Virgin

by Robin Maxwell

  She rode to meet the boys as they came back across the meadow, smiles of genuine pleasure on their faces at the sight of her. But as soon as the initial greetings and pleasantries were done, Ambrose grabbed Robin’s pouch, now crammed with fresh-killed quail, and excused himself, knowing very well whom the Princess had come to see. He spurred his mount and started back for Warwick House.

  The friends had not been alone more than a moment before Robin demanded, “What’s wrong, Elizabeth? Tell me.”

  “Grindal is dead,” she replied, and burst suddenly into tears.

  Robin jumped down off his horse and came quickly to Elizabeth’s side. She allowed herself to be helped down and enfolded in Robin’s awkward embrace. She had never cried in his presence before, even at the death of her father, and despite their comfortable friendship he found himself at something of a loss. He therefore remained silent, allowing her to cry. But instead of the tears gradually subsiding, the outpouring of emotion grew wilder until the girl was heaving with sobs.

  “Elizabeth, Elizabeth,” he muttered helplessly.

  “Oh, Robin …” she wailed piteously. “Oh, God …”

  “What is it? Tell me what’s wrong. You must tell me. What has happened?”

  She choked back her sobs and pulled out of his arms. “Now look what I’ve done,” she said. “I’ve soaked your jacket.” She began to blot his shoulder with her sleeve.

  He gently grabbed her wrist to stop her and kissed the back of her hand before taking both hands in his own. The gesture was so dear that Elizabeth burst into fresh tears.

  “Stop, Elizabeth,” he crooned. “Take a breath and calm yourself.” He waited until she did as she was told, then he wiped her tearstained face with a clean handkerchief he’d found in her saddle pack. “That’s better. Now listen to me. You have my deepest condolences on Grindal’s death, but this” — he gestured, indicating her recent outburst — “this has nothing to do with him, has it?”

  “No,” she admitted, but offered nothing further.

  “No? Then what is it? Must I drag it out of you? Is the Queen Dowager ill?” He saw Elizabeth’s hand fly up to cover her quivering mouth, but the Princess did not answer. Exasperated, he took Elizabeth by the shoulders and gave her a shake. “Tell me!” he shouted.

  “She’s not ill,” Elizabeth finally blurted, “but she’s gone mad.”

  “What? How can that be? Catherine Parr is the most sane and levelheaded woman in all of England. I do not understand. What has she done to deserve such a description from you, of all people?”

  “She came into my room in the morning, in her nightgown … her hair unloosed …” Elizabeth was struggling to push the words out. “She fell on me, wrestling … and tickling me and …”

  Robin was listening hard, but the words were nonsensical. “How does that make her mad, Elizabeth? Perhaps your stepmother has become more playful since her —”

  “He was with her!” Elizabeth cried. “He has been coming into my room in the mornings, barelegged in his nightclothes and —”

  “Seymour?”

  “Yes.”

  “Thomas Seymour has been visiting you in your bedchamber in his nightshirt?”

  She nodded.

  “For how long?”

  “I do not know. Weeks. Not every day …”

  “And the Queen?”

  “Just once. But she was not herself, Robin.”

  “What does Mistress Ashley have to say of it? Knowing her, I would guess she’d have much to say.”

  “Well —” Elizabeth was growing nervous as more and more of the uncomfortable truth came to light. “Kat is at first outraged —”

  “As well she should be,” Robin interjected.

  “But then … she takes his side, makes excuses for him.”

  “She couldn’t,” he exclaimed disbelievingly.

  “But she does.”

  “Kat’s lost her mind along with the Queen Dowager, then,” he said.

  Elizabeth was silent for a long moment, staring off in the direction of Chelsea House.

  “What?” demanded Robin. “What are you thinking?”

  “That I’ve lost my mind as well.”

  “Meaning … ?”

  “I love Thomas Seymour,” she said quietly. “He dominates my dreams and my senses. I love him and I believe he loves me.”

