“Who would not like a purse of gold the best of all?” he replied with a mischievous glint in his eye. “Uncle Edward is so stingy, I have no spending money to gift my friends and servants. Now I do.” Then his eyes softened and, looking at the embroidered shirt, he said shyly, “But you honor me with the hours you worked to make me this shirt. For this, I like your present best.”
“Your diplomatic skills are impeccable, Your Majesty,” said Elizabeth with much gravity.
“And I like it better,” he continued, surprising her with his earnestness, “for it comes from a good Protestant and not a Papist.” His mouth twisted into a frown. “I do worry about our sister’s faith.”
“It will do you no good to worry on it, brother,” said Elizabeth thoughtfully, “for she will never change it.”
“I, for one, will continue trying to help her see the light,” said Edward. “And the Protector for another.”
“Luck to you both,” said Elizabeth evenly, “but Mary's faith is as deeply ingrained as her mothers was. And she’s every bit as stubborn.”
“Your Majesty.” It was the cool and level voice of Somerset. “Shall we be seated and dine?” His perfunctory smile at Elizabeth was so brief as to be dismissive. It was the first time the duke had acted so rudely to her, but she knew better than to object. When he had seated Edward at the center of the U-shaped trestles near the fire, he returned to Elizabeth.
“May I show you to your seat?” he inquired unctuously.
“Thank you, my lord,” she replied.
Somerset led Elizabeth to a bench at the far end of the table. Across from her, at the other end, sat a disgruntled Catherine and Thomas. As she took her place far from the royal canopy under which Edward now sat and under which she had always held a place since her return to the royal family, Elizabeth considered the influences to which her brother would be subject for the next eight years until he reached his majority. Those influences would indeed affect her own fate, and she hoped fervently that the High Admiral was wrong about his brother and sister-in-law’s motive. Ambition was to be expected from a family as old and noble as the Seymours, but taken to its extreme the trait was dangerous to everyone within its reach — dangerous unto death.
So far the weather had cooperated. Spotty clouds vied to prevail over crisp blue sky, but there had been no rain to spoil the day of outdoor festivities. The early morning hunt to hounds had got Elizabeth's blood pounding and the color rushing to her cheeks. Nothing made her feel more alive than to ride, the faster the better — to feel the wind on her face, the muscular beast pounding beneath her.
The celebrants had returned to the palace for the first of several changes of dress for the day. Now the noblemen and ladies wandered amidst the many entertainments in the central courtyard — wrestling, tennis, bowls, archery, running at the rings, casting the bar. And of course gambling. Above all, this was the nobles’ favorite pastime.
Elizabeth had heard it whispered that Edward was very cross this day. The bear chosen for the royal bearbaiting — the young king’s favorite event — had died en route to London, and despite a frantic barrage of orders and dispatches, another animal had not been found in time. Though she told no one, Elizabeth was relieved. She had always liked the sport well enough, but in the last several years the savagery in the ring and the even more violent bloodlust of the audiences had given her nightmares. Perhaps, as Kat frequently reminded her, she was at a tender age and her bodily humors in constant flux were rattling her mind.
As she stood for a while watching the graceful acrobats leaping and tumbling, forming pyramids, and walking across the grass on their hands, she began to feel a strange sense of having been here before, done this very thing before, though not in her recent memory It was something vague and very long ago, and she struggled to recall. When, in an almost dreamlike daze, she turned to the sound of jingling bells and her eyes fell on the troupe of Morris dancers dancing, a vision exploded before her eyes, clearing her mind.
She was a tiny girl held in her father’s arms at a celebration much like this one, watching the Morris dancers, their high kicks jingling the hells sewn to their costumes. She was dressed in a yellow satin gown matching Henry's magnificent yellow satin doublet. Very proudly, he displayed the little red-haired princess to his celebrating courtiers. Elizabeth giggled and tugged the Kings red-gold beard. He laughed so hard, she bounced on his heaving stomach, and everyone laughed to see the King so cheerful.
“Elizabeth.”
