Written in haste from Hatfield this 19th of January.
Your assured friend,
As she completed the last flourish of her signature Elizabeth found her eyes growing heavy, as if the very act of writing, decisively and boldly, had returned to her a small measure of control over her destiny, and in so doing tranquilized her soul. She blotted the page, folded the two together, and sealed them with a large clot of red wax. Then she climbed into bed and within moments fell into a peaceful slumber.
Chelsea’s day room. Sun streamed through the tall windows, falling in long bright panels on the floor. Two figures sat under windows and, wishing desperately to be in their presence, Elizabeth crossed the illuminated Turkey rug that was Queen Catherine’s pride and joy, careful as she placed her feet on the brightness, that the suns heat not burn her. She crossed the light patches and finally saw the figures clearly. They sat at a large sewing frame, both stitching on a tapestry of which the details were not yet visible. One of the figures was Kat Ashley, an expression of fierce determination on her face, as though the embroidery were of the most vital importance. Elizabeth was happy to see her dear companion, but Kat did not look up from her work. Then Elizabeth turned her head and recognized that the one who sat across from Kat was a man. A man embroidering! But no, ‘twas not a man at all but a woman in mens clothing. ‘Twas Catherine Parr, and Elizabeth’s heart swelled immediately with joy and love for her, shocked though she was to see the Queen Dowager so attired. Indeed, Elizabeth addressed her then, saying, “You make a fine man, Your Majesty. “ Catherine smiled up at Elizabeth warmly, and with her eyes invited her to sit at a third stool round the tapestry.
Now she could see the exquisite handiwork. Scenes of armies and battles, gardens of trees and birds and flowers, King George and the dragon. But the wonder of the tapestry, the greatest wonder, was that it moved! The armed soldiers were marching in their battalions against one another, the birds flitted from tree to tree, and King George with a mighty thrust of his lance impaled the green-eyed dragon. A living tapestry! Elizabeth looked up smiling with the magic of it and saw Catherine smiling too, though she did not return Elizabeth’s gaze but stitched on, seeming peaceful in the extreme.
Suddenly Elizabeth’s joy vanished as she was struck all at once by remorse for past deeds and mortal terror for the future.
“I beg your forgiveness, Majesty, “she heard herself saying in a dolorous tone.
Still Catherine did not look up but replied calmly, “No harm done, my dear. “
“No harm done, “ repeated Kat Ashley. “No real harm done. “
Now beneath her fingers Elizabeth saw a fearsome dragon, larger and more hideous than the first. It moved on webbed and sharp-clawed feet across the tapestry, expelling smoke and fire from its long scaly muzzle. Her heart lurched at the sight. Suddenly she felt a sting of pain as its fire blistered her skin. She snatched back her hand and looked up at the two women dearest to her in all the world. Kat and Catherine were gazing at her with deep and abiding love. And something more.
Encouragement, passionate and earnest.
Fierce strength blazed from Catherine’s eyes. “Do it, Elizabeth, “ she urged.
“Do it, Princess, “Kat echoed.
Elizabeth looked down. The dragon rampaged through the garden, trampling a hedge of red roses — Tudor roses, she thought — slaughtering birds, setting the trees afire….
“Do it, Elizabeth. You can do it. “
Suddenly she realized that she held a long embroidery needle between her fingers. The dragon, long hideous tail swishing behind him, was heading for a pretty turreted castle. Elizabeth’s heart pounded. Her hand trembled. But she gained control, inhaled deeply. Then with a small cry, she plunged the lancelike needle through the dragons heart. It let out a terrible shriek and fell thrashing to the ground.
Triumph surged through Elizabeth’s being, and great, soul-filling joy.
She looked up again. Kat’s and Catherine’s faces were aglow with pride. Then they began to laugh. Elizabeth’s heart swelled and she began laughing along with them. Their laughter echoed through the day room as the sun enveloped the female triumvirate in a halo of blazing light.