  Robin Dudley stared at Elizabeth in abashed silence, unable to form a thought or a question or even an outraged oath, as the gravity and danger of the Princess’s situation seeped slowly into his mind.

  “Has he … touched you, Elizabeth?”

  “No. Well, in playful ways …”

  “How, exactly?”

  “And who are you? Senor Torquemada of the Spanish Inquisition?” She laughed unsteadily.

  Robin Dudley forced himself to smile. If he frightened the Princess too badly, he reasoned, she might run from his confidence. On the other hand, this was a deadly serious matter. He knew enough to realize these were serious offences, but if he were entirely honest with himself, he would have to admit his feelings were tinged with jealousy. This final realization shook his confidence. He had to be objective if he was to help his friend.

  “Elizabeth,” he said carefully, “you are by blood a legitimate Tudor princess. Your mother’s perfidy had you banished and bastardized. But the Fates had other things in store for you. ‘Twas no mean feat that Catherine Parr saw you restored to your family, and, more important, to your place in the succession. Would you defy Fate, sacrifice your God-given rights for a noisy, reckless hooligan?”

  She looked at him with desperate eyes and cried, “I might, I might!”

  Silenced by her own irrationality, Elizabeth turned and faced her horse, waiting for Robin’s leg up into the saddle. When she was seated, she looked down at him, her flawless face creased with agony.

  Robin watched his beloved friend as she rode away toward Chelsea House, her back straight as a rod, her chin high and proud. He felt he could weep at the sight, but instead he mounted his horse and with great purpose rode home to Warwick Hall.

  Hampton Court, thought Robin Dudley as he strode down the wide corridor to the Privy Council Chamber, was as much home to him as any of his father’s great houses. He had, from the beginning of Prince Edward’s education, been playmate and schoolmate of the pampered boy — had been known, in fact, as “one of the King’s children.” Robin was four years older than Edward and, if not his favorite, was his boon companion in riding, hawking, and archery, and in secret played with him at cards and chess although their tutor, Master Cheke, had consistently frowned upon these as frivolity.

  Robin paused for the briefest moment before the imposing portrait of Henry the Eighth before continuing — for the young man was on a mission — but the sight of Great Harry, his magnificent and bejeweled bulk balanced astride two shapely calves, renewed painful memories of the King as he’d been near his end. He had quashed civil rebellions at home and had finally returned from the French wars. Bloated and ill, he’d had to be carried about from room to room on a contraption, his ulcerous leg unable to support his bulk. He had ceased doting upon his only son, Edward, “His Majesty’s most noble jewel.” Instead, angry at his people’s perceived betrayal of him, Henry had become peevish and wildly bad-tempered, bitter in his disappointment that he could not live to see Edward in his maturity. The vast power that Henry had accumulated — first personal and later semi-divine after he had usurped the riches and the reach of the monasteries — had corrupted him immeasurably The once brilliant administrator and intellectual genius had given way to a cruel and capricious despot.

  But Edward, like all of Henry’s children, had been utterly blind to his father’s shortcomings. The boy had been told that he should imitate the King, who was the greatest man in the world, and had come to believe that if he surpassed his father, none could ever surpass him. Now the only son of Henry the Eighth, himself a king, had been reduced to a helpless pawn in the Seymour brothers’ Machia
vellian games.

  It was this thought, and fear for his dear friend Elizabeth’s safety, that now animated young Dudley. The doors to the Council Chamber swung open as he approached. The Duke of Somerset was conspicuously absent, away, Robin knew, overseeing troop movements into Scotland. Lords Clinton and Arundel, Norfolk and Rutland drifted from the chamber, faces grim and strained. John Dudley’s expression brightened at the surprise sight of his son, whom he embraced heartily. Robin nodded respectfully to the Privy Councillors before pulling his father aside with restrained urgency.

  “May we go to the family apartments or some place of privacy, Father?”

  John Dudley regarded his fourteen-year-old son’s request with bemused indulgence and together, careful to speak only of frivolous matters in the public halls and corridors that were rife with eavesdroppers, the two repaired to the Dudleys’ comfortable rooms.

