“Your Majesty, come in!” said Cheke, genuinely pleased if somewhat bemused to see young Edward. “You’ve not seen my quarters before.”
“I haven’t,” said Edward, entering the room tentatively, as if it were a sacred temple. Indeed it was a sanctuary of erudition. All the walls had been lined with specially built shelves, and the shelves were overbrimming with books and manuscripts of every shape, age, and description. More volumes were piled on the floor, and the small table was littered with the implements of writing. There was hardly space for the simple cot, table, and domed chest that held the tutor’s scant belongings other than his books. Edward’s eyes were wide as he moved slowly and reverently past the shelves, perusing their bounty. Cheke watched as the child tilted his head to read the title on a spine and saw his face illuminate with quiet joy.
“You’ve an original Theocritus,” whispered Edward, “and a Livy as well.”
“Have a look, Your Majesty,” said Cheke with gentle amusement.
“May I?” asked the boy as if he were being given permission to handle a nail from Jesus’ cross.
“Please.” Cheke observed Edward as he paged carefully through the leather-bound Greek text and wondered if he should ask outright why the child had come, or wait for the King’s explanation in the time he chose to give it. When Edward replaced the Theocritus and began thumbing through the Livy, Cheke spoke up.
“While my library is certainly fascinating, Your Majesty, I think perhaps you’ve another reason for gracing me in my humble quarters with your presence this evening.”
“I do, sir,” the child admitted quickly and with obvious relief, but then was silent while he collected his thoughts before explaining himself. “My uncle —” he finally began, but Cheke interrupted him.
“Which uncle would that be? You've three of them.”
“Not my honest uncle,” replied the King ruefully.
The tutor chuckled at the child’s cleverness. “By that, I take you to mean the Queen Dowager’s brother, Lord Parr?”
Edward nodded.
“Then, we are speaking of a Seymour uncle,” said Cheke.
“The Lord High Admiral.”
“Aha.”
“He wants a favor of me,” said Edward carefully.
“You mean another favor,” Cheke corrected.
“So it would seem.”
“You wrote to the Protector on behalf of Thomas Seymour’s secret marriage to your stepmother,” said Cheke, “and later at their behest you requested the crown jewels be returned to her.”
“But they were not returned to her, at least not yet.”
“And you feel you owe your uncle Thomas another favor?” Cheke insisted gently.
“He’s lent me a great deal of money, you know,” said Edward, looking sheepish.
Cheke turned away to minimize the King’s humiliation at such an admission before he inquired, “What has Seymour asked you to do this time?”
“He wants me to write to the Privy Council” — the boy hesitated as if unwilling to speak the words — “and tell them that I wish him to replace my lord Somerset.”
“Thomas Seymour wishes to become the Protector in his brother’s place, and he wishes you to speak for him,” asked Cheke rhetorically.
The tutor was not altogether ignorant of Thomas Seymour’s outrageous machinations, for news of his “black Parliament” oath had circulated very quickly to all corners of the court. But Cheke had not counted on the Admiral trying to use the King in quite so boldfaced a manner. He and his pupil had, in addition to the classics, been studying moral philosophy and rhetoric, and now Cheke wished to observe these practices in the context of kingship. He therefore refrained from jumping immediately to conclusions for the boy.
“What are your thoughts on this, Your Majesty?” said Cheke with gravity and respect.
The ten-year-old, momentarily startled — for he had indeed come here for guidance — began to speak, slowly at first but with great clarity. “First I should say that I love my stepmother very dearly and wish to do nothing to hurt or anger her. So many times I’ve wished that it was Catherine who still mothered me” — Edward’s lip quivered — “instead of that old witch, Lady Somerset. My uncle the Protector …” Edward paused again. To be saying aloud such unutterable thoughts was as terrifying as it was exhilarating. “The Protector is a cruel and noxious man. He does not love me, and yet though Thomas showers me with gifts of money and good fellowship and all the rest, I feel he loves me no better.”