The sound of her name spoken snatched the princess from her reverie. Elizabeth's eyes regained their focus and she was rewarded by the sight of Robin Dudley, his handsome face at fourteen taking on the contours of manliness, a soft reddish sprouting of beard and mustache on his upper lip and jaw.
“Why have you arrived so late?” Elizabeth demanded. “You missed the hunt.”
“We missed the tide. All my sister Mary’s fault,” he said pointedly as Mary Dudley came up behind her brother and poked him playfully in the ribs for his accusation. Then she curtsied prettily to Elizabeth.
“Good morning, Princess. Don’t you listen to my brother. It was his fault we were late.”
Smiling, Elizabeth gave Mary Dudley a peck on either cheek. She liked her friend’s sister very much, for besides being darkly beautiful, she was sweet and intelligent and, like her brother, had always been perfectly kind to Elizabeth. Too, the girls shared deep affection for Robin, who enjoyed teasing them equally well.
“My fault!” he exclaimed. “Whose fifteen gowns to impress young Henry Sidney had not been packed in time?”
“Are you to be betrothed to Henry Sidney, Mary?” inquired Elizabeth with interest. “What a fine match that would be.”
“Our fathers are talking,” she said, suddenly shy. “But I admit I do like the match.”
There was a small friendly commotion behind them as the rest of the Dudley family made their way through the crowd. The parents, John Dudley, lately created Earl of Warwick, and his wife Joan, were followed by their three other boys, John, Ambrose, and Guildford, each more handsome and winsome than the last.
John Dudley was smiling broadly and his wife, hanging on his arm, gazed up at him with unadulterated adoration. Despite the family’s reputation for ambition, engendered in good part by the execution of Robins grandfather Edmund, Elizabeth was intrigued that there had never been a hint of scandal with regard to the Dudleys’ marriage. It was apparently sound and happy, inwardly as well as outwardly, and Joan had been as good a mother to her brood as she had been a wife to her husband. Elizabeth had pondered if this shining example of womanhood had contributed to the habitual kindness and loyalty Robin had always shown herself, even before she had regained her status as princess. How, Elizabeth had often wondered, would her own life have been different, if she had had such a mother?
The Dudleys joined Robin and Mary in paying their respects to the Princess but did not linger. Mary departed with them, leaving Robin and Elizabeth to themselves. The pair began to stroll through the playground, looking for what would best entertain them.
“Your father seemed cheerful enough,” observed Elizabeth.
“My father is a fine actor.”
“What do you mean?”
“He’s fit to be tied, Elizabeth. It was bad enough that Edward Seymour usurped the regency for himself, but now his brother is planning an even more outrageous coup.”
“The Admiral?” Elizabeth was forced to quickly turn her face away from Robin as she spoke of Seymour, for just the thought of him made her blush furiously.
“The ‘Admiral’ indeed,” said Robin. “Are you aware he’s not attended to his obligations under that title since it was granted him? He hasn’t been anywhere near the shipyards or the naval offices for months. But that’s not what’s making my father so hot.” Robin took Elizabeth’s arm and steered her through the crush to the courtyard’s North Gate and surreptitiously pointed out two gentlemen standing together tête-à-tête. Anyone obse
rving the men could see by the intensity of their expressions and the sharp punctuating hand gestures that Thomas Seymour and Jane Grey’s father, Lord Dorset, were plotting together.
“What are they planning?” asked Elizabeth, curiosity suddenly overwhelming her.
“Nothing less than Lady Jane’s marriage — to the King.”
Elizabeth giggled with the surprise of such an idea. “My brother and Lady Jane?” she said incredulously.
“Think about it, Elizabeth,” Robin insisted.
“Well… they are cousins. She’s English, and these days the people like their queens English. Jane is very bright, and Edward would require an intelligent wife … and they do like each other.”
“You’re missing the point, Elizabeth,” whispered Robin impatiently “Thomas Seymour bought Jane’s wardship from Lord Dorset for this purpose alone. Don’t you see? They mean to make her queen and, through their relationship to her, gain close access to the throne.”