Morning light was pouring into Elizabeth’s eyes, the heavy curtains of her bedchamber having just been thrown aside. She blinked awake but dared not move for fear of losing the dream. She had learned that keeping every muscle in place when awakening from sleep, and recalling the details of a dream immediately, fixed the memory of the images in her mind. And this was a dream she must not forget! She closed her eyes again as the maid bustled about the room, remembering the strangeness — nay, the magic of the dream — the tapestry moving and alive, the dragon's fiery breath burning her hand, the upswelling of triumph when she’d slain it. This feeling she savored now, a sense of controlling her fate, something she had never, in the whole of her life, felt before.
And Catherine Parr dressed as a man! What could that possibly signify? Had it anything to do, she wondered, with her own recent disguising as a boy? Or was Catherine instructing Elizabeth to act like a man? The Princess, like most people, was a believer in dreams and premonitions, and of the stars’ influences on the lives of men and women. For Catherine to have come to Elizabeth with so much sweetness in a dream of such potency, the meaning was clearly that the Queen Dowager had forgiven her.
Elizabeth heaved a great sigh of contentment.
“Rise and shine, Princess.” These words, spoken with harsh authority by Lady Tyrwhitt, who had just bustled into the bedchamber, were as a chill wind that swept away Elizabeth’s warming coverlet of private thoughts, leaving her naked to the woman’s sarcasm. “Did you plan to sleep the day away?”
“No, madame,” replied Elizabeth tartly. “I was planning to rise and dress for the privilege of spending my day in your delightful husband’s company.”
Lady Tyrwhitt bristled, and Elizabeth pulled the sheet over her mouth so the woman could not see her smile. The Princess was in fact more than ready to greet the day — and even her inquisitor — fortified by the strength and forgiveness of the Great Queen, Catherine Parr.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Thumbscrews. Thomas Parry had never in his life had occasion to see such devices, but as he was marched into the same dank cell in which he had been interrogated day after day for more than a week, there was no doubt in his mind that what sat benignly in the middle of the trestle table next to his chair were indeed those infamous instruments of torture. Instantly his bowels began churning and he prayed they would not turn to water.
He had to this point, he believed, stayed altogether faithful to Princess Elizabeth, repelling the aggressively invasive questioning of Lord Rich with stouthearted equanimity. Nothing he had said could have incriminated her. He had simply denied any wrongdoing, indeed denied any contact with Thomas Seymour other than the most innocuous — that which would have been expected of a servant of the Princess whilst she and her household were living under the Admiral’s roof.
The Lord Chancellor had proved a truly fearsome inquisitor. Had Parry overstepped himself, he knew, Rich would have slammed shut on him like a spiked trap on the leg of a wild animal. But Parry had withstood all assaults. Stayed strong and loyal to Elizabeth.
Now, with one glance at the thumbscrews, Thomas Parry’s resolve began to crumble. Till today, there had been no talk of torture, and though any imprisonment in the Tower implied its possibility, somehow Richard Rich had lulled Parry into believing it unlikely.
Parry suddenly felt a fool, tricked, like a child. It was a measure of Rich’s abilities in this occupation, he realized. Lowering the victims guard, allowing him a false sense of security. And then the thumbscrews, a silent reminder of the true course of this interrogation.
By the time Lord Rich stepped into the room, elegant in black velvet doublet trimmed with gold braid, fingers covered in heavy gem-encrusted rings, Thomas Parry had lost his nerve altogether. The thumbscrews, small and unprepossessing as
they appeared, were merely a reminder of the more hideous forms of torture that the English had over the centuries perfected. Thomas Parry, during his life of privilege and position, had never suffered any sort of physical pain save that of a rare headache, the cramp of an ague, or a strained muscle. Now, with the thought of his fingers being crushed in these screws, his body being torn apart on the rack, red hot irons being applied to his skin, his eyes, perhaps his anus, he began to tremble violently.
Richard Rich smiled a brief and terrible smile. “Today,” he began, “I wish you to expound upon Thomas Seymour’s ‘familiarities’ with Princess Elizabeth whilst she lived at Chelsea House. Until today, Master Parry, you have denied remembering any and all such activities, though rumors of such improprieties were rampant in that household. Do you think” — he paused to gaze down at the thumbscrews — “that this morning your memory might be significantly improved?”