“But is there not more at issue here than love, Your Majesty?” inquired Cheke evenly.
Edward thought very seriously on this, then answered, “Yes. There is the question of England’s best interests. Who is the better protector?”
“And … ?”
“Lord Somerset makes so little of me. I hear he has begun signing dispatches without reference to myself. He takes more power for himself and away from me every day.”
“But?”
“But what is to say that the Admiral would not do the same were he to hold the same office?”
Cheke smiled broadly at this last. The boy’s mind was clear and moved in logical ways. He was able in great matters, despite deep and confusing emotions, to retain a levelheaded demeanor and arrive at a sensible conclusion. Edward would in his majority, thought John Cheke, be a formidable king. He had done his job well. Now it was time to lift some of the burden from this sweet boy.
“So you think to deny the Admiral your support in his petition?” asked Cheke.
Edward took a deep breath as if to ready himself, like Atlas, for taking the weight of the world on his shoulders.
“I think that would be best.”
Cheke stroked his beard solemnly as if he were just now formulating the thought. “Perhaps, Your Majesty, ‘twould be more politic if/ were to take the blame for this decision.”
“Oh, Master Cheke, the Admiral will be very angry, and I think it safer that he be angry with me. I am, after all, the King. He can do me no harm, but you are only a tutor.” Edward stopped, silenced by the irony of his own words. Here was a man so lowly in title, but more courageous and honorable than two of the realm s highest peers, who did not hesitate to fight like vultures over a piece of carrion flesh. Cheke was ready to take the blows meant for Edward himself. The King fought back tears. “I cannot let you …”
Cheke put an arm around Edward’s small shoulder and said very soothingly, “Then I shall have to insist, Your Majesty. ‘Tis the best thing. Put your trust in me.”
Edward laid his head against Master Cheke's chest and felt for the first time in a very long while a sweet and blessed sense of relief.
Chapter Twelve
I should have known, thought Thomas Seymour as he stomped round the kitchen garden behind Hampton Court kicking at turnip and pea plants with the toe of his boot — should have known that great evil was afoot when I was denied entrance to the King’s privy and bedchambers. What paltry excuses they offered — His Majesty is unwell, His Majesty is resting, His Majesty’s engagements prevent him … My brother’s orders, no doubt. I should throttle him, nay, rip the throat from his skinny neck. Terrified, he is terrified of me. Knows what power I hold over the King’s heart — what power I did hold, Seymour corrected himself irritably. Even the boy has deserted me. That lowly schoolmaster — wretched man. They think they have beaten me, think I’ll slink away devastated by humiliation.
Thomas cringed at the memory of approaching the King’s bedchamber that morning only to be denied entrance by Fowler — his man Fowler! — and for the most transparent of excuses. Two times before it had been Master Cheke. The tutor had actually answered the request Thomas had made to the boy for his help himself. How dare he speak for the King of England on a matter of such import! Cheeky Cheke. He will feel my wrath, Thomas vowed, when my time comes. My time indeed! Well, they have shamed me, but for that they will pay tenfold. There must be more than one way to the throne.
For a bri
ef moment Thomas found himself free of anger and his mind suddenly cleared. He stopped in his tracks and just stood, breathing in the fragrance of the herbs lying in low bushes at his feet — rosemary, marjoram, thyme.
Why, he asked himself, should he settle merely for the role of Protector? When King Edward reached his majority, all control of him would vanish. In Thomas’s mind a new idea, huge and grandiose, had begun to take form. I could be king of England. The thought transfixed him and he was momentarily paralyzed. Then he moved, propelled as though by a great force pushing him from behind. He moved from the modest kitchen gardens out into the paths of Hampton Court’s formal flower garden, walking in great energetic strides as his mind spun and unthinkable thoughts dazzled him. He could be king! But how? His eyes devoured the masses of summer roses, pinks, and daffodils. Fresh young flower heads … like maidenheads. Yes, yes! The answer lay within the succession — a succession all of virgin girls, all in line for the throne. Marry a queen and be the king!