Elizabeth was silent for a long moment as Robin’s arguments echoed in her head. She felt confused, unsure where her loyalties lay, assaulted more and more frequently by wild thoughts and untoward emotions.
“Well, Edward has to marry somebody” she finally blurted. “Why not Lady Jane?”
“Elizabeth —”
“Robin, I’ve come to celebrate my brother’s birthday I don’t wish to spend the entire day worrying about politics! Now, is it bowls or archery?”
“Dice,” he answered with a devilish grin.
“Dice it is,” said Elizabeth, smiling happily “Allow me to show you the way.”
It was that time of day peculiar to the noble class when, after a morning and afternoon of strenuous physical games, the body demanded to be refreshed by rest in preparation for the long evening of feasting, drinking, and dancing that lay ahead. All those of sufficient stature or favor with the King had retired to their apartments, and those not fortunate enough to be quartered in such luxury napped on cots squeezed into friends’ chambers or upstairs corridors made temporarily into dormitories.
John Dudley had been the Councillor closest to Henry, save Edward Seymour at the last, and his apartments in the palace were well established and suitably grand. The Duke of Somerset had not possessed the audacity, though his wife had suggested it, to displace the Dudleys from their rooms. Now the family had assembled for their rest. As the other sons collapsed with feigned exhaustion — for at their ages energy was a boundless commodity — Robin Dudley stood with his back to his seated father, pulling off the mans boots.
“I’ll just give you a little help, son,” said John, giving Robin a foot in the rump that pushed him forward, pulling the boot off as he went.
Robin turned grinning. “Thank you, Father,” he said, and they laughed.
John Dudley loved his family dearly. He was particularly proud of his handsome sons. Each had been blessed with his own great strengths, and none had had the misfortune of any desperate shortcomings. Certainly he was most fond of John, his eldest, as all fathers could not help but be. By virtue of being firstborn, young John was heir to the entire family fortune. But the elder Dudley bore Robin a large measure of affection. Though he’d never spoken such thoughts, he believed there was greatness in the boy. He was sure of it. Only fourteen, Robin had a mature and temperate nature and an elegant style. He seemed to understand instinctively the importance of loyalty, which showed itself most clearly in his devotion to Elizabeth, whom Robin had befriended when the girl had still been a pariah to King Henry's house. Despite high spirits and a flair for grandiosity, the boy had a certain sense of reserve as well. He knew when a quiet conversation was called for and, touchingly, proffered sensible advice to his friends and family when he knew they were troubled. Conversely, he could tell when not to interfere or control, but simply to listen to the problems of others.
John Dudley took a place in the center of the wide canopied bed.
“Is there anything I can get you, Father?” asked Robin, standing by his side.
“Nothing, thank you.”
Robin moved to the window seat to remove his own boots and, gazing out the glass, caught sight of Thomas Seymour hurrying across the palace yard.
“I see the Admiral is not taking his rest,” he said.
“Does that surprise you?” asked his father.
“No, but…” Robin did not finish, but a question hung in the air.
“What is it, son?”
“Why are you not up and about, scheming your own schemes?”
John Dudley smiled at the audacity as well as the perceptiveness of his sons question and took a moment to consider his answer before he spoke.
“I think of my well-laid plans as I do fruit trees.”
Robin looked perplexed.
“The seeds are planted. I nourish them, watch as they take root, grow, take shape. Time, sometimes many seasons, must pass before they’re ready to bear fruit. A man cannot pluck the fruit until its proper time. If he does take it before perfect ripeness, he will be bitterly disappointed. And all the work, the planning, the waiting, will have been in vain.”
“Have you many fruit trees planted, then?” asked Robin, enjoying so edifying a conversation with the father he adored.
“Several, though none whose fruit are near ripeness. ‘Tis vital, Robin, that for now I practice patience, eschew overtly ambitious schemes, appear a mild and unthreatening figure to everyone at court and in Council. Edward Seymour, with his harsh and arrogant behavior, makes more enemies every day And his brother Thomas — that man is a reckless fool. He hardly has need of my scheming to dig himself a grave. So, for the time being I can take off my boots, put up my feet… and watch my fruit trees come slowly into blossom.”