Thomas Parry opened his mouth to speak. His lips flapped several times but no words were forthcoming.
“Very good,” said Lord Rich, twirling a heavy gold ring round and round on his finger. “I think perhaps we are making some progress.”
If truth be told, Kat Ashley had, during her incarceration in the Tower of London, suffered more from the cold than any other discomfort. Her quarters could more rightly be called a small bedchamber than a cell. Besides a bed, table, and chair, there was a reasonable window that looked out upon Tower Green, and a woven reed mat on the floor. Her meals, though simple, had been edible. Her jailers had been kind. More than one of them had whispered inquiries about Princess Elizabeth, and Kat assumed that her own preferred treatment stemmed from her charge's popularity with the majority of the English people. Even Richard Rich’s interrogations, though persistent, had proven considerably gentler than Kat had feared they would be.
It was just the cold that was aching her bones and freezing her fingertips and nose, she thought as she waited for the guard to take her to what had become her daily deposition by Lord Rich. The small fireplace in her room would have been adequate had she been supplied with enough coal. But all pleas for increasing her portion of the stuff had been ignored. The fires she made were pitiful, burning out before she could even get the blood flowing into her hands. She spent most of her time when free from Rich’s questioning crouching in bed with the covers pulled round her. She would fall asleep shivering and wake shivering. It occurred to Kat that this was perhaps a refined form of torture, though as the days passed and chilblains turned her fingers raw, it seemed less and less subtle after all.
She was, of course, in all waking moments tormented by thoughts of dear Elizabeth, alone and helpless, assailed by her enemies, vilely accused of treasonable offenses that might lead to her permanent imprisonment or even her execution. Sweet Jesus!
If she were entirely honest, Kat knew she must hold herself in good part accountable for this disaster. She had come finally to understand how completely she had been blinded by Thomas Seymour's charms. Upon reflection in her cold prison she realized he had had the ability to hold an almost mystical sway over people's hearts and minds. She knew she was not alone in this weakness, and though the thought did not eliminate her self-loathing, it did assuage her somewhat that a woman as superbly levelheaded as Catherine Parr had been similarly affected by the man.
Now her fate and Elizabeth’s were wholly uncertain, but with news of Thomas Seymour’s articles of high treason — thirty-three of them! — coming by way of her jailers, hope of exoneration seemed every day more doubtful. Kat s only weapon, and Elizabeth’s and Parry’s too, was deniability. Everything that Richard Rich claimed to know of Elizabeth’s dealings with Thomas Seymour was founded in gossip. She had been told that the Admiral had so far confessed to nothing. And the one article claiming that she, Parry, and Seymour together had conspired for him to marry Princess Elizabeth was entirely unprovable.
Kat heard voices outside her chamber. The heavy lock turned and the door opened. She stood, fully expecting the guard who came to fetch her each day for her interrogation. She was startled, therefore, to see Lord Rich stride purposefully into her room. He looked too pleased, thought Kat with sudden alarm, for he’d not worn this particular expression during any part of her questioning. She had not long to wait for an explanation. With a small flourish Rich produced a written document and placed it on her table.
“Your coconspirator’s testimony,” he said simply.
Kat was stunned, did not move or utter a sound.
“Thomas Parry has confessed to everything, Mistress Ashley. To negotiations with Thomas Seymour for his marriage with Princess Elizabeth, and to allowing to go unchecked … ‘sexual horseplay’ between the two whilst they were living under the Queen Dowager’s roof.”
“He admitted nothing of the kind,” said Kat Ashley very decisively, meeting Lord Rich’s gaze. “You have compiled a scandal sheet derived solely from rumor.”
“Have I?” said Rich almost amiably. “Why don’t you have a look for yourself? You will see it is written in your friend’s own hand.”