His mind darted from one possibility to the next. Princess Mary was first in line for the succession, but she was already old and peevish. A Catholic, too, whose pious ways would cause her husband as much trouble as her hair-shirted Spanish mother had caused Great Harry.
Little Jane. His ward certainly stood in line for the crown. She was meek and malleable as a lamb. Her father, Dorset, was his pawn. Something could be arranged.
Elizabeth … A lazy smile creased Seymour’s face at the thought of the girl, sweet and juicy as a peach. A princess of the blood, and all of it English. The people would see Henry in her. And she loves me, thought Seymour; more important, she wants me. She’d thought nothing of betraying her beloved stepmother to have him. Elizabeth. Marry her and be king. Thomas was walking quickly, nearly running, but he knew not where he was in body, for his mind had taken him far, far away. To Winchester for his coronation, to a festive New Year’s Day feast at which he presided, to the great Bed of State where he.
No, he must steady himself. ‘Twas a brilliant scheme, but there was much to be done. Many obstacles to be swept away. Catherine, King Edward, Princess Mary, his brother. He would need permission for the marriage from a majority of the Council. Formidable obstacles, but certainly not impossible. Yes, it could be done! True, more money than he now had was needed for his army that would support the palace coup. He would begin taking a greater share of the pirates’ booty. Suddenly Black Jack Thompson’s words played again in his head. “You’ve a rich wife …”
Aye, thought Seymour, the richest wife in England.
In that moment Thomas grew calm. All was feasible, and the pieces of the grand plan were coming together in his head. He would be king of England, and there was no one in the wide world who could stop him.
Chapter Thirteen
Dr. Huick held two fingers over the pulse in Catherine’s wrist. “And your appetite, Your Majesty, have you been eating well?”
The Queen Dowager, staring out the large leaded bedchamber window, seemed not to hear her physician’s question, and when it was clear she would not answer, Lady Tyrwhitt said, “Her appetite is much improved of late, Doctor.”
“Indeed it has,” Catherine chimed in, as if suddenly awakened from a daydream. She smiled then, and if her expression could not be described as enthusiastic, it appeared sincere enough. The too bright eyes and the shrillness of voice that had recently afflicted her were gone, though what replaced them was a kind of sad resignation. Catherine placed a hand on her great belly and patted it affectionately. “The child is strong and very healthy inside me,” she said. “I can feel it.”
“You are remarkably well for a first-time pregnant woman of your advanced age,” said Huick.
“And you are remarkably direct for a court physician,” was Catherine’s retort. “You’re lucky I’m not more vain or I might have snapped your head right off.” She gave him an even warmer smile and added, “‘Tis the main reason I like you, Dr. Huick.”
The sober expression on the man’s long, angular face brightened at the compliment. “Your mind, too, seems much more at ease, if I may say so, madame.”
Lady Tyrwhitt and Catherine exchanged a meaningful glance.
“I survived a great crisis, Doctor, and emerged on the other side bloodied though not defeated, with the help of my friends.” Catherine gazed fondly at Lady Tyrwhitt. “I’ve regained much of my former strength and see no reason why my lying-in and delivery of this child should not be altogether successful.”
Dr. Huick stood to leave. “It will indeed be successful, Your Majesty Now I pray you call for me the moment the midwives have finished with their work. There are potions for strengthening those humors in your body which have been depleted that I shall want to administer, and another which several women have lately employed to ward off childbed fever.”
“I’ll call for you then with pleasure, Doctor, and we’ll celebrate the birth of my son or daughter, whichever God wills. Lady Tyrwhitt, show the good doctor out, if you please.”
The waiting lady accompanied Doctor Huick through the door, leaving Catherine to herself. She stood, with some difficulty due to her bulk, and gazed about her chamber. The bed beckoned to her, and she wished for nothing more than to lie back and sleep, but she fought the urge, knowing there was much to do.