Thomas Seymour was, indeed, scheming. As the boy king rested in his great Bed of State and his gentlemen of the wardrobe bustled about preparing the elaborate garments he would wear for the evening s entertainments, the Lord High Admiral sat on a bench in the Kings antechamber with Thomas Fowler, a young man of twenty-three whose sparkling blue eyes and crooked grin gave him a somewhat sly but altogether handsome appearance. He was just the sort of gentleman with whom the King enjoyed surrounding himself. Edward had never discovered that Fowler had been placed in his service—planted to be more exact — by Thomas Seymour.
“How much money?” asked the Admiral.
“Considering that your brother gives the poor boy no spending money at all, I would say anything would please him,” answered Fowler knowingly
“And you’re certain this is the way to his heart? He’s always cherished my wife’s affection —”
“Money, my lord. Gold pieces. I’m absolutely sure of it.”
“All right, I’ll see to a handsome purse within the week. And, Fowler …”
“Yes, my lord?”
“Does he confide in you?”
“Oh yes, my lord,” said Fowler, the right side of his mouth curling higher than the left in a crooked smile. “When you and the Queen Dowager sent your letter begging for his support of your marriage, he showed the thing to me before he pled your case to the Protector.”
“Very good,” said Seymour, absently fingering the wiry hairs of his beard, silently skipping weeks, even months ahead into the future of his artful calculations. “Tell me when you think he will be ready to hear us on the subject of the Queen Dowager’s jewelry.”
“First send him several purses,” instructed Fowler.
“Three? Four?”
“Say four. And another good one just before Christmas tide. He will be very grateful to have money for gifting his closest retainers on New Year’s Day.”
“Like yourself,” said Seymour pointedly.
“Indeed.” Fowler was equally pointed, and unabashedly so.
“Then how soon after Christmas shall we broach the subject of the jewels?” demanded Seymour impatiently
“Two weeks. No more. Children forget gratitude very quickly. Then have the Queen Dowager write a letter her
self.”
“Not from me as well?”
Fowler trod lightly, as if moving across a crust of thin ice. “His feeling for your wife runs very deep, my lord. She is the only mother the King has ever known — though of course he is very fond of you as well,” he added quickly. “Many times he’s spoken to me of your spectacular performance at his coronation lists.” Fowler was warming to this fine opportunity to disseminate praise to his patron from Edward. “I think the King wishes to grow up to be like you — in the manly sense.”
“And in no other sense?” Seymour demanded irritably. He was finding himself ever more cross with Fowler as the audience went on, never knowing if the young man was sincere or slyly impertinent. “Not as an example of a statesman or a diplomat?” he insisted.
Fowler took on the expression of one who, in the midst of a losing battle, has discovered an impregnable stone barricade behind which to hide. “But, my lord,” he intoned, smooth as a snake, “King Edward had his father Great Harry as his example of those attributes.”
Thomas Seymour found himself humiliated by his own hubris. There was nothing to be done but finish his business with this arrogant fellow. He stood, and so did Fowler. The Lord High Admiral was pleased that he towered over the young man. In fact, he wished right now to tweak his ear very sharply. Or worse. Instead he was gracious. Fowler was his closest link to the King and he could not afford to anger him. Still, thought Thomas Seymour, when the struggling courtier had outlived his usefulness, he would pay for his impertinence. It would not be long now.
“Oh! Begging your pardon, Your Majesty!” exclaimed Sally Wilton. The girl had come flying round the corner, her arms crowded with cosmetics jars and hairpieces, and collided with Catherine Parr astroll in the corridor of Hampton Court’s north wing. The girl, one of her minor waiting women when she’d been queen, was horrified at the cloud of wig powder now enveloping them both and began curtsying frantically, eyes lowered.
“Oh, Your Majesty, I’m so very sorry!”
“All right, Sally. No harm done,” said Catherine in a kindly voice.
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