  Over a simple repast of cold meat pies and crisp ale Robin felt himself relax and soften, his father’s presence so reassuring and comforting. It troubled him to think of revealing what had been a most private confidence between two friends. But Elizabeth’s very life was at stake, he was sure of this, and he believed he was acting in her best interests. Taking several deep breaths to steady himself, Robin Dudley related to his father the treachery of Thomas Seymour and, more recently, the Queen Dowager, forcing himself to refrain from exaggeration or excess passion in his telling. For in truth, though he was entirely unaware of it, he wished as much for his father's good opinion as for the Princess’s well-being.

  John Dudley listened intently, closing his eyes as if to exclude all other thoughts and senses, and concentrated on the boy’s telling. Occasionally he would shake his head with disgust and disbelief and occasionally require Robin to elucidate a point or clarify a statement.

  “Are his actions treasonable, Father?” asked Robin finally, relieved to have finished his litany of offences.

  “In and of themselves? I think not. However, a pattern begins to emerge here.”

  “A pattern?”

  “Thomas Seymour has always been arrogant and foolishly reckless, but he seems now to be somehow directed. As you know, he has shirked his admiralty entirely and lent no support to his brother’s efforts in the Scottish campaign. This is outrageous in itself, but word has come that the Lord High Admiral is dealing directly with pirates, using his position to buy them safety in return for a piece of their profits. We understand that he has placed a man, William Fowler, in Edward’s privy service for easy access to the King, and has begun bribing the boy with gifts of money.”

  “I do see what you’re saying, Father. He is taking all of his actions several steps further.”

  “Indeed. And now his resentment and jealousy of his brother have recently turned virulent. He pulls aside members of the Council one by one, trying to convince them that he is a more fit protector than Somerset. Christ knows what he has Fowler whispering in the King’s ear.”

  “So what do you make of what I’ve told you this afternoon?” asked Robin.

  “It appears that all of the Admiral’s connivances on behalf of Edward and Lady Jane to see them married are insufficient,” replied John Dudley. “This outrageous interference with the Princess is further proof of his grandiose intentions. He must believe in some twisted way that if he compromises her, defiles her, the Council will have to give her to him.”

  “You believe he means to go that far?”

  “After what you’ve told me, son, I believe the man capable of anything.” John Dudley fell into a prolonged silence. Fingers absently brushing his lips, downcast eyes fixed on a silver flagon, he seemed to be concocting a plan. After what seemed to Robin an eternity, the elder Dudley looked up.

  “How does your orchard grow, Father?” Robin Dudley inquired with a sly smile.

  “Very well, though the fruit is not yet ripe for plucking. Some tending is still required. Do you wish to help the princess Elizabeth?”

  “You know I do, my lord, else I would never have breached my friends confidence.”

  “Very well,” said John Dudley, standing and moving to the window and gazing down at the river below. “We shall move slowly and cautiously with regard to the Lord High Admiral —”

  “But he mustn’t be allowed to lay hands on Elizabeth again,” Robin objected.

  “It seems from your telling,” said John Dudley, “that you invoked the wrath of the Privy Council, if not God, in your warnings to the Princess about jeopardizing her place in the succession by encouraging such behavior.”

  Robin thought for a long moment, trying to recall with exactness Elizabeth’s response to his admonitions. “I worry,” he said slowly, “that her heart rules her mind in this.” He joined his father at the window. “That the man should wield such power over a woman of Lady Catherine’s strength makes me wonder at Elizabeth’s ability to withstand him.”

  “He does seem to hold some strange power over women’s hearts,” said the elder Dudley, then added thoughtfully, “and men’s too. But I think he will not go the full distance with Elizabeth until he is free of his wife. In the meantime his scheming will no doubt continue. But we shall be watching him, waiting for a false move, and it will come. With men like Thomas Seymour it always comes. And then he will fall.” John Dudley smiled warmly and threw an arm around his son’s shoulder. “You’ve done well in coming to me, son. This is one harvest that we shall enjoy together.”