First and foremost, she must write back to Elizabeth, whose most tender letter she had received almost a week before. Hearing that Catherine suffered a sometimes uncomfortable pregnancy, the Princess had declared that if she were allowed to be present at the delivery, she would beat the child for the trouble it had put her stepmother through. Catherine had laughed aloud at these words and realized that in the weeks since that terrible discovery in the boathouse, not only had she regained her sanity, but she had fully forgiven her stepdaughter’s betrayal. It was as though the sight of Elizabeth in Thomas’s arms had shaken her from a grave stupor, and from that time on, anger — like a stiff wind from the western sea — had blown the cobwebs from her eyes, allowing her for the first time to see her husband for the man he was. She had, in the beginning, chided herself unmercifully for having been so blinded to his unscrupulousness, but eventually she realized that everyone had been duped by his bonhomie and great good-natured charm — men, women, servants, nobles, and royals. ‘Twas some sick part of him she understood not at all, but now could observe quite clearly with her new vision. He was not an evil man, she concluded, and meant no harm, but was simply incapable of true love or honesty of any kind.
After the incident in the boathouse Thomas had never left her side for weeks. He had wept and beat his chest in apologies and obeisances so extravagant she was embarrassed by them. His excuses, all of which rang false, ranged from a bout of temporary lunacy to Elizabeth's having stalked him for an entire day before molesting him in the boat-house. He had covered Catherine with kisses and caresses — feet, hands, neck, lips, and belly — swearing with God as his witness that no such madness or weakness (depending upon his current excuse) would ever overtake him again. Then there would be more weeping. The spectacle had been so overwhelming that it simply shocked Catherine into sanity. She was England’s queen dowager, carrying her first child. Surely she must still contain enough sense to go on with her life.
When she had finally had enough of his histrionics, she allowed Thomas to believe she’d forgiven him, if only to quell the untoward outbursts. Once convinced of her sincerity, he’d left suddenly for London, claiming Admiralty business there and promising to be back in a fortnight. The two weeks without him, as well as the absence of Elizabeth and her household from Chelsea, had allowed for a timely repair of Catherine’s soul.
Lady Tyrwhitt, stepdaughter from a previous marriage, had welcomed her mistress back to levelheaded normality from a pendulum swing between mania and melancholy, punctuated by behavior suited more to a common slut than a queen of England. The two women had shared the secrets of their hearts, and the younger had provided the elder with a calm sensibility that had nourished Catheri
ne’s spirit back to good health. Now the child thrived within her once again and she was fully prepared for her husband’s return.
She would be kind to him, allow him to shower her with affection. She would go to her lying-in and have the child. And when her strength had returned, she would speak to her dear friend Archbishop Cranmer and begin proceedings for a divorce. It would prove difficult, of this she was certain, but he had once helped extricate a king of England from his lawful marriage to a queen of England. Surely he would find a way to help her divorce Thomas.
The Queen Dowager lowered herself into her desk chair and dipped a new quill into the inkpot. Dear Elizabeth, she wrote, then hesitated. She could only guess at her stepdaughter's frame of mind at this moment, and knew that her tone must be altogether kindly. If someone of her own intellect, maturity, and worldly wisdom could have been lured into idiocy by the charismatic Lord High Admiral, then what terrible state of mind, she wondered, must the fourteen-year-old be suffering? Once Thomas was out of her life, thought Catherine, Elizabeth and she would be reunited. She loved the girl deeply, and no real damage had been done. Perhaps one day, she mused, they would even laugh about it.
Chapter Fourteen
The sound of Elizabeth's piteous moan was too much to bear, thought Kat Ashley as she hurried into the Princess’s bedchamber carrying a potion given her by the local apothecary. Ever since their arrival at Cheshunt, Elizabeth had been unwell with a seemingly endless string of rheums which kept her nose running and her lungs inflamed. Worse, however, were these headaches that prostrated the poor girl with agonizing pain for days at a time, and nausea which made eating impossible. Already slender as a reed, Elizabeth had grown dangerously thin, and her monthly courses, which had just begun the year before, had ceased.
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