause until what Mr. Parry did not know about the banishment from Chelsea was not worth knowing.
“Well!” he breathed at last, fixing her with a sanctimonious stare. “Who’d have thought there could be such familiarity between them!”
Something in his shocked voice filled Kat with the first glimmer of unease. She glanced round at the empty hall and leaned towards him urgently.
“Of course, I’m sure I don’t need to remind you that all I’ve said is in the strictest confidence. If it were known, Her Grace would be dishonoured forever.”
Mr. Parry looked positively hurt.
“You can be sure of me, Mrs. Ashley.” He leaned forward and patted her arm, gently confidential. “I’d rather be pulled with wild horses than so much as breathe a word. You have the word of a gentleman on that.”
And at the time he really meant it.
* * *
The Lord Protector told his brother, the Lord Admiral, that if he so much as went near the Princess Elizabeth again he would have to have him clapped in the Tower. When the rumours of the Admiral’s “disloyal practices” and the nagging of his own sharp-tongued wife became more than he could bear, the Lord Protector summoned the Lord Admiral to give an account of his activities in private. The Lord Admiral regretted the time was not convenient; and the Lord Protector clenched his fist, and laid the matter at last before the Council who after “divers conferences had at sundry times” decided to “commit the said Admiral to prison in the Tower of London.”
By now Tom realised the plan had miscarried, and staking everything on one last desperate gamble, he went at dead of night to take the King. Using a master key, which he had had cut for just such an emergency as this, he opened the bedroom door to be greeted by the maddened yapping of Edward’s little spaniel. In panic he fired at the dog and the single gunshot roused the whole palace, leaving him with perhaps two full minutes to make his escape. But he did not even attempt to make it. He was still standing there, watching the little King weep over the bleeding bundle of fur at his feet, when the guards burst into the room. He threatened to dagger the first man who dared to lay hands on him, but agreed to go peaceably to his own apartments.
It was daybreak when they came to arrest him. He was pale and strained, but he went quietly enough, even humorously, observing over his shoulder that “No poor knave was ever true to his prince.”
Chapter 6
Across the wide sweep of Hatfield park an arrow sang through the cold January air and struck the target, narrowly missing the bull’s eye.
“Well aimed, madam,” said a softly approving voice at her side, “but if I might suggest the slightest alteration of Your Grace’s stance�
��may I make so bold?”
He moved behind her, drawing back her long fingers to the heavy bow so that his arms for a brief moment almost embraced her. She glanced up at him quickly over her shoulder and the pale sunlight glinted on the brilliant hair caught inside a silver snood.
“Try that now, madam.”
The arrow flew wide, missing the target completely this time and she turned to him with a helpless smile which made him feel distinctly heated.
“I think,” she said innocently, “you will have to show me again.”
There was very little that Roger Ascham, that young and highly able Cambridge scholar, had ever found it necessary to show his pupil more than once. He had held his new position as tutor for several months now, chosen, at her very particular insistence, in spite of the objections of her former guardians, the Dowager Queen and the Lord Admiral. That fact alone had flattered him even before he took up the post and since then he had found every hour in her presence a fresh stimulus and challenge to his elastic brain. He felt as though in all his life he had never truly lived before this moment, that he would never want, never hope, for anything more but to school the remarkable, retentive mind which was now in his sole charge, a mind which he knew would one day far outstrip his own and conceivably every other mind around it. It was a curious, vital, throbbing entity, the brain of a brilliant boy (he could never quite accept it as a girl’s) trapped inside an entirely feminine shell. Body and brain were an astonishing combination which alternately delighted and disconcerted him. He was on fire with the desire to make her the most accomplished royal lady in Europe, but sometimes he suspected the heat originated from an entirely different source. Increasingly, beneath the pleasure he found in her company, he was aware of an undercurrent of shamed confusion. He was glad when the lesson was over and they began to argue over the merits of mathematics. The subject vexed rather than titillated his senses and he welcomed it, for really, he was beginning to doubt the ethics of his position here. She encouraged him quite shamelessly to make a fool of himself. It would be easy to take advantage of her youth and inexperience, but he was in a unique position of trust and the last thing she could afford now was another scandal. Once or twice he had considered resignation and put the thought from him hastily. Things were not quite as bad as that—yet.