Kat stood unmoving for a long moment, then dropped her eyes to the document. Indeed, the handwriting appeared to be Thomas Parry’s. But this could easily be a forgery, a trick! If she believed Thomas had confessed, she would have to confess. She raised her eyes again to the Lord Chancellor’s gaze.
“I do not believe it, my lord. This document is false.”
Silent, Rich dandled the ring on his finger very slowly, never taking his eyes off Kat. Then he made a signal to the guard outside the open door. A moment later a pale, shaken Parry entered Kat’s chamber. The treachery of his miserable act was written across his face.
“What have you done, Thomas Parry?” she murmured, but she knew too well what the answer was.
“I… I,” he stuttered.
“False wretch!” she cried, taking a threatening step toward him. “You swore you’d sooner be drawn limb from limb by horses than betray her!”
“I’m so sorry,” said Parry. There were tears in his eyes.
“Sorry!” she spat disgustedly.
Thus confronting her old friend, Kat never noticed that Lord Rich had brought to her table several sheets of parchment, a quill, and an inkwell. Now she saw him studying her as a cat studies a mouse before the strike. He held out the quill and smiled a wicked smile.
“Your turn,” he said.
Chapter Twenty-Six
The two confessions lay before the Princess on the day room table. Robert Tyrwhitt stood behind her, looking over her shoulder. Neither of them had spoken for some time as Elizabeth studied each document carefully, examining a passage from one, then comparing it with the other. Her face registered no discernable emotion, but she was in fact seething with outrage that she had, after all of her own restraint and courage in the face of a relentless inquisition, been betrayed by Parry.
Betrayed by Kat.
The written testimonies of her servants — they could not possibly have been written by anyone else — laid bare in excruciating detail everything that had transpired in Chelsea House: Elizabeth's infatuation with Seymour, how she blushed simply to hear his name spoken; the bedroom romps with Thomas, and later Catherine; Kat's own infatuation with the Admiral, his note inquiring after her “great buttocks”; the bizarre incident in Chelsea’s garden in which Catherine had pinioned Elizabeth’s arms whilst Thomas had torn the gown, leaving her half naked, then made ribbons of the dress with his dagger. Kat and Parry used almost identical words to describe the scene in which the Queen Dowager had found Elizabeth in her husband’s arms. Dozens of meetings between Parry and the Admiral were confessed to, in which Elizabeth’s and Seymour’s adjoining properties, her grants and household accounts, were discussed with an eye to their future marriage, this despite a lack of consent from the Privy Council for that marriage. All that was missing, thought Elizabeth with equal measures of bitterness and relief, was a description of her rendezvous, in disguise, with Seymour. At least Kat and Parr
y had had the presence of mind to keep that secret. Still, her humiliation could scarcely have been more complete.
But this was nothing compared to the fear that was rising round Elizabeth like a roaring spring tide. By now she was no longer reading, though to buy herself time she pretended to continue rereading and comparing certain paragraphs.
She had been grievously betrayed by those she had believed in most. But then, she mused, was she not inured to betrayal? She’d been abandoned by her mother, bastardized and ignored by her father. She had loved and trusted the Queen Dowager, who had changed, almost overnight, into a madwoman. She had given her heart and soul to Thomas Seymour, and he had used her, tried to rape her.
But Kat and Parry? How could they have given evidence that would destroy her, destroy themselves?
“Well, what have you to say now, Princess?” said Tyrwhitt smugly
All at once, as if from a distance, Elizabeth heard a voice. Three words were repeated, at first softly so as to hardly be discerned, then louder and louder till her ears were ringing with them.
“No harm done. No harm done. NO HARM DONE!”
Elizabeth's back straightened suddenly and she lifted her eyes from the pages.
Images of her dream replayed in her mind — the fire-breathing dragon menacing the countryside, castle, and rose garden. Did the monster signify Lord Tyrwhitt and Richard Rich, who, with their relentless interrogations and accusations, threatened to lay waste the succession and altogether destroy the great Tudor dynasty? Was Elizabeth the dragon’s slayer, meant to stand strong against these ruthless enemies of the State? Become the hero who would save her family, save England?
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