  Chapter Seven

  I despise the smell of salt air, admitted Thomas Seymour. Bracing himself against the rail of the Princess Mary as she rocked and bobbed in the choppy water, he enjoyed the irony of the thought. High commander of the King’s Navy, and he loathed the sea. On land he’d been a brave and lucky soldier, but force him onto a boat of any nature and he was altogether lost. He had never attained a sailor’s balance on the ever-tilting decks nor lost the green-faced nausea he experienced with virtually every ocean voyage or channel crossing. In his fighting days he’d been fortunate never to have overseen a water battle. The sight of a heaving commander would have been death to his dignity and probably to his command over the men.

  The appointment to the Admiralty, he’d immediately understood, had been his elder brother’s private and very nasty prank on Thomas, whom he knew to grow seasick playing with toy boats in a pond. Today, however, Seymour had braved the waters, reminding himself as he boarded the English flagship that it was but a short trip from England’s southern coast to the Scilly Isles, and that the rewards of the jaunt would be well worth his discomfort. He’d stayed most of the rough journey in his cabin below decks, but now the island’s shore was in sight, and he comforted himself with the thought that his feet would soon be on dry land.

  “M’lord, will you board the dinghy now?”

  Seymour was startled by the voice and turned to see Captain Broward, a rough man from Devon whose appearance was softened very little by the crisp blue and white uniform of the King’s Navy. Thomas nodded his assent and made to follow the captain. But the moment he let go the railing, the sharply tilting boards under his feet sent him careening across the decks into the ropes and rigging. This, to Seymour's horror, elicited poorly disguised snickers of contempt from the sailors at their posts. Furious, he shoved away the arm Captain Broward offered for support. Then Seymour staggered to the rail and, steeling himself for the ordeal, heaved himself over the side to struggle down the rope net and into the small wooden dinghy.

  The two-man crew kept their eyes respectfully downcast as they rowed staunchly through the chop, ignoring the ship they knew to be a pirate vessel anchored in the harbor not a mile’s distance from the Princess Mary. At least the forward movement of the small boat relieved Thomas’s nausea, but he found himself cringing at every large swell that approached, and he was therefore unable to muster the hoped-for swaggering attitude with which he’d hoped to greet his partners on landing. It would not do, he thought peevishly, to rendezvous with pirates wearing a sea-bilious face.


  Before the dinghy’s bottom scraped the sandy seabed and lurched to a stop, one of the seamen had jumped out and, grabbing the rope, towed the boat to shore. Waiting there was a tangle of rough men, their gaudy outfits a hodgepodge of rich booty, not the dirty and sea-worn rags most people imagined them to be. All but one were bearded and moustached, and that one, the pirate captain, stood in their protected center — Black Jack Thompson. He was an Englishman, handsome and sinewy, and so swarthy from the sun as to be mistaken for a Moor. A diagonal slash cut across his jutting chin, a scar still so angry that Thompson looked to have almost lost that piece of his face not many months before. Seymour thought to ignore it was best, and instead mustered his wits to confront the rogue, but Black Jack spoke first.

  “The High Admiral of the Boy King’s Navy,” he said impertinently, eyeing Seymour from foot to head. “And green round the gills to boot.”

  The men laughed and Thomas stifled his outrage.

  “You may call me Tom if I may call you Jack,” he replied, managing to sound pleasant. He wished more than anything to be comfortable with these men, a third of whose stolen goods were now his own.

  “What, just “Tom’?” said Blackjack. “Naa, we all have a pet name ‘ere.” He turned to his mates. “What shall it be then, lads, Tom what?”

  “Tom the Scum!” cried a patch-eyed pirate, asserting with his flagrant disrespect that these men did not abide by the laws of any king or country and that a nobleman such as Seymour was no better than Black Jacks ruffians.

  “Green Tom,” called another, alluding to his nauseous face.

  “Tom Goldpockets,” cried a wretched man whose face was gouged, chin and cheeks and forehead, with pockmarks.